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Pretty Creepy

OK, things are starting to get pretty creepy around the Emory House, ever since I began writing a screenplay.

I decided to write about things that happen in a Victorian house. I created a character, Alice, living in the house in the 21st century. Alice becomes increasingly interested in the history of her house. She digs and digs to uncover information about the original owners, and finally discovers some secrets.

So far, so good. I got this idea before I ever lived in a Victorian house...back when I didn't particularly even like Victorians, in fact. It actually came as a surprise to me when I realized that my situation was similar in many ways to my protagonist's, and that I didn't have to look any farther than my own parlor for story ideas.

The creepy thing is how driven I am all of a sudden to do all the things that Alice does in the screenplay. It's as if I can't write the next scene until I act it out myself. Take yesterday, for example.

I had gone to the Genealogy Room of the Historical Museum to research my own house. I learned that the Emory's only child, Carrie, was buried in Springfield Cemetery. So off I went to look for the grave. The cemetery office was closed, so I drove around slowly, looking for the headstone. The cemetery is huge, but I figured that since the family had been prosperous, the monument was probably large, and I was right.

The Emory plot is in a section of contemporary grave sites. The family monument and the individual headstones are granite, an extremely durable material, so they look brand new. I had found what I was looking for, but my discovery led to several new mysteries.

First of all, Carrie was not an only child. She had two older sisters, Etta, who died aged 22 years, and Flora, who died aged 16 weeks. Carrie herself lived to be nearly 80.

Second of all, the large monument has two names on it. "EMORY" is carved on one side, and "STACY" on the other. The monument is on a corner, set diagonally, with Emory headstones along one side and Stacy headstones along the other. Who the hell were the Stacys??? Mrs. Emory's maiden name wasn't Stacy, it was Lane, and none of the daughters married.

Third of all, there was a large pot of geraniums on the Stacy side. For a moment I was excited, thinking that some descendant was still keeping up the graves. But a follow-up to the office revealed that Carrie had paid for perpetual care. Still, I suppose in my screenplay I could have Alice discover someone tending to the grave. That could be a way for her to unearth some family secrets.

It's not fair that Alice should find out more about her house's family than I do about mine. If she gets her hands on a trunk full of old photos, I want to get ahold of a trunk full, too. Although that would be really, really creepy.

Cicily/Carrie/Alice

It's freaky the way my screenplay is beginning to mirror my own life. I started with an idea I had put in my story file long before I ever bought the Emory House. As I started to develop the story, nothing I invented in the way of plot elements seemed to fit as well as actual incidents from my own experience. Without consciously trying, it seems, I've been writing my own story.

I decided, for example, that my protagonist, Alice, should become interested in researching the history of her house. Since I had in fact done that myself, I thought I'd retrace my steps, this time taking photographs and notes. I started yesterday at the genealogy room in the Connecticut Valley Historical Museum.

Here's the Springfield, Massachusetts city directory for 1871, the year the Emory House was built. Entries are in alphabetical order. P. P. Emory is listed as a coppersmith and brass founder, with a business on Hampden Street and a house on Spring Street. (The house was moved to its present location on Salem Street in the 1970s.)

My original intention was to make note of what steps I'd taken and in what order, so that I could create a similar scene with accuracy. That should have taken about ten minutes. So why did I end up spending the entire afternoon in the museum?

In fact, I got caught up in the actual history of the Emorys. I pored over every city directory until 1942, when the last Emory died. I learned that Paschal Emory had died in 1906, his wife Merilla in 1909, whereupon daughter Carrie became head of household. In 1929, the house was vacant. Result of stock market crash? A year later, Carrie turns up in a smaller house three blocks away, and the Emory House becomes a boarding house, changing hands a couple of times. Carrie remains on School Street, unmarried, until her death in 1942.

With the help of John O'Connor, the genealogist, I located Carrie's obituary. She was a member of the Smith College Club--a fellow alum!--the Springfield Women's Club, and South Congregational Church. She was buried in Springfield Cemetery.

Next stop...Springfield Cemetery. I have a feeling Alice is going to go there, too.

Persephone and Pluto

I had vowed that for tonight's meeting of the Northampton Screenwriters Workshop, I would dress neatly for a change. Every previous meeting has fallen on a snowy day, necessitating unglamorous togs. Finally, we're into April. By midafternoon, however, the sky had darkened and an icky wet, sleety snow had started to fall. Regretfully, I donned what has become my NSW uniform: yellow slicker and puddle boots.

In Northampton, the sky was bright and the ground dry after all. Oh, well. Dinner at Bela was delicious, as usual. And the workshop was the most satisfying yet.

Julian Olf, product of Union, Columbia, and NYU, professor of theater at UMass, already accomplished and awarded screenwriter, gave us Persie and Pluto, a retelling of the Greek myth. In Olf's story, set in NYC, Persephone is a college professor, Pluto a Puerto Rican transvestite, Demeter a rich matron with a shih tzu, and Zeus a prosperous businessman. Julian brought along his wife, another theater prof, and several theater students to read. Wade's southern accent served him well reading the over-the-top part of Bobby. Terrific screenplay, terrific readings, and perceptive commentary afterward. Altogether, the most satisfying workshop I've attended so far.

I very much liked the thematic underpinnings of the script. The plot mirrors the Greek myth faithfully. The underworld of this story is the underworld of nightclubs and crime; the ending is a brilliant modern reinterpretation of the mythic Persephone's fate.

Persie and Pluto was timely, given the coming of spring. I, for one, have been thinking a lot about the seasons lately. This morning, I saw my first crocuses. When it seems winter will never end, flowers are a reassuring sign. And, of course, so are myths of life, death, and rebirth.

Free Performance

Tonight was the staging of Ezra LeBank's play "Fresh Air" at Thorne's in Northampton. Since we had workshopped the script earlier this year in our Northampton Screenwriters Group, I was interested in seeing it performed. Both Ezra and Cat are very good actors, and lighting, music and props did make it all come together.

After the show, I went over to the Haymarket with friend M to discuss the perfomance. The Haymarket is the only place left in Northampton with the '70s-style ambiance i've always loved. The food's vegetarian; the chairs don't match and neither do the dishes; you bus your own table. Occasionally a street person will come in and drink the leftover coffee in the cups, and nobody cares.

I had forgotten to snap a picture of the stage earlier, so I pulled out my camera and took a shot of M. From out of nowhere came a rather flamboyantly dressed guy and put his arm around her, pantomiming for me to snap the both of them. So I did. He then came around the table and posed with me. M obligingly took our picture. The man introduced himself as Mario, wished us a good evening, and went back to his own table.

Watching Ezra's play was instructive, but M and I concluded that it wasn't really our style. In retrospect, we could have saved ourselves the price of two tickets. In Northampton, you don't have to go to a theater to see a performance.

Noho Snow

Northampton Screenwriting Group met tonight, as scheduled. The snow that started falling just as the meeting began was right on schedule, too. Every single one of these meetings I've attended this year has been on a snow day.

Tonight we workshopped Wade Wofford's full-length screenplay, Stringers. I've become the reader of choice for stage directions. As such, I have the most to read, which is o.k. The more you read, the more interesting the work is. Sitting and listening, especially without a copy of the screenplay in front of you, is confusing and boring. Feedback was plentiful and to the point. Wade brought along some Portugese dessert wine, which was cool.

Ezra LeBank was at the meeting, all happy because his play Fresh Air, which we read a couple of months ago in group, is being produced soon, at Thorne's in Northampton. It would be interesting to watch the performance, as he's got only three actors playing all the roles, on purpose. Sort of like The Wizard of Oz, I guess.

I'm on tap for May 28, which date will have to be changed, because that's Memorial Day and I'm sure no one will be around. Still, I'm going to force myself to stick to a date sometime close to that. I'm a procrastinator who needs a little pressure to produce. I wonder if it will be snowing on that day?

Inching Toward Community

Northampton Screenwriters' Group tonight. Only a few of us showed up, and nobody picked up the key to the Media Education Foundation in time, so we ended up in a booth at Packard's, an extremely congenial pub a couple of doors down. Wade and Matthew ordered dinner, Diane had a glass of wine, and frugal Cicily had what was undoubtedly the cheapest thing in the place, a highball made with bar booze. We ate and drank and worked all at the same time.

Tonight was an industry discussion, and it proved very fruitful. We shared lists of resources and personal experiences. Wade and Mike, who between them have a couple of dozen completed scripts, had brought query letters, which we critiqued. Mike passed around a few pages of a screenplay he's working on. I thought all the comments were pretty useful.

Packard's, a former florist's shop, has a back room they call "the Library." It's the former refrigerated flower locker. Now it's lined with bookcases and portraits and furnished with an elegant conference table and clubby chairs. Any group can reserve it at no charge; of course it's presumed that a goodly amount of food and drink will be consumed. I had suggested it as a venue, knowing that the Northampton Poets use it for their meetings.

Wade had nixed it sight unseen, saying it would be too small and too noisy. But tonight, peeking in, he seemed impressed. He might be right about the size and the noise, but if so, it's too bad. Sitting around a big table, eating and drinking, is my solution to just about any situation. It certainly helped make tonight's meeting extremely productive. After breaking bread with these guys, I'm starting to feel like they're family.

Screenwriting Group

I am a member of the Northampton Screenwriters' Group, which ordinarily confines itself to scripts for movies and television, as opposed to theater. (That's the "screen" in screenwriting.) This week, however, we gave the floor to playwright Ezra LeBank, who wanted to workshop his new play, Fresh Air.

At meetings of my poetry group, we each read a piece and others critique it. Since screenplays are typically longer than poems, that format would be unwieldy for the Noho group. So each screenwriting meeting focuses on one writer. That person presents a complete draft, one act, two short pieces--whatever he or she wants help with. Everyone else contributes suggestions, speaking parts, or whatever's needed. The presenter is also responsible for refreshments.

Ezra had a complete draft and mainly wanted to hear it read. Wade Wofford, founder of the group, has an actors' group as well, and pulled some readers from it. Because Ezra is a graduate student at Smith, he scored a meeting room in Smith's gorgeous Mendenhall Center for the Performing Arts. Fifteen or twenty people showed up.

This is a pretty new group, and Wade's still working out the kinks. Ezra's play took almost an hour and a half to read. We didn't break until after the full read. With the preliminaries, that took us to over two hours. Snacks were some soda, juice, and chips. Outside it was starting to snow. A pot of hot coffee--the real thing, with caffeine--would have hit the spot.

After the break, we discussed the play. A number of people didn't stay till the end (three and a half hours is a long time for a meeting on a weeknight), but I did. I was more interested in the critique than in the play itself. Some of the comments seemed goofy to me, but Wade's were right on the money.

Wade, who's new to the area, was fairly wowed by the Mendenhall Center, and eager to lock in a room there on a regular basis. Or find another roomy, convenient spot. Next time, we're scheduled to meet at the Media Education Foundation, but they don't allow too many continuous bookings. Packard's, a congenial Noho bar, has a back room available to groups, but the room's not very big.

Will the screenwriters find a home? Will the format get ironed out? Will the refreshments improve? Will Cicily have anything to present by spring? Stay tuned.