Letters to Hollywood: A Collection of Stories

By Daniel Norrington

is a collection of stories from the pen of a writer who refuses to accept that the glass ceiling of cinema cannot, at times, be broken. Without credentials or connections, Letters to Hollywood is a cinematic love letter meant to inspire writers of varying success and petition a new route of submission into the world of film.

The Britton Bridge

When the girl of your dreams shows up on your doorstep on a cold and rainy night, you almost forget to wonder where she came from and whether or not she is who she claims to be.

Abandoned

Jacks accident has left him in a coma, stuck in a reverie of a village from years past. As Jacks closest friends and family watch over him in a hospital bed, he delves deeper into the village, composed of distorted doppelgngers of his real-world counterparts, unnatural Shadow People, and a calculating murderer.

Shakspeer

Gordons B-movie acting career is threatened when his leading lady moves to Hollywood. Faced with losing everything, hell sacrifice his friends, finances, and reputation to create the best movie of his career. Can he accept his own identity, or will the lights of Hollywood blind him from his true calling? After all, it isnt Shakespeare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546202868

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© 2017 Daniel Norrington. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/10/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0287-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0285-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0286-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911986

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For Kim

Together, kings.

CONTENTS

Shākspeer By Daniel Norrington

Abandoned By Daniel Norrington

The Britton Bridge By Daniel Norrington

Acknowledgements

SHĀKSPEER

By Daniel Norrington

W hen I was in college, I saw a local campus theater show with a few friends. I bought a ticket with the promise of receiving partial course credit for supporting the local arts, and the bargain of writing a brief essay on my critical response of the show. I had been waiting in a line for about an hour, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of grandparents, parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, students, and other analogous thumbs eagerly awaiting the stage doors to open so that they could support their loved ones in the latest attempt to triumph onstage.

As I took my seat and the lights dimmed, I thought about how difficult it might be to write an entire essay on a scripted show. I already knew that my input would carry no merit for the performance and its players. Little did I know that the curtain would come up, and I would for the first time, be completely enthralled with the theater.

I rushed home to my dorm asylum, switched on my computer, and typed out fifteen pages of a ten-page assignment with laser focus. I handed in my paper, quit college a month later, and moved out to Los Angeles in order to pursue my passion of becoming a real, live actor.

Perhaps I should backtrack just a touch. The reality is, I knew from a very early age that I wanted to tell stories. I was always trying out new jokes, experimenting with silly voices, and rehearsing elaborately intricate sagas with my large array of action figures. Even in photographs, I seemed to implore the idea of being the constant focal point and maybe even trying out a new face or expression in the moment.

It was only years later that this love of storytelling in such a raw fashion turned into a love of film, and most importantly, acting. I wanted to be an actor more than I knew. For me, acting was the feeling of pure passion. Even visiting a movie theater felt different for me, as I would see my friends talk through the previews or even walk out of certain movies. I took these outings as opportunities. I wanted to learn through cinema in order to understand what made the experience so special. After every piece of cinema analysis, I always came back to one idea. I knew that not everyone liked the same actors, or the same genres, or even the same movie theaters, but they all liked the same overarching idea. They knew that the movies were an escape. They knew that a story was being told, and they knew that they had every right to assess that story in one minute, and communicate it however they saw fit in the next. This meant walking out, booing, clapping, crying, laughing, or sharing a quote or two through the years as an inside reference.

The idea was a powerful one, and I found it to be gripping. I kept this passion through my awkward teenage years. I had seen one show at my high school theater, and I knew that I couldn’t hang with that crowd. I had grown shy and introverted in high school. Truthfully, I found much of high school rather depressing and lonely. That is, until my senior year. Senior year truly felt like I had one more shot at making something memorable out of the high school experience.

I don’t know what constituted the change in my courage, but I completely let loose that year. It was as if I returned to the fun-loving, charismatic portion of my personality, and there were no limits to what I could achieve. Through the year, I would audition for my first actual play, and I landed the lead opposite my future girlfriend, and now current wife. I starred in a musical, helped lead an improvisational show, and overall joined a full-fledged theater family. I had found what I was looking for, and I had figured out a way to tell stories in a different light.

I kept the momentum of this personality overhaul through graduation. I landed a lead in a community theater production and a job with my high school as an assistant director. I started realizing that in order to really hone my craft, I would keep progressing in aspects of theater that would enhance my talents. I could be dramatic, comedic, or musical. I could direct and instruct. I could step out of high school into different organizations and community theaters, and then I took a major leap.

I created my own theater production company. With the help of some of the great people I had met on my journey, I produced, directed, and starred in a play under my own flagship promotion. We were successful by putting on our very first production, hand-crafted completely by a group of theater misfits, and I was the carnival barker leading the charge. I thought that I had found my absolute calling, until I realized how much money it would take to keep this momentum going. We had broken even as a production company, but we had no money to move forward with a whole new show, set pieces, costumes, or script rights. We were officially dead in the water, but it didn’t matter. I would attend college where I would try new shows, meet new contacts, and work on new ideas.

I wrote the first paragraph of this book simply to capture what I feel I’ve heard so many times: people moving out to Los Angeles, or auditioning for films in the city, or attending artistic universities in order to further their craft. On the other hand, I applied for one college, and one college only. I went to community college for just under one year, and I didn’t drop out because I had a wonderful epiphany of what I wanted to do in life. I dropped out because I couldn’t afford even the simplest of colleges, and truthfully, I hated every minute of it.

It seemed as though in one fell swoop, all of the ideas and momentum I had created had come crashing down around me. I was officially a college drop-out. Working a regular day job to get by, I was without free time or finances to pursue the dreams that I once thought were destined to come true. In a positive light, I had met my future wife, and together, we had found the greatest love in the world. That love, and our paths as one, would mean that we would focus on the well-being of each other in favor of the risk that would consume the idea of an impossible pursuit out in dreamy California. Moreover, the money that ideally would have been spent on headshots, city visits, audition reels, and acting classes went to car repairs, college bills that I had accrued, and miscellaneous day-to-day expenses just to get through the week. As a crushing final blow to the pursuit of new horizons, I was far removed from my network of like-minded actors and artists as they were busy thriving through their new college experiences. Once again, I was dead in the water.

Now this is where naivety plays a massive part in the timeline. It was absolutely and unequivocally naïve of me to think that I could do everything I set out to accomplish without any financing, training, resources, or inside connections. Realizing that I was without the most fundamental tools of success in this particular field gave me yet another realization. I came to understand what my angle was in this pursuit, because I knew three very crucial things:

The first piece was that I didn’t have enough money to go to the movies twice a week, let alone produce anything and spend my time traveling into the city. The second was that I had absolutely no connections to the Hollywood elite. I didn’t have any uncles that were writers, or parents that were producers, or long lost cousins that were named Simon Pegg. On a completely related tangent, I have no idea if Simon Pegg has a long lost cousin; however, I will attribute anyone coming forward as such to be an admission that someone has actually read this book. The third piece was that I didn’t look like Brad Pitt. This meant that there was no way that someone would just see me, notice me, and pick me out of a crowd for a shot in their new movie. Now I know at this point, it all sounds pretty grim considering that those are three very key pieces to completing the puzzle.

Knowing that I didn’t have those resources meant that I could strategize a new way of thinking. It meant that I had to create an alternate route to the destination. If I knew that only I would cast myself, and I had no connections in the producing realm, and there were no finances for rights or theater locations, then there could be only one key avenue to success. I needed to teach myself how to write. I figured that if I could write my own work, then I could act in it as well. In addition, I could control more of the variables. I wouldn’t have to seek out finances for rights, elaborate sets, or period piece costuming. It would be a controlled environment that myself and my crew could see through from start to finish.

At the time, I was heading back to college in order to finish one of the only things that I had ever quit, so it felt very timely that I had a new attack plan. Also, I had written perhaps only two full pages of any type of artistic work previously, and those pages quickly found entry into the nearest trash bin only mere moments after completion. I couldn’t possibly get any worse.

I had been stuck for an idea for quite some time, and then I had a conversation with a college friend. We were talking about a very low level production company, if it even could be called that. Essentially, it was a group of people that all had regular day jobs and came together on weekends to film their own projects just to keep their creative juices flowing. We had joked about how terrible their films were, and how excited and eager they were to be making them. The more I analyzed their work, the more I realized how close they were in comparison to my theater family. At the time I thought we were kings of our craft. Maybe we were and maybe we weren’t, but we sure wouldn’t have cared if you told us either way.

That’s when the first idea really came together. I wanted to write a script that encompassed the aspects of acting that I was familiar with. It became quite endearing to know that this low level production company fought through all of their reservations and inadequacies in order to achieve their vision, even if it wasn’t my vision. It reminded me of my production company. From an outsider’s point of view, I’m sure that it was just an average show, and nothing more. To myself and those involved, it became a way of life, if only for a short while.

I wrote Shākspeer from the point of view of a B-movie actor named Gordon. In his mind, Gordon’s work was valued and critically accepted, but his foundation is shaken when he realizes that not everyone shares his same enthusiasm.

In a lot of ways, this story is pulled from those first days in my theater family. I’ve had a lot of different jobs throughout my life, with varying degrees of success. I’ve managed associates, led teammates, been promoted, and have achieved a great deal of success in my career. Even though I’ve achieved some tremendous things on a professional level, it has been done out of necessity, and not out of passion. In that way, I very much understand and almost envy the perspective of Gordon in Shākspeer. I would rather feel passion every day and risk possible failure than succeed and never continue my pursuit of a withered dream, once profoundly strong in my mind.

In a matter of months, I had written Shākspeer, and I was satisfied with how my story played out. It had felt that a piece of me had come full circle. I loved telling stories, and now I had a new way of doing that. I would write five additional scripts over the course of the next few years, but again, my naivety halted my progress just as I had felt new inspiration. With each script, I tried to experiment with different ideas, genres, character types, or settings. Some became elaborate to the point that I’d never be able to shoot them realistically. I was caught between catering a script to what I could produce and telling the story that I felt I could tell. Even Shākspeer became something that I quickly treasured and saw as deserving of a full realization, rather than the care that I could deliver merely as a producer.

My scripts were shelved for lack of a way to see them through. Over the course of several years, I had tried writing letters to different agencies in the hopes that any one of them might grant me a meeting to talk about my canon and discuss the possibilities of a new film. Unfortunately, I’ve had no success or interest at any point.

I once thought that there was a path to pursue this endeavor completely. I thought hard work mixed with ambition and integrity would get me there; however, for a third time, my naivety has caught up with me. I see advertisements for new Adam Sandler movies and read articles within the same advertisement questioning the need for more Adam Sandler movies. I’ve seen a trilogy built on a psychopathic billionaire playboy’s use of the phrase laters babe. And I enjoy so many superhero movies, but eventually, they have to run out of blockbuster hits, right?

I suppose my point is that I don’t know if my script is good. I don’t know if my story is good. In truth, I don’t even know if my writing is any good. Then again, I haven’t written anything with the intention of winning awards or gaining fame. I’ve written stories in order to communicate with people and make them feel something, if only for a short while. I also feel that there are so many new and exciting writers out there with so much to offer, and I hope we all continue to seek out stories that we haven’t yet heard.

I suppose you can consider this my next letter in an endless pursuit of achieving a dream. Maybe this will be the one that sets a new course upon this endeavor. I hope you like it, but even if you don’t, you can’t really blame me. After all, it isn’t Shakespeare. Yes, that just happened.

EXT. FIELD – NIGHT

We see an open field with dead grass and a tattered, abandoned house in the far distance.

The faint sound of a car ENGINE can be heard growing louder as truck tires come into view. The tires stop and the front passenger-side door opens. A second passes as a black high heel steps softly onto the short grass.

We see the soft FIGURE from heel to hips, and eventually up to the figure’s neck. There is a police badge dangling around the officer’s neck. She takes off a pair of sunglasses and throws them into the car. She shuts the door and moves her right hand to her waist, taking a pistol from her leather holster.

Almost simultaneously, we see a MAN getting out of the driver’s side door. He is also wearing a badge.

The officers meet each other at the front of the car. They whisper in the dark.

FEMALE

I don’t get it Carter, why did we park all the way out here?

CARTER

So we can’t be seen.

FEMALE

But we have a warrant.

CARTER

(sounding like Clint Eastwood)

Your point?

FEMALE

I’m just saying. We’ve been after Lucious for three months now, and now he’s right in that house.

CARTER

That’s your problem Martinez. You’re always worried about warrants and doing things by the book.

MARTINEZ

What are you saying?

CARTER

I’m saying that it’s time for us to bring down Lucious. Tonight.

Carter cocks his pistol and begins to walk towards the house. Martinez is hesitant.

MARTINEZ

Carter. Carter, wait.

Martinez sighs and follows Carter.

CUT TO:

EXT. OUTSIDE OF HOUSE – NIGHT

The house is abandoned with the exception of several gangsters. As CARTER and MARTINEZ creep up to the house, they see that the gangsters each have guns. The officers are hesitant to move closer.

MARTINEZ

What now? I say we call for back-up.

CARTER

Wouldn’t do any good.

MARTINEZ

What? Why?

CARTER

Headquarters doesn’t know we’re here.

MARTINEZ

You promised this was authorized.

CARTER

Well I lied.

MARTINEZ

And the warrant?

CARTER

Doesn’t exist.

MARTINEZ

Damn it Carter! You’re gonna get us both killed! You’ve got to stop being so reckless. Going in there now es no bueno.

CARTER

You know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

MARTINEZ

That’s only because I can’t resist you.

CARTER

It’s okay. Few can.

MARTINEZ

Alright, enough of the sweet talk. What do we do?

CARTER

We end this.

The officers once again cock their pistols and prepare to move in for the kill. Just as they are about to reveal themselves, Martinez’s RADIO sounds off.

RADIO

Martinez. Come in Martinez. There’s been a robber-

Martinez shuts the radio off. She rips it from her belt and throws it into the woods.

The two officers fight off shock as they know they’ve revealed their location. They sneak around to the far side of the house.

LUCIOUS and the GANGSTERS are alerted by the sound of the radio, and step out of the house with their guns drawn. They search the area, but it doesn’t take long for them to find the radio.

THUG

(picking up the radio from the grass)

Hey boss, check this out.

The Thug brings the radio to Lucious. They examine the radio for a moment.

LUCIOUS

Looks like we’re not alone boys.

(hesitation)

Kill ’em.

On Lucious’ word, the gangsters split up and begin