The Shroud Graphic Novel

Like every other geek in the world, I am heading down to San Diego on Saturday to partake in the Nerd Prom, a.k.a. Comic Con. However, this year is going to be different because I'm not just going as a fan who's hoping to get his picture taken with Jessica Alba. This year I'm going as a bona fide Creator with a capital "C" because I'm going with my new graphic novel, the Shroud!

That's right, boys and ghouls, I figured with all the comics to film hullaballoo that's going on right now, the best way to ensure that the Shroud actually gets made into a film is if I turned it into a comic book first. So, that's what I have decided to do. I will bring the Shroud to life as a prestige format graphic novel. Of course, I don't have an artist, a publisher or even a completed script, but I don't think that matters. What's that old story about how Joe Eszterhas sold the idea for one of his movies on a cocktail napkin? I think that's how it works at Comic Con. I'm just going to go around to all the publishers like Marvel and DC and pitch them the high concept. I have no doubt that the publishers will see the untapped millions in merchandising that the Shroud offers. I've been hearing a lot about this dude, Jeff Katz and his company American Apparel. Maybe I'll try to hook up with him.

Look for me down there, guys. I'm the dude with the goatee and a shaved head to hide my male pattern baldness and I'll be wearing all black. I should be pretty easy to spot.

JRH

Polishing the Shroud

I have decided that I'm going to start using the term "Polishing the Shroud" in place of "masturbating".

"What you up to, John?"

"Oh, just Polishing the Shroud."

JRH

Update

I've gotten several emails from people asking if the script is done. The answer is No. I'm not going to sit here and rattle off excuses. I haven't been slacking off, working in my garage or stalking my former agent.

Every day I get up, and I sit here in front of the computer. I play Vivaldi to loosen up my mind. I have a bowl of hot lemon water to loosen up my fingers. And then I write. And write. Read what I wrote. And write some more.

So why isn't the script done yet? They say writing is rewriting. I would like to attribute that quote to a specific person, but I'm not going to waste a nanosecond Googling it when I can be polishing and honing my baby.

I feel like I'm close though. This script will raise eyebrows. This script will be controversial. This script will burn bridges but it will also open doors, tear down walls and challenge the very fabric of how we think about cinema. I am in total harmony with my Higher Self, grabbing ahold of these intangible ideas that exist in the ether, and key stroke by key stroke bringing them into our physical plane of reality. I am a Mid-Wife to The Beast.

So get ready, 'cause it's coming...

The Extending Hallway

Remember it?

That scene from POLTERGEIST, where the hallway seems to grow right before Diane Freeling's eyes?

Or from "5 1/2 MINUTE HALLWAY" -- what's the line: "There's only so far I can go, when you're living in a hallway that keeps growing..."

So close to the end, and yet...

Those forces are rallying again. The ones that don't want me to finish.

They have their claws in me. And they're gaining ground.

The Finish Line

It's in sight.

I can feel the tension in the world around me. Like the scent of ozone in a lightning storm. The universe is charged, awaiting the birth...

Tennitus

I've fallen prey to the disease that writers fear more than Writer's Block... Terminal Tennitus.

For those of you who are lucky enough to have never contracted this particular disease, I will give you the basic prognosis: Terminal Tennitus is a disease which strikes when a writer hits the last ten pages of his/her script and is unable to bring the bastard across the finish line. I know this is a real disease, because I've spoken with other writers who have contracted it. Apparently, it's a lot like Herpes. Once you've had it, you have it for life and the outbreaks can either get worse with time, or can abate completely.

Symptoms include: cramping of the fingers, the intestine and/or the genitals. Profuse sweating from the brow. Bloodshot eyes. Too much or too little mucous. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Sleeplessness. Milky, yellow discharge from the anus and/or the ears. Clenched/puckered sphincter. Painful, itching pustules in the armpit region. Fever. Euphoria. Dementia. Claustrophobia.

I have all of the above. And man, have I got it bad. I'm like the Brundlefly at this point. It's nasty.

The throbbing of my twin Generac 7000 generators is like the Devil (my former agent) tap-dancing on my skull. I'm starting to think that what I'll do is cut and paste the first ten pages of the script at the end (because bookending scripts seems to be the thing to do now), or maybe structure the whole damn thing backwards like Memento or Irreversible.

Your truly from the bowels of despair,

JRH

Too early... too late...

It's 3am, and I'm sitting in a parked car, blowing on my hands for warmth. Across the street, my former agent's house is bone pale in the darkness. All of the lights have been off for hours, but on occasion I catch a silhouette moving through the gloom towards the bathroom on the second floor. A scant light gives me a glimpse of his bulbous form as he defecates in the toilet. Just as he expelled so many other talented clients before me, he flushes the waste down then retreats to the bedroom.

My "Dunkin Donut's" coffee is stale, and I'm out of cigarettes.

What is this, this "Hollywood" that we dwell in? The outsiders, the trash... the debris? There's an old saying that I can't place right now... but I think it goes, "Los Angeles is where all of the spare parts collect". Am I a spare part, just another wasted dream?

If only my agent was able to grasp what I was going for with "The Shroud". People have told me to aim for the teen market. "Prom Night" did great, and studios are looking for projects with a youthful edge. The truth is, I don't have a youthful edge. I'm old... I was born old. Even in high school I wandered the hallways, practically a corpse in tattered hand me downs, weathered eyes gazing out of deep sockets. I can't relate to children traipsing around some cheap high school set.

I watched "Prom Night", and it did nothing for me. The killer in the film wasn't frightening in the least. I'm not afraid of talented character actor Johnathon Schaech... his boyish good looks are not nightmarish, in fact they fill me with a sense of warmth that rises from the bottom of my belly and settles in my throat. It's hard to explain, but he just sort of makes me feel funny.

My former agent goes back to bed, and shuts off the lights, casting his home in darkness once more. I entertain the prospect of knocking on the door, just having one more chat with him. Maybe he'll see things my way. My screenplay is almost finished, and I need a messenger...

I'll settle for urinating on his mailbox.