Ann Pearlman's Blog, page 2

The Making of Infidelity, the Movie: Before the Movie is Shot!

When Infidelity: a Memoir was first published in 2000, it was greeted with a starred review from PW, a paperback auction, sales in the UK and Australia, and a movie sale. As time went on, it went out of print. Dzanc Books decided to reprint it and a trade paperback is once again the shelves. I am thrilled about its rebirth.

The making of the movie is a story involving contracts and collaboration, complicated enough that this article is in two parts. This is Part One. 

Lionsgate bought an option for the movie rights of Infidelity with a payment price should the movie be produced. The option buys time to pull together producer, director, financiers, script, and actors to assure a viable film while preventing another company from making a movie. The option period was for eighteen months but could be extended for additional time for additional money. I had some reluctance to sign the contract because I was signing away the rights to my characters for all eternity: i.e. the movie personnel could make any changes they wished, as well as sequels or a TV series.

The original MacAdam/Cage cover

This contract is the introduction to the world of film for the author. A movie based on your book does not necessarily reflect your book. It’s a collaboration between artists from many fields, i.e. scriptwriters, director, art director, actors, producers, marketers, film editors, cinematographers. Making a movie is a big-ticket item and the eye is on potential remuneration and box office success. In other words, marketing and sales inform every decision.

“So you sold your book to a movie studio. Take your option, rejoice, and hope the movie doesn’t get made,” another writer quipped.

The fantasy is you make a fortune if you sell a movie. That depends on the producers’ plans for the movie. Books have sold to movies for five hundred to five million. And, of course, your agent and publisher take their percentages.

I didn’t hear anything for well over a year. Then the option was extended for an additional period with additional funds.

Time went on. I assumed the movie was not going to be produced.

UK paperback cover

I went to Mexico madly working to complete a contract on my next book. At a tiny internet café, I received an email that Lionsgate was producing the movie. In fact, they planned to start shooting in three weeks. In New Orleans.

Three weeks? New Orleans? Infidelity is a memoir chronicling the infidelities of my grandfather, father, and husband. None of us ever lived in New Orleans.

“They forgot it was a memoir. And changed it quite a bit. Now, you can decide if you want it based on the book, inspired by the book, or not mentioned at all. Either way you get the money. I’m sending you the script,” my editor emailed.

But I couldn’t download it in Mexico. I’d have to wait until I return home.

Something else happened that’s important in Mexico. I met another author who had a bestseller for over a year that became a star-studded, Oscar-winning movie. She kindly shared her experience. Her book was also a memoir. In spite of being executive producer, the plot was changed in such a way that the movie affected her relationship with her child.

As soon as I arrived home, I read the script of my book. The plot had been flipped 180 degrees. Instead of my husband having a lover, I do. Well, my character. Instead of desperately wanting children, I don’t want to be a mother. Instead of my husband being black, he’s white. My lover is a Latino jazz musician. Ironically, the family history is the same. My character is also a marriage and family therapist. There had been enough movies about male adultery, this would be a movie of female adultery, the producer decided. And I, wearing my marriage and family therapist hat, knew that adultery rates on the part of wives approached husbands’.

“This movie will be so different, it is not about us at all,” my children said, relieved.

And now I got to decide if my name would even appear on the movie.

Take away suggestions: 1. If you’re lucky enough to sell a book, enjoy the option money.

2. Consider having your own lawyer read it. Don’t just rely on your agent and editor. Make sure you understand what you’re selling: your imagination, your characters, your ideas, your life, your writing will spark someone else’s project.

3. Consider insisting on being a consultant, an executive producer. Each will give you additional money and you’ll be in the loop. I suspect you’ll also accrue more hassles.

4. Your book is no longer just your baby, but is part of a collaborative art project.

Broadway Books Trade Paperback

Now, if you’re a traditionally published writer, you may feel you’ve already been a part of a team. After all, an agent, an editor, an art director, a publicity department helped determine the fate of your book. But as a writer, you were the central creator. With a movie, you completed your part when you sold your book. Now the producer and the director take the central roles. Even the scriptwriter is down on the list. Even an A-list actor follows the director’s bidding.

Meanwhile, celebrate your success. And celebrate having a WOW factor connected to your writing career.

This article was first printed by Women Writers, Women’s Books.

Thank you so much. And now, it, too, has a rebirth! 

Winter

[See image gallery at www.annpearlman.net]

How I Write

This blog was originally published by Girl Who Reads website when I was a guest in 2012 and then was reposted in March, 2018. 

I wanted to share it here, with all of you.   

Hi! Today, I have National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize nominee Ann Pearlman guest posting. Author of several non-fiction and fiction books, her newest novel A Gift for My Sister was published in May by Atria/Emil Bestler Books. When not writing, Ann continues to be creative by making art – paintings, sculptures, and jewelry. She also enjoys being creative in the kitchen by inventing recipes. Please give a warm welcome to Ann Pearlman.

How I Write

I’m often asked how I write, how I am sufficiently disciplined to actually get books completed, so I thought I’d share some of my tricks and routines.

First, I’ve been writing since eighth grade, jonesing for the feeling I received completing an assignment. We were asked to write a thank you note for a painting our school received. The painting was of two girls sitting on a beach, behind them was the sea, stretching to the horizon. As I wrote about the sea I was transported into a sensation of taking dictation from the universe. Re-experiencing that sensation propels my writing. I write because I love it; I write because I want that feeling again. Weeks later, when I’m editing, I cannot tell which prose was awe-inspired and which was written prosaically.

For years, I didn’t have the luxury of writer’s block, stealing time to scribble notes in between my job, and running my kids around various activities after school. Each moment stolen to write was precious.

Then I discovered the glory of automatic writing: Get up early, before anyone else is up, and immediately write, do not edit yourself, just inscribe the words that come to you. The only things between dreams and writing were brushing my teeth and coffee. My language was richer so I habituated myself to write first thing in the morning. Slowly, I rescheduled my life around my writing, instead of pushing it between the edges of my other requirements of life. My kids growing up made that easier.

So I wake with the sun. I write at least five days a week. At least four hours a day. I don’t let myself be interrupted until I’ve done several hours. And then I’ll eat breakfast, answer calls, emails, twitters, etc.

Other tricks: I have words that I have forgotten, igonored in a bowl. I notice them once again in something I’ve read, write them down, and put them in a bowl. Occasionally, I pick one out to flutter (see, that was one…) into my prose.

If I get stuck, I drum. Yes, I play a Djembe hand drum and the repetitive rhythm seems to encourage ideas. So does jumping up and down on a trampoline.

I work out. This is important. After years on the computer, if I didn’t work out, do yoga, and use an ergonomically correct keyboard, I suspect I’d be crippled by carpal tunnel syndrome.

Music provides an added layer of texture to my setting. Writing Inside the Crips, I listened to the hip hop and gangsta rap ( Snoop Dog, Ice T, N.W.A. ) that set the rhythm and the texture of Colton’s life. Writing a scene that takes place in Detroit in the 70’s, I listen to the music of that time. (The Jackson 5, Aretha Franklin, Martha Reeves, ) Sometimes when I’m writing, sometimes when I’m driving or working out my ipod surrounds me with sounds that ebb the time and place into my soul. I ended up so entranced by the rhythm and rhymes of rap that Tara in A Gift for My Sister became a rap artist.

Writing is as much a part of me as breathing. Writing, even if it’s in my journal, imparts meaning to each day. 

 

Check out Girl Who Reads website.  Lots of great information and reviews all about books. Thank you!

 

 

Art: Catalyst for Change

 

 

Last month, my sculpture, Juliet Seignious’ paintings, and our collaborative art were displayed in a pop-up show Re/Viewing Oppression at the Ann Arbor Art Center.  During the same month,  Protest Art was displayed and a panel of activists talked with visitors. The art show and the panel were invigorating as we witnessed the power of posters, signs and slogans and explored our voices to increase fairness for all of us.  

At the closing reception, gallery visitors pulled up chairs, snacked on grapes, cheese, pizzelles and talked about art, imprisonment, the shooting of unarmed black men and women by police.    

 

Art enlarges our understanding and redefines it. When we view art, we are inside someone else’s vision. Thus, art helps appreciate our world and see it in a new way. Andy Warhol redefined commercial products and the shades of human flesh; Basquiat unveiled the beauty of urban streets, Picasso displayed changing interpretations of forms and faces inspired by a new love.

I never considered art as an agent of change, but as an expression of images that thrilled me–beautiful or ugly or distressing or glorious. But always compelling as displays of new visual imagination. I had not thought of art as a catalyst for political, societal exploration, transformation, and insight. And yet, the group at the reception made it clear that the art, the discussion allowed a sharing and increased understanding. The discussion at the closing reception indicated how viewing art can be a bridge between people to discuss issues and feelings. Yes, art can provoke it. And yes art can make it easier to explore issues. 

 

 

When we display political images, we are confronted with problems yet to solve; we are reminded of history that can stagger again to reemerge. Issues of oppression do not vanish by themselves.

Art is a gateway allowing us to discuss, share, explore. And as Juliet says, “….bring it into our consciousness. And this is how art can be really valuable.”

 

 

 

Re/Viewing Oppression at Ann Arbor Art Center 3/15-4/5/2018

 

 

 

I am thrilled that my art will be on display at the Ann Arbor Art Center from March 15- April 5, 2018. Metal sculpture from my Mass Incarceration Series is displayed on the first floor Gallery along with Juliet Seignious’ work entitled Requiem/ChalkLines. There will be a closing reception and conversation with us on April 4 from 5-7 at the Center on 117 W. Liberty St., Ann Arbor, MI. 48104. Please come!

Capturing Re/Viewing Oppression

As many of you know I have long been concerned, interested and have written about prisons. I worked in a woman’s prison as a therapist; I co-authored a biography that was set in California’s prisons (Inside the Crips; Life Inside LA’s Most Notorious Gang with Colton Simpson who is currently serving 126 years for a robbery ); I have loved family members who served time. In spite of incarceration’s dehumanization and arbitrary viciousness, men and women in prison, like all of us, search for purpose, and knowledge in order to survive, love, and plan meaningful futures. And to prepare for freedom. My relationships, along with an awareness of the scourge of mass incarceration, pushed me to envision life peering through bars, razor wire, and slit windows. . Thus, I imagined what it might be like to spend time stuck in a maximum-security prison cell where my outstretched arms reach two sides of my cage, and the sink and toilet are connected. The Mass Incarceration Series is the result of the images from their words, and my visits.

Prison Jammed

Recently, Juliet Seignious and I have collaborated in creating paintings. We play off each other’s images, ideas, colors and forms. Sometimes this is wordless. Sometimes we play music. It is like an improvised dance.   Then we walk around the painting considering, “What next?” Once again, we bounce off each other’s images and colors. We’re impressionistic and playful and joyful.   Prison Jammed was created especially for this show.

In the upstairs gallery, there is a show on Protest Art by David Olson and, on March 24 from 11-1, a panel discussion on Radical Democracy will include speakers who were part of the Weather Underground and SDS.

So my art, along with Juliet’s, will be part of an artistic examination, a visual exploration, of some of the heart rendering and alarming social, and political problems we are now facing.

I hope you have a chance to view the art. And, as always, I’d love to hear what you think! Please comment, and come to the closing reception on April 4 from 5-7 and talk with us.

See you there on April 4!

 

The Story of Mr. Blue is now FREE

My recently released illustrated tale, The Story of Mr. Blue, is now FREE for three days on Amazon! 

This short story is perfect for families to share.  Detailing the formation of a relationship between the author and a Beta fish, it shows the unique personality of the fish, as well as the growing sense of connection and joy between him and his human family.  Mr. Blue’s life provokes thoughts and discussion on each living creature as well as the love of pets.  

This is my third illustrated short story. They express my desire to meld my art and my writing. 

I timed this offer to coincide with my Christmas Cookie Club party and it will be FREE from Dec. 3- Dec. 5. Please take advantage of it and leave a review so I know what you thought. 

This is my gift to all of you.  Have a wonderful Holiday Season.  

The Joy of Collaborative Creation

Writing and art are isolated passions. I envy musicians, dancers and actors who hone and produce art as a team, especially jazz musicians who play off each other in instant shared creation. But writers and artists rarely share the joy of creating with another. Yes, we work with writing buddies to improve our work, agents to help sell the work, editors to perfect it and art directors to produce it, but the narrative dream, invention of characters, and structure arrive when we’re alone.

Painting also is solitary. An image appears in your mind and evolves on the canvas. The moment the vision takes its initial shape and is sketched on the canvas is brief, then follows the work of perfecting the form and motion, the magic of the media and hue. In both writing and art, the ‘editing’ part can take the work into a new direction.

Once, I was involved in a round robin altered book group where each of us chose a book, redid some pages, and passed it on to another artist who added to it; the book traveled each month to another artist before the completed book returned to its initiator.  Each addition provoked the visual response of the next artist. The finished art-books  expressed different aspects of each of our individual visual language , but maintained a sense of unified integrity. And once I was involved in a surrealistic writing project where me and my partner would write a chapter, send it the other who would take the plot, characters to through the next event.

Ann, Simba and Juliet

Mostly, we writers and artists are alone at the moment of creation.Recently I have had the exhilaration of sharing that moment of creation—the magic where the spark is imagined and born — with other artists. I met Simba Chakauya, a painter, at Michael’s where we were both obsessing about paint colors and mediums. He wanted to do a pop-up show of his paintings and I told him I’d love to come and we exchanged numbers. Juliet Seignious is a new arrival to my city and my daughter met her and figured we had so much in common – i.e dancing and art — we needed to meet. She was right. Juliet and I attended an art show and I told her about Simba.

“We should join him in his pop-up show,” she suggested. Just then, my phone rang. It was Simba and the three of us agreed to meet.

I don’t know who had the idea first, but after visiting each other’s studios—each of us with very different styles, media and backgrounds—Simba suggested we paint together.

We brought different paints.

We place 36” X 56” tar paper on a vivid blue tarp on lawn (the contrast of the vivid green and shiny blue beneath the matt black enough to provoke ideas) and start painting the immediate images that come to mind using spray paints, acrylic, sign paints.

Spontaneous.

Wordless.

Planless.

Communication through colors and shapes. 

Jazz painting.

 

This is what it’s like: Simba sprays a face in gold and I dot the eyes with red, and Juliet paints a body and a crown. I curve an orange snake and Juliet gives him purple stripes, then flicks turquoise splatter over it all… I dot an edge and she turns dots into mini suns. Simba paints a border of ancient squares. We play with colors in each other’s images, enhancing them, changing them. We don’t take turns, but do whatever we see or feel. One or two of us stand back and look, or walk around the work considering, what next? Another jumps in and the tempo speeds up again. A wordless visual conversation, the creation simultaneous and energetic. Not pondered. Not thought out and planned. Simply spontaneous. Each with our own individual signatures, Simba’s characters, Juliet’s slashes, my dots and curves… embellishing and expanding the whole. But sometimes it’s hard to tell who did what. It’s like a dance we do making it up as we go along. Impulsive and invigorating.

The creative dance

We know it’s finished without anyone saying a word. We just stop painting and walk around it. Ponder it.

It works because we create together. We glory in the colors and the moment of creation itself. The works capture a spirit of magic.

It is art as jazz.

 

Here’re some links for our websites so you can see our individual art

 

Juliet: https://julietseignious.weebly.com/

Simba: https://www.simbachakauya.com/

Ann: http://www.annpearlman.net/art-gallery/

 

The fabulous photos of the three of us painting are by Hilary Nichols .  Thank you Hilary for capturing our live painting: www.hilarynichols.com

 

 

A Short Bird Story: Lust and Loss

This year birds welcomed spring with a lusty flurry, celebrating the season by swooping through trees, trilling, cawing, pecking, whistling, singing, and chirping. Bright red birds, hopping robins, wood-peckers, red and gold finches, vibrant blue jays played and zoomed in the forest surrounding my house.  Desire and excitement in the air. A Baltimore Oriole arrived and I immediately fed him half a tangerine which he pecked on my railing. I had never seen one in my yard before. Early hummingbirds whirled in a blur around their feeder. Even a wild turkey lazily strolled through my yard. I knew that this magical bounty was, partly, a result of my cat’s death last year. Even though he preferred rodents and never killed a bird, they may have been wary of his aroma and presence. The birds were my comfort for his loss. And they put on a great noise show. 

 

I settled into the wonders of the continual music, startling flashes and fantasized a crow would be my friend. Then I noticed a female cardinal built a nest on in the Virginia creeper crawling up the wall by my front porch. She faced the wall her reddish tail extending from the nest or looked out into the forest. The Internet informed me that the male cardinal would feed her and the babies once they hatched. But I saw no bright red male. Perhaps, a hawk got him.  Perhaps, he was a rare promiscuous cardinal. 

I furnished as much solitude as I could, giving her the privacy and safety she needed as I peered out from the slit window by my front door to snap a photo. Occasionally she wasn’t there, out feeding herself, I assumed. At the wild bird food store, a clerk helped me pick out appropriate feeder and food. She warned that other birds like to prey on cardinal eggs, especially blue jays. After all, birds are the evolutionary progeny of dinosaurs, the violence evident in so many claws, teeth, beaks. Every creature kills something, (plant, fowl, mammal, fish, )to survive. 

When I returned home, I noticed she wasn’t on her nest and figured she was out feeding herself and put out the food.

The next morning, she was still gone.

Throughout that day, I checked the twisting vine. No tell-tale tail, no sharp red beak. No momma. I waited. 

No female cardinal.

After three days, I dragged a ladder to my porch, climbed up, and carried the nest down; there was only one egg with a jagged hole. No other shells. The nest was beautifully woven of delicate twigs, dark colored ones on the outside, and light, more densely meshed at the center. A work of the weaver’s art.

 

Maybe the egg wasn’t viable. Maybe the nest was attacked and the chick inside eaten. The cause, whether violence or unfortunate biology, would never be known.

Sadness swept me for the cardinal who built her nest and nursery so beautifully, and so dutifully tried to hatch her babies. As a human female who struggled to get pregnant, had many friends and family members suffer miscarriages and still-births, I was too keenly aware of universal female loss and again re-alerted about the fragility and miracle of the beginning of life, from conception to live reproduction.  A sad end to a glorious lust.

As I see and hear abundant birds, my gratitude that they flood the forest with colors, music, and flight is boundless. And, once again,  they gloriously prove the pageant of life prevails.

 

 

Women’s March Los Angeles

 

 

We were lucky. Rain let up for the day after breaking California’s five-year drought.

I woke up early, met Sheila Finch, and we boarded the 7:15 am Metro Blue Line train at the first station in Long Beach going north to Los Angeles. The platform was packed. We were the last to squeeze into the train and get seats. At the next jammed station, the conductor announced, “Just get on. Don’t worry about paying,” sounding as excited as us by the event. “More trains are coming. Another one in six minutes,” he promised.

At the major connecting station in Long Beach, the crowd snaked from the platform, down the street, and through the parking lot. We cheered our soon to be companions. The energy from the throng, our growing awareness that many people were marching with us, thickened our excitement.

Once out into the sunlight, we walked toward the square. We got a few blocks, but soon met a wall of so many people it was impossible to march to city hall. We had filled all the streets, all the side streets, and the square.

We stood together and admired the signs. The pink pussy hats. The beautiful diversity of people. We cheered helicopters flying overhead taking pictures of us, estimating how many of us stood in the sun.

Some signs:

“Love Trumps Hate.”

“Let’s make America Great for Everyone.”

“Free Melania.”

“Privileged fucks like me should feel obliged to Whine and Kick and Scream until everyone has everything they need.”  

“Our bodies. Our minds. Our power.”

And my favorite: “They tried to bury us. They did not know we are seeds.”

We did not notice any police. Perhaps they were in plain clothes.  People warned each other if the crowd were so packed it was not passable. After a few hours, we walked to a hotel restaurant. Alas, the Maitre d’ informed us, “We are closed. We have just served over 700 people and have to clean up. We were not prepared for this many people.” We got coffee and bought the only food left, a breakfast burrito. 

It was already afternoon and Sheila needed to get home. The crowd had dispersed, and I made my way to City Hall where people were chanting:

“Hi. Hi. Ho. Ho. Donald Trump has got to go.”

“Black Lives Matter.”

“My Body. My Choice.”

A drum circle paraded through the streets.

Off in the distance I heard, “We Shall Overcome.” 

On the way back to the Metro, I walked through a street of political booths. A woman handed me a card so each citizen could take the Oath to uphold the constitution. “I did this yesterday. It’s amazingly profound,” I told her.

Cecilia organized to change the 13th amendment so that prisoners can no longer be slaves. There will be a national march in August. 

People in another booth worked to pass the Equal Rights Amendment. And another booth encourages California’s independence. (California is the 6th largest economy in the world, and has a larger population than Poland. California subsidizes other states to the detriment of itself. California votes do not have the same influence as votes from other states. California is proud of its diversity and wants to control its own immigration and environmental policies.)

I was inspired by the march and empowered to be a part of assuring that we the people will be heard and recognized. I read there were 750,000 marchers in Los Angeles, and over 1,000,000 in DC, accompanied by sister marches around the world.  None were violent. This groundswell of people proves once again that we are together in our belief in each other and the sense that there can be no liberty unless there is equality for all. The march celebrated the immensity of our compassion and desire for diversity. 

 

 

 

 

 

Hands Across America Cookies

Holidays are fast approaching and our country is still ricocheting from the divisive election. Now it’s the time for festivals and welcoming a new year.

The holidays at this season– with the Christmas tree lights, Hanukah candles, and the Kwanza lights –are our way to bring brightness into the dark time of the year. Soon daylight will slowly start its yearly advance.

Many of us are baking for our friends and family. Perhaps you’re part of a cookie club and exchange treats, stories, and good cheer. My hands across America cookies remind us of the spirit of America and unification, brotherhood, and beauty of our human diversity. Plus these cookies are great fun to do and yummy.

Cookie cutters in the shape of a hand are pretty easy to find.   There are even ‘families’ of hands. In a pinch, trace your own hand on cardboard or a flexible plastic sheet, then cut it out. Place the pattern on the dough, and then cut around the board.

You can use your favorite cookie cutter recipe. Here’s mine:

Sugar Cookies

4 cups sifted flour

½ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 cup unsalted butter

2 cups sugar

2 large eggs

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice and the grated zest of 2 lemons

Sift together flour, salt, and baking powder. Set aside.

Using an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in eggs. Add the flour mixture and mix on low until combined.

Stir in vanilla or lemon juice and zest. Divide the dough into four and use food dye to color the dough into various skin colors, kneading in the color. Wrap each ball in plastic and chill for one hour.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

On floured surface, roll out dough to 1/8” thick. Cut into shapes. Transfer to ungreased cookie sheet and chill until firm (about 30 minutes).

Bake until edges start to brown (about eight to ten minutes).

Cool on wire racks.

Decorate with frosting.

Frosting

4 Tablespoons of milk,

½ teaspoon of almond extract

4 cups of confectioners’ sugar

Stir milk and extract into confectioners’ sugar. Add more milk if necessary.

Now the fun begins. You are limited only by your imagination. Here’re some of the things that I’ve tried: Color the dough with food colors to get the different skin tones. As you can see, some of the frosting is chocolate, but I used food dye for most of the various colors. The colored frosting in tubes make it easy and fun to decorate the cookies. Sprinkles of various colors and flavors work as great embellishments. How about almond fingernails?

You can almost imagine different characters from the decorated hands. Great fun to do with kids and grandkids.

Please let me know some of your ideas… and I’d love to see pictures!

And, of course, I’m wishing you a wonderful holiday season and 2017.