“Writing Sex, Violence and Hooking Your Audience”

by
Donald L. Vasicek
Olympus Films +, LLC
Writing/Filmmaking/Consulting
http://michaelc.nextmp.net/wordpress
dvasicek@earthlink.net

You need simply to watch the first ten minutes of “The Sixth Sense”
to learn how to get your readers hooked. A supernatural thriller
that was one of the box office surprises of 1999 primarily because
of its appeal to a large demographic that spanned families to adult
viewers, shows sex and violence in the opening five minutes of the
movie.

I use “The Sixth Sense” as an example because it depicts well what
producers look for in screenplays, and editors look for in novels and
short stories. M. Night Shyamalan, the writer/director of “The Sixth Sense”, was
able to begin the movie with sex and violence and still attract kids,
parents, teens, couples, and marrieds with the storyline of a boy
who sees dead people. This approach to writing screenplays or
novels or short stories because of its wide audience appeal, and thus,
a better opportunity to sell tickets, books, etc.

If you’re serious about getting produced as a screenwriter, or
published as a fiction writer, you would serve yourself well if you
studied movies and books that do well at the box office and book
stores. Look for what happens in the first ten minutes of the movie,
or the first few lines of the novel or short story. Look for how sex
and violence is incorporated into the storyline and theme(s), particularly
for a wide audience, and how tastefully. Blend sex and violence with
the theme and you’re on your way to being successful.

See you next time. Be sure and bring a refreshment. A glass of
spring water, perhaps, some carrots, and a tuna sandwich. Experience
what that does for studying and reading how to successfully write.

Pax.

“The Zen of Seduction”

The Touch of Love The Touch of Love

“Come, come closer to me.
I want to smell your hair.”

Her eyes blinked challenge.

“Here, let me…”

I reached for her sharp-bridged nose.
Just as I posied my finger, to slide it
down her face just west of her nose…

“…No, no…”

I passed my finger gently down
the west side of her face. Ever
so gently.

“Marble smoothness, tight, flawless,
taut,” I said.

Her eyes watched my eyes. We
were microsms of fire. Explosions
marred an otherwise boring night.

“Your finger competes with time,”
she almost moaned.

“What do you mean?

“If you don’t kiss me soon, I will
let someone else share my fire.”

I really smelled her then. Lavenders
in Spring. Her eyes, prisons of love.
Her hair, silk dreams. Her mouth,
full with cherry-colored lipstick,
boiled into mine.

A volcanic eruption stilled the blazing
night. Her breasts, grapefruits, soft,
but hard, pliable but firm. As I moved
my mouth and tongue over her tight
stomach, a fragrance, nearly misty-like,
entered my senses.

It was then, at that time, that time whizzed
past me to a time where I felt safe and
comfortable and happy.

Afterwards, she nuzzled me and said,
“You’re just the man for whom I’ve
been searching, my soul mate.”

With that, she hugged and kissed me.

As I fell backwards into a field of daises
growing out of water. this feeling
of tremendous relief swept over me.
There was no splash, but a lot of other
things.

“I don’t believe in soul mates.” My
heart thumped against me like a
stick hitting a drum.

“Well then, we’ll see about that.”

We were off, talking then, as though we
had waited and saved everything up

we wanted to tell each other for
years for a moment just like this one.

THE END

“Write, Writing, Short Stories, Zen”

Til Death Do Us Part
by Don Vasicek

Vermillion Capulet’s hit with a hammer eyes jerked. The pain, evident in the crimson edges and disbelief, catapulted as she bungled the ring in her hand. The metallic noise struck the dead cement floor. It cracked the noiselessness like a car horn blown in her ear. She gripped her head tightly. Her picket fence teeth stood like a barrier behind her cherry red lips. If you looked closely, you could see an edge of blood in the left corner of her mouth.
Recent, ruby and scintillating against the churlish light, it shoved itself at her animated skin as though it had a deadline to meet.
Vermillion urged her tongue. From somewhere not out of the mystical abyss inside her mouth, she flickered over the blood. Near at hand, a coffee-maker perked.
The Dutch chocolate coffee odor bit at her gaze like an intrusion into the Vatican. The coffee spewed over the lidless glass pot. She watched it splatter on the floor. Enough so that she guarded it’s spitting dark splurges on a human hand.
She inspected her hand. A pane of mirror coffee pot lid plopped blood. A droplet at a time.
Vermillion’s stare chased them. One. Two. Three and so on. They began to suffocate the ring which had come to rest on the outstretched palm of the hand proximal to a matching one on the ring finger which would experience rigor mortis promptly. Suddenly, a telephone rang.
One of those presumptuous sounds, like an ultimatum.
“The Capulet’s, this is Vermillion,” Vermillion stammered.
“A thousand and one are waiting, Vermillion.”
Vermillion pressed at her side. Blood, almost black, saw the world around her side. Not caught up by the snow-white dress, the splotch continued to spread like black death seeping on every side of a meat dealer’s knife.
“Seems Harvester had his lascivious eye on another, Boris,” Vermillion uttered.
“Obsequies to remarriage?”
“You might say I lost my ring somewhere in the vital fluid of life.” Vermillion slumped to the floor.
The phone followed her. It clumped on the hand of blood. The ring there, jumped like a bean, and landed on Vermillion’s heart, just above her laid open rib cage.

Donald L. Vasicek
Olympus Films+, LLC
http://michaelc.nextmp.net/wordpress
dvasicek@earthlink.net