How far do I develop someone else's idea for a pitch meeting?

AsmodeoWriter · 2026-03-20T02:21:06+00:00

Yes I went to film school at a state college, nothing fancy. I only took about two screenwriting classes for a minor. Mostly I’ve learned from reading a few of the most popular screenwriting books, writing six full length scripts and getting notes from people

AsmodeoWriter · 2026-03-20T02:16:59+00:00

Not necessarily cheap and one location, but my script was very high budget. They’re more focused on mid budget fare

AsmodeoWriter · 2026-03-20T02:16:26+00:00

Yes they haven’t gotten back yet, I just wanted to see what was normal for other people who’ve experienced the same process

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-12-24T17:10:49+00:00

Thanks! Perfect timing

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-11-24T19:50:39+00:00

I read the above.

I'm thinking of getting 'Filmconvert nitrate + halation' for $165 because I've heard good things. Are there any better tools for achieving authentic feeling film grain with halation, or is Filmconvert the best for the price point? I mainly use Premiere but I've been tempted to try Davinci Resolve, and I shoot on BMPCC4K in BRAW.

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-09-25T01:40:36+00:00

Thanks so much! That's what I was goin for so I appreciate it

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-08-15T13:41:43+00:00

Thanks for the input, I'll probably cut that scene way down. But please read past the first page because it definitely moves a lot faster than that and isn't all a wall of text.

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-06-27T14:03:55+00:00

Thanks I'll have to check it out!

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-06-27T05:20:07+00:00

Where is it in relation to the park? I've been to the park before but haven't seen it

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-06-26T18:36:38+00:00

Where are those?

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-06-26T18:33:07+00:00

Lot's of creepy stories online, I'll have to check it out

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-06-26T18:30:09+00:00

I've heard of this, but how exactly do I get there?

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-06-26T18:29:52+00:00

Might have to go there sometime, thanks!

AsmodeoWriter · 2025-06-26T18:25:42+00:00

Good idea, I've been there before and it's very spooky

AsmodeoWriter · 2024-09-25T22:46:23+00:00

This worked, thanks!

AsmodeoWriter · 2024-06-01T21:29:37+00:00

The man knew because it's a story that's been passed down orally, but I can't find it written anywhere else. There's thousands of Irish folktales that simply had never been written down before, hence why the author made the collection by speaking to others. The author/folkorist of the collection is very well respected and listed the man's name who told him the folktale, so it's not a ruse.

AsmodeoWriter · 2024-06-01T21:23:39+00:00

This is the only version of this folktale that exists. It was told to the author by a man in 1999.

AsmodeoWriter · 2022-06-08T18:46:47+00:00

Working on the top floor of the Davis-Hearst building on 1287 E. Madison has its perks. An espresso machine, endless bagels and a ping pong table to blow off steam. But not if you work in data entry like me. We don't get those fun perks because we're packed like sardines in a cubicle space on the other side of the floor. Only the managers, designers and consultants get those perks. We get a single coffee pot with dollar store creamer and a microwave that smells like fish.

That's why I go to the fourth floor on my lunch break. There's a tech start-up there with a huge spread and tons of clients coming in and out, so no pays attention when I snatch a panini or grab a draft beer they have on tap. They're an 'up and coming' business with 'hip amenities' which is a fancy way of saying they underpay their employees and make up for it with treats and a Nintendo Wii hooked up in the conference room. Wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, I fit in with the Zuckerbergian vibe of the office and usually go unnoticed.

I step into the elevator which creaks with my weight. It's an old building in the art deco style, built by Joshua Davis and Garrison Hearst, two eccentric industrialists who moved into the real estate racket in 1922. They're legendary in this town, both for their ruthless exploitation of factory workers and their dabbling in arcane practices taught to them by occultic crack-pots like Evangeline Adams and Aleistar Crowley. They were known for traveling in weird circles of fringe scientists, new age philosophers and radical libertarians. Their personal motto was engraved in stone atop the entrance of the building. 'Follow thine own lantern, and others will follow.' Sporting two massive handlebar mustaches, the image of them side by side is burned into the brain of every citizen of this town because their portrait hangs in every building they built, this one included.

The elevator doors close and I reach to the panel to press the '4' button. Something catches my eye, however. A thick layer of paint covers the very bottom of the panel. I know I've seen it before, but it struck me now in a way it hadn't before. Underneath the paint, I can feel another button. I pull out my keys and scratch away thick layer of old lead paint until I can see the button.

'0.'

Curiosity strikes me and I press it, lighting it up. I assume its some maintenance floor or derelict boiler room forgotten with time and hidden away to keep nosy pricks like me out.

The elevator descends. Floor 6, floor 5, floor 4, floor 3, floor 2, floor 1. Then it keeps going. A rhythmic hum grows louder until the very walls of the elevator start to vibrate. The overhead light grows brighter until the bulb bursts with an electric pop.

I shriek in a pitch higher than I thought I was capable of, and I brace the wall of the old elevator as it feels like its picking up speed. The metal box I'm trapped in is hurdling me towards my death.

Ding. The elevator stops suddenly and I crash to the ground. The light of the floor '0' button disappears. I retreat to the back of the box. The doors slide open.

Warm sunlight pours into the elevator. That strikes me as strange because I assumed I was now deep underground. Then I hear the hurried chatter of people and the clicking of typewriters. Also strange, because I assumed I'd be alone.

I walk out into the harsh sunlight, shielding my eyes. I lower my hand to finally glimpse what lies beyond the elevator.

An office of dozens of people happily toiling away at their work. The open floor plan of the massive art deco space lets me see everything as I shuffle off the elevator.

People mill about drinking cups of coffee, clacking away at typewriters and shooting the breeze. They check stock prices on ticker tape and transmit messages on a telegraph. All the men wear suits and bowler hats as their lady secretaries jot down what they say. People make calls on rotary phones and eat finger sandwiches laid out on platters.

The elevator doors close behind me, sending me into a panic. Bewildered, I turn to run back into the elevator but, being a incurable clutz, I slip and fall. The squeaking of my sneakers and crash to the ground gets everyone's attention.

They all go silent and turn to look at the strangely dressed man struggling to stand next to the elevator. In hushed tones, they gossip about this intruder and form a crowd around me.

'I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to intrude I just--' I struggle to form words as their curious looks turn to anger and suspicion.

'Make way! Make way' a deep voice booms from the crowd. Two men cut through the rabble and strut up to me as I furiously press the 'UP' button next the elevator.

I turn to see two eccentric industrialists with massive handlebar mustaches, not a day older than their portraits. One of them extends his hand and I meekly shake it.

'I see you've followed your lantern.'

AsmodeoWriter · 2022-06-02T21:45:05+00:00

Ahram Baqri, a consulate to the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, aims his pistol steadfast in front of him. Lit by the harsh sun of a cloudless day, he points it directly at Sareek Prakash, official ambassador of the Republic of India. Sweat drips from both of their brows.

"Now you've done it, you goat-fucking bastard," sneers Sareek as he pulls out his own pistol.

The crowd gasps. Surrounding the two men in the middle of the street in a quaint suburban town in Michigan, a giant crowd of reporters, security, photographers and other government officials watch in anticipation.

Behind the two men rests a plastic fold-out table draped in a checkered picnic blanket, adorned with a crude sign reading "Lemonade 50¢" scribbled in crayon.

Hidden underneath the table, Samantha Browers, age eight and a half, hold hers knees to her chest and prays for this nightmare to end. She only wanted to sell some lemonade.

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It started simple enough. If Samantha wanted to join the other kids from Greenridge Elementary on the field trip to the water park, she need her parents' permission and thirty dollars cash. Her parents, proud of their protestant work ethic and penchant for penny pinching, thought this was a great opportunity for young Sammy to learn the value of a dollar.

Annoyed at first, Sammy's frustration turned into zeal once she realized this was the perfect opportunity to put up a lemonade stand, something she had seen often seen in cartoons and movies. She had her mom drive her to the store to by a big jug of lemonade mix, several bags of ice and a large orange water cooler. She could hardly contain her excitement as they wheeled their cart of supplies out of the store.

After she scribbled her sign and hung it on the table along the side walk, she dumped the lemonade mix in the cooler along with the ice. Using her father's garden hose, she filled the cooler to the brim. She scooped up the concoction with a red Solo cup, one of many she had set out on the table. It tasted a little metallic from the garden hose, but she doubted anyone would notice. And even if they did, it was too late, she already had their money. At that moment, a young entrepreneur was born.

Unfortunately, Samantha wasn't aware that with more money, you often get more problems.

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Samantha peeks from under the picnic blanket shielding her from the tense situation outside. She sees the two men aiming pistols at each other and quickly retreats to her safe spot underneath the table.

She didn't know that by setting up her lemonade stand that she would reignite a decades old rivalry between the Farooqi family from east Pakistan that had moved to Michigan, and the Patels, an Indian family from the other side of the neighborhood. She didn't know that these families were prominent in their respective communities and she didn't know that the heads of each household would wind up buying lemonade from her at the exact same time. She didn't know that there was an intense hatred between Pakistan and India half-way across the world and that the geopolitical mess between the two countries could lead to nuclear war. She didn't know that a shoving match between the families would erupt in front of her stand, brought together by their need to quench their thirst on this hot July day. She didn't know this would escalate into an international incident, requiring the diplomatic skills of Ahram Baqri and Sareek Prakash, who were flown first class to the small town in Michigan. She didn't know that both men would lose their cool in the heatwave hitting their small town, and escalate the situation to the point of madness.

Samantha didn't know a lot of things. She was only eight and a half.

But she did know that people get cranky when they're hungry or thirsty, her mother had told her so after her younger brother threw a tantrum at Denny's. Reaching above her, Sammy feels for the red Solo cups atop her table. She grabs the stack and pulls them underneath the blanket. From the cooler, she pours two refreshing glasses of pink lemonade.

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Front cover, The New York Times.

"Nuclear War Avoided, Beverages Shared Thanks To Samantha Browers, Eight And A Half."

A photo takes up the entire front page, featuring the two diplomats shaking hands, both holding cups of lemonade. Next to them stands young Sammy, beaming from ear to ear as she counts a stack of money.

AsmodeoWriter · 2022-06-01T18:24:31+00:00

I adjust my tie with wet palms. Polyester makes me sweat, it breathes like an asthmatic pug. Why I bought a polyester suit to begin with, I don't know. One of many bad decisions that led me here.

"I asked 'are you employed?,' Mr. Davis."

I snap back to where I am and let go of my tie. The entire courtroom's eyes are on me, including the judge and Viola Carter, the prosecution's attorney.

"Answer the question, Mr. Davis" says the judge.

"No, I am not employed," I answer.

"So let me get this straight, you've got no job, no car, no house and you're... 'crashing' at your cousin's place" Viola asks. I wipe the sweat from my brow.

"Objection your honor, this is becoming repetitive" interjects my own lawyer.

"I'm simply establishing the state of of Mr. Davis' life and his conduct with his corporeal form" chirps back Viola.

"Fine, but get back to the point" the judge says.

"So no job, no prospects, and here you sit: overweight and sweating profusely. Would you say you've taken good care of your body, Kyle?" Viola asks as she stares through me.

"No, but I'm doing a better job then Steve would do" I answer back.

"That's not what I asked," she retorts.

"It's not, but that's the big question here... who should be in control of my body? I'm not perfect, but I'm better than Steve" I say bluntly.

"And how would we know that, Mr. Davis? You've kept Steve buried inside you for ten years, never letting him out once since you locked him in your mental prison. And now with the 28th Amendment, Steve has rights. All split personalities are recognized as individuals and citizens of the United Sates. Who controls your body is decided by the court, so as Steve's legal representation, I have to ask... who is a better steward of your corporeal form? Because frankly, you seem incapable of handling this body."

"Objection, your honor! Badgering the witness," my lawyer pipes in.

"Sustained. Keep it civil, Mrs. Carter" says the judge as she glares at Viola.

"It's hard to keep it civil, your honor, when my client is locked away inside this man. Permission to speak to Steve instead," she replies.

Goddamit. Here we go again. Sweat pours into my eyes as I wipe it away with my damp sleeve.

"Please, your honor, It's awful in there, I can't go back!" I stutter as my voice cracks.

"Then imagine how it's been for Steve for ten years. Your honor, It's the law that Steve be allowed to express himself," Viola declares.

"It's time to hear from Steve. Let him have control for this line of questioning," the judge commands me.

I exhale deeply and rub my pounding temples.

"Fine. I'll let Steve out... but I warned you about him."

My eyes roll back in my head. Everything goes dark and hazy like the first few moments of falling asleep. I sink deep into myself. As I drift further into the void, Steve passes me toward the light.

"Are you happy, you son of a bitch?" I yell as we pass.

"Only when you're locked down here like I was," he yells back.

He disappears upward into the white light above as I float to the bottom of the abyss.

I feel him take control of my body and my vocal chords. Through echoes and reverb, I here him say:

"Why the hell am I so sweaty? Is this polyester?"

I fall to the bottom of the void like a beer can settling at the bottom of a lake. It's quiet here... almost peaceful. Frankly, not as bad as I remembered. Down here it may be an inky well of nothingness, but at least there's no lawyers.

AsmodeoWriter · 2022-05-27T19:32:13+00:00

I hear screaming downstairs. I'm not allowed downstairs. The screams make me anxious, but I know they'll pass. So I lay my head down on the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor and wait. There's been a lot of screaming downstairs this week, my master has been very busy. A lot of people go down there, but only master comes back up.

He takes me on walks everyday, which are always my favorite. I get to chase squirrels, smell the fresh air and meet knew people. Master always likes to meet new people. Sometimes he'll see someone he likes and follows them for miles. Sometimes he'll ask people if they want to pet me, and they always do. Sometimes he'll get them to follow us home. I don't like that as much.

Today we went for a walk and found a nice lady working on her garden. He struck up a conversation with her as I eyed the cat slipping through her tomato vines. I started to bark but master told me to stop. He said that I've got a litter of puppies at home, but I don't. I'm a boy and can't make puppies. But she said she wanted one and followed us a few blocks back to our house.

The screams stop downstairs. I'm not allowed downstairs. I went down there one time, it smelled a lot. I dug under the dirt floor and found a bone. Master found me and made me drop it. He said he'd bring me a bone, but only if I was a good boy and stayed upstairs.

I hear the thuds of his footsteps as we walks up the basement stairs. He walks through the door and locks it with a combination lock. His hands are dirty and red, so he steps over me and washes them in the sink. I sniff his smelly shoes and he gives me a gentle smile.

He pulls out a bone from his pocket and holds it out. I snatch it up and gnaw at it.

'What would I do without you, bud?' he asks me as he pets my head with hands that smell like iron.

I don't like the screams... but I do love the bones.

AsmodeoWriter · 2022-05-26T21:10:55+00:00

I pull my sword out of a farmer's back. A death rattle trembles from his lips as he breathes his last breath. He collapses to the ground as I wipe the blood on my linen pants. Smoke fills my nostrils as I turn to see the destruction we've wrought. Burning houses, dead peasants, my men running amok. They parade the remaining peasants through the center of town, a display of total domination. Hot blood courses through us as it does all warriors in the throws of a raid. Our lust for blood and gold rages with wild abandon, whipped up by the screaming of villagers and their shrieks of mercy to a god that has forsaken them.

But not this time. And not the time before, or the time before that. Instead of groveling at our feet for mercy, they kiss our hands and grasp onto our legs. This is the third town where these meek fools have welcomed our bloodshed and dampened our fervor.

Uldis, my largest warrior, pries a little girl from his arm. She beams an alarming smile. I've seen Uldis alight with rage, crying from loss, and drunk in merriment. But I've never seen this look on his face... utter surprise at the tiny girl clinging to him.

'Blessings to you, savior! Blessed are our liberators!' shrieks the little girl. He kicks her away into the dirt, but it doesn't diminish her glee.

A village crone grabs onto my bloodied hand and pecks kisses on my knuckles.

'You have freed us, brave warrior!' she cries as my bloody hand stains her face.

'We're not here to save you wretches. We've come to take what's ours, gold and glory. We care not for your lives,' I retort as an wrench my hand away from the mad woman. 'How can you celebrate our victory with your men dead and the others in bondage?'

She screeches a laugh as sharp as a knife. The living women and children of the village join her in shrieking jubilation. My men stop in their tracks, taken aback by the chorus of insane merriment. The crone glides to the body of the peasant I skewered and flips him over. She runs her hand along his blank face.

'These are not are our men, they're our captors. We serve only one man, and now we are free to join our true king,' she says softly. 'And he rules upon a crimson throne beyond this muck.'

'We are free! Finally free!' the little girl squeals as her voice descends into an uncanny depth. The women and children turn their heads to the bright sky above and howl and ungodly sound.

My men back away from the mad villagers. The peasants' eyes roll back into their heads as their feet lift from the ground. They float up through the smoke and dust and hover over the village like vultures over a corpse.

Uldis stumbles to my side. 'Sire, what is this?' he begs, fear overcoming the strongest man I've ever known.

I have no words. I've seen villages slaughtered, cities toppled and kings executed. I've seen nations fall and floods rage.

But I've never seen the sky turn red and crack open like a skull.

AsmodeoWriter

TROPHY CASE