From Concept to Story

Today I paid a visit to the Internet Movie Data Base (IMDB.com). It was this week’s most painful experience.

On the very front page, on the featured trailers banner, was my story.

 

Just kidding. It was Wally Pfister and Jack Paglan’s story, titled “Transcendence.” As soon as I saw it, I knew what it would be about. Supercomputers. An anti-technology rebellion. A man uploading his own mind onto a computer in an attempt to save his life.

(Go here for the trailer)

If you were to go into my room, dig through my drawer, find my "Idea-Log," open to page 33, and look at the top margin, you’d see something along the lines of, “Transcendent Artificial Intelligence – scientist uploads brain to computer – gains massive power – society fights back against immorality.”

MY. STORY. I can’t tell you how heartbreaking that is.

On the bright side, the movie looks good. Not only does it feature Johnny Depp and Morgan Freeman, but the story seems deep enough to give the sparkly visuals a good flavor. I commend the writer, Mr. Paglan, on his ability to take an interesting concept and put it in its best light. He was able to do something that I couldn’t, not after years of writing, rewriting, and plot-diagramming. He must be a better human being than I am.

But I’m still whining. This needs to be a constructive experience.

First: What separates his idea from mine?

Well, for starters, the words in my notebook were a skeleton. Not a story. I had a concept that needed setting, characters, relationships. Emotion. From what I gather, Paglan’s story involves a wife that is involved in the whole uploading process. That’s powerful. She’s also his “partner in science” – a nice and relatable dynamic for anyone who gets high on the pure pursuit of knowledge. She is caught between the safety of the world and the life of her husband. An impossible choice.

Duty versus love. Science versus morality. Dichotomies that are intriguing on so many levels.

Second: What is there to be learned from this difference? What do mainstream writers / directors do to bring a concept up to story status?

Let’s see if we can trace a path from the skeleton to the story, starting with, “Transcendent Artificial Intelligence.”

Stories are all about conflict, so we need problems. Problems. What’s wrong with super-intelligent computers? They might turn against us. They might hack our bank accounts or steal our private information and hold it at ransom. They might un-encrypt nuclear launch codes and start a World War III.

Somebody will have to realize this possibility before it becomes a problem. Someone has to speak up. That person will likely amass a fair amount of followers, all believing that the safety of their world is teetering on the edge of a perilous scientific cliff. Because they are desperate, they will resort to violence. Even terrorism.

Anti-tech group. Check.

What’s the other side of the coin? What advantages are there to having genius computers? If every device has access to the internet and its fellow computers, they will be able to compute solutions to humanities greatest problems faster than we could ever imagine. Being the creator of such a device must be exciting. Intoxicating. One might begin to love the computer like his/her own child. Or more than a child.

Love of technology interfering with personal, human relationships? Maternal? Fraternal? Marital?

The computers could find the cure for cancer. They could come up with a perfect system of government. They could unveil the mysteries of God and the universe. They could solve death itself.

Interesting… now death is a token in the game. Is it a race against time? Maybe a father tries to save his son from a terminal illness by creating a super-intelligent computer. But why not twist it a little more?

Maybe we should introduce a villain. Perhaps the president of the anti-tech group? Ehh… he’s just a man, a motivational speaker at best. Leaders are typically not the scary guys. In this case, the leader is probably a political junkie. The anti-tech group will put tension on our protagonist(s) outside of the main good-guy / bad-guy conflict.

So someone else, then. Someone not trained to be a moral leader. Someone adventurous. Someone predisposed to obsession over things like power and creation. An engineer.

Our scientist.

But how can the scientist be the villain? And how can he be intimidating?

What truly makes a villain scary is when they are powerful and unpredictable. This is where the other part of our concept comes in: “scientist uploads brain to computer – gains massive power.”

Our former protagonist now has a mental link to the internet. He can access the whole of human knowledge just by searching his mind. He can perform billions of calculations every second. He is drunk with the power, and quickly becomes a villain. Worse, he is growing too fast to be predictable.

But, then, who’s the protagonist? I heard a quote once that said something like: “The best villains are the ones who are personally related to the protagonists.” The most logical choice, in this case, is a coworker. And then add a little bit of love (emotion-potion) and wallah!

Our protagonist is a coworker and a spouse to the digital scientist.

What’s left? We know that our spouse/coworker protagonist is going to have to choose between the world and her husband. Bu how the heck is she going to be able to do that? That’s a huge choice. In order for our audience to be satisfied at the end of the story, they need to have closure, but we have just introduced a new type of problem: that of conscience. Even after she chooses to shut down the computer, she won’t be able to stop thinking: I just killed my husband. Killed him. Ended him.

She has to realize that it’s okay to let him go, which can happen in a couple of ways. Maybe she finds an old journal of his, in which he proclaims that he would rather die than become evil. Or maybe she discovers that he was evil all along. He hired the anti-tech group to shoot him, knowing that they would be forced to upload his mind to the computer. He planned the whole thing.

Bitter betrayal. And then? Finally. Sweet revenge.

And so there it is, from concept to story. A straight, continuous line. The latter is certainly a lot deeper and more interesting. Now, if only I could do that with my other ideas, I would be a very successful writer!

What are your thoughts?

Penny Prompt - Something Ugly

Here's another penny-prompt that I did last weekend:

 

 

2) Write about something ugly–war, fear, hate, or cruelty

Johnson swung the barrel of his rifle around in a complete circle, taking in the vast ruined city. ETA of his rescue-chopper was thirty minutes and counting. The air was ghostly quiet.

Might as well do a sweep.

One devastated building blanketed in ivy drew his attention, partially because of the enormous letters painted beneath the ropy vines. He squinted, trying to make out the faded characters.

“ST. MATHESON’S RE----- -OME FOR CHILDREN”

“Refuge home…” he mouthed, intrigued. It looked like it come from an aged fairy-tale. Old brick, faded colors that could’ve been happy – plus, fairy-tales always had orphanages. We drove these kids out. Guilt struck deep beneath his armor as he thought of his own child, only three years old, back home.

He stepped up to a hole in the brick wall and peered in. It was dark and covered in rubble, but he could see light further down the hallway. Probably a battery-powered emergency light. Most public buildings had them.

Despite the fact that nobody was supposed to be there, Johnson couldn’t help but step lightly as he entered the building. It felt haunted, like the ghosts of all his victims had converged on this one spot. A sickening idea struck him: what if there are bodies here? Childrens’ bodies? Now that it occurred to him, it was probably true. Everybody had been taken by surprise when his team swept through, not just the militia. Even the friendlies, even the ones who weren’t supposed to get involved.

On second thought, maybe he ought to go and wait out in the open.

Johnson turned and stepped back into the sunlight. Today wasn’t the day for violence. There would be other opportunities to forage through the tangled, mystical ruins on supply-runs with his team. Natives from the neighboring town would come in and remove the dead. Maybe then they could –

Johnson’s ears perked up. He thought he heard… no, it can't be…

He listened closer.

The sound came again.

“Oh my God!” he shouted, ripping his radio out and pressing the button. “Where are you, Mariel?”

Static. “Captain, are you alright? Are the hostiles back?”    

“The hell they are! I’ve got a survivor on –"

“What are you saying? Calm down! Nobody survived that attack, sir, everyone’s gone – ”

“Don’t talk to me!” He screamed. “I hear it right now! Somebody is crying, I can hear it! Get a medic, now!” He dropped the radio and brought his rifle up to ready position. His own heartbeat was knocking the air out of his lungs. Looks like it’s into the dark, after all.

Muffled static. Finger on trigger.

Muscles tensed, like a prowling cat, Johnson tried to maintain composure. Nobody’s supposed to be alive. Nobody is alive. He proceeded quietly into the darkness, chanting the words over and over in his head.

The sound grew more and more distinct as he advanced through the black hallways. Just a friendly, he began to think, no longer able to accept that he was hallucinating. The crying was too loud, too clear. He kept his eyes forward, ignoring the eerie, peeling wallpaper decorated with flowers and clouds.

There was a shadowy doorway just up ahead. That’s where the sound was coming from, he could tell by the way it echoed. With his lips, he formed the words, “who’s there?” but no sound came out. Fear had caught him by the throat.

SCHHH! “Captain?”

Johnson yelped and pulled the trigger. A deafening bang cut him straight to the bone, and somewhere in front of him, rubble was knocked loose. Johnson disconnected his radio and brought his gun straight back up, panting heavily.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, please, Lord, help me…

There was a moment when he couldn’t hear because his ears were ringing, but then the noise subsided and all that was left was a soft crying. Exactly as before. It hadn’t changed at all. It was a quiet, weak voice, and… somewhat familiar.

Fear turned to terror. Icy terror.

“Oli?” he called out, voice trembling. “My s- oh, God, my son?”

The crying stopped abruptly. Like it had been waiting all along.