Tip-Type-Typing away!

Slow but steady, progress!  Doctor Who is coming along, my next iteration of the Pipeline pitch bible -- which manages, somehow, to mix the best parts of the last and most current versions along with some newer, more exciting thought processes -- is off to Chris for perusal.

My gawd... could I be hitting some small patch of stability?  Quick, knock on... well, particle board (close enough, right?).

On the bright side, Saturday and Sunday look to be utterly, bitterly cold... which means I may just have all the excuse I need to hunker down with my laptop and start firing off pages like a madman.  We'll see how that plays out.

I know I've had a few folks mention that they'd like to see what I've put together so far... so, while I can't go putting up large swaths of this thing, here's what I've put together for my first page:

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INT. CATACOMBS

Through the darkness he sprints, young JONATHAN AMES - a 15 year-old kid dressed in rags; a bulky gunny sack slung over one shoulder, an old-style flashlight in his other hand - the fading light bobbing and shaking, revealing rough-hewn stone walls as he scrambles forward; contents clicking and clacking together inside the sack as he runs for his life.

Behind him something ROARS, the walls shaking with its rage.  Jonathan looks over his shoulder, shines the light backward - terrified, he abandons the sack and pushes himself to run faster. (The sack hits the ground sounding like a bag of giant marbles.)

Turning corners at random now, running blind from fear, he slams face first into a dead-end and stumbles backward, falling to the ground, dazed.

From the ground looking up, a shadow falls across the cavern as the dying flashlight winks out. Jonathan SCREAMS in the darkness.

CUE TITLES

EXT. DUSTY CORNFIELD - DAY

A bright yellow sun beams down from a cloudless sky. It’s hot here, hot and dry - a desert in the making.

The TARDIS - a blue, 1960s-style, British police box - appears in the dusty, ruined remnants of a cornfield.

DOCTOR (O.C.)

Just you wait!

THE DOCTOR bursts out through the front doors, excited. A waif-ish, thin man with mid-length, dark hair he’s dressed in a dark green greatcoat, crisp white shirt, crimson bowtie, black suspenders and slacks. He speaks with a hurried, British accent.

DOCTOR (CONT’D)

I’m telling you, seas - shimmering SEAS - of living
crystal.  And the best massages in the known
galaxy, well, until that Sontaran soprano incident in
forty-sixteen, but I--

He stops, looks up to the sky, feels the sun beating down on him. AMY POND and RORY POND, married, also British-ish accents, step out of the TARDIS into the bright, hot, daylight and immediately shield their eyes.

The Doctor looks around, sees sand and wilted, mummified corn stalks. He walks in a circle, head down, thinking. He licks his finger, sticks it in the air.

DOCTOR (CONT’D)

No. That’s not right -- singular sun, simple gravity,
light magnetic field. Wrong planet, obviously --
wrong planet, wrong time. But--

He spins, without looking, pointing to the exact location of a small, gleaming object just on the horizon.

DOCTOR (CONT’D)

What is that?

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Now, of course, more of that to come.  Still have work to do, but I'm feeling good.  All progress is good progress, right?

Cheers all!

Brandon