Script:
Like the horizon when you're traveling, mastery is always another day's journey away. This is the singular concept that each of the remarkable individuals interviewed in this book hold in common. Mastery is an unending process, and so there is never a final destination to be reached. Those who have achieved mastery may have complete command over the skills and even the art of their disciplines, but new and ever-increasingly refined aspects of their work continue to appear. True masters thrive on continuous learning and growth. They are committed to the process itself. The interviewees come from around the globe, yet all agree on another point. The major pitfall on the road to mastery is success and all the temptations that come with fame and recognition. In addition to these two major points of agreement, the interviewees reveal an intriguing range of key factors contributing to their exceptional accomplishments. Among the most frequently mentioned keys to mastery are having a teacher or mentor, practice and hard work, love of one's endeavor, determination and commitment, taking risks, and luck.
Script:
In the silence of the forest, someone thought of him and he stirred, surprised and disturbed. The bitter tang of derision burned the runes of his mind. Singer, misfit. Better to be alone than live among uneasy covenors, casting sidelong glances at him as he passed. But tonight, the ache of loneliness possessed him. He was thinking of his mother, long ago wasted and gone. He returned to the cave because there was no other place along the miles and years that was his, at once salvation and a burdenstone. But among men who held out no hand, in a world that opened no doors, that much, at least, was his. He was Singer and he was alone.
Tags:
young adult
YA
flirty
male female dialogue MF
teenage
heartfelt
charming
light crush energy
coming-of-age
emotional spark
innocent attraction
Script:
Betsy came from the fire and not the sky. She looked to be out for a stroll, shuffling confidently toward him in her lugs old boots. She smiled flatly and laughed a smoker's laugh, congestion gurgling deep in her chest. That your car? He nodded and patted the Toyota defensively. You know it ain't fit for these roads. It's fancy, like your pants. You buy those jeans new today? Jason was thrown and twice flipped the hair from his eyes before responding. So what? I'm growing a lot. Yep, you're just a big puppy. What the hell was her deal? Jason struggled to respond. It's okay, babe. I like fancy stuff just fine. She lit a smoke, took a draw, and walked off into the piney woods behind the Camry. Jason stayed put, unsure of what to do. She turned back. The woods are full of scary things, can't let a girl go in all by herself. Indeed feeling like a puppy, he followed her.
Script:
When I was a kid, I loved to walk outside after it rained. There were always so many rainworms on the ground. I remember asking my grandma where they come from, and she replied, they fall from the sky with the rain. A few decades later, in college, my buddy Kobe and I walked in our neighborhood after it rained, and there were all these rainworms. I remember looking at them and exclaiming, man, it blows my mind how these worms just fall from the sky with the rain. Then there was a long pause, and both Kobe and I burst into laughter.
Tags:
crime
gangster
mobster
thug
thriller
mystery
detective
male narrator
Script:
It's May 1976 in a swelter in New York City. Sal is going on trial for murder in 10 days. I have to work fast. I'm wearing a police uniform, of all things. Me, one of the boys in blue. You could make this stuff up in a million years. I'm outside the station on East 51st Street. I sit in the police car putting it all off as long as I can. I hear the crackle of police messages coming in. Stuff like Prince Street, Queens County, Caucasian male stabbed, suspect may be armed. Hmph. I had no idea that we kept the cops so busy.
Script:
As a builder, Wildog was practical and pragmatic. His method was one of eliminating needless elements until what remained performed its one or two functions exceptionally well. If he'd built wheelbarrows, they would have been really solid, really high quality wheelbarrows. End of story. The alien, on the other hand, elaborated and imagined features until his designs bordered on science fiction. He'd contemptuously demand what kind of moron would choose wheelbarrows when he could use fuel-injected tractors instead. And why wouldn't said fuel injectors have integrated custom fogger tips that radically reduced heat and fuel consumption? Obviously no reason. Utterly convinced that all known scientific limitations were one big overarching conspiracy, he'd think of ways to add month-long experiments to the project until, and rightfully so, the only thing you could refer to it as was a goddamn spaceship. Whatever idea he got, the sky wasn't the limit. The limit was space. Deep space. And the moment of departure was imminent.
Script:
Hey, Pop, she said again, meeting his eye, and smiled. Coffee's ready. He searched her face for a few moments, like reading something in a foreign language he once knew, now long forgotten. He furrowed his brows, raised them, furrowed them again. He stared down at his mug for a solid moment. This thing's empty or I'm Saint Basil, he huffed, handing it back to her. You clowning, Natasha laughed out loud. I'll make more, she said, pushing herself back to fire up the Keurig on the counter. Keep going. I want to hear all about that jackass on the boat. Oof, Aiden clipped off, everyone hated that guy, and with that, picked up where he left off when they last saw each other, nearly a year ago.
Tags:
thriller
Script:
You feel like you're falling. There's a man in the chair. He's screaming at the top of his lungs, shouting about something that isn't really defined for you. There's another person there, too. You can't see who he is, but this other man has to have all the answers right away, or someone's going to die.
Script:
As I stood there behind all the other chosen VIPs, shuffling slowly forward, the rumbling in my stomach spurred my thoughts toward how much I had actually loved the bread lines of my hometown, after all. Lines were a fact of life, but sadly, they did not all end with food.
