A guest post by Sam Knight.

When I was young, around seven or eight years old, I was treated to the adventure of a lifetime on an eight-inch black-and-white television screen. My first movie action hero wasn’t Indiana Jones, Luke Skywalker, or even Captain Kirk. (Although I’m being nitpicky about Kirk. He was still a television character back then…) It was Jack Driscoll.

Little did I know that years after teaching me what I thought a hero should be, Jack would teach me something about storytelling, too.

Did the name Jack Driscoll ring a bell? Probably not. Not for most people, anyway. I watched his movie every chance I got (which, back before VCRs, wasn’t very often). To this day, even though I own the film, if I see it’s on TCM, I’ll stop and watch it.

Jack was the everyman character. Not the everyman that everyman is, but the everyman that everyman saw himself as and wanted to be. Jack was rugged. He was quiet until he saw things that didn’t look right to him, and then he couldn’t be placated until things were put right. Jack wasn’t the one in charge, but he stood up and took charge when he needed to, and if he was afraid, he didn’t stop to waste the time to show it.

I saw Jack deal with connivers, hostiles, and cowards, all with aplomb. He even held his ground when faced with monsters and military. He was my hero.

When I was older, I saw Jack again. In a new movie. It was a remake. He had a new face, new job, and new name. “Jack Prescott,” they called him. They tried to make him more realistic. They tried to give him depth, make him interesting, make me relate to him and like him. They failed. Instead of watching Jack deal with connivers, hostiles, and cowards, I felt like he was one-and a wimp, too. He couldn’t deal with anyone. Situations flowed around him and happened to him. He was not in control of his own destiny. I hated the remake. I did my best to erase it from my mind.

Years later, I met Jack a third time, in yet another remake. He was again a different man, but at least he had his name back. He still didn’t have the position of authority that embodied his original character. They tried to make him an everyman again. They did better than the second try, but still not as good as the original. This time, as situations flowed around him, Jack fought back, a little, and grew as a character. But he was still second fiddle. He lost out to the grandeur of the film. He lost out to the special effects, the monster, and the hype. Don’t get me wrong, the movie was good, but I felt the story was lacking something.

If by now you still haven’t placed Jack Driscoll’s name, I will take mercy upon you and thank you for being patient. You see, Jack was one of the first modern action heroes. And, as they say, a hero is as only as great as the villain he fights-making Jack one of the greatest of all time. His nemesis was none other than King Kong!

Jack struggled against the machinations of Carl Denham while still following orders from his captain. He kept control of his crew in the face of hostile natives on Skull Island. He fell in love with Ann Darrow, in spite of his misgivings of having a woman on board-or women in general, for that matter. And when Kong took Ann, Jack went into the mouth of hell to get her back. King Kong was the story of a hero, Jack Driscoll.

Until they remade it. The 1976 remake was a kind of eco-warning. Jack Prescott was a placeholder character in a placeholder story that ran only on the fumes of the memory of what the original King Kong had been. This was not a story about my hero; it was mostly about some whiney guy telling people not to ruin the ecology. Kong was not his nemesis. The movie almost didn’t need King Kong at all, and a large portion of the film didn’t have Kong in it. It was almost like two separate stories, with Kong’s tacked on to draw an audience. (Jack doesn’t even get the girl in the end!)

In 2005, the film was remade again. It was a much better film, in my opinion, but as I said before, the story centered on the special effects, the monster, the island, and the Tragedy with a capital T. This version was all about King Kong and his tragic story. Kong was the hero who failed. The only thing we needed Ann for was to show us how tragic it was, and the only thing Ann needed Jack for was to move the story along so she didn’t stay with Kong. By the time the movie was over, we wanted Kong to get the girl.

Let’s look at one more remake, this one in book form, called Monster 1959, written in 2008 by David Maine. To be fair, this wasn’t intended to be a remake. In fact it’s mostly political commentary and satire of the genre. Kind of. It’s also a blatant retelling of the same story. In fact, the monster, while not a giant ape, is called “K.” and there was nothing in the story that would surprise you if you had seen any of the movies.

Monster 1959 was written from the monster’s point of view, told by an omniscient voice with a political agenda. This completely changed the story yet again. I didn’t like it at all.

Why? It was a different story.

You would initially think all four of these examples tell the same story, but they don’t. They used the same idea, same outline, same plot structure, similar if not same characters, locations, and circumstances-everything. The idea, the core concept, remained unchanged, but each story was different. Each had its own agenda, its own moral, and its own focus.

The original stated, “It was beauty killed the beast,” and yes, it was a lesson, but it was also the villain’s weakness. The 1976 remake wanted instead to show that man should leave nature well enough alone, let things be as they should instead of how we want them. The 2005 story returned to the “beauty killed the beast” lesson, but instead focused on showing that the villain was merely misunderstood, was more human than the rest of us. (I honestly didn’t get the point of Monster 1959, so I won’t go there.)

So what’s the lesson Jack Driscoll taught me all these years later?

It doesn’t matter how great of an idea you have for a story. What matters is how you tell it. It’s all in the telling. If you tell it right, you’ll inspire people and leave an indelible mark. If not … it was just a story, and maybe not even a good one at that.

All of these stories were about King Kong, more or less, but only one was about my hero, Jack Driscoll. And that story made all the difference for me.

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Sam Knight refuses to be pinned down into a genre. If the idea grabs him, he writes it. Once upon a time, he was known to quote books the way some people quote movies, but now he claims having a family has made him forgetful, as a survival adaptation. He can be found at his website and contacted at sam@samknight.com.

A guest post by Jace Sanders.

When I was sixteen, I stood atop my desk surrounded by those considered to be my peers. Everyday in Honors English I felt like a fraud; the other students were much smarter than I. But standing on my desk at that moment, I saw the world differently. I felt inspired, but even more so, I felt like I could inspire. I wanted to excel in academics, to become a scholar. The notion seemed far-fetched at the time, being that my father was a college dropout and his father never attended high school. I resolved to be the first in my paternal line to graduate from a university. Carpe diem.

The inspiration came from watching Dead Poets Society. It was the first time I remember crying during a film. I found that Neil’s tragic suicide left a void in my mind. I craved an alternate resolve-a happy ending. My mind returned again and again to the plot, as if trying to prevent the suicide by working into the story a phone call to Neil’s father or an intervention by Mr. Keating. If only.

Conflict is all around us: in nature, music, relationships, science, math, and life. It can be found everywhere. Through conflict we discover greatness. In writing, without conflict there is no plot, there is no protagonist, and there is no story.

In music, conflict is called dissonance. It is said that Mozart’s father would wake up his son by playing a dissonant chord (a dominant seventh) on the piano. Invariably, Mozart would have to resolve the chord, changing the 7th to the 8th, completing the octave and putting his world in balance.

We crave resolution. Through our choices we seek to resolve hundreds, if not thousands of conflicts each and every day.

In writing, resolution doesn’t necessarily mean that everything is wrapped up nice with a pretty bow on top. At the end of Dead Poets Society, after Neil’s death, and Keating’s termination, the group of young men are faced with a choice-a conflict. They can either continue to let others tell them what to think, or they can seize the day and think for themselves. It started with Todd, the protagonist. He chose, under threat of expulsion, to defy the temporary professor by standing on his desk, facing Mr. Keating, and proclaiming, “Oh Captain! My Captain!” The act inspired a dozen other young men to follow.

At the end of the movie, we don’t know if the students were expelled or if any consequences followed their stunt. As a teenager, my mind wanted confirmation that everything turned out okay. I wanted to know that their lives were better off. The ending doesn’t give me any such assurance, only hope.

The real resolution, and the power of this story, is in the courage and resolve of the Dead Poet’s Society to think for themselves and look at the world in a different way, from another vantage point.

The suicide, though tragic, is a resolution. Neil escaped the conflict between him and his father. The poignant scene is slow and methodical. Even though I know how it ends, I still yearn for a change to Neil’s ritual as he prepares to take his life. I think of the man he could become, but I think in vain. The event hangs out there like a dissonant chord needing to be resolved. As I watch the tragedy unfold, I look for resolution outside of the images I see. I reflect on those people I know who may struggle to follow their heart amidst opposition. I am inspired to find opportunities to make that needed phone call, to offer that hand, to share a kind word and maybe prevent a similar tragedy.

About a year after watching Dead Poets Society, I saw such an opportunity. A friend, who had lost her brother in an accident, seemed to be having an unusually rough day. After pursuing my inclination, she admitted to having taken a handful of pills and was on her way to the bathroom to finish the bottle.

The voice of author Tracy Hickman occasionally pops into my head, asking the question, “Why do I write?” A dramatic pause follows and then I answer, “To inspire.”

I have been inspired by happy and sad endings, and endings in between. Those stories that have inspired me most are those whose endings hang out there like a dissonant chord that only I can resolve.

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Jace Sanders lives in Arizona with his wife and five children. In addition to writing, he enjoys music, photography, and anything outdoors. He holds a Masters in Business Administration from Utah State University and works for a biotech company.

A guest post by Victoria D. Morris.

I attend a lot of movies. I appreciate what they bring to the world artistically, and visually. I especially appreciate them when they touch the core of who I am. And when they do that unexpectedly, they join my personal collection.

Finding Forrester is one such movie.

For the most part, I consider myself two different fans. One, the reader. The one who can’t put a great book down until it’s finished, even if that means it’s 3:00 a.m. with the alarm set to blare at me not four hours later. Because that was a darn good book.

And then there is the movie fan. She can’t wait for all those stories she loves on the page to come to life on the big screen. She wants to see all the wonder, hear all the emotion, and taste the magic.

She watches differently than she reads. You have to, really. No screenwriter-and I love so many of them-can take a book and put it on a screen exactly the same. Because they read it differently than I do, even differently than its author did. Than any reader does! But they always, always try their best to tell a good story.

I had no expectations walking into the theatre to see Finding Forrester. It was a movie-day out with my best friend. Watching movies is one of my favorite hobbies. Particularly since I’d moved out of state, these special treats were few and far between.

We sat down together, laughing, enjoying each other’s company, until the previews started. Then the first bits of rap were performed during the opening scenes… and I was instantly transported, through my own life, back into one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city where I was born, where I grew up and found ways to beat back the hardship and scariness of drive-by shootings and crack houses.

But Finding Forrester didn’t scare me. Nor did it threaten to be “that sort” of story. It showed, quite brilliantly to my eyes, how someone-anyone with any kind of talent-could escape unhappy surroundings to find their true place. Their true happy ending.

It showed, too, that hard work is most certainly needed, but also that dreams could come true. Even dreams that you didn’t know you had.

The movie ended, and I couldn’t contain the emotion. I was in tears as the credits rolled. The story had taken me on a visit home, showed me the inner secrets of my heart. The secrets buried there, the ones I’d barely begun to discover, had always been a deep and encompassing part of me.

What kind of storytelling lesson did I learn from the big screen? Finding Forrester taught me that I could be the writer I am becoming. Before seeing that movie, I’d written sporadically throughout my life to help get through difficult emotions. I wrote poems and short stories that sat in dusty drawers as far away from my mind as my imagination had drifted during years of hard corporate world work that moved me physically away from that rough neighborhood.

And after? I’ve completed several novels. Even more short stories. Poems come flying out for the craziest of reasons. Some happy, some sad, but all of them one step closer to reaching a goal so solid in my mind that it is physically visible all around me, moving me emotionally into the place where I could grow, build up, and withstand the riggers of a solitary writing career.

Finding Forrester started me on the path to becoming my most artistic self: the person I am today, and of whom I am by far proudest.

It very much earned a valued place among my digital collection. And watching it again for the purpose of this blog only reaffirmed that.

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Victoria D. Morris lives with her family in the Pacific NorthWest on the edge of a magnificent fairy forest surrounded by mountains.  As both writing and art have been integral to her life up to this point, she is unable to decided which comes first.  She recently found work as a professional editor to be equally rewarding.  Follow Victoria’s website for further adventures and to see where Destiny takes her next.