From Film
to Book: The Unlikely Origins of THE REVENGE ARTIST
By
Philip Hoy
A very early version of Evelyn Hernandez, (a.k.a. The Revenge Artist),
first appeared in a three-minute screenplay I drafted as a writing model for my
students. The class was an English elective I’d created a few years back called
An Introduction to Horror Film. In it we examined the origins and evolution of
the genre and wrote analytical essays on films such as the silent-picture era Nosferatu; the Golden Age of Hollywood’s
Frankenstein; the Cold War
sci-fi/horror classic Invasion of the
Body Snatchers; Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Psycho; and the zombie origin game-changer, Night of the Living Dead. As a final activity, the class wrote original
short screenplays, and we managed to film five of them, enough for a Horror
Short Film Festival during lunch. Even though we never planned it, all of the
films shared a common theme: bullying.
Most of the students completed their films at home, but I wanted a
story that would involve the whole class, and, for practical reasons, one that
would take place entirely in my classroom. So I wrote a screenplay about a
bullied teen who gets revenge on her tormentors when she discovers she can make
things happen by drawing them. Evelyn’s character, simply named THE ARTIST in
the credits, didn’t even have lines. She was either drawing pictures in her
notebook or glaring over the edge of it at the boy across from her. Even though
it was only three minutes long, it took three days to film, which explains why
in the final edit some students’ clothing and even hair styles will suddenly change
from one cut to the next, and then change back again. And then there are other
problems such as the sound being either too loud or too low at any given
moment, and the fact that the teacher doesn’t look a day over sixteen; but hey,
we learned so much in the process and, more importantly, we had fun making it. Best of all, since it was a horror film, there was definitely blood, lots of blood.
When I eventually sat down to write the novel, the first two minutes
of the film became the first chapter of the book, and the story just took off
from there. As I continued to write, I found that Evelyn’s character was much
more complex and interesting than I ever thought she would be. “Don’t you know?”
she confesses to her teacher, “I’m a witch … a real, honest to God,
black-hearted, evil witch!” She could be so melodramatic, and so stubborn. And
she turned out to have such complicated feelings. She was impulsive,
aggressive, even mean; but she was also conflicted, feeling powerful, yet
ashamed, for finding joy in causing someone else pain. And unlike the artist in
the original three-minute horror-film version, this Evelyn always managed to
punish herself more than she could ever punish her enemies.
I’m sure most writers, whether or not they will admit it, would love
to have their books made into movies. I know I would. But now that I think
about it, THE REVENGE ARTIST was actually a movie before it was a book—an extremely short movie, sure, but still a
movie, right? If you look hard enough you might even find it on YouTube …
however, I don’t recommend that you do, because, as we all know … the book is always better than the movie.
* * * * *
The Revenge Artist
Philip Hoy
56K,
Evernight Teen
Contemporary/Paranormal
Elements/Romance/Suspense
Add black
magic to her resume...
Evelyn
embarks on a dark journey of revenge when she discovers she has the power to
make bad things happen by drawing them. Her emotional pain, isolation, and
self-hatred lead her down a self-destructive path with dire consequences.
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Excerpt:
Evelyn Hernandez knew what it was to
be invisible, but this was different, this was being ignored ... being avoided.
She tried to tell herself it was just her imagination. How many mornings had
she walked through the halls of this school feeling exposed and on display?
Knowing the redness of her lips, the blunt cut of her bangs, the pleats on her
floral print skirt, everything down to the dark hair on her arms was being
criticized by a hundred judging eyes. She wondered why they bothered, because
the truth was, no one really cared. But there it was: a glance, a turn, a
change in volume, a lull in some conversation as she walked by.
In first period, it had been hard
concentrating on her painting. Even in the sanctuary of Ms. Shipley's, it felt
like she had been on display in the center of the room, like one of those nude
models, the ones Ms. Shipley said she had painted in college.
Second and third were even worse, and
by the time she made it to Schwartz's, the tardy bell had rung and she entered
the room a full minute late. She had been praying all morning that Garvey
Valenzuela would at least have the decency to be absent today, but there he
was, looking just as surprised to see her as everyone else. Too many sets of
eyes stared at her in silence as she moved toward the front of the room and
took her seat directly across from him at the table they shared. She
immediately opened her binder against the edge of the table and slouched low
enough to protect most of her face from his. There was obviously some kind of
writing assignment on the board, but Evelyn couldn't focus to read it.
She had tried so hard not to think
about this moment that she was completely unprepared. What should she do? Say
something to him? Tell him how much he had hurt her?
Never.
What did she expect him to do,
anyway? Whisper an apology? Laugh it off like a joke she should have been able
to take? Ignore her?
What she could never have prepared
for was the open hostility she heard in his voice when he finally said to her,
"I can't believe you even came to school today after what you did."
The contempt. That’s what did it.
That's what it finally took to break his spell on her. She lowered her folder
just enough to meet his eyes and let him see the hate she had there for him. He
looked away. Determined to rip him out of her life, she pulled her sketchbook
from her backpack, prepared to remove every page with a memory or picture of
him on it. But when she opened it to the sketch of his hands, she
stopped.
Never before had she considered
destroying any of her drawings. They were memories, mere moments, yes, but more
than that, they captured her life as she was living it. For better or for
worse, this book represented all that she’d done. If she denied her mistakes,
wouldn't she be doomed to repeat them?
But as she stared at the hands on the
page before her ... the hands she had allowed to touch her, their creases and
lines, their scars, their prints, almost more real on the page that captured
them ... she did something she had never done before. She turned her pencil
around and began to erase. Not too much, just a little, a few lines here and
there, part of this shadow, the edge of that one. And then, leaning closer, the
drape of her hair shielding her actions from prying eyes, she began to add to
the drawing, altering and recreating it. She wanted to hurt him, punish him for
what he’d done to her, and this was the only way she knew how.
Just as Evelyn completed her
revision, the sound of Vanessa Galvan's voice from across the room brought her
back to the moment. "Hey Garvey," she said, loud enough for everyone
in the class to hear, "throw this away for me, please."
A wadded up ball of paper hit Evelyn
hard on the back of the head. She flinched, but didn't turn around.
"Do not throw things in this
classroom!" snapped Mr. Schwartz from where he sat at his desk. More than
likely he had not seen it hit Evelyn.
"Yeah, Vanessa!" Garvey
said, also for everyone's benefit. "That's not the trash can."
"Close enough," Vanessa
said, getting a few laughs.
Evelyn remained bent over her
drawing, teeth clenched, refusing to give either of them the satisfaction of a
response.
"I'll pick it up," Garvey
sighed, playing the teacher's pet.
He got out of his seat and walked
around the table to Evelyn's side. There, he bent over to pick up the ball of
paper that had settled near her chair, saying with disgust, "There's too
much trash in here already."
She turned on him at that, tears of
anger welling up in her eyes.
Now standing in Schwartz's usual
place in front of the class, the center of attention, Garvey continued to
entertain his audience. "And the quarterback takes the snap!" he
said, backing away from Evelyn and imitating the movement with the paper as his
football. "He falls back, finds his receiver, and there's the pass!"
Lobbing the ball of paper high above his head, he jumped up, twisting in the
air with hands open close to his chest to receive his own paper pass ... when
somehow, he lost his balance and came crashing down on Schwartz's wooden podium
and the frail table next to it.
Papers, books, pens, and pencils
literally went flying as the podium spun and toppled, and the table was crushed
beneath the weight of Garvey's body.
The class erupted into astonished
laughter and applause, but a gradual hush came over the room as Garvey's cry of
pain shifted from an embarrassed and genuine groan to hysterical screams of
shock.
"Everyone in your seats!"
shouted Schwartz as he maneuvered his way to the front of the room.
Garvey, struggling to sit up, had
rolled onto his left side. His right arm was extended and supported at the
wrist by his left hand. A brand new, freshly sharpened, yellow number-two
pencil had pierced the center of his right hand, stabbing clean through and out
the other side. The eraser end stuck straight up in his palm and the sharpened
point protruded from the back of his hand. An impressive trick, Evelyn thought,
except as Garvey held out his hand, blood began to roll down the bottom half of
the pencil, gather at the pointy end, and drip messily onto the floor. A small
puddle of red was already darkening the carpet beside him.
Schwartz sprang into action as Garvey
rolled back, fainting. "Frank! Go get security! Valerie! Call the office
and tell them what happened and to call 911! Erick! Grab that roll of paper towels
in the cabinet behind you!" He knelt down beside Garvey, telling him to
hold still, and then he took the injured hand below the wrist and lifted it up
over Garvey's head. His other hand he wrapped around Garvey's bicep and
squeezed, pressing his fingers against the inside of the injured arm.
The class was mostly quiet after
that, waiting for the paramedics to arrive. Phones were out, silently
documenting the event, but Evelyn didn't need a photo; she had her own picture
... only she had not remembered drawing so much blood.
*
* * * *
About the Author:
Philip Hoy is a high school English
teacher by day and a short-story author, novelist, and poet by night. When he
is not creating lesson plans or grading essays, he is writing. He lives in
Southern California with his wife Magdalena, also a teacher.
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