by Terry Brooks
Several days into December, I flew down to San Francisco, rented a car, and drove north to Marin County and Skywalker Ranch. I had directions to a hotel. Once there, further instructions would be faxed to me in my room. I was reminded of Mission: Impossible and wondered if I would get to see anything self-destruct.
Sure enough, at the hotel a message and directions to Skywalker Ranch awaited. I got back in the car and drove out. The ranch was situated in one of those incredibly beautiful valleys nestled in the hills off Highway 101. The entrance wasn’t marked. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you would never find it.
Lucy met me and introduced me to Howard Roffman, the director of subsidiary rights for the company. I liked Howard right away. He was a former lawyer who had been with George since the beginning of the Star Wars program. I told him he should read Magic Kingdom for Sale. He told me I should read the script for Episode I and write down any questions I might have.
I was placed in a room where I read the script and made notations on a legal pad about things I did not understand or about which I wanted more information. (I already had a page of questions that essentially related to how I was to be treated.) I finished the script and my notes. I thought the script was terrific. You can’t always tell, but from what I saw, I thought this was going to be a great movie.
Of course, I thought that about Hook initially, too, so I managed to curb my enthusiasm.
Next, I met with Sue Rostoni, who would be my editor at LucasBooks on the project, and several of her staff. They were friendly and relaxed. Already, I could see a big difference between the attitude of the people working on this project and the unfortunate functionary I was forced to deal with while writing Hook.
I had dinner with Lucy that night. She was quiet and reserved as always, but reassured me that everyone was happy I was writing the adaptation. I took her at her word. I was feeling pretty good about them, too.
The following day I attended a presentation given by Howard to a number of licensees who were seeking to secure various merchandising rights that would tie in with the movie. The format was a combination of oral and visual, with Howard giving a partial synopsis of the story and offering slides and brief rushes from the film. It was impressive, and the potential licensees sat glued to their chairs.
After they left, Howard sat down with me to answer what questions he could. I decided to be blunt. I told him my main concern was getting the sort of cooperation I did not get on Hook. I wanted to be reassured that when I asked about something, I would be given an answer. I wanted access to drawings and documents. If there was anything I was not supposed to know or have, I would like to hear about it now.
Howard told me not to worry, that this was going to be a different experience entirely. The Lucas people were going to open the vault; they were going to give me anything I wanted. This would include drawings of ships, characters, weapons, and scenes, and a CD that contained over a thousand stills from the movie. If I needed something more, they would see that I got it. I breathed a deep and heartfelt sigh of relief.
After lunch and a tour of Skywalker Ranch, I met with George Lucas. By now it was after three o’clock, and I was flying back to Seattle that night. Howard and Lucy took me up to George’s office where George was waiting. He was sort of impish, stocky and bearded, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, and short like me, which took the edge off the size of his reputation and put me somewhat at ease. We sat down on couches around a coffee table and took out our cassette recorders, which we had all brought. It was a little weird, but that was okay.
The conversation began with me asking George if he was sure he had the right man for the job. After all, I didn’t write science fiction. Neither did he, he advised. We agreed, after a brief discussion, that we both wrote adventure stories. I asked him if he was familiar with my work. He was. We talked about Judy-Lynn del Rey, who bought the book adaptation rights to the first three Star Wars movies back in the mid-seventies and believed in their potential when others did not. George had not forgotten. We talked a little about our past. I quickly became convinced that even though he was a California boy and I was from Illinois we had grown up with many of the same influences. He asked me where we should start our discussion. I asked a few questions in response, but he quickly suggested it might be easier if he just told me what he was looking for.
He said that he was interested in knowing if I could tell the story in the book more from Anakin’s point of view. The original focus of the movie was going to be on Anakin, but it became too unwieldy to film it that way. Was it possible to change this in the book? I said I believed so. He told me he was looking for original material, and I practically fell off the couch. Was he asking me to add to his script? Yes, indeed he was. He began to diagram scenes he might like to see. Getting into the spirit of things, while still not quite believing what I was hearing, I countered with revisions of his ideas and suggestions for other scenes. We went back and forth for some time, trading possibilities. There was a fierce intelligence behind his arguments. He was passionate and committed to his work, and he reminded me of myself when he talked about it.
At one point, I found myself practically lunging at him to insist that an approach he was taking that relied on flashback was all wrong, couldn’t possibly work, and shouldn’t even be considered. I knew I had overstepped my bounds when both Howard and Lucy gave me a rather stunned look. But George accepted what I said without comment, and we moved on to other matters.
I asked if I could change his scenes around. He said I could, and furthermore I could keep scenes from the original script that he cut in editing. I asked if I could change his dialogue, knowing that what works on the screen, buttressed by visuals, sometimes just lies on the page and begs to be put out of its misery. He agreed again. I was both flabbergasted and elated by all of this. I asked certain questions about where the story was going. Mostly, he told me. He also told me what I could and couldn’t use in the book. Some of what he told me was not going to be revealed to the public until Episodes II and III. I was expected to respect his confidences. I was just happy to have them for a change.
After a while, we went down to the editing room and watched film rushes. Principal shooting on the movie was mostly complete. What remained to be done was extensive editing involving the inclusion of all the special effects. What I was shown that afternoon was stunning. George made the console operator rerun the Podracer scene several times. I felt like a little kid with a new toy as I watched. George looked like that was how he felt, too.
Four hours passed, and finally I had to leave if I was to catch my plane. George said he was available anytime I wanted to talk. He said he would be in touch after a few final scenes were reshot.
I flew home on the plane, but I suspect I could have flown without it, given the way I felt.
George and the people at LucasBooks were as good as their word. I was given everything I wanted. I went back down to Skywalker Ranch one other time to discuss changes in the film and how they might affect the book. At one point, I called George to ask about the history of the Jedi and the Sith. He talked to me about it for almost an hour. Goodness.
I completed the book and turned it in by May 1 of the following year. It had been a dream project. Everything had gone as well as it possibly could. I was pleased with the book. So was everyone else. I had to make a few cosmetic changes, but that was all.
The book came out three weeks ahead of the movie and went straight to number one on the New York Times Hardcover Best-Seller List, where it stayed for five weeks. I was interviewed by every publication known to man. I could not have asked for anything more in the way of exposure. It was exhilarating and satisfying. George was kind enough to write a personal note thanking me for my work on the project.
There are a couple of things still left unsaid about this experience.
I firmly believe that George Lucas and I have written the same sort of story in Star Wars and Shannara. Both are epic generation
al sagas. Both deal with dysfunctional families and hidden secrets that will destroy some members of those families. Both use magic of a sort, mine of a traditional fairy kind, his of the Force. Both invoke magic that works in the same way, able to help or harm either the user or the target, with the result not always being predictable. Both are coming-of-age sagas involving quests and archetypal confrontations between good and evil. Only the trappings are different, his of science fiction, mine of fantasy. Both are classic adventure stories.
Could those who decided I was the right person to adapt The Phantom Menace into book form not have been aware of this?
In 1977, Star Wars and The Sword of Shannara were released within months of each other. Both books were shepherded through the publishing process at Ballantine Books by the sure hand of Judy-Lynn del Rey. She talked to me at the time about how important the Star Wars project would turn out to be. She told George Lucas the same thing about The Sword of Shannara. I could not bring myself to ask him if this had anything to do with bringing me into the Star Wars world twenty years later, but I cannot help but think that it did.
What the experience illustrates is that the people and events that will help our careers and prove important in our lives are not always recognizable at the time we first encounter them.
So I say to you in closing, May the Force be with you. It certainly was with me.
* * *
“No,” I told him at once, closing the gate anew.
“The cats will eat the antelope and zebra.
You can’t put them in the same pen.” Hunter
looked at me. “But, Papa, they’re nice,” he said.
* * *
* * *
THE WORLD ACCORDING
TO HUNTER, PART ONE
* * *
IN SEPTEMBER of 2000, my grandson, Hunter, taught me an important lesson. He was not yet five at the time, my first and only grandchild. He liked making things up, acting out stories, and playing with figures, especially pirates and dinosaurs. In short, he liked to do exactly the same things I liked to do, which probably says more about me than it does about him. I am quite sure I was not acting my age when we played together, but I excused myself by declaring I was doing it only to entertain him.
Hunter was always playing at being someone or something other than who or what he was. Earlier that summer, while we were attending the Maui Writers Conference and walking along the beach to dinner, he announced that he wanted us to be pirates. He would be the captain; I would be the mate. This was pretty much the way the pecking order always shook down. Say something, he ordered. Arrrgghhh, I growled. He grinned. Let’s go in search of treasure, Matey! Arrrgghhh! We swaggered down the walkway, trading pirate talk as we went. I get into this role-playing stuff pretty quickly, and before long I was firing cannon and boarding hapless treasure ships. Down the walkway we went, Judine and son Alex (who, at seventeen, wanted nothing to do with any of this) hanging back. People approaching moved way over to one side to let us pass, giving Judine sympathetic looks. I growled at them. Arrrgghhh! What did they know?
On the day Hunter taught me my lesson, he and I were playing pirates in his room with Playmobil figures. We each had a pirate ship on which to sail the bounding main. Hunter’s was bigger and newer. Mine was smaller and had holes in the sails. Hunter got the good guys, the ones with sashes and tricornered hats; I got the bad guys, the ones with ragged clothing and peg legs. I was allowed two of the four treasure chests, but no real treasure. I was allowed only one parrot. I got two of the four cannons, but no cannon balls. I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that he was not yet five.
We played the usual pirate games. Hunter had books and books on pirates and he liked to watch pirate movies, so he pretty much knew what pirates do. They sailed in search of treasure, often stopping by desert islands to dig up chests of gold. They engaged in sea battles in which all casualties were immediately revived following the fight. Prisoners were transported now and then to Pirate Island, another Playmobil contraption, where they were chained in a cave, or they were set adrift on rafts and menaced by sharks, some of which came from Lego sets.
But in Hunter’s world, pirates had a more colorful and diverse life than those we are familiar with from the history books. Hunter’s pirates went on picnics, complete with tables and folding chairs, grills and cooking implements, and a family dog. They had a country home, which they visited regularly. At the country home, they had a dolphin pen and a spa. They also had a four-wheel-drive vehicle, which they took for rides, frequently encountering Godzilla. Sometimes they had sleepovers with medical personnel from the nearby hospital, who brought along an ambulance in case of emergencies.
Today the pirates were going to the zoo, which Hunter and I had constructed from building blocks. The zoo consisted of a series of pens containing the various species of animals. There was a pen for the big cats, one for the grass eaters, one for the primates, another for birds, and one more for the alligators and hippos. The pirates walked along the top of the blocks and looked down at the animals. They had a group of children along, which they had agreed to shepherd on a school outing. There was an entry gate and a ticket booth. The four-wheel-drive vehicle that transported them was left in the parking lot with the dog.
Hey, this is Hunter’s scenario, not mine.
Halfway through the zoo visit, Hunter decided to open the gate between the big cats and the grass eaters and let them visit. I was quick to tell him he couldn’t do that; the big cats would eat the grass eaters. I shut the gate firmly. He looked at me for a moment without comment, then went back to playing.
A little while later, he opened the gate again.
“No,” I told him at once, closing it anew. “The cats will eat the antelope and zebra. You can’t put them in the same pen.”
Hunter looked at me. “But, Papa, they’re nice,” he said, referring to the big cats.
I then launched into a ridiculous attempt to explain animal behavior, which failed miserably. Hunter had no idea what I was talking about, nor should he have. Nevertheless, the gate stayed shut.
Until, only moments later, Hunter opened it yet again and began to move the big cats through. I was befuddled and irritated. “Hunter, you can’t do that!” I exclaimed in frustration. “Haven’t you been listening to me?”
Hunter, equally frustrated, put his hands on his hips, squared himself around, and shouted, “Papa! We’re pretending!”
Oh.
Sorry, I forgot.
I thought about this later, chagrined that I needed my grandson to remind me what it is that we do when we play. How could I lose sight of such an obvious truth—I, who make a living at pretending and is supposed to know better? Without a second thought, I had disrupted the smooth flow of our playtime by shutting down possibilities simply because they don’t exist in the real world. I was telling Hunter that he shouldn’t do things if they weren’t already accepted as feasible. I was closing off the faucet of his imagination so that he would conform to what everybody else believes.
I was reminded of something that I heard a few years back at a lecture on writers and books. The speakers were John Edgar Wideman and Terry McMillan. They talked about their approach to their writing and their view of publishing. I had forgotten most of it, but not one essential part of what Wideman said. He argued that our book culture is systematically devaluing the importance of imagination. He remembered when the New York Times Book Review, the premiere newspaper publication in the country, devoted approximately two-thirds of its space to fiction and one-third to nonfiction. That was now reversed, with increasingly less space being devoted to fiction all the time. It was representative of what was happening everywhere. There was a pervasive feeling among readers and reviewers that fiction was less important than nonfiction. We had arrived at a point where books bearing the words Based on a true story somehow had greater value than those that didn’t. We were obsessed with “reality entertainment.” If it wasn’t true in the world at large, how
could it have importance to us as readers?
On remembering, I was struck anew by the immensity of this pronouncement and its far-reaching implications. I know enough about the world to appreciate that the one constant in life is change. But change does not happen without imagination. Progress occurs not because we remain satisfied with what is, but because we hunger for what might be. We are always looking to take that next step. But the next step begins with looking beyond the possible to the impossible—because what seems impossible to us today becomes commonplace tomorrow. It is one of the primary lessons of the world, and it has its roots firmly embedded in the fertile loam of our recognition and celebration of the importance of the imagination.
Hunter doesn’t know this. But I do. If I am to set a good example for him, then I must give him a chance to discover this truth on his own. I must encourage, not discourage, his use of imagination. I must remember that not only must I not close off the possibilities he chooses to explore—whether I believe them realistic or not—but I must encourage him to find a way to open the locked doors that bar his way.
But it is not only Hunter’s imagination that needs care and nurturing. It is my own, as well. It would seem obvious that a writer of fantasy would not need to be reminded of this. But as the pirate incident so clearly demonstrated, I am as likely as the next person to fall under the sway of the world’s overarching desire to remove the larger part of life’s nagging doubts by embracing the norm. As much as the next person, I seek reassurance that some things are dependably constant. I want a modicum of stability in my life. I want a sense of security and control. Using the imagination can stir up trouble. Challenging the status quo of things sometimes evokes unnecessary concerns about what we’ve always accepted as true.
