learning script


Hey Guys! Here is the final set of keys for my personal project. Today is the last day to sign up for Part III of the Colorscripting Masterclass on patreon.com/tycarter which goes into process on these and the entire color script. There is over 4 hours of content for those looking to learn more about color scripting. For more info visit the link.
Have a great day!

Another casting

So Tom has another casting on Friday and is busy learning the script. He wanted me to ask everyone to send him luck so I promised him I’d update the blog lol

R x

Things you learn from reading original scripts of the PotC movies

aka “why wasn’t some of this stuff in the movies”

  • Ragetti ran away from home to become a sailor and is only happy when he’s at sea (aw)
  • Bootstrap is… not the sharpest pickle in the barrel, but we still love him
  • Gibbs has at least one sister. Her husband is a lawyer in London; he’s on good terms with them both. He’s not on good terms with several other women’s husbands.
  • Davy’s original response to “shall we sign it in blood, I mean ink” was “let’s not and say we did”
  • After which Jack offered to hug him. I’m not making this up.
  • Beckett’s death scene was originally going to be a lot nastier- dragged under and drowned when the EITC banner landed on top of him in the water
  • Beckett himself was originally intended to be closer to Governor Swann’s age, and a smoker
Philip Hamilton x Reader - Garden Swing Pt 1

A/N: Hey guys, I apologise for the long delay. I have multiple scripts to learn, scripts to write, auditions and school projects coming up, so updates will be few and far between, I’m afraid. This was a request! That you for requesting. I hope you enjoy the angst, and part two will be up as soon as possible.

‘Knock, knock’

You looked up at the sound of knocking. Quickly stuffing your book behind your plump pillow, you stood up, straightening your skirt. “Come in.”

You had been just in time with the book, for as soon as you had uttered the words, your door was flung open. Immediately casting your eyes to the floor, you muttered meekly, “Good morning, father.” The mid-morning sunlight filtered in through your open blinds, the first sign of spring finally appearing. You were glad for that; you loathed the cold, and that winter had been particularly hard on you.

“Good morning, [Y/N]. Say, where has that maid of yours disappeared to?”

Feigning indifference, you tried not to think of Macy sneaking off with her ‘forbidden love’, the kitchen boy, half an hour earlier. “I have no idea. Father, why aren’t you at work?” This was highly unusual, and you didn’t like it. Your father raised an eyebrow at your forward question,  but let it slide.  “We have been invited to a dinner party this evening, so I was given the day off.”

Your eyes lit up at the mention of a dinner party. Food prepared by hand, dresses considered the height of fashion, and a sea of handsome bachelors? You couldn’t wait. “Where is it? Oh, is it at the Madison’s again?” Your father was great friends with the Madison’s and so were you - Dolly treated you as one of her own, and after a drink or two, Mr Madison could be make even the dog roll around in laughter. “No, it is not at the Madison’s this time.”

“Oh. Where are we going, then?”

“The Hamilton’s.”

You blinked, not believing the words you were hearing.  It was a known fact that your father, Thomas Jefferson, hated the nation’s  treasurer, Alexander Hamilton. Having never met the man yourself, all you knew about him was that he was from the Caribbean, and that he hated your father. “The, the Hamilton’s?”

Your father sighed, pursing his lips. “Yes, the Hamilton’s. Are you deaf?”

You blushed, eyes returning to the floor. “Sorry father.”

Sighing once more, he made his way over to you, taking you in his arms. You knew he couldn’t help it when he got like this, not since your mother had died, just over a year ago. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just - tonight could end in disaster, and I can bet it will be all that loudmouth’s fault.”

You stayed quiet. Giving you an awkward pat on the back, your father left the room, muttering about ‘that damn maid’.  Praying that Macy wasn’t caught behind the back door chewing the kitchen boy’s face off, you strided over to your wardrobe, flinging it open.

You weren’t that isolated. You had heard your friends whispering to each  other about the Hamilton’s son, gushing over his brazen demeanour, his dashing body, his adorable freckles. Pf, he couldn’t really be all that, could he? Well, you would soon see tonight.

Now, what to wear?

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … .

“[Y/N], please straighten your skirt. We must make a good impression.”

You did as your father said, biting your lip. After years of hearing nothing but insults against Mr Hamilton, you were suitably apprehensive about visiting his house. No, not house, his mansion. You stared out of the window as the carriage rolled up the extensive driveway, your eyes drinking in the sight of the grand manor, surrounded by picturesque trees and clipped bushes. This would certainly give your home back in Monticello a run for it’s money.

As you stepped out of the carriage, you shivered in the evening air, wrapping your shawl tighter around your arms. It may feel like spring in the day, but night still hadn’t caught up. Your father stood next to you, looking taller than usual in his magenta coat, his hair running wild in the slight wind. You were lost when it came to where you were actually mean to enter the seemingly enormous  house, but just as you were about to pipe up, the biggest door opened, a woman rushing out to meet you.

“Good evening Mr Jefferson, Miss Jefferson. I assume your journey was safe?”

Your father took the woman’s hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. “Good evening, Eliza. Yes, the journey here was fine.” The woman, Eliza, smiled in response, before looking over to you. “Oh, do come in! You must be freezing out here.”

Eliza ushered you into the spacious house, showing you a place to peg up your shawl. As your father made light conversation, you looked around the room. It seemed to be a hallway, flowers and expensive-looking vases standing on wooden stands every few metres. Following the adults, you were led into an even bigger room, where various people milled around, talking to others, glasses of wine in hand.

A man quickly joined Eliza, pressing a kiss on her cheek. “There you are, Betsey. I was looking for you.” Eliza smiled, wrapping her arm around his offered one. “I was just making sure our guests here arrived safely.”

As if seeing him for the first time, the man who you assumed was the infamous Alexander Hamilton, glowered at your father. Well, at his chest - the Hamilton was rather short. “Ah yes. Eliza, remind me, why was I forced to invite them again?”

Eliza blushed, a frown knitting her forehead together. “Alexander! Be civil.”  Your father simply rolled his eyes. “Good evening to you too, Mr Secretary. Please allow me to present my daughter, [Y/N] Jefferson.”

Your father may be cold and sarcastic, but you knew he was fiercely proud of you, showing you off to people at every opportunity. You allowed a quick kiss to be pressed against your knuckles, before your hand was dropped and the two men were scowling at each other once more. Looking around the room, you saw only men and their wives talking to other men. No one even close to your age. You sighed internally. This was going to be a long night.

“Ah, there he is! The man himself. Philip, come and join us over here. I have someone for you to meet.” A boy, around your age, hidden in a corner, looked up, sauntering over to the cluster of people. “Yeah, pa?”

“Philip, I’d like to introduce to you Mr Thomas Jefferson, and his daughter, [Y/N] Jefferson.”

Well. Your friends certainly weren’t lying about his looks. Tall and well-built, Philip had a mass of bouncy curls, accompanied by millions of freckles that dotted every inch of his face. If it wasn’t for the cheekbones and obvious muscles hidden by the fabric of his shirt, you would’ve mistaken his face as that of a nine year-old’s.

“Good evening Mr Jefferson, Miss Jefferson.” Well, he had definitely gotten the manners of his mother, and not his father, who was still frowning at your father. You blushed involuntarily as Philip took your hand in his, slowly taking it up to his lips and placing a chaste, gentle kiss on your knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Alexander! Sir Washington has arrived, we must go and meet him.” Suddenly, Eliza was tugging the man away from you, your father following at the mention of his boss’s name. Struck dumb by the abrupt departure, you were surprised when Philip began to laugh quietly, rolling his eyes. “They do that every time. They treat that man as a god or something.”

You grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my father had a secret shrine dedicated to President Washington, the way he goes on about him.” Philip’s eyes sparkled in yet more laughter. “Hey, since they lumped the two of us together, want to ditch this party? At least until the food is served.” Smiling, you accepted the arm that was offered to you. “I wouldn’t say no to that. They may be a while.”

Even though you had met him about a minute ago, Philip acted as if the two of you had known each other for years. You felt relaxed in his presence; he practically radiated sunshine and happiness. Feeling like a young girl again, you let Philip take the lead. With a bubbly smile on his face, he looked back at you every so often, and you returned his sunny expression.

Leading you through the throng of chatting men, Philip took you to a glass door, sliding it open with ease. The night air was harsh on your skin, but time with Philip was inevitably better than speaking to men that you didn’t even know of.

“You have a swing?” You were stood in the middle of what seemed to be a garden, the dewy grass making your shoes damp. Looking almost offended, the boy leapt to explain the situation.“Hey, it’s not mine! I have heaps of little brothers and sisters, so this was built,” Philip defended himself, leaning on the wood of the tree. “They can be so annoying sometimes, always asking for this or that.” You giggled quietly. “You sound like a parent.”

Philip cocked his head, looking at you. “Wait.. do you have any siblings?” Averting your eyes, you shook your head. “No… My mother had, um, difficulty, when I was born, and was advised not to bear anymore children.”

“Ouch… How is your mom? I didn’t see her earlier.”

He didn’t know. Your shoulders sagged a little. “Mother died little over a year ago.”

Mortified, Philip stared at you. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, really…” You were used to this by now, so you simply laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Now, how old are your siblings? ‘Cause I’d really like to have a go on this swing of yours.”

Immediately brightening up, Philip took your hand, leading you to sit on the wooden seat. “If I can swing on this, then it’ll be fine for you. Jump on!”

Before long, your hair was flying free behind you as Philip’s strong hands pushed your back up into the night sky. You kicked your legs, laughing, feeling as free as a bird. You felt happy, the happiest you had felt in a long time. No overbearing father, no empty house, no loneliness. Just you and Philip, hidden in the garden.

Sadly, your happy bubble did not last as long as you hoped it would. “Philip!” As Eliza turned the corner, the sight of the two of you made her stop in her tracks, smiling gently. “Philip, [Y/N], it’s time for the food to be served.”

Pouting like a child, you patted your hair back into place, following the Hamilton’s back into the grand room. Passing through the now empty room, you joined your father, still frowning, at the table. As you slotted into your place, you looked over at Philip still grinning. Before long, a steaming bowl of soup was placed in front of you.

Your earlier activities had made you ravenous, so you were eager to dig in - or, politely use your spoon to ring some soup up to your mouth. Your father was very strict about table manners. As President Washington made conversation with Mr Hamilton and your father, you had your own silent conversation with Philip across the table, using only your eyebrows.

A raised eyebrow from you: what are they talking about?

A small shrug from him: no idea.

A thoughtful look from him: hopefully a money raise?

Two raised eyebrows from you: hardly likely. They make the most amount of money in New York, it’s hardly like the need anymore.

A head cock from Philip: true.

Suddenly, a shout from Philip’s father made the room fall silent. “You fool! No one cares about that!” You exchanged a look with Philip, the two of you confused and embarrassed. In return, your father smiled lazily. “I beg to differ, my good sir.”

“Just ask Washington! Maybe he can get through your thick skull!” Philip looked down at his bowl, cheeks aflame. “Yes, the one with the thick skull is the one who made profitable negotiations with the king of France this week. Lafayette was ever so happy to hear from me.”

“Ha! Before he was your friend, he was mine.”

“Do you even know how immature you sound right now, Hamilton?” By now, your father was stood up, hands on the table, scowling. “At least I came from legitimate parentage.”

The Hamilton’s and you gasped in unison. How dare he! You were outraged. Your father had no right to say that! The man did not bother to hide his rage anymore. “Well, at least my wife wasn’t run over by a horse!”

You felt as if a bucket of cold water was dumped over you as you sat, stock still, in your seat. Even Philip and his mother were speechless as your father’s eyes narrowed, unseen tears gathering. His voice was deathly quiet as he muttered to you, “[Y/N], we’re leaving.”

When you didn’t move, his hand tugged you out of your seat, dragging towards the door. You kept your head down, avoiding the looks of pity from the other dinner guests and the scandalised look on Philip’s face. As you were pretty much thrown out into the waiting carriage, you let a lone tear run down your cheek. Who knew a single dinner party could end so disastrously?

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … .

That night, you lay in bed, tears streaming down your face. Hunched in a ball, you used the flickering candle to light up a small scrap of paper. Your mother had been the only one to bring out the humorous side of your father, often sending him little doodles and comics on the back of a recipe, or a ripped up letter.

Your mother had been an amazing artist, no matter how much she tried to deny it. You were sure she could have made a job out of her drawings, but instead she opted for a quiet life as a housewife, spending most of her time cleaning the banisters, or making homemade muffins, or reading over your father’s letters to make sure he wasn’t being too dramatic.

On this paper in particular, you mother had sketched a small family portrait. Your father, taller than both of you, stood proud, his eyes gazing lovingly at you and your mother.

You hadn’t seen that look since the day of the funeral.

Beside your father stood your mother, looking dainty in her violet chiffon dress. Oh, she always had the brightest of smiles. It was as if her whole face lit up, her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, dimples crinkling. You missed that smile so, so much.

And then there was you, in between your parents, looking up at them. You hadn’t known just how much you loved them, how much you needed them. How much you missed them.  Ever since that fatal day, your father had been but a ghost of his former self. In the night, when you woke from a dream, he would be in his now-empty bedroom, sobbing. You knew your father couldn’t always be strong, no one could, but it was still jarring to hear his heartbroken cries echoing throughout the whole floor.

As your candle burnt itself down to the wick and flickered out, you curled up under your covers, succumbing to the sleep that pulled at your mind, the piece of paper still clutched in your hand.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … .

“[Y/N], there is a letter addressed to you down here.”

Eyes still raw from last night, you looked up blearily from your meagre breakfast. Your father was in the hall, sorting through the vast amount of letters that were delivered to your house each day. One for you?

Sliding out of your chair, you joined your father, taking the letter from his hand. Just as you were about to break the seal, a small message, barely readable, caught your eye.

‘Do not open this in front of your father!’

You narrowed your eyes. Hm… The handwriting was small, quite loopy, as if done by a teenager. What the heck? You hardly led the most exciting life in the world. You decided to have some fun for once.

“Oh, father, I believe I have forgotten my purse upstairs. Shall I quickly go and fetch it?”

Not bothering to look up from the letter he was reading, your father nodded absentmindedly. Taking the opportunity, you rushed up the stairs, letter in your hand

You flung open the door to your room. Making sure you were in complete privacy, you opened the letter.

‘Hey, [Y/N], it’s Philip, from last night.

I am so, so sorry about what my father said last night. He was way out of place.

Could I make it up to you? Meet me by the garden swing, midnight tonight. To get in unseen, just duck beneath the fifth bush along the front.

I’ll keep an eye out for you. See you then!

P.S: Sorry about the bad handwriting, I had to grab supplies from my dad’s office before he woke up.’

Well. This was certainly interesting.

Would you go and see him? Would you actively disobey pretty much everything your father has taught you, just to meet up with a boy you had met barely twelve hours ago?

A smile spread its way across your face, a plan formulating in your mind.

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anonymous asked:

Hey Viki! Do you know anyone on here who acts or has taken acting lessons? I was wondering how long actors usually get to learn scripts and prepare themselves for the role? And how quickly can they tap into their emotions? I assume it's different for each person but can most good actors get into their roles pretty quickly? Like, 'action!' and they're off lol or is it just not that simple. I would really appreciate any help, thank you! :)

hiii, i personally dont know anyone doing that but, if someone else does ??:)

palaeopathological  asked:

how was your interview?!

I GOT THE JOB……………. i actually got a better version of the job that i was going for. it has some performance elements to it so i have to learn a script and stuff………………. and i get weekends off :D THANK YOU FOR ASKING i know ive been stressing out about it all over the place lmao

Scripted (Thomas Sangster)

{Requested by @lostinpercyseyes}

Request/description: Can you write a Thomas (Sangster) imagine where the reader is his girlfriend and she helps him to remember the lines of The Scorch Trials script?

Warnings: None

Word count: 640

A/N: Sorry this ones so short, I didn’t really know where to go with it.


You hold the thick pile of papers in your hands and read along where Thomas was. You were helping him learn his script for the Scorch Trials movie he was in. You loved to help him in any way you could so this was a treat for you.

Thomas looks you dead in the eye and waits for you to say Dylan’s line.

“Guys we gotta get out of here now!” You winced at your lack of acting skills but at least you could read them for him right?

“Hold on, hold on Tommy. What did you see?”

“WICKED. They’re going to kill us!”

Newt takes a step forward. “Hey, now you don’t know that.”

You bite your lip and take a deep breath. Thomas raises an eyebrow at you and a small smile covers his mouth.

“Sorry,” you sigh and put the script down. “You just sound really attractive when you say that.”

Thomas chuckles and nods. “Alright alright, should we go without the script?”

You nod. You think you remembered Dylan’s lines clearly enough to be able to recite them, or at least the gist of them.

Thomas continues, messing up a couple words in the process. For the most part however, he got the lines down. You pick the script back up and flip to the last couple pages. This was about the last of what you hadn’t worked on yet.

Thomas furrows his eyebrows and nods. “I don’t say a lot in this scene do I?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t look like it, but that’s alright. Your face is enough.”

“Oh really?” Thomas smirks and pulls you close to him.

You nod. “Mmhmm. That’s only why they hired you, you know.”

“Oh how disappointing. I thought they liked my acting skills.” He rolls his eyes and pushes his lips to yours quickly before releasing you and picking the script back up.

“Minhos my friend too,” Thomas starts.  “I’ve known him for longer than I can remember.”

You watch his eyes as he follows along his line. They moved quickly and several expressions flickered across his face. You knew he’d always put a lot of work into memorizing his lines and doing a good job, and you were so proud of him for it.


Thomas was looking at you and you shake your head. You’d been completely memorized by him. “Sorry, where do I start?”

“Dylan’s second to last line.”

You read it off and Thomas reads his last line. You look up to him and take his script from him, putting it with yours and laying it on the couch you stood next to. You were in his apartment and you always loved the warm feeling it had.

Thomas pulled you into a hug and you’re not sure how long you stayed like that. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your back, just holding each other. You buried your face in the crook of his neck and smiled.

“I’m so lucky I have you,” Thomas murmured and pulled away. You played with his blond hair in between your fingers.

You sigh playfully. “Where would you be without me?”

“Leaning these lines with Ki Hong or Dylan, probably. And we all know how that goes when Dylan gets excited.” Thomas rolls his eyes and you nod at the memory. Never again.

“Do you think you have most of them down?” You ask him.

He nods his head, but still a little unsure. “I’ll need to work on the first part, but other than that I should be alright.”

“Good, that movie better be perfect,” you tease.

“Okay good to know there’s no pressure,” he says sarcastically.

“I’m only joking. You want to go over the first part again?”

He nods and picks back up the scripts. “Here we go again.”

anonymous asked:

i don't know if this just sounds too optimistic, but i'm still not 100% convinced they had sex. i mean rob could just be presuming the worst and rebecca could be allowing him to think that as payback. it's way too optimistic but i just don't want to think that itv don't see the massive consent issue that exists with rob being drunk and rebecca not

if that’s too optomistic, then i suffer the same, anon.

that’s actually my thinking anyway. then again, i’m usually wrong, so i don’t tend to speculate. emmerdale has been out of whack recently with what i’m thinking (which is weird, because when i was a kid i was much better at guessing the storylines lol. i think it’s because i’ve learned the script writing trade since then properly and now i’m just snobby about storylines lol)

i hope they do see it tbh. i doubt it, but i need them too because otherwise they’ll just be making everything ten times worse for me. they’re not usually so wilfully ignorant of things that might upset people, but this really did for me.

(i’ll be riding this positivity/optomistic train to the end)