“I was deeply disappointed.”

It’s “crummy.”

Ouch. Hardly the responses movie directors want after a screening. Worse, these comments didn’t come from random viewers, but from the authors of the books on which each film was based. (Which author said which is noted at the end of this post.)

Although authors dream of sharing their stories on the big screen, it’s also a scary proposition. Most authors retain very little control over the film version of their work. This isn’t for lack of trying: E.L. James (Fifty Shades of Grey) sought approval of actors, production staff, and production decisions, yet still walked away with only script approval and very little creative control; P.L. Travers (Mary Poppins) had script approval, but her edits were mostly ignored; Ayn Rand hated the final version of The Fountainhead even though she herself had written the screenplay. All the legal wrangling in the world can’t change the fact that for an author, giving up any amount of control over a book is an emotional event. It’s no wonder that so much can–and does–disappoint.

That disappointment can start with the casting of characters who are almost like family to the authors who created them. Here are a few instances where authors longed to save their characters from the Hollywood treatment:

Despite their friendship, P.L. Travers felt that Julie Andrews’s Mary Poppins was a “betrayal” of the character. As written, “Poppins” is plain, odd, and a little frightening. At least Travers didn’t fault Andrews for the more saccharine finished product: “[Andrews] was quite prepared to put on a black wig, with a knob of hair at the back … But to her surprise, as well as mine, Disney turned [Poppins] into a very pretty girl, which really loses the point.”

Stephen King would have preferred Jon Voight, Christopher Reeve, or Michael Moriarty in the role of The Shining‘s Jack Torrance. He feared that casting Jack Nicholson made the character psychopathic from the start instead of allowing a descent into madness. King also objected to Shelley Duvall as Wendy, feeling that she projected too much emotional vulnerability to play a character he’d always considered a blonde cheerleader type.

Poor Jack Nicholson. Ken Kesey hated on him, too, and would have cast Gene Hackman over him as McMurphy in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Anne Rice (Interview with The Vampire) had plenty to say when Tom Cruise was cast in the role of Lestat. She thought the choice “bizarre”: “[He is] … no more my Vampire Lestat than Edward G. Robinson is Rhett Butler.” First choices for the role were Daniel Day Lewis (who didn’t want to play a vampire) and Jeremy Irons (who was deemed too old).

Roald Dahl (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) lobbied hard for comedian/writer Spike Milligan to play Willy Wonka, and found Gene Wilder’s interpretation “pretentious” and “bouncy.”

Ian Fleming was horrified when 31-year-old Scotsman Sean Connery was cast as James Bond, considering the rough-edged actor the antithesis of his smooth, refined protagonist. Fleming preferred either Cary Grant or David Niven in the role.

Truman Capote condemned Breakfast at Tiffany’s as “the most miscast” film he’d ever seen. The Holly Golightly of his book was a tough character, nowhere near an Audrey Hepburn type. He’d wanted the role to go to his friend, Marilyn Monroe, and later said that Jodie Foster would have been perfect to play Holly as he’d written her.

So, how did these casting choices work out?

Julie Andrews and Jack Nicholson (One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest) won Academy Awards for best actress/actor. Audrey Hepburn was nominated for an Academy Award. Gene Wilder earned a Golden Globe nomination for best actor. In addition, a few authors had a change of heart: Anne Rice ultimately praised Tom Cruise’s performance as Lestat, and Sean Connery’s James Bond became so iconic that Ian Fleming started incorporating aspects of the actor’s movie portrayal into his books.

Print and film are very different media. Should authors simply accept the fact that what they create on paper may not translate so smoothly to the screen? Should they trust the visions of those who may be more knowledgeable about what works in film?

Casting is one thing … what happens when changes are made to plot and story tone?

To be continued next week…

Quote Attributions: 1. P.L. Travers; 2. Stephen King; 3. Roald Dahl

(This post was originally published on Late Last Night Books blogsite in December 2013 — think of it as a summer rerun.)

When I was a kid, I hated even the smell of coffee. The worst part of shopping at A&P with my dad was lining up to pay, because there was a coffee grinder at the end of each check-out line. Most shoppers considered it a perk (sorry) to bring home freshly ground beans. I just wanted to hold my nose and bolt for the door as quickly as possible.

My coffee aversion lasted until sometime during college, when I started drinking instant with sugar and fake creamer. I’m not sure this even counts as real coffee. Thankfully, that phase was over in a hot minute, and I’ve been making up for lost time ever since. I’m not exactly an addict, but I can see it from here.

I used to attribute the change to taste buds, because I totally believed the line that taste buds change every seven years. It turns out this isn’t true. We’re born with approximately ten thousand taste buds which are replaced every two weeks or so — approximately 10% of the cells inside them actually turn over each day. Over time, the number of taste buds we have starts to decrease. This means that many of the flavors that seem too strong when we’re kids become easier to tolerate as we age, leading to an acceptance of more sophisticated flavors as we reach our twenties.

This supports my college-era coffee-awakening but does not explain how I drank the sweet California swill that got passed off as Chablis in the late 1970s. Science says my taste buds were old enough to know better.

Of course, liking certain foods/drink is attached to more than science. My love for coffee dovetailed with the new experiences and camaraderie that came after I left home and began to navigate the world on my own. Even a poor student could afford the bottomless pot of fresh coffee that appeared magically on the table through late-night exam cram sessions at HoJo’s. The boring survival job where staying awake was hard even if sleep happened the night before was fun when accompanied by coffee and co-workers who quickly became friends. Long conversations with new acquaintances ran deeper when bolstered by caffeine.

This is the subtext I pass on to my characters when they’re doing that drinking-making-buying thing. Coffee in my books is more than a prop. It helps set a mood, provides insight into a character’s state of mind and comfort level. Even non-coffee-drinkers recognize the social significance of coffee-fueled gatherings in our culture (I’m looking at you, Central Perk). When my characters share a cup of coffee, they’re usually lowering their defenses and letting someone in.

And if coffee doesn’t do the trick, there’s always wine.

Nobody wants those things.

You’ve collected a big pile of sentimentality that exists mostly to take up space:

every report card your child ever brought home;

book reports throughout the ages;

art projects involving torn construction paper, popsicle sticks, and cotton balls.

Nope. There’s not a world where your adult kid says, “Let me haul that big pile of stuff from your house to mine.”

You will have better luck with other items:

yearbooks;

the teensy shirt worn on Baby’s trip home from the hospital;

that lock of hair from the first haircut.

But ….

refrigerator art,

school celebration photos filled with kids your child can no longer name,

birthday/holiday cards. Lots and lots of birthday/holiday cards. Like, nearly every birthday/holiday card your child ever received.

Not a chance.

The truth is, you never saved those things for your kids in the first pace. You saved them for yourself.

If you can spare about a quarter of the space this stuff currently occupies, do it. Be brave and cull through the pile. Working with the wisdom of hindsight, get rid of anything that isn’t a seminal reflection of your child’s journey (goodbye, weekly book report; hello, term paper). Indulge in a little ritual if necessary: pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and say goodbye to documenting every single moment of the childhood your kid left years ago.

But keep the basics, because you weren’t wrong:

greeting cards from loved ones present and past;

notes and letters your child wrote while growing up;

yearly school portraits reflecting change in both appearance and attitude.

Like that nice wine I hope you grant yourself, some things grow in value as they age. Even if your kids never feel a pull to revisit their own pasts, the next generation will love mementos such as

autograph books from the 1940s, signed by family and friends,

high school newspaper articles written by the 1950s teenager who aspired to be a journalist,

baby pics and posed family portraits.

I’m glad somebody saved these snapshots of my parents’ lives. They shine even more brightly because they’re not buried in an overwhelming deluge of miscellaneous stuff.

I suppose the trick is to curate rather than collect.