One of my favorite scenes in any movie is in Charlie
Kaufman’s Adaptation in which the
character, Charlie Kaufman, attends Robert McKee’s how-to screenwriting lecture
and asks about writing a movie more like real life, where nothing happens,
nothing is resolved. I assume everyone can relate to poor Charlie’s question
(and, if it’s just me and others like me, at least we’re in great company).
It’s not as if nothing happens in my life; it’s more
Prufrockian than that: if I commit it to paper, if I say “I am Lazarus come
from the dead, come back to tell you all,” and my readers turn away, “That is
not what I meant at all.” then how should I presume to spit out the butt-ends
of my days and ways?
Sheer force is the only answer I know. Use ridiculous
prompts, sit on the train and write x-number of profiles before I can go home—one
I haven’t actually tried, but it’s out there, waiting for me. Charlie and
Prufrock sit on either shoulder, no angels and devils here, just the warmth of
companions united in fear, self-boredom, and doubt.
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