Self-exposure was inevitable

« At the age of eleven she wrote her first story – a foolish affair, imitative of half a dozen folktales and lacking, she realized later, that vital knowingness about the ways of the world which compels a reader’s respect. But this first clumsy attempt showed her that the imagination itself was a source of secrets: once she had begun a story, no one could be told. Pretending in words was too tentative, too vulnerable, too embarrassing to let anyone know. Even writing out the she saids, the and thens, made her wince, and she felt foolish, appearing to know about the emotions of an imaginary being. Self-exposure was inevitable the moment she described a character’s weakness; the reader was bound to speculate that she was describing herself. What other authority could she have? Only when a story was finished, all fates resolved and the whole matter sealed off at both ends so it resembled, at least in this one respect, every other finished story in the world, could she feel immune, and ready to punch holes in the margins, bind the chapters with pieces of string, paint or draw the cover, and take the finished work to show to her mother, or her father, when he was home. »

From Ian McEwan’s Atonement, which I started reading last night.

Anybody who has ever put together plays as a kid, and taken them very seriously, can painfully recognize themselves in these lines. Heck, anybody who still writes as an adult can still feel that way!

For me, it started with Barbies. I had no interest in dolls because they represented babies or children. Yes, Barbies were blond bimbos, but at least they were adults and therefore could have interesting lives. I would come up with elaborate stories for them, playing with my friends and suggesting lines of dialogue when they ran out of inspiration. Later, with my sister and my niece, we put together small plays, most often adapted from short stories I was reading. We rehearsed for a few days in the basement of our apartment and then we would ask dad and the upstairs neighbors to move the cars out of the backyard to make room for our stage. We would invite friends and family and charge them 50 cents. The performance was never my favorite part of the process and most of the time I felt like the story was out of control, with actors giggling and spectators paying very little attention.

The producer I’ve been working with called me yesterday with some good news. She’s very happy about the first draft of the screenplay and we’re going ahead with the next steps. If everything goes as she plans it, the shooting of the feature (in English) should start mid to late 2004. In the meantime, she was wondering if I would be interested in writing another screenplay for them (in French). They already have a talented director booked as well as an important distributor. All they need is a good story, a romantic comedy this time.

I guess I’m going to have to get my Barbies out of the closet! Oh wait! I threw them out years ago, damn!
(Wink wink, baby ;-)