The Happy Ending

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This will be short. I’m at home tonight, and I realized that I neglected to pack my glasses in my overnight bag. Of course, I only realized this after I had taken out my contacts and put them in caustic fluid that takes six hours to neutralize.

Squinting at my computer screen is a little painful. But I had a thought I had better write own before I forget it entirely.

There are a lot of movies about movies: how they were made, what made the scriptwriters write what they wrote. This is especially true for movies about movies based on books.

These films always follow the path of the writer. Why did he write what he wrote? Who influenced his characters? What traumatic or wonderful events occurred in the writer’s life that made the book what it is?

There are a thousand little delightful allusions sprinkled throughout the film that people familiar with the books or the movies or both will recognize and point out.

Sometimes I wonder about that novel I’m going to finish writing one of these days. It will never be made into a movie, and very few people will probably ever read it, because I can’t imagine that it would be any good.

But I wonder, if those near and dear to me should pick up a copy of my book and read it, will that person smile because they recognize the faces on its pages? Nod at familiar events? Know why the main character cries? Laugh when the main character laughs?

I wonder about these things. I hear the soundtrack of my life in my ears as I stare out the window, imagining the camera in place behind my head for the perfect shot.

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