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Not me, her

In 1987, I found myself trying to write about a high school girlfriend that had been molested by her father when she was a child. I was 19 years old, struggling to find my way through a screenwriting assignment about delivering character. The idea was to describe messy young love between two Sid and Nancy want-to-be's. But that failed, as I could not stomach oversimplifying her complicated past, events that shaped her life as a 16 year old with a mohawk, a smart mouth, a lingering stare. I understood that I had to start at the very beginning.

No one wanted to hear the story. When it was my turn to read in class, it even came to be that some of the other students asked to stand in the hallway before they heard another description of what happened in that lonely little house in the middle of nowhere. I was trying, and failing, and trying again to get things right, to explain how this happened, how it could happen to this girl, how this man found his way to acts of selfishness and d…

the forbidden zone


I cannot tell you, and you must not ask. There are words that cannot be said, even quietly. To be speak freely, so many still take this for granted. I do not.

There are vast expanses of life I cannot discuss anywhere. All too much like the forbidden zone in the original planet of the apes. Too many secrets are buried there, beneath the sand.

No hero will come on a dark horse, bucking convention, flaunting the warnings. because this is not a movie.


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