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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…

an anniversary



A woman sat in the living room some years ago, practically a stranger. She shared the intimate details of a traumatic incident she had survived, an ongoing nightmare she could not have swerved to avoid. It hit her head-on. She had red hair, and freckles.
"At first, you are in the pool, barely treading water." She said. "Then, eventually you pull yourself out of the pool. Some years later, you can say there is a pool over there."
She pointed towards the windows when she said this last part.

The wound heals, but there will always be a scar.






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