Hello, Alice

There are piles of notes, swooping arrows and underscores that connect one fragment to the next.  The pen is wild in my hand, jabbing and poking into the story that will be my next film. I read, and re-read each messy page. It is all here, but I do not know which scene is the first one. You build a story brick by brick, a fierce wall glued together by your theme, your heart, your guts. I have resisted this decision for weeks now. Finally, I surrender to it.

Her, in the bedroom with him. A hushed married-couple moment. Her infinite sadness. His blind optimism, and the daughter in the next room.

Alice is someone I know all too well. At the same time, she appears from the ether of the empty page, someone I barely understand. It all gets pasted together, a paper mâché life told in random moments.

That night, I toss and turn. Sleep cannot find me. The other characters were sketched out today. A priest, a public defender, a cop. I have to turn the lights on and let my eyes adjust, scribbling out snippets of dialogue, turns of phrase. "The Lord works in mysterious ways." The priest points out, in a makeshift confessional. "But he does work."

This is the part that gives me such confidence, when the characters tell me what to do, when the dialogue sputters out from the night air and I just need to catch it, butterfly net in hand.  Once the lawyer has said their piece and the cop has offered a few choice insults sleep does arrive, from the cool underside of my pillow.