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Logan was my former high school boyfriend, who still felt guilty about the way we broke up,
He was a manager. In Hollywood. For screenwriters. A very glamorous job.
he was my manager—although
my fifty-five-year-old dad had to use a walker to come greet my sister at the door.
Just under ten years ago, my father had “a camping accident.”
He was hit in the head during a sudden rockfall while climbing in Yosemite and got a traumatic brain injury—which left him partially paralyzed on one side, a condition called hemiplegia, and also suffering from an inner-ear issue that profoundly messed up his balance called Ménière’s disease.
I couldn’t just leave my dad with a twenty-two-year-old.
Logan went on to graduate from Stanford and then seamlessly transition into a wildly successful career.
Logan burst out laughing at that and then explained his husband, Nico,
“He’s terrible in relationships! Why do you think his wife left him?”
“Because he did immersion research in Chicago for that Mafia thing, and he didn’t call her one time in three months.”
I knew that he was thirty-five,
The teaching rule I had for myself was to never criticize more than three things about a student’s work at a time. If you hit people too hard with too much too fast, they shut down. They feel attacked instead of advised. It stops helping and starts hurting.
Three criticisms at a time was the magic number.
“The job of a rom-com,” I said, “is to give you a simulated feeling of falling in love.”
“A rom-com should give you a swoony, hopeful, delicious, rising feeling of anticipation as you look forward to the moment when the two leads, who are clearly mad for each other, finally overcome all their obstacles, both internal and external, and get together.”
“Real life doesn’t come with warnings,” Logan argued, half-assedly. “That’s why fiction,” I said, “is better than real life.”
I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life. Whatever we’re longing for—adventure, excitement, emotion, connection—we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we’re struggling with—sometimes questions so deep, we don’t even really know we’re asking them—we look for answers in stories.
Logan corrected: “An abrupt absence of skills.”
“I’ve written one thing since I got sick four years ago,” Charlie said, by way of an answer. Then he added: “The screenplay you’re here to fix.”
My mom didn’t survive the fall. The rescue workers said she probably died on impact.
BEFORE THE ROCKFALL, my parents were both musicians. They played in the symphony together. My father was a cellist, and my mom played clarinet.
Sylvie was twelve when we lost our mom,
“Life is tiring. Swimming is just swimming.”
“My wife left me on the day I found out I had cancer.”
“Rom-coms are about falling in love.”
“And falling in love is about having feelings.”
“And you can’t write about feelings—or help the audience feel them—if you can...
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“Believing in things that aren’t real? Making something out of nothing? Connecting dots that don’t need or want to be connected? That’s what all the best writers do.”
“A few days before you leave is the five-year anniversary of my last treatment,” Charlie said. “And that’s when I can officially call myself cured.”
“My mom left when I was sick, and my wife left when I was sick.” “But now you’re dying,” I said, gesturing at the valley below with my eyes. “And another woman in your life”—I pointed at myself—“is not going anywhere.”
My dad kept promising that grieving was a natural process—part of being human—and that we’d be okay in the end. I didn’t believe him at first. But he was right. It’s okay now. It doesn’t make me sad to remember her now. I miss her, but in a way that doesn’t hurt. You do get there, eventually.”
“This, right here, is why your screenplay sucks.” “Because I don’t want to go line dancing?” “Because you don’t believe in love.”
“Of course I believe in love. It’s the best thing humans ever invented. There are books about this.” And then, like books weren’t enough: “There are TED Talks!”
“I guess I’m used to just—going it alone.” “But you’re not alone,” Charlie said.
“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.”
And you’re my favorite. Out of all seven billion.”
“I’ve known you six weeks, and I already can’t imagine my life without you.”
“Things happen, Emma,” my dad said, reaching for my hand. “Nobody can see the future.”
“Things were very dark for me after Mom died. But I knew you and Sylvie needed me to find the light somehow.”
“Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that’s the one that’ll be true.”
“Here’s another thing I accidentally figured out: happiness is always better with a little bit of sadness.”
If you wait for other people to light you up, then I guess you’re at the mercy of darkness.
“The Rom-Commers,”
“it’s about two screenwriters who write a script together and fall wildly in love.”
“At my well checkup this week … I got a positive screening for metastasized lung cancer.”
If I don’t, you’ll take care of me just like you did with your dad—and I refuse to be another thing that stops you.
But every option I have is shitty. At least this one sets you free.”
“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he said then. “I would write a hundred happy endings for us if I could.”
“People say ‘marriage is hard’ all the time.”