Summer in the City

by Alex Aster

Then I briefly considered flinging my laptop across the apartment, before cradling it in my arms, stroking its silver exterior in near tears, and whispering, “I’m so sorry for even thinking that,” to an inanimate object. This is why writers can’t live alone, I reason.

This is my favorite part of the screenplay, where it feels like I’ve fallen into it. I’m at its mercy. I stay up late at night and wake up early in the morning, just to fold myself back into the story. I crave it like a drug; I live it like a second life.