My darling Princess PrettyPants left Tennessee around the same time I did, ran off to Broadway I bolted for Hollywood. When we talk late at night and share entitled giggles over our little victories in the big cities, I sometimes ask her if I picked the right coast. She knows me well enough to knock some damn sense into me and remind me that this is what I wanted, and she's right. Day to day I'm pretty pleased with myself, but now that I've spent a year in a dark room alone staring at a computer screen moving little bits of film around and she's at the opening night party for this....I just don't know. Come home soon, precious, and slap me, will you?
The summer before this girl left for California, she hung suspended from the hammock in my front yard after a truly ill-advised wrestling match with a drunken Navy boy (true story!), calmly untangling her leg that could snap at any minute if the thing swung the wrong way, and explained to me that she knew she had to be an editor once she found herself instructing her actors which words to inflect and where to direct their eyes on which part of a sentence. Getting into this business was going to be her way of finally exerting total control over her meat puppets, since talking people on a screen can't talk back.
And now you're not happy bossing around moving pictures instead of actual people? Baby girl, I wonder if you wouldn't be better off going back to the stage and just excusing your tyrannical direction by pretending to be European.
Posted by: Stella at December 4, 2007 09:45 AM