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"A man is not old until his dreams are outweighed by his regrets." The phrase echoes in the air, an exhalation, almost, of the day that passes outside my window- a light breeze, sunlight that marches its steady way across my desk, a certain hollowness to the air that whispers of decaying leaves and darkening days. Autumn may not be official for two weeks, but in Maine the warnings come early, and often. Trucks roll down Route 46; logging trucks, on their way to the mill in Bucksport, cement mixers, dump trucks with loads of gravel and sand. Doing their job, as I am doing mine. Theirs is accompanied by plumes of diesel smoke, the squeal of hydraulic brakes. Mine, by the soft tapping of plastic keys and the occasional phone call. Those trucks rolling by are important- crucial, even. The men behind the wheel, their wives at the supermarket, buying groceries or busily ringing them up, their children, my son’s friends. That’s my audience. It was the first anniversary of my marriage last weekend, and that is important, too. These past twelve months have been dominated by one recurring theme: getting beyond my comfort zone. Now, I must explain that "comfort zone" is a phrase I particularly loathe. There's a New-Agey feel to it that makes me cringe. It’s like auras- everyone may well have one, but I don’t really want to spend the next two hours discussing yours. Nevertheless, I am willing to grant the concept validity, however much I dislike the terminology, because I wrestle with it daily. Like many writers, I’ve been spinning stories since shortly after my discovery of crayons. But it wasn’t until after my marriage that I finally stepped up to the plate and claimed the title of writer. In the last week of October, I opened my laptop and typed those fatal words: FADE IN. Thus writer turned to screenwriter, and here I am. Fool. Writing was fine, so long as it never left my desk. Or house. Or at most a few close friends. This was something completely different. This was turning my dreams inside out and tossing them up onto a thirty-foot screen. I’m not afraid of rejection. Rejection I can handle just fine, thank you very much. But screenwriting holds the potential for an immense power, and with it, a responsibility. To those very truckers outside my window. And millions of others. Eight dollars is nothing, at least not in comparison to the cost of making even a modest studio film. But eight dollars is an hour of an average working person’s life, after taxes, and another two to actually watch the film. Three hours may also be nothing, when viewed against the whole panoply of a lifetime. But it’s enough time to fall in love. To throw a party. Plenty of time to cook a gourmet meal. Enough time to conceive a child, or have fun trying. And instead I am asking people to invest that time in a world of my creation. I’ve written four screenplays. The first was pretty much just an exercise. Here’s the form, let’s learn how to do it. The second was a story that I’d waited years to see on the screen. I wanted that movie, wanted to be able to plop myself in a theater seat and be carried away by it. So I wrote it, spent another six months polishing it, and now it appears to be blazing the path that I’ll eventually have to follow, out to a climate where the first week of September doesn’t remind you you need a new snow shovel. The third came from who-knows-where; two characters walked into my mind, already arguing, and captivated me, demanded that I write them. So I did. And then, for two months, nothing. Nothing worthwhile, anyway. Finally I threw my hands in the air and swore to finish another screenplay. Created a story I kinda liked. A few characters. Mapped out a plot, and wrote. A construction truck lumbers by, grinds to a stop, turns the corner and heads up Mill Road. The driver is perhaps twenty-eight. He looks tired. I can see a wedding ring on his finger, and somewhere in his mind there is a constant calculation going on. Mortgage. Phone bill. Kids’ clothes. Maybe a new refrigerator. I have no business asking this man to open his wallet and fork over eight dollars for something I kind of like. There is no part of my life that writing does not affect, and draw from. And that’s as it should be, because my job is to touch people. To make them laugh, rage, smile, yearn, feel something. To take them into a new world, or show them a familiar one in a way they haven’t seen before. I am not talking about art. I don’t know what makes something art. I do know that someone will be giving up three hours of his life, and in return that person expects something. My job is to give him that. And I can’t do it with a story I kind of like. I can’t do it without investing myself. Completely, without reservation. And without retreating to a level I'm comfortable with. That fourth screenplay, now. It was by far the easiest to write. It demanded little from me- and gave little back in return. It’s a mistake I won’t repeat. In movies, we have a fantastic opportunity; to wrap an audience, for the space of ninety minutes or two hours, into a dream. A space far away from mortgage payments or final exams or broken cars and hearts. A moment, however brief, to take away the burdens of day to day life. And a chance, even, to make those burdens seem more bearable, to encourage or enlighten as we entertain. It is an enormous undertaking. I won’t get there by simply putting words on paper. That is perhaps the least part of the entire venture. It doesn’t matter whether I’m writing about sixteenth century Irish chieftains, or an auto mechanic, aliens or actors or subterranean monsters. What matters is how deep within myself I am willing to venture to bring them to life. It’s ironic that it’s the smallest, most intimate parts of ourselves that most deserve to be splashed, wall-high, in gleaming light. But so it is. I feed dreams. With every fiber of my being. That’s my job.
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