Those of you who know me personally know one immutable fact: I am a PLANET OF THE APES (POTA for those in the know) fanatic.  The 1968 original officially ranks as my favorite movie of all time, and I am even willing to sit through all four sequels and not cringe…and, in fact, enjoy the experience.

Or…let me put it this way for folks who are a little younger than I.  STAR WARS is STAR WARS, but POTA is my STAR WARS.  Get it?

I love my apes.

I’ve been amazed at how many people have emailed me over the weekend, wondering what I thought about the new RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES movie.  It’s like when you get dumped or everyone finds out you have an incurable disease.  Everyone sends their empathy and healing vibes…  “What did you think of the movie?  Hope you’re okay.  Love and simians!  [insert xxoo’s or appropriate emoticon here].”

Of course, they all know that I am still not quite recovered from that one thing that happened 10 years ago.  No, not the thing in September.  The other thing.  The July thing.  The re-UNimagining, as I called it as my friend, Mike, and I drowned our disappointment in too many Taco Bell chalupas after wasting two perfectly good hours of our lives exposed to the piece of-  Wait.  I am gonna stop right there.  The pain.  Still there.  Still deep.

When I heard they were making another APES movie, I was angry.  Really.  I know.  Seems dumb, but I was.  People checked in then, too.  Poking around, on eggshells, like they were waiting to hear some diagnosis: benign or malignant?  At that point, I didn’t know.  I only knew I was angry for having to go through the process of finding out sooner or later.

In other words, I was going to have to watch the damned movie when it came out.

As the day drew nearer, I made plans to see it with my family.  Thought I’d make a spectacle of it.  Wear my Caesar the chimp as Che Guevara T-shirt and everything.  Make it a Rocky Horror-worthy experience, ready to ridicule and heckle in equal and liberal measure.

When the day came, though, I couldn’t do that.  That didn’t feel right.  It felt…disrespectful, I guess.  More, it felt like it feels when you’re meeting an old flame for coffee years after a bad break up.  Nervous.  But curious.  Wanting to make a good impression for some reason.  And nostalgic.  And wanting to remember the good things…find some meaning and end things–at long last–on a good note.

So I didn’t see the movie with my tribe.  At 9 AM on Friday morning (yes…there was a 9:15 showing.  Cuh-razy), I forgot my morning coffee time (and my work) and headed over to the local cinema to reunite with my oldest of loves.

And what was it like?

Awkward, at first.  But as I settled into my seat and the movie began, a sense of calm, and then familiarity, and then happiness settled over me.

There are a lot of not-so-great things I could say about the movie.  There is a list in my head of everything that was wrong with the thing.  And it’s not short list.  Its biggest offense is that the storytelling is kludgy.  There are altogether too many moving parts, and the script does an amateurish job of making them function in the same machine.  The engine runs, but it knocks…and it sputters at times.  And blows black smoke out of the tailpipe.  You get the drift.  End cliches here.

But…

The sweet love that Andy Serkis and the WETA SFX folks make to create Ceasar makes it all worth it.

More, what the movie lacks in technical merit, it makes up for in heart.  For all its problems, the movie’s heart shows through, and that, too, makes it all worth it.

The movie has stuck with me in a very good way since last Friday.  And I know I want to see it again.  That’s a good thing.  I find myself pensive about it…contemplative.  That’s a good thing, too.

Mostly, I find myself remembering back to when my friend Mike and I were 10 years old.  That was the year we spent the entire 4th grade year–all of the long school bus rides, all of our sleepovers–planning how we were going to run away and steal a baby chimp from the Como Park Zoo.  We were going to live on our own in downtown Minneapolis and raise the chimp ourselves…and teach it to talk.

We were, to paraphrase Ceasar from CONQUEST OF THE PLANET OF THE APES, going to give our own rise to the birth of the planet of the apes.  Because more than anything, I suppose, we wanted it to be true.  I still don’t know why.  Taylor from the original ’68 movie would probably say even then we sensed that there must be something better than man out there.  I think we were just bored.  And more curious than a couple of shit-kickin’ hayseed kids from the boondocks had a right to be.

The best thing about RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES is it brought that memory back to me.  It let me live in that fantasy again…if only for a little while.  Because Mike’s and my dream was the real legacy of POTA, anyway.  To unlock the audience’s imagination and get them to look at the world from a slightly different point of view.  It accomplished that in spades for the likes of Mike and me.

I mean, that’s what a good movie’s suppose to do, right?  Open a door into another world where we can escape.  Where our lives and minds are expanded, or we are at least afforded a measure of comfort.  Both, if the movie’s firing on all cylinders.  For this movie watcher, RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES did all that.  I guess that makes it a good movie.

I don’t know if we’ve made the difference we were meant to yet, Mike and I.  If our living into this present is doing much to save humanity (which is the implicit message, right?  Save humanity from itself!).  But I think about a Mike and Bill in a parallel universe without POTA, and I am certain those guys don’t fare half as well as we have in this one.  And there’s still hope.  For Mike and me…as well as for the whole world.  And if not, POTA assures us that re-birth and evolution–even the simian kind–is okay, too.

So…simply…I loved the movie.  In spite of its quirks and hitches, it’s a thing of beauty.  And Andy Serkis deserves a freakin’ Oscar this time.

Long live, Ceasar!

P.S.  Ooo!  Ooo!  Yah, yah!

In thinking about today’s post, I stumbled on a familiar question,
"Why does my life feel so chaotic?"  Immediately, I bristled.  Crap!  I don't wanna
write about that…why my existence seems to be in an apparent constant state of
disarray and how I feel powerless in the face of it much of the time.

Before I poo-pooed it, I decided to check in on my good friend,
Google.  Chaos couldn’t only mean “confusion and disorder.”  If that’s the case, why have a “Chaos
Theory” for example?  Just to
explain how screwed we are?  That
seems too cruel.

Wikipedia says chaos theory is used in “studying the behavior of
dynamical systems that are highly sensitive to initial conditions,”
presumably as a predictive tool to aid in identifying how to respond in these
systems with an eye on achieving a more favorable outcome.  Reading this, I felt a little less
bristly.  A little less screwed.

That’s because the notion of my life being merely confused and
disorderly connotes that my actions upon the system of my life have no impact.
 No matter what I do, I can't change anything because the continuation the
confusion and disorder is inevitable.  It makes me feel like I have no
power, and that makes me feel like I wanna give up.  It feels passive, and
it feels like victim mentality.

And I don’t wanna be a vicitim.

As I read on about chaos, however, I realized a few things:

1. There is a "method to the madness" of chaos.  Even
though the system might be too complex for my brain to perceive offhand, events
in my life are following a logical pattern.  They’re responses to an “initial condition” that triggered
them, and they’re following a trajectory. 
The course of my life intersects with other “conditions” and evolves,
sometimes erratically.  Yet,
outward and immediate appearances aside, it’s not random.

2. It’s “deterministic,”
which means that it’s possible to trace the course back to the “initial
condition” that created the system (i.e., Bill’s life) in the first place.  It is, however, not “predestined,”
which means that the end hasn’t been written yet.  I am not locked into one inevitable outcome, and possibility
and potential are still valid.  I am afforded the luxury of envisioning a desired outcome and, at the very least, influencing the
course to steer toward that outcome. 
This is good news, because it means that understanding how I got right
here, right now, is doable.  Even
better, I can use that knowledge to take action and navigate away from endings
I don’t want, and to the ones I do want.

[side note: Conceivably, this also means that applying the writer's tool of starting with your desired ending and then working backward to identify the steps to getting there can be applied to life as it is in movies, ala the LIFESCRIPT training my friends at Sagepresence use to help people live into their best life stories.  I mean, it's a theory, right?  It's there not only to describe past or present states, but also to model potential future states.  In other words, the very existence of chaos theory lends credence to the notion that we can proactively design our future in a manner of our choosing and then chart a course to it.  This is not your father's version of chaos..!]

3. In order to be chaotic, the system being observed has to be
"topologically mixing.” 
Through the course of evolving—in fact, in order to evolve—a particular
“region” in the system will overlap with all other regions.  Metaphorically speaking, it means that
transformation REQUIRES taking the good with the bad, the pain with the
pleasure.  Interesting.  Good to know that ahead of time and prepare
for that.  Expect it, knowing that’s not pessimism.  Rather, it confirms the whole “It’s
not easy, but it’s worth it” notion. 
Hard and painful things aren’t obstacles; they’re as much part of the
trip as the good stuff.  You can’t
help but get a little from column A and column B (not to mention columns C, D,
E, F, and so on, and even some columns you never even heard of before) along
the way because it IS the way.

Yes, the whole chaos thing also means…damn! This life thing is a freakin'
complex system with a lot of actors and reactors all, erm, acting on each other
at every freakin' point along the way, and it's virtually impossible to keep up
with the whole unfolding, much less control it.

Then again…maybe we're not supposed to control it.  One
application for chaos theory has been to attempt to predict weather patterns to
help commercial aviators navigate more safely to their desired destination.  It ain’t about changing the
weather…it’s about course correction in the face of it.

Maybe by accepting the thing exists, embracing it, even, we can…influence
our course.  Because chaos isn’t
the question.  It’s the answer.  As we understand it better, and as we
understand the systems of our lives better, we can more effectively navigate the
paths we tread through our lives. 
Not to master the Universe, because that’s asking too much.  But to live better and be more at ease in the
system, knowing it's okay that the best we might be able to do is to guide
ourselves safely home.  And, if
we’re really on our game, maybe to beat our own butterfly wings here and there
in hopes of shifting the winds in our favor.

The late (and legendary) Peter Drucker had a really
interesting take on the notion of responsibility.  According to him, responsibility has a direct relationship
with—and is likely synonymous with—authority.  He went onto explain it, saying that when someone takes
responsibility for something, they are making an explicit claim that they have
the authority (tangible, moral, or otherwise) to attend to it or to see it to
fruition.

Drucker went on to assert that validating claims of
responsibility according to this test was essential to creating and maintaining
a healthy socioeconomic system. 
This applied to both responsibility assumed and responsibility bestowed.

Although this implies larger societal implications
of bake my noodle proportions, it struck me most profoundly in the most micro
of economic levels.  The economics
of Yours Truly.

Taking responsibility for things I have no business having
my mits in is classic Bill True. 
I’ve definitely subscribed to the “more is more” mentality, and it’s
gotten me into a lot of trouble in the past.  It’s always been well intentioned, of course, an effort to
help out or do a good turn or whatnot. 
I’ve learned some hard lessons, though, as I've failed to keep promises time after time because I wasn’t in a position or didn’t have the ability to
keep them.  It's cost me credibility,
business, and even friends.  After all, the road to Hell is paved with tons of those little suckers, right?

To date, all I’ve really been able to do is recognize it as
a shortcoming of mine.  I know it’s
a problem, I know when it’s happened, and I know how to circle around and
grovel for forgiveness when I’ve really gotten myself into a pickle.  That, and I’ve turned flogging myself over
it into an art form.  What I couldn’t
see yet was a way to proactively sidestep the pitfall of over promising and
under delivering (or worse, not delivering at all).

Peter Drucker, turns out, is my hero.  He’s given me the answer.  Finally, I have really good litmus test
to determine whether or not opening my trap is the right thing to do.  From now on, when that little voice
whispers in my ear, “You know, Bill…” I am going to take a moment and ask
myself two important questions:

1.    
1. Do I have, at present, the ability in terms of
time, connections, experience, and knowledge to deliver on the promise of
assistance I am about to make?

2. Even if I have the ability, is taking on the
work associated with this promise really the best thing for either me or the
other person?

For years I've struggled with saying no to people because
I’ve been afraid that doing so would jeopardize my relationship with them.  I’m a people pleaser.  It’s what we do.  It’s more than that, though.  I’ve also had difficulty seeing whether
or not making the promise would adversely impact the relationship later
because I wouldn’t be able to fulfill it. 
Moreover, I didn’t have a simple and compelling definition that helped
me see it when it’s happening, as well as to understand how and why it’s not
only bad for me, but also bad for society in general.  In other words, I didn’t have a strong argument with
respect to possible negative future impacts, should I make the promise, that could
overcome my desire in the moment to say yes.

Now I do, and I’m excited to try it out.  So if I tell you “no” in the coming
days, weeks, months, and years, don’t be offended.  I’m simply contributing to the socioeconomic health of you and
me…and to the whole wide world.

After I hit publish on the last two posts, I fretted.  I worried that they weren’t dynamic or
groundbreaking or clever enough.

On one hand, the fretting is all me.  It’s one of my favorite pastimes, and I
am really good at it.  On the other
hand, the fretting speaks to a deeper issue—a truth—that’s important to
mention.

I dove back into the blogsphere because a good friend of
mine in the self-help/professional development world encouraged me to do
so.  She thought I had a lot to say
about “getting real” in the personal and professional realms that people needed
to hear.  That felt good, and I was
excited about the prospect that my words could help people.  When it came down to sitting in front
of my keyboard, however, I froze.

I mean, I couldn’t write just anything.  People were counting on me!  I needed to be brilliant!  And cool!  No one would notice, much less care, otherwise.

Wait a minute…that didn’t make sense, either.

A very dear friend of mine told me something about Paul
McCartney and the way he works. 
Apparently, he sits down at the piano for three hours nearly every
day.  He plunks and he plays, and, according
to him, very little of it feels inspired. 
Very little of it evolves into a hit song.

That story popped into my head again, and it gave rise to a
thought: what if it was okay to just keep it simple?  What if it was okay to NOT be brilliant in this moment?  What if it was okay to give what I have
right now…to keep it simple and basic, and just put something—anything—down?

Thus, the post “Confessions of a ‘Go for It' Guy” was
born.  After I read the thing,
I…well…you know.  But later I
realized that by allowing myself to be where I was, not beat myself up for it,
and then take a step forward anyway was a pretty brilliant stroke.

For one, it meant that I wrote something.  When you’re a writer, this is a pretty
big deal.  It’s the “you can’t win
if you don’t play” thing.  Any words
on paper means there’s a chance you might hit pay dirt.  No words on paper means a zero percent
chance that’s going to happen.

For another thing, I realized that most basic concerns in my
life, like how I stay on task to achieve my aspirations or how I deal with
anger, might be the same things that vex other people, too.  Suddenly, worrying about being dynamic
and groundbreaking and clever felt kind of selfish.  Meeting myself at the intersection of energized and nervous,
being honest with myself, and walking forward despite my urge to run away…all
of a sudden felt pretty dynamic. 
And groundbreaking.  And
maybe even clever.

It definitely felt real.  And helpful.  That
made all the difference and relaxed my furrowed brow.

My good friends at the Great American Pitchfest invited my to write an article for their holiday newsletter, and I thought it would be great to share it here with all my favorite TRUE LIFERS who are honing their mad skills in preparation for a great 2010.  Enjoy!

Tips From the Trenches: Three Things I Learned That Will Improve Your Pitch


by Bill True

(re-printed from the Dec. 2009 edition of The Great American Screenwriter, published by the Great American Pitchfest)

One of the highlights of October's Austin Film Festival was getting to teach a class on pitching scripts alongside The Great American Pitchfest's very own Bob Schultz. But that wasn't the only thing that made the experience great. I remember sitting there in the class and marveling at the creativity and ingenuity represented in the ideas that the students were bouncing off us.

Yet, as good and rewarding as the experience was, I had to admit that there was another underlying emotion. It was concern that, though we were having fun in the safe environs of the class, not many producers or executives would have the patience to suss out the proverbial diamond in the rough as we were doing. What I mean is, it was one thing to have a couple of pitch veterans in front of you and guiding you to the right words to convey the movie embedded your great idea. The folks working with us in the room, however, were gonna need a little more–a little "something"–if they were gonna stand on their own in the wild and wooly environs of Hollywood.



After the class, I asked myself how I would distill the advice Bob and I had given into some simple and easy-to-follow process that anyone could follow and improve his/her pitch. Maybe even elevate it to production company executive-worthy status. Based on our reaction to listening to a bunch of real pitches by real and serious screenwriters (not to mention the hundreds of pitches both Bob and I have heard and judged in the past), here are three tips to help you take your pitching game to the next level.



1. Remember that stories and ideas are two different things — This is a pretty sticky thing to talk about because movies are based on concepts, right? It's the really cool idea ("It's about vampires…but they're teenagers.") that spurs everything else forward. Aha! There's the rub, and it's in the words "everything else forward". Movies are based on ideas, but they're experienced in action, as something that moves forward. That's the long way around saying they're experienced as stories.



It's one thing for some production company exec to say, "I got this great idea!" She can do that because she'll hand that idea off to some writer to flesh it out–to put a story around it. When you approach a producer or executive, they assume you've already done that work and put some flesh around the bare bones idea.



That said, it's important to understand the difference between an idea and a story. Ideas, I tell people, are static. They're like little points of light floating around in some conceptual cloud of thought. They could represent a particular character or setting or time or event or theme…or whatever. But if you say something like, "It's about vampires," okay…you got a bunch of vampires standing there. And they ain't doing nothing. Now what? You could even say something like, "It's about vampires, but they're in high school," but what are they doing in the school? It's still static.



Stories are taking all the ideas in the concept cloud to their nexus, which means putting them into some sort of action. You do this by describing a change. That's what stories do…describe a change. Some person is in some situation at the beginning of your story. At the end of the story, they're in a different situation. In the middle, some sort of action is the catalyst for that change. It's as simple as that.

Remembering that you need to express your ideas in terms of that change–that story–is important because producers and executives don't want to go through the work (and they shouldn't have to) to figure out how to put your ideas in action. After all, they don't buy ideas. They buy stories expressed in script form, and the whole idea of the pitch is to get them to read your script in the first place.



2. Focus on the most important thread in your story — If pitching your script was a category on the game show Jeopardy!, this would be the answer to the question, "How do I avoid that look of confusion on peoples' faces when I talk about my script?" The pit that people fall into is that they think they need to convey all of the "texture" within their script for listeners to get it. Or even more troublesome, they say with all confidence, "There's more than one main character in my story." If you ever find yourself doing either of these, you're gonna get the look. People are going to be confused, and that's bad news for you.



As I continue to write, and continue to talk about my writing, I am constantly reminded of the first piece of advice I got from my first screenwriting mentor. This advice has been repeated time and time again to me by other great writers and agents and executives. Here it is: "Movies are about one thing." They're not about texture, and they're not about a bunch of people. They are about following one person on a journey that changes him. They're about that one person's one story. That's the thread.



The trick is how to convey that thread. This is what I tell folks. Movie stories operate by establishing the rules of the universe in which your main character inhabits. In screenwriting terms, we call this the set up. The rules speak to the limits imposed on the character within the context of their universe and what that character is lacking to feel fulfilled in that universe. From there, you put the character in a situation (which is kicked off by the inciting incident) that is at odds with them achieving that sense of fulfillment. Then you talk about how the character overcomes the obstacles presented as a result of that situation. Presto! You have a movie story.



In the most basic sense, that's all you're required to convey in a pitch. It's simple, it's clear, and it speaks to the thread. You don't need to provide any more than that up front because pitches aren't designed to answer all of the listener's questions. They are, in fact, designed to elicit questions, specifically, the single question, "Can I hear more?" A smart and experienced listener will understand that there there is texture inherent to the movie your pitch represents. If they want to get a better feeling for how you envision that texture playing out, they'll ask you. And if you get to that point, my friends, you're officially having a good meeting. A very good meeting.



3. Practice pitching to anyone and everyone — A frequent comment I hear from new screenwriters is something like, "Yeah…I get all those concepts, but they're difficult to execute in the make-or-break moment of the meeting." I nod at them, and I tell them they're right. From there I have compassion and empathy, but no sympathy.



I know those people need to learn the same difficult lesson that I had to learn and that every screenwriter that ever amounted to anything had to learn. The only way you get better at this pitching thing is to, you know, pitch. You go
tta practice pitching your movie to anyone and everyone around you. Over and over again until people are sick of hearing it. And then you pitch it some more.



The last people on Earth who want to hear another word about the projects I am working on is my family, Yet, last night at dinner, my 14 year-old son accidentally inquired about my latest spec, LIGHTSEEKERS. What do you think I did? You bet! I gave him the full-blown pitch. He knew Dad was working on a "kinda horror script", but he didn't know much more than that. Taking the opportunity to talk through it with him gave me one more pass it to see if I could explain it in a way that people "got it." Even more important, pitching my 14 year-old gave me a view into how someone of his age (an important segment of the horror target market, those teen guys are) would react to the story.



I remember reading in the late, great Blake Snyder's book, Save the Cat, about how he pitched ideas to strangers in coffee shops. Heck, yeah! I do that all the time. For one thing, not only is it good practice, but strangers in coffee shops (or wherever) have no vested interest in being anything but completely objective in their response. If it's good, you'll know. If it doesn't connect, you'll know that, too.



The bottom line is that practice truly does make perfect. The more you do the work in practice, the more "natural" and the more "in the zone" you can be in the meeting. Plain and simple. And, for the record (tough love alert here), being shy or being an introvert isn't an excuse. We're all shy. We're all introverts. If you can't bring yourself to talk about your work with a total stranger, you're probably in the wrong business. Dem's da breaks.



Remember these three tips. Practice them. If you do, I am confident (even more important, you can be confident) that when you get your shot to pitch your movie to the big guys, you'll be ready. And you'll have significantly improved your chances to knock 'em dead.

Dear Dr. Maxim,

I saw your letter in the newspaper. I won’t say which one and don’t try to track me down by the postmark on this envelope. I could be anywhere, and I’m not necessarily living in the same state that I’m sending this letter from.

I wasn’t going to write back to you, but I had to admit that the letter in the newspaper thing was a pretty good idea. Then of course, you know newspapers and me. Well, I found it. And I figured if you went through all that trouble I should probably write back. It seemed like the right thing to do.

I don’t really know what to tell you. Things are fine. Dylan is still with me. He’s fine, I’m fine, and we’re doing okay. We’ve got a warm, and safe place to stay and I have a job. It’s hard, but we’re getting by. And we’re fine.

I suppose another reason I wanted to write to you is to tell you that. I would appreciate it if you told Dylan’s folks. Tell them he’s alive and well and doing great. They should be really happy and relieved to hear it. And would you tell my mom and dad, too? Tell them to please not worry and that someday if things cool down we’ll come home again. Promise.

Anyway, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the letter. I guess I’ll keep looking in the paper.

Sincerely,
Michael

Dear Dr. Maxim,

Another letter! Wow, I was just joking when I said I’d keep looking in the paper. Glad you got my letter, though. Really glad you told my folks I’m okay. You didn’t forget to tell Dylan’s folks, too, right? Please make sure you do that.

How much money are you spending on these want ads? Are you putting them in around the country? Who’s paying for it? I know my folks don’t have that kind of money to throw around.

It was good to see it, though. It’s like a little slice of home. I mean, Dylan’s all I really have to remind me of home, you know? It’s nice to hear from someone else who knows who I am. And you were always good to me. I never did tell you this, but I really appreciate all the help you gave me. I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you’d hoped.

I haven’t told Dylan about our letters yet. I’m afraid that he’d get wigged out. He’s kind of sensitive about things. And I get the feeling that he’s still a little upset at me, even though he won’t talk about it. So what can I do? Who could blame him? I know what I did hurt him very badly. So, although I’m glad you and I are in contact again, I know that I need to keep it hidden from Dylan for know. We’ll see how things go.

As far as what I’m doing to support us? Tell my mom and dad not to worry, I’m not into prostitution and I’m not selling drugs. Heck, I don’t even drink. Plus, I’d never do anything like that to Dylan. I only want what’s best for him.

So, I got a job in a convenience store near where we live. It’s not the best job – definitely not what I thought I’d be doing with my life. But it keeps our heads above water.

Well, barely, because I do have to admit that I do spoil Dylan. I know I shouldn’t do it, and you’d tell me not to “give into my guilt.” But you know what? He’s been through so much – too much – because of me. So if video games and movies and toys and Twinkies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner are going to make him happy that’s what he’s going to get. I spend more than we can really afford on the stuff, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s worth it.

A couple of nights ago he actually laughed. Well, we both did, really. You don’t know how good that felt. And it was over the stupidest thing.

There’s this joke where the person telling it is a Martian and the other is a reporter. Well, we were sitting there playing a video game (or I should say, I was playing…he always just wants to watch) when all of a sudden he got all goofy and antsy. He started doing these little dances and making the strangest wisecracks, and doing all sorts of weird things. It was strange, but it was kind of funny, too. Anyway, back to the joke. Finally, he stuck out his hand, and we started shaking. Wen did this “interview.”

I started: “Welcome to Earth. Tell me, do you have houses on Mars?”

“Why yes, we do.”

“Do you have bathrooms in those houses?”

“Why yes, we do.”

“Tell me, do you have toilets in your bathrooms?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have toilet paper on Mars?”

“No…we use our hands.”

Oh, my god! I can’t believe how hard we laughed. I had tears streaming down my cheeks and my side felt like I’d been kicked by a mule. We both fell on the floor and rolled around and couldn’t stop. As soon as one of us would look at the other, we’d crack up again. It must have gone on like that for an hour.

Well, anyway, it felt really good. You know, that was the first time since the accident that I’ve seen him smile, much less laugh. It warmed my heart to see it. In fact, I had to turn away because I got a little misty-eyed and I didn’t want Dylan to get the wrong idea. I’ll spend every last day, every last dime I have if I can keep bringing a smile to that little kid’s face. I will.

Now if I can just get him to eat. Once we get this smiling thing down, we’re going to work on the eating thing next.

Well, this turned out to be a pretty long letter. But I hope you see that we really are okay. Tell everyone not to worry. Please.

I’ll write again soon and keep you posted on how things are going. I promise.

Sincerely,
Michael

Dear Dr. Maxim,

Well, if you’re paying for these ads out of your own pocket, you must be a millionaire!
Thanks again for the letter. No thanks on the money, though. I will admit that I thought about accepting your offer. But in the end, I think it’s best if Dylan and I keep to ourselves. Not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that I know I’m not ready to be “found” yet. Is that all right? And we’re still doing fine.

Right now, I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Okay, this is going to sound stupid, but here goes: I met a girl.
Her name is Carly and she works with me at the convenience store. We work the graveyard together on Saturday nights. For the longest time we never said a word to each other. She’d be counting the till or cleaning out the Icee machine, and I’d be restocking. But there’s only so much counting and cleaning and restocking a person can do, and it gets pretty dead after the late-night bar rush. So, two nights ago we were talking.

She’s trying to get her GED, and I was helping her study science – astronomy of all things! We were talking about Earth, the solar system, and things like that. You’ll never believe what she thought! She believed that the sun was about the size of the moon and just a few hundred miles up in the sky. What’s more, she thought that the sun revolved the earth! When she told me that, I was flabbergast. I thought she was joking at first.

“Didn’t you ever study science in school?” I asked her.

She sighed, kind of wistful, and got this very sad, very far away look in her eyes. Then she looked at me, searching my eyes like she was probing for something – like she was trying to peer way down deep into my soul. She stayed that way for what seemed to be forever. I could feel my shoulders tense. I was afraid that she’d see too deep, that she might discover my secret. I fidgeted a little, but I could feel the importance of the moment for her, and I decided to risk it. I trusted her, I guess. So I stood there and held her gaze.

When she finally answered me, she did it without saying a word. Instead, she slowly began to un-tuck her T-shirt from her jeans. I was surprised and a little off kilter. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. She lifted her shirt to just below her chest and kind of half closed her eyes, as if she was falling into some trance.

She turned her back to me. It was covered with burn marks and scars from old cuts. I tried to count them all, but I kept getting lost in the gentle curve of her spine, which I followed down to the waistline of her jeans. And I thought to myself, no matter how hard someone had tried, they could never spoil that wonderful back. My head started swimming, and I could feel that certain kind of excitement building in me. I did my best to beat it down, though, because I knew it was completely out of line, considering the moment.

So to settle myself down, I tried to focus on the burns and scars. And suddenly I wanted to cry. I wanted to go to her and gather her up in my arms, just like I had done with Dylan when he was hurt so badly. I wanted to hold her and slowly, gently rock the hurt away. The sadness became overwhelming and I could feel the pressure – the makings of a whopping headache – building at my temples.

She finally lowered her T-shirt, but didn’t bother to tuck it in. She turned to face me and the pressure in my head began to ease up a little. And with her eyes fixed on a Cheetos display that was resting on the sales counter, she recited the story of her life to me.

As I listened, it became very easy to understand why she hadn’t read many books, and why studying and learning weren’t top priorities in her mind. And why no one ever took the time to explain to her the nuts and bolts of how the universe works. Last but not least, why she quit school right at the beginning of 10th grade.

But here she was at 19, on her own and determined to finish her high school education. On one hand, I’m sure lots of people would probably write someone like Carly off, look down at her as some kind of trailer trash or something. But I thought she was very brave. So I told her so.

Then I went on to describe how the solar system really works: how the sun’s 93 million miles away and huge, and how we revolve around it. Then I told her about each of the planets, their moons, stars, constellations, galaxies, space travel… I mean, who better to explain it, right? And after hours of me talking and her nodding, me quizzing and her answering, she finally got it.

It gave me goosebumps to see it all dawn on her face. At that moment I knew she was the farthest thing from dumb. She was very bright, and she was very beautiful.

Suddenly I couldn’t look at her anymore. She asked me if I was okay.

“Yeah,” I said, fumbling, trying to put some distance between us, just searching to find anything to occupy myself.

But before I could get away, she came around to face me again. She cupped my face in her hands and made me look into her eyes. They were beautiful, too…radiant green and so deep that you could lose yourself in them forever.

Then she kissed me.

I can’t describe how it felt. Holding her I felt like I just couldn’t get close enough to her. I wanted to melt into her.

No one came into the store before the morning guy showed up. Carly and I just stood there and kissed all night long until the sun came up. That’s all we did, nothing more. But it was enough. In fact, it was more than enough. It was heaven.

Then it was time to go. She offered me a ride and I wanted to go with her so badly, but I knew I couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. So I told her thank you, but I really wanted to walk – breathe in the morning air. That seemed to be okay with her, but she told me she couldn’t wait to see me again. I told her I felt the same way. Then she gave me a tender little peck and she was gone.

Now here’s the bad part: I haven’t told Dylan yet. How can I? I can’t fall in love, I can’t have a girlfriend. I have Dylan to think about and he needs my full attention right now. He’s still so fragile, and he’s just starting to come around. And I think he’s starting to forgive me.

What am I going to do? I called in sick to work yesterday and today because I just couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her. I mean, she wasn’t working, but what if she came around looking for me? What do I say to her?

God! I don’t know what I’m going to do. Hopefully by the time you get this letter I’ll have it figured out.
Anyway, my hand is tired and I have to get home. I knew I couldn’t hang around there the last couple of days because Dylan would know something was up, so I’ve been wandering around all day like an idiot. But it’s starting to get dark out now, and Dylan’s probably wondering where the heck I am.

I’ll keep in touch.

Sincerely,
Michael

Dear Dr. Maxim,

It’s bad. Dylan knows. I didn’t say anything to him, but somehow he figured it out and now I’m so confused. I didn’t know where else I could turn.

I saw Carly again last night. I couldn’t help it, I needed to get back to work sometime or we’d run out of money. What else could I do?

She wasn’t working, but she came in especially to find me. She’d taken an astronomy test and almost aced it. She was beaming with pride. I grinned back at her and shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “What else did you expect? You’re a genius.” I have to admit I was pretty proud of her, myself.

She asked me if I would go outside with her for a minute. At first I was going to say no, but then…I don’t know. I couldn’t help myself. I told the other guy working that I was going on break. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, she grabbed my hand and led me out of the store.

When we got to her car, she reached inside and pulled out a small package, all wrapped up with a pretty yellow bow tied on top. She gave me a sweet, soft kiss on my cheek as she handed it to me.

“It’s a present,” she told me, “to say thanks.” Then she paused… “And for being you…”

Then she kissed me again. This time passionate, the kind of kiss that you’re sure is going to go on and on forever. At least you pray it does. When she finally did pull away, she rocked back on her heels and raised her eyebrows in kind of a flirty manner. Then she giggled.

“And for being a great kisser!”

She giggled again and nudged me a little. I just stood there frozen, bewildered.

“Well, open it!” she finally had to remind me.

I unwrapped it, and it was a book: “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”

I looked at her and all I could do is smile and shake my head. She went on to tell me that she didn’t pick it out by herself exactly, but the guy at the bookstore said it was really funny, a “must read for any sci-fi nut.” She hoped I hadn’t read it before.

“No,” I lied, keeping a straight face even as my mind drifted back just for a moment to the well-worn copy I was sure still rested on the bookshelf in my bedroom back home.

It was almost too much. I felt my heart surge. It was trying to crawl up and out of my throat, getting snagged somewhere along the way. Was it because she was so happy and because she looked so pretty standing there just beside herself? Was it because I didn’t want to ruin the moment by telling her the truth and hurting her feelings? Or was it something else? Something inside of me that was stirring and churning things around inside until it all seemed like a jumble. Something that at the same time helped me see so clearly that the most important thing at the moment was her and that her joy made me feel so alive.

I held the book in front of me and marveled at it, like it was some priceless treasure. And for some reason I felt like I was going to cry. I had to pull myself together. It took everything I had in me, but I swallowed and finally managed to say, “Thanks.”

I lingered for a few minutes longer, confused and troubled, but happier than I think I’ve been in my entire life. After a while, I realized that I must have looked like a dummy just standing there, so I told her that I should probably get back to work. She said she had to get going anyway, but she would see me tomorrow.

Suddenly a spasm of terror ripped through my body and settled at my temples; a dull, nagging pressure. I knew I needed to buy some time to sort everything out, so I lied to her again and told her that I had to go home and see my parents for a couple of days. It was my little brother’s birthday and blah, blah, blah. She totally bought it, but I felt like crap.

She kissed me one last time before she got in her car and drove away. I was a wreck for the rest of my shift.

And when I got home, things went from bad to worse. When I opened the door, no Dylan. I looked everywhere; under the beds, in the bathroom, everywhere. He’d just disappeared. I panicked. I spent all night until just before dawn searching and searching all over for him. I wandered up and down roads, and I looked in the woods. I even looked in town. I finally ended up back at our place, hoping he had come back. But no.

I didn’t know what to do. I mean, it’s not like I could call the police. I felt exhausted. My head was pulsating and my temples felt like there were going to burst. I felt so dizzy I thought I was going to fall down. I decided to lay down on Dylan’s bed to catch my breath for a minute, and I must have fallen fast asleep.

When I woke up, there he was, standing over me and staring. Not saying a word. He had that look on his face and I knew. I knew. I broke down and starting crying, begging him to forgive me. He just kept standing there.

So I’ve spent the past two days trying to rebuild and repair. We’re not there yet, but at least I got him to talk to me again. That’s something.

It’s been a little too much, though, and I had to get away for awhile. I told Dylan that I was going to get a video and took off. I had to talk to someone, but there wasn’t anyone I could talk to. I suppose Carly would listen, but she’s the last person I should be talking to right now. In fact, I don’t think that I should probably see her again.

I almost called you. I picked up the phone a hundred times and dialed your number. I even let it ring once (sorry!). But I couldn’t go through with it. So I decided to write this letter instead.

Whew! It does make me feel a little better.

Anyway, I have to get back.

Sincerely,
Michael

Dr. Maxim,

What in the hell have done!?! You’ve wrecked everything! Do you know that? You’ve shot everything to hell! Damn you! God damn you!

I went to the store yesterday. I hadn’t been there in awhile and I figured they’d fired me already, but I wanted to go there. Mohammed, the manager, has been really nice to me—gave me a job with no questions asked. I figured I owed it to him to at least apologize for leaving him in a bind.

And, of course, there was the book.

I didn’t want to bring it home before because I knew it would raise suspicion. Dylan would wonder where I got it. I suppose I should have just left it alone, but I wanted it. I wanted to keep it. I don’t know exactly why. I guess it doesn’t matter now.

So I got to the store. I walked in, and Mohammed and Carly were both there. At first I was nervous because I didn’t expect, nor was I prepared to face, Carly. I had barely stepped through the door when Mohammed spotted me. Suddenly he was barking at me, waving his hands, and pointing outside fiercely: “You get out of here! Now! You get out of here! Now! Go!”

I shook my head and tried to explain, “I’m sorry. I know I left you in a bind. I just wanted to say goodbye and apologize and get something-”

“No!” He yelled back, fishing for something from behind the counter, “You don’t need nothing! Get out of here!”

He pulled out a gun.

“Or I’ll shoot you!”

At first I was scared and completely dumbfounded. Then I caught a glimpse of Carly’s eyes. “Oh, God,” I whispered, almost a prayer. I’d seen that look too many times before. I knew exactly what it was: fear. My whole body clenched.

“You. You bring the police here. They’re looking for you, my friend. They’re gonna find you. They have a picture they’re showing all around town to everyone.”

I couldn’t look away from Carly’s eyes. There were tears gathering there.

I managed to choke out the words, “You don’t understand.” My head started pounding. I was consumed by Carly’s tears, looking like delicate little rivers of dread and sadness that flowed down her quivering cheeks. The world began spinning the wrong way on its axis and I felt like I was going to fall over.

“It’s not what you think. You’ve got to believe me,” I pleaded to her, dropping to my knees. “Please. You have to believe me.”

But Mohammed wouldn’t shut his mouth.

“You killed a little boy. The police told us the whole story. You’re a crazy mother fucker, you know? Well, he’s dead, you shit head. He ain’t alive, he’s dead! So you just turn around and take your crazy shit somewhere else.”

He leveled the gun at my chest: “…Or I’ll shoot you!”

I’m not exactly certain what happened next. Events seemed like a series of snapshots in a photo album, with most of the really important ones missing. I know that my body moved. I know the gun went off. I know that somehow Carly and I ended up in her car and I was holding the gun, and we were driving back to where Dylan and I were staying.

When we got to our place, I asked Carly to get out of the car. She was crying hysterically and shaking, and couldn’t move. But I was going to prove to her that I wasn’t crazy and I wasn’t a killer. Dylan is perfectly fine. He is fine, Dr. Maxim. So, I was going to show her. I’m not proud of this, but it was the only way. I got out of the car, went over to her side and pulled her out by force.

I had her by the arm and I knew I was holding her too tight, way too tight. I was worried that I would leave a black and blue mark or maybe even break her arm. But I couldn’t risk letting her run away. I had to show her Dylan. I had to prove it to her. She would see him and everything would calm down.

Then we got inside, and Dylan was no where to be found. The TV was still on, just like I left it. His lunch sat untouched on the night stand by his bed, and no Dylan. I called for him. I screamed for him. I let go of Carly’s arm to look around for him, and she didn’t run away. She just collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing.

I searched everywhere, bellowing at the top of my lungs. I tore the place apart. He’d vanished as if in thin air. My head was absolutely killing me. And I thought, that little asshole, getting me in trouble all over again. I was so mad at him. I just…I just wanted to… I grabbed an ash tray and launched it across the room. I watched as it soared through the air in slow motion, on a collision course with a large mirror resting on top of our dresser. I saw my own reflection shatter into a million tiny pieces on impact. And that’s when everything went completely black…

The next thing I remember is walking down some deserted road. It was dark; the middle of the night, I think. And sure enough, Dylan was walking beside me. I felt like cuffing him, but I knew that I would never do that. I was too tired, for one thing. But even more, I love him and I owe him my life. I keep telling myself that over and over.

So there you have it. That’s everything. Are you happy now? I trusted you. I did. But what am I supposed to do?

Well, do this for me at least, will you? Since you obviously found me, will you please get in touch with Carly, and tell her I’m sorry? Tell her I never meant to hurt her, and she’s a beautiful and wonderful person. I wish things could have worked out differently for us. I really do…more than almost anything.

And Mohammed, too. I hope he’s okay.

Now I have to go. Dylan is waiting for me. We’re moving on, and I guess we’ll try to find another place far away from here where we can start over. Maybe rebuild and get back to where we were.

Just so you know, I don’t hate you. But I’m not going to write to you anymore. At least not for awhile.

Will you do me one more favor? No offense, but I figure you owe me a few. Tell my parents I’m okay. But more important, please talk to Dylan’s parents, and tell them they don’t need to feel bad anymore. He really is alive and well, and in perfect health. I’m taking care of him, and will continue to take care of him until the day we can come home again.

I promise.

Sincerely,
Michael

© Bill True. All rights reserved.

In today’s hometown newspaper. The bestest, most favorite, most meaningful review I’ve gotten.

Thanks, Colin Covert! It’s good to be home.

Thank you for the years and the life we shared together.

Thank you for the beautiful children we brought into this world.

Thank you for being an inspiration for so many.

Thank you for fighting the good fight.

Thank you for your grace.

Thank you for your messages.

Thank you for your love.

Thank you for being our guardian angel.

Thank you for whispering in God’s ear.

I can feel it coming on again. Bill TRUE…funny how it feels. Funny how not only my mind, but my body responds, prepares.

As Robbye headed off to work this morning, she picked up on it. Even before I did. Yes, everything we chatted about later in our wonderful and ongoing conversation about this new dymanic—this enormous love actualized—is abolutely bang-on TRUE: I wanted to make certain she got to work on time, and I needed to prepare for a morning phone meeting a scant half-hour hence. Now that I am sitting here, however, awareness is dawning. There was, I think, a glint of something else, crouching in the corner of my consciousness, waiting. Waiting…

I am ready to write the next thing. My body. It is telling me it’s time.

It’s little things. One—and I realize it’s one of the things that Robbye, in knowing me so well already, spotted as she headed out the door—it’s the slight air of distraction.

It’s an occupational hazard, and certainly one of the things, I imagine, that can be maddening about living with or being in the life of a writer. My attention is drawn to the world inside my head, and I have something of a time remembering which world—this one or that one—is more real. It’s a momentary flicker of an internal dialogue—“What’s should I be paying attention to right now? What was I just doing?”—but it’s a dialogue nonetheless.

The line between fantasy and reality gets a little hazy for me, and the hold that this physical world has on me gets a little tenuous. This is also why memory has been somewhat like Swiss cheese lately.

Then there’s this: even as I slog through more mundane fare—animal feed and fish finders—I feel a hot rush spread across my face. My pulse quickens as my fingers dance over the (now integral) keyboard, sweet nothings about swine and dairy whispered to the ears of co-op managers and feed dealers…my audience, captive. Hopefully, captivated.

So that’s another one, of course. I get lost in—and impassioned about—any-freakin’-thing I am writing. On the phone this morning with the R&D director of the facility that is being spotlighted in this video, I am spouting off about how I am going to go to bat to make certain this or that certain point stays in the video because it is imperative for the audience to better appreciate…blah, blah, blah…

She’s all, like, “Knock yourself out, Sparky.” She likes it, though. Of course…I am making her and her facility look gooooood.

And I listen to a lot more music. Rather, I should say that the listening is more attentive and intentional. And I find myself getting lost in THAT a lot more, as well. It’s evocative, inexorable in the way it churns up emotion; in the way it drives my heart into my throat. More often than I normally feel comfortable with, my eyes cloud with tears. More than I can casually brush away.

And I begin to blog a lot more. And simply to write a lot more. It becomes less of a chore. I grow insatiable. Word count is like calorie count—which, as a runner, is as (or even more) important than in matters of weight loss…as in trying to eat ENOUGH calories in a day to AVOID weight loss. The bottom line here is that I find myself gobbling them up, these words, and I can never seem get quite enough of them.

I am, of course, tuning up the machine. That’s what this is all about. It’s my unconscious self pulling it out of storage, checking out all the moving parts, getting it lubed up and fueled up. Making certain everything is in peak working order. Getting ready to type the second most important words a screenwriter can type: FADE IN.