About two years ago, I wrote a story. I should say, I began a story, and I wrote many parts of it out of sequence, and then, I found any number of reasons not to finish it.

I thought it was a story about a love affair. An illicit love affair between a female writer and her friend's husband. I thought it was a story about the complicated nature of friendship; about the tension between personal happiness and a sense of responsibility; about missed chances and completed choices. And about love, of course.

I wrote the final scene of the story on a warm day in Bryant Park. The night before, I had begun something powerful, but I hadn't realized it yet. I sat in the park, took out my notebook and scribbled out 15 pages or so without stopping.

Only then did I realize what the story was about. Not love. Not friendship. Not desire. It was about a writer's search for a happy ending. Even if it wasn't her own.

Maybe that's really all everything is about.

No comments:

Post a Comment


All content ©ChiaraScura Productions/Renata B, unless otherwise stated. All rights reserved. Violation of federal copyright laws may result in serious legal repercussions such as fines, criminal charges and a shitstorm of biblical proportions. Let's play nice.