








“It’s a purple butterfly.” I told her.
In retrospect, I should have said bunnies.
I am currently writing a romantic comedy.
I would like to go back to my magical realism roots. So far I beat-sheeted Amelie, Science of Sleep, When Harry Met Sally, Eternal Sunshine, Stranger than Fiction. I watch Law & Order SVU as a reward, and sometimes just to calm my nerves before bed. The characters are coming out quite well. I have both ending and beginning, along with majority of the details. Specifics of the plot points need to be hashed out though. For inspiration, I am re-reading James Tate’s surreal poems. I finished Five Men Who Broke My Heart last night. Next are Foreign Babes in Beijing and Twenty Love Poems and One Song of Despair. There are moments which I just sit on my bed, and hold Hunting Humans: The Rise of Modern Multiple Murderer in my hands, turning it around and around. I haven’t opened it since this project took the comedic turn.
Part of the project was to prove to myself that I can write a happy ending. For a decade plus I was a Barbie-playing, wedding-planning, dress-wearing girl, who snuck love notes into boys’ desks during recess. I still want a kitten. To grow my own herbs. To invite my girlfriends over for champagne and home-baked cupcakes. There’s no reason why I can’t write about two people falling in love without half the cast dying horrendously. A script can sustain itself without someone walking down the alley and suddenly feel a machete run down their back softly.
I told Zombie there aren’t even dead people in this script.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He replied.
So will I, Zombie, so will