They say that scripts are like a bad biography with all the names changed to protect the innocent.
I finished a script that I started a couple of weeks ago. Truthfully, I didn’t want to finish the script. Too close to home, but something made me just sit down and finish it. Maybe it was the fact that I don’t keep a journal or a real blog and I was worried that I’d forget how I felt at the time — not very likely but something like that. Maybe its the fact that deep down I’m just a masochist. A happy masochist. But a masochist nonetheless.
And rereading the script feels like listening to those songs that mean something to you and pretty much just make you hurt when you hear it.
But still. I’ve reread it a couple of times today.
And I’m sure I’ll read it again after I write this while listening to one of those songs.
