I just wrote the entire ending of my screenplay.
The last third of it. All in one sitting. All the way to THE END PERIOD.
I’m still kind of in shock.
I didn’t think today was going to be a writing day. I had planned to finish reading The Disappointments Room screenplay by muse/hero Wentworth Miller and see where that left me. I should have known.
The haunting nature of the screenplay left me with an uncomfortable knot in my chest. There are some difficult themes involved that I’m particularly sensitive to. In that uncomfortable space, I thought to myself. “I should write the fire.”
I knew it was coming. I knew it needed to be done. And I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
I was 5 months pregnant and alone when I was woken up and told there was a fire.
I watched my home burn down while my daughter kicked in my stomach.
It’s a difficult position to find yourself in and distressing to revisit to write about. But I did. Because of the frame of mind reading his screenplay left me in, I sat down and the whole thing poured out of me.
And I didn’t stop. The catharsis of vomiting out this part of my past, left me vulnerable and emotional and nostalgic enough to write the last scenes. It’s incredible.
I’m not sure muse or hero quite cut it. I owe all of this to him. He has inspired me to do all of this. Every word I’ve written is because of him. I hope he knows what a difference he is making. I want him to know how important he is, and how grateful I am for him.
Thank you, W. With love and admiration, R.