I cracked into the long-ignored file folder for Storybook Park and found a two-page snippet of prose that I'd completely forgotten having written. It seemed so unfamiliar, I wondered for a moment whether I'd actually written it. Maybe I'd just clipped it from online for inspiration.
But no. I wrote it. I recall doing so. In Princeton. In Marguerite's bed. On her laptop. It's quite good in parts (awful in others), but somehow it captures the thrill I had about the idea that night. These words that I looked at only once, half-asleep, more than a year ago, capture the seed of the story I now need to tell. In those two pages, the stale concept that's been stewing on my back burner is fresh, intact, and exciting. I am grateful to have it. I hope it will drive me to begin, and guide me to finish.
My ten thousand dollar short is shot. My fifth screenplay, which took almost a year, which I swore would make or break me, is off to competitions and agents and producers, and bound to break me. So it's time to start screenplay number six.
I think that this one is for me.