What do you think?
Rate this book


352 pages, Hardcover
First published February 25, 2020
Give me a movie and I'll find the meaning; I'll find the truth; I'll find the story. Sometimes I'll find all three.
It's the same world as yours. I just notice it differently.


Sometimes I think everything wrong with my life can be located in the space between what I should have said and what actually came out of my mouth. No matter how hard I try, no matter how well I prepare, the right words are, for me, forever out of reach. Not because they catch in my throat. A cat hasn’t gotten my tongue. None of the usual phrases apply. It’s a more comprehensive kind of collapse. When faced with any real conversational pressure, my personality just goes offline, AWOL, and no matter how hard I try, it doesn’t respond. Catastrophic system failure.
It’s possible I’ve spent so much time watching movies that the language of film has infiltrated some primal, necessary part of my brain. I catch myself processing my own emotions in scenes, in shots, in dialogue. Like when there’s a burn in my sinuses and a sick clench in the back of my throat, but my brain doesn’t supply a single word (sadness). Instead, it offers up a two-second clip from Terms of Endearment: Huckleberry Fox, inconsolable, at Debra Winger’s bedside.
It isn’t easy, or efficient, or necessarily clear. It would be much simpler, certainly, if I’d only seen a handful of movies, and if those movies had been directed by Steven Spielberg. Maybe then my emotions would be more manageable, more straightforward, a line instead of a scatter plot. But like Josh said, I have a whole encyclopedia up in there, and Huckleberry Fox at Debra Winger’s bedside is very different from Troy Bishop at Debra Winger’s bedside is very different from Shirley MacLaine at Debra Winger’s bedside.
I press my ring fingers into the corners of my eyes and try, once again, to figure myself out.
Eventually, it comes to me.
A man in a bathroom. He’s sitting on the counter next to the sink, one knee pulled up to his chest so he can fit his foot under the faucet. He’s barefoot, bleeding, shirtless.
His walkie-talkie crackles.
“I’m here, John.”
He lifts the radio to his face.
“Look,” Bruce Willis says, “I’m starting to get a bad feeling up here.”
So that’s what this is.
Foreboding.


The best way I can think to describe it is that there’s a beehive in my chest, and most people upset the bees. The nearer they get, the worse it is—and direct contact makes them swarm.
I wish I could say that I’m in shock, that I’m reeling from everything that’s happened, but the truth is, I’m always like this when I have to be out in the world for too many days at a time. I have to take to my bed afterward, every time, like a Regency matron with a case of the nerves.
But I suppose it doesn’t help that in the past two weeks I discovered a dead body, tracked down a murderer, and made not one but two phone calls to strangers.
come to my blog!“Action, cut, action, cut, action, cut, action, cut. These aren’t commands, not for me. They’re more like everyday punctuation. A capital letter. A period. An indication that I should pay attention to what’s going on in the middle.”