October 25, 2013


At one extremely low point in my life, I had decided to commit suicide. 
I had it all figured out and all my paraphernalia in place when I remembered I had to leave a note of some kind behind, so innocent parties had an explanation and would not feel guilty.   
I set to.
“To Whom it May Concern,” I wrote. 

No, that’s too cold, too impersonal.
“To Those Who Care.”  
Nope.  Too self-pitying.
“To Occupant.” 

I worked for three hours on the salutation alone.  Finally, I had it right:  “To Everyone I Love, Thanks for the Use of the Hall.”
Great.  That was done.  Now for the note.
I spent hours and hours, revising and rewriting.  Hours became days.  Days stretched out into weeks.  Dirty dishes piled up.
By the time I had the whole thing written, six months had passed, my note was 120 pages long, and after reading over the final draft, I decided that it would make a great screenplay.
I FEDEXed it to Paramount and they sent me back a check for $100,000, which gave me a reason to live. 
It’s impossible for a conscientious writer to commit suicide.

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