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