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given
money exactly three times for options—a kind of rental agreement
producers use to keep you from selling your script to someone else
for a year or so—and come close to snagging a couple of other
options. I’ve made so much money screenwriting that we were
actually able to send Ethan to a day camp for kids with
neurological problems last summer. Prorated over time, my
screen-writing wages are just a couple of cents an hour below what
slaves generally get.
    What all this means is: don’t expect rationality
when discussing the “art” of writing for the movies. It comes from
a deep, abiding love for the form that began roughly at age three,
when my parents took me to see Pinocchio , and was cemented
into place when I realized someone actually wrote this
stuff, around the time I first saw North by Northwest . Cary
Grant could be charming as all get-out, but without Ernest Lehman
to tell him what to say, he’d never have made it out of that
auction in Chicago alive. If you haven’t seen it, go rent the DVD.
NOW!
    I read over the previous day’s work, and it was
actually better than I’d expected. After the Madlyn Beckwirth mess,
I’d tossed the romantic comedy I’d been laboring with, and started
a murder mystery. That was easier, since the true story was so
bizarre, I only had to change some details and move a few
characters around to avoid being sued. The writing was going
well.
    Today’s task involved a tricky scene that included a
lot of exposition. The problem with exposition, or plot points, in
a script is that the last thing you want an audience to feel is
that they’re being told, and not shown , a story. You don’t
want your characters explaining everything in dialogue. The best
way to convey the story point is in a visual, but that’s not always
possible. So, you have to hide your exposition in jokes or create a
diversion, a task for the characters to perform while they’re
talking. An interesting setting or a subplot for the scene can
disguise exposition, too, but it all has to be worked out ahead of
time. And in this case, I was having trouble coming up with the
proper diversion.
    I’d settled on one—having the characters perform a
piece of home improvement while discussing the plot—and started
writing when, true to form, Ethan pushed the front door open and
stomped into the house. My son doesn’t walk, he stomps. It does-n’t
mean anything—it’s not indicative of his mood. Asperger’s kids
aren’t as in touch with their bodies as the rest of us, and Ethan
is probably unaware that he’s making enough noise to be heard three
blocks away.
    Sure enough, all the stomping hadn’t meant a
thing—Ethan breezed in the door with a sunny, “hi, Dad,” and
immediately set out to do his homework, which he announced was “the
easiest thing since they started giving out homework.” For math
class, he had to write a poem about his favorite number. When I was
in school, you had to do math for math, but that was a long
time ago.
    It was just as well that this was Ethan’s assignment
and not mine, anyway. I can’t compose a decent rhyme about
anything, let alone my favorite number. My few pitiful attempts at
song-writing in college were enough to convince me to stick to
prose.
    Ethan, however, is blessed with a mind that can toss
off complex, interesting metaphors as easily as. . . um,
something easy. Okay, if I’d finished that simile, you’d get the
idea.
    He had just about finished his “Ode to Thirteen”
when Leah pushed the door open and dragged her tiny, weary self
into the living room, then flopped down on the bottom stair. My
daughter, who wants to be an actress, has yet to master the art of
subtlety.
    “How was your day, Squishy-Face?” I asked. It’s best
to start with an endearing nickname. It sets up a good barometer
for the child’s mood. And with children, mood is everything.
    “Good.” Okay, at least I knew something . Of
course, Leah always says her day was