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was being interviewed now? And there was no easy way for the younger man to regain the upper hand.
    He said, “I want to write screenplays about, you know, the things that are happening now?”
    “What kind of things?”
    “Well, I wrote this one screenplay about these four college friends who graduate from school and then they all go in different directions.”
    Shareef nodded. “It sounds like a period piece. How many years does it cover?”
    “Yeah, it covers about ten years, from college to, you know, their late twenties, early thirties.”
    “Have you finished it yet? I’d love to read it.”
    The young man hesitated. “Well, I’m still kind of hashing it out, you know.”
    “So, you haven’t finished it?”
    “Yeah, I’m finished, but, you know, I’m not really ready to show it around yet.”
    Shareef had him sweating bullets. It was getting hotter in that hotel lobby by the second.
    The young reporter moved to shut his tape recorder off since he was no longer interviewing. He considered their conversation wasted tape, but Shareef stopped him.
    “Don’t do that. You gon’ need this information,” he told him. He said, “Now let me tell you something. From what I understand about black Hollywood, we don’t have that many good screenplay writers. And you know why?”
    He paused again for his pupil to answer him.
    “Why?”
    “Because we don’t fuckin’ read enough,” he told him. “So most of our screenplays end up being corny, simple-minded, uneven, copycat shit. Why? Because we don’t know how to tell a good story. And why don’t we know how to tell a good story? Because we don’t take the time to read good stories, or to understand what makes a story good. So without reading good fiction, brother, we end up writing weak character development, weak dialogue, weak plot points, with a weak buildup, weak chronology, uneven climaxes, and a weak resolution. And now you got all of that on your tape to study. But since you don’t read my books, you can’t really converse with me about my career, because you have no idea of my skill level. Therefore, without reading any of my shit, if you write anything positive about me, then you’re being patronizing. And if you write any negative shit about me, especially since I might be hurting your feelings right now, then you’ll end up showing your ignorance, because you didn’t read any of my shit to judge me from in the first place.”
    And with all of that said, Shareef stood up to make his exit.
    He said, “So I want to thank you for making your way down here to interview me, but we can’t possibly continue this interview until you’ve finished your homework. I mean, that would be like throwing a rookie into the playoffs without him even having a scrimmage or a basic practice. You feel me?
    “And I’m not hating on you, young blood, I’m just showing you tough love right now to get you ready for the real world,” Shareef explained to him. “Because when you actually start reading more and studying your craft for real, then you’ll begin to set your own mark of excellence to the point where no white man or anyone else can tell you that you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. And when you get to that point in your career, you’ll be able to pick up your rifle and go to war with me. But right now, you’re empty-handed, brother, and we can’t go to war like that. You’ll fuck around and get both of us killed.”
    Shareef then forced a departing handshake before he walked away toward the elevators, leaving the reporter dazed, overwhelmed, and speechless. And once he realized that his interview was officially over, the young man looked at the still running tape recorder and shook his head in disbelief.
    “Damn! What did I say?”

    A T 5:49 PM, Shareef took a deep breath inside the bathroom of his hotel suite and sprayed on a second layer of cologne. His driver would be ready to take him back up to his birthplace of Harlem at six