As we were watching a movie I chose at the video store, she turned to me and proclaimed that she gives me full permission to write whatever I'd like about her, about us, about anything. The movie was somewhat of a romantic comedy, my secret obsession. Though I choose only to discuss prevalent movies, indie flicks, award winners, widely acclaimed and acknowledged films, I can't deny my love for cheesey, girly, romantic comedies. I love Sandra Bullock films, "Fried Green Tomatoes" "Beaches" "Terms of Endearment" "Pretty Woman" and any other Julia Roberts/ Richard Gere flicks that stir up the cheese, not to mention that I prefer seeing Jack Black playing a romantic lead than a comedic sidekick....
Yeah, i'm that kind of girl. Actually.
So as we watched "Margot at the Wedding", a flick about bickering sisters who share a love-hate relationship with everyone around them, driving them all bananas, there was a scene where Nicole Kidman, a writer, is accused of exposing all of the families' secrets in one of her novels.
It was then that she so innocently turned to me and reliquished to me complete permission to write anything I want about her, or us, or anything. I couldn't help but smile at the fact that she sees me as a writer. However, further than that, I also thought about how I would never want to share my people; failures and much less triumphs, love affairs, secret anecdotes and intimate details of any of my sincerest relationships between my kindred with anyone else.
What kind of writer could I possibly be while holding onto those kinds of ideals?
However, should I ever give up those beliefs, I would have nothing less than a phenomenal story about a wonderfully beautiful woman who has opened up my world to a myriad of recounted experiences that I'd never have been able to dream. Her life, and my life without her, would be a novel never written....because some things are too privileged to share, despite all permission given.
No comments:
Post a Comment