“Through whatever combination of inaction and poor choices suited their beliefs, victims
consent to the danger, no different than standing next to bullies or giving your uninformed
consent to participate in the conflicts you thought you were observing.” She squeezed my arm. “I
know your writings are loaded with good people facing bad situations, and there are some
particularly cruel acts between the two that you haven’t resolved in your own mind. I also know
that working in the shadow of war’s wraith hardened your heart while restricting your vision to
things that justify your jaded views.” She squeezed again. “The essence of your written work is
about moving out of your shadow secrets, which you have constructed to reflect the craftiness of
cruelties’ affects on all of you. Your Silent Knowledge of that goal won’t let you slough it off
because truth is relentless. Next time, bring some of your work, anything at all, and I’ll try to
show you how you are shinning a light into those shadows.”
I didn’t mention the personal cage issue, and we ended our formal meeting.
Back on my side of the bay, I put a dozen chicken legs on the barbecue and opened my first
contemplative beer because, the inherent strangeness of our relationship aside, something wasn’t
right. Every time we got together, Bonnie intimidated, ignored, insulted, or toyed with me,
sometimes all four, and her explanation of research wasn’t cutting it. She was too intense, too
moody, too flighty. Like two people, for that matter.
Mulling over our circumstance loosened a niggling thought, which like an embolism
travelled to the heart of the matter: no writers I had ever known scribbled on top of anything
other than first drafts. They made notes in the margins or between the lines, and none of them
folded their coveted inspirations other than those written on barroom napkins. From this, I
realized Bonnie had to be knocking off pages as she thought were required to interest me, and the
only reason to do this was to create the appearance of her story being complete, not just
unpolished or somehow misaligned. It explained why some scenes were watertight and others
required preliminary explanations, which then explained her quick bail outs through contrived
flashes of temper to derail my inquiries.
The chicken bursting into flames triggered a deeper insight: Bonnie damned-well knew that
her character's ability “to know” punched a huge hole in her story. To her credit, she had
incorporated a surreptitious plea for the audience to suspend their disbelief, but she was smart
enough to know this alone wouldn’t cut it. She had to have reached the end of her options and
was looking for a bigger kind of magic to fill the hole her gimmicks had dug instead of scrapping
unworkable premises.
I apologized to the tenants upstairs for the acrid smoke, then I ate my blackened chicken
with triumph. An unfinished story meant the path to starting the grant application was wide open.
I didn’t have to understand all of her premises. I could make up something that would fit them so
far, as had to be her goal anyway, and update the outline if I learned anything interesting before I
submitted the application.
I finished dinner wearing the cloak of confidence that Bonnie wore so snugly, and though
the fit was snug when I called to test the temperature of our relationship, her renewed warmth
confirmed that she was afraid of losing the filter she needed to test new endings.
In the morning, ahead of plan, I called Rogers Communications to request a grant
application before working on my screenplay changes.
