The Art Writer [a short, short story]
“Art writer.”
“Oh, you write art reviews?”
“No. I write art.”
“I don’t follow. Like, poetry?”
“I don’t paint. I can’t. So I write what the painting should be about. A 1940s-looking jazz club. Patrons all around. All of their faces blurred and out of focus, except for one woman way in the back, whose features can be made out perfectly. Then someone else paints it, based on the picture I’ve painted with words. They get all the credit. I get mistaken for being an art critic.”
“Would you like me to top off your mug?”
He sighed.
“Sure.”
Help From The Studio Audience
Dialogue spoken by a 30-year-old woman:
Jesus, Mom, you know that I hate hearing you even use the word “bed” in any context that isn’t followed by “Bath & Beyond”. And I don’t even want to know how you know about Tommy Lee’s exploits.
The above dialogue appears in my screenplay. Which is a romantic comedy. Studio audience, does it work?
This is my blog. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My blog is my best friend.
