tending screenings in the Fox Buildingnin what passes for a film district innBoston. Imagine the cachet of beingnable to see Woody’s latest before it wasnreleased.nThe first draft took three weeks, antime during which my friends began tonnotice a de-maturation process thatnwould continue until the very end. Inhad immersed myself in my task to thenpoint where my face started to breaknout and my conversation became annincoherent sequence of “likes,”n”grodies,” and “awesomes.” Harvey’snresponse was cautiously optimistic:n”This is a good start, Steve, but we stillnhave a long way to go.” When I askednhim what he didn’t like about it, henleaned over the table, pointed towardnhis navel and said: “I just don’t feel it innmy puppik.” Unfortunately, his criticismsnnever became any more specific,nand I began to see that our relationshipnwould indeed be 50/50. That is, halfntooth-grinding frustration, half paranoia.nThe paranoia arose from the title ofnthe movie, which was so good, sonsure-fire, that they had already lined upntheir investors on the basis of it alone. Inwas told that if there was a leak, theren46/CHRONICLESnPOP FICTIONnLIBERAL ARTSnwould be big trouble. What troublenwas never actually spelled out, but thenfollowing true exchange gives you—asnit gave me — a good idea of what theynmeant.nWe were wrestling with a tricky plotnpoint: one of the protagonists has hisnmanuscript stolen and discovers thenculprit; what revenge should he take?nHarvey asked what I would do if someonenstole the idea for our movie. Inshrugged my shoulders and said Inthought these ideas were pretty muchncommon currency and that I didn’tnsuppose I’d do anything. I asked himnwhat he’d do.n”I’d have him killed,” says Harvey.nThe expression on my face mustnhave betrayed some disapproval, becausenhe backed off to the extent ofnsaying he’d at least have his legs broken.nI like to think I used some of thisnstruggle between the sacred and thenprofane in my next draft, especially innthe part where the villain gets hisnanatomy put into a vise by a pack ofnrampaging coeds, and Harvey, too,nthought it was pretty good: “Steve, Inthink it’s time for a conference call tonthe coast.” Well, call we did, but thenWhatever may be said against the novelettes and serials whichnfoster the profound sentimentalism of the man in the street,nthere is no count against them which bears any resemblancento the heavy responsibility of the polished and cynical fictionnfashionable among the educated class. It does not bring intonthe world new sins or sinister levities or passions at oncensavage and artificial. The novelette may basely grovel beforenstrength, but at least it does not basely grovel beforenweakness. It may speak openly and without reticence ofnemotions that are sacred and should be kept in the heart, butnat least it does not speak openly and without reticence ofnemotions that are despicable and should be spewed out of thenmouth.n. . . That the actions of the figures are singularly languidnand inevitable, that the characters are endowed with a verynsimple stock of virtues and vices, that the morality of the storynis never for a moment mingled or perplexed, that over thenwhole scene broods the presence of an utterly fatalisticnoptimism, all this only makes the matter richer and quieter forntired intellects and tortured nerves.n—from “Sentimental Literature,”nby G.K. ChestertonnnnWest Coast mogul was unmoved andnapparentiy Harvey didn’t feel it stronglynenough in his puppik to fight for it,nso we were back to square one.nIt was decided that our locationnwasn’t right and that the answer was tonset the movie on Cape Cod. So, I wasnsent down for an inspirational weekendnin Falmouth. The trip was not the idyllnit could have been, however, because itnwas a bleak, rainy late November andnthere was nary a nubile teen in sight.nAlso, having been separated from mynperks, it was becoming more and morendifficult for me to return to the grimnrealities of rock and roll and ragingnhormones.nFinally, around page 50 and unablento bull through a dense writer’s block, Inhad serious intimations of disaster. Inrealized that the only sure path tonsuccess — a partial lobotomy — wasnout of my price range. (Ain’t thatnalways the way? You need the moneynto get the lobotomy, but you need thenlobotomy to get the money.) I had tonface facts; as far as cheesy teen moviesnwere concerned, I was a wash, a bozo,na loser.nA tinge of hostility began to creepninto my scenes — giant roaches devourednfrat houses, earthquakes annihilatednHomecoming queens; I began tonhave a recurring dream that I wasnbeing dissected by a biology teachernwith a pinky ring and fangs. Being annadolescent was no picnic the first time;nhaving to relive it was utter hell. But wenwriters are nothing if not obsessive andnI gutted it through to page 90.nWhen, red-eyed and trembling, Inbrought it to the sanctum sanctorumnand handed it to Harvey, he scrunchednup his face, plastered over his bald spotnand sourly pointed out that I hadnspelled his name wrong on the titienpage. At that moment, the truth wasnrevealed to me and the entire scenarionwas stripped down to its essential bleakness.nI saw clearly that these peoplenwould never make this movie; that thisnwas the PROJECT THAT WOULDnNOT DIE. This juggernaut, this writer’sndoomsday machine would go onnand on, finding and devouring newnvictims throughout all eternity. Everynwriter in the world would eventuallynwork on this project, but in a reversal ofnthe old pyramid scheme, only onenwould get paid!nWhen the verdict was finally passedn