Jade Awakening

The ONE Time Dad Made Breakfast

I would have never thought that Mr. Gradstein's class would actually turn out to be the most important one this year. Little did I realize that every single day, while I was copying down notes mindlessly, that I was collecting invaluable information. It was like I held a key in my hands now. Countless tips and tricks for writing a compelling screenplay.

There were pages on how to hook your audience, how to create set-ups and payoffs, how to introduce characters, how to introduce conflict, how to write dialogue and stage directions.

But the most encouraging tip that Mr. Gradstein gave me appeared over and over again. Every few pages or so, he would give the class this solemn piece of advice: write what you know.

I could take it all – everything that's still inside of me or already spilled over crazed pages – and turn it into something creative. Something that can be shared.

I could take all of the grief that I've had to endure over the past few months, all of the reasons for that aching, and turn it into a script.

Through another mouthpiece, I could make everyone listen to my story. But perhaps most importantly, I could get Dad to listen.

Of course, I couldn't write too directly. Something about that would still be too vulnerable. I decided that I would disguise my truth by shrouding it all in metaphor and having a character with a different name live it. A win-win – everyone would feel and understand my story without truly knowing it.

In my second notebook, I turned to another blank page and ferociously scribbled my new ideas down. Again, I wrote. I wrote. I wrote.

How else can I show that my virginity was stolen from me? I thought as I wrote. That my innocence was unfairly taken away? What is something that anyone could lose that would hurt all the same? Something that you could grieve or ache for...

Something that doesn't feel fair because you don't deserve it... I mean, everything bad that happened to me wasn't even my fault! I didn't do anything wrong. I've been good, dammit! Shouldn't only good things happen to good people?

How can I outwardly portray all the pain I have felt on the inside? Not just from the loss of innocence, but also from the crumbling of our family, and the lack of understanding from Dad... That feeling of being trapped? I suffered mostly in silence and I cried so much I could have nearly drowned in my tears... Oh my God, I got it.

But now how does Dad come into play? I could never actually say it earnestly to his face, but I really really want a relationship where he shows that he cares about me. Should my main character also have a father who distances himself from her? I want him to care – he needs to care about her by the end... My dad certainly can't end all of my pain, but it sure as hell would make life easier if he tried to support me... to be there for me.

Maybe my main character's father will redeem himself in the end...

I was an unstoppable, creative force until exhaustion caught up with me again. Even the dog gave up on his yapping and passed out in his cage. I counted the number of pages of this very rough draft of a screenplay, feeling satisfied with myself that I had the capability to let so much out of me in just one night. Sixteen pages. It was a good start. I wanted to keep going, but my yawning became incessant and I was forced to resign myself to sleep.

I carefully returned my notes back to my messenger bag before curling up with the blanket Melissa gave me to.

***

CLAP! CLAP!

"That's enough, get up."

I groaned in protest and only shut my eyes harder as I clung onto the blanket more tightly.