January 12, 2009

when I'm depressed I go bowling

I went to the bookstore a couple weeks ago and found a certain novel on a table display of "staff favorites" in the fiction section. The title of the novel was the title of a play someone I used to know wrote. Or said he wrote.
I picked up the book. I flipped through the pages. I read some of the pages. I knew it all by heart already.

We hadn't spoke for a very long while after briefly getting back in contact last winter, after not speaking for another very long while. During that short-lived rendezvous, we talked about the time period in which we knew each other and during which he was writing this play. He would tell me how he was having a difficult time with it and I would try and give sage writing advice. At that time. We must have spent cumulatively at least a few hours talking about it.
And he confessed much later that the main character, the femme fatale, she was me. He was writing about me. I had already sort of known that though. I did not actually think we had much in common, but I guess the first time anybody tells you that they made some sort of something in your honor, that's a pretty nice warm feeling.

I put the book down and walked away. A few weeks later I decided to buy it and read it. So far it is the same exact story. Same lines and descriptions. Some of them my favorites. It's a pretty good book. I remember thinking it was a pretty good play as well.

I am also thinking, What a total fuck. Who writes a play, basically adapting a novel, and then says they wrote it themselves and even says that they based a character on you?

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