They face me, all too conscious of their shaking knees and twitching fingers.
"Maria," I say, "you've performed exceptionally well." Pink blooms on her cheek, though she suppresses it as best she can. She's a minor character, unaccustomed to being called out, more comfortable saying a few words and then disappearing.
I turn to the next trembling candidate, "Eleven, you put up a good fight as well." She nods curtly, but won't look me in the eye. Will adrenaline alone be enough to keep her in the running?
Completing the trio is the largest of the group, Mona. A weird girl with a deceptive name - if it's going to be a short o, there really ought to be two n's - she has a tendency to wax on and on until someone asks her to please quiet down we understood the first time. You often find yourself in the middle of a conversation with her thinking, can we get on with it already...
"Mona...I'm sorry." The delete key hammers down from the sky as weepy music swells over the speakers. She turns and floats away into the ether of nonexistence. As though she were never there in the first place. The others return to their places, their breath baited in anticipation of the next round of revisions.
/// /// ///
Script revision isn't nearly as dramatic as elimination rounds on reality shows, but I might have more trouble deleting lines if they could look at me with puppy eyes. Or I might flee in the opposite direction, flailing and screaming, the words have eyes. Eyes, I tell you, eeeeyyyyyeeess!
Honestly though, writing this movie is going swimmingly so far. Occasionally I come across gems like -
Amadeus referme la fenêtre et crouches down to peer through the floorboards.
One man's gem is another man's minefield.
Tonight I board a bus to Amsterdam with a hundred or so schoolmates. I have no plans and few expectations, only excitement to be venturing beyond France for the first time since arriving five months ago.
Who Will Go Home Tonight
