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her nose was fat and fruitlike, a nose for pratfalls and slapstick, not jetés and pirouettes and pliés and whatnot. but her lips were lovely, the color of cold meat, and her eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, were clear blue. when you looked into them, you half expected to see fish swimming around at the back of her head, shy ones.
i started keeping a journal almost two years ago. i used to write only when i was happy. then i realized that i’d look back and think that my whole life was happy, so i started only writing when i was depressed. and i realized that i wasn't always depressed, so i started to write every day. now i calculate i'm fifty per cent happy and fifty per cent depressed so i don't see the point of writing at all anymore . . . (10:07) . . . it hurts.
- charles d'ambrosio, "screenwriter," new yorker december 8, 2003
posted December 05, 2003 in print. 20022000