Faerie Tale Read Online Free Page B

goodwriting compared to most others in the genre; I liked that sly humor a lot—made those characters seem real. And the plots made sense—well, sort of.”
    “Thank you, but even so, film’s more of a director’s medium. Even with an editor’s input, a book’s a single person’s product. And it’s been too many years since I’ve been able to write without story editors, directors, producers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for changes in the script. In films the writing’s done by committee. You’ve never lived until you’ve been through a story conference.” There was a half-serious, half-mocking tone to his voice. “Torquemada would have loved them. Some idiot from à multinational conglomerate who needs to have every line of
Dick and Jane
explained to him is telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the board’s wife won’t be offended. Or some agent is demanding changes in a beautifully thought out script because the character’s actions
might
be bad for the star’s image. There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of Shakespeare—have Othello divorce Desdemona because his client’s fans wouldn’t accept him as a wife murderer. Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the actress so they can get a PG-13 rather than a G, ’cause they think teenagers won’t go to a G. It’s a regular
Alice Through the Looking Glass
out there.”
    “Is it really that bad?” Jack asked.
    Gabbie rose and began gathering up the paper plates and napkins. “If the volume of Dad’s yelling is any indication, it’s that bad.”
    Phil looked wounded. “I don’t yell.”
    Gloria said, “Yes you do. Several times I thought you’d smash the phone slamming it down after speaking to someone at the studio.” She turned to Jack. “You’ve been doing most of the listening, Jack. We haven’t given you a chance to tell us anything about yourself.”
    Jack grinned as Gabbie replaced his empty bottle of beer with a fresh one, indicating he should stay a little longer. “Not too much to tell, really. I’m just a good old boy from Durham, North Carolina, who got a B.A. in English from UNC and wandered up north to study atSUNY Fredonia. I had my choice of a couple of different grad programs, including a tempting one in San Diego, but I wanted Agatha Grant as an adviser, so I pulled some strings and got her, and here I am.”
    Phil’s eyes widened. “Aggie Grant! She’s an old family friend! She was also my adviser when I got my M.A. in modern lit. at Cornell. She’s at Fredonia?”
    “Emeritus. She retired last year. That’s what I meant by pulling strings. I’m her last grad student. I’m after a doctorate in literature. In a few more months I’ll be taking orals to see if I get to continue, and an M.A. in passing. I’m doing my work on novelists who became film writers, on how work in films affects a writer’s work in print. I’m looking at writers who did both, like Fitzgerald, Runyon, William Goldman, Faulkner, and Clavell. And of course yourself. Though mostly I’m working on Fitzgerald. When I figure out the thrust of my dissertation, I’ll probably concentrate on him.”
    Phil smiled. “You put me in some fine company, Jack.”
    “It’s all pretty technical and probably pretty boring.” He looked embarrassed. “When the local papers printed the word you’d bought this place, I thought I might impose and get an interview with you.”
    Phil said, “Well, I’ll help if I can. But I don’t have much in common with Fitzgerald. I don’t drink as much; I’m not having an affair with another writer; and my wife’s not crazy … most of the time.”
    “Thanks,” said Gloria, dryly.
    “I was going to call Aggie, and take a weekend and drive up to Ithaca. I had no idea she’d moved. First chance I have, I’ll get up to Fredonia and see her. God, it’s been years.”
    “Actually, you don’t have to go to Fredonia. She lives on the other side of the woods