A Series Reborn: Door Number Three, Dwight, and the Symbols

It's a funny thing -- writing fictional tales based on truths. It's a blurry line, shaky ground. It's door number three.

The true stories oftentimes are funny enough, but the truth in writing, on film, online, has to be just a little bit funnier. It has to have a punchline. In some cases, a two punchline. (Don't worry, that'll make sense later, but not later today. Unless, you already get it, then it's probably hilarious). The truth starts to bend as you make it funnier, and you kind of ask yourself why the heck you're doing this anyway. I mean, what's the point Dink? (see what I did there). Why am I doing this? Why play around with real stories, when I'd do just as well letting sleeping memories lie?

Lies. It's all lies anyway. I mean, I'm editing what will likely be episode three in the web series, I Didn't See That Coming, and there's a story about a river rock. The conversation happened. It was real. In the series, the conversation is with a made up character, though. She doesn't exist, She's just Tracy, friend (I guess) of Emily, the main character and a made up and probably cooler version of me. The whole time as I'm writing this, though, I'm thinking, "I know who I had this real conversation with, and that's kind of weird."

It's weird, right? I mean I know comedy writers do this all the time. That's what makes their shticks funny. It's funny when we know that this crazy character or that one could be our friend, our spouse, our ex, our imaginary hot coffee shop guy, or the loon next door. It's only funny, because we all have a Dwight Schrute in our own office, and he too may accept faxes from the future (I doubt there'll be faxing the future). I guess the answer to my great big why, is because life is funny, really funny. I mean, look around, it's frickin' hilarious. I make a note in my phone or my notepad about an idea for an episode in this series almost everyday. "That's going in the notes," I proclaim! (truth).

Anyway, back to the river rock. I only remember a sliver of the conversation. It was four years ago. I don't know anything, but the premise. There's a good chance I've partially imagined in my head who was there listening. I have no idea what the real response was, but I think he found it funny. He may not remember the interaction at all. That makes the memory mine and mine alone, and leaves me free to write about it. See, all that matters is that there was a conversation about a rock, and it was funny, and more importantly has the ability to be funnier.

The past is weird. Our brains are weird. Symbols are weird. Cymbals are weird. I need more coffee.



Attention!