Writing Partners

4 Nov

They had written  together so hard and so well for such a long time they could scarcely remember when they hadn’t. Like parents trying to recall their lives before they had children.

They had written with little hope of success on a drafty porch that overlooked a parking lot as they tried to shrug off bad colds. They had written when the City of the Angels was hotter than a cauldron and the cheap fan squeaked. They had written in a room full of seriously depressed people as the roaring work of a huge studio went on outside. They had written while going seventy on the 405 with two children,who looked remarkably like their mother, bickered like crows in the back seat.

Other times she would sit at the keyboard and he would make comments over her shoulder.  Some great and some atrocious. And they would write. Sometimes in fits and starts.  Sometimes in spurts. But often like a well-oiled machine. Dynamic, dependable and seemingly without ego. (But beware the first day of any project.) It was really something to see this love triangle with a piece of paper.

Don’t take my word for it.  Ask the piece of paper.


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