I was trying to tell a friend about my film idea when I stumbled upon the right title. I casually said something about attempting to tell “the truth about my father” when it struck both of us that I had just spoken the right title.
“The Truth About My Father”
That would be the name of the non-fiction book I would write and then it would be the name of a very fictionalized comedy version that I would make afterward. Why did such a strange tale need to be told as a comedy? I didn’t know then and I still don’t know, but I know it’s a dark comedy.
That was years ago. Ever since then, I’ve struggled to figure out how to make the story work as a film script. Redrawing my father as an exaggerated form of his eccentric self was easy, but the story centered around a son learning the hidden truth about his father. And I figured something out this week.
The story is boring — and it doesn’t work — unless I dig into my own flaws and trace where the worst part of me came from. To tell the truth about my father, I have to dig into — and expose — the worst parts of myself.
And that’s scary.

The plan sounded fair at the time, but why did I pay for everything?
FRIDAY FUNNIES
Should I become prophet of doom or fade quietly into the darkness?
Has it really been so long since I’ve been ‘real’ with someone?
Could Hillary Clinton be the next president of the United States?
My heart longs for a future that’s more real to me than the dim past
Widow: ‘Things that mattered yesterday do not matter today’
My reaction to man’s home taught me more about me than about him