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.

Why let your enemy control you by choosing to listen to his hate?
Evil and idiocy stripping away veneer of western civilization
If you start sharing your abuse, some will tell you to ‘get over it’
Just underneath a civilized veneer, savage conqueror lives in my DNA
If principles of First Amendment still apply, principles of Second do, too
Am I betraying the truth if I don’t preach to the converted each day?
Does your life feel wasted so far? Maybe your best is yet to come
Modern weddings seem designed to conceal reality of relationships