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.

What if we had a birthday party for the USA — and nobody came?
When will you admit that a constitution can’t control state?
You’re not watching real news; you’re watching a scripted show
I choose love over hate, because the author of the story’s not done
We need loving communities so we can know, ‘You’re not alone’
Can a free society tolerate intrusions into details of ‘The Lives of Others’?
Slow death of painful past leaves me trapped in fog of depression
Anarchist vs. minarchist debate misses the shift to post-statist world
Police shut down dealer in the never-ending ‘War on Lemonade’