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.

Are we destined to become our parents? Or can we be different?
NYC schools ban ‘birthday,’ ‘crime,’ ‘dinosaur’ and ‘divorce’ from tests
Love & Hope — Episode 9:
Pro-free market candidates don’t promise price targets on gasoline
Angry behavior on social media is killing you and hurting your cause
There’s hatred, evil and injustice, but this is the ‘real’ America, too
Accepting joy tomorrow does no good if tomorrow never comes
If principles of First Amendment still apply, principles of Second do, too
To save my own sanity, it’s time for me to shut up about Trump