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.

If abortion is just simple choice, why is killing babies for gender bad?
At what point does a president become a dictator to be impeached?
You finally have to stop making excuses for people who hurt you
Spoiled brat sues White Castle because he can’t fit into a booth
Lives change in moments of truth when we stop lying to ourselves
This is my new wife, Claire — but she doesn’t actually exist
Doing it for the children? No, they’re doing it for the TV cameras
For me, Valentine’s Day seems to bring out my regrets every year