I am at creative odds with my son. A little over three months ago, my son came to me with the prospect of becoming a writer. In my naive joy that my son wished to follow in my footsteps, I forgot that he was only nine years old; an age when career paths change with the weather. I began to explain to him the intrinsic failure and rejection that goes along with my profession, while still kindling his creative flame. 

 

      When asked in which form he wished to express himself, he exclaimed, “Movies!” 

​

     Oh, how disappointing. He had chosen the toughest genre in the writing profession. I myself had been dabbling in screenplays as of late. I had recently written and begun shopping around one entitled Aboriginal Sorrow. It surrounded the emotional struggle of a young aboriginal boy dealing with the influx of the modern world. I had so far received no reply. I explained to my son how difficult it is to sell a screenplay in today’s market. 

 

     “All they want is sex and violence,” I said. This, however, did not turn out to be a problem. 

 

     We sat down at my Macintosh computer and pulled up Word. I was sitting in the old, beat-up swivel chair I had stolen from my old job at Kinkos, and my son sat on the desk top next to me, poised to dictate. 

​

      “You have to think of a good title,” I said. 

​

     “When the Gun Robs the Cradle,” he said without hesitation.

 

     Good, I thought, a little juvenile but he is only nine. 

​

     “Fade up on Jon Anderson doing cocaine,” he said. 

​

      While I had schooled him on literary film terms, I had not expected this to tumble from his innocent lips. I have never been one to stunt my child’s creative impulse or expression so I began typing. Always eccentric, my wife and I had just been happy that he was not huffing duster at Hope Park with the rest of the neighborhood kids. 

​

     “Jon: (as his nose starts to bleed) Rusty pipes,” my son dictated. What came next was a ream of drug and sex references. A story of a miniature mafia unfolded. My wife had told me not to let our son see Goodfellas. 

Not wanting to discourage him, I kept typing. 

​

JACK 

Do you take LSD? 

JON 

No, I’d never take anything as filthy. My teeth are numb, though. I’ve got to cut down on the ‘powdered sugar.’ 

TRAVIS 

You are a snorting pig!

FRANKIE 

At least I’m not anorexic. 

UNKNOWN 

My sister was anorexic and boy was she lucky. She didn’t need any highlights. 

JACK 

Let’s get this casino on a roll and let’s name it the Kid Mafia. 

​

     Needless to say I was concerned. I mean, if it had been a meaningful story consisting of character arcs and a developed plot, it might have been different. Clearly I had completely misjudged my son’s intelligence. Then he crossed the line. 

​

     “Jack: Fuck you, you fucking cunt!” he screamed with the intensity meant for the character. 

​

      “I’m not typing that,” I said. “Your mother might kill me.” My wife and I had never been strict about language. We had chosen to teach when—not what—to say. We felt that it gave our children a much-needed sense of self. But it was quite different to aid my son’s demented imagination by putting it in print. I began to regret every R rated film I had set in front of my child. From the age of seven, harmless yet risqué films such as A Fish Called Wanda, The Full Monty, and Trainspotting had headed up his very extensive film collection. We allowed him to see films like this because we believed he had the maturity and intellect to deal with topics such as heroin addiction and prostitution. Obviously, we were wrong. These images of guns and drugs had festered in his mind, turning him into a young Oscar Wilde or Quentin Tarantino. 

​

     “It’s my vision, Dad!” he said. 

​

     He knew just how to get me. “Okay, we’ll compromise,” I suggested. “How about instead of ‘Fuck you, you fucking cunt’ we say, ‘Forget you, you uninviting vagina’?” 

​

     It was futile. He was just like his father—unwavering and unwilling to censor his work. It was my admiration for this standpoint that allowed me to offer this next compromise. “What if you type in the cuss words yourself?” 

​

     I chose this because while I was sure his spelling vocabulary included “fuck,” I hoped it did not include such reprehensible words as “faggot.” He agreed to my terms and we kept writing together. I was traveling down a road littered with slapstick violence and narcotics, pausing occasionally to lift my arms and allow my son to curse with fervor at an old lady who had conned the Kid Mafia out of their “crystalline methadone.” 

​

     As the story progressed, it became clear my son had some serious issues. Without knowing the political weight of his words, my son began depicting a scene involving members of the mafia, a young girl and a sock puppet. I somehow convinced him to delete this scene from the script for plot reasons. Thank God! My son, while disturbed, came up with a few extremely interesting literary techniques. In order to “establish mystery” he introduced a character without a name.

 

UNKNOWN 

Tina, you’re nice. I like you. Be careful. Don’t dance near walls or poles. 

TINA 

Why? 

UNKNOWN 

The kid that is assigned to blackjack likes to kill on poles. 

TINA 

A ten-year-old kid likes to kill with poles? 

UNKNOWN 

He’s seven. And he likes to kill ON poles. 

TINA 

He must be very acrobatic! 

​

     While it didn’t always make sense, it was original. He had become a dictating machine. He was far more prolific than I had ever been. Within two weeks, we had a finished manuscript complete with sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, not to mention the torturing of a priest. If nothing else, I certainly had the edgiest young artist on the block. While other kids watched Power Rangers and Pokémon, my son pondered the amount of ketamine it would take to, literally, kill a horse. 

​

     “Can I send it in to one of your friends, Dad?” 

​

     The “friends” he was referring to were my acquaintances in the film industry. I had met most of them in college and they had seemingly forgotten the cheap and potent marijuana I had basically given to them. In return for my generosity, they had left me with unreturned phone calls and rejection. 

​

     “I don’t know if they would take a child seriously,” I said. 

​

     My son hated to be reminded of his age in any manner. Once at a restaurant when the waiter offered my son some crayons and a pad he told her “Stop condescending me!” “Well, could we put your name on it?” he asked, eyes welling up. 

​

     “No, that’s illegal,” I said. The truth is, I didn’t give a damn about legality. I just couldn’t afford to have my name tarnished any further in the film industry. To my surprise, he seemed to drop the issue. I should have seen him eyeing my address book, but I was too flabbergasted that I had won the argument to pay attention to that small detail. 

​

     A few weeks later I got a call from my friend Tim in Hollywood. 

​

      “I really loved your new script,” he said enthusiastically. 

​

      “Aboriginal Sorrow? Really?” 

​

     “No, When the Gun Robs the Cradle! It’s great, you’re finally writing quality stuff—no more pussy shit about emotional connections and red balloons! You’ve really evolved.” 

​

      “You wish to buy When the Gun Robs the Cradle?” I asked in disbelief. 

​

     “Yeah, it’s just what we’ve been looking for!” 

​

      Needless to say, my son was overjoyed. Even though I was bitter, I took the offer. It’s a sad world indeed where quality writing like Aboriginal Sorrow takes a back seat to cheap sex and violence. Every time I use our new car or computer, I feel dirty—the computer especially. And lately, I have been using it quite frequently because my son and I have started a new screenplay. This one involves a vampire motorcycle gang who periodically stops to kill prostitutes and do cocaine. I knew I shouldn’t have let him see Easy Rider or From Dusk ‘Til Dawn. My only hope is that after DreamWorks picks up this second screenplay, they’ll consider accepting my latest project. It’s entitled Moon Wander and explores the heartbreaking fantasy world of an autistic six-year-old illegal immigrant named Pepe.