Confessions of a Screenwriter

I admit it. The evidence is incontrovertible. I am a serial killer. It's not like I wasn't fond of Natalie - I was. But my producer HATED her. She had to die. The coroner ruled it death by backspace. Erased from the script forever.

Then there was Leigh. I tried to save him. Tried to damn well make him the hero. But his time was short. Not even a sex change and enrollment in the script witness protection programme could forestall the inevitable. R.I.P. Leigh - we hardly knew thee.

I mean, I even wiped out an entire tribe. Sure they were Triad members and quite possibly ghosts but their existence is but a shredded memory.

The bodies keep piling up, my keyboard a weapon of mass destruction. I don't know if I can stop the carnage. Stop the character genocide.

Truth is, I love the power. The fate of millions ... or if an Australian script, three people and a dog. Who lives, who dies, who talks, who experiences a life changing experience in the name of an artificial arc to satisfy codified expectations of ...

Sorry, sometimes I fly into these homicidal rages where two dimensional devices posing as characters are hunted down and terminated with ruthless efficiency. Where three parts become one and those not chosen are quietly consigned to the graveyard of my imagination.

Don't hate me for it. It's my job. For I am a screenwriter and I kill people for a living ...