Michael Cieply: A Sidewalk Encounter, And Why I Admire Screenwriters

Two years ago, during the lockdown, I wrote that I had become addicted to those little bird-box libraries that make walking here something of a literary pilgrimage.

I’m still addicted. And almost two months ago, just before the writers strike began, I made a charming discovery–that one of my neighbors is a Very Famous Writer– all thanks to his sidewalk library.

The writer will remain unnamed, because privacy is something to be respected, even by reporters. But here’s the short form:

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About four o’clock one afternoon, before the dog-crowd comes out, I felt a need for one of those short, head-clearing walks. A good target, I figured, would be a spot some blocks away, where somebody or other was maintaining what I’d long thought was the best little library in town. I won’t give titles, because some of  those might tip the owner’s identity. But suffice it to say the books were consistently remarkable for their breadth, depth and unexpected subject matter. Odd bits of history. Political musings. Now and again, a fiercely intelligent semi-contemporary novel, but rarely the sort of pulp you find at the airport or in a thrift store.

Any time I left a book in exchange at this stop, it had to have some weight. Once, I dropped off a hardback copy of David Halberstam’s The Powers That Be, and nobody touched it for six weeks. The history of corporate media is clearly out of fashion. Another time I went with A Biography of the English Language by Melvyn Bragg. That did better.

Anyway, on this particular day I was surprised by the owner, who had just pulled into his drive.

“There’s not much in there right now, I need to fill it up,” he said.

“Actually,” I told him, “this is the best book box in town.”

“Well, I’m a writer,” he said. “People give me books.”

I couldn’t help asking. “What do you write?”

“I write screenplays. Maybe you like my movies?”

Oh, my. I could only hope so. But in for a dime, in for a dollar. I rolled the dice: “I don’t know, because I don’t know who you are.”

Whoa. He told me his name. Yes, I do like his movies. More, we actually knew each other—we had spoken over the years by telephone, but had never met.

One thing led to another. The VFW, just back from watching 20 minutes of an unfinished film by a Very Famous Director, made me sit on his porch and chat for a while.  His front-porch forum, he said, had become something of an institution thanks to Covid. Interesting people of all kinds—filmmakers, thinkers, Nobel Prize winners—would stop by for a visit. He actually kept a little log, where most of them signed in. These people and many others gave him books, often hoping, I’m sure, that he might turn them into films. When too many books piled up in the garage, he moved them to his front-yard library, sometimes with distinguished autographs inside the cover.

I knew this box was special. But I bring it up for a reason.

The encounter reminded me how much I like and admire screenwriters. I’ve known a lot of them, some famous, some not. Mike White, Billy Ray, John August, Larry Karaszewski, Scott Alexander, Alexandra Seros, Tony Peckham, John Singleton, Dave Krinsky, Jon Altschuler, Aline Brosh McKenna, Al Gough, Miles Millar, Greg Pincus, Kasi Lemmons, Zak Penn, Adam Leff, Rex McGee, Jeff Stockwell, Les Boheme, Lionel Chetwynd, Tom Epperson, Billy Bob Thornton, George Armitage, Tom Mankiewicz, Nick Kazan and more come to mind.

For me, they’ve always been the best part of the film business—curious, vibrant, engaging, intelligent, long-suffering, unstoppable people who are, through all the ups and downs, great fun to be with. Actors make your head spin. Executives give you the run-around. Producers, a lot of them, will pick your pocket if you don’t watch out. Directors, well, direct.

But writers, like my friend with the book box, tend to be almost painfully human. They have heart—they have to, because without it they’d have nothing for the business to break. They are interesting, and they are interested in everything.

That’s what makes it so very hard, when, periodically, writers feel compelled by accumulated grievance to stop working. And I do hope their collective differences with those who produce and distribute the movies are settled correctly, and soon.

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