A Carefully Calculated Delusion
MYRA. (Warily) An author?
DAVID. A disinclined idealist.
MYRA. You don’t enjoy it?
DAVID. Oh no, I do, it’s just—
MYRA. Is it an issue of seeming pretentious? Saying you write? I mean, I guess there’s a sort of carefully calculated delusion that goes into the whole process, it’s like any art in that sense.
DAVID. I’m not sure I get what you mean.
MYRA. Well, writers need synonyms to describe their synopses and satire to dissect sadness and hyperbole to hide their happiness. It’s not at all natural—it lacks the imperfections of a life lived. And then there’s the whole image; the reclusive, nihilistic, manic-depressive—
DAVID. I’m not a good enough writer—the whole tortured genius pigeonhole, that’s not me.
MYRA. Pity. Would have been nice to be stuck with a Fitzgerald or a Foster-Wallace. To say that I once had the pleasure of meeting you at the Marriot before you went and blew your brains out.
DAVID. Romantic.
MYRA. I like to think so. There’s just a sort of morbid masochism about the whole thing, the disenfranchised white guy trope, you know? I live for transient moments like this.
DAVID. (Warily) God, you sound like my ex-wife.