My partner is squeamish when it comes to hospital dramas and will invariably cover his eyes during scenes involving scalpel, snapped bone or spilling gut. I’m surprisingly immune — it’s tension and the creeping unknown that gets me. But there is something else I can be squeamish about when it comes to the screen: stories about writers. Perhaps that sounds odd for a writer, or does it make sense to you?
Thinking about that layer of reluctance I feel when a movie synopsis begins “Struggling writer Mary Scrivener . . .” or “When a thriller writer falls in love with a charming fugitive . . .”, I think there are two things I brace myself for. One is a romanticised or clichéd writing life — I don’t want to see something that makes me yell at the screen “That’s not what it’s like at all!” — and I suppose the other is a mirror, because god forbid I see myself in a portrait of a real piece o’ work.
As squeamish as I can be when the portrayal is too cheesy, when I’m in the right mood a film abou…
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