Not even if you wrote it yourself.
See, when I wrote several days ago (well, April 15), that I was giving up on my scriptwriting experiment, I really meant it. I really believed myself. I was frustrated by having to pause the action. After every eight or ten words. Of dialogue. And having to keep inventing different irrelevant. Actions. To give readers. Something. To. Look. At, instead of letting them pay attention to the story.
You know, the story. The reason we’re bothering to turn ourselves inside out. Trying to write a script made me feel like a dog on a leash held by a careless, hostile owner. Whenever I wanted to – needed to – go immerse myself in exploring a wonderful aroma, the format yanked me away by the throat and said “Bad dog! Time to go on to the next panel! Sitstayheelfetch!”
So I quit.
But I didn’t stay quit. I had to go scratch that itch and sniff that strange scent. I had to try again to script my story instead of just telling it. And I really don’t know why, except that this uncomfortable awkward process made me look at my people and my events and my way of introducing them to the world differently.
I didn’t reach the arbitrary 100 page goal. I don’t care. I learned something about another way to present a story. I spent time trying to tell a story in a way that somebody else might want to read. In a way, I had fun whacking that brick wall with my skull. Maybe I even dented the bricks just a little.