Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Not this time. Not with Canon.
When he said he wanted me involved, he really meant it.
I’ll be on set more than I have ever been for any other film. We’ll be listed as cowriters on the screenplay, and I have no problem with that at all. The script has been our collaboration of love; a process that has only deepened my respect and admiration for the famous director, but I’m also a consulting producer, given my expertise on the era and African American history.
Canon is even better than everyone claims he is, which says a lot since he’s considered one of the great filmmakers of this generation. I’ve never worked with anyone who demonstrated this level of care and intention. It has challenged me as a creative to dig deeper than I have before. We went to Alabama to meet Kitty, Dessi’s daughter, who had a huge trunk of keepsakes she’d never really gone through. If I didn’t know before that this project was meant for me, I did after that trip. Neevah, the lead actress, accompanied us and discovered a box with letters, clippings, and journals about Tilda, Dessi’s roommate when she lived in New York.
Turns out they were more than friends. They were lovers.
Black and bisexual for the win, baby.
That commonality made me feel even more connected to Dessi, like her life, her voice, was calling out to me through the years, and this project is my answer. We had a working script before the trip, but we learned things about Dessi that reshaped what we had on the page. Recounting the story of a woman who shared so much of my identity, in a time when it was even more erased and judged than it is now, is a gift. I want to honor all three of Dessi’s great loves: her music; her husband, Cal; and her Tilda.
Not even the script I won the Golden Globe for carried this sense of purpose. It’s bittersweet, since the opportunity of a lifetime comes with one catch: working on set with Monk.
I’ve been standing by my car outside Canon’s house for maybe five minutes, working up the courage to go in.
“Girl, this is crazy,” I chide myself softly. “You really letting some dude you dated for a hot minute back in college throw you off your game like this?”
Still, I settle against my car’s passenger-side door and fold my arms, watching Canon’s house in the buttery light of late afternoon. It’s a modern structure, crafted in clean, straight lines, with lots of dark wood and glass. Several cars are parked in the long, steep driveway, along with a few on the street. It looks like most of the team has already arrived, and I can’t delay this much longer.
“I think the meeting’s inside.”
At those words, I turn toward the blond lady of medium height who’s approaching. She clicks to alarm a Mercedes wagon and stops beside me.
“You’re probably right.” I return the warm smile that lights her green eyes. “I was on my way in. I’m Verity.”
“Oh, I know.” She extends her hand for a firm handshake. “Jill Brigston, the cinematographer. I’ve been working with Canon a long time, and you’re probably the writer he’s been most excited about.”
“Really?” I fall in step with her to Canon’s front door.
“All I’ve heard is Verity this and Verity that.” She slides her hands into the back pockets of her perfectly broken-in jeans. “Well, when it wasn’t Neevah this, or Neevah that.”
“That part,” I agree with a laugh. “I’m truly honored to be on this team.”
“He’s the real deal.” She rings the doorbell and smiles. “But I’m sure you know that by now.”
The door swings open, and Graham, Canon’s assistant, welcomes us.
“Hi, Jill!” she greets the cinematographer, and then shifts hazel eyes to me. “And good to see you again, Verity.”
Graham leads us through the foyer with soaring ceilings and a chandelier that looks more like a satellite than a light fixture.
There are maybe ten people scattered across the living and dining rooms, which split the open floor plan. A few chat on a massive leather sectional, while others congregate at the long dining room table, solid and weathered like it’s made from repurposed driftwood.
“Hungry?” Graham keeps walking past the living room and heads for the table. “I need to point out that there’s shrimp in that pasta salad in case you’re allergic, but there’s chicken and veggie options, too.”
The prospect of seeing Monk again stole my appetite, so I haven’t eaten much, but the hunger comes roaring back at the first whiff of grilled chicken.
“Thanks.” I grab one of the small white square plates. “I’m actually starving.”
“Where’s our fearless leader?” Jill asks, spooning some of the pasta salad onto her plate.
“You rang?” Evan says, walking up beside Jill and giving her a hug.