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My Name in the Credits
I want to see my name in the credits of a film. I prefer to admit this before developing an elaborate position on the compromises of adaptation. It would save time. I also want the film to be good, which is a less embarrassing ambition and therefore the one I would be tempted to discuss for longer.
There is considerable pleasure in imagining someone else solving a problem well. A pause becomes visible; a room has depth; an actor makes an ordinary movement I hadn't thought of and the scene acquires another possibility. I would like to be surprised that way. Writing gives me responsibility for every sentence, and I am attracted to the prospect of competent people doing something I cannot do alone. I am also attracted to a large screen bearing my name. These pleasures can occupy the same evening.
In the film-deal dinner I allow myself to imagine, the person across the table has read the book. This is an indulgence of the fantasy, and a reasonable one. She mentions a small exchange rather than the obvious dramatic scene. I would notice that. I would also have to watch how quickly I promoted this evidence into a complete account of her judgment. Recognising the detail I value would make her persuasive before she had proposed anything.
She might then suggest removing it. The exchange could be valuable to her precisely because it explains something the film ought to accomplish elsewhere. I would like to say I could hear the proposal without hearing a withdrawal of the compliment. My hand would probably become unnecessarily busy with the stem of a glass. It is difficult to seem receptive while privately trying to recover the version of a conversation in which you were admired.
One possible response would be to ask a series of excellent questions about the replacement scene. I can imagine doing this so competently that nobody discovered what I actually wanted to know: whether she still liked the book, and whether her liking included the part of it I considered most mine. Those are vulnerable questions to bring to an imaginary professional dinner. Even here, with no contract and no one waiting for my answer, I would rather improve their wording.
I dislike the convention of treating ambition as an unfortunate symptom which an author must overcome before becoming serious. Recognition matters to me. So does money that permits a choice without a lengthy private calculation. I want readers beyond the ones already inclined to find me, and I want a scene to travel into another person's imagination. There is vanity in this, certainly. A declaration of complete indifference would require more acting than I could reasonably expect from myself.
What I cannot arrange, even in a favourable fantasy, is to be understood without allowing another person to interpret. I can protect every little exchange until the film has no room to be made. Or I can agree too readily because the woman across the table has said something flattering and ordered dinner with a confidence I find restful. I would like a less theatrical option.
Perhaps I could ask her to explain the replacement scene, listen, and admit that I am disappointed about losing the original. She needn't repair the disappointment immediately. I would still like to hear what she sees. The food could arrive while she was telling me; I would be quite happy for someone else to remember we had ordered it.