Diary for Slate.com

The beauty of being a freelance writer is you get to pick your subjects, themes and characters. Unless they pick you. The age-old dictum, of course, is to ‘Write what you know,’ a philosophy that works for a time, though I wouldn’t recommend it as a tattoo. Much better to write what you learn.

So after a long day on a film set watching my words turn into pictures, the questions before me tonight are: What did I learn today? And what can I write?

Foremost, I learned that my daughter is not the only one plagued by dreams hanging on our fears of a darkness that threatens to envelop the earth. This morning, one person after another related their sleepless experiences until it seemed like half of America must have awakened at four a.m. from what I can only describe as a collective nightmare. Oh, if this War were only a dream, how sweet would be our waking tomorrow.

The past six years, while dozens of my writing projects have moved along to their final audience, I’ve labored again and again on a novel that I am certain is the best thing I’ve ever written. This book has become like a sweet dream to me. When I have the time to set everything else aside and immerse my self in its modest twenty chapters, the story so inhabits my waking presence that at night my sleeping mind carries me over and over into the story, floating me out onto a vast ocean where a man and his daughter are lost at sea. Drifting with the current in a small boat, the dying father’s final quest is to somehow send his daughter safely forward in the voyage of life; to have her remember how much he loved her, for her to understand how he loved the world around them.

And now my dream has come true; for I am lost at sea, questing for the daughters that I love, tilting at windmills of darkness, and casting words out onto the black night in hope that they will be discovered.

One thing I learned in that quest today, learned and relearned as I have to learn nearly every day, is the aspiration to write simply. Misquoting Faulkner — but raising a glass to his spirit — my goal is to write from the heart, not from the balls or brains (though those can be handy in a pinch).

A few years ago, while a guest on Sky TV’s literary talk show from London, I was talking with Phillip Pullman, author of The Golden Compass series and other timeless tomes. Pullman is a former schoolteacher who started quite a row in the literary world by saying the art of storytelling had been foolishly devalued by hip literary stylists. I believe Martin Amis was one name that he singled out, though I don’t intend to reduce one great writer to hoist up another. But I do think Pullman was right to wonder if the literary hipsters weren’t forgetting to give something back to their readers.

I later shared a few ales and words on this subject with Richard Cohen, the British publisher of my novel, Fast Greens, which I was promoting at the time. Richard fell more into the Pullman camp than the Amis, saying that he had once worked for a marvelous publisher who only asked one question when Richard found a novel that he wanted to publish. "Did it move you?"

Cohen also gave me a piece of advice I’ve carried ever since. One of the advantages of being a Southern writer (or a Texas writer, he said, is that the innate style and language of our region enables us to write close against the line of sentimentality. (He neglected, however, to mention the Sisyphean nature of defining the line that separates sentiment in its true light from blatant sentimentality.)

With the War that holds all our futures now raging so far away that the foreign battlefields seem less real than Hollywood’s recreations of "Private Ryan" and "Band of Brothers," there has never been more need for the old truths and timeless lessons of storytelling.

Samuel Johnson wrote that we tell each other stories in an attempt to be made whole. Through storytelling we reveal who we are at the core; through storytelling we lay bare the hearts and souls of humankind, six billion people whose DNA can all be traced to a handful of common ancestors. Can there be any wonder that we share the same dreams?

A couple of years ago, I wrote one of those little Christmas novels that a cynic might think the product of monetary desperation. But this was a story that chose me. I’d been thinking of writing something for my family’s Christmas, but had no solid ideas. Then one morning I awoke from a late night’s reverie and began to write. Twenty days later, I stopped writing and sent the book to my friends and family as a Christmas present. One week more and the editor of Algonquin Books called to say she’d like to publish When Angels sing, which most critics lauded as a heartfelt story simply told. But two critics (fans of Martin Amis, I imagined) absolutely loathed my story of a man who had to shed his hatred of Christmas in order to hold the love of his son.

I dashed off irate letters to these reviewers – letters I later regretted, learning the hard way that it’s better to offer thanks to those who give us praise. I also learned a more valuable lesson — that we can’t make the entire world into what we want it to be. The writer’s job, if you put your faith in the verities of old, is to shine a light on what is already there. To help us all awaken from the dream within a dream so that someday we may realize the dreams within our hearts.

So let me tell you a story from the set of "Going to California" — a story that even a sentimental writer wouldn’t have the balls to make up. In my episode, "Waiting for Gordo," the two guest roles are Pucho and Fortunato, Latino characters inspired by Samuel Beckett’s Pozzo and his slave, Lucky. As the coyote Pucho, we enthusiastically cast Tony Amendola, the kind of actor you always dream will say your words. A man of infinite moods, Tony moves so deftly from darkness to light and back again that I wish I could be his full-time scribe, following close behind and whispering everyday lines into his ear just to hear him make me sound brilliant.

More important to today’s story, though, is the young man cast as Fortunato. The show’s producers knew only that on videotape, Bernardo Verdugo seemed to be an angelic natural as an illegal alien who is discovered in the trunk of a car where he has been locked by a coyote. Like so many people from so many parts of the world, Fortunato’s great aspiration is to come to freedom, to make a new life in America. After the first few scenes this morning, I complimented Bernardo on his performance and he said that it was not a difficult part for him. Six years ago, well before he got his green card and residency in the U.S., Bernardo was brought to America by a coyote.

"How did you cross the border?" I asked.

"Locked in the trunk of a car," he said.

And then I watched him climb back into the trunk of a car. The lid slammed shut, and I thought of him there in the darkness, wondering what awaited him. Cameras rolled and our director softly said, "Action." As the trunk came open, the sun peeked out from behind a tall cloud and long rays of light shone in upon the face of Bernardo Verdugo.

And on a film set high atop a hill on a ranch outside of Austin, the shared dreams of a young man from Mexico and a writer from Texas came true.

We finished the scene to everyone’s delight, then the sun slipped back behind the clouds. That’s when I heard someone say, "We need more light."