Chapter 5 #3
I replay the whole scene—our conversation, our walk, our banter—and then I lean back in my chair.
How does one prove the existence of magic?
And how can I ever find her? I imagine walking through the streets of Brooklyn, asking everyone I pass: Do you know Eve?
Can you help me find Eve? Then my brain skips all the hard parts of that and gets straight to the moment where she’s standing before me, saying how she hoped I’d show up, and I have all the confidence I need to go in for that kiss.
But then, just as I’m about to feel her soft lips on mine— CRASH .
“Dammit!” I shout, now firmly out of the daydream and back in my room. I leaned so far that I tipped over and hit the floor.
But as I rub the part of my head that made contact with the carpet, it hits me.
Something Mr. Moriarty said in my screenwriting elective sophomore year…
how putting art into the world can reach people.
How it can be used to connect. Communicate an idea.
And right now I want more than anything to reach Eve.
But Eve doesn’t really watch scripted stuff—she watches documentaries . Documentaries, which are all about proving things.
Once I’m seated upright again and sure I haven’t caused any major cranial damage, I tap my pen against my chin.
Now, a documentary— that’s a serious endeavor.
If I could make a film that attempts to prove the way Christmas magic manifests in the real world, maybe I could accomplish a couple of goals all at once.
I put my pen to paper now, and it all starts flowing. The wall comes down. I get lost in the idea taking shape, and everything else falls away.
I could use the experience in my Statement of Purpose.
I could describe the idea—that I decided to undertake a small personal research project, to seek out magic in the real world, so I could develop my unique point of view, helping me bring the magic of Christmas to screens in an original way, a modern way, one grounded in reality (while also upholding my lifelong goal of diversifying the holiday canon).
Explain that this will help me to make films that aren’t derivative or trite—films an institution would be proud to claim came from one of their alumni.
A statement like that would prove my conviction, my initiative, my dedication and work ethic, and demonstrate that I intend to make them proud with my unique, well-informed, thoroughly researched, and very meaningful work.
Plus, adding documentary filmmaker to my résumé gives a sense of gravitas—someone with that credit is definitely doing work with purpose.
I have a reel on YouTube, and I could upload it there, and even share it as supplementary material. Izaac is always saying I need to do something to stand out, and this is kind of like extra credit.
I look up at the photo of my friends and me, and the one of Naomi, Michelle, and me beside it.
I think of all the abandoned traditions this year, and the stress everyone around me seems to be under—all of which is making them forget about the magic of the holiday.
It seems like everyone I know could use the reminder right now.
Maybe a film like this could be a gift to them, too, in a way.
And maybe, just maybe, if I put it out in the world, it might even find Eve. Show her that there are kinds of magic that can be proven, and remind her of the joy that comes with belief.
I mean, a girl can dream, right?
I’ve never made a documentary, but I have made tons of movies with my mom’s old camcorder, and honestly, this feels even easier—no script to write, no set to scout, no actors to cast (usually it’s my friends and coworkers).
I reach for the camcorder where I left it at the corner of my desk. It’s a handheld, the kind that still requires an SD card. She gave it to Michelle and me years ago to make home videos when we built snow castles and went sledding, and I loved it so much she told me I could keep it.
After that, it was like an extension of my hand. For years, I used it to immortalize moments or try out techniques. Until recently, when life got less fun to film, and there were more moments I’d rather forget.
But now I pick it up and feel the old thrill.
I remove the lens cap, carefully because the thing feels ancient and irreplaceable.
All I have to do is decide where to point and hit Record—and it’s perfect timing, too; we have so much going on in the next few days with our group hang, and the Cooper Bazaar, and the party.
The evidence should come naturally, and I can cut together the narrative later, a story that sums up my findings based on what I capture, right?
There’s a flutter in my stomach—but it’s familiar this time. Not butterflies or sparkles, but pure, artistic inspiration. It’s what I’ve been missing.
When I finally slap my pen down on the notepad, I shake out my hand.
It’s cramping up from all my furious scribbling, but it feels so good.
My eyes adjust to the real world again, and there’s starlight peeking through the darkened bedroom window like twinkle bulbs.
And it dawns on me—the very first thing I’ll capture.
I get up, grab my coat and the camera, and leave my room behind.