Okay. I would say this. Stories don’t work that way really. They’re like jokes. They follow a secret pattern of the person telling them. For instance this joke… (I will now tell this joke.) There is a man. He is drinking at a bar. A voice inside his head says, “Quit drinking.” So he quits drinking. The next day the voice says, “Quit your job and sell your house.” So he quits his job and sells his house. He feels free and changed for the first time in his life. The voice returns a few days later and says, “Go to Vegas. Bet all your money on red 17.” He goes to Vegas, bets the money. The wheel spins, the ball bounces, the ball does not fall on the number specified. He has lost everything. The voice whispers, “Ah fuck.” That’s how you tell stories.
Catch the Crappalachian himself here TONIGHT. Trust me, you need to see Scott McClanahan “read” (perform seems more accurate) at some point in your life.
While there’s a long (and enjoyable) history of authors loathing what Hollywood does to their books, there are a few examples of writers who are utterly delighted with their page-to-film adaptations.