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problem was the way he talked to adults. He was boring the shit out of everybody.""He's a very talented man who's led a very interesting life much more interesting than mine. This is a rare opportunity to get to know him." I was speaking to a brick wall.I hadn't quite cracked my stepson. Tanner had a blithe sense of entitlement, a certainty that he was destined for an undefined brand of greatness. Though already a month into his senior year of high school, he had yet to evince the slightest interest in the college education for which I was expressly saving the proceeds from my business. He wanted to write, but he didn't like to read. I'd wanted to shake the kid; had he any idea the poor odds of breaking into Hollywood even as a runner? Uncertain whether my impulse was kind or cruel, I'd held my tongue. I had pointed out that his grammar, punctuation, and spelling were atrocious, but Tanner imagined that word processing took care of all that silly prose style folderol. Anyway, he'd said, for screenwriting you had to know how people really talked, for which a grasp of proper grammar was only an impediment. Okay, I'd thought begrudgingly, one point for Tanner. Throughout his adolescence, Fletcher and I had praised the boy's every poem, extolled the creativity of his half page short stories. Parents are supposed to. But, to my horror, Tanner had believed us.Tall, pale, and unmuscled, the boy had that undernourished look that girls so often fall for. His dark hair was painstakingly disheveled. The clashing layers of his clothing showed like peeled back layers of old wallpaper: a checked