I used to think rejection was the hardest part of the publishing process. It's not.
Waiting is. Uncertainty mixed with hope wrapped in a package of doubt and dread makes up the submission process with your agent. The querying trenches are difficult and trying, but as the powerless writer, you can at least produce more queries, find new agents or work on your letter for the millionth time. Even you're powerless, you still retain some control over what you're doing. Now, don't get me wrong, having an agent is the best. It means someone is finally in your corner. Another person that isn't your spouse, family or friend is advocating for your work, not to be nice, but because they believe there is a sellable, monetary value to your work. But the most difficult aspect is that you're no longer in total and complete control. Days, weeks and months can go by without word--depending on your relationship--and it feels as though you're all alone again. Publishing is about patience, right?
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You know what? I'm terrible about updating my site. Whew! A touch of honesty always takes the weight off my shoulders and that felt GOOD. The lack of blog maintenance is just a fact of my life right now. I'm a stay-at-home father for two boys, aged two and four, which includes all the house cleaning, meal preparing, fun making, and all-around daily mess of an emotional tornado that makes up the all-encompassing homemaker position.
That brings me to my point, an aspect of writing (especially those writers that have some type of full-time position balanced with the DREAM, including homemakers) that is often overlooked: progress is typically small. I often forget the smallness of progress. I get down on myself when I don't produce enough words or I stall in the process of writing a book or I forget to post on my blog. That last one is ALL THE TIME. My story is this: ever since I was young, I've loved to read and write. My English and Literature classes throughout my school years were always a breeze, but I was never the type of wunderkind that wrote a full length book at twelve. Writing was always "easy-ish," in the sense that I could produce an essay or story thirty minutes prior to its due date and pass at a breeze, BUT I never disciplined myself enough to patiently work through my writing to create something truly special. (Part of my lack of discipline was the belief in the MYTH of a writer pumping out a book in one go--instead of the constancy and hard work of the RE-WRITE or the MYTH of only writing with inspiration rather than stapling your butt to the chair and WRITING.) I didn't find my discipline until my late twenties. By that point, I was married with a full-time job and only the far off dreams of becoming an author. It seemed too distant, too impossible, but finally--with a lot of encouraging from my wife--I wrote a book between commutes to work, lunch breaks and late nights at home. Nothing really came of that first book, but it opened the floodgates. I wrote more and more. I started some things, finished others, and eventually started querying another book. Two years ago, my wife and I effectively switched positions. She was due back for work after close to a year off and she was ready, but we didn't want to do the daycare thing. So I left my job to focus on the boys and--in my scant free time--work on my writing. NOW, today, someone looking from the outset--with zero knowledge or appreciation of publishing--nothing much has changed since that monumental shift in our home lives. I'm still the homemaker. Still watch my boys on the daily. I still produce most of the meals, housecleaning and clothes washing. As to the writing, I'm still without a published book or a contract. With most people, especially those I don't know well, I keep the writing aspect of my life very private. Although I do my best to keep it like a "real job" wherein I hold myself accountable to a writing routine and daily goals, to most people, if something doesn't provide an income, it ain't a job--no matter how seriously you take it. The thing is though, I've accomplished a TON, especially in the face of the snail-pace of publishing. I have an agent (this is agent #2, after my first shmagent experience, which you can read here: https://jamesfryarwrites.weebly.com/home/on-agentsschmagents), I have a book on submission, I've written a lot of new pages and completed two new books and working on another. Yet without that book on a store shelf, it FEELS like I haven't done enough. And that's when I have kick and remind myself what I have done. Every word, each page and all your work adds up. Even tiny, incremental steps are closer to your goal than doing NOTHING. Just owning up to your goals or dreams, acknowledging them and proceeding forward, are all steps in the right direction. That is PROGRESS. It's all hard work and it's never too small. I'm very lucky to have a wife who works in the airline industry. We get to travel more than most. It's funny, when you're way up high, sailing over cotton ball clouds, and you peek out that little window, it seems as if you're traveling incredibly slow. Clouds don't change much. If terrain is visible, it doesn't zip by. BUT you are traveling INCREDIBLY FAST. It just doesn't seem like it. Your perspective tells you that you're going very slowly even though an average commercial airplane travels at speeds over 400 miles per hour. That's how I think writing works. Most of the time, it feels as though I'm going at a snail's pace, but if you keep at it and continue chugging along, you'll be arriving at your destination before you even realize it. I've learned a lot about how to take rejection by watching Top Chef.
Yes, I said Top Chef. God, I When I saw the horse, it struck me as odd.
I was driving down the road, my two boys strapped into their carseats in the back and I looked to the left to the front yard of a house we passed. A horse, a pinto with white hair and large orange spots, jumped and galloped there. No fence contained it. It was a painfully odd and beautiful sight that I kept watching as we drove by, almost forgetting to look ahead. The road was essentially empty, a tree line on one side and houses on the other, but chauffeuring my toddlers in the back demands more attention. As my mind went through the monumental task of understanding the image of that horse galloping free with the normality of suburban sprawl, that Pinto galloped right onto the pavement next to my car, almost flicking side panels with its tail as if it wanted to flirt with the mechanical beast it noticed. That horse lost interest, quickly, and galloped ahead as I slowed, forgetting the gas pedal. It sauntered ahead to a small, fenced-in lot with two other horses, one solid white and the other solid brown, running around. The Pinto galloped up to the fence. The white one met it. Their long heads craned over either side of the railing, one nuzzling the other. I kept watching, wondering what that magnificent beast would do next. I wanted to see if one might try to jump over the fence to join the other or if the trapped horses might find inspiration in the Pinto that somehow escaped. A moment later, as I watched, an old rancher, white haired and grizzled with age, sidled up with a harness in hand. The Pinto jerked a bit, but that assured old rancher wrapped the harness around the horse's neck and led it back home. For a moment, I saw something wild and free. New Year. New Books.
I've been rather latent on my blogging. My last post was on October 26th last year, after which I promised myself that I would be more consistent on this page. Yeeesh. That promise went out the window. With the holidays, the normal daily grind of being a stay at home father and all that that entails, and the rather ambitious goal of writing a first draft of a new book during the month of November (the first time participating in NanoWrimo) followed up by the promise of a second draft by the end of January...what can I say? As the saying goes, something's gotta give. Almost daily, the website would be at the back of my mind or scream out at me whenever I happened to check in on Twitter. And I felt really bad. Every time. But never bad enough to actually post anything. Well, I'm happy to announce that I stayed right on target with my new book. I completed a first draft by the end of November and took the next two months to increase overall word count, polish the prose and really understand the storyline. Now, with a pretty good draft on hand, I'm letting that sucker sit and marinate for the next month while I figure out my next book and work on a couple of short stories I've had at the back of my mind. I feel good. It's been a great year so far and I feel accomplished on what I set out to do when my wife and I sort of swapped familial positions one year ago. Here's to 2018! I recently had a difficult decision.
I won't divulge any specific details, but suffice it to say that I had to make a rather quick decision that could alter the course of my career. With such an enormous choice, I put out feelers to some people in my similar position in order to hear their thoughts and make a more calculated decision. I listened, considered the pros and cons, and tried to see it from all the various angles. Then, I pulled the trigger and made the choice that made the most sense to me. Yet even after opting on my particular direction, I had a couple of people frantically tell me to reconsider, that it could be very bad for me and tried to halt my course. I calmly listened and essentially said that my decision was made, thanked them for the advice and that we'd see where my decision went. As much as I felt secure in what I'd decided, that I'd taken the time to see it from the different angles, weighed the separate ways I could have gone, this one particular person's frantic cries for me to stop and reconsider really weighed on me. It ate at the excitement I felt in the decision I'd made. It bothered me. There was that idea that I was risking everything by choosing my particular route. You're risking everything. You're risking that people might not like you anymore. You're risking something you've been working on. You're risking other opportunities. You risk! You risk! You risk! But I came to a conclusion: Everything thing in life is a risk. You risk everything when you wake up. When you leave the safety of your house. Everything around you is a risk. Literally everything. Some minor. Some major. Many lie between these polar opposites. Yet all is risk. More specifically, I've been dwelling on the idea of dreams--DREAM job. DREAM career. DREAM life--and how much you should risk in order to achieve those dreams. Because you will HAVE to risk something to grab those dreams, whether it's a portion of your free time, less sleep than you'd like, certain expensive expenditures, or even a stable income. When you have a difficult to achieve dream, people will tell you that it's not a good idea, that it's too much of a risk to sacrifice a real career for something that won't happen. But you know what? By getting that realistic diploma or that realistic job or that realistic home in that realistic neighborhood, you're making a risk, too. Maybe a more comfortable risk. But it's still a risk. And in that case, you're risking your deepest dreams. And those elusive dreams will haunt you. A friend of mine is a very successful businessman who lives in Napa Valley and is a part-owner in a fantastic winery. On one of our trips to wine country, my wife and I were lucky enough to stay at his home and one night, at dinner, I leaned forward and asked him a very simple question: "To what do you attribute all of your success?" He sort of chuckled, no doubt having been asked this question more than once and he, quite honestly, chalked it up to one particular thing: the ability to make choices. I was somewhat stunned. It wasn't what I expected. He believed he was a smart man, but not exceptionally smart. He'd had a fine education. His family wasn't poor, wasn't rich. He was a hard worker, but so were many people. As he saw it, his success came from his ability to pull the trigger and see things through. He admitted that he hadn't always made the right choices, but he always stuck it out until its end. He learned from the wrong choices, resolved to make better ones in the future. Too many of his peers were stifled by difficult choices, he said, and his superiors always noticed his ability to face those hard decisions and see them through. I thought on this for quite some time and realized something very specific. In life, you have to make choices. They're not always easy and there often isn't a clear path or road signs to direct you. There will be risk no matter what, but the one aspect you can control is the type of risk that is worth it. You must choose your risk or the risk will choose you. For those unaware, Schrodinger's Cat was a thought experiment devised in 1935 by it's namesake, an Austrian scientist named Erwin Schrondinger. It essentially assumed that if you placed a cat inside a box wired with various mechanisms that could both kill and/or prevent its death, prior to opening the box again, the cat was both alive and dead at the same time.
It presented a paradox. This is how I currently think of my writing career. Right now, at this moment, I have my manuscript with three different literary agents. Two of these three agents seem like they could have positive outcomes for me, that they might offer representation for my book, which means it would have a chance of getting published. These two particular agents have been in more contact with me than I've ever experienced before. Typically, in querying agents, it's a straight form rejection, a rejection with a bit of feedback or it's a partial or full request. Pretty straight forward. It's several more steps for me this time, where they've asked me a few more questions: about my background, feedback on certain elements yet still requesting pages. Things like that. It's given me a lot of hope over the past month since this new course has been taken. And hope is a wonderful thing. It's wind in your sails. It's a confidence booster. It makes you believe. My writing career is Schrodinger's Cat right now: I have two high-powered agents interested in my work, a sea of options and publishing success waiting around the corner, AND AT THE SAME TIME, I have two more "not for me" notes to add to a growing mountain of rejections, more editing on my manuscript, and more queries. These are simultaneously my outcomes. Each day, I check my email in hopes that I've heard from both or one of them yet I'm disappointed to find no response. It's funny, though, because I almost don't want to hear back because as long as I don't hear anything, the possibilities remain endless. I am Schrondinger's Cat. As long as I don't hear anything. I do know that in the coming days I'll receive word in my email inbox and one way or another, that box will be wrenched open to find out of Schrodinger's cat is dead on arrival or still has a pulse. We'll see. I'll come clean up front.
I LOVED Blade Runner: 2049. The all caps on "loved" hopefully conveys the extent of my admiration for the film. In a way, I was programmed to love this film, most prominently due to my admiration of the film's director, Denis Villeneuve, whose string of films over the past few years are unparalleled in their mastery. There isn't a bad one in the bunch. He's gone from good and great films to three masterpieces, three years in a row: Sicario, Arrival (my pick for best picture last year) and now, Blade Runner: 2049. I was also counter programmed, ready to NOT love it, most prominently because I'm NOT an adoring fan of the original Blade Runner. Don't misunderstand me; I don't dislike the original, but I don't LOVE it either. It has its place in our filmmaking pantheon and I absolutely understand the effect it has had on the Sci-Fi genre, from its ground breaking production design to Ridley Scott's out of the box take with its noir-ish, detective style when it easily could have been a pure '80s, Stallone/Schwarzenegger-style action flick. The result is far more interesting. Yet I've never loved the original. I find it dull. Very slow-moving. Some of the scenes are just plain weird. Some of the scenes, however, stand alone as prime examples of the transcendent nature of film, particularly the final scene on the rooftop between Deckard and Roy: "All those moments will be lost in time...like tears in rain." Blade Runner: 2049 was a totally different experience. It took the best parts of the original and expanded upon them, fleshed them out to glorious lengths and left you wondering and wandering with the implications. It was such an odd mix of mystery, cerebral science-fiction, a tome on love and life, all told against a massive back-drop of blockbuster proportions. SPOILERS. SERIOUSLY, STOP READING IF YOU WANT TO AVOID SPOILERS. The central storyline is quite simple. It's a mystery. Ryan Gosling's K character, while dispatching a replicant on one of his routine missions, discovers the distinct possibility of a child born between a replicant and a possible replicant. Its a discovery akin to that scene in Jurassic Park where a group of hatched eggs are found in the forest. How could these lab-produced creatures reproduce if they were designed not to reproduce? The answer in Jurassic Park is somewhat vague, with the suggestion of evolution inside the statement, "life always finds a way," but 2049 never even bothers to provide an answer, even a simplistic one. 2049 isn't really interested in answering such questions; it's more an excuse to drive the story forward in order to examine more fundamental ideas of humanity. I've boiled it down to three specific facets running through the film that spoke to me strongest: Memories, Life Cycle, and the Meaning of Life. MEMORIES The use of memory is perhaps the strongest concept playing throughout both Blade Runner films, but it's used particularly effectively in 2049. Memories and how these vague images of our past lives give us the sense of true humanity is possibly the central conceit of Blade Runner. In the first, it's the very suggestion of certain memories, exposed through rigorous questioning used by the Blade Runners, that reveals a replicant in its true form. In 2049, it's played through to its extreme implications, driving the K character onto the brink of madness with the idea that his fake memories, as he's aware of them, are possibly real. You see it in his character progression as the walls that guide his path and block him are torn away through the course of the film, and deep, flawed, human emotion seeps through the cracks. On the whole, Gosling's performance is quite controlled, his emotion accessible within an incredibly subtle approach, which makes the intense emotions breaking loose at moments all the more palpable. Most notably when he visits a young lady about the truth behind one, very specific, memory does he become completely unhinged for a few moments. He's face to face with a reality that he can't even comprehend. That memory, the one he'd thought was fake, becomes very real to him...until he discovers that it was fake after all. I got to thinking about my own memories, my past experiences that are supposed to qualify me as human and I find myself grasping at smoke. Think on your earliest memories and it's an elusive thing. I can't remember anything specific prior to perhaps four or five years of age and even those memories are like snapshots, frozen in time. I often have the distinct feeling that I've made up some of my own memories--I'll bet if you're honest, you have that same sense. There are memories that I can't decide whether I've actually lived or if I've somewhat invented it, sort of like the nanoseconds after waking from a dream. LIFE CYCLES One way to view the film is through the lifespan of Ryan Gosling's character, K, from his eye-opening "birth" when he initially wakes inside his vehicle at the start, through the wrestling of his identity, all the way to his sacrificial death at the end. An entire life told under three hours. Within K's life, there is also the birth/life/death of Joi, his significant other. Sure, she's just a hologram, but she is birthed upon K's gift in the new program that allows Joi the ability to move beyond the confines of the apartment, followed by the transcendent moment of her walking outside for the first time, "feeling" the rain, her life of discovery as K follows clues leading to the central mystery, all the way to her death when Luv crushes the computer that holds her "life," thus murdering her. These allusions abound further with Jared Leto's Wallace character killing the newborn replicant just after her birth, his obsession with finding ways to naturally birth replicants, and of course, there is the central mystery surrounding the child born from one replicant and another possible replicant in the characters of Sean Young's Rachel and Harrison Ford's Rick Deckard. Even the idea of new life against the backdrop of a future Los Angeles decaying before our eyes, the once beautiful city on the coast, covered by smog and acid rain and slowly decomposing into rot, is quite provocative. LIFE'S MEANING I know, I know, just the suggestion of a discussion on "the meaning of life" opens a neverending can of worms and brings to mind somewhat vague notions of philosophy's greatest mystery. Yet I believe it's a subject coursing through Blade Runner: 2049. There's a moment toward the end when Deckard has been captured by Wallace, K has had to face the truth of his existence and he has (essentially) three choices: do nothing, save Deckard, or kill Deckard. The decision he makes decides his life's meaning. He risks his life, and sacrifices it, for the greater good of his (replicant) kind. He devotes his life to the cause of a more unified world, even if it means blood and tears in the short term. He, in effect, creates his own meaning through his personal decision. And without any great declaration, don't we decide our own life's meaning by everyday decisions on how we spend our days and the way we tackle serious issues? That's to say that there is no ONE meaning, but each of us contain separate meanings within each of our lives, some with bigger implications for the world than others. WRAPPING UP Beyond these three branches running through the central trunk of the storyline, I found so much more in every scene. Virtually each frame bursts at the seams with nods to how we live now and how we might progress into the future, with far reaching implications. Take one scene, about midway through the film, when K is headed to an orphanage in search of the missing child. Every part of this sequence is spilling over with moral quandaries we're dealing with now, but taken to extreme, yet quite realistic, lengths. The San Diego of the future is a massive trash heap, the charred out buildings looking like something out of a nuclear fever dream with roving bands of "illegals," people living on the fringes of society, feasting on the burned-out carcass of a world that once was. When one of these bandits takes down K's car and he's on the ropes, about to be taken hostage, killed, or worse, a missile suddenly strikes down on top of an assailant. BOOM. He's gone. Wiped from the earth. More missiles follow, taking out--in seconds--a small army of these bandit people. Cut to a room, a hundred miles away, to the central antagonist, Luv, getting her nails painted and wearing an odd pair of sunglasses. She's not even looking at the person painting her nails, but rather INTO the glasses. It's immediately understood that she is the one commanding the missiles being fired. She is the one playing war games on people she'll never meet. In seconds, from miles away, while getting her nails painted, Luv has killed dozens upon dozens of people. It's such a compelling idea because as a viewer, you're conflicted by the fact that K has just been saved yet it was accomplished without a judge, jury or trial. Or take the erotic love scene with Joi inviting the prostitute over and compositing her digital body over the real woman's form. It was an incredible scene, quite moving, as K is able to touch his girlfriend for the first time, his skin on hers. But I started thinking about the way many people invite the digital world into their own home and how it can easily supersede the real people inside, how we all make digital imprints on facebook, twitter and elsewhere and how it takes over our very real life. There are so many scenes like these, just waiting to be deconstructed, mined for their detail, thought on and argued about. Even if you didn't like the film, just like the first Blade Runner, it is teeming with ideas and thoughts on the world. Quite simply, there aren't enough films released, at this level, with this type of budget, that provoke this kind of meaning. As is well-known, Blade Runner: 2049 did not fare well on the expectations in terms of box office. I hope that isn't the end of its story. I hope the legs on this one are long, to be played out over the next few decades, much like its predecessor, that it doesn't disappear like tears in the rain. I've heard it said that if you want to be (fill in the blank), call yourself (fill in the blank) and you are that thing. Easy. I believe it was said in conjunction with being a writer: If you want to be a writer, call yourself a writer and you are a writer. Capital "W."
Of course, this idea can be used with virtually any career, but it's particularly encouraging when it comes to the arts--any field of art--because it isn't easy to make a career. There's no well-worn path. No degree that grants you instant access to publishing, directing, acting, painting. Even if you've proved your worth, you have to continually prove it over and over and over. Yet even despite the encouraging, possibly necessary, nature of this sentiment, I have to point out something painfully obvious: just calling yourself a "writer" does not make you a "writer" (or filmmaker or painter or dancer) until you're constantly writing (filming/painting/dancing). Every day. Thinking about it. Breathing it. Dreaming it. You. Have. To. Work. I've had this dream of being a full-time novelist for years. I've written two books that I've pitched to literary agents without success. I've written blog posts that have garnered a few views. I've written short stories, published some, but not too many. I've now completely overhauled my second book and sent it out on another round of queries with the most success I've ever experienced. The path to your dreams is a long one... The path to your dreams is a long one, often spanning a longer period of time than we anticipate, running in circuitous ways we couldn't imagine prior to embarking. It has taken years of writing, rewriting, listening to advice and I'm still not at the goal I've made for myself. I live by the aforementioned adage, calling myself a writer even though you (most likely) haven't seen my work. It's important to value yourself. And it's important to see yourself in the role you've envisioned even if you aren't yet there. But it's equally important to work at it. How much work is needed before you achieve your dream? I think it's impossible to say such a thing. It's probably different on your particular station in life, the amount of time or study you've already put into the field or a thousand other unknowable factors. In Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers, he pegged the time needed to become "world-class" in a particular field at 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. That would be more than a year of constant, around-the-clock, practice. Gladwell's number has been refuted by various studies, but I think the idea holds true, that you have to work at it and no one ever is an overnight success. Even the seemingly overnight success stories have been in their dues and worked at their particular craft. There is no expiration date on your dreams... I wrestle with the idea that it's too late for me almost daily. In my early twenties, I remember reading that bestselling author, Stephen King, was twenty-six when he sold Carrie. Around that same point, I read that Steven Spielberg was twenty-six when he made Jaws. Just taking in those two, over-the-top success stories, I latched onto the idea that if I wasn't successful by twenty-six years of age, then my chance had expired. As ambitious as I felt in believing this, I never put in the actual work to achieve this dream. Sure, I'd write here and there, but it was never a consistent, daily routine. At one point, around 25, I wrote a few short stories, which I filed together with a beautiful cover page and pitched it to an agent at a writer's conference in my home town. I even declared myself the Jack Kerouac of my generation. The agent seemed impressed by my young ambition, even giving me his card for when I completed an actual novel, but he probably laughed privately at my expense. And deservedly so. Because I hadn't done the research. I hadn't taken the time to realize that it's incredibly rare for a first-time writer to successfully sell a short story collection. I didn't know the market. I didn't understand agents. And I didn't adjust or try to learn, so my failures went beyond twenty-six. I felt depressed for a time because I thought my time had expired. There is no expiration date on your dreams, though. There's always time to make it happen. Perhaps not in the way you initially envisioned, but there's always time. I saw that Madeline L'Engle swore she would quit writing if, by 40, she hadn't made a publishing deal. At 42, she published her monumental work, A Wrinkle in Time. Frank McCourt was 66 when he published his first book, Angela's Ashes, which went on to win the Pulitzer. There are more stories like this with folks older and much younger publishing, achieving and seeing dreams fulfilled. Do. The. Work. In short, you have to do the work. Period. There is no short cut to success, no easy way to achieving your dreams. Teddy Roosevelt once said, "Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty..." To realize your dream, have the confidence to call yourself by that title. Then put your nose down and do the work. Beyond books and writing, my number one passion (of the arts) is film. Movies, flicks, shows, the moving pictures. I love sitting in a movie theater, sensing the lights dim and seeing that projector light shoot through the air and produce a picture on an enormous silver screen. That experience and the sound of an ocean wave as you turn the page of a book (preferably on an actual beach with real ocean waves) just send chills through me. Every time.
Of course, that experience is amplified by a really good movie or a really good book. I just saw Wind River. It's really good. It was written and directed by a guy named Taylor Sheridan. I knew this going in and was one of the main reasons I sought out this particular movie. Wind River is Sheridan's first directorial effort, but he's written two of the best (I mean, THE BEST) thrillers in recent memory: Sicario and Hell or High Water. The man's got a gift of writing tense stories that actually move to a proper conclusion while developing really well-rounded characters where there aren't any real winners. And each of his movies feel like modern westerns that center on a marginalized section of our society. Sicario was Mexicans and women. Hell or High Water was the poor folk. And Wind River takes place on an Indian reservation. It specifically tells the story of wildlife hunter and a freshman FBI agent searching for the murderer(s) of a young Indian girl found frozen to death in the middle of nowhere. The interesting part is that even though its something of a whodunit, the identity of the killer isn't all that important. Sheridan is more interested in exploring the daily lives of Native Americans, how they cope with being forced onto stretches of land without end, and how the twisted jurisdictions of various law enforcement does nobody any good--especially for the very people they're sworn to protect. Without giving anything away, I'll just say that there's a particular (very tense and very surprising) scene where no one seems to know who has authority over who. Guns are raised, tempers flare and no one is ready to back down. It takes place in the middle of nowhere and you get the sense that even in this modern age of facebook and iphones, there are still untamed corners where someone could still get away with murder. Wind River is film worth seeking out. Taylor Sheridan is a writer and director worth paying attention to. Four stars. |
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