George A. Romero is Dead
Instagram displayed a post. George A. Romero died. I posted in kind and fell asleep, only to wake incredibly sad. A piece of the great narrative’s heart has died. This article is a reconciliation.
In junior high I wore black as much as possible. I bought a five VHS collection of classic horror movies. One of the tapes contained Night of the Living Dead. The film was the best of the lot. In my youth, I did not comprehend why I enjoyed the work. The quality and my enjoyment were sufficient.
I grew as a writer and began to understand George’s importance. He did not just make films. He understood the deep authenticity of the narrative, the deep why. He understood that at the heart of all great stories exists truth.
Stories weaken when we fail to speak the honesty in our hearts. We often dance around stories trying to understand why they don’t work. The plot missed a beat. Flat dialogue killed the scene. These are false constructs. Great, successful works exist despite these flaws. The human subconscious knows the truth in fiction even when we lie to ourselves.
George knew the truth. He had an honest heart and a clarity of vision displayed in every frame and heard in every word he spoke. His passing cuts a wound in the collective creative heart.
No writer ever works in isolation. No reader, no viewer enjoys content without context. Everything we do belongs to the collective, to the narrative voice that forms a whole. We battle with truths. We shape the path. We dance together.
Instagram displayed a post. George A. Romero died. Tonight we dance alone.
