I was in a weird place when Ridley Jones and the idea for Beautiful Lies struck me. I was contemplating my own past, trying to decide what I wanted to bring forward, and what I wanted to leave behind. I’d been married for a couple of years, living in Florida, and thinking about starting a family. I was deep in thought about who I was and who I wanted to be as a parent. During this time, I received a mailer with an ad on the front and a picture of a missing girl on the back. It was an age-graduated photo, and the image made me sad. Someone’s child had been missing for many years, and they had to imagine what their child might look like now. What could that possibly be like? I had a strange thought. What if I looked at this photo and recognized myself? That was the germ for Beautiful Lies.
New York City was the natural setting. I know it so well. I mined the memories of my life there, everything from Ridley Jones’ East Village apartment, to Five Roses Pizza, from Van Cortlandt Park to the Brooklyn Bridge. These were all big parts of my life with tremendous personal meaning. I know the sights, sounds and smells of that city. If I close my eyes, I’m there. Ridley Jones inhabits that time in my life, but she’s not a past version of me. I see her as somewhat naïve, someone more comfortable in denial than in reality, someone who’s life has been fairly idyllic – until a single event changes everything.