Clay Carter
— From the Archives: A 1920s Article by Lanie Price —
Clay Harper, screenwriter and brother to Seth Carter. He writes the stories. He sees the cracks. And he’s tired of pretending dreams are enough.
Scriptwriter, Brother, Realist
Interview conducted by Lanie Price, Harlem Chronicle
We sat on the fire escape outside the sound stage. Clay had a flask, and I had a notebook. Neither of us reached for what we were holding.
He lit a cigarette. “You want the truth or something printable?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
He looked down at the alley below, then back up. “I used to want to be in front of the camera. Not behind it.”
That surprised me. Clay didn’t strike me as someone who needed attention—just air, light, and space to be bitter.
He went on.
“It was second grade. School play. Some ridiculous thing about a prince and a tower. I wanted the lead. Practiced like hell. Seth barely cared, but he got the part. I was cast as a tree. A tree. Stood there the whole show with cardboard leaves taped to my arms while he saved the damn kingdom.”
He took a drag, slow and bitter.
“Folks said he had more presence. Said I was stiff. What they meant was he was prettier. More likable. That’s always been the story.”
I stayed quiet. That kind of wound you don’t interrupt.
“So no, I didn’t grow up wanting to write. I grew up wanting to be seen. Acting didn’t do it. Music didn’t do it. Nothing did—except maybe the writing. Because when I put something on the page, and it hits, people forget who wrote it. They just feel it. And that’s the closest I ever get.”
A crash echoed inside the warehouse—equipment shifting or falling. Clay didn’t even flinch. He stared at his cigarette like it owed him an apology.
“Thing is, you do that long enough, you start to disappear. First from the credits. Then from the room. Then from the mirror.”
I asked him what it cost, staying behind the scenes this long.
“Everything,” he said. “But I learned something. You can go a long way on fumes. And bitterness? That burns longer than faith.”
I wrote that down, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He was somewhere else now—some room in the past, arguing with a memory.
Then he stood suddenly, brushing ash from his trousers.
“That’s the thing about surviving this life. It’s not about recognition. Or even justice. It’s about…”
The warehouse door slammed behind us, and someone yelled something I didn’t catch. By the time I turned back, Clay was halfway down the stairs.
Back at the newsroom, I found my notes clean up until that final line. What had he said? What word did he use?
The word—or phrase—began with “end.” It took me several minutes of pondering, but I finally figured it out? Can you?
—Lanie Price, Society Reporter, The Harlem Chronicle
