Redshirts: A Novel Part 31

DENISE.

Other than the usual thing writers mean about making their characters come alive, no.

AW.

Swell.

(stands up again) Thank you for wasting a large portion of my day. Nice to meet you.

DENISE.

But you and I have something in common.

AW.

Besides the wasted afternoon?

DENISE.

(crossly) Look, I didn't come here to get a close-up look at a freak show. I already have my first husband for that. I came here because I think I understand your situation better than you think. I had writer's block too. A bad one.

AW.

How bad?

DENISE.

More than a year. Bad enough for you?

AW.

Maybe.

DENISE.

I think I can help you with yours. Because whether I believe you or not about your characters being actually real, I think my own writer's block situation is close to what yours is now.

AW.

If you don't believe what I'm saying, I don't see how your situation could be like mine.

DENISE.

Because we both had characters we're scared to do anything with.

AW.

(sits back down, warily) Go on.

DENISE.

For whatever reason, you have characters you're scared of killing or hurting, and it's blocking you. For me, I had characters who I couldn't make do anything critical. I would push them to a crisis point in my stories, but when it came time for them to pull the trigger-to do something significant-I could never get them to do it. I'd devise all these ways to get them out of the holes I spent chapters putting them into. The way I was doing wasn't good. Finally I froze up completely. I just couldn't write.

AW.

But that's about you- DENISE.

(holds up hand) Wait, I'm not done. Finally, one day as I was sitting in front of my laptop, doing nothing with my characters, I typed one of them turning to me as the writer and saying, "Would you just f.u.c.king make up your mind already? No? Fine. I'll do it, then." And then he did something I didn't expect-that I wasn't even wanting him to do-and when he did it, it was like a huge flood of possibilities broke through the dam of my writer's block. My character did what I was afraid of him doing.

AW.

Which is what?

DENISE.

Having agency. Doing things that even if they were disastrous in the long run for the character, was still doing something.

AW.

Trust me, agency is not a problem with my characters.

DENISE.

I didn't say it was. But my characters were also doing something else. They were rebelling against something.

AW.

What?

DENISE.

My own bad writing. I wouldn't do for my characters what they needed for me to do-be courageous enough in my writing to make them interesting. So they did it themselves. And by they, I mean me, or some part of my writing brain that I wasn't willing to connect with before. Maybe that's something you need to do too.

AW.

Wait. Did you just call me a bad writer?

DENISE.

I didn't call you a bad writer.

AW.

Good.

DENISE.

But I've watched your show. Most of the scripts are pretty terrible.

AW.

(throws up hands) Oh, come on.

DENISE.

(continuing) And they're terrible for no good reason!

AW.

(leaning forward) Do you write scripts? Do you know how hard it is to work on a weekly deadline for a television show?

DENISE.

No, but you do. Let me ask you: Do you really think you're making a good effort? Remember, I'm reading your blog. I've read you make excuses for the quality of your output, even when you pat yourself on the back for the speed you crank it out.

AW.

This doesn't have anything to do with why I'm blocked.

DENISE.

Doesn't it? I was blocked because I knew I was writing badly, and I didn't have the courage to fix it. You know you're writing badly, but you give yourself an excuse for it. Maybe that block is telling you the excuse isn't working anymore.

AW.

I'm not blocked because I'm writing badly, G.o.dd.a.m.n it! I'm blocked because I don't want anyone else to die!

DENISE.

(nods) I believe that's your new excuse, yes.

AW.

(standing up again) I thought I was wasting my time before. Now I know. Thanks ever so much. I'll be sure not to use your name when I write this up on the blog.

DENISE.

If you actually do put it on your blog, use my name. And then ask your readers if what I've said makes sense. You said you wanted their help. I want to see if you're really interested in that help.

ANON-A-WRITER WALKS OUT.

And that's how I completely wasted my evening tonight, listening to a woman who I thought might actually be helpful to me explain how I'm a bad writer-oh, wait, not a bad writer, just doing bad writing. Because there's a distinction with a difference.

And no, I've never said my writing for the show was bad. I said it's not Shakespeare. I said it's not Emmy-winning good. That's not the same as bad. I think I'm honest enough about myself that I would admit to bad writing. But you don't stay on a writing staff for years if you can't write, or if all you write is bad s.h.i.t. Believe it or not, there is a minimum level of competence you have to have. I have an M.F.A. in film from USC, people. They don't just give those away. I wish they did. I wouldn't have had student loans for six years until I caught my first break. But they don't.

My point is, f.u.c.k you, Denise Hogan. I'm not your cheap entertainment in L.A. I came to you with a real problem and your solution is to c.r.a.p all over me and my work. Thanks so much for that. One day I look forward to returning the favor.

In the meantime, enjoy the Internet knowing how you "helped" me today. I'm sure they're going to love it.

AW.

So, that was a reporter from Gawker on my cell phone. She told me that they figured out I was Anon-a-Writer based on what I've been writing here, like how my show was on basic cable, it was an hour-long show, it's been on for several seasons, it's a show where a lot of people get killed, and that I'm a USC alum who got his first regular gig in the business six years after graduating.

And also because once I named Denise Hogan, they went on Facebook and did an image search on her name and found a picture of her dated today, at a coffee shop in Burbank, sitting with a guy who looks like me. The picture was taken by a fan of hers with her iPhone. She didn't come up to talk to Denise because she was too nervous. But not too nervous, apparently, that she couldn't upload the d.a.m.n picture to a social network with half the population of the entire wired world on it.

So that's the story and Gawker's going to be posting it in, like, twenty minutes. The chipper little Gawker reporter wanted to know if I had anything I wanted to say about it. Sure, here's what I want to say: f.u.c.k.

That is all.

And now I'm going to spend the remaining few hours as a writer on The Chronicles of the Intrepid doing what I probably should have been doing the moment all this s.h.i.t started: sitting on my couch with a big fat bottle of Jim Beam and getting really f.u.c.king drunk.

Thanks, Internet. This little adventure has certainly been an eye-opener.

Love, Apparently Not-So-Anon-a-Writer, After All * * *

Dear Internet: First, I'm hung over and you're too d.a.m.n bright. Tone it down.

Oh, wait, that's something I can fix on my end. Hold on.

There. Much better.

Second, something important's happened. I need to share it with you.

And to share it with you I need to go into script mode again. Bear with me.

EXT - FEATURELESS EXPANSE WITH ENDLESS GROUND REACHING TO THE HORIZON - POSSIBLY DAY ANON-A-WRITE-AW, f.u.c.k IT, HALF THE INTERNET ALREADY KNOWS ANYWAY: NICK WEINSTEIN COMES TO IN THE EXPANSE, CLUTCHING HIS HEAD AND WINCING. ANOTHER MAN IS BY HIM, KNEELING CASUALLY. SOME DISTANCE BEHIND HIM IS A CROWD OF PEOPLE. THEY, LIKE THE MAN NEAR NICK, ARE ALL WEARING RED SHIRTS.

MAN.

Finally.

NICK.

(looks around) Okay, I give up. Where am I?

MAN.

A flat, gray, featureless expanse stretching out to nowhere. A perfect metaphor for the inside of your own brain, Nick.

NICK.

(looks at MAN) You look vaguely familiar.

MAN.

(smiles) I should. You killed me. Not too many episodes ago, either.