Redshirts

CODA I: First Person

Hello, Internet.

There isn’t any good way to start this, so let me just jump right in.

So, I am a scriptwriter for a television show on a major network who just found out that the people he’s been making up in his head (and killing off at the rate of about one an episode) are actually real. Now I have writer’s block, I don’t know how to solve it, and if I don’t figure it out soon, I’m going to get fired. Help me.

And now I just spent 20 minutes looking at that last paragraph and feeling like an asshole. Let me break it down further to explain it to you a little better.

“Hello, Internet”: You know that New Yorker cartoon that has a dog talking to another dog by a computer and saying, “On the Internet, no one knows you’re a dog”? Yeah, well, this is that.

No, I’m not a dog. But yes, I need some anonymity here. Because holy shit, look what I just wrote up there. That’s not something you can just say out loud to people. But on the Internet? Anonymously? Might fly.

“I am a scriptwriter…”: I really am. I’ve been working for several years on the show, which (duh) has been successful enough to have been around for several years. I don’t want to go into too much more detail about that right now, because remember, I’m trying to have some anonymity here to work through this thing I’ve been dealing with. Suffice to say that it’s not going to win any major Emmys, but it’s still the sort of show that you, my dear Internet, would probably watch. And that in the real world, I have an IMDB page. And it’s pretty long. So there.

“Who just found out the people he’s been making up in his head are real”: Yes, I know. I know. Didn’t I just say “holy shit” two paragraphs ago about it? Don’t you think I know how wobbly-toothed, speed freak crazy it sounds? I do. I very very very very much do. If I didn’t think it was completely bugfuck crazy, I’d be writing about it on my own actual blog (if I had my own actual blog, which I don’t, because I work on a weekly television series, and who has the time) and finding some way to go full Whitley Strieber on it. I don’t want that. That’s a lifestyle. A whacked-out, late night talking to the tinfoil-hatted on your podcast lifestyle. I don’t want that. I just want to be able to get back to my own writing.

But still: The people I wrote in my scripts exist. I know because I met them, swear to God, right there in the flesh, I could reach out and touch them. And whenever I kill one of them off in my scripts, they actually die. To me, it’s just putting down words on a page. To them, it’s falling off a building, or being hit by a car, or being eaten by a bear or whatever (these are just examples, they’re not necessarily how I’ve killed people off).

Think about that. Think about what it means. That just writing down “BOB is consumed by badgers” in a script means that somewhere in the universe, some poor bastard named Bob has just been chased down by ravenous mustelids. Sure, it sounds funny when I write it like that. But if you were Bob? It would suck. And then you would be dead, thanks to me. Which explains the next part:

“Now I have writer’s block”: You know, I never understood writer’s block before this. You’re a writer and you suddenly can’t write because your girlfriend broke up with you? Shit, dude, that’s the perfect time to write. It’s not like you’re doing anything else with your nights. Having a hard time coming up with the next scene? Have something explode. You’re done. Filled with existential ennui about your place in the universe? Get over yourself. Yes, you’re an inconsequential worm in the grand scope of history. But you’re an inconsequential worm who makes shit up for a living, which means that you don’t have to lift heavy boxes or ask people if they want fries with that. Grow up and get back to work.

On a good day, I can bang out a first draft of an episode in six hours. Is it good? It ain’t Shakespeare, but then, Shakespeare wrote Titus Andronicus, so you tell me. Six hours, one script, a good day. And I have to tell you, as a writer, I’ve had my share of good days.

But now I have writer’s block and I can’t write a script because fuck me I kill people when I write. It’s a pretty good excuse for having writer’s block, if you ask me. Girlfriend leaving you? Get on with it. You send people to their deaths by typing? Might give you pause. It’s given me pause. Now I sit in front of my laptop, Final Draft all loaded up, and just stare at the screen for hours.

“I’m going to get fired”: My job is writing scripts. I’m not writing scripts. If I don’t start writing scripts again, soon, there’s no reason for me to be kept on staff. I’ve been able to stall a bit because I had one script in the outbox before the block slammed down, but that gives me about a week’s insurance. That’s not a lot of time. You see why I’m nervous.

“Help me”: Look, I need help. This isn’t something I can talk to with people I actually know. Because, again: Bugshit crazy. I can’t afford to have people I work with—or other writers I know, most of whom are unemployed and would be happy to crawl over my carcass to get my television show writing staff position—think that I’ve lost my marbles. Gigs like this don’t grow on trees. But I have to talk to someone about it, because for the life of me I haven’t the first damn clue about what I should be doing about this. I need some perspective from outside my own head.

And this is where you come in, Internet. You have perspective. And I’m guessing that some of you might just be bored enough to help out some anonymous dude on the Internet, asking for advice on a completely ridiculous situation. It’s either this or Angry Birds, right?

So, what do you say, Internet?

Yours,

Anon-a-Writer

So, the good news is that apparently people are reading this. The bad news is people are asking me questions instead of, you know, helping me. But then again when you anonymously post on the Internet that the characters you write have suddenly come alive, I suppose you have to answer a few questions first. Fine. So for those of you who need it, a quick run-through of the most common questions I’ve gotten so far. I’m going to paraphrase some to keep from repeating questions and comments.

Dude, are you serious?

Dude, I am serious. I am not high (being high is more fun), I am not making this up (if I was making things up, I would be getting paid for it), and I am not crazy (crazy would be more fun, too). This is for real.

Really?

Yes.

Really?

Yes.

No, really?

Shut up. Next question.

Why haven’t you discussed this with your therapist?

Because contrary to popular belief, not every writer in Los Angeles has been in therapy since before they could walk. All my neuroses are manageable (or were, anyway). I suppose I could get one, but that would be a hell of a first session, wouldn’t it, and I’m not entirely convinced I’d get out of there without being sedated and sent off to the funny farm. Call me paranoid.

Isn’t this kind of the plot to that movie Stranger than Fiction?

Maybe? That’s the Will Ferrell movie where he’s a character in someone’s book, right? (I know I could check this on IMDB, but I’m lazy.) Except for that I’m the writer, not the character. So same concept, different spin. Maybe?

But, look, even if it is, I didn’t say what was happening to me was creatively 100% original. I mean, there’s The Purple Rose of Cairo, which had characters coming down off the screen. There’s those Jasper Fforde books where everyone’s a fairy tale or literary character. There’s Denise Hogan’s books where she’s always arguing with her characters and sometimes they don’t listen to her and mess with her plots. My mom loves those. Hell, there’s The Last Action Hero, for God’s sake. Have you seen that? You have? I’m sorry.

There’s also the small but telling detail that those are all fictional, and this is really happening to me. Like I said, a subtle difference. But an important one. I’m not going for originality here. I’m trying to get this solved.

Hey, is your show [insert name of show here]?

Friend, what part of “I want to be anonymous” don’t you understand? Even if you guessed right I’m still not going to tell you. Want a hint? Fine: It’s not 30 Rock. Also I am not Tina Fey. Mmmm … Tina Fey.

Likewise:

You know that these days the Internet does know if you’re a dog, right?

Yes, but this dog opened this blog account using a throwaway e-mail address and cruises the Web using Tor.

Why don’t you just write scripts where people don’t get killed?

Well, I could do that, but two things will happen then:

1. The script gets turned in and the producers say, “The stakes need to be raised in this scene. Kill someone.” And then I have to kill someone in the script, or a co-writer does, or one of the producers does a quick uncredited wash of the script, or the director zaps a character during shooting, and someone dies anyway.

2. Even if I don’t kill anyone, there still needs to be drama, and on a show like mine, drama usually means if someone isn’t killed, then they are maimed or mutilated or given a disease that turns them into a pustule with legs. Admittedly, turning a character into a pustule is better than killing them dead, but it’s still not comfortable for them, and it’s still me doing it to them. So I still have guilt.

Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like to do better than turn in scripts whether the characters do nothing but lounge on pillows, eating chocolates and having hot, cathartic sex for an hour (minus commercial time, your capitalistically inspired refractory period). I think our audience wouldn’t mind either—it would be inspirational and educational! But it’s not that kind of show, and there’s only so edgy basic cable is going to let us be.

I have to write stuff that’s actually like what gets written for our show, basically. If I don’t, I’ll get canned. I don’t want to get canned.

You understand that if what you’re saying is actually true, then the existential ramifications are astounding!

Yeah, it’s pretty weird shit. I could go on for hours about it—that is, if it wasn’t also messing with my day-to-day life in a pretty substantial way. You know what it’s like? It’s like waking up one morning, going outside and finding a Tyrannosaurus rex in your front yard, staring at you. For the first five seconds, you’re completely amazed that a real live dinosaur is standing in front of you. And then you run like hell, because to a T. rex, you’re a chewy, crunchy bite-sized snack.

Is there a T. rex in your front yard?

No.

Damn.

You’re not helping.

For someone who says they’re having writing block, aren’t you writing a lot?

Yeah, but this isn’t real writing, is it? I’m not doing anything creative here, I’m just answering comments and asking for help. Blogs are nice and all, but what I really need to be doing is writing scripts. And I can’t do that right now. The creative lobe of my brain is completely blown out. That’s where the blockage is.

You mentioned that you were using Final Draft. Have you considered that maybe your software is the problem? I use Scrivener myself. You should try it!

Wow, really? Dude, if someone’s having a heart attack in front of you, do you take that opportunity to talk about your amazing low-cholesterol diet, too? Because that would be awesome.

The software is not the problem. The problem is that every time I write I kill someone. If you’re going to try to help, don’t suggest a particular brand of sprinkler after the house is already on fire. Grab a hose.

Related to this:

I believe everything you say and I think we should meet so we can discuss this in detail possibly in my SECRET BASEMENT LAIR AT MY MOM’S HOUSE WHERE I LIVE.

Oooooh, man. That’s another reason to remain safely anonymous, isn’t it.

So now that the Q&A session is done, does anyone actually have help for me? Please?

AW

Finally! An actual good idea from a comment, which I will now replicate in full:

In your last post you mentioned some movies and books in which the line between the creator and the created had been broken (or at least smudged) in some way. Have you considered that perhaps the people who wrote those movies and books might have had experiences similar to yours? It’s possible that they have, and just haven’t ever talked about it for the same reason you’re trying to stay anonymous, which is, it sounds completely crazy. But if you approached them and your experience is similar to theirs, maybe they would talk to you in confidence. The fact you actually are a screenwriter of some note might keep them from fleeing in terror, at least at first.

The “at least at first” bit is a nice touch, thank you. And I’m glad you have the delusion that a scriptwriter on a weekly basic cable series has any sort of credibility. It warms my heart.

But to answer your question, no, it didn’t occur to me at all, because, well, it’s nuts, isn’t it. And we live in the really real world, where stuff like this doesn’t happen. But on the other hand, it happened to me, and—no offense to me—I’m not all that special, either as a writer or a human being.

So: I have to admit that it’s entirely possible that what’s happened to me has happened to others. And if it has happened to others, then it’s entirely possible they’ve found some way to deal with it that doesn’t involve not writing anymore. And that’s the goal here. And now I have a plan: Contact those writers and find out if they’ve got a secret experience like mine.

Which sounds perfectly reasonable until you think about what that actually means. To give you an idea, let me present to you a quick, one-act play entitled Anon-a-Writer Presents His Conundrum to Someone Who Is Not the Internet:

ANON-A-WRITER

Hello! I have been visited by characters from my scripts who inform me that I kill them whenever I write an action scene. Does this happen to you too?

OTHER WRITER

Hello, Anon-a-Writer! In one hand I have a restraining order, and in the other I have a Taser. Which would you like to meet first?

Yes, I see no way that this perfect plan could ever go wrong.

But on the other hand I don’t have a better plan, do I. So here’s what I’m going to do:

Make a list of writers whose characters break the reality wall one way or another.

Contact them and find out if it’s based on their actual real-world experience, without coming across like a psychotic freakbag.

Profit! Okay, not profit, but if their work is based on their real-life experiences, find out from them a way to keep writing.

Off to craft introductions that don’t sound too creepy. Wish me luck.

AW

Guys, seriously now: Stop trying to guess which show I work for. I’m just not going to tell you. Because I don’t want to get fired. Which is what happens when people like me talk about their jobs to people like you, i.e., the Internet. And especially when people like me are claiming their characters are coming to life and talking to them. I know it’s good fun for you to be guessing, but, come on. A little charity, please. I promise you that after this is all done, if everything works out, I’ll tell you. Say, in five years. Or after I win an Emmy. Whichever comes first (bet on five years).

Okay? Okay. Thank you.

Hello, Internet. You’re wanting updates. Well, here we go. I’ve identified some creative types who have written stories similar to my situation, including those we mentioned here earlier: Woody Allen, for Purple Rose of Cairo, Jasper Fforde, Zak Penn and Adam Leff (Last Action Hero), Zach Helm (Stranger than Fiction) and Denise Hogan. The plan here is to approach them credits first—to at least suggest I’m not completely insane—and then to ask them in a very subtle way about whether what they’ve written has any connection to their real-life experiences. Then off they go to the writers. And we’ll see if anyone nibbles.

And, to anticipate some of you raising your hands out there in the audience, yes, I’ll share with you the responses—after I snip out major identifying details. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Remember that anonymity thing I’m striving for? Yeah. Too many details and I’m out of my very peculiar little closet (it’s a lovely closet; it smells of pine and desperation). But on the other hand, as you’ve been helpful, I figure I owe you continuing updates on this thing.

Also, to make no mistake about it, I fully expect that the responses will be, “Wow, you’re even crazier than most random people who write me, would you like my suggestion for antipsychotic pharmaceuticals.” Because that’s how I would respond to this showing up randomly in my inbox. It’s how I have responded, in fact. You wouldn’t believe the sort of random crazy gets sent to you when you’re a writer on a successful television series. Or maybe you would. Crazy is highly distributed these days.

(insert pause to send off e-mails)

And they’re off. Now we get to see how long it takes before anyone responds. Want to start a betting pool?

AW

Wow, so that didn’t take long at all. The first response. E-mail posted below:

My response:

The assistant’s response:

Translation: Your crazy would be fine if it was for People magazine, or maybe even Us, but if it’s freelance crazy, we don’t want anything to do with you.

Sigh. There was a time when freelance crazy was respected in this town! I think it was the early 80s. David Lee Roth was hanging out at the Whisky then. Or so I have heard. I was, like, six at the time.

One down, five to go.…

AW

New response. This is kind of awesome, actually.

Whoa.

Just for the record, the e-mail I sent did not begin: “Dear XXXXX, as I happened to be standing over your bed last night, watching you sleep…” It really didn’t. I swear.

Either this person gets more crazy e-mails than usual from people who dress up as their cat and then stand outside their house, or this person got spooked by this e-mail for an entirely other reason. Hmmmm.

Is it worth getting the FBI involved to find out?

No. No, it is not.

Not yet, anyway. Still curious.

And now I’m fighting off an urge to dress up as this person’s cat and stand outside their house. But it’s early yet, and it’s a weeknight. Maybe after a few more gin rickeys.

AW

From the comments:

I’m not entirely convinced you’ve seen your characters come alive, but as someone who suffers from writer’s block all the time, it’s amazing to me that you can joke about your situation as much as you do on this site, especially when your actual job is on the line. If I were you, I would be wetting my pants right about now.

Oh, trust me. I am. I so very am. My local Pavilions is entirely out of Depends right about now. I shop for them at night, so my neighbors won’t see me. And when I’m done with them I put them in my next door neighbor’s trash can so they can’t be traced back to me. I’m not proud. Or dry.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Internet: Part of the reason I’m writing this blog right now is in fact to keep from shitting myself in abject fear. The last time I went a week without writing something creative was when I was in college and I spent six days in the hospital for a truly epic case of food poisoning. (Dorm food. Not always the freshest. I wasn’t the only one. For the rest of the year my dorm was known as the Puke Palace. I digress.) And even then, when I thought I was going to retch my lower intestine right out past my tongue, I was plotting stories and trying out dialogue in my head. Right now, I try plotting a story or thinking about dialogue for a script and a big wall comes down in my brain. I. Just. Cannot. Write.

This has never happened to me before. I am absolutely terrified that this is it, that the creative tank is all out of gas and that from here on out there’s nothing for me but residuals and occasional teaching gigs at the Learning Annex. I mean, fuck, kill me now. It terrifies me so much that there’s only two things I can think to do at the moment:

1. Make a special cocktail of antifreeze and OxyContin and then take a long, luxurious bath with my toaster.

2. Write on this blog like it’s a methadone treatment.

One of these options doesn’t have me found as a bloated corpse a week later. Guess which one.

As for the joking, well, look. When I was twelve, my appendix burst, and as they were wheeling my ass into the operating room, I asked the doctor, “How will this affect my piano playing?” and he said, “Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to play the piano,” and I said, “Wow! I wasn’t able to before!”

And then they gassed me.

My point is that even when I was about to die of imminent peritonitis I was still going for the joke. Failing, but going for it. (Actually, as my father said in the recovery room, “All the jokes in the world you could have made at that moment, and that’s the one you go for. You are no son of mine.” Dad took his jokes seriously.)

Shorter version of all of the above: If I actually wrote in a way that indicated how bowel-voidingly scared I am at the moment, you would have all fled by now. And I probably would have gone to play in traffic. It’s better to joke, I think.

Don’t you?

AW

Hey, now we’re getting somewhere. The following e-mail from the next person on my list:

So that sounds wildly promising. Now all I have to do is keep myself from exploding with anxiety for the next 24 hours or so. Fortunately I have meetings all day tomorrow. And yes, I said fortunately—the more meetings I have to sit in at work, the less anyone asks about the scripts I’m supposed to be working on. This is getting harder to keep up. I did suggest to one of the other staff writers that he and I collaborate on a script, and that he bang out the story outline and maybe the first draft. I can make him do the first draft because I’m senior. I can do it without guilt because he owes me money. I question my moral grounding. But at the moment, not as much as I would otherwise.

Hopefully the writer I’m meeting tomorrow will have something useful for me. Meetings and taking advantage of underlings only goes so far.

AW

Okay. I’ve met with the other writer. She’s Denise Hogan. And in order to describe our “conversation,” I’m going to use a format I’m used to.

INT. COFFEE SHOP — CORNER TABLE — DAY

Two people are sitting at the table, coffees in hand, the remains of muffins on the table. They are ANON-A-WRITER and DENISE HOGAN. They have been talking for an hour as ANON-A-WRITER has described his crisis to DENISE in detail.

DENISE

That’s really a very interesting situation you’ve gotten yourself into.

ANON-A-WRITER

“Interesting” isn’t the word I would use for it. “Magnificently screwed” is the phrase I would use.

DENISE

Yes, that would work, too.

AW

But this has happened to you too, right?

When you write the characters in your novels, they are always arguing with you and ignoring how you want the plot to go and running off and doing their own thing. It’s your trademark. You write it like it actually happens.

DENISE

(gently)

Well, I think we need to have some definition of terms on this.

AW

(draws back)

Definition of terms? That sounds like code for “No, it doesn’t actually happen to me that way, you crazy crazy person.”

DENISE

(beat)

AW, may I be honest with you?

AW

Considering what I just splashed out to you over the last hour? Yes, would you, please.

DENISE

I’m here because I read your blog.

AW

I don’t have a blog.

DENISE

You don’t have one under your actual name. You have one as Anon-a-Writer.

AW

(beat)

Oh. Oh, shit.

DENISE

(holds up hands)

Relax, I’m not here to out you.

AW

Fuck!

(gets up, thinks about leaving, shuffles back and forth for a moment, sits back down)

How did you find it?

DENISE

How anyone with an ego finds anything on the Internet. I have a Google alert tied to my name.

AW

(runs hands through hair)

Fucking Google, man.

DENISE

I clicked through to see if it was some sort of feature piece on writers who break the fourth wall and then I saw what your blog was really about, and I put it into my RSS feed. I knew you were going to contact me before you sent your e-mail.

AW

You’re not actually in town to see your film agent.

DENISE

Well, no. I had lunch with him today, and we did talk about that Paramount thing. But I called him after I got your e-mail and told him I was going to be in town. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him why else I was here.

AW

So your characters aren’t actually alive and talking to you.

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 fucking 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, goddamn 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 shit. 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, fuck 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 crap 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 damn 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:

Fuck.

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 shit started: sitting on my couch with a big fat bottle of Jim Beam and getting really fucking 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 damn 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, fuck 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.

NICK

(gapes for a second, then)

Finn, right?

FINN

Correct. And do you remember how you killed me?

NICK

Exploding head.

FINN

Right again.

NICK

Not your head exploding, though.

FINN

No, someone else’s. I just happened to be in the way.

(stands, points over to the crowd, at one guy in particular)

He’s the guy whose head you blew off. Wave, Jer!

JER waves. NICK waves back, cautiously.

NICK

(stands, also, unsteadily, peering)

His head looks pretty good for having been blown off.

FINN

We figured it would be easier for you if you didn’t see us all in the state you killed us in. Jer would be headless, I would be severely burned, others would be dismembered, partially eaten, have their flesh melted off their bones from horrible disfiguring diseases. You know. Messy. We thought you’d find that distracting.

NICK

Thanks.

FINN

Don’t mention it.

NICK

I’m assuming this can’t be real and that I’m having a dream.

FINN

This is a dream. It doesn’t mean it’s not also real.

NICK

(rubbing his head)

That’s a little deep for my current state of sobriety, Finn.

FINN

Then try this: It’s real and taking place in a dream, because how else can your dead talk to you?

NICK

Why do you want to talk to me?

FINN

Because we have something we want to ask of you.

NICK

I’m already not killing any more of you. I’ve got writer’s block, because of you. And I’m about to lose my job, because of the writer’s block.

FINN

You’ve got writer’s block, yes. It’s not because of us. Not directly, anyway.

NICK

It’s my writer’s block. I think I know why I have it.

FINN

I didn’t say you didn’t know why you had it. But you’re not admitting the reason why to yourself.

NICK

Don’t take this the wrong way, Finn, but your Yoda act is getting old quick.

FINN

Fine. Then I’ll put it this way: Denise Hogan? She was right.

NICK

(Throws up his hands)

Even in my own brain, I get this.

FINN

You’re a decent enough writer, Nick. But you’re lazy.

(motions toward the crowd)

And most of us are dead because of it.

NICK

Come on, that’s not fair. You’re dead because it’s an action show. People die in action shows. It’s one of the reasons it’s called an action show.

FINN

(looks at NICK, then points to a face in the crowd)

You! How did you die?

REDSHIRT #1

Ice shark!

FINN

(turning to NICK)

Seriously, an ice shark? What’s even the biology on that?

(turns back to the crowd)

Anyone else randomly eaten by space animals?

REDSHIRT #2

Pornathic crabs!

REDSHIRT #3

A Great Badger of Tau Ceti!

REDSHIRT #4

Borgovian Land Worms!

NICK

(to REDSHIRT #4)

I didn’t write the land worms!

(to FINN)

Seriously, those aren’t mine. I keep getting blamed for those.

FINN

That’s because you’re the senior writer on the show, Nick. You could have raised a flag or two about the random animal attacks, whether you wrote them or not.

NICK

It’s a weekly science fiction show—

FINN

It’s a weekly science fiction show, but lots of weekly shows aren’t crap, Nick. Including science fiction shows. A lot of weekly science fiction shows at least try for something other than mere sufficiency. You’re using schedule and genre as an excuse.

(back to the crowd)

How many of you were killed on decks six through twelve?

Dozens of hands shoot up. FINN turns back to NICK, looking for an answer.

NICK

The ship needs to take damage. The show has to have drama.

FINN

The ship needs to take damage. Fine. It doesn’t mean you have to have some bastard crewman sucked into space every time it happens. Maybe after the first dozen times it happened, the Universal Union should have started engineering for space defenestration.

NICK

Look, I get it, Finn. You’re unhappy with being dead. So am I. That’s why I’m blocked!

FINN

You don’t get it. None of us are pissed off at being dead.

REDSHIRT #4

I am!

FINN

(to REDSHIRT #4)

Not now, Davis!

(back to NICK)

None of us except for Davis are pissed off at being dead. Death happens. It happens to everyone. It’s going to happen to you. What we’re pissed off about is that our deaths are so completely pointless. When you killed us off, Nick, it doesn’t do anything for the story. It’s just a little jolt you give the viewers before the commercial break, and they’ve forgotten it before the first Doritos ad fades off the screen. Our lives had meaning, Nick, if only to us. And you gave us really shitty deaths. Pointless, shitty deaths.

NICK

Shitty deaths happen all the time, Finn. People accidentally step in front of buses, or slip and crack their head on the toilet, or go jogging and get attacked by mountain lions. That’s life.

FINN

That’s your life, Nick. But you don’t have anyone writing you, as far as you know. We do. It’s you. And when we die on the show, it’s because you’ve killed us off. Everyone dies. But we died how you decided we were going to die. And so far, you’ve decided we’d die because it’s easier than writing a dramatic moment whose response is earned in the writing. And you know it, Nick.

NICK

I don’t—

FINN

You do. We’re dead, Nick. We don’t have time for bullshit anymore. So admit it. Admit what’s actually going on in your head.

NICK

(sits down, dazed)

All right. Fine. All right. I wrote my last script, the one we used to send everyone back, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘Wow, we didn’t actually kill anyone off this time.’ And then I started thinking about all the ways we’ve killed off crew on the show. Then I started thinking about the fact that for them, they were real deaths. Real deaths of real people. And then I started thinking of all the stupid ways I’ve killed people off. Not just them being stupid by themselves, but everything around them too. Stupid reasons to get people in a position where I could kill them off. Ridiculous coincidences. Out-of-nowhere plot twists. All the little shitty tricks I and the other writers use because we can and no one calls us on it. Then I went and got drunk—

FINN

(nodding)

And when you woke up you went to do some writing and nothing came out.

NICK

I thought it was about not wanting to kill people. About being responsible for their deaths.

FINN

(kneeling again)

It’s the fact you weren’t acting responsibly when you killed them that’s eating at you. Even if you hadn’t written our deaths, all of us would have died one day. That’s a fact. I think you know it.

NICK

And I gave you bad deaths when I could have given you better ones.

FINN

Yes. You’re not a grim reaper, Nick. You’re a general. Sometimes generals send soldiers to their deaths. Hopefully they don’t do it stupidly.

NICK

(looking back at the crowd)

You want me to write better deaths.

FINN

Yeah. Fewer deaths wouldn’t hurt, either. But better deaths. We’re all already dead. It’s too late for us. But each of us have people we care about who are still alive, who might pass under your pen, if you want to put it that way. We think they deserve better. And now you know you do too.

NICK

You’re assuming I’ll still have a job after all this.

FINN

(standing again)

You’ll be fine. Just tell everyone you were exploring the boundaries between fiction and interactive performance in the online media. It’s a perfectly meta excuse, and anyway, no one’s going to believe your characters actually came to life. At most people will think you were kind of an asshole with this thing. But then some people think you’re kind of an asshole anyway.

NICK

Thanks.

FINN

Hey, I told you, I’m dead. No time for bullshit. Now pass out again and wake up for real this time. Then get over to your computer. Try writing. Try writing better. And stop drinking so much. It does weird things to your head.

NICK nods, then passes out. FINN and his crew of redshirts disappear (I assume).

And then I woke up.

And then I went and powered up my laptop.

And then I wrote thirty pages of the best goddamned script I’ve ever written for the show.

And then I collapsed because I was still sort of drunk.

And now I’m awake again, and hung over, and writing this crying because I can write again.

And this is where I end the blog. It did what it was supposed to—it got me over my writer’s block. Now I have scripts to write and writers to supervise and a show to be part of. It’s time for me to get back to that.

Some of you have asked—is it really a hoax? Did I ever really have writer’s block, or was this an exercise in alternate creativity schemes, a weird little side project from someone who writes too many pages about lasers and explosions and aliens? And did my characters ever actually come to life?

Well, think about it. I trade in fiction. I trade in science fiction. I make up weird shit all the time. What’s the most logical explanation in a case like this: more fiction, or everything in the blog being really real, and really happening?

You know what the most logical answer is.

Now you have to ask yourself if you believe it.

Think about it and let me know.

Until then:

Bye, Internet.

Nick Weinstein, Senior Writer,

The Chronicles of the Intrepid