Redshirts: A Novel Part 29

"Andy, we've known each other for years," Hanson said. "I think you know who I am."

"Jimmy," Dahl said. "Please. Tell me if I'm right."

Hanson sat there for a minute, looking at Dahl. "I don't think it would actually make you happier to be told you were right about this," he said, finally.

"I don't want to be happy," Dahl said. "I just want to know."

"And even if you were right," Hanson said, "what do you get out of it? Aren't you better off believing that you've accomplished something? That you've gotten the happy ending you were promised? Why would you want to push that?"

"Because I need to know," Dahl said. "I've always needed to know."

"Because that's the way you are," Hanson said. "A seeker of truth. A spiritual man."

"Yes," Dahl said.

"A man who needs to know if he's really that way, or just written to be that way," Hanson said.

"Yes," Dahl said.

"Someone who needs to know if he's really his own man, or-"

"Tell me you're not about to make the pun I think you are," Dahl said.

Hanson smiled. "Sorry," he said. "It was there." He pushed out from his chair and stood up. "Andy, you're my friend. Do you believe that?"

"Yes," Dahl said. "I do."

"Then maybe you can believe this," Hanson said. "Whether you're an extra or the hero, this story is about to end. When it's done, whatever you want to be will be up to you and only you. It will happen away from the eyes of any audience and from the hand of any writer. You will be your own man."

"If I exist when I stop being written," Dahl said.

"There is that," Hanson said. "It's an interesting philosophical question. But if I had to guess, I'd guess that your creator would say to you that he would want you to live happily ever after."

"That's just a guess," Dahl said.

"Maybe a little more than a guess," Hanson said. "But I will say this, though: You were right."

"About what?" Dahl said.

"That now I've done what I was supposed to do," Hanson said. "But now I have to go do the other thing I'm supposed to do, which is a.s.sume my post. See you at dinner, Andy?"

Dahl grinned. "Yes," he said. "If any of us are around for it."

"Great," Hanson said. "See you then." And he wandered off.

Dahl sat there for a few more minutes, thinking about everything that had happened and everything that Hanson said. And then he got up and went to his station on the bridge. Because whether fictional or not, on a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, a television show or in something else entirely, he still had work to do, surrounded by his friends and the crew of the Intrepid.

And that's just what he did, until the day six months later when a systems failure caused the Intrepid to plow into a small asteroid, vaporizing the s.h.i.+p and killing everyone on board instantly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

No, no, I'm just f.u.c.king with you.

They all lived happily ever after.

Seriously.

CODA I:.

First Person CODA I: FIRST PERSON.

h.e.l.lo, 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 a.s.shole. Let me break it down further to explain it to you a little better.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 s.h.i.+t, 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 s.h.i.+t" 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 bugf.u.c.k 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 G.o.d, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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? s.h.i.+t, 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 s.h.i.+t 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 t.i.tus 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 f.u.c.k 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: Bugs.h.i.+t 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 carca.s.s 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 d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l 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. h.e.l.l, there's The Last Action Hero, for G.o.d'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 s.e.x 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 s.h.i.+t. 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 h.e.l.l, because to a T. rex, you're a chewy, crunchy bite-sized snack.

Is there a T. rex in your front yard?

No.

d.a.m.n.

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 BAs.e.m.e.nT 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 ent.i.tled Anon-a-Writer Presents His Conundrum to Someone Who Is Not the Internet: ANON-A-WRITER.

h.e.l.lo! 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.

h.e.l.lo, 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?