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The first professional writing job I ever had, after 17 years of trying, was on a movie called King Kong Lives. I and my partner at the time, Ron Shussett, a brilliant writer and producer who also did Alien and Total Recall, hammered out the screenplay for Dino De Laurentiis. We loved it. We were sure we had a hit. Even after we'd seen the finished film, we were certain it was a blockbuster. We invited everyone we knew to the premiere, even rented out the joint next door for a post-Triumph blowout. Get there early, we warned our friends, the place will be mobbed. Nobody showed. There was only one guy in line beside our guest, and he was muttering something about spare change. In the theater, our friends endured the movie in mute stupefaction. When the lights came up, they fled like cockroaches into the night. Next day came the review in Variety. Ronald Shussett and Steven Pressfield. We hope these are not their real names, for their parents' sake. When the first week's grosses came in, the flick barely registered. Still, I clung to hope. Maybe it's only tanking in urban areas. Maybe it's playing better in the burbs. I motored to an Edge City multiplex. A youth manned the popcorn booth. How's King Kong lives, I asked. He flashed thumbs down. Miss it, man. It sucks. I was crushed. Here I was, 42 years old, divorced, childless, having given up all normal human pursuits to chase the dream of becoming a writer. Now I finally got my name on a big-time Hollywood production starring Linda Hamilton. And what happens? I'm a loser. A phony. My life is worthless, and so am I.
Script:
Archmage Na'ili led the way down the hall as Black Mage walked with her. He tried not to stare at her, until he remembered that lizardfolk like to be admired. Thanks for agreeing to help me. I don't know what I would have done if you'd said no. Of course I would have said yes. I can't let old Fjörr get away with everything. Us archmages have to counter each other. And I'm a good match for Fjörr. How? I specialize in enchantments. I can do artifacts, but I'm best at making scales harder than Mithra, or casting mass invisibility spells. Actually, I'm probably the best in the world at it. Wow. Yes, wow. You humans say the silliest things. I'm an archmage, one of five in the world, and all you say is wow. But I don't want to judge. Except that I do. Do you think you can really protect the others from Earth? Absolutely. That's the deal. We get access to the Evermote Study, and in return, we'll protect your friends. I don't suppose you'd care to sell me the secret of how you knew where to find it? Uh, no. That's a bigger secret. Na'ili laughed. A bigger secret than the Evermote Room? I suppose even I might not afford it. But just remember that every secret comes with a price. And we all pay that price, sooner or later.
Script:
The mother was in pain. The great house was very quiet. The doctor had left and the relatives had gone into town for dinner. He sat by the side of her bed and stared down at her. She looked grey and old and crumpled. Her skin was a soft, ashy hue of moth dust. How is it? It hurts. Ben didn't dope me too well. He looked at the ampoule of narcotic painkiller. The syringe lay mechanical and still on a clean towel beside it. He felt her eyes on him. She knew what he was thinking. He looked away. I would kill for a cigarette, she said. He laughed. You can't have a cigarette, so forget it. Then why don't you use that hypo and let me out of here? Shut up, mother. Oh, for Christ's sake, Nathan. It's hours if I'm lucky, months if I'm not. We've had this conversation before. You know I always win. He got up and walked to the wall. He could not walk through it, so he went around the inside of the room. Tell me something. I've always wanted to know. Did dad kill Tom Golden? Use the needle and I'll tell you. I'm a stack. I don't bribe. I'm a stack and I know what a killing curiosity you've got. Use the needle and I'll tell you. He walked Widdershins around the room. She watched him, eyes bright as the mill vats. You old bitch. Shame, Nathan. You know you're not the son of a bitch, which is more than your sister can say. Did I ever tell you she wasn't your father's child? No, but I knew. You'd have liked her father. He was Swedish. Your father liked him. Is that why dad broke both his arms? Probably, but I never heard the Swede complain. One night in bed with me in those days was worth a couple of broken arms. Use the needle.
Script:
May I tell you a story? It's not a very long story." Billy nodded, smiling at his friend. In 1582, Pope Gregory XIII decreed that the civilized world would no longer observe the Julian calendar. October 4th, 1582 was followed the next day by October 15th. Eleven days vanished from the world. One hundred and seventy years later, the British Parliament followed suit, and September 2nd, 1752 was followed the next day by September 14th. Why did he do that, the Pope? Billy was bewildered by the conversation. Because he was bringing it into sync with the real world, the solstices and equinoxes, when to plant, when to harvest. Gaspar waggled a finger at him with pleasure. Excellent young fella, and you're correct when you say Gregory abolished the Julian calendar because its error of one day in every one hundred and twenty-eight years had moved the vernal equinox to March 11th. That's what the history books say, it's what every history book says, but what if? What if what? I don't know what you're talking about. What if Pope Gregory had the knowledge revealed to him that he must readjust time in the minds of men? What if the excess time in 1582 was eleven days and one hour? What if he accounted for those eleven days, vanished those eleven days, but that one hour slipped free, was left loose to bounce through eternity? A very special hour, an hour that must never be used, an hour that must never toll.
Script:
I remember once my father coming home early from a work trip and finding me and two of my old friends from high school in the living room. Two of us were slumped on the Davenport with our dirty feet up on his special coffee table, and the carpet all littered with beer cans and Taco Bell wrappers and a coffee table special top with big rings of condensation from the beer cans all over it because we'd turned the heat way up past where you normally allowed it to be, and the other guy next to me leaning over in the middle of taking a huge bong hit. I sat there paralyzed, unable to do anything, and yet seeing each frame of him coming in with horrible focus and clarity, and him taking his hat off as he stood there taking in the scene, with the three of us now slumped there, all totally wasted, one of the guys wearing a ratty old t-shirt that said fuck you across the chest, the other coughing out his mammoth hit in shock so that a plume of pot smoke went rolling out across the living room towards my father, and of my father just standing there not saying anything for what felt like such a long time, and then he slowly put one arm up in the air and said, look on my works ye mighty and despair, and then picked up his overnight bag and without a word walked up the stairs and went into their old bedroom and closed the door. I do remember feeling like complete shit, not so much like I'd been busted as just childish and imagining what I must have looked like to him, sitting there in litter in his house, wasted, with my dirty feet on the marked up coffee table he and my mother had saved up for, and which he prized and rubbed lemon oil in all the time, and said all he asked was that I should please keep my feet off of it and use a coaster, and for an instant I saw myself through his eyes, which made the whole thing much, much worse than if he'd been furious. I didn't even understand what he said, although later on I stumbled on the poem he was quoting from and my eyes just about bulged out of my head because I hadn't even known it was a poem, and a famous one by the same British poet who evidently wrote the original Frankenstein, and I didn't even know my father read British poetry, much less that he could quote from it when he was upset. There was probably much more to him than I was aware of, and I don't remember realizing how little I knew about him, really, until after he was gone and it was too late. I expect this sort of regret is typical as well.
Script:
The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable pattern. Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of my irritation, and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. I knew every volume by its color and examined them all, passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I was turning to go into the dining room when my eye fell upon a book bound in serpent skin, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. I did not remember it, and from the floor could not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking room and called Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book. "'What is it?' I asked. "'The King in Yellow.' I was dumbfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Still lest curiosity might tempt me to open it, I had never even looked at it in bookstores. If I ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonous, mottled binding as I would at a snake. "'Don't touch it, Tessie,' I said. "'Come down.'"
Script:
Jonas opened his eyes. The giver was watching him curiously. It happened, Jonas said. It happened to the books, but it went away again. I'm right then, the giver said. You're beginning to see the color red. The what? The giver sighed. How to explain this? Once, back in the time of the memories, everything had a shape and size the way things still do, but they also had a quality called color. There were lots of colors, and one of them was called red. That's the one you are starting to see. Your friend Fiona has red hair. And the faces of the people? The ones I saw at the ceremony? The giver shook his head. No, flesh isn't red, but it has red tones in it. There was a time, actually. You'll see this in the memories later, when flesh was many different colors. That was before we went to sameness. The giver chuckled suddenly. We've never completely mastered sameness. I suppose the genetic scientists are still hard at work trying to work the kinks out. Hair like Fiona's must drive them crazy. And the sled? Jonas said. It had the same thing, that color red, but it didn't change, giver, it just was. Because it's a memory from when color was. Why can't everyone see them? Why did colors disappear? The giver shrugged. Other people made that choice, the choice to go to sameness. We relinquished color when we relinquished sunshine and did away with differences. He thought for a moment. We gained control of many things, but we had to let go of others. We shouldn't have, Jonas said fiercely. The giver smiled wryly. You've come very quickly to that conclusion, he said. It took me many years. Maybe your wisdom will come much more quickly than mine. Close your eyes and be still now. I'm going to give you a memory of a rainbow.
Script:
The old farmer leaped out of his chair and clicked the radio off. Hear that, Dog? he bellowed. Storm is coming! We better get the animals safely in the barn! Dog sprang to his feet and bounded out the door. Storm is coming! Storm is coming! barked Dog. We have to get to the barn quickly! Frightened, the sheep raced after Dog toward the barn. On the way, they passed the pond where Duck was paddling. Storm is coming! Storm is coming! the sheep bleated. We have to get to the barn quickly! Duck flapped up the grassy bank and flew ahead of the sheep. The cows in the pasture looked up as the animals sped past. Storm is coming! Storm is coming! Duck quacked. We have to get to the barn quickly! The cows herded together and joined the stampede. When they all reached the barn, the farmer hurried them inside. Then he shut the heavy door. The barking, the flapping, the bleeding, and the mooing awoke Cat from her nap in the hay. She stretched and yawned and opened one eye. Storm is coming! the animals told her all at once. And who is Storm? she meowed. Well, he must be very mean, Dog decided. And he must be very scary, the sheep stammered, starting to shiver. Cat yawned again. Wake me when he gets here, she murmured and drifted back to sleep. The animals waited and listened. The sky is growing very dark. Dark is good, Dog told them. Storm can't find us in the dark. There's a big wind blowing. Great, Dog barked. The wind will blow Storm away. All day long, the wind blew, the rain fell, the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled. And through it all, the animals cheered. But then everything stopped. Thump, thump, thump. Someone was coming toward the barn. Someone was opening the door. Someone was coming in. This was it. Storm had come to get them. The door swung wide open and the animals gasped. It was the farmer. Everybody out, he called. It's all safe now. Hooray, shouted the animals. The noise awoke Cat again. She stretched and yawned and opened one eye. Did I miss Storm, she meowed. No, Dog reported. Storm never came. And Cat went back to sleep.
Script:
Footsteps clap down the marble, and I quickly stuff my phone in my pocket. Dawn looks fresh after the bathroom, but judging by the way she plops her elbows on the island, she's been thinking too hard. I know you don't want to have the adoption talk. That's because I don't want to adopt, period. Well then, what are we talking about, a donor? I reel back. She might as well have slapped me. I'm sorry, Dawn sighs. We just need to talk about our options if we can't have kids on our own. I wouldn't be so sure. She blinks. What does that mean? Nothing, nothing except, I don't know, sometimes doctors get it wrong. And it's not like trying to have kids is a drag. Yeah, but we're finding ways to suck all the fun out of it. Well, thanks. I mean, for you too, right? I'm a man, babycakes. I've never had bad sex. I become desperate to change the subject. I want to try a treatment I found online. I know you're thinking famous last words, but indulge me. I can do a virtual visit with the clinic. They take my history. Where is this clinic? They take my history. Everything is above board. Wyatt, where is this clinic? Germany. Hey, it's still the Western world. Before thinking, I add, we're desperate. You're desperate. I'm okay with adopting.
Script:
I wake up with a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction. Already I feel fear. I'm not thinking about the work. What I am aware of is resistance. I feel it in my guts. I afford it the utmost respect, because I know it can defeat me on any given day as easily as the need for a drink can overcome an alcoholic. I'm done with my chores now. It's time. I say my prayer and head out on the hunt. The sun isn't up yet. It's cold. The fields are sopping. Brambles scratch my ankles. Branches snap back in my face. The hill is brutal. But what can you do? Set one foot in front of another and keep on climbing. An hour passes. I'm warmer now. The pace has got my blood going. The years have taught me one skill. How to be miserable. I know how to shut up and keep on climbing. Another hour passes. I turn the corner of a thicket, and there he is. The nice fat hare I knew would show up if I just kept hunting. Home from the hill, I thank the immortals and offer up their portion of the kill. They brought it to me. They deserve their share. I am grateful. I joke with my kids beside the fire. They're happy. The old man has brought home the bacon. The old lady's happy. She's cooking it up. I'm happy. I've earned my keep on the planet, at least for this day. Resistance is not a factor now. The tension drains from my neck and back. What I feel and say and do this night will not be coming from any disowned or unresolved part of me, any part corrupted by resistance. I go to sleep content. But my final thought is of resistance. I will wake up with it tomorrow. Already I am stealing myself.
Script:
Imagine for the next few minutes that you are the head coach of a professional football team. The season is going okay. You're winning more than you're losing. But something needs to change if you're going to make the playoffs. You call your assistants and coordinators into a brainstorming session. Coach, I'm hearing a lot of grumbling about the offense, says the defensive line coach. The guys just don't believe we have the right game plan and the practices are disorganized. Two of the other assistants agree that there is a lot of frustration in the locker room. By the end of the meeting, there is a very negative feeling surrounding the coaching staff. As the meeting breaks up, you notice small groups of coaches gathering to continue the conversation. You retire to your office, shut the door, and consider what was said during the meeting. It seems interesting that the negative comments about the offense came from a defensive coach. Practices seem to be organized and run the same way as in past seasons. You wonder if the locker room is as frustrated as the coach has indicated, or if a couple of voices are dominating the conversation among the players.
