Redshirts

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