Writer's Cramp
by andrew adams
"I want to write."
"Well, then, write."
"No, I mean, I want to be a writer. I want to write for a living."
"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but that, too, does require some writing."
"Yeah. But I don't think I have it in me."
"What? Why not? I've read your stuff, you're great."
"No I'm not. I'm a trashy throw-away author. I'll never amount to anything."
"Why do you say that? I'd buy your stuff."
"Most girlfriends would."
"How many girlfriends do you have?"
"Most authors with girlfriends would hope their girlfriends take some semblance of interest in their work. I'd at least assume they would."
"Not all of them. I bet some write about their girlfriends. And want to keep their work secret."
"That's stupid. If it's published, of course she'll see it. You'd want her to avoid it?"
"I wouldn't have a girlfriend."
"If you wrote, you wouldn't want me to read your books?"
"I wouldn't write."
"Fine. What, stand-up, then?"
"Sure, okay. Stand-up, I could live with that."
"Fine. Let's say I decided to never show up to your act. What would you think of me."
"Depends on my act."
"It's a phenomenal act."
"Well, yeah, I know that much, it's me."
"So what do you mean?"
"Depends whether or not I talk about you in it."
"What?"
"I might make fun of the stains on your pillows."
"That's drool."
"Sure."
"It is!"
"But that's not what I'd say in my routine. See? I wouldn't want you to know that."
"But you'd want the rest of the world to."
"If they laughed."
"That's lame."
"That's life."
"What if I wasn't in the act?"
"Well then, sure, I'd want you to see it."
"See. That's what I mean."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't remember. Something about reading books. What was I talking about?"
"Your writing. You don't like it."
"No, I like it."
"That's not what you said earlier."
"No, I said I wasn't good. I didn't say I didn't like it."
"So if you can like it why can't I?"
"You can like it."
"But you said-"
"That most girlfriends would."
"So why can't you sell it?"
"Because the two people who like it already have free copies."
"Oh, come on, you could sell that."
"No, I couldn't. It's not real."
"It's fiction, Sherlock."
"But, I mean, it's not real. It's all from up here. Nothing from my real life."
"What's that mean?"
"It means that I haven't drawn from experiences."
"But you have."
"Not heavily."
"That's why it's fiction!"
"You'd really tell a million people about the drool stains?"
"Yes."
"That's cruel."
"Experiences!"
"Sorry."
"Fine. What do you mean?"
"I mean that I can't get famous if I don't write about my life. Otherwise it'll never connect and nobody will ever want to read what I do."
"Yes they will. People read Stephen King."
"Stephen King's a genius."
"I think you're a genius."
"I need to come unstuck in time."
"What?"
"Yeah. That's how you get famous. You mess with time."
"What are you talking about?"
"All the best books, they mess with time. Pulp Fiction. Memento. Eternal Sunshine. They all screw around with time, and they're famous because of it."
"Those are movies."
"Catch-22. Slaughterhouse Five. Moby Dick."
"Moby Dick doesn't jump in time."
"But it could."
"No, it couldn't."
"Fine. Screw it. I don't care."
"No, you do."
"Yeah, I know."
"What about that one you already wrote, with the, uh, couldn't you just put the end at the beginning?"
"Oh, yeah, that'll work."
"Well, hey, I'm not a writer!"
"Neither am I!"
"Yes, you are!"
"Drool?"
"It's still sick, either way!"
"Yeah, but in your stand-up?"
"You put me in your last story."
"Yeah, and then had to hide it from my parents."
"Can I have another copy, by the way?"
"What happened to your other?"
"My parents have it."
"Your what?"
"Well, I mean, you changed the names. And your name wasn't on it."
"Did you get in trouble?"
"They had a talk with me, that was all."
"Sorry."
"Hey, anything for you."
"Anything?"
"No, not really."
"You want dinner?"
"You're going to make it for me?"
"If you promise not to talk about my drooling."
"I was kidding."
"Steak?"
"Roast beef."
"Alright."
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