Writers have gotten lost
Writers In Conversation~
While readers are asleep
Script for “Writers In Conversation”
Opening Scene: Visual:
The camera slowly pans from the viewer’s left to right, showcasing the semi-divided backyard patio of a local club. The camera captures the seven patrons seated around a table in the back of the area. Bamboo and tattered hemp curtains create a rustic half-square backdrop, offering a sense of separation from the main patio. As the camera swings back, from right to left, it focuses on the table of friends enjoying their evening.
Dialogue:
Simon:
A contemplative voice, sipping his drink.
“A writer should melt away, slipping into the cracks of life. A writer’s essence should be present in the flavor of the stew, savored, but never noticed. No trace left of the creator — no fingerprints, no proof of the chef.”
The camera catches Simon sitting, legs crossed, right over left. His back is against the bamboo curtain as he muses, lost in thought.
Jesselle:
Interrupting with energy, gesturing with her wine glass.
“Not me. A writer should explode like champagne on New Year’s Eve. Visible, unapologetic, like biting into an over-ripened fruit with juice dripping down your chin! Writers should be loud, boastful, and uncontainable.”
Jesselle’s intensity cuts through the air. She sits on the opposite side, next to Polensky, who remains quietly observing, soaking in every word.
Polensky:
Calmly, but with a noticeable hint of melancholy.
“I feel lost, caught between the love of writing and the loss of the freedom to write. How can one keep writing when the words, no matter how good, won’t buy you a loaf of bread? That’s the question I keep asking myself.”
Cynthia:
Setting down her B.L.T, her voice tinged with frustration.
“I’m just sick of writing words that no one will read. It feels like everything I say has been said before, like I’m recycling stale ideas I never wanted to engage with in the first place.”
Simon:
Leaning forward, agreeing.
“Exactly, Cynthia! You’re trying to escape, trying to melt into your work just like me. You want to get past the whole ‘just putting words down on a page’ — like setting a table for a meal that never gets eaten.”
Cynthia:
Half-heartedly nodding, unconvinced.
“Maybe, but in my head, it’s not that simple, Simon.”
Michael:
Grinning mischievously, raising his glass.
“So, Simon, you’d have her melt those plates into the table just for effect, right?”
The whole table bursts into laughter, even Simon, despite Michael’s cheeky tone.
Raymond:
Clearing his throat, finally chiming in, his voice heavy with thought.
“Honestly, writers have lost their way. No one writes to the individual anymore. Everyone’s chasing after social media likes, chasing followers. Where’s the personal connection? Writers used to speak to one person, that one special reader.”
Cynthia:
Smiling, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Yeah, just like when fresh milk and orange juice used to be delivered to your door, right? Or when book signings meant something.”
Light laughter again fills the space. Everyone sips their drinks, relaxing into the conversation.
Michael:
Turning to Raymond, throwing out a challenge.
“So, what? You want us to become modern-day Van Goghs? Starving for art’s sake, sacrificing ourselves for the craft?”
Jesselle:
Jumping in, laughing.
“Well, I sure as hell ain’t cutting off anything — no ears, no fingernails, nothing!”
Vincent:
Finally entering the conversation, his affection for Jesselle obvious in his tone.
“I don’t know, Jesselle. You’ve got plenty to offer. Hell, I’d cut off a nail for you — after all, Vincent van Gogh is my distant relative.”
Cynthia:
“Aww, that’s sweet.”
Michael:
Shooting back with playful sarcasm.
“Wow, a whole nail? Now that’s true love.”
Everyone erupts into laughter, Nicole adding more fuel to the fun.
Nicole:
“Don’t mind Michael, Vincent. He’s just jealous because the only thing anyone’s ever cut off for him is a conversation.”
Michael dramatically holds his chest, pretending to be in pain.
“Ouch, Nicole! I thought you loved me.”
Jesselle:
Teasingly.
“Damn straight. We women are done with self-sacrifice — hell, we’ll cut out hearts, lungs, whatever it takes!”
Raymond:
Grinning at Simon.
“This should be right up your alley, Simon, with all your talk of bleeding onto the page.”
Simon:
Confused, yet smiling.
“Wait, how so?”
Raymond:
Laughing.
“Come on, Simon! With Jesselle’s help, you could ‘literally’ pour your heart out onto the page.”
Uncontrollable laughter erupts, the entire group bursting into tears of joy.
Cynthia:
Barely able to contain herself.
“Stop! You’re all killing me!”
At the perfect moment, the server arrives to rescue the group from their own hilarity.
Waiter #1:
Confused but smiling.
“I hope my service is what’s got you all so happy.”
Raymond:
Still in a humorous mood, nudging Simon.
“Tell her, Simon!”
Simon:
Laughing, playing along.
“Tell her what?”
Raymond:
“It’s the writer’s code!”
Michael:
Playfully shocked, raising an eyebrow.
“Say what! We have a writer’s code?”
The table erupts with chuckles, everyone looking toward Raymond as if he’s been waiting for this moment.
Raymond:
Grinning, clearly enjoying his setup, he turns to Waiter #1, who is still standing with a perplexed expression.
“Well, before I can answer that, you’ve got to be willing to give a heart, a lung, or maybe even a kidney.”
Waiter #1’s confused expression deepens, the humor going over her head, but the look on her face only adds to the contagious laughter at the table. The friends can’t contain themselves.
Raymond:
Continuing with a straight face, but eyes twinkling with mischief.
“We are writers, you see. We only accept those willing to melt into the pages. And as for the bill? We’ll only take it if it’s written in your blood.”
The camera starts to pan backwards, slowly pulling away from the lively group. The sounds of their laughter echo in the quiet of the night. They are writers, caught between joy and jest, their creative spirits bound by a need to express themselves. The server stands mid-sentence, utterly baffled, her mind wandering between thoughts of vampires and the outrageous imagination of these storytellers.
The camera fades to dark, leaving the scene full of laughter, confusion, and the unshakable bond that only writers understand — communicating as if speaking to that one special reader.
End of Pt 1.
@Antthony2023mdh30Vibes
