I’m a writer. I live in Hollywood. I write for network television. I’ve got an idea. It’s incredible. It’ll be the best thing I’ve ever done. It’s full of pathos and humor. The effect will be awe inspiring. People will laugh and cry and pull their hair out with both hands.
Oh, wait…I’ve got another idea. This is ten times better. Instead of the girl boarding the train and riding to Peoria to see her sick uncle, she robs it. She’s nude, she has no gun, she just asks for the money and they give it to her. They have to. It’s in the script.
Oh, wait, damn it — they won’t let me show full-frontal nudity on network television. Yet. Damn, damn, damn! I wanted to say something even stronger than that but they won’t let me use those words in articles about writing for network television, let alone in writing for network television itself. Yet. But back to the naked girl robbing the train — how long will we writers be held back by such infantile taboos? Oh, well, she can be in her underwear or something. I read an article somewhere which said that women with some clothes on are sexier than those with no clothes on. I wonder if that’s true? I know my wife is sexiest when she’s under the covers and I can’t see her at all.
My wife and I are getting a divorce. Did I tell you? It’s just like that movie Unfaithful except she doesn’t look like Diane Lane and I don’t look like Richard Gere…or like Diane Lane. I could’ve written that movie, you know. In fact, I’m going to — for TV. I don’t mean I’m going to write it exactly, but something similar, you know, something suspenseful and erotic and ironic and so real you could swear you were there.
You know, the great thing is that my wife and I love each other more now than we’ve ever loved each other before. Really, it’s true. Ours is a deep love burning with a hard, bright, jewel-like flame. We just need a little space apart from each other so we can grow. I kid her about it and say, “Why do you want to grow, you’re already six-foot-three?” Then she slaps me in the face with the strength of a mountain gorilla and I go flying into the wall again, but she doesn’t really mean it. She loves me.
I wonder where my wife is, she should’ve been home hours ago. Oh, wait, that’s right — she moved to Florida or someplace. Lord, I love that woman. I have to write this down, it would make a great sitcom. A man forgets that his family moved to Florida. Or someplace.
I’d better work on that one right now before I forget it. The naked girl on the train can wait. I’m not sure I like the idea anyway. You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m talking about. Did I forget to tell you? I’m a writer. I live in Hollywood. I write for network television. And I, my friend, I have got an idea. Oh, wait — what was it?