CANON (a.k.a. A Tale Speculating on A Sudden Change in Legacy for a Classic Sci-fi TV Show)

THE BOTTOM LINE

            'First things first, let me make it abundantly clear that you're all safe job-wise. Just because we're bringing back Reactor Cannon doesn't mean that any of what you're doing has to come to an abrupt halt.

            'Now then, this is a rough breakdown of what we're going to do with the reboot. Yes, I did just use that dreaded word. I feel that it would work best in the current climate if we started fresh, returning to the TV show's sci-fi serial roots. Namely the 8-12 year old demographic. So as not to confuse the new audience, it just makes sense that we bring in an all-new cast.

            'But that doesn't mean we're dismissing the original 70's cast outright. In fact I have a rather crafty way of bringing them into the new series later on. However I think it'd be wiser if we focused on the new lot for the time being for obvious reasons.

            'To answer the question I see playing on John's lips, seen as how you have the original cast on contract for the 'Continued Adventures' audio dramas, you needn't worry. Carry on until the ends of their contracts and then we'll arrange something new. Love to them all by the way.

            'As for the novels, Tom, it'd be great if you could create a new series to follow the rebooted show. It'll mean splitting focus, perhaps toning down your magnificently rich and complex current series, but I'm confident you can manage it. I will, of course, be getting out a rundown of the first series episodes to you all as soon as we've settled on the order. We certainly don't want any crossed wires. I have a list of writers I want involved in the first few books. You included too, of course, Tom.

            'Now I just want to say welcome to the team, Pat, I've been hearing some fantastic things about your editorial skills on the web comics. I want to get in contact with you ASAP; as I'm sure you know we're bringing back the good old Reactor Cannon Monthly magazine and we'll need comics from the get-go. Am I right in thinking you have nothing in the works at the moment? Great.

            'Now I've got to be going; we're starting bright and early for auditions. Tomorrow we're looking for the next Estefan and Lorna. Trust me, we will find the best. Thanks, guys.'

TIME'S UP - Novel Extract

           

            'Shit,' Tom said. He sat at the corner of the bed. John was switching off the laptop at the table and Pat was just stepping into the bathroom. No matter how much they tried, they couldn't seek out enough space for themselves in the rather small hotel room. It was under Tom's name.

            Tom swept back his curly brown hair and bit his bottom lip with his overbite. He pulled his tie out from under the stiff collar of his cream shirt and threw it behind him.

            'Shit,' he said again.

            John looked back at him. The scrawny old man with snow-white hair looked anxious himself but he was holding a lot back, Tom could tell. There was a small rivalry between them.

            'Not to worry, old chap,' John eventually said. 'At least our projects are still green-lit.'

            'Oh fuck off, John,' Tom grumbled. 'Your radio series is fine.'

            'For the time being,' John said.

            Pat switched the light off in the bathroom. She was still brushing her short black hair. Tom realised that he could actually look her in the eye whilst sitting down, she was so small.

            'I don't really see what the problem is,' she said. 'Just more work.'

            'Weren't you listening?' Tom snapped. 'That was Peter's awfully polite way of telling us that our hard work for the past twenty years has just been largely disregarded.'

            'When did he say that exactly?'

            'It was in the subtext!'

            'Really, Tom.' John stood up. 'I don't think you need to shout at the girl.' He turned to Pat. 'I think what Tom is really angry about is the sudden change of canon.'

            'Canon?' Pat frowned.

            Tom sighed. 'She doesn't even know what canon is...'

            'You're familiar with how the original Reactor Cannon series ended, yes?' John said.

            Pat nodded. John smiled.

            'The satellite was destroyed with everyone on board. It was the king of all cliff-hangers. Now Tom and I have been working together since then to carry on the series, first as well-meaning fans then as thriving businessmen. We continued the story. I picked up from the cliff-hanger with my audio drama Remnants and then Tom began the novel line with his book Days of Reconstruction.

            'Since then we have taken the story in several directions. It was our story really until Peter announced he was bringing the show back. The story we had made was canon as far as the other fans were concerned. We had the license, we had the characters, we took them to hell and back.

            'However now Peter has just told us that the show is starting from the beginning, our story has to come to an end. It may no longer have meaning to the show's future, it may no longer be canon.'

            Pat shook her head. 'Sorry. I kept hearing canon as cannon.'

            Both Tom and John frowned at her.

            'As in Reactor Cannon,' Pat said. 'Two 'n's instead of one.'

            'Three 'n's,' Tom interrupted. 'God's sake.'

            'Look, do you remember what we were talking about in the lobby?' John said.

            Tom watched the old man run his lovable granddad routine on the little woman. She looked off into the distance above his head, one eye squinting. 'I have a vague recollection.'

AN HOUR AGO - Comic Script

PAGE 1

1.1

PAT, steps through the hotel entrance doors, her scarf eschew. She isn't quite certain where to go and quite frankly the bright lights in the lobby are a little blinding. Perhaps we can show this through a slight squint in her eyes and flailing hands. Or is that too cartoony? I know, I know, this ain't the funny pages.

1.2

Close-up of JOHN, a rather dashing mature gentleman. He has his green coat folded over in his arm. He offers his other hand.

JOHN 1: You are Patricia May, yes?

JOHN 2: I'm John Bradford. Hello there.

1.3

PAT is quite taken with JOHN; she's always had a thing for older men. Make her a bit starry-eyed for me. She takes his hand.

PAT 1: Yes. Hi, John.

PAT 2: Sorry, who do you represent again?

1.4

They're moving up the lobby now, towards the stairwell. Long-shot, I suppose. JOHN is smiling.

JOHN: Grand Flourish Studios. I'm the chap who makes the audio adventures. CDs and so forth.

PAT: With the Reactor Cannon cast?

JOHN: Yes.

1.5

JOHN holds open the door for PAT. She's still gazing at him as she passes.

PAT: I'm the new editor of Space Age Comics.

JOHN: I heard.

1.6

They ascend the stairs. Is there a clean way of going from behind them to straight in front of them? Perhaps I'm over-thinking this. Either way, they're now side by side.

JOHN: I've even picked up a few issues.

PAT 1: I used to script a few. Perhaps you've read them?

PAT 2: I was sort of fast-tracked to this position.

JOHN: I see.

PAGE 2

2.1

Long-shot - now it might be a good time to show them from behind again. Come to think of it, we should vary up the perspectives of this conversation. They've reached the first landing.

PAT: Do you know what's going on here today?

JOHN: Well, I've been led to believe that we're having a video call in Tom's room. You've met Tom, right? Tom Wallace?

PAT: Oh yes. The one with the teeth and curls?

2.2

Mid-shot - focus on JOHN. He's laughing at that one. He has quite a warm laugh if you can show that.

JOHN 1: Ha, ha. Yes, I suppose that's a good description as any.

JOHN 2: He's the chief editor of Beyond the Reactor Cannon novel series, by the way.

2.3

Mid-shot - focus on PAT. She's got an embarrassed smile on her face.

PAT: I know.

2.4

Long-shot behind - they start ascending the next set of steps.

JOHN 1: We often work together.

JOHN 2: We do squabble though.

2.5

Mid-shot in front of them - PAT turns to JOHN with a frown.

PAT: Squabble?

2.6

Mid-shot of JOHN.

JOHN 1: Oh, yes.  Mostly about what's canonical.

JOHN 2: Nearly there now, I think.

PAGE 3

3.1

They reach the top of the stairs. Didn't really want that entire sequence to go on for that long. I'm starting to think an elevator would be a little less laborious.

PAT: Canonical?

JOHN: He thinks that not everybody got off the ship in the cliff-hanger. He says that there were prisoners still aboard.

3.2

They move towards the next set of doors. There's a sign beside them - ROOMS 40-50.

PAT: I thought it was a weapon satellite.

JOHN: It was.

3.3

They start up the corridor.

JOHN: They just kept a few dangerous characters in the lower parts. Nasty alien types that couldn't be just booted out into space.

3.4

I'm quite comfortable keeping behind them as they move up the corridor but it is of course up to you what would look more visually pleasing.

JOHN 1: I think they kicked the prisoners out before the final series but Tom insists that they were still aboard.

JOHN 2: He's written about them but I haven't once acknowledged their death in that way.

3.5

Mid-shot - they're standing outside Room 46, one on either side. JOHN knocks.

PAT: Oh. Okay.

JOHN: Fans never completely agree.

3.6

The door opens. TOM, all teeth and curls, is stood in front of them.

TOM 1: Come in, come in.

TOM 2: The computer's already booting up.

            'Well I'm glad she understands now,' Tom said, though he didn't really mean it. 'I suppose comics aren't too concerned with knowing the finer details.'

            'Excuse me?' Pat said.

            'It just doesn't seem to me like you know much about this show. You haven't really read up on it. Or even what John and I have done to keep the show going.'

            'Well, I'm very sorry that I'm not up to your level of knowledge,' Pat snapped, folding her arms. 'In case you didn't know I've only just taken this job. The previous editor never really told me much about the 'canons' of all our licenses. He just told me to keep an eye on the quality of the stories, run them by whoever owns the property from time to time.'

            'Please, Pat,' John said. 'Try not to take too much of what Tom says to heart. He's hurt because he now has extra work on his hands.' He turned to Tom. 'Which might just be a blessing, you know. For both of us.'

            Tom stood up. 'What do you mean?'

            'Like the man said, a fresh start. Isn't this what we both want, Tom? Reactor Cannon back on the air. What's more, we're going to help bring it back. This is our opportunity.'

            'And what will the original cast say?'

            'Oh, I've talked to most of them, they agree that they couldn't really re-enter the roles. It's a young man's show.'

            'Then why are they still doing the audios?'

            John sighed. 'Do I really have to spell it out, Tom? Their voices haven't changed much but their bodies have. There's no double standard here.'

            'Look, do we really have to argue?' Pat said.

            'You don't.' Tom turned to her. 'You're safe. Peter said as much.'

            'For goodness sake! We're all safe!' John raised his voice. 'We'll probably have to phase out our current projects eventually but that's it. The show is back, Tom! We've done our bit to keep it going and yet we're still wanted. Reactor Cannon hasn't been cancelled again, it's been rebooted!'

            Tom moved back to the bed, laying down. 'I hate that term.'

            'It's an Americanism, isn't it?' Pat said.

            'Yes.' John scratched his nose. 'I believe so.'

            Tom folded his arms. 'Always so confident, John.'

            'And what's wrong with that?' Pat said.

            John laughed. 'What's wrong with that indeed?'

EARLIER IN THE HOTEL LOBBY - Radio Script

SCENE 1 - INT Hotel Lobby. Background noises - guests booking in at the front desk, the clack and roll of wheeled luggage across linoleum floor, doors closing heavily, occasionally a phone ringing.

JOHN: Hello, Peter. This is John.

PETER: John? [beat] I thought we weren't holding the meeting for another hour or so yet.

JOHN: We still are. I just wanted to make a quick phone call before then.

PETER: What's up, John?

JOHN: I just wanted to let you know that our recording studios are ready for you as and when you need them.

PETER: Well that's great, John, but we didn't ask for that.

JOHN: I know. I'm just [beat] planning ahead, as it were.

PETER: John. I hope this isn't an attempt at bribery.

[JOHN laughs]

JOHN: Of course not, Peter! Perish the thought! I just thought you might need to borrow some of the sound effects and what not. Do you have everything you need?

PETER: Right now, yes.

JOHN: Fantastic. That's fantastic. I just wanted to let you know that all you have to do is ask. Grand Flourish is very happy to get involved with Reactor Cannon's comeback, very happy to ally our unique resources with yours.

PETER: That's great, John. Your enthusiasm is commendable. Just maybe tone it down a bit until we've got everyone on board. [beat] Okay?

JOHN: Yes. Yes, that is okay.

PETER: Talk again in a bit, John.

[SFX: a button being depressed on a phone]

JOHN: Okay.

[JOHN sighs]

            'Fine,' Tom said. 'I suppose it won't kill me to bring out a new line. I am a bloody publisher after all, I have to get stuff out no matter how much it compromises my previous work.'

            'That's good.' Pat smiled. 'And, worst comes to worse, we can always meet to discuss the new canonical state.'

            'That's just canon, Pat,' John said.

            Tom stood up. 'I don't think she quite has it yet.'

            'I don't think any of us have it yet.' John approached him.

            'Well, I'm going downstairs for a drink.'

            'We'll join you,' Pat said.

            They all moved towards the door. Pat looked up at John.

            'So, John, are you available?'

            He frowned. 'What do you mean?'

            'Sorry, got that out a bit wrong. Are you single?'

            'Oh. Yes.' John's face softened as he held open the door for her. 'Who would have me anyway?'

            Pat gave him a wry sideways glance. Tom was already at the elevator, thumbing the button and muttering to himself. He had something of a plan fixing together in his head, very simple but relevant.

            'It'll have to do,' he said.

SLIME TRAIL (a.k.a. A Domestic Insect Crime Thriller)

Human stepped out of the shower. Spider darted out from underneath the mat to the skirting board.

            'I see you,' Human said, reaching for a towel.

            'Shit,' Spider muttered.

            'Relax. You're actually incredibly handy.'

            Spider looked up at Human. 'Please don't squish me.'

            Human dried his chest. 'No squishing today. Not even a trip to the bushes outside.'

            'You're leaving me be?'

            'Yes,' Human said, applying talcum powder. 'Like I said, you're handy.'

            'May I ask what you intend to do with me?'

            'I'm going to take you downstairs. To my living room.'

            'To do what? Eat a fly?'

            'Close. A slug.'

            'You want me to eat a slug?'

            'Yes.'

            'But I can't do that. I'm not big enough.'

            Human knelt down. 'But you can follow his trail. Digest him bit by bit. Think of him as, I don't know, ten flies squished into one.'

            'Slimy, chewy flies.'

            'That's exactly my problem. Well, the first part certainly. He's been leaving slime trails all over the living room. Furniture too.'

            Spider relaxed her front legs slightly. 'I can track him down.'

            Human straightened up to his full height. 'That would be good. And then just do what comes naturally.'

            'I'll see what I can do.'

            'Great,' Human said, reaching behind him, into the sink. He pulled out a glass tumbler, bringing it down hard around Spider before she could get away. As she cursed and gathered her senses, he found a square piece of cardboard and slotted it underneath her.

            He lifted the glass to his level and smiled.

            'You'll do just fine,' he said.

            Spider had to wait for Human to get fully dressed before he took her down to the living room. He brought her over to an armchair.       

            'You see this?' he said, holding the glass close to the cushion. 'Slime trails. Lots and lots of them.'

            Spider could see them. They sparkled in the artificial light, all curved, some of them only half-finished. It seemed that this slug wasn't terribly sure where it was going.

            'Now,' Human announced, 'I'm going to let you out. But first promise me that you won't try to scarper.'

            Spider looked up at him. 'All right. I promise.'

            Human laid the upturned glass on a clean part of the cushion and removed it. Spider crawled off the cardboard square, all her eyes focused on the nearest slime trail.

            'It shouldn't be too hard to find him,' she said, 'but I won't eat him.'          

            'And you won't kill him either?'

            'No.'

            Human smiled again. 'I found a moth not too long ago, back upstairs, in the toilet. Actually in the toilet bowl, half-drowned. Goodness knows how it got in there, perhaps it fell from one of your webs. Anyway, I saw it there just as I was about to do my business. And you know what I did? I did my business. It was dead, it was a moth. I wasn't desecrating anything, not really.

            'But then I leant forward for a closer look. In spite of everything, the toilet water, the steady stream of piss, the moth was still alive. It's wing twitched, the left one. I was impressed: this little insect was defying the odds, still beating the air to show that it could. Then I flushed it. One wing beating is not worth a thing. It's a cruel joke.'

            Spider's front legs twitched in disgust. She straightened them out.

            'So,' Human said, getting closer, 'Was that moth your lunch?'

            Spider cast her mind back. 'Probably. Yes. I, um, I can eat moths.'

            'So what's a slug in comparison? It doesn't have any wings, any limbs. With all its moisture it'll just slide down.' Human laughed. 'Get to work. Eat the slug and I'll let you hide in whatever corner you choose.'

            Spider clicked her mandibles. Human waited until she started following the slime trail down the front of the chair. When she was underneath it, he left.

            The trail went all the way to the back of the sofa where it thinned out and lost its sheen. The lacklustre string led to just behind the plant pots in front of the bay window. Spider followed it to a tight crack in the third pot. It wasn't tight for her but it must have been for the Slug: slime was caked all over the harsh edges.

            It didn't take long to find him; he was lying beneath a large clod of soil, hunched over. He barely raised his antennae.

            'I heard you talking,' he said, 'You and the Human. You really don't want to kill me, do you? That is what you said?'       

            'No, I don't,' Spider said.

            Slug sighed. 'Good. That's good. You can hide here if you like. He won't find you in here. He hasn't found me yet.'

            'But he still might.'

            Slug shook his head. 'That would mean making a mess of his entire precious living room. He wouldn't do that. He's too lazy, won't even expend energy to follow my trail.'

            'It did peter out eventually. Human eyes wouldn't have been able to follow it all the way.'

            'But clever Spider eyes did, eh? What else, did you notice?'

            Slug turned to Spider fully, antennae straightened and expectant.

            'You've cut yourself,' Spider said, 'That's not just slime on the crack you squeezed through. You're bleeding out.'

            Slug chuckled. 'What's worse than a fat slug? An overambitious one. Just made that up. Good saying, I think. Apt.'

            'What do you want me to do?'

            'Just hide with me. Talk.'

            Spider sighed. 'You do know that you probably won't recover from this?'

            'I know.' Slug groaned. 'I'm drying up. My trail dried up and now I'm losing moisture too. Company is still appreciated though, especially the kind that promises not to eat me.'

            'I only eat winged things.'

            'Yes. I heard about the moth. That Human's a deviant. But then I suppose you can be at that size.'

            Spider lowered herself onto the ground. 'I'll stay with you for a while. This is a comfortable spot.'

            'It is.' Slug's voice was getting weaker. 'It's warm and damp here. The nutrients are good too though I've lost my appetite.'

            Spider watched him silently. Slug didn't have long left, he'd cut too deeply into himself. If she reached out now to touch him, she would feel warmth but no dampness. He had no sheen left at all.

            And as for her appetite, it was piqued. She hadn't eaten in a couple of days now. Even a non-winged thing, a dying mollusc looked delicious. She wondered how she would eat such a large thing, it might be unnatural but that certainly didn't make it impossible. In that way, Human was right.

            Nevertheless she resisted the urge, held back the hunger. She indulged Slug's need to talk even as he lost focus and then consciousness. Between those moments she glanced around the living area Slug had made for himself. It really was comfortable.

            She stepped out of the plant pot and followed the trail again, getting each of her legs stuck into the slime.

           

            Human came back down in the morning. He opened up the door to the living room and went over to check the armchair immediately.

            No new slime trails on the cushion but no sign of Spider either. He laughed. True to his word, he would let her hide.

            He glanced at the wall opposite. Perhaps it was the light but it never seemed to glisten like that before.

            He hurried over to it. Many tiny pin pricks of slime moving steadily up the wall in an almost perfect line. He followed it all the way to the ceiling where it stopped just above his head. Spider glared down at him.

            'Careful where you tread,' she said.

            Human looked down at his feet. Slug's body was inches away from his toe. When he looked back up, Spider was gone. Her makeshift slime trail didn't follow.

PERIOD 2, ICT - INWOOD (a.k.a. An Elaboration of a High School Teacher)

My high school ICT teacher always looked like she had just come in out of the rain. I think she was originally brought in out of the rain; like a cross between a lost old lady and a stray cat. She had short hair and it clung to her head in soggy grey curls. Matted fur.

            Her mascara always ran too and her voice was croaky. The staff took pity and integrated her into their number. It just so happened she was very skilled with computers.

            She wasn't so skilled as a teacher. It being the early days of mandatory computer literacy, we, the students, would get quite out of control being away from books and desks. We would spin in our swivel chairs, go on naughty websites and even message each other from across the room. Fortunately she had a nifty trick for such misbehaviour. She took over. She froze our computer screens and started writing a Word document telling us to settle down or suffer detention. I always yielded but the rest of the class had this childish old-fashioned sense of self-righteousness. One or two even found a way around the computer freeze but they only did it the one time. They wouldn't do it again no matter how much you prompted them.

            They had wet hands. The backs of their hands were usually glistening after a detention. I thought it was sweat. Perhaps it was raindrops. Or teardrops.

            She wasn't a happy woman. She looked lost in the hallways, in the staffroom, basically anywhere without a computer. It was then that she looked very dry in her fluffy jumpers and her corduroy jeans. She stared off into the distance with her eye make-up dripping down her face, head twitching every time she thought the bell was about to go. But it didn't, not until she had been trapped in a conversation with an RE teacher in need of free technical support.

            She hated it when people referred to her subject as ICT. She called it IT ahead of its time. She always got so flustered when people would ask her what the letter 'C' meant in the acronym, of course it wasn't just 'computer'. I actually looked into it; it turns out ICT stands for Information and Communication Technology. I don't know what her problem was with the communication part. Maybe she didn't even know the full meaning. All she knew was information and technology.

            She disappeared. Retired or so they described it, but I don't really remember her saying goodbye, having a party or even handing over the mouse to her successor. What I do remember though is her stepping outside for the last time. It was raining, not quite as heavily as the day she'd turned up, been rescued, but hard enough. She didn't have a coat on, just her usual ensemble. I would have said she would catch cold had my science teacher at the time not laughed the concept out of me.

            She disappeared, to her car presumably; earrings swinging in time with her skinny arms. I forgot to mention the earrings, they were elaborate and pendulous. Two parts of her  that showed off her balance, exemplified her rhythm. They looked like USB sticks. Probably not though; all that came years later.

            And school just let its stray, it's odd, soggy family member, depart in the middle of a school day in the middle of a school week. Perhaps they fired her and dressed it up as retirement. She was just too good at freezing all the computer screens, at taking over.

            Her name was Inwood. She moved on sleekly though soaked to the bone.

HOW I READ (a.k.a. A Confession for World Book Day)

I think I have a problem.

            I start to read, I rush the beginning, the opening sentence. I glance over the characters. Details are revealed, usually clothes, and I just jump over them. I land in the dialogue, properly wake up.

            My imagination starts to fizz. Is this American author writing in an English voice? Is this clearly a male short story writer trying to sound like a woman? Is this literary cross-dressing? The questions die down and I'm comfortable.

            Then the description returns. Exposition. I have to go over the previous sentence or else it feels like I'm losing something even if it's only a few prepositions. I cling to the exposition, waste time on going over it again and again. I try to put myself into the scenario, remind myself of what certain sequences of words mean and have I read them before? From this writer or someone else? This happens a lot with genre fiction but it's not exclusive to it.

            If the story is literary then I slow down to soak it all in. If the story is genre then I zip through. If the story is literary then I'm stewing in my own pretentiousness as well as the writer's. If the story is genre then I'm conscious that some of these characters resemble cardboard.

            I cheer up every time dialogue comes along, even rehearse it for a voice acting job I'll never even apply for, let alone get. I wade through the details, thankful for every simple sentence and uncomplicated word or idea. I stop if I start judging words by their singular complexity.

            I finally get into it, the plot, usually midway between chapters. I know what's going on and it's terribly exciting precisely because I know what's going on. I stop and check - thirty pages. That means it's a good session. I try for more.

            I become conscious of the time limit I need to abide to: got a dog to walk or a train to disembark in three stops. I lose my place. Other thoughts intrude. My fault. Snippets of prior conversations return to me, quick retorts finally occur. I have to focus on individual lines. I am an idiot.

            My imagination keeps floating back to the movie depiction of the character. The character suddenly doesn't seem real anymore. I'm too attracted to him/her. I think about the actor, what they'll be in next. I try my hardest to forget about them, dress the character up as someone I know that fits the rather unflattering aspects of the physical description. This works for a while but the face develops soft lighting and healthy Hollywood pores.

            I put the book down, I don't close it, just lower it onto my lap. I look around, remind myself how boring reality is, that it's not snuck off just yet and I don't need to worry about this happening anytime soon. I pick up the book again and find my place. My imagination remains on the fritz but I'm back in the story, back in the character, back in the plot.

            Nevertheless I keep checking how many pages I have left to go till the end of the book. Is this text actually very small? Is the line spacing too regular? Am I an idiot being led along by hand? Is the author fully aware of my short attention span? Why not do more about it then?

            My imagination is working on the wrong thing here, I bring myself back on topic. The self-made time limit is coming to an end. This is turning into a fitful sleep, I'm waking up ahead of time and checking that I still have long enough to make something of it.

            The character says something philosophical at the end of the page. I'm trying my best to consider the deeper implications but it doesn't feel honest. I'm flummoxed. I think I get where the character is coming from though.

            I'm drifting off so I stop. I regret it. I think perhaps I'm going about the whole process in the wrong way. I never would have known I was so neurotic if not for this healthy passion for reading. I feel alone and that's fair enough, it's just me and a writer who has long since moved on. Now I'm the only one putting in the work.

            I want to be a writer. It would just be nice to immerse myself in something.