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He steps closer, offering a disarming smile. “Seth Daniels, assistant producer. And fan.” He gestures to my papers.
“Well, thank you.” I study him more carefully now. Brown hair with natural highlights that would cost a fortune at a salon. Fit but not in that obsessive gym-rat way. Boyish charm that probably gets him out of trouble more often than it should.
“And I just want to say,” he continues, “The concept of AI programs creating hallucinations based on repressed memories? Brilliant.”
I feel a warm glow of pride. “Thank you. It’s not often I meet someone who actually watches the show and gets the premise.”
“Gets it? I wrote a twelve-page analysis of the implications of digital consciousness for my film theory fan group.” He takes a sip of coffee, eyes bright. “The episode where Mira’shallucination reveals she was actually the one who coded the original algorithm? Mind-blowing.”
I can’t help but smile. “That was a last-minute change. Originally, it was going to be her twin sister.”
“No way!” Seth leans forward, coffee sloshing dangerously. “The twin sister twist would have been too predictable. The self-creation angle was way more compelling.”
“Good! That’s what I told the network execs, but they fought me on it until three days before shooting.”
Before I know it, we’re deep in conversation about storytelling techniques, the tyranny of network notes, and the challenge of maintaining a coherent narrative across multiple episodes. Seth isn’t just knowledgeable—he’s insightful, pointing out themes in my own work that I wasn’t consciously aware of developing.
“So how’d you end up as an assistant producer on this...” I gesture vaguely, “journey of love?”
He laughs, his smile so wide the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Paying my dues. I’d love to be a screenwriter with a hit series someday, but I need networking and experience, you know? Reality TV isn’t my endgame, but it’s teaching me a lot about human behavior under pressure, which is fascinating from a storytelling perspective.”
“I can see that. It’s like a petri dish for human drama.” I raise an eyebrow. “So, what are you working on?”
“Psychological thriller with sci-fi elements.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Just something I’ve been tinkering with for a while.”
“That sounds interesting.” And I mean it. “What’s the premise?”
“It’s about a therapist who specializes in memory reconstruction for trauma victims. She uses this experimental technology to help patients revisit and reframe their traumaticexperiences. But then she starts experiencing her patients’ memories as if they’re her own, and reality begins to break down.”
I nod, genuinely intrigued. “I like that. Lots of potential for exploring the nature of memory and identity.”
“Exactly!” Seth’s face lights up. “But I’m struggling with the second act. The protagonist needs to discover that the memories she’s experiencing aren’t just random—they’re connected somehow. But I can’t quite figure out the logic behind it without it feeling contrived.”
I automatically brainstorm solutions, the writer in me unable to resist a good story problem. “What if it’s not the memories themselves that are important, but the emotional resonance? Maybe she’s absorbing the same emotional frequency, and that’s what’s drawing them to her.”
Seth stares at me for a moment, then scribbles something on his clipboard. “That’s... actually brilliant. She connects with them through shared emotional trauma, not the events themselves.”
We bounce ideas back and forth for a few more minutes before Seth sets down his pen and looks at me with a mixture of hope and hesitation.
“I know this is completely out of line, and please feel free to say no, but... would you be willing to look at what I’ve written so far? It could really use a pair of expert eyes.”
And there it is. I’ve been through this dance before—the enthusiastic conversation that turns into a request for free labor. A part of me wants to remind him that I’m on a reality TV show where I’m kind of busy. Except I’m not, not really, as there’s a lot of downtime while Hayes is on other dates. Past contestants say they go stir crazy.
Plus, the other part remembers five years ago, being twenty-two, clutching my first screenplay, desperate for someone—anyone—with experience to give me feedback. Remembers the cold emails sent to established writers, most unanswered. Remembers the one who did respond, a TV writer who took the time to read my work and offer thoughtful criticism that ultimately helped me land my agent.
I promised myself then that if I ever “made it,” I’d pay it forward when I could.
Still, there’s a complication here that doesn’t exist elsewhere. “Seth, I want to help. I really do. But I’m also a contestant on a show you’re producing. Don’t you think that creates a conflict of interest?”
Seth winces. “I thought about that, but not really. What you’d be working on is something that’d be produced on this network, so it helps them. And I’m not offering to give you inside information or advantages. Just one writer helping out another.” He hesitates, then continues. “Look, I’ve been working on this script for three years. I’ve hit a wall. And talking to you for the past fifteen minutes has given me more ideas than I’ve had in months.”
I chew my bottom lip, considering. “What if the other women found out? It could look like I’m doing work in exchange for special treatment.”
“We could keep it quiet,” Seth says. “Add my papers to yours while you’re making your own notes.”
I look at him skeptically, and he says, “We only need to meet a couple of times, in the morning like this, before anyone’s awake. I know all the blind spots where the cameras don’t reach.”
I should say no. It’s the sensible thing to do. But there’s something about his passion that reminds me of myself, and the premise of his screenplay genuinely intrigues me. Plus, I could use an ally on the set besides Skye.