Page 31 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

“Thank you, but I’m fine. As I said, I’m happy with the life I’ve built.

I’m even—your writerly insight to the contrary—relatively well-adjusted.

My point, though, is that I know what it’s like to want something desperately and to fail.

I did not become a world-renowned actor.

I didn’t become a star. And no amount of hard work or perspicacity or stick-to-it-ness would have changed that.

Could I have become a better actor, with time?

Likely. I might have reached a level where I did local circuits, appeared in regional productions.

But I was never going to be what my father wanted. Or, for that matter, what I wanted.”

They lapsed into silence, and after a moment, I heard myself ask like a child, “What happened?”

“I gave up. And for a while, it was awful. It was the most awful thing I think I’ve ever gone through.

More awful than the bullying and the jeers I had to put up with from classmates.

More awful than the disappointment at home.

It was awful because I had failed, and I knew I had failed, and I thought, in a real sense, that my life was over. ”

My throat tightened. My chest tightened.

My whole body tightened in the contraction of strong emotion that wouldn’t let me speak.

Because I knew . I knew that feeling. I’d been too afraid to give it a name, but I knew it.

That I had lost the thing I wanted most. That I’d never had it to begin with.

That I would never have it, no matter how hard I tried.

It was like some part of myself had been cut out of me.

No, not some part. The core. What I’d built myself around.

The person I was, the writer. Like my life was over, yes.

But the way it felt—if I had to put it into words—was like dying.

Like every morning, I died all over again.

Finally, I nodded.

“But,” Fox said gently, and they touched my arm, and I met their gaze, “I didn’t die, Dash.”

“I know,” I said thickly. And I had to wipe my cheeks. “I know. I know it’s melodramatic. I know it’s self-indulgent, self-absorbed, egotistical, whatever you want to call it. Plain old selfish. It’s definitely a sign of privilege. I get it, I do. And I know my life isn’t over, not really.”

But it did feel like it was.

To my surprise, though, Fox shook their head.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Those feelings are valid.

They’re real. Of course you should feel pain.

Of course you should grieve. To make something—to truly make something—means to care.

And caring means making yourself vulnerable.

It means taking a risk. It would be inhuman if you didn’t feel hurt. ”

“So, it’s okay to give up. I’ll find something else that makes me happy.”

“Good God, are you this bad at listening when Bobby tries to talk to you?”

I blinked. “Uh, maybe?”

Fox made a sound of disparagement, but their voice was gentle again when they said, “Dash, I’m trying to tell you that life—especially the creative life—isn’t linear. There isn’t an end post. Wait, is an end post a thing in sports? Is it an end zone?”

“End goal?” I offered tentatively.

“Well, let’s pretend we know the correct term and move forward.

There isn’t a destination. All we have is the journey.

The process. Reaching out to know the world.

Reaching in to know ourselves. Trying to make sense of what it means to be human.

Trying to say something about it means to be in a body in the world.

To be alone. To be together. I was a terrible actor.

But do you know something? I’m a pretty good artist, as I eventually discovered.

And more importantly, I love the work that I do.

I love making the pieces I make. Even the ones—maybe especially the ones—that the tourists don’t want to buy.

I love them because they’re me, and because they’re true, and because even though they made me want to drink an unhealthy amount of absinthe in the process, making them was satisfying and meaningful to me in a way that has nothing to do with whether anyone buys them. ”

“I know—” I began.

But then I stopped. Because—did I know? I mean, sure, you can’t spend any time at all around writers without hearing the phrase process over product , or some variation.

In my own teaching, I’d probably given some version of the same speech over and over again—that publishing a book was separate from the writing, and that the writing was what mattered.

How many times had I told myself that I loved writing, and that I’d do it no matter what, even if I never got published?

And then the first time I got knocked down—the first time I skinned my knees—look what happened.

“It’s okay to get discouraged,” Fox said.

“We all have those days. Or weeks. Or months. Or years. And we all need someone to remind us why we got ourselves into this mess in the first place.” Fox cleared their throat.

“I know that I like to tease you, but I hope you’ll take me seriously when I say that I think you’re a remarkable young man.

It takes a lot of courage to do what you’ve done—in your writing, but more importantly, in your life.

You’re insightful. You’re compassionate.

You are generous and clear-eyed and wise, Dash, and those are rare and commendable traits.

I hope that when you’re ready, you’ll come back to the page.

Because the page will always be waiting for you.

” A bit archly, they added, “Even if you do have a tendency to rip off Christie.”

I was getting a bit misty-eyed, so I had to work up some extra outrage when I exclaimed, “Rip off? They’re homages!”

Fox’s grin was surprisingly infectious, and I found myself smiling back at them.

“I’m so mad at myself,” I said, my smile fading. “I know. I know I should get back to work. I know I’m being—I’m being a baby. But it hurts so much.”

Nodding, Fox said, “Perhaps you could try, for a while, being kind to yourself, instead of being angry.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” I muttered. But I held up my hands in surrender and said, “I’ll try.”

“Which brings me to my next point,” Fox said.

“Oh God, no.”

“With that little comment about not deserving to be loved.”

“No, that was a mistake. That was—” Genius struck. “I was having a stroke!”

Fox’s gaze could best be described as withering . “I’m going to extend a certain amount of, shall we say, undeserved credit and assume that you know that your worth as a human being is not contingent on your ability to produce and sell a book.”

“Yes, obviously. Listen, Fox, we don’t have to talk about this. Great pep talk. Very inspirational. You didn’t use the word dunderhead even once, which I appreciate—”

“On the other hand,” Fox said over me, “you are a dunderhead, and it’s my prerogative as your titi to set you straight.”

“Are you my titi? Because I think of you as an older—much older—sibling. Like, you were already in college when I was growing up, so I don’t have to listen to you.”

“How,” Fox said icily, “is that supposed to be better?”

“I honestly don’t know. At this point, it’s the panic talking.”

“Dash, I understand that your relationship with your parents is complicated. And I understand that you have felt a lot of pressure from them, at various times in your life, to be someone else. I understand how that might have affected your view of what it means to be deserving of love.”

“How about some mild teasing? You could talk about my hair again!”

“But if you don’t start doing some work on this, and I mean really doing some work on it, you are going to fudge things up with Bobby.”

(And they didn’t say fudge .)

“Okay, yes, I know,” I said. “But it’s not that easy!”

“I didn’t say it was easy. In fact, I said work .

In case this is something you haven’t learned for yourself, let me tell you about the threat of onedayism.

Onedayism is the syndrome of believing that someday—one day—your real life will begin.

Someday, you’ll be a real adult. Someday, you’ll be a real writer.

Someday, you’ll be ready for a real relationship.

There’s always some sort of external marker, some form of validation.

When I have my first solo show. When I make six figures. When I sell a book.”

I groaned.

“Your life is now,” Fox said. “This is it. This is all any of us has, this moment. There is no future; the future was made up by life insurance salesmen. And you deserve to be loved right now. Love is many things, Dash, but it’s not conditional.

It’s not about what you’ve achieved. There’s no checklist.”

The words burst out of me before I could stop them. “But it doesn’t make any sense. I mean, look at Bobby. He’s smart. He’s accomplished. He’s got a great career. He’s so handsome that sometimes I can’t believe he’s talking to me.”

“Yes, we’ve noticed.”

“He—”

“One time you tripped over Millie’s roller skates.”

“What I’m saying is—”

“And when he scratched his stomach and his shirt rode up, you tried to sit down and missed the chair.”

“Okay, but—”

“By about three feet.”

“I’m trying to say—”

“And that’s not even beginning to touch on the subject of Bobby mowing the lawn with his shirt off.”

“I am aware,” I snapped. And I sounded surprisingly grumpy, even to myself, when I said, “I’ve got a part-time job at a community college.

I have zero accomplishments. I have, as they say, no prospects.

And let’s be honest: if I tried mowing the lawn with my shirt off, there would be a petition to make me stop. ”

“Ah,” Fox said.

And that was it.

Just ah .

Just that one little sound.

That smugly knowing sound.

“What does that mean?” I said.

“Oh, nothing.”

For the most part, I’m a pretty easygoing guy (until it comes to desserts and Keme devoured the salted peanut butter cookies Indira made and he knew you were going to keep some for the meal you invented called night lunch). But if you want to make my blood boil…

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

“It makes sense,” Fox said. “The hair. The clothes. The gym. Good God, Dash, the contact lenses. You’re trying to be a different person, hoping that will make Bobby love you in spite of your failure as a writer.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say—”

“I mean, it’s not a good plan.”

“Actually, I thought it was—”

“It’s not original.”

“I’m not trying to be—”

“It’s not even that clever.”

“Hold on.”

“It’s certainly not realistic. I love you, Dash, but you do realize that you aren’t supposed to make protein shakes with ice cream, don’t you?”

“I love you too,” I said automatically. And then, “Now wait a second, what do you mean it’s not a good plan? And they’re called shakes for a reason!”

“Bobby loves you , Dash. He doesn’t love some imaginary better version of you. If he’d wanted a gym rat, he could have had a gym rat. Oh God, remember that one with the skull on his biceps?”

“How is this supposed to be helping?”

“He fell in love with you . Because he connected with you . Because you understand him, and because you bring out the best in him, parts of him he’s never been able to share with anyone else before, and because you make him feel alive and happy and wonderful.

” Fox’s voice softened. “Full of wonder. Literally. Have you ever seen how he watches you?” Some of the softness went away when Fox added, “Particularly when you’re presented with a birthday cake. ”

“That’s because birthday cake is the most delicious of all cakes.” I gave up on the flannel. I looked around the (admittedly blurry) van, staring at everything, trying to find something to latch on to. “Fox, I appreciate you saying all of that.”

“But?”

“But things have been so weird. Everything’s different.

I’m a different person. I mean, I don’t even know who I am.

And Bobby keeps being the absolute weirdest. He talks about moving.

And he talks about changing jobs. And it’s clear that whatever part I have in that future, it’s hypothetical at best.”

With what might have been called a long-suffering sigh, Fox tilted their carbide lamp, adjusting it as though to see me better. “At the risk of suggesting something obvious,” they said, “have you tried talking to him?”