INT. KEEP, FORTRESS MAMEA – NIGHT
Our WRITER hunches over his desk, fingers flying over his KEYBOARD, head bopping to Charlie Parker. A particularly intense buzz of typing and he squints at his MONITOR --
ON MONITOR where a page count shows “12”.
WRITER
Yeah, baby!
His CELLPHONE vibrates.
ON CELLPHONE which shows “New txt from Producer”.
He snatches up his cell.
ON CELLPHONE – “You have a Director.”
Our Writer’s brow furrows as --
CUT TO:
FLASHBACK – INT. PRODUCER’S OFFICE – DAY
-- our Writer squirms on his KINDERGARTEN STOOL, eyes barely clearing the top of the PRODUCER’S DESK.
PRODUCER
Do you want to direct?
WRITER
Hell, no.
PRODUCER
Shut -, uh. Good.
ON WRITER as he stares at the Producer, a bead of sweat tracking down his forehead as we --
CUT BACK TO:
INT. KEEP, FORTRESS MAMEA – NIGHT
-- and the Writer’s thumb hovers over the ‘Send’ button --
ON CELLPHONE – “Wow. Without a script, too.”
-- then he thumbs the ‘Cancel’ button, before trying another answer --
ON CELLPHONE – “You are so O for AWESOME.”
-- then he cancels that reply – a DROP OF SWEAT splashes the cellphone and he blinks and remembers to breathe – then types in --
ON CELLPHONE – “Thank you.”
