I stared numbly at the TV. My hand reaching for the phone, and fingers dialing before I knew what was going on. Phone pressed to my ear, I could hear it ringing.
"Virginia, you're on the air." Mike, the TV interviewer said.
I couldn't back out now. Taking a deep breath before I chickened out I said, "Yeah, hi. Two things. First, my question is, who came up with the amnesia route for Truman's dad?"
Christof the director, seemed to puff up his chest and proudly say, "I came up with the idea, but I have a good team to help me in implementing it."
"Okay, um. Are you artistically blind?" I looked at his pixelated image.
"Excuse me?" Christof said, offended.
"Sorry." I said, apologetically. Only to backtrack again. "Deaf, dumb, and blind."
Christof opened his mouth to speak, but I wouldn't let him. Once I got started, I wasn't going to stop until I got it all out.
"I mean, 'amnesia'? Really? That's so boring, and overdone. You couldn't have thought of anything else? Couldn't think of anything fun, artistic, or creative? You kill off Truman's dad, Kirk, you gave him an ocean death. Now, more than twenty years later, you bring him back. Do you have any idea, how many back stories, and explanations you could have given for what he was up to for those twenty years.
"Okay, just a few examples. He could have washed up on a deserted island. And it's only been recently that he was able to flag down a ship to bring him to the mainland. You could have said that he was picked up by pirates, everyone loves a good pirate story. If you wanted you could have worked the amnesia angle in there, by saying that he had faked it. To protect his family, so that the pirates wouldn't go after them.
"There is a reason why studios rotate out directors and screenwriters every two or three movies or seasons, if it's a show. Fresh ideas. New ideas. To keep the creative juices flowing. But you, your creativity is all dried up. You're a raisin. Or a prune, take your pick.
"I may not be a hardcore fan of the show, but I've seen enough episodes to know that Truman's favorite show is, I Love Lucy. There is more drama and action in that show than in yours. I've seen your ratings. And comparatively over the last ten years, you guys are at your lowest point. Or at least you were until Kirk showed up. Kirk Burbank is the most interesting thing to happen on your show to date, in an otherwise bland mystery meat middle school lunch food of a show.
"Maybe if you were half as fun and interesting as Truman, then your show wouldn't be CRAP. Do something interesting, have a carnival, do a murder mystery, be spontaneous! You Steven Spielberg wannabe!
"I mean, anything. Instead of just boring old amnesia. You Christof, have been working on the same project, the same story for so long, that you are creatively and artistically dead!" I yelled the last part of the last sentence, working myself up. Throwing the phone to the other side of the couch.
I felt a mild sense of satisfaction, seeing the slight stupefied look on Christof's face. Getting up, I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of ice water.
"What was that about?" I look up at my mom who had followed me. Her "mom look" firmly in place. But I wasn't backing down, not this time.
"He, Christof," I sneered his name. "Is supposed to be the most creative person in his generation. Even the music is repetitive, overdone, and unenthusiastic. I know five year olds who can do a better job! He's doing the same thing over, and over, and over again. This man is insane."
I paused, "... Actually, now that I think about it, he is doing the same thing, over and over again. Hoping for a different outcome. That is the textbook definition of insanity. Infact, most artists, no matter their medium, have some form of mental illness. So that tracks."
"And you're a writer, so what does that make you?" Mom askes, a grin forming.
"I'm able to look at a blank page, and hallucinate a whole story. And then put it on the page."
"So you're delusional?" Mom said.
"That's…one way of putting it i guess."
Mom then started to laugh, it shook her whole frame, tears began to form in the corners of her eyes.
I looked at her deadpanned. "Ha. Ha."
"Hey!" My brother Sam shouted across the room.
"What?!" Looking over, my face paled seeing him holding up the phone, and pointing at the tv. And the look on Christof's face, highly offended. It was only then that I realized, that I didn't end the call.
"Repetitive?" Christof asked, his voice shaking in anger. His jaw clenched. As if that was the only thing he got from what I said. "I'll have you know that the musicians that we staff are-"
Walking over I grab the phone from Sam's hand. Pressing it to my ear, "I said what I meant, and I meant what I said."
I then very purposefully mashed my thumb on the end call button. Handing the phone off, and dropping on the couch, I picked up the throw pillow next to me. Pressing it to my face, I scream.
"There, there." Sam pats my back, consolidating me.