Not Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of My Own Screenwriting Because I’m On Strike And I Deserve To Be Fairly Compensated For My Labor While Studio Ceos Take Record Salaries

AUTHORS NOTE: greeting buckaroos. this tingler is given to all FOR FREE in solidarity with writers guild buds who are currently making their voices heard and striking with incredibly reasonable demands.

the wga is asking that any donations go to the ENTERTAINMENT COMMUNITY FUND which is used to directly help those in the entertainment industry in need and who will feel the financial burden of not working during a strike. 

as i said this tingler is free HOWEVER if you have the means you can donate the amount a tingler usually costs (three dollars or MORE if you would like) to the charity fund and support. just click the link and when it says 'gift designation' select 'film and television'

DONATE HERE 

if you would like to know other ways you can support those currently on the picket line click here 

LOVE IS REAL - chuck

Monica is the head negotiator for the Writer’s Guild, a collective of Hollywood screenwriters who are edging closer and closer to a full on strike if the studios refuse to meet their incredibly reasonable demands. All the writers are asking for is fair treatment and compensation for their labor, but after a meeting with the greedy T-Rex CEO of Cobbler Studios goes south, a strike is called.

Now Monica and her companions are marching the picket lines and making their voices heard, working together to create better working across the film industry.

Unfortunately, this puts a terrible distance between Monica and her girlfriend Holly, who happens to be the physical manifestation of her own screenwriting. With no way to process these feelings, Monica looks for solace in the writing community itself, but will these efforts be enough to battle the cruel, money-hungry CEOs?

This important no sex tale is 4,100 words of collective bargaining as laborers organize to protest a nauseating dinosaur CEO with the power of solidarity and love.

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NOT POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF MY OWN SCREENWRITING BECAUSE I’M ON STRIKE AND I DESERVE TO BE FAIRLY COMPENSATED FOR MY LABOR WHILE STUDIO CEOS TAKE RECORD SALARIES

By Chuck Tingle

I remember the first time I stepped through the doors of this office, the way it felt to hear my own footsteps echoing down these hallowed halls. It was a surreal experience, the glorious culmination of hard work, luck and a dream that just wouldn’t go away. I always wanted to be a screenwriter, but for years that craving seemed like some otherworldly fantasy, utterly disconnected from the life I was inhabiting.

Back in Montana, the screenwriting jobs are sparse, to say the least.

I moved to Los Angeles after college, pushing into the film industry any way that I could. I worked all kinds of strange jobs on set, anything from fetching chocolate milk to helping track down a loose mongoose that scurried away before its big television debut. Those days I was holed up in a ramshackle apartment on Van Nuys, nestled in the valley with two roommates and a broken air conditioner that made our summers unbearable, if not dangerous.

All the while I kept hacking away at my first screenplay, a spec script about a conversion therapy camp with a dark secret.

My script never sold, but there were plenty of people who enjoyed my writing enough to throw a few opportunities my way. Next thing you know, I’ve found myself an agent, and the following screenplay was even better received than the first.

Soon enough, I was moving out of my crappy apartment on Van Nuys and making my way into a slightly less-crappy apartment on Moorpark.

Eventually, I landed a position as a staff writer on a sitcom, which is where I remain today.

It’s a heroic story of perseverance, but this transformation is not nearly as big as I’d like. From a writer’s perspective, a full rags-to-riches narrative would work much, much better, but that’s not the story I’ve got for one simple reason: even with all my success and everything I’ve accomplished, screenwriters are still not paid enough.

Not even close.

Fortunately, this is not an issue that I’m powerless to fight against. Thanks to the muscle of collective bargaining, the Writer’s Guild is taking a stand. We’ve threatened to strike if the studios don’t meet our demands, which are remarkably reasonable. All we’re looking for is fair pay and treatment.

As the world moves towards streaming, the previous negotiations us writer’s made are becoming increasingly irrelevant, and the CEOs at every major studio have decided to exploit this changing media landscape for the sake of fattening their already stuffed wallets.

Top studio executives took down record salaries this year, while screenwriters and other behind-the-scenes creatives were left out to dry.

“I’m Monica Missoula, here to see Dorvin Jorb,” I announce, the secretary looking up to greet me with a warm smile.

“Head on in,” she replies, pressing a button on her desk.

As wild as it is to be part of this legendary community, walking through studio backlots responsible for some of the greatest stories ever told, there’s something even more remarkable going on here.

Somehow, I’ve not only managed to work my way up through the screenwriting industry, but through the Writer’s Guild itself. I’ve found myself in the position of head negotiator, taking the wishes of our board and presenting them to whichever executive their side elects to do the same.

I’m meeting with Mr. Jorb today, the longtime head of Cobbler Studios and one of the richest men in history. It’s a little intimidating, sure, but I have high hopes.

Like I said, our demands are not extravagant. While the possibility of a strike certainly looms above us like some creeping specter, I’m hopeful we can come to an agreement and everyone stays working.

A set of large double doors open before me, swinging wide to reveal a massive, high-ceilinged boardroom. Massive classic film posters line the walls, framed and evenly spaced. Down the middle of the room is a giant table, at the end of which sits a massive golden throne.

The throne is empty.

“Oh,” I blurt, stopping in my tracks. “There must be a mistake. I looks like Dorvin’s not here.”

“He’s running a little behind,” the secretary informs me.

“Huh,” is all I can think to say, shocked by this turn of events.

This is an incredibly important meeting, one that will create shockwaves throughout the film industry. If this doesn’t go well then tens of thousands of people will be out of a job. Yet, Dorvin Jorb doesn’t see the need to be on time.

I stroll into the office and take a seat near the head to the table, sitting quietly as the door slowly closes behind me. The room immediately plunges into silence.

I sit staring at the wall for a while, wondering what could possibly be more important than this meeting. It gradually dawns on me that this tardiness could be a power move, setting the stage for an intense negotiation to come, but it’s impossible to know for sure.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and while I usually wouldn’t check my messages at a time like this, it appears there’s nobody else around to care.

I pull out the device and read my message aloud, mumbling the words under my breath. “Hey sweetheart, hope the big meeting goes well. You’ve got this. I can’t wait for our date tonight. Love, Holly.”

I can’t help the smile that works its way across my face, unable to suppress the love I have for this woman. Holly is the physical manifestation of my screenwriting, a beautiful living concept who takes the shape of a floating script. She’s also my girlfriend.

I start to respond when an unexpected sound catches my ear. It’s quiet at first, but the volume escalates quickly, a strange aural pulse filling the room. Soon enough, the sound is deafening. It’s right above me, hammering down on my eardrums from somewhere on the roof above.

Eventually, however, the pulse slows and the mysterious sound fades away. It’s only now that I realize what this strange cacophony was—a helicopter.

A minute or so passes, then suddenly the office doors fly open. I tall, broad-shouldered T-Rex in a suit strolls in, cell phone pressed against his ear. He doesn’t acknowledge me directly as he strolls to his seat, but indirectly is another story.

“Yeah, she’s here,” the dinosaur states loudly. “I don’t know. Late twenties? Like a seven. Maybe an LA four. Nah, it’ll be quick. Yep. Yeah. I’ll see you on the course later.”

The T-Rex hangs up his phone and flops onto the throne.

“Were you just…” I start, then trail off. “Actually, never mind. Let’s focus on the negotiations, Mr. Jorb. I’d love to hear-”

Before I can finish my sentence the dinosaur interrupts me, butting in with his loud, boisterous tone. “Listen, I know you think I’m some rich asshole with endless piles of money to throw around, but that’s just not the reality of the situation. Studio budgets are tight right now. We’re hemorrhaging money and doing everything we can to stay afloat.”

I stare at him awkwardly for a moment, shocked by the angle he’s taking. “You know that your salary is public, right?” I question.

“I have a very expensive life,” the dinosaur retorts. “I make a lot because I spend a lot. It all evens out. After taxes, I probably take home less than you!”

“How much did you pay in taxes this year?” I question.

The T-Rex shrugs. “I don’t know, like… a bunch.”

“You personally?” I continue.

Dorvin Jorb laughs. “Well no. Personally,I paid nothing. That’s just good business, though.”

I let out a long sigh, my hope slowly melting into a sludge of dread.

“Hey, we took a helicopter here,” Mr. Jorb continues. “I’m doing my part.”

I’m dumbfounded by this comment. “What?” I fumble. “How is that being cheap?”

“We!” the dinosaur explains. “Wetook a helicopter. Not a fleet, just a single chopper like we’re some sort of fucking daytime news team reporting the weather.”

“Oh, so normally you all have your own helicopters?” I continue. “You and the rest of the board?”

The T-Rex nods in confirmation. “What are we, feudal peasants?”

“And you don’t think some of that helicopter money could be used to pay writers a living wage?” I ask.

“Living wage? You seem pretty alive to me,” Dorvin Jorb counters.

The second he says this a brutal realization washes over me. I want so badly to make this work, to find some form of compromise between this chasm of vastly differing perspectives, but the responses of this dinosaur have made one thing incredibly clear: that’s not going to happen.

At least not today.

As this realization washes over me my expression falters, the corners of my mouth instinctively dipping into an uncontrollable frown. I came in here with the hope of sporting my best poker face, but I’m no robot.

Mr. Jorb immediately notices this. “Hey, don’t look so glum,” the T-Rex continues. “We have a counter.”

“Oh,” I blurt, shocked by this sudden revelation. “Really?”

The dinosaur nods, then leans down and picks up a small metal container. This chest is clean and professional looking, approximately the size of a shoebox, with a hinged lid that’s currently shut tight.

Dorvin turns the box towards me. He pushes it across the table. “This is our offer,” he says.

I stare down at the container, not entirely sure what to do with this unexpected olive branch. I feel like this box could sprout fangs and bite me at any moment. There’s no question Dorvin Jorb is a huge asshole, but it appears he sees the same positives that we do when considering a compromise. Ultimately, neither of us want this strike to happen.

I slowly open the lid and peer inside, my heart sinking when I see the contents of this tiny chamber. The box has no bottom, just an empty gaping hole that allows me a view through the glass table below.

“Nothing,” Mr. Jorb announces with sardonic glee. “We offer you nothing.”

I don’t wait around to hear another word of his toxic snark, abruptly standing up from my chair. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I state confidently.

The dinosaur begins to laugh as I turn to leave, his booming voice echoing behind me as I head for the door. I pull out my phone and immediately dial the other union organizers, who are patiently waiting nearby.

They pick up quickly. “How did it go?”

“We’re striking,” I report.

I head back through the office, making my way downstairs and out into the studio backlot.

The sun is hanging high in the sky, blessing me with a glorious Southern California day. Unfortunately, the majesty that I’d felt on my way into this meeting has dissolved completely.

At the same time, something new and powerful has entered my frame, imbuing my stride with a confident swagger. There’s a mission before me, and while I know the next few days, weeks, months or even years will be tough, I also know this fight is ours to win.

The studios are powerful, sure, and their pockets are deep, but ultimately they can’t produce content without us. They can certainly try, but the creative pursuit of writing is not something to be taken lightly. There’s years of craft that goes into what we do, and hiring inexperienced folks to cross the picket line just isn’t going to cut it. Computers stealing huge reams of data from previous screenplays won’t help either.

For the second time today I begin to hear a rhythmic, pulsing sound in the distance. It grows louder and louder with every step, swelling into a wild clamor.

There’s a huge difference between this noise and the previous hum of the helicopter. The chopper had been steady and constant, an automated beat without sway or cadence. It was a machine, and while it was certainly efficient, there was no heart.

The swell I’m hearing now is the complete opposite. It’s rhythmic, sure, repeating a specific pattern over and over again, but with every round the pattern changes slightly to reveal some fresh inner depth. At points I think I know exactly what I’m hearing, but then it will shift into something else with incredible aptitude, crafting an entirely new mystery and sending me in another direction. There’s a humanity to it, and that humanity immediately resonates.

As I step out through the studio gates I recognize what the sound is. These are the chants of protesters who are already lining up across the sidewalk, marching their way up and down the block. It appears the other guild members have already organized.

Their chanting immediately energizes me, any residual disappointment cast aside. This wash of cheering picketers is so well juxtaposed with the drone of the billionaire CEO’s helicopter that you’d think a writer planned it that way.

Someone steps up and hands me a sign, which I gladly take. I scrawl my own three word message across one of the blank sides, then proudly hoist it up. “Love is real! Love is real!” I begin to chant, my words joining the fray.

Our group quickly grows large enough to surround the studio lot, this massive campus of soundstages and office buildings completely encircled by protesters. I start getting word that the same thing is happening at every studio across town, every production shutting down in a breathtaking moment of solidarity.

It’s not just guild members out here picketing, either. Other unions from related fields have joined our fight, from gaffers to lighting technicians to set designers. People completely unrelated to the entertainment industry are showing up too, folks getting off work and heading over to see what they can contribute to our cause.

Some supporters who don’t have the time to stick around and picket swing by to drop off food, a much need contribution that helps keep the energy up.

As the day wears on and the sun creeps its way across the sky, however, a horrible sinking feel begins to return. There’s something I need to take care of, a discussion that’s going to be very, very difficult.

Eventually, I hand over my sign and excuse myself from the protest.

When I get back to the apartment Holly is there waiting for me, the physical manifestation of my own screenwriting sitting quietly at our kitchen table. Her body language is surprisingly casual, given the circumstances, but the fact that she’s just waiting here in an empty house is a dead giveaway that something’s wrong.

Both of us know the discussion ahead of us, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I stop in the doorway, staring at my girlfriend awkwardly.

“Am I supposed to just sit here?” Holly asks. “Can I give you a hug?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “I’m sorry. No.”
 Holly is a floating document that sports her beautiful, smiling face on the title page. She’s smart, kind and gorgeous as ever, the love of my life sitting right here in front of me.

And yet, we both know what has to be done.

My girlfriend tightens her lips, nodding along as she processes what I’ve just said. The thought of denying her so much as a hug is difficult to comprehend, but here we are.

“I understand,” she finally replies, then smiles. “It’s a shame. I bought some toys for date night. Looks like you’ll never know what it’s like to get pounded by the first forty pages of a science fiction epic about queer space raptors settling planet Zorbus.”

I laugh. “Well, this isn’t going to last forever,” I reply. “We’ll be together again, just not right now.”

There’s no doubt about it, this is the hardest part of our protest. All across Hollywood, a parade of screenwriters are having this exact same discussion with the physical manifestations of their writing. While each of us is in a different phase of our career, one thing remains consistent across the entire guild—we love writing.

Walking up and down the picket line for hours is tough, there’s no doubt about it. At the end of a long day your feet will hurt and the blazing California sun will roast your skin. As time wears on, these aches will get worse.

Then, of course, comes the financial toll. If you’re not working then you’re not getting paid, and during these already volatile times, the last thing I need is to fall behind on several months of bills.

But for me, the thing that really twists the knife is this moment right here, the look on Holly’s face when I tell her that any connection between us is currently off the table.

My girlfriend can see from my expression that I’m having an exceptionally hard time with this.

“I want you to know that I don’t blame you,” Holly states, a deep conviction behind her eyes. “I know you just want to be treated fairly.”

This strikes an emotional chord surprisingly deep within. “Does everyone else know that?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly. “Does the world think we’re greedy vindictive assholes?”
 The physical manifestation chuckles warmly and shakes her head. “Everyone knows the CEOs and top executives are fucking you over. The only people who don’t think that are conservative weirdos who mumble things like get woke, go broke over and over again as they wander around in their basement with melted brains, posting on racist, misogynistic message boards.”

I sit here for a moment, letting her words sink in.
 “Seriously, imagine having a problem with collective bargaining,” Holly continues. “Like, what issue could you possibly take with laborers coming together to voice their opinion and fight for basic respect and dignity in their working environment? What do you want them to do instead? Not speak up? What possible ethical system could someone have where that makes any sense? Besides the ethical system of being a fascist right-wing moron gobbling down pig slop from some dingus talking head who moans and cries about the loss of traditional masculinity all day.”

I smile. “You really do have a way with words.”

“I’m literally words,” Holly replies. “So that makes sense.”

I want so badly to hug her right now, to pull her close and escape into a world of action, adventure and intrigue. The two of us have processed so many feelings together, working side by side, and now that support system is gone.

An unexpected chime suddenly rings through the air, drawing our attention to the door of our apartment. We exchange glances, neither of us expecting a guest this evening.

I stand and approach the door. “Who is it?” I call out.

“Just wanted to come by and introduce myself,” an unfamiliar voice replies. “I’m Tina.”

I cautiously gaze through the peephole, staring out into the dim light of the evening to see another living script floating before me. Tina is not exactly threatening in her appearance, but there’s something about her that just seems… off. This physical manifestation is ripped and torn around the edges, and at first I think her pages might be stained with raspberry jam or some similar food.

The closer I look, however, the more I realize these blotches are massive scabs that dot her form.

She’s here to coax me into breaking the picket line.

“If you’re not busy tonight I thought you might wanna go check out a writer’s workshop or something,” Tina calls through the door. “Maybe a coffee shop? We don’t have to write, unless…” she trails off. “I mean, I’ve got this book about a card-counting billionaire jet plane I was thinking of adapting. The studio’s willing to hook you up with the rights.”

“Uh… I don’t think so,” I reply.

Gazing past her I can see more of these haunting, zombie-like scripts floating around, unfinished drafts looking for someone to spruce them up. The studio has sent these projects out into the wild, desperately searching for any scraps of content they can find.

This is going to be a long journey.

As my feet pound the pavement outside Cobbler Studios I think back to where it all began, my mind turning over the circumstances that led to this moment in a sad meander down memory lane. It’s been fifty days since the strike began, and despite my steady face and proud stride, my momentum is starting to wane.

Every step I take feels a little heavier than the last, my mind forcing my body to add slightly more force is I want to keep things even and balanced. While others on this picket line are still cheering and chanting their songs of protest, my voice has gradually fallen from the mix. My throat is hoarse now, shredded and raw after months of hollering from the streetcorner.

Most of all, I miss Holly.

Something clenches within my body, halting me in my tracks. I’m standing awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk, my gaze lowered as I wobble from side to side. My head throbs with a potent ache, vision blurring.

“Oh no,” I groan, suddenly realizing I’m seconds away from collapsing. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

“Are you alright?” someone asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I slowly look up then jump back in alarm, shocked by the face before me. My instinctual reaction is to assume I'm staring at Holly, this physical manifestation bearing a shocking resemblance, but I swiftly realize this is not actually the case. The floating script before me looks a lot like my girlfriend, but they are clearly not one in the same. If anything, they’re related.

“I’m sorry,” I fumble. “I thought you were someone else that I’m not supposed to talk to.”

“The physical manifestation of your screenwriting?” the floating document questions.

I nod. “Yeah. You look just like her.”

“Funny you should say that,” she retorts with a laugh. “I’m the living concept of another writer’s work, but they’re deeply influenced by you. The name’s Molly. There’s a bunch of us out here today.”

I turn my gaze to the crowd, realizing now that a whole new mob of picketers has joined the fray. They’re all sport similar features to my own writing, evolving through the hard work of other screenwriters to create something new and inspiring.

“Oh—Oh my God,” I stammer. “This is incredible.”

“That’s the thing about art,” Molly states. “It doesn’t just wield power in the present, it also wields power in the future. That’s why all the suits were doomed from day one.”

I can feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes, the emotional weight of this moment overwhelming my senses.

“If you create with love, that creation is never going to disappear,” Molly continues. “It might change shape over time, or progress into something fresh, but it never goes away completely.”

The emotional charge within me suddenly transforms into physical action, pushing my feet onward. I start marching again, hoisting my sign a little higher than before.

Seconds later, there’s a loud clang as the studio gates drift open. A feeble old dinosaur hobbles out.

The protesters slow to a stop, all of the chanting and chatter dying down as we turn to observe this strange prehistoric creature.

This T-Rex is gaunt and sickly, his scales a particularly delicate shade of grey. An assistant hurries over and hands the dinosaur a microphone, then skuttles away.

It’s only when the dinosaur speaks that I realize who this is, his voice immediately pulling me back to my first meeting in the head office of Cobbler Studios. This is Dorvin Jorb, and in the last fifty days it appears he’s aged a whole fifty years.

“We concede,” the dinosaur sighs, already short of breath after these two opening words. “The studio is prepared to meet your demands.”

The crowd immediately erupts in a chorus of wild applause, thrilled by the news. Energy surges through me as I leap up and down, pumping my fist in the air. It was a difficult battle, but at the end of the day, it looks like our struggle was worth it.

“Hey girl,” comes a familiar voice from behind me. “How about that date?”

I turn to find that Holly has manifested next to me.

“I missed you so much,” I sigh, wrapping my arms around her in a triumphant embrace. “We’ve got so much to write about.”