Written by: The Doctor and The Walrus

Last April, I finished 90 days of P90X, quite possibly one of the most difficult 90 days of my life. For those of you not familiar with the program, it's 13 weeks, 6 workouts a week. The workouts themselves range from resistance training to yoga. But for 13 weeks, there is no rest. I mention this here, because it has become clear to me that writing has to be the same. For those periods when you are writing, it needs to be relentless. That's what leads me here. When things became difficult during my workouts, I leaned on my workout partner for support. But more importantly, I leaned on my partner to push me on those days when I just didn't think I could do it. My friend The Doctor and I have talked writing projects for awhile now, and both of us are guilty of periods of consistent work, strung between periods of complete inactivity. So I thought perhaps we could push each other. Things always take on a different urgency when someone is counting on you.

So let's do this. No screenplays this time around, let's write some prose. I'll start, 300 words or so and then it's The Doctor's turn. Let the story go where it will. The goal is to write every other day, but if we miss a day here and there so be it. The main thing is that we're writing and the story is moving along. So that's the task, now get to it.

Here you go.......

I was thirty-seven when I lost my mind. I guess I shouldn’t really say that I lost it . It was still there. I should probably say that I just stopped listening to it. I ate, slept, fucked, and went to the gym just like I always had. But as I sat at my desk on that cold snowy Virginia afternoon in January, it became clear to me that my mind was on a permanent vacation. I looked out the window on the 10^th of January 2011 at the colorless sky, and the mounds of snow where the shrubs used to be, and I just knew that I would never be happy there again. So I did what any respectable man in his mid-thirties would do. I quit my job and moved to Key West.

The warm Gulf breezes skipped softly across my face as I stepped off the plane. In the distance there were palm trees swaying quietly, and a flower that I had never seen before bloomed right outside the terminal entrance. It was 26 degrees when I left Virginia that morning and there I stood with both feet firmly planted on the island for the first time. It was 76 degrees and the wind tossed my suddenly too long hair to one side. I had only brought one bag with me from the mainland. I figured if my move stuck, I could always go back and get the rest of my things at a later date. Beyond that, I hadn’t given the actually being there much thought. Getting out was the part I planned, I didn’t really do much thinking about the getting in.

I'm not really sure what this is.

So, I got some advice from a fellow filmmaker about how to start making films. He told me to take it slow, but fast and make as many 1-3 minute shorts as I can. So this day has been spent writing out some ideas. Tonight, I sat down and played one out. I don't know what I was hoping to get from it, maybe a nicely written screenplay, but it didn't happen like that. What follows I guess can best be described as just a written form of the scene I want to compose. What someone would be thinking while watching this..if they knew him. I really have no idea. I'll let you decide. So, here it is. My "first draft" of a short called "Addict". (P.S.- If you come up with a better name, which shouldn't be hard, let me know).

Addict.

He sits. Watches tv. Or at least pretends to. There's nothing good on right now, but he wouldn't even know. There's a half empty handle of scotch whiskey mocking him from the kitchen. His eyes tell you how thirsty he is. They tell you how much he wants to shut that fucking bottle up. He sees something, but he knew before he saw it that they'd come. People always talk about the "demons of addiction." Some shitty metaphor about the feeling an addict gets when he wants his fix. It's not a metaphor. He sees them clear as day. They never show their faces, or step into light. It's like they don't want to be seen while they do it.  The shadows stretch out for what he wants. He sees their hands inching closer, but he knows those hands won't reach it. It's his own pale, clammy hands that have to do the deed. He used to be afraid of them, but now it's like a dog running through the house. No, he's not scared of them. What he is afraid of though, is what they want their filthy hands on so fucking bad. How the fuck is it possible to love something that scares the shit out of you. There's a tag still on the bottle from the store. $42.79 is the price, but what is the cost? He looks around his shitty apartment. It's clean, but that's only because he doesn't have a job to go to anymore. His thoughts drift towards his daughter and wife for nothing more than a second until that bottle pushes it out. Why did he get the good stuff? Evan Williams or Maker's Mark can do the same job at half the price. Why did he put on a suit to go to the liquor store? It's always that same old bastard anyways. No doubt he remembers him. Dressed in a suit and buying the good shit won't make him feel better when he gets home. Maybe he'll invite a friend over tonight and gloat about his bottle. Nah, he can't afford to share. God dammit he wants the booze. He realizes now that it could be in a fucking paper sack and it wouldn't matter right now. Sometimes he plays a game with himself. He stares at the bottle and sees how long he can resist. It's only fun because he knows he'll get there eventually. He's thirsty. He's always thirsty. He's forgotten how not to be thirsty. It's time. He tries to take his mind off of the bottle and watch TV. Some dumbass show is on, but he tries to watch it. His eyes don't listen to him. They pan the room for way too long and settle where he knew they were headed before they disobeyed him. Fuck it looks good. It's packaged well. Makes him feel sophisticated when he drinks it. Even though he sold his clock to get the money for it. Blended scotch whiskey...served on the rocks like it's suppo---SHIT! DO I HAVE ANY FUCKING ICE?!---He knocks everything out of the way to get there. He can't know fast enough. When his panic is quelled, he realizes that he's only said three sentences all day and they were all about the bottle. He stands over the bottle. Plays the game again. Sometimes he wins; sometimes he loses.

Fuck. He always loses.

So, this is my first foray into this world. Please feel free to comment on any aspect of it. Provide me with pointers, advice or whatever. Thanks for reading.