"the strike is gonna kill my favorite shows" babe okay if you don't want to think about the human livelihoods at stake (you should really be thinking about the humans though) like. think about what happens after this. when writing pays you enough to eat; more people get to be writers. more stories. more interesting plots and ideas. think about what gets made when artists aren't starving.
you've been complaining for years that tv is going downhill. part of that is because the writers aren't paid enough - a screenwriter needs to be able to live with a very low paycheck while being virtually anonymous, so as a profession it self-selects for a very slim number of people. part of bad writing is burnout and the absolutely criminal amount of influence corporations have over scripts. writing is actually a craft, despite what people who love chatGPT will tell you - and, as a craft; it takes time, diligence, and support.
and yes, i understand. you have a connection to a piece of media, which is what writers want. but we regret to inform you that your blorbo is as real as the image in the mirror - is your reflection actually you? can the reflection ever show anything but the truth? as writers, our work is the reflection. you can't keep throwing our bodies under buses and then being shocked that our work is bitter, 2d, "needs revision". imagine what gets made when the artist is inspired and has the time, space, energy, and fucking budget to actually make what makes them happy.
i love you so much. but also, really - and for real - before anything else, please remember it's human livelihoods at stake.
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started writing in between classes and im deeply obsessed with orpheus parallels with ortega/chargestep so have this. warning for ortega being inebriated and wanting to die.
Time to rise Orpheus. The day breaks and you with it.
(I don’t want to. Don’t make me.)
That’s not an option. Get up Orpheus.
(I have no legs. I have no hands.)
You will be repaired, doll of lyres.
(I don’t want to be. I want to lay here and die.)
Scio, sweetheart.
(Will I see her again?)
Only on her deathbed.
(I don’t think I can do this anymore.)
You will.
Get up Orpheus.
Get up Orpheus.
Get up-
“Ortega! Get down from there!”
Chen pulls you off the ledge of the building you guess you were climbing over. You're not really sure.
You’re downstairs now. Your arm is over Chen’s shoulders.
“-tega! What did you drink? Can you even hear me?”
You’re nauseous.
You’re not nauseous anymore.
“Ok that’s. That can be someone else’s problem, come on.”
He lifts you once more. He’s good at that. He does is a lot when you fuck up or do something stupid which is always cause you’re a poor excuse for man.
You snuggle into the passenger seat of his car. It’s cozy, it smells like him. You don’t smell good.
“Drink this.” He says. He tips your head back and water pours into your mouth.
You do your level best to not choke.
You’re on the wrong side of your couch. This is Eurydice’s spot, not your’s.
Sidestep. Sidestep’s spot.
You shake your head, the smallest bit of clarity returning to your vision and mind. Chen has pulled a chair from the kitchen to sit in front of you. His expression swims but you think he’s concerned. Not a clue why.
“So. ‘Never gonna drink again?’” You spit onto the carpet and he grimaces.
“Don’t know what you expect from someone like me. When’s my word ever meant shit?” You wonder if you could get him to punch you.
“You- I’m not entertaining this. You need to get your shit together.” He doesn’t say ‘before you end up dead’, but you hear it anyway. Or maybe that’s you saying it.
You let your head tip back over the couch. He wants you to try. You don’t know how.
Yes you do. Rise from your corner.
But you’re already so far gone.
Then go all the way. Pursual when you cannot see your target is what you do best. Find them.
They’re not dead.
No.
They’re dead.
Not to you.
I already failed them.
Then fail again.
Isn’t the definition of madness trying the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome?
No, that’s a misconception. And anyways, when has that ever stopped you before?
Fair.
Now tell him something so he doesn’t send you to a madhouse.
You look back at Chen. His clenched teeth twist his scars on his lips and his hands are clasped together so tight you swear you hear the creak of metal. You slump forward, uncoordinated, and put one of your hands on his.
“I’ll tell my… therapist,” the word is still a rock in your mouth, “about. This.” You’re not sure if you mean the drinking or the climbing.
That’s not true.
Yeah well fuck you I’m not getting sent to a madhouse. I’m not crazy.
Then what’s this?
“That’s good.” Chen breathes out in a long relieved sigh. “That’s good.”
You tug him off the chair and into a hug. You know he can feel your heartbeat through your shirt, and you know he needs that.
Out of his view you stare daggers into the wall. You’re determined (for now). You have to find them again.
Miles to walk Orpheus.
And promises to keep.
And promises to keep.
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