The Writer

The Writer
A script by Lauren H Magee.

Italics- General directions for storyline.
Bold- Camera directions
Underlined- Other directions.
Camera pans left onto man, showing the books from right.
Shot of R&J book
Follows man left and right as he paces. 2nd pace we view Juliet.
Our scene begins in a big white room surrounded by the Writers life. Pan past letters, photos, maps, newspaper clippings and clothes tacked to the walls, and the thousands of books resting on the floors.
A old man sits in a light, entirely white room at a desk. His fingers rest on a typewriter and he looks around slightly. We see thousands upon thousands of books resting everywhere in the room. Getting up, he strides from on side of the room to another, hands pressed against the bridge of his nose. He picks up a book called ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and begins to read.
As he strides backwards and forwards, looking deep into the book a girl is leaning against the wall suddenly. The man stops reading but keeps the book in his hand. He sits down and rings the typewriter up.
Writer: So, what would you say?
Juliet: To love, Sir. Twould be the greatest achievement for any person. The meaning of life to me would be to love. The feeling that doth grow ins-
Writer: And what if someone shall never love?
Juliet: Never find love? I’m sorry I don’t und-
Writer: Should the meaning of the being here be love? I mean, can it not hurt and destroy? In fair Verona even, people died. One part of you loves a person with all your heart. The other part wishes for drama, to kill your partner. It’s twisted, do you not think?
Juliet: But the feeling of love, truly, Sir, it is indescribable!
Writer: Then do try not to describe it.
CAS to typewriter
He writes down ‘The feelings and wonder of love’
Follow W around room, close shot. Juliet goes, Dorian in.
He paces further looking around and picking up random books and discarding them. He takes an older looking book, bearing the title ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’. He turns and looks at the young boy looking in the mirror, touching his face. The Writer sits down at his desk and gestures to him.
Writer: Well Mr Gray? Do you have anything for me? After all, you are a man of such unfathomable ideas and morals.
Gray: To have youth, to be beautiful. With being young everything is yours. People will worship you. You’re a god over the lower and somewhat more ugly characters in the world.
Writer: Really? When the elders demand that you respect them? Would you go your entire life being treated as a child?
Gray: Children are pampered and primped, people obey your every command. You always get what you want. I always get what I want.
Writer: Really? Hmm. Well we cannot stay young and beautiful forever surely?
Gray: There are some things that are worth the sacrifice to remain like this. I’m perfe-
Writer: So to get your meaning of life, I would need to give something up?
Gray: Is that not true for every meaning?
Writer: I-
Gray: I believe that while a faith filled lifestyle may be profitable, the one of a hedonist is double that. And youth is what drives the world. Beauty is just a great asset to have. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way life should be.
Writer: (typing down ‘To be young and beautiful forever) Thank you Mr Gray, but there are times when keeping my soul would be useful. I’ll have to think about that one.
Dorian nods at the Writer and sits down on the chair in the corner, staring at his reflection in the wall mirror.
The Writer moves away and picks up another book, meanwhile Dorian vanishes. The Writer flicks through a copy of a book called ‘Lolita’ and leaves it open, before opening another called ‘The Great Gatsby’. The light flickers and the Writer stands on his table, tapping the light bulb until it stops flickering. He sits back down and beside him, sitting in opposite chairs are Dolores, slouched in her chair, sucking on a lollipop provocatively, and Tom Buchanan, puffing on a cigar.
Writer: You know the question, engage me. I must know soon, I am too tired to stay awake any longer.
Dolores: How long has it been now?
Writer: Too long, far too drawn out. I need rest. But I promised myself I wouldn’t until I had finished this, damn piece.
Tom: Well, if it’s any help then I do believe that money would be the meaning of life itself, old sport. With money you have everything.
Writer: (Typing down his words) Money you say? Elaborate please.
Tom: Well, with money you can literally buy anything. You can even buy friends, love. Whatever you wish.
Writer: I thought money couldn’t buy true friends?
Tom: (laughing) I don’t think you understand quite how rich I am.
Writer: Surely you can consider the poor? They can still have a good life, can they not?
Tom: I wouldn’t know. I rarely see them.
Dolores: Money schmoney. We all know the only point we do anything is to impress the opposite sex. Don’t say that your money wasn’t to intrigue some girl?
Tom: Well.I-
Dolores: Exactly. Sex is the meaning of our little lives.
Writer: I never would have thought that was what a girl of your age would say.
Dolores: Children have no reason to lie. Do you believe that I speak the truth?
Writer: I have to have an open mind.
Dolores: Just think about it! Everything we do we do it to impress. Who? The chosen preferred sex. Why? So we can….copulate.
Writer: Well, you speak the smallest amount of truth. I suppose. (The typewriter rings and he types ‘SEX’ in large letters.)
The Writer sits with his head in his hands and closes the two books, alone in the room. He picks up another pile of books and begins to type. We see flashes of the books covers while he types faster and faster.
He writes ‘Freedom of the spirit, to create a world of your own. Containing ones own knowledge and will’
‘Power and authority over other people’
‘Sanity and the ability to control your own thoughts’
‘Faith and trying to get the ultimate enlightenment’
‘Adventure, finding thrills and saving the day’
‘To risk anything for love’
‘42’
‘To find our high and place in the world’
He pauses and stops, to open the book he is currently touching (JUNK), he turns and sees a grimy looking couple, eyes wide. They appear to be shaking, holding hands.
Writer: The other meanings are different to yours. How can you live with having this as a meaning of life?
Gemma: We just need it, ok?
Tar: We don’t need to be judged.
Writer: I wasn’t. My ideas are open to your interpretation. I just think it’s strange to live for the next high.
Gemma: Have you ever tried it?
The Writer remains silent, looking at his list.
Tar: Well? Have you ever even experienced what we have before?
Writer: No.
Gemma: Then you can’t talk.
Writer: Thank you for your time.
He slams the book shut and throws it to the place where Gemma and Tar were standing before.
He rings the typewriter and looks at his long lists of ideas. The list is added to a huge pile of paper that is beside the writer. He stares at the pile from his chair.
Writer: The meaning of life is complete. I’ve done it.
He lets out a sigh of relief and leans backwards, where he sees a book lying open. ‘Alice in Wonderland’. He turns to pick it up before he see’s a pair of black shoes and looks up. Alice is in front of him, disappointed looking.
Alice: You’ve not done it.
Writer: What?! Of course I have! Every book ever written! Every thing I can observe, feel, smell, taste, everything I have read about! I’ve scoured each one for a meaning! I’ve written everything down!
Alice: You’ve not done it.
Writer: Of course I’ve done it. Stupid little girl, I’ve learnt everything.
Alice: You’ve not done anything.
The Writer pauses and sits down, looking at his list. His face turns sour.
Writer: I haven’t done anything. No, you’re right. (pause) I’ve spent my life here. Writing a list for everyone else to try and accomplish. Things I’ve never done.
Alice: You’ve read about them though.
Writer: Things I’ve never done. Never will do. Have I wasted my life?
Alice: That’s not for me to judge. I’m just a child. What would I know?
Writer: I-
Alice: Is it fair that people should live by guidelines anyway? All these other people seem to have one meaning, be it money; sex, love, but none of them have all of them. Have you noticed that?
Writer: What does it matter? I’ve not done any of them. I’ve never been rich, I’ve grown too old now. I’ve no power over anyone. I’ve never loved. I’ve never…(he pauses.)
Alice: Is it right for people to try and fulfil their meaning? Or to do it simply by accident? Your meaning was knowledge. And you’ve completed it now.
Writer: Oh, how do you know so much? You’re just a child; you’ve barely lived at all.
Alice: Because I’m mad.
The Writer and Alice stare at each other for a moment, until Alice turns on her heel and walks from the room.
Writer: It wouldn’t be fair for me to let people read this then? It took me so long to finish. Would it be a waste? I truly don’t know.
He gets up and walks around the piles of books, wiping off his glasses. He turns and looks at his typewriter, before picking up the box of matches and oil and turning back to his massive stack of papers. He smiles one last time before pouring the oil over his papers.
Writer: My life has no meaning.
He strikes a match and lets it fly. He sits in front of the papers and watches them burn, his silhouette fading against the flames. He picks up one last scrap that doesn’t burn and floats down onto the floor. It reads ‘Freedom of the spirit, to create a world of your own Containing ones own knowledge and will’. He smiles and tucks Alice in Wonderland under his arm before leaving the room alight, and walking out of the room.
Writer: With the meaning I needed tucked securely under my arm, I let my life’s waste burn. The reason?
Need there really be one?