Page 2 of Yours To Take
“Don’t remind me,” I groan.
Ever since the success of my last TV show—a drama about a football team—I’ve been able to coast. With money flowing in, the studio was happy.
But once that last episode aired, the lead weight of pressure settled into my gut. Seven years of a hit TV show were gone.
“Get this to work, Blake. I don’t want to fire you.”
“Shit, really?”
He nods, picking up the knickknack on my desk and flicking it open. “Yes. You’re a talented writer, and I know everyone has a rough patch, but the execs aren’t happy.”
“Jesus.”
“So family drama. Get started.”
He stands to leave. The silk scarf hangs around his neck. It’s old-time, ostentatious Hollywood style.
“Wait. How long do I have?”
“The sooner the better, but more or less…three months.”
“You expect me to come up with a show in three months when I’ve had nothing in the last nine?”
He reaches across my desk and pats me on the shoulder. “You’re like the son I never had. I know you can do this. Don’t make it weird and make me fire you.”
“Yes, I’d hate for it to be fucking awkward for you.” I roll my eyes at him.
“Three months.” He holds up three fingers as he steps out of my office.
“Fuck.”
I spear a hand through my hair and face out the window—it’s an incredible view of concrete buildings with the TV poster of my last hit.
The LA Pirates. A drama about the inner workings of a football team and their relationships. The studio ate it up. Critics loved it. Fans were cheering for it like they were their own team.
It was special. Something I wrote while watching football with friends one Sunday in a dive bar in LA.
And now, instead of coming up with my own idea, the studio is pushing an idea on me.
As if the pressure wasn’t bad enough, I now have to work within a certain set of creative ideas. I hate being forced into a box. It never leads to good ideas.
The buzzing of my phone on my desk distracts me from my wayward thoughts.
Mom.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Darling. I’m at the studio today and wanted you to meet me for lunch.”
There’s never an actual invitation from my mother.I’m Tiffany Travers. They come to me,she always says.
“I really don’t have time today, Mom. I really need to get cracking on my next project.”
“Nonsense. You can take thirty minutes to eat. Besides,”—there’s a knock on my door—“I’m already here.”
Shit.
I hang up the phone and walk over to her.
