Fade in on a disheveled woman sitting cross-legged on the couch, her computer and an 8 inch tin of brownies on her lap. She picks chunks of chocolate out from her teeth and hums the incorrect lyrics to All About That Bass, which has been stuck in her head since last week. She has eaten roughly half the brownies but not once touched the computer. She fully intends to work, it's just, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit is on.
A man comes in from the backyard.
MAN
This show? This dumb show again?
WOMAN
I know. It's terrible. I'm turning it off.
She watches, raptly.
MAN
Why don't you just put on some music?
WOMAN
Why don't you just put on some stupider shirt?
The man shrugs and sits down.
MAN
Gotten much writing done?
WOMAN
Gotten much stupid-shirt changing done?
The two regard each other suspiciously. Finally, the woman sighs.
WOMAN
Writers block. Sorry.
The man nods and then gets up. He leaves the room, only to return moments later wearing a bright red shirt with the letters "W-B" on the front. He hands the woman a completed manuscript from underneath the couch and pats her gently on the shoulder.
MAN
See? Your finished novel was here this whole time. You just needed to know where to look.
The woman stares at him.
WOMAN
I don't think you understand how the writing process works.
MAN
Ah, but I do. Just like Dorothy Gale needed to realize that the only thing that mattered was home, you just needed to see that your manuscript was right here, completed, this whole time.
WOMAN
But this isn't my manuscript.
MAN
No need to thank me!
WOMAN
Seriously, this is a photocopy of The Bell Jar.
MAN
My work here is done!
WOMAN
What work? You haven't done anything!
MAN
Yes, Yes I know. But I must away now, to save another pitiful writer from the tragedy of writers block.
WOMAN
But you haven't saved me from anything!
MAN
Up up and away!
WOMAN
BUT I'M STILL BLOCKED YOU STUPID RED-CAPED IDIOT!
Then with a whoosh, Writers Block Man was out the window before the woman could say another word. She let out a long, heavy sigh.
WOMAN
I think it's time to tell my husband to quit this stupid, second job, he's really fucking terrible at it.
BLACK OUT
There. Now I feel better. (Do you?) Yes. (Really?) No, shut up.
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