Page 54 of Hot Set
After researching Benj’s historical snafu, I busy myself for a couple of hours, refining the spreadsheet I’m playing with for an episodic breakdown of book two. Donal Cam has it rough. Nieve is betrothed and refuses to give the poor bastard a second look.
I suppose my dabbles into season two are a step closer to buying this reality as a viable future.
When Danna calls my name, I return from the twelfth century. “Join us, Gillian. Bobby’s on his way.” The entire team congregates in the writer’s room. “He wants to discuss 113.” She looks directly at me as if translating. “The season finale.”
I grab my laptop and take a seat in one of the green mesh chairs.
Collin fans his arm across the huge white board covered in scene cards labeledEpisode 113. “Tell me we’re not going to throw those up in the air again to see if they land any differently from the last ten dissections.”
Danna purses her lips.
Collin presses the heels of his hands to his forehead. “We’ve beat it to death. Literally.”
Bobby crashes into the writer’s room like the Atlantic at high tide. I know he’s been at the location for night shoots all week. Jack spilled details about the ongoing artistic skirmish between Bobby and Alan Rafier over crucial scenes.
Bobby slaps both hands on the table and drops his head. “I’m fried.” Judging from the bags and dark smudges under his eyes, fried is sugarcoating it. “My draft for the finale is flat. Pacing is sluggish, and I’m floundering to hit the perfect tone.” His face tenses with the battle still going on inside him. With an impressively loud exhale, he declares the victor. “I’ve decided to hand it off.”
Eye contact sizzles and sparks between the writers like a downed electrical wire. The season finale has just gone up for grabs. How does this work? Do they bid like an auction? Pitch insights? Duke it out? Does Bobby close his eyes and point? Is Deidre in the running? Every person on this writing staff is amazing. Anyone in this room will write a masterpiece.
Bobby runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t have to tell you that we’ve got to have the audience screaming ‘No. You can’t leave me hanging like this until season two!’”
I understand a finale needs to leave viewers ravenous for more, but it’s not like the books haven’t been around for a decade.
He raises both arms. “There must be emotional resonance that transcends what people know from the books.”
That’s the answer. It doesn’t matter that the ending is already out there. The people who love this series have yet to experience it as a multi-dimensional entity. In that one sentence, I understand why Bobby Provost is the right man to bringThe Chieftain’s Sonto life. The depth of his investment to the heart’s blood of the work is staggering. Legions of fans trust his creative mastery to elevate this saga that is so vital and precious to them into tangible reality.
I am no longer outside looking in.
“I’d like you all to take a shot at it. I’ll know what I’m looking for when I read it.” He turns to me. “All of you.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Me?”
My squeaking disbelief breaks the tension in the room, and there’s laughter all around.
Maureen throws an arm around me. “Hey,Traipse of Moonlight, there’s a reason he doesn’t let us ask you to get coffee.”
Bobby shakes his head. “It’s time you take your talent out for a spin, Gillian.” He raps a knuckle on the table. “Consider it your foray into joining the writing staff for the long run.”
There’s a general buzz as discussions erupt over the finale. Before Bobby gets subsumed by Danna, I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Can I talk to you?”
He scratches the stubble on his chin. “Sure.”
I nod toward my niche. “In private.”
Once inside, he perches on the edge of my desk. “What’s up?”
I wish I had a door. “I’m so grateful you’re giving me a chance to do this, but I don’t think I’m ready.”
Bobby ages a few decades as he takes a long, slow breath. “Okay, look. I’d like to be more encouraging and mentor-esque, but I’m too fucking exhausted. Sit down.”
Sweat breaks out under my bangs. Bobby’s never spoken to me in such a curt tone.
“Bottom line, you’re a damn good writer. It’s no secret we all holdTraipse of Moonlightup on a pedestal.” He barks out a laugh. “Your pieces in the Lawson Graham catalogues convinced me slacks and a chambray button down are portals to adventure.”
I’m sure my face is as red as my hair.
“You’ve been here a minute and a half and have already contributed nuances and story points that shake things up.” He pulls my rolling chair forward until we are practically nose to nose. “You’re equal parts intelligence and wit. In other words—you fit in.” He gestures to the throng of writers. “We like you. Deidre’s smitten with you. She wants to work with you to break down the other books so we can map out the seasons.” He shoves my chair with his foot so I roll backward and points a finger between my eyes. “Man up, Bettencourt, and write me a script.”