I’m making some little changes to Dancing Barefoot for the next printing. I’ve done lots of readings from the book in the past few months, and I’ve noticed certain passages that benefit from the addition of a word or phrase, or the removal of stuff that I thought was good when I wrote it, or for whatever reason has never connected with an audience.
Here’s where you, dear reader (wow. I can’t believe I said that) come in: if you’ve read Dancing Barefoot, and you’ve spotted a typo, you can help me catch anything that I’ve missed. I think it’s pretty solid, but I know that the current printing has at least one.
Thnka yuo fro your’re help!1

Several people have written in with the news of Jonathan Brandis’s apparent suicide at age 27.
I guess many TV watchers put us in a category together, because we both played “The Kid” on a SF show. I’ve heard him called “The Wesley of SeaQuest” more than once, and not in a kind way. Jesus, I bet that sucked for him.
I didn’t know him, though I did see him from time to time when we were kids, mostly at Big Bopper Teen Cheese-O-Rama parties at whatever 50s diner was currently trendy.
Anyway, I think it’s terribly sad. I know how hard it is to make the transition from child to adult actor. I know how merciless Hollywood is. I know the pain, frustration, and depression that he must have felt. I know it intimately.
The thing is, if I’d turned right instead of left, if I’d taken the elevator instead of the stairs, if I’d chosen differently when faced with one of those 1 or 0 decisions . . . that could be me you’re reading about today.
Afterthought: Several comments suggest that it’s jumping the gun to assume that his death had anything to do with the struggles I associate with the child to adult actor thing, and that it’s a pretty big assumption. I have to agree with that. I just wrote what came to my mind when I heard about his death. Whatever the reason, it’s just awful whenever someone takes their own life. A very good friend of mine killed himself when he was just 23, and it haunts me to this day.

Last night, the phone rang while I was in my bathroom, doing my semi-annual flossing of my teeth.
I carefully unwrapped my fingers, and let the minty floss dangle between my first and second bicuspid.
Caller ID on the cordless said it was my parent’s house. I pushed talk.
“Hello?”
“Hey Wil, It’s Dad.”
“Hi Dad. What’s up?”
“Well, I hadn’t read your site in a few days . . .” he said.
I immediately thought about those footlights from yesterday.
“Oh?” I said. “I wrote some stuff that totally doesn’t suck.”
“I know! Your mother was wondering why I hadn’t finished making dinner,” he said, “now she knows! I’ve been in my office laughing with you.”
I was speechless. My dad doesn’t make these calls. I sat down on the edge of my bathtub.
“Gee, dad,” I said, “Thanks.”
“When I listened –” He stopped himself, and said, “I mean, when I read what you wrote, I could –”
There was a long silence. I wondered if the phone had gone dead.
“Dad?”
“Yeah . . . sorry,” he said, puzzled and with great effort, “I’m getting choked up and I don’t know why.”
“Maybe my dad is proud of me,” I thought . . .
. . . but I didn’t say it.
“It’s like . . .” He trailed off. I felt like he was struggling to find the words.
“It’s like I can hear their voices. You’ve captured them exactly the way I remember them.” His voice was thick and distant.
Have you ever seen your father cry? You know how it makes you feel so . . . awkward? Like this invincible person is just as human as you are? I felt compelled to speak. The last time I saw my dad cry was at my grandfather’s funeral.
“Gosh, Dad . . .” I said, ” . . . thank you. It’s been really fun to write the past couple of days. It makes me happy when I recall that day. When I write about it, I get to be there again.”
“Well, it really comes across,” he said. His voice had returned to normal. “It’s really good, and I can’t wait to read more.”
“Thank you, ” I said, “I’m so glad that you called to tell me.”
“Me too.” Now I have to go finish dinner or your mom is going to kill me.”
He laughed. I smiled.
“I understand. Thanks, Dad.”
“I love you, Wil,” he said.
“I love you too, Dad.”
I pushed talk to hang up the phone, and pulled the floss from my teeth.
I faced the mirror, and looked into his eyes.

More from the rewrite, with some overlap from yesterday:

A huge smile spread across his face as he stood up.
“W!” he said, “You look great, man!”
I love it when he calls me “W” (pronounced “double-you”) — my whole life I wanted a nickname, and it?s the closest I?ve ever come.
He closed the distance between us in two strides, and wrapped his arms around me in a big, fatherly bearhug.
“You too,” I said.
“Have you eaten?” he said.
“Some coffee and toast this morning,” I said. I didn’t mention anything about my nervous stomach, and the barely-touched omelette I left on the table.
“Help yourself,” he said, and pointed to a table where some food was set out. “They always give us too much food, you know?”
I haven’t spent nearly enough time in green rooms to know how much food was normal, but I took his word for it.
I opened a ginger ale and picked up some veggies with a trembling hand. As I munched on a carrot, he said, “How have you been?”
It was the question that I always dreaded. I would always smile bravely, ignore the knot in my chest, and say something like,”Oh, you know . . . Things are slow, but I have an audition next week.”
I spoke before that familiar knot could tighten.
“Not too bad. I haven’t worked in ages, but I’m doing a really good sketch comedy show at ACME in Hollywood.” I took a long drink.
“And I made myself a website where I write a lot of stuff. It’s pretty fun.”
“Have you been doing any cons?” He asked.
“A few,” I said. “I did one in Vegas last month.”
“Slanted Fedora?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“How did it go?”
“I took my sketch group out there and we did a show. It was really fun.”
“Oh! I heard about that. I hear you’re really funny.”
“Yeah, I try to entertain the kids.” I said. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Here was the one thing that I’d been doing, and doing well, yet I felt uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. I noticed that I’d been shoving carrots into my mouth. I changed the subject.
“Have you been watching TNG on TNN?”
“Yeah,” he said, “it’s amazing how those old shows hold up.”
“Except Angel One,” I said.
“And Code of Honor,” he said.
“No vaccine!” we said in unison, imitating one of the actors in that show. It was a long-running inside joke, and we both laughed.
“It’s so weird for me to watch them,” I said, “because I was so young. It’s like my high school yearbook has come to life.”
“That’s because you’ve actually grown up since then,” he said, “the rest of us have just gotten fatter.”
“Don’t let Marina hear you say that,” I said.
He thought for a moment, and added, “Okay, all of us except Marina.”
He winked. I smiled.
“Seriously, though,” he said, “we’ve just gotten older. You’re the only one of us who’s actually changed.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said, “Did you know that I just turned 30?”
“You’re thirty?!” If he’d been eating, he would have choked on his food. “Do you know how old that makes me?”
“Uh . . . 35?” I said cautiously, with a smile. I heard the elevator bell ring out in the hallway, and a familiar voice echoed down the hall.
“Man, I can’t believe you’re 30,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, “and you’re married.”
“With children,” I said.
“Goddamn! Children? Plural?” he said, “how many do you have?”
Before I could answer, Brent Spiner entered the room like an actor taking the stage.
“Hello, boys!” he said.
“Data!” Jonathan said with a smile, “Do you know how old Wheaton here is?”
Brent didn’t miss a beat.
“Of course, I do. He’s 37!” He said, “But he doesn’t look it.”
I stifled a laugh, but I couldn’t deny the huge smile that spread across my face. I was overjoyed to be there with them.
“Brent!” I said, “How did you know?! I’ve worked so hard to keep it a secret!”
“Wil, you were 22 when we started,” he deadpanned, “Do the math.”
Jonathan pointed at Brent’s enormous goatee.”You know what I just realized, Brent?”
“What’s that, Jonny?”
“For the first time in history, you look more like Robert Goulet than I do!”
“Oh my god,” I said, “you’re right!”
Brent laughed. “It’s for a character I’m playing called ‘The Evil Devlin Bowman’ in Dana Carvey’s new movie Master of Disguise.”
“Are you really evil?” I asked. I always admired Brent’s ability to create and portray diverse characters. I was especially impressed with his comedic ability. I could just imagine him stroking that goatee, and stealing the spotlight from everyone else on the set.
“Oh yeah. It’s a lot of fun,” he said, “but the hours are long. I’m really tired.”
“As long as Late Night With Les?” I asked. I referred to a director we used to work with on TNG who would always turn in good shows, but took forever to shoot them. It was common for us to be at Paramount until midnight when he directed us. It felt good to recall our Star Trek days together, and I didn’t realize it then, but I can see now that I was looking for commonality, familiarity. I wanted to reconnect with a happier time as much as I wanted to reconnect with the two of them.
“Nothing is as late as Late Night With Les,” he said with mock gravity.
We laughed together, and it was like I never left. I felt that knot start to form in my chest. This time, it wasn’t the usual regret or humilation, though. It was sadness. I missed Jonathan. I missed Brent. I missed this.
“Did you get the latest draft of the script?” Jonathan said to Brent.
“Oh my god, they’re talking about Nemesis!” My inner fanboy said.
“Shut up!” I snapped back, “You’re not a fanboy here. You’re a peer. Be cool!”
I took my own advice and stood there, silently, and listened to them talk about the movie. Production hadn’t started yet, but I could tell that they were excited about putting on their uniforms and getting back into character.
While they talked about the sets, the story, and the production schedule, I felt like a grounded kid, sitting at the living room window, watching his friends play kickball in the street.

There’s much more to come. This bit will be rewritten at least one more time before it’s finalized, for sure. I need to search my feelings so I can figure out why I felt so embarrassed when Jonny asked me about my sketch group, and I’d like to explore that knot in my chest. There’s some stuff hidden there, if I can untie it.
I talked with my mom this morning, and she told me that she read my rewrite yesterday and that she liked seeing the evolution from the first draft. She said it was like seeing “The Making of Just A Geek.”
It’s always weird for me to hear from people I know who read my site, especially my mother. It’s always easier when the audience is hidden by the footlights, you know?

Okay, I promise this is not just an excuse for me to use another obscure 80s lyric as a title.
I’ve been working on the Just A Geek rewrite for the past few hours, and I thought it may be interesting to WWdN readers to see some of the progress I’ve made.
I think I mentioned a few weeks ago that I’m doing major rewrites, and it’s taking a lot longer than I expected. I mean, I thought I’d have galleys out to reviewers by now, and I’m on page 101 instead. I think it’s okay, though, because I get happier and happier with each rewrite, and that pleases my inner perfectionist.
I’m taking my time, because I don’t know when I’ll have this luxury again (that was some great advice someone else gave me — I can’t recall who, though.)
The biggest note I got from one of my friends (who is an award-winning author, so he knows what he’s talking about) on my first draft was, “Expand the story! There’s all this interesting stuff in here, and you totally gloss over it. If this is a confessional autobiography, be confessional!! Put us there. Let us feel what you felt!”
When I read Amarillo Slim’s autobiography a few months ago, I grokked what he (my friend) was talking about. There’s this legendary story of Slim playing dominoes with Willie Nelson, and kicking Willie Nelson’s ass for something like a hundred thousand dollars. (It may be more than that, but my book is in the other room, and that sounds like walking which sounds like work.) The point is, Slim spent pages and pages building up to the game, and then spent less than a paragraph on the actual event! I felt so let down, I almost threw the book across the room. It was only my lazy aversion to walking that stopped me.
As I’ve worked on this rewrite, I’ve heeded my friend’s advice, and dug deeper than I did in the draft he read. I think I’ve developed quite a bit as a writer since that draft, too, and I am grateful for the chance to call “do over” on most of that stuff. If only I could do that with some of my really poor movie choices . . .
So here is an example of some of the changes I’ve made. The original is first, and the rewrite follows.

When I worked on Star Trek, I always struggled to fit in with the adults around me. It was tough, because I could relate to them professionally, but on a personal level, no matter how hard I tried, I was still a kid and they were still adults. In November of 2001, I got to share the stage with Jonathan, Brent and Patrick, the so-called Big Three of Star Trek:The Next Generation. Though I had been performing in a very well-reviewed sketch comedy show for almost a year, and shared the stage with huge movie stars every week on the J. Keith vanStraaten Show, I felt incredibly nervous and uncertain as the da. I worried that with The Big Three present nobody would want to talk with The Kid.
Boy was I wrong.
I took more questions than the rest of the guys combined — and most of them were about my website!
I felt sort of bad that I was getting so much attention, but I was also pleased. I felt like I’d finally grown up, and the reaction of the guys when we were backstage validated that.

That was the introduction to this weblog entry. In the rewrite, I’ve folded the entry into the body of the narrative, and added some new stuff:

When I worked on Star Trek, I always struggled to fit in with the adults around me. It was easy to relate to them professionally, but on a personal level, no matter how hard I tried, I was still a kid and they were still adults. I often thought that Wesley Crusher could have been a much richer and more interesting character if the writers had taken advantage of that very real turmoil that existed within me, and used it to add some humanity to Wesley in between the Nanite making and polarity reversing . . . but I guess it was more fun (and easier) to write for the robot. I can’t say that I blame them.
For whatever reason, I was never been able to entirely lose that teenage angst, and whenever I attended a Star Trek event, or saw one of the cast members, I immediately felt like I was 16 again. Because of that feeling — and, if I was willing to be truly, fearlessly honest with myself, the fact that I hadn’t done very much with my career since leaving the show — I avoided Star Trek events (and that inevitable feeling of shame and angst that accompanied them) for years. Of course there were exceptions, but they were few and far between.
In November of 2001, I was presented with an opportunity to share the stage with the Big Three of The Next Generation: Brent Spiner, Patrick Stewart and Jonathan Frakes, at an event called The Galaxy Ball. Robert Beltran, an actor who played Chakotay on Voyager, hosts it each year to benefit the Down Syndrome Association of Los Angeles, Doctors Without Borders, the Pediatric AIDS Foundation, and some other worthwhile charities. When I received the invitation, that familiar angst and apprehension sprung up immediately.
“What will I talk about? What have I done? How can I face them?” The doubts were relentless.
“Easy, I answered, “You’ve got your website. You’ve got the shows you do at ACME. You’ve got a wife and stepkids. You’re not a kid anymore. You kicked ass in Vegas, and you can kick ass again. Besides, when will you have a chance to be on stage with these guys again?”
“You’re right,” I told myself, “but if you keep talking to yourself like this, they’re going to throw you out of Starbucks.”
I looked up, and offered a smile to the girl scouts who were staring at me. I bought several hundred dollars worth of Thin Mints to solidify my reputation as an eccentric millionaire playboy who hangs out at Starbucks in his Bermuda shorts.
When the day came to go to the ball, I dressed in my finest gown, and bid my wicked stepsisters goodbye as I got into my carri —
Wait. Sorry. That’s not my story. That’s Todd Bridges’ story. I often get us confused.
On the morning of the ball, I had a major fashion crisis that reflected the nervousness and turmoil I felt. I was going to wear a suit, but I felt like I was playing dress up. I put on an ironic hipster T-shirt and black jeans, but then I felt like a child. I settled on this cool black cowboy shirt with eagles on the front and jeans. I looked at myself in the mirror that hangs on the back of my bedroom door, and thought I looked kind of cool. I ignored the explosion of discarded clothes that littered the rest of my room, and left the drawers open when I left.
The whole drive to the ball, I went over material in my head. I prepared jokes and did improv warm up exercises. By the time I got there, I felt like I’d been on stage for three hours.
I parked my car in the self-park garage. I convinced myself that it was stupid to cough up seven bucks for a valet to drive it forty feet, but the truth was all the other guys have luxury cars, and my VW seemed a little . . . unimpressive.
I made my way to the green room, and discovered Jonathan Frakes, who had arrived ahead of me.
“Hi, Johnny,” I said. I felt my face get warm.
I huge smile spread across his face as he stood up.
“W!” he said, “You look great, man!”
He closed the distance between us in two strides, and wrapped his arms around me in a big bearhug.
“You too,” I said, and waked over to a table where some food was set out. As I munched on a carrot, he said, “How have you been?”
It was the question that I always dreaded. I would always smile bravely, ignore the knot in my chest, and say something like,”Oh, you know . . . Things are slow, but I have an audition next week.”

I just finished this bit of the rewrite in the last hour, so I haven’t gone over it yet with my critical eye, so I’m sure I’ll make some more rewrites to this before it’s finally sent off to the printer.
There’s more, (like what happened when Patrick and Brent arrived, and what happened while we were on stage, but I don’t want to give it all away. 🙂