Author: Wil

I made some more progress on the rewrite today. It’s not as much as I’d hoped for, but I’ve got a lot of plates spinning, and this juggling bear keeps dropping his balls.
Stupid bear.
I did some searching of that knot, and explored the strange ambivalence I had when Jonathan asked me about my sketch comedy. Here’s the 1.7a version of that stuff:

“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. The knot nearly tightened so violently in my chest, it felt like a heart attack. I felt intensely uncomfortable and embarrassed. The feeling surprised me; here was the one thing that I’d been doing, and doing well, I was very proud of my sketch work, yet I didn’t want to talk about it.
“I may be funny in some sketch comedy shows that hardly anyone ever sees,” I thought, “but I’m struggling to pay my bills, I can’t get hired for anything in Hollywood, and all of you guys have gone on to be rich and famous. I may be funny, but I sure fucked up the biggest opportunity of my career when I quit ‘Star Trek.'”
I shoved several carrots in my mouth and 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, quoting one of the actors in that show and laughed. The knot loosened.
“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. The knot untied itself.

It’s not quite there, but it’s better. Writing about it also forced me to open some doors that I’d rather leave closed: I quit Star Trek to do other things in my career, but ended up doing other things in my life. I can’t say I regret that, because my life is really quite good. My career is in the shitter, but I’m not my career.
Yeah, right.
I keep telling myself that, but I still don’t fully believe it. I often feel like I had so much promise in my career (life) but I squandered it. I suppose the good side of that is I managed to blow most of my chances because I was young and immature, unlike most of my peers who blew their chances (lives) with drug abuse. That’s all well and good, but it’s cold comfort when I miss out on yet another fantastic acting opportunity, or when my agents dropped me earlier this year. Of course, with the notable exception of Patrick, the rest of the cast hasn’t exactly used Star Trek as a massive launching point for their acting careers, either. I suppose they don’t need to, and I’m sure they’re all content wherever they are in their lives (careers) . . . but I wonder if they ever feel like they missed any opportunities . . .
Woah. Got a little off-topic there. Sorry about that.
I spent some time today working on more of the story. I didn’t get very far, but I’m fairly happy with what I accomplished:

“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 said, “You’re not a fanboy here. You’re a peer. Be cool.”
I took my own advice and stood there, silent, 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, I felt like a grounded kid, sitting at the living room window, watching his friends play kickball in the street.
“They want to make some substantial changes to the wedding,” Brent said.
“I like it the way it is,” Jonathan said.
“Well, I’m talking with Stuart and Logan about it,” Brent said, “We’ll see what happens.”
“Is this really the last one?” I asked, in spite of myself.
“Yeah,” Brent said.
“I think so,” Jonathan said.
Illusions of returning to the bridge of the Enterprise, awoken just a month earlier on Star Trek: The Experience, quickly faded. In the hallway, the elevator bell rang again.
“That’s really sad,” I said, “It’s like the end of an era.”
“For all of us,” I thought.
“We’ve done it for so long,” Brent said, “I think it’s time for me to do something new. I’m getting too old to play Data.”
“I’m the only one who’s changed. They’ve just gotten older.” Jonathan’s words echoed in my mind.
A deep, commanding voice bounced off the marble floor of the hallway, and filled the room before its creator crossed the threshold.
“Are there Star Trek people in this room?” it boomed, “I just love those Star Trek people!”
We all turned to the door, as Patrick Stewart walked in.
Patrick is one of the most disarming people I’ve ever met. If you only know him as Captain Picard, or Professor Xavier, his mirthful exuberance is shocking. Patrick is one of the most professional and talented actors I’ve ever known, but he’s also one of the most fun.
“Bob Goulet” I haven’t seen you in ages, man! You look great!” he said to Brent, and hugged him.
“Jonathan Frakes! I am a big fan,” he smiled at Jonny and hugged him to.
He turned to me. “Who are you? You look familiar, but . . . I can’t place you.”
“Wil Wheaton, Mr. Stewart,” I said.
He looked thoughtful for a moment and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I was Wesley on Next Generation,” I said.
“Get out! You were never that young!” he said. “Do you know how old that makes me?”
“I do, sir,” I replied, solemnly, “I believe we spent some time in a shuttlecraft together.”
He nodded slowly, but remained unconvinced. “Go on . . .”
“That’s all I’ve got, man,” I laughed.
Patrick smiled broadly and said, “Wil, darling, you look wonderful.” He held his arms wide, and pulled me into a warm embrace. “I am so happy to see you!”
“You too,” I said.
He held me at arm’s length, and looked at me. Even though Patrick and I are the same height, I felt, like always, that he towered above me.
“I like that shirt, Wil. It’s very cool.”
He looked at Jonathan, then at Brent. We all wore black shirts. Brent and Jonathan wore black pants. Patrick wore a blue shirt and khaki pants.
“I guess I didn’t get the memo about wardrobe,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I said, “I don’t think anyone will notice.”
“Gentlemen, we’re ready for you downstairs,” one of the convention volunteers said from the doorway.
I felt a surge of adrenaline as we walked to the elevator.

I’ve noticed that almost everything I write lately comes out with great ease. I don’t have to search a lot of for words and feelings, and I spend considerably less time staring out the window at the Big Tree looking for them, like I did with Dancing Barefoot.
Something strikes me, as I recall these moments: the joy. I felt so much pure, unspoiled joy when I was around those guys, it was like being wired to a droud. I used to miss the chances at fame and fortune that were a consequence of my departure from Star Trek. Now, however, I just miss the joy that I should have embraced when I was there.

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?