I Need The Eggs

This is the ending of ANNIE HALL — an incredible, timeless classic that was unfortunately made by a child molester.

And I thought of that old joke, you know, this guy goes to his psychiatrist and says ‘Doc, my brother’s crazy. He thinks he’s a chicken! And uh, the doctor says, well, why don’t you turn him in? Well, I would, but I need the eggs.’

This joke plays in my head all the time.

A while back I found a carpenter who could take the tongue and groove knotty pine boards in my basement that I had scavenged from the walls of an old cabin that was being flipped by a guy who thought the old wood paneling made the cabin look like “grandpa’s cabin” and was replacing it with drywall for his “Orange County customers” because that’s what they wanted (according to him) and actually cut it properly and put it on my kitchen walls to make it look like it had always been there. This is what’s known as a “finish carpenter” who actually knows how to finish off custom woodwork that you’ll see every day as part of your interior design (as opposed to a “rough carpenter” who mainly frames up structural elements). Ask me how I learned the difference!

Anyway this carpenter turned out to be extremely talented. He also took the old knotty pine cabinet doors that I salvaged from a different old cabin that was being sold and custom-fit them to my old cabinets, replacing some cheap pressboard ones that had been there. You can tell you’re in the hands of a real craftsman by the way they finish their edges (just like a screenwriter — we pride ourselves on our transitions!) And he managed to create a new windowsill for my kitchen window, and little capped ledges in the places where the new paneling had to meet the old paneling that had already been there. Just a pleasure to work with someone who knows what they’re doing like this.

The only problem is — it was a year and a half between when he started the kitchen and when he finished the kitchen. And it was only two days work total. One day to start the job. Then a year and a half passed. Then another day to finish the job.

I reached out to him continually through this time. He always had some excuse as to why he couldn’t come back. Some of it felt real to me, and some of it didn’t. The truth was this was just an extraordinarily busy period for people renovating homes due to an extreme real estate boom in this area, and other people in my life kept pushing me to “not put up with this!” and “find someone else!” But the fact is, it’s really hard to find someone who really knows their craft, at any time, especially in this area, especially during an overheated real estate boom (which thankfully appears to be crashing now).

I need the eggs.

So I kept just patiently checking in with him. And then he got very scary health news. So I wound up sending him a bunch of videos which I send to everyone I know dealing with something scary. And I talked to him on the phone for over an hour when he was waiting for his diagnosis, and he was scared. Mind you, this is someone who had worked for me for a total of one day at this point. I told him that I promised it was all going to be ok, and he would get through it to the other side.

Eventually, a year and a half after he started my kitchen, he did get through his health crisis, and he did come back and finish my kitchen. And I absolutely love it. And I reminded him about how I had promised him it was all going to be ok, back before he had even received the diagnosis.

This is how I feel when I’m producing on set. I love being on set. And the reason why I think I’m great at it is — I’m willing and capable of accepting whatever my collaborators need to execute the shared vision. It frankly doesn’t matter to me what my collaborators need to do their work. I step into their reality, try my best to understand what they need to do their best work. And I believe in that reality. I make it happen.

I need the eggs.

I have a feeling other writer-producers aren’t as nurturing or indulgent as I am. Here’s why I have it to give in spades: because I know how much space and safety I need to make the magic happen. I know it doesn’t just get summoned from nowhere. I know I have to cultivate a very deep, very safe, very nurtured place in order to summon anything at all, much less magic! So when I’m on set and I’m working with incredibly talented artists, I go to that place in my mind. Where I know that if I’m pushed too far, I just shut down and nothing happens. So I say things like “we’ve got all the time in the world” (even though we’re spending a thousand dollars a minute and everyone’s antsy about it). Or “that was perfect. Why don’t you try it again, just like that.” (I have lots of reverse psychology tricks. Remember, one of my screenwriting dialogue maxims is characters often say the opposite of what they mean.) Something else I like to do is implant actors with their motivation before important scenes or right before their coverage. So I’ll go to them and remind them of their stakes in the scene and just generally where their character is emotionally, and depending on the story, political or historical ideas that pertain to the scene. It’s my way of making sure I’ve hit the scene home in their heads before their close-up shots — one last scene polish on their faces!

They put up with me because I put up with them. We are creating a shared reality that becomes a vision that becomes a show or a movie. Or a beautiful kitchen that I’m so happy with.

I need the eggs.

The Human Operator

Episode 8

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Author’s Note: I apologize that it’s been so long since the last episode. I believe I am the first person ever to be late posting my free fiction serial because I’ve been busy writing / producing insanely expensive prestige TV. What can I say, life is full of contrasts. Thanks for bearing with me.

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Middleburg, Virginia

A small military drone hovers over the rolling green hills of a Virginia horse farm. It shines a spotlight down on the grass - scanning side to side - darting forward into a cluster of trees and sighting a laser guide on a target buried under a pile of leaves. It locks on the bullseye in the center of the target.

The drone rises out of the tree glade and loops around and speeds over the upcoming rise toward a trailer on the ridge. It stops abruptly outside the trailer and hovers in front of it.

Inside the trailer, the image of the drone hovering appears on monitors lining the walls.

The man who summons the drone stands in front of the screens like a conductor, admiring his work. Adam Beal is cerebral with the cunning to capitalize on it and a bemused detachment as if nothing matters. He has the hesitating manner of your closeted white libertarian college professor, twinkly and lethal.

His audience watches the monitors as an aide pilots the drone back up and over the forest. “Now to find target number three,” says Beal. “Watch how they enter the, ah, data points we have so far -“

His audience is a pair of older white generals and their aides, who watch the show on the monitors like it’s an outdoor laser show set to music.

The aides at the keyboards input different variables as Beal narrates.

“We don’t know where the next target is. All we know is where we found the previous targets, and wind speed, topographical maps, and psychological profiling of who set out these targets. By triangulating these data points, the software can predict where the next target is going to be.”

General Norwood, a crusty dinosaur of the military-industrial complex, watches the monitors skeptically. “We don’t need more computers to play with. What we need is sharper human intelligence.”

Beal smiles as the drone zips across the forest canopy on screen. “That’s ok. What we’ve got isn’t for you.”

“Then why did you ask for this meeting?” asks General Norwood, shoveling catered sandwiches into his face from the spread in front of them. The aides continue feeding data points to the drone as it hunts its next target.

Beal motions for one of the aides to move a data-point from one of the boxes over to the other screen into the actionable zone. “This is for the start-ups. Your competitors. But my people insisted we had to show it to the Pentagon.”

The Secretary of Defense, a moribund Southern walrus presiding over his defense iceberg, scoffs. “Start-ups? You mean insurgents? Look, when you’ve got multiple out-of-control theaters, badasses looking to score on you every chance they get, what you need is not computers my friend.”

Beal drops into an open chair, suppressing a smirk. “I don’t know that I would, ah, trust you with our technology.”

Now this makes them mad. The General retorts “This is a human intelligence problem. A baddie problem. Not something you could possibly know anything about. We have a human problem. Not a computer problem.”

Beal leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. “What you’ve got is a fraud problem.”

The Secretary of Defense laughs. “A fraud problem?”

Beal spins his chair to turn his back on the monitors and face the Generals just as the aides zoom the screen on the drone’s path behind him. “I founded a payments company in the, in the dotcom era that was headed for doom because of the, ah, fraud problem.”

“You did ok on that,” says the Secretary of Defense, pointing at the deli meat so that someone will fill him another plate.

The drone zeros in on its target, using all the matrixes being fed to it onscreen. But no one is watching the show anymore. “We did ok. It's now worth over one hundred billion dollars.” Beal shoots the Secretary the killer look. “But it was worth less than nothing until we solved the fraud problem.”

General Norwood looks confused by this dorky billionaire who’s never even played toy soldiers. “How do we have a fraud problem?”

Beal spins to watch the drone dive through the tree canopy. “We had eBay sellers determined to defraud buyers and a computer system that couldn’t catch them fast enough.”

Everyone watches now as the drone nose-dives through canopy undergrowth, laser-guiding its way through a maze of branches. The Secretary drips with Southern scorn: “You think going to war is like fighting fraud on eBay?”

The drone speed-runs its way through the undergrowth until it noses into the hidden target it was searching for, pinned by rocks and half covered by dirt. The drone fires on the target. Applause erupts inside the trailer. Beal suddenly focuses: “You’ve got a large-scale, decentralized scam operation whose goal is to defraud your service-people in the field, and you don’t have any software trained up in identifying the good operators from the bad.”

The generals get a sober look now and focus on Beal intently. “What did you do about it?” says General Norwood.

Beal stands abruptly, to the confusion of his guests. “We had a pure human, a pure human solution where we just had human analysts looking at transactions, and no one knew what anyone else was doing. This was characteristic, characteristic of what you’ve got at the CIA.” He puts out his hand toward his aides, expecting them to know what he wants.

“Were they as lazy as CIA officers?” asks Secretary Bradshaw, looking around for laughs.

An aide rushes to hold Beal’s coat open for him as he stretches his arms inside. “And then we had, sort of a pure computer solution, where we collected all the data in the world but we had no idea what we had.“

General Norwood stares at Beal putting on his coat, absorbing what he’s just said. “And that’s characteristic of what we have at NSA.”

Beal smiles. “And neither one would speak to the other.”

Secretary Bradshaw clocks the aides following their bosses’ lead, beginning to shut the computers down. “So how do we get computers to replace all these people - ones who will speak to each other?”

Beal smiles fondly at his people packing up the entire spectacle, without needing to be told. “We think of computers as almost, almost substitutes for human beings where in reality they're, they’re complementary. Computers are good at very different things than people are.”

“But how does this solve the fraud problem?” General Norwood stands now, almost involuntarily following Beal.

Beal throws it out casually. Like accidentally giving away a secret: “What actually turned out to work was a hybrid solution, where you figure out the proper division of labor between the, ah, humans and the computers -“

On a row of humans at a down and out developing world computer cafe all lined up in front of desktop machines, scanning the internet for their supper -

“You teach the computers to flag somewhat, somewhat suspicious things and you teach the humans to visualize transactions -“ Beal reaches the door to the trailer and turns back to them.

Zero in on this one janky sallow cafe computer flagging suspicious things and visualizing transactions around the world.

“- and that turned out to be a powerful technique.” Beal gives them a knowing look. “The problem with this, obviously, is humans are human.”

Reverse from the janky computer to land on Hale, looking worse than we’ve ever seen her. Pure death. Searching the computer.

The Human Operator

Episode 7

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Hale darts out of the tent into chaos outside. People are scrambling for cover. Kaur up ahead plowing through villagers and their carts and their animals. Hale darts through village people swarming in terror. Need to reach him.

Support team take a beat to be shocked at Hale running out. Holy shit they had one intention, to stay on this woman. They follow her.

She’s racing through a confusing narrow twisted series of passageways. Feeling pursued, surrounded by the desperate. Kaur just up ahead. A woman exits an entry carrying a large flat round bowl full of grain. Kaur dives under the bowl and pops all the grain in the air.

Hale running as fast as she can after Kaur. Things getting hairy, building and intense through the chaos of the crowded passages.

Support guys trying to catch Hale. Villager carrying huge bundle of sticks overhead. Support guys bang into him. Sticks flying.

Hale jumps blankets set out with goods. One after the other like puddle jumping.

The UN support guys right on Hale mirroring her movements, banging into a stand selling squash, sending squashes rolling.

Hale ducks down one narrow passage. Runs down another narrow passage. Knocking people out of her way. Looking over her shoulder. Little tin shack, almost slams into it. She grabs the edge of the overhang and turns a corner. Glimpse of Kaur up ahead disappearing into an alley.

She bangs after him. Reaches end of the alley. Finally face to face with the guy who was in the tent. Both panting, frantic:

“Do you have it on you?” he asks.

“I need you to pay me first.” Hale looking around wild.

“Show it to me.”

“Show me the money.”

“I can send you the money to your wallet.”

Hale fumbling with her gear. “I ... can’t go online from here.”

“I have a satellite connection.”

“No, I mean. I can’t disclose my location.”

He gives her a pointed look. “What you’re doing isn’t illegal. Right?”

Hale out of her mind. Tiny window to make this trade. “Do you want this thing or not?”

“I want to see it.”

“Not till I have the money. I need it now or the deal is off.” She looks around.

Support guys spot them at the other end of the alley. Kaur grabs Hale's arm. Yanks her around the corner.

“I told you, I can send it to your address right now and you’ll have it.”

“In here -“ Hale hustles them down toward the next alley.

Support team have a visual on Hale. Signal to one another as they move to re-secure her.

Kaur fumbling with his phone. “Give me your address.”

Hale looks back. There they are. Shit. She's fumbling with her device. Sweating. No connection. She squats.

She squints up into the blaring sun. Looking for the satellite. Panting. She shields the screen with her hand and takes a deep breath. Connects the device to satellite internet. Fatally exposing herself and her location. She just gave away the store.

But she doesn’t have time to worry about that now.

Hale looks up and sees -

-a villager emerging from the chaos and throwing an IED right towards Hale -

BOOM

EXPLOSION

FLASH OF WHITE LIGHT

Hale’s life flashes before her eyes in compressed beats:

Hale sick with a cold at home, her Mom rubbing Vick's on her chest.

Mike, a kind mentor co-worker her father's age, telling a joke from his seat in operations, while Hale breaks up laughing.

Hale coming on to a quirky security engineer, in an anime bar in Palo Alto.

Hale leading a meeting at Prescience surrounded by dudes listening intently, some tuning her out.

Mike studying code in operations, waves Hale over.

Hale studying coding at a coffee shop near Stanford.

The security engineer cooking Hale breakfast the first time.

Hale at mom's kitchen table laughing with her parents.

Hale hiking alone atop a beautiful mountain.

Hale and the security engineer fucking in a tent.

Hale waiting tables during high school in a small town.

Hale playing Dungeons & Dragons with friends in Palo Alto.

Hale by Mike’s bedside in hospice while he sleeps.

Hale and the security engineer decorating their new apartment.

Hale staring at a woman her age holding a baby in the Presidio in San Francisco.

---

A red light appears on a dark board over an analyst’s shoulder.

---

The Human Operator

The Human Operator

Episode 6

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And we're in a large cool calm tent. Momentary salvation from the chaos outside. Dark and spooky in here, with a tempo that doesn’t match the food aid frenzy outside. Hale takes deep breaths scouting back out the flap she came in from. She turns around.

Rebel leaders in camouflage lounge on low furniture smoking shisha in the gloom. Gulp. The powerful Sudanese warlords size this strange gawky woman up. Hale meets their eyes. They take deep inhales on the pipes. All eyes on her.

The man who lured her here, Kaur, a young Kazakh techie mercenary covered in tattoos, gestures to sit. In a practiced maneuver Hale squats. Removes high-tech gear from her satchel. Fast.

Hale secures her tools. Elaborate advanced security protocols. Her terminal set up and secure, Hale breathes deep, looks at each rebel leader.

“Search is easy when you know what you're searching for.” Her voice wavers just a bit. “But what if you don't know what you're searching for. What if you have to start by searching for what kind of map you need? You call us.”

Whoa, it’s a business presentation, and one Hale seems to have down.

The relaxed and jolly rebel leader in charge Machar interrupts her. “We have maps. We need computers!”

Hale doesn’t laugh. She just barrels forward with her presentation. “Prescience's proprietary technology is a data mining system used by law enforcement agencies and national security to connect the dots between known criminals and rogue actors.”

A presentation she knows inside out. Canned beats. “The combination of Big Brother and Big Data makes us all powerful.”

“Whatever you're giving the NSA, that's what we want,” says Machar. The rebel leaders laugh knowingly. Full-bodied African laughs.

Hale laser-focused on her presentation and will not be distracted. “It's one thing to look for a needle in a haystack. But what if you don't even know you're looking for a needle? We fragment and analyze the entire haystack, immersing you inside it, to show you anything in it you should be looking for.”

Machar shoots a look at Kaur: what is a haystack?

“A haystack is a pile of straw. Like on a farm,” answers Kaur.

Hale keeps moving, as if she doesn’t want to lose her place. “The expression is ‘searching for a needle in a haystack.’ The haystack is your theater. We make sure there's nothing in there you don't want there.”

Knowing looks between the leaders. “We got a lot inside ours we don't want.”

“Our toolsets are aimed at massive data caches, allowing lawmakers and the police to make connections that are otherwise invisible.”

“I want my enemies to be invisible.” Machar gets another big laugh.

“If you have a major dissident, we can shut him down. We can stop an Arab Spring from happening here. We can start an Arab Spring too.” Hale sets up her device.

“How did your boss know President Trump was going to win the election?”

“We showed him. We showed CIA where Osama bin Laden was. We can do that for you.”

“You can show me anyone?”

“No human can look at all the data sources at one time. We show you the aggregate, the likelihood of anyone being anywhere, doing anything. Morgan Stanley uses us to spot money laundering and employee theft.”

The tent flaps pop open and Thomas and Reynaldo appear. Their faces register shock when they see Hale down on the floor giving a presentation. They look around. Who are these other people?

Kaur clocks the armed UNWFP guys. “Why the elaborate security protocol? Are you afraid of us?”

Hale has an answer for everything. “Malware is a weapon. We could be investigated for violations of the arms embargo against Sudan.”

“Is this malware?” asks Machar. “Is this against the law?”

“Code moves faster than law.”

A flash of skepticism flashes across Machar’s face. “Northrup Grumman told us it would take two years to put this together.”

Hale works on her device. “There. That's it.”

“What is it?” He looks confused.

“It's done. The analysis. I just did it. I can show you a preview on good faith.” As Hale spins her monitor to show them -

Machine gun fire strafes the outside of the tent - an ear-piercing rap rap rap rap rap rap rap -

Kaur jumps to his feet and scrams out the flaps of the tent. Hale doesn't hesitate, races out the tent flaps to follow him.

It Didn't Start With You

Process

I just read this phenomenal book IT DIDN’T START WITH YOU: How Inherited Family Trauma Shapes Who We Are and How To End The Cycle by Mark Wolynn. I want to try to apply its teachings to developing our creative process.

The book centers around the idea that many if not most of the issues in your life are probably inherited from a previous generation. We come to be identified with unhealed traumas that happened in our families and unconsciously play them out in our own lives even if we don’t know about them. These are stories, or loyalties, or cultural legacies that get passed down through generations like genetics.

So you may have never lived through a Holocaust or World War, but if a grandparent did, your hoarding or binge eating may be because of it. Or if you find yourself chronically underearning (as many artists do), someone in your family may have been stolen from or may have cheated someone else, and you may have unconsciously identified with them.

The book lays out a series of tools to uncover these unconscious identifications. Let’s focus on the idea of any unconscious creative blocks you may have. Ask yourself the following questions. (The book highly suggests you write the answers down rather than answering them in your head).

1. What is your greatest complaint about [any unconscious creative blocks you may have]? Like, what’s the worst part about them? (This question correlates with unfinished business with your parents).

2. Write down the most important adjectives and phrases to describe your mom and dad. These are your core descriptors. These help you look for unconscious loyalties, ways you’ve distanced yourself from your parents (and maybe unconsciously repeating their blocks), old resentments and accusations. This is the unconscious reservoir of childhood experience we draw upon to project onto our work.

3. What is the worst thing that could happen to [your creative work]? What is your worst fear about it? This is your core sentence.

4. What tragic events occurred in your family history? This is your core trauma. This opens your systemic lens in looking at whatever may be blocking you. Often problems have origins in family history, sometimes generations back.

As you’re answering these questions, pay close attention to dramatic, emotionally charged words. These will point you toward the keys to unlocking what’s really behind whatever blocks you may have.

You may think you’re a procrastinator, but maybe you’re unconsciously loyal to a parent who never got what they want. Read the book — it’s a fascinating psychological study.