Page 33 of The Rom-Commers

“Not like this they don’t.”

Maybe it was because he’d been so insulting and so dismissive to me back in the car. But now that I had some food in my stomach and some money in my bra, the idea of giving this guy a little comeuppance felt pretty appealing.

Did I want to tell him what I really thought about his screenplay?

Suddenly, I did.

“You sure you want to do this?” I asked him, in a tone likeLast chance.

Charlie nodded, looking less sure.

I took a sip of my water and began: “Let me just start by saying that, up until I met you today, you were my favorite writer of all time. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. I love your character arcs, your dialogue, your plot twists, your settings, your flawed heroes and heroines, your weirdly relatable villains, your timing, your redemption arcs, your sense of humor, and, maybe most of all, your catchphrases.”

Charlie nodded, like all was right with the world.

“But this screenplay,” I went on, “is a crime against humanity.”

Charlie frowned.

“Still sure about doing this?” I asked, one last time.

“You’ve already put that check in your bra,” Charlie said, gesturing in that direction before abruptly deciding that was a bad idea.

“Buckle up, then,” I said, with a shrug.

The teaching rule I had for myself was to never criticize more than three things about a student’s work at a time. If you hit people too hard with too much too fast, they shut down. They feel attacked instead of advised. It stops helping and starts hurting.

Three criticisms at a time was the magic number.

But was I going to follow that rule for Charlie Yates?

No way in hell.

He wasn’t some beginner kid at community college. He was a ridiculously successful titan of the genre. With a mansion. And a “whole drawer” of Oscars.

He could handle it. And even if he couldn’t—allwriters are mushy goo, deep down—that wasn’t my problem.

He was paying me handsomely to share my thoughts, and share them I would.

All of them.

And if they happened to crush him? That was just a bonus.

“First of all,” I began, “this screenplay shouldn’t even be happening. I want to register my objection at the outset. This movie is a beloved classic that brims with rare magic and its legacy should not be defiled by some appalling remake.”

“Noted,” Charlie said.

Now I began in earnest—and maybe I should have been intimidated to say all this to a writing god. But my outrage made me fearless. I had a higher purpose to serve. “Just for an overview,” I said, “when I say this screenplay is ‘apocalyptically shitty,’ I mean that it has no tension, no character growth, no longing, no buildup, no anticipation, no banter, no fun, no play, and no shimmer.”

“Noshimmer?” Charlie said.

But I was just getting started. “It is a romantic comedy that is neither funny nor romantic. It doesn’t do any—any—of the things that a rom-com is supposed to do.”

“What’s a rom-com supposed to do?”

“Great question. One you should have asked before you wrote this thing. But let’s talk about it.”

Charlie’s pen was still lying idle atop his open notebook. He wasn’t taking notes. But he was—and I’ll give him credit for this—listening.

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