I stole from my man.

I stole from my man.  Mind you, he knew I was doing it; or at least he should have known because it isn’t like I didn’t tell him in advance.  I don’t think he believed me.  Silly boy.

My husband, Brad, has been a writer of one kind or another his whole life.  He started as a news reporter, then became an advertising copywriter; eventually he wrote and directed television commercials.   He had a great idea for a screenplay about a murder case that he covered as a reporter.  Terrific idea.  Lots of twists and turns.  Eventually he figured out how the murderer got away with it, so there were wonderful possibilities.

I went back to Indiana and dug through the newspaper morgue (the archives) and did the research for him.  It had been a number of years since he had covered the case.  He poured over my research and talked about the story.  A year later he was still talking – to everyone within earshot. 

“Quit talking about it and write it,” I mentioned ever-so-tactfully about a million times.  “Someone is going to steal it from you.”

Another year passed and he was working as a producer on a small feature film.  The executive producer was a big deal from Hollywood.  One day I walked into a break in shooting to find Brad telling the Hollywood guy about his idea for a screenplay – telling him in excruciating detail.

“Shut up, shut up, shut the (bleep) up,” I gently suggested.  “Are you insane?  These Hollywood guys would steal the food from their mother’s mouths.”

A year later, I finally gave him an ultimatum.  “If you are intent on letting someone steal this thing, then keep it in the family.  You’ve got until September to write at least a treatment (a synopsis) and get it registered with the Writer’s Guild of America or I’m going to steal the damn thing myself.”  Honestly, did he think I was kidding?

The following January we were getting our taxes together and he saw a bunch of cancelled checks made out to WGA.  “What’s this?” he asked.  

“That’s the Writer’s Guild of America for my many treatments,” I answered helpfully.  “I stole your screenplay and registered it seven ways from Sunday.    It’s registered as a true story, a piece of fiction, a third-person narrative, a first-person narrative from the POV of a young reporter covering the story, and a first person story from the POV of the murderer.  It’s mine now.”

The British have a word for what Brad was.  It’s called Gobsmacked.  It means confused, shocked, dumbfounded.  “Suppose I still want to write it?” he asked.

“Well then I guess you’ll have to be a lot nicer to me.” 

Men.  They really must start taking us more seriously.