1.
The distance between the sun
and my car was fairly great , but the
heat was unbearably close. I turned the A/C to full blast as if it
made a difference. Summer was upon us. Windshields surrounding me
glinted in the glare of dusk as I tapped my freshly-manicured nails
against the rose-gold Coach watch gifted to me earlier in the week.
Another suitor attempting to catch my eye. Another shifter with
pants bulging at the seams. I cringed at the memory. This city was
full of ridiculous shifter men who were just begging to be
validated beneath some fancy Egyptian cotton sheets, nestled firmly
in a more expensive and smug part of LA. Ever since I moved here
two years ago, I've regretted it. I just wanted a taste of fame,
those fifteen minutes that were promised to me as a kid. Everyone
gets one, right?
I was sorely mistaken to
think my creative writing would get me anywhere around those
disgusting pigs in the entertainment industry. The shifters ran
pretty much everything, from night clubs to music labels. Anything
that could be exploited for millions of dollars was under a
monopoly of these chauvinistic and ravenous creatures. I wasn't
without my desire for them of course, but their mating habits were
simply archaic. For what reason did they need multiple mates? It
certainly wasn't for reproductive purposes. Anytime I went to a bar, I
could smell the hedonism polluting the air with false confidence,
bravado, and billions of dollars in plastic fashion. Hollywood is
gross.
As my car inched through
traffic, I considered the new screenplay I was commissioned to
write – another sci-fi thriller – and wondered how much I had sold out
since I moved here. My original screenwriting ideas were so full of
life, poking the patriarchy for every bit of discomfort they've
caused generations of women. I had a zest for defiant and loud
Feminism. I could make any man feel uncomfortable within moments of
meeting him because I was unapologetic in my stance and word. But these
Hollywood shiners were so cocky. Their ideas catered to the male
gaze and were regurgitated versions of previously condoned sexist
crap. My boss, Jeb, said my work threatened the structure of
typical Hollywood movies because I wanted to make my female
leads strong with supportive mixed gender characters surrounding her. What
was so threatening about that? Our disagreement from earlier in the
afternoon surfaced in my mind.
I could tell from the look on his
face as I defended my writing style that I'd have to rewrite most
of the screenplay, despite my pleas for it to be left
alone.
“ This is show business,
baby.”
I had to stop and take a breath
before I stabbed him with the heel of my Jimmy Choos.
“ You know this is how we run
things. You should really loosen up and enjoy the ride, Miss Skylar
Jones.” I hated it when Jeb called me by my full name. It made me
feel like a child.
“ But Jeb, think about how much
headway you could make by paving a path for a new trend in movies?”
I was attempting to speak his language. “You could be a catalyst
for a new movement. Think of all the money you could make by
empowering women. You would appeal to an entirely new
demographic!”
“ This isn't up for debate, Sky.
Pick up the editorial changes from my secretary. We'll see you
Thursday.” His eyes sparkled the sort of gold that you might find
in an African lion. I could tell he was showing off by making them
glitter. Why were shifters so shifty?
I huffed, rolled my eyes,
and stomped out of his office, snatching the markups from Ellen whose
body language relayed a sort of remorse. She had been working here
for the past eight years and had seen her fair share of inequality.
She knew exactly what I was going through. Who knew how many
writers they'd gone through before me? I was lucky to be here. I
wouldn't be so lucky if I kept up this defiant attitude. Still,
thinking of selling out made me feel sick to my stomach. Or maybe
that was the toxic smog that seeped into
The distance between the sun
and my car was fairly great , but the
heat was unbearably close. I turned the A/C to full blast as if it
made a difference. Summer was upon us. Windshields surrounding me
glinted in the glare of dusk as I tapped my freshly-manicured nails
against the rose-gold Coach watch gifted to me earlier in the week.
Another suitor attempting to catch my eye. Another shifter with
pants bulging at the seams. I cringed at the memory. This city was
full of ridiculous shifter men who were just begging to be
validated beneath some fancy Egyptian cotton sheets, nestled firmly
in a more expensive and smug part of LA. Ever since I moved here
two years ago, I've regretted it. I just wanted a taste of fame,
those fifteen minutes that were promised to me as a kid. Everyone
gets one, right?
I was sorely mistaken to
think my creative writing would get me anywhere around those
disgusting pigs in the entertainment industry. The shifters ran
pretty much everything, from night clubs to music labels. Anything
that could be exploited for millions of dollars was under a
monopoly of these chauvinistic and ravenous creatures. I wasn't
without my desire for them of course, but their mating habits were
simply archaic. For what reason did they need multiple mates? It
certainly wasn't for reproductive purposes. Anytime I went to a bar, I
could smell the hedonism polluting the air with false confidence,
bravado, and billions of dollars in plastic fashion. Hollywood is
gross.
As my car inched through
traffic, I considered the new screenplay I was commissioned to
write – another sci-fi thriller – and wondered how much I had sold out
since I moved here. My original screenwriting ideas were so full of
life, poking the patriarchy for every bit of discomfort they've
caused generations of women. I had a zest for defiant and loud
Feminism. I could make any man feel uncomfortable within moments of
meeting him because I was unapologetic in my stance and word. But these
Hollywood shiners were so cocky. Their ideas catered to the male
gaze and were regurgitated versions of previously condoned sexist
crap. My boss, Jeb, said my work threatened the structure of
typical Hollywood movies because I wanted to make my female
leads strong with supportive mixed gender characters surrounding her. What
was so threatening about that? Our disagreement from earlier in the
afternoon surfaced in my mind.
I could tell from the look on his
face as I defended my writing style that I'd have to rewrite most
of the screenplay, despite my pleas for it to be left
alone.
“ This is show business,
baby.”
I had to stop and take a breath
before I stabbed him with the heel of my Jimmy Choos.
“ You know this is how we run
things. You should really loosen up and enjoy the ride, Miss Skylar
Jones.” I hated it when Jeb called me by my full name. It made me
feel like a child.
“ But Jeb, think about how much
headway you could make by paving a path for a new trend in movies?”
I was attempting to speak his language. “You could be a catalyst
for a new movement. Think of all the money you could make by
empowering women. You would appeal to an entirely new
demographic!”
“ This isn't up for debate, Sky.
Pick up the editorial changes from my secretary. We'll see you
Thursday.” His eyes sparkled the sort of gold that you might find
in an African lion. I could tell he was showing off by making them
glitter. Why were shifters so shifty?
I huffed, rolled my eyes,
and stomped out of his office, snatching the markups from Ellen whose
body language relayed a sort of remorse. She had been working here
for the past eight years and had seen her fair share of inequality.
She knew exactly what I was going through. Who knew how many
writers they'd gone through before me? I was lucky to be here. I
wouldn't be so lucky if I kept up this defiant attitude. Still,
thinking of selling out made me feel sick to my stomach. Or maybe
that was the toxic smog that seeped into
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