We are all writers now

“I want you to know I am a writer too.”

-- Alicia Keys at the solidarity march through Hollywood, Nov. 20

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In solidarity with my brothers and sisters of the Writers Guild, East and West, I am no longer writing. Not a word. No memos, no text messages, no PowerPoints, no notes for the kids to get out of phys ed class (in the past, often writing at its most creative. But that was then. Pre-strike). It is a cause, and it is just.

Of course, this has made performing my job at Proctor & Gamble in Cincinnati as senior executive copywriter for detergent boxes (NEW! IMPROVED! SO VERY DIFFERENT THAN BEFORE!) difficult to the point that my employer suggested I pursue the struggle at home. Perhaps this would have been a tough decision for some, but now, far from the Coasts, I feel at one with my fellow writers. I am the showrunner of my household, and if blood is the cost of bringing the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers to its residual knees, so be it.

At a rally in Hollywood last week, our leader, Brother No. 1 Patric Verrone, president of the West Coast guild, said, “We’re here to show our teeth.” Here in Cincinnati, I snarled. Although the loss of my income has been stressful for my family, we have received much support. Last night, Joey, the Domino’s delivery boy, dropped off a 16-inch pepperoni pizza with an 8-by-10 of Eva Longoria. It was signed, “I am yours in the struggle.” Thank you, Eva. While I am a happily married father of three with no desire to appear in the pages of Us magazine, the dream of such a possibility is appreciated. And today, after the kids got home from school, Christie, our UPS delivery person (I dream of what Brown would do for Eva), delivered a box of scones baked by the agents of CAA along with coupons for lattes at Starbucks, courtesy of Ray Romano. We are so touched -- thank you all.

I have achieved mixed results in garnering the support of my family and friends for the writing stoppage. Our kids feel the need to do their homework lest they get carted off by Family Services. Although I admire their dedication and desire for admission to an Ivy League college, it has caused friction in our house. As strike captain, I have asked them not to cross the line; asked them whose side they are on. But when the school bus comes, they sneak out the back door, my darling little scabs. I fear reprisal from the guild when this is all over, but perhaps our leaders will be lenient with children. On the other hand, it was easy to enlist the support of my Orthodox neighbor, David. For him, the strike is like a month of Saturdays.

During the day, alone in our home while my wife is at her job as a speech therapist (solidarity by trade) and our kids are at school, I strike. News from the front lines is hard to get, as I will not read anything written after Nov. 5, when our struggle began. It has been a good time to catch up with “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

I know I can survive until that glorious day when we get more than 4 cents per DVD and every download brings with it a check. Well, it may not be me getting these payments -- but that’s not why I strike. I strike because I share the pain of all my brothers and sisters in their homes in Brentwood or Brooklyn, or wherever they may be.

I just hope this is resolved before the actors go on strike and I can no longer speak.

[Dictated, not written.]