Wil Wheaton's Blog, page 19

so safe, so loved, so special

There’s this commercial where a woman comes into her house and experiences the unparalleled relief of taking off her bra after a long day at work. I think it’s a beer commercial. There’s a Toots and the Maytals song in it called Pressure Drop. It’s a great song, and if you know it, you’re probably grooving to it a little bit right now. Or, at least, now you are. You’re welcome. I love this song. Always have. Can’t remember a time when I didn’t know the words. After I’d heard it a few dozen times during a single baseball game awhile ago, I fired up the old Spotify and asked it to make me a playlist based on that song. “This is quite a departure from your usual 80s punk playlists,” it said to me, hopefully more in interest than judgment. You never can tell with Spotify. It made the playlist, and a couple taps later, I was in full groove to Toots and the Maytals’ cover of Louie Louie. My whole life, I’ve been deeply into reggae music. Even at the peak of teenage angst, when my record collection was almost exclusively punk and new wave, I always made room and time for reggae. And not just Bob Marley’s greatest hits CD that we all had and loved. I’m talking about artists that the average white boy in my suburban neighborhood in the 80s had never heard of, or had much reason to stumble across: Jimmy Cliff, Peter Tosh, Burning Spear, Bunny Wailer, Steel Pulse, Toots and the Maytals. The stories they told in their music, the stories they told WITH their music, just always seemed to really land on me. There was something incredibly soothing, safe, and warm about reggae music that I didn’t get from any other music. I never really talked about it. Uncharacteristically for me, I kept it to myself. Guarded it. I only shared it with one other person, ever, and that was my friend, Dave, who loved the same music as I did, the same way I did. It’s a big part of a friendship that spans nearly three decades. So I’m grooving a little, and then I’m grooving a lot, and then all of the sudden, with no warning or gentle ramp up, I suddenly realize why I love this music, and why I love it the way I do. The memory doesn’t wash over me in a wave as much as it picks me up along its face, tosses me into the curl, tumbles over and through me until it and I are indistinguishable from one another. I am in the living room of my great grand parents’ farmhouse. I am sitting on the floor, atop an exotic rug that protects dark wood floors. It’s dimly lit, and the air is cool. My great grandparents are in front of me. My great grandfather, Papa, is in a pale blue guayabera and dark slacks. My great grandmother, Mum Mum, is wearing a flowing white dress, with a high neckline, and some colorful thread sewn into sleeves that stop just above her elbow. She is barefoot, holding the skirt out with one hand. Her other hand reaches to the ceiling and she twirls around it. She is pure joy and love. He watches her with tremendous affection. Against the wall, a few feet away to my right, Toots and the Maytals’ cover of Louie, Louie, plays on their record player. I am so safe. I am so loved. I am so special to them. Just as quickly as it crashes over me, the memory is gone. I tumble out of the foam and cough some water out of my mouth. I claw at the memory as it recedes, but the ocean flows easily away from my grasp. My great grandfather was Panamanian. He was born in Colon. My great grandmother was Jamaican. She was born in Kingston. I have always loved and cherished that I am descended, at least partly, from immigrants. I have such a privileged life. I know it’s the sort of life they dreamed of giving their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren — me! — when they came to America. I am doing the very best I can to make them proud and never waste it. They brought so much with them to America: my grandmother and great aunt Val, who will become the most important person in my life, Central American and Caribbean culture, food, and fashion … and reggae music. I never knew where it came from, but now I do. This suburban white boy got his deep, spiritual, love of reggae music from his Jamaican great grandmother, by way of Panama … because she made me feel safe, loved, and special. So of course her music makes me feel those things. I am so grateful for that memory, and everything that came with it.

everything under the sun is in tune

I wrote this on my Facebook, on Thursday:

Up until about an hour ago, I thought I was going to completely blow a deadline so thoroughly that the project I’ve been working on for most of a year would be canceled.

But I had this great conversation with my team (and indirectly with my editor, via his comments) that showed me a clear and surprisingly simple path to completing this thing by that very same deadline. There’s nothing tricky about it; it’s just a little trick! The Brad Jacobs … something or other …. references aside, the trick was helping me recognize what was important, what could be cut, and what could be finished at a point in the Mysterious Future, in another book.This means that, instead of having around 20,000 new words to write and edit, I only have 182 pages to edit and rewrite. I did about 94 pages today, which sounds like a lot more than it is, due to the nature of the work, but still feels pretty good. I am totally going to finish this thing! It’s going to come out next year! Hooray!

So, I did the remaining 94 pages, and turned them all in. That left me with these two short things that will bookend the entire text, you could call them an intro and an outro, if you wanted. They’re important. They carry a lot more weight per word than any other part of the book. I have to get them right. I knew that each part would be around 1200 words, so I had two days to do about 2400 words if I was going to make my deadline tomorrow.

This isn’t a regular deadline I can blow through. This is it. If I miss this one, the whole project will be delayed by at least a year. So 2400 words separate me from success or what I will absolutely categorize as a failure. Over a year’s worth of work hangs on those 2400 words.

Those words just refused to come. You know how you try to hold something really still and your hand just trembles harder, because all your fine micro muscle movements are working really hard to do their best work, and they can’t quite figure out how to work together? So you get exactly the opposite of what you’re trying for? It was like that.

Yesterday, I sat down with my brain, and I was, like, “dude, come on. You gotta work with me.” And my brain went, “LOL nope.”
So I emailed my editor and told him that it just wasn’t going to happen. I’d worked so hard for so long, but I just couldn’t get this last bit, which is extremely important, onto the page. I accepted that this thing would be delayed by a year, and … well, the next little bit is basically [SCENE MISSING] because sometime after I wrote that e-mail, I fell into the gravity well of my Writer’s Brain without realizing it, and everything I needed to say came out as if by magic.

Well, one of the two bookends, anyway. The second one, if it matters. I still couldn’t find my way into what will likely be the very first sentence of this whole thing. Just a little bit of pressure.

I did not sleep well last night. I kept waking up, too hot or too cold. My brain seized each opportunity to helpfully throw out ideas at me. None of them were good, but I appreciated that it was doing the work.

When I woke up this morning, about 1200 words and 24 hours away from ultimate success or complete failure, my brain was even less cooperative than it was yesterday. “Come on, man, I just need to find my way in. Once I find my way in, it’ll all come together and I can do something that’s good enough to turn in. Let’s do this together, brain!” And my brain just said, “Bro. I stayed up all night working on ideas for you, and you rejected all of them.” Then it just crossed its little arms, which is a weird image but also kind of adorable, and refused to help.

If you’re going to be a writer, you have to use tools to help you when you run into things like this. You have to work through the total refusal of your brain to be a team player, over and over again. Each time is different, each trick a surprise to me as much as it’s a surprise to my brain. But where to start? What’s going to trick my brain into letting me have the last little bit that I need, the most important bit, the bit that’s shorter than all the words I’ve written and cut already.

I learned a thing in drama school that was intended to be applied to acting. I find that it applies to all creative work: keep it simple. Keep it simple and the nuances will arrive on their own, in their own time. Keep it simple, and stay out of your own way.

Keep it simple. Okay. Let’s try that.

I went all the way back to the basics, from probably middle school, and I made an outline. For 1200 words. A few beats, broken down into a beginning, middle, and end. Not entirely perfect — oh except that phrase, that’s a nice one that’s absolutely going into it — but good enough to get started.

I opened a new text editor and started where my outline said to start.

About fifty words into it, I realized it was all wrong. It was all horribly wrong. I hate this. This isn’t where this thing starts. Oh! Shit! I know! This thing starts at

[SCENE MISSING]

And then it was done. It’s not final, but it’s good enough.

A completed first draft, 24 hours before the drop dead deadline. Success!

You bet your life I’m going to celebrate. I’ll be taking my brain out for ice cream.

Adverse Childhood Experiences and My Number Story

California Surgeon General Dr. Nadine Burke-Harris reached out to me last week, and asked if I’d be willing to talk a little bit about my Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) today, to coincide with the launch of NumberStory.org, a new nonprofit organization she founded to help support people like me who had ACEs, and live with the residual trauma as a result.

Before Dr. Burke-Harris reached out to me, I had never heard of ACE in this context before. If you’re in the same boat, here’s what I learned:

“The term ‘Adverse Childhood Experiences,’ or ‘ACEs,’ comes from the 1998 Adverse Childhood Experiences Study (ACE Study). The study, a partnership between Kaiser Permanente and the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), is one of the largest investigations ever conducted to assess connections between chronic stress caused by early adversity and long-term health.

“The study examined exposure to childhood adversity, including abuse and neglect, and household dysfunction like domestic violence, parental mental illness, or parental substance abuse. Researchers assigned an ‘ACE score’ to each participant by adding up the number of adversities the participant reported.”

Most of you reading this already know my story. For those who don’t: For as long as I can remember, I was emotionally abused by the man who was my father on a daily basis. In fact, I didn’t have a father, I had a bully. Both my parents spanked me all the time, but when I got into my teens, he hit me, he choked me, he shook me in anger, and he never showed any remorse for it. My mother was so obsessed with the attention got because of my work, she emotionally neglected me, used me to chase her dreams of fame and fortune in Hollywood, and protected her husband when he was cruel to me. She gaslighted me about his cruelty and bullying, and frequently made ME apologize to HIM when I got upset after he did something cruel to me. They never treated me like a special son who they loved. He treated me like I was an irritant who was unworthy of his love, and she treated me like a possession she could use for money and attention. I never felt unconditionally loved and supported in my home. After literally a lifetime of trying to make my mother happy and convince my father to love me, I accepted that they were too selfish, too narcissistic, too prideful, and invested in the lie they told themselves and the world about our family, to see and hear me when I begged them to … well, to just love and accept me for who I was. I ended contact with them several years ago, and while it’s a relief they can’t hurt me any more, I’ll always have a painful, gaping hole in my life where the love and support of my parents should be.

Every day, I struggle with the residual trauma from my childhood. Some days are tougher than others, and I am so grateful for the support network I have to help me on the really bad days.

But some people don’t have that support network, and don’t know where to look to build one. That’s where Dr. Burke-Harris and My Number Story come in. MyNumberStory was founded to help adults identify our Adverse Childhood Experiences, so we can begin healing from them.

Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) directly affect two out of three of us – and impact the rest of us as well. Learn more at  https://NumberStory.org

“I just want to be a kid. Please let me be a kid.”

It’s like … 1980, probably. Maybe late 1979. It’s the summer in Los Angeles, and it is as hot as I can remember. The smog is so thick, you can taste an oily sheen in air that looks overcast, all the time.

I’m in the back seat of my godmother’s car. My little sister and little brother are on either side of me. We didn’t wear seatbelts in those days, which is nuts but it’s how it was.

My mother has enlisted my godmother (who is my aunt, my father’s sister) to drive me on a commercial audition that I don’t want to go to. I presume my father was at work and my mother had some audition of her own, so my godmother ended up with three kids, plus my cousin, in her VW.

I can see this like it just happened. I’m sitting up on my heels, on that sort of plastic seat that 1970s Volkswagens had, with the waffle pattern. I look into her eyes in the rearview mirror, and I decide that it’s time to ask for help.

“Aunt Dorothy, will you tell my mom that I don’t want to do this anymore? Will you tell my mom that I just want to be a kid?”

What 8 year-old has to beg their mother to “let” them be a kid? What kind of mother doesn’t hear that? What kind of father doesn’t care?

You know the answers  — well, my answers — to those questions.

She looks back at me, and she says, as kindly and gently as ever, “You have to tell your mom that, but I’ll go with you if you want.”

And that’s when I knew that I was never going to just be a kid, because my mother refused to listen to me, refused to hear me, refused to see me as a person. I was her property, a tool to be used that would get her closer to her dreams, dreams she was focused on so singularly, she stole my childhood from me (before she and my dad stole all my money from me) and then lied to me about it.

I can’t count the number of times I begged her, “please let me just be a kid. I just want to be a kid.” I said those words through tears so many times, I can still feel how my throat burned with grief and fear and desperation. I can feel how much I was suffering, how unhappy I was, how I just wanted to be a kid, and how awful it was to be dismissed and gaslighted about it.

“You made a commitment,” was something she would say to me all the time, as if a seven year-old can understand what that means. “I gave up my career so you can have yours,” she told me, throughout my entire childhood, every time I wanted to quit, which was pretty much all the time.

It hurt, so much, to feel unheard, unseen, unsupported, and unloved. It was shameful to lie about it, to protect my abusers, for 46 years of my life. I know that it is the root cause of my CPTSD, my Depression, and my Anxiety.

Which brings me to the whole reason I told this story today.

My friend, Mayim, has a mental health podcast, and she asked me if I’d come on to talk about living with Depression. I said yes, and in the course of our conversation, we ended up talking quite a lot about my experience with selfish, narcissist, emotionally abusive, parents.

It’s intense. In fact, it’s so intense, this is the second podcast we did. With Mayim’s blessing, I spiked the first time we talked, because I felt like it was just way too raw and made me uncomfortable. So we had a second conversation, and it’s going to come out tomorrow.

Here’s a preview. What you don’t hear, just before this clip starts, is that my mother made me go to her commercial agency when I was just seven years-old, and coached me to tell the kid’s agent, “I want to do what mommy does.”

Mayim Bialik’s Breakdown is at Spotify, Apple, and all the usual places.

“You won’t remember me, but I will never forget you.”

I got my second Pfizer shot yesterday morning. I’m looking at the lovely woman who is giving me my jab, and I am telling her, “I know this is your job, and I know you won’t remember me among the thousands of people you’ve jabbed, but I will never forget you. Thank you for giving me my life back.”She told us that they have a ton of doses available at Pierce College, and they are accepting walk-ins all weekend long. We were in and out in less than 30 minutes, and we got Salt & Straw on the way home. It was awesome.It’s been just under 24 hours, and I have had zero side effects.. The only thing I felt at all was a sore arm, like the first jab, and a mild headache last night (that may be related to all this stress I’m carrying in my shoulders and neck). This morning, I don’t feel anything at all, other than the 5G handshaking with Bill Gates, and my personal WiFi hotspot starting to configure itself.And because it’s a FAQ on Instagram: my T-shirt says “Destroy the patriarchy!” I bought it from Pussy Riot.

validation

I wrote a thing during work today, and I like it so much, I want to post it here, with all my glasses and my shoes, so I have them.

What neither one of us knew was that, once I found that validation and worthiness within myself, I didn’t need it from any external source. And there’s a lesson there that I’m going to billboard: the external validation we crave from others is never as satisfying or lasting as the internal validation we give ourselves.

This project hasn’t been announced, and won’t be for awhile. I’m working my face off on it right now, and have been for most of a year, between acting and voice acting jobs. If I can stay on schedule, it will be out early next year in print and audio and maybe some kind of media that hasn’t been invented, but will be invented between now and then.

 

Announcing VICARIOUS

Months ago, I had the privilege of narrating about half of an incredible audiobook that comes out today. It’s called VICARIOUS.

Award-winning performers Wil Wheaton ( Star Trek: The Next Generation ,  The Big Bang Theory , and  Ready Player One  audiobook) and Katherine McNamara ( Shadowhunters ,  The Stand , CW’s  Arrow ) bring this mind-bending, deeply imagined sci-fi tale to life.

The real world is only where you breathe….

In High Earth, digital entertainment is everything. Shows. Virtual worlds. Simulations – there’s something for everybody in a city where working for a living has been rendered obsolete by technological advancements. Even a short walk outside to visit with others is no longer necessary. Just load into the network and you can be with anyone, anywhere.

For Asher Reinhart, nothing compares to Ignis; a live reality show that pushes human beings to their very extremes. As a volunteer director, Asher closely monitors the lives of those living on an interstellar ark, believing they’re the last of humanity.

But when it’s determined that the life of the show’s brightest star, Mission, must be put in danger to boost declining ratings, Asher is forced to choose: the show he loves or the woman whose existence has been the focus of his attention since the day he was born.

From number-one Audible best-selling author and Nebula Award nominee Rhett C. Bruno comes a story about the power of human connection. The Truman Show meets Ready Player One in a novel perfect for fans of Hugh Howey, Kim Stanley Robinson, and Michael Crichton.

The publisher gave me this sample to share:

This story is so fantastic, and I’m super proud of the work we both did with the narration.

VICARIOUS is available today, at Audible.com.

Playing Cops for Real, Playing Cops for Pay

About a month or so ago (is time extra wibbly wobbly for anyone else? Months and weeks collapse into a few hours and some days seem to last weeks?) Darin from Punk Rock Karaoke saw that I am an old school punk, and he offered me an opportunity to join him and his band to sing a song of my choice. I am not musical at all. Like, I love music, and I sing along all the time, but I’m not a singer or a musician, so I was like OMG YES and then that voice in my head I try so hard not to listen to was all THEY’RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU! But I was all shut up, voice. It’s punk! I can totally fake it. So I did. It was the single scariest thing I’ve ever done, creatively, in my life. I can not even begin to tell you how far out of my comfort zone this took me, and how happy I am with the result. It was so much fun, and I can’t wait until I can do it live with the band. Here I am, singing the Dead Kennedys classic, Police Truck, with Punk Rock Karaoke: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AK-s...

The William Fucking Shatner story

I’m working on a new book, and I had to go into my archives for some research. While I was there, I found a story I wrote when I was … 28? 29? Something like that. It’s entirely true, and I love it as much now as I did then.

This was originally published in my first book, Dancing Barefoot, and it appears here online in its entirety for the first time.

I first met William Shatner on the set of Star Trek V back in 1988. I was 16, and had been working on TNG for two years at the time. We were enjoying some success with our show, and I was very proud of the work I was doing. When I found out that the original series cast would be working next door to us for two months, I was beside myself.

Gene Roddenberry was still heavily involved with the production of TNG back then, and he and I were good friends. When I’d pass by his door, it was not uncommon for him to throw an executive out of his office and ask me in for a visit. He knew that I was a fan of the original series, and he knew that I was more than a little intimidated by these actors. He offered several times to make introductions, but I always declined. If I was going to meet these legends of Science Fiction, I was going to do it on my own.

For weeks, I tried to get up the nerve to introduce myself. When I would walk from the stage to my dressing room or school room, I would do it slowly, looking at their stage door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mister Spock, or Doctor McCoy, or even the legendary Captain Kirk. The few times they did appear, though, I could never find the courage to approach them.

This went on for about six weeks.

Word got around our set that I was too chicken to introduce myself to the original series actors. It became something of a joke, and the crew began to give me some good-natured ribbing about my reluctance. Next Generation was immensely popular at the time, and I was still riding high on the success of Stand by Me. They couldn’t understand why I was so intimidated by these actors – my face was splashed across the cover of every teen magazine in print.

Why was I so intimidated? I was a 16 year-old geek, with a chance to meet The Big Three from Star Trek. You do the math.

One afternoon, while I was sitting outside stage 9 talking with Mandy, my costumer, they opened the huge stage door across the way, and I could see right into the set of Star Trek V. It was a large area, like a cargo bay, filled with extras and equipment. It was quite different from our set, but it was unmistakably The Enterprise. Standing in the middle of it all was William Shatner. He held a script open like it was a holy text. The way he gestured with his hands, I could tell that he was setting up a shot and discussing it with the camera crew.

I waited for the familiar rush of nerves, but it didn’t come. Seeing him as a director and not as Captain Kirk put me at ease. I knew that this was my moment. If I didn’t walk over and introduce myself right then, I would never do it.

I was wearing the grey “acting ensign” space suit, unzipped with the sleeves tied around my waist. That costume was quite uncomfortable, so I’d take the top half off whenever I got the chance. Because it was a jumpsuit, I would tie the sleeves around my waist, and wear a lightweight fleece jacket, zipped up to cover the embarrassing muscle suit the producers had me wear.

We all wore those muscle suits, but I think I was the most traumatized by it. I’ve always been a very slight person without much muscle mass (even now, at age 30, I weigh 145 pounds at 5’10”) and having to wear all that thick padding did little to improve my fragile teenage self esteem.

I turned to Mandy, and took off my fleece. I asked her to zip up my spacesuit, and fasten the collar. If I was going to meet William Shatner, I was going to do it looking as “Starfleet regulation” as I could.

She made sure my costume looked good enough for camera, and wished me good luck. I got a high-five from one of the teamsters as I confidently walked across the street and into the cargo bay of the Enterprise 1701-A.

It took about eight steps for my confidence to evaporate. Surrounded by extras in Starfleet dress, standing next to a shuttlecraft, William Shatner, director, was immediately transformed into Captain Kirk, intergalactic legend. I was transformed from Wil Wheaton, fellow actor and film industry professional, into Wil Wheaton, drooling fanboy and Star Trek geek.

I looked around. I guess I blended in well, because nobody had noticed me. I turned to make my escape, and bumped into a still photographer who had worked on TNG the first season.

“Hey, Wil. What are you doing here?” he asked.

I swallowed, and looked at the stage door.

“Oh, uh, I just came over to, um, look around, and, uh, stuff.” I said. I shuffled my feet, and began to move back    toward the familiarity of my own spaceship.

“Well, as long as you’re here, you should meet Mr. Shatner!”

Mr. Shatner? Who was Mr. Shatner? There’s no Mr. Shatner here, just Captain Kirk and several Starfleet officers.

He turned toward Captain Kirk, and called out, “Hey! Bill! Come here a second!”

My heart began to beat rapidly, as he turned toward us. Captain Kirk looked right at me. I froze. He gave his book to someone, and began to walk in our direction. I involuntarily straightened my back, and sucked in my stomach. My muscle suit felt tight and awkward around my arms and chest.

Within seconds he was standing next to us. He was about my height, and looked heavier than he did on television.

Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise said, “What can I do for you?”

“Well, Bill, this is Wil Wheaton. He’s part of the cast of The Next Generation, and he’d like to meet you.”

Captain Kirk looked at me for a long time.

“So, you’re the kid on that show?” He seemed annoyed.

My throat and mouth were dry, and my palms were sweating. My heart pounded in my ears, as I answered. “Uh, yes, sir. My name’s Wil.”

He continued to look at me. I carefully wiped my hand on the hip of my spacesuit, and extended it. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

He didn’t take my hand.

“What is that, your spacesuit?” He said, and made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

“Oh? This? Yeah. It’s not as cool as yours, but it’s what they tell me to wear.” I put my hand down. I really wanted to leave. I felt a little light headed. Why wouldn’t Captain Kirk shake my hand? And why didn’t he like my spacesuit? Could he see the fake muscles? Maybe he didn’t like the color. I became hyper-aware of the spandex, clinging to my body, and longed for the comfort of my fleece jacket.

“Well?” He asked.

Oh no. He’d asked me a question, and I’d missed it.

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“I said, what do you do over there?” he asked. There was a challenge in his voice.

“Oh, uh, well, I’m an acting ensign, and I sometimes pilot the ship.” Maybe he’d be impressed that I’d already logged several hours at the helm of the Enterprise D, all before the age of 16.

“Well, I’d never let a kid come onto my bridge.” He said, and walked away.

Captain James Tiberius Kirk, of the Starship Enterprise 1701, and Enterprise 1701-A, the only person in Starfleet to ever defeat the Kobiyashi Maru, the man behind the Corbomite Maneuver, the man who took the Enterprise to the Genesis planet to return Spock’s katra, the man who I had admired since I was eight years old, was immediately transformed into WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER.

I bit my lip, and turned to say good-bye to the still photographer who had made the introduction, but he had vanished as well.

I walked back to my own stage with my head down, avoiding eye contact the entire way. When I got to the entrance, I found Mandy, and asked her to unzip my costume, so I could put my fleece back on.

As she unzipped the back, she said, “did you get to meet William Shatner?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t want to let on that I was upset.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, as she handed me my fleece jacket. There was concern in her eyes.

“Well . . .” I hesitated. Saying it out loud would make it real. “He was a dick to me.”

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. “What?! Why? What happened?!”

I fought back tears, and recounted our introduction.

“What an asshole!” She said, “Oh, Wil, I am so sorry!”

I nodded my head, and she gave me a hug. I drew a deep breath, shrugged my shoulders, and walked back to my trailer, where I sat down and cried. I had spent weeks getting up the courage to meet this man, and in less than five minutes he had insulted and humiliated me. He had reduced me from peer to peon. I had worn my stupid costume, thinking that it would matter to him, and he’d made fun of it.

15 minutes later, an assistant director knocked on my door, and told me that they were ready for me on the set. I stood up, wiped my face off, and told him that I’d need to make a quick stop at the makeup trailer on my way. He radioed this information to the 1st AD, and told me to hurry.

I walked to the makeup trailer, taking great pains to look at the ground, the walls, the sky . . . anything that would keep my head turned away from the Star Trek V stage.

I sat in the chair, and my makeup artist, Jana, began to touch me up. “I heard about what Shatner did to you.” she said. “Fuck him. He’s a jerk, and has been for years. He’s probably just jealous that you’re younger, better looking, and more famous than he is.”

I sighed. I didn’t want him to be a jerk, and I didn’t think that he was jealous of anything. I was certain that I’d done something wrong.

“I guess so.” I said, as noncommittally as I could.

She put down her makeup sponge, and turned the chair away from the mirror, so I was facing her. She looked me in the eye, and said, “Don’t let him upset you, Wil. He’s not worth it.”

“Okay,” I lied. I knew I was going to be upset about this for a long time.

“Okay,” she said, and dusted my nose with translucent powder.

I walked into the stage, and took my seat on the bridge of the Enterprise D, next to Brent Spiner.

“I heard about Shatner,” Brent said.

Jesus, was this on the news or something?

“Yeah,” I said.

“You know he wears a toupee, right?”

I giggled. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yep. He’s balder than old baldy up there.” He tossed a gold thumb over his shoulder at Patrick.

I giggled some more, as the stored up adrenaline coursed through my veins. “Boy, that’s pretty bald.”

“Yep.” Brent put his hands up on his console.

The first AD said, “This will be picture,” and we all focused.

“Picture is up! Very quiet please!” He shouted, “Roll camera!”

“25 apple, take 1,” the sound mixer said, “Sound has speed!”

The camera assistant clapped the slate.

“Action!” said the director.

Patrick entered from his Ready Room, and walked to the captain’s chair.

“Mister Crusher, take us out of orbit, and lay in a course for the Ramatis system, warp 6” He said.

“Aye sir,” my fingers danced over the CONN. “Course laid in, sir.”

“Make it so, Mister Crusher.”

The camera creaked back on the dolly track, as the Enterprise D went to warp speed.

“Cut! Great! New deal!” the director said.

“Wrong set! We are moving to the Observation lounge for scene 55!” said the 1st AD, “The actors can relax for about 10 minutes.”

On my way back to my trailer, the DGA trainee stopped me. “Gene Roddenberry would like you to call his office, Wil.”

“Okay.”

I changed direction, and walked to the stage phone. My heart began to beat hard in my chest. Had Gene heard too? WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER had known Gene for over 20 years . . . if Gene knew that I’d upset him, maybe Gene would be upset at me, too!

I passed the craft service table, setup behind the starfield that hung next to the Ten-Forward set. Michael Dorn and Jonathan Frakes were pouring cups of coffee.

“To hell with him, W,” Jonathan said. I love it when he calls me “W.”

“To hell with who?” Michael asked.

“Shatner shit all over Teen Idol,” Jonathan told him.

Beneath his latex Klingon forehead, Michael rolled his eyes. “You want me to kick his ass, Wil?”

“No, that’s okay. Thanks, though.” I said.

“I’ve got your back, man,” Michael said.

I dialed Gene’s office, and told his secretary that I was returning Gene’s call.

“He’s expecting your call. Just a second, Wil.” There were two clicks, and Gene’s soft, gentle, friendly voice was in my ear.

“Hi Wil, how are you?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. I understand that you had some words with Bill Shatner today.”

Oh my god. Was he going to be mad at me?

“Uh . . . yeah . . .” I said.

“Wil, Bill Shatner is an ass, don’t you worry about him, okay? I am proud to have you on my show. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Did Gene just call WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER an ass? And then he said that he was proud of me?

“Gosh, Gene, thanks,” was the best I could do.

“Come by my office soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

“See you then.” He hung up.

I began to feel better. Although a childhood hero had kicked me in the nuts, a bunch of people who I cared about and respected had all made efforts to put it in perspective. I felt loved, and protected.

The next day, when I got to work, there was an envelope on my dressing room table. It was addressed “To Master Wil Wheaton” and was “From the Office of William Shatner.”

I dropped my backpack, and tore it open.

Inside, there was a single three by eight note card. The Paramount Pictures logo was stamped into the top in blue, and “William Shatner” was stamped into the bottom in gold.

There was a message typed on the card, which said,

Dear Wil,

You are a fine young actor, and I would be honored to have you on my bridge any day.

Sincerely yours,

Bill

He’d signed it in ink. Blue ink. My mouth hung open, and my hands trembled a bit. I held it up to the light, to make sure it was real. The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Wil? It’s Gene,” I recognized his voice immediately.

“Good morning Gene,” I said.

“I spoke with Bill Shatner yesterday, and he should be dropping a note off for you today.”

“It’s already here,” I said. I read it to him.

“Good. You are a fine young actor,” he said. “See you later.”

I couldn’t believe it. Gene Roddenberry, creator of Star Trek and The Great Bird of the Galaxy, had called WILLIAM FUCKING SHATNER, Captain James T. Kirk and director of Star Trek V, and asked him to apologize to me, Wil Wheaton, 16 year-old acting ensign and drooling fan boy. Of all the wonderful gifts Gene gave me across the years, that is one of the most fondly remembered, because I know that without Gene’s intervention that note never would have been written.

In 2002, Bill and I played together on a special Star Trek edition of the game show Weakest Link. He was friendly and warm toward me the entire time. Several months later, I asked him on Slashdot, “Are we cool, or what? I mean, I always thought you didn’t like me, but I had a good time with you at Weakest Link watching the World Series. So are we cool, or was that just pre-game strategy?” He replied: “We are so cool, we’re beyond cool. We are in orbit man. I don’t do pre-game strategy. I look forward to some personal time with you.

Here I am, with Paul and Storm, performing this in 2011:

Here’s a comment I posted to my Facebook:

I’ve spent plenty of time with Bill in the years between when I wrote about this, and the last episode of BBT we did together. It’s been, like, maybe a dozen times, if that.

Every time, he’s been kind toward me, engaging once or twice, and never cruel or dismissive. We aren’t buddies, but we’re cordial. I’m okay with that.

I’m not okay with how he treats people on social media, and I’m deeply disappointed that he seems to have lost the central meaning of Star Trek at some point in his life. But that’s not what any of this is about. This is a story that I am going to go ahead and call “a good story” that’s entertaining, true, and fun to tell.

and …. breathe

I just realized that I’ve been holding a tension in my shoulders and a tightness in my chest for the last four years. Every minute of every day, without realizing I was doing it. It’s only now, that it’s gone, that I realize how heavy it weighed on me.

Having an abuser as president was so hard for me, and millions of other people who are abuse survivors. Every day was a trigger for something. It was exhausting. It hurt. (I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. You were there.)

I feel this incredible sense of relief, like the worst storm I’ve ever experienced is finally gone, and the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds.

I’m going to go outside, and soak it up.