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# Writers Who Didn’t Make It
- URL: https://www.bearsavo.com/writers-who-didnt-make-it/
- Published: 2026-11-01T12:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-11-01T12:00:00.000Z
- Description: a ten-minute play about rejection
- Author: Bear Savo

*An open-air café in Scranton. Summer, just after sunrise. Tables and chairs wait on the sidewalk in front of THE ELECTRIC CITY TERRACE. The trolley-and-neon-themed storefront features limestone, leaded windows, and subdued awnings. TARA (mid-thirties), her head propped up by her hands, leans on the hostess station near the restaurant’s entrance.*

*ELLIOT MERCER (late-forties) enters STAGE RIGHT. He is dressed in a tan suit, a bright paisley tie, and a brown fedora. He seats himself CENTER STAGE. A moment later, BRUCE HALSTEAD (late-forties) enters STAGE LEFT and joins ELLIOT. BRUCE wears black khakis, a Transformers tee-shirt, and a Phillies baseball cap. TARA reaches down into the hostess station, produces a pair of mugs and a sugar/creamer caddy. She places them on the table and speaks.*

TARA: Morning, guys. Normal shit?

ELLIOT: Indeed.

BRUCE: Yeah.

*TARA heads into the restaurant.*

ELLIOT: You should just start coming in your pajamas.

*TARA returns holding a carafe and fills the mugs on the table.*

BRUCE: Elliot thinks I’m under-dressed for your fine establishment.

TARA: Oh? First of all, it’s not my establishment. Second, I don’t give a fuck if you show up in your pajamas. You’re not rude and you don’t stink.

ELLIOT: Bruce is incredibly rude, my dear Tara, and you are far too indulgent of his boorish attitude.

TARA: You smell nice, too, Elliot.

*TARA exits back into the restaurant.*

ELLIOT: *(beat)* You seem grumpier than normal this morning.

BRUCE: Yeah, well, it got rejected. Again.

ELLIOT: Your novel?

BRUCE: No, my audition tape for *The Bachelor*. *(beat)* Of course, my novel.

ELLIOT: Well, you know what they say: the 53rd time is the charm.

BRUCE: That was 59.

ELLIOT: Oh. *(beat)* So who’s next?

BRUCE: No one. The pipeline is empty.

ELLIOT: Time to fill it back up, then.

BRUCE: I’d rather cum in my sock and then wear it.

ELLIOT: Really, old boy, it’s too early to be so vulgar.

BRUCE: Fuck it.

ELLIOT: So, how shall you proceed from here?

BRUCE: Delete every file; burn every manuscript.

ELLIOT: I’ve never found you so forlorn.

BRUCE: This last rejection made me admit it.

ELLIOT: Admit what?

BRUCE: That I’m trash. I come from trash and I *am* trash and I’ll die trash. I thought my intelligence and abilities would let me rise above that, but I don’t have money, and no one with money decided to tell other people with money that I’m not trash. So I’m trash.

*Elliot, stunned quiet, sips his coffee. Bruce adds sugar and creamer to his mug, pulls a pack of smokes from his pocket, and lights a cigarette. The pair settle into a long, uncomfortable silence. Sounds of the city awakening play like a soft soundtrack.*

ELLIOT: *(clears his throat)* Look, old boy —

BRUCE: Shut the fuck up.

*TARA enters carrying two platters. She slows her approach to the table when she notices the mood.*

TARA: *(placing ELLIOT’s plate)* Eggs Benedict, *(then BRUCE’S)* and a short stack. *(She hesitates to deliver bad news)* Delivery is late and we don’t have any bacon. Sausage instead? Or some ham?

ELLIOT: Sausage will be adequate.

*BRUCE nods.*

TARA: *(to BRUCE)* I’m off at 2:00 today. Text me?

BRUCE: Maybe.

*TARA forces a smile and exits. The silence persists as ELLIOT cuts into his eggs and BRUCE opens the syrup packs. They take a few bites, quietly chewing, not looking at each other. Finally, ELLIOT speaks.*

ELLIOT: You should text her later.

BRUCE: It’s not that simple.

ELLIOT: It never is.

BRUCE: What do you know about it?

ELLIOT: I am well familiar with love and lust and the accoutrement thereof. Particularly the poetry. Remember first being in love? My word, the poetry!

BRUCE: I never wrote any.

ELLIOT: Oh my, I did. Each romance of my youth spawned stanza after stanza. I read my amorous verse from time to time, now ancient scraps torn from a notebook entombed in a shoebox. There seems a chaotic hollowness to it now, like an empty trash can blown down the avenue on a windy day.

BRUCE: Jesus Christ… Edit yourself.

ELLIOT: Excuse me?

BRUCE: Edit your-fucking-self. “Torn from a notebook” is redundant… “On a windy day” is unnecessary.

ELLIOT: Your cruelty is unnecessary.

BRUCE: So is your opinion about anything.

*More silence as TARA brings the sausage to the table.*

TARA: Bruce?

BRUCE: Not now.

*TARA backs away from the table before turning to exit.*

ELLIOT: You’re an insufferable ass.

*CURTAIN*