I am outlining Melted: The Musical at my kitchen table, attempting to envision a musical version. At its heart, Melted is about Adina and Emma trying to save a world on fire, about learning to lean on each other and reversing a climate crisis. Melted was inspired by the very real, constant anxiety my friends and I feel over the future of our planet. How does one… musical that? I don’t have a vision yet. But I need one, ASAP. Because Henry, Reid, and I have our first attempt at collaboration this afternoon. I have zero expectations as to how this will go.

“Hey, Lee.”

I minimize my screen at the sound of my mother’s voice. “Hi.”

Mom enters the kitchen, setting down her laptop on the table. “How’s Melted going?”

“Okay,” I lie. “How’s writing going?”

She opens the fridge and pours cold brew from a pitcher over ice before taking the seat next to me. “I am… cautiously optimistic. My students are actually providing some inspiration.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, one of my students, Travis, is in the wrong class. But he didn’t drop it, and I think it’s because he’s into debating the validity of romance novels with Elisa. She absolutely eviscerated his first workshop entry.”

“Literary douchebro in a romance class is a premise I need.”

“I needed it too.” Mom smiles at me and her energy is contagious—almost reminiscent of Before the Block. “I’m twenty thousand words into it… far enough that I need to outline before it all falls apart. Maybe we can have a brainstorm session soon?”

“Definitely,” I say. Brainstorm sessions are a throwback to the time my love for playwriting emerged. We’d spend hours in a back-and-forth flow, pinpointing motivation, heightening stakes, finishing each other’s sentences, and asking leading questions to inspire the next scene. Then we wrote. While Mom worked on her book, I adapted ideas we’d just brainstormed into short scenes, only caring about the dialogue and emotion conveyed in those moments.

Then came the writer’s block. I thought brainstorm sessions would fix it but… they didn’t.

I can’t remember the last time we had one.

“I honestly need it for Melted, now that it’s a musical.”

“Does this mean I can read it?” Mom asks.

“Maybe.” I relent. “If I can read your pages.”

“Deal,” Mom says with a smile. “Maybe. Sometimes I think you’re the only person in the world who still believes in me, Lee.”