Ordinarily, she spoke with such clinical reserve. But this was different, personal. “When we looked at your paperwork, something seemed off. I took the liberty of sending it to a lab,” she continued. “Andy… your writing… it’s almost a hundred percent shit.”“That can’t be,” I said. “I was writing just yesterday and it was fine.”She asked me to write a simple sentence. I did. We both looked at it. I laughed nervously.“L-let me try again.”“Try some dialogue,” she encouraged.I wrote a few lines of dialogue. I can’t remember them exactly, but I remember one of the characters said something kind of lame and then the other character said, “Really?” and repeated the lame thing that the first character had said.My doctor looked at me. “Really?” she said. I hung my head in shame.“I want you to know that this is not a death sentence,” she said, her words floating all around my head like antlers I guess. “Many SWS patients — those who work in non-writing fields, or in marketing — can go on to live long productive lives.”“But I work in TV comedy,” I said. “Believe me,” she said, “I have plenty of SWS patients who work in TV comedy. Just get a job on a dramedy. Or one of those shows where the characters talk to the camera.”“Those jobs are the hardest ones to get,” I said. “That’s so weird,” she said. “I know, right?” I said. “’I know right?’ That’s your punchline? Really?” she said.She pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something on it.