Got an email from the director the other day. He was checking in. I told him things were moving ahead, which they are. I'm working my way ever further up river, toward the Heart of Darkness (the 3rd Act). Right now I'm somewhere near the 60 page mark - the point where all the easy comforts of civilzation begin to recede into the dense, otherworldly fog. I'm losing sight of the riverbanks, and strange sounds are in the distance. Madness awaits. But In is the only way Out. So every day I go over to Brentwood to work out of the Office. And it's going well. I guess, really, I can't complain much. Everything is going sorta well. I'm doing my part, you know?
I keep having these fantasies about getting paid, and having meetings, and fielding offers, and finishing some OTHER fucking script instead of this one, which has been my only output in, like, four years. Fantasies, fantasies, fantasies. Freedom. Money. New York. Money. Comeraderie. New York. An Oscar nomination. Money.
We're still waiting on actors. No answer from Robbins, Spacek, Cooper, or Poitier. Any one of them would be good. Any amount of money would be good. Well, not ANY. Like, six figures.
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