The Writer's Lot

Not much been going on since I been kickin it in New York. I mean there has, but since I'm ensconced in the dreamy chill of the city I haven't really had to pay all that much attention to my "career," such as it is, either here or in LA.

Life in Manhattan has been good, and I am glad to have been extended for these few more couple of weeks, although bedding on the brother's couch is growing more loathesome, the sleep more restless, and the routine increasingly discombobulating. I guess as good as a vacation from life can be, all good things must come to an end. To that point, I should discuss the ostensible subject of this blog, my life in showbiz.

These days, I have been sort of brushed aside as far as the current rewrite of my script is concerned. Early last week I got a call from the producers who asked for my blessing in assigning a new draft of the screenplay to the director. They felt the time was ripe for him to take a swing at achieving his vision. Now perhaps I have been numbed by the process, but I'm not as righteously indignant as perhaps you might think. I can sum up my feelings by quoting Bela Lugosi in Ed Wood. "Let's shoot this fucker." Seriously. If they think that getting him to make with the clackety-clack will hasten the process, God Bless. I sure am tired to death of flogging the horse's bloated carcass. Maybe he'll even bring some fresh insight to it. And I'll go one step further and be charitable; I think he'll do a good job. Might even improve it. Of course, he could never get it perfect because he's not me. But I don't expect perfection, only integrity (which I know is scarce in Hollywood, but go ahead... call me a naif). Above all the thing that lets me sleep at night is not faith, hope, or charity, but the iron-clad knowledge that there are too many checks and balances in place (the producers power to ameliorate grievances; my ability to dash the whole project by walking away) for all hope to be lost in some terrible new draft. Put simply, no matter how bad he might shit the bed, we can always clean it up.

So I say, good luck then. As long as no one fucks me on credit, no one fucks me out of having some say in the subsequent rewrites and polishes, and no one fucks me the whole way down the slippery slope, then I will be one secure, satisfied, Hollywood writer.


Oh I'm so fucked.

a little something for the effort

The show that I worked on last summer is finally going to be given its day in court. You may or may not recall it was named Carmageddon, then for undisclosed reasons renamed Carpocalypse, and basically consisted of rednecks driving into each other on a Florida speedway for 42 minutes. Ten weeks I worked on that show - on one single episode - and then Spike pulled the plug. Put another team of producers on. I've no idea how it turned out. But I'll get a chance to find out! It has apparently been finished and will get its short flicker of life beginning next Saturday night.

Curiously, Spike TV is promoting it here... but nowhere else that I can find (no bus ads, no billboards and certainly no tv spots), which can only mean the poor show is being unceremoniously dumped and will most certainly have an anonymous and ignominious death. But, what are you gonna do? That's TV. At least I got paid. I may have even gotten a credit! Of course, it will be buried under the the dozens of other triage doctors who swooped in to try and save the friggin thing.

Apple Livin'...

...By which I mean couch surfing, but I'll take what I can get. I arrived in New York yesterday afternoon and promptly bivouacked on my brother's couch. Life is good. I am happy to be walking around the city, bundled up, in and out of warm buildings, up and down stairs, and on and off subway cars. A Jersey boy like me never loses his romance for the Big City. Today is the slow start of three weeks doing production work on some interstitial programming for Food Network. "Slow start" is because things are already running a little behind. It's hard to pin people down in the business of show, and this gig is no different than anything else. The honchos over at FN (my abbreviation) are hemming and hawing with direction and my bosses here are already inquiring about possibly extending my stay. Apart from the little lady back in Showbizwood, it sounds good to me. But we'll see. This is only day one.

I was monumentally sick last week, like, epically so. Monday I had obligated myself to turning in a draft of the screenplay by Thursday, and believe me it was all I could do to muster the strength to actually do so. I was combatting a head cold that knocked my inner ear out of whack, so I was suffering dizziness, crushing headaches and nausea. I literally typed up handwritten notes, then put my head on the desk and moaned in agony for a few minutes, and repeated until I was done. It was emblematic of the whole experience of rewriting.

Friday we all met - my manager, the two producers and the director - to discuss what notes we could before I took off... and we were there for four hours. I sniffled and snorted mucous through it all, and generally felt what little will I had left to be a big fabulous screenwriter seep out of my nose along with my will to live. Funnily enough, the director left half an hour into it to go to the doctor. He wasn't even sick. Ah well. I was just so out of it and completely FINISHED with the writing process for a while that I just let all the bad news wash over me. Yes, bad news, as in there is much, much more work to do on it. But the principals need to get their heads together before they give me solid direction... and I need a few weeks to just fucking forget about it. But the day will come. I hate it. I hope it dies soon. Puts me out of my misery. (Of course, I'll sing a different tune when I get a big paycheck. But for now, kill me.)