Broke Hack Mountain

Today is an anniversary for me. This is the day that I moved to L.A. eight years ago, in 1998. Flew in, didn't road trip as I would have liked. Flew in eight years ago. I gave it a half-hearted four years, then left for good in 2001 when my grandfather was sick. I returned three months later. They were shooting my movie, you see. I was subletting a place back then - every intention of leaving again. That was just about five years ago.

They say that out here it takes five years to achieve some success and ten years to get yourself a career. It couldn't be truer for me. I got the indie film shot in my fourth year here, and as I pass the eight year mile marker, I see things lining up to (potentially) set me up for a future in the writing game. It's a good feeling to know you're "on track" although I suppose written into the program is the possibility that the track can give way at any moment and you can be totally derailed. I can't think about those things. I have sacrificed closeness with my very close Italian-American family back home in pursuit of a dream/goal/life-of-my-own, and I don't want to and can't really dwell on the possibility that that sacrifice may ultimately be in vain.

But don't get me wrong, this New Year finds me in light spirits. I have finally, FINALLY removed the hairshirt better know as my screenplay, and I feel god damned good about it. Not the script itself, mind you - who knows if it's any good - the fact that I'm done with it. Truth is, I remember beginning it in that sublet apartment back in the summer of 2001. Back then it was called Cul de Sac (before I knew there was a Polanski film of the same name) and it was a turgid, dramatic snooze-fest a la Magnolia, which is not to disparage Magnolia, rather to say that I admired it so much that I essentially ripped it off. Thankfully, over the years I abandoned all pretenses of trying to Say Something and just worked on telling the best story I could as funnily as possible.

The multi-year gestation would have you suspect the thing is a five hour masterpiece with a hundred locations and a cast of thousands. I'm proud to say it's not that, actually, but a lean little comedy with about 6 principal characters and 20 or so incidentals.

I plan on "going out" with it in the next two weeks: work with my manager to send the script to all manner of producer, talent, and/or production company people in the effort to 1) get my name out there, and 2) get some fans of my work. The byproduct of this, best case, is that someone loves it and wants to champion it and get it made (it's squarely and indie film and therefore of low interest to Big Time Hollywood People and in need of a heroic supporter-of-the-arts). So I feel good.

I am, as ever, broke. Actually, post-holiday travel and general expenses, I am beyond broke I'm, like, Brokeback Mountain. I am in a new realm of destitution, they need to invent new syntax for me. I am bruke, broyken, brkxkn. I'm flat-busted, maybe-won't-make-rent, gonna-have-to-move-in-with-the-girlfriend-and-become-a-mooch, start-suckin-dick-on-the-side-to-make-ends-meet, BROKE as a JOKE. And yet I feel alright. Got a few job prospects in the wings, success is finding my friends (...what's good for the goose...), and there may even be some financing heading toward the Duvall script. How about that. 06 might not turn out that bad.

Someone please remind me of this optimism when I have my head in the oven, say, mid March.