Being dead and alive is a constant state of affairs for a screenwriter. Once the little buggers (your screenplays) wander off into the world, they live entirely separate lives from you, only coming home to roost when the option is up or needs to be renewed. They cross your desk again when you need to do a punch up to woo this or that producer but for the most part, you live, because of them in a sort of grey netherworld where they are neither being made but they’re not being dismissed either.
Because God forbid a producer make up his mind about something.
At least actors have the constant stream of smoke blown up their ass. Writers are only dragged out when something needs to be done to a script or a new script needs to be written. Any other time, we’re the ghosts in the machine.
Which brings me to my current state. I’m very close on a number of projects but the simple truth is close doesn’t put a roof over my head or meat on my table and I’m a guy who likes his meat. The current system is pretty broken and it’s not going to get better anytime soon as the studios seem bound and determined to fly their shiny metal ships into the heart of the sun. And when the realization creeps into your mind in the wee hours of the dark teatime of the soul, you realize you could be living a lot easier and happier doing anything but putting one word in front of the other.
Just say, “Fuck it,” and walk away from the bullshit and the poseurs. Ride my bike and go back to building shit and dealing with that and only that.
But then you buy another bunch of chips, grip the dice hard in your right hand and throw them onto the green expanse with a plan in your heart. I win this one, I’ll be up and I can just walk away, just walk away. Cause like any gambler will tell you, it’s not if you win or lose. It’s about the play man, it’s about the play and it could be this throw, or the next one or the one after that but you’re close. You can feel it.
Come on seven.