There’s like one day every few months where toiling away like a douchey L.A. stereotype by sitting in Insomnia Cafe writing on a pirated Final Draft 7, having no money, no social life, living in a worthless city and going back to undergrad when I’m uncomfortably old for it, can be slightly justified.
So, fuck it, for once I want to brag. A TV pilot I wrote is a finalist in a screenwriting competition: http://pageawards.net and it feels fucking fantastic whether it wins or not.
As in maybe, just maybe, ditching a kickass Astoria apartment (36th Street stop, $700/month, my own bathroom and my own balcony), regular temp work in Manhattan that paid over $20/hour and the thing that makes New York best of all – New York girls live there, for the cultural wasteland of L.A. might not have been the worst choice I could have made.
And another thing is that I’m going to argue that my jubilation today is a case for pessimism. Because I had discounted myself so much and forgotten about the script entirely and wrote it off as just another stack of papers to the “learning experience” pile, I was even more happy when I found out that it’s doing well. If I was optimistic about it and expected it to get there, I would either fail and be let down, or succeed and be happy but not thrilled.
But what if I keep writing and the scripts get a little bit better with each one and something gets sold some day and with enough work and focus and good ideas I can actually become a working writer.
Keep the expectations low.
But holy shit man.