OK, if there's two things I hate in this world, it's sliders and screenwriters. Actually, three things: sliders, screenwriters, and Ricky Martin.
Since the reasons for hating Ricky Martin are all too obvious, I'll elaborate on my first two Objects D'SevereAnger...
1) Sliders
They're just tiny burgers, Los Angeles! That's all they are! Seriously! We moved out here, and all of a sudden, Slider-Mania starts and every single restaurant is flaunting them like they've re-invented the Jesus. TACO STANDS sell sliders. WTF. They're cool and all, but buffalo sliders? Elk sliders? Chicken and veggie sliders? These are crimes against God, and I won't stand for it anymore. I told Jay- the next person who says "slider" to me gets punched in the face...
Then I saw my friend Clay at HHN. He is a Slider. GAHHHHHH.
2) Screenwriters
I've never felt so un-fucking special in all my life. Since birth, I was raised to believe that I had a precious gift. That I was talented. That I was unique, and different. Talented. A singular dazzling Unicorn amongst the Reindeer and their games.
Now I've come out here to the Land of Unicorns, and lo-
...I'm not so special anymore.
In fact, EVERYONE is a screenwriter out here. The wardrobe ladies at HHN? Screenwriters. The guy working at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf? F-ing screenwriter. The CameraGuy? Also a screenwriter. Oh, and every single actor out here is ALSO a screenwriter. My friend Rob is a Production Assistant. And a screenwriter. All of the interns at all three (unpaid) internships are all screenwriters.
With actors, you can kind of get a sense if they're going to be sucky actors or not. With bat-shit crazy introverted writers, it's anyone's guess.
Here's an example of a typical exchange:
(The following takes place between me and a fat girl at a party.)
GIRL AT PARTY- Hi! I'm so-and-so's wife!
ME- Oh, hey. Jaime. Nice to meet you.
GIRL AT PARTY- Are you an actress?
ME- (laughs) No, no- I moved out here so I could write.
GIRL AT PARTY- I have a book deal!
ME- That's great! Congratulations!
GIRL AT PARTY- I get 8% of profit- my agents get 20%.
ME- (clearly bored by now) Wow, that's really awesome.
GIRL AT PARTY- It's the sequel to Phantom of the Opera.
ME- (edging away)- That's great... I'm sure Gaston Leroux (the author of the original novel) will be happy to see that.
GIRL AT PARTY- (not getting it) He's dead!
ME- I'm gonna go get a drink now...
Later, she approached me and demanded to try some of my drink. I told her I was a germaphobe, so, sorry.
LATER Later, she took ahold of my hair while I was dancing and told me what I pretty pony I was. She then went around with an invisible knife and mimed stabbing everyone.
Here's another example:
(This took place in the line for wardrobe at HHN)
GUY IN LINE: Why are you so smiley?
ME: Oh- I just got to meet Rob Zombie, like, an hour ago. I'm a huge horror fan, so-
GUY IN LINE: (inturrupts) Yeah, I see him all the time. I got to chat with him a little back a while ago.
ME: (one-upped) Wow! That's cool- did you notice he was short?
GUY IN LINE: Of course, that was the second time I met him. The first time I met him, he was hanging out with Quentin Tarantino.
ME: (now two-upped.) Oh, that's cool.
GUY IN LINE: I was talking to them about how when I met Ely Roth, he was blahblahblahblahblah
ME- (now 3-upped, tuning out) uh-hunh...
GUY IN LINE: blah blah So I pitched them my screenplay because I think they'd be the only two directors I'd want, and I blah blah blah, and it's about this twist on horror, like blah blah...
ME- (lying) I think I forgot something in my lockers.
So if douchebag three-upping screenwriters are constantly pitching their shitty ideas, it automatically discredits anyone with legitimately good ideas. You can only spit on soup so many times before all you taste is spit.
Also, did you notice how in both scenarios, the only reason these people asked me anything was so they could tell me about their writing?
What's weirder is that they're pitching to ME, like I'm someone who can help them. And if these guys who've been out here eating sliders and experiencing a modicum of success (they're still out here so they must be doing something right) then what chance do I have?
I'm floating in a sea of writers- it's like all those images of Hell, where you see the River Styx and all those Damned crowded, drowning eternally, drifting in the eternal endless void of bodies.
Even so, at least these guys are writing. The majority of "writers" out here are just people with ideas they've never committed to paper. Or they've given a suggestion to a writer, so now that they've "collaborated," they're in the club. I suppose even the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf guy is a writer, because he wrote my name on my to-go order. At least he didn't try to pitch me.
The worst of all this (aside from my own clearly visible raging insecurity) is that all of these jerkoffs think that they're beautiful Unicorns too- and it's made me paranoid as hell...
If these guys moved out here thinking they're talented and gifted and precious and magic, then am I just like them?
What separates their confidence in their ability from mine? How do I know if my faith in myself is justified?
Surely these guys have a support network, and friends and parents who encourage them too...
Am I just kidding myself?
Part of me knows I can't give up at this stage in the game. I owe it to myself, to Jay (who I dragged out here against his will) and to everyone who's been encouraging and supportive along the way. If I puss out now, what was the point?
I could go take my cats and my husband back to Orlando, live with my Mom, make Jay miserable, make our cats miserable, make my Mom's cats miserable, and try to reconcile with the death of a dream.
It'll be easier- I can blame the economy. It'll be true. I can blame my health, which is getting worse with every breath I can't take in this smog-infused cesspool. I can blame my nerves. I can blame my cardiac condition. I can point my fingers every which way, including within. I AM SCARED. But that's nothing to be ashamed of. People fail. I tried- that's more than most people do. I took a risk and I bombed. There's honor in there. Somewhere.
I'll beg for more work at Universal and Sea World. I'll buy stilts and be the girl who's a little too old to wear those costumes. Eventually, our finances will start to recover and we'll have some beautiful babies.
And I'll get horrible postpartum depression, drown them in my mom's pool and slash my wrists.
Easy Cheesy!
Or...
What is the "or?"
Stay out here- face my fear for a little longer. Hold in there and watch any sort of financial security crumble. We've run out of savings- our credit cards will eventually all max out, and we'll file for bankruptcy. We will move to a smaller, scarier apartment in a worse part of town than we are in now. Jay will be forced to get a "real" job, and he'll resent me for it.
Stress will eat us both alive, from the inside out. It will show on our faces, little by little closing any windows we'd have to our lives back Home.
I'll work at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
But it'll be OK- because I'm really a ScreenWriter.
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