Writer's Envy

THIS WEEK IN PURSUIT OF A HOLLYWOOD CAREER

This week as I procrastinated about writing, I sat in front of the computer, which probably wasn’t even turned on, and flipped through the pages of the Hollywood Reporter. The second to last page grabbed my attention with an article about a guy who just sold a pitch to a production company whose higher ups I happen to know. Through a friend who worked at their company, I’d submitted a script for coverage but was told it was too ‘magical’ and that fantasy doesn’t sell. Should I mention that the rejection letter I got from them had five typo’s. Well, apparently it sold for the guy they bought the pitch from. The whole premise is based in unreality, much like Hollywood itself. But the thing that really got to me, was that this guy is my neighbor. And on the day I was reading about his sale I watched him on his front lawn as he frolicked joyfully with his child and their yappy dog. Why him? Why not me? I have a good script, that could have been my sale. I live across the street from the guy, it could have been my mailbox those checks would be coming to. It should be me going to creative meetings and taking important conference calls. But it wasn’t. I was living across the street from the life I wanted, minus the kid and dog.

This guy was living the life I want to live. Instead of perusing through the trade papers and eating bag after bag of Milano cookies, he was probably working on outlines and plot points, he’s got a deadline to meet. Me, no deadlines, unless you consider my career, so far that’s been a pretty dead line. But ever since I was a kid I’ve been stubborn. The more someone tells me I can’t do something, the more I want to do it. I even have a friend who calls me the ‘Bulldog’. Although lately thanks to prozac I’ve been more like a poodle. Maybe I should cut down the milligrams to get some of the edge back.

Then I realized that this writers envy was giving me back my edge. Watching him play on his larger than mine yard was fueling my creativity. Who cares how you get the motivation, as long as it comes. And mine was in the form of a forty-something guy giggling like a writer who’d just made a sale, prancing around directly in my computer eyeline like a tortuous screensaver taunting me, provoking me, ALLRIGHT already – I’ll start writing something. Anything. Just to feel like I can still call myself a writer.

- END -