I’ve alluded to the irretrievable implosion of my screenwriting career in many a previous blog post. I never felt ready to write about it at length before now. So, since we were just recently discussing the artful revelation of backstory, here’s mine.
Given the long odds of a career in Hollywood, even under the most favorable of circumstances, the unexpressed question that looms ominously over every aspirant is: How do I know when it’s time to call this quits?
My wife and I were having drinks at the S&P Oyster Co. in Mystic, Connecticut, when I knew I was done with Hollywood forever—that my ship wasn’t coming. That was September 24, 2014, during a visit to the East Coast for her aunt and uncle’s golden-anniversary party, exactly thirteen years to the day after we’d relocated from our hometown of New York City to L.A.
Right out of college, I’d landed representation as a screenwriter—though that management company folded a few months prior to my move, catalyzing, at least in part, my decision to try my luck in Tinseltown—and I had a reel full of TV spots and short films I’d cut while working as an audiovisual editor in SoHo, so I felt certain I’d land on my feet in Hollywood, this despite having no contacts there.
So, in the predawn hours of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I left the Bronx, the only home I’d ever known, and met my wife, though we weren’t married at the time, at JFK Airport to embark on our new adventure together. Perhaps the cosmic timing of our departure (which was delayed by two weeks) should’ve been taken as a sign that the road ahead would be bumpier than I’d naïvely anticipated?
It took a full year in L.A. before I could even get a call returned, but finally I got some opportunities to edit a few independent shorts and features, and began networking my way into the industry. But it would be another seven years yet before I procured representation as a screenwriter again, during which time I can’t tell you how many contemporaries I watched pack up their shit and abandon their dreams to move back home. They’d decided it wasn’t worth it, that life was too short. I’m certain I’d have been one of them were it not for my wife, who remained steadfastly supportive, and for a few friends—notably my buddy Mike—who were also Hollywood hopefuls determined to keep at it, too, through bad times and, well, less bad. We were going to be the ones that hung in there and made it.
By 2009, things were looking up—considerably. At long last I’d found representation once again with a management company, this time off a spec I’d written called Leapman, and all manner of opportunities soon followed: to turn Leapman into a comic-book series; to sign with a big-letter talent agency; to vie for open screenwriting assignments; to develop an undersea sci-fi thriller (in the vein of The Abyss and Sphere) with a red-hot producer.
Around this same time, I got friendly with another up-and-coming screenwriter—we were repped by the same management—and he and I formed a critique group, enthusiastically enlisting half a dozen fledgling screenwriters we barely knew. In short order, we all became close friends, meeting every other Tuesday night at one watering hole or another around Hollywood to trade script notes and war stories. All unknowns at the time, some of those scribes have since gone on to write for shows including The Handmaid’s Tale and Women of the Movement, as well as WandaVision and Ted Lasso.
I was also, during this period, developing a short film with Mike. He and I had met in 2003 on the postproduction crew of an indie film; we were on location in the redwoods of Marin County, right down the road from Skywalker Ranch, cutting dailies in a ramshackle cabin that looked for all the world like Ewok Village Hall. Under those circumstances, it didn’t take long to become fast friends: We were the same age, came up on the same cinematic influences, and—most notably—shared the same irreverent sense of humor, turning our verbal knives on all of Hollywood’s sacred cows, delighting in making one another howl with one progressively outrageous remark after the next.
Also like me, Mike was married to his teenage sweetheart, sans children, so we were both in the same place: free to pursue our Hollywood dreams with the support of the women we loved. It was and remains the closest male friendship I’ve ever made in my adult life. As Mike continued to come into ever-more-promising editorial opportunities on studio features, my screenwriting career was kicking into high gear. With aspirations to direct, he asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking one of my concepts—a horror/comedy I’d pitched him that reflected our mutual sensibilities—and scripting a short film for him to shoot. So, there I was, developing a big-budget monster movie for a legit prodco by day, and a no-budget monster movie with my best friend by night. After over a decade in Hollywood, everything had clicked into place.
And then came 2014. Frustrated with the inexcusable lack of progress on the short—I’d written a script all of us were expressly happy with, and yet years had gone by and we were no closer to rolling camera—I put pressure on the project’s producer, Mike’s spouse, to do her part. Consequently, for the first time in our decade-long association, our friendship grew strained, and once we both crossed the line and turned our caustic criticisms, the source of so many years of bonding and hilarity, on each other, our relationship eventually became irreversibly poisoned. I’d lost my closest friend and ally in Hollywood, and that was only the beginning of my troubles.
I also lost the attention of my producer on that seafloor-suspense screenplay, which happens all the time in this fickle business, but with it went my manager’s tenuous confidence in me. The truth is, my managers (both my primary and secondary) had never much liked me: They didn’t seem to care for me personally, and they sure as hell didn’t believe in my creative instincts. I’m pretty sure they regretted signing me before the ink on our contract was dry. I should’ve severed my association with them as soon as I realized that, but it had taken so goddamn long just to find new management, I convinced myself bad representation was better than no representation.
They surely sensed that insecurity, hence the reason they felt so comfortable habitually abusing my trust. They’d ring me on vacation with script notes after I’d explicitly instructed them to table their feedback until after I’d returned. Or they’d read the first twenty pages of a draft as soon as I submitted it and then call to tell me, before I’d even powered down my computer, the screenplay wasn’t working so what was the point in reading any further? The two months I’d spent writing it wasn’t even worth two hours of reading time in return. That was beyond insulting.
And the straw that broke the camel’s back? They’d put me through a year of interminable drafts on a project only to announce at the eleventh hour they wouldn’t be taking it to the spec marketplace unless I performed a page-one rewrite—a completely revamped take on the concept that my primary manager, in a stroke of divine inspiration, had devised at some point between Monday, when he announced his intention to send the script out for a weekend read, and Thursday, when I called him to hear the game plan, only to instead be told, “Now that I’ve had a little distance from the material, I see some more problems with it…”
I would decline to start from scratch and insist he take the spec out exactly as planned and as praised just days earlier; he would stubbornly refuse, at which point the script would be shitcanned and the only thing left to do was initiate a new project—one that met with his full conceptual approval and incorporated his copious input, natch—and we’d restart the yearlong cycle of endless drafts culminating in the inevitable both-sides-lose stalemate: take on a page-one rewrite or shelve it outright. Our relationship had been operating in that dysfunctional mode for years, and it was exponentially eroding my sanity. This was not, as you might imagine, a healthy or normal writer-manager dynamic.
A literary manager is not a writer’s boss; a manager is, though I’ve yet to meet one who sees it this way, a writer’s employee. Managers are there to advise. They can offer guidance and opinions, but, ultimately, the client makes the call; it’s his career, after all. Over time, I began to see a pattern with my primary manager: The only decisions of mine he would support were the ones he made. And unfortunately for us both, after years of being assured on a Monday that a given script was market-ready only to be informed at midweek it was going to require a full conceptual overhaul, I no longer trusted his judgment. That should’ve been the moment I ended it, but. Instead, we spent the entirety of 2014 barely on speaking terms.
In the fall of that year, my wife and I went back to New York for that aforementioned anniversary party on Long Island. We seldom traveled back east in the autumn, my favorite season, since we’d be home for Christmas in a few short weeks, so it seemed like a good opportunity to see some foliage. We took the ferry from Orient Point to New London, Connecticut, and spent the night in Mystic. I was so happy to be there, and to be so far away from Hollywood. “Why don’t we move here?” I suggested somewhere around the second or third drink. “Why not just come back?” I couldn’t think of a reason not to.
So, my wife suggested a sensible one: Her career was out in L.A. To say nothing of her life. She’s an East Coaster born and bred, too, but she’d acclimated to Los Angeles. I think it helped that she wasn’t, and has never been, in the movie business. If your career is tied up with Hollywood, the industry, and you suddenly find yourself with no future in it, continuing to live in Hollywood, the place, sort of makes you feel like the last guy at the party: alone, embarrassed, and wondering why the hell you’re still there. And that’s how I felt, but things were the way they were: I wasn’t going anywhere.
Neither, it turns out, was my career. Just before Christmas, my managers and I permanently parted company under extremely acrimonious circumstances. In the weeks following our professional divorce, I attempted to salvage my imploding career by shoring up my other industry relationships (recall the frantic scrambling of the “Show me the money” sequence in Jerry Maguire for reference), but in what can only be described as an unfortunate coincidence, I discovered that most of my contacts—producers I’d worked with, my agents, and even the friend-cum-colleague with whom I’d started that writers group—were no longer returning my messages. It was like 2001 all over again, except I was thirteen years older and reputationally toxic. Three months after deciding I was more or less done with Hollywood, Hollywood had decided the feeling was mutual.
In my confusion, frustration, anger, and disappointment, I promptly withdrew from the few social circles in which I was still welcome in preparation for my inevitable exfiltration from L.A., so convinced I was of my imminent departure. I spent the next several years torturing myself—to say nothing of my long-suffering wife—with quixotic fantasies of returning to New York, despite knowing full well our life and livelihood was out in Los Angeles. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was keeping this blog and writing my first novel, trying to take the skills I’d cultivated for one medium/industry and seeing if I couldn’t transfer them to another—if I couldn’t salvage something yet from the wreckage of my screenwriting career. But mostly I was bitching about living in L.A.
You know that old song “Can’t Find My Way Home” by Steve Winwood? From the time I first heard it used in an episode of 21 Jump Street when I was in junior high, I’ve always loved it—it’s such a wistful little tune—but I can’t really say I much understood it. Nearest I could figure was that it’s a Rorschach test: It means whatever you happen to hear in it. Anyway, I’m driving down Ventura Boulevard one day listening to Hair Nation on Sirius, and the House of Lords’ cover version comes on, and all of a sudden I get it—I know what that song is about:
Come down off your throne and leave your body alone Somebody must change You are the reason I’ve been waiting so long Somebody holds the key But I’m near the end and I just ain’t got the time And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home
It expressed everything I was feeling: that I was near the end—the end of my chances to make something of myself as a writer, the end of the time we’re allotted in our twenties and thirties to prove ourselves. That I was wasted: that my time and my talent had been wasted, more specifically—that my efforts and my sacrifices were in vain. And that I couldn’t find my way back to New York. I was stuck. It was my own personal Groundhog Day.
But there was also that other lyric: Somebody must change…
Or, put another way: I needed to get out from up my own ass.
Therapy helped me come to terms with the fact that I was in L.A. to stay, and I began seeking out activities and people that had nothing to do with the film industry. In 2018, I trained at the L.A. Convention Center to serve in former U.S. Vice President Al Gore’s Climate Reality Leadership Corps, and met scores of wonderful Angelenos who care passionately about something other than the movies. I subsequently became one of the founding members of the San Fernando Valley Chapter of the Climate Reality Project, and was one of a handful of activists to enlist L.A. into the County Climate Coalition. It was also around this time I began volunteering for L.A. Animal Services, fostering kittens at first, then working onsite at the Van Nuys shelter. There was more to L.A., it turned out, than the movie business.
In the closing months of 2019, my wife was offered a promising job opportunity, a huge new chapter in her illustrious career, that contractually bound her to the Los Angeles area; it wasn’t merely implied that she be in L.A., as it had always previously been: It was explicitly stipulated. So, after a long discussion about it at an Italian restaurant in Sherman Oaks, we decided, for good and all, that we were in L.A. to stay. I’d quit my bellyaching once and for all time—I’d commit to being an Angeleno for life the way I should’ve done twenty years earlier—and we would revisit the notion of moving back to New York no sooner than her retirement, still decades away.
In the meantime, we’d make an effort to fly back east more often—at least once a season. That would offset any homesickness, and give us a chance to see our two remaining parents with more regularity. And we’d resolved to go out more; I’d meet her after work for midweek drinks at one spot or another, just to make it feel like we lived in a real metropolitan area once again, like the way we’d met up at the dive bars of Greenwich Village and SoHo back in the day. So, we’d get back to New York a little more often, and we’d act a little more like New Yorkers when we were in L.A. But, to be certain, we were in L.A. That was immutably settled, to be neither renegotiated nor repealed.
There’s a spiritual freedom that comes from making a definitive decision like that; I felt a leaden weight evaporate from my shoulders. While she was working out of her office in Burbank, I committed that entire winter—the first quarter of 2020—to outlining my new horror novel, with plans to “go to pages,” to use screenwriting parlance, on the manuscript by mid-March. I was all set to type “Chapter One: It was a dark and stormy night…” when she was, quite abruptly, sent to work from home for two weeks to, as they were describing it, “flatten the curve,” most of that time we spent glued to CNN.
Two weeks soon became four weeks.
Four weeks became six weeks.
Six weeks became six months.
Throughout the quarantine, we remained healthy and employed. We never missed a meal or a month’s rent. You’ve heard about people that came through the pandemic financially better off? That was us, I confess with no small measure of embarrassment. We weren’t dining out or flying back to New York as we’d anticipated, so all that fun money got banked instead.
I didn’t make as much progress on my novel as I’d intended—it was slower going and less steady than I’d planned, owed to anxiety from the pervasive disruption (the pandemic, the police-brutality protests, the election, to say nothing of a spike in vandalism on our block)—but my blogging took a quantum leap, as I channeled all my apprehension and creative energy into a series of posts that I consider some of the best essaying I’ve ever produced. As a screenwriter, I’d been trained to develop my commercial imagination, but I was now exploring the value of moral imagination, a notion introduced to me by Vice President Gore. Consequently, the novel I was writing became something other than what I’d originally envisioned. Something far better.
As we were sitting around our apartment in the San Fernando Valley that summer with the state literally burning down around us, wondering when we’d ever see our families again, wondering if there was a vaccine in the offing, wondering if we’d have a new president come November, two things happened in short order: The brass at my wife’s company, who had privately entertained the possibility of a remote-work model a few years earlier before reasoning it would be too radical a paradigm shift, instituted permanent WFH. Why not, since all their employees not only adjusted to telework overnight but had in fact thrived under it. As such, she was never going back to an office, let alone the office, even on the other side of pandemia.
And then my mother texted one afternoon to tell me her next-door neighbors in the Bronx, a family we’ve known for damn near forty years, would be putting their apartment on the market in the coming months. But they never got the chance. Because a mere four days after we’d signed another yearlong lease on our two-bedroom rental in the Valley—“Of course we’ll still be here next September. Duh!”—my wife and I offered to buy the unit from them directly.
It took another six months to close on the place, for reasons owed to boring procedural complications and Kafkaesque clerical issues; all of this was being done remotely, so there were some challenges. But it was all for the best: In early April, California opened up COVID vaccinations to all eligible adults. Our arms still sore from our second shots, we nonetheless signed the contract on the apartment, and less than a week later, we were in the air—our first one-way flight to New York ever.
For years I’d thought, if given the chance, I could drive away from L.A. on a moment’s notice without so much as a backwards glance, but the winter spent preparing to move turned out to be a minefield of separation anxiety. Not cold feet, mind you; I’ve been on this earth long enough to recognize a celestial alignment when I see one, and this was that. To own a home next door to my mother and only a borough away from my father-in-law was a rare opportunity we couldn’t refuse given recent world events. Still, we’d spent twenty years not only in L.A., but in that particular apartment, and the circumstances under which we were vacating allowed for no “farewell tour,” as it were. Sometimes I think that made leaving more emotionally difficult. Sometimes, though, I think it made it easier. Less maudlin. Maybe it was harder and easier?
I certainly recall shutting the door on the apartment for the last time—the place we’d moved into as piss-poor kids, shell-shocked over leaving home, ashes still smoldering at the Trade Center ruins 3,000 miles to the east. There we were, setting off on the adventure of a lifetime, only to have the experience darkened by the cloud of terrorism that changed New York, changed America, changed us all. But she and I weathered all that and more in our first apartment: We endured the deaths of pets and the deaths of two parents, the days of living and eating lean by necessity, the challenges that come from establishing a life in a city where you have no friends and no roots.
That apartment was also where we got engaged, where we hosted virtually all the members of our family, both immediate and extended, at one point or another, and where we cared for dozens of animals, both our own and fosters. We’d moved in as broke young adults but were leaving as comfortable middle-aged spouses, stronger—as individuals, but, more importantly, as a couple—for every test we’d been put through. It’s a deeply weird thing to close the door for good on a longtime home, to drive away from it for the final occasion in an Uber, and think, “I’ll never see this place again.” I’d spent the past six years in L.A. desperate to abscond, then three brief months during the winter of 2020 earnestly committed to staying, only to find myself overcome at the act of leaving it forevermore.
And for the second time in our lives—which, I’ll confidently wager, is twice more than most people—we moved across the country during a national emergency into a new home, sight altogether unseen.
We spent the summer renovating the Bronx apartment, putting it together piece by piece. We took precious few belongings, mostly just clothes and two or three pieces of furniture worth the effort, in favor of composing our new home, our first owned home, from scratch. How many opportunities will we get, after all, to do that? This is probably it. As such, we were fine with taking our time to get this place right. Everything was already right, after all: We were home.
I type these words in my new office, which shares a wall with my old bedroom in the apartment next door. The room’s tenth-floor window overlooks the treetops of an 1,100-acre city park, the branches of which were only just budding when we first arrived, then shimmered emerald green all summer as we got ourselves situated, and had settled into a glorious shade of saffron on the late October day I finished my novel—the very same manuscript I started the week of the shutdown. The story itself isn’t entirely as I’d originally envisioned it, and the writing process didn’t go exactly as expected, but that’s more or less consistent with my entire L.A. experience, my misadventures in the screen trade.
This is going to sound like obligatory, Hallmark-movie horseshit, but I’m glad my screenwriting career didn’t pan out. More than glad: grateful. That isn’t me putting a good face on things, either—that is the absolute truth, straight from my sleeve-pinned heart. I can even prove it to you, if necessary: Last month, I ran into my old manager—my secondary—at an event on the Lower East Side of Manhattan of all places, where we shared a hug and drink and more than a few kind words for one another. No one brought up the past; my hunch is that we’d all prefer to forget and forgive. I sure as hell do. Mistakes got made, certainly—by me, too—but I can’t honestly say I regret how things shook out for me in the final tally.
The way I figure, the best outcome I could’ve hoped for in Hollywood—the best outcome—would’ve been a steady stream of work-for-hire assignments on the umpteenth sequels to Taken and The Expendables. That’s what I’m doing in the alternate universe where things worked out for me in Tinseltown. I’d be handsomely paid for rewriting others, then likely rewritten myself, only to see a paltry fraction of those projects, if even that many, ever make it to production. For a screenwriting career, that’s what constitutes success. That I never achieved it is a godsend. See, I aspired to be a commercially imaginative screenwriter, but in trying and failing, I learned to be a morally imaginative storyteller. I never got where I was going; instead, I reached a much finer destination.
In more ways than one, as it happens! Because like a Hollywood movie, there was a bow-tied happy ending once I’d finally learned my Groundhog Day lesson: Just as I’d come to accept, soberly and even willingly, I was an Angeleno for life, that maddeningly elusive path back home I’d been waiting for so long presented itself. I can’t explain it. I can only echo the bewildered sentiment expressed by my old pal Terry Noonan on his own unexpected return to New York after a decade-long absence: “It just happened, you know? Things happen and… other things happen. It’s your life.”
You can’t go home again, novelist Thomas Wolfe famously asserted. Having returned not merely to my old city, not merely my old neighborhood, but to the very block I grew up on, I’m putting that axiom to the test. I’ll share my insights next month.
Yikes! I couldn’t stop reading, Sean. What a story. I think if you shake it up, stir it with a fire stick, at a little more salt (for the wounds, though you may have enough already), it sounds like a writer’s failed journey to find an agent.
No wonder I’m an Indie!
Thank you, Jacqui — for sharing your encouragingly positive reaction to the piece (and in the post’s first comment, at that). It’s so heartening to read that! I honestly wasn’t sure if this story would resonate with anyone. I consciously try not to be too self-indulgent on this blog — to only post essays that have some sort of value to offer to my readers in return for their generous time and attention — but this piece was entirely for me. Ever since I moved back to New York in May of 2021, I knew I was going to do a post about my escape from L.A., but I intentionally held off until I’d sufficiently processed the experience. When the time came to write about it — and the first post of the new year seemed like a fitting occasion to finally do it — what started as a simple I’ve moved notification turned into a reflection on my entire L.A. experience (something I’ve avoided writing about for years, probably because I was still in the thick of it). I guess this was my way of giving the whole thing a measure of closure — of turning the page on that chapter for good, with gratitude in my heart for everything.
And I agree with your assessment, Jacqui: The life of a writer, no matter the form or medium he chooses, is seldom easy. It’s a life of rejection and setback, and of learning to define success as something other than the Best Seller list (if you’re an author) or the Oscars (if you’re a screenwriter). My particular story is unique to me yet probably all too universal. But I’ll tell you this: Liberated from the need for external validation, for someone else to tell me I’m a writer, now I simply take satisfaction in writing the things I want to write, the way I think they should be written, and I take great pleasure in the process itself — that is, I’m less focused on the cathartic moment of crossing the finish line than of running the race itself. And I’m a much better storyteller — as well as a happier person — for that.
There’s a lot to be said for the simple goal of ‘happiness’. I don’t aspire to that, but something like contentment, peacefulness–you know?
Precisely, Jacqui — call it “inner peace” or whatever label happens to suit you. Erik could probably speak to that better than I. Sustained “happiness” isn’t an ephemeral condition — something beholden to the capricious whim of the fates — but more of a fixed state of mind, an applied discipline. I am certainly still given to bouts of frustration and even anger — those are real and often justified emotions, and they’re nothing to be ashamed of — but they don’t disrupt my overall sense of inner peace, of contentment. If anything, it’s being emotionally centered that allows me to move beyond those moments of frustration and anger — to acknowledge them, deal with the problem that evoked them, and put them to bed once again. But I wasn’t born centered, and, as “A Hollywood Ending” demonstrates, I didn’t get there overnight; I learned lessons, made choices, and strive every single day to be a little kinder and more compassionate, both to others and myself. Life is as simple and as complicated as that.
I’ve eaten at the S&P Oyster Co. in Mystic many times, Sean. It’s a wonderful place to soak in the peace and contemplate life’s mysteries and changes.
It was fascinating to read more about your foray into screenwriting, the trials and turbulence of the film industry, and how you came through it feeling grateful. One thing I’ve learned about life, which continues to fascinate me, is how we can’t really judge the full value of an experience while we’re experiencing it.
Or, put another way: even the awful things that happen in our lives, over time, offer an opportunity for insight and growth. “I needed to get out from up my own ass.” Lol. I loved that line – insight and growth.
So you’re back in NYC, fresh and ready for a new start. That’s awesome. I hope that whatever lies ahead brings you happiness and success. 🙂
Is that right, Diana — you’ve been to S&P? Too bad we never crossed paths there! I’ve been there on more than one occasion myself, though not since 2014. My wife and I did drive up to Connecticut this past autumn — we couldn’t resist a road trip into New England during peak foliage — but we confined our travels this time around to the western part of the state; from where we live, we can be in Greenwich in under 20 minutes by car. Provided the pandemic is behind us (or at least permanently receding, Christ willing) this coming summer, I’d love to get back out to Mystic. (For those unaware, the early Julia Roberts romcom Mystic Pizza shot on location there, and the film makes great use of Connecticut locations.)
I absolutely concur that we cannot fully grasp the value of an experience while we’re in the thick of it, which is why I waited so long to write about both my professional collapse as well as my relocation from L.A. to New York (which turned out, in the end, to be a single essay); I needed appreciable perspective on those experiences before I could write about them effectively — before how I could see that they were connected subplots in the same narrative. (For example: I now see that I wrote about my conversion to minimalism too soon. I was excited and wanted to share my enthusiasm, but I could write a much better thesis on that subject today. Perhaps I will.)
This essay — “A Hollywood Ending” — isn’t something I could’ve written five years ago, or a year ago, or even six months ago when I first returned to New York. You know? I need to get away from Hollywood — both the industry and the city — before I could begin to process that entire experience. And perhaps even encountering my old manager last month was a necessary step in that emotional reconciliation: I felt absolutely no anxiety upon seeing him or lingering resentment toward him whatsoever. None. Before that moment, I thought I was cured of all of my hard feelings, but confronting him face-to-face was a test of just how firm those convictions really were. But I not only felt no animosity for him — not so much as a flicker — I actually kind of enjoyed seeing him! I mean, we’re not back in regular touch again, and we’ll never be close the way we once were, but it felt good to confirm that I’ve moved on emotionally. I felt healthy for having looked the past in the eye and conclusively determined I’m at peace with all that. Maybe that needed to happen before I could write about it. “A Hollywood Ending” is kind of my obituary for that whole period of my life. I’m moving on now. This isn’t good riddance, merely goodbye.
So, yeah: I’m back in the Big Apple! I’ll talk more about what that’s been like next month, and I’m sure it’ll continue to come up a lot in the months and years ahead. It feels good to have formally announced my return! I alluded to this relocation in previous posts, like “Entre Nous,” but now it’s official. As for your well wishes, which are much appreciated and returned in kind: I feel quite happy, and that has nothing to do with being back home; rather, being back home is the reward for finally figuring out how to live happily. That’s its own kind of success.
Sean, we’ve talked many times about our shared experiences in LA over the years, and I think this is a beautiful epilogue to your time there. Insightful, very personal, and separated from the bitterness that hurt you for so long. You needed to write this piece.
I know it sounds corny, but I think you’re finally where you were always meant to be. And as you and I both know, no amount of success is a substitute for love. Our wives are our greatest joy and our true success in this life.
Thank you, Jeff. Yes — that’s the word I was searching for: epilogue. In my response to Diana above, I called this an obituary, but epilogue is a much more accurate description. I did indeed need to write this piece, for all the reasons I outlined in my response to Diana, and I wrote this one for me, as I explained to Jacqui above. This is my first officially documented — as well as my definitive — statement on that entire matter. That’s the backstory, but these days I’m only concerned with what comes next.
I second your observation that I am where I was always meant to be — professionally and geographically and otherwise. I guess you could say I took the long way home. (How’s that for cornball?) I have everything I want in life: a wonderful home; a beautiful wife; creative freedom; access to family. I won the lottery. No one ever need feel sorry for me! I share my story merely for my own sense of catharsis, and on the hopeful chance someone else finds some measure of value or comfort in it.
I don’t need to tell you of all people about the vagaries of a career in the creative arts! For those who may not know, Jeff is also a screenwriter-turned-novelist, and he, too, has blogged about the nature of failure — and perseverance in the face of insecurity — here. Please check it out!
There are many roads to Oz and none of them straight. Welcome home.
Beautifully said, Stacey! Hear, hear! And thank you for the warm welcome back! There’s no place like home…
I need a ‘like’ button on this one!
You’re not the first reader to look in vain for the “like” button here, Jacqui! I investigated the matter at one point a few years ago, and it turns out that for whatever reason, self-hosted sites through WordPress.org — which is what seanpcarlin.com is — don’t have that feature; only blogs hosted by WordPress.com allow you to “like” user comments. Who knows why? But, overall, I prefer the content- and appearance-control that comes with self-hosting, particularly the absence of WordPress-placed advertisements that are part and parcel with one of the free blog plans. For me, that’s worth the trade-off.
Having gotten to know you mostly through our shared commitment to climate issues and membership in the Climate Reality Project, I great appreciate this opportunity to get to know you better. Thank you. I look forward to hearing more about your new novel.
-Dave Rhody
Oh, thanks for that, Dave — much obliged! As I mentioned in a few other responses, the last thing I ever want to do is abuse the generosity of my readers — because I truly appreciate (and in no way take for granted) the time and attention you invest in my blog — which is why I typically eschew personal expositional pieces such as these for fear of being rambling and/or self-indulgent. But in the forthcoming spirit of this blog, I wanted to formally share the news of my recent relocation with people, and it seemed the way to do that was to place it in the larger context of my personal history. And seeing how I started this blog in 2014, right at the moment my professional life was catastrophically imploding, it seemed fitting to (finally) share the full backstory of what led up to all that.
I hope this story at least demonstrates the key virtues I hold dear and practice to the best of my abilities: forgiveness, forward motion, self-improvement, and a narrative-based worldview. I absolutely believe people can change for the better, and I believe in the power of narrativity to effect that change. By framing the events of my own adult life narratively, I hope to extract — and share — some kind of universal truth or meaning from them. I typically incorporate a bit of me in every essay; this month’s post simply featured more me than usual! Thanks for sticking with it.
As for the novel: I’m currently in revisions on the manuscript now, and I will be publishing that project via one avenue or another, so stay tuned for more on that. All I can say right now is that I’m really excited about the material: It’s exactly the kind of horror/comedy that I respond to, and I think — bonus! — it represents all the prosocial and pro-democratic values I’ve advocated for on this blog since at least the beginning of the pandemic. I can’t wait to share it with the world.
No doubt about it – you are an excellent storyteller. This was fascinating to read – and frustrating and maddening for me as your reader! But here you are now, back in NY doing loads of good for the planet and for Earth’s people!
Aw, thanks for that, Jackie! And believe me when I say that any frustration expressed in the narrative above is, for me, all in the past now. I’m over it. My management and I were just not a good fit for one another — an experience I’ve had at other stages of my life, as well. I should’ve handled the situation differently; to the extent I blame anyone for what happened (and I really don’t), I carry a greater share of responsibility than they do, because I should never have tolerated that treatment for as long as I did. But I was inexperienced, and I was terrified of being an unrepresented screenwriter again, so I tried to make a bad situation work, not unlike when you’re married to an alcoholic and you convince yourself you can do all the heavy lifting in the marriage. But what you find is that eventually the dysfunction proves too pervasive, too overpowering.
One of the tools that helped me move on that I didn’t cover in the essay above is the practice and philosophy of minimalism. By learning to let go of physical objects — and particularly useless sentimental items — I’ve trained myself to let go of anything that is no longer adding value to my life: bad habits, toxic relationships, institutionalized hobbies I was no longer enjoying, media franchises I continued consuming strictly out of brand loyalty, and even old grudges. As soon as I identify something that is no longer adding value to my life, I can drop it — just like that. Accordingly, any grievances I may’ve harbored have long since evaporated into the ether. These days, I am no longer the custodian of bullshit — and that includes hard feelings. I spend my time and energy on productive/constructive pursuits only, like my writing and my activism. What’s the point in wasting our precious resources on anger or regret? There’s too much work to do — and too much fun to be had!
>I put pressure on the project’s producer, Mike’s spouse, to do her part.
NEVER go into business w/ friends or family
If you absolutely MUST, then make certain you have a good contract
The more you trust each other, the more you NEED that contract
Indeed, sir. What Mike and I were doing was essentially a big-boy version of what I’d attempted in high school: a guerilla-style, no-budget horror/comedy, but this time filmed on real sets, with industry-grade equipment and professional talent on both sides of the camera. What we were essentially shooting was the first act of a feature screenplay, modified to work as a self-contained short, that we might then use as a proof-of-concept reel to interest prospective prodcos or financiers. Our collaboration was meant to be a “boys with toys” sort of thing — two good friends–cum–aspiring filmmakers working on a reasonably low-stakes project, just like Lost Boys II. He was a talented filmmaker and I was a good screenwriter, and our aesthetic sensibilities really complemented one another, à la young Spielberg and Lucas. The whole thing should’ve been the beginning of a long creative partnership, not the end of a fucking friendship!
What happened there, unfortunately, was that Mike’s wife was involved as the producer. She was a sweet woman, but really had no professional ambitions, in filmmaking or otherwise; but since she was out in Hollywood supporting her husband’s passions, she therefore reasoned she ought to do something in the industry, too. So, she declared herself a producer — simple as that, right? — and Mike was, accordingly, going to have her produce our project. So, it was intended to be my movie during the ideas-and-development stage, hers during preproduction, Mike’s during production, and our buddy Jason was going to edit the project, which would’ve made it his movie in postproduction. We were all so excited to collaborate on this.
Having fulfilled my responsibilities to the project — I wrote a draft everyone was more than satisfied with (and we’d even commissioned storyboards, some of which I still have) — the onus then shifted to her. But that’s when it started to become clear she really wasn’t up to the task. I recall she held a lot of pointless meetings, but no discernable effort was being made to secure funding or locations or actors — none of the necessary logistics. When the rubber met the road, she ultimately didn’t know how to produce a film, and that seriously tested my forbearance as the months and eventually years wore on. And then when she started asking me to rewrite the script not because the story required it, but rather to make her job easier — to limit the number of locations and roles and props — my patience with her reached its limit. I certainly wasn’t going to compromise the material just to accommodate the limitations of her abilities.
With good reason, I’d suspected at the time Mike was frustrated, too — we were best friends, and I knew him well enough to know what he was thinking even when he wasn’t saying it — but the mistake he made, Dell, wasn’t going into business with me, but rather with his own spouse. He wanted the project produced as badly as I did, but what was he supposed to do: fire his wife? And when it became clear that she couldn’t get the movie made and yet he couldn’t replace her on the project, we wound up taking all of our frustrations out on each other. (And I was doubly frustrated at the time, because my day job had also hit the skids and nothing was going right. So, I wasn’t exactly thinking straight, either.) And just to be clear: I am in no way “Lady MacBething” Mike’s wife; he and I were grown adults who knew we were in a shit situation, and we could’ve figured a way out of it — even if it meant killing the project — without poisoning our friendship. We made a choice — a bad one, with permanent consequences.
Anyway, it broke my fuckin heart. My heart is still broken over it. I miss him terribly, think of him often, and wish him — wish both of them — well. Sometimes something will remind me of one of our conversations, and I’ll start replaying it in my head verbatim — I can hear his voice and see his impish grin — and next thing I know I’m belly-laughing again at some silly comment he made fifteen years ago! His friendship was the source of so much comfort and strength to me in those early years when we were both trying desperately just to get a break in Hollywood. Those are hard, lonely years, and he was my brother in the trenches. I don’t know what became of him; I don’t look him up, and I haven’t seen his name in the credits any movies recently, not that I watch many of those anymore. I think we would’ve been a great team. I don’t mourn the end of my screenwriting career — that all worked out for the best — but I absolutely regret the dissolution of our friendship. I doubt I will ever make another friend in life like him.
Hmm…sometimes I wonder why you don’t write more memoirs. This is good reading. Seriously, think about it. Not so much the whole Mommy Dearest thing, but more of a series of short stories.
Okay, they don’t have much commercial value. But someday, I keep telling myself, people will be interested in this stuff–you know, family and all that.
I read your earlier comment to Jacqui about how you want to avoid self indulgence, and I get that–I feel the same way myself. That’s why most of my posts are short stories and nonfiction. It feels silly to write something that’s only for me and then publish it.
I’m glad for you, that you’re back in New York. I can’t personally understand the decision, but then, I wouldn’t have spent decades in the same apartment in LA, either. Really, I think that it’s that I can’t fathom apartment living. Living in an apartment is like living death to me, which sounds so melodramatic. We should be happy for the good things and all that. But I NEED a garden. And while I might not actually need dogs–I’ve lived without them (mostly in apartments), my life is much better when I have them. And I’d really miss my chickens. About the most downscaled I can imagine without panicking is maybe a mobile home park. I have no idea how people function with other walls touching theirs. It’s like a highly specific form of claustrophobia. But if you’re happy about living in an apartment, then I’m happy for you, too.
I’ve moved many times, so I get the bittersweet feeling of “this place will no longer be home.” I’m glad for you that you think you’ve moved to your last home, and I hope it works out that way for you. May your home enfold you in warmth and happiness, a secure refuge in both good times and bad. : )
Oh, wow, Cathleen — thank you so much for those kind words! I gotta say: The response to this piece has truly surprised and overwhelmed me. When I wrote the first draft of it and saw that it was over 4,000 words, I thought, “Oh, boy — this got away from you!” At that point my options were either to make major restructural edits, or publish as is and just accept that this particular post would be of interest/relevance to me only. I opted for the latter. That’s the beauty of keeping your own blog, after all: You get to publish whatever you want! Years ago, I published a “self-indulgent” piece on turning forty years old that I thought no one would read, but it turned out to be my most popular post (up till that point) by a country mile! People really responded to it; longtime friends of the blog like Stacey and Wendy found me through that post. I think it goes to show that if you write something that has meaning to you, chances improve exponentially it will have meaning to others.
That was a fight I was always having with my managers: I was desperate to follow my creative instincts, but they wanted to squeeze me into a very commercial box. You know? They wanted me writing formulaic shit like Taken, whereas I wanted to do idiosyncratic horror-comedy hybrids like the kind I had grown up on. In fact, the novel I’m currently revising is based on a concept I first hatched in 2009 that they absolutely hated and vehemently advised against. But the story never loosened its hold on my imagination. It’s a reminder to me that a writer’s best, most passionate advocate is always himself. Agents and managers, while they can facilitate deals, are overrated assets.
Most of our friends in Los Angeles grew up — and now raise their own children — in private homes, and the thought of living in an apartment is explicitly anathema to them! Haha! I get it. Between us, my wife and I have only ever lived in two-bedroom apartments, so it’s what we know. Apartment living can be quite wonderful, truth be told. If you’ve got good neighbors, you form a tight-knit community with them. For example, many of the longtime residents of my current building watched me grow up! I used to trick-or-treat here! When they heard I was coming home for good, the whole building was buzzing for months. That’s a really nice feeling! Consequently, I settled back in overnight; there was no adjustment period whatsoever.
When I was growing up (in the building directly next door to my current address), the large majority of residents were my parents’ age, all with school-age children of their own, and they were all on equal socioeconomic footing: We’re talking middle-class, blue-collar New Yorkers, doing the best with what they had. Consequently, everybody looked after everyone else. You know? All of us kids played together, and everyone’s parents looked out for each and every kid in the building. We’d spend Thanksgivings eating together, and Christmas mornings in each other’s apartments. It was a family, in its way. This was in the 1980s, when all the sitcoms on TV took place in suburban homes, be them about upper-middle-class families (Growing Pains, Family Ties) or lower-middle-class families (Roseanne, Married… with Children), but none of them really reflected my reality. I would say the 1980s sitcom that was closest to my own experience was 227; that show accurately captured what it was like to live in a metropolitan apartment building.
And many of my L.A. friends have echoed your own sentiment: that while they understand apartment living is a culture with its own plusses, they just can’t imagine not having a backyard for their kids, etc. But as I’ve written about elsewhere on this blog: Our backyard was called New York City. You know? Some areas of the city, like where that terrible fire occurred a few weeks ago right here in the Bronx, are densely packed, perhaps to the point of claustrophobia. My neighborhood isn’t like that, though. As I said, my window overlooks an 1,100-acre city park, with nary a building in sight to obstruct the view. And the building itself sits on a six-acre piece of private property with grassy areas, woodsy areas, a playground, a basketball court, a composting bin, and indoor and outdoor parking. So, I’ve got all that recreation right outside my door — and I ain’t responsible for the upkeep! Someone else does the landscaping, and the shoveling when it snows, and takes the garbage out to the curb. Not a bad deal!
And same thing when something breaks, like a faucet or doorknob or the radiator: The superintendent comes and fixes it. There’s a staff here dedicated to the maintenance — both preventive and reactive — of the building. If the boiler breaks down or the roof needs to be patched, it isn’t my direct concern. I mean, it is in the sense that I own a share of the cooperative, but I’m not the one that has to lay out the money directly to fix a broken furnace or patch a pothole in the driveway. There’s something to be said for that.
But none of that is, ultimately, the silver-bullet reason we chose to live where we live. The reason is because this particular apartment and this particular neighborhood give us the things we want at this particular stage of life: our own home; access to family (especially aging parents); and the experience of living in New York City (a place with which we are both intimately comfortable), but a step removed from the crushing claustrophobia that admittedly defines so much of the boroughs. There’s as much greenery where we are as there is concrete — maybe even more of the former than the latter — and yet we are still a mere four-minute walk from pizzerias and pubs, diners and drugstores, salons and supermarkets. That’s the best of all worlds, as far as we’re concerned.
But what’s right for us isn’t right for everyone. My older brother, for example, lives with his family on a farm in Virginia with goats and chickens and all that stuff, and would happily never set foot in New York again. To my view, he may as well live on Mars! There’s nothing wrong with that existence, it’s just not one for which I have any firsthand point of reference. But when I’m in New York — and this was true all the years I’d come back to visit, too — I strut down the street like Tony Manero on Atlantic Avenue, all full of myself! Here I am at home. But I’ll go into more of that in next month’s post.
In the meantime, thank you, Cathleen, for the kind wishes! We are very happy here. Now that the place has really come together, she and I are both given to sporadically announcing things like “I love this place!” and “I’m so happy here!” It was a great opportunity to have come out of an otherwise unfortunate turn of events (the pandemic). And I must say, I am loving having four-season weather again, despite its occasional inconveniences! There is nothing more inspiring than working on a supernaturally themed horror novel as snow falls outside my window, amber-washed in lamppost illumination. Those are the best conditions under which to “begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions.”
>They wanted me writing formulaic shit like Taken, whereas I wanted to do idiosyncratic horror-comedy hybrids like the kind I had grown up on
One problem w/ writing that is that you’re competing w/ people who LIKE and ENJOY writing that
People who’d write that even it didn’t pay so well
Well, it’s an interesting issue you raise here, Dell.
I certainly would not enjoy writing superhero fiction in its current iteration — be it movies, television series, or comic books — because those are the kinds of stories that don’t remotely interest or excite me as a consumer, to say nothing of the fact that I actually find them borderline immoral (for reasons I’ve discussed here and here and a thousand other places). That said, a lot of screenwriters would kill to write for an IP like Batman or Wolverine or what have you, paycheck be damned, and I even personally know a few writers who have written for some of those franchises (on shows like Titans and WandaVision), and they don’t for an instant consider that work in conflict with their progressive values. (I would; they don’t. They’re not wrong and neither am I; matters like those come down to individual personal judgment.)
There are always going to be filmmakers — particularly nostalgia-enslaved Xers — only too giddy to put their own stamp on a childhood favorite, the way J.J. Abrams took on Star Wars and David Gordon Green “requeled” Halloween, sure. (I can’t help but think the new Scream, with its hopeful coinage of the portmanteau “requel,” is remarkably akin to Gretchen Wieners with “fetch,” you know? Stop trying to make “requel” happen — it’s never going to happen!) But keep in mind that Abrams and Green are writer/directors; as such, they have a lot more power over a production than your average screenwriter-for-hire on a franchise entry, who is likely to be but one of at least a half-dozen (credited and uncredited) scribes on a project like that.
Putting aside transmedia mega-franchises for a moment, because they’re an entirely different beast, I’m not sure how personally excited most Hollywood screenwriters are to get an assignment on a new entry in a durable action franchise like Die Hard or Rambo or Taken or Terminator or Beverly Hills Cop or Transformers, even if they grew up enjoying those series. Truly. I think most workaday screenwriters recognize the value of a job like that for their career: It’s an opportunity to work on an established tentpole, for a big payday, and if you’re one of the credited writers on the final film, you get residuals and probably opportunities to come pitch a take on the new Zorro or John Wick of Godzilla project in development.
In other words: Your screenwriting is paying for the mortgage on your house in Santa Monica and your kids’ private school and your Model X Tesla — and that’s no small consideration — but it’s not like you’re thrilled to be writing The Expendables 4 or Lethal Weapon 5 or The Bourne Sextuplet, you know? It’s a paycheck. You’re lucky to be among the rarified few the studios trust with an asset like that — I guess — but it’s not like those are the stories you dream about telling. And I imagine most screenwriters even eventually grow to loathe those kinds of movies, because they begin to realize that churning out easy-to-flush shit like that is as good as it’s going to get for them — that they’ll never write a movie influential enough to start a new franchise, merely keep an old one on life support. If you’ve never read screenwriter Doug Richardson’s account of scripting an unused draft of Die Hard 4, “Live Free or Die of Pneumonia,” it’s instructive.
So, I suppose what I’m saying is this: When I was a young, untested screenwriter, my managers saw a niche in the market they thought I could potentially fill, so that’s the direction in which they steered my career. They weren’t looking to develop an artist, merely establish an artisan. And, given what Hollywood is and what it isn’t, they probably weren’t entirely wrongheaded in their strategic thinking. But I believe most screenwriters earnestly (if naïvely) go into the industry with the desire to be artistic — to express themselves creatively — only to find out that’s not what studio screenwriting is for the most part. I truly don’t believe there are many, if any, pro screenwriters out there champing at the bit to write formulaic action thrillers and the like. I don’t. Rather, I think some screenwriters find success doing that, and then find themselves committed to a lifestyle that’s comfortably supported by that kind of writing.
But what I discovered was that being a screenwriter-only is the worst of all worlds, because you don’t have the power of a director or the creative control of a novelist; you’re a pair of hands, hired to serve filmmaker’s vision or, more commonly these days, a corporate brand. Accordingly, I would bet most screenwriters — those who earn their living exclusively from screenwriting and aren’t also directors and/or producers — are very creatively dissatisfied and/or unfulfilled. And I think there will be fewer and fewer opportunities moving forward to write original and/or idiosyncratic materials in this utterly depressing era of the transmedia–industrial complex and the homogenous “creativity” it encourages.
>but it’s not like you’re thrilled to be writing The Expendables 4 or Lethal Weapon 5 or The Bourne Sextuplet, you know?
If you look at various fanfic sites, you’ll see stories about the Expendables, Lethal Weapon, Bourne, etc., written by people who do want to write about those properties
But, to your point, these writers are writing EXACTLY what THEY want to write; no executive is “offering notes”, no movie star has to be “accommodated”, no director imposes “their own stamp”. The writer can crossover w/ other properties, change the situation or characters, kill off or just ignore major characters, change the genre to romance or horror, set the whole thing in medieval fantasy or outer space or high school… Complete freedom
They don’t get paid; they write just for fun
–
BTW (and as always delete this if it’s spam), Neil Kapit interviewed me about my comic, ADHD (Always Distracted Haley Delgado), which includes an anti-Trump rant. https://youtu.be/PAATnXTeB70. So if you want to know what I actually sound like…
Note that Kapit is looking for more interview subjects, and if anyone reading this has a project to promote, I’m sure he’d love to talk w/ you
Yes — point 100% taken, Dell. I myself never wrote fan fiction, save a story when I was a kid called “Indiana Jones and the River Styx,” but there’s no question that at that age I enjoyed, was influenced by, and aspired to one day write action thrillers like Die Hard, Lethal Weapon, Stakeout, and Beverly Hills Cop. That’s absolutely what I thought I’d be doing with my life, and I even envisioned — long before such media crossovers were fashionable — an all-stars movie where you had John McClane and Axel Foley, et al., teaming up. That made perfect sense to me. Why wouldn’t you do that?! And I was far from the only imaginative Xer, inspired by the pop culture of his day, thinking along such ambitious lines. For reasons I explored last month in “Scream at 25,” my generation, for all sorts of reasons, dreamed of vast fictive universes where all our favorite characters coexisted, and then grew up to reify those interconnected storyworlds. (Kevin Feige, for example, is only three years older than me, and Ernest Cline is only a year older than him.)
But then in high school my tastes started to become more refined — I’ve written about how the moral simplicity of action thrillers like Die Hard started to seem less interesting to me than the ethical complexity of crime dramas like State of Grace — and once I was in college and exposed to the indie cinema of the ’90s (to say nothing of the absurdist existentialism of Beckett and Pinter and Stoppard, as well as the literature of Swift and Faulkner and Forster), I aspired to other kinds of stories. Even long before I’d developed moral reservations about police fiction, Die Hard no longer seemed like the standard-bearer of narrative excellence, you know? What seems brilliant at twelve, as I discovered when I recently reread Batman: A Death in the Family, comes across very differently when you look at it with a little life experience under your belt.
(That’s one of the beefs I have with my generation, in fact: that we elevated pulp fiction to Essential Literature. I’m not suggesting pulp doesn’t have its place, but when slapdash, second-rate material like The Dark Phoenix Saga and the ’78 Battlestar Galactica earn a lofty position in the Western literary canon as capital-I Important, we compromise our ability to distinguish art from entertainment. That’s why superhero movies are held in such high esteem today, and even why Emmy-celebrated shit like Game of Thrones, which is nothing more than a storyless D&D campaign writ large, is considered “prestige television drama.” As Ed Norton said a few years ago, audiences have been fed so much high-fructose corn syrup, we’ve forgotten what real food tastes like. Okay — sidebar rant over.)
All of that is to say I can see how there is an eager fan base out there for the Expendables and Fast & Furious and Mission: Impossible franchises — those movies haven’t grossed billions of dollars and begat umpteen sequels because no one is watching them — whose imagination is legitimately inspired by those scenarios and characters, and who exercises its enthusiasm by producing fanfic set in those storyworlds. Absolutely. (And as you rightly note, Dell, those amateur authors aren’t beholden to studio notes or budgetary considerations or the ego-driven creative input of Stallone or Diesel or Cruise.) But I think if you’ve reached the stage whereby you’ve taken on the yearslong commitment of mastering the craft of screenwriting, and you’ve put in all the time and endless sacrifices required to network your way into the offices (and good graces) of agents and producers, you really don’t give much of a fuck about movies like Die Hard and 007, even if they once excited you as a young cinephile, and that certainly isn’t the shit you aspire to write. They’re paychecks. (I mean, even Bruce Willis, per “Live Free or Die of Pneumonia,” expressly hated the script for Live Free or Die Hard and yet did the fucking movie anyway, to say nothing of an additional sequel that was somehow even worse! But he’s got an entourage to pay, and, ultimately, those Die Hard movies don’t mean all that much to him, however much they may mean to the fans. He’s not that invested in them, if you couldn’t tell by the way he sleepwalked through the last couple of them. And if that’s how the star of the series feels, imagine how the dozens of “expendable” screenwriters who’ve worked on that shit feel.)
Regarding the Kapit interview: You are always welcome and encouraged to promote what you’re doing on this humble platform! Always! I will check out that interview this weekend! It’s such a kick to finally get a sense of what people you’ve corresponded/interacted with for years on the blogs actually look and sound like! I’ve had a chance to meet Erik in person and Zoom with Suzanne, and you get such a richer impression of a person when you’re able to read their energy and bodily language and nonverbal cues. It’s like meeting someone you’ve “known” forever for the first time. Very much looking forward to it, Dell!
Hey, Sean. As you know, I myself have always welcomed, enjoyed and encouraged the moments of personal sharing through blog posts over the years.
You replied to one commenter here: “As I mentioned in a few other responses, the last thing I ever want to do is abuse the generosity of my readers — because I truly appreciate (and in no way take for granted) the time and attention you invest in my blog — which is why I typically eschew personal expositional pieces such as these for fear of being rambling and/or self-indulgent.”
Next time we see one another, remind me to (lovingly) slap you on the back of the head for even saying that.
In no way was this post “abusing the generosity of [your] readers,” “rambling and/or self-indulgent.” As a reader, I read stories of all kinds—be they memoirs or fiction or blog posts—for entertainment and escape, sure, but also as a means of self-reflection. I know I am not alone in that. It’s easier sometimes to process our own thoughts and feelings and circumstances when we aren’t playing the central role of the story in real time.
Also, does your blog tagline not tout that you are a “[w]riter of things that go bump in the night”? And does your personal blog post not deliver on that claim? Surely, your backstory had plenty of bumps across many a night. Not all monsters are strictly “in the house,” hiding under beds and in closets.
Regarding the closing assertion by Wolfe (“You can’t go home again”), that is a philosophical notion. I tend to think what he meant was that even home is never really the home we once left. I remember coming home from college each semester and, though literally nothing had changed about the space, feeling that my room was less and less “my room.” I was visiting the room of some past version of me.
By way of another simple analogy, I think about going to summer camp and having “that feeling” of connection and adventure that makes you want it to last forever. And you sit at a campfire with kids who were strangers a week ago but feel in that moment like the best friends you’ve ever had; and you hide the tears at the thought of it ending (or maybe you don’t quite succeed at hiding them). You may go back the next summer. Not much has changed about the grounds or the cabins. Some of the same kids might even be there, and you may even secure the same cabin and the same bunk you had last time around. But nothing—nothing—can recreate last year.
And that’s OK. If we try to recreate the old version of “home” (and I know from your many stories past what that meant to you as a kid growing up), we’ll always be unhappy. Because it is an impossibility. No matter what may remain the same, you can’t go back to that home.
But the now-you can very much make it now-home, if we embrace what it is instead of fighting with our grand memories to make it what it used to be.
Indeed, Erik! Thank you for that encouraging reminder! You know what it is? Ever since I adopted minimalism — which has been absolutely life-altering and is, as I indicated in my response to Jackie above, one of the key tools that help me let go of the past — everything I do now is viewed through the lens of that philosophy; i.e., everything I buy or do is evaluated on the basis of whether it is worth my money, time, and/or attention, and that includes making space in my head for old grievances. (I applied this philosophy to transmedia mega-franchises in my two-part post “In the Multiverse of Madness” to show how we can let go of Star Wars and superheroes if that’s something we think we may want to do but feel we can’t out of a sense of institutionalized brand loyalty.)
I apply that same test to the work I produce: Is this essay, or this novel, worth the money, time, and attention a reader will be asked to invest in it? I’ve become extremely prejudicial about the work I publish in that way. I feel like a reader of one of my posts deserves something in return for their time and attention — some insight or takeaway — else all I’ve published is a diary entry. I typically insert myself into my work to one degree or another — every single post I wrote in 2021 included some measure of personal information or commentary — but I am wary of turning this blog into the Story of Me. I’m honestly not that interesting!
I had thought for a long time I would tell the story of the collapse of my career, but the timing never felt quite right. I didn’t have an “in” — an articulable reason to tell that story at that moment. You know? And I’ve known since I returned to New York last May that I would tell that saga, but I was giving myself time to process it subconsciously. I trust my creative instincts implicitly, and I knew that I would recognize when the time had at long last come. So, when I sat down to write “A Hollywood Ending,” it occurred to me that I couldn’t tell the story of leaving L.A. without providing the entire biographical context for why I moved there in the first place, what happened to me during that two-decade sojourn, and how I came to finally leave. So, as I said in another reply, I couldn’t have written this particular essay five years ago, or one year ago, or even six months ago. When the time came to do it, I sensed it as I’d trusted I would. And I didn’t much care if it was too personal or indulgent, quite frankly. I said, “This one’s for me.” And I didn’t really consider it indulgent so much as cathartic, but I feared it might — might — be boring! But all the responses I’ve gotten to it — including private messages — seem to indicate it’s resonating. That pleases me.
As for your insights into that Wolfe quote: I absolutely concur, and will explore that issue in greater detail next month. You first introduced the concept of our “then-me” — or “then-self” — in the comments of “Different Stages,” and I refer to that all the time. I’ve referred to it in (as-yet-unpublished) fiction I’ve written. I mentioned it in a text to an old friend last week with regard to a discussion we were having about a mutual acquaintance who won’t get rid of the muscle car he owned in his 20s (he’s well into his 50s at this point), even though it’s been left to rust and ruin — it’s completely undrivable and provably unsalvageable at this point — in a valuable NYC garage space, no less. When I talk to people about minimalism — and especially about letting go of sentimental attachments — I explain that we hold onto those worthless objects because they are the only remaining proof of our then-selves. That concept has really stuck with me, and I have incorporated it into my life philosophy. But I’ve never forgotten who first introduced it to me!
I so enjoy having your voice in the mix again, Erik! Your contributions are always appreciated, sir. And perhaps now that I’m back on the East Coast, you and I will have a chance once again to meet up in person…?
Regarding our relative “closeness” now in proximity, I was thinking the same thing.
For sure — we’ll figure something out. We’re really not that far from one another, all things considered. And there are so many wonderful places to meet for lunch along the I-95, in Mystic or Providence or along the Massachusetts Bay. Provided we’re in a better place with this fucking pandemic come spring/summer, I can’t think of a reason not to meet up!
Oh, by the way, I read Diana’s comment about having also eaten at S&P Oyster Co. in Mystic, CT. As fate would have it, so have I.
How odd and fun to think that we three, who all live in different states and who met through our various blogs, have all sat in that same location at different times, maybe even at the same table.
Well, I tell you what: Should Diana find herself in New England once again at some point, I’d be down for meeting you both at S&P! Mystic is about two hours and change from my new/old home in the Bronx, and I’m always happy to have an excuse to get out that way. I hope to make some summer excursions to Connecticut, Rhode Island, and/or Massachusetts this year, if timing and COVID permit.
Mystic is about an hour-and-a-half from me, and I would absolutely be up (down?) for that. Now if we can just get Diana to plan her travel accordingly—wouldn’t that be something!
I know Diana is from New England originally, but I have no idea how often she gets back this way! But as I said in the previous response, there are a zillion wonderful places all over New England, as well as Upstate New York. My wife and I have really enjoyed being back, and we took many daytrips up the Hudson Valley (to Cold Spring and Rhinebeck, for instance) and into Connecticut (to New Milford and Washington Depot) this past summer and autumn. We’re so glad to have access to all that stuff again!
I’m like an hour and a half away by car from S & P Oyster Co. in Mystic, CT.
What?! This is ridiculous — we have got to initiate some kind of “Avengers assemble!” emergency order STAT!
Honest and earnest and beautiful, Sean. You once commented about some small thing I’d written that you had interest in people’s backstories and liked to learn about how people came to be/came to identify themselves as they do. After reading your post today, I feel like all the pieces have clicked into place and I now know, as your reader, all the good stuff (though admittedly not all “good,” but let’s go with formative instead). Thank you for opening up and digging deep so we can know you better. I got a shiver to think you’d been held up by 9/11, and felt the ups and downs as you bravely and bluntly shared your experiences, warts and all. I got the shivers again to think that you now literally share a wall with the room that made you (the Room Where it Happened?? to riff a bit here). Welcome home. Isn’t that the ultimate Hollywood ending? I think it is and I couldn’t be happier for your wife and you both.
Wendy: I cannot adequately express what your kind words mean to me. Thank you, my dear friend.
You know, I started this blog in 2014, right around the time everything was falling apart for me professionally, as it happens. My wife had encouraged me for years to take up blogging — “You have so much to say!” she would cheer — but I didn’t want to distract myself from my “real” writing. And you’ll notice that for the first year of this blogging project, I posted strictly analytical pieces on narrative craft; I never got very — or even at all — personal in my posts.
Starting with, I think, “Signals in the Noise” in November of 2015 (which is not by any means one of my best pieces), I began to insert myself a bit more into my essays, and then it was in “This Is 40” (April 27, 2016) that I really opened up in an exclusively personal way. If I’m not mistaken, that was the post that brought you to my blog (and I can’t tell you how much it means that you’ve stayed with me all these years since). Anyway, after that, I got more and more comfortable talking about myself here, and, over time, the blog really found its identity: It is as much about me — my experiences, my beliefs, my interests — as it is about storytelling craft. It’s a Portrait of the Artist as a Middle-Aged Man, if you like. (Perhaps that should be the new tagline?)
Accordingly, the eight-year evolutionary arc of my blog serves as a kind of real-time journal for my entire post-screenwriting career, though I never intended it to be that. It just kinda wound up that way as I got more comfortable blogging and asserting myself and my opinions into the posts. And in that time, I have very much learned to trust my creative instincts, and to trust that I will know when I’m ready to write about a particular subject. The collapse of my screenwriting career is something to which I have alluded in many, many previous blog posts, but the time was never right to properly chronicle that story. I trusted I’d know when the time was right, though.
And then when I moved back to the Bronx last May, I knew I wanted to write about that, but I also wanted to give myself a little time to process it. And come New Year’s, I was finally ready to tell that story. But in order to convey why moving back to New York was such a meaningful, momentous event, I realized I need to explain why I’d left in the first place, what had happened to me in L.A., and why I’d yearned to go back home for so long. In other words: The backstory was critical!
At that point, I realized I was at long last ready to offer the details of my professional implosion, so what I’d initially thought in my head were two unrelated essays became one unified story. And that’s how “A Hollywood Ending” came to be. As I’ve indicated in other comments on this post, it was incredibly cathartic to write this essay — and I’m truly and pleasantly surprised by how resonant it seems to be with those who’ve been gracious enough to read it, like yourself — and I really couldn’t have told this story with such intellectual perspective and emotional honesty before right now. You know? It took this much time and (literal) distance to muster the creative courage to write this essay. But I’m really pleased with it, and it has definitely allowed me to put that entire chapter of my life “to bed,” as it were. Now I’m onto brand-new things!
Well… sorta new things. New/old things? That’s the subject of next week’s post, “You Can’t Go Home Again: Hopeful Reflections on Returning to New York after 20 Years Away.” In that essay, I’ll talk in great detail about what it means and how it feels to be back in my old neighborhood, on my old block, in my old building. And I’ll approach all of that with the same level of emotional honesty I demonstrated in “A Hollywood Ending.” But for now I will say that both my wife and I are so, so happy to be back, and we just love our new home. Things are good. Things are great.
You’re the best, Wendy. Bless you for your kindness.
SPC