Thursday, September 21, 2006
Sometimes, it all just really sucks.
Just wish it didn’t have to suck all at once.
The Tower card, in the Tarot. And the Eight of Cups. I pulled them the other day, and assumed they referred to more tumult approaching in the home and hearth situation. Little did I know it was everything else.
I was ready to spend most of yesterday curled into a fetal position, whimpering.
I felt fragile enough to start with, knowing I have to leave a publisher with whom I’ve worked for several years because the situation simply doesn’t work for me any longer. It was one of my first paying gigs, and I hate to leave the safety of it. But it’s necessary.
Then, I was offered a film opportunity night before last. Sounds great, right? Except it would mean ditching the writing completely for the next few months, and I don’t really want to do that. Plus, it was for a position with much more responsibility than I’ve had before or than I really want. But the money and the challenge were alluring. However, it would lead to more work and more work and less writing and less writing and . . .basically, to take this job in the capacity offered would mean I made the decision to stay in tech and leave writing. I couldn’t do both. It wouldn’t just mean slowing down the transition to full-time writing. It would mean not writing. It’s a crossroads I hoped to put off for at least another year, but it was thrown at me yesterday. And I had to make the decision. That day.
The Tower. Structures you count on rapidly blown apart.
The Eight of Cups. Something needs to be left behind.
On top of that, last week, I heard back from one of the writing jobs to which I’d pitched, that sounded good and would carry me through the end of the year. Something about their response put up red flags for me – the fact that they ignored all my questions and asked ME to call THEM (on my dime) to “discuss the direction of your writing and then we’ll go from there.” So I emailed back saying I’d like to talk to them, but I had several offers on the table (which is true) and I needed the initial questions answered before the phone conversation so we could make the most of that conversation. The response, yesterday morning, “I don’t have time for this.” Well, guess what, bubba? You can’t answer simple questions regarding the scope of the project, the timeframe and the money because “you don’t have time” – well, I “don’t have time” to be part of the project.
And “The Retriever” had to go out yesterday, to a major market. I love the story, and my cover letter sounds strong and confident, but if it gets rejected, I’m going to wonder if yesterday I made all the wrong decisions.
I also realized, after talking about the situation with a few people, that no one in my life really knows both worlds – the industry and the writing. Even my lovely full time freelancer friends. They’re in one or the other. So, I decided to discuss it with well established people in both – one a well-known writer (WKW) and one a well-known actor (WKA).
The Elitist chastised me for the choice of WKW, telling me I was a fool to “show the vulnerable belly” to a competitive person who “wants me out of his playground” and is jealous because I take risks (in life) and WKW does not. Other than the fact we both put pen to paper, WKW and I aren’t in the same playground at all. I don’t see any competition between us. And WKW has nothing of which to be jealous – he’s the famous writer; I’m not. The Elitist, of course, feels that I’m being a trusting idiot, and that WKW will see a chance to rip whatever remaining confidence I have in my writing ability to shreds.
As far as the Elitist is concerned, of course, there’s no question except: “Are you a Writer or are you one of the Unwashed?”
Because for him, there’s no middle ground. No compromise. Which is why he’s got a solid career in writing and I’m still working on it.
Considering how competitive he is, I’m surprised he didn’t try to talk me “out of the playground” and then fortify the gate so I wouldn’t try to get back in.
I had a good, long (rather weepy on my part) talk with WKA. WKA played a defining role early in his career, so he understands all about choices, pigeonholing, and the rest of it. He’s also always seen me as a complete person, not just as “the wardrobe girl”. And people don’t give him enough credit for his talent, intelligence, and perception. Anyway, we broke down all the factors involved: practical, ego, fear, desire, financial, short-term, long-term, gains and losses in physical and emotional terms.
It’s interesting, because if WKA had called me with the exact same opportunity, I would have said yes without hesitation. I wouldn’t have felt it was an either/or question, because of the way we regard each other and our history.
But I decided to turn down the film, although I said I‘d be willing to come in occasionally to do additional work, if needed, and to please keep me on the list. They sounded completely surprised and pleased with that, so we’ll see if anything comes of it. If it doesn’t, oh well.
The Eight of Cups.
Neptune is in retrograde. With my ruling planet in retrograde when I’m faced with major decisions – it sucks.
Excedrin Migraine took the edge of the migraine enough so I wasn’t completely immobilized, but dealing with everything while migrainated was not fun.
At least I got over 1900 words of “Ris an Abrar” (the short version) revised.
And started “Disappearing”, the next Sean/Elle story.
The pilot episode of the series aired. I didn’t work on that episode, so I was interested to see how it all started. I was pleased with the overall look and feel of the piece. I felt that the pace was slightly slower than the upcoming scripts – possibly to make sure the set-up for the rest of the season is really solid. And I was unhappy with the montage towards the end – that would not have been my creative choice for that point in the story, but hey, it’s not up to me. I was excited to see scenes I worked on in the previews for next week.
Someone who behaved disrespectfully towards me a couple of months ago now blogs about the importance of courtesy and graciousness. I had to laugh. The irony is not lost on me.
As I sat down to dinner, I heard that horrible sound: the screech of brakes, the thud and crunch of steel meeting steel at high speed, the shattering of glass. I couldn’t see from my window, so I got up to see if I could help. Even running down the stairs, I could hear the sirens. And sirens. And sirens.
A neighbor intercepted me in the courtyard. “Don’t hon,” he said. “There’s nothing to be done.”
Makes everything else seem a lot less important, somehow.