16 Mar

I have the image of Michael and I standing on a flat plain, standing around a ticking bomb. It ticks for years as we talk about our scripts, about taking our families to Bimini, about directing our own films.

The bomb keeps ticking as we display confident hope. Is this hope real? Or is it part of our biological imperative? An instinct that demands we put one foot in front of the other?

The bomb keeps ticking until one afternoon – there’s a pause between clicks…

Michael and I lock eyes – the bomb EXPLODES!

In the bomb’s aftermath, Michael and I stare at each other; hair singed, flesh bloodied, clothes in rags.

Michael laughs.

I mutter, “Jesus Christ…”

Well, guess what?

The real bomb has gone off. There’s a whiff of failure in the air.

Michael’s screenwriting class that he teaches at UCLA asked him for advice about Hollywood and breaking in. He told them, “I haven’t the slightest idea. I don’t know what the Hollywood beast eats – whether to feed it red meat, anchovies, or FrootLoops.



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