While my shirt's still caught in the door

One flew East, one flew West, and, five months later, there's:

One Jew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

An introductory bit about the author: He moved from the plastic utopia that is Arizona to attend Ryerson’s Film program (with one ‘m’). It was during that first winter he realised that he makes bad decisions - but, purchasing a parka, a space heater, and a bong -somehow squeaked by. Equally mysterious was his acceptance to the Feature Screenwriting Programme (grr) at the CFC. Although a decade younger than his colleagues, he - armed with way more facial hair and way less talent -grew like a determined weed in the garden of beautiful writing. And now, with a few stacks of paper that could pass as screenplays only if Helen Keller or his grandmother were running Telefilm, he’s thrust into the brave new world…

The day after my ‘graduation’ from the CFC Screenwriter’s Labbe (if they can deface ‘program’, then ‘lab’ had it coming), I awoke in frigid December with only my Norman plaque to keep me warm. Prior to this, Karen and I had discussed the possibility of me chronicling the Short Dramatic Film experience - and I was all set to do so, having put a bunch of time and concentration into a wacky, genre-bending short that I thought was going to be great and so did the - cough - director I was working for (notice I didn’t say ‘working with’). Despite what romantic notions I have about the filmmaking process - and there are many - this time around, his unique brand of ‘collaboration’ felt much more subservient than I expected. And so, needless to say, I was hesitant when a mere 12 hrs. before the submission deadline, he asked to sit down.

Whenever a conversation begins with “I know this sounds selfish, but…”, I tend to tune out the rest of the egotistical exposition so I can fully focus on sucking down my cigarette in three massive drags in order to leave the awkward face-to-face before Jekyll turns to Hyde and I can no longer control the carnage.

Because, underneath his malignant message he’s not a bad guy, I chose NOT to slash his tires, drug his coffee, or call him on his spineless neurotic tendencies, and instead think of it as a good thing - without the pressure and worry of the SDF on my shoulders, I can dedicate myself to more important things: Getting out of the red, progressing my career, and writing, I guess…

And that episode spawned this, the SDF-less chronicles of my year after the CFC.

With the Film Centre doors now shut behind me and my complimentary 1-yr. Spoke Club membership rapidly waning, the next year of my life will surely be interesting. Goals, definitely lofty, but I’m sort of sick of other writers telling me how long it took them to break, detailing the laundry-list of soul-sucking ‘day jobs’ they had to endure before that one episode of Captain Flamingo came their way. I am of the mindset that while it is important to understand what and how those before you got their ‘break’, it is equally imperative to set your own benchmarks and not play down or live up to anyone else’s.

My day job is great: One a’ them hipster downtown ad agencies where everyone has a cool hairstyle, nifty slogan t-shirts, and where watercooler conversations about Ugandan political strife seem to suspiciously mirror the opinions of the latest NOW magazine. That being said, I really hope I don’t have to be there for more than the six month contract I signed… but again, perhaps too lofty?

Step one for me is getting an agent. I’m told they’re all the same, and to go with whom I feel most comfortable. There are a few I wouldn’t trust if I was dangling their newborn child over a balcony, but to be fair, a few I could have thanksgiving dinner with. The exciting part comes from forging that bond that hopefully will last long into my career - until I make it big, divorce my starter wife, and have a long and unsatisfying string of affairs with self-obsessed A-list starlets. I’m looking forward to it.

This is the beginning. As I continue to get doors slammed on me, empty promises of blow and bordellos, and (fingers crossed) some good news, I will share it with you all. And, just because I think it’s funny, you’ll be privy to the intelligent and well-conceived opinions of my family with regards to the screenwriters career and what I should be doing. I’ll leave you with an example: my grandfather told me tonight that I gotta get ‘one of them Harriet Potter things’ on paper because, even though he can’t figure out why the hell people buy them, it’s better than the stuff I write, which clearly he finds much less entertaining than Cops or Lou Dobbs.

Here’s wishing everyone at Ink Canada a happy, healthy, relaxing holidays, and a wonderful new year…even you. You know who you are.

P.S. In the event that anyone actually chooses to waste their time reading my verbose drivel: I'm new to this blogging (until last week I was sure it was an Irish curse word) but will figure it out over the holidays.