Please Don't Feed The Writer...He Doesn't Deserve Your Scraps

Surely I haven’t posted in a while because I’m busy. Surely there’s an epic opus commanding my attention at every waking moment. Surely I’ve been washed away by the torrential ‘day drone’ downpour, left soggy and disoriented on a bank of some metropolitan booze-can.

Surely I haven’t posted in a while because I’m lazy.

It took a horrible brush with death for Josh Friedman to miss a post. All it takes for Josh Budd to skip a week is bad weather, a slight migraine, or a (insert low-brow sitcom/cartoon here) marathon. If you consider this my apology, I’ll consider it accepted. Deal?

What’s new? To draft or not to draft…

I’ve done a couple of revisions of my thriller outline/treatment/whatever, and while I was critical of the outlining process, I’m slowly changing my tune. PT has done it with his latest script, and says he’ll never go back. If THE SPILL ends up decent, I’ll probably never rush to draft again. So far, feedback on the treatment has been pretty positive – aside from some logic problems (I still maintain that with any thriller, the audience is required –and subconsciously takes – faithful leaps in logic), I think that a draft pass will begin this weekend. And by ‘I think’, I mean ‘I really, really hope’. I’ll have you know, it takes a tremendous amount of discipline for me not to jump headfirst into a draft before it’s time, promising myself to fix the structural problems as I come across them. I’m proud of me – the train may be on a new sched at Budd central.

As an aside (read: shameless plug), a teacher friend of mine (www.joinjw.blogspot.com – if you ask nicely, he’ll post nude pictures, and baby, its better than Ezra) has also recently learned the value of the outline as it relates to his students’ essays. Pupils participating in a practical process. PPPP. It’s pathetic what makes me smile - please don't judge.

The harsh reality of being a Canadian scribe hit me this week while putting together pieces for a new story idea I’m working on. It carries all the Canuck requisites – a bit of humor in a heavy drama, characters you wouldn’t let babysit your children, and –gasp- some incestuous undertones. When this hit the page, alarms went off in my brain. Uh oh, spaghetti-oh! I promised myself to stay away from stories like this, but here I am, caught up in something I think is original and interesting, and lo and behold, the I-card pops up. Fucking your sister never seemed so logical. More on this story, which I’ve tentatively titled CHUB, as it comes.

I had that meeting with Super Secret Production company this week. Met with their development dude, which, as I suggested, makes for a better title and business card. It was less about a specific job, and more about a general meet and greet. After all, they can’t hire me if they don’t know me, can they?

For those of you who don’t know me, I humbly state that I consider myself capable of conversing with almost anyone north of the Mason/Dixon, and while I have always dreaded public speaking/pitching, my stay at the CFC gave me oodles more confidence (you have to be confident to use the word ‘oodles’). All this flew out the window when I walked in. I was nervous. Sweating nervous. And for no good reason. Development Dude is a nice guy, greeted me kindly, was casual, talkative, approachable, etc. So why was I nervous? I’m still trying to figure this out. I walked out of the meeting pretty positive that I stunk up the joint, and was angry at Internal Budd for fucking this up for External Budd.

I called my agent to cry, hoping for one of those ‘you’re a great writer Josh, and they’ll see right past your puddles of sweat and poorly placed jokes’ pep talks. Fortunately, when I called Very Accommodating (my agent), she informed me that the meeting went far better than I had thought – DD called her after I left to say so. I was shocked, pleasantly so, but still determined to find the root of my anxiety.

My dad always taught me to give back to those who have helped you. And so, I went to a fundraiser for my favorite post-secondary polytechnic, mostly to support a group of students that worked on a film I made a couple of years back. $5 to the end of the year screenings, packaged under the guise of a ‘festival’, although it bares almost no resemblance to one.

I sat alone in a bar deliberately decorated to look like an ocean vessel (and smelt like one), drinking cheap beer and watching too-cool-for-school Kensington medleys move in mysterious ways (Mom, I AM an individual! Billy and Lisa and Tommy and Kaitlin say so!). Am I the only one who finds hipster dancing identical to Elaine’s infamous limb-flailing shuffle on Seinfeld?

I finally realized what a B.F.A gives a young filmmaker – supreme overconfidence. I dodged this bullet only because I knew I wasn’t any good. Everyone comes out guaranteeing that they are the next Wes/P.T. Anderson. They’re just too cool to tell you. Or you’re not cool enough to hear it, one of the two.

A final note: I’m excited to report that more people are logging on to this online diary each week. This makes me happy. You know what else would make me happy? If you have any comments, criticisms, or new ‘guy walks into a bar’ jokes – POST THEM! I like chatting. Otherwise, I’m going to continue to feel like I’m talking about myself with myself and my head might explode. Don’t be afraid – we’re good people.

Except for you, Link. You’re pure evil. Delicious, savory evil.

Until next week…