Worried About Pissing Off People Equals Zero Posts, Stupid

Before the word blogging was invented (it's kind of funny to think of words being invented but they are--every year), I published by email a regular little column for my friends and family that I dubbed "L.A. Diaries." They were basically short essays, thoughts and stories about my experiences as a young fresh earnest screenwriter embarking on my career in Los Angeles.

These days I'm still earnest, though perhaps not as fresh (or young!) as I once was (hopefully more knowledgeable and experienced though), and the blogsite has replaced the en masse emailing. Though I love the technological benefits blogging gives me, I've lost something in the transition.

Because of the public, aye, world-wide access posting anything on the web provides, I have found myself becoming very conscientious about mentioning particular names of people I interact with. I speak namely of the stars, those people who generate fifty-zillion Internet pages when they are googled (that's a recently invented verb).

It's not that I have anything damaging to say about any of these people (for the record, my relationships with all of them are good and those I really know are GREAT people), it's just that in a business whose daily decisions are so precariously perched on the pinnacle of public opinion that they can be swayed by a mere positive or negative breeze, I don't want to be the guy who's blowing the wrong winds. Are thousands of people reading my blog? Heck no. But it only takes one:

"Ya know this writer named Avery has told the world that he's frustrated at how slow things are moving with you."

So in trying to decide whether or not to write about this or that, I ultimately end up not writing at all. That's got to change.

In fact, my whole approach to writing professionally needs to be fixed. What that entails will be the subject of my next post--unless, of course, I have a very important story meeting with Tom Hanks or Steven Spielberg to tell you about first.

I could only wish.

Desperate People

BET held what they termed as a "job fair" yesterday in Beverly Hills. I went, with shoes shined and resumes in hand. I sat in front of a rep from New York named Wayne Brooks who looked like a football player. He seemed like a nice guy as we quickly exchanged pleasantries. He read my resumes while I talked about myself as a writer. "Well, we definitely need strong writers," Wayne said, "And from the looks of things you certainly have the experience. I'm going to pass your resume on to Robin [a BET exec who works in the LA office] and hopefully she'll give you a call." A few more kind words were swapped, then a handshake and I was gone. I've never gone on a speed date but I would imagine it feels something like that.

"Hopefully" echoed in my brain as a I walked to my car passing dozens of hopefuls, on their way inside, grinning nervously with resumes tucked under their arms. I've probably become a bit pessimistic these days but it all felt kind of sad and desperate, like cigarette ashen gamblers pouring in their last monies into a Las Vegas slot machines. Personally, I'm tired of pouring. I doubted that Robin or anybody else from BET would call me, so I quickly fixed my mind into other income generating ideas.

After talking with Stacey McClain, a former stand-up comic and talented writer who wrote for "The Parkers" and "House of Payne" but who is now relegated to going to the "job fairs" too, I drove over to Julie Baker's house to finish up a treatment for a reality show she wants to do with Queen Latifah. (She's Latifah's very good friend who's been styling the Queen's hair for the past decade).

And all the while I'm thinking, my future will dry up waiting on things to happen from other people. Why not do my own thing? So I started pondering once again on a business I'd like to start. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this probably is the way to go, a way to pull myself away from the Hollywood slot machine and pour my talents into something with a bit more guarantee for a decent pay off.

I'll discuss more about that idea, later. My phone is ringing right now. Maybe it's BET calling...
yeah right!

Funky Ave

Arrrgh.

I'm in a funk. My funk is not one of those pill-popping, liquor swilling, dark depressed moods. In fact, my mood is rather buoyant. My funk is from my confusion about what I should be doing on a day-to-day basis. When I've been hired to write a screenplay, I know what my daily task is: sit down and write the damn screenplay. That work typically engages me anywhere from four to fourteen hours a day. I love the work. But now, I'm sooooo in between jobs, that I'm lost, disoriented, in a ... funk.

Most veteran writers suggest we take this time to write that special spec script we've all be harboring for months or years. Or take the time to write a new sitcom. Or play. Anything--just write. And I'm cool with that, except for one thing. Many of these veteran guys have some cash to sit on while they wait for the next job. Not this lovely writer. In the words of that great poet Heavy D, "I ain't got nothin' but love for you baby." But love does not pay the bills.

So what do I do?

My friend Darryl says loudly, "Go get a job!" And I hear him. In fact, I hear my own voice joining that chorus. (I think my mom is in that choir too.) But here's the rub: I feel lost at how to get a "regular" job. I've been out of that market for so long that a high school senior knows how to land gigs better than I do. Honestly I just don't know what to do! Flip through the want ad section? Pass out my business cards? And what kind of jobs do I actually apply for?

I think people like me, in the arts, need a job a counselor.

But until I get one, I guess I'd better figure it out quickly. Hey, Santa is coming soon. I've been a good boy. Maybe he'll bring me something I need: money and work--in that order.