It’s the perfect time to be working on my script. It’s what I should be doing. It’s late-ish, the family’s asleep. I’m not exhausted from a weekend of building legos and run-down from discussions with my 5 year-old about whether the Lakers could beat the USC Trojans in ping pong. It’s the perfect time to be sculpting scenes and devising plot points. The only problem is, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of writing movies. It’s all I do. And it’s not like I wish we were just making the movies I wrote. I’m sick of that too. All I want to do now is accept awards. I want to talk to E! about the joy of just being nominated, I want to look sweet in my Tux, I want my wife to make the whole night about her and how she looks in her dress.
Cover stories would be nice too. Some Vanity Fair writer could meet me at “… his favorite little coffee shop on the corner of Entrada and PCH. He wore loose fitting jeans, Converse and a James Pearse t-shirt, rumpled just so. He spoke at length about his family and his dreams of someday owning a pig farm. When I asked him if he’s where he thought he would be when he started out, he took a long pause, the setting sun casting shadows on his furrowed brow and he reached for another Camel…”
I walked out of Nobu in Malibu the other night. And as we hit the parking lot, two paparazzi reached for their cameras. For a brief second, too brief, really, I had what I wanted. Fame. Then the second passed, they realized I was a big ole nobody and so here we go.
Best get back to writing.
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