Saturday, September 03, 2005

Nothing happens in August. Not here, anyway. August is "cottage season," where you go off and enjoy your country cottage with your family... while, in LA, the networks are deciding what pilots to approve.

And I'm sick of it. For one thing, no cottage. For another, I don't have extended family in Montreal. I'm a New Yorker. (So there, Josh Friedman.) (I keep meaning to spend August in East Hampton with my folks, but something always comes up. Last summer I was in Cape Town shooting Charlie Jade. This summer, Lisa has a deadline on her book, and East Hampton is a lovely place to go to dinner parties, not a writer's retreat with ten hour subsidized day care. And, honestly, I like writing too much. And for me, part of writing is cranking out the pages, and part of it is finding a home for those pages. And I can't do that in cottage season. No one reads in August.

In LA, they take screenplays to the beach, or they would if they ever actually went to the beach. (When I lived on 7th Street in Santa Monica, I went to the beach about once a month. I was seven blocks from sand and surf, and the weather was regularly perfect.) Here, I'm still waiting to hear anything on a script I had meetings on in June... that had one of Quebec's top directors attached. Not talking about the old brush-off. No one's read it.

So I've now got a big ol' backup in the pipeline. Ideas I would have liked to have pitched as treatments are now scripts. I've got a couple of series pitches that need homes.

Which, I guess, means I'll have good inventory for the Toronto Film Festival next weekend. Which is scheduled, I realize now, the week after people turn their brains back on.

10:41 AM

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