by Ben Travers.
Thanks so much to Film Independent for having me today. This is going to be inspire-y and motivate-y. Around three short years ago, I was a mess. At rock bottom. Hatching plans to get the hell out of Hollywood. Fuck being a writer, I said to my best friend Michaela as we did our morning walk. I’m going to move to Northern California, wear a caftan with no underwear, sit with a cup of coffee in the morning after my kid gets on the school bus and self-publish feminist poetry.
I was a mess. The day before, I was at the salon getting a blowout for my birthday party when my agent called to tell me that my pilot script at HBO – it was about Laurel Canyon in the ’60s – was “Not gonna happen.” There is nothing worse than staring at yourself in the mirror trying to look pretty when you’ve just gotten the news that your dreams are dead.
“Why???” I probably whined.
“They’re not picking anything up this cycle,” he said. “It’s financial, they’re cutting costs, it has nothing to do with the material. Everyone loves it.”
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