This shy, small town girl from Delaware smiles and nods in agreement, promising to wear heels next time she steps in his office. She walked into his modeling agency's office with her dreams packed in two Smurf blue suitcases and a blank check. The vultures are already circling.
A man with Hajji tattooed in Arabic on his left forearm paints the walls in a shade of white when she walks out the door. I pay little attention and continue writing words in my notebook. This meeting concerning a TV pilot keeps getting interrupted by little things.
I came to LA to work on this pilot and here I was in the office of a man who knew a man that could get my pilot to someone in the industry that would read it, and here he was taking pulls off his bottle of shiraz and doing key bumps mid-sentence. What the hell am I doing? I ask myself.
His comment on my script so far are vague and unsubstanciatied; hardly moving the narrative forward or telling anything which would help during a rewrite. Frustrated, I walk outside the office past the errand boy promising the girl from Delaware things he'll never deliver and I get a glass of water.
A woman wearing fur is speaking to a man in a pin-stripped blue shirt about a missing hat. "It was sort of hat that make a donkey look good," she say through a thick Russian accent. She continues on about a man at the modeling agency that stole her hat and how she is here to reclaim it.
I walk back into the office and take a key bump myself, while thinking, "What could be more LA than being in a modeling agency, pretending to be something I'm not amongst people who don't care what I write?"
A man with Hajji tattooed in Arabic on his left forearm paints the walls in a shade of white when she walks out the door. I pay little attention and continue writing words in my notebook. This meeting concerning a TV pilot keeps getting interrupted by little things.
I came to LA to work on this pilot and here I was in the office of a man who knew a man that could get my pilot to someone in the industry that would read it, and here he was taking pulls off his bottle of shiraz and doing key bumps mid-sentence. What the hell am I doing? I ask myself.
His comment on my script so far are vague and unsubstanciatied; hardly moving the narrative forward or telling anything which would help during a rewrite. Frustrated, I walk outside the office past the errand boy promising the girl from Delaware things he'll never deliver and I get a glass of water.
A woman wearing fur is speaking to a man in a pin-stripped blue shirt about a missing hat. "It was sort of hat that make a donkey look good," she say through a thick Russian accent. She continues on about a man at the modeling agency that stole her hat and how she is here to reclaim it.
I walk back into the office and take a key bump myself, while thinking, "What could be more LA than being in a modeling agency, pretending to be something I'm not amongst people who don't care what I write?"
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