Barking at the ceiling

Busy week.  I've already told you about being paid to drink, and that was just on Monday.  Tuesday night with Vinny rocked as usual, and I've been getting to the gym regularly.  In fact, I've been so keen for cardio blasting I've been hitting the treadmill, jogging for half and hour then doing some free weights and abs. And yoga at Black Dog once a week.  The squidgey feeling is being banished!

On Thursday night the Beaten Hearts cast and director assembled at my place for a read-through.  Final casting of each piece is yet to be decided, as is the final line-up of plays.  Five plays are locked in, and Cindy is tossing up between a couple of others.  We had a jolly evening over scripts, chardonnay and cheese, and everyone seems enthusiastic about the show.  I'm thrilled.  Gina went to bed early and I don't know how but she slept through our riotous laughter and splendid actorly vocal projection.  The only thing that roused her was Milo the cat tapping at her window to let him in.  Amazing the noises we can tune out, and those that will wake us no matter how soft they are. 

We presently have an issue with the nocturnal habits of our upstairs neighbour.  To be fair, it's not that he's some party animal making a racket in the middle of the night, but the soundproofing between our ceiling and his floor is inadequate.  We can hear every squeak of the floorboards with every step he takes.  And he seems to take a LOT of them, restlessly roaming his apartment into the wee hours of the morning.  One would think - or hope - such habits would see him at least sleep in, but no, we find our slumber disturbed yet again by vigorously squeaking floorboards as early as 7am.  At 2 o'clock this morning I found myself fantasising that every step he took shot excruciating jolts of white-hot pain through his feet.  Doesn't this guy ever SIT?  Or SLEEP?  Alas this apartment block, for all its charms, is old and the ceilings are thin.

On Friday I attended a writers' workshop; a networking opportunity and another avenue of gaining insight into this crazy industry.  The workshop was attended by roughly 50 writers, there for the chance to pitch their brilliant feature film script at three panels of influential industry insiders; producers and agents.  I was there to suss out the possibilities of being a script reader and coverage writer.  With no precious screenplay to pitch, I was not wracked with nerves as were most of the people in the room.  The pitching itself was conducted anonymously; the writers submitted one page summaries and loglines, some of which were read aloud for everyone to hear and the guest professionals to comment on.  A logline is a one to two sentence summary of the script and the film it hopes to be.  It is therefore something of an art in itself to create to great logline as it must not only give you the basic concept and storyline but a sense of the style of the piece (genre and tone).  Not easy.  It was FASCINATING to hear them.  Very few grabbed the panelists' attention in a good way and their feedback was BRUTALLY honest.  For my part, I got chatting with Susan, a writer who edits a scriptwriters group newsletter (amongst several other writerly projects), and Jim who freelances as a coverage writer.  Both were helpful in providing encouragement and suggestions as to how I might gain coverage writing training and experience.  Writers agents and producers alike employ interns to read scripts, but interns must be college students who can earn credit for their work.  The studios can't 'employ' anyone for free (aka an intern) who doesn't get something out of it (such as college credit).  Yeah, well I'm sure there's ways around that, and one of the producers I spoke to suggested as much.  Ultimately of course I want to be paid for my services, but I'm willing to 'intern' or train for free if it gets me in the door.  One of the panels facilitated Q&A by hosting a table each and rotating around the room.  From the dozen or so loglines we heard, and some of the questions posed, I suspect that out of the 50-odd writers in attendance, about 40 are indeed quite odd and only half a dozen actually have a half decent screenplay to pitch.  Wild guestimate?  Yes.  Harsh?  Yes.  But the message came through loud and clear from the producers that at least 95% of the hundreds of scripts they receive each month are rubbish.  Perversely, it almost made me feel like I should write a screenplay, because I'm fairly sure I could produce something better than most of the precious pages being clung to in that room.  Arrogant and presumptuous?  Undoubtedly.  Am I actuallly going to write that brilliant screenplay?  Not right now.

Saturday morning greeted me with a new adventure;  applying for a Census job.  The U.S. 2010 Census is about to be unleashed on the American public and the Federal Government is seeking about a million people nationwide to fill 6-8 week part-time positions.  Stage one of application is to sit a multiple choice test of basic numeracy, comprehension and organisational skills.  I was sent to a nearby school to sit the test along with approximately 30 other individuals on Saturday morning.  There I got chatting with Sheila, a 70-something lady of very definite opinions, wearing a hot pink velour tracksuit and matching glitter-pink slippers.  Sheila owns five dogs.  She had seven, but that was really too much so she found homes for two of them.  Sheila is decidedly against mobile phones.  She was quick to spot a young applicant in the room using a quiet moment to start texting.  "The generation of instant gratification," she said.  "They don't know how to be alone."  Sheila told me she will make a point of involving herself in somebody's conversation if it is conducted on a cell phone in her presence.  She has received a punch in the arm for her efforts.  It was at a dog show. She is also impatient with the elderly and infirm, snorting and rolling her eyes at another applicant - more Sheila's vintage than the young texter - not as robust as herself.  Sheila is not wealthy, but has enough to live on, I intuit her husband is no longer in the picture (perhaps dead? long divorced?  driven away by canine excess?), but she adores her dogs like children.  She has earned the right to be a bitchy old lady.  Maybe I'll be like that one day.  Minus the dogs.