A little over two months ago I drove across the country, and after a two-week adventure, I landed in California. My destination was predetermined, however I arrived in Los Angeles with no job, no apartment, and few friends. My dream—to work and live in the entertainment industry, brought me here, as it has brought many East Coasters before me. Things started out well—I was networking, interviewing, meeting people—even finding roommates and a great apartment near the beach in Santa Monica. The prospects were good. I did a little bit of temp work, testing out the waters in some industry-related jobs and I even had the luxury to turn down some job offers. I was being picky about my entry point in this industry, to ensure that my first job out of college will provide me with a greater learning experience and an important stepping-stone for the years to come.
Then something funny happened. On Monday November 5th the Writers Guild of America went on strike.
My Hollywood ambitions weren’t explicitly to write, and my initial, basic understanding of the strike was that only writers would be affected at first. Wrong. In this town, when something goes wrong with the entertainment industry, everyone feels the effects. I soon learned that many of the agencies I was hoping to get a job at, whether on a desk or in the mailroom, had installed a hiring freeze. Assistants—another likely job for myself—were being laid-off at production companies and networks all over town. The temp work slowed down, job opportunities that once seemed ample were suddenly sparse.
After my quick maturing in understanding the strike, I soon found myself obsessed with it. I couldn’t get enough strike coverage—I would spend hours digesting information, opinions, and photographs at The New York Times, The LA Times, Variety, The Hollywood Reporter and the website for Entertainment Weekly as well as the WGA’s own UnitedHollywood.com. Any time I drove by gathered pickets on my way to an informational interview or any excursion that brought me by a studio, I would honk my horn and wave to the writers (at one point I spent an hour driving from studio to studio in Burbank, checking out rallying WGA writers). I was moved by the cause, excited by the drama, and intrigued by the uncertain future.
My excitement faded quickly, and here we are, more than 4 weeks into the WGA strike. After several weeks with no conversation between the writers and conglomerates, both sides went back to the negotiating tables this week. However, the prospect remains dreary. Even worse the American public is about to face a television season that is likely to end soon. What I find frustrating is that a lot of people aren't aware of the strike and the all-encompassing impact it has on so many aspects of American life and everyone in this country. I am curious what will happen when young mothers in Ohio can't watch Desperate Housewives anymore, or when college kids won't gather round Thursday nights to catch their favorite episode of The Office. I have a feel that a lot of Americans are going to be really pissed off that they can't watch the tv shows they love, and all we are given is a bunch of rehashed, over-dramatized, and painfully embarrassing reality shows.
Additionally, I still don’t have a job, and that dream I came out here to pursue is going to be delayed until the strike comes to an end. I don’t want to put my dreams on hold. Again, another clichéd-sounding sentence, but I mean it. Why should I have to stall my Hollywood ambitions?
The flip side to all this is that because of the strike I am in a unique situation. I need to take advantage of this time, re-evaluate my own career aspirations; it is important to note that something good will come of this. Perhaps I will find an opportunity that I might not have previously considered. In fact, I am already using the strike to my advantage by doing more writing. Sure, I don't get paid to do this, but I am exercising the creative juices in my head, and that counts for something, doesn't it?
I desperately want the writer’s strike to end—for the writers, the actors, the crews, the studios, the networks, and for the American public. I want to be able to watch new episodes of Friday Night Lights and Private Practice. I want to see the little man effectuate change in an unstable, constantly-evolving world of entertainment. However, I selfishly want the strike to end for my own personal reasons.
I want a job.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Why I Love Celine Dion, Pt. 1
My love for Celine Dion comes from a place of deepest sincerity, irony, and the joy I take from watching people this ridiculous take themselves seriously. And who doesn't love a power ballad? Also, there was a time in my life where I fostered an unhealthy obsession with the movie Titanic but I will get to that another day.
But really, all you need to do is to watch the first minute of Celine's recent appearance on Ellen DeGeneres to discover why she is deserving of your love.
Highlights are at -3:50 and -3:25. You don't really need to watch past that, unless you just enjoy the sound of that beautiful French-Canadian accent and want to hear an awkward confrontation about Celine's son's hair.
But really, all you need to do is to watch the first minute of Celine's recent appearance on Ellen DeGeneres to discover why she is deserving of your love.
Highlights are at -3:50 and -3:25. You don't really need to watch past that, unless you just enjoy the sound of that beautiful French-Canadian accent and want to hear an awkward confrontation about Celine's son's hair.
Another LOTR rip-off? No thanks.
My Godmother is always telling me I should be writing. She thinks I should be a travel writer. I am certain this is because when her daughter, one of my best friends, was about to backpack around Europe I independently decided to create a full itinerary for her. The itinerary—which was initially meant as a study break from exam prep during the spring term of my senior year at school—turned into an in-depth 9-page (single spaced!) guide. I was just happy to share my experiences with my friend.
My dad always tells people I am a great writer. I am creative and articulate and expressive and all that good stuff. I don’t know that I agree. I would say I am average. I know that I am certainly more skilled than some, but definitely far inferior to others. Here’s what I am good at: writing how I speak. I write how I think and how I speak and I never intend to misrepresent myself. I am how I write.
For a long time I’ve wanted to write a book. When I was younger the books I wanted to write were always fantasy or science fiction. This was because up until the age of 18 the only books I read were in either of those genres (except all those classic books we had to read for school—I am longtime fan of The Great Gatsby and any Jane Austen). I can even recall a few attempts at some sort of epic fantasy tome that was really just a sweet rip-off of my favorite David Eddings series or Lord of the Rings.
In college my life changed. I realize that sounds incredibly clichéd, but it’s true—not in the conventional sense that lives change during the college years, but because during the fall of my freshman year, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. A year later she passed away. This was a serious turning point in my life. In my literary life it was as well. Going into college I had started to branch out in my reading choices. My mother loved to read, however her collection seemed a mix between Oprah’s book club, The New York Times’ Bestseller list, and the occasional self-help or women’s interest book thrown in the bunch. In the months prior to her death, the one book she did not stop raving about was Life of Pi by Yann Martel. We were on a family cruise in Bermuda and she would not stop talking about how the ocean and the cruise reminded her so much of Pi and his lifeboat. I had no idea what she was talking about, and when it came to my mother; the more she insisted I do something, the less inclined I was to do it. I regret that I did not read the book when she was still alive, because when I did finally read it, shortly after her death, I was deeply moved and felt an instant connection to the beauty, simplicity and story of the book. Life of Pi reminded me of a few important things. I remembered how much I loved the art of great storytelling, and that my mother really did know how to pick a good book. She always wanted to share her good experiences with other people.
Sharing experiences—this is something I learned from my mother, and a principle to my life now. That is why I am writing. I thought a book seemed like a great idea, but why not use a blog? There's no way this could be another LOTR rip-off; (I think I lack the creativity for anything really original in the science fiction and fantasy genre anyways), but furthermore, the subject I know best is me, my life, and how some basic principles have helped me to get through difficult situations and driven me to be a better person. Anyways, a blog is a little less daunting than an actually book, and I can do it in small bursts where I profess my love for Celine Dion or write long diatribes on the current state of American television (both these subjects will come later, I am sure). Really, I just want to share. I am a pretty lucky person, and happy with how things have gone for me. I feel confident that I know how to grow up and find a positive experience in just about any situation.
Then again, I am a self-proclaimed know-it-all and really have no authority in any of this. When I moved to Los Angeles about two months ago, I thought I would have some great job working in the mailroom of a massive agency by now. But instead, here I am, sitting in my Ikea-furnished room, frustrated that the Writer's Strike has seriously stalled my Hollywood intentions, but certain that I can take this time to do something worthwhile. Here goes...
My dad always tells people I am a great writer. I am creative and articulate and expressive and all that good stuff. I don’t know that I agree. I would say I am average. I know that I am certainly more skilled than some, but definitely far inferior to others. Here’s what I am good at: writing how I speak. I write how I think and how I speak and I never intend to misrepresent myself. I am how I write.
For a long time I’ve wanted to write a book. When I was younger the books I wanted to write were always fantasy or science fiction. This was because up until the age of 18 the only books I read were in either of those genres (except all those classic books we had to read for school—I am longtime fan of The Great Gatsby and any Jane Austen). I can even recall a few attempts at some sort of epic fantasy tome that was really just a sweet rip-off of my favorite David Eddings series or Lord of the Rings.
In college my life changed. I realize that sounds incredibly clichéd, but it’s true—not in the conventional sense that lives change during the college years, but because during the fall of my freshman year, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. A year later she passed away. This was a serious turning point in my life. In my literary life it was as well. Going into college I had started to branch out in my reading choices. My mother loved to read, however her collection seemed a mix between Oprah’s book club, The New York Times’ Bestseller list, and the occasional self-help or women’s interest book thrown in the bunch. In the months prior to her death, the one book she did not stop raving about was Life of Pi by Yann Martel. We were on a family cruise in Bermuda and she would not stop talking about how the ocean and the cruise reminded her so much of Pi and his lifeboat. I had no idea what she was talking about, and when it came to my mother; the more she insisted I do something, the less inclined I was to do it. I regret that I did not read the book when she was still alive, because when I did finally read it, shortly after her death, I was deeply moved and felt an instant connection to the beauty, simplicity and story of the book. Life of Pi reminded me of a few important things. I remembered how much I loved the art of great storytelling, and that my mother really did know how to pick a good book. She always wanted to share her good experiences with other people.
Sharing experiences—this is something I learned from my mother, and a principle to my life now. That is why I am writing. I thought a book seemed like a great idea, but why not use a blog? There's no way this could be another LOTR rip-off; (I think I lack the creativity for anything really original in the science fiction and fantasy genre anyways), but furthermore, the subject I know best is me, my life, and how some basic principles have helped me to get through difficult situations and driven me to be a better person. Anyways, a blog is a little less daunting than an actually book, and I can do it in small bursts where I profess my love for Celine Dion or write long diatribes on the current state of American television (both these subjects will come later, I am sure). Really, I just want to share. I am a pretty lucky person, and happy with how things have gone for me. I feel confident that I know how to grow up and find a positive experience in just about any situation.
Then again, I am a self-proclaimed know-it-all and really have no authority in any of this. When I moved to Los Angeles about two months ago, I thought I would have some great job working in the mailroom of a massive agency by now. But instead, here I am, sitting in my Ikea-furnished room, frustrated that the Writer's Strike has seriously stalled my Hollywood intentions, but certain that I can take this time to do something worthwhile. Here goes...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)