I have a friend who is quite an accomplished writer. This friend has won the shiniest of awards, pranced the most celebrated red carpets, and partied with the likes of people I've cut out of magazines and pasted on vision boards. When we chat every now and again about projects and progress, it tends to go something like this:
In the words of [The Amazing World of] Gumball... What the what? Does my friend realize how much effort it took me to whittle the wood of that paragraph / page / scene / act / draft / edit / revision / project? Can a sister get a "great job!" or a pat on the shoulder and a gold star sticker? Does he realize that I don't have the luxury of my days to devote to writing and all of the research and reading that gets done to complete these paragraphs / pages / scenes / acts / drafts / edits / revisions / projects? I have my lunchtimes and breaks; my after-school-before-I-pick-up-my-son moments; my sitting at my mother's bedside moments; after reading bedtime stories moments; my son is asleep moments; after washing dishes, before doing laundry moments; my just before I pass out from a long day moments... to write. Does he understand this?
Yes, he does. And he argues that there is no time for the kind of sentimentality displayed in that last paragraph. #aintnobodygottimeforthat If there are 1000 ways to break into the film business, because of that last paragraph, I need to find way number 1001.