Tonight I heard one of the most talented Hollywood screenwriters speak. He was eloquent, relatable and charming. I was constantly engaged by what he had to say, and grateful I had the opportunity to hear it.
He spoke about the therapy of writing, the importance of craft and the power of pain. I could see the desire to find a like frequency in the crowd of nodding heads. His compassionate eyes darted a bit after each sentence. Every member of his audience felt as if they might be the familiar face he was looking for. The speaker’s glance always seemed to return unfulfilled.
He was very tired and very lonely.
He’d found his home in city full of beautiful, articulate people—yet he seemed so quietly alone.
Despite his incredible resume, our guest of honor still felt the need to quietly marry earnest humility to skillful name-dropping. He was not a braggart; why did he care if any of us were impressed?
I found in him the reality of my life-long dream.
Being a successful “Hollywood” element (of any kind) required constantly proving your worthiness and pedigree.
“Who are you, and why should I give a s***?”
For me, at least, the answer became clear.
I’ll always be an outsider, and I’m okay with that.