Feel free to skip this. It’s just me letting off some steam.
I’m frustrated because we’re told all our lives that hard work will pay off. But it doesn’t really.
And I’m frustrated because people tell me I have talent, as a writer, but . . . I can’t seem to get anywhere with that. Despite all the hard work.
So maybe I don’t really have talent. It’s easier, I suppose, to say nice things to someone than it is to be honest with them. Right?
But am I wasting my time here? Am I destined to be always disappointed and frustrated? To never reach my goals or attain my dreams?
Because if that’s the case, I’d like to save myself the trouble. And some money.
I’ve used a pitching service to help get my scripts in front of producers, managers, etc. The results have been mixed. Of 13 pitches (at $45 a pop), 7 have requested scripts to read. None of those requests has turned into anything more substantial. I’ve actually done better on my own networking and getting indie directors interested in my scripts. Not that any of those have gone into production, or even pre-production, but at least there is interest. Well, and I do have that one short film currently in post-production. Again, all my own doing.
But I’m tired. Because I have been working so hard to try and line things up, and it seems like the Universe is set on knocking me around.
And of course that pitching service would gladly help me clean up my scripts . . . For a price. Sure, I get they’re a business, but most writers can’t afford that kind of thing. It’s not like we rake in the dough. If we did, we wouldn’t need a pitching service anyway.
I assume, of course, that if I were to use their editorial services as well as their pitching services they’d maybe go the extra mile to put a nice word in for my work with all these big shots, thus getting me more reads and more chances at production. Funny how that works.
Then the pitching service asked me to write them a testimonial. Really?! Get one of my scripts optioned—hell, just get me a meeting—and then we’ll talk testimonial.
But honestly, I just don’t know. Am I not meant to be a writer? If not, what? This has always been my goal and dream. I don’t have anything else. (Don’t give me that, “You have your family” crap, either. Yes, I know I have them and they love me, but they cannot be my reason for living.)
I feel like the Universe is closing a big door in my face. But I look around and there are no other doors, no windows. Nowhere else for me to go.