Fuck You, Dream
All you’ve done is put me behind the eight ball.
I’m scared. And when I get scared, I get mean. Lots of F-bombs ahead. So please — if you can’t handle this right now, move along.
This piece is a series of “Fuck Yous.” In no particular order.
Let’s begin with my love/hate relationship with Hollywood.
Any day now, I’m expecting the email or call from my manager telling me that she’s done “all she can” with the script she’s currently shopping. The script I opened a vein to write. A story chronicling the rocky relationship between my parents and myself. One that took a revelatory turn when all three of us were diagnosed with cancer. Stage 4 lung for them. Stage1 breast for me. They’re dead. I’m still here.
No pyrotechnics. No super heroes. No hot blondes kicking ass. Just a fucking great story that people can relate to. ( “They’ll laugh, they’ll cry.” That kind.) Not. Good. Enough.
So, fuck you, Hollywood. For stomping all over my dream of becoming a working screenwriter. For allowing me to believe that one day, I’d be among the celebratory folk getting tanked at the Indie Spirit Awards. Stumbling up to the podium to make my pithy acceptance speech.
You know what I’m talkin’ about, Hollywood. I’ve worked my ass off, only to hear this from producers — “Is there any financing in place?”
“Financing? I thought that was your job, douche bag.” I’m just an unemployed writer with a fertile mind and the right stuff.
To my former place of employ, where I wrote great shit for shitty clients. For fifteen years. Fuck you, Epsilon. For laying off a hard-working creative team that was at the mercy of cowardly upper management and an ignorant, complacent account staff. People so grandfathered-in, they rarely came into the office. And so clueless, they wouldn’t know “strategy” if it sat on their faces.
And fuck you twice, Epsilon, for telling me ad nauseam, while fucking me over the phone, that I was “eligible for rehire.” I fell for that bullshit and applied to at least five positions that paid half of what I was making.
What did I get out of that? One interview with an asshole of a creative director who’d known me for years. Knew what I was capable of. And, as the recruiter put it, “found a stronger candidate.”
Who beat me out? A kid in his 20s, with a police mug shot on Google. Who was swiftly fired for “anger issues.” From what I learned, an ambulance figured into this. “Stronger candidate,” my ass.
The truth: They didn’t want me. I’m past my shelf life. Even though I look younger, think younger and in general, am younger than my biological age. Can you relate?
Here’s what matters to hiring managers and recruiters who sling the bullshit: The year my mother pushed me out of her womb.
So, take me out and shoot me. Like an old war horse whose ribs are sticking through its chest. You’d better be a good shot, though, cause I’m fast.
Epsilon was just sold to major ad industry player, Publicis Group. And if there’s any justice at all, most of the Epsilon detritus will be shit-canned, as I was. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Layoffs have already begun so Boo-rah!
That brings me here. To Medium.
Oh, Medium. I’m trying so hard to make it on this site. To be one of your illustrious “top writers.” Those scribes who are constantly curated and featured and drooled over.
I’m making a concerted effort to not be envious of you wordsmiths who are killing it. With all sincerity, I say “fuck you.”
Kidding, friends. What I actually mean: “Good for you. You earned it. You deserve it.” You’ve been kick-ass supportive, too, which I appreciate.
In my five months on Medium, I have zero curated stories. And as I went through my stats yesterday, this is what I found for nearly every piece:
“Our curators were not able to review this story in topics due to high volume.”
I hesitate to say this but — fuck you, curators. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s the gig you willingly took on, right? Then please, pay some attention to those writers who continually fall through the cracks. Most of us are as worthy as anyone else here. The next Gillian Flynn, Toni Morrison or H. L. Mencken could be crawling up your ass and you wouldn’t even know it.
You’re probably a great group, curators. Smart. On-trend. Possibly funny. But come on, give other writers a shot, for a change. I want to love you — say great things about you. Talk about how hard you work for so little in return. And all that positive shit. But you’re making it so tough.
Straight up, I don’t want to hear, once again, that curation is not the goal: That instead, it’s about honing our craft.
if I have to read any iteration of that statement again, I’m going to spew last night’s dinner, albeit, it was only a salad.
Yes. I write because I love it. I’m a career writer. It’s in my blood, my soul. I’ve been honing the shit out of my craft for thirty years. And I’m as good as anyone on this platform. Could I be better? Hell, yeah. Who can’t? And I’m trying. But, at some point, I need to make some money. A living.
Medium, you owe me nothing. I get that. But still…
From a six-figure salary to nada. Give or take the eighteen bucks I make here each month. That’s where I’m at now. Even finding a freelance gig in my field is next to impossible. I guess recruiters think my SEO is MIA.
My husband, because of health issues, has taken on a reduced role at work. He is a senior editor for a publishing company geared to the manufacturing industry. A reduced role comes with a reduced salary.
And, he and I are both well aware that he could be out of a job at any time.
Should this happen, writing will become something I do in my “spare time.” And, because I take care of the house, cats, bills et al, there is precious little of it.
So. No screenplays. No blogs. No rants like this. Unless I can stay up till all hours of the night. Pass the amphetamines. (Hey, who remembers speed?)
If I can’t find freelance work in my field, I’ll have to look elsewhere. I’ll have to get a job. Any kind of job.
My sister is a hiring manager at a large, upscale grocery chain. She can get me a gig and if it comes to that, I’ll jump. It’s honest work. I’ll be a coder, a checker, a bagger. I don’t care. I’ll put on the black pants, the white shirt, the tie and off I’ll go. And, as I code, bag or check, I’ll think about the time when I used to be a writer.
But I’m not done yet.
For now, I’m still a writer. And I’ll keep at it. I’ll finish my newest script and continue to nurture my dream. I’ll publish stories on Medium and I’ll apply for the odd freelance gig. And if the door does close on my tired old ass, I’ll have one thing left to say: