“I Can’t Catch a Break”

On NOT giving up

Boohoo. Woe is me. “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna eat a worm.”

Pathetic, right? That’s what I think too. Therefore, I believe it’s time I kicked myself in the ass of my Big Girl pants (with the pandemic hole in them) and moved on.

What the hell am I talking about? My failed screenwriting “career” and the fact that, due to Covid-19, it’s harder than ever to get reads. Producers are holing up, managers are holing up and agents are holing up. If anything is getting made, I can’t figure out how, because I can’t catch a break.

My own manager has been MIA for so long now, that I’ve almost forgotten I’m repped!

Normally, self-pity is not my bag. But unfortunately, like everybody else on the planet I have too much time to reflect, to think about what I should have done, and when. To much time to ponder, “Where did I go wrong?”

That’s not a good place to be in, folks. You feel me? Certainly, many of you are in a similar headspace. In other words, we’re all going batshit crazy, with no relief in sight. In fact, the coming months should be interesting, considering the fact that the “experts” are saying the virus is going to peak like a mofo during the fall and winter. I’m talking about the U.S. now, where our elected officials (not mine, mind you), have bungled just about everything having to do with Covid-19.

Considering that I’m sort of a grinch, anyway, this might be a good year to skip the holidays.

Wait, though, the rambling, incoherent, lying bastard in the White House told us that the virus is magically going to “disappear.” I almost forgot that. In between bailing out his buddy, Roger Stone, Trump assured us that everything is “beautiful.”

What a relief.

In order to feel that I’m doing something to deflect the flop-sweat I’m currently moldering in, I’ve decided to turn one of my scripts into a novel. Because I just haven’t been rejected enough! Now, I’ll let the literary world shit on me, too!

I’m adept at handling rejection, after all. Expert, in fact. It’s toughened me up so in a sense that I always get back up. That’s what we writers have to do.

Who knows though, right? Maybe I’ll hit the mark, get published and THEN Hollywood will want to adapt my book for film. And conveniently, I’ll have the script ready!

“Come and get it, Marty!”

Go ahead and scoff. I deserve it. I should be counting my blessings instead of whining about not getting the chance to be the next Gillian Flynn.

And I am blessed in so many ways. My little family is doing well, considering the shitshow around us. My husband is employed and gets to work from home every day. Our three cats are absolutely fabulous and my sister and her family seem to be thriving. (I don’t know how she does it.)

But that said, I’m restless AF. It’s getting to the point where I don’t know what to do with myself. For example, I’ve been messing with my hair, using all sorts of lightening and brightening sprays to get sun-kissed, surfer-girl streaks. Who do I think I am? Jessica Alba?

And, I’m thinking of derma-planing my face, even though there’s not a hair on it. Basically, it’s a fancy word for shaving! In between that and the micro-needling, maybe I’ll drop a year or two.

WHY? Who’s going to see me? The kid who cuts our lawn? The postal worker who delivers our mail? The old fart next door who spends his days meandering through his yard with a bucket and a stick, searching for innocent grubs to impale?

I’ve been thinking of creative ways to market myself. If I could just get one friggin’ tweet to go viral, right? Or a Medium story, or LinkedIn post. Everyone else does it, why not me? What am I doing wrong?

Somebody…help me. Help me go viral. But not in a Covid-19 kind of way.

This is what happens when you’re driven to the point of madness. You spin like a top, generating a breeze that barely registers. And when you stop, the air is just as stagnant as it was. Maybe more so.

What are your dreams, my friends? Are you inching toward them, slowly but surely, or are they dissipating in the cold light of this new day? (Hold onto your stinky socks. I think I feel a tag coming on.)

Because this is not just about me. Yeah, it sounds like it, I know. But truly, we’re all losing huge chunks of time. Getting older, but not necessarily better. And that’s scary, is it not? That’s what makes us pop the wine cork earlier every day. (Even though I’ve been “good.”)

Some of my friends here are struggling as I am. We’ve shared confidences so I know this and I feel for them. And I’m embarrassed to be pissing and moaning about my “dream” of becoming a working screenwriter. It’s been stomped into the earth one too many times and I’m not sure if I have the strength to keep digging it out. Time will tell, I guess.

But I’m still going to keep working on that novel.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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