I’ve heard Los Angeles and the film industry in particular be described as “The Wild West.” And while I haven't seen any of my creative brethren gunned down, hogtied, or horsewhipped in the eight plus years I've spent in this desert, I suppose there is some truth to the metaphor. Like those manifest destinyers who headed West in search of Gold circa 1850, dreamers like myself flock in droves to Los Angeles to search for fame and fortune. On any given day, there might be a million wandering souls, coming and going, vying to have their names carved out in the lights. And just like the barren mines that inevitably defeated our musing ancestors, we modern day frontiersman attempt to dig for gold amidst a cratered land of broken promises.
Some people call this place the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. It's not surprising I guess. From an early age, I've been pragmatic enough to understand that dreams don't come true for everyone. And yet, I never for a second considered that mine wouldn't come to fruition...until recently. I don't know if it's the harsh terrain or the perpetual thirst for something more, but I'm slowly wearing down. And I've come to understand that I'm not immune to a forever melancholy address on the boulevard. Nonetheless, I will begin to write my next script, and faithfully search for those nuggets of greatness that I hope will lead me to the promised land.
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