I spent an interesting Sunday in New York catching up with an old friend in from LA to try to raise finishing monies for a new show. My friend is a documentary film producer/director, who, over the years, has produced a string of breakthrough shows that have contributed to our world to a degree any artist might truly envy.
Our day concluded with an intimate dinner at an old-style Italian restaurant, Gene’s, on the edge of the Village—close to where we went to college together. At the table, were an assortment of seasoned professionals: one very accomplished, funny Hollywood editor, a brainy TV and magazine writer, a whip-smart intellectual property lawyer, two more high achieving indie producer/director/editor types and some kids—just getting started.
The talk at some point turned to the business and how eff-ing tough it’s all become—how there’s really no clear path anymore for kids starting out, how it’s all a “blooming confusion.” And it’s true.
I remembered something else—something I was told perhaps back at the Iowa Writers Workshop as another old order was busy collapsing; a writer pointed out that almost anyone could be a writer if he or she worked at it hard enough, but only those who really needed to would.
And, that said, it’s good to be among your own—sharing a meal somewhere toward the remains of the day.