The Waiting Game

A Screenwriter's Journal

“Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden.” — Cormac McCarthy

The other day, Matthew Waldram and I began to send our big-budget action spec script, The Magnificent Mile, out to literary managers in the US. About 50+ emails went out ( I think that’s called carpet bombing). Those who accept unsolicited material got the full 120-page screenplay attached; those who do not accept unsolicited stuff just got a query letter with an open invitation to read the script. We just figured it was time to try our luck Stateside. (Although, have to say, if we did get anywhere, the idea of going to America for any reason at the moment fills me with utter dread.)

I didn’t expect to hear anything from anyone anytime soon, and yet, that very same day, we had a prestigious LA company respond to our query with a request to read the full script. So The Magnificent Mile went straight over, and now we wait again.

And that’s the thing you have to learn to live with in this game, it seems. Not just possible rejection and failure, but the mental willpower to simply send and wait.

The Waiting Game is a huge part of filmmaking and something I’ve had to become pretty zen about over the years. For instance, alongside The Magnificent Mile, I have Last Night of Freedom (written with Dan Howarth) out with a producer, and older horror scripts Nerveshredder and Vessels (both written with David Bryant), and Killer on the Road (written with Leigh Dovey), all out with a director in San Diego. Who knows if and when we’ll hear anything back.

I also have The Wilding waiting to be released, as well as word on The House on Lidderman Street, which is all in the hands of the producer. Not to mention, waiting for the spring shoot of Improper Bastards, and the ongoing mission to attach principals to the gritty revenge thriller I co-wrote last year with Ashley Price for director Isher Sahota (waiting for established actors to read your script really is a waiting game). And the aforementioned Dave Bryant and I are currently back and forthing on a new screenplay for producer Ben Richards.

Then there’s another party who is interested in me writing a couple of features for him, but we’re both waiting to see if any development money comes in.

Man, talk about throwing everything at the wall.

So it feels like everything is happening and nothing is happening at the same time. And that’s where I’m at, mentally, so I’m having to do a lot of compartmentalisation in order to survive… he says, not wanting to sound too dramatic. For starters, I’ve had to bury the fact that I wrote and directed The House on Lidderman Street and have pretty much let it go entirely. For now.

And that’s the trick, I think. You have to finish the work, send, and move on. I find juggling so many projects at once works for me; it means I can get to a certain point on one, then switch to another. There’s a lot of pushing one project from my mind while I work on the next. That keeps me going. If I were to put all my eggs into one basket, I think I would lose it entirely. I remember when I made A Reckoning. I put everything into that, and had no other projects on the go at the time, so when it all fell apart, it hit me hard.

Likewise, if I just had The House on Lidderman Street on the boil, I would’ve fallen into a hole by now. So I just keep creating, keep writing, keep hustling, keep moving. It’s the only way, and if things come back around, and agents and managers respond, or money comes in from here and there (and when and if films finally come out), I’m still ready; I’m just down the line on something else as well.

I sometimes feel that being able to just write another project is like having a superpower. If something doesn’t work, or comes out like I wanted, or simply doesn’t do anything at all, I can just reopen my laptop and create something new. No permissions needed, just dive into my imagination and write. It’s got me through a lot of tough times.

Anyway, as the song goes, it’s later than we think, so I’ve got to get shit done.

Ain’t got time to wait.

(The great Harold Lloyd in Safety Last! from 1923)