I thought I was a smart fucking man.
It turns out, not so smart after all.
I stalk back into the house.
I fucking hate this part of my job. This side of Hollywood. But it has to be said that for the first time in a long time, I’m inspired to get back to work. I want to prove these bastards wrong.
My name isn’t fucking mud.
And my career isn’t fucking done.
Also, I think I’ve finally worked out why I’ve been dragging my feet on figuring out my career.
I don’t want to keep making the same kind of movies I’ve been making.
I’m ready for a change.
Fuck, I need a change.
I’ve sensed this for a while now, but I haven’t wanted to fuck with the career I’ve built.
Alcohol and drugs aren’t my only addictions.
Fame is right up there with them.
Switching up the projects I work on will absolutely mean a change for my career.
But, like I admitted to myself weeks ago, I can’t keep doing the same old shit and expect a different result.
I grab Jessica’s car keys.
It’s time to get to work and fix the mess I’m in. But first, I need a new fucking phone.
Jack: I’m rethinking my no-meditation stance.
Constance doesn’t bother texting me back; she picks up the phone and calls me. “What’s happened?”
“What makes you think something happened?”
“I’m going to be honest here, Jack. I never, for one second, expected you to take up meditation. I’d like you to try it, but I know you well enough to know it’s not something you’ll likely ever do. For you to tell me you’re rethinking your stance on it, something has to have happened.”
“Fuck, if I knew that, I would have told you this sooner so we could skip all the directives to try meditation.”
“Well?”
“My agent and manager conspired to get me booted from a movie. They’re the ones who have been planting stories about me.”
“That’s heavy.”
“Yes, and you’ll be pleased as fuck to know I dug deep on it.”
“Do tell.”
“I want to make movies with more depth. No, I retract that statement. I’m going to make movies with more depth. I’m going to write them, and I’m going to produce them. And fuck”—I exhale a breath—“I’m going to take the hit to my career and not drink my way through that.”
She turns silent for a long moment before saying, “What makes you think you’ll have to take a hit to your career?”
I frown. “That’s a no-brainer.”
“Why?”
“Because it is. My fans won’t come with me. I’ll be starting from scratch.”
“Some will. I’ll go out on a limb and say many will.”
“I’ll agree that some will. I don’t agree that many will.”
“So you’ll find new fans. Will the hit to your career stop you being able to make movies?”
“No, but I’d say it will make it harder.”
“Are you up for the challenge?”
“Yes.”
“Will the hit to your career stop you being able to write screenplays?”
“No.”
“Produce them?”
“No.”
“Right, so you’ll still be able to do all the things you want to do even without the career you think you need to do these things.”
“Jesus, Constance, that was fucking twisty.”
“A bit like your brain.” She pauses. “Tell me what else is going on here.”
She really does like these moments of truth. I, on the other hand, could do with them a lot fucking less. It’s one thing to admit this stuff to yourself; to say it out loud to another person is a whole other story. “The movies I want to make won’t be as commercial. They won’t be seen by as many people.” I pause, not wanting to give her my rawest truth. “I won’t be seen by as many people.”
“On the upside, you may not have as many ugly stories about you show up on social media. You also may be able to live your life with more ease. I do see some benefits here. I imagine if you keep digging on this, you’ll discover more.”
“Right.” These are things I haven’t thought about, but she’s right.
“Jack,” she says, her voice softening a tiny bit. “It’s okay to feel everything you’re feeling over not wanting to let go of commercial success. There’s no shame in wanting that kind of success. Our job is to help you feel successful regardless of the money you make and the number of fans who watch your new movies, and to help you build a strong sense of self. I believe you can make this transition without drinking and without compromising your health.”
I release another breath.
I believe that too, but fuck, I never saw this coming.
I’ve been out there making movies I loved for years. I thought I’d keep making those movies for decades longer. I never thought my brain would suddenly fucking want to make different movies. And as much as I’ve tried to force myself back into wanting what I used to want, I can’t go back. Once we see a new path that calls us, we can never unsee it. Even if it scares or confuses the absolute fuck out of us.
We end the call and I go back to work.
I got a new phone earlier and came back to Jessica’s place to call the woman I want to hire as my new manager, Sylvia Huxley. She was the woman that Jessica narrowed Rose’s list down to. Sylvia took my call and we talked for an hour. At the end of our conversation, she agreed to work with me. My lawyer has our contract and is going over it today.
I then called Rose to advise her of all the new developments with my team. She told me she fully supported the loss of Rodney, that he wasn’t contributing to my career in a positive way as far as she’d worked out.
We had a conversation about my decision to write and produce, at which point she suggested she organise a dinner for me with Burt Stoll, a well-known Australian director she knows. She wants me to work on building new contacts, on expanding my network. I agreed it was a good idea and left her with it. That was after she told me again to get onto hiring a new assistant. She didn’t point out the obvious, though, that I also now need to hire a new agent. I give her a day before she starts hounding me over that.
Now, I open my laptop and the screenplay I’m working on. The one I started writing last week. The one I’m madly putting words down on. The one that’s got me wondering why the fuck I’ve taken so long to do this. I haven’t enjoyed working on something so much in a long time.
I lose myself in my words for a few hours. My phone rings just after 1:00 p.m., pulling me from my computer.
Jessica’s face flashes on my screen, and my gut tightens immediately.
“Fuck, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” I say when I answer her FaceTime call.
“Why aren’t you wearing that grey shirt of yours?” And just like that, Jessica’s grumpiness rights all the wrongs in my world.
“What’s got you all pissy?” I’m in the mood to stir her grumpiness a little more.
“You.” She waves her hand at me through the phone. “Take your shirt off. I can’t look at that white one for another second. And Jesus, Jack, just wear your grey one tomorrow.”