Tosh's Journal: September 24 (Anthony Newley, F. Scott Fitzgerald, & Ze...

TOSH’S JOURNAL

September 24

With respect to Hollywood, “it’s only a village, you know. Village life around the pump.” Everyone knows each other, and even those who don’t know, do know. I like it that way because I find the illusion of life more satisfying than what I see in the mirror. Of course, living in London and New York, I chose to go west, as the saying goes “go west young man.” The thing is I’m not that young anymore, and more likely if I can’t sell my writing or this script thing, I will suffer greatly. And my name is associated with failure, at least that is the way I’m thought of in London and New York. I threw the dice and came up with the wrong numbers continuously. So here I’m pumping my gas in a car that I can barely drive.

What was I thinking of when I married Zelda? An incredible fuck, and a highly talented woman, who couldn’t stay focused on the things in front of her. I wouldn’t say she was my muse because I don’t believe that there is a “fairy” out there that chooses one to write or create with inspiration. No, her contributions to my work are one of as a critic and knew when I was bullshitting myself. Every writer needs an audience of some sort or someone who can look at your work and say “sucks” or “brilliant” - and you know that he or she is going to tell you the truth. I accepted my wife in that light, as well as being in love with her.   Or at least, I like the idea of being in love with Zelda. As metal turns to rust, my love or appreciation was tested when I became a caretaker for her, and therefore here I’m in Hollywood trying to fit into the machine that produces popular culture. I think I pretty much did my best writing already, so now I’m trying to work to survive and pay the bills. I do love the cinema, but I wonder if that is a hindrance in writing a script these days. I’m much older than everyone else, and when I go to the local Starbucks, I see a group of young men with caps worn backwards, struggling with words in a script format. If I had t re-live my youth again, “I don’t want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.”

At the moment, I’m writing a script for an entertainer I met in London, and there is a (very) slight chance we can make this into a limited TV series for AMC. “The Strange World of Gurney Slade” is about a guy who is trapped in a TV series, and he can’t escape from it. I wrote six episodes so far, and I think that is all that is needed. Everyone I talk to in the business says they’re “excited” about this project. I, on the other hand, have been disappointed so many times.  I take this on the chin and keep going. The lead character is heroic, but as a fellow writer once commented: “Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.”

I really shouldn’t fool myself. The end is near. If I squint my eyes towards the horizon, I can see it rearing its head over the vanishing line, trying to lure me into a trap. At the very least, if one is a good shopper, you can find some of my books in the remainder bin. I did my best, and the most lucid moments in my life are when I held a pen and put it onto paper. Beyond that, it was drinking and arguing with my wife. I have no regrets. “The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”