Well it’s gone.
Sealed in an envelope.
My screenplay, “The Space Between”, is out of my hands. It should arrive at Dave Trottier’s house on Friday, and at some point in the next month an industry professional will read my work. He will know I exist. Oh boy…
Quite frankly I am scared of every outcome. And because I have Leslie Knope tendencies I have thought of every conceivable outcome; seriously every single one.
From the serious; this grand experiment will be just a colossal waste of money, and go nowhere. To the silly; when I meet Sebastian Stan I will forget how to say hello in Romanian. I looked it up just for him, and I’m gonna forget. (BTW it’s buna.)
My husband is my Ben Wyatt, the rational one, who brings in logic and encouragement designed to save me from myself. Which is what he did yesterday from his deployed location as I rattled off, with great speed, every outcome that had come to mind.
Yes I was nauseous while I drove to the post office, and as I stood in line. Yes I did not actually speak to the lady behind the counter just nodded and shook my head; but I have dispensed of the question, what if?
Because in a few weeks I will no longer wonder, but know. And I will be one step closer to living my dream.
Until next time,