John August

First Person

Get a manager

Film Industry, First Person

[Justin Marks](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1098479/) is a screenwriter who has worked on feature films ranging from the geek-driven to the way-too-serious. I first met him on the Film France [trip to Paris](http://johnaugust.com/2008/paris-days-1-and-2) in 2008, when his career was in its early stages.

Last week, Justin [tweeted](https://twitter.com/#!/Justin_Marks_/status/73791695103332352):

> Protip: Get a manager. A great manager. The best manager. It’s the difference between having a career and having no career.

> On that last note: there are pros who disagree with me. But they came up in a different generation. So be mindful of that.

I mildly disagree, but: I came up in a different generation. I may be wrong. It’s entirely possible that the experience I had coming of age as a screenwriter in the late 90s is enough different that some of my reflex opinions (e.g. managers are useless) should be questioned. I asked Justin to write up his experiences and opinions. He has has graciously agreed.

You can follow Justin on Twitter [@justin_marks_](https://twitter.com/#!/Justin_Marks_).

——-

first personjustin marksHello, my name is Justin Marks, and I’m a working screenwriter.

Feels great to say, doesn’t it? It’s not the kind of job description that happens overnight. It was born of more than a decade of frustration and hard work. Good scripts and bad scripts. Good advice and bad advice. Good days and bad days. Easily the most satisfying and unnerving years of my life.

But when exactly did I become a screenwriter? Was it the first time I wrote a screenplay? The first time I got paid to do it?

No.

For me, the moment I became a screenwriter was when I met my manager. He taught me the fundamentals -– how to build a career in a competitive and at times impossibly frustrating business.

Which is why, with John’s permission, I’d like to speak about this thorny issue of literary managers.

So let me come out and say it: if you want to make it in today’s business, I believe you need a manager. It’s as simple as that.

Strangely, among the community of established writers, you’re not likely to find a strong consensus on this topic. Opinions range everywhere from “they’re awesome” to “what kind of moron are you for giving up ten percent to someone who does nothing?” And while I won’t pretend to be some kind of ultimate authority on the issue, I think my insight can be particularly helpful to other young writers looking for a way to get their start.

Here’s the thing about the writers who say you don’t need a manager: chances are they “broke in” during a very different era. As early as five years ago, there were better DVD sales, a writers’ strike that hadn’t yet happened, and far more studios willing to spend far more money on the development of scripts.

Today, not so much. There are fewer screenwriters being paid to do what they do. Even if you’re an established writer, it means doing a lot more work for free, competing with a lot more writers for assignments, and accepting significantly less than your quote for the assignments you get.

And if you’re not yet an established writer…oh boy. The window of entry has narrowed to a pinhole, and your margin for error is nearly non-existent. Write a bad script, slip it to the studios, and your name will be in that computer system for years to come. Every time someone looks you up, you’ll have the stink of negative coverage tied to your name. It puts ever-more precedence on starting with your best foot forward.

Not to mention the agent issue. Say you’re lucky enough to score one. Congrats! They’ll look out for your best interests, right? Sure. There are great agents out there. But they’re also looking out for the best interests of a thousand other clients their agency now represents –- the result of mergers necessitated by the shrinking job market.

How do you get the attention you need when your agent has to handle hundreds of phone calls from dozens of clients, many of whom are competing with you for the same job?

Enter the manager.
—–

A lot of people wonder what a manager does. After all, an agent gets you jobs. A lawyer negotiates them. So who is this other strange person collecting ten percent in the middle of all that?

Let me answer your question by telling you what my manager does. Or rather, what he did to get me where I am.
[Read more…] about Get a manager

Self-taught and self-doubting

First Person

Earl Newton worked as a freelance (and self-taught) writer, director and editor for almost ten years up and down the East Coast before making the move to Los Angeles. He lives in constant fear that a film school student will one day explain that “F-stop” doesn’t really mean what he thinks it means.

His username on Twitter is [@strangerthings](http://twitter.com/strangerthings).

——-

first personLast week, I spent my thirtieth birthday as a director on a professional set in Los Angeles.  Any concerns I had over turning thirty die off as I type that sentence.

Yet for the first 29 years of my life, I did literally everything I could to avoid LA and a career as a professional filmmaker.  And I’m here to tell you why that hesitation — that waiting, born of reluctance — was the best thing that could have happened to me.

Young, dumb, and full of stay
—

earl newtonBy the time I entered college in my tiny Florida town, I’d already decided I wouldn’t be moving to Los Angeles.  While my friends shared fantasies of $2000 two-bedroom apartments and lives made of ramen noodles, I’d been infected by the Rodriguez disease, and I felt a furious, indignant independence.  I wanted to make my own path, outside of Los Angeles.

Also, it seemed expensive, and I knew I still had a lot to learn.  Having been home-schooled, I was already comfortable with self-education, and struggling to survive in a major city just to learn the basics seemed like going to Harvard to take English 101.

Also, I’d been rejected from film school three times and I was terrified I’d move to Los Angeles and fail immediately.

Such is youth.

I had a bit of money to invest in my education, partially from an inheritance and partially from a loan co-signed by my parents.  With it, I bought my first camera (a Sony DCR-TRV 510) and a Dell computer for editing (MotoDV Firewire card sold separately).  For just about $3,100, I had the equivalent filmmaking power of an iPhone.

When you are poor and poorly connected, you exploit the only teaching resources you have available: books and practical experience. There are three books I recommend to any filmmaker: [Backwards and Forwards](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0809311100/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=johnaugustcom-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399349&creativeASIN=0809311100) by David Ball, [On Directing Film](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0140127224/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=johnaugustcom-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399349&creativeASIN=0140127224) by David Mamet, and [In the Blink of an Eye](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1879505622/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=johnaugustcom-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399349&creativeASIN=1879505622) by Walter Murch.  I haven’t found any that speak as concisely on storytelling as those.  They are all quite thin as well, which led me to theorize that the size of the film book is inversely proportionate to its usefulness.

So I read and shot everything I could afford.  Much of what I shot was useless.  I could feel something worthwhile buried in it, but it still felt awkward, and I couldn’t put my finger on why.  Watching hours of this kind of footage made me grateful I didn’t have to undergo these growing pains while juggling P.A. jobs.  Looking back at these first works, I’m still grateful.

Being without a real mentor, I went looking for one in cinema history, and I found him, in the thick of Communist Russia: Sergei Eisenstein (creator of “Battleship Potemkin”).  

Long before Robert Rodriguez, here was the original writer/director/editor.  Here was a man, similar to myself, far from Hollywood, figuring out movies without a film school (in his case, none existed yet).  With no teachers available, he reached out to other disciplines and looked for ways to apply them to cinema.  As an example: one story suggests he developed his concepts of film montage after he learned how Japanese kanji expresses meaning.  (In kanji, two unrelated symbols are juxtaposed to create a third idea.  The symbol for “dog” combines with the symbol for “mouth” to represent “bark,” etc)

Taking a page from Eisenstein’s book, I studied as many different crafts as drew my interest.  At my local community college (and later, at a nearby university) I took classes in acting, improv, theatre directing, and scene design.  I took computer science and sign language.  Anything and everything seemed to hold some insight into movie storytelling.  I also took care to study the roles of other departments to greater or lesser degree: sound recording, visual effects, photography, etc.

To directors: starting out, you’re going be encouraged to familiarize yourself with the jobs of other departments.  I highly and humbly recommend this. 

You’ll be told it’s because it makes communicating your vision easier, and that’s true.  But there are two more important reasons.  First, if you know how to be a sound man, you know how to make the sound man’s job easier. This has the potential to make you very popular with sound men (or editors, or cinematographers, etc), something you’ll need when your only currency is good will.  Second, when you begin producing your own work, this renaissance approach to filmmaking will allow you to start before anyone else signs on.  Knowing you can finish in a pinch, if you have to, will lend you a confident relentlessness that makes others want to get involved.

This went on for a number of years.  I took regular jobs, but could never stay settled for long.  Two years was my maximum.  [Read more…] about Self-taught and self-doubting

The 4-hour Staffing Season

First Person, Television

Today’s First Person comes from [Daniel Thomsen](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1229072/), a television writer who has worked on staff at Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles and Melrose Place. He has lost eight pounds since the CW passed on his pilot script and isn’t sure whether he needs the beard anymore.

On Twitter, he’s [@danielthomsen](http://twitter.com/danielthomsen).

—

first persondaniel thomsenHere is what it means to be a TV writer: You are paid to work in conditions that vastly accelerate the degradation of your body while brainstorming fantasy lives for the select group of your co-workers who work in conditions designed to make their already-exceptional bodies look better than yours ever did or will.

It’s a psychologically fraught occupation for this and other reasons. But mostly this one.

Still, people flock to the profession. Each year we welcome new writers to our ranks and indoctrinate them into a rigid system of dieting and aspirational styling that will stunt their emotional development for years to come. Baby writers just beginning the journey of staring at dailies of shirtless Paul Wesley and pants-less Leighton Meister can typically get by with the organic meal-replacement bars available at Whole Foods.

But by the time the average writer has ascended into the producing ranks, the road has been littered with far too many Starbucks cups and CPK boxes with his or her name scribbled hastily on the side. The fiction that the writer can ever be as physically appealing as his or her thespian counterparts begins to feel hopelessly out of reach.

For those unhappily-bloated hyphenates, this year’s fad diet is something called “The 4-Hour Body.” I know several devotees, including a showrunner who dropped twenty pounds from the first draft of his pilot script to the day of his greenlit table read. This is either a remarkable example of discipline and determination, or a stunning illustration of how many empty calories are required to write a pilot script.

To be clear, I have no idea what the “four hour” aspect of the diet refers to. The three people I asked who are actually on the diet don’t know, either. They just ramble on about not eating fruit, gorging yourself on junk food once a week, and challenging your friends to motivational weight-loss battles via Twitter. Master all that stuff and apparently the “four hour” business never even comes into play.

An oddball little diet, yeah? But it gave me a great idea for a title!

What is staffing season?
—-

It’s the most nerve-wracking time of year for TV writers seeking staff jobs.

Yes, owing to the ever-expanding slate of scripted cable series, there are a scattering of jobs available throughout the year. But you didn’t get any of those jobs, did you? And now all of your eggs are in one basket, aren’t they? The basket of new and returning network series that will be seeking writers for an extremely limited period of time between now and the end of May.

Look, here’s the good news: Chances are you’re in this business for the right reason. Unlike a lot of people, you love television. You know there’s a given amount of crap out there, but you still get excited about all the new ideas. You’re cheering for the showrunners you respect to get a shot at creating their big, fat hits. You don’t mind reading 25 or 30 scripts at breakneck speed because you have fun commiserating with friends and agents about it all.

What’s going to succeed? What’s a trainwreck? I’m sorry, who did you say is writing “Wonder Woman”?

So why’s it so nerve wracking?

Because you don’t have the luxury of separating your enjoyment of television’s artistry from the stark reality that this is your goddamn paycheck for the year. And maybe the next year or two after that.

This is showbiz, where there are a lot more writers than there are job opportunities, and where no one owes you a single ounce of career stability — unless you have at some point worked for Charlie Sheen or Conan O’Brien, and then according to the comment section of Deadline Hollywood, you are always entitled to be taken care of by the studios or the stars themselves whenever trade winds blow the wrong direction.

What’s that? You’re not in one of those two magic kingdoms? Sorry, friend. You’re fucked.

Victimhood is a deeply ingrained trait in all writers, owing to our complicated childhood circumstances, our aforementioned body dysmorphias, our culturally-reinforced entitlements, etc. Here are some great tips to ensure you shoulder the right amount of personal responsibility for staffing season:

Your sample script isn’t good enough.
—-

This is something you’ll undoubtedly hear a lot of, either from your agent or from your inner monologue. You will almost never hear this from executives because they, unlike us, were raised to be polite. If you have an inkling that your primary sample isn’t absolutely killer, you need a better one.

No one gets hired in this town without a killer script — unless you’re Someone Important’s (brother/cousin/personal trainer). And if you’re Someone Important’s (aunt/underage escort/yogi), I really hope you’re not reading John August’s blog right now. I hope you’re poolside at the Standard, commemorating every moment of your life with a Chambord lemon drop in each hand. Because, remember: With great power comes great responsibility.

But that’s them. Back to you: **Your sample script is not good enough.**

We aren’t always the best judges of our own material, but in this business, we have to be.

A few years ago I wrote a spec pilot about a pro video gamer called “Invincible.” To this day, it’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. The script got me a bunch of meetings, but ultimately it didn’t land me any gigs. After six months, I had to admit it wasn’t good enough, and that spurred me to write my next spec pilot, “Physical Graffiti.” The new script got me my first staff job less than a month after I finished it. Moral of the story: Don’t get too precious when your career’s on the line.

While we’re at it: **your sample script isn’t in the right genre.** I read the Georgetown pilot script for ABC a few days ago and loved it. I impulsively fired off an email to my agent and told him so. He wrote me back with this: “Which sample of yours do you think they’d read for it?” My agent was right. We could send them my spec pilot about genetically-mutated super criminals, but I wouldn’t blame them for not divining the relevance.

Oh, and your sample script **should’ve been finished a month ago.** Scripts need time to filter through the system. They don’t get read by showrunners before they’ve been read by agents and about five thousand layers of studio and network executives.

Your meeting chops need work.
—–

Writer meetings are weird. We didn’t learn about how they’re supposed to go while we were in college, and they’re usually given by other writers, which means they’re a lot more passive aggressive than they’d be if they were given by trained HR reps.

It’s all on you, the dude who’s probably terrible at selling, to make the best, most specific argument possible that you deserve a spot on the writing staff. Emphasize what’s in your background that informs the types of stories you’ll be telling. Emphasize how much of a genius you are without coming off like a dick.

On a similar note, don’t criticize the show — the creator has probably taken a shine to it.

And here is the single most important bit of meeting advice I can give you from my own vault of experience: If you’re meeting on “Supernatural,” do not bring up the topic of slash fan fiction involving Sam and Dean Winchester. No one’s heart warms to that particular tangent.

Your “brand” needs work.
—–

Network television is a business that functions more efficiently by way of rampant pigeon-holing. This is not evil. This is reality. And it extends to writers.

Hey, there’s a new crime drama on CBS this year! Do you have a strong, procedural sample script? Does your background give you any additional expertise? Are your existing credits in a similar genre? The easier it is to fit you into a particular “box,” the easier it’ll be to find a job.

I share this insight with you as someone who jumped from a show about killer robots to “Melrose Place,” had to explain that jump in every single meeting I took last staffing season, and didn’t get a single job offer before the calendar flipped to June. Talk to your agent about this. Make sure you’re seeing yourself the way everyone else is seeing you.

You don’t know enough people.
—-

Yes, it’s your agent’s responsibility to get you meetings. But, really, it’s a shared responsibility. Hollywood is a tight-knit community where business and social circles overlap like crazy.

I put in five years of personal networking as a PA, writers’ assistant, script coordinator and showrunner’s assistant before I knew enough people to get an agent or a job. And I still find that, even after having worked on staff for three seasons and having sold two pilots, the single greatest predictor of whether or not I’ll succeed in staffing season is how many of my friends get their pilots on the schedule.

Not because anyone ever has or will hire me as a favor, but because in a community of writers, the people who will know my capabilities the best are invariably going to be the people I’m closest to. ((Fun Fact: This is also the answer to the aforementioned question, “How did you end up on Melrose Place after Sarah Connor?” The showrunners were early supporters of mine who read my very first TV spec five years prior and remembered me when it came time to staff the first season. I’ll always be grateful for their respect. And their long memories.))

So I’m not going to get a job?
—-

You can totally get a job, even in this market. Dozens of writers are going to get offers in the coming weeks at every level — veterans, newbies, people who work every year, people who struggle to work once every few years.

I’ve been in LA since 2002 and every single year, the refrain is always the same: “Ugh, this is the worst year ever, no one’s getting work.” I absolutely believe people have been repeating those words since the days we were all fighting over gigs on radio dramas.

Snagging a staff job requires these things: hard work, self awareness, a killer script, a logical connection between your brand and a show that makes it on the schedule, and a fair bit of fortunate timing.

Remember that staffing is a war of attrition. You might deserve a gig this year, but if that gig falls through due to circumstances out of your control — tough shit. Stay focused on the circumstances you can control and prepare for whatever’s next — development season, cable staffing, Subway sandwich artistry, etc.

Because, congratulations: You’re a writer, and the reason you’re good at it is because your life kinda sucks.

But I’m bitter! Very bitter!
—–

Yeah, duh. So am I. So are people who’ve had multiple shows on the air. Everyone’s bitter. We work in an industry where throngs of people pay dues for years and many of them never hit pay dirt. Where you’ll routinely see friends (and frenemies) become millionaires while you languish in your North Hollywood apartment, wondering how the hell you ended up with a size-38 waist. (Hint: It was all that Americone Dream.)

But here’s the thing: As long as the work is still fun, as long as you keep falling in love with your own ideas and other people seem to like them too, you owe it to yourself to keep at it. Enthusiasm is the antidote to bitterness.

In the spirit of self-help tomes, I feel like I need to leave on some sort of optimistic note. So here it is: Television writing is an asinine way to make a living and staffing season is its most hellish artifact. But if you can find a way to embrace the chaos, you’re only four hours away from having the career of your dreams!

From Greenlight back to page one

Education, First Person, International

Today’s First Person article comes from Australia via London. I chose it because it demonstrates an important point: you can’t pick the single moment at which you’ve “made it.”

Most screenwriting careers begin with fits and starts, sudden successes followed by dispiriting dry spells. It’s important to celebrate the small victories, but not overestimate their significance. They’re footholds. Use them to reach higher.

——–

first personfaerberMy name is John Ratchford. I’m a 27-year-old Australian writer, currently living in London. I’ve sold one script and had another optioned, but I consider myself a beginning writer. On Twitter, I’m @johnhratchford.

I grew up with three film loving older sisters and spent most of my childhood and early teens being exposed to their diverse taste in films. This wasn’t always a good thing: I’m not sure how many other Australian men can recite large chunks of dialogue from ‘Girls Just Want To Have Fun.’

Late teens I got a job at a cinema, and stayed there for four years, exploiting my free movie privileges to watch everything good, bad and indifferent. Although I’d always harboured creative writing aspirations, it wasn’t until I heard Shane Black speak at a ‘Kiss Kiss Bang Bang’ screening Q&A that I seriously thought about the idea of writing for film.

I became a bit of a screenwriting nerd, reading every book I could lay my hands on and trawling through the old ‘Ask a Filmmaker’ archives on IMDb.

My first effort was a teen comedy set in my home town of Canberra, and I posted several early drafts on Triggerstreet.com. The value of scriptwriting feedback sites like Triggerstreet is sometimes questioned by more experienced writers, but for a first timer from regional Australia the experience of getting feedback from aspiring US screenwriters was brilliant.

Three Triggerstreet-driven drafts later, I submitted my script to the Australian version of Project Greenlight, primarily to garner feedback from Australian readers. I got that and more when my script beat out 700 others to qualify for the top 8.

Suddenly at the age of 23, I was thrust into a reality TV competition with older and more experienced filmmakers for the prize of a $1 million film budget.

Project Greenlight
——-

The Australian version of Project Greenlight was structured as more of an Idol-style knockout competition rather than a documentary about the making of a film. We entered with feature scripts, and the winner would direct their feature, but in between the top eight entrants competed against each other by directing short film scripts contributed as part of a separate competition. Confused? Try competing in the thing.

I found myself in the surreal situation of now directing a short I didn’t write, juggling a cast and crew of twenty, including the late legendary Australia actor Charles ‘Bud’ Tingwell, and trying to hide my complete lack of experience from the seemingly omniscient reality TV crew.

The judges in the competition loved my feature script, but my short film directing skills were perfunctory at best. I made it through to the top 4, thanks largely I think to the goodwill generated by casting Bud Tingwell. I then had to make a second short, only this time the prospect of a $1 million prize was tantalisingly close.

The pressure was immense, and I felt like a bit of a fraud trying to direct someone else’s words again. I changed the short script significantly and now I’m a little bit older I recognise I did this in a way that was disrespectful to the original writer. Perhaps in a bit of karmic justice, this second short wasn’t as well received as the first and I was knocked out of the competition in the semi finals.

I was disappointed, but ultimately relieved. I want to write, not direct, and the pressure of playing ‘young aspiring director’ on reality TV was starting to take a bit of a toll. The eventual winners were writer/director team Kenn and Simon MacRae, who went onto to make a terrific film called ‘The View from Greenhaven,’ and Kenn is currently carving out a directing career in LA.

Post-Greenlight, one of the judges got in touch and asked if she could send my script onto a studio contact. I gratefully agreed. At the same time I’d read an article announcing another major studio was opening an Australian production arm. I googled the details for their Sydney office, gave them a call, and they asked me to send my script through.

Not sure you could pull that off in LA, but in Australia one of the benefits of having a comparatively small film industry is major studios and producers aren’t necessarily out of reach to unrepped writers.

While one studio mulled it over, the other made an offer. I didn’t have an agent, but used an entertainment lawyer and the Australian Writers Guild for assistance with the script sale.

Development
—–

Going from the comedown of losing in Project Greenlight to one of the most famous production companies in the world buying my script was some turnaround, and I couldn’t wait to leave my day job and start a writing career.

I’d heard horror stories about the notes process, but I found the studio notes were logical, constructive and ultimately improved the script. Everything seemed to be going so smoothly, I started indulging in day dreams of attending the red carpet premiere at the cinema I was working at only two years earlier. I ignored the fact my ex-employer was a suburban mall multiplex and any red carpet would have to wind its way up the escalators and through the food court.

There was another, bigger barrier to my red carpet fantasies: the development period. Just as things seemed to be moving, there would be a delay. That would be sorted out, then something else would stall proceedings. And again, and again. A more experienced writer would have understood a film is a massive undertaking, and delays are a natural part of the development process, but I was not an experienced writer, I was an impatient first timer watching his dream being put on hold.

It was a very strange time for me. I had the elation of the script sale balanced against the fact I was still working the same day job, and outside of emails and meetings, I didn’t have anything tangible to show for my success. I’d tried contacting a few Australian agents for assistance with my script sale, but got zero interest. I’m not sure if this was due to my lack of experience, or the fact most films in Australia are developed via government funding or financed independently –- it’s quite rare to sell a spec direct to a studio in the Australian context.

I did make some great contacts as a result of the script sale, and even got to go to LA to meet one of the higher ups from the parent company, who assured me my script would make a great film. I should have listened to the second part of what he said, which was the same thing everyone was saying: “So…what else do you have?”

The problem was I didn’t have anything. I’d been working on the assumption that once my script went into production things would just kind of fall into place. So I kept waiting.

It took about 18 months of waiting before I realised I needed to move on.

Now
—-

Last year I swallowed a bit of pride and applied to Film School, namely the Australian Film Television and Radio School. Past graduates include Alex Proyas, Rolf de Heer and Gillian Armstrong. If you’re an Australian and want to study film, it’s a pretty good place to be.

It felt a bit strange having sold a script, then going to film school, but any reticence I had fell away after the first class. It was so enjoyable being in an environment surrounded by other aspiring writers and being taught by film professionals, including Ross Grayson Bell (producer of Fight Club). It also helped me get away from the lottery winner mentality of having sold one script and waiting for the rewards, and I began building a body of work, completing two more features and an outline for a TV series.

For our final year of study, we’re required to work on a project with an industry mentor. I’ve relocated to London, and I’m currently learning from the wonderful television writer Dominic Minghella (Doc Martin, Robin Hood). He’s challenged me to try writing something a bit outside my comfort zone, and I’ve been really enjoying the process of working with an experienced professional writer.

Why London? Through my parents I’m eligible for a UK passport, and I chose London because it’s a bigger market than Australia. Just being here also acts as motivation: I came here to develop my writing career.

I’ve recently had a second feature optioned by a great independent producer who’s looking to package it for the US market. I have high hopes and I’m giving the rewrites my all, but this time I’ve also kept on writing and pushing forward on other projects at the same time. My first script is still in active development, and I’m also hopeful it’ll eventually become a finished film.

Between my two scripts and working with Dominic I feel like I’m on the right track. But I’m still working in a non-writing day job, and finding the time to write is a real slog, especially in a city as busy as London.

I think my next step from here is to find work writing for UK television. My goals are to be able pay my bills through writing, and have a job where I can focus on telling stories and improving as a writer. TV writing ticks both those boxes.

Long term I’d love to have a crack at LA, but for now I’ll settle for trying to find my way in London. Any advice your readers have would be very much appreciated, and if I can offer any advice in return, it would be to enjoy early success, but don’t let it become your only success.