Judy's yoyo

Like stupid fucking buses

 

We’re getting close people.   There is light at the end of this bastard re-draft tunnel. Not close enough to be cracking the cerveza.  But certainly close enough to be cooling them.   Suffice it to say, the end is not just nigh, it’s downright adjacent.

In the meantime, and with five seconds of downtime, am compulsing myself to return to the story – the one that’s all about me.   Not me now though.  Me before.  

In the last installment we had left me having struck gold half way through the alphabet with my genius plan to call every production company in the Yellow Pages asking for work.  

So I shoved my interview attire in a rucksack, jumped on my trusty two wheeled steed and cycled like a bitch from SE1 to W11.   After a quick costume change in a tiny cubicle at a local tavern, I entered the establishment and proceeded to seduce the shit out of the two lady manager bosses.   Though not in a sexy way of course, I’d been around the filthy block enough by then to know that would not be appropriate interview decorum. 

They were a small outfit, just the two of them.  They repped a few directors and specialized in music videos.   One of them was an old time producer who’d been in and around the industry for years – and remarkable as her career had been thus far (McCartney, Genesis, INXS), I was most impressed by her admission that she was the one who went to Tescos and bought the chickens for Peter Gabriel’s ‘Sledgehammer’ video. 

And anyone who knows me knows I’ve been in love with Peter Gabriel since I accidently saw him playing Wembley in nineteen ninety twelve. Similarly anyone who knows me, knows how I feel about chicken!  So right there, that was two of my boxes ticked already.

They were looking for a full time production assistant / office manager.  Someone to PA on the jobs as they came in and manage the office in the meantime.  To this day I still don’t know exactly which of the skills I’d amassed up to that point they saw as being transferable.   Five years at the  Circus certainly didn’t qualify me any more than a year caption operating in cable TV obscurity did.  

But I was uber enthusiastic.

And super passionate.

And ultra willing.

(If not quite able). 

Plus I loved both Peter Gabriel and chicken.

And, I could type.

I could transfer the crap out of that one. 

So I spent the next forty minutes convincing them that they were desperately seeking me.  Then I jumped back on the steed, cycled the eight miles back to SE1 and waited for the goddamn-mother-fucking-bastard-bastard phone to ring.

Which of course, it didn’t.  And didn’t.  And didn’t.  Until it did.  

But when it did, it wasn’t quite the call I was expecting.  Because a couple of weeks earlier I’d applied and interviewed for a caption operating job with Sky TV.  Though I knew I’d nailed the interview, I also knew I was so incredibly under qualified that there wasn’t a chance in devil dwelling hell that I’d get it.  

In fact, I was so convinced I was nowhere near who they were looking for, I’d forgotten all about it until the phone rang and the lovely lady said they wanted me.   And it was about half an hour after I accepted that career changing job that the stupid phone rang again and the music video ladies offered me their career changing job.  

So in the space of thirty minutes I’d gone from: 

“Ring you bastard”.  To…

“That’s great, I’ll take it”.  To…

“That’s great, can I let you know?”.  To…

CRAP!   What the Meryl-Streep-in-Sophie’s-Choice hell was I gonna do now?

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

Objective Perspective

So Thorsten and I are still splashing and thrashing around with our re-draft.   Which isn’t quite as sexy as it might sound.   It’s a little weird actually as, for the first time, we’re implementing changes for people with money.  And though we know they’re changes for the best, we still find ourselves struggling to make them. 

Problem is that we’re just too in love with our characters.   Feels unnatural to be moving them ‘over here’ when they’ve been ‘over there’ for so damn long.  But you make that move, carry on for a bit then come back only to find you can’t fucking find them anymore because where you expect them to be is where they were not where they are.  If that makes any sense!

It’s annoying and it’s tricky and has a tendency to lead to subconscious self sabotage occasionally. And sometimes we just want to snuggle up in the comfort of everything we know we know so well.  But that’s definitely nothing that I signed up for.   

Comfort may be comfortable.

And warm.  

And reassuring.

But it’s not unique.

Or different. 

Or dangerous.

I didn’t come here to be safe.

I came here to be brave.

Those boundaries aren’t going to push themselves now are they?

On the other hand it’s not like we weren’t expecting any of this.   We’ve known for a while that, solid and strong as the last draft was, there was still one last level it had to reach.  So we got out of the water and submerged ourselves in other stuff.  Put the fucker down and looked over there for a while.    

And it sucks like a bitch because whenever I’m at that stage it absolutely kills me to put it down.  Even if I’m putting it down to concentrate on something else ultra uber important.  And even if that other something else was a $20m movie with an A list cast shooting in frigging Bora Bora…  

…even then, some part of me would still feel that by putting it down I’m giving up.  Embracing defeat.  Hoisting myself by my own stupid petard!  

What I can never see at the time is that it’s all part of the process.  That you have to look over there to get back here.  T and I could never do then what we’re doing now.  We were just too damn close to have any kind of objective perspective.   

And as ready as we felt WE were and IT was the last time around -- it wasn’t and we weren’t.   

So what makes us think this time is any different?  If we thought we were there before but we weren’t, how do we know we are now?  

Well, we don’t.  But we BELIEVE. 

In it.

In us.

In the process.

In the struggle.

In the sacrifice.

In the journey.

And the dream.

And that right there -- that’s what’s going to take us where we’re going.

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

Where for art I?

I tell you what, I’m only sat at this keyboard with absolutely no idea what I’m going to write about.

Usually I have a vague idea.  Starts off here, veers off over there, somehow winds its way back to the point eventually.

Not today though.  Got no frigging clue where I’m going with this.  Just know that it’s been a while since I blogged and I’m genetically programmed to feel guilty about such things (Goldberg – hello!).

So after fifteen minutes, two cigarettes and one trip to the bathroom later I still find myself topically challenged and have decided to just…start writing some shit and…go with it.

Look at me going with it!

It’s not so much writers block – have been typing block free all day.  No, it’s definitely not that.  Oww, actually I just this second had a lovely revelation!!  That whole topically challenged thing two sentences ago – that’s totally not true at all.  I thought it was (two sentences ago), but it’s not.  I’m totally topic-tastic right now.  That’s the frigging problem right there.  Got too much shit to talk about.

Admittedly it has been a bit of a dumbass stupid crazy week.  Full of stuff that was completely un-planned, provoked and wanted.  At the same time, it’s been a pretty damn cool week.  Full of surprises, breakthroughs, progress and puppies (I wish!).

So when I sat my guilty ass down half an hour ago and went to that place in my head that looks at the choices and makes the decisions, I couldn’t even get there.  Seriously there were so many options flying around I just kind of stalled.  The brain completely refused to compute.  

And I don’t mean this to sound at all “look at me with so much to write about that I don’t know what to write about”.   Honestly (and this says more about me than it does about you), in one way or another, I’ve talked so much about this shit already that I’m bored stupid of most of it now.   

Having said that, I’m reminded of two valuable pieces of advice imparted to me by my wise and learned mother:

1.    Just drink your way through it.

2.    When you can’t see the shit for the flies – RECAP!

And yes I might be misquoting but you know what mum, sometimes it’s not so much what you actually say, as what I choose to want to hear!  

Moving on and in the spirit of a good recap, this week I:

* Put down something uber important for something even more so.

* Was cast out of the ridiculously cheap, stupidly awesome Ealing Penthouse.

* Moved to Stockwell for two days.

* Dropped the uber important a second time.

* Drove over 300 miles (not all in one go)

* Moved to Clapham for two days.

* Closed the ‘least likely to close’ deal on the project I can’t talk about yet.

* Got frustrating yet fabulous feedback on the project I can’t talk about yet.

* Started writing the crap out of the new draft of the project I talk about all the time.

* Moved to my mum’s in Hampshire for a week to finish the new draft.

* Cooked a lovely roast chicken.

Look at that, we’re all caught up.   I knew if I just started typing something would happen.  Though it occurs to me that I have just spent a significant amount of time blogging about (seemingly) not having anything to blog about.   

I promise it wont happen again.

Or at least that, next time it does, I’ll just drink my way through it. 

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

Plan B

You know when you have a full day planned full of things you need to do?   And suddenly, the night before, a bunch of other stuff comes up which you run through your ‘importance radar’ only to find it takes precedence?

That totally happened to me today. 

Had a lovely day of writing planned.  Planned and, more importantly, prepped for a long time.   And last night I was very much ahead of the game – indeed, I had fingers and thumbs flying with wild abandon all over the keyboard.   QUERTY McSHMERTEY you might say (if you were a drunken Scottish typist).

Then I got a text.

An important text.

Not even from a friend.

Much more than that.

A relative.

Who is a friend.

Which is kind of rare these days.

So I dropped everything.  And I’m so very glad that I did.  Because, although everything else is critical, this was more so. And though I woke up tired and not in the mood it didn’t matter because there was something more important to do.  

And long esoteric story short, I got to go hang out with my cousin who’s really really not well at the moment but WILL get better.  And it’s only taken many long busy years but I finally got to meet his awesome eight year old son who is so beautiful and so much smarter than me at that age I want to slap someone in the face!

Two beautiful boys.  To whom I’m both related.  That more than kind of takes precedence.  

My other point being that, as prepped as it was, my day did not turn out as planned and I’m so glad that it didn’t.  I lost some valuable writing time on something uber important.  But I’ll make it up.  

Have actually been making it up all day.  Getting up, getting my shite together, driving the car to the place, driving back from the place.   Lots of using the left side of my brain to focus on the mundane – the changing of the gears, the steering of the wheel…and so on and so forth.  

And all that time utilizing the left side totally freed up the right side to focus on the not so mundane.  The downright McCreative you might say.  It’s the yo-yo principle coming into play again.  So when…

Excel isn’t behaving the way you want it to.

Step away and bounce a ball against a wall.

OR

There’s many words to type but the brain wont engage with the fingers.

Step away and bounce a ball against a wall.

OR

There's five thousand English things to do and no time to do them. 

Step the hell away and bounce a ball against a fricking wall.

And if you find, like I did today, that all of this shit happens all at once.  Then use the time you have in cars or buses or tubes to think about the important stuff you should be doing en route to the uber important stuff you are doing.

Doesn’t have to be wasted time in transit.  Time away from the keyboard can be just as productive so long as you take the time to use it.

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

It's not what it looks like...

Because while at first glance it might look like I'm either:

Having a really bad day or...

Hearing some really bad news or...

Really regretting that stop at Dixy-Lixy-Finger-Lickin-Tasty-Fried-Chicken...

OR…

Being probed up the anal.

By space aliens.

From space.

While it might look like either/all of the above, it's actually neither or.  On the contrary I've had a pretty good Wednesday.  A Fabulous Wednesday in fact.  Which was preceded by a cracking Monday and (excuse me while I channel my inner Thorsten) an uber awesome Tuesday.  

And speaking of German folk, the script revision with Mr T is going exceptionally well.  Indeed we’re knee deep, thigh high and getting all sorts of dirty rolling around in it right now.  And though we have an end of October deadline looming, mark my words, we’re gonna loom the shit out of it!

On the other side of the spectrum, Chris and I made huge leaps and bounds today with the “oh my god, can we talk about it yet already?” project for the Hollywoods.   Great news indeed.  But great news that we still can’t fricking talk about just yet forcryingoutloud!

And as lovely, fabulous, smashing and uber delicious as this all sounds – the question remains:

Why the hell are you looking like that?  

You had a good day right?

Several actually?

Consecutively.

All in a row.

So what’s the frigging problem?

No problem really.  Except that, in one way or another, I’ve been here many many times before.  Be it waiting for the letter to hit the mat in 1997, or the email to arrive in 2001, or the cell phone to ring in 2004.  

Point being that I’ve been through it enough times in so many different guises and mediums to know that no matter how close you appear to be and have been assured that you actually are…

…BELIEVE IT WHEN YOU’RE ON THE PLANE!  

Because that’s the point when you know it’s actually real.  Though I’ve since revised that theory and now chosen to:  ‘BELIEVE IT WHEN I’M AT THE WRAP PARTY!  Such is the nature of this fabulously silly stupid business that we’ve chosen to dedicate our lives to.   

Forget family, friends, fun, love, sleep, self and choice.  

No time for any of that.  It’s just what we do.  Because we have to.  It’s hard, it hurts, it’s a bastard struggle and most of the time it feels impossible.  But we still do it.  Because there isn’t a choice.  

Could be worse though.

Could be being probed up the anal.

By a space alien.

From space.

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

I'm just a bicycle!

And no, not in ‘that’ way.  Not to say that I haven’t had my dirty-slut-ridden-like-a-bike share of moments.  Hell I lived in a flat with three gay men a hop, skip and a mince  away from Soho – safe to say that I’ve done my dirty slut time!   

But I’m getting off topic and my mum is reading sooooo … EVERYONE LOOK AT THE LOVELY PUPPY!

Ah-hem.  

But back to the story.  The one all about me and how I came to be here.  Last time I blogged of such things I had gotten my foot in a film industry adjacent door only to have my skinny white ass very much spanked by it on the way out.

So what to do now?  I’d had enough of a taste to know that I wasn’t going back to the circus or any such similar establishment.  Though my CV was somewhat more appropriate for media related endeavors, I soon discovered that one six month caption operating gig does not a caption operator make.  

Yes I could caption operate the shit out of that show.  But ONLY that show.  And that wasn’t enough to get me through another door.  And though I got sidetracked for a good couple of months trying, I always knew that I was having my ass spanked by the wrong doors.  TV had given me a lovely taste of something uber tasty but for me ‘delicious’ was always going to dwell elsewhere.

So there I was, 27 years of age.  Old enough to know better and still young enough to do it.  But the question still remained (and if I had a nickel for everytime I’d asked it, I really wouldn’t have to ask any more) – How the hell to get to Hollywood?

NOTE:  At this point in the story I’m compelled to point out that this was 1997 and, though the internet had just about arrived, it was not yet then what it is now.  Certainly not to me and the girl in my bed with whom I’d just committed all of our joint disposable income for the foreseeable future into the flat we’d just bought.  

So with no other resources available to me I picked up the Yellow Pages and got on a bike. Very much in that order but not at all at the same time.  Literally, that’s all it took.  I opened the Yellow Pages, found Film Production Companies and started dialing.  Sounds simple.  It was and it wasn’t.  

Half the time the companies were too small to need anyone.  Half the time they were too big to let the receptionist put you through.  Half the time they didn’t exist anymore.  And the other half of the time (and YES I know these numbers don’t compute, I do that a lot!), they weren’t Film Companies at all.  And while we’re on the subject, if anyone has any posters in urgent need of framing I can highly recommend ‘Hasty Pictures’ (look them up). 

It’s kind of weird because when I look back now and tell this story, that whole process took the best part of an afternoon.  But honestly I think maybe my brain has done some weird memory changing thing because, in reality,  I’m sure it took a lot longer.  Maybe two afternoons.  Or three.  All I know is that:

I picked up the book.

And made a commitment.  

Fuck all the bitchy bored receptionists.

And all the messages that didn’t get returned.

And the letters that didn’t get answered.

Fuck them all!  

I was on a mission and I wasn't going to stop!

Until I got to the letter 'G' that is...  

When someone picked up the phone and ‘yes’ they were a production company and ‘yes’ they oddly did actually need someone and ‘yes’ fax us your CV and ‘yes’ we’d really like to meet you.

And holy frigging crap!  "Honey, where’s my A-Z and can I borrow your bike?”

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

Something's coming

Okay so I’m bored of writing about all the writing I’ve got to do now.  Especially given that, thus far, the writing process hasn’t so much involved typing words with my hands as speaking words with my mouth.  A little frustrating but just part of the process.  

Meantime, in a very decadent fashion that I’m rather unaccustomed to, I suddenly find myself with a whole hour to get through before I jump on the Skype and straight back into the raft with Thorsten.  That’s right people one whole English hour.  With which to do with what?   

First off I thought it prudent to spend ten or fifteen minutes contemplating the myriad of time wasting activities I could embark upon.  It is, after all, Friday night in London town so in theory I should be very much spoilt for choice.  

Upon reflection however, I have surmised that there are three key considerations to factor into this decision:

1.  Unless you have the luxury of jet-pack travel and/or a zone one post code (ahh, I miss you NW1) it pretty much takes an hour to get from A-to-Z in London.

2.  With only an hour to kill/spare I am pretty much confined to activities exclusively impromptu in nature.   And I can tell you right now that that’s just NOT going to happen.  How can I be so sure?  Because my vast London knowledge and experience has repeatedly shown that spontaneity – if it’s going to be successful – generally requires lots of forethought and planning.  

NOTE:  And anyone who’s ever crashed out of work after a bastard day in the office in desperate need of a short notice drink will back me up here.  Same as anyone who ever decided to “go with the flow and see what happens on the night” after getting fucked off with all those bars, clubs and pubs who announce their cover charges for new years eve in October.  You know who you are people and you know it didn’t end well!

3.  Accepting that the first two points here rule out anything not pre-planned within a one mile radius, my options are pretty much restricted to ‘local’.  And local requires two things – local venues to venture to and local colleagues and/or friends to venture into them with.   Of which I have neither.  

So to summarize:

It’s Friday night.

I’ve got an hour to squander.

But the laws of physics, geography and social standing dictate that…

There’s nowhere to play.

And no-one to play with.

(Certainly not without getting into trouble!)

So I ask you what the hell is a girl supposed to do with an unexpected hour in London town on a Friday night? Seriously – any and all suggestions requested, welcomed and embraced.

In the meantime, I shall write a blog about the subtle art of procrastination, avoidance and misdirection.  

That should kill a bit of time!

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

What's missing from this picture?

My sexy new desk that’s what.   And I’m not best pleased about it I can tell you. Furious you might say. Livid even. Because apparently I have bought the only piece of furniture from IKEA that doesn’t self assemble itself with an allen key.

And why do I need a sexy new desk?  Because, even though Room 224 has treated me very well (I shall miss you old friend!), it turned out that she was just too rich for my blood.  So I have made the somewhat contradictory transition to a delicious £2,000 English pounds a month luxury penthouse apartment in Ealing.  

But hang on just a minute.

Those numbers surely don’t compute.

That is correct.

I have transitioned way beyond my means.

Or have I?

Well, yes and no.  Yes I am dwelling in this place.  And I’m dwelling in this place for a reason.  A reason not unlike the one I had for dwelling in Room 224 for one too many nights not quite WAY beyond my means but certainly my means adjacent.    The reason being that:

I HAVE MORE WORDS TO TYPE.

This time though, it’s not for the ultra-super-confidential-can’t-talk-about-it-until-everything-is-locked-down-thing for the Hollywoods.  This time it’s the passion project that Thorsten and I wrote and have been getting off the ground for the last year or so.   

He and I put it away for about five minutes while we did some other very important stuff and then, wouldn’t you know it, about five minutes later and right in the middle of all that potentially life changing stuff last week, it came back.  And it came back big.  Like, really big.  

So now we’re on the verge of diving straight back into a tough revision with a bastard deadline.  Suffice it to say that for the next three weeks we are going to be about this and nothing else.  Mainly it'll involve:  

Lots of research.

Lots of Skype.

Lots of talking.

Lots of thinking.

Lots of typing.

Lots of late nights and…

….without a doubt, a whole bunch of fights.  

But that’s okay, we’ve actually gotten quite good at the whole fighting thing.  Mainly because we’ve done it so often now that we can recognize instantly when we’re actually fighting about something ‘real’ or whether we’re just so frigging tired that we’re really only fighting because we’re cranky.  

But I have digressed.  I started off talking about this stupidly awesome apartment I’m staying in.  And let there be no mistake, it is AWESOME.  Stupidly so.  

But, as ever, there is a rub.  And it belongs to me.  Because though I am here at a ridiculously reduced rate that borders on the free, I am only here until the lovely French lady who has just moved out finds a couple of sickeningly wealthy others who can afford this bitch.

And when she does, I’d love to meet them.  And marry them both, then divorce the shit out of them, then live in their lovely Ealing Penthouse for free, for….ever!

And while I’ve never claimed to be a professional, corporate, number crunching, statistician even I know that those odds are profoundly against me.   But, you know, I’m not dumb, I’ve got a back-up plan.  I shall start by self assembling my sexy new desk, sitting down and writing a kick ass script.  

Might need a little more than a yo-yo for that.

A phillips screwdriver for example.

Breaking hearts, savings lives,

Judy

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

Pulling focus

 

So anyone who’s been reading Chris’ blog knows how we went from one (at the time) very important thing to another potentially life changing thing in the jingle of a ringtone.

And anyone who’s been reading Chris’ blog knows how it turned out so no need for me to rehash the story.  I have my own perspective of course but it’s nowhere near as exciting as his.  Though both our ‘journeys’ that week did conclude pretty much the same way - sleeping for a solid 24 hours that were very much NOT scheduled to be slept through.

Safe to say that we’ve both been up and down like a (dare I say it again) yo-yo.  And not just physically and emotionally - our attention and focus has been pulled every which way too.  And it’s kind of a weird place to be because what is ultra super important one minute is forgotten the next - like a bad one night stand the second you're out the door.

Maybe not quite the right analogy when what I’m actually referring to are multi million dollar projects.  But that’s why it’s so bizarre, and inconceivable, and just plain stupid.   Obviously it’s not such a bad place to be, it’s just a frigging weird place to be.  

The day, for example, that Chris went into the most important interview of his life, we prepped the shit out of that bitch in Starbucks all morning then I had to excuse myself to go and meet with one of the real life actual people we’re aquiring the life rights for on the (as yet unannounced, thus still confidential) true story we’re writing for the Hollywoods.  

All ultra critical stuff which, if it doesn’t go well could send everything more than tits up.  And yet at the time we were all “What was that other super important thing we had to do?” and then we were all “Ok, you go have the most important meeting of your career thus far and I’ll go do this other thing”.

Then throw in the guys who recently read and fell in love with the script Thorsten and I wrote and are producing which Chris will direct and suddenly we’ve got more budgets, schedules, treatments, options and redrafts flying around that I care to mention or can begin to think about.  Suffice it to say that if you need me I'll be in room 224!

So, to recap - it’s a pretty damn good place to be.  Without a doubt a thousand times more preferable than the one I was in a year ago (that’ll come later and it’s not pretty!).  But what the hell do you do:

When it’s all happening at once.

And it’s everything you’ve dreamed of.

And it’s all super-ultra-critically important.

And demands your absolute commitment.

And unfaltered focus.

Which is physically impossible.

Because those numbers don’t compute.

When it’s not just one, it’s three.

What the hell do you do then?  I tell you what I’m gonna do --- pick up my yo-yo, open my laptop and sleep for 24 hrs….(though not necessarily in that order).

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy 

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

Voulez vouz duvet avec moi?

Okay so my estimated two days writing has predictably turned into four.  Didn’t help that, with the luxury of a lovely Travelodge bed, I managed to sleep through the first 24 of my 48.  Which translates to an additional £120 which translates to...CRAP!

Seriously though I didn’t think that was possible.  But it is.  I did it.  And, of course, woke up in a disgusting self induced ‘I’ve only got one day to do all my work now’ panic.   

But, long story short, I sucked it up, knuckled down and wrote the shit out of the second draft of that bastard treatment.  Panic over!   But now it’s Monday evening rather than Saturday evening, I'm £240 down rather than £120 and I’m in room 320 rather than 224 so everything’s back to front and upside-frigging-down and I’m more than a little bit out of whack.  

However, as I slowly wind down from the panic.

And allow myself to relax.

The dust begins to settle.

The confusion starts to clear.

And with perfect clarity, I reach a conclusion.

Or come to a realization.

Or have an epiphany.

Or maybe all three.  

Or maybe none.

Or maybe - Shut up!  Everyone just shut up!

Okay, maybe I’m not as unconfused as I thought I was but one thing I can tell you for sure (and I can not stress this enough so I shall write it in big letters) is that: 

BEDS ARE LOVELY!

Let me elaborate.  I have not slept in a proper bed since I was in Los Angeles nearly two years ago.  Yes I’ve had tiny single beds or an occasional visit to a lovely hotel.  But right now and for the last three months I have been couch surfing like an eighteen-year-old-back-packing-hostel-loving-hasn’t-got-a proper-job-and-doesn’t-want-one yet-student.

Except clearly I am none of those things.  Plus I’ve got long legs. Really long legs. That need a lot of space. Look, there they are on my bed, taking up all that space.  Which is, of course, the one thing you don’t get a lot of on a couch. 

And no disrespect to my lovely flatmate Pete who’s couch it is that I surf on every night.  I know he gets it – he’s got even longer legs than me.

But what’s all this got to do with film making or writing?  Oh, only EVERYTHING!  Because lovely beds translate to lovely sleep and lovely sleep translates to a lovely clear head…with which to write and make films.  

I’m telling you.

That’s all you need.

Is a lovely bed.

A lovely yo-yo shaped bed!

Breaking hearts, saving lives,

Judy 

judy@lobster-snyder-productions.com

PS:  I was right there with Chris last week and he’s killing me too with his fabulously infuriating cliffhangers.  I know what happens and I still wanna know what happens...