2023: A Working Screenwriter's Year in Review

On surviving a hellacious year

Well, guys, we made it.

First, naked honesty: this year kinda sucked. For me, at least. Maybe it was better for you?

The good news: it wasn’t all bad!

But we’ll take that as it comes. Let’s do this.

JANUARY

If you read my 2022 roundup, you may remember that my father got very sick in December.

To wit: my elderly father falls at the grocery store a few days before his Christmas visit to see us. This triggers a trip to the emergency room, where he gets the flu. The flu fucks him up so badly that he has to be hospitalized again a few days later, this time for swelling around his heart. The swelling around his heart triggers a heart attack. The heart attack screws up his kidneys. He requires a blood transfusion, and there is a complication, which leads to him vomiting blood, which leads to an emergency procedure, and so on, and so on.

His health issues consume my January. A few days after the New Year, once I’m over COVID, I fly to Dallas. There, I spend several days with him as he recovers in a nursing rehab.

The trip is mostly about me trying to convince him to move to Santa Monica. The goal is to find a Medicaid-approved assisted living facility for him, until I make it big as a screenwriter - or make it medium as a screenwriter, whatever - and can afford a bigger place so he can live with us. (Our two bedrooms are already bursting at the seams, and he can’t navigate stairs.)

I’m so close! Only one more big paycheck or several small paychecks away!

I manage to find a holy grail that ticks all the boxes. Score.

Thanks, but no thanks. He says he wants to stay put.

While he naps in nursing rehab, I spend time in his room on the phone with the producer and director of HUGE LITERALLY LIFE CHANGING FANTASY TV SHOW. It’s based on my favorite show as a kid and is an iconic piece of IP that everybody who grew up in the 80s knows. My director from last summer’s BIOPIC REWRITE loved my work so much she brought me in to pitch. I can’t whiff this opportunity. As my dad sleeps and nurses bustle in and out, the producers and I do a notes call.

Back home in LA, I meet a new potential producer for BUZZY BIOPIC at Soho House Malibu. It feels weird to be lunching and chatting while my dad is so sick, but I make the best of it. She’s interested in producing and can bring along a certain B-list actress with A-list name recognition.

I also pitch HARD-R-COMEDY FEATURE, an OWA opportunity that sprang up out of nowhere, with financing, a big director, and a studio all ready to go. I think the producers hate my take, but it turns out they like it. One note: can I gender swap it and repitch?

FEBRUARY

The first week of February is nuts. Everybody knows the maybe? strike is looming, so the industry is a runaway train.

Follow-up meeting with SUSPENSE IP FEATURE actress. I pitch her my changes, as previously discussed late last year.

I never hear from her or the producers again. Hollywood! :jazz hands:

Remember last December (refresher here), how I had a meeting with one of the biggest showrunners on TV, about joining his ACTION DRAMA mini-room starring iconic actor? I didn’t get that job - but! During the interview, I divulged that my father had been a [redacted] for my entire childhood and has some crazy stories. As it turns out, the showrunner wants to make another ACTION SHOW for his streamer. Would I be interested in creating it?

Um, yes. Yes, I would. We meet again to flesh ideas out. This insane opportunity has just - plop - landed square in my lap.

Meeting with an up-and-coming director who loves BUZZY BIOPIC and wants to do it. I think she’s awesome and let my reps know.

Development work on pilot for MY TV SHOW, set-up with a huge streamer.

Over in Texas, my father has another bout of severe chest pains. Back to the hospital. It’s not a heart attack, per se, but his health is not doing great. I call the assisted living facility near me: do they still have a bed? They do. But they can’t hold it for long.

I mobilize.

I talk some sense into my dad and instruct him to pack. He will be leaving on a 6 am flight the day after tomorrow, moving to California permanently. We ARGO him out of there, literally unsure if he will survive the flight.

He survives the flight.

I pick him up at the airport, take him back to my place, and then - as he naps next to me - spend all day calling various government offices before taking him to the Emergency Room minutes before end-of-day at 5 pm.

The goal is a series of precisely timed bureaucratic steps to work with the system and avoid the worst-case-scenario of him permanently living on our couch as a fall risk with stairs to the bathroom and two messy tornado-like kids. No stress. Easy peasy. Very fun time.

We are only at February 10th.

A few days later, I pitch HUGE LITERALLY LIFE CHANGING FANTASY TV SHOW to a Zoom screen stuffed with about 15 different producers, studio execs, streamer development execs, and VPs in their Brady Bunch windows.

The pitch goes amazing. Flawless. I’m on fire! I’ve never done better! This job is miiiine.

Two days later, it’s my dad’s hospital graduation day. He’s being transferred to a nursing rehab around the corner: not exactly the Four Seasons, but it will (PLEASE BABY JESUS) be his conduit into assisted living. I’m in his hospital room, helping him prepare, when I get a phone call from my manager and agents. You know, one of those, “We have X, Y, and Z on the phone for you, please hold,” calls that makes your heart flutter.

I got the job!!!

My agent congratulates me and says literally everybody in Hollywood was up for this job…and I got it. As I hang up, my dad looks at me expectantly. I give him the huge news. He is so, so proud. I feel on top of the world.

Assuming I don’t fuck this up, this show is definitely getting made and will be very high-profile. It will completely upend my life for several years (current discussion is opening a production office in Iceland for at least a year, maybe 18 months) but with the money after it airs, I’ll finally be able to afford a down payment, move my dad in, maybe even start saving for college. I briefly worry about who will take care of my dad if I’m gone, but we’ll cross that bridge later.

A few minutes later, the ambulance arrives to take my dad to nursing rehab. There, he begins to recover…and then promptly gets COVID for the first time.

The next few weeks are a mind-numbing but HUGELY STRESSFUL amount of tap dancing, phone calls, PPE visits, and documentation while he slowly battles COVID and I try to navigate the labyrinthine elder care system to keep my father from falling through the cracks.

(PS: If you are reading this and your parents are still alive: please please please make sure they have concrete and actionable plans in place for when they get really sick and/or really old. Elder care is hugely expensive and massively stressful and it will absolutely consume your life unless your parents are rich or uberprepared and it is a tsunami coming for both our generation and our economy at large that almost nobody talks about.)

MARCH

T-minus two months until the maybe? strike might happen. Because I’ve never run a TV show before (hell, my only staffing has been in a micro-room with just me and the showrunner writing TV SHOW FOR A HUGE STREAMER), they want to pair me with a supervisor ASAP.

Commence a very surreal period where I’m fielding incoming submissions from big-name showrunners of everybody’s favorite shows, wading through pilot scripts and bios, and trading lists with my agent, the streamer, and the director/producer. Two weeks ago, none of these showrunners had any clue I existed, and now I’M hiring THEM? Bizarro world.

We narrow it down to a shortlist of candidates and I begin meeting with them in my spare time, when I am not donning hazmat PPE to visit my dad at rehab around the corner.

Thanks to my persistent phone calls, we battled government bureaucracy and won!!! A few days later, we move him into the assisted living facility, which miraculously still has a bed. I cannot believe we made it work. He’s too weak to walk much, so I drive him around the neighborhood, looking at the beach, Montana, and all the huge houses on Georgina, where I fantasize about living one day.

We begin a routine where I pick him up every day and he hangs out in the living room for hours watching CNN, drinking coffee, and gently dozing under his favorite blanket. When his energy can sustain it, we do field trips. He becomes besties with my youngest, who is almost three, calls him Papa, and loves him to the moon. It is both stressful and wildly lovely.

Dinner with up-and-coming director about BUZZY BIOPIC. I really like her and, once again, let my reps know.

Speaking of BUZZY BIOPIC, all of a sudden, two big producers are interested - first is an Academy Award-nominated powerhouse, who’s also just a cool person. Second producer is a prestige, Sundance, Independent Spirit winner. The first producer and I clicked last year during a general and have been looking for something to do together, so we go with her. She hears that A-LIST DIRECTOR loved my script and wants to do it. She’ll chase.

Another meeting with the team about ACTION SHOW.

More development edits on TV SHOW FOR A HUGE STREAMER, plus a meeting with BIOPIC REWRITE producers about the next feature they want me to write for them: a heist-y, character-forward ACTION DRAMA.

Rewrites on pilot for MY TV SHOW, based on the streamer’s latest development notes. I know there’s nowhere else to go after this latest round. I’ve incorporated all of their notes and the pilot is in phenomenal shape. The next time I hear from them, it’s gonna be a greenlight or a pass. No whammies!

Dad goes back into the hospital. His kidneys are starting to give out: stage 3 kidney disease is progressing, and apparently he still has pneumonia? He’s out a few days later.

I end the month with a phone call from the HUGE LITERALLY LIFE CHANGING FANTASY TV SHOW people. The streamer loves me. Seriously, I am amazing. But they don’t love my pilot pitch. Am I open to notes before we lock things down with a contract? In an ideal world, the new supervisor and I could put our heads together?

Yes, of course. Anything you want.

I repitch gender-swapped HARD-R-COMEDY FEATURE to the producers. Once again, I think they hate it. Once again, they apparently like it. They want to take me to the studio. It’s between me and another pitch, Thunderdoming to the death, winner take all.

APRIL

More showrunner calls and meetings. I meet one in person and love her. The producers and director like her, but are less certain. Meep.

I pitch HARD-R-COMEDY FEATURE to the studio. It goes great!!! The executive, I shit you not, cries at the end of my pitch. They laugh! They cry! So they…hopefully choose me? We shall see. This one would mean a big paycheck (probably after the strike, but still) and my first produced feature credit. I want it bad.

Development VP for MY TV SHOW emails - she can’t wait to read my pilot.

BUZZY BIOPIC producer drops out. People love the script but have [buzzy subject] fatigue, so might be best to revisit in five years. Shrug emoji.

Dad is in the hospital again. Luckily, it’s only a few blocks away, so I walk over in the mornings and my husband walks over in the evenings. Once again, he’s out a handful of days later. This time, it’s his COPD, and that damn pneumonia. Plus the kidneys. Oh, and his heart.

Commencement on ANOTHER BIOPIC REWRITE! Wait, not so fast. The meeting is postponed. And then postponed again. I need this meeting to happen before May 1st, so I can get paid.

I meet with yet another showrunner at Shutters on the Beach. You probably follow her on Twitter, and she is warm and funny and completely puts me at ease. No notes. I want her. Let’s do this.

Lots of driving my dad to various doctors.

Producer for MY TV SHOW calls. Development VP read the pilot and is currently getting internal reads. Sit tight.

Finally: commencement on ANOTHER BIOPIC REWRITE! Wait, not so fast, again. I’m officially not getting paid before the strike.

MAY

Strike in 3…2…1…

May 1st is a flurry of calls and texts and meetings. Everybody is flipping the fuck out trying to tie up loose ends before the strike begins.

I have a two-hour long coffee with HUGE LITERALLY LIFE CHANGING FANTASY TV SHOW producer discussing the nuts and bolts of how my life will change, what it’s like having two young kids and having to be away on set for long periods at a time, and whether I should move the entire family to the production location with me, let the supervisor handle set, or fly back and forth. Has she locked down my favorite showrunner? Not yet, not enough time for due diligence. They’ll do it after the strike. We bid each other a fond farewell and promise to see each other on the other side.

I take my dad to Palisades Village to walk around and get coffee. While sitting outside, MY TV SHOW producer calls. Huge streamer is gonna pass. Boo.

However! That afternoon, my book agent emails. Would I be interested in a paid GHOSTWRITING OPPORTUNITY? The timing of this is like a gift from heaven. I can’t work on any scripts during the strike, so you bet your ass I’m gonna pivot back to books.

At 9 pm on May 1st, three hours before the strike starts, my feature agent calls about HARD-R-COMEDY FEATURE. Did I get the job?!? It’s sort of good news, sort of bad.

The good news is that they liked my take best. So, I kind of got the job?

Bad news is they want to wait and see how the strike shakes out. Soooo, talk soon!

And now we’re striking.

The rest of the month is more doctor appointments for my dad, time on the picket line (shout out to Fox and Amazon!), signing on for the paid GHOSTWRITING OPPORTUNITY, and finishing my next book.

JUNE

Best month of the year. The kids finish school and we go to my happy place for two weeks.

It is the first time in fifteen years I don’t work on vacation. It’s glorious.

I worry about my dad while I’m gone, but he’s okay!

Any news on the strike ending? he asks. No. No news.

JULY

More picketing.

My husband has surgery…and the same day, my dad goes back to the hospital. They’re at two different hospitals in Santa Monica, so I leave one hospital, walk home to kiss the kids and say hi to the sitter, and then walk to the other hospital. My dad is there about every three weeks now. Spends a few days there, they get him back to baseline, and then he goes home refreshed…until he falls off a cliff once again.

On a notes call with my literary agent about my latest book, I mention a future idea - and she flips her shit. Write that, she says, breathless. I can sell the hell out of that. So I pivot, shelve the book I’ve been writing for a year, and start this other book instead.

Some fun outings with my dad, who is feeling better. We go to my eldest’s musical performance (where he chats with Alan Ruck!) and to Century City to see Oppenheimer (where he chats with Oliver Stone!).

Any news on the strike ending? he asks again. Nope. Still no news.

AUGUST

Back to the hospital, like clockwork.

This time, my dad is stuck in a bed at the ER for three days, waiting for a room. (The hospital is bursting at the seams: summer COVID and god knows what else.) I visit him like usual, and we have an incredible few hours together. He’s telling me stories about my grandfather, about my great-grandfather, about his time in [redacted], about the political tapestry of the Middle East, about my mom. It’s one of the best conversations we’ve ever had.

A social worker stops by to ask if my dad has a living will. She gives me the paperwork. On a whim, I decide to record my dad’s last wishes. He makes a very funny video: when he dies, he wants to be buried in California, not in that godawful state of Texas. It’s so my dad.

The next morning, I call him. I’m gonna have lunch with my cousin in town from London (his sister’s son) and then visit him this afternoon. He says great: he finally got moved out of the ER into a real room. But he threw up this morning and feels awful. He’s gonna nap.

We’re at In-n-Out with my cousin when the phone rings. It’s the hospital. My dad has aspirated and been moved to Intensive Care. Don’t worry, he should be fine. He’s sleeping, medicated, and on breathing treatments, and just needs to get stable. I call him again: he’s not answering. (Well, duh, he’s sleeping.)

It just so happens we have a playdate scheduled, two friends we’re introducing because they will be going to school together next year. Should we cancel? I decide to stop by the park quickly, facilitate the introduction, and then go to the hospital.

While at the park, the phone rings again. It’s the Intensive Care doctor. My dad has taken a turn. Get there now.

We race to the hospital, where I first bring my eldest daughter upstairs, then swap so my husband can see him. (The littlest is too young to come up.) My cousin visits him, too. My dad is weak but talking. They’re pumping him with a different medicine that might make him better. Either way, he’s not scared. When it’s his time, it’s his time.

If that’s today, so be it.

A couple of hours later, a doctor takes me aside. The medicine isn’t working. He’s going into septic shock. His oxygen and blood pressure are dropping, breathing is difficult, and his organs are shutting down. He has refused further interventions.

We should pivot to palliative care.

We call the family, putting him on FaceTime with aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings. I call our babysitter to watch the kids so my husband can join me. I feed him ice chips and pat his head and tell him I love him as the nurses make him comfortable. He says I love you to my daughters and drifts to sleep. Once the sitter arrives, my husband hurries from our place to the hospital.

Ten minutes after my husband enters the room, my dad dies.

We are in shock.

It sounds crazypants bananas insane to say it comes as a surprise because of how goddamn poor his health has been, but we are knocked off our feet by the grief and surprise. Despite his acceptance of his own mortality, for us, it didn’t feel like his time yet.

We bury him in California, not in that godawful state of Texas, just like he asked.

Ten days later, we are broken into. 0 of 10. Do not recommend.

SEPTEMBER

I’m in complete fog because of my dad’s death. I write his obituary and spend time driving around Santa Monica sobbing while listening to Frank Sinatra and Charles Aznavour.

Bright side! My youngest finally starts full-day school, which is life changing. For the first time since 2014, I have my days back. I could totally get my nails done. Or write for eight hours uninterrupted. Or drive around Santa Monica sobbing while listening to Frank Sinatra and Charles Aznavour.

I put my dad’s favorite blanket on the couch next to me during the day, so it feels like he’s still with us.

Life goes on.

And then!! The WGA reaches a tentative agreement to end the strike. Commence a flurry of phone calls and texts. I wish my dad had lived to see it.

Just for funsies, a pipe in our building breaks, and sewage flows into our place. Management lazily Band-Aids the issue.

A few days later, it happens again. Another broken pipe. More sewage everywhere. They capitulate and actually fix the damn thing.

We could…use a break, universe?

Nah. I get COVID. (Again.)

OCTOBER

We’re back!!! Kind of.

Everybody is in limbo. Nobody is really sure what’s going on. Reps are shocked nobody wrote anything - the flood of anticipated spec scripts is barely a trickle.

HARD-R-COMEDY FEATURE executive got let go in wake of the strike. So that movie is dead.

I have a phone call with ACTION DRAMA producers. A killer actress (with A+ name recognition) wants to produce and star…but she’d like to see a script first. Possible? Absolutely. I promise them a draft in six weeks.

Separate phone calls with HUGE LITERALLY LIFE CHANGING FANTASY TV SHOW producer and director. They’re awaiting their marching orders from the streamer but are eager to get started. Have we locked down my supervisor? No, not yet. Sit tight…

October 7th happens, and the war begins. I reach out to Jewish and Palestinian loved ones, checking in. Everybody is scared. Everybody is heartbroken. I cry and read the news. Read the news and cry some more. I wish desperately my dad were still alive. He grew up in the region and always had a thoughtful, empathetic perspective.

I rewrite my ACTION SHOW pitch from scratch and pitch it to the producers. It’s insanely timely, and they love it. They want to take it to the streamer immediately. Now?? Yes, now.

We pitch it to the streamer: the same executives who bought MY TV SHOW in the room! Fate!

We commence ANOTHER BIOPIC REWRITE - finally - and I get paid.

Oh, and our dishwasher breaks and our girls’ bathtub breaks and my car breaks and now there is a hole in our ceiling and the world is falling apart and everybody is devastated and everything is falling to shit hahahaaaaaaaaa

NOVEMBER

My rep calls.

I lost HUGE LITERALLY LIFE CHANGING FANTASY TV SHOW.

The streamer is reevaluating everything because of the strike. Rather than stepping back, they want the show to be an even bigger priority. This show is going to be massive. Naturally, they want a creator who doesn’t need a supervisor, who can shepherd this on their own. What can I say? It sucks, and I get it. (Honestly, I was half expecting it.) I spend a weekend licking my wounds before having a very sincere phone call with the producer, wishing her Godspeed. I will be watching and cheering them on.

I hear from the producer of MY TV SHOW. After our streamer passed the day before the strike, she’d like to repitch it elsewhere…but next year. Nobody’s really buying now.

However! She has another opportunity for me: a MUSIC BIOPIC REWRITE. Interested? Hell, yeah. I whip up a take, pitch it to her a couple weeks later, and she love love loves it. She’s gonna discuss with the director and get back to me. It’s between me and one or two other writers.

I almost finish my spec for ACTION DRAMA producers, but am reconsidering the ending. I’ll revisit after Thanksgiving.

After getting paid for ANOTHER BIOPIC REWRITE, I am finally a full, Current Member of the WGA!!

That’s right, despite all the excitement of the past couple of years — despite the A-list attachments, the Academy Award-winning producers, the showrunners and directors vouching for me and inviting me into beloved projects, the OWAs won and pitches sold, despite even qualifying for health insurance — I didn’t officially bank enough points to kick up from Associate.

I do not get the MUSIC BIOPIC REWRITE. Dislike.

Streamer passes on ACTION SHOW. Double dislike.

Thanksgiving is my 10-year wedding anniversary. My husband and I have a tough conversation about the state of the industry and my future as a screenwriter. Is this what success looks like?

Dishwasher still broken. Hole still gaping in the ceiling. Bathtub still leaking. Car still in the shop. World on fire.

Grief permeates.

DECEMBER

And here we are, ’tis the damn season. I feel very battered by this motherfucker of a year!!!!

Personally, it was rough. I continue to fear and despair reading the news. I miss my dad so much. FWIW, there’s still a hole in our ceiling and we haven’t had a dishwasher in six weeks.

Professionally, I’m actively working and there are many bright spots on the horizon, to be fair, but the industry (and the world) feels wildly uncertain. Nobody knows what the next 12 months might look like.

I’m a hopeful person by nature: tomorrow is another day, chin up, and other cliches as well! But this was a brutal one - not just because of my dad and our personal struggles, but for the industry, American society, humanity, and the world at large. Is next year going to be better? I don’t know. The realist in me says…probably not?

I focus on what little I can control, on connection and empathy and being present for the people I love. The name of the game these days - trite but true - is gratitude. Perspective.

Then I think, is that even helpful? It’s not just about my little circle. I think a lot about the Overview Effect, and trauma responses, and simultaneous truths, and how there is more that unites us than divides us. Focusing on the humanity of strangers feels more vital than ever.

So here’s where I’m currently at: stories help us connect. They help us make sense of the world. They matter. And not in a boring “eat your vegetables if you know what’s good for you, kid!” way. Entertainment matters. Joy matters.

Maybe you had a good year. Maybe you’re disheartened, scared, tired. Maybe you’re simply wondering where the hell we go from here.

As I was writing this, I received an end-of-year email from my girls’ school that resonated:

‘Even—or especially—in this dark time when world events beyond our control may diminish our joy, we can cultivate meaning and purpose.

I’m encouraged by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ reflection on optimism versus hope: “Optimism and hope are not the same. Optimism is the belief that the world is changing for the better; hope is the belief that, together, we can make the world better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It needs no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to hope.”’

Y’all, I can’t help but cling to hope.

I wish you and yours excellent health. If you’re a fellow writer, I wish you a responsive agent, and a bestselling book that you write and adapt yourself to control the IP, and A-list attachments, and robust financing, and an EP credit, and a produced screenplay, and all of the awards, and people who reach out to say “holy shit, that was amazing, MORE, please.” Most of all, I wish you safety and joy and peace. Here’s to us making a better 2024 together.

xo, Nadine