Franco is back, too.

I used to love Vanity Fair. I loved it for its richer-than-you, closeted-gayer-than-you, more bulimic-than-you attitude. But right now, I hate VF because the editors at this esteemed WASPY rag, have fallen under the Franco spell.

Here's what I mean. In March of 2010, Vanity Fair made fun of James Franco here. Less than a year later, however, the magazine published him here.

What the fu$%, Franco? What powers do you hold?

The book is back... sort of

I know this sounds made up—kind of like the loser in your math class who kept insisting he had a girlfriend in Oregon and oh yeah she's a model, check out this photo that, yes, was ripped out of a magazine, because he lost the original okaaay—but my friend Tobias who loves pizzalicious-flavoured Pringles and lives in Sweden asked to read my book the other day. I know. And it was totally out of the blue. Tobias, if you read this blog, please fill me in.

I wasn’t sure how to respond at first but it made me think about how things have both stalled and progressed since I wrote that godforsaken manuscript. While the book has been turned into a TV show (in my mind only) and while I’ve got another writing project on the go (I have 20 pages so far and I already want to quit), the book still burns a hole in my hard-drive. I have not forgotten about it. I couldn’t even if I tried.

But here’s the thing. I can tell myself it’s bad luck or bad timing or Can lit sucks for only so long. Once you’ve gotten as many rejections as I have and even your publishing contacts get you nowhere, it’s time to realize that maybe, just maybe, your book stinks. And I think it does. I re-read a bit of it the other day and I made this noise: eeeeewwwww.

It made me a bit sick to think that this was what I’d been putting out there. It made me think that a year from now a re-write would be necessary if for no other reason but the easing of my own creative conscience.

Again, as always, my mind veers back to this terrible but familiar question: when is giving up a good idea? Anyone?

New ideas and great pink slacks!

You know when you're at work and you're trying really hard not to cry because you checked your personal e-mail and you got bad news bad news that you hoped would be good news that would let you write for money what you wanted to write for once instead of press releases and don't misunderstand you're lucky to have a job in this economy and everything but come on you would never be let in to the VIP parties you write about because these kinds of people would never take the subway to work because they don't work not really or eat in a food court where you ate today reading a book about Writing the TV Drama because apparently you don't know $hit because the CBC rejected you?

Well, that was me last week. In case you couldn't keep up with the run-on, here's a picture that represents my state at the time:

Okay, the pants/shoes/shirt combo is amazing, I know, but I was actually really sad for a day or so. But that was last week. A lot can change in a week. Real things that matter can happen to people you really love and it puts everything small and stupid into perspective or if that's a bit too much to think about and you want to distract your sad away with something happy you wander downtown for a game with some friends and meet up with more friends still and you eat a gluten-free and vegan poutine and you hadn't had poutine in over a decade and you're from Ottawa which is practically Quebec where if poutine ran for Prime Minister he would win.

So this is me now:

As you can see, I am writing. And you can't tell here because of all of the opium I'd been smoking when this photo was taken, but I am actually smiling. Yeah, I know. Even I'm amazed.

Although my rejections are voluminous enough to fill a very chatty blog, I keep going. Perhaps it's my Persian roots, incredibly twisted spine, pointy breasts, or fabulous taste in headdresses but my love for writing cannot be quashed. In fact, my next project is not just any writing project, but the most rejection-prone writing project there is: the screenplay.

It's just a loose story so far. Five minor plots melted together with some cheesy characters and white bread with the crusts cut off and... I have no idea where that metaphor was going so clearly this project, like my others, is doomed. The other sign? The title:

Tennis with Strangers.

Yep. I think we all know where this one is headed:

Crap hell crap.

We have had a chance to read and discuss the material and I'm sorry to inform you that we will not be able to move your project forward for development. Although Avery is a strong protagonist and it is fun to watch her interact with Mike, the tone is a little too comedic for our 9pm slot and it skews too young for our desired demographics.

- CBC

I'm afraid of the CBC (and Americans)

Oh God. I just checked my inbox. The CBC wrote me back about the pilot. And I'm too scared to open the e-mail.

Here's the thing. My CBC attempt was never part of my original plans for my pilot. I never thought it would work for the edgy tone I wanted to exploit. I never thought it would find room next to Being Erica since it's also a bit fantastical. So instead of bothering to start caring about the CBC, I've always been all about HBO or Showtime. But suddenly, now that that email is sitting there in my Yahoo, I care very much about the CBC.

Oh balls. I need some good news. Really really really. Please send me your positive vibes. Please #2, send me your hard drugs.

The horror.

That's it! This is one insult to books too many! I'm officially retired. Heck, I'm not even going to bother to reformat this font. I. Just. Can't. Bear. It.