This is Brad. The sun is shining on him finally, literally and figuratively.
About 18 years ago, when we worked together at Turner Broadcasting, I noticed that Brad was dismantling his bulky personal computer and loading it on to a shopping cart and bringing it home each night. It is about then that Brad and I became friends, when I realized that this man had a dream, and I'm a sucker for a person with a dream. Turns out Brad was writing screenplays--in fact, after the next two years, he had written nine of them.
About then, with the ink on the ninth screenplay barely dry, he and I went to a work-related conference on the Upper East Side of New York City. I was knee-deep in my first novel by then (with three more to come, plus a work of nonfiction, all still unpublished). We sat in this claustrophobic room while brand managers from various companies presented their big exciting new products and their supposedly-innovative sales promotion plans to support the products' rollouts. Brad and I were in hell. Neither of us wanted to be there, and the day got more and more painful until finally there was the presentation that almost did us both in.
A brand manager proudly proclaimed that he was in charge of charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar. We both slumped deeper into our uncomfortable metal chairs, a look of "just slay me now" impossible to conceal across our faces.
We broke for lunch, thank goodness, right after that, and Brad and I couldn't get out onto Madison Avenue faster. Within moments, we found our way into a charming bookstore. And then, as luck would have it, it happened. Right there, on the left in the back, we ran into the famous playwright, Neil Simon. We said stupid things, yet felt alive again and that dreams were indeed achievable in a world of charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar.
No less than 20 times these past many years, at particularly tough times on the journey, Brad has emailed me, "What was it again that guy was hawking?" and each time I emailed back the simple words, "Charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar." That's all it took to refuel his dream, to remind him of that chance encounter with Neil Simon and how it felt to think that anything was possible.
A few years ago, Brad wrote a memoir about his years of trying to sell his screenplays, which I read in draft form and have waited patiently to see published, which it
was just a couple weeks ago. Brad is ruthless and clever and resourceful and unyieldingly hopeful (and
funny ), through numerous corporate downsizings, the breakup of his marriage, and more personal trauma and tragedies than even make it into the book. He secures agents, leaves no stone unturned in Hollywood, and actually gets closer to his dream than anyone ever would have imagined. Most importantly, he believes in himself throughout it all, and his faith shines through.
I have pursued many things over these years, and when they haven't worked out, I have asked myself, in all honesty, have I tried as hard as Brad? Most times I haven't, as trying as hard as Brad means harder than most people ever try at anything.
And so, if you have a dream, really, any dream at all, I encourage you to read this book (
Open Field Running, by Brad Catherman) and ask yourself how hard you are really trying. Perhaps Brad has not received the Oscar he covets so much just yet (but I did give him charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar!), but after reading his book, it's hard not to believe that that is still a distinct possibility in the future.
We met at the same restaurant where we have been meeting for 15 years the other day, and for the first time, Brad didn't have a plan, a set of schemes for promoting the new book, a list of 100 Ways to Get The Book into the Hands of Hollywood Big Wigs.
"I'm trying something new," he told me. "I'm going to just see what happens now."
The food was sort of unmemorable, the service disappointing, the desserts relegated to a cheapo plastic menu rather than presented on a tray the way they had been for all these years, although we still got one piece of cheesecake (New York-style) and two forks.
"Maybe we should go somewhere new," I suggested for our next lunch, which, in all likelihood, if history is any indicator, won't happen for another year.
Perhaps when
my book is published. Something new. Something FoodShed Planet-related. And perhaps I'll finally deserve my own charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar.
But I'm going to have to work much, much harder. Because dreams are worth it. Aren't they?
This is Brad. The sun is shining on him finally, literally and figuratively.
About 18 years ago, when we worked together at Turner Broadcasting, I noticed that Brad was dismantling his bulky personal computer and loading it on to a shopping cart and bringing it home each night. It is about then that Brad and I became friends, when I realized that this man had a dream, and I'm a sucker for a person with a dream. Turns out Brad was writing screenplays--in fact, after the next two years, he had written nine of them.
About then, with the ink on the ninth screenplay barely dry, he and I went to a work-related conference on the Upper East Side of New York City. I was knee-deep in my first novel by then (with three more to come, plus a work of nonfiction, all still unpublished). We sat in this claustrophobic room while brand managers from various companies presented their big exciting new products and their supposedly-innovative sales promotion plans to support the products' rollouts. Brad and I were in hell. Neither of us wanted to be there, and the day got more and more painful until finally there was the presentation that almost did us both in.
A brand manager proudly proclaimed that he was in charge of charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar. We both slumped deeper into our uncomfortable metal chairs, a look of "just slay me now" impossible to conceal across our faces.
We broke for lunch, thank goodness, right after that, and Brad and I couldn't get out onto Madison Avenue faster. Within moments, we found our way into a charming bookstore. And then, as luck would have it, it happened. Right there, on the left in the back, we ran into the famous playwright, Neil Simon. We said stupid things, yet felt alive again and that dreams were indeed achievable in a world of charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar.
No less than 20 times these past many years, at particularly tough times on the journey, Brad has emailed me, "What was it again that guy was hawking?" and each time I emailed back the simple words, "Charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar." That's all it took to refuel his dream, to remind him of that chance encounter with Neil Simon and how it felt to think that anything was possible.
A few years ago, Brad wrote a memoir about his years of trying to sell his screenplays, which I read in draft form and have waited patiently to see published, which it was just a couple weeks ago. Brad is ruthless and clever and resourceful and unyieldingly hopeful (and funny ), through numerous corporate downsizings, the breakup of his marriage, and more personal trauma and tragedies than even make it into the book. He secures agents, leaves no stone unturned in Hollywood, and actually gets closer to his dream than anyone ever would have imagined. Most importantly, he believes in himself throughout it all, and his faith shines through.
I have pursued many things over these years, and when they haven't worked out, I have asked myself, in all honesty, have I tried as hard as Brad? Most times I haven't, as trying as hard as Brad means harder than most people ever try at anything.
And so, if you have a dream, really, any dream at all, I encourage you to read this book ( Open Field Running, by Brad Catherman) and ask yourself how hard you are really trying. Perhaps Brad has not received the Oscar he covets so much just yet (but I did give him charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar!), but after reading his book, it's hard not to believe that that is still a distinct possibility in the future.
We met at the same restaurant where we have been meeting for 15 years the other day, and for the first time, Brad didn't have a plan, a set of schemes for promoting the new book, a list of 100 Ways to Get The Book into the Hands of Hollywood Big Wigs.
The food was sort of unmemorable, the service disappointing, the desserts relegated to a cheapo plastic menu rather than presented on a tray the way they had been for all these years, although we still got one piece of cheesecake (New York-style) and two forks.
"Maybe we should go somewhere new," I suggested for our next lunch, which, in all likelihood, if history is any indicator, won't happen for another year.
Perhaps when my book is published. Something new. Something FoodShed Planet-related. And perhaps I'll finally deserve my own charcoal briquettes and cleaning vinegar.
But I'm going to have to work much, much harder. Because dreams are worth it. Aren't they?