MY SPEECH FOR THE OSCARS
I have a confession to make. I’m even more of a movie fan than a book fan. Tried to write films, found it very hard, wrote books, also found it hard but had a bit of luck and so I am now a writer of books. But since I was little, the dream I’ve had is not a Booker dream, it’s an Oscar dream. I’ve written my acceptance speech. It’s moving and hilarious. I forget to thank my husband.
So I am dying to see one of my books make it onto the big screen. Two of them are in active development, which means producers and directors and writers and sales agents and casting directors are working on it in an active way, and money is involved. This is the opposite of inactive development, which means hell.
I’m excited. The energy is there. The will is there. Most importantly, the relationships are working. Let me explain...
In film development, the writer (of course) is the centre of everything.
The writer has a mother - The agent - the one who sticks up for you when other people put you down, who says, “Of course it’s fantastic!” or “It’s just because they’re jealous.”
The writer has a father - The publisher - who goes all quiet when he’s disappointed in you.
And the writer has a lover - The producer - whose company drives you wild with excitement, who sends you inscrutable emails, spends unhurried afternoons with you, and whispers nothing of the other writers in their life.
With my two projects, all these relationships are in place, and buzzing with the right energy.
Years ago I’d be out buying the Oscar dress. After watching my husband go through this process for seventeen years, and going through it myself for eleven, I know that I should not order my silk gown from H & M yet.
The best piece of advice I have ever had was from a heavyweight Australian director. Sitting in a cafe on Bondi beach, he said to me: “Helen, in this business, don’t expect anything, ever.” We’d spent the day fine-tuning the fourth draft of my first ever screenplay. I laughed and clinked glasses, fully expecting our next meeting would be on the red carpet.
We never met again.
So here I am, eleven years later, with a hot-shot writer/director working away on Dead Lovely, and my husband preparing to send off The Devil’s Staircase to the various producers and sale agents involved.
Am I expecting anything?
Shit yeah.
