What Happens Next?

I don't know. But I imagine it isn't linear and clear. There's a zig-zag of interest among agents, producers, maybe an older actor — male or female. Calling on you, Susan Sarandon. Jean Smart. Glenn Close. And the men — Michael Keaton. Richard Dreyfuss. Jeff Bridges. Harrison Ford. Sorry, not that old.

Then maybe some rewriting based on who's interested. Maybe the characters need to be a little younger. A little older. Maybe not Pittsburgh, and they want Ducatis instead. Who knows.

What goes on in my imagination? Magic. A director. An art director. A music supervisor. A million PAs and tons of those Haddads trucks — they're based near here. And the BMW club gets involved, and band mates, and bars and churches, and all kinds of fun stuff to begin a long process of making a vision of people seem as real as possible. Real enough so that you want to know them, you want to walk in their shoes, you root for them like they're your best friends. It would be amazing to see.

Am I banking on it? Expecting it? Praying? I don't know. But as they say, you never know.

What a wise man told me a long time ago — and then again recently — was just: finish it. Get it done. A finished screenplay, book, novel, song, or poem is something that doesn't happen every day or for everyone. Any of them can be rewritten, edited, re-imagined, and totally revised. But the first time you are finished, you have completed the act of creating characters, feelings, events, and relationships out of thin air that then seem so real to you that you can't imagine anyone else not loving them in the same way.

That's not nothing. And if nothing else ever happens with this script, you've got to know these characters and they can inhabit your mind for the rest of your life. And that, again — not nothing. A special thing. Really.

Thanks to the spirit of creation, as it has been unstoppable since humans — and maybe pre-humans — walked the dirty dust of earth.