In recent years various producers, agents, and other people with nice offices and access to free snacks have been voting on what Entertainment Weekly calls the "Hollywood equivalent of the Rookie of the Year Award" or what one producer described to me as the "D-girl Heisman". It's called the Black List. My working theory is that economic depressions must spark renewed interest in woodland creatures, otherwise I'm at a loss to explain how we ended up on top of it.
If you've been reading this blog for any length of time then you know how improbable this is. If you read the previous blog and saw the wayward and stupefying way that the script came together amid much angsty twin baking then you no doubt shared my feeling that the only lists I would top would be ones in gas station restrooms signifying who was responsible for their last cleaning.
I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't read the Black List in years past, then scrounged around for the scripts on it, and been inspired to imagine how awesome it would be to end up in such a spot. I have no idea what will happen to The Beaver in the future. My hopes are high, but we'll see. What I can say without reservation is that I never imagined more than ten people would try to read it, and of those, more than five would finish it. So starting with the sixth person who said they not only completed, but liked it, I've been pretty sky high.
I see the world in very simple terms. I'm a lucky idiot and the rest of you are geniuses. So while the value of being on the list is certainly debatable, the value of the kind and supportive words I've gotten from all of you as well as the people who put me there is not. I treasure them every time I clean that gas station bathroom.
