Survival Note Vol. 6

This isn't my diary, I promise

So much for one post a week. Getting a job will do that to you.
A lot has changed over the past few months.

Let’s fast forward a bit since I staggered every post by increments of weeks if not months. In other words, the timeline’s a mess and I don’t remember shit.
I do remember running low on savings, though.
Surviving off of one potato a day.
It’s the most affordable and satiating food out there, leave me alone.
Nothing a little garlic salt and onion powder can’t spruce up.
I even made fries, only when I wasn’t lazy.
Anyways, here we are.

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There’s a fine line between freelancing and being unemployed, I was teetering towards the latter.

“Just get a fucking day job like a normal human being,” I’d tell myself.

Except I was like,

“Naa, man. James Joyce chose booze over food because it lasts longer. Hemingway was drunk half the time to forget how hungry he was.”

The starving artist. Who the fuck am I to follow in their footsteps? I haven’t written “Ulysses,” yet. I haven’t earned the poverty points for a bottle. I gotta earn that whiskey.

So yeah, fast forward to July and I finally got a day job. Yes, I’m back to dialing in espresso and trying to make servable latte art. Quitting my last job was a statement, or that’s what I told myself anyway. I just needed a change of scenery.

Maybe, who knows.
A nice unpaid vacation at the very least.
It only cost my nourishment and dignity.

Things seem more pleasant in retrospect.
Now I miss waking up before the sun rose and writing till the barista kicked me out.

I’ve written a fuck ton. I’m pretty proud of that. I even started a Substack. Yes, this thing. I also edited some short stories from the pandemic times.

Yup, the good old pandemic days, back when the national guard was at my door and the streets were flooded with transients.
Perfect setting to get into my groove.
What the fuck else was I supposed to do?
It was a nice balance of serene silence and silent panic that got my gears moving. Enough of that.

Like a true connoisseur of roasted bean water, I was a barista once again.
Yeah, I ran out of money.

With my tail tucked between my legs I weighed out the perks.
Being a barista isn’t that bad, and having a job is kinda nice.

1. Free coffee

2. Free Wi-fi

3. My shift is over by 4p.m.

It’s like I never left. Except instead of annoying the baristas with my cranky, old-man temperament, I get to annoy customers with my cranky, old-man temperament.

I even get to wear those aprons that are deceptively complicated to tie on.
I remember the good old days.
Back when I was starry eyed barista.
Clipping pins on my apron like anyone gave a shit about the bands I’m into.

“Oh, you’ve never heard of Past Lives?”

No, nobody cares.
They’re called “flares,” okay?

Now my apron is just covered in sweat and milk. Yeah, imagine the smell of that.
I was down but not defeated.
Like Alex Murphy from Robocop, limbless and all, just not giving up on writing.

At least my new coworkers were cool. I started shooting the shit with them. You know, small talk. My favorite.
It’s not, but I try not to suck at it.

“So, what do you do?”

See, simple. I’m fortunate enough to work at an artsy coffee shop this time. My coworkers say:

“I play music.”
“I do make-up”
“I’m a screenwriter.

Pause there for a moment.

A fellow screenwriter?

“Hey… that’s the thing that I do!”

Let me preface by saying this: I can count on both hands the amount of friends I have and not all the fingers go up. None of them write, let alone screenwrite.

Me making a friend?
Hey, good shit universe, you’re looking out after all.

Because all the cold emails in the world didn’t help with my networking skills.
Yeah, I gave up on that a long time ago, I just try to make friends now.
Cause you know, it’s easier for me to give a shit about someone when I give a shit about them.

I’d rather say:

“My friend, the screenwriter, and I.”

Instead of:

“My colleague/business partner/associate, and I.”

Come on, I’ve got fingers waiting to go up.

This young aspiring screenwriter knew their shit. They actually went to school for it. No, not 4 months at UCB, like real film school.

“Hey, you know about UCB?”

I could have bought six hundred potatoes instead of taking classes, but hindsight is 20/20.

They told me about their side hustle: Screenplay Coverages.
I had no idea what they were talking about:

“Oh yeah, coverages, huh? That’s crazy.”

That’s how I small talk on a good day. Lucky for me, they have the sweetest of hearts and sent me some referrals.

“Take a crack at some big boy work, dummy.”

They didn’t say that, but that’s essentially what they said.

So screenplay coverages are like book reports. You read a script and you summarize it. You also give feedback on them. Some places want loglines like:

“A wacky couple of dudes yell at each other in a kitchen and Matty Matheson is there for some reason.”

Or they want comps like:

“A drama-comedy like Breaking Bad meets Cory in the House.”

So… Coverages, ey?

I thought real hard about it.

Can I do this?

I’ve never done this before.

Do I want to do this?

Am I good enough to get hired?

Fast forward to a month ago and I got the job. I still work at the coffee shop but now I got some extra potato funds with my new Coverage gig. I’m going to keep everything vague, because you know. I want to keep my job. NDA’s and shit, you know the drill.

Now I get to read 122 pages a day.

Look at me, bitching already.

Some say the journey is sweeter than the destination.

At least now I get paid to write.

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Written and owned by Ryan S.K.
All rights reserved.
Shared for the sake of it.
Open to gigs, collabs, or wherever this leads.