The season is coming to end and we don't know if we're going to be renewed; ratings are great, but the exchange rate with the distant country where we shoot is bad and the economics may not work out of the studio. The really brave me would tell my wife "honey, rein in everything, fire the housekeeper, cancel the gardener, do your yoga at home, forget that wedding we were going to go to in Bordeaux, tell the kids they'll have to apply for loans for school, I'm going to follow my crazy heart right now."
But I'm not going to do that.
I'm going to start a round of meetings on television shows that I don't watch, meetings in which I will be smart and charming and breezy and funny and insightful and cool and, like Scarlett O'Hara visiting Rhett all dressed up in mama's curtains, acting like a job is the last thing I need in the whole wide world.
Why?
I don't know. I am.
Maybe because I'm not brave.
Or maybe because I'm honest, and know that the truest thing Hemingway ever wrote was a tossed-away line (as if anything in Hemingway is ever tossed-away) in The Snows Of Kilimanjaro (and I'm paraphrasing, because I don't have the book at hand): "What you do for a living is what you do for a living."
Maybe because I like it.
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