Cold Metal in my Hand

I'm not sure who's more dispiriting to talk to on the phone right now—my dad or my agent.

My film agent called me around 11:30 last night, to wish me a happy new year and to let me know that my theater agent is jumping ship to CAA. (That's an entirely new can of worms I'll need to deal with, but I won't go into that right now.) Business details aside, we began to engage in the awkward sort of business associates palaver that is made to preserve (or instill) the illusion of a greater friendship.

He spoke of being back in the office since the new year, and how quiet and depressing it's been. Feeling pity for my agent is a distinctly unpleasant sensation, particularly when I've barely gotten to work with him in any capacity.

I mentioned that I might have something new for him to read sometime next week. (In fact, before he called, I'd had a really decent night of writing.) This seemed to bolster his spirits, and he talked about packaging the script with a director so that it might be ready to go out to production companies once the strike ends.

The call ended with the promise to talk again soon. The world seeming more fragile and precarious than before the call started.