In late January my face was planted on asphalt, warm blood spreading on the cold surface. In March my old yellow cycling jacket said au revoir, safety pins would hold it together for another four weeks before a new one arrived.
Blue stitches and safety pins, holding a life together — at least the image of a one.
Way back in September I knew this was going to happen. I couldn’t articulate — emotions and thoughts the stickiest of cinnamon buns — but a storm was coming, After eighteen years in Vancouver I made a commitment to waterproof, I would ride the rain through fall and winter. Something had to give, to break, to snap.
An apocalyptic piss fest followed.
I applied to the Sundance International Writers Lab in early spring, piss fest still going, acknowledging my chances of acceptance as a non-director and a Canadian were slim, then the twig snapped.
The application process made me think like a director; it was natural to express my artistic vision, even if it came off as pretentious, because, well, I’m not a director.
I’m not a director — a check box I had ticked over and over again.
After pressing submit, it was as if months of sodden bike riding had worn down the fibres of the box I had put myself in, it no longer held. My hunched shoulders were exposed, an epiphany sprung.
In Glass Houses young Cathy too has an epiphany, when magic hits. Like myself she has put herself in a box.
I’ve loved Glass Houses since I first read it. Nuanced and thematically resonant, Jenni Prange Boran’s script leapt to mind when epiphany struck. I know what to do with it. I want to make a great film. I want to make this film.
Thoughts sprung to making a feature, Glass Houses is the first step.
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