Pot roast , chardonnay and the Oscars

Tonight we'll be going to L&L to watch the Oscars (no Psychiatrist games or Desperate Housewives tonight) on their huge TV; it's not one of those attached to the wall, slim as a rail, jobbies, but its got surround sound that causes one's arse to lift off the sofa when the volume's too loud. I'm not sure which I'm looking forward to most, the actual Oscars or the Pot roast--probably the latter.

After I'd written A Son Called Gabriel, being the naive fellow I was at the time and like many writers I suspect, I had visions of my novel being rapidly snapped up and transformed into an excellent script, even envisioned myself writing the 110 page (must absolutely come in at 110 pages or less and lots of white spaces on the pages)thing and sauntering off to Hollywood to collect my Oscar, blah, blah, blah.

Of course, it didn't occur to me that Hollywood people rarely look at literary fiction for new material and, to boot, it probably didn't help that it has Irish themes when the film version of Angela's Ashes wasn't a runaway success a few years ago. It's currently with an independent film company somewhere in Ireland, though I must say they're taking their time getting back to my agent. I suspect they haven't cracked the cover yet or, more likely, are skittish because part of the plot involves the young protagonist struggling with his sexuality as he matures.

Regarding that fly in the ointment, I was dead scared when my publicist started sending review copies off to the Irish press and radio, etc. I really thought they'd have my butt for breakfast, lunch and dinner but, judging by its reception, I have been tremendously encouraged by how much Irish attitudes have changed and matured. It's not so very long ago that James Joyce (and no, I'm not comparing myself to him as a writer so please don't go there)left Ireland because of the Catholic Church and, ergo, Ireland's attitude toward sex--read 'dirty but necessary'. That, thankfully is not the case today, at least not in the Irish Republic. One book review in Irish Connections Magazine--though it was so late in coming, I lost my nerve and lapsed back to paranoia--lavished much praise, but their greatest compliment was that the work deals with a subject overlooked in Irish literature.

So eventually, I'm bound to hear something from that film company in Ireland, but in the meantime, I'm not waiting for them because I know, I just know, they'll be skittish. In any event, I think now it'll make a far better play, so I jolly well think I'll send a copy off to Kevin Spacey at his theater in London to see what he thinks.

[technorati: Oscars, Kevin Spacey, Irish magazines, Irish films]