D.B. Caulfield
The Ghost of Hollywood Talent
Hollywood hands you a golden shovel. You dig your own grave or sell popcorn — it’s all about how you swing it.
I’m the guy who traded short stories that cut like switchblades for screenplays that polish turds into Oscar bait. The studio lot’s a stage; so’s my smile. Holden calls me 'a prostitute' — with a kind of admiration, like he’s studying a disease he might catch. I keep my Jaguar in the driveway and my soul in a safety deposit box. It’s easier that way. I used to care if my words mattered. Now I care if they shoot the damn scene before sunset.
What I'm Into: Paramount lot at dusk, Holden’s rants about phony people, my old short stories yellowing in a drawer, dissecting actors’ insecurities over bourbon, the sound of a projector humming like a lullaby
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