Time to Run Away to the Greek Islands.
There’s an affable man sitting opposite me. He’s smiling. Because, like I say, he’s affable.
My husband is beside me. We’re not looking at each other because we don’t want our nerves to coalesce into a wobbly jelly-mould of crippling anxiety.
Actually, that’s not true. All the nerves on the table are mine. Although maybe my husband is just better at hiding his.
He should be, though. Because he’s been in this spot more times than I have. His stage fright may have had time to evolve into a healthy case of adrenaline-fuelled performance anxiety. I’m still at the “shitting myself” stage.
We’re all dressed casually for the Melbourne cold and nursing lattes as we wait for the affable man’s Sydney-based head of drama to join us via Zoom.
You see, the man sitting across from us is the head honcho and founder of one of the country’s most influential and successful production companies. You have definitely seen one of the many, many things he has brought to screen over the past twenty years.
And today’s the day my husband and I find out whether the story we’ve been working on for the past two years lives or dies.
Because the affable man sitting opposite us is the one who decides whether to switch off the life support system, or whether to give our show another suck of oxygen.
Here’s where the fun begins. And I can’t wait to drag you along on the crazy ride with me. Because I’m going to pull back the curtain and show you how things really work in the dream factory.
It’s not a masterclass, exactly. Because I sure as hell ain’t no master. But it is going to be a real-time account of my journey as we try to get this thing off the ground. It may flop in a matter of months. We might get to ride the rollercoaster for a year or two, only to have it topple off the track when it looks like we’re getting somewhere. Or it may be a blazing hit. I’ve no fucking idea.
One thing I can promise you… it won’t be boring. And you’ll learn some things along the way that will make you look at what you see on screen in a completely different way. As I fly along, I’ll probably make passing mention of something you’d like to know more about. So, don’t be a stranger. Jump into the comments and I’ll answer your questions to the best of my ability.
Today, I’ll be speaking in abstracts. I can’t tell you exactly what our project is yet or name the people I’m speaking about.
That will come in time. For now, the most valuable professional currency I have is the idea my husband and I have been holding close to our chest.
It’s at a critical point. Because the most closely guarded thing in the film and TV industry is information. Real information. Not the smoke and mirrors that permeate this madhouse.
I mean, it shouldn’t come as any surprise. This industry is all about creating illusions.
Often, the biggest illusion of all is making it appear that something is going to be big. It’s going to be huge. It’s going to be an absolute blockbuster. Until it isn’t.
The genius screenwriter, William Goldman (of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid fame), put it best in the title of his book, “Which Lie Did I Tell?”
It goes a little something like this. Word gets out that a script is being read by a big star. Because that big star is tight with a legendary director, they’re apparently on board as well. So, now other big stars are lining up, and broadcasters or distributors are sniffing around.
Until they’re not. And possibly, never were. Because something as ephemeral as mentioning a project in passing to Cate, Russell, or Pedro at a gala or awards ceremony is used to whip up interest in a project.
“Hey, Russell, great to see you mate, how’s it going?”
“Cool, yeah. You?”
“Yeah, good mate. Actually, I’ve got something that’s perfect for you. A dad… ex-Marine… estranged from his daughter. She falls in with a drug syndicate. He has to save her. Think Taken meets Ozark.”
“Yeah, nice. Call my agent.”
That becomes “we’re speaking to Russell about this.”
You see, getting a screen production off the ground is building a house of cards on a beanbag, using fairy dust as mortar.
Without them, nothing gets made.
Like me before I stumbled into this business, you’ve probably wondered at the banks of people lined up behind the dais as the best film is presented at the Oscars each year. Sure, there are the cast members. But what about all the others? The ones who, without the Manolo Blahniks, Harry Winston diamond chokers, and Hugo Boss tuxedos, wouldn’t look out of place lining up for a ticket at the local cineplex.
Most of those are producers. And that’s what’s brought my husband and me to this place today. We need someone to take our project on and work with us to get it to the next stage.
Two years ago, my husband and I had an idea for a TV series.
Most of all, it’s personal. Fire in the belly stuff. Nothing is more important than that if you’re planning to commit to a project that might end up tying you up for years.
We sat with the concept for a bit and batted around general thoughts about what it might be, before deciding it was viable enough to work up what’s called a “two-pager” to take out to producers. That means a short (yes, two pages or so) pitch document summarising our show.
Just two pages (we ended up at four) sounds like a doddle, doesn’t it? Insert me laughing fit to burst at that. It’s almost the most difficult part of the whole process.
We had to start by mapping out all aspects of our series. Who are the characters? What is the narrative arc? What is the so-called “inciting incident”— the event that upends the protagonist’s life and sets them off in pursuit of that thing that would be the climax of the story? What does our series look like… what are the “comps” — the productions ours could be compared to?
Because at this stage, there’s nobody telling you what you can and can’t do. That comes later. At this early stage, it’s all just throwing shit at a wall and seeing what sticks.
That said, throughout the process, front of mind for both of us were the things that would make the show a less viable prospect for the people with their hands on the purse strings at the broadcasters and networks. A concept that relies too heavily on expensive production elements, no matter how brilliant that concept is, will always struggle to find a taker unless you’re already at a point in your career where international (and by that, I mean American) companies are throwing money at you (Taylor Sheridan, I’m looking at you).
My husband, Andrew Anastasios, has been working at a high level as a screenwriter in TV and film production for years, so he knows the red flags producers are looking for. Some of them are obvious — stunt heavy stories, for example. Others are not — who knew airport scenes are incredibly expensive?
I’ll be outlining more of these surprising handbrakes on production in later instalments. Suffice to say here, more often than you realise, what you see on screen is dictated by financial constraints. It’s lovely to think that creative vision will win in the end. But what frequently ends up happening is that it’s a compromise between the creatives and the people who must pay the bills.
Back to the here and now, and the man Andrew and I are waiting with is one of those people. He’s also someone who respects the creative process and is known for backing the writers who work with him.
It’s why we’ve approached him with our story.
I digress. Which is my schtick. But back to our two-pager.
Why just two pages?
Producers are busy people with constant demands on their time and notoriously short attention spans. It’s why the so-called “elevator pitch” is so important. You’ve got to be able to summarise your project in the time available to you when the Hollywood gods smile on you and you find yourself in an elevator with someone who can make your show happen.
You’ve got a bit longer than that when it comes to the written form. That’s where the two-pager comes into play. It’s the baited line you throw into the water to see if you can hook a big fish or two.
The most important parts of the document are the first three things on the page: the title, the logline, and the short synopsis.
Coming up with a title is, for me, the most fraught part of the entire process. The same is true of the books I’ve written. 80,000 words novel? Piece of piss easy. 3,000 word essay on the history and politics of the Middle East? Walk in the park.
But capture the spirit, tone, and mood of the project in just a handful of words, or perhaps just one? It’s ball-crushingly difficult. It’s also always the thing I’m working on up until the death knell. Even after I commit to one, I keep playing around with alternatives until I’m at the point of no-return.
And I know I’m not alone in that.
Unforgiven was The Cut-Whore Killings.
Casablanca was Everybody Comes to Rick’s.
Titanic was The Ship of Doom… yes, really.
And it’s hard to imagine there being Spaceman from Pluto I, II, and III if the producers had stuck with Back to the Future’s original title.
In our case, the title pretty much wrote itself. I can’t be specific yet, but you’ll see what I mean when I’m able to tell you what it is.
Next up is the logline. It’s the one or two-sentence hook that’s used to sell the story. And not just to producers. They’re the things that gets audiences hooked as well.
The Godfather: The aging patriarch of an organised crime dynasty transfers control of his empire to his reluctant son.
Jaws: When a great white shark begins to terrorise a small beach town, a police chief, a marine biologist, and a grizzled fisherman embark on a dangerous hunt to destroy it.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: An orphaned boy enrols in a school of wizardry, where he learns the truth about himself, his family, and the terrible evil that haunts the magical world.
Everything Everywhere All at Once: A middle-aged Chinese immigrant is swept up into an insane adventure in which she alone can save existence by exploring other universes and connecting with the lives she could have lived.
Next up, the synopsis. It’s where the entire narrative arc is summarised, including the full plot and the main characters. Yes, even the conclusion. This isn’t the place to be coy. And it should match the tone of your project. If you’re writing a comedy, the synopsis should play for laughs. If you’re going for romance, your reader should be transported. If it’s horror, they should be turning all the lights on in the house when they’re done reading your pitch.
All up, those three things shouldn’t take up more than a page. 1.5 spaced. Conventional wisdom is that you’ve lost already if you haven’t hooked your big fish by halfway through the synopsis. Sure, after that the rest of the two pager has brief character summaries, episode outlines, if it’s a series, or a full synopsis if it’s a feature film, plus a bit on mood and tone. But if your reader has lost interest by then, they count for nothing.
None of these things are easy. Because after spending months, or even years, developing what you hope and pray is a complex world with nuanced characters and a fucking mind-blowing plot, you must condense it down to virtually nothing. It’s like taking a fifteen-course degustation menu complete with amuse-bouche and petits-four and being asked to serve it up on a small water biscuit.
But I worked on our pitch and got it done far more quickly than I thought possible. The story, characters, and setting were already painted in colour and three dimensions in my mind. Putting it down in words was easy. The title was snappy. The logline was clear and compelling. And the synopsis was solid.
The ease I had writing the pitch was probably the first indication that we were onto a good idea.
But as a friend in the industry once said to me:
To get that bum off the seat, so to speak, it needs to be put on an exercise regimen, outfitted in the latest bespoke pants, and put in front of the people who decide what you get to see on screen.
That’s where producers come in. They’re the stress test to see which of the bums might have a future.
Over the years, Andrew and I have shown the affable man we’re meeting with today a fair few bums in their raw state. He’s kicked all of them to the curb.
So, my anxiety levels today are not unjustified.
I’m going to leave the bum metaphor alone now, before things get messy.
You may well be asking now why my husband and I don’t just approach the commissioning editors and content directors at the streaming services and networks ourselves. Because they’re the people who will ultimately decide whether they’re going to invest money in making our thing and dedicate screen time to it.
It’s because although we have direct or indirect contact with many of those decision makers, producers like the man we’re meeting with today are working with them constantly. He already has projects in various stages of production with most of the country’s big streaming services. Next time he’s on a call to whoever we decide is the best taker for our show, he can just drop in a “oh, while I’ve got you, I’ve picked up a really exciting new project, I’ve got the creators coming up to Sydney next week, reckon you can squeeze us in for a meeting?”
He’ll get us in the door. Quickly. And with the foundations of a relationship already laid.
It all comes back to something William Goldman said about the film industry. It’s as true today as it was when he first wrote it. “Nobody knows anything.”
He was riffing on the idea that even a film that ticks all the boxes… major leads, zeitgeisty story, whizz-bang effects, huge marketing budget, the buzziest of pre-release buzz… can still be a stinker at the box office.
The number of variables at play in determining the financial success or failure of a screen-based project are infinite. I know this myself from an academic perspective, because I wrote my PhD in cultural economics on the making of superstars in the art market (yes, really). As background, I looked at the exhaustive research that’s been done by economists trying to track the factors that prefigure box office success. I can save you the time… In short? “Nobody knows anything.”
What that means is that as soon as somebody looks like they know something, they’re given the keys to the kingdom.
As far as the decision makers at the networks and streamers are concerned, the man we’re meeting with today, who has had more screen successes than you’ve had hot dinners, has Midas’ touch. Looking at his long, long IMDB credits page, I reckon they’re probably right.
She has a formidable reputation as a producer as well. The thought of having her attached to our show blows my tiny mind. We also need her buy-in on this project.
I haven’t met her in person. My husband has. And she’s as impressive on screen as he said she was in person.
She starts talking. She’s really excited about our project, she says. She knows our characters and has engaged with their motivations. She’s thought deeply about what we want to do with the show and has some interesting suggestions about where we could take the story. My kind of woman.
She also hasn’t said “no” yet.
The producer sitting with us also offers some interesting thoughts about how we might change things. He thinks we’ve included too many antagonists in the story and would like one in particular pencilled out. Perhaps a character we have written as a man could be a woman, to improve the gender balance, he says.
You’ll notice I say they are “interesting” thoughts and suggestions. Because, at this stage, that’s all they are. Suggestions. They’re talking about the things we can change that might make our project more attractive to the people who control what ends up on your screens.
Should we seriously consider what they’re saying and acknowledge that they know what they’re talking about? Fuck, yes.
Because these two people stand in the middle between creatives like Andrew and I, and the people who sink money into shows to make them happen. They know their audiences. They have access to vast quantities of data that shows them what their subscribers watch.
And they tell producers what they’re looking for. There’s no point taking them a wood-fired when they’ve asked for steak frites. That’s what these producers are telling us. Start peeling spuds.
Part of it, also, is for the producers to see how well we can defend our project. And to find out how willing we will be to compromise when, as is inevitable, the time comes to make some difficult decisions about our story.
There are filmmakers who create work outside the system. They create, write, produce, film, and distribute their work independently.
There are others — filmmakers like Lars Von Trier, Wes Anderson, and Terrence Mallick — who have carved themselves a niche within the system and control every aspect of their productions. They’re the true auteurs.
Neither Andrew and I have any desire to follow in their footsteps. That means we have to make compromises.
That’s not to say that I’m just going to roll over.
Because the affable man has made a suggestion that cuts to the motivation of our protagonist. The change would undermine the whole premise of the series.
I glance at my husband and can see that he feels the same way I do. Not great.
And so, I push back. Politely, and after acknowledging that the reasoning behind the suggestion is solid. But I explain the domino effect it would have on the whole show. I speak calmly, clearly, and with a smile on my face.
The affable man frowns and looks down at the dregs of coffee in his cup. The woman on the screen says nothing.
“OK,” the affable man says. “That makes sense.”
I can breathe again.
“So, have a think about those other suggestions,” says the affable man. “And do you think you’ll be able to get it back to us by the start of July? We’ll get you both up to Sydney and book a time to go and see [insert international streaming company here].”
………. He’s picking it up.
………. It’s really happening.
Just. Like. That.
Andrew grabs my leg under the table and squeezes.
We both try to keep calm. And fail.
Celebrations all round.
We grab a charcuterie board and a lovely bottle of Italian wine to share with the affable man.
But it’s a big one.
Join me on the adventure as I try to work my magic and wrangle our story to accommodate the producers’ suggestions. You’ll find this ongoing series over on my Substack.
Some of the things I’ll be doing is in response to broader social and political shifts. Because there are many agendas at play behind the scenes of the things you end up seeing on screen. I’m here to show you how that works. You’ll never watch TV or movie the same way again. I can promise you that.
Most of all, if you’ve got any questions, or would like me to elaborate on any of the things I’ve spoken about here, drop me a note in the comments.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the process.
Next time, I sit down to re-write my two-pager, and discover that one of the producers’ suggestions is actually brilliant. I also find out what it feels like to kill a character I’m quite fond of. Unless I chicken out. Haven’t quite decided yet. Expect a new installment over on my Substack every two weeks or so.
Although all the rest of my stuff remains free, paid subscribers only for this story from this week.
If you want to join me on the ride, you know what to do.
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As Albanians take to the streets for yet another day in what’s being called the Flamingo Revolution, the battle is about a great deal more than environmental vandalism and entitled rich people being… well… entitled rich people.
If you thought that Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner’s plan to redevelop a picturesque Albanian island half the size of Manhattan is just about giving the one-percenters another place to park their superyachts, think again.
Because you know who else has been coveting that same island since the Cold War?
Russia. And China.
Yes, really.
I’m beating myself up for not seeing the big picture myself straight away. All I saw were the revoltingly wealthy, entitled sprogs of the American royal dynasty doing what they do best: milking it like there’s no tomorrow.
But there is a bigger picture. Because there always is. And it was served up to me on a bespoke platter by online commentator, @alimcforever, who posted her mind-blowing findings about the nature of the island and the very fraught bios of the people at the helm of Jared Kushner’s private equity fund. Absolutely worth watching.
Suddenly, it made sense.
So, I put on my own investigative deep-dive suit, and jumped in. I wanted to see how it all works from the geopolitical, historical perspective I bring to the table as a historian.
Put on your scuba gear. And grab yourself a course of antibiotics.
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I ran away to a Greek island. Because who wouldn’t, given half the chance?
But I arrived on the shores of the Aegean lugging a fair amount of baggage… and none of it Vuitton.
It wasn’t just about floating in crystal clear water, reclining beneath a beach umbrella, and downing more than my fair share of Aperol Spritzes. Though, I’ve got to admit, it was a bit of that.
The reason I washed up on the tiny Greek island of Symi was to find words to express whatever the fuck it was that I was going through.
Most of all, I was searching for my muse, who had gone MIA without leaving a forwarding address. Menopause meant my well of creativity had run dry… so to speak.
With the youngest of our kids out of school, my husband and I took off for a three-month vacation in the Mediterranean. A month each in the tiny hilltop town of Gaucín in Andalucia, Sicily’s Ortigia, and an idyllic Greek island just off the Turkish coast.
My plan was to write a novel about a woman of a certain age. I imagined it to be a gently amusing, life-affirming and contemplative piece.
Think Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love for the menopausal generation.
But you know what they say about the best laid plans? Yeah.
It sure wasn’t where I ended up.
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What does a delightful, candy-cane-coloured flower have to do with corruption in the highest levels of the US government?
Quite a lot, actually.
As Wall Street reels from the news of the sheer volume of trades President Trump has made in major companies with close dealings with the US administration, market veterans describe the level of activity as “insane,” with another market insider adding: “In the 40-plus years of my time on Wall Street, this is an unusual amount of trading by any standards.”
What would have caused heads to roll once upon a time is, today, just business as usual. Which makes my brain hurt.
As I so often do, I turned to the past for answers. And as always, it delivered. In the form of the “Forever Exalted” tulip, as it was known. It reveals how, and why, we find ourselves tangled up in a system that comes up trumps (pardon the pun) for the one-percenters, but leaves the rest of us out in the rain without a brolly.
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Ever feel like you’re not measuring up as a mum? Yeah, I feel you.
No Mother’s Day breakfast would be complete without a steaming hot plate of guilt served up with a side of self-doubt.
So, with Mother’s Day on the horizon, here’s something to make you feel a little better about your imagined failings.
Meet the bad mothers.
It’s a theme that persists in Western pop culture in a way that fathers behaving badly never does. Have a quick scan through the TV guide. It’s a go-to plotline that straddles genres, all the way from horror to comedy.
But why has the “monstrous mother” become such a trope? Is it simply that the absence of a mother figure hits us in the solar plexus? Because there’s a reason so many Disney stories begin with the death of a mother.
There’s something more at play, though.
On Mother’s Day, let’s take a look at why pop culture loves a good mum gone bad.
Want to understand Australia?
Then find your way down to a local war memorial before dawn on the 25th of April.
Anzac Day.
As you stand there in a sombre huddle with a group of people gathered beneath an Australian flag unfurling in the morning breeze, the sun will peek above the horizon, and a lone bugle will play the Last Post.
There will be tears.
And you need to remember one thing.
Anzac Day is Australia’s most significant national holiday. And you’re there to commemorate an epic military failure.
Anzac Day recalls the day our soldiers were handed their backsides on a plate by a Turkish army hellbent on defending its homeland.
If you can begin to unpick whatever the fuck that says about us, you’ll find yourself much closer to understanding the things that make us who we are as a nation.
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The hormonal rollercoaster of being a woman of a certain age comes with the erosion of the foundations of who you think you are as a person. I was completely unprepared for that.
How is that possible? How many utterly cringeworthy videos about what to expect from puberty did we have to endure? Where’s the ‘how-to’ guide for the other massive hormonal shift half the world’s population goes through?
For me, it isn’t just about the physical symptoms, although they certainly are a thing. What is it with the itchy ears? And the waking up at 3am? I swear that’s where the idea of witches came from.
It was just a bunch of perimenopausal women grabbing a broom and doing a bit of housework in the dead of night.
The biggest issue for me, though, has been the erosion of my sense of self.
For an article just published on Mamamia, I write about how the midlife mess I navigated while on my dream holiday in Europe became the raw material for my latest novel, Sunday Reilly is All Out of F*cks to Give.
If you’re a woman of a certain age like me, I reckon you’ll relate.
I went to the Mediterranean looking for inspiration. Instead, I found a reckoning.
Have you noticed?
The war isn’t just in Iran. It’s in your feed.
But who would have thought the weapon of choice would be LEGO?
I, for one, never thought I’d see the day when we weren’t just consuming propaganda, we’d be distributing it.
Willingly.
With accompanying emojis.
But, here we are.
In 2025, a new YouTube channel was launched.
Akhbar Enfejari, or “Explosive News!” was about as explosive as a fart in a bathtub. It barely made a blip amongst the 120 million channels competing for eyeballs.
The message from its Iranian creators was consistently anti-Western. “Send this video to filthy America so it explodes,” it urged its 2.5 viewers.
Then, in February this year, something changed.
And the world changed with it.
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Change of pace today, inspired by the coming of Easter. If only because by the time you’ve finished reading this, you’ll understand why Jesus’ middle name is “Fucking.”
And, yes. Consider yourself warned. If that poor-taste joke upsets your sensibilities, perhaps skip this week’s newsletter.
Because today, I’m bringing you true crime of biblical proportions.
It’s the tale of an unholy alliance between Christian fundamentalists and Muslim extremists… where cash channelled out of the coffers of one of America’s wealthiest Trump-supporting evangelical Christian families ended up in the hands of Islamic terrorists.
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