How to Make it in America is a tale of how you can make your presence known in the city with a little muscle, a lot of creativity and some illegally sourced cash.
Post cancellation I find myself increasingly adrift without my only meaningful business model: How to Make it in America. (It was either that or Ivanka Trump: I'm not sure which option is more misguided) I don't care if the majority of HBO devotees thought that How to Make it in America was a budget version of Entourage. In fact, I hate Entourage, it has never held any relevance in my life, whereas this show seemed to perfectly capture the horror and ambition that can derive from realising you're pushing 30 and your creative degree has been ever so slightly useless and you seem to know less and less the deeper you get into whatever venture it is you somehow believe is going to make you a success story. RIP How to Make it...but here are the chronicles of how some of us are still trying.
This week has been reality check time. Amidst dreams of certain plans that will remain quiet for the time being there has been the stark 6.30 am wake up-you're-a-bloody-grown-up-so-act-like-it call. You know that call that rings out in the middle of the night, the call you dread more than the one that features much later in life and involves your daughter having been arrested in a car full of boys and substances that used to have different names back when you tried 'em. At this very moment the boyfriend is frantically typing away various emails that fit his 5000 job descriptions. He teaches at a university, he's in two bands, oh and he runs a music and poetry night with me. Well, I'm new to the game, not the PR part (I'm the Pat Butcher of PR, I've been around the block mate) the night is his baby. Anyway, our nights comprise of disjointed how to make it chats in-between soup cooking (it's bulk food all the way at this point, I ain't got time to be making something fabulous every night) and calendar comparisons and it's exciting and a little frightening as we find ourselves taking turns to freak out: 'it's all hit me at once!', 'what if no-one ever employs me again?' we cry at each other from behind the fridge momentarily dejected and wondering when it all got so complicated. So we plan the expansion of the business into curation and publishing, I wish upon a star for a publishing 9-5 that will pay our expanding tax bracket (once he's officially moved in, we're officially paying more council tax) and help us afford a child one day (...just got new curtains...and carpet...and everything...children are looking less attractive all of a sudden) Anyway, we have a lot to organise between us and hope for in order to put this dream of a creative resource for poets and musicians that will have an enduring impact into gear. We just want to exercise all of our muscles in ways 9-5 jobs won't let us. I took my first editorial test last week at a top 6 publishing company and found myself feeling well and truly stupid on realising I didn't know what to expect. I do now of course but it was a sobering moment nonetheless: being confronted with the fact that a Masters degree and all the things you've seen and done and how they have made you ready for your big break won't necessarily get you there.