Maybe.

We live in a two-bedroom duplex and we're not moving anytime soon. Not unless something miraculous happens that would or could allot us the luxury of being able to afford a million plus dollar home, which is the going rate of most three and four-bedrooms in our neighborhood, even now with the Real Estate crunch.

It's crazy to think we choose to live here, barely getting by on an income that would afford us a luxe life practically anywhere else. But this was what we chose, independently of one another, when we moved here.

Los Angeles: city of two-bedroom apartments and delusions of grandeur.

Of course there's always a chance something miraculous happens but one cannot work with that in mind, no matter how many times I bribe myself with pipe-dreams in order to compensate for my exhaustion, flailing at fantasies, banging my head against my desk because this was supposed to finished months ago, Godamnit!

Meanwhile, Hal comes home from another pitch meeting. This time in Dallas, his pockets empty and inside-out.

Because that is what gamblers do. And this is Los Angeles and we are gamblers. Gambling six months of time on a television concept: trying to build an airplane around a Pilot script and its subsequent pages of summaries and notes and the reel we now must complete before we walk into orchid-clad studios with our fingers crossed so tight they turn blue.

"I feel good about the meeting," he says. "I feel good about the pitch."

Which is good. Is great. Is deserving of applause because good for him for having the balls to walk into a meeting with Goliath, dressed as David, confident in the stones he throws with all his might.

Except Dallas calls on Monday with the same news.

"We're so sorry but..."

And then...

"I didn't get it."

And so...

"Next time."

You want something in this life, you gotta work for it. You have to work long and hard and be okay when it doesn't sell. More than okay. Rejections are the fuel to keep you going.

And we do.

I had a mentor many years ago who told me, upon my first moving here to "get out while you still can."

"You're young and good," he said "and this town will make you old and bad..."

He tried to scare me into walking away, except it only made me curious. Most people who have lived in Hollywood for a certain amount of time will tell you the same thing: It was the rip-tide warning that convinced me to swim.

It's a gamble. It's all a gamble. And we work and pitch and write and create and brainstorm and take meetings in distant cities because it keeps us alive. It keeps us from going insane. It keeps us in control of the hope that time is never wasted and good work doesn't go unnoticed. Because eventually something will hit, has to hit, and when it does, there will be change for the meter.

Plenty of change.

Between the two of us we have probably completed, pitched and/or created over fifty projects and so far, only one has sold. These odds don't bode well for a young family and yet we continue to get pregnant, continue to fill pages and waiting-rooms, put on suits, study the faces and words and ideas of those who win. We continue to watch the window for Ed McMahon's white van or good news.

But you have a family now. Maybe it's time to turn away from the sun, find a nice quiet place and start over -- a nice quiet life and trees for your kids to climb on. Maybe it's time for you to put on a suit, personalize a cubicle. Go back to school and study law or business or easymoney-making-101. Maybe it's time for you to go home.

Settle down, the voices say. But all I can hear is settle.

No. Not yet. Not just yet.

The sacrifice would be too great. For three bedrooms, maybe even a fourth. For trees. And friends forever. For public schools. Affordable housing. Affordable living. A lower-maintenance life.

There are days when it is so fucking tempting to leave. But then there are days when it's even more tempting to stay. When suddenly the right people say the right things, plan the right meetings... And all of a sudden: maybe.

And it doesn't even matter what the maybe is, it's just... Maybe.

It is this Maybe that keeps one chained to her desk. It is the Maybe that inspires a script to become an entire presentation. An idea to become the beginning of a fourth novel after three did not sell. It is this Maybe that plants us here, by the window with thirsty roots, watching the gates of the studio open and close. Open. Close. Open...

It is this Maybe that holds us down and shakes us up and wakes us up and pulls us under. It is this Maybe that we stake our entire future on. It is this Maybe that will cause our children to grow up and either resent or respect us. It is this Maybe that makes me both proud and ashamed of who I am.

Of who we are.

GGC