John Avildsen read the script and declined. Larry is still waiting to hear from John Boorman, Michael Apted, Michael Ritchie, and Peter Yates; but something tells me he’s pinning his hopes on dark horse Thomas Carter, director of the Miami Vice season pilot, and doesn’t really expect any of these big names to say yes. It all feels pretty remote to me now.

On impulse, more to escape cabin fever than anything else, I drove into Broderbund and actually put in a full day of work, oiling the gears that have rusted in place inside my head. I was startled to realize that the most recent code printouts in my folder are dated March 26, 1987.

In essence, I stopped working on the game the day I got the call from Virginia Giritlian… eight months ago.

What the hell have I been doing for eight months?

I’m back in work mode.

For a solid week now I’ve been going into Broderbund in the mornings and coming home late at night, happy and tired. It’s hard to overstate the transformation this has wrought in my attitude toward life, the universe and everything. A week ago, I’d pretty much given up on the game. I only had to take the final step – a formality, really – of informing Ed that the project was dead.

Now Ed’s overjoyed; at dinner last night he was grinning from ear to ear; even Robert Cook is impressed with my renewed dedication. People at Broderbund have been greeting me enthusiastically and asking “Where have you been?” and when I tell them about Hollywood, they get all excited.

A week ago, I was an aspiring screenwriter. Now, I’m a working computer game designer with an ace up my sleeve.

It’s daunting to contemplate the vast amount of work that lies ahead – it’ll be six months before the game is close to code-ready – but I’m getting excited.

My agent, Toby Jaffe, called me at work and asked: “So, how’s the screenplay going? Writing away?”

“Yup,” I said (recompiling a source file as we talked).

Two more turndowns, from Michael Apted and Bob Swaim. Swaim told Larry he enjoyed the script, would have jumped at it had it come along before his last movie, but he’s now looking for a love story.

These phone calls from Larry are my only link to the movie industry, to L.A., to that whole set of aspirations. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that the script exists, that I wrote it, that dozens of Xerox copies of it are circulating and getting read by people. It doesn’t seem real.

Prince of Persia is looking good. The kid now runs, jumps, swings and falls like a pro. When he steps on the pressure plates the gates go up and down the way they’re supposed to. The project’s back on track.

The only problem is I’ve been working such long hours, I can’t remember the last time I did anything fun outside work, or even went to the movies. My budding screenwriting career is a distant memory.

Dr. S says my mono is getting better, but I shouldn’t be discouraged if it’s another six months before I’m 100%. And in the meantime, I should take care to avoid getting overtired or chilled. Six months!  

I shipped Mom my 512K Mac. She upgraded it to a Plus and now she’s happily learning how to use it.

Dad wants me to move out of San Francisco. He’s worried about earthquakes.

MGM passed. Michael Crichton passed. On deck: Roger Spottiswoode, Henry Winkler, John Boormann.

Larry called to say Peter Yates has passed. Now that all the top guys have said no, we go down a notch. Andy (Bad Dreams) Fleming’s agent, Eric Rosenberg, liked the script and wants to meet me.

“The top guys were all very positive,” Larry said. “Keep your spirits up.”

My experiment with the stock market is officially over. After two years of ups and downs, I sold off the last of my miserable mutual funds this morning, and basically broke even.

Maybe the market will rebound and I’ll wish I’d hung in there. Then again, maybe it’ll crash.

For future reference: the Dow’s at 2100.