There’s a very specific kind of psychological collapse that happens after you hit “send” on a script you’ve spent months bleeding into.

Not an email. Not a WhatsApp. Not even a Times of Israel piece where you can at least pretend confidence while refreshing the page every eleven minutes like a Victorian widow awaiting sea correspondence.

An entire fictional world attached to your actual name and sent directly to a producer in South Africa, the country that made you, damaged you, educated you, traumatised you, and gifted you enough material for at least four seasons of legal drama and one manageable personality disorder.

My heart has been pounding for hours.

My nervous system currently resembles Eskom during peak winter demand.

But something extraordinary happened after I sent it.

This should not qualify as a cinematic turning point, and yet here we are.

For weeks, I have looked less like a functioning writer and more like a teenager in the final stages of existential exams. Hair in hostage negotiations with gravity. Oversized T-shirts. Sneakers with emotional damage. The sort of appearance that quietly tells Woolworths cashiers,........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)