I arrived early because I am that kind of person. The kind who still believes that 10 minutes early means something. I had even detoured via a supermarket to buy white chocolate to mark the end of Dry January, which felt like a small, ceremonial act of faith. February, I decided, would begin with sugar and art. Possibly in that order.

I walked into the venue caffeinated, hopeful, and carrying a screenplay. Eight of us sat around the table. Three more joined on Zoom. English speakers, all of us, which in Tel Aviv already feels like discovering a hidden room in your own apartment. Writers. Real ones. Serious ones. A few beautifully balmy ones with ideas that sounded like Netflix would either greenlight them instantly or block their emails forever.

The group itself was a glorious mess. Not in a bad way. In a “someone here is definitely pitching a trilogy about time-travelling falafel” way. There were slick commercial ideas, high-concept fever dreams, quiet prestige dramas, and at least one cinematic universe being invented in real time. Some people had scripts. Some had manifestos. Everyone had opinions. It was the kind of creative soup that........

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