In Long Island City, New York, tucked away on a quiet street, was Chuck Hogan's small office suite in a modest office building.
The role of the office assistant was also taken by Chuck Hogan's current girlfriend.
Many writers and playwrights in their hibernation phase were not well-off financially.
Chuck Hogan came in the morning, turned on his computer to write his weekly column for "The New Yorker," but after three hours he had written less than three sentences.
He was too restless to write.
He called out to the other room, "Eliza, has there been no call from Martin Davis?"
The suite door opened from the outside and an ordinary-looking girl came in with coffee, reassuring him, "Honey, you've been too anxious these past few days. You've sent novels to Hollywood many times before, to Paramount, Warner Bros., and Weinstein Films, but there has been no news for years."
