It doesn't seem real anymore.
My agent calls to tell me she's setting up a series of meetings with production companies for me. "They've read your script and they want to meet you," she says. "That's a big deal considering how everybody is backed up and insanely busy right now. Time is more valuable than ever and people are not giving it so freely these days."
My first meeting was in Beverly Hills. I drove up to the beautiful FOX building where their offices is located, and as I parked my car in the garage, I mentally prepped myself for the meet-and-greet. I was scheduled to have a sit-down with the VP of Creative Affairs. Once I was in the production offices, the receptionist told me to have a seat and wait. I waited in the lobby, staring at the posters of SEVEN, THE FUGITIVE, and A PERFECT MURDER surrounding me. A finely dressed Asian guy sat across from me. He peeked over his copy of VARIETY and asked me, "Are you here for the assistant job?" "No," I told him, "They liked one of my scripts and wanted to meet me." He just nodded, expressionless. "Hm," He said, "I'd like to finish my script, but life keeps getting in the way." Before I could respond, I was shuffled into my meeting. The VP of Creative Affairs sat me down at her couch as she sat behind her desk, leaving a great distance between us. "We loved your script," she said. "Even though it's too small for us, there's a lot of talent there. You're always welcomed here at ******** Entertainment. We want to work with you. If you ever have any ideas we'd love to hear them." I told her about my current script, a big budget action movie. She got very excited and told me she wanted to read it when I was done. "You write good characters," she said, "And a writer who can write good characters and good action is rare." The meeting lasted almost an hour. As I left, we shook hands, and the VP said, "Keep in touch. We want to work with you." I forgot to validate my parking ticket and ending up paying $8.00 to have that meeting. I didn't care. I was glowing.
I was cleaning out my files. It's about time because things were beginning to stack up and clutter my room. As I was shifting through my junk, I found a folder full of head-shots. Head-shots of actors and models, of friends and strangers. That's what happens when you live in LA, you collect head-shots and scripts. Where they come from you never know. But they always wind up in your room. As I flipped through the photos, I asked myself, Why do I keep them? And why the hell do I have a file for them? The next day I hiked up to Griffith park with my actress friend, Gina. Even though I told her we were going to go hiking, she still wore her high heels. I had my file full of headshots with me. As we hiked uphill, Gina cried out to me from a few paces behind, "Are you really going to get rid of those head-shots?" I nodded, "Yeah, they're useless to me." Once we reached the top of the hill, we paused for a second, staring down on the Los Angeles landscape. We shared a moment. What exactly it was, I don't know. I opened my file. Gina gestured to it, "My picture is not in there is it?" "No," I answered, "You never gave me one." "Oh yeah," she said, "That's because I'm never happy with mine." With the wind dancing around us, the Hollywood sign to our backs, I tossed the file into the air and watched it rain beautiful faces. Before they even had a chance to shine, the stars were already falling.
My other meeting that week was in Santa Monica. The first thing that greeted me when I walked into their offices was a poster of I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER. The place was crawling with beautiful, young female executives and assistants. I met the Executive VP of Production (a beautiful, young female herself) and some Development guy wearing an Aerosmith T-Shirt. The VP was still on the phone when I sat down in her office, but the Development guy whispered to me, "Loved your script. Where'd you get the idea? Everytime I drive under the Hollywood over-pass on the 101 I pray to God a bag of money would drop into my car." I was quite flattered as he was referring to a pivotal scene in the third act of my script. The first thing the VP said when she got off the phone was, "Loved your script. What else do you got?" I started to pitch some of my ideas and I think either I was not clear enough or it just went over their heads, because when I finished the Development guy was quiet and the VP just rubbed her eyes and said, "I should have gotten more sleep." I apologized to them for not being more concise with my pitches. "No, no," the VP said. "I get it. I see it. It's like a parable, right?" I politely nodded. "Do you have anything more teen-oriented?" She asked me. "Well," I hesitated, "I'm thinking about writing a quirky comedy about this high school genuis who plans to stage the world's first hip-hop musical about quantum physics." They stared at me blankly. Then they threw some of their ideas at me. The VP told me about this huge sci-fi script they owned and they wanted me to re-write it. She explained that it was a bad script with a good idea, and that maybe I was the right guy to fix it cause, "I was a writer with substance." I told her I would look it over and get back to her. On the way out, we shook hands and she said, "I'm sending your script over to some friends at Columbia. They should know who you are." I thanked her and on the way out waved bye to the poster of I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER.
It's late. The phone rings, stopping me from my writing. I answer it. "It's me," says my friend, Mitch, the entertainment lawyer, "Be ready in ten minutes. I'm coming to pick you up." Before I can respond, he hangs up. Nine minutes later I'm standing out in the street and Mitch pulls up in his BMW. "Hop in!" He commands. I do exactly that. Mitch doesn't seem himself, a little nervous, edgey. "How's the writing coming along?" Mitch asks. I think back to the Asian guy in the waiting room and almost steal his line about life getting in the way. Instead I say, "It's going fine." Mitch lights a cigarette. He doesn't smoke. "Would you stay in the car if I told you I did something really, really bad?" He asks. I contemplate this as I watch Mitch try to hide behind the secrecy of his cigarette smoke. "Keep driving," I say to him. Now, to be honest, I don't remember if Mitch went on to recant some true life story or he was just setting up a joke, because at that moment his words blurred in my head as I thought about how it doesn't seem real anymore. But it is real. It's real blood I taste when I bite my lip, and real dreams I have at night, although night, day...it's hard to tell anymore.
My agent calls to tell me she's setting up a series of meetings with production companies for me. "They've read your script and they want to meet you," she says. "That's a big deal considering how everybody is backed up and insanely busy right now. Time is more valuable than ever and people are not giving it so freely these days."
My first meeting was in Beverly Hills. I drove up to the beautiful FOX building where their offices is located, and as I parked my car in the garage, I mentally prepped myself for the meet-and-greet. I was scheduled to have a sit-down with the VP of Creative Affairs. Once I was in the production offices, the receptionist told me to have a seat and wait. I waited in the lobby, staring at the posters of SEVEN, THE FUGITIVE, and A PERFECT MURDER surrounding me. A finely dressed Asian guy sat across from me. He peeked over his copy of VARIETY and asked me, "Are you here for the assistant job?" "No," I told him, "They liked one of my scripts and wanted to meet me." He just nodded, expressionless. "Hm," He said, "I'd like to finish my script, but life keeps getting in the way." Before I could respond, I was shuffled into my meeting. The VP of Creative Affairs sat me down at her couch as she sat behind her desk, leaving a great distance between us. "We loved your script," she said. "Even though it's too small for us, there's a lot of talent there. You're always welcomed here at ******** Entertainment. We want to work with you. If you ever have any ideas we'd love to hear them." I told her about my current script, a big budget action movie. She got very excited and told me she wanted to read it when I was done. "You write good characters," she said, "And a writer who can write good characters and good action is rare." The meeting lasted almost an hour. As I left, we shook hands, and the VP said, "Keep in touch. We want to work with you." I forgot to validate my parking ticket and ending up paying $8.00 to have that meeting. I didn't care. I was glowing.
I was cleaning out my files. It's about time because things were beginning to stack up and clutter my room. As I was shifting through my junk, I found a folder full of head-shots. Head-shots of actors and models, of friends and strangers. That's what happens when you live in LA, you collect head-shots and scripts. Where they come from you never know. But they always wind up in your room. As I flipped through the photos, I asked myself, Why do I keep them? And why the hell do I have a file for them? The next day I hiked up to Griffith park with my actress friend, Gina. Even though I told her we were going to go hiking, she still wore her high heels. I had my file full of headshots with me. As we hiked uphill, Gina cried out to me from a few paces behind, "Are you really going to get rid of those head-shots?" I nodded, "Yeah, they're useless to me." Once we reached the top of the hill, we paused for a second, staring down on the Los Angeles landscape. We shared a moment. What exactly it was, I don't know. I opened my file. Gina gestured to it, "My picture is not in there is it?" "No," I answered, "You never gave me one." "Oh yeah," she said, "That's because I'm never happy with mine." With the wind dancing around us, the Hollywood sign to our backs, I tossed the file into the air and watched it rain beautiful faces. Before they even had a chance to shine, the stars were already falling.
My other meeting that week was in Santa Monica. The first thing that greeted me when I walked into their offices was a poster of I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER. The place was crawling with beautiful, young female executives and assistants. I met the Executive VP of Production (a beautiful, young female herself) and some Development guy wearing an Aerosmith T-Shirt. The VP was still on the phone when I sat down in her office, but the Development guy whispered to me, "Loved your script. Where'd you get the idea? Everytime I drive under the Hollywood over-pass on the 101 I pray to God a bag of money would drop into my car." I was quite flattered as he was referring to a pivotal scene in the third act of my script. The first thing the VP said when she got off the phone was, "Loved your script. What else do you got?" I started to pitch some of my ideas and I think either I was not clear enough or it just went over their heads, because when I finished the Development guy was quiet and the VP just rubbed her eyes and said, "I should have gotten more sleep." I apologized to them for not being more concise with my pitches. "No, no," the VP said. "I get it. I see it. It's like a parable, right?" I politely nodded. "Do you have anything more teen-oriented?" She asked me. "Well," I hesitated, "I'm thinking about writing a quirky comedy about this high school genuis who plans to stage the world's first hip-hop musical about quantum physics." They stared at me blankly. Then they threw some of their ideas at me. The VP told me about this huge sci-fi script they owned and they wanted me to re-write it. She explained that it was a bad script with a good idea, and that maybe I was the right guy to fix it cause, "I was a writer with substance." I told her I would look it over and get back to her. On the way out, we shook hands and she said, "I'm sending your script over to some friends at Columbia. They should know who you are." I thanked her and on the way out waved bye to the poster of I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER.
It's late. The phone rings, stopping me from my writing. I answer it. "It's me," says my friend, Mitch, the entertainment lawyer, "Be ready in ten minutes. I'm coming to pick you up." Before I can respond, he hangs up. Nine minutes later I'm standing out in the street and Mitch pulls up in his BMW. "Hop in!" He commands. I do exactly that. Mitch doesn't seem himself, a little nervous, edgey. "How's the writing coming along?" Mitch asks. I think back to the Asian guy in the waiting room and almost steal his line about life getting in the way. Instead I say, "It's going fine." Mitch lights a cigarette. He doesn't smoke. "Would you stay in the car if I told you I did something really, really bad?" He asks. I contemplate this as I watch Mitch try to hide behind the secrecy of his cigarette smoke. "Keep driving," I say to him. Now, to be honest, I don't remember if Mitch went on to recant some true life story or he was just setting up a joke, because at that moment his words blurred in my head as I thought about how it doesn't seem real anymore. But it is real. It's real blood I taste when I bite my lip, and real dreams I have at night, although night, day...it's hard to tell anymore.
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