Writer vs. Writer

On Friday morning, I finally caught wind of the hilarious post by Josh Olson on the Village Voice blog. “I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script” says what we (even us unproduced writers) think, and why. I so enjoyed the piece, I re-tweeted it on Twitter and posted a link on Facebook where a friend pointed out the ire in the comments section.

I rarely read or leave comments on blog posts. I know. Bad blogger etiquette. But when I returned home at the end of the day, there were hundred of comments, both proclaiming Olson a hero and decrying him a hack and/or douche. What was most disturbing was the writer-on-writer hatred. “Real” writers denounced screenwriting, stating it was a way for them to make a quick buck but that it took no skill. It was a simple formula. It was not an art, nor a craft. Oh, really? I’d like to see one of them try it and manage plot, structure, character, dialogue, scenic description and nuance all within a rigid format and a limit of 120 pages. I will happily read that fucking script…which would likely take that kind of writer 2.75 years to write only to get a “Pass” but your friendly neighborhood development intern. Screenwriting is not that easy.

I have written a novel, independently published a non-fiction tome (okay…I cringe to tell you this, but it does fall under the category of ’self-help’), and, like most writers, I’ve written poetry since childhood. However, the art, craft and discipline that is required to write a screenplay would make most writers wince. Which is probably why the “real” writers are so bitter at us “hacks”.

Another reason for this vitriol is, yes, screenwriting does pay much better than the average book deal. I nearly cried when I heard what first-time writers typically get. A literary novelist friend of mine got rather prickly when he found out what a first-time screenwriter would get under the WGA (for a union film). Apologies. Discussing money is indeed gauche. But, as artists, we know the financial burden we are always under as we pursue our passion. So, again, I get where “real” writers would resent us “hacks”.

I would think, out of all mediums, writers would be a team. I believed we would rally and support each other, no matter which format we expressed ourselves. I don’t resent other writers. Do you? We all know how daunting that blank page can be, how draining it sometimes is trying to get it on the page exactly how it is in our heads, and how wonderful it feels to have others respond to your work. But, even outside of Hollywood, it seems screenwriters are again at the bottom of the totem pole. Disregarded and disrespected, almost as if it were a sport. I was very disappointed to read what those “real” writers had to say. I only have one reply: SUCK IT! Stay bitter. It’s good for your craft and it makes you truly interesting a cocktail and dinner parties. Really. We all love a “serious” writer. Can I get you another scotch?

Okay, now that I’m off that soapbox, let’s talk about the wannabe screenwriters who also don’t see screenwriting as an art, but as a paint-by-numbers craft. They are the reason I hesitate before saying that I am a writer. I’m a native of Los Angeles, so I know all too well those who just want to be famous…or hang out with famous people. They are annoying. I also know — all too well — those who befriend you because of how you might be able to help them. Very annoying, too. I have lost friends and strained relationships because I have given honest feedback, or politely passed on their screenplay, never because it was a steaming pile of merde, but “He/She/They have another similar project in development. So sorry. Good luck!” You can never really win with those people (and it’s sad when they happen to be friends). Like Olson, I’d rather come off as an ass hat at the get-go by saying, “No.”

Will I read someone’s fucking script? That depends. I’ve learned to ask some key questions first: How long have you been working on it? What other screenplays have you written? Do you belong to a writers’ group or have you workshopped the script? I try to weed out those who haven’t studied screenwriting (and I don’t mean going from seminar to seminar and book to book…those would be the “over-studied”), those who only have one idea, and those who figure writing a script is the quickest way to get into Hollywood. I also ask how many revisions they’ve done on their own. If they haven’t done one, I suggest they do. That, too, puts me in the ass hat category. I just try to wear it well.

It’s not that I don’t want to help other writers. I do. I champion everyone who says, “I have an idea for a book/screenplay, but…” I stop them there. “Write it,” I say. If only to get it out of their system. Do it. Because, if you aren’t a writer, you will know it soon enough, and then you can move on to something else. I will give encouragement and advice ’til the cows come home. And that will typically take less time than reading and critiquing a script…and I’m less likely to be thought of as an ass hat for it.

Writing is hard. It’s not for everyone. And writers know this better than anyone, which is why we can be a tough audience. But, I would hope that writers would at least be a team. Sure, there are crap screenwriters who have somehow made successful careers, just like there are crap authors who have done the same. All we can do, as writers, is try to get better with every page we draft. There are no shortcuts. There is no easier form than another. I think real writers understand this. The rest are just hacks.

Un-Dunne

Wednesday was a pretty rotten day. There was the loss of Ted Kennedy, then word came that Dominick Dunne, too, had passed. And that shattered my heart.

I did not personally know Mr. Dunne, but I had long admired him. He first became known to me after the murder of his daughter. Then, his articles in Vanity Fair, which were why I bought the magazine. Mr. Dunne didn’t just write, he spoke to you. As if you were a confidante.

I had written a role for Mr. Dunne at the end of Black Coffee. Of course, he would have played himself. It was a small part, but it was the cherry on the sundae. A touch of the sublime, and more than self-serving. I wanted to have lunch with Mr. Dunne. Or just a cup of tea. I wanted to sit with him and listen. Silently hope he would share with me a secret, elaborate on a story he’s already told. But I would have been happy simply to shake his hand and tell him, “I’m such a fan.”

We didn’t have the chance to send Mr. Dunne the script. There’s no way of knowing if he would have been interested, if he would have said yes, if he would have been well enough to do the shoot. But now, no matter what, the film will no longer be perfect, it will no longer be whole…at least to me.

My sincerest condolences go to his family and our mutual friends. Such a loss. Such a life. Goodbye, Mr. Dunne. xo

And So…

It’s not like there’s nothing happening. There is. But this Coffee is turning into something more like a stew. Something you let simmer for ages and stir on occasion so it doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pot.

Producer 1 is stirring up what he can. If anyone should be up for sainthood, it’s him. Blood from a stone? This cat could find it, get it and package it. It’s all just a matter of time. But, time is something I’ve had my fill of. I want action. Specifically, the Director to call, “Action!” Wouldn’t that be nice? So much more melodic than the cricket chirping I’ve been enduring.

Monday marked the original date we had/hoped to start shooting. Back in February, I believed we could reach that goal. Unfortunately, I can’t turn back time and take over where someone else left off. Lesson learned. Film school really begins once the deal wheels start turning. And, when all is said and done, I will share openly all the lessons I’ve learned from this.

And so, we take meetings, stir interest and hope. This is how every movie begins, I’m told. In spite of the obstacles we’ve come upon, I’m expecting this to end happily.

Iced Coffee

Did you hear that? It was the sound of my heart breaking. Today was one cruddy Monday.

Our director called me to say he was offered another gig. Not another film, but a job offer too good to pass up. And I agree. In this time, in this economy, I can’t blame him. He’s a husband and father. He’s got to look out for his family. And this is really good for his career, too. So, I sent him off with my blessings. And I mean that sincerely.

The suck part of this is that we expected to have word on the funding this week. Hell, if we had just had the funding in by end of business today we could have made a play. Unfortunately, in spite of a scramble by P1, that didn’t work out.

So, I sit here with a Guinness and a tear in my eye (I’m only human), updating this little blog, bummed to a level I’ve not been bummed to in a long while. We could, in theory, seek out another director, but D is too perfect for the film. As much as I hate to wait, it’s only six months. I’d rather wait six months and have D do it than rush to find another helmer only to regret it halfway through the shoot.

This is just part of filmmaking. If we were to have made it through to production without some major derailing like this, it wouldn’t be Hollywood, my friends. It would be Utopia. And that’s nowhere near the 310.

Not to get too philosophical, but everything happens for a reason, and everything goes the way it should. We’ll just see where this takes us. I was hoping it would take us to The Spirit Awards next year. I suppose there’s always 2011. That’s still on the Mayan calendar, right?

F***ing Hell

It should come as no surprise that funding is the most difficult, challenging, frustrating, make-you-cry aspect of independent filmmaking. Well, it should be no surprise to anyone but me.

Call me crazy — or overly optimistic — but when I finished the last revision of the script (on February 18th), I didn’t think it would take so long to get a budget, schedule and day-out-of-days done. I didn’t think anyone would diddle daddle over it. See, I don’t diddle daddle, so it doesn’t occur to me that other people will. Especially when people are piecing together an independent film. Just like there’s no crying in baseball, there’s no room in independent filmmaking for any diddle daddling whatsoever. But, there seems to have been a hell of a lot of diddle daddling going on somewhere by someone.

It’s not like I didn’t follow up. Regularly. When I sent out the “Hey. How’s everything going?” emails and got back, “Everything’s great. How are you?” replies, I just thought I was being wickedly impatient (which is sort of my baseline). I actually thought progress was being made. I thought wrong. I don’t have the full explanation of what took so bloody long, mainly because I’m still too peeved to sit down and have a rational conversation about it (that’s what next week’s for). But I have learned a valuable lesson. I need to send a translation along with my emails. When I asked, “Hey. How’s everything going?” what I meant was, “What the hell is going on? Send me a progress report. What is taking so effing long?!?”

The ugly fact of Hollywood (be it studio-fied or independent) is that the writer is the low man (woman, child) on the totem pole. I’m not being a whiny writer about this. I witnessed the shift in the room once I pressed ‘Save’ and ‘Send’ on that final draft. (I did those last revisions in the room with the director and both producers and was later told, “I’ve never seen that happen before.” Whatever. The point is, *that’s* how inclusive I made the revision process.) Once my laptop was closed, they started talking about who they would call in to do the budget and DOOD. The conversation swirled. Everyone had something to say. But, it was like I was no longer in the room. That’s not ego talking. It was just a bizarre turn of atmosphere. Whatever. I let them run with it. My work was done, right?

Like I have said many times before, we are a groovy little quartet, the director, two producers and myself. I adore these people and trust them. However, it has been mentioned, more than once, that I am the writer, and the writer usually isn’t in on that call/meeting/lunch/dinner/what-have-you. But, here’s the rub. I’ve not yet been paid as the writer. I, like everyone else, have been working for free on this project. So, what I am — in addition to being the writer/birth mother of the project — is the owner of the rights. And, with that, I should be included on the call, in the meeting (but I’m happy to skip the schmoozing lunches, dinners and what-have-yous).

Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t an ego rant or temper tantrum. This isn’t even a rearranging of the totem pole. It takes a team, and a dedicated one at that, to get something like this off the ground. None of this would have happened without Producer 1. Without Producer 2, we would not have the best Director for the film. I couldn’t be more excited to hand him this baby. But, I’m not just “the writer”. Perhaps I need to remind myself of this as much as I do them.

So, after ten weeks of hearing, “Everything’s great. How are you?”, we finally sent out the budget to the funders, who had to wait an additional week for a second budget (don’t ask). And now we have crickets chirping again. You can’t imagine the level of displeasure this brings me. I opted to share it with one of the producers and my agent, just so were were all on the same page. I’m what you would call a “communicator” that way.

Granted, raising money in Hollywood is always hard. We get the additional kick by attempting to do this in the greatest recession since the Depression. Good times. This puts us firmly in Funding Hell. It’s something akin to Death Valley. Only not as scenic.

Being the impatient sort, and no longer comfortable sitting on the sidelines, I’m now turning over every financial stone I can think of, both here and abroad. I’ve got calls out, feelers out, prayers, chanting and rain dances out. Even with all that, I’m finding myself in a huge hedge maze. Like the one in ‘The Shining’, minus the snow (I’m not ruling out a lurking Jack Nicholson, though). Every turn seems to lead to a dead end. Eventually, we will get to the other side. Of that, I am certain. But, looking at the schedule sent over, I wonder how quickly we can make our way through. If we are to start shooting at the end of July, we kind of need funding like, um, now. Don’t you think?

Yes. We are in f***ing hell. Jeebus.

Two

It’s been over two months since I finished the last draft of the script. Two months of waiting. Two months of wondering. Two months of holding my breath and biting my tongue and going deep to find the few shreds of patience I was born with. They have been two of the longest months in the history of time.

What I do know is that the money people have what they need and we should hear soon. “Soon” in Hollywood can equal anything from two hours to two years. I’ll keep you posted.

(And they wonder why writers drink.)

In the meantime, I’m writing a new script. Finally. I’m hoping to get it done within two weeks. Really. Why not? I feel the need to make up for that lost time somehow.

Crickets

This is the part that I don’t really care for. This is probably where a Zen outlook would come in quite handy. I should probably mention that I am a total A-type personality.

This is where we wait. Me and the D have little to do. Oh, he has other projects to keep him busy. I feel stalled. We both are tapping our toes, pacing like expectant parents waiting for the stork to deliver the goods. Occasionally, we shoot each other a hey-what-are-you-doing-are-you-as-bored-and-impatient-as-I-am kind of email, but, mostly, we wait.

This is the achingly dull part of filmmaking.

Sure, there was an agency meeting last week (really, it was a conference call, but “meeting” sounds more exciting and I’m looking to jazz things up a bit anywhere I can). Not that I was a part of the call. No. That’s really for the D and Ps, and, as a writer, one should get used to that. Me, I’m not. Hierarchy in Hollywood seems to be in alphabetical order. More or less. It’s rather a difficult transition going from intense collaboration to a bit of exclusion. But, as a writer, one should get used to that. You birth the baby and hand it over to the adoptive parents. Sort of like Juno, except you don’t want to let go. You expect visitation rights, and a spa day or something for all those labor pains. Or, maybe that’s just me.

The script is going out to more actors as we start to build the cast. Fundraising elves are out there planting seeds of magic. And, at this point of putting a movie together, you take on a healthy belief in magic. Because, at this point, magic is pretty much what it takes to make it happen.

Outside of the events of last week, it’s been crickets. And crickets are driving me sort of batty. It’s putting a whole new meaning to the phrase “March Madness”. I’m going stir crazy because this is the project I want to do. This is all I want to be working on. Which makes starting something new a tad challenging. I’m hoping that all of this waiting will soon come to an end and we can start the next phase…which I think is butterflies.

Another Step

I adore any actor who is a quick reader. I adore any agent who calls on a Monday to say their client would like to be attached to the project. It doesn’t always happen so quickly. My hat’s off to those who understand that time is valuable and the sense of urgency innate in making an independent movie…and my level of anticipation (which you are free to read as impatience).

Outside of that happy news, it’s just been crickets chirping. The D and I can only wait now while the Ps rustle up the funds. And after six weeks of meeting after meeting and quick revision after quick revision, it sort of feels like nothing is happening. Which is far from the case. The script has gone out to financiers. We are just waiting on word. Hopefully, that will come this Monday. Keep the momentum going. We want to shoot soon.

To keep my momentum going, I’ve finished a second script that my agent is reading over the weekend. I’m following up a dark comedy with a whimsical rom-com. Now, I’m mapping out a third. Like I said, I want to keep the momentum going. And what else is there to do but wait?

Adaptable

I’m a total sucker for the Spirit Awards and Oscars. I know, but I am. I completely geek out, squeal with excitement and break out into enthusiastic applause when someone I’m rooting for gets the win. I know it’s gauche to have a competition between artists — and I shouldn’t refer to them as “winners”. It’s disturbing for it to come down to marketing and ratings. But, still, I love them.

Since I was a little girl watching the Academy Awards (which I have done religiously since I was six), I saw it as the great night. One in which the industry recognizes the work and celebrates the craft. Back then, all the awards were given out on the telecast, and the speeches could go on for days. The best ones were always the foreign films or documentaries and the winners, who had worked so hard for so long on the film, would give speeches that would leave me in tears. Heart welling up because you knew it meant so much. The speeches were always the best part. Now, you have to say all that in less than a minute (less than that if you are in a group of winners). Unless you win at the Spirit Awards, and then you can go on for days and curse all you want (and who doesn’t love that?).

I was thrilled with the wins Milk received, and Dustin Lance Black bringing home both the Spirit and Oscar awards for Original Screenplay. It was absolutely deserved I squealed and burst out into applause for him. And, on both shows, he delivered beautiful speeches for what it all meant to him. (Don’t even get me started on Sean’s speech…brilliant.)

But, as friends and I talked, we were wondering if a story based on history, should be considered “adapted” as opposed to “original”? Typically, an adapted screenplay is one based on a published work: Short story (Brokeback Mountain), Stage play (Doubt), Book (Slumdog Millionaire). But what about history? Newspaper articles, interviews with witnesses, friends and family? Wouldn’t that in fact make something like Milk, an adapted work, since it was biographical?

This, of course, does not take away from the originality of the piece, the art and skill it takes to write it. We are all inspired by something in real life that makes us rush to the page and put it all down, so one could argue what isn’t adapted from something. It just sparked an interesting debate — not about the awards or relevance of the work, but the category in which it fell. I’m wondering what you might think, as writers, filmmakers, audience members. Or is this only interesting after a couple of glasses of wine?

In any event, here’s to all those who made movies last year. That, in and of itself, is an accomplishment to be celebrated. And here’s to those who will make movies this year. Let’s hope they will be appreciated, and that there will be more work to come.

The Wall

I’ve been told that, when you run a marathon, you will hit “the wall”. I’ll take their word for it; I’m not so much a runner as a super-fast walker. They say this usually happens about mile 20, with only 6.2 miles to go. The irony of it happening so close to the end has not been missed by me. Today, I have hit my wall.

This is somewhat typical, though I can’t recall it happening to me to this degree since college. Every Spring Break, I was sick as a dog. I would go-go-go all term, function on minimal sleep, study, cram, test, create and be social, and the minute I slowed and my body would have a chance to rest, it would collapse in a heap. Usually some type of strep throat or upper-respiratory infection. Really fun and sexy, let me tell you. That’s why I never made it to Palm Beach, or even Palm Springs. I was in bed or on the sofa sleeping, having fever dreams or hacking up a lung. Like I said, sexy.

I’m not ill in this instance. I’ve been fortunate to avoid the Ebola going around town. I’m just utterly exhausted, and overly emotional (which is so not like me, let me assure you of that). I am so drained, I feel bloodless. I am flattened to the point that there is no inflection in my voice. And don’t get me started on the tears. Yes, tears! That so falls under the category of WTF?!? I save that stuff for things that matter. Like when Huckleberry Fox walks out of Debra Winger’s hospital room in Terms of Endearment (no matter how many times I see it, his teary nod makes me cry), or when Veuve Clicquot goes on sale.

This started last night after I sent out what we think is the draft that will go out to cast. I’ve been working on this project for absolute ages, but have been going full-tilt boogie for the last six months. The last four weeks of which have been incredibly intense, but in the most fabulous way. That’s the other thing: This entire experience has been a pleasure. Fun, in fact. Hard word? Sure. But, as I’ve mentioned before, I am working with three other really wonderful people. I can’t imagine it being any better (except to get a call that we’ve got our cast and full funding). But, just like in college, I have finally slowed down only to realize I have nothing left. Zip, zilch, zero. And there’s still more to go on this marathon. I would like to think we are at mile 20, but I think it’s safer to say we are at mile 2. From script to cast to funding, pre-production, production and post, we have a long, long, long way to go. I think I just need a rest, but I still have to prep for taxes and do a decent housecleaning. The personal life has quite fallen by the wayside. Happily, this is Hollywood’s high holy holiday weekend with the Spirit Awards and Oscars. The perfect time for me to snuggle in with a cheese-less pizza and a bottle of Veuve and listen to the acceptance speeches. Celebrate this small victory, and prepare for the rest of the run.

I have to smile, though, as I think of The Wall. It’s the reason I went to film school. Perhaps a little poetry plays with the irony here. In any event, I’m off now to this afternoon’s meeting, for which I hope I am able to exhibit some personality, and refrain from tearing up. I don’t think I could handle the mortification of that. And then home for a much needed nap.