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Sunday, November 17, 2002

Yesterday, I found myself in a Kinko's on Sunset Boulevard, making copies of my first big screenplay.

Wannabe screenwriter, table for infinity.

On Thursday, I finally got around to emailing the manager people (not without a little help from da Caz). I knew that they would reply quickly, which they did (because they're clearly more responsible about emailing than I am *g*), telling me to send them a copy of my screenplay.

But in order to do this, money had to be spent. ::sigh:: $20 to the WGA to register the bloody thing, 8 cents a page for copies, $10 on envelopes, $3.95 on postage...

I came home from the post office, having just sent my screenplay to be considered by industry professionals for the first time - and started yelling at my roommate for not being more supportive of me. There was very little basis in the realm of reality for this - but my head, under pressure, is not always a very sane place.

"I don't see why you're so worked up about this," she said after I apologized for going wacky. "You're good, and if you keep trying, something will happen. Even if they reject you, it's not the end of the world."

"I know it's not the end of the world," I snapped. "It's the beginning."

I hate moving, I hate change and I'm moving out of my safety bubble - preparing for the day when I'm not a glamorous film student anymore, when I'm just another aspiring screenwriter working a crappy job to make ends meet. When I'm a wannabe.

I don't want to be a wannabe. I just want to be. But I have no idea if that will even happen.

Recently, I've been forgetting why I'm in screenwriting, and it's been so easy to make my motives seem shallow and silly. I never got to sit with the cool kids at lunch, and so this is all just a misguided attempt to right the wrongs of high school. Hollywood is the biggest in-crowd of all, and if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere.

Blah blah blah.

I wrote a scene for my TV spec this morning; an evil, horrible scene that I was sure would suck, proving once and for all that I have no clue what I'm doing writing Six Feet Under - writing, period. (It's also the first scene - there's no such thing as a coincidence in my world.) But I did it and it WORKED. It's simple and fairly concise and does the job it needs to do. It's not particularly fancy or well-written. But I like it, nonetheless.

That's what I love - the moment when a scene clicks, makes sense - when all the description and dialogue add up to that moment of change and realization. I love leaving characters alone, letting them bite their lips, crease their brows, think things through. I love the snappy retort, the bad joke, the harsh bit of honesty piercing the air.

I love this, sometimes. I do.

I now have one screenplay winging its way through town, though, ninety-nine big envelopes, and four extra copies of my one good screenplay, all registered and ready to be read. My goal is to get rid of them all by Christmas, via contests, other potential readers, whatever. I don't know if it's the best work I'll ever do, but it's good. It could be better. But there's no such thing as a final draft of anything. Including life.

It's the end of the world and the beginning. I don't expect anything to come of this particular manager. But there's always the next one. Or the one after that.

Because I am a screenwriter. A screenwriter who wants to be.

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