The thing about a life lesson is… it’s not butterflies, Pooh Bears or honey pots. You have to pay a price to learn the lesson.

Here’s a story about education the hard way.

SELLING OUT YOUR BROTHER

Back in the day I was represented by Writers And Artists. My agent was, oh, let’s call him Mickey Loveless. I was mid-20′s, blissfully ignorant. I wrote a good script that garnered interest and got me signed.

It was based on a play titled: A Fire Was Burning Over The Dumpling House One Chinese New Year. For obvious reasons, the screenplay had a name change to Pictures Of Baby Jane Doe, and finally Jane Doe. My brother had acted the lead and produced three theatrical productions of it. It was understood—at least in the cavernously ignorant recesses of my mind—that he was attached as lead actor. He had steered this project for years in the play’s genesis, was great in the role, and was going to play the male lead, period.

Enter my agent, Mickey Loveless, who called:

“We got a bite. Lilly Taylor read the script, she loves it. She wants to play the lead with her boyfriend, Michael Imperiole. This is great news!”

My response was not enthusiastic. “Yeah, that’s great, but…”

“But?”

“My brother is playing the lead.”

On the other end of the phone–silence. A kinda… LA silence. Then: “Maybe we should rethink our strategy, Paul.”

“How so?”

“Getting a bankable star will get us financing. It’s your first credit. Your brother can be part of your next picture…”

“Yeah, Mickey, I hear ya, but I’ve seen my brother make people weep in our theater in Chicago—”

“Paul, this isn’t your little theater in Chicago.”

“So you want me to sell out my brother?”

“This isn’t about selling out. It’s about selling a script.”

“Can’t we just take her, and not her boyfriend?”

“Lilly won’t come in without Michael.”

“Well…I won’t do it.”

Things were never the same with Mickey Loveless and I after that conversation. Less than a year later I was with William Morris. Eventually we sold the script and made the movie but, for many reasons I don’t need to rehash and truly don’t matter, my directing the movie and my brother acting in it was the worst choice we could have made.

The professional thing would have been to talk with my brother, relate the situation, and make the deal. If the movie had been a commercial success with theatrical release and reviews, there might have been a second or third project to come from it, a career launched.

Didn’t work out that way.

Should I have sold out my brother? At the time, it seemed like I made the right choice. That’s the thing about a life lesson: Ain’t no do-overs.

If you rise from the ocean depths to taste that dizzy Hollywood air, even in your amazement as you drink it in, I encourage you to do as Kipling suggested: Don’t lose your head. The decisions you are about to make will impact your life for keeps, and there’s no going back.

SCHMOOZE

verb /SHmo͞oz/
schmoozed, past participle; schmoozed, past tense; schmoozes, 3rd person singular present; schmoozing, present participle

Talk intimately and cozily; gossip
Talk in such a way to (someone), typically in order to manipulate, flatter, or impress them

A MEETING IN THE MAP ROOM

Meeting a friend at the Map Room, Chicago. Waiting for her, I see a producer I know, an acquaintance. This is someone I’ve come close to working with but never quite did. We shake hands, first name basis and friendly. His name is attached to several well-known movies (Mad Dog And Glory, Henry: Portrait Of A Serial Killer.) Being one of the few actively working producers in town, he is a good man to know.  We chat about the status of a project on which we almost worked together. On the back burner, it seems. “Difficulty in raising the finances.” No shit. The recession is killing independent financing.

Turns out my producer friend is here for his own meeting. And over to the table saunters Steve Conrad.

Steve is a Chicago guy, lives in town, went to school at Northwestern. He also happens to be, aside from David Mamet, one of the few screenwriters living in Chicago who actually makes a living at it. His resume speaks for itself (The Pursuit of Happyness, The Weather Man, Wrestling Ernest Hemingway, the Promotion). On the screenwriting Food Chain, Steve is as far above me as I am above the chum-eating California Golden Seal.

We shake hands, friendly guy. Steve hasn’t heard of me, but interestingly, we’ve both taken passes at a draft of the same project . This is an adaptation of a tough Nelson Algren novel (more on this script next week) set in Chicago amidst Polish youth gangs in the 40s. Not a popcorn movie but with an undeniable pedigree of a man who won the National Book Award. We laugh because no one seems to be willing to take a risk on this harsh material.

Now, between the producer and Conrad, this has turned into a nice networking opportunity, laid out right on my plate. My friend still hadn’t arrived. I could, in good conscience, order a beer and hang. We’re all Chicago guys, after all.

I didn’t.

I got up, shook hands with Conrad and the producer, and split.

Why? Why not stick around, press my projects, try to make something happen?

Because lunch at the Map Room, for them, wasn’t about me.

Folks, you need to develop a sense about schmoozing. This is the networking aspect writers so often dread. It’s part of the deal of trying to be a professional, no doubt. At the same time, I would beg you to not become the clutching-grasping-desperate screenwriter cornering industry professionals with stacks of screenplays at events like Screenwriting Expo.

Please don’t become the stalker.

My exit was good form. What came from this chance meeting was an email from the producer asking for my latest script. I passed it along. Nothing came of it, but the contact may yet be useful.

If you don’t want to be the Unknown Screenwriter your whole life, chances are you’ll have to learn the art of the schmooze.

Here’s an instructional video: Truly cringe-worthy, not likely to help in the least, but sadly funny as hell. Happy schmoozing!

THE STAN HUCKMAN STORY

People approach me for screenwriting consultancy. They also approach me to help write their screenplays.

One of these was Stan Huckman.

He was a Desert Storm war vet and novelist who wanted to adapt his own published book into a screenplay. He had no idea how to write for film and came to me for help. As I described how he might proceed, he had a brainstorm. Why didn’t I write the script for him? Better yet, we could collaborate! We’d keep the story and dialogue from the book. I’d structure the screenplay, format it, Dan would add additional dialogue where needed. Yeah, ok, that could work. Then I asked what he would pay me.

Oh, no, no no no. He didn’t have money to actually pay me.

Oooook, so he was proposing…what?

His idea was this: I had just finished a novel. Not just a novel, but the notorious first novel. I was the proud papa who had not a single contact in literary agencies or publishing circles. Fiction from first time novelists in these days of .99 cent Kindle downloads, about as commercial as that quirky, slice-of-life, true-story-inspired first spec screenplay you wrote about your Uncle Jimbo, the Okie Noodler.

Not a problem, said Stan. He had ins at two publishing houses. He would guarantee my novel got published if I would write the screenplay adaptation.

And how he could guarantee this?

His powerful Lit Agent (I checked, she was) would sign me, would push the book to her publishing contacts. She would also push the screenplay adaptation through her LA office. Stan, meanwhile, would push my book at his publishing house. With him attached as editor, it could happen. He would hand deliver it to his award-winning small press (I checked, they were) where he was a rock star. Hell, they were practically family! So, how about it?!

I agreed.

I worked up a Co-Writer agreement with my lawyer. Script would be optioned for X, sold for Y, first rewrite guaranteed for Z.

I began working. Co-writers must have a level of trust, it’s true. But Stan Huckman really trusted me—I didn’t see or hear from the guy for weeks.  Three months later, I had the first draft.

He picked me up in his 2001 Ford F150. Gaping rust holes. Paint from other cars on dented front and back bumpers, speaking of some scary parking lot rampage. Stan was capable of such a rampage, being the not-to-be-fucked-with Desert Storm vet. He also had a odd habit of using Chapstick every 92 seconds, but that’s another story…

When I put a hard-copy of the adaption in the back seat of the F150, I saw the manuscript copy of my novel below his gym shoes on the floor of the car. He quickly explained this away…hmmm.

A week later came a single paragraph email saying his publisher had read my script and wouldn’t publish it. There was nothing he could do. I thought back to my manuscript under his old Reeboks…not good.

Weeks passed. More silence. Then arguments over issues that had with nothing to do with script. Zero activity from the hotshot lit agent, unanswered emails, more accusations…not good at all.

I had delivered a first draft script for nothing.

The one saving grace–and the point of this post–is the Co-Writer agreement I had my lawyer draw up.

Good Reader, when you spend MONTHS nailing your script down, and you get it out there, and get a bite– That is the time to find an entertainment lawyer. Protect yourself. Trust your fellow mammals, but don’t screw yourself in the process. Cover Thy Ass.

Because of that contract and our “creative differences”, I can’t go out with the draft– He would never grant me the rights to the source material. But Stan can’t run with it either, not without paying me my fair share. Stalemate.

I’ve heard nothing since about the project, or from Stan Huckman.

Beware of men carrying Chapstick in Ford F150’s.

Want to see inside the mind of a reader? Want to know what goes on in there? Read this:

http://www.filmthreat.com/index.php?section=features&Id=1766

Scary funny, no? This is the kid you have to get by. This is the reader. The lowest of the low, and gatekeeper of every front door in the biz. Want in at an agency? You’ll need to get your script by a reader. Production company? Yep, it’ll be covered by a reader. Screenwriting contest? Oh yes. And whether your script was rejected because it’s no good, or because the reader got caught in a 90 minute traffic jam along US 101 and was pissed off—you will never know. Only one thing is guaranteed: There will be a reader judging you. Objectively, subjectively…here, there, everywhere.

The Reader has tired eyes. They need to read many, many scripts each week to make a living. While there is a Reader’s union, many of them work freelance. Others have taken a break in job at the production companies that pay $50-$75 per script. If it takes 1 ½ hours to read the script and two hours to write up coverage, you’re looking at, what, about $15 per hour, taxed? No wonder they’re in a foul mood.

They are looking for any excuse to flush your deeply-felt drama based on personal experience canoeing down the Cahulawassee River in a remote Georgia wilderness. Unless you’ve written Delieverance—even if you written Delieverance—they are looking to tell their boss Pass, flat out. And if not Pass, then a tough-earned Consider.

Control what you can control. When you write excessive screen direction, you kill the Reader’s eye. You give them a reason to say no.

When nothing happens in the first 5 pages; when you cannot I.D who the protagonist is or what is the main conflict; when you don’t format correctly or have grammatical errors—you kill the reader. And you kill your own chances with it.

Getting past the reader is an epic struggle. You have to find a way to beat the reader. Don’t believe me? Here’s Terry Rossio’s take on the subject:

http://www.wordplayer.com/columns/wp05.Death.to.Readers.html

The ultimate way to beat the reader is to never bring him into the process.

Short of this, don’t give them a reason to say no. Do the first 5 pages sing? Establish your protagonist, world, tone, conflict. Do a spell check. Give it to a friend to proofread. And never write a character named Frederix…

And now for something special:  A look into the life of a Studio Reader. Funniest YouTube video I’ve seen in a long time. Welcome, Good Reader, to the world of Studio Reader Stan.