A Renewed Passion at the End of the Writers Strike
It’s Wednesday, September 27th, 2023 and contracts are being finalized to support the WGA’s on-going professional relationship with film studios/streaming platforms covering the next three years. Writers who are members of the guild were encouraged to go back to pen, paper, laptop, or voice notes to jot down their creative thoughts. There is a new contract about to be enacted, a new lease on creative life and working writers should begin penning their favorite script ideas for sale and production.
All of this excitement led me to ask the internal, probing question of myself: What drives the scripts I write and from where do I secure inspiration to make my scenarios work? I pondered long and hard and all I could think of was a one word answer…
PASSION.
For me, it’s the most important ingredient to propel a writer to success. And success can mean anything. The completion of a first draft, the thorough development of a protagonist, or the proper formatting of a script on a program all count.
And while all of those other successes are important and necessary to the process, for me, the most critical aspect of great writing I need to consider is what can be expressed on the page while fueled by passion. Passion is the only thing that convinces readers to keep reading and film goers not to fall asleep, or worse, cancel their Hulu subscriptions.
I tend to write romantic comedies and family dramas. I’ve had a ton of the latter through protracted and unnecessary occurrences with those near and dear and not nearly enough of the former. Very rarely have I been fortunate enough to engage in romantic relationships that made for levity, laughter, or comedy. Always the eternal optimist, I’m looking to the universe to change that by letting the memories of past dalliances go. That’s not completely accurate. There is one romantic relationship I hang onto in the currency of memories and my therapist sanctioned that this was okay as long as I was mulling it over as a gold standard of what I’ve experienced and what I want moving forward with another man. Also, the parameters of said relationship (although sadly brief) can guide me as I trudge through the muck in the search of Mr. Right and Mr. Write (It’s only one person I seek, I just want him to understand my humor and profession). So, that said, the architect (who will remain nameless to protect the innocent) provided a source of great comfort, joy, and romantic idealism I always consider and look to in hopes of capturing that passion in my writing.
Take our initial meet cute (the phrase used by filmmakers termed as the scene where boy meets girl, girl kisses boy, girl and boy bring the love starved masses to the film…)
Picture it. Las Vegas, Nevada, 2009.
To say I was down and out would be an understatement. No, not because of a raging gambling habit and an appetite for narcotics. Having been raised in Sin City, I had a vacation property that became my main residence when my life took a turn for the worse and I couldn’t support myself as a working screenwriter in TinselTown anymore. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do in my Las Vegas house as it was more of a desperate roof over my head kind of situation. Hell, I had no idea how I was going to afford to turn on the heat come winter. (People tend to forget Vegas is a desert and in that habitat, the winters can be acutely freezing) A dear friend from high school, Monica, couldn’t hide her irritation of how I had effectively given up as I tended to get into bed around 4:30 in the afternoon to sleep away the depression, which hung like an albatross around my neck.
One fine evening, rather unexpectedly, Monica came knocking at my front door. She insisted I get dressed and do something about my hair as I tended to look as though I had washed up on shore at my most unhappy. We were going out, she proclaimed. There was a weekly mixer she knew of. It was designed for young professionals to interact and network. She had a friend who hosted this regularly and she felt we should approach him about finding work for me in the high desert. Of course, Las Vegas is not a film town, which means practically nobody at that function had any use for a down on her luck screenwriter, but Monica would not be deterred. She propped me up, helped me become presentable and off we went to The Venetian Hotel and Casino.
Monica’s friend, Jimmy, was holding court in a back booth while we waited to kiss the ring. I had little hope that this guy could aid with viable employment so that I could pay my mortgage, for which I was already several months behind. My last script sale had been to a company called Wind Dancer Films (the principals created Roseanne and Home Improvement) and while the deal was 50k against 250K, that didn’t leave a lot of money after my agent, manager, and lawyer took their cuts. 50K against 250K means they paid the initial sum for me to write the first few drafts of JUMP AROUND and the rest would be a deliverable should the film ever be produced.
While waiting to meet Jimmy, I was approached, without exaggeration, by the most handsome man, inside and out, I have ever seen in real life. In “reel” life, there are many attractive thespians who play on the big screen and some I’ve met in the occasional story meeting. (Michael Keaton comes to mind, although that interaction was at a party at his manager, Harry Columby’s house. While not regarded as classically handsome, meeting and laughing with him cemented in my mind what a wildly attractive guy Batman actually is. But I digress…)
But, this guy, up close, I mean, he made my retinas want to bleed as though I was staring straight into the sun.
“Excuse me, but I think I know you.”
Stunned by either the question or his man beauty, Monica was having no part of this and responded, somewhat on my behalf, I’m guessing-
“No, you don’t. Keep it moving.”
Persistent, he stared down at me and continued, “No, YOU. I think I know you. Are you from Las Vegas?”
I offered some lame explanation of how technically I was, but that I had moved onto greener pastures in my youth and considered myself more of a California girl as a result. He inquired about what I did and I offered a less than confident explanation of my vocation. Already such a good guy when it came to support, he suggested I consider taking my meetings in his family’s restaurant as it is the oldest in Hollywood.
Monica was nothing less than incensed.
“You think we’re naive or something? We’ve lived in Vegas our entire lives. You think we wouldn’t know you if you were really from here or if your family really owned the world famous restaurant you claim.”
“Why would I lie about any of this?”
“Okay, fine. If you’re really from Vegas, what high school did you go to?”
“Gorman.”
Monica cackled as though we had both ridden in on our prospective brooms.
“Gorman? Gorman? Come on, man. We went to Gorman, you think we wouldn’t have noticed you. What year did you graduate?”
He looked a bit tentative before answering ‘95. She exploded in raucous laughter.
“95? Are you crazy? She graduated in ‘89. She’s too old for you, man.”
At that point, I don’t think either one of us knew what to say. Monica couldn’t stop laughing. The architect proceeded to invite me the following evening to an open house he was having in a green and sustainable house he had built. I declined the invitation politely because I was set to head back to LA to haul ass and try to find my next screenwriting gig. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and that was it.
Or so I thought.
Who knew less than eight months later, our paths would cross again (thanks to the Jeff Bridges flick that won him an Oscar) and he would afford me the most romantic interlude this writer has ever experienced, which, to this day, still fuels her middle aged romantic fantasies.
Talk about passion… I plan to…In my next blog post…FWA, The End of The Writers’ Strike.