In March of 2004, I completed my first screenplay -- sort of. It took almost five months to write. It sucked then and countless rewrites later, it still sucks. By the time I finished my second screenplay, I had an agent on the wrong coast and a story beloved by several indy producers (or so they said) but too dark, edgy and expensive to make. More importantly, I had fallen into a trap -- an imaginary and self imposed trap which demanded that I "break in" or admit that I was not a real screenwriter.
Basura. (rubbish)
I didn't start out that way. I started out wanting nothing more than to write great stories. Okay, so they were written in crayon about magic pennies that made Davy Jones fall in love with me and a jealous one legged princess who resembled those goons on Popeye and turned me into a troll so I couldn't sing with the Monkees and cause the group to break up. Thank goodness Gumby and Pokey showed up when they did. Stupid princess. It was a troll that ate her other leg! Was she not worried that I would eat her remaining one? No, she was too wrapped up in that whole leprechaun discrimination thing. Come one! As if lephrechauns PURPOSELY put pots of magic pennies too far for a one legged princess to walk!
I digress... point, point, what was the point?
Oh, yes. The point is that until one ugly day last year, it never mattered to me if anyone read my stories, liked them, or rejected them. Writing was reward enough. I had something to say and I wanted to say it.
Then something happened. No, it wasn't d