Never mind that the gig is unpaid (they always are at first), it's no small thing to take a writer's baby and decide what kind of a kid it's going to be when it grows up. I mean, who the hell am I? And yet this is how it works and, well, somebody's got to do it. Coincidentally, the offer comes during Oscar month, with the horizon filled by wonders like Lincoln, Amour, Silver Linings Playbook, Django Unchained and a basket of other great films all begging to be praised and emulated by tomorrow`s up-and-coming screenwriters. As I pour bowls of chips and beer nuts for our Sunday night Oscar party, I remind myself that I'm not necessarily looking for Award-winners in the scripts I'll be given, just good, solid stories that would look good (and sell tickets) on screen. I can do this, I tell myself. And after all, what a great chance to get my foot in the door and meet the "right" people!
Given that this opportunity is passed down by a former instructor and much-respected story editor in the industry, I take the interview. Arriving at their office ten minutes early so as to make a good impression, I buzz up and the door unlocks itself to let me in. I enter a small foyer, folder of writing samples in hand, and face the only way up to the second floor: an elevator old enough to be my grandfather. Now, my list of phobias is a short one, but right at the top is elevators. I can wax eloquent in front of crowds large and small, wrap snakes around my neck, and entertain spiders and clowns without batting an eyelash. But when it comes to making my way through a building, show me the stairs every time.
I take a deep breath and press the button. A loud thump and the whurring of motor and chains announces the car's imminent arrival. The door finally opens and in the biggest letters possible, a sign on the back wall announces that this particular vehicle to higher ground has a tendency to stop unexpectedly. A service company's phone number is graciously provided should such an event occur. I step back quietly and let the door close.
"Really?" I inquire of myself. "You get the opportunity you've been waiting six months (not to mention your whole life) for and you're going to let this stop you?" Yes, I answer. Yes, I am.
I sigh and press the button again. Two more times I go through this irrational, infantile exercise before finally working up the nerve to step in. Upon release from my prison seven seconds later, I meet with my new hopeful team. As fate would have it, two former VFS classmates are also on board. The meeting is a wild, brilliant success, despite my embarrassing (and thankfully amusing) admission of despising the building's primary mode of transport. I'm given non-disclosure forms to sign and am notified my first script will arrive within the week. The production company head (I shall name him Ted) shakes my hand and we're off to the races.
I leave elated until I remember I must elevate once again to the ground floor. I locate a flight of stairs at the back of the building, but alas, the door at the bottom is locked. I return to the second floor, swallow my pride and press the button I know I'll become intimate with many times in the future. I really need to see a therapist about this, I mutter under my breath.
Then it occurs to me what I've signed up for and the afternoon's trauma suddenly take on new meaning. Writing a script and then handing it off to others in hopes that they will like and (God willing) turn into a movie is as terrifying to writers as riding an elevator is to me. And in the same way that the staff of Production Company X accommodated my childish fear and chose to work with me anyway, I'll need to handle the scripts to come with my fullest attention and the gentlest care. Heck, if all those writers can risk insecurity and high anxiety to make their dreams come true, I guess I can take an elevator once in a while.
Then again, stairs are good for the heart. Sigh.