I Am No Stranger to Rejection
Years ago, when I was a TV secretary longing to be a TV writer, my boss told me of a possible opportunity. But she told me I would have to write a spec script in 3 days to present it to someone leaving the country in less than a week.
I told her no writer could write a script in 3 days; not even Dalton Trumbo could do that.
She told me a rough draft would be OK, or an incomplete script. She said to do whatever I could in 3 days and then let her read it. She assured me she would take into account that it would be a rough draft.
I stayed up on coffee for 3 days. It was before Starbucks so I had to brew my own.
I called her and told her I'd written the rough draft for about 2/3 of a screenplay. I then had it delivered to her. The next morning she sent for me to discuss it. I went to her office, knocked on the door, and walked into her office when she said, "Come in."
Something flew across the room like a deranged wounded bird. I realized it was my script which she'd hurled across the room at me. It hit me in the forehead as she screamed one word at me:
"GARBAGE!!!"
I managed to hold my arms in front of me, elbows bent, and caught my script as it bounced off my forehead and landed on my forearms.
My father had been a screenwriter and I asked myself what he would do.
I took a deep breath and said, calmly and deliberately, "I take it that you read it. But you did not like it."
I told her no writer could write a script in 3 days; not even Dalton Trumbo could do that.
She told me a rough draft would be OK, or an incomplete script. She said to do whatever I could in 3 days and then let her read it. She assured me she would take into account that it would be a rough draft.
I stayed up on coffee for 3 days. It was before Starbucks so I had to brew my own.
I called her and told her I'd written the rough draft for about 2/3 of a screenplay. I then had it delivered to her. The next morning she sent for me to discuss it. I went to her office, knocked on the door, and walked into her office when she said, "Come in."
Something flew across the room like a deranged wounded bird. I realized it was my script which she'd hurled across the room at me. It hit me in the forehead as she screamed one word at me:
"GARBAGE!!!"
I managed to hold my arms in front of me, elbows bent, and caught my script as it bounced off my forehead and landed on my forearms.
My father had been a screenwriter and I asked myself what he would do.
I took a deep breath and said, calmly and deliberately, "I take it that you read it. But you did not like it."
70-79, F
