Pitching A Script. How Hard Can It Be?

Like many of my peers, and former colleagues, I’m in the midst of a career change. Again.  Actually, a career modification is better term. I spent my early years as a writer, then slid into publicity and then back into writing. Now I’m trying my talents as a scriptwriter.

There’s been a lot to learn. I’m discovering something that  any first grader will tell you; learning new stuff is hard!

I thought I knew the writing basics. As a journalist grammar is God and the AP Stylebook is the bible. Not so much with scriptwriting. It has its own very precise format and structure rules, and tosses the AP Stylebook out the window. Where I’ve often thought it belonged anyway.

With a little, okay a lot, of help from my teachers and fellow classmates (thank you everyone at Studio 4!) I banged out my first script. I know it’s not perfect; actually it’s far from it. Still, I’ve decided to let a classmate read it and give me feedback before I try to send it to anyone who might actually do something with it.

But before I could do that though, there was an event in Burbank called “The Great American Pitchfest and Screenwriting Conference.”  It’s a meeting where the organizers gather hundreds of managers and production companies – the folks who determine which scripts get made into movies—and give budding screenwriters a chance to present their scripts. Because I wasn’t sure my script was ready to be pitched, I didn’t sign up for the full conference

I opted instead for the “Pitching Boot Camp.”  This gives scriptwriters the chance to learn how to correctly pitch their movies to producers etc. Sad as it might be, the pitch is almost as important as good writing. 

I showed up for the workshop not really knowing what to expect.  I’ve been to literally dozens of music industry conferences and sat on panels. I even attended a huge fashion expo once. Never once before have I been nervous. This even more ludicrous because I’m a publicist—pitching ideas, people and products are my business. I can do it with my eyes closed and half asleep.  And believe me I have.

This was different. Mostly because it was me I was pitching.  I can concisely summarize everybody else’s project easily. But this was personal.  I was a wreck.

The set up was much like what I’ve heard speed-dating is—there are rows of chairs set up facing each other.  You have five minutes to pitch your script to the person sitting across from you. Then they take a pre-printed report card and grade your pitch.

 Not your idea, but your actual pitch: whether you had a decent logline, were clear, had a good idea of plot etc. Then you each move one chair to the right and do it again. I stunk at it. 

I had not done enough preparation for the darn thing. I should have been working on my pitch for days, if not weeks. In my defense, I signed up at the last minute and I knew I wasn’t ready to speak to real producers. But who knew I’d screw up just pitching to other writers?

I did get better, which of course is the point. But I pretty much had no choice—I couldn’t have gotten worse. Really. I was a mess.

I couldn’t remember my logline—which I’d practiced endlessly. I stumbled over the plot, which I know inside out, and even fumbled when I discussed the main character—who know intimately. By the end of the process—five pitches in—I was a little tighter, but I was still speaking too fast, sputtering and cluttering my ideas with gobbledy gook and long pauses.

The things that other people seemed to have trouble with such as keeping eye contact, knowing their presumed audience demographic and marketing, I had down. Yay! My background is finally useful for something.

I came home with some pertinent ideas, both for my script and me.  I’m going to make a few specific tweaks to my script. I’ve also set up a meeting with corporate media coach. He is actually a friend who trains CEOs and corporate honchos how to do interviews without looking like an ass.  

It’s something I’ve done for clients for years, but it’s now my turn.  I’m a little embarrassed, but I’m willing to take all the help I can get.  I need a lot.

It’s not all potholes in the path to this new so-called career. There are perks as well: I get to watch tons of movies and call it research.  Problem is, I’m so familiar with structure now that I spend the entire time deconstructing the film instead of just enjoying it. Seriously, I can tell you every point about 22 Jump Street and The Neighbors Now if only I could write like that...

Procrastination and Writer's Block: Welcome to My World

I once had a wonderful client who told me that 90% of what he paid me to do was to stare out of the window looking for inspiration, and 10% was for the actual work. I loved that man.

So this week when I had writer’s block and a lot of deadlines, I did the right thing. I took it very seriously and immediately set about cleaning my office.

My office, ah… When I moved into my house it came with a writer’s dream—a little building out back that had served as a storage room.  I immediately converted that into a real office.  For the first time in my life I was going to have a dedicated space to write. Not a spare corner, not a ‘guest’ room, but an actual office.

The great thing about being a freelancer is that you have control of your time because you have no boss. The bad news is that means you toil constantly, because you are never sure when you will work again. When the office is in your house, it’s even worse.

Wherever you go in the place, you see your work and hear it call. It’s not a myth that some freelancers never get out of their pajamas during the day. It’s not that they’re lazy; it’s just the opposite. They just get up, get coffee and start working. They mean to get dressed; it just never seems to happen. They’re too busy.

Anyway, when I moved into my office, the first thing I unpacked was my laptop. Then I built the wall of shelving to store my albums.  It’s important to note that I am not handy. So while the guy at Lowes assured me that a monkey with its eyes closed could assemble the metal shelves in a snap, it took me two days. 

Cursing seemed to help. A whole lot of cursing.

Next I unpacked the 27 boxes of vinyl . That I had lugged there by myself.  Because I didn’t trust the movers not to drop and break them.  Of course, the boxes were all mixed up, so I had to re-alphabetize them. This took a while. Not to mention that it was a lot of fun. Who knew I still had the entire Nils Lofgren catalog? And that awesome Boo Hewerdine album? David + David anyone?

After that  came the cartons of CDs. They were all messed up, so they too had to be alphabetized. Eventually though, I really needed to get to work so I could afford to keep the office.  So I unpacked the printer and arranged to get the internet.  That was a lot less entertaining.

Which leads me back to this week’s deadlines.  Being a freelancer is a bit weird. I currently have a bunch of work, but some of it—the interesting stuff --is spec jobs and proposals. These are often cool, but just as regularly don’t pan out into actual work. Sometimes that makes it difficult to find the initiative to sit down and create.

I know I need to do it—and I will—I’ve never missed a deadline. Yet….  

But my office is located about 20 feet from the horse paddock. While I’m staring out windows (there’s that 90%), I can’t help but notice that the horses are disgusting—they’ve been rolling and now are covered with dust and mud.  How can I possibly concentrate when I know they’re miserable? Or at least I am miserable looking at them.

Then there’s the dogs. They haven’t been walked yet. A recent study claimed that taking a short walk was the best way to kick start a stalled thought process.  I bet though, that walking three dogs for 20 minutes each wasn’t what they had in mind.

Besides, I feel guilty if I actually leave the office. Even though, in this world of cell phones, voice recorders, email , texts, Facebook and Twitter, it is actually impossible to miss a message, I still don’t believe it. I act as if Paramount is going to contact me about that script and I’m going to miss it. No matter that I haven’t even submitted the damn thing to anyone yet.

Which is how I have come to the conclusion that I need to clean the office.  I won’t even have to leave. There’s plenty to do. The place is piled with papers, scripts and books. Music is stacked on the floor. The pictures are all crooked.  It’s impossible to work under these conditions.

The reality is this: as soon as I start dusting, I’ll realize how much more I like to write than clean.  Which is why my office will never really be spic and span and I never blow a deadline.

I Am A Career Necrophiliac; I'm Attracted to Dying Trades

Not long ago my mother told me, “I always worried about the fact that you were a music journalist. I never thought that it was a good career.”

I have to allow that it turns out she was right. But not in the way that she probably meant.

It has become apparent to me that I am attracted to dying industries. It’s not that my interest is piqued when I hear a business is doomed. I’m not that insane. Businesses just seem to fade as soon as I become involved in them.

I began my career writing about pop music. This was actually an exacta of collapse. Yup, two! two! two! collapsing  industries in one. I didn’t know that at the time. 

When I started out, print journalism was thriving. Almost every big city had at least two daily newspapers. It was preposterous to imagine a day when everyone would get their daily news on their phones. For that matter, phones were things that sat in your house with big buttons that you pushed, not computers the size of a candy bar.

Practically everyone got a paper, if only because it had coupons and the movie times.  When I moved to Los Angeles there were two dailies, the now deceased The Herald Examiner (which had once been two papers) and The Los Angeles Times. There was, and is still another one, The Daily News, but that one carries the taint of being a San Fernando Valley paper. (Cue shuddering hipsters.) When I started freelancing for the Times’ pop music section I thought I was on my way to, if not stardom -I was still a journalist, after all- but a regular paycheck.  At the time I was working for a number of print magazines as well.  (Musician, The Record, Creem, we hardly knew ya.) I was a real working writer.  Whee!

I supplemented my journalism with occasional forays into bio and press release writing for record companies. So when the magazines I wrote for slashed their freelance budgets I slid pretty easily into record company publicity. It was a fun time to be in the business. Records, (actually cassettes and then CDs) were selling like hotcakes, and we, in the record companies were part of the engine that fueled demand. Or something like that. Mostly we worked hard and played harder.

But that was then. Now most  people get their news online.  Bands use numerous different platforms to get their music heard; they don’t need a major record label to do it for them.  Case in point: Justin Bieber. I will never forgive YouTube for that one.  And you shouldn’t either.

So there went my career.  Most of my music biz colleagues have since changed careers. There’s a strikingly large number of former publicists who have become nurses. I’m sure there’s a correlation, but I haven’t figured it out yet.

Most of my journalist friends have also been made redundant. Papers and magazines folded, and in general, online sites pay writers next to nothing.  Websites lean heavily on ‘user generated’ content.  Which is free. And free doesn’t pay electric bills. To power computers. To write for free. You see where I’m going here?

Anyway as my career was falling apart, I once again became enamored by horse racing. Not because I like to gamble—a $2 bet is all they ever get out of me—but because I love everything about the sport. The people, the horses, the spectacle; it’s all great.  I started writing about it for a couple of outlets. Yee ha!! I was on my way again, or so I thought.

Silly me. If there’s a business that’s going the way of the dodo bird faster than print journalism, it’s probably horse racing.   Hollywood Park closed the very year it celebrated its 75^th anniversary.  Where they used to average 20,000 people a day, attendance of 10,000 is now considered a good weekend at Santa Anita. People have endless other ways to gamble now, most of them available online.

One of my big problems is that I’m either a luddite or just naïve. Maybe both. I still listen to CDs—I enjoy reading album notes and seeing who  played on what .  I still have about 3000 pieces of vinyl.  I like actual newspapers. The kind that get ink all over your hands when you read them in the morning.  I love going to the track and seeing the horses in real life, as opposed to gaming online.

I’m not sure I’m actually causing all these businesses to fail—I don’t think I have that kind of power—but there does seem to be some connection between me and doors closing forever.

Which means now that I’m writing screenplays, the movie industry is doomed. Sorry about that Stephen Spielberg

!

From the Redwood Forests, to the Gulfstream Waters, California Chrome Belongs to You and Me

As most of you know, I’m a horse racing enthusiast.  Though, like practically everything I’m involved in, it’s a dying industry. (See: newspapers, magazines, music business)

But  I love the sport. I adore the horses  and am proud to call some of the best  people in racing my friends. 

Contrary to popular belief, most people involved in the sport are real horseman. They care deeply about their animals. It’s pretty much a career requirement. To dedicate your life 365/52/12 to horses  you have to love them. The simple fact is that it’s too difficult a job, with too little return if you don’t. Which doesn’t mean that there aren’t a few people looking for shortcuts and fast paydays.

Right now is the best of times and the worst of times for horse racing. Let’s start with the good news. 

Obviously, at this moment in time—right before the Belmont  Stakes, the third leg of the Triple Crown,—that means California Chrome.

He is the little horse that could. He’s not royally bred—though his parents do have pretty pedigrees. His mom, Love the Chase was an $8000 claimer, which may be real money to you and me, but in racing that’s chicken feed. (Hell, anybody who has fed chickens lately knows that chicken feed isn’t chicken feed any more. But I digress.) His daddy, Lucky Pulpit had a reasonable stud fee as well –just  $2000. Curlin, the sire of California Chrome's main competition, Ride On Curlin’s costs $25,000.

CC, as his fans call him has terrific

connections. His owners are a pair of real folks with a wonderful sense of humor. Who else would call themselves Dumb Ass Partners and put a jackass on their racing silks?  His trainer, Art Sherman has been plugging away with moderate success for most of his 77 years. (Though when he was just 19, he was the exercise rider for the wonderful  Kentucky Derby winning Swaps)

All along DAP  had Triple Crown dreams . This isn’t surprising—virtually all Throroughbred owner/breeders in the country have the same vision.  But DAP outlined a path to get there and held  Art Sherman to the plan. And unlike the 20,000 other owners of three-year-olds, they were right.

I  came late to the party.  I missed the horse’s entire forgettable two-year-old season; I may have seen him run but I don’t remember.  But when jockey Victor Espinoza started raving about his mount, shortly before the San Felipe Stakes, I started listening. When I watched CC play with the field in the San Felipe, I became a convert.

I missed going to the Santa Anita Derby because I had the flu. But I blew out my throat screaming at the TV when he romped home.  I was at Santa Anita with a crowd of his hometown fans for the Kentucky Derby; for the Preakness I was in a dive bar in New York cheering on my homey.

Whether or not he takes home the Belmont gold, California Chrome has developed a fan base not seen for a racehorse since Zenyatta. Is it just a coincidence that he too is a California resident? I don’t think so.  We love our racehorse heroes! And since the Kentucky elite perpetually condescend to us, it’s nice to be able to stick out our tongues at them. Nyah nyah nyah!  California Chrome is ours!

If CC wins though, he’s everybody’s. He already is.

Which is important, because the bad news in racing is the recent PETA video.  It was ugly, revolting and disgusting. That anyone—particularly the assistant for one of racing’s most successful trainers --could do and say the things that were heard and seen is unforgivable.  But sadly, not unimaginable.

The reason this stuff happens is simple—and it occurs in sports across the board. It’s money. It’s the same motivation that cyclists dope, and baseball players use steroids. Racing is a business, and success equals cash.

Personally, I’m disappointed when human athletes cheat—ethically  it’s wrong. But the decision to use drugs is their own. A horse doesn’t have that choice. It’s immoral to hurt an animal under your care for any reason whatsoever.

The huge majority of people in racing agree. Which doesn’t mean that the boundaries of performance enhancing drugs aren’t being constantly pushed.  But most trainers won’t go so far as to run injured horses knowingly. Most. Not all. Evil exists in racing as it does in all facets of life.

Which puts the responsibility to advocate for the horses and police trainers firmly on individual states’ governing boards. And they’re doing a lousy job.

There is a great opportunity in racing right now. California Chrome is a freak- a great story and an amazing horse. He can bring a positive spotlight to a sport that badly needs one. But those in charge must make sure racing can stand the scrutiny.

Excuse me now—I have to put on my California Chrome hat and California Chrome Made in California t-shirt ,and prepare to scream him home in front of the Belmont field. Fingers crossed.