Why I am
doing it
Before
I explain why I’m writing a screenplay.
Let’s
go back to the beginning.
At 20,
I bought a Smith Corona typewriter at a garage sale and made a career choice.
I was
going to be a working writer. In fact, the next Erma Bombeck.
With
my poetry phase behind me, I was ready to write a body of work.
To
give you an idea of my skill set. I quit high school at 16 and went to night
school while also working full time at a local carwash to help support my
mother and younger siblings.
High
school for me was after work with a lot of moms and dads, immigrants and people
who decided to go back to school after dropping out.
To my
credit, I finished on time when my peers (who went to high school in the day) did.
I
didn’t feel I missed out. Rather I enjoyed not
being in the company of teenagers, though I was one.
I was
a go-getter. -- Eventually hired away from the local carwash to become a
detailer for a local Saab and Subaru dealership.
Funny,
I was so green that I didn’t even know I was negotiating my salary when the car
dealer asked what I made at the car wash. I said, “I can’t afford to leave here.”
The
day I bought that typewriter I knew I needed serious help. Grammar and structure
were/are my weakness. Not story.
I have
ideas.
Anyway,
I signed up for every English and writing class the local junior college offered.
Not because I wanted a degree, I wanted to write!
My college
creative writing teacher, God love her, said I had a “certain naivete.” Which I
took as a great compliment. I didn’t look up the definition. In fact, I was
sure it meant gifted.
She had
me. Clueless
-- and fearless! So
much so, I sold articles to the local weekly newspapers.
Ten dollars and a byline. Sign me up.
Ten dollars and a byline. Sign me up.
With my growing portfolio, I
eventually moved up to stringing for the dailies. The big time.
Sure,
I heard remarks about my writing, but they still accepted my stories and corrected
my work. Made me look good.
I was
getting noticed!
How
do I know? The editor came out of his glassed-in office to the newsroom floor, paper
in hand and screamed, “why is the stringer writing everything? What am I paying
you to do!?”
Apparently,
I was invisible. I was out in the open. He’d made his point, turned and
stormed back into his display case.
So
why am I screenwriting now?