Shortly thereafter, on my 30th birthday in December of 2007, I was let go from a part-time, $12-an-hour job. I still had term papers, college essays, and personal statements to work on, but it was an unusually cold winter, and my spirit was broken. A friend who studied Film at NYU suggested that I fudge my film school qualifications in contacting potential readers. I refused to lie, in part because I had lied to some close friends in high school, which proved more hurtful to them than it did to me. That offense was borne of some deep pathology and general selfishness, coupled with a fear of asking for help. It was 1994 Long Island, and I didn’t want to be perceived as being overly sensitive, or lacking in toughness. In this context, I knew my talent would surface and breathe, if only it could make its way upstream. That said, I’m from Long Island, and my favorite baseball player is Ty Cobb. To reach my endgame, I was willing to stuff online ballot boxes, influence offline selection processes, or club every last baby seal. The film school gambit, however, was never on the table. It would be damaging and insulting to those who had earned their degrees with integrity. Granted, it was a seemingly arbitrary line to draw in the sand, but given my struggles at NYU – and my legitimate talent – it was a line I wouldn’t cross. Still, I was desperate. I had just turned 30, I had just lost my job, and the script wasn’t getting traction.

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I decided to change the protagonist’s name and nationality. “Wally” (“Walid”) was a Pakistani-American analogue to my standing as an Indian-American. In writing the script, I wanted to feature a person of color, but have their ethnicity be incidental to the story. The “Wally/Walid” version of the script was enjoyed by several people, and while the praise was encouraging, it didn’t move the needle. Now, correlation is not causation, the script that won Tribeca was a story about the dating life of a white woman, though written by an Asian-American man. In an attempt to ape that distinction, I thought changing “Walid” to a standard-issue white male would make the script easier to peddle. And so, by turning “Wally” into “Grady,” I made a decision that did not sit well with my peers.

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To be certain, a few black and Latino writers I consulted voiced no concerns with the change. This wasn’t a stage play or a novel, it was a screenplay, which meant a bigger budget and a bigger risk for wary financiers. Prior experience told us that if we writers sought broad success, then telling our highly-specific, ethnic stories would rarely deliver us to the Promised Land. In fact, the first script I wrote during college featured two Jewish characters, one of whom had a crisis of faith in wanting to date a Puerto Rican girl. Unfortunately, writing the leads as nice Jewish boys – plus a girl named “Amalia” – was as far as I could push the envelope while still drawing interest. After all, if we’re having conversations about race and representation today, it’s because we weren’t having them as often in 1996 or 2007.

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While black, white, and Latino writers approved of the “Wally”/”Grady” switch, many of my East Asian and South Asian acquaintances were disappointed. In their view, I had a special script that had a chance to blaze trails, yet there I was, preemptively giving in, and therefore giving up. Frankly, I thought little of the switch. It was the character’s worldview and huge heart that meant so much to me, not his ethnic makeup. In fact, I was already compromising by giving “Walid” the more palatable nickname of “Wally.” I understood the grievances people had, and I respected their stance. Still, it was my script, and what mattered most to me were the characters and their relationships. Those qualities would live on, and if a white character named “Grady” had to be the conduit between me and a defining read, so be it.

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Just after Christmas, I heeded the advice of my recording studio friend by writing to a handful of agents and production companies with specifically-tailored query letters. In hindsight, they were poorly-written in contrast to what I would write today.

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This was the logline and mini-synopsis I included:

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A drifter, haunted the memory of his late girlfriend, moves in with the woman he worked for as a once-promising teenager.

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"The Amazing Adventures of the Monogamous Duck" is a slice-of-life story that follows Grady Herman, just as he checks out of a rehab facility. Grady arrives in California to stay with Darla Nathanson, a woman he interned for while the latter was on staff at a prominent New York magazine. Once entrenched in her home, Grady rekindles relationships with Darla's children – three fertile minds he helped raise and develop as he progressed through his twenties. As Grady struggles with addiction during the weeks before Valentine's Day, he deploys his humor and heart in inspiring the others to love and be loved. In doing so, he allows himself to wander the same path that they do.

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As one might imagine – even with a rudimentary understanding of filmmaking economics – that wasn’t a proposal that set the world on fire.

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But it worked. Just before New Year’s Eve, while Hollywood was on vacation and enjoying a respite from the daily onslaught of phone calls and e-mails, UTA’s Billy Lazarus responded to my query. After some pleasant back and forth, he offered to take a look. Two weeks later, on January 11th, 2008, I was watching “Entourage” for the first time. The show had grown into a dude-bro conversation piece over the years, and it was time to join the dialogue. At one point, while Jeremy Piven was harassing Kevin Connoly over some immutable transgression or another – presumably his height – an e-mail from Billy Lazarus appeared.

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I saw the subject line before anything else:

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“I loved it. Let’s talk tomorrow am.”

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I blinked once, then clicked to read the body of the e-mail.

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“Have a good night.”

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I blinked twice, then responded with an ill-conceived joke about Jennifer Lopez’s tour rider, asking that my green M&M’s be separated from lesser M&M’s.

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“You are a great writer. This is a fantastic script.”

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I went back to watching Entourage – acting as if – so as to not alter the space-time continuum. I e-mailed my sister with the verdict, wandered around on Espn.com, then went to bed. Nothing had changed at all, but everything had changed forever.

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Soon, Billy and I spoke on the phone. He said that the script wouldn’t necessarily sell, but could certainly be packaged. It reminded him of The Catcher in the Rye, it was “actor bait,” and it could be made on a low budget. A few days later, he introduced me to Barbara Dreyfus, a respected literary agent, who also enjoyed the script. Barbara mentioned that she attended the prestigious Friends Seminary, which was around the corner from the address on my script’s cover page. In response, I told her that for over a decade, I had a photocopied magazine article pinned on my wall. It spotlighted industry talents, Barbara among them. As fate would have it, my fleeting space dust had gravitated toward her shining star.

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I informed friends – including Clark at William Morris – about the exciting developments.

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He wrote back with a request:

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“Do me a favor and don’t sign with them yet.”

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Clark wanted to connect me with an up-and-coming agent, one being groomed as a top industry player. I knew he wasn’t prone to hyperbole, so I agreed to take the call, mainly because I was flattered. I explicitly said, “Make sure your guy knows that I’m signing with UTA, but I’d love to talk to anyone who's read my script. Just tell him that I’m very flattered and very green, so this isn’t a business call to me, even if it’s only a business call to him.”

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Clark sighed, ever the weary older brother. “Dookey, the future of William Morris read your script, and he wants to talk to you and have a very long conversation about it.” (In college, Clark didn’t call me “Neeraj,” he called me “Nay-Rookey-Dookey-Cowboy,” but mostly he called me “Dookey,” and sometimes he called me “Dook.”)

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Once on the phone, the agent spoke first. “So Clark tells me you guys were in a fraternity together.”

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I winced. Prior to college, I attended a predominantly all-white high school in a quaint town on Long Island. From 1991 to 1995, Smithtown afforded me a unique, incredible, Ferris Bueller-like experience. That said, while over 600 students in our graduating class treated me with unwavering kindness, there was always a subset of Long Islanders – children and adults alike – who weren’t as accommodating.

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I pronounce my name – Neeraj – as “Neer·idge.” (In contrast to the Americanized “Nuh·raj.”) From the time I was a little boy, however, some kids went straight to “Nigger·idge.” I’ve been called the n-word hundreds of times in my life, which has shaped me in good ways and bad. But when I arrived at NYU, well-populated with fellow South Asians, I was thrown for a loop when a group of Indian boys began picking on me. I had never even seen any of them, much less spoken to them, so the harassment was jarring. This was a typical exchange:

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Indian Boy: Why do you dress like you’re white?

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Indian Me: I don’t know. Probably for the same reason you dress like you’re black.

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I expected a nod of the head that conveyed a degree of understanding, and then a handshake.

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Instead, I got punched in the face so hard that to this day, I still eat ice cream with a knife and fork. 

I’m kidding, though not about the bullying and resultant humiliation. I never spoke about it with anyone, as I was embarrassed to have survived Strong Island, only to be harassed by a group of Indian college students. Do you know what a loser you have to be to get bullied by Indian kids? You have to be an all-encompassing, profound loser – almost a generational talent in the annals of loserdom – to get bullied by Indian kids. You have to transcend and transform the game, and that’s exactly what I did.

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Later that freshman year, a buddy from high school kept calling, encouraging me to pledge his fraternity. I told him that the Greek system was dated and pathetic, and he agreed. Chris was in a sports fraternity, and while I respected that he was on the volleyball team – and therefore, had little choice in pledging – I was my own man.

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One day, while I was being picked on by the Indian kids on the way to class, Chris appeared, along with a volleyball player named Declan and a basketball player named Edwin. It was the last time I would ever be picked on.

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That night, I accompanied Chris’s “brothers” to their “house.” I brought my friend Peter along as backup, and without being pitched, we were sold. The diversity I sought when choosing NYU manifested itself immediately. Marquise was the first black kid I met at school, and he introduced me to Matt, a white kid, who was wearing a Newport cigarettes wife-beater. Though sharp as a tack and an Art major to boot, Matt had a blue-collar ethos that many students only pretended to have. These athletes – along with a assortment of their talented peers – lived in an enormous nine-bedroom loft, located on Mercer Street between Washington on Broadway in the heart of Greenwich Village.

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There were 18 kids crowded on each floor, and while I would go on to hide my membership from nearly every classmate, pledging a stupid fraternity was a pretty stellar decision. In 1996, New York could be marvelous and exciting for a teenager, but it could also be cruel, lonely, and unforgiving. There was no campus quad or social media to connect with other students, who were spread across the city. Ultimately, many of the people in that loft weren’t friends, but adversaries to spar with. The feisty back-and-forth wasn’t always appreciated, but it informed my writing. If a joke was made, ruthless critics were there to weigh in on its quality. I felt myself becoming quicker and sharper, though I still felt conflicted about my membership. Nearly all of us did, in some way or another. I rationalized it by telling myself that as the child of immigrants, I didn’t have family connections to rely on. Of course, Clark had even less. He was the goalie on the lacrosse team, and that's probably why he pledged, but he was presumably there for the connections and camaraderie as well. I pledged for the same reason I tried to write for Sassy, Marie Claire, and Vogue: I wanted to show my range. Interning at “Saturday Night Live” was right up my alley, but for me, writing for a women’s magazine or pledging a fraternity was playing against type.

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Once on the call, Clark explained that William Morris boasted a deep roster of clients who would love to produce, direct, and star in “Duck.” Clark’s colleague was quick to compliment the script, comparing the writing to that of playwright Martin McDonagh. I was grateful for the comparison, and did an adequate job of pretending to know who Martin McDonagh was. Later, I wrote Clark, letting him know that UTA would be the horse I rode in on. He responded in kind:

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“Congratulations, traitor.”

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Always a good sport, I knew that Clark was happy for me. His message also confirmed that I’d made the right decision. UTA was a wonderful and terrific agency, and my agents in particular were wonderful and terrific people. Clark would be there for me in the future, in the same way that he had been there for me in the past.

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A week went by, and Barbara Dreyfus called. I could practically hear her smiling.

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“You need to come out here,” she said. “People want to meet you.”

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I was happy. I was thrilled. Unfortunately, given the ethnic switch from “Walid” to “Grady,” the news didn’t go over well with my writer friends. It would be easy to chalk up the discord to professional jealousy, but they were hardly fair-weather friends. In fact, while I struggled through my 20s, these were the people who sustained me. While other East and South Asians looked down on me for not having a degree – and later, for pursuing an online degree – these were the people who stood in my corner. They supported the goal of telling a definitive American story through a decidedly South Asian lens. Only then did I feel somewhat guilty about the ethnic switch, but my God – people liked the script.

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I flew out in February, instantly falling in love with the West coast – the warm sun, the great food, the high culture. When I met Billy and Barbara, they each gave me a bear hug, as if my script meant as much to them as it did to me. And in some parallel universe, it probably did. After all, they were solely responsible for altering another human being’s life prospects and overall sense of self. One-by-one, three more agents trickled into the room. Luckily, I was dressed in my best Sunday outfit. In turn, all five agents were dressed better than I was, and on a weekday, no less.

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“If you win an Oscar,” Billy said, “it’s L-A-Z-A-R-U-S.”

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I laughed – for the obvious reason – but also because the quick refresher was unnecessary, if not absurd. At that very moment, I could’ve been struck on the head with a crowbar, fated to the life of an amnesiac, and unable to remember that my last name was “Katyal.” Still, I would never forget the name “Lazarus,” and I would certainly know how to spell it. My mother may have given birth to me, but Billy had blessed me with life. His acceptance of my script – of my humanity – conferred worth upon me, along with purpose and meaning. I dove headfirst into an explanation of the amnesia/crowbar scenario, including a description of the lengthy, inpatient rehabilitation process, along with the grueling, outpatient physical therapy.

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Billy acknowledged the sentiment, then inquired about my goals. I wanted to the take the script to its logical conclusion – production and distribution – or, at the very least, use the impending experience as a stepping stone toward opportunities back home. Aside from lending further credence to my essay and personal statement concerns, any screenwriting success could provide more varied opportunities in New York than they would in Los Angeles, where thousands boasted the same skill set. I sounded like an efficiency expert counting widgets, and admitted as much. Regardless, one of my goals was a modest one.

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“Can I get a job as a reader somewhere?”

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I smiled in accordance with the resultant laughter. Barbara – bless her tenacious heart – countered my request with a compliment. “Reaching for stars is great, but questioning your limits shows self-awareness. With that kind of attitude, you can go far in this business.”

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Cheekily, I pressed forward. “Far enough to get a reader job?”

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Billy could see that I was serious. “Why would you want to be a reader?”

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I wanted to be a reader for the same reason I wanted to be a screenwriter, a sports writer, a teacher, or a cop: I wanted in on the action. Wherever the action was, or however one defined it, I wanted in. I also wanted the excitement of being a part of something larger than myself. Playing a high school sport, for example, featured an uplifting, teamwork element that I knew I wanted to replicate in other areas of life. And while I wanted to be a screenwriter – desperately so – I knew the risks, pitfalls, and perils that came with the job. Hollywood in general features a great deal of turnover. Out of the six of us in the room that day, four of us wouldn’t be with the agency in five years. More importantly, I had limitations and weaknesses in areas where other writers had strengths.

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“Have you heard of ScriptShark?” I asked. “They charge $200 to read your script, and if it sells upon their recommendation, you give them 10% of the sale price.”

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Met with blank stares, I doubled down. “It’s called ScriptShark.”

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“Wait,” Barbara said. “How much do they charge?”

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“Two hundred bucks, then ten percent if they sell it.”

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Barbara turned to Billy. “I’m in the wrong business.”

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The room filled with laughter. In my mind, I returned to the night when Billy e-mailed me with his verdict. One month later, his colleagues had read my writing. His colleagues had recognized my talent. I deposited the moment in my memory bank, then locked it away with a smile.

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UTA recommended that Nina Jacobson produce the script, and after some basic Googling, I didn't need to be convinced. Impressively, she'd been a studio head at Disney, and more impressively, she was chosen to lead the charge as an openly gay, Jewish woman. Perhaps most impressively of all, Nina was only in her mid-30s when her tenure at Disney began. She was a living legend, and Forbes had named her one of “The World’s 100 Most Powerful Women.”

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As I waited for our meeting, I received a phone call from a man who identified himself as a producer named Gil Netter.

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“Is this – I hope I’m pronouncing it right – is this Neeraj?"

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I wanted to say, “You can call me ‘Sally’ if you’re really a producer.” Instead, I said, “Hi.”

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"This is Neeraj who wrote the best script I've read in three years?"

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"I guess so. Thank you," I said. "Wait, what was the script you read three years ago?"

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"Listen,” Gil said. “I'd love to meet you."

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"I’d love to meet you, too. I don’t have anything to do for the next week, so...”

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"What are you doing right now?"

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“Right now? I’m just reading garbage on the Internet.”

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“What?”

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“Sorry. I’m reading gossip online. I read a lot of trash.” (I was probably reading The Daily Mail.)

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Two hours later, I arrived in Venice for my first Hollywood meeting. When I took my seat, I saw a copy of The Life of Pi sitting squarely in the middle of a coffee table. I knew the book was about an Indian boy and a tiger, and I wondered if it was strategically placed to make me feel welcome. I was hoping it was, because the idea of a megaproducer in Gil Netter setting it down just right – again, to ensure my comfort – was utterly charming to me. I wanted to ask, but I didn't want to make things awkward. Once, a friend of a friend from Massachusetts stayed at my place while I was away, and I unknowingly left a biography of JFK on the table. Underneath it was a book about Machine Gun Kelly. When I got back, I was horrified after realizing which two books were sitting out, as I didn't want him thinking I had left them out because he was Irish-Catholic.

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Moving on.

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One of Gil’s producing partners gave me my first, distinct compliment on the script. While she was reading, a joke about “Charles in Charge” almost caused her to spit out her soup. Soon after she relayed that well-appreciated detail, Gil told me of their desire to produce.

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“I want to put Ashton Kutcher in this movie with Katie Heigl.”

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I couldn’t muster a response, as I was still caught up in the “Charles in Charge” compliment. There was already one producing team who wanted to climb on board, and now there were two.

“Don’t they each make like, ten million dollars a movie?”

“Actors would pay you to be in this movie.”

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“Really?”

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Gil shrugged. (I call it the Santa Monica Shrug. We were in the heart of Venice, but I call it the Santa Monica Shrug. They’re both by the ocean.)

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In any case, Gil’s confidence was infectious. Ashton Kutcher and Katherine Heigl would surely mean a “go” movie, and Gil intimated as much: “I get movies made.”

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It was a statement that I didn’t fully appreciate. I thought movies simply got made if someone wanted them to get made. I didn’t realize that one has to fight to get them produced, battling so many obstacles along the way. I told Gil that UTA recommended Nina Jacobson as the producer, and while I was grateful for his interest, I should go along with the agency’s plan. The worst-case scenario would be me calling an audible, only to see the bottom drop out of the project. If that doomsday scenario occurred, I would never forgive myself. Gil and his team understood, and I communicated my appreciation once more. Still, it felt odd to turn down an elite quarterback of a producer.

Over the next few weeks, I went on a series of meetings known as the water bottle tour. It was a happy, heady time, so much so that I rarely accepted the proffered water. I didn’t want my excitement to cause a spill, as many of the offices featured plush carpets and stylish rugs that put their more utilitarian counterparts back home to shame. I could feel myself shape-shifting  from an urbane New Yorker to an unsophisticated rube, and in retrospect, I’m pleased that I never tried to obscure my innocence. At the same time, if there was one, defining misstep I made in meetings, it was trying too hard in an effort to impress. If a keen observation or quiet witticism landed well in one meeting, I would drop the same one in a subsequent meeting, regardless of whom I was conversing with. For example, I dropped a joke about parenting on a team of executives, and they exploded in laughter. The crux of the bit rested on the premise that white parents are the most loving parents in America, black parents come in second, while East Asian and South Asian parents bring up the rear.

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“White American parents are amazing,” I said. “If you ask a white woman which of her kids she likes the most, she’ll be like, ‘Oh, Neeraj. I love all my children equally. They all provide me with equal amounts of joy.’”

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“As an Indian guy,” I said, “that’s so nice to hear. Because if you ask a black parent which of their kids they love the most, they’ll flat-out tell you: ‘Steve.’ Black parents don’t mince words. Now, if you ask an Indian or an Asian parent who their favorite child is, forget about flat-out telling you, they won’t even let you finish the question. It’s like, ‘Auntie, who’s your favorite – ’”

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“ – Roshni. Roshni is the favorite. Rima is a stoo-pid, and she can’t sing.”

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That joke killed the first time I told it, so – following in the footsteps of my gambling thesis – I restated it a few days later. (It was appropriate, given the related questions about my family and background.) Once again, the joke elicited laughter. Unfortunately, I went on auto-pilot, told the joke a third time, and was met with strained smiles. I tried too hard to impress when I was there to listen, not talk. I should’ve let the ball enter the strike zone before taking a short, compact swing. Instead, I jumped out of my cleats to try and hit it out of the park. When we do that – in Hollywood and in life – we sometimes connect, but we usually strike out.

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Conversely, if there was one defining strength I exhibited during the tour, it was placing my aforementioned, wide-eyed innocence on display. It’s never a bad look to let someone know how grateful you are to make their acquaintance. While I’d advise anyone going on the bottled water tour to simply be themselves – and to stay within themselves – I’d similarly advise them to embrace their child-like enthusiasm. Don’t be afraid to show your gratitude. There’s no such thing as being too cool for school, as people will appreciate your sincerity. Also, you should always accept the bottled water. You won’t spill it; I promise.

About a month after arriving in L.A., I was walking down the street on my way to a meeting when my phone rang. It was Barbara calling. She said that Harvey Weinstein had read the script, and was offering $25,000 to option it. Had I been an established writer, Barbara would’ve rejected the offer on the spot. With me being new, however, she felt obligated to tell me about it.

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Now, a year earlier, in an effort to learn about stage plays, I joined a playwrights group. When I told the group about Harvey Weinstein’s offer, many were taken aback by what they perceived as a king’s ransom. In the no-frills world of theatre, $25,000 was a mind-boggling figure, and turning it down was a mind-boggling decision. Some ascribed the high dollar amount to my being Indian-American (and young). Several playwrights in the group were older, and I maintained that a 30-year-old writer was hardly considered “young” by Hollywood standards. Still, given the continued backlash surrounding the change from “Wally” to “Grady,” I was a bit hurt. In my view, a Harvey Weinstein wouldn’t have shown interest in the script unless he genuinely enjoyed it. I didn’t think he either knew, remembered, or cared who wrote it.

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Though I advised myself to ignore the noise, it was superficial, facile advice that ignored the complexities of the issue. After all, throughout my life, I’d ignored far more vicious criticism. I faced anti-Indian rhetoric before college, anti-Muslim rhetoric during college, and anti-white rhetoric after college. I face anti-Semitic rhetoric today. I’m not Muslim, white, or Jewish, but I do have a face that renders me the natural born enemy for many different cultures. Like any member of a marginalized group, I’ve fielded even the most vicious attacks with grace and aplomb. I’ve handled myself well, in part because the majority of people I’ve met in life have showered me with affection – from first grade to twelfth grade and beyond.

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With that said, a life spent battling racial animus related to the playwright criticism as follows: Though people had long-denied my humanity with slurs like “sandnigger,” “towelhead,” and “camel jockey,” my sense of humor – coupled with my writing ability – was never in question. Prior to college, my talents were acknowledged by even the most vehement, violent detractors. Predictably, the comedic chops developed in classic fashion – as a strong defense mechanism. As Hemingway once said, “A man’s got to take a lot of punishment to write a really funny book.”

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So at age 30, to have allies questioning my talent was more hurtful than I would’ve expected. When I was published in Sassy back in 1996, the same affirmative action charge was leveled at me by a subset of students who were neither artistically nor athletically inclined, and were flat-out ignored by girls and boys alike. I thought I’d left “diversity” criticisms behind, but no such luck. And while the notion that my achievements were invalid was hardly defeating, it was demoralizing. I tried to ignore the criticism and soldier on, as again, I’d faced so much worse. Granted, I did switch “Walid”/“Wally” to “Grady,” disappointing so many people. I didn’t agree with their critique, but I did respect the sentiment behind it.

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Unfortunately, when Harvey Weinstein called UTA’s brain trust with a purchase offer of $260,000/$600,000, the backlash grew stronger, with the diversity angle taking center stage. Worse, the East and South Asian peers who knew of my “Wally/Grady” switch were further disappointed. To them, the offer served as confirmation that had I kept the protagonist as “Wally/Walid,” I could’ve made the movie on some level, however small. Again, when I didn’t complete my education at NYU, these friends were the only ones who supported me, and now I was turning my back on our shared mission. Thankfully, I was staying with “Robespierre,” my NYU friend who introduced me to screenwriting, and he voiced no concerns with the change. It was never discussed, and he too, was a person of color – one who had read the first draft. Yes, I’d written the role with an eye on redefining South Asians, but the story was about so much more than that. I couldn’t get any traction with an ethnic protagonist, so I did what I had to do.

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Publicly and privately, I was so excited to have an offer, even while the backlash grew stronger. Again, I was getting pushback about the ethnic switch, coupled with a perceived diversity boost. Only now, the incoming advice about about the offer added a third layer of discomfort. The film could be financed independently, though I'd receive a small fraction of the $260,000. That said, there was no guarantee that financiers would present. I could receive 1) $600,000 and a movie, 2) $260,000 and no movie, 3) far less money and a movie, or 4) no money and no movie at all.

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Those weren’t choices, but possibilities. If given a choice, I’d pick the movie, money be damned. In light of the quality of producer courting the project, a low-budget production seemed a given, but there were different opinions about how to proceed. With many back home labeling me a sell-out for the ethnic switch, I felt a degree of guilt, however unfounded. At the time – and in retrospect – I was so happy, though the criticisms were taking a toll. To cap it all off, there was concern that the strange, uneven figure of $260,000 would end up being a first and final offer – one that could be pulled at any moment by an unpredictable Harvey Weinstein.  

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The general meetings continued, a respite from the second-guessing. I met several producers who wanted to make the script, along with a number of producers who wanted to kick my tires.

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Then, in March, I received an e-mail from Clark at William Morris.

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“Heard you had the hottest script in town while I was in la.”

I’d been rejected by Craigslist producers, only to be accepted by A-List producers. It was a wonderful feeling, though I was itching to get back home. Granted, I prefer L.A. to New York, which – in certain circles – is a mortal sin, but I prefer L.A. to New York. It’s just not my home base, and I had life that was waiting for me back East.

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Barbara called one day, and while she addressed me as “Sweetie,” the tone in her voice was one of concern. “Why are you telling people that you’re not going to write anything for three years?”

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Well, despite the encouragement I received from so many people, I knew I would let them down. I wanted to be a reader – among other things – and my hesitation was evident from the start. Soon after my arrival in California, for example, Barbara forwarded an e-mail from a literary manager:

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Wow!! Amazing. Love it. What a great read. Almost poetic. This guy is the real deal.

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What's his story?

I didn’t sign with that manager, nor did I sign with the fine managers I did meet with, if only because I was loathe to disappoint them when I inevitably failed to produce a single, darn word. Aside from work considerations in New York, I wanted to join the reader brigade, the ranks of which were filled with talented writers in their own right.

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“Again with the reader thing?” Barbara said. “Don’t you want to make movies?”