A few months ago I was blessed to have a director ask me to lunch so he could pick my brain about developing film musicals. We hit it off right away. We shared a common love of several old films and, more importantly, a common passion for loving life and getting a kick out of reaching for the seemingly impossible.
As our meal was unwinding, I brought up and we discussed the infamous “I WILL NOT READ YOUR FUCKING SCRIPT” article. And then I did it…
“Guess what?” I started. “I’m about to be the dick asking you to read my fucking script.”
I explained that over the years I had written and sold a few screenplays and pitches to Disney, Warners and Sony, none of which were ever produced.
I said that something about our lunch connection made me think he might potentially enjoy a script I had written several years ago.
My huge caveat was that even if I sent it to him, he NEVER EVER needed to read my fucking script.
We then said our goodbyes.
By the time I picked up my car from valet I had received an email from him asking, “Where’s your fucking script?”
I sent it him immediately and then put it out of my mind.
“I’m reading your fucking script this weekend,” we replied, “and I’m gonna have the best fucking time!”
Two months passed with no further communication.
And I didn’t invest in worrying about that. If all that came from our lunch was a lovely meal and lots of laughs, that was plenty.
Then, out of nowhere, I received this from him:
“BFF! Read your script! Pretty fucking entertaining. Of course, could benefit from the awesomeness that is me… but good job young man! Let’s talk.”
We are now getting together to discuss further. I have no expectations of what will come of this. I already had an amazing victory: I got a director to read my fucking script.
