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A brief, and if I say so myself, interesting bio of a girl chasing a dream.

First I must take you back to a little girl who grew up on the New England coast. The imagination of that spoiled little brat was her very best friend, which basically is a very colorful way of saying she was a liar… and not just a little bit, in a very strong, big, fat way. . . oh the stories she could weave.

Later in life, and a whole shit-load in-between, she became one of those tragic teens who found themselves a runaway and yes, pregnant. So now we have a big fat liar with a big fat belly. . .  and at sixteen, her mother taken by cancer much earlier, everyone thought the big fat liar should lose the big fat belly… save it for another time in life. Like many story-tellers, her determination only heightened.
 
Later in life, and a whole shit-load in-between, she had the baby; her name after a baby food commercial, Jennifer Rebecca. Jennifer became the main focus of the story teller's life. After all, the story teller would only be 34 when the Minnie-me went off to college. With little education the shit jobs with long hours (and many drinks) were high on the priority list. After all, there were cloths, electricity, housing, food, involvements in plays, dedication to proving society wrong that single parents rear the worst stock; barby dolls, Nintendo games, stereos, fancy dresses, limo rentals for proms, automobiles, field trips (as simple as the zoo, later escalating to trips to Washington to explore how real journalism was done)… then came the time when the story teller was under the impression that motherhood was about over. Her baby almost ready for college (which of course there was no other choice for the story teller's single parent child.), what would she do with her life?

It was at that point where I began to read anything and everything there was available about screen writing. I swear I read, even studied the good ones, any book written prior to 1993 on the subject. I would read in the library. I would read in my home. I would read in my car. I would read at the book store. And all the while I was writing that master script. I kept reading, writing and studying for almost a year; even took some classes at a local community college. My daughter went off to college. I closed shop on my business and took a counseling job in another state… all the while writing, rewriting, studying, planning for my future in California.

Then the day arrived, two years later, the script was done. It was a masterpiece. Hollywood would welcome me with open arms and praise.

I threw all my belongings into storage. A two bedroom house full of twenty-two years got locked away for my daughter's taking. I gave her the keys to the storage, loaded my cougar with my dog, my cat, my guitar, my CD's, my pillows, my computer, a few cloths and headed out to chase a dream long abandoned in a lost youth.

I took my time driving to California, enjoyed my new-found freedom and the bliss from the terror. Oh, we are truly blessed people, those of us that live in this country. It is so big and so incredibly beautiful; different parts like different kingdoms.

Once arriving in California I began to meet as many people as possible. I started to use every outlet imaginable to learn how to get my script seen. Again, the libraries and the bookstores were my best friend. I even took a job as a clerk in Barnes and Noble when my savings got low, just so I could read and be around readers. (I would like to share what a wonderful experience that was, but it sucked. When I was reprimanded for saying god-bless to someone I started hitting the pavement for an office job.) I spent many spare hours in LA meeting people. EVERYONE there was in the business, even when they were not in the business. Los Angeles and the surrounding towns (Hollywood, Santa Monica, etc) were eclectic Mecca's… way different than anything I ever experienced in Kansas or Oklahoma.

My first day out, I found an agent. She took my script with much enthusiasm (translation; I did all the work.) I continued to read everything I could to educate myself. I researched production companies that did movies similar to my script. I researched reader's names and contact information. I talked about my story and shared it with anyone that would give me the time. I sent out multiple copies, promising myself I would take my time to accept just the right offer when all the offers came back.

And then they came, rejection after rejection after rejection after rejection… and some, thank the good lord, with great words of wisdom and feedback. Two more years had passed. My law school student daughter and her husband secretly thinking me insane. I was not discouraged. The big fat liar, who once had the big fat belly, got big fat determined. I did what any writer would do, I wrote another script.

Now that script, a girly flick, started to get some attention. My agent was calling me asking questions. Where I was like, "ah, I don't know. That's why I have you." Ron Howard's partners wife's assistant called asking me for more pages (they liked what they saw, but didn't think I sent them an ending… of course I had, yet I claimed blonde) Many other companies called. My agent called with more questions. Time for a new agent I surmised.

I research the hell out of agents. I needed one who would know the ropes, yet have a charitable heart in the community. Someone I could trust. I found just the guy. He and his wife did major work with autism's in the community, he had been around forever in the business, and represented the likes of some major players (now, don't misinterpret that. I am not one of those people who goes ga ga over entertainment folks. Having been a model for a bit, that kind of thing didn't and never has impressed me.) Yet this guy, in my opinion, was perfect for me and for my work. I sent him the screenplay with a letter summarizing the story, only to have it returned weeks later unopened with a nice generic letter talking about unsolicited material.

Well. I just couldn't have that! I prayed. I asked for forgiveness ahead of time. I plotted. I planned. I prayed. I thought, thought, thought… how was I going to get in to see this guy? He WAS going to see me. He WAS going to read my work. IT was going to happen. And then, it hit me.

THE PLAN: I called my day job's florist and advised them of my intentions. I told them that in my spare time I wrote scripts. That my most recent script had been getting a lot of attention and that I was looking for a new agent, which is where they came in. I had an agent in mind and a plan plotted to get in to see him, yet I needed to know his favorite flower. Now, I said, I could either call his office and state I worked for the florist or they could call the agent's office. They wanted to make the call.

I explained to them that if they took this mission it had to be held in the strictest confidence. No matter what happened, my name could not be given to anyone NO MATTER WHAT. My name had to be withheld at all cost for this plan to execute properly. They agreed and were quite excited. I advised that they needed to phone and find out what Mr. S's favorite flower was. Once having been given this information they needed to send him that flower everyday at exactly the same time of day for three days. On the first day the card would read "I". On the second day the card would read "need". On the third day the card would read "you!" That was it. Just that simple and no matter what, they could not give out my name.

They phoned me back with the name of the flower, which to this day I cannot give you—only that it is shiny red thing that looks like a vagina with a penis sticking out of it.-- And of course those are not cut flowers. They are potted flowers and very expensive to a starving artist living in Southern California. I said go ahead. They were to put the plan in motion the next day.

The next day I was more nervous than the time I was in the back of a cruiser for a DWI and the police had discovered I had slipped my cuffs off my wrists. I kept looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. Paranoid as all get-up that I would be discovered.

On day two I was worse. The florist phoned and reported she just had to get my permission to tell the management company who I was in fear of their threat to phone the police… luckily she phoned me before giving out my name. I pleaded no. Just two more days, one for what they had left to do and one for the final stage of the plan, and then Mr. S. would know. I promised I was not going to go psycho and if the agent's office called after two days she could give them my name. She agreed.

Everywhere I went little suited men followed. I was sure I was going to end up in jail. I finally decided, well shit, if I had I was just going to call Oprah… what a story that would've been. Yet still, everywhere I went, it didn't even matter if I was going pee… I just knew someone was going to come and get me for stalking one of the biggest agents in Hollywood, who fool-heartedly returned my script unopened weeks before.

Alas, day three and I was still a free woman. I jotted a note that said nothing about my script (as did the last one). It was just one paragraph about 'how was I to explain to him in a note my enthusiasm for my writing when he wouldn't' be able to see the expression on my face as my hands waved about in the air or…" Yadda, yadda…Then, "Why should you represent me over the millions of others who solicit your attention daily? Because I NEED YOU". I simply stated I would be in touch soon. Signed it, put a p.s. that stated 'over the past few days he had experience a  scene from the movie "title"' The letter was sent overnight by FedEx to arrive around the same time as the flowers had the days before.

The next day on my cell phone was a message from the agent's assistant asking me to call, that Mr. S was very interested in talking with me. I thought. Absolutely not! I had spent a few hundred dollars, not to mention three days in hell after his sorry, but successful, ass returned my script unopened… he can damn-well call me himself. He did the next day. We had a very nice conversation, full of humor, and as he put it, my celebrity ism.

I spent almost three hours in that agent's office talking about my work and his. To have come from where I came from and to be sitting there, and him asking me to leave my work with him, for almost three hours was bigger than life itself. All things are possible if one only believes... An unexpected writer's dream caught by the hopes, and the hoospa, of a starry-eyed story teller.

Sometimes life is so good, I could just wet my pants.

Btw… all of this is 100% truth. Stay tune for part two From Hollywood to the Big Screen.