The Official Home of Mediocre Screenwriter Geoff LaTulippe

Oh, look at that. I’ve been away for a while. I would like to profoundly apologize to my three committed readers for this grievous offense. To make it up to that almost-handful of you, here’s a great question from Patrick that deserves to be examined:

“I guess my question is this: I’ve been actively saving and am planning to move to LA in six months to give it a go as a writer (since continuing down my current path will most assuredly result in my suicide…and also because I love writing, of course). I was wondering if you have any insight to share on how many pieces I should have in my arsenal aka portfolio for when I arrive out there? I currently have two completed screenplays and one completed original TV Pilot. I know this is not enough, and I know the boiler plate answer is ‘you can never have enough samples’, but I was wondering if you had a magic number that you would recommend? I was sort of thinking I would strive for 3 completed, polished screenplays and 4 TV specs (2 original pilots and 2 spec scripts). But, as with many things in life, I’m pretty clueless and would certainly welcome and appreciate your advice here. And if I may be so bold/obnoxious to tag onto this question…with regard to TV, do you feel I should put more emphasis in the TV spec script or TV Pilot? Do you have an opinion on which is more important of a sample?”

Thanks, Patrick. Before I get into anything else on this topic, I want to hammer home the major point here, and I want to hammer it home with, like, a really big, heavy hammer that really hammers the Christ out of things:

Just get here.

That’s by FAR the most important part of your journey, whether you have fifty scripts ready to go or zero. Get. Thee. To Los Angeles. Being here is, in my opinion, literally half the battle. If you’re here, you are (figuratively, but importantly) light years ahead of everyone else who isn’t, and now the only question left is talent.

If you want to take a shot at writing screenplays for a living…first of all, God bless you, you lunatic comrade-in-arms. But second, you have to go where the industry is. It doesn’t make sense to do it any other way. Yes, there are anecdotal stories of writers working from outside Los Angeles. It has happened.

But it doesn’t happen often, and there are myriad reasons for that. And you already know all of them.

When I was first thinking about moving to LA, my mentor, Luke Ryan, asked me a couple of questions, and now I ask all aspiring writers/industry prospectives the same:

1. If you were to move to LA, would you likely be broke and feeling out of place?

2. If you stayed where you are, would you likely be broke and feeling out of place?

If the answer to both those questions are “Yes”, then the solution is simple. “Well, then you might as well move to LA. This is where all the jobs are. And we have beaches.”

So please: if you have the means and the flexibility and you want to be a working screenwriter, move to Los Angeles. If you don’t, the chances you will ever sell a script are as close to “Never” as you can get. The quicker you get here and the more you learn to network and build relationships, the more you’ll improve those chances.

Now, onto the second part of this ever-involved question: how many scripts do I need to have under my belt when I move to Los Angeles?

This is the fun part, because the answer is patently simple: None. In fact, this should be one of the last things you ever worry about.

First of all, any scripts you’ve written to this point are probably not that great anyway. That’s not a judgment – that’s the numbers. That is a fact. And part of the reason this is a fact is that, if you’re NOT around the film industry, you probably don’t know anyone who can help your writing get any better – or you don’t know anyone who can help enough, and that’s a best-case scenario. Second, aspiring screenwriters are a dime a dozen out here. You can’t sneeze without infecting forty of them. So even once you DO get here, you’re probably not going to need a sample of your work for a while. It’s sort of a common misconception amongst the uninitiated that you’ll show up in LA and someone will come walking up to you like, “Hey, are you a writer? AMAZING! I must read your work!” And that shit does NOT happen. If it does, someone is probably trying to separate you from your money, so you should run away quickly.

Here’s what you need to do, whether you have scripts written or just a bunch of ideas floating around your head: get here, make friends, make contacts, and start developing your work around people who can actually help you make it better. Eventually you’ll meet people who know their shit (and probably quicker than you’d think, if you have even the most basic social skills) and they’ll be in the position to help you. At THAT point, you’d better have a script or at least be able to pitch them one in detail. But until then? There is no magic number. There is no prerequisite. There is just you getting here, there is just you honing your craft, and there is just making yourself a better writer.

Now, onto the idea of screenplays and TV pilots: unless you are SPECIFICALLY working your way into the TV world – meaning you goal is to write for/produce TV – there’s really no reason to bother with TV pilots/specs. You won’t get read, and you won’t get meetings to pitch. The TV world is incredibly insular, and right now the only writers getting in the door are established feature writers and established TV writers. So the average writer has a substantially better chance of breaking in through film than they do TV; in fact, that’s the ONLY chance they stand, statistically. If you want to break into TV only, then get ready for the long haul. You have to start on the low end (PA, office assistant, whatever), work your way into the middle (writer’s assistant) and then hopefully get staffed on a show. And even once you do THAT it can be tough to get a pitch meeting for an original idea.

Thanks again to Patrick for the question. As always, I welcome your slings and arrows and questions of your own. And remember, the penis mightier than the swordis!

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I wrote this piece five years [and some change] ago, right before I sold my first script in July 2008. A mere twelve days prior, in fact. But right now, I’m stuck. I’ve been struggling lately with my writing, and I…

No, sorry. That’s a lie. I’ve been struggling all year. And some change. I guess it’s One of Those Things. Hopefully not One of Those Things That Ends My Career, but I’ve no right to be choosey considering the charmed life I’ve led. Anyway, I feel better admitting that. Out loud. Again. Seriously, I will fix this sooner or later. I cannot wash out of literally the only thing I’ve ever been good [or will ever be good] at.

Moving on.

I’ve been struggling with writing, and one of the things that not only gives me strength and encouragement every day is to think about my family. The sad fact of the matter is that most people who want to push all-in to pursue some form of creative art don’t have a whole hell of a lot of support. I am not one of those people. In fact, I’m AGGRESSIVELY not one of those people. I’ve had every morsel of encouragement tossed my way and then some, and then some again, from my parents to my brothers to my aunts and uncles and cousins. Like I said…I’ve lived an exceptionally charmed life.

Invariably, the people I think about the most are my Granny and Pa. This is probably because they were 1) seminal in both my actual upbringing AND my pursuit of a storytelling existence in general and 2) they’ve both shucked this blasted mortal coil. In the version of my history that my mind has built for me, they are legendary figures on the level of Kronos and Rhea and they’re no longer around to dispel that notion for me. And I feel as though I’m obligated to think about them often just to keep that status quo. It’s remembering so as not to forget.

Maybe it’s because this is my five-year anniversary of being a professional screenwriter or the artist inside me petrified that I’ve lost any knack I ever had for banging out a story in script form, but I’ve been thinking about Pa especially in recent months. Almost as if…if I could harness the complete memory of him, I’d find something within it that would replenish all the confidence that’s leaked out of me like precious heat through a cracked window in winter.

Or maybe it’s just harder being against the ropes without one of your guiding lights to see you home.

Whatever it is, I feel like anything I could take from this phase of nostalgia means little to nothing if I can’t share it with all twelve of you who read this blog. So with permission from myself, I hereby reprint The Great Pa Mailey Memorial Piece of 5 July 2008.

I’m proud to say that my bold prognostication to end the piece held true. And some change.)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There’s this funny little routine you have to go through just to get in the room. They make you put on a hypoallergenic gown that feels roughly like fiberglass and latex gloves that seem snug enough to have been made for children only (which is saying a lot, something you know if you’ve ever seen my small freak-hands). If you leave the room, you have to trash them. When you come back, you have to go through the process all over again. I’m told it’s to stop the spread of MRSA that can easily be transmitted from patient to patient. Though for some reason, they don’t make you tie the gown. I’m bothered by this, as it seems purpose-defeating.

But them’s the rules at the rehab center that has become my grandfather’s Last Big Stop. Well, they call it a “rehab center”, though but taking a look around…egh. Let’s just say that most of the people here – all seemingly in various stages of near-death – don’t seem to be rehabbing so much as rehearsing to be corpses. This is less a “rehab center” and more of a “morgue pre-party”.

I wasn’t here last time. What my grandfather doesn’t know is that this is the same exact rehab center where my grandmother died twelve years ago. He doesn’t know because he didn’t visit her there; no one knew she’d be gone so quickly. No one’s telling him, either. And that’s a blessing – it would only make this worse.

Worse than this would be…pretty bad. I find my grandfather hunched over in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap, staring at the ground. I can’t decide if this is more or less heartbreaking than when I saw him two days prior, laying immobile in his bed and struggling with his breathing tube. I decide on “more heartbreaking” and fight the first of the many urges I have to cry that afternoon. It’s a struggle.

He’s breathing hard. His nose is running. He coughs in fits that seem to cascade into seizures every five minutes. Pa is the victim of advanced pulmonary fibrosis, a malady almost certainly connected to his service on a submarine in the Pacific Theater of World War II.  Now, seventy some-odd years later, he’s still soldiering. Albeit in a much different way.

His old-person tracksuit is coated with a smattering of goldfish cracker crumbs. Sadly, this is a good sign – it means he’s eaten today. In the cache of euphemisms that have become the Mailey family’s manifesto over the past few weeks, this could aptly be categorized as just above A Piece of Encouraging News and just below The Best We Can Hope for At This Point.

It’s not until I sit down on the bed and touch his hand that he knows I’m there. I decide to blame this on his hearing (or lack thereof) rather than to congratulate myself on my ninja-like approach. He does his best to smile, and even though that’s a failing proposition these days, I know he’s glad to see me. I’ve brought him some Lotto scratch-off cards. Every day, wasting down to nothing faster and faster, he’s still scratching off these goddamned Lotto cards. “Wouldn’t it be something,” he says dryly, “if I were to hit the big one at this point? That would be a laugh.”

Today it doesn’t sound that funny.

He gets winded scratching off the first card and asks me for my help finishing it off. I do; it’s not a winner. Best we go on to the second one, he says, and so I scratch that one too. This one produces a veritable treasure chest: $20. “Look Pa,” I doin my best bullshit, saccharine voice, ” You’re a winner!” He smiles again, then tells me to keep it. I make some joke about him using it to tip the nurses, and he mumbles something to the effect of their heads being designated for assignment in their asses. “Keep it. Buy yourself a drink in the airport this evening. What the hell am I going to do with it in here?” The last sentence is said without a hint of humor, and immediately following it, his gaze goes back to the faux marble tile. It’s clear there’s not going to be a lot of conversation here today. So I hold his hand.

A minute or two later, I remember something I had forgotten to ask him about during my previous visit: “Hey Pa? I heard that [my cousin] Shawn came up to see you the other day. Did you have a nice visit?”

He raises his head, “Yes, it was very nice. It was good to see him.”

“I bet.”

A few seconds pass, and before he puts his head down again: “Yeah, Shawn came to visit, your uncles are in here everyday, you came from California.…you’d think I was dying or somethin’.” This time it’s definitely intended to be a joke. I laugh, wonder how he even has the strength to bother, and fight the urge to cry once again.

**********

There are countless things I’d love to tell you about my grandfather, but most of them are personal stories that merely define him in my eyes. But if there’s one seminal item, one character-cementing thing that my grandfather did that would measure him up against anyone for YOU, it’s this: he built his own house.

To me, that is…that is something. This man was not an architect. He had exactly zero training as a builder – of ANYTHING, much less houses. He was in the Navy. He studied business. He worked on the railroad. And then one day, he wanted a house so that he and his One and Only, my Granny, could raise a family in. So he went out, read a few books, bought enough lumber to deforest a good chunk of Central Pennsylvania, and he fucking built that house.

Seriously. He had some help pouring the foundation and had friends in the trade help him with the plumbing and electric wiring. Beyond that, though, he built his house with his own two hands. Just him. My grandfather. Pa. Now, really…how many of you know anyone who’s done that? How many of you know a man who wanted a house, read a book about building houses, built the house, and then proceeded to lord over the Great American Family within it for fifty years?

I know one.

My grandfather did what a man does – a fact that did not, I can tell you, go unnoticed by my grandmother. Granny once told a story: “You know, the day your grandfather got home from the War, I was waxing the floor in the kitchen. He opened the door, and I saw him standing there and nearly fainted. We didn’t even move for a couple of minutes. We just stared at each other. And he looked so sexy in his uniform…” And just like that, she trailed off like as old woman does when she remembers fondly. I was younger at the time this tale was told, and curious, I asked what happened. Granny composed herself and said only, “Well, let’s just say I had to wax the floor again.”

Oddly enough, Pa’s favorite thing to do in his house was contaminate it. For decades the man smoked 8 – EIGHT! – cigars per day. He remained adamant that it was not a bad habit because, much like even our finest Presidents, he “didn’t inhale”. Perhaps it wasn’t on his mind, but the rest of us who had the privilege of staying there for any amount of time existed in an atmosphere that could only be described as brownish. The air in and around my grandparents’ house was acrid, hefty and pervasive, coating everything from clothes to food to, perhaps, even a few souls. My grandfather’s solution to this problem? He bought a ten-inch high air purifier and set it on his chairside table. As you might guess, that functioned about as well as a band-aid on the Titanic. Pa puffed away contently, undeterred, until one day, at a doctor’s appointment, he was told that his smoking habit might be contributing to his heart disease.

Pa quit smoking that day and never had another pull off a cigar in his life. This left Pa with a dearth of ways to torture his beloved family. And that’s about when he decided that if he couldn’t ruin our lungs, he would ruin our vision.

One day, I walked into my grandparents’ house to find that Pa had gone quite out of his head and had electric-blue carpet installed in his family room. And when I say “electric-blue”, I want to be frank about just how electric it was: I became the only middle-schooler in a fifty-mile radius to have acid flashbacks. It was like sitting on top of an azure sun. Just being around it made your body temperature spike by ten degrees. It was garish. It was uncalled for. It was retina-searing. And my grandfather LOVED it. It was his favorite color. No one else understood. Chalk it up in the barrel full of things that Pa did that we didn’t understand. Another of note, just for posterity: the man watched upwards of 10 hours of television per day, yet never sprung for cable or even a TV that had a remote OR a working antenna. He traveled back and forth across his blue carpet dozens of times every day, manually changing the channel and then complaining when the reception sucked. All of this in an effort to watch an episode of M*A*S*H* that he’d only seen sixty times before.

There are enough stories like this to fill books. Maybe it would be a book you’d read, and maybe not. Just in case you’re here for the condensed version, I’ll leave you with this:

When my grandmother died, my grandfather sold that house. His house. The one that he built, by himself, for her. That house was iconic in my mind, a place of countless happy pastimes and life experiences. I was flabbergasted that he could part with it. Some of the family was outright angry. But to Pa, his house was no longer a home. Not without Granny. Now, it was just a structure fixed in place over everything he’d lost. Before he’d even moved out, it was a memory. The reason he got down on his hands and knees and created it from nothing was gone, and as far as he was concerned, the house had served its purpose. It was now obsolete, so he left it. There is only one One and Only in this life.

Like I said, my grandfather did what a man does.

**********

I sat with Pa that day, the last day I would ever see him, for a good forty-five minutes. Conversation, spotty and infrequent, took up a grand total of about thirty seconds of that visit. He mostly bowed his head and looked down, squeezing my fingers tightly in his, and God, I wished that I could do anything to make it stop for him. How is it that just at the point when the sum of your life’s actions should be called upon to build your dignity to its highest level…it can be so unceremoniously and callously drained from you? Frail, diapered, runny-nosed, struggling. Miserable. Watching it is pure and unadulterated agony. I can’t even imagine LIVING it.

And then…it was time to go. It was time to go, and I felt like I’d offered him little. I’d worried about this earlier, that there was nothing I could really do for him. My mother told me that just having me there would be a tremendous lift for him. He didn’t look lifted. He looked just like he looked when I came in: broken. There was nothing I could fix. But knowing that and accepting that are two wholly different animals.

I stood up, kissed him on the head, hugged him, and said fare-thee-well. Our last. I told myself how lucky I was to have this moment, that most people don’t ever get to say goodbye for real. I didn’t feel lucky. He hugged back as best he could, told me to be good. I walked to the trashcan, started to disavow myself of the gloves and gown. “This is it,” my frustrated, scared brain screamed at me. “This is it! Don’t you realize that? Tell him how much he means to you! Say something! Say something, you idiot!”

I turned and looked at him. “I’ll be back at the end of August,” I barely creaked. “It’s my ten-year high school reunion. Can you believe it’s been ten years?”

“Isn’t that somethin’,” he replied, trying to look up.

“So you hang on until, then, OK,” I demanded with all the conviction of wet tissue in a hurricane.

“OK, Geoffrey,” he lied.

“I’ll see you then,” I lied right back. And I turned and walked for the door. I almost made it out.

“Geoffrey?”

I know I must have turned around instantly, but standing there, I felt like it took me decades to rotate.

“Yeah?”

He offered a sickly wave…and yet made it seem as though it was the grandest of gestures. “Thanks for coming all this way,” he said. “To say goodbye to your old Pa.”

The words hit like a wave. A Gibraltar-sized rock formed in my throat where my Adam’s apple used to be, my knees buckled and my legs all but gave out from under me. Somehow, for the last time that day, I successfully fought the tears back. It had nothing to do with projecting stoicism or feeling foolish or being ignorantly macho. My grandfather had only four days left on this planet at that moment, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let his last memory of me be one with wet eyes. So I smiled.

“You got it.”

I’m 28 years old; it was the first time in my life that I’ve ever felt like an adult. All I did was fly home. But that’s the kind of man my grandfather was: I could give nothing, and yet he turned that nothing into everything. The old bastard.

A prophet much wiser than I once theorized that a man stumbles around most of his life confused and in various stages of inebriation, his vision clouded to one degree or another, except on two occasions: when he finds himself, and when he faces death. I’ve often thought that one can consider himself truly lucky if those events don’t happen at the same time.

So if someone had walked into that room with us at that point, they wouldn’t have known that something was off. That something was discordant. They would have just seen two men – one old, one young, one a grandfather, one a grandson – about to part one final time. They would have gone about their day and never questioned the fact that they were both wearing glasses. They had no idea how silly it was for us to be wearing them.

Because…what did we need glasses for? At that moment, we were just a couple of lucky fellas with 20/20 vision.

I will miss you, old man. I will miss you.