I know many people believe they are, but I actually am, a genius, and its hard to describe the pain I feel from not having that recognized. In my Script Writing 101 course I took at the local community center, I was told if you have a great idea and great execution, success is assured. It was in that moment that I realized I had the greatest idea possible. Crossovers and revamps are all the rage in Hollywood currently, and what else does everyone like? Christmas movies! So, here’s a Christmas movie, the two greatest solo defenders in the history of cinema combine to tell the story of adult Keven McCallister, who has chosen to take on his late God-fathers last name, McClane—of Nakatomi Plaza fame—in the Rube Goldberg machine torture porn action movie of the century.
I wrote the script in four hours. Didn’t even have to proofread or edit. They call it the flow state. Words just flowed out of me. BAM. Right on the page. Like an apple hitting Newton? The Christmas movie cross over hit me like that. From the setting at the Sears Tower, to a zombie Hans Gruber and geriatric Joe Pesci, to the ingenious use of nail guns, micromachine gags, and elevator decapitations. I never knew until that moment that something could come out so pristine, so pure—so perfect.
But holiday season is over and so is the dream of a studio picking up my script for 2023. I worked toward this goal for almost three months. I harnessed all of my creative power and moxy that had been brewing in my for years. I remembered my ex told me she thought I had immense potential if I’d could stop playing Fortnite for six hours a day and staying up until three AM correcting people on twitter threads. I sent her a copy of the script and never heard back. I imagine it took her breath away. Left her speechless.
Talking to non-writers, it’s difficult to explain what it’s like to be told your voice doesn’t matter. That your vision isn’t shared. Watch your words fall silent. Sure, its fiction, but every good writer puts some of their heart and soul into the characters, a bit of their life experience and world view into the plot and setting. It’s impossible to take the writer out of the story. So, in a lot of ways, the studios weren’t rejecting Kevin McClane’s story, they were rejecting mine. They were rejecting me.
Well, there is no saving the cat. It’s gone. I doused my laptop in kerosene and threw a match while sobbing “Yippie Ki Yay Motherfucker”. The dream is gone. I have become comfortably numb. (that was the final line of the script when geriatric Joe Pesci coughs blood and quotes Pink Floyd after Kevin impales him with one of those poles that hold velvet rope.)
The good news? I’ve decided to pick up acting.