Fantastic Hopes

I was reading scripts for Concord Films in 1990, which at that time made approximately twenty, low-budget slasher films a year. I was not ideally suited to this work. I didn’t like horror movies, let alone the grisly, slapped together variety Concord made, so it was hard for me to tell what constituted a good script. The room where I worked was cluttered with stacks of manuscripts mailed by hopeful screenwriters, most of which, I knew, were destined for the return envelopes with which they arrived.

It was the slushiest of slush piles, and my ambition soon shifted from finding a script to show my boss, to seeing how few pages I could read before I moved on to the next screenplay. That number dwindled from 30, to 15, to 10, to 5 in a matter of weeks. Sometimes I didn’t get even five pages in. One script, for instance, arrived written in pen on lined paper, whose cover page featured a crudely drawn image of a monster. At least I thought it was a monster. It might have been a bear.

The first time I saw it, I was both relieved and depressed. While I was grateful I could pass on this one simply by looking at it, I wondered about the lost soul who took the time to write it, illustrate it, and stick it in an envelope with the hope, however fantastical, that it would be turned into an actual movie. So much effort had been spent on this, effort that could have been spent learning how to submit a manuscript professionally.

But I was not the only one reading scripts. Charlie was a happy fellow who guzzled Diet Coke and sent half the stuff he read to our boss. He told me he had an idea for a script of his own, but hadn’t gotten around to starting it. We didn’t have a lot in common, but we shared a small space, and I wanted to find something for us to commiserate over.

“Have you seen this thing?” I asked, pointing to the handwritten manuscript. “With the illustration on the cover?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Not bad.”

“You read it?”

“Yeah. It was pretty good.”

It was disorienting. I was young, and still harbored the idea that there were certain creative standards everyone on earth could agree on. I couldn’t bring myself to read it; my snobbery about professionalism was too great. Yet Charlie and that manuscript stayed on my mind for years afterward. It took me years to learn that it was a fantastical idea to believe I could write something so good it would be adored by everyone, or so bad, no one would like it.  

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Fearless Writing: How to Create Boldly and Write With Confidence.
You can find William at: williamkenower.com