Every writer—like Paul Sanchez IV—has that script. The one that didn’t sell… but should have. The one that meant more than the paycheck. The one that defined them, or saved them, or proved something only they could prove.

The phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Is this Paul?” The voice was polished, slightly rushed, but professional. I hadn’t been in Hollywood that long but I already knew the timbre of a Hollywood assistant.

“Yes?”

“I have (insert name of Hollywood Agent) at (bigtime three letter agency) on the phone for you. Is this a good time to talk?”

Even if it wasn’t a good time, I wouldn’t have said no. I didn’t know the name, hell, I didn’t know the name of any agents in Hollywood, but I understood the moment, and I knew better than to let it pass.

“Yes, this is a great time!” I said with a confused enthusiastic smile in my voice, which I regretted instantly, suspecting that I would be judged by the assistant for my eagerness. But he was already switching the call.

“I have Paul for you.”

“Paul, this is (Hollywood Agent). Just so you know, I don’t usually call to flatter people I don’t represent. But I’ve got to be honest, what you’ve written is not something I see every day.”

I had graduated from AFI the year before, and my short thesis film had made the rounds at some major festivals—and even aired on LA public television. Because of that film, I had landed meetings with over a dozen producers, production companies, agents, and agencies—not the big three-letter ones, though—who had seen it premiere at the Arclight and wanted to meet me.

Like any serious AFI graduate whose mentors were D.C. Fontana, Gill Dennis, and Abby Singer, I came into those meetings armed with two feature scripts: one adapted from my thesis film, about a girl in the future who takes a drug to meet God; and the other a deeply personal, Cassavetes-style American drama—people in rooms with raw nerves, yelling at each other.

No one wanted to make the drama, and the other script, the one everyone leaned in for, was ultimately deemed way too out there, too expensive, and “beautiful, but hard to market.” That last line came at the very end of that series of meetings, from a wonderful independent producer lounging on a giant overstuffed orange couch. I complimented the color and he sincerely offered me the couch on the spot.

I politely turned him down and started to leave, disheartened by all the passes—remember, I had just graduated film school and had no idea these “passes” were the first of thousands. Then he leaned forward, eyes bright, and said, “Hey, do you have a zombie film? Zombies are hot right now, and if you had one, I bet I could get it made!”

I told him I didn’t have a zombie film, sorry, and walked out onto Melrose Avenue cursing the industry and its shortsightedness. I mumbled to myself, “No, I don’t have a zombie film. Stupid zombie films. Don’t they know that in a year everyone will be sick of zombies and it’ll be some other stupid fad?! Like, zombie films are so last year. Now all we make are movies about psychic gorillas—do you have a movie about psychic gorillas? And by the way I do want that couch but it won’t fit into my 10’x10’ studio efficiency…” And then, “GODAMMIT.”

But that curse wasn’t from the rejection, it was because I had just been hit with an idea—one that would lead to a phone call, about six months later, from (Hollywood Agent).

“And you can ask your friends from AFI and they’ll tell you that I don’t normally call people to tell them how good their scripts are. But your zombie script landed on my desk, and I had to call you to let you know this is good, it’s very good.”

“Thank you very much.”

“How long did it take you to write this?”

“About six months.”

“Six months, huh? That’s really great. Nice work. It’s solid and it feels fresh. And Thaw is a great title by the way.”

At that moment, I had to ask, my voice carrying the same idiotic, overly-eager enthusiasm: “So… is there something you—or we—can do with it… together?”

He laughed softly. “Here’s your problem: I’m head of television at (three-letter agency), and this is a feature script. I don’t do features. I sent it around, but I can’t promise you anything. But if you write anything in the TV space, I want you to send it to me. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Paul.”

I did ask my AFI friends about him. They confirmed he was a big shot, and that I should be impressed he called just to compliment me.

Word got around, and because of that buzz, I landed my first manager—and my professional Hollywood career began.

I started writing pilots and spec TV scripts. I don’t know why Thaw wasn’t pitched or made. I guess I got too busy.

I never sent the script to Orange Couch Producer. But I wish I had. Nate… give me a call sometime. Do I have a zombie script for you!

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