How do you get an agent? After everything we’ve talked about for weeks, this is of course the one and only thing you aspiring screenwriters want to know: How do you get an agent?
Well, first, you’re going to have to make a sacrifice. I suggest you kill something. Not anyone you know, necessarily – a fly would do, for starters, or say, all the other screenwriters in the world. Short of that, do get a bit of blood on your hands. Is there a woman present? Make this sacrifice in a way that will impress her. Reveal a hidden strength, or perhaps an ability to sing. In which case – learn how to read music? Master a musical instrument.
If there were no women present at your moment of sacrifice, a song is a good way of attracting their attention. Failing that, move to another country. If you find one at war, that’s especially useful. See if you can either help win the war, or find a way to lose it that enables you to survive. Helpful too, at this point to learn how to cook. Scrambled eggs will do, as you can put anything in them. Crack two in a bowl, add a dash of goat milk, salt, pepper, beat the eggs and get out a pan with butter – other recipes and methodologies are available. Or just boil an egg, so you can carry the hardboiled egg in your pocket, along with a spoon, as you carefully separate the strands of barbed wire so that you can crawl though the fence to get to safe territory. Try not to tear your jeans and if possible, pick up a dog.
Keep the egg for yourself but find food for the dog. Otherwise she or he is liable to desert you. Have you learned the language? Become fluent in at least two foreign languages. La pared means wall (I know, it doesn’t sound like a feminine word, but in Spanish these things are often counterintuitive). It is la pared. Learn that and the word for hope – ESPERANZA! – hope and the wall. That’s what you need to know. Is there a woman yet?
Go to the town square, where the accordions play and the guitarists, where women tend to gather. Sing, you big beast! You want to see eyes widen. And if you are a woman – I have heard there are a few female screenwriters – you’ll still want a woman to help you. The men are mostly useless. Alright, now steal a jeep, while the others are distracted, they’re singing Guan-tana-mera or calling the wind Mariah – so gun the motor, drive like a fiend. Are you there yet? Take the right hand road. It narrows, the moon bathes it in an unearthly glow. Could the moon’s light be other than unearthly? Think about it. There are things you need to contemplate.
Your dog is howling in the back seat. Drive through the mountain pass, and if the soldiers are firing at you, duck. Rescue a woman, while you’re at it. If she wants to be married, do it. Maybe she’s willing to bear your firstborn child. Not right now, you don’t have time for that, you have to be on the ferry by five to midnight, before the fuses blow. Learn whether it is the red wire or the blue wire that needs to be cut. Cut it, but don’t answer that phone. Fly instead to the other side of the continent under an assumed name. Say the password esperanza! to the leader of the resistance, only to be betrayed and thrown in prison. It’s like being at the bottom of a well but you have your spoon – did you remember the spoon? Begin to dig. A year later when you emerge, no one will recognize you. Use this to your advantage. Sneak into the cellar and snatch a bottle of vintage Pino Noir. And have a drink for courage, because the dog is having puppies.
Realize that one of the puppies can be bartered for a ticket out of town. Over the next hill, in the valley, between two one-limbed cypress trees, you’ll find the remnants of the treasure that’s already been dug up. The bone that you find there can be fashioned into a utensil to write with. And there is always blood. Write about the life of your son, the one you could’ve had with your wife, if you weren’t so intent on your career. Your son is now the owner of an empire of shoes, and you can afford at least the left boot of a pair at discount. With the money you have left, invest in one good stock, anything but Boeing. The shed has yet to be roofed, you have to battle a swarm of bats first and there’s a lesson to be learned in this, something profound but ineffable. Sing about it, only do it in seven-syllable lines. Write 120 pages of these haiku and polish them all till they shine, brilliant in the morning sun. The men in suits are there, crouched in the orchard with their rifles. The one who won’t shoot is the one you can talk to, if you’ve learned the language. The familiar-looking one with the silver tooth who’s a muckety-muck at ICM, the one who owes you some money. Is he your brother-in-law? That’s how you get an agent.
Oh wow - This is a classic. I want a copy to read to my students. And I'll tell them: this is what real writing is all about.
Gorgeous stuff my friend.xxoo
Posted by: Barbara Abercrombie | March 22, 2019 at 04:51 PM
Thank you so much, Ms. A! I'm glad you enjoyed, xx B.
Posted by: mernitman | March 22, 2019 at 05:49 PM
Brilliant, beautiful and and true.
Posted by: Paul Fontana | March 29, 2019 at 11:51 PM
Thank you, Mr. Fontana!
Posted by: mernitman | March 30, 2019 at 08:58 AM