Sadly, the debutante saw only the inside of my trash can. I was instructed that she needed to be a prostitute, plain and simple. I stopped short of saying that I didn't quite see the difference between debutantes and prostitutes -- when it comes to extraneous characters added for the sole purpose of titillation, that is.

However, these headaches were minor compared to what would come. The powers that be decided to eliminate a significant supporting character to streamline the story, ignoring the fact that this character was the catalyst for the main plot point and provided the only sound ending that the script had to offer. I performed my instructions blithely, but with an underlying sense of doom. Something wasn't quite right.

Approximately four months after I began my "first" rewrite and two months after I submitted it to the studio, I was replaced and someone else was brought in to do yet another rewrite. I had prepared myself for this. The fact was mitigated by the knowledge that this is standard fare. But it was still a blow. A blow, however, that was eased when I read his rewrite a few months later. While my replacement peppered the script with amusing mob speak -- like "Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining" -- the changes were minor as far as I could tell. And he failed to do the one thing that would have demonstrated my own inadequacy -- get the green light we needed from the studio.

I received the second half of my rewrite money, approximately $10,000, and used it to pay back all the zero-interest loans from my friends and a few credit cards. The rest went toward basic room and board until the film went into production and I was paid in full for the script, which I considered a question of when, not if. I didn't return to my old job -- having already been replaced -- instead, I pretended to be a professional writer and worked on other scripts. However, nine months later virtually all the money was gone. Then, just as I started my new day job as a substitute teacher, I was brought back into the fold and asked to do an unofficial rewrite. Translation: free rewrite. We do these things because if we don't it is made clear that the movie will not get made. It's strong-arming, plain and simple. But writing for free, at that point, came quite naturally to me.

There were a number of issues for me to tackle. While I managed to plant a hooker next door at the home of the wealthy and ancient Samuel Hayes, the bit still fell flat. It was suggested that a rock star move into the adjacent mansion. I decided a rap artist would be more fun. I called him the Doctor. Why the Doctor, you ask? Because his grooves heal all pain. Raymond hooks up with a woman whom I call a prostitute in the script, but believe in my heart to be a groupie, and he joins her at the Doctor's house where there just happens to be a raging bash taking place. Fran and Donnie track Raymond next door -- thanks, once again, to the Pet-Stay Collar -- and crash the party. Amid introductions, Donnie is confused by our rap star's stage name and attempts to solicit medical advice. He and Fran find Raymond screwing the prostitute (groupie) in the closet. Then Raymond and Fran do the hustle as they negotiate his rights as a prisoner. "This is so bad it's good" was the standard compliment I could expect. I lived for such flattery.

Of course, the ultimate problem was that the script didn't have an ending. It didn't until I received a fax from the studio instructing me that Jo Maloni would die by being eaten by an alligator. Hmm. OK. This did solve some ethical issues. None of the cute characters had to do anything nasty, like commit murder, and still the bad guy would get his due without a long, expensive trial. There goes the sequel.

At the time, I considered the note outrageous, but after seeing "Adaptation," I determined that death by alligator is a sadly underused denouement. I turned in the rewrite, and eventually it became clear that this was not "Plan B's" time, nor mine, nor the alligator's. I planted myself back in San Francisco, hopped between a desultory string of low-paying odd jobs and continued to write. The option ran out, and over the next few years there were a string of phone calls from producers, some minor rewrites, and then complete silence.

I decided the silence was fortuitous. I decided that my "Plan B" years were over. I decided to stop writing. And just when I decided I was done with movies, "Plan B" sold. Yes, sold. No option, paid in full, with a promise that the movie would be made within the year. The price of the sale was $50,000, which seemed appropriate since it approximated my negative worth at the time. There were other offers brewing at this point, which would have resulted in more money and ultimately a bigger-budget film, but nothing was set in stone and no offer was made. I remember struggling with the decision to sell, until I voiced this dilemma in front of a number of friends and then realized that I owed half of them money. Suddenly, the idea of turning down $50,000 bordered on absurd.

Recent Stories