Finished

I had almost forgotten how good it felt. I printed out the script on the whitest 3-hole I could find, using the blackest ink (black as midnight, black as pitch, blacker than the foulest witch). I used sturdy card stock for the cover and broke out the brads (two brass number 5s of course). The edges were smooth and true and the binding was tight.

Then I held it for the first time.

This is a big deal for anyone who has completed a screenplay. The finished product*. The tangible result of long, toiling hours. I look at it, and marvel at the contrast between the ink and the paper. It looked professional, not like some gray-ish draft print on murky paper. My baby finally had a form and a page count:

117.

It feels right, and for that moment it's the most perfect script in the world. Development Execs will clamor for it. The studios will bid like their bottom line depended on it. And I will ride to the Academy Awards in my Lamborghini.

It is just a feeling, a moment in time. Now Nicholl has it, and so will Austin in short order. Pretty soon the creative engine will sputter and start, and a new project will launch. My confidence will fade and I'll wonder why I do this screenwriting thing as I flounder at story creation invariably crashing to a point where I question my ability to tell noun from verb.

But in my mind I know that someday I will print it out. I will bind it. I will see it, and I will be proud.

*It's not finished till it's shot and edited. And even then . . .