This morning I woke up to my phone ringing. I'd been up late working on a new website–I haven't been writing on the new screenplay lately because I decided to make some money for a few months first so I could afford to concentrate on it. The call was from Lacy Pearman, the vice-president of development at Dreamworks. She was calling to offer me $180,000.

When I was at Sundance, I met a guy, Renardo, who worked at one of the little coffee shops in Park City where all the famous people go in between screenings. He was on break and had picked up a flyer for my movie Moving which I'd strategically left on tables in shops and lounges and screening rooms. I got to talking to him about it, and we struck up a conversation about movies, which he loved as much as I did and wanted someday to make himself.

Well, Renardo eventually made his way to LA and became a script reader, then a member of a development team, then a producer, then an assistant to Lacy back when she was with Universal, around the time they were working on "Charlie Wilson's War," written by one of my favorites, Aaron Sorkin. When one of their subsidiaries offered us our $20,000 distribution deal I mentioned in an earlier post, word filtered up and it jogged his memory. He asked for some of my stuff and I sent it, not expecting anything in response.

Well, Lacy was out in New York pulling together some East Coast talent for a sequel to "Charlie Wilson's War" about the repurcussions in Afghanistan of America's intervention there against the Soviet Union in the 1980's–a theme strongly hinted at in the ending of the film but never actually addressed. Apparently, Aaron Sorkin wanted to do it himself but is busy working on a West Wing feature film idea, and is having trouble getting Martin Sheen onboard, because (and this is just scuttlebutt) he is working on some bigger-budget projects to help pay for his son's legal bills over the past decade or so, which nearly bankrupted him. So my buddy Renardo sent Sorkin my screenplays, and he loved them and recommended me to Lacy personally.

This is Lacy's first big project at Dreamworks since leaving Universal, and I've been offered it! Plus the possibility of a three-film development contract if the screenplay hits certain milestones. I'll probably be moving in a few months.

I've sent off my package. I am now an official applicant for the commissioning grant. As you can tell by the sleepless, starving, sweat-stinking guy on the right making a stupid face, it was stressful to put together. Thanks to everyone who weighed in and pointed out to me that the good fellow was genuinely offering help and I'd be stupid not to accept it. I deferred to your votes and comments; don't ever say I didn't. I let the Internet tell me how to live my life, and I'm proud of it.

There is an incredibly funny sequel to this story, however, and I'll mention it in a later post…

In the meantime, wish me luck. Those of you who believe in Science, pray heartily for glorious triumph!

I decided to apply for a $20,000 Commissioning Grant for the new screenplay I've been working on. I've been doing round-the-clock web-design work to afford food; this grant would free me up to take a break and finish writing. It could be a hell of a movie if I could concentrate on the damn thing for more than an hour a week. So I asked a Hollywood producer who's seen and liked my work to write me a recommendation letter.

Today he wrote back and said, "Please send me the letter you'd like. I'll sign it and return it to you on my letterhead."

Am I right to feel vaguely dirty about this, or should I be falling all over myself with gratitude?

I mean, the guy likes what I've done. He's trying to help. But this just feels downright fucked up.

Maybe I should stop being so creeped out by the way they do things out there and just write myself the most glowing recommendation letter in the history of the planet.

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In 2003, I was selected for the Sundance Screenwriter's Lab. The Sundance Institute does not just put on a massive film festival every year; they have fabulous all-expenses-paid artistic development programs in film, poetry, theater, and more, and provide a kind of fertile creative soil which I never knew existed and might not have believed had I not been lucky enough (and believe me, it's more luck than talent) to get planted in it. You're housed for a week in the Sundance Village in Utah, surrounded by woodfire cabins, forested mountains, and Academy Award-winning screenwriters. The airfare is paid, the expenses are paid, and there are three grade-double-A buffet meals a day plus social events and–if you stick around a few days beyond the Lab–some free Film Festival tie-ins. There is no industry talk except around informal dinner tables, no producers, no worries, no focus on anything except the art and craft of screenwriting. Plus there's a THX theater where you get to watch prior films by your fellow participants, and get sneak-preview 35mm screenings of films that are about to premiere at Sundance. It was among the very best and happiest weeks of my life.

How did it happen?

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