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A brief, and if I say so myself, interesting bio of a girl chasing a dream.

First I must take you back to a little girl who grew up on the New England coast. The imagination of that spoiled little brat was her very best friend, which basically is a very colorful way of saying she was a liar… and not just a little bit, in a very strong, big, fat way. . . oh the stories she could weave.

Later in life, and a whole shit-load in-between, she became one of those tragic teens who found themselves a runaway and yes, pregnant. So now we have a big fat liar with a big fat belly. . .  and at sixteen, her mother taken by cancer much earlier, everyone thought the big fat liar should lose the big fat belly… save it for another time in life. Like many story-tellers, her determination only heightened.
 
Later in life, and a whole shit-load in-between, she had the baby; her name after a baby food commercial, Jennifer Rebecca. Jennifer became the main focus of the story teller's life. After all, the story teller would only be 34 when the Minnie-me went off to college. With little education the shit jobs with long hours (and many drinks) were high on the priority list. After all, there were cloths, electricity, housing, food, involvements in plays, dedication to proving society wrong that single parents rear the worst stock; barby dolls, Nintendo games, stereos, fancy dresses, limo rentals for proms, automobiles, field trips (as simple as the zoo, later escalating to trips to Washington to explore how real journalism was done)… then came the time when the story teller was under the impression that motherhood was about over. Her baby almost ready for college (which of course there was no other choice for the story teller's single parent child.), what would she do with her life?

It was at that point where I began to read anything and everything there was available about screen writing. I swear I read, even studied the good ones, any book written prior to 1993 on the subject. I would read in the library. I would read in my home. I would read in my car. I would read at the book store. And all the while I was writing that master script. I kept reading, writing and studying for almost a year; even took some classes at a local community college. My daughter went off to college. I closed shop on my business and took a counseling job in another state… all the while writing, rewriting, studying, planning for my future in California.

Then the day arrived, two years later, the script was done. It was a masterpiece. Hollywood would welcome me with open arms and praise.

I threw all my belongings into storage. A two bedroom house full of twenty-two years got locked away for my daughter's taking. I gave her the keys to the storage, loaded my cougar with my dog, my cat, my guitar, my CD's, my pillows, my computer, a few cloths and headed out to chase a dream long abandoned in a lost youth.

I took my time driving to California, enjoyed my new-found freedom and the bliss from the terror. Oh, we are truly blessed people, those of us that live in this country. It is so big and so incredibly beautiful; different parts like different kingdoms.

Once arriving in California I began to meet as many people as possible. I started to use every outlet imaginable to learn how to get my script seen. Again, the libraries and the bookstores were my best friend. I even took a job as a clerk in Barnes and Noble when my savings got low, just so I could read and be around readers. (I would like to share what a wonderful experience that was, but it sucked. When I was reprimanded for saying god-bless to someone I started hitting the pavement for an office job.) I spent many spare hours in LA meeting people. EVERYONE there was in the business, even when they were not in the business. Los Angeles and the surrounding towns (Hollywood, Santa Monica, etc) were eclectic Mecca's… way different than anything I ever experienced in Kansas or Oklahoma.

My first day out, I found an agent. She took my script with much enthusiasm (translation; I did all the work.) I continued to read everything I could to educate myself. I researched production companies that did movies similar to my script. I researched reader's names and contact information. I talked about my story and shared it with anyone that would give me the time. I sent out multiple copies, promising myself I would take my time to accept just the right offer when all the offers came back.

And then they came, rejection after rejection after rejection after rejection… and some, thank the good lord, with great words of wisdom and feedback. Two more years had passed. My law school student daughter and her husband secretly thinking me insane. I was not discouraged. The big fat liar, who once had the big fat belly, got big fat determined. I did what any writer would do, I wrote another script.

Now that script, a girly flick, started to get some attention. My agent was calling me asking questions. Where I was like, "ah, I don't know. That's why I have you." Ron Howard's partners wife's assistant called asking me for more pages (they liked what they saw, but didn't think I sent them an ending… of course I had, yet I claimed blonde) Many other companies called. My agent called with more questions. Time for a new agent I surmised.

I research the hell out of agents. I needed one who would know the ropes, yet have a charitable heart in the community. Someone I could trust. I found just the guy. He and his wife did major work with autism's in the community, he had been around forever in the business, and represented the likes of some major players (now, don't misinterpret that. I am not one of those people who goes ga ga over entertainment folks. Having been a model for a bit, that kind of thing didn't and never has impressed me.) Yet this guy, in my opinion, was perfect for me and for my work. I sent him the screenplay with a letter summarizing the story, only to have it returned weeks later unopened with a nice generic letter talking about unsolicited material.

Well. I just couldn't have that! I prayed. I asked for forgiveness ahead of time. I plotted. I planned. I prayed. I thought, thought, thought… how was I going to get in to see this guy? He WAS going to see me. He WAS going to read my work. IT was going to happen. And then, it hit me.

THE PLAN: I called my day job's florist and advised them of my intentions. I told them that in my spare time I wrote scripts. That my most recent script had been getting a lot of attention and that I was looking for a new agent, which is where they came in. I had an agent in mind and a plan plotted to get in to see him, yet I needed to know his favorite flower. Now, I said, I could either call his office and state I worked for the florist or they could call the agent's office. They wanted to make the call.

I explained to them that if they took this mission it had to be held in the strictest confidence. No matter what happened, my name could not be given to anyone NO MATTER WHAT. My name had to be withheld at all cost for this plan to execute properly. They agreed and were quite excited. I advised that they needed to phone and find out what Mr. S's favorite flower was. Once having been given this information they needed to send him that flower everyday at exactly the same time of day for three days. On the first day the card would read "I". On the second day the card would read "need". On the third day the card would read "you!" That was it. Just that simple and no matter what, they could not give out my name.

They phoned me back with the name of the flower, which to this day I cannot give you—only that it is shiny red thing that looks like a vagina with a penis sticking out of it.-- And of course those are not cut flowers. They are potted flowers and very expensive to a starving artist living in Southern California. I said go ahead. They were to put the plan in motion the next day.

The next day I was more nervous than the time I was in the back of a cruiser for a DWI and the police had discovered I had slipped my cuffs off my wrists. I kept looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. Paranoid as all get-up that I would be discovered.

On day two I was worse. The florist phoned and reported she just had to get my permission to tell the management company who I was in fear of their threat to phone the police… luckily she phoned me before giving out my name. I pleaded no. Just two more days, one for what they had left to do and one for the final stage of the plan, and then Mr. S. would know. I promised I was not going to go psycho and if the agent's office called after two days she could give them my name. She agreed.

Everywhere I went little suited men followed. I was sure I was going to end up in jail. I finally decided, well shit, if I had I was just going to call Oprah… what a story that would've been. Yet still, everywhere I went, it didn't even matter if I was going pee… I just knew someone was going to come and get me for stalking one of the biggest agents in Hollywood, who fool-heartedly returned my script unopened weeks before.

Alas, day three and I was still a free woman. I jotted a note that said nothing about my script (as did the last one). It was just one paragraph about 'how was I to explain to him in a note my enthusiasm for my writing when he wouldn't' be able to see the expression on my face as my hands waved about in the air or…" Yadda, yadda…Then, "Why should you represent me over the millions of others who solicit your attention daily? Because I NEED YOU". I simply stated I would be in touch soon. Signed it, put a p.s. that stated 'over the past few days he had experience a  scene from the movie "title"' The letter was sent overnight by FedEx to arrive around the same time as the flowers had the days before.

The next day on my cell phone was a message from the agent's assistant asking me to call, that Mr. S was very interested in talking with me. I thought. Absolutely not! I had spent a few hundred dollars, not to mention three days in hell after his sorry, but successful, ass returned my script unopened… he can damn-well call me himself. He did the next day. We had a very nice conversation, full of humor, and as he put it, my celebrity ism.

I spent almost three hours in that agent's office talking about my work and his. To have come from where I came from and to be sitting there, and him asking me to leave my work with him, for almost three hours was bigger than life itself. All things are possible if one only believes... An unexpected writer's dream caught by the hopes, and the hoospa, of a starry-eyed story teller.

Sometimes life is so good, I could just wet my pants.

Btw… all of this is 100% truth. Stay tune for part two From Hollywood to the Big Screen.

This article is owned by the author and cannot be used or duplicated without the author's permission.

In From OK to Hollywood I covered pretty much from youth to getting in to see one of Hollywood's biggest agents.

After getting in to see mega agent Mr. S. I pulled together my two screenplays, and a synopsis from another piece I was working on at the time. I dropped them by his office as promised.

I wanted to learn the aspects of screen writing that cannot be taught in the books or learned through the internet. What happens to the script after The End has been written and a producer signs off on a project? I needed to do what any big fat liar would do, become an actor and literally overnight. After all, I had been a model in the past. I rubbed elbows with famous musicians and movie producers. On many occasions in my life I faked it till I made it. Surely such a feat of acting couldn't be much different or bigger than any of those. Really? How difficult could it be? It wasn't that I expected to be Julia Roberts. I wanted to be a lingerer. Someone who stood in the shadows watching how things went, incognito I would mix unnoticed amongst the crowd watching and learning. Yeah, right.

Again, I did my research. I found just the right production company. In blue jeans and a t-shirt, careful to leave the Map Quest and research in the car, I walked on the lot like I had been there a million times before, found the right trailer as if Divinely lead there, and then completed the paperwork with little perspiration. During the interview they asked if I could sing or play an instrument. I replied "yes, however most people would pay me not to" (keep in mind, one of the few items that made the trip from OK to Hollywood was my 125th made Alvarez Guitar. When people used to come to my home they would inevitably ask, "Oh, who plays the guitar?" I would reply "Eric Clapton."). I was assigned to work the next day on location for some Showtime flick about some guy named Tiger Woods (again, I pretended).

Arriving on location at some golf-course in God knows where remote location waiting with the herd I had to ask, "Okay, so the big question of the day is, who the hell is Tiger Woods?"

Everyone within ear shot broke into laughter. The gentleman next to me said, "You're joking, right?"

"Well actually—"

"Next you'll be asking who LaVar Burton is."

"Okay. I'll play. Who's he and he's important in my world why?"

"Jesus, you're serious. What truck did you just fall off of?"

Like this guy could shake the world of the big fat liar. "The Oklahoman," I said very matter of factly.

"LaVar's our boss. You know, man, the director."

"Okay."

A sudden excitement had fallen over this guy, "He also was in the Next Generation, like, you know?... Star Trek series? The black dude with the cool shades?"

Jesus, I was expecting his reply with the likes of Elizabeth Taylor, Robert DiNiro or at least one of their lover's or something. I got a bloody Treky. Not saying there was anything wrong with that, but really. "Okay. And Tiger Woods?"

"He's like the first black man ever to be a pro golfer."

"Well, there you have it." Why would I know shit about golfing and Treking before now? It's not like the fools in the trailer tell you anything. Learning. Getting my bearing straight. It was all good. I looked around scanning the faces of the many extras. One black guy in the whole lot of'em. This shouldn't be difficult, shouldn't be difficult at all.

Me and the lone black man, whom I came to nickname Sammy, cause he looked and acted just like Sammy Davis Jr., got to be really good friends during our weeks of shooting… and we were both up front and center in most of the scenes, usually goofing around and having one hell of a fun time.

LaVar and his assistant liked to tease me a lot. They called me the cigar lady. Fools were always walking around with what my eye saw as Cuban cigars. Now, I am no cigar connoisseur. I enjoy a good cigar every now and again. I am a Macanudo Red label girl, myself. Cuban's were like being on the movie set. They were a totally new experience for me. I told LaVar one day that I thought it incredibly rude of him to be walking around toting on one of those bad boys from his lips and not share with those of us peons who were working and starving our asses off for him… hence, no cigar, but from that day forward I was known as the cigar lady, always followed by a chuckle. Every now and again I would hear that distinctive voice of LaVar's over the megaphone (yes, they really do use those things) "Cigar lady? Cigar lady? Where are you? Get up here by me and stand here." Fun times (I never have seen the movie, btw—starving artist's don't get Showtime, unless they are hijacking yours).

Outside of traipsing on the movie set for long hours, I worked as a script reader for my agent; simply for the experience mind you… I read and reviewed hundreds of really bad screenplays. The whole experience gave me a new appreciation for agents and production company folks.

In my spare time I went places where I thought artist would go. I met many artists from many mediums, painters, writers, poets, musicians, actors, sculptors, etc. I learned early not to tell people what I did right off. Everyone is working on the next big screenplay and they seem to come out of the woodworks wanting you to read their masterpieces; and many of them need lots of work (they were actually painful, I tell you). In response to me not calling myself a writer an artist friend of mine, who I got very close with, asked me what would need to happen to make me feel like a successful writer? I said, why seeing my movie on the big screen of course. I would learn, somewhat, to regret sending that out in the Universe.

A few weeks later the call came in. As much as Mr. S. liked me, my work didn't do anything for him. He like the idea for my my work, yet they weren't ready in his opinion. He advised me he would be glad to read anything I had in the future. He even advised me that he would continue to talk about me around Hollywood tables. Keep at it he said.

That is exactly what I did. He gave me exactly what I needed, no matter how discouraging. A few years passed where I was side tracked, mostly by a very handsome, young Irish man… whole other story for a whole other time. . . I like to call it research today.

Needless to say, life got a little dark. I needed to get back to my journey. I needed to start then or else. I did what all weepy women would do. I went to the movies.

I was a bit peeved because in that particular movie house, at that particular movie, there were teens running in and out of the theater. At times they would sit for a bit, talk on their cells, talk amongst themselves, etc. Like any good story, they merely added conflict.

As I watched the story I began to see a lot of similarities between my last script and this movie. Don't misunderstand, there were some major differences. In my story the protagonist was a woman. In this guy's movie the protagonist was a man. In my story there was Jimi Hendrix. In his story there was something else. My story took place in California and Massachusetts. His story took place in Chicago and some bohemian country.

The kids were pissing me off.

The movie was making me shift between anger and feeling flattered (let's face it, there had to be some merits to my screenplay if someone would steal the concept, right?). I got to see what worked and what didn't. I swore if the protagonist had done a certain thing at the end I was going to jump from my seat and strangle the little shit right there in front of God and everybody.

Someone complained about the teens, because they were escorted out. The story wasn't working. It wasn't that good.

My emotions topsy-turvy; popcorn wedged between my teeth, no amount of water moistened my dry throat.

Then it came, the ending. He didn't have the one thing, the little SOB found one though. My heart raced, my fists clinched.

That was it. Thoughts of Smith and Wesson and internet tracking circled my mind. All the years, the work, so that already rich MF'er could get richer and exclude me and my sacrifices. Oh, he would pay alright.

As the theater emptied, I remained. What the hell? Ah, well, good thing it sucked. Now, don't get me wrong. I considered myself a spiritual woman. I worked hard for years to cultivate that relationship… but there was a time in my life--.

In my mind this guy, who starred in many movies, had more money than a fraction of the world, very likely came across my script and saw the concept and covered his sorry-ass making changes to make it his own. I stayed in my seat and watched the credits roll. You can tell when someone had a concept because the movie would have several writers; I learned that from several of the books I had read. When one person cannot produce what someone else is looking for they hire someone else and so on and so on. I waited, counted, seven writers total.

Well maybe it was coincidence. Maybe there was no link at all between this movie and my screenplay. Maybe this was the Universe's way of giving me my success as a writer-- seeing my movie on the big screen.  

There it was, my story on the big screen (did i cover that yet?). If it wasn't my story it sure was enough like it that my friends were calling me asking me if I saw it. They picked up on the similarity. At first I wanted retribution. I remembered one of the perks when registering my script with the Writer's Guild was if something like that happened, you got to use their attorneys.  I phoned the Writer's Guild and they gave me the attorney's number to phone. Their response? "I wish I had a nickel." They asked me several questions; was any location the same? No. Where any characters the same? No. Were any of the names the same? No. I wish I had a nickel… great, me too.

Oh I had to spend lots of time in prayer and meditation over that one. Conclusion?

One afternoon I was having coffee with a musician friend of mine. We were talking about our respective mediums of art, sharing stories. I told him about the movie. Now keep in mind, this guy had known me for some time. He had also been through a similar experience with a prior band member who left the band and freely used the material he had written. He said, "God, Barbara, I cannot believe you haven't found that son-of –bitch already and done something to him, at least called him out or went public. That just really pisses me off, how people can do that without any repercussions."

I held my hands up like a balance scale and said. "Trust me. It wasn't easy. I had to ask myself," I weighted one hand. "Barbara's wrath?" I weighted the other hand, "The Universe's wrath? Like the attorney said, I don't even know if it was my script for sure… but blank blank knows. Karma. If it was my script I am confident the Universe will take care of it."

I do not know if this means anything, but that happened over five years ago. That actor has done Jack since… his flippin' wedding got more press then any movie he had been in since.

Karma?

Stay tune for part 3, where we go from Big screen to Published Author.