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“Are you there, Hollywood? It’s me, Paul.”

A TV writer wannabe from Rumford makes his way to L.A. to pitch his personal life as sitcom, hoping a Tinseltown producer will bite. But is anyone listening?

Photograph by Dana Smith

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The Scene:

Aspiring writer, looking to make it big, goes to Hollywood to pitch a sitcom.

He’s got two days to crack a list of entertainment execs, movie agents and production house mucky-mucks and walk out with a deal. Into this mix throw 200 other writers who’ve also come to town with similar ambitions. Our hero must get his before they do, and, at the same time, appease his family, who are ready to bring more heat than the LAPD in flannel pajamas if he tries uprooting them to La-la-land—besides, they’ve just bought a new kitten and Murphy wouldn’t like it. There’s one more thing. The aspiring writer? He’s from Rumford, Rhode Island, which to Hollywood thinking makes him a cross between E.T. and Forrest Gump. [End scene.]

......

It’s 7:30 a.m. in the lobby of the Marriott Hotel, downtown Los Angeles. A man flailing an attache case sprints past a group of people waiting to be ushered into a conference room. He’s sweating. “Is this the back of the line?” he asks the last link in the long human chain. The person looks back and nods. The latecomer stands for a moment and ponders this, then erupts, “Aaaaaahhh!!! F#&*! F&%#! F*&@!!!” slamming his case to the ground, his nametag unclipped and somersaulting through the air. At the other end of this line is Paul Lawrence, “Paul Lawrence, Rumford, RI,” printed on the tag that is attached to his lapel. He’s been waiting since 4:30 a.m., fully aware that “registration,” as it’s listed on the itinerary, might say 7:30 a.m., but this being Hollywood, a place where a man can be stabbed in the back brushing his teeth, those who arrive first will receive a slice of face time with the people who best suit their genre. For those who don’t, as with the apoplectic man in mid-seismic shift, being last in line means he’ll get in, but meeting the most influential players—nah, they’ll all be taken.

The 12th Annual Hollywood Pitch Festival, sponsored by Fade In magazine, is a golden opportunity for wannabe screenwriters from all over the world. Here, they sign up for fourteen seven-minute meetings, where they go one-on-one with an industry creative from any of the 180 or so fantasy factories. That’s seven minutes with someone from DreamWorks, Lighthouse Entertainment, Happy Madison (Adam Sandler’s production company), Leverage Management or Miramax, who’s heard it all before and needs a miracle to make him or her a believer. And for these world-weary pros that miracle is the pitch, a personal offering that is part science, part showmanship and 100 percent adrenaline.

Unlike most of the attendees, Lawrence doesn’t have a pitch, at least not one he’s memorized. “I was afraid if I did and forgot my lines, I’d get too flustered and come off as a bad actor,” he says, observing his fellow pitchers, many of whom stare vacantly off, mouthing inaudible soliloquies to imaginary agents. Seven minutes. That’s eight less than Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame and four more than your average elevator ride, which prior to events like these was where hopefuls got to pitch big-time players on their way to the top floor. And in those seven minutes all that matters is the “log line,” that unforgettable sentence that says it all and is delivered without stumbling, with eye contact, and must, must, must be sold with a passion bordering on lust.

In the lobby, Sam Kochman, a college graduate from New Jersey, sits at a table and rehearses. He’s pitching a reality TV show about music producers. Kochman looks down at his watch, looks up at the lines of people snaking their way past, glances at his watch one more time and sighs, “Ten minutes until my life is over,” he says. Gallows humor isn’t reserved for scripts alone. Here, it’s a greeting.

Lawrence isn’t too concerned. Despite paying the festival’s $375 admission fee, a figure that varies depending on whether you’ve paid for the cocktail reception, he’s arrived minus the helium-filled expectations, or so he says. That’s not to say he’s not a serious writer. This might be his first pitch fest, but Lawrence, as with most serious writers, has had to endure a wash of rejection for a few sips of success. Twice, his full-length play, Cynthia’s Lament, narrowly missed winning awards from Pulitzer Prize winner and one-time Rhode Islander, Paula Vogel, and his script for this year’s Forty-Eight Hour Film Project was chosen best by the viewing audience. Lawrence isn’t about to be crushed, which is more than you can say for many of the wide-eyed hopefuls. As Mark Graham, managing editor at defamer.com, an online site covering the film industry, has observed about pitchfests, “It’s desperation meets $400 worth of hope.” Judging from the crowd, he seems to be right.

Further down the line is Steve Maidment from Kansas City. It’s Maidment’s second time at this festival. “Last year taught me that if you don’t know anyone in the business, you may as well forget it,” says the schoolteacher who’s pitching an hour-long TV drama on street gangs. “You can live here, go to every cocktail party, do everything you can, but you won’t meet these people like you’ll meet them here, and you’ll never get to pitch. This is not a party. And good material is gold.”

In the entertainment industry, good scripts are the prima materia that can save the reputation of any big studio as well as balance the books. Writers who deliver are the King Midases of Tinseltown and their reputations are as gilded as those of the star actors. Until The Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, Walt Disney had not had a blockbuster come through its lot in years. Thanks to the rock star writing tandem of Ted Elliot and Terry Rossio, the studio hauled in $2.79 billion from this Johnny Depp blockbuster along with its two sequels. With returns such as these, it’s easy to see how show biz is second only to technology as California’s largest revenue-producing industry, generating some $34 billion per year and keeping 250,000 people gainfully employed.

Unlike most of the people attending this weekend, Lawrence isn’t writing for the big screen. He’s pitching for TV and is one of the few pitching a TV sitcom. Like 99 percent of all writers, Lawrence has a day job. And like 99 percent of all writers, Lawrence writes from what he knows. Put those two facts together and you have the key to what Lawrence believes will make a hit show.

“Juggling Lives” is the story of Casey, a male nurse who gamely goes through life jerry-rigging his work, home and all the people existing in these worlds to the credit of his unflagging altruism and his willingness to have his ego pummeled.

With a wife who’s scaling the corporate ladder to success, Casey is left playing Mommy-Dad to his children, agony aunt to his gay boss and the Count of Monte Cristo to his own needs. In a nutshell, welcome to the world of Paul Lawrence.

Lawrence describes his show as “a trade in family function,” where parents switch traditional roles. That’s why he believes in his script. And for the self-professed lover of comedy-sketch writing, what will have them rolling in the aisles is an ingredient likely to produce more chuckles and double-entendres than a Farrelly Brothers flick. Casey—or Lawrence, if you will—works for a gastroenterologist and most of the show is set in a medical office of bodily dysfunctions. With a fully written pilot and thirty-one other episodes outlined, Lawrence has brought an idea that can be read and realized. He’s done his work. It’s time to sell.