That’s not the way to get the guts out of the book. All I need is an idea and to work with somebody.Īll he suffered from was inferiority complex.ĥ. His knowledge of the language is second to none.Ĥ. I’ve got a list of credits second to none. It made Tim’s back ache to dig in the garden.ģ. … it made his head bang to read too much. She visited her native town ten years on and off.Ģ.
He had worked there fifteen years on and off. at Hollywood and Vine: at the corner of Hollywood and Vine Street, where the actors usually rent apartments ġ. Finding an office with no name on it he went in and fell asleep on the couch.ġ. He got it and walked out, and along the corridor. “Will you excuse me? This is a private call.” “Yes, this is Priscilla Smith,” the girl said. “Got any good picture ideas? I’m in with all the markets here.” And it turns out he’s the man who painted the pictures many years ago.” Pat considered. They want strong young people in the world. But they can’t use him – he’s in the way – not even good cannon fodder. A poor old man, trying to get a job helping them. “Well, I thought it would be dramatic if there was an old man around while they were packing the pictures. It showed paintings being boxed and carted away to safety from an art gallery in Europe. “Oh, just let me mark that,” she said quickly. “Can I wait here a minute? Man I came to see is at lunch.” He sat down across from her and picked up a copy of a photo magazine. “Well, that’s very-very original advice, Mr. Write it down and you’ve got a picture – see?” The girl smiled. Get them to tell you what stuck in their minds. Give the book to four of your friends to read it. “I’ve been here for years – I`m Pat Hobby – and I know. ”That’s not the way to get the guts out of a book.” “No, I like writing.” “What’s that you’re reading?” She showed him. “You ought to get them to give you a test.” “You are a writer?” Pat asked in surprise. ”They gave me his office but they forgot to put up my name.” “I think he’s left Hollywood,” she said in answer to his question. The man wasn’t there – only a pretty, frail-looking girl sat reading a book. But he wanted a place to sit a minute so with a knock he pushed it open. The last door in the line belonged to a man he didn’t like. And he had thirty credits he had been in the business, publicity and script- writing for twenty years.
Almost there were more and more unfamiliar faces. Almost everyone had gone to lunch and those who were in he didn’t know. Now what to do? He went up and wandered along the cell block of writers. “These young squirts will lift the shirts on your back.” “If you can get one of them interested in your idea, bring him up to see me.” “I hate to give an idea without money on the line,” Pat brooded pessimistically. “Scout around and talk to some of the writers on the lot,” he said. Now his clothes looked as if he was standing at Hollywood and Vine for three years. Pat had been in the money before Jack was out of college. When Pat didn’t answer Jack looked at him – he saw a sort of whipped misery in Pat’s eye that reminded him of his own father. And Jack Berners felt he had thought of that first for his production. The war has just broken out and every producer on the lot wanted to end their current stories with the hero going to war. He felt cruel because he knew Pat couldn’t write anything out but he was having story trouble himself.
We can’t put a man on salary unless he’s got an idea.” “How can you get ideas off salary?” Pat demanded – and then he added hastily: “Anyhow I got the germ of an idea that I could be telling you all about after lunch.” Something might come to him at lunch… But Jack said cheerfully: “I’ve got a date for lunch, Pat. “All I need is an idea and to work with somebody who isn’t all wet.” He had buttonholed Jack outside the production office as Jack was going to lunch and they walked together in the direction of the commissary. “I’ve got a list of credits second to none,” he told Jack Berners. After talkies came he always teamed up with some man who wrote a dialogue. But the good old silent days you got somebody’s plot and a smart secretary and gulped Benzedrine “structure” at her six or eight hours every week. He was a writer but he had never written much, not even read all the “originals” he worked from, because it made his head bang to read too much. He had worked there fifteen years on and off – chiefly off during the past five - and most of the studio police knew him.
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