My Journey to the Center of Screenwriting Madness.

A million crumpled scripts ago, I graduated from University of Colorado at Boulder with a degree in communications.

It was a year after the love of my life, Craig, had finished his Ph.D. in physics from that same university where we met. He had landed a coveted nerd job in Los Angeles — something involving water currents, submarines and whales.

To borrow a line from Good Will Hunting, my boy was wicked smart.

Better yet, after many months apart, Craig realized he couldn’t live without me. He asked me to move in with him.

He sealed the deal by pointing out we’d be living a stone’s throw from the very place where my screenwriting dreams could come true: Hollywood, California.

I couldn’t resist Craig or the lure of his support of my dream. He sent me a one-way plane ticket and the key to his front door on a gold chain. Then he bought a new suit to wear when he finally met my parents.

Dad approved. Mom swooned. Craig had the magic to cast spells. It was a character trait I had thought only captivated me. After all, he was a scientist. A nerd with a Ph.D. to prove it — only he also possessed impeccable manners, social skills and dance moves that caused women to cut in on us on a dance floor.

But I was his dance partner. His only one. Or so I had thought at the time. I had no idea I wasn’t the only woman mesmerized by his endearing, yet often corny Midwestern charms. Even Mom trembled with excitement over whom she envisioned to be her future son-in-law.

I didn’t know everything about my true love. Not back then. All I thought was what could be better after college graduation than to follow my dream? Sun. Beach. Craig. What more did I need to start churning out “fresh and original” scripts?

The two of us settled into our shabby little love nest that came with eight-legged roommates a.k.a. cockroaches. It was a small price to pay for a place only three tiers up from the beach. Besides, Craig paid the rent. He exterminated and swept up dead cockroaches, too.

That lover of mine magnanimously gave me free time to write every Sunday afternoon, right after brunch at Martha’s on the beach. We’d go back up to our apartment, where he’d haul our baskets of dirty laundry to the laundromat by himself. He said he’d wash, fluff and fold — a task that would keep him away for hours.

Little did I know he was racking up Premier Guest Reward Points at the local hotel. I told the sales rep on the phone he must have the wrong number. My man and I lived here in town. Craig had no reason to rent a hotel room or book a conference in their ballroom. Someone else must’ve racked up those reward points. Not my Craig, the man who made me laugh everyday — and kept me warm at night. And encouraged me to follow my dream.

Ah, yes. My man belonged exclusively to me.

As I hung up the phone with the hotel sales rep, I smiled at my good fortune to have found my one true love — a loyal, dependable and passionate man. Our days and nights together were nothing short of bliss.

I took a break from my script-in-progress to feel the sun on my face and tingle with the knowledge that our love was a sacred trust. I breathed in the salty air streaming through the window, and listened to the sound of our windchimes. Craig claimed those mystical sounds brought favor to our happy little beach shack.

He was right. After all, he was smart. I just didn’t know he was wicked, too.

As we settled in together, I heard the local stories about how classic surfer movies and the Gidget TV show were written and shot steps away from our love nest.

That was a sign that I could be a real screenwriter, too. Maybe I’d revive the beach movie craze out of the dust of the 1950s, and sell a script. Perhaps then we could afford to upgrade our living quarters that did not come with food-stealing, toe-biting cockroaches.

I bought seven bikinis from a street vendor for three bucks per top and mismatched bottom. I was set with my outfits for the week.

Craig was supportive — more so than I had ever expected. He embraced my dream to write scripts. Despite his nerdy scientific leanings, he had a creative streak. He was born into a family of actors. Acting came naturally to him — or so I would eventually find out.

But in our early days together, he convinced me he wanted me to succeed. He set me up with unlimited movie service to assure I kept up with the latest trends. He even built me a desk, bought me a new computer and made certain I had ample time to work on my scripts.

As a final touch of generosity, he granted me license to use his likeness as a character in any of my scripts — including as a villain.

That was a promise I would eventually cash in.

My First Award Nomination

I worked on my scripts. Unfortunately, Hollywood had other ideas. How does any writer get an opportunity to pitch, let alone get a deal?

Craig said he knew a guy in his new Zen mediation group who was a property manager on a movie set. He knew a stunt man, too. Maybe one of them could introduce me to a producer or someone who would let me pitch.

At last I had an in. I was so grateful that Craig had connections, I never again turned up my nose whenever his burning incense stunk up our apartment as he meditated in the lotus position, eyes half-closed. I was thrilled by the prospect of film industry connections — and never again would resent that he went to his meditation sessions every week.

Every Tuesday night. Past midnight. I kept his dinner warm. I kept our bed warm, too. I longed for him to be near, but respected his meditation needs — just as he respected my screenwriting habit.

But Craig’s movieland connections couldn’t help me out. Both said they weren’t in positions that would open up doors. Besides, they told me, bringing a non-crew member onto a live movie set was a big no-no in their business.

That was it. No more scripts. I switched to novels. I sent my first manuscript to the now-defunct Hawaii Writers Conference. It won a John Hughes Prose Writing Award.

It was was only second place. So what. It was an award that carries the name of famous writer/director, John Hughes, master of the classic comedies of the 1980s, like Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Simple comedy. Complicated relationships. Relatable situations. Hmm. I like the style. Feels like mine.

Comments I got back were consistently about the characters. Each one so unique, I was told, they’d make for a hit series on TV.

What? Switch back to scripts? And not for a movie project, but for TV? If I was going to return to the madness of chasing opportunities to pitch, my heart was in film.

About that same time, Craig came home with wet hair. I

Was I a crappy writer? Did my ideas stink? Were my characters flat or my settings dull?

Not my settings. I start loglines with a sense of place — a very important element to me. But I was desperate for answers. I launched into workshops in LA, New York and Maui. I won my first award in the now-defunct Hawaii Writers Conference.

Don’t spread it around, but I have a secret fondness for ukulele music. And yes, I like to hula.

The best remedy for more insight into my worth or lack thereof was not from any workshop. Nor did my John Hughes Award for my first novel send me on the path for screenwriting bliss.

It was a certain story analyst who I credit with showing me where my writing went wrong — and right.

Make no mistake. Story analysts are not created equal. The one I found via a referral from an LA writers’ conference seemed to have an MRI for my work. More significantly, me.

He emailed that my greatest strength was being “out there.” Was that good? I wasn’t sure. Did he think I was bonkers or a hack?

He wrote that I am at my best when I let my characters “go nuts.” He also said he’s never read scripts like mine before.

Once again, doubting myself, I asked, “Is that good?”

That’s when I remembered that the moniker of “Madcap Pen” isn’t so new. I used it on a Twitter post I had abandoned long ago. It seemed a fitting name to encapsulate the tone of my first novel — the one I have to remind myself I won an award for.

Maybe I’ll hang up my award certificate back on my wall by my desk. I took it down when I painted that room. And I never sit at the desk any more. Why should I when it’s more comfy on a sofa with my laptop.

The heck with awards. I need to finish my current script. I’m sure my favorite story analyst could use a break from other scripts.

I think he likes that my work is “out there.” I guess I like to make my characters “go nuts.”

▪ ▪ ▪