There comes a time in every script's life, when it must leave the confines of it's nest and embark on a dangerous and perilous journey through the black, muddy waters known as Hollywood. The very nature of a script demands eyes upon it, similar to a book, song, or anything that can only truly exist through the experiences of another, because if people do not read it, do not see it, do not hear it, then what, in the end, was the point?
It can cause a lot of anxiety. Here you have this thing, 109 pages of symbols arranged in a particular order to form words, then sentences, then paragraphs, and finally, a story, that you have spent however long on (in our case, 2.5 years) and it all comes down to whether the studio exec got laid the night before, or has a blinding hangover, or whatever else you can imagine.
But you have to do it because, again, what is the point otherwise? You end up giving it to the decision makers who will make a decision and it will result in either elated joy or desperate sorrow.
The way to get past this is to keep working. Try and focus on the next idea or the next script and make every concerted effort you can to pretend it's not happening (which is easier said than done). It's all you have.
I'm hoping our script is well-received and soon grows into an unruly teenager whose conflicting interests are really, simply, a way of trying to find oneself (rewrites); graduates from college (the green light); and, finally, goes on to make something of itself (actually making the film). It's all you can hope for, and it's all anyone can hope for their best and brightest.
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