In the First Person

By Rouge Waver Diane Stredicke

I still have trouble calling myself a screenwriter.

I walk into my writing group every other Tuesday which meets in Times Square and we have to go around the table, introduce ourselves, and, of course, the introduction starts with, "Hello. My name is. And I'm a screenwriter."

You see, I've never actually been paid to write a screenplay. And because long ago I equated what you do with what you get paid for, when someone asks me what I do, I immediately fall to the thing which pays my rent, buys my food, supports my family.

I recently attended a film festival. A script I wrote won an award. And the whole day at the festival was spent introducing me to others as a screenwriter. As the day wore on, I got used to the title. My real life, my real job, slipped into the background. It helped that I was on the other coast. The coast where they actually make movies. The coast whose entire identity is caught up with movie making. There, everyone writes movies. There, everyone seems to be an actor, a director, a producer or a screenwriter.

It was amazing how easily it slipped off my tongue.

"Me? I'm a screenwriter."

And no one asked me what I do for a living. No one asked how I pay my rent. It was my secret for the day. There was no separation between those paid, and those unpaid. We were all writers. Together. Being celebrated.

On the plane, flying back to my reality, I secretly hoped that some unsuspecting average Joe would ask me, "What do you do?" I was ready for them this time.

But no one did.

No one looked at me while I flipped through a script. No one payed attention while I worked on a script in Final Draft.

I was just like everyone else on the plane. A working stiff. Doing what I do. To live.

If you enjoyed this post, follow me on Twitter or subscribe via RSS.