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When Pitching an Idea, Leave Yoda Out of It

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Samantha Bonar is a staff writer for The Times.

When i was young and dumb, about a year and a half ago, my head was turned by the promises of a producer. OK, he didn’t really promise anything, but he did convince me of my genius embarrassingly easily, and I managed to bedazzle myself with visions of fame, fortune and really good gift bags.

After reading several dating columns I had written for The Times, he sent me an e-mail proposing that we come up with a TV show idea, a sort of semi-reality version of “Sex and the City.” He said he had the experience and the connections, while I had the sordid stories.

My first meeting with him was not encouraging. He was a middle-aged geek with a voice that was an odd combination of hoarseness and squeakiness, like Minnie Mouse with emphysema. I asked him about his experience. His big claim to fame was producing a Cyndi Lauper video in the ‘80s.

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“Anything more recent?” I asked.

Not much.

He filled me in on his idea. It went like this:

There is this big old house, see, where this young single woman lives, and every morning she climbs the rickety staircase hung with cobwebs to the attic, where she turns on an ancient Mac and an animated character (“like Yoda”) appears and gives her a single-gal mission for the day. (My first question: If she goes upstairs every day, why is she walking through cobwebs? My second: How can a single girl afford a house?)

Then the episode’s adventures would begin, and who knows what might happen? She and her gal pals could take a road trip (“like Thelma and Louise!”) They could end up at a honky-tonk! They could drink and dance and make out with husky strangers!

My next thought: Sounds a lot like a country-western joint in Diamond Bar. What single girl would consider that fun?

Somehow, the producer managed to set up pitch meetings at Lifetime and Oxygen. At this point I enlisted the help of my pal Carolyn, who had written some spec TV scripts, to help me write the treatment. Our treatment contained scenarios that were more au courant, like getting bullied by the matrons at a Korean spa, stealing martini glasses at film release parties, stuff like that.

The producer liked our ideas, but we declared open war on Yoda, Thelma and Louise. The producer wouldn’t budge until we told him we would walk if he didn’t give them up. He didn’t want to lose his single-gal cred, so after some testy exchanges, including a phone message left for Carolyn that said “[Expletive] you and [expletive] Sam!” he relented.

One bright morning the producer, Carolyn and I met with two executives at Lifetime Television. The producer handed out copies of the pitch. On the front, my name was spelled “Boner.” I chose to take it personally.

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Carolyn began the pitch. All of a sudden, the producer jumped in.

“There would be this character, like Yoda, on an ancient Mac in the attic.”

“Thank you very much,” the executives said.

Carolyn and I drove to a British teahouse to unwind and deconstruct.

“That’s that,” I said, nibbling a Caerphilly cheese and pickle sandwich.

“I am just mortified,” Carolyn replied. “Mortified.”

I sent a terse e-mail to the producer saying that because we seemed to be on different pages, I wouldn’t participate in the pitch at Oxygen. He replied that Carolyn and I had a lot to learn, and wished us luck.

We did learn a few things: Never go into a pitch meeting without a clear idea of what you are pitching, and make sure you and your pitch partners agree on exactly what that is. And, whatever it is, leave Yoda out of it.

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