Avoid Taking Any Meeting That Needs a Name Tag

I’m standing over a sad vegetable dip platter at a popular chain restaurant, about to affix a paper name tag that officially announces to everyone how desperate I’ve become. I am about to embark on my first Hollywood industry mixer.

These mixers are designed to connect all facets of the industry by putting them together in a room with chips, dip and cocktails. Basically, it’s a horror movie. The goal is to sell yourself, along with any project you’re working on. One of my first screenwriting teachers said Hollywood wants to see and hear passion in your voice. If you don’t believe in your project, why should they? I believe the catering crew was not very passionate when they set out only one hot plate of meatballs. But I need a job, so here I am.

Years ago I was too cool for this room. After all, I had a TV spec script that landed an agent and a meeting with one of the show’s producers. When it was decided that my script was too close to an upcoming story line, I was politely dismissed. My agent soon followed with early retirement and a promise to keep me in mind if he heard of anything. I have never heard from him.

Now I am a Hollywood statistic, lost among the could-haves, should-haves and also-rans. A wannabe of immense proportions. But professional about it. There’s no crying at a Hollywood mixer.

The problem is that, if I’m here, then isn’t everyone else in the same boat? The sponsors that set up the mixer also are selling themselves. Very passionately, I might add. They’re trying to sell me a screenwriting software program that I already own. They have a passionate interest in not only selling the program to the active players in Hollywood, but also to every sucker who ever uttered the phrase, “I could do that.” One look around the room will tell you most of us can’t. This is not a room full of untapped talent; we’re just simply untapped.

But I’m here to mix it up. A quick hello to a seemingly shy girl triggers an avalanche of stories detailing how successful she almost is. Her writing partner has a good connection at several production companies, and they’re reviewing offers from literary managers. They haven’t decided which one to go with. I smile, wondering how much of her tale is true. Our conversation ends in a disturbing silence. Now I’m alone. Mixing it up with myself. I have got to get out of here. If I’m spotted here, everyone will know I’ve reached the bottom.

My exit attempt is quickly thwarted by Mr. Hollywood, who lets everyone know how he made it and asks if he can be of any service. You just never quite understand what he actually does. He’s a machine-gun attack of information about his projects, including cable-access programs, flash video Internet sites and a host of development deals. You’d think he’d be working on those instead of attending a bad party.

“Where you going, big fella?” he snorts.

“Nowhere,” I say, though he would never get the joke.

His passion is boundless, and I wonder if he is what I used to look like. He wishes me good luck as I slowly race to freedom. I’m ready to write off the whole evening as a bad experience that nobody needs to know about--until someone recognizes me. A friend of my wife’s apparently works in the adjacent building, and she’s in the main bar having a drink.

“Were you coming out of that party?” she asks.

I’m caught. It’s the equivalent of online dating. Nobody faults you for trying, but there’s an immediate air of pity.

“I just thought I’d check it out,” I reply.

“No harm in that,” one of her co-workers offers.

I am now passionately walking to my car. In the elevator my wife calls to see how things are going. I’m upbeat and tell her it was a learning experience. I can’t bear to tell her it felt like one more nail in the coffin. She tells me to drive safely, and that I received an e-mail about a screenwriting contest sponsored by the same software company that sponsored the mixer. The winner will be introduced to top industry contacts, and I think: Sounds interesting.