The F@cked-Up Amount of Free Work It Takes to (Not) Sell Something in Hollywood Today

Or: that time a studio told me to spec a TV pilot for it even though I had an A-list actor attached to the project

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio

When I sold my first feature screenplay in 2008, all that was required of me was a solid logline and a rambling, generally unfocused fifteen-minute conversation inspired by notes I had scribbled down the day before. Other projects I sold in the late aughts and early teens involved no more than a five-minute reply to that classic question, “What are you working on?” I’ve even sold projects in the room. What this all led to is what’s called development in Hollywood. It’s what producers and studios used to do all day every day. They found ideas — and sometimes spec (speculative) scripts — and, after paying writers for their labor, wrestled said ideas/scripts into greenlights. More often than not, they failed because, well, art is hard and creating something that exists at the intersection between art and commerce is even harder. But it’s this process that has allowed the American film/TV industry to thrive for decades: paying artists to discover the best way to tell their screen story and, with producers’ help, hopefully thread the creative/commercial needle necessary to get it made.

Today, however, a screenwriter is typically expected to break every element of a film or TV series before a contract and payment is even discussed (in the case of the series, often multiple seasons) - as well as create a visual pitch deck and maybe cut a trailer to help them sell their project. All this is ideally based on intellectual property the screenwriter has somehow optioned with their own resources. But what they really need to do if they want to sell something is attach a hot director and a valuable star…except even then, this often doesn’t work. The business is rife today with stories of packages dying despite the impressive names involved…like the one I’m about to tell you.

This personal tale of handwringing woe will illustrate for you the real-world wear this recent evolution in Hollywood “development” takes on a screenwriter. The Writers Guild of America is currently on strike, in part, because it’s impossible to build or sustain a career in a system as broken as this.

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The set-up: I’m living in Oxfordshire, in the UK. A recent spec (speculative script) I wrote during lockdown has wowed a major US production company I’ve had a long relationship with. The producers ask me to hop on Zoom to catch-up, but really, astonishingly, the Zoom is to present me with an exciting creative opportunity. (This is why I tell aspiring screenwriters that specs are rarely about selling that specific script; they’re mostly about inspiring people to work with you on something else.)

The producers tell me about a TV series they would like me to create and write for them. They’re keen to produce a prestige limited series inspired by the life of one of America’s most murderous cult leaders. I’m immediately intrigued by this idea because I identify a tremendous amount of thematic overlap between the story of the cult leader and his followers and Donald Trump and the MAGA movement. I could finally talk about Trump in a narratively exciting, but oblique way.

Then, the producers tell me a studio is already involved. Great, that’ll help us sell it.

More, there is a star interested in playing the lead and producing.

This is an immediate red flag for me. Why?

Well, I’ve been told this so many times in my career, I never believe it anymore. It inevitably turns out that some producer had a passing encounter with an actor and they parted ways saying something as meaningless as “We should work together!” “Yeah, that would be great!” “Cooool!” Months later, some poor screenwriter has killed themselves working on a project that, they’re told, the actor is unfortunately too busy for now.

But this time, it’s different. The star, whom I won’t name, is an A-lister nominated for multiple Emmys and Golden Globes. Let’s call him Brock Rockwell here because I love how bad this name is. The producers have worked with Brock multiple times and I know for a fact that he’s a friend of the head of the company.

Despite my previous experiences, I decide to gamble that the star is more than a dangling carrot to induce free work from me.

I spend the next three months breaking the entire series. Literally, every episode, even though the original agreement with the producers was only to break the pilot. I’m told Brock will want to hear the whole story before he officially attaches - which I know are words just to get more free work out of me, but I don’t have much of a choice. It kills me and I abhor this game producers play to milk labor out of screenwriters, but a Deadline announcement with Brock’s name and my name in it will transform my career. More, I’m genuinely a huge fan of Brock’s. I desperately want to work with him.

Basically, both my bank account and my creative heart are invested in this project happening now.

Then, after weeks of Brock being unavailable, busy on sets — all of which I assume he doesn’t even know about this project, because his name being referenced was just to get free work out of me — I get word he wants to Zoom on Saturday.

I spend the next 72 hours racked by anxiety. If I fuck this up, all my work will have been wasted and, more, I will blow an opportunity that rarely comes along for writers who aren’t in the A list themselves.

The night before the Zoom, a good friend — another producer I trust implicitly — tells me I absolutely cannot talk for thirty minutes no matter what the production company is saying or however good my pitch is. Actors want to talk – not listen. Actor friends of mine tell me the same.

So, I pour myself a glass of scotch at this point, to calm down, and accept that I know this story inside and out by now. I’m just going to give a quick overview of the series, tell Brock why I think this character is so dramatically exciting and thematically resonant today, then let him take the lead.

The Zoom finally kicks off. We banter for a bit. Then, Brock tells me to start talking with a roguish smile. He’s got a notepad, which he proudly waves at the camera, and he just wants to take notes.

In other words, he doesn’t want to talk at all. He’s literally the only actor in the world who doesn’t like being the center of attention in development meetings. This makes me like him immensely, but it’s less than ideal at the moment.

As a result, I wing it based on all the work I’ve done. I probably smile too much, but Brock is so damn charming it’s hard not to. I try to ignore how much I’m sweating. I keep asking him questions, to gauge what he’s reacting most to so I can pivot accordingly. And at the end, he says he’ll talk to the producers after he has some time to think about it.

A week later, we get word from the A-list actor – he’s in!

The physical relief is unbelievable. I even shed a few tears. Because I’m about to make a lot of money my family desperately needs after COVID kneecapped our income. We’re not unique in this regard, of course, but in my case, my last two contracts fell apart during negotiations – something that never used to happen to me or any other screenwriters I know. I haven’t been paid anything substantial in more than a year as a result. But that’s not going to happen this time because — holy fucking shit! — I’m going to work with Brock Rockwell.

Insert: the sound of tires screeching to a stop.

I’m told the studio won’t pay for a pilot script despite Brock’s involvement and despite the fact that the producers strongly suggested it would once Brock officially attached himself.

My head hurts.

This is madness of the highest order based on everything that’s happened during my career at this point and based on everything I’ve learned about the screenwriting business from my reps and professional friends. Twenty years earlier, it was possible to sell a pitch based on a badass title alone (I personally know people who did this). Ten years before that, I would’ve been asked if I wanted my payment in cocaine. But today, I have an A-list actor attached to my pitch and…well…nada.

Everything has changed, I’m told. The studio won’t pay me unless I spec the pilot first and meet their expectations to greenlight the whole series. In other words, I and the producers will have to produce a pilot script for free and bring it back to them with our A-list star still attached. Even then, it begins to feel like we’ll also have to find a director the studio will approve to get me paid.

Over the next week, I mull what to do. Ultimately, I decide I can’t spend six to eight months of my life pursuing a possible, realistically far-fetched job. Work is much more forthcoming in the UK for me and nobody has ever asked me to labor for free there (though, to be clear, it happens to less established writers). More, I have to finish edits on my debut novel for my publisher. This would just be a terrible use of my time.

Trumping all these practical concerns is my aforementioned personal disdain for free work. I can accept a degree of it, as part of the toxic Hollywood culture, but what’s currently being suggested to me is disgusting. It’s exploitative and abusive no matter how normal this has become.

So, I pass on writing the pilot on spec. The producers tell me we will pitch it around town with Brock Rockwell still attached, to hopefully find someone who will pay me for my labor. With Brock, it should be easy, I’m yet again told.

A week later, I get a call. Brock is starring in a huge new streaming series. He won’t be available for a very long time. He’s off our project and we’re out of luck.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

I’m devastated, but the producers insist they will find another star. This is what they do. I just need to rework the pitch for them into something that will work for other actors since the last one was crafted just for Brock. I put in another month’s worth of free work, integrating what we learned from Brock’s feedback along the way — which means re-breaking much of the series — and then wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I check in, but there’s been no feedback from actors yet.

Then, we get word a competing project has sold on the feature side.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

Don’t worry, I’m told, the producers are going to press forward. The TV space is very different than the feature space and features notoriously don’t move forward.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Then, I get word the VP of development at the production company has left the company. I’m assured work will continue on our project…

…but I never hear from the production company again.

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In total, I spent about six months of my life working on the project described in this article - all so I could never officially pitch the project to networks or streamers that might have brought it, never be told no, never even have a real chance to make money off my labor. An A-list star with multiple Emmy and Golden Globe nominations hadn’t made a difference. And at the end of it, I didn’t even get a thank you for my time.

This is the end result of studios, networks, and streamers offloading the responsibility and financial burden for development from their creative executives onto the shoulders of producers, but, really, screenwriters.

This is what it’s like being a screenwriter in Hollywood today.

It’s one of the many reasons why the Writers Guild of America is on strike.

You can read more about the WGA strike here.

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