In my world, even "ugly" is artsy.  But not everyone understands that.  They think ugly is ugly, a politically incorrect word that you should not use on anybody.  Heck, everyone has their "ugly".  Whether you're truly ugly, think you're ugly,  or just had an ugly hair day.  At any rate, everyone can think of something ugly in their life.  Even the most beautiful person has their "ugly".  And yet, most people are afraid to use "ugly" out loud.  Like it's an obscene word.  Or a crime.  How can you even accept ugly and move on if you don't want to admit it's there?

I'm volunteering for the Screenwriting Expo, putting in my hours so I can attend the rest of the conference for free.  The head coordinator looks at me and says, "you look like you know what you're doing.  I'll assign you to the pitch sessions."   I'm clueless actually, have no idea what I'm doing, have never having attended a pitch session in my life.  But sure, I can take tickets and herd people into their pitch sessions.  So I'm herding them in, putting my arms out like a traffic cop to stop them until it's time for their five minute pitch session with the heavy-duty industry folks and studio development execs in the room.  Then when the stopwatch person says 'time for the next session', I drop my arms and away the wannabe writers stampede past me like a runaway herd of cattle, running to their respective development execs, determined to get in their full five minutes of pitch time.  A roomful of little tables with a development exec at each of them and a wanna-be writer sitting across from each, spinning his yarn, trying to beat the clock, trying to pitch in less than five minutes what each hopes will be the next Great American Film.  A roomful of chattering writers and execs.  A busy beehive din that buzzes in my ears. 

So I'm minding my own business, waiting for the next five-minute wave, when one of the development execs strolls over. Looking at me like he's got something to say.  He's looking at me so pointedly, I think something is wrong.  "What, is my fly down?"  I ask.  No, he laughs.  I look down at my jeans just in case.  

His pitch appointment hasn't shown up and he's got five minutes to kill.  "That's quite an image, you herding people in like that,"  he laughs.  "No one else takes it so seriously.  I like how you stick your arms out like that."  Yeah, OK, I might be overdoing the Nazi gatekeeper thing,  I agree.  "No, it's great, it's funny," he says.  "It shows a lot of character."

"So, do you write screenplays?" he asks.  Do I write screenplays, he asks.  "Yes, I do.  But I've never pitched.  Which is why I'm not pitching today.  Just volunteering.  I've written several screenplays, though."   "Well, I'm an exec for such-and-such Big-Budget Mega Movie Studio.  We do big blockbuster movies, like so-and-so and so-and-so (he mentions a couple of huge franchise blockbuster films with several sequels).  And what do you write?"  

"Oh, I write indy stuff, you know, "Little Miss Sunshine" type stuff, dark humor and pathos mixed together."  

"Oh, indy stuff," he says.  

"She writes indy stuff," he winks sarcastically to a fellow exec who's just unloaded a wannabe writer off his hands.  They chuckle.

"Well," Mr. Mega Movie Studio Exec says, "come by on Sunday afternoon.  If you see me without a five-minute pitch appointment, sit down with me and we can talk."  "I've never pitched before."  "That's all right.  I'll give you feedback.  It'll be a learning session."  "Great.  Thanks."

As he saunters off, I realize that something like gold has just been dropped into my lap from heaven.  The pitch sessions aren't free, even for volunteers.  But he's offered me a freebie on his own time.  And all I was doing was standing there.

For the next 48 hours, I rack my brains for a great pitch, a great hook, knowing my latest screenplay isn't anywhere near ready to show.  But it's not every day a studio exec offers to hear your pitch and give you feedback on it.  A great pitch can take hundreds of tries before you find the right one.  But I soak in what I can at the screenwriting seminars, I go home, rack my brains some more, read my screenplay again, try not to get too sidetracked re-editing all the flaws which now glare at me like neon signs.  Somewhere in there is the gist of it, that kernel that can be condensed into the perfect pitch, which, if pitched to the right exec, will make his eyes light up and say, 'that's the one!"   

The night before Sunday, I still haven't found this pitch.  I'm in the wee hours of the morning, and my eyes are drooping.  I just want to get to bed.

Well, he did say he'll give me feedback, so he knows it won't be at a hundred percent.  In my post midnight stupor, I come up with something.  It's something.  I've got a few hooks for my story.  One screenwriting teacher at the seminar said, don't even try to tell the whole story.  Just find a few hooks to your story and weave them together.  Try to do it in under two minutes.  Don't give a blow by blow account of your story.  That's boring.  They can ask questions later.  

OK, so I've got some hooks.  I've strung them together.  This will work, I think.

Sunday afternoon.  I show up at his table.  "Hi, X," I say.   "Oh hey, sit down."  He looks me up and down.  "Oh, no volunteer shirt today?"  "No, I'm not supposed to pitch while I'm  volunteering."  "Oh, so you sneaked in without paying now that you're not volunteering, in order to get a free pitch session?  Pretty surreptitious."  "Well, no, I thought you'd said…"  I guess technically, I did sneak in, with the use of my volunteer badge.  Normally, you're supposed to pay for a pitch.  But I thought it was OK since he had invited me personally.  I stand there a moment, unsure.   I'm unable to recapture the breezy throwaway repartee we had the other day.  In fact, I'm sweating.  Little pinpricks of sweat on my forehead.

"I thought you said you'd be working here today,"  he says.  "No, I just said I'd be here today and I thought you said to come in-"  "OK, never mind, but it's never good to resort to surreptitious means in this business."  "Well, I, I, I didn't mean to do that at all."  I am flustered and confounded.  I guess I was surreptitious.  But only because he'd invited me to come in and I thought because he invited me, it was OK.  Somewhere in the communication between us, our lines got crossed and I can't figure out where the short circuit happened.  Didn't he say…?

He smiles.  "Never mind, you're here.  What have you got?"  OK.  I'm wary now.   "Sit down, sit down."

I sit stiffly, still sweating.  "OK, so my film such-and-such is a dark comedy about a woman who's kind of a schlemiel - she sees herself as ugly because of such-and-such, and then such-and-such happens, which forces her to…. blah blah blah…"  I start my pitch.  "Wait a minute, what the heck is a schlemiel?  And what do you mean by ugly?"  Oh oh.  OK, I handle the questions.  He stops me again.  "She seems kind of passive.  And isn't that kind of mean spirited, calling her and other people ugly?"  "No, I certainly didn't mean it that way. You see, everyone has "Ugly" in them… "  "And again, what is ugly exactly?"  Forget it, he doesn't understand this ugly thing.  He must be one of the few people who's never felt anything ugly inside him and thinks ugly is just for the unfortunate few, and you should never talk about it.  He doesn't get ugly.  He doesn't get all the meanings and permutations and symbolisms of ugly.  And my pitch is completely off track now.  It's not even a pitch anymore.  I'm lost in a miasma of crap.  My screenplay is crap.

The five minute pitch ends.  I'm only halfway through my totally derailed pitch when another wannabe writer breathes down my neck, wanting to get his five minutes in.  I'm so flustered, I forget to shake hands or thank Mr. Mega Movie Studio Exec.  I grab my bag, and my purse inside it falls out of the bag, the straps getting tangled up in the straps of the bag.  I'm struggling with the entire tangled mess and trying to get up and gather my papers all at the same time.  I couldn't feel more ugly and awkward at this moment.  Doesn't he get what ugly means?  I'm feeling ugly right here, right now.  Whether I'm ugly or not.  I feel I am.  I scuttle out.   Feeling ugly.  Truly unequal to the pursuit of writing or pitching anything.  Whatever gave me the idea that I could do this?

I sit outside on the carpet, trying to plan how I can rearrange my life, stop this writing dream, stop the pitching idea, stop the idea that I can make movies.  Who am I?  I can't even explain ugly or how it can make any kind of a workable screenplay.  I start talking to a fellow Expo goer as I lick my wounds.  We pitch our screenplays to each other, just for the practice and feedback.  

And because if I don't, I may never want to write again. 

I start the pitch on my ugly heroine and he gets it.  He laughs at a couple of places, asks a couple of other questions that show where my pitch and screenplay need work.  But who cares?  He gets it.  He's had one screenplay optioned and worked with a producer, already, though his screenplay never got made.  But that makes him a credible writer in my eyes.  And he gets it.  He gets the funny pathos of ugly.  It could work.

I go home, my faith in myself and my ugly screenplay restored.