我的編劇生活

By+Justin+Marks

It was 5 p.m.， and I was playing Call of Duty1）. Why？ Because I wanted to. The phone rang； it was a producer with whom I&apos；d just spent the past two years working hard on a cable pilot2）， a time-travel science fiction thing. We&apos；d delivered the final cut to the network， and we were awaiting The Call—the one where you hear that your show， which tested well， is being picked up， that your life is about to change.

But the producer had That Voice. Any experienced writer knows That Voice. Because That Voice means one thing： The network passed. "Hey，" the producer said， "we fought for it till the end. We&apos；ll find something else." I agreed. And that was that.

Probably not three minutes had passed in my game of Call of Duty. Two more minutes to go upstairs and erase my now-dead pilot&apos；s name off the list of projects on my dry-erase board. Two years of effort gone in five minutes.

As I wiped the board clean， I saw another project listed below. Kind of a back-burner3） thing—I was busy at the time—but I owed the producer a call. So I picked up the phone. Told him I was in. By the next morning， I was back at the keyboard， as if yesterday&apos；s pilot had never happened.

And that， my friends， is what it means to be Just Another Working screenwriter.

During the past decade， I&apos；ve been paid to write just shy of4） two dozen screenplays. Some scripts get made， but most don&apos；t. My name has only remained on one. I&apos；ve been lucky enough to write originals and adapt comic-book properties5） （Green Arrow）. I make a decent living， but it&apos；s not all glitz6） and glamour. My wife and I live in a comfortable house in Los Feliz. I drive a Prius， a car they might as well hand out with WGA7） cards.

I had the fantasies of what this life would be like—a life that， for most， never will be a reality. I&apos；ve wanted to write movies since I was 12 years old. I wanted trips to backlots8）， premieres9）， moments of seeing my movie on the shelf at the video store. That&apos；s what we sign up for.

Then there&apos；s the other 90 percent： waking up， walking the dogs， working hard at my computer in the clothes I slept in. Occasional fits of creative euphoria10） interrupted by phone calls from agents， arguments on Twitter or the dogs barking at squirrels in the yard. But when it picks up—when there&apos；s a movie being made or a star being attached or a deal being closed—man， that high feels like it&apos；ll last forever.

Until it doesn&apos；t.

We learn to numb ourselves to the ups and downs. Especially the downs. No one likes to linger on failure in Hollywood—not execs11）， not agents， not us. We erase the failure in our minds. We move on to the next great hope.

But I&apos；m a screenwriter， and it&apos；s my job to be sentimental. So to remember why I do what I do， here&apos；s a little something I hold on to， just for me ...

It was a few days before we wrapped12） the pilot， up in Toronto， and I was leaving the set. I said good-night to a handful of actors who were rehearsing13） in a make-believe14） particle collider15）. I walked past a 1928 Buick Touring being painted for tomorrow&apos；s scene. I crossed through a greenscreen stage being lighted for pickups16）. And I smiled at an extra17） in a wedding dress on her way to being photographed for inserts18）. Then I stopped because I realized that for a moment， I&apos；d been privileged to walk through my own imagination. I was 12 again.

For those of us who aren&apos；t Aaron Sorkin19）， that&apos；s what carries us into the next day. Everything else is just stuff we try to forget.

編劇，這個詞對很多人來說可能早已不陌生。無論是一部電視劇，還是一部電影，除了導演和演員外，還少不了編劇。編劇究竟是做什么的？編劇的日常生活又是什么樣子？如果你也感興趣，又或者你恰巧有個編劇夢，那么不妨來聽聽這位好萊塢編劇的故事。

1. Call of Duty： 《使命召喚》，由Activision公司于2003年最初制作發行的一款游戲。

2. pilot [?pa?l?t] n. （電視或廣播的）試播節目

時間是下午5：00，我正玩著《使命召喚》游戲。為什么玩？因為我想玩。電話鈴響了，是一個制片人打來的。過去這兩年我都在跟這個制片人精心制作一個有線電視的試播集——一部關于時空穿越的科幻劇。我們已經把最終剪輯版交給了電視臺，正等著“使命的召喚”——你聽到有人召喚說，你的戲試播反響不錯，已經被選中了，你的人生要柳暗花明了。

但制片人電話那端卻傳來了那個聲音。久經沙場的編劇都知道那個聲音，因為那個聲音只意味著一件事：電視臺未選用。“嘿，”制片人說，“我們一直爭取到了最后一刻。回頭我們會再找找別的。”我表示贊同。然后就沒有然后了。

我離開《使命召喚》游戲去接電話還不到三分鐘，又花了兩分鐘上樓把我那沒戲了的試播集的名字從干擦白板上列的項目中擦掉。兩年的努力在五分鐘內就付諸東流了。

清理白板的時候，我看到試播集下面還有一個項目。那算是一個不太緊要的項目——我當時忙得無暇顧及——但我還欠制片人一個電話。所以我就拿起了電話，告訴他我要跟他合作。第二天早上，我又回到了鍵盤前，仿佛從來沒有為昨天的試播集忙過。

而這，我的朋友們，只不過是作為另一名普通編劇的生活。

在過去這十年里，我接了只有不到24個劇本的創作工作。有些劇本拍成了電影，但大部分都沒有，而且只有一部署了我的名字。我一直都很幸運，不僅寫過原創劇，還改編過漫畫故事（《綠箭俠》）。我過著體面的生活，但談不上流光溢彩。我和妻子住在盧斯費利斯（編注：與好萊塢毗鄰的一個街區），擁有一棟舒適的房子。我開著一輛普銳斯，就是倘若你有美國作家協會的會員證，他們倒是有可能會分派一輛給你的那種。

我曾對自己的人生抱有種種幻想——盡管這種人生對大部分人來說永遠不會成真。自打12歲起，我就一直想寫電影劇本。我想參觀外景場地，想參加首映式，想看到我擔任編劇的電影出現在音像店的貨架上。我們簽約做編劇就是為了這些。

然后呢，除了上面這些，剩余90%的時間我都用在了起床、遛狗、穿著睡衣坐在電腦前苦干上。偶爾因為創作迸發出的陣陣欣喜會被經紀人的電話、推特上的爭論或是院子里幾只狗對著松鼠的吠叫打斷。但每當時來運轉——每當某個劇本要拍成電影或者某位明星要出演或者某個合同要簽訂了的時候——天啊，那種欣喜仿佛永遠會持續下去。

但事非所愿。

我們學會了不以物喜，不以己悲，尤其是悲。在好萊塢，誰也不愿流連于失敗——制片人如此，經紀人如此，我們編劇亦如此。我們會將失敗拋諸腦后，繼續朝著下一個宏愿邁進。

可我是一名編劇，多愁善感就是我的工作。所以，為了銘記我干這一行的初衷，我一直堅持做著一件事，僅僅是為了我……

當時我們正北上在多倫多拍攝試播集，再過幾天就可以殺青，我準備離開片場。我向幾個在一個虛擬的粒子對撞機里排練的演員道了聲晚安，然后走過一輛正在為第二天的場景拍攝進行噴涂的別克1928款旅行車，穿過一個正亮著燈準備拍攝補拍鏡頭的綠幕舞臺，對一個身穿婚紗趕著去拍插入鏡頭的群眾演員笑了笑。這時我停下了腳步，因為我意識到，在那一刻，我很幸運地穿梭在自己的幻想中。我又回到了12歲。

對于我們這些不是艾倫·索金的編劇來說，這就是我們迎接新一天的動力，其他一切事情都只是浮云。