我的编剧生活

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.

編剧，这个词对很多人来说可能早已不陌生。无论是一部电视剧，还是一部电影，除了导演和演员外，还少不了编剧。编剧究竟是做什么的？编剧的日常生活又是什么样子？如果你也感兴趣，又或者你恰巧有个编剧梦，那么不妨来听听这位好莱坞编剧的故事。

1. Call of Duty： 《使命召唤》，由Activision公司于2003年最初制作发行的一款游戏。

2. pilot [?pa?l?t] n. （电视或广播的）试播节目

时间是下午5：00，我正玩着《使命召唤》游戏。为什么玩？因为我想玩。电话铃响了，是一个制片人打来的。过去这两年我都在跟这个制片人精心制作一个有线电视的试播集——一部关于时空穿越的科幻剧。我们已经把最终剪辑版交给了电视台，正等着“使命的召唤”——你听到有人召唤说，你的戏试播反响不错，已经被选中了，你的人生要柳暗花明了。

但制片人电话那端却传来了那个声音。久经沙场的编剧都知道那个声音，因为那个声音只意味着一件事：电视台未选用。“嘿，”制片人说，“我们一直争取到了最后一刻。回头我们会再找找别的。”我表示赞同。然后就没有然后了。

我离开《使命召唤》游戏去接电话还不到三分钟，又花了两分钟上楼把我那没戏了的试播集的名字从干擦白板上列的项目中擦掉。两年的努力在五分钟内就付诸东流了。

清理白板的时候，我看到试播集下面还有一个项目。那算是一个不太紧要的项目——我当时忙得无暇顾及——但我还欠制片人一个电话。所以我就拿起了电话，告诉他我要跟他合作。第二天早上，我又回到了键盘前，仿佛从来没有为昨天的试播集忙过。

而这，我的朋友们，只不过是作为另一名普通编剧的生活。

在过去这十年里，我接了只有不到24个剧本的创作工作。有些剧本拍成了电影，但大部分都没有，而且只有一部署了我的名字。我一直都很幸运，不仅写过原创剧，还改编过漫画故事（《绿箭侠》）。我过着体面的生活，但谈不上流光溢彩。我和妻子住在卢斯费利斯（编注：与好莱坞毗邻的一个街区），拥有一栋舒适的房子。我开着一辆普锐斯，就是倘若你有美国作家协会的会员证，他们倒是有可能会分派一辆给你的那种。

我曾对自己的人生抱有种种幻想——尽管这种人生对大部分人来说永远不会成真。自打12岁起，我就一直想写电影剧本。我想参观外景场地，想参加首映式，想看到我担任编剧的电影出现在音像店的货架上。我们签约做编剧就是为了这些。

然后呢，除了上面这些，剩余90%的时间我都用在了起床、遛狗、穿着睡衣坐在电脑前苦干上。偶尔因为创作迸发出的阵阵欣喜会被经纪人的电话、推特上的争论或是院子里几只狗对着松鼠的吠叫打断。但每当时来运转——每当某个剧本要拍成电影或者某位明星要出演或者某个合同要签订了的时候——天啊，那种欣喜仿佛永远会持续下去。

但事非所愿。

我们学会了不以物喜，不以己悲，尤其是悲。在好莱坞，谁也不愿流连于失败——制片人如此，经纪人如此，我们编剧亦如此。我们会将失败抛诸脑后，继续朝着下一个宏愿迈进。

可我是一名编剧，多愁善感就是我的工作。所以，为了铭记我干这一行的初衷，我一直坚持做着一件事，仅仅是为了我……

当时我们正北上在多伦多拍摄试播集，再过几天就可以杀青，我准备离开片场。我向几个在一个虚拟的粒子对撞机里排练的演员道了声晚安，然后走过一辆正在为第二天的场景拍摄进行喷涂的别克1928款旅行车，穿过一个正亮着灯准备拍摄补拍镜头的绿幕舞台，对一个身穿婚纱赶着去拍插入镜头的群众演员笑了笑。这时我停下了脚步，因为我意识到，在那一刻，我很幸运地穿梭在自己的幻想中。我又回到了12岁。

对于我们这些不是艾伦·索金的编剧来说，这就是我们迎接新一天的动力，其他一切事情都只是浮云。