Polished predators

I’ve just got to share the news about the email I received. The subject line read, “We’re Interested in Turning Your Book Into A Short Film!” I nearly sprained my index finger clicking on it. 

I remember listening to Dr. Hook’s version of Shel Silverstein’s “The Cover of Rolling Stone,” back when I’d just started college as an 18-year-old freshman. The song inspired me. I sang it in the shower. The chorus said it all, despite my squeaky rendition: “Wanna see my picture on the cover, wanna buy five copies for my mother, wanna see my smilin’ face on the cover of the Rolling Stone.” 

In the early 1970s, I could only play music on my radio or my turntable, but I bought a secondhand guitar anyway and tried to learn its secrets. By the time I graduated from college, that guitar and I decided to go our separate ways. 

Now I’m in my early 70s again, retired. Since my college days, I worked as a teacher and writer. At least Rolling Stone is still in business. The email’s first sentence begins auspiciously: “One of our film scouts discovered your work through a shared Hollywood database, and we are interested in adapting it into a short film.” 

Well, “Garsh, Sha-zam, Gall-lee!” I shouted, just like Gomer Pyle, as if preparing for an audition. Who knows if the short film might have room for a cameo appearance by the book’s author.

Having developed a less impulsive mind over the last 50 years, I didn’t respond by sending any money. Mr. Lewis, the Film Agent Executive, wrote, “We are committed to covering the majority of the production costs and festival registration fees. In return, we would ask for a modest contribution from you, equivalent to the share you would receive from any winnings earned at festival contests. These contest prizes can range from $10,000 to as much as $300,000.” While it’s not clear what a “modest” contribution would add up to, it’s probably less than what Rolling Stone would charge me if I paid them to put me on its cover.  

I also looked up the corporate name, Film District Distribution LLC. Wikipedia writes, “...an American independent motion picture company based in Los Angeles, founded in September 2010, and it specializes in acquisitions, distribution, production and financing.” It didn’t say anything about specializing in scams, so that was good news.

Internet warnings about fraudulent activity abound, but I suspect fraudsters outnumber those sites that try to educate internet users. By consistently changing their approach, scam artists are sneaky. Phishing, malware, email compromise, romance scams, fake invoices and bogus job offers are just a few of the recognizable pitfalls. But any advice site, as helpful as it may seem, collects and stores my information through the use of cookies and other tracking tools. Even Wikipedia. It’s not just the bad boys who want to use my interest to serve their own. Every click – no matter how careful – reverberates on the web, and the spiders pay attention. 

How likely is it that someone who has never published a book would receive a movie proposal like mine? The email never mentioned which of my books attracted their interest. I have published five books. Three are poetry collections, so it’s reasonable for me to eliminate them from consideration. The film agent did mention it would be a “short” film. Still, a screenplay based on lyric poem seems unlikely. 

My other two books contain short essays, much like the one you are reading. Is it possible one of my narratives so captivated a film scout that it might be the basis for a short screenplay? The film company promises to submit my writing to other partners in order to secure a development deal, then it goes on to praise my work, saying it “holds significant potential to attract option deals from production companies or streaming platforms interested in developing it into a full-length film or series.” Now that’s a sentence every writer wants to hear.

I’d like to imagine a dramatization based on an essayist who becomes wise, famous and wealthy. I might say “yes” to the offer, but I’m a little nervous about telling anyone what I did next. My friendly film agent surely felt my anxiety, because he ended his email optimistically: “Rest assured, any acquisition or licensing deal struck with major studios or firms for the purchase of your film rights will remain entirely yours to claim.” He even left a toll-free phone number, plus an email link if I wanted to connect personally with him.

Over two months ago I replied with this single sentence: “Can you tell me which of my books your scout discovered on a Hollywood database?” 

I’m being patient, waiting for Glinda the Good Witch of the Southwest to tell me when to stop clicking my heels and saying, “There’s no place like Hollywood.”