WARNING: Depending on the path you take, this story may contain strong sexual content.
Rae Meets Jeremy
Jeremy Franklin would soon arrive to tape a master class with four up-and-coming screenwriters. I was incredibly honored to be among the chosen few. Having studied his work intensely for the better part of my life, I probably knew his dialogue, plot points, sequences, and act breaks better than he did. Everything—and I mean everything—Mr. Franklin had written over the past 25 years had received multiple Tony, Emmy, or Academy Award nominations. The man was a legend. A gorgeous legend. In addition to being a faithful fan of his work, I had an incurable crush on him.
While the production crew scurried about the small set fine-tuning their finishing touches, the director gave the writers our instructions: Be yourselves. Easy for her to say. I was, at once, part hungry writer and part smitten devotee. Being myself had never been difficult; concealing half my truth would be the far greater challenge.
“He’s here!” the director whisper-shouted. I’d sensed moments earlier that he was in the building when I felt the particles in the air begin to vibrate faster, but I was still awestruck when I watched him cross the threshold. He was a god, seventy-four inches of prestige and magnetism.
Smiling warmly, he shook hands with each production team member, humbly introducing himself like he wasn’t aware of his influence or like he was aware of it and didn’t want anyone to feel intimidated by it. Then he turned to us writers and grinned, “You must be my students.”
* * *
Jeremy (he asked us to call him Jeremy) spent most of the class reading and critiquing students’ writing samples. First, he read the pilot episode of a sitcom by a young, gorgeous white girl with naturally blonde curly locks. Her script was brilliant, and I could tell he thought she was hot. Then he read another pilot by a young, gorgeous Asian chick. Her script was awful, but I could tell he thought she was hot, too. Fine, maybe I imagined his romantic interests. Maybe I just feared them. I can achieve many things, but I’ll never become a pretty white girl or an exotic Asian chick.
As he studied their scripts, I studied him. Even though we were novices by comparison, this highly acclaimed master of masters poured through each one like it were a priceless treasure. It was obvious that writing, for him, was more than a vocation or a gift; it made his blood flow.
My turn with the maestro came after lunch. When he said, “Rae, you’re up next,” my name had never sounded so sweet. I brought a rough draft of Blocks, a feature about a grassroots movement to rid an impoverished black neighborhood of its political and social … well, blocks.