(Not So) Good in a Room: California Dreamers, #1

By Karen M. Bryson and Dakota Madison

She’s not the kind of girl he can take home to daddy.

(NOT SO) GOOD IN A ROOM, a romantic comedy novella, is a modern reimagining of Cyrano de Bergerac.

Awkward screenwriter Nellie Berg is great with words, as long as she can write them down. She’s written over thirty action scripts, but has been unable to sell a single one to Hollywood. Instead of working the room, every time Nellie tries to pitch her scripts to producers she becomes overcome with anxiety and completely blanks out.

When Nellie meets another aspiring screenwriter, Roscoe Rhodes, at Pitchfestapalooza they form an unlikely friendship. Roscoe is everything Nellie is not: outgoing, witty, charming…and good in a room. Roscoe suggests that Nellie hire his cousin, Chris, an unemployed actor to pitch her scripts to producers.

Things get complicated when Nellie falls for Chris and she seeks Roscoe’s help to seal the deal. Roscoe realizes he actually has feelings for Nellie. And Hollywood falls in love with the hot the new pretend screenwriter, who has never even read an entire script let alone written one.

WARNING: This book contains foul language, sexual innuendo and a little bit of hanky-panky. Buyer beware.

CALIFORNIA DREAMERS is a series of interconnecting romantic comedy stories that can be read as STAND ALONE NOVELLAS or as part of the SERIES.

The CALIFORNIA DREAMERS SERIES:

(Not So) Good in a Room (Nellie’s Story)
Beautiful Abyss (Chris’s Story)
So Far Away (Maddie’s Story)
Rookie Mistake (Cody & Maya’s Story)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Short on Time Books
• Release date: Dec 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386175667

Book preview

One

A bead of sweat drips from my temple and runs down my cheek. I want to swipe at it, but I am frozen with fear. I can’t move.

A young movie producer whose name I can’t remember stares at me from across the small table. He glances at his cellphone for what could be the tenth time then looks back up at me.

The producer doesn’t appear to be that much older than me, probably in his late twenties. I’m not sure why I find him so intimidating. He has boyish good looks and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He smiles at me warmly and even that freaks me out.

I should have known that attending Pitchfestapalooza was a bad idea. I’m overcome with anxiety just thinking about pitching my movie scripts. Now here I am, actually trying to pitch a project to someone who has the ability to change my life completely, and I’m unable to control my body. And it’s not just my limbs that have become immobilized. When I try to speak my jaw moves up and down like a puppet, but no words come out.

Not that I can think of anything to say. My mind has gone completely blank.

Get a grip, I tell myself.

I’ve spent every waking moment for the last seven years trying to achieve this goal. The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do was be a screenwriter. When I wasn’t writing scripts I worked at the local used bookstore, which also sold movies and music. I saved every penny I made during those seven years so I could finally leave the small town in Kansas where I grew up and make my way to LA.

Now here I am at one of the largest screenwriters’ pitch festivals in the country. I have the opportunity to pitch my scripts to some of the biggest production companies in the world. And I can’t do it.

I can’t pitch.

Unlike novelists, who can be total recluses and never have to speak to another living being, screenwriters have to be good in a room. Not only do they have to be great writers, they have to be great salespeople. They have to be able to sell their projects, and sell themselves, because moviemaking is a collaborative process.

I have no idea how to sell anything, especially myself. Not that I can even get to that point.

I can’t even get words to come out of my mouth.

I try a relaxation technique I learned from one of my high school guidance counselors. I take in a deep breath then exhale slowly. 

Do you have a pitch for me? the producer asks. His patience with me seems to be waning slightly. Not that I blame him. I’m sure he has better things to do than watch me have a nervous breakdown.

I manage to move my head up and down. It’s a weird, robot-like nod, but at least it’s movement.

Great, he says. When he smiles his bright blue eyes light up.

He’s an attractive guy. Not movie star gorgeous, but definitely good looking. As much as I’d like to think it may have been easier to pitch to someone less attractive I know that’s not true. I would have been a basket case pitching to a dog—even one of the canine variety.

I clear my throat. It’s—um—about... My words are barely audible, even to me.

The producer furrows his brow. I’m sorry. What was that? I can’t hear you.

I gulp. Now what? I clear my throat again. I—um—it’s...

Take your time, he prods. What’s the story about? There’s a sincerity in his eyes that’s making this ordeal even worse. He’s obviously a nice guy, but it’s not causing me to be any less nervous.

What is my story about? I honestly can’t remember. My mind has gone totally blank. All those years of writing scripts, all of the hours I put in at the used bookstore, all of the sacrifices I made to save money.

It was all for nothing.

My eyes start to feel moist and I do my best to blink back the tears that are forming. It’s bad enough that I have made a complete fool of myself in front of this guy. I don’t want him to see me cry on top of everything else.

I grab my oversized pink polka dot handbag and bolt from the table.

I do my best to maneuver through the ballroom that’s filled with tables similar to the one I was sitting at. As I pass by each table I can’t help but hear all of the eager screenwriters pitching their scripts to the other producers in the room.

None of them seem to be having any of the problems I did.

And that makes me feel even worse.

When I finally make it out of the ballroom and into the hotel lobby I do my best to compose myself, but to no avail. I’m definitely going to throw up.

I hurry into the ladies room and just make it to the toilet before I begin to dry heave. My stomach was so twisted with nerves I couldn’t eat anything all day so there’s nothing of any significance to come up.

Tears begin to stream down my face and within moments I’m a sobbing heap of hopelessness on the bathroom floor. I allow myself to release all of the tension I’ve been holding in and wail for several minutes. When I finally feel like I’ve cried the well dry I take in what I hope will be a deep, calming breath.

Will I ever be able to pitch without experiencing complete and utter terror? How will I ever make it in the business if I can’t?

You have to pull yourself together, Nellie.

A knock on the stall I’m occupying startles me.

Then I hear a female voice say, Is everything okay in there?

Fuck off. The harsh words pop out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. I don’t mean to be rude, but it seems to happen a lot.

I hear the sound of footsteps as whoever I just swore at scurries out of the bathroom.

As I pull myself up from the floor I hike up the white tights that have gathered at my knees. I do my best to smooth out the wrinkles in the black and white polka dot dress I’m wearing.

I slowly step out of the stall and glance around the bathroom just to make sure it’s empty.

I would glance at myself in the mirror, but I know it would just make me feel worse than I already do. Not only would I be a failure, I’d be a hideous looking one as well. I’d like to at least be able to function under the illusion that I’m not completely repulsive looking.

Unfortunately my body isn’t quick enough for my brain. I catch a glance at my reflection in the mirror as I pass by. It’s even worse than I imagined it would be. Calling me frightening looking would be a compliment.

I give my reflection the middle finger as I walk out of the bathroom.

I must still be in a post-anxiety-attack fog because I don’t even see the young producer I attempted to pitch to until I plow right into him.

I’m so sorry. I’m surprised when coherent words actually come out of my mouth this time.

Are you okay? he asks.

No, I sputter as I hurry away before I embarrass myself even further.

I scan the large lobby. It’s packed with lines of screenwriters waiting to pitch to producers. There’s one dark corner on the opposite side of the crowded area that looks like a safe zone where I can hide and catch my breath.

I close my eyes for a moment and rub my temples. I’m probably ten minutes away from a major headache on top of everything else.

When I open my eyes I see a very tall guy headed in my direction. Of course I’m only five feet tall, so nearly everyone on the planet over the age of ten is taller than me, but this guy is like a giant. His hair and eyes are as dark as mine, but his are on a much more attractive package.

For some reason the guy is waving a pack of gum at me.

Want a piece? he asks.

In a room filled with hundreds of people why on Earth has he singled me out? And why would he think I want gum?

He waits for several moments and stares at me. When I don’t reply he says, No gum I guess.

Please go somewhere that isn’t here.

He frowns. Like you own Pitchfestapalooza.

Find your own corner, I hiss.

I wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t budge. He continues to stare at me, like he’s examining a specimen.

I shoot daggers at him hoping he’ll take the hint.

Fine, I’ll go. Sorry for invading your personal space.

When he takes off into the