The simple, obvious, unavoidable truth is this --

Hollywood doesn't give a shit about your screenplay.

And there ain't a damned thing "fair" about it.

Bad-to-mediocre scripts get sold for a shit-ton of money, many of which go on to make even worse movies (think White House Down), while scripts commonly accepted as fantastic are lucky to claw their way onto the Blacklist... and often vanish without reaching the big screen.

Talented writers bust ass for years trying to get a break; living in shoebox Valley apartments, driving Craigslist cars, subsisting on a steady diet of tuna, Taco Bell and top ramen, the pressure of student loans pressed Glock-like to their foreheads. Meanwhile, the jolly daughters, sons and spouses of Hollywood's elite -- unproven, unworthy and not particularly gifted -- get the hookup on agents, open writing assignments, sweetheart options, even their own production companies.

Nepotism Kills. Hardly a secret for any working-class writer in this town.

Execs, Managers, Producers -- none return your respectful calls, even when referred by personal friends and legit long-time connections. Gmail inquiries are swallowed by a tomb-silent cyber void, Industry web sites kick your submissions back based on logline alone. From what you can tell, nobody seems to want to read anything in this godforsaken town unless it comes from a "branded" writer or some fucking comic book.

And all this in a business built entirely on storytelling and the written word.

Beyond that, let's face it -- nobody outside yourself really believes you're gonna make it. Nobody. Family, your best back-in-the-day crime partners, BF's, GF's, BFF's -- best of intentions, they try to stay positive, be helpful, saying vaguely encouraging things ("How can they not buy your script with all the crap in theaters these days?") to artificially boost your confidence.

You appreciate it, you really do. But patient as your loving peeps may be, behind those steadfast smiles and supportive fist-bumps, you sense other, more honest emotions. Concern about your health and well-being ("Has she lost weight?"), about "limiting yourself", dimming your bright future beyond repair before it's even begun. Naked fear that your writing career simply won't work out, and worse, that an epic fail while chasing this amorphous dream might beat you up real bad, provide the "what might have been" that sours the many good years of living you still have yet to do.

Everyone else who learns of your plan? Grand Central Hater, from former classmates now slaving kiss-ass nine-to-fives to other writers craving the exact same success you do. Half-joking, half-hostile and smarmy as hell, they'll collectively piss all over your playhouse hoping to build up their own. "Yeah, right." "Get real." "Dream on." "I've seen your pages, bro -- you'd better lay off the Sour Diesel." No slight will be too small to leave parked in the holster.

So yeah, there you stand -- where so many of us have stood -- staring point-blank into this vast, uncertain, demoralizing abyss known as the Film Business. This is your Hero's Journey, it's nut-cuttin' time and, strangely, neither Joseph Campbell nor Bill Moyers can be found.

It's a real pants-pisser, no doubt. Hollywood, like the Universe itself, turns out to be inexplicably cruel when not agonizingly indifferent. There's a killer line in Sam Peckinpah's WWII masterpiece Cross of Iron where James Coburn/Sgt. Steiner says, "I believe God is a sadist... but probably doesn't even know it."

IMHO he could've swapped out "God" for "Hollywood" and it would play just as well.

And yet...

Despite the complete insanity of all this... the devastating reality of unfathomable odds... the staring down a bat-shit crazy business in a city well-known as an emotional Vietnam... where most days Little Baby Jesus, Gandhi's Ghost and the collective Film Gods seem to stand steadfastly against you...

Despite all these harrowing obstacles, every screenwriter still has one great equalizer at hand. A single, remarkable tool well within their grasp. One killer Ace left up their sleeve left to play.