I sent my new feature script to UCLA’s Screenwriting department so they could pass it on to an agent on my behalf, being that I attended UCLA’s Master Class. This agency submission through UCLA is the reason I applied to the Master Class last year, though now I think there’s a slim chance it’ll lead to anything, because the script is being submitted to only one agent. I don’t know who this agent is and I don’t know what genres he or she prefers. The whole thing is a million to one shot, but it’s still a shot.

As for the script itself, I’ve edited and polished it down to a lean 100 pages, from 104. I removed a few tiny scenes and some dialog, and put in the original ending I had in mind, which now brings the story to a more emotionally powerful and natural conclusion. I “censored” this original ending when I was writing the script during the UCLA Master Class, because the other classmates who were reading it seemed horrified enough. So I figured I’d give the reader and audience a break. Stupid me. I’ll never second guess my instincts again and I sure as hell won’t water anything down if it’s detrimental to the story.

At the get-together at his house, Tom gave me my script back, and again, he said he thought it was very good. I wanted to ask him whether he’d be willing to pass it on to his producer friend Sid Ganis, but we were all gathered in the living room and I didn’t want to pull him aside or put him on the spot in front of the other students.

Instead, I emailed him the next day. I thanked him again for his support then asked him whether he thought Sid Ganis might be interested in my script, and if so, would he feel comfortable recommending it to him. I reminded him that Sid, as a guest speaker in our class, had specifically mentioned he was looking for a good thriller script, and that he would consider one if it came with a recommendation from a trusted source.

Tom’s email response came quick: “Sorry, but no I don’t show scripts to personal friends. It has a tendency to change the relationship.”

I emailed back, telling him that I appreciated his candid response, and that I understood what he was saying.

That first part was true. I did appreciate his candid response. But the second part wasn’t. I don’t understand how recommending a script to a friend can “change the relationship”.

I more or less expected a “no” so I’m not too disappointed. It’s my job to look under every stone, even if I suspect there’s nothing under it.

My UCLA Master Class finished today. I handed a copy of my new script to instructor Tom, who invited everyone to a get-together at his house next Thursday. He said he'll give my script back to me then, along with his notes. I’m anxious to see his reaction to the finished script. If he likes it, he might be willing to pass it on to one of his industry connections.

It's 1:38 AM and I just typed “The End" on my new script, on page 104. Then I laughed out loud with joy, cranked up some upbeat music and started dancing in my tiny studio apartment.

The first draft is complete and I'm extremely pleased with it. It's my third feature-length screenplay, and I think it's the best thing I've written yet. It’s also the fastest I've written yet. I started outlining the story back in October 2009, when my UCLA Master Class in Film Writing began. It’s now eight months later and I have a complete screenplay.

I've been carrying this story in my head almost as long as a pregnant woman carries a baby in her womb, and now I've given birth, after many nights of staying up until 3 AM, thinking, writing, loving and hating in quiet solitude as the rest of the world seemed to sleep. As I wrote in the middle of the night, my mind would go to a dark place, a place I had to go to constantly in order to write this story.

I was accompanied in these late and lonely hours by dark and brooding rock music, from Pink Floyd to Pearl Jam to Ministry. Their songs provided a mental movie soundtrack that helped sustain the mood of the story. Maybe some of these songs will actually be in the soundtrack of the movie someday.

It should be fun taking the final pages of the script to my UCLA class. So far, the instructor Tom Lazarus has said that I'm a "phenomenal writer" and that it's turning out to be a "really good script". Some of the classmates’ reactions have been: "I love your script", "it's creepy", “very disturbing”, “you’re a sick man", “it scares the crap out of me”, "you're incredibly talented" and "I can't wait to see how it ends". Wonderful compliments, all of them.

The class ends in June, then I have all summer to rewrite and polish my script before UCLA sends it out to a literary agent on my behalf. Will this be the script that gets me industry attention? We'll see. There’s a lot of subjective taste and politics involved so I won’t hold my breath.

My third feature-length script, the one I'm writing in my UCLA Master class, is taking shape the way my feature scripts usually do -- through alternating bouts of exhilaration and worry. This time, however, I have two extra challenges to deal with.

One challenge is a deadline. We each need to have a complete draft by June, which is when the class ends, and then we’re given all summer to do rewrites before the script is sent out to agents.

The other challenge is self-imposed: I can’t allow myself to be overly influenced by the feedback I receive from my instructor and classmates. That might sound dumb and arrogant, since the whole point of a writing workshop is to exchange feedback with others, but that’s not why I signed up for the class. I signed up to get access to agents.

I think receiving honest, constructive feedback from trusted peers is important, but I like to wait until a draft is complete before that happens. I don’t want to talk about or share my work before that. I have to maintain the integrity of the story I have in mind and can’t allow anyone to derail it, no matter how good their intentions.

The danger of workshopping a script (or short story or novel) is that you can kill a good idea with premature feedback, because many good ideas need time to grow and mature before they show their true value. You can cripple your creativity by listening to people who don’t share your vision and yet have their own opinions on how your story should develop. You might never go down a certain path that could potentially take your story to great heights, simply because the idea was killed before it even had a chance to breathe.

I myself don’t give many notes to others in class due to the reasons above. I’m pretty quiet most of the time, and that’s hard for me to do because I’m usually the class clown.

Today was well spent. At 10 AM I had an interview for a "regular" day job as a driving instructor for teenagers. In the seven months I’ve been in L.A., I’ve tried to avoid looking for work outside of the film industry, to dedicate all my time to my film career. But I'm in debt now. My UCLA class tuition and the expenses of my last film STRING THEORY are chilling on my credit card, gathering interest. If I get hired at this driving school it should work out well with my filmmaking goals. They offer a flexible schedule, which is crucial since I don’t want to get trapped in a day job.

At 1:30 PM I had another interview, for an internship at a film production company. This year, this company has a film nominated for a Golden Globe and another film nominated for two Independent Spirit Awards. Their office is in Century City, in a fancy high-rise on the sixth floor, a block away from the Fox building used in DIE HARD and another building where I shot STRING THEORY. I met with the Director of Acquisitions, who told me he used to be an intern once himself.

To top off the day, my UCLA class in the evening had Sid Ganis as a guest speaker. Sid is a big producer. Among other things, he was president of Paramount Pictures and then president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the organization that hands out the Oscars every year.

Sid mentioned at one point that he's looking for a good thriller script. Did I jump up and tell him I have two good thriller scripts sitting on my shelf at home? Of course not. That's not correct Hollywood etiquette, it would only make me look small and amateurish. Another guy in class was less socially aware and did ask Sid to read his script. He got an indirect “no” and... made himself look small and amateurish.

I got a call from UCLA today. A few weeks ago I had applied to get into their “Master Class in Feature Film Writing” program, which is taught by screenwriter and long-time UCLA instructor Tom Lazarus. I wanted to get into this class not to learn screenwriting, but because, upon its completion, one is referred to an agent for possible representation. Of course, getting into this class isn’t easy. They only accept eight students every year, and these students are selected based on the writing sample they submit with their application. And the writing sample must be a completed script, no less.

Anyway, I received the phone call at around four o’ clock. The caller ID read “UCLA”. I picked up, and was duly informed that... I’ve been selected to take part in the class.

I’m a self-taught screenwriter and filmmaker, and I find it deliciously ironic that although I never went to college, I’ve been chosen to attend a “Master Class” at the world’s biggest and most prestigious film school.