Release Blitz: (Not So) Good In A Room by Dakota Madison
(Not So) Good in a Room by Dakota Madison
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Series: California Dreamers is a series of romantic comedy novellas that can be read as stand-alone stories or as part of the series.
She’s not the kind of girl he can
take home to daddy.
(NOT SO) GOOD IN A ROOM, a romantic
comedy novella by USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR Dakota Madison, 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.
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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 sea of
emerging screenwriters I breathe a small sigh of relief.
Don’t you just love that term?
Emerging screenwriter. It’s a nice way to say wannabe.
That’s what we are. Wannabes. Every
person here is scrounging for that one break that will finally get
him or her into the business.
I can’t waste my one shot at finally
making my dream come true.
I remove my one-sheet from my handbag
and stare at it. I’ve gone over my logline and story synopsis
thousands of times. I’ve got every word on the page memorized. I
have no idea why I can’t just say the words when I actually sit
down to pitch.
I have to do this. I have to at least
try again. I’d never be able to live with myself if I gave up so
easily.
I shove my one-sheet back into my
handbag as I make my way over to one of the lines of writers waiting
for the opportunity to meet with an action film producer.
Pitchfestapalooza is run like a
well-oiled machine. I have to give credit where credit is due.
Screenwriters line up to meet with producers by genre and lines keep
moving at a fairly brisk pace. It’s set up a little like speed
dating, but we’re pitching producers for deals, not trying to score
with the opposite sex.
Luckily the line I’ve selected isn’t
that long. It’s about half as long as the lines for the
screenwriters pitching horror scripts or comedy projects. I’m not
surprised that I’m the only female in line. It’s pretty well
known that there’s sexism in the film industry, but it seems to be
even worse when it comes to action movies.
But I love the genre, and even though I
have a vagina, I can’t see myself writing anything else.
I don’t realize until he turns around
that I’m standing right behind the tall guy who offered me the gum.
He flashes me a charismatic smile. The
type of grin you might see on a used car salesman or politician.
Why do I get the feeling this guy could
sell dirt to a farmer?
“So what do you have against gum?”
he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Then it’s me you don’t like.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s remedy that situation
right now.” He extends a hand for me to shake. “I’m Roscoe
Rhodes.”
I’m sure he’s wondering why I’m
not returning the gesture. I don’t like touching people I don’t
know. It’s one of my numerous obsessions.
He waits for a long moment. When it’s
obvious I’m not going to shake his hand he says, “You know,
Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“My name’s not Dorothy.”
“At least I got you to say
something.”
“Nellie Berg,” I tell him. “And
how did you know I’m from Kansas?”
“I didn’t. You’re dressed like
Dorothy Gale. What’s up with that outfit?”
I look down at my black patent leather
shoes, white tights, black and white polka dot skirt. Then I glance
around me. Everyone else is wearing dress jeans and button-down
shirts with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Somehow I must
have missed the screenwriters’ attire memo.
So in addition to being a bundle of
nerves I look completely and totally out of place. Isn’t that just
great for my self-esteem?
“You know this producer only makes
action films,” Roscoe says.
I don’t even try to hide my scowl. “I
know that.”
He points to another line directly
across the lobby from us. “The line for romantic comedy is over
there.”
“So?” I glare at him.
“Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable
over there?”
“You mean somewhere where there isn’t
a misogynistic jerk standing in front of me?”
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“You’ve written a script for an action movie?”
As I shake my head defiantly I wonder
why I’m even talking to this asshole.
“Then what are you doing in this
line?” His condescending tone is really starting to piss me off.
“I’ve written scripts for thirty
action movies.” Choke on that you prick.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You don’t strike me as the type
who would be interested in writing action scripts.”
“And why is that? Because I’m
female? Have you bought into the sexist notion that women can’t
write action scripts?”
I cross my arms over my chest and stare
at him. As much as I’d like him to crawl into a hole somewhere he
stares right back at me.
“Maybe it’s the pink polka dot
purse you’re holding. That just screams action film. Or the outfit
you’re wearing. If Shirley Temple and Dorothy Gale had a love child
she would dress like you. Except you look more like a Munchkin with
your little round face and tiny body.”
I can feel my face heat with
embarrassment. This guy just says whatever he thinks, doesn’t he.
“You know that’s really insulting.”
“Munchkin,” he repeats.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, Munch. You look
like one of the dolls from the cabbage patch. I just want to put you
on a shelf.”
“I consider that a micro-aggression.”
“Boo-hoo. What are you going to do?
Call the PC police because I hurt your feelings?”
“You’re kind of a jerk.”
“Everyone says I’m charming.”
This guy is definitely no prince. “I
guess everyone is wrong.”
USA TODAY Bestselling author Dakota
Madison is known for writing romance with a little spice and lots of
heart. She likes to explore current social issues in her work. Dakota
is a winner of the prestigious RONE Award for Excellence in the Indie
and Small Publishing Industry. When she's not at her computer
creating spicy stories Dakota likes to spend time with her husband
and their bloodhounds at their home outside Phoenix, Arizona.
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