I couldn't help to take a crack at this exercise, as I've just finished a script myself because of this site. ************************** When Go Into the Story announced the new list I logged in to see who would write the new hits. I searched and typed hash tags to look for a hint, scoured the net, and networks; found only chocolate mints. I tried other websites, networks, and blogs. I hit all the usual suspects; I only found clogs? No one had a clue who might be on the list, so I sat back and drank another few fifths. I looked up old posts and interviews of winners, who were always so thankful and happy with jitters. I gulped an old fashion in style like Draper made with Macallen in honor of Matt Weiner. Could I do what he did, Gilligan, Chase, or Pizzolatto? or maybe, Schickler and Tropper, or Sorkin on macchiatos. On Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Sopranos, True Detective. On Banshee, Newsroom, all favorite inspirations. And then I remembered what Myers and Benedict had taught me, their pointed out resources and writers so freely, like Dave Milch, BAFTA, other lectures and posts, scenes, concepts, conceits, and protagonists in my notes. They all had enriched me with insights and gifts, I wrote like the wind and amassed screenplays in drifts. I listened to lectures, on daily commutes. I wrote scene after scene at lunch in refute. The writing was joyous, just in itself, no matter I‘d win a contract or spot on the list. Then I saw Franklin at a monthly happy hour, his eyes twinkling like Santa…, so I had another sour. Not chubby nor plump, but a mean lean machine. He worked his way up, another inspiration for me. The people around him, all happy and laughing, Who cares what happens? Another round of whatever drink rhymes with laughing. Writing isn’t easy. Time doesn’t fly by. Yet sometimes with preparation it can get you pretty high. My virtual mentors schooled me on what might be to come, if I worked hard, and tried, and stopped sucking my thumb. So I took the advice, and ground-stoned my nose, I even stopped drinking enough to write prose. The internal reward of accomplishment so great, I didn’t even care how long it would take. The reviews had come in. The readers were weary, They pounded out summaries, not even dreary. “Where do these writers come from,” I heard him exclaim, as he called up his contacts and repeated the refrain: Thank God for the Blacklist, I have here the winners, read, rated, revised, rewritten, made thinner. "About the list," I said, "could my name be there?" “We’ll see in the morning,” he said, "Making The Blacklist is rare."

“‘Twas the Night Before Black List and all through the LA / Writers were nervous – could this help them get pay?” “Their loglines were sharp and polished with care / In the hopes that St. Franklin soon would be there.” “The writers were ambien’d all snug in their beds / While visions of having a sustainable future danced in their heads.” “The agent in Prada and the hopeful in Gap / Had just settled their brains (with pot) for a long winter’s nap.” When out of the page a character arose, one much better written than Titanic's Rose, away to Creative Artists I drove in a flash, with the hopes of making a shit ton of cash, The agent didn't like my bright orange cover page, she said it caused her a lot of rage, in my script a lot of errors appeared, to which she said "screw this I need a beer." In hopes to win an Oscar, or at least a nomination by adding a "For Your Consideration" if this doesn't work, I'll stick to masturbation, My option script was stuck with rewriter so witty and quick, who wasn't afraid to mention he has a much larger di... the executives let me go faster than I came, because who knew screenwriting just a big game? I had hopes of being bigger than Blake Snyder, but a review claimed my script's humor couldn't be milder, I thought finally had a hit a wall? Until I realized, haven't they all? While at a festival I saw a producer, to whom I said hi, but they replied "whatever, bye." so to my manager's NY office I flew, who read my new script and said "wow your writing grew." We walked to the roof, where we had a few puffs, as I wrote in my head and was turning around, my agent threw my script to the ground. He said he hated the ending while he kicked me with his foot, I ran down to the sidewalk, but my script was covered with soot, I brushed it off and went for a walk, to a coffee shop just around the block. The waitress was beautiful, her dimples so merry, I told her I was a screenwriter and she said "oh so you're a ferry?" I replied "no", but I do make a lot of doe, On the wall next to a calendar hung a wreath, and I yelled "Oh my today's the fourteenth!" She said what's the big deal about that day? I said tomorrow the Black list comes out, but my script probably won't have a say She said do you know the writer of Elf? I replied no, but I'm a good screenwriter if If I don't say so myself, She said "If you're flirting with me to get into bed, don't bother you're too cocky and have a huge head." She spoke not another word and went back to work the rest of the day I felt like a big fat jerk. The next day my phone rang, It was Creative Screenwriting Magazine. They said my script made the List, and suddenly I was no longer pissed, Finally success was in sight and I realized it was all worth the fight.

“‘Twas the Night Before Black List and all through the LA / Writers were nervous – could this help them get pay?” “Their loglines were sharp and polished with care / In the hopes that St. Franklin soon would be there.” “The writers were ambien’d all snug in their beds / While visions of having a sustainable future danced in their heads.” “The agent in Prada and the hopeful in Gap / Had just settled their brains (with pot) for a long winter’s nap.” When out on the line there arose such a clatter/?I sprang onto Twitter to see what was the matter.? Away to my timeline I flew like a flash/?Tore open the hashtag and gave a deep gasp. The List of the Black gleamed like new-fallen snow?/Shone like shiny new dollars to all writers below.? When, what to my wondering eyes should appear/?But a tiny Scott Myers, shaped like a reindeer. With a dreadlocked young driver, dressed so very spankin’/?I knew in a moment it must be St. Franklin.? More rapid than eagles his script picks they came/?And he whistled, and shouted, and called writers by name! “Now Whitta! now, Kunka! now, Brophy and Miles!?/On, Koenig! On, Golden! on Iqbal and Styles!? To the top of the list! to the top of them all!?/You’ve now made the Black List! Now cash away all!” As Ferraris that before the wild traffic jam sigh,/When they're heading to Burbank + would much rather fly.? Now up to the list-top these writers they flew,/?With their roster of Agents, and managers too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on You Tube?/The prancing and pawing of that sharp little dude.? As I clicked on the link, and was turning around,/?Down my in-box St Franklin came with a bound. He was dressed all in brads, from his head to his foot,/ And his clothes were all courier 12-point to boot.? A bundle of Options he had flung on his back,/And he looked like a producer, just opening his pack. His brads-how they twinkled! his dimples how bright!?/His cheeks were like paychecks, his nose a green light!? His droll little mouth was shaped like an attachment,?/And his lips gleamed like actors who were in for the askin’. A director’s address he held tight in his teeth,?/Plus a studio head who was anxious to meet. He had a broad face and I liked him immensely,/?Especially carrying that horn full of plenty! I’d be chubby and plump, like a rich little elf,?/With my name on the list, I’d be wealthy myself!? “Wait, you’re Pachter?” he said, with a shake of his head/And all my good feelings were suddenly dread. He spoke not a word, but went back to his list,/And my name wasn’t on it – what a terrible twist! And giving a tissue for my runny nose,/He said, “Sorry, my friend, but that’s how it goes.” “You’ve written good scripts,/?Don’t give up on the fight? You might make it next year;/ Why yes, you just might!”

Twas the Night Before Black List and all through the LA Writers were nervous – could this help them get pay?” “Their loglines were sharp and polished with care In the hopes that St. Franklin soon would be there. “The writers were ambien’d all snug in their beds While visions of having a sustainable future danced in their heads. The agent in Prada and the hopeful in Gap Had just settled their brains (with pot) for a long winter’s nap. When out on Deadline there arose such a fuss Another Sony leak? No! This list is for us! Away to my browser I flew like a bird I prayed as it loaded. "Has my voice been heard?" It was 10:00 here, 1:00 on the East-- My webpage had opened. Let's open this beast! When what to my wondering eyes should see Dozens of names, and WHATS THAT? There's ME! More rapid than tweets, the texts started coming, Is this real life? My brain started humming I started to get dizzy, my feet began to sway I pictured St. Franklin, smiling to say-- "Like Argo, like Juno, like Whiplash, like Django Your script's got my blessing. It's time to tango! To the top of the stacks! Be gone with anxiety. Say goodbye to your day job. Say hello to Variety! I called my agent, my girlfriend, my mom- Trying my hardest, I couldn't stay calm I called my whole family, texted everyone I knew Some were excited, some didn't have a clue "Isn't that about Communism? Is it some sort of Test?" "Oh I love that show! James Spader's the best!" As I explained, their questions drew back- (Is it really that confusing to call a list black?) St. Franklin, I must say, I want to thank you a lot In a town where scripts live, it's nice to be hot As I shook his hand, I saw his dreadlocks in Glory He smiled at me, "You have a great story" He went back to his site, you know, blcklist dot com Another year of waiting, a ticking time bomb But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight, 'Happy Blacklist to all! and To all a good-night!"

“‘Twas the Night Before Black List and all through the LA Writers were nervous – could this help them get pay?” “Their loglines were sharp and polished with care In the hopes that St. Franklin soon would be there.” “The writers were ambien’d all snug in their beds While visions of having a sustainable future danced in their heads.” “The agent in Prada and the hopeful in Gap Had just settled their brains (with pot) for a long winter’s nap.” But who remained awake, who could not afford to rest? – Amateurs, the usual suspects, scribbling his or Her best: Searching for tender mercies in the all-night cafes of Chinatown, Or confronting a moonstruck ghost on the Sunset Boulevard battleground, Typing past midnight in Paris, lost in translating the eternal sunshine of Tokyo, Or lifting the seventh veil of a draft in cold, cold Fargo, In a Manhattan closet listening to Django Reinhardt unchained on the guitar Or the piano’s interrupted melody breaking away on Rio’s waterfront bar. Witness! This is no pulp fiction or pillow talk: A man and a woman coming home on different streets of the same walk To the apartment after a long evening and dog day afternoon – Co-workers will dub her Little Miss Sunshine soon. Although Maria Louise is not up for woman of the year, She has steadily built a network for a screenwriting career. She is through with designing a women’s campaign To get the candidate, a real King’s speech, voted to Annie Hall by Citizen Jane. Maria knows how the WGA West card is won, With perseverance, goodwill hunting, and titanic scripts written from passion. But guess who’s coming to pre-Christmas dinner? Father Goose, Stepmom Hannah And her sisters and their toddlers Butch, Cassidy, and Sundance. Blah! Splendor in Final Draft must wait as Maria leaves for Gosford BBQ Pork , Smiles through the sting when her step-aunts mention a belated stork, Prays to Juno, Gandhi, Shakespeare for love of story, Returning home to her hurt locker in the crying game’s misery. His name is Wilson Melvin Howard Patton But down at Reggae Palace where he shoots pool he’s known as Rain Mon; He’s almost famous but not for any of his first twenty-seven scripts: He played Mickey Rourke, called him “Princess O’Rourke,” then got his ass kicked. Our hero was an American in Paris in love once upon a time Then got a divorce, Italian style, the papers were in terza rima rhyme – Wound up in the hospital with places in his heart like a disease, He claimed they were stabbed there by exs Thelma and Signora Louise. Instead of adding himself to the Dead Poets Society, He’s on the mend, tapping on his trusty rusty typewriter with new profundity. Talking to his dogs as though they were producers, Out on a walk, our champion bachelor and poolhall boxer Slams into Maria and shouts “Darling!” out of concern for this pretty stranger who curses at him, rubbing a concrete burn. If only he could hable con Ella…she’s swearing in Spanish, But when he motions an offer for an egg nog milk, she answers “Yes” in English. It was a Blacklist Eve Midnight Miracle: Two screenwriters each found someone to walk up Lavender Hill As it had always been a walk taken alone And the defiant ones’ inspiration was soaring off like a red balloon. But as they approach their first sales, they should remember the year 1940 When Best Original Screenplay was split from the Oscar for Best Story. To Preston Sturges how much was The Great McGinty’s worth? The American beauty: one dollar and its birth. And if Maria and Rain Mon’s stories have not graced the silver screen, Perhaps they will meet again on the Blacklist 2015.

Thanks Scott for a fun creative exercise this Blacklist morning! Below is my shot at the poem: “Twas the Night Before Black List and all through the LA / Writers were nervous – could this help them get pay? Their loglines were sharp and polished with care / In the hopes that St. Franklin soon would be there. The writers were ambien’d all snug in their beds / While visions of having a sustainable future danced in their heads. The agent in Prada and the hopeful in Gap / Had just settled their brains (with pot) for a long winter’s nap. When out on Wilshire there arose such a clatter/ The execs from the Academy sprang from their hyperbaric oxygen chambers to see what was the matter. Away to the chauffeured Lincolns they shuffled/ Rolling up the windows so the sounds of the city were muffled. The ˝ inch of rain on the streets let off such a gleam/ They felt for certain this could be the scene. And what to their wandering eyes should appear/ But an African American female nominated Director of the Year? When suddenly the Blacklist at 10am was released/ The motion picture business knew they were in for a treat. More diverse then a bag of Jelly Bellies or box of chocolates they were/ The Blacklist scripts and screenwriters galore! Welcome Females, Transgender, and Gender Non-conforming/ Writers from India, Bangladesh, Sweden, Ghana and Anodrra. Screenwriters from varying perspectives and sectors of the world/ Assorted stories that enlivened the senses and made their toes curl. Top agents and managers swiftly arose from their beds/ Realizing that their “same but different” model was dead. And in that instant the industry stopped on a dime/ “Wait a minute”, they said, “It’s been here the whole time?” “You mean our audience isn’t just made of one viewer?/ They crave variety, ingenuity -- and something newer?” CAA, William Morris, Benderspink and Innovative/ Dove into their slush piles in search of something more creative. For finally screenplays entirely different and new/ Were winning the opportunity to show what they could do. The producers submitted and then came the money/ And quickly the theaters were booming with funny- Black comedies, quirky action, dark dramas and satires/ Realistic romance, historical adventure and mysteries so clever. The Golden Age of television took a swift turn/ As the theatrical box office swelled with buckets of currency from around the world. For the Blacklist achieved what it sent out from the start/ To celebrate stories and writers for their talent and smart. And away the super hero capes flew/ The idea that everything had to be a sequel, IP, remake or two. And thus that December 15th morning shall be always known/ As the start of a new age of film for all grown. And as the day closed, all hopeful ears heard/ an assuring whisper from St. Franklin to their creative words - Merry Blacklist to all -- may next year be yours!

Wonderful stuff, folks! We'll have one grand prize winner (the Black List stuff), but I'll kick in with some gifts of my own to make sure everyone is a winner. More on that later. Still 15 minutes to enter!

Who won?

Announcement Friday!

Waiting is harder than finding a screening of TeamAmerica. Do you have to clear the decision with Sony legal?

Ha! Adam, Sony, I'm afraid, is too afraid to commit to a decision re this particular contest, so I'm afraid we're waiting on little ol' moi. News very soon!

Thanks Scott! This was so much fun! And kudos to the other winners -- I'd write poems with you anytime!

Thanks Scott! Fun contest.