I Represent Sean Rosen Read Online Free PDF

my head. Then I keep going over and over it. I don’t want to, but I can’t stop.
    I know I shouldn’t write to Martin until I have something important to say. And after hearing what I was going to say about 600 times, I was sure it wasn’t important.
    I don’t know what to do next. You’d think that getting such a quick answer from Martin Manager would make me want to try another manager, but it doesn’t. If I’m going to have a manager, I want Martin.
    When my Dad came home from work, he said, “Seany . . . I met a guy who knows a guy who might be able to help you.”
    Someone whose toilet my dad fixed has a brother-in-law who’s a producer. One of the things my dad loves about his job is that he gets to work with all kinds of people. “That’s the beauty of it, Seany. Sooner or later in life, everybody needs a plumber.”
    My dad didn’t ask the producer’s name, so I couldn’t Google him. But the guy with the toilet said his brother-in-law is always looking for projects.
    A project is show-business language for anything you’re trying to get started—a movie, a TV show, a book. My idea, the one I want to work on with my first-choice company, isn’t actually a project. It’s more like an idea you would use on a lot of different projects. I don’t think there’s a show-business name yet for my kind of idea.
    So even though I don’t exactly have a project and I’m not exactly looking for a producer, my dad was so excited about helping me that I let him plan a meeting for me with this guy whose name he doesn’t know.

chapter 9
    H ere’s what happened at my first show-business meeting. It was a few days later at a restaurant. My dad drove me there in his van. The producer and I went to a table near the back. My dad sat at the counter.
    I wasn’t sure if the producer noticed my digital voice recorder on the table. It kind of looks like a phone, especially when it’s upside down and you can’t see the red light that tells you it’s recording.
PRODUCER:
So you’re the little genius.
ME:
Um . . . I’m not exactly little.
PRODUCER:
Don’t fight it, kid. It’s your gimmick. Work it. In fact, can we say you’re twelve?
ME:
No. Say it to who?
PRODUCER:
Whoever we pitch to.
    â€œPitching” in show-business language means telling someone about your project so they’ll want to buy it.
WAITRESS:
What can I get you two?
PRODUCER:
Coffee. Black.
ME:
I’ll have a chocolate shake.
PRODUCER:
You know how to live.
    The waitress left.
ME:
What have you actually produced?
PRODUCER:
Movies, TV, you name it.
ME:
Um . . . Why don’t you name it. I mean the things you produced.
PRODUCER:
Cocky little kid. I like it.
    He named three things I never heard of.
ME:
Have you worked with any of the really big companies?
PRODUCER:
Trust me, they’re all the same. So what’s your idea?
ME:
Really? You want to work with me?
PRODUCER:
I’m here, aren’t I?
ME:
Why? I’m your brother-in-law’s plumber’s son.
PRODUCER:
This is what producers do. We look for projects.
ME:
How many projects do you have?
PRODUCER:
Who the hell knows? Does it matter?
ME:
Like three? Like thirty?
PRODUCER:
Between three and thirty. You’re worse than the IRS.
    The waitress brought his coffee and my shake.
ME:
Do you have a lot of people working for you?
PRODUCER:
A lot? No. Most of the time you’re just waiting. Waiting for someone to read a script. Waiting for someone to come up with the money.
ME:
Speaking of money, how does that work?
PRODUCER:
Tell me your idea, and I’ll lay it all out for you.
ME:
If I tell you my idea, do you pay me?
PRODUCER:
Are you kidding me? You should pay me. I’m the guy with the connections. But I’ll take this on out of the goodness of my heart. When I sell it, you’ll get paid.
ME:
How much?
PRODUCER:
I don’t know. I don’t even know