Thinking back to the good ol’ days when seven world leaders seemed like plenty to kidnap

If there’s something I’ve learned from The Fork’s two-decade journey from concept to stage, it’s that sometimes projects wait around for you to be ready. But sometimes they don’t.

The trouble started with a movie trailer. Just a harmless, routine trailer on a Tuesday evening, the kind that pops up before episode 1 of season 7 of Monarch of the Glen. The film? A new action thriller called G20 – an explosive tale of terrorists taking over the economic summit of 20 world leaders.

And just like that, I was back tending to an old wound that I thought I was done with.

There comes a moment in every writer’s life—usually somewhere around unsold spec script number 9 – when you think to yourself: Well, enough’s enough.

See, many summers ago, I wrote a script called G7. Same general premise – terrorists, summits, high-stakes global showdowns – but back then, there were only seven heads of state worth kidnapping, and I thought that was plenty. We were just 13 Gs ahead of our time. (Fun side note – the bad guys in my script were using the attack and subsequent release of the leaders to manipulate the world’s stock markets, back when that sort of thing was less popular.)

There comes a moment in every writer’s life—usually somewhere around unsold spec script number 9 – when you think to yourself: Well, enough’s enough.

That moment came for me one California summer. I’d been living the double life for years—corporate writer by day, cinematic dreamer by night. I had scripts stacked like flapjacks in my desk drawer, each one a little closer to brilliance (or so I hoped). But this time, I was going to crack it. No more small stories. No more quirky indie charm. This one would be big. The kind of movie where someone yells “Go! Go! Go!” and helicopters do backflips.

I read every action script I could find. I channeled Tom Clancy so hard I started checking under my car for tracking devices. I researched military-grade weaponry and added six years of speculative tech. I had color-coded index cards, a cast of A-listers pinned to my wall, and a file of zingers for my morally grey anti-hero. I was ready.

Enter: The Dream Call

Months later, the script – cleverly titled G7 – made its way from a friend in my writing group to an agent at a well-known Beverly Hills firm. Which is to say, it vanished into the ether.

Then came a voicemail. The agent had a trip to New York planned and might read my script on the flight. Might.

And wouldn’t you know it – he did. He called from New York, full of excitement. He loved it. Had some notes, of course, but wanted to “go wide” with it.

Now, for those unfamiliar: “going wide” is Hollywood speak for launching your script like a confetti cannon at multiple production companies all at once. On a set Friday morning, a small army of couriers would hand-deliver my script to producers across L.A., and over the weekend, the reads would begin. If all went well, Monday would bring a bidding war. By Friday, I’d be shopping for a car with European suspension.

The Hollywood High

That very afternoon, the agent called to say one production company had nibbled and passed the script along to the studio they had a deal with. A good sign, he said.

I wasn’t exactly browsing Brentwood real estate, but I did start to think about what kind of car an official screenwriter version of me might drive. Not that there was anything wrong with my elderly white Ford Taurus – it ran, mostly – but it didn’t exactly scream “studio meeting.” I thought maybe a black Range Rover. Or pearl white. I wasn’t picky.

And there were meetings. Real ones. With company names I recognized from opening credits of past Summer movies. I shook hands with people who made movies, and for a few shining days, I was nearly in it—like a nearly proper writer, like someone who belonged. Nearly.

When “Wide” Goes Cold

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about going wide: the rejections arrive just as efficiently.

With my earlier scripts, I could always comfort myself with the notion that someone out there still hadn’t passed. There was hope in the delay.

But now, the answers came all at once:

“Too expensive.”
“Already have something similar.”
“If it were up to me, I’d make it, but…”
“Pass. What else do you have?”
“Liked it. Just not for us.”

Even the kind ones felt like a gut punch. Within two weeks, every company in town who could say yes had said no. No to the cast. No to the explosions. No to the script I poured my guts into.

Hollywood, in its wonderfully efficient way, had turned down exactly what I thought it wanted.

Fade Out (But Not Quite the End)

So I did what writers do. I sulked. I ate pralines and cream snickerdoodle sandwiches. I told myself I never wanted to see another screenplay again. That lasted about a year, but it created some new opportunities I might have otherwise missed.

But the sting of G7 never fully left. It sat there, quietly, a reminder of what happens when you go all in and still come up short.

And now – years later – here comes G20, with a bigger cast of world leaders and, presumably, a much bigger budget. I watched the trailer with a bemused smile, wondering if the filmmakers ever got their hands on G7, or if the idea was just floating around in the ether, waiting for its moment.

Either way, I like to think we were just ahead of our time.

Thirteen G’s ahead, to be exact. That’s inflation for ya.