Kimberlee K.

I was standing in line for a churro when I got the email.

A callback for a final interview.

I’d seen the project announcement on Instagram and initially put the call for applications to the back of my mind. It was a screenwriting job, and I was not a screenwriter. But a few days later, my sister sent me the information again, saying, “you should try this!!”

It was enough encouragement for me to start the application, for me to film an introduction video in my car, for me to Google how to write in script format, and for me to hit submit.

If this is part of your plan, I prayed in the moments afterward, then let it happen.

The email came just over a week later.

I was a few spots from the front of the churro line, deciding if I wanted to add chocolate drizzle on top. I widened my eyes as I read the email, trying not to audibly gasp in a crowd of strangers.

The next day, I logged onto Zoom with a few of the producers, and they asked me only one question: do you want to be on the team?

I could not believe it.

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“We are searching for 100 writers to write one single movie.”

There is something to be said for the social media algorithm, but I believe that more stock can be put into God’s plans for someone’s life.

Marcus Johns, one of the four producers on the 100 Pages movie, was the first face I saw in the call for applications video that popped up in my social media feed. I’d followed him on Vine nearly a decade earlier, and had been following his wife on Instagram and YouTube for years.

They were the kind of social media personalities that felt like my friends. People I kept up with and prayed for, people I walked through the highs and lows of life with, even though we didn’t actually know each other.

This didn’t make the application less intimidating, but it brought submitting it into the realm of possibility.  There was a comfort level that might not have existed in a project presented by a different group of people, an extra nudge from something bigger than me that made me believe this project might be something I’d been called to.

Still, as I walked through The Factory, a hub of restaurants and shops in Franklin, TN, I had no idea how this project was going to work.

I’d brought my computer and stuffed snacks in my purse. I’d gotten up early and blow dried my hair because I was told to be “camera ready.”

I thought I’d shown up too early, but when I came around the corner there was a swarm of people in front of the Mockingbird Theater.

I approached two girls who appeared to be at the back of the line. We introduced ourselves, all of us equally nervous and excited, and ran through a few quick facts: where we were from, what we did for a living, and how we heard about the project.

These would be the questions asked and answered by many over the next hour, as groups shifted and circled up, then broke off and circled again. A living organism moving across the lawn.

Everyone was kind and warm. We were excited, curious, and buzzing with anticipation. It seemed to cut through the awkwardness of small talk, dissolving its characteristic stiffness and making it enjoyable and exciting. Nothing was asked out of obligation or politeness, we were all anxious to know the who, what, when, where, why, and how. We wanted to hug and shake hands and take pictures. We wanted to pause, fast forward, and rewind.

It was as if we were all buckets newly drawn from the well, with possibility overflowing. No one was trying to take, everyone wanted to give, give, give.

Another producer, Darrick, walked around holding a camera, getting footage of the people smiling and excitedly stomping their feet. People saying, “no way!” when they found someone from the same state, or “woah!” when they learned of a long distance traveled.

The impossibility of us being there, together, on that one day, for this one project, never got old, and every time we met someone new it felt like celebrating that over and over again.

I followed a group of girls to the check in counter, where we were given lanyards with our names on them, and then asked to sit down for our first interview for the documentary being made alongside the movie.

We were then led into the theater and given a full rundown of the project; how it would work and the possibilities of where it could go. We talked about the schedule of events, about the next 100(ish) days, about the filming and editing process. By this time next year, an entire movie that we’d written would be made.

I tried desperately to stay in the room. To feel that nervousness that accompanies inspiration. To notice the people around me and the questions we all had—questions that would eventually get answered, questions we might not remember having when the project became something tangible, something that seemed as if it was always a part of us, something finished that we could no longer remember as something not yet started. I wanted to stay present, I wanted to feel it all.

It was October 8, 2023.

Writing would begin October 16^th, and would continue one page at a time, one writer per page.

Writing would finish in February and filming would begin in the spring.

We all stood at the starting line side by side by side, ready to start running.

A bingo ball cage was brought onto the stage, as well as a top hat that had been filled with our name tags. One by one, a name would be called, the wheel of the cage would be cranked, and then a ping pong ball would roll out, revealing the page number that writer was assigned.

Each name and number were met with applause, but those revealed to be writing pages 1-10 or 90-100 received particular awe. We each understood the gravity of the selection: you were starting the story, or you were ending it. And not only that, you were either reading most of the script or barely any of it.  

In the days leading up to our page, we would be given constant access and updates to the script. We would see it take shape, page by page. But after we submitted our page, our access to the script would immediately be revoked. So, if you were assigned an early page number, you would have noidea how the story continued.

While this was shocking information, I couldn’t feel its full impact as I waited impatiently for my name to be called. I was focusing too hard on praying that I didn’t get page one. I didn’t want the pressure of starting this historical project, of deciding the genre, the setting, the beginning.

Even so, as each name and number were called, I felt more and more as if I could. If it was assigned to me, I thought, I could. The shared enthusiasm in the room made anything feel possible. We all believed in the project, we all believed in each other, we all knew we’d be talking about this weekend, this experience, for the rest of our lives. So I felt less nervous and more impatient.

Just tell me where I’m needed, I thought, because I’m ready.

“Kimberlee Koehn!”

My name echoed through the theater and I stood up. Friendly faces turned and smiled, applause surrounded me. Though I’d met so many of the people in the room, standing up still felt like a declaration.

“I am a writer on this movie! Me! I am going to help write a movie!!”

I sat back down, holding my numbered ping pong ball and my name tag, proof that I was a member of this team, a part of history, adding not only a credit to my resume but a page number.

And now, almost a month into the writing process, I can’t help but think of the me 10 years ago. The me scrolling on my phone, terrified to even consider calling myself a writer. The me hitting follow on Marcus Johns’ Vine account, not knowing he and his family would carve out a corner of the internet that made me feel safe enough to take a risk. The me wondering if I’d ever be brave enough to exist in the world.

Each day I read our next page, and I talk to my 100 new friends scattered all over the country, and in different parts of the world. I can’t quite figure out how I got here, and I don’t know where I’m headed next, but I’ll always remember standing in line for that churro, feeling like my life just changed.

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