Kimberlee K.

You can read the first part of this series here.

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“What is your next dream project? Your pie in the sky wish?”

A group of us sat in our Airbnb, eating pizza and making conversation, buzzing with anticipation for the following day’s activities.

It was the first time most of us had seen each other since that day in October, when we’d all clambered from different corners of the country to a theater in Nashville to start the 100 Pages project.

It was almost exactly four months since the first page of the script hit our inbox, and now we were less than 24 hours away from hearing it in full.

We were approaching a finish line, or at least one finish line among the many it will take to complete this project, and we were already dreaming up what we might do next. Not because we were moving on, but because the adrenaline made anything feel possible. None of us thought we’d be able to do what we just did, so why not dream even bigger?

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When we gathered our things back in October, each of us holding our page numbers in our hands, I remember hearing one of the producers say how fast it was all going to go.

“Once this thing starts,” he said, “it’s going to move quick.”

I believed him, but I also felt like my page, 83, was far away, and page 100 was even farther.

But then I blinked, and it was my turn.

I’d followed the script closely as it came together day by day, and read the 81 pages available to me the night before. But I still logged onto my Zoom meeting with the producers nervous, hopeful the mic on my old laptop wouldn’t somehow pickup my racing heartbeat.

Like all of the writers before me, I was given the most recent page of the script (page 82, in my case) first, and tasked to continue the story. I watched as the characters froze in time, waiting for me to move them, and I gave an enthusiastic thumbs up to the producers, letting them know I was ready to write.

I was grateful to have a page near the end of the script. Not only because it allowed me to read most of the story before my page writing day, but because it gave me the opportunity to learn from the 82 writers before me. I had never written or read a script before, and logging on to see their work every day felt like the best kind of bootcamp.

When I started writing my page, I shook my head in disbelief. It felt like speaking a language I didn’t know I understood. I typed and typed, adding dialogue, scene direction, and setting because, with their help, I could.

I turned in my page at the end of the day, holding my face in my hands Home Alone style.

I couldn’t believe it was all real. I had helped write a movie.

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On the day of the table read, the room was set up in a large rectangle, with the writers organized in page number order. Each seat had a finished script in front of it, and an image representative of the writer’s page—something specific enough that those who’d read the page knew what it represented, but vague enough that the preceding writers had no idea what it meant. We did laps around the room, looking at the images, furrowing our brows, at times wondering, what on earth did you write?

It felt like looking at presents under a Christmas tree, knowing you only had to wait a little longer to find out what they were, but that didn’t calm the raging curiosity in your gut. We all wanted to rip that shiny paper, we wanted to dive face first into the decorative bags and the fur lined stockings.

“Test test test,” Marcus, one of the producers, said into a microphone, and then he passed it to our first writer.

“Stop right there,” Marcus said after she finished reading her page, “this is the last time we all know what happens.”

We took a collective breath, our toes tapping excitedly beneath the tables. The writers to follow would start a chain of dominoes where, after reading their page, they would become part of the audience, unaware of what was going to happen next. Straight, stiff backs would hunch towards the script as they followed along with their fingers, watching the story shift and sway. With each passing page the room echoed with reactionary exclamations. We laughed, we gasped, we cheered. Writers of the later pages made meaningful eye contact, knowing what was coming, and we nudged each other under the tables as we waited for specific pages to reach the general collective.

The room was electric, it was inspiring.

We’d come from all walks of life, from near and far, from all genres of creativity and, for one reason or another, all clicked that apply button five months ago. We had been 100 strangers but now we were side by side, as a newly formed family, reading something we made together.

I had been intimidated both times I walked into the room, mostly by the sheer number of us. I’m not good at making the rounds and meeting every single person, of breaking all the way out of my shell and letting everyone know how much they inspire me. But the community we have with each other, the support offered throughout this project, on each individual’s writing day, and in the room at the table read as we all smiled at each other with pride, lets me know that they feel the same way. It reminds me that we’re always looking out for each other, always rooting for each other, even if it’s from afar.

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“What’s your pie in the sky dream?”

As we each shared, I made a mental note of the new creative journeys the women around me were hoping to take, and I continued to make notes as I talked to other people throughout the weekend that shared their similar dreams. Because I believe they can do it, and I think this project is only the beginning of the ways in which we’ll support each other and see each other succeed.

After the table read, we stood in the lobby area of The Factory in Franklin, huddled around a small bar TV. Passersby leaned in to see what we were waiting for. They tapped us on the shoulder, trying to find a way to politely ask, who are you and what are you watching? And then the Channel 5 news clicked on and announced our project, showing our table read, our writers, our producers, our family.

We jumped up and down and cheered, so proud of each other.

“That’s us!!” we said to the curious onlookers. “That’s us!!”

The rest of the evening, our group dwindled down little by little, each of us preparing to head home. It was the end of the weekend, the end of this part of the project, but in many ways, still very much a beginning.

There is still a movie to be made.

Still so many stories to be told.

We’re still holding onto so many secrets, but now we’re finally on the same page (pun intended).

We can’t wait to show you what we’ve made.

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Follow @100PagesMovie on Instagram for more updates on the project.