Is it possible to make a living as a screenwriter and live in New York?

Anthony Kaufman investigates.

With the recent publication of Joe Eszterhas’s slimy tell-all Hollywood Animal and his $3-million deal for Basic Instinct back in aspiring writers’ minds, young scribes are thinking again about that get-rich-quick spec script sale.

But for most writers, sustaining a career isn’t about a single breakthrough buy. “I’ve never written a spec script,” says Jesus’ Son co-writer Oren Moverman. “I have to make a living.”

With several for-hire jobs to his credit and his own directorial debut near preproduction, Moverman is doing just that, a feat that is all the more impressive given his New York homebase. Because for Gotham screenwriters, the weekly grind of stirring up and sustaining work can be especially tough. New York producers may hire screenwriters to adapt books or articles, but most of the bread-and-butter work that sustains working writers — the rewrites, polishes and last-minute production rewrites, as well as most television jobs — is found in Los Angeles. “The truth is, there are just not many jobs in New York,” explains UTA agent Barbara Dreyfus, who counts New Yorkers David Guion and Michael Handelman among her clients. “Other than Miramax and Revolution and a few other players, the key for New York screenwriters is that they have to come out to Los Angeles for work.”

Still, some East Coast scribes say they will never give up the diverse currents and throbbing pulse of Manhattan in favor of relocating to Los Angeles. So they contend with jet lag, high travel costs and L.A. alienation, holding fast to the non-Hollywood culture that they say informs — and remains essential to — their livelihoods.

Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini, who co-wrote and directed American Splendor, say they spend thousands of dollars on airplane tickets, hotels and food expenses during a trip to the City of Angels to scare up work. In addition to cramping their piggy banks, the traveling takes a toll on their creative time. “Because I like to write in the mornings,” Pulcini explains, “there are always a couple days on either end of the trip eaten away by time zone readjustment.”

Making matters worse, most of these trips yield nothing more than fake smiles from executives’ faces. “You sit in a meeting, and they tell you they love New York writers and they love New York, and then you don’t get the job,” says Mike Jones, who has sold pitches to Columbia Pictures and United Artists and has since perfected shoestring travel, keeping expenses down by staying with friends, low bidding airfares on Priceline.com and choosing Fox Rent a Car for wheels. (Jones recently moved back home to Texas.)

Most New York scribes have sworn off pitching their take on an original project or rewrite over the telephone. As Berman notes, “It’s hard enough to read the room when you’re in it, but over the phone, you don’t know if people are snoring or engaged.” And by not hopping on the next plane to the coast, “there are definitely projects that Bob and I have lost out on,” she says.

“[The executives] want a body in place ‘right now,’” explains Henry Bean, who moved from L.A. to Manhattan after writing Internal Affairs in 1989. “And getting yours out there will take a couple days, cost a few thousand, and so, all other things being equal — which they never are — a local guy might be easier.”

Stephen Schiff, however, who has built a name for himself writing such literary adaptations as Lolita, The Emperor of Ocean Park and White Noise, doesn’t consider this outsider status such a bad thing. “When an executive can’t say, ‘Be here in my office this afternoon,’ it’s kind of pleasant,” he comments. “While it may not be entirely a good thing for a screenwriter to play hard-to-get, it gives you a sense of liberty from the sometimes suffocating structure of the business.”

Furthermore, contends Mike Lubin, an agent at Gersh’s New York office, “There’s a certain mystique brought to a writer or filmmaker who is coming in from the East. Executives think they’re going to have a different approach because they’re not entrenched in the studio system.”

Indeed, many Gotham screenwriters believe they have a leg up on their West Coast counterparts for this very reason. “By living here, you’ve announced that you’re a little difficult and not ashamed to say so,” Bean says. “It’s resented but also admired. You’re willing to pay the price for your distance, so maybe that means you’re worth it.”

Additionally, Bean says that living in New York spares you “the agony of freaking out over the deals you keep hearing about that can quickly make you feel like a worthless failure, has-been or never-will-be.” Berman, noting all the stress and competition she feels during her Hollywood visits, concurs: “I might have quit if I were in L.A. Ignorance is bliss.”

The one thing New York writers do have is more direct access to the East Coast production companies and independent producers who offer writers more creative freedom and less bullshit. Moverman singles out GreeneStreet, Killer Films, Deutsch Open City, Hart Sharp, Forensic Films, Process Media and, especially, Ted Hope’s new venture, This Is That.

But can he eke out a living writing a screenplay a year for companies like these? “No,” he admits. “These companies don’t have the big bucks, so I have to string together a bunch of projects in order to make a living.” He continues, “It’s like working at a factory — you punch a card, put your head down and do the work.” Yet New York writers agree that for the larger payoffs, some presence in Los Angeles is essential. But although Mike Jones agrees that L.A.–based advocates are necessary, he also warns that writers can’t sit back in their Village apartments waiting for managers to pull in the jobs. “I think it’s a misconception for first-time screenwriters that once you get an agent, everything is okay. The last two jobs I got, they came from myself,” he says. “You have to do the legwork.” And for Gotham writers, much of that legwork takes place 2,462 miles away.