The Sundance Kid

Traveling is my favorite excuse to look like crap in public. I travel ugly. Eye crusts, a giant backpack that makes me look like a seabound turtle, a head wrap doing a questionable job of hiding my sloppily twisted hair, and the biggest hoodie and sweatpants I can find before I get to the airport. The likelihood of dying in a plane crash is pretty low, but it’s the only thing on my mind when I take off and land, and I’ll be damned if I’m uncomfortable when my life ends if I can help it.

Also, people who think it’s important to look good for the sake of other passengers when you’re sleeping for five hours in an uncomfortable chair are truly sociopaths. This is air travel, not friendship! A good flight is defined by how few times you’re forced into a social interaction with the people who are inconsiderately coughing into the recycled air you have to breathe. A flight starts out at one hundred, and points are deducted every time someone asks you to get up for them to use the bathroom, bumps your arm on the armrest, or leans their chair into your lap.

So it was no surprise that when Lyle and I arrived at the Sundance resort, I looked like an absolute scrub. The only scheduled event for the first day was seven hours later. I could go from Ogre Fiona to Princess Fiona in that time, no problem. But as we stood at the welcome center with our bags, someone proposed we get lunch since we were so early, and oh, it’s not a problem at all, we can take your bags to your “mountain home” for you!

Sundance is a big deal. It legitimizes me in this industry far more than a viral Vine ever did. Lyle and I shared eye contact that meant “Let’s go make ourselves acceptable in the closest bathroom.” And we started off in search of one nearby.

After taking roughly five steps, we heard a motorcycle approaching behind us on the walkway.

“This is where we die,” Lyle said, deadpan, ready for the other shoe to drop on this dream trip.

We stepped into the grass as the motorcycle approached and then slowed to a stop. Atop the vehicle was a man with an American flag bandana, a leather jacket, and reflective sunglasses. He turned to us and removed his sunglasses.

“Hey, ladies,” he said so smoothly that my mouth dropped open.

It was Robert Redford. The Sundance Kid. THE MOTHERFUCKING SUNDANCE KID. I couldn’t find words, but I instinctively reached into my pocket for my cell phone for a selfie. My fingers found all the buttons quickly, but the phone stalled, giving him plenty of time.

“I don’t really do pictures.”

And with that he replaced his sunglasses and rode off.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Lyle screamed. We ran to the bathroom, still looking like we rode in an overhead compartment all the way to Utah. The words just flew from our mouths as we sloppily shook out our hair and applied a little lipstick.

“How on earth is this our lives? Why are we even allowed to be here?” I asked, fully meaning it.

The Sundance Labs are the incubator for TV shows, film, web series, and more. Run by true badass Michelle Satter, the program finds talented writers and puts them up for a week in swanky mountain mansions (a thing I didn’t know existed) and gives them one-on-one training, advice, and therapy sessions with showrunners and network executives. Imagine it like this: your project—your show or movie or whatever—is your baby. Now imagine that you’re a loving parent, hopeful for your baby’s future, and then you win the lottery and now your baby has every good chance to make it in the world.

There are multiple objectives for the Labs. Perhaps unintentionally, one is to make friends with some of the coolest people on the planet. In my Lab alone there was the lead singer of the National and his talented editor wife, the director of a major Ryan Gosling film, an Oscar-winning documentarian couple, and more. All of us in the same boat, having our writing picked apart and made better by showrunners from the biggest shows in the HISTORY of television.

Obviously what most people want to get out of it is (1) just getting in. Thousands of people submit their projects with hopes of being one of ten projects chosen; and (2) face time with showrunners. And why not? Jenni Konner (Girls) and Rich Appel (The Simpsons, Family Guy, and The Cleveland Show) and Mara Brock Akil (Girlfriends, Love Is ___) telling you that you’re funny and how to be funnier is a goddamn blessing. There’s major validation at Sundance. The whole program was started because Robert Redford found Hollywood to be less experimental and artistic than his ambition. For a person like me, who tends to feel slept on no matter how many different projects I get to work on, this was my biggest motivation.

But a lot of that excitement falls away. Not in a negative way, but in a way that makes you realize that getting in is just the beginning. The first day we watched scenes from iconic films and had screenwriters who have been in the industry for decades dissect each of them to a degree that made my head hurt. By the end of the day, I had to decompress and push away any additional imposter syndrome. The truth was I was green. Sure, I’d made hundreds of YouTube videos and racked up millions of views, but I wasn’t a film school student. There was a lot I didn’t know. I was also the youngest member of the program and I was afraid that it showed. Growing up, I always thought that once you were in your twenties, everyone would see you as an adult, but I think that people who are older than you will always see you as younger and less experienced. And they’re not wrong. I’m not even sure it really came up in conversation or anything, but if I had to choose something to be anxious about while stranded on a mountain in a very white town, that seemed like the most acceptable thing to address. A weird predicament to be in when we live in a society that prioritizes female youth but also doesn’t compensate it. If I could have frozen time and spent five years in writers’ rooms and then come back, I would have.

My strongest memories from the Lab include the forever lesson that you have to drink half as much as you would at lower altitudes, because altitude sickness is REAL. I found myself crying unexpectedly, dehydrated constantly, and the one mixer where I had two drinks instead of one (bringing the feeling up to four drinks) I gushed a little too hard to each showrunner about how big of a fan I was. Way to go, Hughes. Looking totally chill and not at all like they made a mistake inviting you.

But mostly I remember feeling like I was so close to finally realizing a dream. Jenni Konner posted a photo with Lyle and me, captioned “flanked by the future of television,” to her Instagram, and I really believed it. I still do. I realize that so much of my life is seeking validation that won’t come for some reason or another, but in my twenties I’ve finally realized that success doesn’t exist. The moment you feel successful, there ambition is, ready to belittle the achievements thus far in favor of striving for what’s next.

In this career of mine I’ve befriended so many people who have amassed moments of major success and still feel like they could be doing “more.” I have a friend who won an Academy Award for her documentary when she was just twenty-seven years old. I have friends who have written songs that millions of people know, but they feel like if they don’t also sell a TV show then none of it was worth it. I haven’t met Michelle and Barack Obama yet, but I would love to ask them if they ever feel like being the president and first lady of America for eight years was enough success or are we all doomed to confuse contentment with complacency?

The last day of the Sundance Labs, we had meetings with development heads at huge networks and streaming platforms. One such person asked Lyle and me what our dream was.

“To write and star in our own show,” Lyle said, knowing the length at which we’d talked about this together in all the writing and bicoastal Skype calls leading up to us getting chosen for the program.

“Be careful what you wish for. You’re going to get all of it,” he told us. It’s been a few years since, and I am working on writing and starring in my own projects. I’m not there yet. I am not king of the castle. But when I am, what’s next?