Another year is over for Austin Film Festival and as a virgin in the context of this professionally revered event, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’m home, unpacked, and I can honestly say that for me it was worth the money to get to Texas and immerse myself in the experience. If spending $2,000 isn’t going to keep your children from eating or your grandmother from having that operation she so desperately needs, you might get as much out of it, too. It can be done cheaper with a conference badge (not producer badge), having four roommates, not drinking at the bar, not flying all the way from Seattle, but two grand is what I spent.

Austin Film Festival is the Burning Man of screenwriters and indie filmmakers; it happens every year but instead of being out in a desert, high on whatever, and getting sunburned in places where the sun doesn’t shine; you are indoors, listening to panels, workshops, doing roundtables, pitching, schmoozing at all hours of the day and night, and making friends and connections. It’s more of a working Woodstock. Okay, it’s nothing like Burning Man. 

I went to #AFF28 for five days — Wednesday through Monday, and as a second rounder in the screenplay contest. The 2021 version of AFF had more than 14,000 entries and like Karla Lugo, the script competitions director, said in the opening address, "It looks like the pandemic turned out a lot of screenplays!" I only entered scripts I was pretty sure had a shot at reaching the finals. One out of three made the second round — the AFF version of the quarterfinals — and I was surprised, probably like 11,000 other entrants. I had to be happy with that, seeing as you never know what's going to resonate with a contest reader even though one of my entered pilots reached second round last year and I worked on that puppy all year to make it better. If you get to second round, it gets you entry to parties, roundtables, and panels that are not open to others at AFF, which is a golden privilege because you’re treated like you are on the cusp of greatness; something I respond well to.

Everyone who has attended AFF tells you to go to all the panels you can, ask questions, put yourself out there, mingle at The Driskill Bar and yes, wear comfortable shoes. I wasn't sure what to expect but trusted my Twitter screenwriting community and followed directions even though my running shoes made me incredibly short among some very tall people. I persevered with the runners, something I was happy about when very late one night, I jumped on one of those Lime scooters to scoot back to my hotel through the deserted streets.

You might find this amusing but I'm not a shy person and one of my goals for the festival was to not assume familiarity with people. Be more reserved. Most writers have the opposite problem, but as a lounge singer and actress who’s never gotten over trying to entertain and help others enjoy the party, this is an actual thing with me. I'm happy to say I mostly achieved my goal and although I ended every evening at the AFF parties, then The Driskill Bar, and then twice at a speak-easy you had to enter by pushing the bookcase panel on the wall, I presented the lite version of me for the most part. Only a few AFF attendees might disagree with this, namely my roomie/friend who’s perfectly happy listening to conversations and not shouting above the din to get into one.

As for COVID precautions, I was extremely happy with the measures AFF took to keep everyone safe. Before registration, we showed vax cards and ID to get our orange wristbands. Masks were required for all AFF panels, and we wore them in the hotel mostly, too. In the bar, it was another story. I told myself we were all vaxxed at the opening night lawn party, which was packed with maskless conversationalists. That first party felt risky and there was some inner dialogue about trusting the vaccine and recent booster. I can’t say I didn’t hope the alcohol being consumed would keep our breath free of spewing virus droplets. There were other parties, a barbecue, and a brunch where we took off masks to eat, drink and talk. It wasn’t until the second night at The Driskill Bar that I realized everyone standing at the bar waiting for the bartender to notice them and take their drink order did not have the orange wristband and were not with AFF.

For me, mask-talking had a big downside, seeing as I have hearing loss from years as a rock singer with speakers blasting in my face. Before I got to Austin, I worried about not being able to lip-read. Of course, contracting COVID was more worrisome. I won’t lie and say I heard every conversation, but the panels were well miked and it wasn’t until the roar of the party talk got to a certain level that I lost the conversation and did a lot of mindless nodding to garbled words.

The panels and roundtables were awesome, and I learned a lot about how the industry works, the games played in Hollywood, the status of the writer once production begins (extremely low!) and the manager-client relationship. Having just lost my manager to full-time production, I attended almost every panel with managers and agents to get a feel for that mindset. I joked more than once that these managers were teasing us by making us want to work with them only to reveal they aren’t taking unsolicited queries. But I got to be in a roundtable with several big managers and got some important questions answered about how to possibly breakthrough to their assistant. Talking to them at parties was entirely possible.

Businesses like Final Draft sponsored parties in the evening if you had a producer badge and were great fun on the scenic rooftops of Austin’s downtown. The Final Draft party was packed with a horde of conference attendees I hadn’t noticed in screenwriter panels. One of the AFF organizers estimated 500 on that soccer field-sized rooftop. Another fun party was Stage 32’s annual bash on another rooftop where the music was loud and although there wasn’t a dance floor, the lineup to the bar was long and more than a few of us danced like no one was watching. Nickelodeon’s party for second-rounders and above was another fun bash.

So, here’s the thing with Austin: I’ve attended loads of conferences for authors, spoken at a few, been on panels myself as an author. When you’re a speaker, you tend to socialize with the other speakers and eat separately from the attendees, especially if the conference has agents who might get pitched as they walk down the hall to the restroom. Often, speakers and panelists only mingle with each other at these things. At Austin, there is no clear line between speakers and attendees at the parties. Everyone talks to everyone, and most screenwriters know enough to not pitch a producer or manager in the restroom. I conversed with two guys for half an hour about life before realizing they were Hollywood big names. That’s what’s so lovely about attending AFF — you might be a baby screenwriter (hateful label), but as a writer and human being, you have worth and experiences and stories to tell and deserve to be treated as such. I met people just starting out in their writing journey and I met working Hollywood screenwriters and producers and got something of value from every encounter. And this year, I wanted to come home from AFF knowing I’d made some human connections after 18 months of not having IRL conversations with my screenwriter tribe; to feel connected and part of something beyond my solitary life as a full-time writer. I accomplished that goal.

At Austin Film Festival, writers are respected, appreciated, and even if it’s the last time that happens before your project goes into production and you’re forgotten in Variety when they list who’s involved in the movie, you’ll always have Austin.

To this AFF virgin, that will always be a beautiful thing.