This is the story of a long but rewarding Sunday, with an outcome I didn’t expect.
In 2022, I wrote a screenplay called Last Night at the Mall.
For the record, I’m not a screenwriter. I’m a novelist. But somewhere between the last book I wrote and the book I was supposed to be writing next, an idea jumped into my head that I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried. It was the story of four high school grads in 2006, spending their last night together before leaving for college by doing the only thing there was to do in 2006 in small-town America: hang out at the local shopping mall. I envisioned it as a highly visual story, probably with a great deal of music integrated to help capture the essence of the time period. As a result, I just didn’t think a novel would do it justice. But I could see it as a movie.
I didn’t know the first thing about how to write a movie. But I decided to do it anyway.
So, I read books. I listened to courses. I watched interviews with filmmakers. And I downloaded and read, line by line, the typewritten screenplays for half a dozen movies that I thought were somewhat comparable to what I was trying to create. And then, I sat down, and I started writing in a composition notebook. When I filled it up, I bought another one to match.
The first draft of Last Night at the Mall
One day, I wrote “The End.” Then I typed it all out, making revisions as I went. Then I revised some more. And some more. And some more. Until I couldn’t think of much else I could do to make it better.
And then I looked at it and went, “Uh, now what?”
I didn’t know what you were supposed to do with a screenplay. I have a vague awareness of the movie industry, with agents and producers and studios and such, but it’s not a world I’m familiar with. So, instead of cold-querying agents, I decided to try submitting it to a couple of film festivals that were hosting screenwriting competitions as part of their events. As well as the potential exposure, some of these contests offer the promise of feedback shared by professional readers and critiques from experts in the industry, which I thought could help me determine if I was on the right track.
About six months later, I was delighted to learn that one of the outlets I submitted to, the Phoenixville Film Festival, had accepted my screenplay as an official selection in their Best Local Screenplay category.
The acceptance of Last Night at the Mall as an official selection at the Phoenixville Film Festival was incredibly validating to me. I was invited to attend the festival at the Colonial Theatre in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, just outside of Philadelphia. The events lasted throughout a four-day weekend and featured fifty different film projects, workshops, and live readings of excerpts from the screenplays that were up for consideration in their screenwriting contest. It all sounded amazing, and I was disappointed that scheduling conflicts would prevent me from being able to attend on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. The only part I could possibly be in attendance for was the awards portion of the final night, a closing ceremony of sorts, at 7:00 p.m. on Sunday.
At first, I dismissed the idea of making the trip without much thought. I was going to miss everything. All the screenings of the films. All the awesome workshops. The live screenplay readings. I really wanted to get a chance to meet some other screenwriters and filmmakers, introduce myself to the staff of the festival, and thank them for accepting Last Night at the Mall as an official selection. But it was a five-hour drive to get to Phoenixville from my hometown north of Pittsburgh. Driving five hours to make it to a (maybe) hour-long event, then getting right back in the car to drive five hours back home again that same night, seemed a little nuts even for me. The story that was running through my head was, That is totally impractical. You'll make it next time.
But at some point, I just thought, What do you mean “next time”?
It wasn’t until halfway through Sunday morning that it really occurred to me that this might be the only time anything like this ever happened to me. What if this was my only chance to be involved in something like this, and I missed out on it because it was impractical?
“Yes, it is probably impractical,” I told my wife. “Yes, it is a little nuts. And yes, I’m going to be exhausted on Monday. But I kind of want to do it anyway.”
I’m blessed that my wife is not only more supportive than I ever could have asked for, but she’s a little nuts, too. We’re made for each other. She told me I should go for it.
So that was how the trip began. With my wife’s blessing and a “do it anyway” mentality.
The awards ceremony was slated for 7:00 p.m., and it was a little under a five-hour drive to get there from my home. Leaving around 1:00 p.m. was about as early as I could manage, but fortunately, it would get me there with plenty of breathing room. So, with encouragement from my wife and wishes of luck from my kids, I hopped in the car, and I started driving.
Initially, everything looked like it was going to go off without a hitch. The weather wasn’t great, but my GPS told me that I could expect to arrive pre-six o’clock. Perfect. Plenty of time to find a place to park, make sure I knew where everything was, get registered and get my badge, possibly meet some people, get some pictures, the works.
As I said, Last Night at the Mall takes place in the mid-2000s, where four high school graduates are spending their last night together before they take off for college and go their separate ways. But their titular last night together is spent mostly not together, as they end up on diverging misadventures at the local shopping mall. It’s sort of American Graffiti for Millennials.
Last Night at the Mall is a comedy. Or at least it’s supposed to be. And one of the really cool events that I was disappointed to have missed at the Phoenixville Film Festival was a set of live table readings of excerpts from the screenplays that were up for consideration in the festival. These would be read and performed by actors from the feature films on show, and one of the scenes they’d be reading was one I had selected from my screenplay.
On the one hand, I really wished I could have been there to see how the actors read the lines, whether the intention was clear, and (my ideal dream scenario) if the scene actually managed to make anybody laugh. On the other hand. . . . I was glad I had missed it for exactly the same reason. It was a terrifying prospect. I pictured myself sitting in that theater, listening to a group of actors onstage read my words, only to be greeted with crickets at the parts where I was hoping for laughs. It sounded like a literal nightmare.
Live table readings of screenplays at the Phoenixville Film Festival, 2023
As you can imagine, the soundtrack for a “period piece” comedy film like this would be important for capturing the era in which it took place. In fact, I even created a playlist with about an hour's worth of music that would be my dream “soundtrack” if the story were ever made into a movie. The playlist was a just-for-fun side project put together to help put me in the zone while I was writing, but I also made it a public Spotify playlist, so anyone who wants to hear the unofficial, just-for-fun “soundtrack” can check it out here.
Anyway, that is what I was listening to on my trip eastward through the state of Pennsylvania in some, frankly, miserable weather that, frankly, only got worse the farther I went. It was the kind of misting rain that just drones on that never really gets bad but never lets up either and makes travel just that little bit more treacherous, demanding the sort of extra vigilance that, after a few hours, puts you necessarily on edge.
I believe it was somewhere around the State College area of Pennsylvania when I started to notice that my GPS arrival time had changed. And not in the sort of way that could indicate that I was driving like an old lady (I sometimes do). It was a sudden, unexpected shift, and not in the positive direction.
At first, it was an extra 10 minutes. Then it was an extra 20 minutes. Suddenly, my pre-six o’clock arrival time had become 6:29 p.m. Then it was 6:36 p.m.
And then I looked down, and in one fell swoop, my GPS was telling me I was going to be there at 7:10 p.m.
With a reversed pinched-finger gesture, I zoomed out on my GPS map and was greeted with a dreaded dark red line tracing the route ahead of me, indicating congested traffic on the map, over which hovered an indicator that told me to expect 30-plus minutes of delays. And there, further ahead, was a second dark red line. So far as I could tell, there was no getting around the first one. I was on the Pennsylvania Turnpike with no exits between my current position and the Red Zone.
I soon found myself in a stream of traffic that first became crowded, then slowed to a crawl, then bottomed out to a zero-mile-per-hour dead stop. A complete engine-idling standstill. Construction on the Turnpike had narrowed two lanes down to one, and getting a sudden influx of traffic through that funnel was taking forever.
Stuck in miles of standstill traffic with no end in sight on the Pennsylvania Turnpike
I won’t say I was panicking at this point, but the 7:10 p.m. arrival time for a 7:00 p.m. event had me playing out scenarios in my head. Me, circling the block in an area I was unfamiliar with, already ten minutes past the start of the event, trying to find somewhere to park. Me, in the rain, hustling down the sidewalk, finding the theater and then having to decide whether to burst through the door soaking wet in the middle of the event, or chicken out and just wait sheepishly outside, where I would wait until everyone emerged just so that I could shake some hands and introduce myself before they filed out and left, wondering who that wet guy was. This is what we writers do. We imagine scenarios. And this particular imagined scenario seemed like a pretty pathetic culmination to a five-hour — no, now six-hour — trip across the state on a dreary Sunday afternoon.
Then, a miracle. It was like Moses extended his rod and parted the Red-Line-Sea. All at once, cars were moving. By the time I got through the bottleneck of traffic and was back up to speed, my GPS had shifted back into a friendlier range. My arrival time dropped back down to the 6:30 p.m. mark. I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
For a few minutes.
Not long after my apparent rescue from disaster, my arrival time again began to creep up. 6:39, 6:45, 6:51. . . . It was that second red line looming ahead. All the traffic that had clogged up the first spot was, inevitably and perhaps predictably, arriving at the second spot all at once, creating a new blockage.
I was around the Lancaster or Reading area when a notification popped up on my phone asking me if I would like to save 14 minutes off my commute time by taking an alternate route. Um, yes please.
I jumped off of I-76 a couple of exits early, which put me on some roads that felt more like a MarioKart course than a County Road and featured some deeply flooded ruts that threw water higher than the roof of my vehicle when I hit them. But, about 40 minutes later, I saw a sign for Phoenixville.
I pulled into a parking space at 6:46 p.m. It was a far cry from my original pre-six o’clock arrival time, but it felt like the best result I could have asked for, given the circumstances. I got out into the rain and threw my raincoat on against the downpour, forgetting to change into the other shoes I’d brought, and hustled the couple of blocks it took to reach the Colonial Theatre on Main Street in Phoenixville.
The theater itself is a pretty spectacular sight. It’s a classic structure that has either been lovingly preserved by the community or else meticulously restored by some very dedicated people. Its claim to fame is its starring role in the 1958 film The Blob with Steve McQueen.
The Colonial Theatre, Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, 2023
Organizers of the Phoenixville Film Festival had told me that I could expect to register, show my ticket for the award ceremony, and pick up my official Screenwriter All-Access Badge at the box office at the main entrance. I entered, dripping wet, and was greeted by a kind lady in the box office who was very friendly, all smiles, as she helpfully informed me that she had no idea what I was talking about when it came to badges and registration, as she had nothing to do with the Film Festival and didn't know anything about that. After a brief moment of unease spent thinking I had entered the wrong one-of-a-kind legendary theater, she pointed over her shoulder toward an adjoining hallway and said, “I think they’re wrapping things up back there somewhere.”
I headed back toward an area with a snack counter and a closed door. If not for the precisely two dudes who were lingering in the lobby area, maybe I would have tried to go through the door. As it stood, one of said dudes happened to be wearing one of those All-Access Badges I’d heard so much about, and upon my asking, he told me that the last film of the festival was currently being screened in the adjoining theater. (The theater in question was right beside a set of elevator doors that had a metal plaque labeling it as “Isaac Hayes Elevator ‘Shaft.’” Didn't get the chance to ask anybody what the story was behind this one). After the final screening was over, they would conduct the award ceremony. It was a couple of minutes before 7:00 p.m., so I waited in the lobby, caught my breath, and dripped.
Eventually, the doors opened, and the viewers of the last film of the day spilled out. There was an area set up with a red carpet, bright lights, and a backdrop featuring the Phoenixville Film Festival logo. I pulled a gentleman aside and asked if I could trouble him to take my picture on the red carpet. I figured if I had come all this way and might not even get my All-Access Badge to take home as a souvenir, I'd be darned if I wasn't going to at least get a photo on the red carpet! I did get one. There are drops of water all over my pants in the photo. I don't remember ever seeing that on Oscar night.
Corey McCullough, author and screenwriter, on the red carpet at the Phoenixville Film Festival, 2023
The filmgoers and filmmakers were milling around in the lobby area now, talking to one another as they waited for the closing ceremonies to begin. Tired of lurking silently on the edge of the crowd, I introduced myself to a young man who had a Screenwriter badge, and we got talking about films, the festival, and writing in general. His name was Mike, and as it turned out, he had a screenplay up for consideration in the same category as mine.
“Did you make it to any of the screenplay live readings?” I asked, dreading the reply. I once again pictured a room full of listeners, painfully silent or groaning when they should have been laughing as my words were read aloud.
Now, it was even worse. All those people were currently standing around me. Now, I could put faces to my imagined scenario.
Mike told me that he had been present for the reading of his own screenplay, but mine must have been during a different session, because he didn’t remember hearing it. He informed me that hearing his scene acted out had given him some valuable insights into his work.
After a few more minutes, I couldn't take it any longer. I finally asked.
“So. Mike. Where did you get your badge?”
“Oh,” said Mike. “They have them in the box office.”
Feeling betrayed, I returned to the box office.
“No, I am not affiliated with them at all,” the same lady told me, still smiling but starting to lose some of her earlier patience. “You will have to ask one of the staff.”
I returned to discover that the doors beside the Isaac Hayes Elevator “Shaft” had opened back up, and everyone was filing back into the theater to start the awards ceremony.
The Isaac Hayes Elevator, “Shaft,” 1971 at the Colonial Theatre in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania
As I entered, I kept my eyes peeled for anyone who looked like event staff. I reasoned that they were just inside the theater doors. After all, the award ceremony required a ticket to get in (which I had), and I expected someone would be scanning tickets before you could get in.
I walked in. No one checked my ticket. And if any staff were there, I couldn't tell them apart from the other official-looking badge holders.
Before I knew it, I was taking a seat in an awards ceremony for which I hadn’t shown anyone my ticket to get into, at a four-day event I had never registered to be at, and utterly badgeless.
I share all this a bit flippantly, but it didn’t feel like any sort of laughing matter at the time. My feelings of imposter syndrome were already through the roof, having never been involved in an event like this before, and certainly having never been on a red carpet before. My inner voice was screaming at me on a loop, “You should not be here.” And when I say I didn't think I should be there, I REALLY mean it — it felt a bit like I had snuck in without meaning to.
This is nuts, I had been thinking before embarking on this adventure. And so far, nothing that had happened today had done anything to contradict that notion.
Still, despite the fact that it really felt like I should not be there, I paused to take a look around. I had made it. Despite everything, I was here. I reminded myself to take it all in because I might never get to be involved in anything like this ever again. That’s why I came. Because there might not be a next time. And even when it seems crazy, you do it anyway, because that’s the only way crazy things happen.
I took a seat inside near Mike, who introduced me to Devin, another screenwriter who had a project up for consideration in the Best Short Screenplay category. When I mentioned the name of my project, Devin’s eyes lit up.
“Oh! You did that one? That one was hilarious!”
I blinked. “It was?”
“Yeah, I was at the live readings. It was so funny.”
“Did, uh, people laugh?” I asked.
“Dude. They were cracking up.”
I think I almost cried.
Devin couldn’t have known, but he’d just made my five-turned-six-hour road trip worth every minute and every mile, as well as the five hours I would spend getting home that night. I could go home happy.
Don’t just take Devin’s word for it. Check out this video where I read the selected scene.
The event began with the organizers making some remarks. They thanked everybody for being there, thanked those who had come from Canada and other international locations, thanked the filmmakers, thanked those who had attended, and talked about what an all-around awesome weekend it had been. They shared that they would now announce the winner for the first category, Best Local Screenplay. I was still looking nervously over my shoulder, half-expecting that at any moment, somebody would come over, ask to see my badge, and then kick me out, when they announced my name. Winner of Best Local Screenplay, Corey McCullough for Last Night at the Mall.
Mike, Devin, and the other new friends whom I had known for the lesser part of the past ten minutes shouted for me. “Yeah! All right, Corey!” I felt people patting me on the back.
And meanwhile, I just sat there. I didn't even move at first. No way. No way this was happening.
“Is Corey here?” the presenter asked, holding his hand up to the light to try to see out into the audience.
I hastily stood up and waved my hand, and he gestured for me to come down. So, down I went, still wet and wearing the wrong shoes. He handed me my award, and what followed was a quick acceptance. I had no idea what to say, so I said, “I have no idea what to say, thank you so much.” I truthfully don’t remember what else I said.
Corey McCullough, author and screenwriter, accepting an award on stage at the Phoenixville Film Festival, 2023
I went back to my seat and just sat there, stunned, my hands shaking.
Wow, I thought, It’s a good thing I decided to do it anyway.
In the photos taken of me on the red carpet after the event with my award, I am noticeably less damp. I texted my wife one of those photos. “WHAT??!!! You won???!!!” she texted back. I called her a few minutes later from the car to assure her that it wasn’t a joke. “DADDY IS FAMOUS!” my kids could be heard shouting in the background.
Back on the road again, with my award propped up against a Sheetz MTO bag and an Arizona Sweet Tea, I was no less stunned than I’d been half an hour before. I sent the same red carpet photo to my mom and dad, and I was soon on the phone with them as well, sharing details of the film festival I almost didn’t make the trip to, and the award ceremony I almost didn’t make it in time for, for a film I almost didn’t write.
I listened to my just-for-fun “soundtrack” on repeat most of the way home. I rolled in around 2:00 a.m., less tired than I’d expected to be. This is nuts, I thought as I placed the plaque on my bookshelf.
Never did get my All-Access badge. But I got my souvenir.
Phoenixville Film Festival award-winner Corey McCullough, author and screenwriter, on the red carpet, 2023
Check out the Last Night at the Mall Spotify playlist - https://spotify.link/OlHjQr8GRDb
Hear me read a selected scene from Last Night at the Mall - https://www.patreon.com/posts/88577737
Get exclusive content like short stories and behind-the-scenes stuff - https://www.patreon.com/coreymccullough