I've always believed that you learn by doing. Not that school isn't productive, but there's no substitute for plunging in and getting your hands dirty. This is as true of the arts as with anything in life. The only thing that can hold you back is fear. Fear of not "getting it right." And that very fear makes learning more difficult. By doing, the fear usually dissipates. And while mastery may take a while, letting going of the fear and charging toward your goal is half the journey. That's what I learned as I began to write screenplays.



The Last Volunteer, an original story by my father, and by another American volunteer who fought in the Spanish Civil War (1936-38), is about a young man who gives up a promising newspaper career to join the Loyalists fighting the fascist general Francisco Franco. Packed with dramatic action, featuring fabulous characters like Ernest Hemingway, it's also a love story between two idealistic young people, the journalist, and a nurse and ambulance driver who volunteers for Spain after her brother is killed there. A sure-fire winner, I decide. (Though expensive.) Roger Corman passes on my pitch. Several others pass - while praising the concept.

As yet we have no script. Just an outline. But I've a friendship with Jane Fonda, through her Entertainment Industry for Peace and Justice committee. And am confident she's not only right for the female lead, but am also convinced the story will appeal to her political sensibilities.

In January of 1974 I have lunch with Jane (before she goes off to Vietnam for the second time), during which I mention the project. The nurse-ambulance driver character intrigues her. So my Pop and the other writer each do outlines. Then, with my feedback, both write screenplays. But Pop's is melodramatic, the other, heavy with superfluous detail. So, having at least read a bunch of well-written scripts, I think, well, maybe I should tackle this. It seems largely a matter of taking the two scripts, and, with cutting and adjustment, creating a piece with stronger characterizations and a more compelling story. Two months later I've turned both screenplays into a new, but still far too long version: a hundred eighty pages. Which I trim it to a hundred fifty. Still too long.

As I rewrite I feed pages to Jane. We meet at the Santa Monica home she shares with husband Tom Hayden, and from which I push her daughter Vanessa, in a stroller, to a local cafe. There, we story-conference over lunch. (Jane keeps slim with salads.) She really likes the first act. But the more pages I hand her the more her enthusiasm fades. "The love story," she says, "gets in the way of the politics." Or vice versa. Unfortunately, since she doesn't offer specifics, I never know what she means. And I haven't acquired the skill to know how to push her for suggestions.

Eventually, Jane moves on to other projects. I move on with The Last Volunteer, pitching it everywhere. It raises important eyebrows and is optioned twice, but somehow it still remains a rumpled bed: unmade.

Undeterred, I keep trying. And my next pitch to Jane comes with a director in tow: Stan Dragotti. Though he's yet to do a feature, he's optioned World Without End, Amen (1973), a fine novel by Jimmy Breslin. The story finds a New York cop on vacation in the Old Sod getting mixed up in the "troubles," and falling for a fiery Irish radical. We conference about the project at Stan's home in Beverly Hills, over a lunch served by his wife, the gorgeous megamodel Cheryl Tiegs.

Stan wants to pitch the book to Fonda, so I call her and set a meeting at the Bistro on Canon Drive. Except that I've mistakenly told her the restaurant is on a different street. At the Bistro, with Jane running late, I suddenly freak. I've given her the wrong address! So I jump up, dash out and race one block over. And there is Jane, cruising Crescent Drive in her green Volvo station wagon. And doing a slow boil. I swallow humble pie as I climb in and direct her around the corner to the Bistro.

All during lunch Jane ignores the gawks and whispers from other patrons that always take place when a star appears. After we finish and I walk her back to the Volvo, Jane gently chews me out. "Jesus, Dan," she says, "how come you kept interrupting him all the time?" "Did I?"

"You did. You kept trying to explain the story. Couldn't you have just let Stan outline the project without jumping in every two seconds?" I cut another slice of humble pie, mumbling apologies for my hyperactive attempt at deal making. "That's OK," she replies, tossing me a killer smile, "I got the general sense of what he wants to do with the book." Then she gives me a big hug and is into the Volvo and away. That afternoon I meet Stan again, and apologize. Graciously, he brushes it off.

Jane never does the project. In fact, its never been filmed. Stan Dragotti will later direct Love at First Bite (1979), Mr. Mom (1983) and Necessary Roughness (1991). And get divorced. Jane will go on being a friend.

And Cheryl Tiegs will never make lunch for me again.