It recently occurred to me that I have told this story a million times, but never wrote it down. Longtime readers will know that my debut novel Transient was optioned for a feature film. A screenplay was written, a major studio approved it, and the project landed in development for a time. It would eventually flirt with production, but sadly fizzle out.

Getting optioned was a wild ride of ups and downs that had me on edge for years. This is the story of how it happened (and where it currently resides).

Transient was released in 2016 after a decade of drafts and rewrites. It was a hobby project that I never intended to publish, but some timely encouragement convinced me otherwise. The launch was quiet and aimless, as I had no publishing experience or marketing plan. I just dove into the deep end and learned how to swim.

After a few months, my book had only sold a handful of copies, mostly to friends. My random release had amounted to nothing (lesson learned) and I needed some publicity. Thankfully, I had cut my teeth in the music industry, so I was no stranger to self-promotion. I developed a marketing plan, then cracked my knuckles and got to work.

At the time, the go-to outlets were social media and fan events. I would eventually graduate to paid ads, but that felt like a luxury option reserved for big publishers. In the meantime, I would push hashtags and network at conventions.

I initially attended events as a normal fan to do some basic networking. Comic cons would prove to be clutch, but like paid ads, merch booths felt reserved for “real” artists. I talked to several authors, mostly graphic novelists, all of whom were happy to discuss their strategies. I learned a lot and made some new friends.

After a while, I began to notice something interesting. I was attending comic cons expecting to chat with comic writers, but I was also seeing other genres of authors: science fiction, fantasy, mystery, even romance. They were all there promoting their works. As it turned out, the artist alley of a comic con was open to all creators, not just comic book artists.

That was a massive light bulb moment. I realized that I was walking through a sea of target readers. The comic fandom has an enormous overlap with science fiction and fantasy. Yes, I saw a lot of Batman fans. But I also saw a lot of Star Wars and Harry Potter fans. These were my people, all gathered in one place.

So I started planning my own booth.

I ordered business cards, posters, fliers, accessories, and expanded my inventory. I took everything I had learned from selling band merch and funneled it into a killer author booth. (This would also culminate in a viral blog post about authors marketing at comic cons.) Before long, I was ready to throw my hat into the ring, so I booked my first convention.

This was a mid-level event in my home city, which consisted of a standard full weekend with a half-Friday. I was nowhere near ready to book major events, where the travel alone would suck my budget dry. My expectations were low. I was not seeking praise or profit. All I wanted to do was get in front of eyeballs.

When the first day came, I loaded up my promo kit and headed to the convention center. My days in music had prepared me for crowds, so I wasn’t nervous at all. My pitches were ready and I hit the ground running. I settled into a groove and started selling through my inventory. Much to my surprise, I sold more copies on the first day than I had since launch. It was a glorious feeling that set the tone for the rest of the convention.

With Friday a rousing success, I was pumped for Saturday, the biggest day of the event.

I returned to the convention center with a thermos of coffee and a ton of confidence. The hours flew by and my stacks continued to dwindle. I even had some new fans come back the next day and tell me how much they were enjoying the read. That was a massive boost, so I kept going. I must have entered a flow state at some point because it felt like my booth was always occupied. I had great chats, great laughs, and the energy never ceased.

This caught the eyes of a few gentlemen. They wore casual clothes, so I assumed they were some of the many parents wandering around. They approached my booth and started asking oddly specific questions about my book. I answered them all and they seemed satisfied, which prompted a final question. They asked, “Would you be willing to option your book?”

This was my first convention, so I had no idea what that meant. “Sure,” I said with zero insight, at which point they purchased a few copies and handed me their business cards. “We’ll be in touch,” they said, then thanked me for my time and left.

Needless to say, I was a bit confused. I had to look up what an option was. (It’s a reservation to adapt an intellectual property, like a book into a movie.) I was a new author with one book and no following, so that didn’t make sense. Maybe they were the parents of film school students. Okay, so little Timmy needs a short film project. Cool, whatever. So I checked their business cards and did some digging.

This was the moment when things got real. Parents of film school students? No. They were major movie producers, one of whom had an Oscar. I don’t remember the next hour. I just went through the motions while my mind raced in circles.

And then, somewhere in the haze, one of my vendor friends ran up to my booth. He had just attended a panel discussion where the movie producers were participating. During the talk, a fan had asked about their upcoming projects. He said that one of them held up my book and replied, “We’re making this next.”

I showed him the business card. “Was this the guy?”

“Yup, that’s the one,” he said.

That moment is burned into my memory because it sucked the air from my lungs. I had to sit down and fully digest the situation. Did this just happen at my first convention? This is the kind of thing that happens after moving chess pieces around the networking board for years. It had to be a fluke, so I prepared for disappointment.

The next day, they secured the option.

The next week, I hired an entertainment lawyer.

The next month, a screenplay was written.

Months later, I was asked to serve as a script doctor because the screenwriter got called away to different project. Apparently this is incredibly rare because writing novels and screenplays are entirely different skill sets. I had no experience, but the producers seemed to think I was more than capable, so I leaned into the role and devoted ever waking second to polishing the script (while also giving myself a crash course in screenwriting).

A few months later, Voltage Pictures approved the script for development, the same studio that produced films like Dallas Buyers’ Club and The Hurt Locker. A “lookbook” was created with budgets and casting targets. Not gonna lie, some of the names dropped my jaw.

Sadly, this was as far as the project would go.

Progress was slow and the film lingered in development for a few years. This is common for the industry, so I wasn’t concerned. At least it was moving forward. But then, just as casting agents were being contacted for pre-production, the world was hit by the COVID pandemic. The entire industry shutdown, which began years of isolation and economic turmoil. By the time we emerged, most pre-pandemic projects had died on the vine.

The Transient movie was one of them.

It’s technically still in development and Voltage Pictures retains the approved script. There is nothing stopping them from picking it back up, but given the current backlog and Hollywood woes, I doubt it will see the light of day.

I was disappointed, but also grateful for the experience. Making movies is a crazy business, and the controlled chaos has given me a greater appreciation for the art form. Quite frankly, it’s amazing that movies get made at all.

So there you have it, my bizarre trip through the movie biz. It was a scary ride, but I learned a lot and feel better equipped to navigate a reboot (should there ever be one). I am not holding my breath, but it would be super cool to see the Immortal Wake saga on the big screen.

Maybe one day.