![]() He showed me how to mine vulnerability for impact. Afterward, Professor Gallo told me it was the best piece of writing I’d brought in so far. The class was as rapt as I was uncomfortable. ![]() I pushed through, my voice shaking throughout the whole scene. I realized in the moment how much I didn’t want to read those words. When I came to that scene as I was reading my new pages aloud, I paused. There was one scene in it, however, that was based on my family’s experience during 9-11. I wrote a screenplay in that class which, by and large, had nothing to do with me. But the most valuable part of this practice was that you were made acutely aware of which parts of your script felt embarrassing or raw. You could tell when all of your characters sounded the same, or when they didn’t speak like real people. It made you hear every mistake, catch every typo. It was painful and tedious and incredibly valuable. We read the action, we read each character’s dialogue. Whenever we presented pages to the class, Professor Gallo made us read them out loud, alone, the whole thing. It taught me how to use my emotions, rather than push them away. “Advanced Screenwriting” with the late, great Guy Gallo was completely transformative for me. Our discussion that night, which lasted past sunrise, was intimate and fascinating far beyond any class. One of my strangest and most wonderful memories was reading a portion of The New Testament out loud with a group that had wildly different religious upbringings and beliefs. Sometimes, we’d get through lengthy readings for Lit Hum by reading them out loud together, popcorn style. We’d work in groups, even when we were working on different assignments. Something unique about that year, particularly for me as an only child, was that I was rarely alone. Our collective vulnerability made all of us stronger. Those conversations taught me how to be open with other people. I remember a group of us often sitting on the floor of the hallway, talking all night about past experiences, insecurities and current struggles. Everyone on that floor had an incredibly different upbringing and story to tell. My roommate was Ethiopian, my best friends were Sri Lankan and Guatemalan. I was on Carman 7, which that year had a disproportionately large number of international students. What do you remember about your first-year living situation? Engaging deeply with work that interested me eclipsed the impulse to pack as much into my schedule as humanly possible. Discourse became more important than test scores. I learned to prioritize process over result. I gradually slowed down and rejected stress as a status symbol. It took a lot of burnout and some peer-inspired introspection to re-examine this perspective. When I arrived at Columbia, I hadn’t yet shed this mentality. This, we are taught, is how you get into the college of your dreams. What were you like when you arrived at Columbia?įrankly, I was a robot! In high school, we’re encouraged to do as many things and activities as possible - a long résumé is more important than a thorough résumé: Results are more important than experience. She directed Just Off the Pike for the Strawberry One-Act Festival at the Riant Theatre and the 2014 Special Project for Columbia University’s Performing Arts League. Her plays It’s Fine and Where We Go were produced by Columbia’s Black Theater Ensemble and NOMADS (New and Original Material Authored and Directed by Students), respectively. Smith was president of Columbia Undergraduate Film Productions, where she taught a biannual screenwriting workshop. She is a fellow in the inaugural Writers Guild of America East/Made in NY Writers Room program, and is the producer, director and co-writer of the comedic sex education web series Educated Fleas. LEONARDO STEDILE Mae Smith ’14 is a writer and director living in Brooklyn.
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