Oftentimes when someone finds out I make movie trailers for a living, the person wastes no time complaining about the state of motion picture marketing. Namely that trailers and TV spots give away too much of the film.

So I just want to clear the air and say: I COULDN’T AGREE MORE!

It feels like every time I watch a movie, I can’t help anticipating when a particular joke or moment is going to play out because I already saw it in the trailer. In fact, I know people (in this very industry even!) who have stopped watching trailers altogether because it spoils their movie watching experience.

I understand that lesser known films need to spill their guts to get any potential moviegoers to connect with them, but there’s no excuse when major films with universal brands do it.

Yes, I’m thinking of The Dark Knight.

When The Dark Knight trailer campaign began, it started with a simple teaser. We see the bat signal backlit by blue light, and we hear dialogue lines from the movie that chip away at the logo: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWw0ov-cAUg

We have no idea what’s going on, but we know enough: there’s a new villain in town, and Batman has to kick his ass to make Gotham safe-ish. Do we really need to know more than that? Warner Bros later released three full-length trailers that gave us almost every single good scene/line from the feature—so by the time I was in the theater watching the film, I could anticipate every important moment in the movie.

But did they need to do all that? I would argue that they didn’t. All they needed was the teaser and a few TV spots that showcased the production value of the film. The real fans didn’t want to spoil the movie by knowing too much ahead of time.

A trailer rarely gives away the ending of a film, but few films have endings that take us by surprise. Let’s be honest: if you buy tickets for a romantic comedy, you have a pretty good idea how the story’s going to end for the main guy and girl. We all know a horror flick will usually end with almost everyone dead, a superhero movie finishes when the hero rescues the world, etc. What you’re interested in seeing is how the characters arrive at that ending—the journey.

And the journey is the one thing the trailer shows you. Everyone who saw The Hangover trailer knew that a tiger was hiding inside their hotel room, one of the characters was going to lose a tooth, and Mike Tyson was going to knock someone out. But just imagine if you went into that movie without knowing any of that—how much funnier would it have been when those things happened?

Of course, there’s the obvious counterargument: how many of you would have bought a ticket to that film if you didn’t know those jokes were in store for you?

What I think it ultimately comes down to is business versus pleasure. Which is more important: selling tickets or ensuring an audience’s enjoyment?

For the motion picture industry, opening weekend box office numbers indicate whether a movie is a success or a failure. So the average marketing executive’s only concern is to get people in the theater—even if that means giving away the best part of the film in the trailer.

The best solution I can think of is to shorten movie trailers. Right now most trailers are in the two-minute range. Why not keep them at 60 to 90 seconds? That way you can get the story across and show one or two good moments/jokes, and keep everything else secret.

Also, most films today have multiple full-length trailers, each one aimed at a different

When I went home for the holidays, I decided to do some research. Since I write books for young audiences, I thought it would help to get into the mindset of a pre-teen girl – namely, me.

I read my 12-year-old diary. It’s the only diary I have ever written.

I found the old hiding place I used to use for such things (and no, I can’t tell you where that is because my mom may be reading this) and located the pin-sized key that fits the butterfly-shaped lock.

First thing I thought when I opened it was that my handwriting should be illegal. There is no doubt in my mind that the person who created the typewriter was someone who spent hours, like me, trying to decipher a word he himself had written.

My first page was an introduction to the “characters” that would be making appearances in the following pages. I also gave some information about my background, updating the diary on twelve years’ worth of events in just a page and a half.

(What happened to that succinctness? Now it takes me a 2,000-word e-mail to make my point that Godiva chocolate is far superior to others when making dark chocolate covered strawberries.)

What’s strange about my taking up an entire diary entry to explain the setting and cast of the ensuing private pages is that somewhere in my mind I must have thought there was an audience. Even though I took great pains to write in secret, and I hid the diary in a place no one would ever find, and I even hid the key somewhere very far from it so that if someone one day found the actual diary, they would have no way of bypassing the top-notch security that was my purple butterfly lock – I still somehow expected an audience.

And here’s the worst part: my audience was, literally, the inanimate diary into which I was scribbling my chicken scratch handwriting.

I actually wrote as if the diary were a real person – like Tom Riddle’s diary in book two of Harry Potter. I would apologize to it when I hadn’t written in a while, and I would sometimes address it as if it were the more austere part of my consciousness. On one occasion, I wrote about a boy I had just become friends with, and I penned a note that said (to the diary): “But don’t worry, I don’t like him like that. We’re just friends.”

I have no idea why the diary would worry. Maybe it was a jealous diary. That would explain why I tried so hard to keep it hidden – this way it would never know if I had a boy over.

(As an aside, I just want to point out it’s taken me 450+ words just to explain my impressions of the first page of my diary. Twelve years ago, it would have taken me three words: It-was-weird.)

So it turns out I was exactly the kind of teenybopper I always convinced myself I’d never been. I fell in and out of love every day, and by the end of a break-up entry, I was already over a bad relationship and looking into the next possibility. I memorized exchanges I’d had with cute boys and then I recorded them into the diary’s pages, analyzing every word in full detail.

(Fifty-four pages in, I realized the word I’d been stuck on from page two was “family.” I felt much better now that I knew I hadn’t written about an Argentine “famine.”)

Seventh grade was a strange year for me. I was at a new school, far from all my elementary school friends, and I was meeting all sorts of new people. The first half of the year was rather mellow because I was in a second relationship with a guy I had also dated when I was ten.

But by the time 1997 rolled around, I was a free woman – and plenty of guys had noticed. In particular, one guy who was very much in the “in” crowd. I was suddenly thrust into the clutches of middle school popularity – which meant I was loved for about a week, then hated for two months.

When the guy ran out of patience waiting for me to fall for him (which was happening a bit too slowly for his taste because, naturally, I was too busy analyzing everything), he decided torture was the best way to win me over. So he pulled my hair, had his friends prank call me, and taunted me in class.

In one entry, I described a day when he and I were sitting in homeroom, and he told me he had discovered that the prank calls I was receiving were coming from a particular girl who was a friend of his. So I confronted her that day during lunch. When I told her what he had said, she called him over and asked him if he’d said it.

He shook his head and said, “No way. See, what’d I tell you? Romina’s a liar!”

I hated the world that day.

Reading through the cutthroat world of middle school society, I realized that the most prevalent cause of trouble that year was the lying. Everybody lied. And what’s worse, everyone believed everyone else’s lies.

I would write down with unyielding certainty what one girl had said to me about the guy I was dating without ever pausing to note that the last few times she had said something to me, they had all been lies. Every time was carte blanche for her because for all my analyzing, I never seemed to draw any conclusions.

I never realized that when the 12-year-old boy tormented me, it meant he liked me. I never noticed that when that girl prank called me, it was because she was jealous that I was receiving more attention than she was. Instead, I took everything at face value.

It’s interesting that I read the diary this year because it’s the midpoint of my life thus far. I’m 24 and I wrote it when I was 12. I wonder what I would make of my current life if I wrote a diary this year and didn’t read it until I turned 48.

(Though, if I decide to do that, I will definitely be typing it.)

Today, that same boy who made seventh grade a living hell for me is one of my best friends. I was able to read chunks of my diary to him and laugh about how silly we once were.

But it’s that nervous kind of laughter when you’re not sure if you’re laughing at a joke or if the joke’s on you. Because we can’t help but wonder if we’re still as silly as we’ve ever been – and just too busy analyzing everything to draw any conclusions.

---

Questions for you to ponder: Did you ever keep a diary? What would you discover if you were to go back and read through its pages? And what if you were to write one this year and read it years from now -- what would you think about yourself and the life you lead?

Hey everyone!

I’m emerging from my dark cave to update you guys on what’s been going on in my life -- and to wish my sis a happy b-day!

The past few weeks have been crazy -- in a good way. My co-workers and I have been putting in 80-90 hours a week working on a very special project that means a lot to me: the Hillary Clinton introductory video for the DNC.

It finally aired, so now I can relax and celebrate my own birthday, which was this past Monday. :)

Here is a link if you want to check out the piece we did:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3SUE4DKUpA

Also, if you can find it, on last night’s Daily Show they did a spoof of our video. It’s pretty funny.

We’ve received some incredible feedback from Senator Clinton and even President Clinton, so it’s been really exciting.

I’ve been watching all the speeches at the DNC this week, and it’s getting me super pumped for the election this November. I would have liked to see Hillary Clinton somewhere on the ticket, but I think the Obama-Biden ticket will be great and they definitely have my vote.

What do you guys think? Who had the best speech? What do you think of Biden as VP?

xoxo,
Romi

Today, I read the best letter ever written.

And it wasn’t penned by someone famous or a literary scholar. It was written – literally, hand-written – by my little sister.

Using big, loopy letters on two pages of lined paper, front and back, with blue ink, she expressed more about herself than I think even she understood.

In Spanish, she addressed our grandparents (Baba and Bebo) after watching a powerful documentary about Simon Wiesenthal, a Holocaust survivor. She started the letter by admitting she’d never asked all her questions about our grandparents’ time in Poland, where they were born. How much racism had they encountered as Jews? What was it like fleeing the country right before World War II and seeking refuge in Argentina?

She told them that as she wrote the letter, she was a month shy of graduating college and had no idea what to do with her life. How could she ever be happy when she already knew none of her dreams would ever come true during her lifetime? Her dreams of peace in the Middle East, her dreams of true women’s equality, her dreams of a world without pain, fear, hunger...how could she ever really achieve any of them?

In the middle of her eloquence, she stopped. She interrupted herself to apologize.

She said she didn’t have sufficient vocabulary in Spanish, a vocabulary strong enough to communicate what she was feeling. To those of us who had the good fortune of reading her writing, it was a needless apology. We’d never heard something better communicated. Never had a heart been better transcribed into words.

The end of her letter came back to the beginning. She had no idea what she would do in the future, but she knew who she was: she was a Jewish, Argentine woman. Her rich history enforced her identity. In the meantime, she wanted time away from term papers, working a 9-5, dealing with parents...time to get away from this world. That’s why she proposed spending a couple months with them in Buenos Aires, Argentina to figure out her next step.

Inadvertently, she was more honest and showed more of herself in that letter than anyone in anything I’ve ever read. It was so disarming: she was there, naked, her true self. Without even knowing how powerful a correspondence she was writing or how many layers she was shedding off with every letter she formed.

What I wouldn’t give to know myself even 1/10 the amount she knows herself. The strong sense of identity, the self-knowledge, that came across in her writing was enviable. To be so self aware, so honest with herself and with the world around her – how wonderfully refreshing.

And now it’s 2:30am and I’m typing this blog. I’ll probably have to save it and read it again in the morning to fix the tons of typos and nonsensical sentences within it. But I can’t sleep. All I can think about is who I am and how I can ever figure it out as well as my sister has.

I talked to my best friend on the phone for an hour about this. She said the best way to figure out what you want is to know what you like. In that spirit, she asked me to describe my perfect day in detail.

I had no idea.

She offered to describe hers first. Then she described her boyfriend’s. Then she put the question back to me.

I said it would start out on a porch, facing the ocean, caressed by a soft breeze, the air cool enough that I would wrap myself in a blanket, sip hot chocolate, and read a very good book. Later I would get a massage, in a place with real ambiance, not some unoriginal, sterile room. Afterwards I would go to some quirky, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that few people know about, and write on my laptop, maybe start a new novel. Finally, I would grab a delicious meal at an intimate restaurant with someone I really like. Later, the two of us would watch movies together snuggled up on my couch.

What about you?

I feel old.

Since I write books intended for a young audience, I’ve been thinking a lot about my adolescence lately. I remember the advent of the Internet in my final days of elementary school. I remember getting my first cell phone senior year of high school. I even remember watching an MTV that used to play music videos. (Imagine that!)

I was talking to my childhood best friend the other day and the memory of a pact we made over a decade ago came rushing back to us. When we were 11 years old, he and I promised each other that if by age 28 we were both single, we would marry each other.

Now, when he’s 24 and I’m a few months shy of that same age, the pact holds new meaning for us.

It means that back then, 28 was considered too old to be single. Four years away from that dreaded age, with no husband prospects in sight, I’m amazed.

I feel like my life is only just beginning. I can’t imagine settling down yet -- there’s too much I want to do, too many people I want to meet, too many things I want to experience. Marriage means thinking for two -- what’s best for the pair, not just the individual -- and I don’t think I’m ready for that mindset yet.

I’d also like to think that marriage is more about unexpected sparks than a universal timeline. Call me a romantic, but I don’t subscribe to the view of marriage as a business contract. I don’t want to settle down just because I’ve reached a certain age. I want to get married because I’m out-of-my-mind-in-love with someone.

So over a decade ago, I considered 28 to be the latest acceptable age for marriage before labeling oneself an old spinster and buying a dozen cats. Today, I think 28 is way too young to be considered “old” for anything.

Is that because the times have changed? Or because I’m now much closer to 28 than I was then? I think it’s a little of both.

This time, I have a bit of a tough question for you. If you could be very successful in your chosen career/talent, but not successful in love; or if you could be very successful in love but merely average in your career/talent –- which one would you choose?

From my blog, I bet you can figure out what my answer is, but I’d love to know yours.

Today, I decided to work out.

I walked a mile to a studio a friend of mine recommended and took an hour-and-a-half-long class called “Yoga Booty Ballet.” The class was created by one of the studio founders, and it incorporates the spiritual elements of yoga, the grace of ballet, and a whole bunch of dance moves that focus on the boo-tay.

Halfway through the workout, to my utter dismay, I realized women twice my age were workin’ it better than I was. The hot young guy manning the music was checking out the middle-aged women with slamming abs, while I panted in the back of the room.

And at that moment I hit upon a harsh reality: I’m out of shape.

When did that happen? I remember in college I would work out as often as I could, especially during exam period. There was a small gym in my dorm, so I didn’t even have to walk outside to find an elliptical machine.

When I moved to LA, I knew it’d be difficult to find the time and motivation to work out. When you spend 50-60 hours a week in an office, it’s tough to squeeze in time at a gym. So instead, I bought an elliptical machine to keep in my room -- the logic being that the convenience of its location would ensure its use.

At first, it was the perfect solution. I used it four times a week, after coming home from the office, and it was a great way to burn off stress. But somewhere along the line, work hours went up, and motivation to get on the elliptical went...down.

Only this morning, when I was out of breath and fighting through abdominal cramps, did I realize how long ago I stopped working out.

So I decided to set a goal. I’m announcing this publicly (and I use this term very liberally, since it’s only a couple of you who read this) so that I can be held accountable for it. I am going to attend two classes per week and supplement them with using my elliptical twice a week.

I think it’s doable, and I expect you guys to give me a hard time if I get lazy and fall short.

So here’s my question to you: What is your (doable) goal for this week, this month, or this year?