Grieving the Death of my Plagiarist
By: David Rodgers Lipson
Tags: Plagiarism, Seattle, Lynn Shelton, Film, PTSD

Lynn Shelton died on May 16. She was 54.

I haven’t faced a blank page in years, my early promising career as a screenwriter careened off track somewhere and my adult life became one of long quiet days in the hospital and looking backward. I want to put up front I’ve been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and my recollection of these events is, at times, hazy. I’ve always felt this story would be best told through the documentation itself, the emails and treatments can’t lie or misremember. But with Lynn’s passing I feel obligated to write about what happened between us. To write about the woman I knew who seemed to treat me so differently than she treated others. To write about the first meaningful collaboration of my young life, the terrors that followed, and the overwhelming sense of emptiness her passing has left me grappling with.

Ask anyone about Lynn Shelton and you’ll undoubtedly hear how she surrounded herself with amazing collaborators and it’s absolutely true. Working with Lynn, I was a part of a team filled with people I admired. I was in awe of her longtime cinematographer Ben Kasulke who, far from the Greenwood living room where “Humpday” was partly written, seemed incredibly at ease in the overwhelming glitz and bustle of Sundance and always treated me with compassion, even after things got bad. I became close with Nate Miller, Lynn’s camera assistant, a midwestern Art Institute of Seattle student of Lynn’s who seemed equally shocked by “Humpday’s” sudden rise. My friendship with Sean Donovan, Lynn’s assistant editor, and Vinny Smith, Lynn’s sound guy, made for stoned crew parties. We stood Nate, Sean, and I on the roof of the upscale Park City club above “Humpday’s” Sundance afterparty and I had the indelible feeling that something permanent, something irrevocable, had changed. Looking out over the street below, with celebrity actors and renowned executives hustling about, I had the strange sense that my career was ending as opposed to beginning. The one thing I had ever hoped to do was write and direct movies and there I was, seemingly at the center of it all, but I knew something was wrong.

Writer Charles Mudede once remarked to my fiancé that “Everyone knows David wrote ‘Humpday,’” a comment which has never stopped confusing, even rattling, me. Earlier in my life, when I was still feverishly attempting to get credit for my writing on the film, I was consistently met with skepticism and, frequently, ridicule. An editor for a local newspaper mockingly informed me that “Humpday” was written on an excel spreadsheet which made little sense to me since I had developed detailed treatments for the film. Inaccuracies aside, his message was clear: in the press and celebrity that followed “Humpday’s” premiere, the truth had become secondary. Now I know Charles’ assertion to be incorrect in two significant ways. Firstly, I was not the sole writer of “Humpday” and much of the film was improvised. Additionally, outside of the team who made the film, I believe very few people know about the written treatments behind “Humpday.” An open secret is still a secret and knowing I will now never be able to reach a better understanding with Lynn during her lifetime, I must find another way to make sense of what happened to me as a college student.

I was first introduced to Lynn by my high school video production teacher Cheryll Hidalgo, an editor who was moonlighting at the local production house that made Lynn’s first feature “We Go Way Back.” As a student at the prestigious private school Seattle Academy of Arts and Sciences, I had transferred in as a sophomore specifically to pursue my ambitions as a filmmaker in Seattle Academy’s growing digital video production program. Unlike my wealthy classmates, my mother works as a cashier at a grocery store. Although the school’s administration worked hard to make me feel welcome, I always stood apart from my fellow students. As a twenty-year-old working with Lynn on “Humpday,” I lived in a flophouse studio apartment in Seattle’s University District. Above a fish market I would steal internet from a cafe across the street, this would only work if I had my windows open — a major problem in the dead of winter. The bathroom door only opened seventy percent of the way before hitting the toilet. I describe my apartment because this is what Lynn saw the day she came over. We almost always worked out of Lynn’s home, but toward the end of our collaboration Lynn insisted she stop by in between my University of Washington classes. She arrived and, instead of writing together like we used to, she began rifling through my things. Opening cabinets and drawers, she thoroughly inspected my apartment. It was strange, invasive. At the time, I had no idea what to make of her behavior. In retrospect, I believe she was making a final assessment of how vulnerable I was. Through scrutinizing my living situation, I believe she came to the admittedly accurate conclusion that I was in no position to challenge her.

I can’t recall whether I first met Lynn at the private art gallery Western Bridge or if we met at a coffee meeting at Cafe Pettirosso, both I had the opportunity to attend because of my high school teacher Cheryll. The Western Bridge gathering stands out more vividly in my mind. It was a fundraiser for “We Go Way Back,” a fancy affair with Tom Skerritt in attendance and I was totally, completely starstruck. I grew up with a passion for “Top Gun” and very far from anything resembling a private art gallery. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was glimpsing the real world of independent filmmaking. Lynn was an immediately striking figure. Slender with a loud contagious laugh, right away I wanted to get to know her. And to my surprise, she seemed to want to get to know me.

Following our coffee meeting, my relationship with Lynn developed further on the set of Craig Johnson’s “True Adolescents” where Lynn worked on and off as a set photographer. I asked her to read the screenplay I was working on at the time and she agreed. Like me, I think Lynn was also awestruck by Mark Duplass and the New York team. I had landed a position as an intern in the camera department and, as a screenwriter, I was woefully underprepared for the technical rigors of a professional camera department. The days were long and hot and my focus on screenwriting was strongly reaffirmed by a constant stressful sense of technical inadequacy. Production ended and I continued to spend time with Lynn. She read my screenplay and liked it. I made clear my desire to work for her. And one morning, as I was getting ready for class, she phoned me and told me she wanted to hire me on “Humpday.”

From what I remember, we didn’t specifically address credit in our early conversations but I was brought on to assist Lynn’s writing process in exchange for college credit and, later, minimal compensation. But whatever I had originally believed my work with Lynn would look like, my role quickly ballooned. We would meet in her living room and I would sit with the computer. In our first meeting, she told me what she had been thinking about for “Humpday” and I took extensive notes. I then took this sprawling material and wrote a detailed narrative treatment. It was clear to everyone I think that the original conception of the film didn’t work. I began pitching material to Lynn during our meetings and taking on a much more substantial role in the creative development of the film. I wasn’t thinking about credit or payment — I was elated to be participating in the writing of an independent feature. I loved spending time with Lynn and working with her. She took me and my writing seriously. But as I began to write more and more of the movie, Lynn started to act strangely. In what I would later come to understand as gaslighting, Lynn started to pitch me a character or a scene I had written claiming she had just come up with the idea even though we had extensively covered that specific material in a previous meeting. At first I thought Lynn was just forgetful. But over time I grew to see these supposed misunderstandings as something more intentional, something more calculated. I wrote detailed treatments for “Humpday,” developing characters, scenes, and plotlines and writing on every element of the narrative. On my birthday, Lynn posted on my Facebook wall “happy birthday, boy genius.” I was proud of my work. In any realistic understanding of our creative process, I wrote a significant amount of the film both in those afternoons in her living room and over late nights at my apartment. Although my fiancé Morrigan previously posted some of these documents on the internet, I think this will come as a surprise to Mark Duplass and Joshua Leonard who, I believe, simply took for granted the writing in these treatments was the work of Lynn. As we neared production, Lynn took me off of working on the treatment. I think she was concerned about Mark and Joshua understanding the scope of my contribution. I was uncomfortable talking about my writing on “Humpday” then and I’m uncomfortable writing about it now.

By the time “Humpday” had been accepted into Sundance, I was getting nervous about being fairly credited. I had raised my concerns to “Humpday” producer Jennifer Maas. She was dismissive. At a fundraiser for “Humpday’s” Sundance premier, producer Steven Schardt awkwardly told me Lynn had settled on a Writer’s Assistant credit. I was made to feel that if I accepted the credit and stayed quiet about the reality of my contribution to film, there would be opportunity for me in the future. Standing in the snow outside The Northwest Film Forum, I hesitantly agreed. As Sundance approached Lynn became increasingly cold and distant, rarely speaking to me. The warm friendship Lynn and I had once shared evolved into something odd and almost adversarial. I believe Lynn was aware of the concerns I had raised with her producer and, on the eve of Sundance, had begun to see me as a problem rather than an opportunity. She called me “Lipson,” her voice now brimming with disdain rather than affection. The rest of the team took notice.

In Park City, producer Jennifer Maas asked me what I would do with my life if I couldn’t write screenplays. I knew exactly what Jennifer meant. I didn’t have an answer, writing and directing films was the only thing I had ever wanted to do. And I had just watched our work play successfully to a Sundance crowd, the audience at the Eccles roaring at every turn. I was completely devastated. I flew back to Seattle and turned off my phone.

Lynn Shelton was now a brand. No longer the art institute teacher who made movies on the side, everything changed after Sundance. Lynn brushed me aside as quickly as we had become friends. I heard from other crew that Lynn had signed on to do an MTV web series called “$5 Cover: Seattle.” It was clear there would be no job for me on the show. Haunted by Jennifer’s question to me about what I would do if I couldn’t write movies, I began to grapple with a confusing reality. “Humpday” was seemingly everywhere in Seattle and, although I attended some local events, I appeared to have almost nothing to do with any of it. Work marathons were replaced by marijuana and videogames and I struggled to attend my college classes. In one course, I was assigned David Shield’s “Reality Hunger: A Manifesto” which in the introduction asserts “Humpday” was written in the editing room. It was as if all my efforts had just vanished and were replaced by the new, ubiquitous narrative of a film that had not been written. I was also given a Second Camera Assistant credit on “Humpday” which I believe was designed to further dilute my association with the writing process and is totally inaccurate. As I’ve discussed extensively with “Humpday” cinematographer Ben Kasulke, I was not a camera assistant on “Humpday.”

Suddenly the silence was broken, Lynn was in touch again. Friendly and casual, the Lynn I missed reemerged overnight. She told me her deadline for “$5 Cover: Seattle” was a week away and she hadn’t written a single thing. “i could actually use your help in the same way that you helped me a year ago,” Lynn wrote me in an email. She insisted on dropping by my apartment. Speaking to her over the phone, I told Lynn I’d need an accurate credit on the project and reasonable compensation. About to leave for Cannes, she assured me I would be treated fairly on “$5 Cover: Seattle.” Lynn sent me a rough outline. The “Humpday” crew left for France and I wrote aggressively. I felt like I had been given a second chance. If only I could prove my value to Lynn a second time, I would get a writing credit and rekindle my relationship with her — Lynn’s icy, post-Sundance demeanor had left me missing our friendship sorely. I wrote and wrote. Lynn had assured me we would start meeting again like we did on “Humpday” once she returned from France, asking me to send her everything I’d done and we’d move forward from there. I sent Lynn my work and then, nothing. I was met with silence once again.

The night of the “Humpday” theatrical release, Jennifer Maas, who was now producing “$5 Cover: Seattle,” pulled me aside and told me I was in no way associated with the web series. I wasn’t in the budget, my name was nowhere to be found. I read the shooting script and, although I did substantially less work on “$5 Cover: Seattle” than “Humpday,” Lynn had clearly used some of my material. With Lynn avoiding me once again, I visited the MTV set on a day a scene I’d developed was being shot. Standing outside the Cairo art gallery chatting with some crew, Lynn spotted me and loudly exclaimed “Lipson, what are you doing here?” her voice filled with contempt. The team took notice, I wasn’t welcome. I was blown away. I wrote her an email expressing my disbelief at her behavior and she hastily apologized, something Lynn only seemed to do with me in private correspondences. Increasingly concerned, I came to the “$5 Cover: Seattle” set on another day material I had pitched Lynn was being performed and I was met by producer Steven Schardt, he was now producing the web series. Standing inside a production trailer, Steven asked me to smoke a cigarette with him. Walking through the staging area, Steven told me that I should be grateful Lynn looks to me for direction and I shouldn’t expect to be credited for my work this time around. I had heard this before from Steven and I was in no mood to agree. I told him I expected to be fairly credited and the plagiarism was documented. It was one of the most standoffish encounters I’ve ever had, my hands shaking nervously as I waited for the bus home.

After digging in my heels, I was given a Story Consultant credit and Lynn mailed me a personal check for $200. When I ultimately confronted her about using my work in “$5 Cover: Seattle,” she claimed she never read my writing for the show. I showed her a page-by-page comparison of some of my scene work and the web series’ shooting script where my material was visibly being used and Lynn told me “Great minds think alike.” And then, Lynn was done with me. Although I would run into her sometimes at local events, I began to only know her through headlines and the celebrity-laden films that followed. She tried to make me an extra in “Your Sister’s Sister” and, for a while, invited me to feedback screenings which I uncomfortably attended. “Great minds think alike.”

I couldn’t get work. In the tiny world of Seattle’s independent film community, I’d been branded a liar. If Lynn Shelton didn’t plagiarize me, then I must have been lying about my writing. I scrambled for gigs, landing the rare script consultant job because, according to Lynn, I was a consultant not a writer. On Megan Griffiths’ film “Sadie” I did substantial work helping develop early drafts of the movie for a Script Consultant credit and, after the film was shot, the Writers Guild of America informed me there was no such thing as a Script Consultant so I was demoted to Artistic Consultant, whatever the fuck that means. I worked hard to land a co-writing credit on a movie with Megan that remains unproduced.

As a young person, my ambitions in film had added up. I won awards in high school, I made short films and wrote screenplays. As an adult, I couldn’t make my filmography make sense. I downplayed my role in college internship papers and behind-the-scenes content. I talked around my writing in job and lab applications. I faced rejection after rejection. No matter what I did, nothing seemed to land. One by one, most “Humpday” crew members stopped speaking to me. Nate Miller told me I shouldn’t be in touch with him any longer and Ben Kasulke just stopped responding. It was a deafening, empty silence. What would I do if I couldn’t write screenplays, Jennifer Maas had asked me in Park City. I still didn’t have an answer.

I ran out of money. I was ridiculed by my fiancé’s upper-crust mother and her friends, some of them acquainted with Lynn, for my apparently wild claims about “Humpday” and “$5 Cover: Seattle.” Writing became difficult. Independent film, once something I felt such passion for, started to look different to me. I began to have a hard time focusing and I would wake up in the middle of the night sweating, soaked-through sheets. I was hospitalized. I was hospitalized again.

One night years earlier, I attended the “Lucky Them” local cast and crew screening, I’d given some feedback on the movie, and Lynn was there. Terrified of running into her, I bolted up once the credits started to run. Lynn followed me out to the bathroom and, in the Uptown Cinema lobby, she attempted to hug me, an awkward and grossly uncomfortable physical invasion. I pushed away and said something rude about her performance in the film. She laughed oddly, I think Lynn was stunned by my rejection. The next day, I received an email from Lynn. She expressed confusion at why our relationship had become so tense. Dismayed, I wrote her back. Lynn responded, writing in part “While it is obviously too late to address the credit issue on these projects, it is not too late to address the compensation issue. I would be more than happy to discuss this with you and retroactively pay you an amount that might make you feel a little less abused and angry.” I was appalled. I didn’t want her money. I just wanted to work. I didn’t respond.

Years later, I’d just been released from the hospital struggling inside the dampening haze of psychiatric drugs now living with my parents, I finally wrote her back. I felt like maybe Lynn and I could reach some better understanding. I wanted to heal. I’d been out of work for a long time. We corresponded a little bit and our interactions were warm enough. Desperate to get back into the professional world of independent filmmaking, I brought up her offer for retroactive compensation and, instead, told her I wanted paid writing work. I asked her about working together again. She declined, talking about how tough it can be to get work as a writer. I felt like a fool. Looking over these emails now, I can’t believe she is really gone.

I became strangely accustomed to hospital life. The nurses, the classes, the tedious rhythm of it all. I was heavily medicated. I tried not to think about the French remake. I tried not to think about all kinds of things. I was diagnosed as bipolar. I received electroconvulsive therapy. While the other patients watched movies on television, I would pace the facility until my feet hurt. I tried to watch “The Lord of the Rings” movies or cartoons, but I could rarely focus. I felt so far away from the action of filmmaking. I tried to read. I only finished one book in all of my hospitalizations, Stephen King’s “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.” The electroconvulsive therapy made it hard to remember what I had read the day before. I played chess. Outside of my family and a close friend, I didn’t like having visitors. I was embarrassed to be seen in that place, the perpetual waiting room. I would be discharged after a lengthy stay, filled with conviction that I would never go back. I would then return to Harborview. I sat in the ward’s dining room wondering how things had gotten so bad, the seemingly endless hospital days leaving far too much time for introspection. Sometimes I’d get a pass to leave the facility for an hour under the supervision of a visitor and I’d sneak a cigarette. Other days I’d wrap myself in a blanket and skip Cognitive Behavioral Therapy or whatever class was going on because I just didn’t know what to say. I’ve gone from medication to medication, leaving me exhausted and dulled sleeping twelve hours a night struggling to engage in the basic business of life. I attempted suicide. I used to smoke and write for hours, now I eat gummy bears and wonder if I’ll ever feel like myself again. Back when I would hole up in my apartment and work, I would feel electric like I could write my way out of the pain. Now I play Call of Duty, worrying about my future.

Lynn’s sudden passing has left me with a nagging, burning need to explore what happened between us. I grieve for the friend I once had and I’m still perplexed by the vague, distant figure she became to me. I wanted from Lynn what any of her collaborators would want: acknowledgement. With Lynn’s death there has been an outpouring of support from her friends and team members. How do I differ from them? What made Lynn treat me so differently than she seemed to treat others? Our collaboration on “Humpday” gave way to real success, I don’t think knowing the film wasn’t written in an excel spreadsheet makes the movie any less of an accomplishment. To misconstrue the written development of “Humpday” is to disregard the craft of screenwriting in exchange for a minor marketing gimmick. As a young man, I put my trust in Lynn. I believed she was acting in good faith, just like I was. Lynn had a remarkable impact on my life, both good and bad, and in death the consequences of our worldly actions don’t simply disappear. I had hoped someday we would find an understanding that would make me feel at peace with what happened all those years ago, some kind of piercing insight or reconciliation that would help me make sense of the pain that followed. I haven’t written anything in a long time. I wish Lynn were here to read this essay. She plagiarized me, but Lynn was also the first filmmaker to take my creative ambitions seriously. She plagiarized me, but “Humpday” remains the most fruitful collaboration of my life. She plagiarized me and now she is gone.

“There’s so much left that’s unfinished,” remarked writer Kathy Fennessy discussing Lynn’s death. I couldn’t agree more, the dull emptiness of grief washing over me these last few months. There’s so much left unfinished.