Evelyn picked up her phone and dialed Sarah's number, even though it was nearly midnight.
The script had arrived at her door at 10:00 PM, bound in heavy cardstock with a title that simply read The Second Act . Evelyn Reed, a woman whose face was etched with the beautiful, hard-won lines of four decades in front of the camera, poured a glass of wine and sat by the window overlooking the glowing grid of Los Angeles.
"The audience is starved for us," Sarah had said, tapping her notebook. "Women over fifty control massive purchasing power, and they are tired of seeing themselves portrayed as knitting grandmothers or bitter crones. They want stories about power, desire, and reinvention."
"I'm in," Evelyn said the moment Sarah answered. "Let's show them how it's done."