Jackson Jambalaya

The scribe from Oxford made a name for himself in Hollywood as a scriptwriter in his younger days.  Garden & Gun magazine published a very good story on this time of Mr. Faulkner's life.  A noted author, he was still broke, stuck in a marriage where the loathing was mutual, and unsure of where he was in life.  Kind of like Frank Sinatra before he landed the Maggio role in From Here to Eternity.

 In 1932, a rising writer from Mississippi found himself amid the bright lights and dry heat of Tinseltown, at the start of what would become a lengthy dalliance with the screenwriting biz. In the wilds of L.A., Faulkner met movie stars, found a bourbon haunt, chased true love, and tried to stay sane in a place that often seemed very far from home

It all started in 1932, when, riding on the success of his novel Sanctuary, Faulkner got word that Leland Hayward, a prominent Hollywood talent agent, had secured for him a $500-a-week contract (the equivalent of $8,500 today) to write scripts at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Faulkner was a modernist, and film was still a new, exciting form of storytelling. But that wasn’t the reason Faulkner accepted. It was the money.

At the same time Faulkner received the offer from Metro, he got news that his publisher, Cape & Smith, was bankrupt. Faulkner had been planning on $4,000 ($68,000 in today’s money) from the company for Sanctuary but was informed he wouldn’t see any of it. Suddenly, he was broke. Word apparently got around Oxford. When he tried writing a check for three dollars at a sporting goods store, the owner told him, I’d rather have cash. All at once, Hollywood became attractive. Faulkner didn’t even have the money to send a wire to answer yes. Eventually MGM advanced him some cash and paid for his train ticket, and days later he arrived in Culver City....

It’s hard to imagine now, but back when Faulkner was young, a block or two north of Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley was all orange groves. Southern California was a strange land, the desert next to the ocean. One could say, as Faulkner did shortly after arriving here, “I’m goin’ pig huntin’,” and spend the day on Santa Cruz Island stalking wild boar. After the excursion, he returned to the Beverly Hills Hotel “unshaven, clad in his hunting shirt, and carrying a borrowed weapon under his arm,” as producer David Hempstead recalled in an interview. When Faulkner walked through the lobby, he sent guests and the hotel staff scurrying for cover. Earlier, there had been an armed robbery, and everyone thought Faulkner was the perpetrator returning to the scene of his crime..... Rest of article