Excerpt of What I Really Want To Do Is Direct by Yvonne Collins, Sandy Rideout

Libby is starstruck. I know this because she is standing on tiptoe to get a better view. At 6'5" in heels, Libby hasn't actually needed to stand on tiptoe since junior high.

"There's Oliver O'Brien!" she says. "He's getting out of the limo...he's on the red carpet...he's posing for pictures...he's gorgeous!"

"Didn't you say he isn't your type?" I ask.

"So he's six inches shorter than I am...I can stoop." Both Libby and my father professed complete indifference to the celebrity factor when I invited them to this Toronto International Film Festival Gala for Seattle, but Libby was trilling with excitement even before we took our seats at the screening. I had to shush her three times during the show and she cheered as my credit rolled at the end. It was mortifying, but at least it roused my father, who snored through the movie.

Now we're outside the Drake, the hotel hosting the post- screening party, and Dad is shielding his eyes from the popping flashbulbs."Let's go inside," he says."This is a circus."

Libby trails after us."There's Meredith Connor. Wow, she looks like a bobble head doll."

"The bigger the cranium, the bigger the star," I agree."It's an unwritten rule."

At the door, a young guy wearing a "TIFF Volunteer" T- shirt stops us with a raised hand."Private party," he says in the monotone reserved for the plebes.

Maybe I wore the same snotty expression when I was in film school, but my struggles to get ahead in this business have taught me some hard lessons in humility."Busy night?" I ask, offering a sympathetic smile.

He nods almost imperceptibly."A lot of wannabes trying to crash the party."

"No worries here. I'm Roxanne Hastings. I'm on the list."

The kid flicks his eyes over his clipboard. "I don't see your name."

"But I was on the Seattle crew."

"Step aside, please." He lifts the velvet rope to allow a stream of industry shakers and beautiful people to pass.

"Maybe we'd better go," Dad says.

I stand firm."Could you check your list again?" A bouncer the size of a Winnebago appears out of nowhere and clamps onto my arm."Let's not cause a scene," he says."This is a big night for the people who made the film."

Well, some of them anyway. But I haven't survived this long in the business by being easily discouraged. There's always another route to the free champagne if you're thirsty enough to keep looking.

My father and Libby shift anxiously beside the Dumpster as I pry open the alley door. I curse quietly after one of my nails snaps. "Roxanne, really," Dad says."This is unseemly." I shush him and step into the hotel's kitchen,where a group of line cooks gapes at us."Spot check by the Health Inspector," I explain, nodding toward my father, who is, as always, wearing a pinstriped suit and carrying a briefcase.Before anyone can ask for identification, I propel Libby and Dad across the kitchen and through the swinging doors into the party.

Libby shakes a carrot peeling from her heel and resumes her animated commentary. I'm happy she's enjoying herself but for me, the real buzz came at the theatre. Seattle is a good movie — possibly the best on my résumé, which features more big-budget trash than I'd like. Finally, I have a credit worth bragging about, even if it's buried in a long list that speeds by at the end of the movie. One day, it will appear over an opening sequence: A Film by Roxanne Hastings.I just hope that day arrives before I qualify for the senior's discount at the ticket booth.

I decided at age thirteen that directing was my calling. According to my plan, I was to win my first Oscar by age 28 and find the perfect man shortly thereafter, who would give up his career to raise our family. Now 34, I am years behind my modest goal of taking Hollywood by storm. As for my personal life, well, happy endings are overrated anyway.

While I ponder my squandered potential, my father is concerned about more immediate challenges. The poor man can't get a drink, and as a high profile lawyer he isn't used to being ignored. His suit may have worked wonders in the kitchen but here it's a liability. Casually dressed film execs will see the best service tonight, because most of the waiters are aspiring actors, writers, or directors. I recognize some faces from my own days of carrying a tray.

"It's Sunday night, what's with the briefcase?" I ask my father.

He sets it between his buffed shoes."I have briefs to review on the way home." Scanning the room, he frowns again. There's too much flesh on display for his comfort and the breeze from all the air kissing is fluttering his comb-over. Still, I know he's thrilled I invited him. He's always complaining that he doesn't see enough of me.

I gasp as a hand slides down my back and settles on my derriere. It belongs to Hank Sanford, the director of Seattle, who gives me a snaggle-toothed leer.

"Darling, you look wonderful," he says, his English accent suggesting better breeding than he actually has."You've lost weight."

I offer my cheek for the obligatory kiss and he dives for my lips. Thanks to an Oscar and a host of successful films, Hank is used to taking liberties.

"Seattle"s fantastic," I say, discretely wiping my mouth.

"You must be proud."

He continues to eye me appreciatively."You've been hiding some dangerous curves under your scruffy work clothes and there's absolutely no excuse for it. Time to consider a career in front of the camera."

"Ah, but then I'd have to indulge flirtatious directors." Smiling sweetly, I take two quick steps sideways and wave at a passing waiter. The move has worked on Hank before, but tonight his hand travels with me.

"It's a tough business," he says."But anyone who wants to get ahead knows it's wise to keep me happy.Even that cranky boss of yours."

True, but Damon Laporte, Seattle"s cinematographer and my cranky boss, probably hasn't felt Hank's spidery hand on his butt."I know enough to stay on your good side, Hank." I glance guiltily at my father."Dad,this is Hank Sanford.He's directing Illegal Alien, the film I start work on tomorrow."

Withdrawing his hand from my butt, Hank nonchalantly offers it to my father, who deliberately pauses for a moment before taking it.

"Your daughter is the best camera assistant I've worked with," Hank says. Either he's drunk, or he's trying to placate Dad because Hank is not the sort of director who throws praise around."I used to be a cinematographer myself, so I know how hard it is to keep a film in focus."

I'm so thrilled by Hank's comment that Dad's skeptical expression barely irritates me. I've worked with Hank on three films, but the only indication he's given that he likes my work is that he hasn't fired me.

My hopes that he will say more are dashed by the arrival of Oliver O'Brien and Meredith Connor. Despite the graying hair, Oliver's face is boyishly young and his smile contagious. He shakes Hank's hand before leaning over to kiss my cheek. Meredith, a real-life Snow White, merely stares at me blankly as she takes out a cigarette. Hank stops pawing her bare shoulder long enough to give her a light. Although smoking is prohibited, no one says a word.

Hank snaps his fingers and a waitress instantaneously appears with a tray of champagne flutes. "Please keep our glasses full all night," he says.

Shoving his briefcase aside with one foot, my father steps forward to shake Meredith's hand.

Oliver looks up at Libby with eyes as blue as Mexican glass and says,"Hey Stretch, do you like ice cream?"

Libby, who hates being called Stretch, titters and nods so hard her curls bounce. We follow Oliver to the ice cream station and I marvel over his transformation. On Seattle, he frequently held up shooting with his desperate need for reassurance; tonight he's oozing confidence and charm, having flipped the magic switch that turns an actor into a star.

Poor Libby gazes at him speechless, her ice cream untouched.

"Do you still think he looks smaller in person,Lib?"I ask, winking at Oliver.

Libby's flush starts at her collarbone and surges north. "Think I'm too short for you, Stretch?"

"No," she protests, now red to the hairline."I said I could stoop." She claps her hand over her mouth in horror.

Laughing, Oliver chases a brandied cherry around his sundae and presents it to Libby on a long spoon.

"You're inspiring a whole chapter in her memoirs, Oliver," I say, as he captures another cherry and offers it to me. I cup my hand under it and open my mouth.

"Roxanne!" The cherry flies off the spoon and rolls toward Damon's feet."Are you crazy? There are photographers everywhere."

"Any publicity is good publicity, Damon," Oliver says.

"How about a cherry?"

Damon drapes a protective arm around his wan girlfriend, Genevieve."I'm allergic."

"That's Damon?" Libby whispers. She's heard his name often but never seen him."He's way cuter than I imagined. You made him sound so uptight."

"It's possible to be cute and uptight," I answer. Reluctantly releasing Genevieve into Oliver's orbit, Damon pulls me aside. "What were you and Hank talking about?"

"In a nutshell? His brilliant directing and the benefits of sucking up to get ahead."

"Hang on to that last thought," he says."Did he mention Fledgling?"

Fledgling Films is the production company Hank recently formed with two other industry kingpins. Their goal is to make modest films with artistic value.

"Is it finally off the ground?" I try to sound casual, but excitement is stirring. A new production company like Fledgling will be scouting for good scripts and raw talent to direct them — two things I just happen to possess.

"Their first feature is shooting in Morocco when Illegal Alien wraps," Damon confirms."Since Hank's moving on to executive produce, I want him to let me direct."

Damon and I share the same career goal,but he's far closer to achieving it. At 37, he's one of the most respected cinematographers in the country. Not only has he lit over a dozen feature films, he's also directed a handful of low- budget independents, some of which had critical success at festivals.It's only a matter of time before he gets a real break.

"This is great news," I say.

Misconstruing my enthusiasm, Damon raises a caution-ary hand. "I can't promise anything, Roxanne. First I have to land the job. Then I'll see what I can do about making you cinematographer."

It's not surprising that Damon would think my goal is to become a cinematographer. I sometimes forget myself that the camera department was supposed to be a short-term lay- over. Years ago, I did a brief stint as a camera trainee as part of my effort to gain an overview of the entire business before making the push to direct. I ended up enjoying the job far more than I expected and when Damon offered me a promotion to film loader, I accepted the challenge. He promoted me to focus puller three years later and again I accepted, telling myself that the directors I admire most have a firm grasp of camera.

Damon and Hank have proven it's possible to make the leap from cinematography to directing, but there is a faster route: owning a script so good that it creates its own break. Two years ago,I stumbled over a short story called The Lobby at a garage sale and paid someone to adapt it for film. Pitching it is daunting, but in a business where the cheeky wheel gets the champagne, I keep trying. I've had enough nibbles to sustain my faith.

Sometimes I toy with the idea of borrowing money and making a scaled down version of The Lobby. Without studio backing, however, the chances of getting the film distributed are very slim. I'm too much my father's daughter to go into debt for a film that no one will ever see. Besides, The Lobby deserves to be a full-length feature and Fledgling has the budget to do it properly. Moreover, Fledgling has ties to studios that could get me a "name" actor and publicity, which would in turn lead to distribution, box office sales and ideally, a flourishing career as one of Hollywood's hot new directors.

Time to warm up my pitching arm. "Hank is alone at the bar," I tell Damon."Let me talk to him about Morocco for you."

"I suppose you'd get more information out of him than I would," he concedes."Hank's a sucker for a pretty face. So go work your wiles — and grab me a drink on your way back, will you?"