Inside the Room

by Linda Venis

  6:26 P.M.—“Are you sitting down?” Ethan asks when you pick up the phone. Why is everyone always asking you if you’re sitting down? “ABC passed. They didn’t think the idea was right for their network.” What?! The bastards! The idiots! This is what you say, but what you feel is, Of course they passed, the idea is garbage. The true depth of my nontalent has finally been revealed for all to see. I have been exposed as a fraud by the top drama-development executives at a major television network. My career nosedive has begun….

  “We have a meeting at CBS on Monday.” Ethan sounds hopeful, stoic, unbowed. But that’s his job. He’s a producer. You’re a writer. Your job is to be fragile, injured, and neurotic. There is nothing in the world you want to do less than repeat this embarrassing exercise on Monday in front of another group of network executives, who, by the way, will know, as they watch you pitch, that you’ve already been rejected by ABC. You’re damaged goods. And worse than that, you’re baldly trying to peddle your substandard “idea” to them. What do you take them for, fools? If ABC doesn’t want your terrible idea, why would CBS?

  Because of a little show called CSI, that’s why.

  CSI was developed by ABC Studios, rejected by the ABC network, and subsequently sold to CBS. Several billion dollars later, everyone learned a stark lesson: One network’s garbage is another network’s gold.

  Week Eleven: Tuesday, August 16, 12:21 P.M.

  Congratulations are in order—CBS bought your pitch. Turns out they are looking for “crime procedurals with female leads.” So far, so good. You are now officially employed for the remainder of the year. That’s the good news.

  Here’s the bad news. You’ve spent the last two weeks going back and forth with Ethan and ABC Studios attempting to create an odd document called a “story area.” This is not an official step in your contract; you will never receive a check marked “Delivery of Story Area.” No one can quite explain what this document is, or what it should look like, or what exactly it should include, or how long it should be. But more and more, every network requires one as a precursor to the outline. And you have learned to despise it.

  The closest anyone has come to explaining it has been this: The network needs to know the general plot of the pilot episode of your show as early as possible so they don’t, for instance, end up with nine pilot scripts all involving a kidnapped child as a major plot point. Okay, fair enough. But why does the studio keep asking for more “character arc” information? And why do they keep asking you to “imply tone”? What’s really going on here?

  Here’s what’s going on: The network wants to begin guiding the development of the script immediately. Not when you turn in the script. Not when you turn in the outline. Now. Even at this early stage, Beverly, Gabe, and Hannah (the CBS VPs of drama development you’re working with) want to be in control of what’s happening. They don’t want anyone wandering off the development trail—not now, not ever. They have very clear marching orders from their bosses: Bring in scripts that reflect our development agenda. Don’t surprise us. And so, in turn, they do not want you to surprise them. They are, as the kids say, up in your grill. Get used to it.

  It’s at this point that you begin to intuit a fact very crucial to your success: The executives at the studio and the network are your partners, and your fates are intertwined. They are depending on you to create a great script. You are depending on them to guide that process so that the end product is something that the network, realistically, will want to produce, based on its development agenda for that season. This interdependence will require trust and patience from all parties. But in television, the most collaborative of all mediums, it is the very nature of the beast. And the sooner you internalize this truth, the better.

  Week Sixteen: Wednesday, September 21, 10:44 A.M.

  You get a scary call from Ethan: The network suddenly has a problem with your pilot. It’s “the father thing.” While they initially loved the idea of Ellie going home to attend her father’s funeral and then investigating his death as a possible murder, they’ve started having second thoughts. Does it have to be her father? Could it be someone else maybe? Like…her old boyfriend?

  You start to panic. No real reason; changes are changes. But panic is your first reaction to almost anything when it comes to work, and by now you’ve learned to just let it wash over you like an ocean wave, knowing it will eventually recede on its own.

  The network wants to discuss its concerns; there’s a conference call scheduled for this afternoon at five P.M. So you and Ethan schedule a lunch-hour “work session” at Nate ’n Al to plot out some ways to address concerns in advance. When Ethan arrives, he tells you some interesting things about where this note is coming from. Apparently, one of CBS’s new shows, Shadow of Doubt, just premiered on Monday night to surprisingly low ratings. The numbers were so bad that some people, taking their cue from Nikki Finke and Deadline Hollywood, are speculating that its second episode won’t even air. “Did you see it?” Ethan asks. No, like the rest of America, you didn’t watch. Well, Ethan did. And guess what the pilot episode was about? “A young Boston lawyer goes back home to Rock Ridge, Maine, for Christmas—and finds himself joining his aging father’s law firm.” Okay—so what does that have to do with Dark Springs? Only everything.

  According to Ethan, there is a network-wide pox on any show involving someone going “back home” to work with a parent. You remind Ethan that in Dark Springs, Ellie doesn’t go to work with her father—her father’s dead. She goes to work in his place. Doesn’t matter, he says. The very act of “going home” is probably enough to make the network sour on the entire idea. You do not want to spend nine months of your life developing an idea that makes the network execs wince every time they think about it because it reminds them of a recent stinging failure. CBS was being kind in only suggesting that perhaps the father could in fact be an old boyfriend. Ethan knew halfway through the other show’s disastrous premiere that they were in big trouble. Ethan suggests the two of you reexamine the entire concept.

  Panic. Ocean wave. Tidal wave. How can some horrible show no one even watched suddenly have such an impact on your idea? It doesn’t make sense. It’s not fair.

  But inside your panic, there is a rock of calm. Because way deep down…you don’t absolutely hate the idea of the old boyfriend. In fact, it could work. So you and Ethan order, and talk, and eat, and talk, and talk, and talk. At a certain point, you realize you’re writing down notes on the paper place mat. And in the course of a lunch, here’s the new version of Dark Springs (now titled Turquoise Bay):

  In a darkly comic new one-hour drama, Ellie Jamison (30s) has just been promoted to homicide detective at the NYPD. Feeling like she has finally accomplished something worthwhile, she decides it’s safe to go to her fifteenth high school reunion in her hometown of Turquoise Bay, California, a picturesque yet still comfortably funky beach town. She unexpectedly hooks up with her old (hot) boyfriend, Jason Phelps (30s). But things take a strange and chilling turn when she wakes up the next morning to find him murdered. She’s the prime suspect. And she is shocked to learn that Corey Axelrod (30s), her best friend’s little brother (who always had a crush on her back in the day), is now the town’s one homicide cop. In an effort to clear her name, they team up to find out who killed Jason. And in the process, Ellie finds out that this idyllic seaside town has more than its share of intrigue and crime. Maybe Ellie won’t be going back to New York City so soon after all….

  You’re excited. You love it. It’s sexy, it’s fun—and it’s still a police procedural with a female lead. And now it’s nothing like Shadow of Doubt. Except for the “going home” part. Which you have to have. But still: no parents, tons of love interest, sunlit beach setting…It’s different. But is it different enough?

  Following procedure, you call the studio first. Everything must go through the studio before going to the network. You and Ethan manage to get Kevin and Tamara on the phone around three P.M. You pitch the new version. T
hey love it. And in their enthusiasm for telling you how much they love it, they tell you all the things they never really thought worked about your original idea. Fantastic. Whatever.

  At five P.M., you pitch CBS. Ethan has given a heads-up call to Gabe, warning him that you already have a new version of the show that addresses “the father thing.” You pitch the new version. The network loves it. And just like that, in the course of a day, you’re writing a different pilot.

  Week Twenty-one: Friday, October 28, 4:33 P.M.

  The past five weeks have been a bit of a blur. A quiet blur. You’ve been working on your outline and everyone has been pretty much leaving you alone. Ethan calls more than you’d like, just to “say hi,” check on how things are going, and see if you need any help. But for the most part, you’re into your “writer space,” and it feels great.

  You finally sent the completed outline to Ethan last week, and he loved it. His notes were minimal, and some were even helpful. And then, just about ten minutes ago, you sent it off to the studio for a weekend read. You plan to enjoy your first weekend off in over a month—a weekend without any work hanging over your head. A weekend of well-deserved good feelings. But something is creeping up on you. The familiar, vulnerable, worrisome feeling you get when you turn something in. It’s a “waiting” feeling. And just like the man says, the waiting is the hardest part. Better get used to it. You’re going to spend a lot of time waiting over the next six months. And it’s not going to get easier.

  Week Twenty-two: Tuesday, November 1, 11:20 A.M.

  They have notes. They want to set a call for tomorrow at five P.M. (great, more waiting). Ethan has a heads-up: Their biggest note is tone. The thing the studio loved most about your “new version” was the fun, sexy vibe between Ellie and Corey. But they’re just not sure it’s coming through. Right now it’s feeling a little flat and unclear. They’re just not getting the relationship.

  Of course they’re not getting the tone, you think. It’s an outline. There’s barely any dialogue. The timing of the scenes is wonky. Wait until they read the pages, then tell me they have tone problems.

  Doesn’t matter; you’ll have to do at least one more pass for the studio, trying to somehow imply “sexy” and “fun”—which are, ironically, two of the very last things you’re feeling right now….

  Week Twenty-four: Friday, November 18, 10:00 A.M.

  You’re on hold, waiting for the network notes conference call to begin. After what feels like hours of small talk with Ethan and the studio, Gabe and Hannah from CBS hop on the line. And let’s face it: You’re scared to death. You feel sure that what you’re about to hear will tell you everything you need to know about your pilot’s future. A weak reaction and a lot of general “overall” notes means your project is already off track—and you haven’t even written a single page of the script yet. On the other hand, an enthusiastic reaction means your outline is better than the other ones they’ve been reading, and maybe you’re already pulling ahead of the pack.

  The network reaction is surprising: They love the outline, but they want big changes. They say the plot works fine, and they love the characters—they just want more. More scenes between the two leads, Ellie and Corey; more scenes with Ellie’s funny, sassy friend Lauren; more scenes with Ellie’s mom, who—in Ellie’s absence, and since the death of her husband years ago—has become a sexually liberated übercougar. They even want Ellie and Corey to sleep together—in the pilot! (Personally, you were thinking they might sleep together toward the end of the first season….)

  So congratulations—they love it. But now you have a ton of work to do to keep up the pace.

  Week Twenty-nine: Wednesday, December 21, 3:45 P.M.

  You did everything they wanted. And they’re thrilled. Just a couple of tiny notes, but otherwise, this pilot is just exactly where they want it to be. You’ll make the changes next week and have an official “first draft” for them the first week of January. After all the worry and all the surprises, you’ve ended the year on a legitimate high note. God bless us, everyone!

  Week Thirty-two: Monday, January 9, 1:15 P.M.

  Trouble. Gut-sinking trouble. Turbulence-on-takeoff kind of trouble. It’s all over Deadline Hollywood this morning. CBS has just picked up a pilot about a female cop who teams with her ex-husband, a lawyer turned reality TV star, to solve crimes.

  So basically, your show is dead.

  Sure, it’s not exactly your pilot. In your show, Ellie teams with a friend/crush, not her ex-husband. And while the pilot they picked up takes place in Chicago, yours takes place in a beach town. But, man, the big problem is tone. They’re both relationship dramas with overtones of sex and comedy. Both could be considered Castle-esque. Clearly, this is something that the network wants. Clearly, they ordered two versions to see which one they prefer. And clearly, they have made their choice. And it ain’t yours.

  Ethan tells you not to worry. The network has not officially passed, and until they do, there’s no reason to panic. But he sounds weird when he says it. His voice sounds different than it usually does. You identify the change: He sounds distant. As if there’s already a process of emotional detachment taking place. He’s already lowering this project on his mental to-do list. It’s the most demoralizing sound you’ve ever heard.

  Twenty minutes later, the studio calls. They have you and Ethan on conference. They explain what’s happening: According to their conversations with the network, your show is not dead at all. In fact, it’s still “very much in the mix,” whatever that means. This particular competing project was ordered early to show respect and loyalty to the producer—a huge movie director who has made a handful of $100 million–plus movies and is now branching out into TV. This is the network’s way of indicating their enthusiasm for him. It’s political. Your fear and misery makes you candid. You ask the obvious question: If the network’s so eager to be in business with this guy, then—even if they do green-light both pilots—won’t they just pick up his series? Is this whole thing just turning into an exercise in futility? The studio says no. Once the pilots are in, the prize really will go to whichever show they think is best. In fact, at that point, the odds may switch back in your favor: Since the deal with the famous director is so huge, your show will ultimately be cheaper to produce on a weekly basis.

  You try to wrap your head around all this. You’re in uncharted territory, and it’s going to take you a while to get your bearings. Everyone tells you to sit tight for a few more days. Fine. You can sit tight for a few more days.

  How hard can that be?

  Week Thirty-four: Tuesday, January 24, 4:15 P.M.

  It’s been two weeks. Every day you expect to hear something. You compulsively check Deadline Hollywood and read about other people having their pilots picked up. You keep thinking you’ll somehow read about your own pilot, but of course, that makes no sense. You know that Ethan will call you with any news. He’s following this like a crazed bloodhound in a way that almost makes you feel sorry for him. There are days when his concern is so strong, it actually lets you off the hook. He’s worrying enough for two. But in unguarded moments, you realize that you are entirely unprepared for news of either the good or bad variety. You know that you will feel bad if your pilot is not produced. You will instantly put on “the failure coat,” that heavy, wet garment you’ve spent so many years schlepping around in, feeling embarrassed and ashamed and angry and self-loathing in varying degrees. It’s a horrible feeling, but it is familiar. It’s a part of your life, and there’s not much you can do about it. Like rain in Portland, it’s just the cost of doing business.

  But what if the answer is yes? What if they say yes, we’ll shoot your pilot? You haven’t allowed yourself to really go too far down that road because of the old “don’t jinx it” thing. Only think about failure. Brace yourself for failure. That has always been your way, and it has always seemed safest, but—what if you do not fail? Then what? Well, that’s tougher. Because you really don’t know wha
t that would entail. You imagine a moment of pure ecstasy. You win and everyone else in the world loses. So that’s nice. But then what? What exactly happens next?

  This question fills you with an odd sense of vertigo, like you’re somehow suddenly whooshed to a great height, but you’re unclear of the mechanism by which it’s happened—or its reliability. There is no road map. You do not know the landscape. You feel slightly disoriented and scared, as if the pilot of your transcontinental flight has suddenly dropped dead of an aneurism, and for some reason, you are suddenly required to land the plane. It’s like that nightmare where you’re onstage and it’s opening night, but you have neglected to memorize your lines—or even read the play. Failure is familiar. Success? It’s something you have never seriously considered beyond knowing deep in your soul that it’s something you want more than anything.

  At four fifteen the phone rings. It’s Ethan. “Are you sitting down?…”

  Week Thirty-six: Thursday, February 9, 2:22 P.M.

  After a lifetime of waiting in line, you’re finally on the ride. For once, the conversation isn’t about rewrites. (That’ll come later.) The conversations you’re having now feel very important and grown-up. Sure, you’re no kid, but still—these are conversations you’ve never been a part of. Conversations about directors—and of even more immediate import, casting directors. Since your project was picked up so late in the season, you’re already behind schedule. You’ve got barely a month to hire your entire above-the-line crew: director, line producer, director of photography, production designer, costume designer. Plus, you have to cast all the roles, figure out where you’re going to shoot the thing, and when, and for exactly how much. In this case, you means you—and Ethan, and Kevin and Tamara from the studio.