by Wil Wheaton
You know, if I were a producer or director, I would want every actor who comes into my room to feel extremely comfortable. I would want to create an atmosphere where actors are free to feel vulnerable and take chances, where they are able to do their absolute best work. I would want actors to come before me and not worry about anything, at all, except showing me their take on the character.
Oh, I’m so living in a dream world. That is just not how it is. Four out of five times, I go into an audition and the people I’m reading for don’t even stand up and thank me for coming in. Most of the time, I’m lucky if anyone other than the casting director even says hello, or shows a remote interest in my being there. I have experienced people taking calls on their cell phones and talking during my audition, taking calls on their cell phones and leaving the room while I’m doing my audition, reading the newspaper, reading their schedule for the rest of the day, talking to another person in the room . . . it goes on and on.
Good acting comes from an actor who is not afraid to stand there naked in front of a room and bare their soul to the camera. You’d think that the uncreative philistines who run this bullshit industry would give a shit about that and try to create an atmosphere where actors can relax and do their best work.
But here’s the truth: these days, most of the people sitting in that room know that their show is going to maybe make it three episodes before the equally insecure and untalented people at the network cancel it before it can find an audience—and put reruns of some shitty reality show in its place. And because they know this, they are scared to death and they don’t trust their instincts and they project all their insecurities onto the actors who are in front of them.
You know, the audition process for Win Ben Stein’s Money was the most fun I have had in YEARS, and that was entirely because Andrew Golder and the entire group over there told me, from the very beginning, “We want you to feel comfortable and relaxed. We want you to feel free to make mistakes and not worry about looking bad, because when you can do your best work, it makes us look good.” It made me feel like I was playing before the home crowd in The Big Game™.
So the challenge for me is to somehow get over this terrible environment that pervades auditions these days. I have to be able to walk into a room and not give a shit about them, because they certainly don’t give a shit about me. But that’s extremely hard! I do care about them. I have put time, energy, and effort into creating this character for them and I want to please them! It’s really tough to do my best, when I feel like the people in the room don’t care whether I’m there or not.
Now maybe I’m insane, but wouldn’t it be better, and easier, and more cost-effective, for the studios to put actors at ease and make us feel like they do, in fact, give a shit about us being there? If they’d do that, actors would be able to do much better work, because they wouldn’t feel nervous and overly scrutinized. Shows would be cast much more quickly and everyone would go home happy.
But, as I said, I am so living in a dream world.
Thought for today:
If imagination is not set to the task of building a creative life, it busies itself with weaving a web of inner fears and doubts, blame and excuse.
—Laurence G. Boldt
Sour grapes, right? Sort of. The truth is, I’d put up with that sort of treatment for way too long, and I’d just had it. I’d rather not ever get hired for acting work again than continue to smile while being punched in the face.
The year before I wrote this blog, I’d been on the negotiating team for the Screen Actors Guild when we worked out our TV and Theatrical contract, and I was horrified to discover how our employers think of us: we’re interchangeable, disposable, and not worthy of any respect. As an actor, I depended on those people to let me support my family and create the art that was such an important part of my life. Because we actors are so dependent on them, they can treat us like shit and we’ll beg for more.
Well, I had a week to think about that, and I realized that I’d treated my family exactly the same way the Industry had treated me: I had totally disregarded their feelings and taken them for granted.
When Anne and the boys returned home, I knew what was important to me, I knew what I would fight for, and I knew where my priorities were. I met her in the driveway when they drove up and embraced her before she was even fully out of the car.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t come with you,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“Never again. I’m done with this bullshit.”
Ryan and Nolan came out of the car, and made it a group hug.
“I love you guys so much. I’m so happy you’re home,” I said.
I vowed then, for better or for worse, that I would never let my career come before my family again.
* * *
[10] I’m writing this down on March 8, 2004. We’re having a fantastic heat wave in Los Angeles and all my doors and windows are open. Led Zeppelin I plays “Your Time Is Gonna Come” on my CD player. I just walked to my closet and reached into the pocket of that sport coat, which I haven’t put on since I had that audition. Sean’s number was still there. I still haven’t gotten up the nerve to call him.
Chapter 10. “You’re Gonna Be A Great Writer Someday, Gordie”
WHEN I WAS 14 and doing publicity for Stand By Me, I was often asked by interviewers if I was a writer like my character. This question usually went along with such deeply insightful queries as, “What’s your favorite color?” and “Do you have a girlfriend?” (“Purple” and “Samantha Fox[11] hasn’t returned my calls” were the respective answers.)
So many people asked me if I was a writer, I began to think that I should be a writer. But I wasn’t a writer, right? I was an actor. By the time I was 14, I’d been a professional actor for over half my life, and I took it for granted that I would continue to be a professional actor for the rest of it. I can even recall this stupid career test I had to take in 10th grade, where a woman asked me, “What profession would you like to pursue as an adult?”
“Acting,” I said.
She noted this on my permanent record, and said, “Okay . . . now what’s your realistic short-term goal?”
“Acting,” I said.
“Okay . . . and how do you plan to earn money until you go to college?”
“Acting,” I said.
The rest of the class period was pretty much "Who’s On First,” with “Acting” filling in at third base.
The truth is, I always enjoyed creative writing in school, and English was always my best subject. But the thought of pursuing it as a career never entered my mind until—well, until about six months after Dancing Barefoot was published.
As a matter of fact, after the Stand By Me publicity cycle ended, the idea of me being a writer didn’t come up again until 10 years later, when I ran into my 7th grade English teacher while I was visiting my parents in my hometown of La Crescenta, CA.
She was walking out of the grocery store while I was on my way in, and she nearly ran me over with her cart.
“Mrs. Westerholm!” I said. She was one of my favorite teachers, and I was very happy to see her.
“Wil Wheaton? How are you?!” she said.
My career is in the toilet and shows no signs of ever improving. Yeah. I don’t want to have that conversation.
“I’m doing great!” I lied. “I’ve been having lots of auditions, and I’m getting closer and closer to a good job all the time.”
She frowned. “You’re still acting?”
I swallowed, and hoped I sounded more convincing to her than I did to myself. “Uh-huh.”
“Why aren’t you writing?”
I was taken aback by her question, and I was quiet for a second.
I’m acting because it’s what I’ve done my entire life . . . and it’s the only thing I know how to do.
“I don’t know. Because acting is what I do, I guess.”
She shook her head, and I was right back in seventh grade,
getting an after-school talking to.
“You were always such a wonderful writer, Wil,” she said, wagging her finger at me. “We all thought that you’d end up as a screenwriter or novelist.”
Something started to slowly turn in the back of my mind.
“Yeah, I always enjoyed it.”
“Remember your Land of the Zombies story? All the students loved that.”
I smiled and nodded. As a creative writing assignment around Halloween in 1985, all the seventh graders wrote horror stories. I was inspired by Dawn of the Dead, D&D, and a family trip to San Francisco, so I wrote a story about a man and his wife who flee from the terror of zombies who were slowly taking over the country after escaping from an army research base. My heroes discovered that water can force the zombie-causing chemicals out of the living dead, so they end up on Alcatraz Island, which I had decided was the only safe place left in America.[12] I remember the story ended with something like:
Alcatraz was once a federal prison for killers. Now it’s the prison that’s saving our lives. We even sleep in the Birdman’s old cell.
As the sun set over the Golden Gate Bridge, I looked out onto America: once, the land of the free. Now, the land of the zombies.
It’s not Hemingway, but it’s pretty good for a 12-year-old. It was voted scariest and goriest story by the seventh and eighth graders. I proudly photocopied it and sent it to all my relatives, who were all horrified and told my parents that I should get professional help.
“Well, I hope you end up writing someday,” she said. “You definitely have writing talent.”
“Thank you.” I said. “Can I help you put your bags in your car?”
“Oh! I’m not that old,” she said with a chuckle. “Please tell your parents I said hello.”
“I will.” I walked into the store.
I heard her voice frequently for the next few years, though the only writing I ever did was infrequently scrawled in a leather-covered journal that was a gift from one of my friends—my first offline blog, I guess.
A few years later, I was talking with my mom, after finding out that I hadn’t gotten yet another acting job.
“You seem really unhappy, Willow,” she said.
“I am. I’m really tired of putting all this effort and energy into these auditions, only to be treated like crap by everyone in the room,” I said. “Oh, and the not-ever-getting-hired thing is getting pretty old, too.”
I sighed.
“I’m so much happier when I write stories for my stupid website and stuff . . .”
“Wil, it sure does seem like The Universe is trying to tell you something,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“When you’re trying to be an actor, you’re struggling against a head wind dragging an open parachute behind you. When you’re writing, the wind is at your back and everything conspires to ensure you’re successful.”
There was a long silence while I thought about this.
“You’re supposed to be a writer, Wil.”
While I had a lifetime of acting experience, my writing experience was severely limited. The idea of trying to start an entirely new career in my late 20s was terrifying.
“Well, I hope you end up writing someday. You definitely have writing talent.”
How in the world would I be able to compete with established authors?
“You were always such a wonderful writer, Wil.”
What if I sucked? What if I thought something was good, but it was actually garbage?
“We all thought that you’d end up as a screenwriter or novelist.”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“I do,” she said.
I was doing okay recounting the boring things that happened in my life, but could I actually tell a story that had a beginning, middle, and end?
It turns out that I could.
08 MAY 2002
The Trade
When I was a kid, I traded my Death Star for a Land Speeder and five bucks.
The kid who talked me into the trade wasn’t really a friend by choice. He was the son of some of my mom and dad’s friends and we’d play together at his house while our parents listened to Fleetwood Mac in the den with the door closed, giggling about stuff that just didn’t make sense to me, at all.
So we were like prisoners of war, forced to share a cell together, knowing that once the war was over, we’d never talk again.
I was aware of this situation, even at 8, so I was naturally skeptical of anything he offered me. He was already 10, in Double Digits, so I knew that I should be a little wary of him.
The offer came to me one afternoon in his back yard, next to his parent’s swimming pool. I’d brought over my Death Star and some Star Wars figures so we’d have something to do. There was no way I was going to endure a repeat of the last time I’d been there, where my only entertainment was watching him organize and gloat over his collection of exotic matchbooks.
So we were sitting by the pool, which was doubling for the shore of an exotic new planet where the Death Star had been relocated. He drove up his Land Speeder and as he began to help his passengers out, I casually admired it.
He immediately offered a trade, but I declined. There was no way I was about to give up my Death Star for a Land Speeder that didn’t even have any obvious guns.
He expressed some shock at my reluctance, showing off its exciting retractable wheels and exquisitely detailed dashboard sticker.
Although I was intrigued, I resisted. I really liked my Death Star. It had a cool Trash Compactor Monster.
He then let me in on a secret that only the 10-year-olds knew: Death Stars were lame. Land Speeders were cool.
This was news to me and gave me pause for consideration. Did I really want to keep this Death Star, knowing that it was lame? How many of the Big Kids were laughing at me while they raced their own Land Speeders around, as I sat with my Death Star, wheel- and-stickerless?
While I wondered about this, he repeated his very generous offer: he would trade me the Land Speeder for the Death Star. He didn’t need to worry about what the other kids thought, he told me, because he also had an X-Wing Fighter and Darth Vader’s TIE-Fighter. This combination, he went on, was even cooler than a Land Speeder, so he was all right.
While I considered this new information, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
He would give me five bucks to sweeten the deal.
Five bucks?!
I didn’t need to hear another word.
I made the trade, willingly handing over the deed to my Death Star without so much as a handshake. He gave me the Land Speeder, followed by five bucks from the front pocket of his Rough Riders. Shortly after that, my parents came out of the house, telling me that it was time to go home, after a stop on the way to pick up many bags of potato chips and pretzels.
Now, I know this seems like a shitty trade, because it was, but at the time, five bucks was as good as a million and that Land Speeder did have wheels, man! WHEELS!
With those wheels, I thought, I could ferry four of my Star Wars figures across my kitchen floor with just one push!
One push was all it would take for Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker escape the dangerous prison The Empire had built from Tupperware cups and a Styrofoam drink cooler in the shadow of my parent’s refrigerator! They could be accompanied on their journey to the safety of the Rebel base, which was cleverly hidden from the Empire beneath the breakfast table, by C3P0 and R2-D2, who would be attached to the back of their seats via amazing foot-peg technology! This vehicle was all that stood between the Rebel Alliance and victory! I couldn’t believe that I had even considered for a moment not trading my very uncool Death Star for this magnificent chariot.
The entire drive home, I sat on the back seat of the 1971 VW Bus, paying no attention to the cool strains of the Grateful Dead playing out of the 8-track while my parents did something on the back side of a frisbee. My mind was focused on the coming prison escape an
d ensuing battle, where I just knew the Empire would enlist the help of GI Joe and He-Man. Good thing Luke and company had this new Land Speeder to get them out of danger!
Sadly, once I was home and on the kitchen floor, the reality of the trade did not meet the grand build-up it had been given by my young imagination. That single push did not send my heroes to quick safety. Rather, it sent them forward about six inches and to the left, coming to an anticlimactic rest against the front of the dishwasher. Only the constant presence of my grimy eight-year-old fist would give them adequate propulsion away from danger. And the foot-peg technology was quickly replaced by the more reliable Scotch-tape-and-rubber-band technology. The novelty of rolling that Land Speeder around the floor quickly wore off and I really missed my Death Star. It had a cool Trash Compactor Monster.
Fortunately, all was not lost: I had that five bucks. Five bucks to spend any way I wanted. I was rich, man. Filthy rich. Filthy. Stinking. Rich. Like Mister Drummond, or Ricky on Silver Spoons. That fabulous wealth made me a god among the kids on my block.
For weeks I sat in my bedroom, atop my Chewbacca bedspread, holding that $5 bill in my hands, just looking at it, admiring it, memorizing its serial number, and wondering how many exciting places it had visited since its birth in the San Franciso mint in 1979. I spent countless hours basking in the glow of unimaginable wealth while the now-forgotten Land Speeder gathered dust in the back of my closet, behind Mister Machine and a partially completed model of the USS Arizona.
I capriciously thought of ways to spread my new found wealth among the other kids in our group . . . a pack of Wacky Packs stickers for Scott Anderson, some Toffifay for Joey Carnes, maybe even an invitation to Kent Purser to play doubles on Galaxian, my treat.
I decided to be very generous with my new wealth. I would be an eight-year-old philanthropist. Maybe I’d set up a foundation for the kids around the corner, who always wore the same clothes and smelled funny.
