One thing is for sure—no matter how badly you’re bombing, you can never let the audience see its effect on you. You forge on as if everything is great. As Richard Belzer once advised me when I was starting out: “You’re like the pilot of a plane up there. Once they see you panic, they’re next.” And that’s also an invaluable business lesson for anyone.
It’s funny, people’s perceptions of what it’s like to do stand-up comedy. I was opening for Jerry Seinfeld recently at the Civic Theatre in San Diego, and my partner Lori’s cousin Jay came to the show with some friends. They had to leave early, but he sent me an e-mail later that night thanking me for the tickets and saying, “I don’t know if you could hear the crowd or not, but they loved you!” I had to laugh. Oh, I heard them all right! If I’m not doing well up there, I’m the first to know! And while we’re on the subject of people’s misperceptions about stand-up comedy: no, we don’t practice in front of a mirror.
3. The “business” will never define me.
Writing for television can be a real bear. There are so many ups and downs—you’re hot one minute, and the next you’re so ice cold you feel lucky if family members return your call. But the beauty of being a stand-up is that, when I have to endure these tough periods of rejection that rear their ugly head from time to time, my safety net is there to save me. I go down to the comedy club and I do a set. I have to after a day of being passed over for a writing gig, or of someone reading one of my scripts and telling my agent they don’t think it’s funny. It snaps me right back. Nobody can tell me they don’t think I’m funny when a room full of strangers just told me otherwise. Whatever business endeavor you explore, I encourage you to find the thing that refreshes you and shores up your confidence, like doing stand-up does for me.
4. Building my career took a work ethic that started on the ground floor.
It may be surprising to hear, but every successful comedian I know has an extremely strong work ethic. That’s because most comics write their own material. You learn early on that there’s not much of a show until you sit your ass down and write yourself some jokes. So many people never get anywhere in business because their style is just to sit back and wait for others to start things up. As a comic, I learned right away the value of being an independent contractor.
When I first moved out to L.A. in 1982, Budd Friedman (the owner of the Improv) and his wife, Alex, hosted a barbecue for all the new comics who had recently moved out. Phil Foster, comedian, writer, and actor (Frank De Fazio of Laverne & Shirley fame), was a guest of the Friedmans and was BS’ing with a bunch of us. A buddy of mine was complaining about something or other, and I remember Phil shrugging and saying, “No one asked you to be in this business.” I remember thinking at the time what a gruff response that was from this grizzled old-timer. (Hey, we’re just eating some burgers and hot dogs over here!) But today I think the guy hit the nail on the head, and I might just say the same thing. Because it’s not only good show business advice, it’s good advice for whatever line of work you attempt. You put yourself in this business, and it’s up to you to make it work.
So all this is to say, the next time you’re at a comedy club on a Friday night, can you keep it down? I’m working up here!
CHAPTER 20
WALTER WHITE’S WORK ETHIC
When I cocreated Ellen DeGeneres’s sitcom, The Ellen Show, we ran into a bit of a problem casting the role of Ellen’s mom. We reached out to lots of A-list actresses and, as often happens, most of their agents came back to us with “offer only.” Meaning, the talent is not open to auditioning. And that’s especially frustrating because, as respected and famous as some actors are, the creator and writer of the show would still love to see them doing the part before offering them the role.
Well, after a couple weeks of trying, we weren’t getting far because all these high-end actresses wouldn’t even come in and read. That is, until Cloris Leachman. Yes, the Oscar winner, and one of my comedy idols, the woman who played Phyllis on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Cloris came in and she not only auditioned, she hit it out of the park. (Plus, she’s a pleasure and a delight in person.) And once Cloris came in and did that, she ruined it for everyone else. Because once someone of that stature has the balls (and sense) to come in person and do what actors do, all those “offer only’s” didn’t stand a chance. So never be shy; always be ready to dazzle people with your awesome talent, even if you think it’s somewhat beneath you. Your ability and drive are what got you where you are in the first place. Never lose sight of that.
If I impart anything to you over the course of these chapters, I hope it’s that finding what you love will make your life’s work a joy. And my wish is that you find a career as satisfying as the one I have. But the big and surprising secret is: it never gets easy. The one misconception people have about my career is that every day I’m coasting. As if you achieve a certain measure of success, and then you simply glide along. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s not that way in my profession, and it’s probably not in yours, either.
There’s a reason for my career longevity, with no slowdown in sight. The reason is this: every day, I wake up and I’m at it. I’m relentless. And although having to push so hard may suck a good portion of the time—and I do get pissed at still having to prove myself after all this time—guess what? It comes with the territory. In any business, male or female, Cloris Leachman or not Cloris Leachman.
For example, I’ve written for the Academy Awards seven times, and I hope to do so many more times in the future. But do you think that every time the Academy people announce a new host, they just call me up and book me to write the show? Far from it. Each year I have to work tirelessly to get the gig again. And if I decided to do anything less, then that many more writers would have a better shot at the job.
With Ellen DeGeneres on location for filming the pilot of The Ellen Show.
No industry supports a passive person. If you sit around and wait for the phone to ring, you might as well leave it on mute. And I’ve seen this situation grow much more intense over the years. It is so competitive and brutal and cutthroat out there that if I don’t start the equation with one hundred percent of what I know I can bring to the table, I’ll already be at a disadvantage. So many things along the way are poised to knock you down that bringing anything less than your best would be self-destructive.
No one hands you a career, ever. Even in my field, nobody gets “discovered” anymore. That ancient “Lana Turner sitting at Schwab’s drugstore” mythology doesn’t exist today. (Okay, maybe today’s Lana Turner gets discovered by making a sex tape, and then gets “pretend mad” when it’s released.) This theory is confirmed when someone like an Adam Lambert kills on American Idol, because he was a nuts-and-bolts working singer all those years before the competition. That prepared him for turning it up on the world stage. And Justin Bieber became a sensation only after he laid all the groundwork himself, working tirelessly making videos and doing live appearances anywhere and everywhere.
I’m often asked to speak at comedy classes or workshops. And the thing I’m most amazed at (besides the cost) is when the students tell me at the book signings afterward that it’s their fifth or sixth time attending. Don’t get me wrong, some of these classes are a good introduction to the craft—a place to feel comfortable and to work out the kinks. But there does come a time, with any venture, when the baby bird’s got to leave the nest. Want to find out if you’re funny? Go on stage and tell some jokes. Believe me, the audience will let you know. Just do it. (Kudos to Nike for an ad slogan that sums up one of the most existential and powerful keys to life.)
The great comedian Steven Wright gave me a piece of advice a year into my career that I’ll never forget. He told me, “You’ve got to go up onstage every night for three years. Three years, with no judgment afterwards. And that’s how you start to learn how to become a comedian.” I was so consoled by Steven’s words, because I regularly tore myself up after shows when I bombed�
�and I had plenty of those. The judgment so bad on myself that I was tempted many times just to quit.
So, whatever your profession, whatever resources you use to improve your skills—workshops, seminars, classes—don’t try to be perfect before you use those skills in the real world. Just put on blinders and stick to the work. It’s sound advice for any career journey. When you focus on that, you learn the invaluable lesson, to restate something I said a few chapters back: Control what you can, and screw what you can’t. This is one of the most important mantras I want to share with you.
I first met Bryan Cranston, star of Breaking Bad, when he was a recurring guest star on Seinfeld. (Remember in the famous Yada, Yada episode when he played the dentist Tim Whatley who converts to Judaism, and Jerry thinks he did it just for the jokes?) Anyway, at the time Bryan wasn’t the big star he is now, just a steadily employed bring-home-the-bacon-type actor. One day while making small talk with him on the set, I marveled about how a working actor like himself kept it together. Because I had a brief window, before my writing career took off, when my agent sent me out on some auditions. And I was miserable. Horrible at it on all fronts. And the worst part was, I would get completely obsessed after the audition, hounding my agent about feedback and checking in every five minutes to find out whether I got the part.
I remember Bryan telling me plain and simple, “Carol, I prepare like you wouldn’t believe. Then I go in for the audition and I focus on giving them my best read. But once I leave that room of casting directors and producers, it’s a distant memory as I leave the lot.” Bryan told me that when his agent would call with a booking, many times he’d have to remind his client which part he had landed. Knowing that, and witnessing the amazing career Bryan has had since the Seinfeld days, why would you even wonder at it? He focused on what was important—the work.
Swim or die. Good advice for sharks, and for anyone who has to be in the water with them.
Bryan Cranston presents me with my Emmy nomination certificate at the 2012 awards ceremony.
CHAPTER 21
THERE’S NO USE KVETCHING OVER YESTERDAY’S PICKLES
I get a call from my publicist one day. She tells me that a high-level entertainment magazine is doing a “Where Are They Now?” piece, and they want to profile me. My first thought: this request must not have made my publicist feel like a million bucks.
“Now why would I possibly want to be a part of a piece like that?” I ask her.
“Because any publicity is good publicity,” she responds.
“Well,” I say, “I’m not sure that I agree, when the name of the article could be ‘You’re So Out of the Business, We Can’t Even Find You.’ ”
So I passed. About a week later, my publicist calls again.
“I spoke to them, and they assured me that it’s not a has-been piece.” (Like a contractor assuring that he’ll come in at estimate.) “They asked if calling the piece ‘Catching Up with …’ would change your mind.”
“Catching Up with …”? Okay, great. So now they’ve found me, but I’m just coming out of a coma.
Did I mention all this happened just eight years ago?
Never let them see you sweat? Nope. My motto is, Never let them see you buried.
I’ve had an amazing run in show business. Almost forty years in a business where ten would earn anyone bragging rights. A business in which women are still a minority, by far, and are routinely paid less than men. And in that time, there have been at least six or seven times (not including this week) when I just felt like it was over. I mean, dead in the water over.
But I’ve learned that in those times of extreme adversity, when the business is not only showing me the door but has dropped me by the curb to be whisked away to complete oblivion, it’s my job to turn the situation around. I am way past my expiration date; most careers in my profession have the longevity of a prize won at a seaside arcade. Yet I still survive. Because in my heart, I know there’s still so much more for me to contribute and accomplish.
Rejection is an everyday part of business. Recite that daily when you get up every morning, and you’ll be one step ahead of the game. I’ll admit, this is still a personal challenge for me. It’s tough to be a sensitive person in an insensitive business. But I forge on, and so can you.
In some ways, rejection is easier to take early in your career, when you’re green and you know you have a lot to learn. But whatever your occupation, never assume that once you pay your dues and reach a certain level of success, every door will be open to you. As I write this, I was just interviewed for a staff job on a sitcom, and afterward the producers asked my agent for “references.” Now, a resume? Sure, completely reasonable. But “references”? Am I applying for work at Applebee’s?
I’m turned down for jobs all the time. Let’s take a look at an e-mail that one of my agents got from a bigwig at a very successful, Emmy Award–winning sitcom that recently ended its run. (This is after weeks of positive conversations with other bigwigs at the show regarding my joining the writing staff.)
From: XXXXXXXXXX [mailto:[email protected]]
[Sent: Monday, April 25, 9:37 AM
To: Katie
Subject: RE: Per our conversation/
Katie,
I lw for you …
Someone has been calling XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX trying to schedule a Carol Leifer mtg on XXXXXXXX … unfortuantley, it’s just not the right fit.
Would you please pass this along to whomever has been calling him or his assistant? They can call me to discuss at any time.
Thanks,
XXXXXX
Let’s examine with a fine-toothed comb, since this is my book we’re in …
From: XXXXXXXXXX [mailto:[email protected]]
[Sent: Monday, April 25, 9:37 AM
To: Katie
Subject: RE: Per our conversation/
Katie,
I lw for you … [“So you know it’s real important because I’m already e-mailing you after calling you.”]
Someone [“Someone”? Implies a person who shouldn’t have done it, like a ne’er-do-well janitor or maintenance man] has been calling XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX trying to schedule a Carol Leifer mtg on XXXXXXXX … unfortuantley, [Spelled wrong] it’s just not the right fit. [As in, a bucket of KFC at a PETA luncheon.]
Would you please pass this along to whomever [Again, implies a reckless wild card. Maybe an escaped convict found safe haven at a talent agency?] has been calling him or his assistant? [“I’m so serious about this, I’m even concerned about an assistant whose name I will never know.”] They can call me to discuss at any time. [“But there’s not a chance in hell they will, after hearing about this e-mail from you.”]
Thanks,
XXXXXX
Here’s the good news: You’ll hear the word “no” a lot. But it only takes one “yes” to get you started on something new. And that’s what drives me.
Believe me, when the time comes to leave the business, I’ll know it. (Or at least I hope my aide will tell me). Because there’s a lot to be said for a well-timed exit. Especially for the legends, it can be a delicate decision.
And some don’t exactly get it right. The great Bob Hope was the host of a few “Young Comedians” specials on NBC late in his career, and I jumped at the chance to appear in one. Especially when legends like Milton Berle and Phyllis Diller were also booked. So the producers asked me to come up with a line to use when Hope and Milton Berle “outro-ed” me after my set. I took a joke from my act, about how everything was going so great for me that “I was offered a three picture deal … two eight by tens and one wallet.” But poor Bob Hope couldn’t hear a thing, and he was not in the best overall shape at this point. He just turned to me and exclaimed, “Good for you!” Yes, it was a thrill beyond compare to meet him and Milton Berle (I still treasure a couple of cue cards I have of their banter from the broadcast), but that moment made me just plain sad.
But until it’s my time to bow out, bat me around all you want, busines
s. I’m still here. (Cue song of the same name, sung by Elaine Stritch at the Sondheim birthday concert in 2010.) I just hope I never become bitter (or at least, bitter-er). Because you’ve got to have a sense of humor about your career to survive, that I know for sure. There’s nothing worse than a table full of yammering AARP show business sourpusses at a deli who do nothing but complain about all the people who passed them by, and why the waitress refuses to put out the bright green pickles instead of the lifeless limp ones surely from yesterday’s batch.
(Trust me, I overheard that just yesterday at Jerry’s Deli in Studio City, with my still very well functioning ears.)
CHAPTER 22
THE FISH STINKS FROM THE HEAD DOWN
So much of success in business is dependent on the attitude you bring to it. And if you’re the one running the show, your attitude will definitely influence the attitudes of everyone else. Fortunately for me, the people who bossed me around the most—my parents—were two of the best possible role models for being a good boss. They showed me, by example, how important it is to value your profession and your workplace when you’re the head honcho. Hopefully, your own parents have left some great tire tracks to follow on your path from small fry to Big Cheese. But if by chance your folks ran a meth lab out of a van in Tulsa, Oklahoma, feel free to use my parents as models. Trust me, Anna and Seymour would be more than happy about it.
My dad was an optometrist for fifty years. It was the profession he pursued after he got out of the army in 1945, and he continued in it until the day he died. He chose his field wisely, my pop, because he found optometry to be endlessly fascinating. Anything dealing with the eye and how it worked was, to him, off the charts (pardon the pun). That’s not to say there wasn’t another vocation he dreamed of. He wanted to be a comedian, or a comedy writer. But to men of his generation, working in entertainment was no more than that—a dream. “Making a living” was the nuts and bolts of real life. And he was quite content to be the cutup for his captive audience of patients. (With limited heckling, also a plus in that dark exam room.)
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Crying Page 11
