Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants

by Jill Soloway

  This is why when writers ask me what to do to get started, I quote the long-ago-annoying words of my ex-agent, CAA’s Joe Cohen, whose name I won’t change like Lotion Bag’s, because he’d probably love to see it here. Writers Write. Forget about becoming a writer’s assistant, or networking. Just Be a Writer.

  Yup, make stuff. Hollywood is chock-full of actors sitting around at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf pondering important questions like why that string keeps getting lost in the waistband of their Juicy sweats. There’s nothing they want more than YOU, a writer/producer, to look at them and tell them what you see. That’s what actors are, empty vessels of wont, giant need babies if you’ve read your chapters and didn’t just flip to the one you thought you could get something out of. Write a one-act play or charge up your video camera and call it a short film. Put an ad in Backstage for an open call, and you’ll instantly have a couple thousand people standing outside your door the next morning waiting to either blow you, read your lines out loud in front of a camera, or both.

  Make stuff. Cast a few people in your play and rehearse it in your living room. Shoot a video and give it a fancy film-look effect on your computer and edit it and show it to your friends. Don’t be afraid to figure out what’s wrong with it—something surely will be. Don’t pay a graphic designer to make a cute cover for it and then wave it around as your first sample—wait. Fix it. Learn from it. Cut it and re-cut it, re-direct it or rewrite it until you’ve honed your aesthetic, built yourself a voice and a perspective, a vision that you yourself can see. Directing is knowing the difference between what you like and what you don’t like. Writing is putting on a piece of paper things you think are either funny or deep.

  Sadly, you have to actually do it. Back when I was a weed-sucking, pot-dealing wannabe, I kept hoping that one day someone would come over, knock on my door and say, “Jill, let’s see what’s hiding in that My Documents folder!” No one ever did.

  4) Write a short story or an essay. As I said, a lot of the TV writers I know only want to write that hot sample to get hired—this year it’s Desperate Housewives or Lost. And yes, you need it. But you should also have all kinds of other stuff, and again, not just stuff you wrote to get a job. Everything recent and good in my career happened because of Courtney Cox’s Asshole, the short story I mentioned in the first chapter. I wrote out of frustration at not having heard my own comedic voice in so long. I wrote it for myself and to make my friend Becky laugh, and we started a reading series so I’d have somewhere to watch her perform it. The original spark of it was that small, the spark of the absurd humor between best friends. But after hearing the audience laugh, I got up the nerve to send it to the literary magazine Zyzzyva, where it eventually got published.

  The feeling of seeing your stuff in print, in a font other than Times New Roman, is a buzz. Be it an essay or fiction, it truly is a great first step in feeling like a writer. Literary magazines actually do read anonymous submissions. There is no way sending your script blindly to a studio will ever get it used as anything more than a door stop, but by putting stamps on manila envelopes and mailing things off to lit mags, you will get responses and if you’re any good, some of your stuff will actually get published. Again, you must actually print the stuff up and put it in the mailbox. These magazines do not have the budget to send people to your house, knock on your door, and ask you to show them everything you’ve written.

  You can find lists of the good ones in Best American Short Stories and Best American Essays, which come out every year. In the back, there’s a list, with street addresses even, of the places where they get their stuff. If you can’t get anything published in a literary magazine, at the very least get it published online. If you can’t get published online, you probably should consider being an agent. To find out how to become an agent, I suggest you take one to lunch and ask if you can pick their brain. One we like: Joe Cohen at CAA.

  The other important thing to know is that I wasn’t sitting around blowing bongs when I wrote Cox’s A. The stoney baloney part was six years earlier, before I had a kid. When I wrote the fabled anus tale, I was working as a sitcom writer. And when I got that sitcom job, it was because of a sketch job I’d gotten from someone who was familiar with me from Real Live Brady Bunch. In other words, there’s no such thing as a Cinderella story when it comes to writing. And in other, other words, in fact, so important it should get a number,

  5) STOP SMOKING POT. I’m serious. Just stop it. I know it’s the best feeling in the world, and if you’re self-medicating so you don’t kill yourself, then fine, keep smoking because I certainly don’t want your blood on my hands. But it’s the biggest motivation killer in the world and if you’re a guy it gives you man-breasts and it doesn’t make you a better writer, it only makes you think you’re a better writer.

  6) Brand yourself. As a writer, unlike an actor, you don’t have a face—just a name. From the moment you start writing, even in film school, you must brand yourself. I’ve met quite a few young writers who have a pen name and then, their real name. Often times both are on the front pages of their scripts. It will say the title, followed by: by Fiona Rockenwagner. Then at the bottom there’ll be a contact name and phone number for someone named Fiona Leigh Schmidt, or even worse, Karen Schmidt.

  This is really bad and superconfusing. If you have more than one name, all of your potential word-of-mouth is cut in half because half the time people will be talking about you using the name they call you, while the other half the people will use your stupid nom de plume. Do you think The Cheesecake Factory would enjoy the enormous success it does if every other week, it changed its sign to That Pie Emporium? Just pick your fucking name and get over it. No one wants to know which is your birth name and what’s your pen name. Besides, pen names make you look like a freak. And, yes, I once did a mailing of submissions under the name Sophia Soleveichik. Sometimes we think we have to change our names to give ourselves permission to write, but this is just the fear and self-loathing that goes hand-in-hand with being a writer. Recognize that fear as the uninvited guest at all of your parties, and move on.

  Also, registering your stuff with the Writers Guild and then putting that information on your script makes you look like a paranoid freak. It’s a complete waste of time. Nothing belongs to anyone. The definitions of “Zeitgeist” and “meme” are proof that everything belongs to everyone. Many, many people have the exact same ideas at the same time. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one person came up with the idea to name the concept Zeitgeist at the same time. Last year, word has it, there were hundreds of spec screenplays about guys rescuing adorable strippers, many of them single moms with initials like CJ or AJ.

  Most of the time these matching ideas will spontaneously self-generate. Millions of us watch the same television programs, and millions of us can add. Ideas are just things we’ve seen, adding or subtracting other things. Only on the incredibly rare occasion will people outright steal something they overheard at the next table at Swingers. Do yourself a favor and forget about all of this ownership crap. Unless you’re really litigious and like trying to find parking downtown near the courts, there’s no point in trying to protect your writing. Build a career, brand yourself, write every day, and no one will be able to steal anything you write because your voice will be something only you can do.

  7) No one, including me, gives a shit about your ideas. I get e-mails and phone calls from people who think that coming up with an idea is the ticket out of their tedious life as a hairdresser in Iowa City. WRONG. No one buys ideas from people who aren’t in the business. If they do I’ve never heard of it. There are two kinds of producers out here, non-writing producers and writing producers. Non-writing producers get paid for their experience. Writing producers get paid for their voice. If you can’t write, you need experience, so get out here and start at the craft service table like the rest of us. This entertainment business is an industry, not a lottery. We all had to work. When you think you can jump in
without doing the work, it’s an insult. Would you like me to come to your beauty salon and ask if I can do just one person’s hairdo because I had a great idea for a style?

  8) Everything everyone says is a lie. When Faith and I first got to town while producing The Real Live Brady Bunch, the people at Paramount requested a meeting with us. We dressed like professional ladies and went to meet a very important movie executive who shall remain nameless but if you worked at Paramount during the mid-nineties he was the one who looked like an alcoholic marionette. He had a cute young development girl with a name like Pheefo.

  They effusively told us that they had us, only us to thank for revitalizing the Brady Bunch brand name, and that they were so grateful we raised so much interest anew in their show that they wanted to involve us on the ground level in a movie they were going to make. In fact, they wanted us to write the movie, and probably even direct it. I mentioned that we had never directed a movie before, but the marionette told us he was sure we could handle it, as the Director of Photography does all the work anyway. We hugged everyone good-bye and walked out of the meeting, and when we were far enough away, we did that side-kick-heel-click thing. When we got in the car and closed the doors, we screamed, little tears in our eyes, fumbling for the phone to call someone, breathing those unbelievable soul sighs that say, “I made it!”

  We never heard from Paramount again. We never even knew for sure that we weren’t hearing from them again. This thing happened called the soft pass. It’s a way of being rude that involves a slow recession from the scene of the crime. At no time does the executive turn and run in the other direction and scream NO! I DON’T WANT YOU ANYMORE! They just walk backwards, smiling, moving ever so slowly, until they’re in another state or a different year. Calls are returned during the other person’s lunch break. To salvage self-respect, agents then double the amount of time it took to get their call returned before they call. Before you know it, you’ve “fallen off” the other person’s phone sheet. This is something people really say: “Oh my god! I’m so sorry we never connected! You must have fallen off my phone sheet!”

  You can tell you’re getting a soft pass any time your agent reports back to you that he and the exec are “trading,” which means trading calls, which means they’re hanging out in the hallways talking to their colleagues about whether or not they find Teri Hatcher’s protruding clavicle attractive. There’s a whole other language agents speak that takes a while to learn: “I left word” means “they hate you.” “They’re interested” and “they’re very interested” means “they hate you.” ‘They love you” and “they love the writing” means “they hate the project.” “They love it but they have to talk to Carolyn” means “they hate it and they want to put the blame on someone else, just in case you ever do anything worth wanting.”

  Similar to the “soft pass” are the “glass plans.” These are either social or business plans, made where both parties are fully aware they’ll never actually be kept. They are a way of saying, “later!” but involve the use of assistants’ precious time to keep a charade alive, scheduling and rescheduling lunch, then breakfast, then cocktails, then a conference call, until someone drops off the other person’s phone sheet, and a miniature version of the less powerful person is crouching under the more powerful person’s desk, geschrying in a teensy voice, paralyzed from the fall.

  9) Everyone thinks you suck until you don’t. It takes one great person to say you’re great before anyone else will. Mine was Alan Ball. Before he liked me everyone else thought I was just okay, that I had potential. People do this—wait for someone bigger to jump on board—so that if I write something so horrible that a test audience says, “This reeks of ass!” whoever hired me can shrug and say, “Alan Ball liked her.”

  It is possible that by the time this book comes out, a movie I have written will be in production, or even in a theater near you. Just last week, regarding a screenplay I wrote called Tricycle, they threw around the names George Clooney and Jennifer Aniston as the leads, and before that Brad Pitt and Kate Winslet. Luckily, I know enough not to do that silly side-kick-heel-click when I leave the office anymore, and in fact, not even to tell anyone. Except all of you.

  Getting movies made is like this gigantic energy roller coaster, with ever-increasing tries up the hill until there’s enough power to go over. The interest of people who have track records of making large amounts of money informs the velocity. If Julia Roberts loved it, the coaster goes higher. If Soderbergh’s office is “just trading,” the ride slows down. It continues like this, up, down, more people jumping on or off to be near the perceived hit or non-hit, continuing until the release of the movie.

  And if you think TV is like a big ol’ Barbies game, you ain’t seen nothing. Movie producers are eight-year-old girls sitting on the floor playing dolls, even if they’re Harvey Weinstein. Which two haven’t we smashed together yet? I wanna see my Drew Barrymore doll on top of my Clive Owen doll! No, put the Ashton doll on the Reese doll! Hey, I know! Let’s take off the Angelina doll’s pants and make the Brad doll kiss her ladyflower!

  Not that I know anything about movies, or getting movies made. I’ve never had one made. I overheard a dinner party conversation some development girls were having, placing writers in one of two groups, either “he knows what a movie is” or “she has no idea what a movie is.” Frighteningly, there was also “he used to know what a movie is but he forgot.” I have no idea whether or not I know what a movie is. I should know, because I’ve been to a few of them, but until one that I’ve written opens and opens big, I can’t be sure.

  10) You know that feeling? That sigh of “I made it!” that my sister and I mistakenly had in the parking lot of Paramount? It never, ever comes. Never. Every moment when you’re supposed to be feeling that apex of joy, perhaps at the Emmys or Golden Globes—you feel nothing. Just sadness, really. Most people I know bring a half a Vicodin or something to get through it.

  11) Oh, on second thought, smoke all the pot you want. Who am I kidding? There were many years when marijuana was the only thing that made me want to write. But after watching countless friends fight with sobriety, and wondering when and how I would ever be able to stop smoking pot, I now believe that the only solution for addiction is to make your life something for which you want to show up. The main reason I can’t be high anymore is that I’m doing something I want to get right. But I’m not here to judge. Do what you have to do. Just make sure you take at least one sober pass at whatever you do before you turn it in.

  Appendix 2 or

  More Pickin’

  And now, the answers to the most frequently asked questions about being a TV and movie writer.

  1. On Six Feet Under, does each of you write for a different character? Yup, that’s what we do, we all jump around in leotards and improvise in character, voices and all. Nooooo, I’m lying. We don’t do that. We each write our own scripts. We give each other feedback and help each other outline, but we write from the privacy of our own hells.

  2. Why are there so many producers? There aren’t really. There are just a lot of titles that writers can have and a lot of them have the word “producer” in them. The titles go in a very specific order, just like the patches you get as you move up the ranks in swimming at camp. These are the titles, and each year, you move up one, bringing with it a slight increase in salary:

  staff writer—tadpole

  story editor—minnow

  executive story editor—executive minnow

  coproducer—koi

  producer—trout

  supervising producer—supervising trout

  co-executive producer—whale

  executive producer—whale shark

  3. Will you read my screenplay and give me feedback? No. Will you come over this weekend and give me four hours of your time? You could re-sod my yard, actually. No? I didn’t think so.

  4. How much do TV writers make? Two thousand dollars a week. This is the starting salary for a staff
writer and it doesn’t increase until you become an executive producer. It works like this: as a staff writer, you get Writers Guild minimum, which was around $2,000 a week when I started. Your agent feels so bad for you that you have to live on that amount of money in LA that he doesn’t take his standard 10 percent commission. In year two, you make 10 percent more, so your agent takes out his commission and you’re back where you started. In year three, you start wondering why you’re not making any money, and have lunch with a guy who says that as your manager, he can make more for you, so you agree to try it for a year. He gets 15 percent. You figure if you’ve lived on two grand a week for two years, you can do it again.

  By year four you really want them to demand more money for you. Your manager tells you it’s illegal for agents and managers to negotiate—they’re only allowed to take you to lunch and call you on Saturday mornings to see if you want to meet them at the mall with their kids. By the way, don’t feel bad that I’m making fun of agents. They’re the last remaining group it’s PC to make jokes about. Remember when John Lennon said Woman is the Nigger of the World? Agent is the Nigger of the Hollywood.

  What you really need is a lawyer, so you finally find a lawyer whose connections and cojones can get you a 5 percent raise. But when the lawyer gives you his bill, you say you can’t possibly afford that, and he says fine, I’ll just take 5 percent.