When I was directing high school plays, I was constantly exhausted. You have to remember that I did this my first two years of teaching, which is brutal for everyone. Teachers in their first five years of teaching tend to work 60+ hours on a regular basis because everything is done from scratch (and I think English teachers need to work even more). You’re reading novels for the first time, learning short cuts in grading essays, creating engaging activities from nothing.
Add on to that 15-18 hours of drama practice, plus all the subsidiary directing duties (organizing with the creative team, dealing with high school student drama, talking to parents about why their child wasn’t cast as Hines for an hour, ordering lights, sticking around late for the lighting designer, finding costumes and props, cleaning, and so on), and you work a heck of a lot. In fact, my first year when I was directing the musical, I was working 100+ hours a week. I calculated my paycheck, and I figured that I could have been working at McDonalds for 100 hours and earned the same amount of money.
Those two years, I was constantly exhausted, getting four or five hours of sleep on a regular basis. Four times during those two years, I wound up with really bad cases of strep throat, one which laid me up for an entire week (they always happened during the plays).
When I was directing The Diary of Anne Frank, the play has the characters surviving off old kale. That was the semester I had three creative writing classes in addition to my two American Literature classes, which meant that there were about 95 short stories handed in (for two short story assignments), 95 poems (for about five or six poem assignments), and 95 plays handed in, in addition to the usual things I needed to do. It was a hellish semester.
Somehow in my mind, I had it that kale was fish. I was too busy to think about looking it up, so I just figured it was fish and determined that getting turkey Spam would be the best way of having a fish-like substance on the table.
In my last mad dash for props as we neared tech week, I picked up turkey Spam (in addition to cat food, a cat box, and cat litter for Mouschi) and showed my prop person how it should look on the plates.
I made the kids eat the Spam. I figured it had to be better than eating actual fish anyway (I don’t like eating things that swim, unless it’s a really gifted chicken or something), and it was easier to manage than fish. You just open the can, dump, and cut. No need to worry about choking on bones or a funny smell or anything.
It was so funny that first time with the Spam, the expression on the kids’ faces. I started out to cast the show different than normal—my Mr. Van Daan was originally a thin boy who dropped out (because he was upset he wasn’t cast as Peter)—but when he dropped out, my only other option was a somewhat round boy, who was very sweet and did very well with the role but wasn’t the brightest boy on the stage. That said, I actually think he did better than my original Van Daan would have. However, true to stereotype, he dug in to the Spam that first day with it. “Hey,” he said gladly doing his duty, “just eat it. It’s not so bad.” Everyone else groaned.
Nobody in the audience ever did ask me why my kale looked like meat, and it wasn’t until a few years later that I realized kale didn’t swim along the river bottom.
I guess we all learn at our own pace. And maybe Mr. Van Daan wasn’t the only one involved in the production who wasn’t the brightest.
the Broadway Mouth
October 10, 2008
Showing posts with label awkward but true stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awkward but true stories. Show all posts
Friday, October 10, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Don’t Tell Her Who Told You
You know, for a writer, those are the suckiest words ever. I’ve heard them twice. Twice! Life is so not fair.
I’ve already written about how much I hate networking and why I’m so bad at it (namely because I hate using people and that’s what networking usually becomes).
But, okay, there’s another reason. It always backfires on me and ends with “Don’t tell her who told you.”
The first incident isn’t industry-related like the second. After my first two years of teaching when I attempted to run from the profession in every direction but back, I wanted to become a technical writer as a way to support myself while I worked on my craft. I didn’t go to college for technical writing, but to my way of thinking, if you have skills, the desire to work hard, and the natural intelligence, you can write anything well, even poetry.
But not everyone agreed with me, particularly the people hiring technical writers. Fortunately, the librarian at the school where I had taught and his wonderful wife had a friend who had done technical writing. They hooked me up with her, and she gave me great advice. I mean, she really guided me. She wanted to give me a leg up, and she knew a place where they would likely be hiring technical writers.
But there was a hitch. There’s always a hitch. She gave me the name and phone number of the guy who owned the company, but she had had an awkward run-in with him at a meeting once, and she said, “Just don’t tell him who told you to call him.” She told me to tell him that I met her at a specific conference or something like that.
Did I mention I was only twenty-four at the time? I was a smart twenty-four, but in this situation, I was simply inexperienced.
So I called the guy. I introduced myself and said something like, “Someone told me to call you. She said you might be looking for technical writers and that I might be a good fit.”
“Who was she?”
Crap! He wasn’t supposed to ask that. That wasn’t in the game plan! He was supposed to buy it, ask for my resume with writing samples, and then interview me.
My response to his question was so incredibly stupid (like something I would have said during my days in improv) that I won’t even write it here anonymously. It’s that bad. No freakin’ surprise I didn’t get the interview.
Jump ahead to the summer of 2005. I am now a much smarter twenty-eight, and I am in California for the summer in an attempt to get a sitcom pilot, a drama pilot, or two spec scripts in the hands of anyone with eyes in the industry. Based upon advice in a book (pretty worthless advice, in my opinion, unless you happen to be a telemarketer), I start cold calling agencies in an attempt to talk to someone who will allow me to send them a script.
I start with the smaller agencies. No one cares, no one wants to hear me, see me, or even believe I exist. Every single one. So, I begin in on the bigger agencies.
I call one of the biggest agencies in the industry; I mean huge. This guy answers the phone.
Guy: I’m sorry, man, I can’t transfer you to an agent. You’re aiming too big. No one here’s going to talk to you unless you know someone.
Me: That’s how it is everywhere. I did start small, but nobody wants to talk to you unless you know someone.
Guy: Listen, I know someone you can call. She’s a show runner on South Beach, but I bet she’d be a great person to go to. I’ll give you her number, but you cannot tell her who gave it to you. Whatever you do, don’t tell her who told you.
For those of you not in the industry (or don’t have a $14.95 handbook like me), a show runner is basically a producer. It’s a high-level, work-your-butt-off-to-get-somewhere-and-have-arrived position.
South Beach was the very short-lived UPN drama (though everything on UPN was short-lived, including the network) co-produced by Jennifer Lopez, the show about pretty young rich people who have reckless sex (not to be confused with the entire 2008 fall line-up on the CW). Yes, it was UPN, but Jennifer Lopez gave the show pedigree, and this was a big-time connection.
So, I called the phone number, which must have been for someplace in UPN because that’s how the receptionist identified herself. I asked for the woman, and the receptionist says, “Oh, she’s out of the office. Let me give you her cell phone number.”
Cool.
I call her cell phone.
Me: Hi, my name is _________________, and I was given your name by—
Show Runner: Wait a minute. Who is this?
Me: I’m _________________, and I was given your name to call. I’ve written a few shows—
Show Runner: How did you get my cell phone number?
Me: I . . . called your office, and when I asked for you, she gave it to me.
Show Runner: I’ll have to talk to her. She should not be giving out my phone number. She just can’t be giving it out to just anyone.
Me: I’m sorry. Would you like me to call you back another time at the office?
Show Runner: I’m actually on my way to catch a flight. Who told you to call me?
Me: I’m not supposed to tell you.
Show Runner: What?
Me: He told me that you might be interested in reading my work, but he said I couldn’t tell you who told me.
Show Runner: He told you not to tell me?
Me: I know it’s odd, but he said you would be a good person to contact.
Show Runner: (awkward pause) Okay . . . why don’t you email me copies of your stuff. I’m really busy, but I’ll try to take a look at it.
Me: Thank you, I’ll do that. And don’t worry. I won’t call you on this number again. I’m sorry.
So I emailed her my stuff, and I never heard from her again. No wonder. Would you have emailed me back?
I guess I should have emailed her again to check in, then called to check in, then sent a sympathy card saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your job. I hope it gives you more time to read scripts emailed to you by freaks who call you out of the blue on your cell phone.” Live and learn.
Epilogue
I guess I need to justify these two embarrassing stories by saying that I was actually almost hired as a technical writer twice. The first one was for a position writing about medical treatments in a manner that an average person could understand. The interview went great, and the man interviewing me was a former teacher. We connected instantly, and he had full confidence I could do it well. When the time came, though, he did call to let me know that he had hired someone else, someone who had actually done that very same writing before. He couldn’t pass that up.
An interview for a second position was going really well. The man who co-owned the company graduated from the same college as I, and we shared a few stories of professors we knew. In an attempt to paint myself as a skilled and versatile writer, I talked about my playwright aspirations. Duh! He didn’t hire me because he was looking for someone long term, which is what he basically told me before I left. Little does he know that it’s been seven years, and I’m still not produced anywhere.
I haven’t mentioned this on my blog yet, but I actually did finally escape the clutches of the teaching profession. This past spring I was hired by an exceptional, small, privately owned company. I have the most kind, incredible, and all-around amazing employers and work with some really great people in a human services industry in a position that makes me feel like I’m doing some good in the world.
Getting the job was the story of my life. When I actually get the interview, people genuinely seem to like me, and when they check my professional references, they find that the impression is supported by my track record. I earned this position out of a pool of two hundred applicants, was actively pursued by my employers, and wound up very happy.
There’s a certain hip hop star out there. I interviewed with his/her personal assistant to be a manny. I didn’t get the job because my years of teaching weren’t experience enough. See, if you’d only checked my references . . . You would have had one heck of a manny . . .
But, for the record, I’m happy where I am now. I’m still not anywhere near my dreams, but I have been able to watch my niece grow these past two years, and I now have a job that doesn’t require every ounce of my energy. I actually have time to write! As long as I can write, I know I can improve until my work is worthy of production or publication.
But I hope to God to never hear anyone say, “Don’t tell her who told you” again!
the Broadway Mouth
September 28, 2008
I’ve already written about how much I hate networking and why I’m so bad at it (namely because I hate using people and that’s what networking usually becomes).
But, okay, there’s another reason. It always backfires on me and ends with “Don’t tell her who told you.”
The first incident isn’t industry-related like the second. After my first two years of teaching when I attempted to run from the profession in every direction but back, I wanted to become a technical writer as a way to support myself while I worked on my craft. I didn’t go to college for technical writing, but to my way of thinking, if you have skills, the desire to work hard, and the natural intelligence, you can write anything well, even poetry.
But not everyone agreed with me, particularly the people hiring technical writers. Fortunately, the librarian at the school where I had taught and his wonderful wife had a friend who had done technical writing. They hooked me up with her, and she gave me great advice. I mean, she really guided me. She wanted to give me a leg up, and she knew a place where they would likely be hiring technical writers.
But there was a hitch. There’s always a hitch. She gave me the name and phone number of the guy who owned the company, but she had had an awkward run-in with him at a meeting once, and she said, “Just don’t tell him who told you to call him.” She told me to tell him that I met her at a specific conference or something like that.
Did I mention I was only twenty-four at the time? I was a smart twenty-four, but in this situation, I was simply inexperienced.
So I called the guy. I introduced myself and said something like, “Someone told me to call you. She said you might be looking for technical writers and that I might be a good fit.”
“Who was she?”
Crap! He wasn’t supposed to ask that. That wasn’t in the game plan! He was supposed to buy it, ask for my resume with writing samples, and then interview me.
My response to his question was so incredibly stupid (like something I would have said during my days in improv) that I won’t even write it here anonymously. It’s that bad. No freakin’ surprise I didn’t get the interview.
Jump ahead to the summer of 2005. I am now a much smarter twenty-eight, and I am in California for the summer in an attempt to get a sitcom pilot, a drama pilot, or two spec scripts in the hands of anyone with eyes in the industry. Based upon advice in a book (pretty worthless advice, in my opinion, unless you happen to be a telemarketer), I start cold calling agencies in an attempt to talk to someone who will allow me to send them a script.
I start with the smaller agencies. No one cares, no one wants to hear me, see me, or even believe I exist. Every single one. So, I begin in on the bigger agencies.
I call one of the biggest agencies in the industry; I mean huge. This guy answers the phone.
Guy: I’m sorry, man, I can’t transfer you to an agent. You’re aiming too big. No one here’s going to talk to you unless you know someone.
Me: That’s how it is everywhere. I did start small, but nobody wants to talk to you unless you know someone.
Guy: Listen, I know someone you can call. She’s a show runner on South Beach, but I bet she’d be a great person to go to. I’ll give you her number, but you cannot tell her who gave it to you. Whatever you do, don’t tell her who told you.
For those of you not in the industry (or don’t have a $14.95 handbook like me), a show runner is basically a producer. It’s a high-level, work-your-butt-off-to-get-somewhere-and-have-arrived position.
South Beach was the very short-lived UPN drama (though everything on UPN was short-lived, including the network) co-produced by Jennifer Lopez, the show about pretty young rich people who have reckless sex (not to be confused with the entire 2008 fall line-up on the CW). Yes, it was UPN, but Jennifer Lopez gave the show pedigree, and this was a big-time connection.
So, I called the phone number, which must have been for someplace in UPN because that’s how the receptionist identified herself. I asked for the woman, and the receptionist says, “Oh, she’s out of the office. Let me give you her cell phone number.”
Cool.
I call her cell phone.
Me: Hi, my name is _________________, and I was given your name by—
Show Runner: Wait a minute. Who is this?
Me: I’m _________________, and I was given your name to call. I’ve written a few shows—
Show Runner: How did you get my cell phone number?
Me: I . . . called your office, and when I asked for you, she gave it to me.
Show Runner: I’ll have to talk to her. She should not be giving out my phone number. She just can’t be giving it out to just anyone.
Me: I’m sorry. Would you like me to call you back another time at the office?
Show Runner: I’m actually on my way to catch a flight. Who told you to call me?
Me: I’m not supposed to tell you.
Show Runner: What?
Me: He told me that you might be interested in reading my work, but he said I couldn’t tell you who told me.
Show Runner: He told you not to tell me?
Me: I know it’s odd, but he said you would be a good person to contact.
Show Runner: (awkward pause) Okay . . . why don’t you email me copies of your stuff. I’m really busy, but I’ll try to take a look at it.
Me: Thank you, I’ll do that. And don’t worry. I won’t call you on this number again. I’m sorry.
So I emailed her my stuff, and I never heard from her again. No wonder. Would you have emailed me back?
I guess I should have emailed her again to check in, then called to check in, then sent a sympathy card saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your job. I hope it gives you more time to read scripts emailed to you by freaks who call you out of the blue on your cell phone.” Live and learn.
Epilogue
I guess I need to justify these two embarrassing stories by saying that I was actually almost hired as a technical writer twice. The first one was for a position writing about medical treatments in a manner that an average person could understand. The interview went great, and the man interviewing me was a former teacher. We connected instantly, and he had full confidence I could do it well. When the time came, though, he did call to let me know that he had hired someone else, someone who had actually done that very same writing before. He couldn’t pass that up.
An interview for a second position was going really well. The man who co-owned the company graduated from the same college as I, and we shared a few stories of professors we knew. In an attempt to paint myself as a skilled and versatile writer, I talked about my playwright aspirations. Duh! He didn’t hire me because he was looking for someone long term, which is what he basically told me before I left. Little does he know that it’s been seven years, and I’m still not produced anywhere.
I haven’t mentioned this on my blog yet, but I actually did finally escape the clutches of the teaching profession. This past spring I was hired by an exceptional, small, privately owned company. I have the most kind, incredible, and all-around amazing employers and work with some really great people in a human services industry in a position that makes me feel like I’m doing some good in the world.
Getting the job was the story of my life. When I actually get the interview, people genuinely seem to like me, and when they check my professional references, they find that the impression is supported by my track record. I earned this position out of a pool of two hundred applicants, was actively pursued by my employers, and wound up very happy.
There’s a certain hip hop star out there. I interviewed with his/her personal assistant to be a manny. I didn’t get the job because my years of teaching weren’t experience enough. See, if you’d only checked my references . . . You would have had one heck of a manny . . .
But, for the record, I’m happy where I am now. I’m still not anywhere near my dreams, but I have been able to watch my niece grow these past two years, and I now have a job that doesn’t require every ounce of my energy. I actually have time to write! As long as I can write, I know I can improve until my work is worthy of production or publication.
But I hope to God to never hear anyone say, “Don’t tell her who told you” again!
the Broadway Mouth
September 28, 2008
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