Joel with Holly Marie Combs on set of Charmed
Greg’s step-father. Flip Wilson. Two British documentarians. Surprise party. Robert Kardashian. Cue cards. An Assistant Director. “Screenplay” by Syd Field. Girl in the laundromat. Literary agent. Variety classified ad. Free option (with strings). David Jacobs. Staff writer gets the axe.
A riddle?
More like notches. That shaped the key. Which unlocked the door to my career in Hollywood.
Part I of this article ended with: AN ASSISTANT DIRECTOR. After I told her that what I really wanted to do was direct – and she finished laughing – she made a pearl of a suggestion. “If you really want to direct, you need the one thing every studio wants. A great screenplay. Better start writing.”
Enter “SCREENPLAY” BY SYD FIELD. In 1980, the book sold for $5.99. Its straight forward breakdown of story, structure, and character parted the curtain. My higher education may not have been a total waste after all. Because screen writing and architectural design follow virtually the same process and discipline. Maybe not art. But certainly craft. Structure. Form and function. Process. Inspiration. Committed to paper. After all, what is a screenplay if not a motion picture blue print? Made real through creative collaboration of multiple disciplines, trades, and artists.
On set at Caesar’s Lake Tahoe 1981 with Charlton Heston
When I wasn’t working to pay the bills, I wrote. When I wasn’t working or writing, I was in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences library reading screenplays. This is 1980. No internet. No personal computers. No way to get my hands on a screenplay except in the AMPAS archives, which contained the screenplays of every Hollywood motion picture ever made. You couldn’t copy them. Or check them out. Only sit. Read. Learn how these film blueprints looked on paper.
It was revelatory. How spare the dialogue was in even the talkiest of motion pictures. How simple, elegant, vivid each stage direction was. Even the most complex action sequence. How naïve I was to think I could ever write like this.
But I was naïve. I put my head down and wrote one bad spec screenplay after another. Even bad writing wasn’t easy. But I could tell that each one was a little less god awful than the one before. I was motivated. Persevered. Because what I really wanted to do was direct.
GIRL IN THE LAUNDROMAT. It’s 1982. Close to closing time at the laundry around the corner from my apartment at 3rd and Cochran. I pressed quarters into a machine. Spotted a girl at the dryers. Reading a screenplay. I struck up a conversation. Rather, I tried. It was late. We were the only two in the joint. I saw she was uncomfortable. I retreated. Guess she realized I was harmless. She stopped to apologize on her way out.
I explained that I saw the script, wondered what she did in the business. Turned out she was an assistant to a literary agent. Wow! Told her I was a struggling writer. I’d been trying to land an agent. I’d drop off my material. Never hear back. Ever. She wasn’t surprised. Knew where this conversation was going and preemptively cut to the chase. She had just taken a new job at ICM. It was a huge agency in 1982. She couldn’t help me there. However, she previously worked at the Richland Agency, a boutique literary agency that handled a number of top television writers. Seth Freeman. Michelle Gallery. Linda Bloodworth-Thomason. She jotted down the agency’s number, encouraged me to give Joe Richland a call.
With Gene Barry and Carol Channing – Burke’s Law 1993
Incredibly, Joe’s assistant put me through. Joe told me to drop off my three best writing samples. I had been disappointed by so many agents’ empty promises that I told Joe three screenplays cost me $36 to copy at Kinko’s. Which meant I wasn’t going to eat the rest of the week. Joe promised he would read the scripts. Yeah, right.
Three weeks later, the phone rang. It was Joe’s assistant. Joe wanted to take me to lunch at Dan Tana’s. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Joe was painfully frank. My writing wasn’t there yet. But he saw potential. Encouraged me to keep writing. Send him new material as I honed my craft. As we parted ways, Joe did something that would soon change my life. “In the meantime, if anyone is ever interested in your work, you can tell them I represent you.”
Hello! Joe just unofficially gave me credibility I as yet didn’t deserve, but so desperately needed. So what if he wasn’t prepared to actively represent me. Unofficial representation was the next best thing!
Directing Brian Setzerr on 90210 set
Months later, I answered a VARIETY CLASSIFIED AD. An actress needed a personal assistant. I drove to her house in the Hollywood Hills. Learned the job entailed answering the phone, grocery shopping, dropping off her dry cleaning. The pay was okay. Good actually. I wasn’t interested. She was miffed. I explained that I had hoped the job was more production oriented. Somehow, my screen writing aspirations entered the conversation. She raised an eyebrow, “Guess I’d better read one of your scripts.” Another $36 later, I dropped off three screenplays. One of them, a drama on which I’d just typed “Fade out. The End” the night before. It was a period drama. About Albert Einstein.
The actress liked the Einstein screenplay. Very much. Saw herself playing Einstein’s first wife. Wanted an option. “Do you have an agent?” I smiled.
FREE OPTION (WITH STRINGS). Joe Richland knew this actress. Knew her husband was a producer. Knew he was producing a show with DAVID JACOBS, the creator of prime time soap operas, “Dallas” and “Knots Landing.” In exchange for a six month free option on the Einstein piece, Joe secured a promise that actress would get this writing sample in front of David Jacobs.
January 1983. David Jacobs calls Joe Richland. He’d actually read my script. Liked it enough to offer a freelance assignment on a prime time soap he was filming in Toronto for Canadian -2- television called, “Loving Friends and Perfect Couples.”
Holy shit! The assignment paid a little north of five grand. More than half of what I struggled to earn per year since I landed in L.A. It meant I could join the Writers Guild of America. Which meant, goodby free clinic. I’d have health insurance. It meant Joe’s unofficial representation was now official. It meant my parents were a little less worried. A little more proud.
By 1983, I had gophered on most of the studio lots in Los Angeles. Driving onto the MGM lot wearing this new hat felt completely different. It was validating. Exciting. And really fucking scary. As I walked into the Barrymore Building, it hit me how truly inexperienced a writer I was. You’re only as good as the last thing you wrote. As yet, I hadn’t written a single word professionally. I was an imposter!
With Wilt Chamberlain TWA commercial at Culver City Studios 1980
The imposter met with the story editors. Bob Porter. Roberto Loiederman. Terrific writers. Two of the very nicest people I would ever meet in show business. Because “Loving Friends…” was serialized, the episode outline was basically given to me. They handed me a stack of teleplays to get up to speed. Wished me luck. “Oh, by the way. We need your first draft Friday.” “Friday, as in next Friday?” They nodded in unison. “Friday morning.”
But this was Friday afternoon. Next Friday morning was six days away. Are you kidding? I had never written sixty pages of anything in six days. Now I was really, really fucking scared.
Fear and sheer desperation are great motivators. My first generation IBM Selectric hummed. I wrote night and day. Banged out a rough draft as Tuesday night became Wednesday morning. Closed my eyes for a few hours. Read what I had wrought. Threw up. A first draft is never great. But this was shit. The assignment was due in less than 48 hours. I needed at least 8 of them to re-type a presentable draft. Which left me forty hours. If I didn’t sleep. I needed sleep. At this point, I wanted to sleep and never wake-up.
Then, a strange calm settled over me as I reminded myself that writing wasn’t my career. It was a means to an end. What I really wanted to do was direct. Which meant I needed to deliver something that the studio wanted. I needed to shine this turd. And fast.
If you take nothing else away from my story. Remember this. Writing is re-writing. I re-wrote with a vengeance. Passion. Fear and sheer desperation are great motivators. Striving to fulfill your passion of destiny is the greatest. Scenes flowed. So did the dialogue.
I dropped off my first draft Friday morning, 9 a.m. sharp. I was not thrilled with the effort. Convinced I’d blown the opportunity. If only I’d had more time. I’d soon learn that in television, a deadline perpetually nips at the writer’s ass. It’s called the script monster. I drove back to the apartment. Collapsed in bed. Pulled a pillow over my head. Slept. All day.
Joel & Singer songwriter Neil Diamond 1981
The phone rang. Sounded like it came from a million miles away. I mumbled what I assume passed for, “Hello.” On the other end, David Jacobs. I still hadn’t met David. Had never even spoken to him. He only knew me by my writing. I didn’t know him at all. “Just read your script.” “I know it was shit. I am so sorry.” I didn’t actually say that. But I was thinking it as David added, “Good job. I have a few notes. A messenger will drop them off. Get the next draft back to me some time Monday. I’ll talk to your agent. Expect another assignment.” Click.
From the agony of defeat to the thrill of victory. In an instant. Or was David letting me down easy? He actually hated the script. Had no intention of hiring me again. In show business, insecurity is your constant companion. Fortunately, this wasn’t the case.
April, 1983. David gave me a freelance assignment on “Knots Landing.” Evidently I’m now ready for American Prime Time. Worth double the cable assignment! I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I won’t bore you with the details. The drill was pretty much a carbon copy. Only this time I had seven days to deliver a first draft. One more whole day to prolong the misery and insecurity of a talentless writer who was smart enough to know he wasn’t smart enough to fool David a second time.
STAFF WRITER GETS THE AXE. A week later I collapsed into bed after giving the Knots assignment my best shot. It was a Friday. Deja vu all over again. I put the pillow over my head. Convinced my effort fell woefully short. Fell asleep. My dream dashed of one day becoming a director.
Until the phone rang. It was David. Finally realizing that a show runner like David doesn’t call to deliver bad news, I snapped wide awake. He said, “Great job. Listen, today I had to let a staff writer go on Knots. Any interest coming on board?” “Seriously?” “You never know. A lot of writers like freelance. I take it that’s a yes?” “Fuck yes!” I actually screamed that out loud. Without the “fuck.”
On Set Directing
Four years after I took a calculated risk, the final notch on my key was cut. The lock turned. The door to my Hollywood career swung wide open. I worked at LORIMAR, which later became Warner Brothers TV for the next nine years. Story Editor. Executive Story Editor. Became a producer on the CBS western series, “Paradise.” Twelve years after David Jacobs gave me my first shot at writing, I directed my first hour of television on a series I co-created and executive produced. Like my first writing assignment, my first directing assignment was shot in Canada. A certain symmetry to it all.
What is the point of this hopelessly long story? No idea. Except that maybe… Hard work. Perseverance. Meets opportunity. Created by hard work. Perseverance. Dumb luck.
If I can do it, so can you. What are you waiting for? Discover your passion of destiny. Work your ass off. Persevere. Get lucky.