John August

First Person

So you’re moving to Hollywood

First Person, Los Angeles

Because this site is largely aimed at aspiring screenwriters, I like to include their first-person perspective on those early steps, beginning with the move to Los Angeles. Over the last few years, we’ve had guest blog posts from [Adam Davis](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2007/starting-out-in-hollywood), [Kris Galuska](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2007/moving-to-la), [Jerome Schwartz](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2009/jerome-schwartz-first-person) and [Jonny Summers](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2009/showrunner-asst) — all of whom are due for an update.

George Sloan is a writers’ assistant on “How I Met Your Mother.” He graciously agreed to write up a primer for recent college grads considering making the move to Hollywood.

—

first personHi. I’m George. You probably don’t know me. But that’s okay. We’re friends now.

Below is some information I’ve compiled over the last four-and-a-half years, based on my experience as a PA in the industry, as well as questions I’ve been asked by people considering the move to Los Angeles. Keep in mind, this is an unofficial and relatively shitty guide to working in Hollywood.

#The Big Move

Every year, thousands of 20-something guys and girls pack up their cars, leave their beloved suburban towns and head west to Los Angeles. And with good reason. LA is the international capital of television and motion pictures. Argue all you want about other places — Ne w York, New Orleans, Vancouver and Eastern Europe — but when all is said and done, LA is where you need to be. Granted, that may change over the next ten years, but as of 2010, LA is still the place.

Leaving home and saying goodbye to my family and friends, though incredibly difficult, was a necessity. But before I packed my ’98 Accord to the roof, I asked myself a question. It’s the same question that I pose to anyone considering the move to LA. “Aside from film and television, is there anything else you can see yourself doing with your life?” If the answer is no, pack your stuff and get out here.

George Sloan

##The Drive
Recruit a friend to drive with you, if possible. I drove alone, however, and loved every minute of it. Those five days in the car, thinking and listening to music, allowed me to prepare myself mentally for the enormous change I was about to experience.

##Saving Up
I moved to Los Angeles with $1,200 in savings. Dumb idea. I would suggest moving with no less than $5,000 in savings. LA is one of the more expensive cities in the country and you probably won’t have a job for the first few weeks. You’ll need enough to cover gas (about 50 cents more per gallon in LA than on the east coast), food, monthly bills (student loans, car loans, etc.), as well as your first/last month of rent and security deposit. You’ll also need money for furniture if you didn’t come out here with any. I moved in with a few guys I met on Craigslist who already had a fully-furnished house. That worked out well, but if you want to live alone, prepare to drop some cash at Ikea.

##The First Job
Finding a job in LA is not that hard. Finding a good-paying job that you enjoy is very hard. I did freelance PA (production assistant) work for my first year out here (additionally, I had worked as a PA back in Boston for over a year), working on some embarrassing low-budget feature films, as well as some embarrassing big-budget reality shows. The hours were impossibly long and the pay was hilariously low. The tasks I was asked to complete were menial and beneath anybody with a high school diploma. My friends like to refer to some of the jobs I had as “pride-swallowing.” I prefer the term “soul-crushing.”

##The Long and Winding Road
After a year or so, I got a job as an office PA on a big-budget studio feature. It was thrilling, but eight months later, I felt like I wasn’t learning anything new and decided to leave. I scored an internship at a well-respected production company, eventually transitioning into a full-time job as an executive assistant. But after a year, I again grew restless. I thought about why I moved to LA in the first place: to pursue my dream of writing and directing. My two years in LA had certainly not been a waste (I had fun, I learned a lot and I made some great connections), but I didn’t feel any closer to my dream of writing and directing. So I set what I considered to be a realistic goal for myself: I would become a writers’ assistant on a TV show. I had heard there was a “ladder” to climb in television writing (start as an office PA, get promoted to writers’ PA, then get promoted to writers’ assistant), and was growing increasingly frustrated by the fact that no such ladder exists in the feature world.

Luckily, around this time, I received a call from a former employer who said “How I Met Your Mother” was looking for a new office PA. It seemed destined, so I started there over the summer, and busted my ass. When shooting began in the fall, a writers’ assistant position opened up and I made it clear that I was interested and prepared to do the job. I got the promotion. It took me two and a half years to find a job that I didn’t consider “soul-crushing,” but it finally happened. I still consider myself “just starting out” in the industry, but I now feel more confident in my future.

##A Necessary Evil
The best advice I can give to anyone starting out in Hollywood is to find a job as a production assistant. It sucks hard, but it’s a necessary evil. Working as a PA is thankless. Truly. But it’s the nature of the beast. You must pay your dues. You’ll make shitty money, work long hours and be forced to swallow every ounce of pride that you have, but you’ll learn more in one day than you would in a lifetime of sitting in a classroom. You’ll also learn what you do and don’t want to do.

As a new PA on “How I Met Your Mother,” I was responsible for buying groceries and keeping the refrigerator stocked. Although it sounds silly, I took this job very seriously. Within a few days, the writers were telling me I was doing way better than the last guy and were offering to read any scripts I might be working on. Even the little things count. People notice.

##The Giant Whirlpool
I think of Hollywood as a giant, freezing-cold, bacteria-ridden whirlpool. On the outside of the whirlpool, closest to the shore (and financial security), are the executives, the studio heads, the big-name actors, writers and directors. As you move towards the center, you come upon the lower-level employees. And moving further inwards still, you come to the PA’s. There’s thousands of them, all clamoring and clawing, trying desperately not to get sucked into the deep, dark hole of anonymity and sadness. *Continues →*

Tales from the script

Books, First Person, Writing Process


I’m interviewed in the new book Tales from the Script, which talks to a bunch of screenwriters about their experience working in the industry.

I just got a review copy, and I’ll confess that the only thing I’ve done so far is flip through to make sure my quotes are reasonably coherent. And they are — so kudos to the copy editor. As I turned pages, I noticed many things I want to go back and read, including bits by the always-entertaining Josh Friedman and Shane Black. The book also features Frank Darabont, Nora Ephron, Paul Schrader, David Hayter and more than 40 others.

The book is blurby and conversational, like listening to a film festival panel in which the microphone gets handed around a lot. That’s not a criticism, but an attempt to frame expectations. I think a lot of readers will like it, but it’s not a master class or anything.

The book is available in paperback
and [Kindle](http://www.amazon.com/Tales-from-the-Script-ebook/dp/B00338QETC/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2) editions. There’s also a companion DVD
coming, if you really want to see the giant world map from my old office.

Sitting in on the Prop 8 trial

First Person, Follow Up, News

The federal lawsuit [challenging Proposition 8](http://www.equalrightsfoundation.org/our-work/perry-v-schwarzenegger/) began last week in San Francisco. I have a direct and obvious interest in the outcome; I like being married.

I have one of the 18,000 California same-sex marriages that remained in effect after the proposition passed in 2008. But it’s a piecemeal situation: the State of California considers me married, but Illinois doesn’t. Iowa does; Idaho doesn’t.

And as far as the U.S. government, I’m a single man.

This lawsuit challenges Proposition 8 on grounds that it violates the equal protection and due process protections of the U.S. Constitution. And if it turns out right, it could be a game changer like Loving v. Virginia, which struck down state laws on interracial marriage.

When the U.S. Supreme Court decided last week to block video from the trial, I lost my chance to see what was happening in the courtroom. Sure, I could [follow the updates on Twitter](https://twitter.com/#/list/johnaugust/prop-8-trial-updates), but the fortune cookie-length summaries didn’t feel like enough connection to a landmark case.

So I flew up to San Francisco to watch the trial.

The proceedings are open to the public. All that’s required is a civic interest and a photo ID.

There’s already ample [online](http://nclrights.wordpress.com/2010/01/20/nclr’s-legal-director-shannon-minter-on-perry-v-schwarzenegger-proceedings-day-7/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+NationalCenterForLesbianRights+%28National+Center+for+Lesbian+Rights%29) [coverage](http://www.law.com/jsp/ca/PubArticleCA.jsp?id=1202439304299&Trial_Airs_Mormon_Churchs_Role_in_Prop_) about what’s happening, and what’s being said. But none of them put me in the room. With that goal, I want to provide a sketch of what it feels like to be there, since most Americans will never sit inside a federal district court.

Setting
—–

The 17th-floor courtroom is impressive, both in appointment and scale; you could fit a basketball court snuggly in its footprint. Grooved planks of cappuccino-colored wood stretch up to a barrel-vaulted ceiling. At the front of the room, a massive wall of pale polished stone backs the judge’s bench. A single, undersized judicial seal hangs above. To the right of the judge, an American flag drapes around its pole, making it seem like the cloth is simply tacked to the wall by the brass eagle on top.

The court clerk and reporter sit on an elevated platform directly in front of the judge, a tangle of cables dripping over the edge. ((The court reporter’s transcript shows up in real-time on attorney’s laptops. I found myself reading it at times, amazed at her ability to keep up.)) The witness sits to the judge’s left. A single podium faces the judge, and it’s from this spot that attorneys must direct their questions to the bench or the witness. There’s no pacing around. There’s also no way to physically approach the judge for a sidebar conversation.

Every courtroom drama you’ve seen has long tables for the prosecution and defense teams. Take those tables and rotate them 90 degrees. Place twelve chairs around each and you have room for a lot more lawyers, each working off a laptop or a black flat-panel monitor. The plaintiffs’ team fills every seat at their table, while the defense has between five and seven staffers at work, with additional support staff at side chairs or tables. Wire shelves hold rows of binders. It’s all very tightly packed. Any attempt to approach the podium means stepping around others.

There is no jury in this trial. The space where a jury box would be has consumer-grade videocameras on tripods ((The video is carried via closed circuit to a spillover courtroom for the public.)) and two sketch artists. One of them, a man who looks like actor Richard Jenkins, keeps raising binoculars to get a closer look at his subject.

Roughly a third of the floor space is devoted to six divided rows of benches for observers at the back of the courtroom. They’re pews, really, which adds to the churchy feel of the chamber. The first two rows are devoted to counsel and badge-wearing media. The back rows are open to the public. Altogether, maybe 100 observers can watch.

Unlike a conventional trial, the plaintiffs (a gay couple and a lesbian couple) sit with the crowd. There is really no other place to put them.

The chamber has no windows. Occasionally, you can hear thunder from the storms, but the room otherwise seems detached from the outside world.

Characters
—

Everyone springs to their feet when Judge Vaughn Walker enters. Now in his mid-60s, his Cronkite-ish voice would make him a good narrator for a History Channel documentary. Beyond an opening conversation with the opposing attorneys about newly-filed motions, he says little during the day. Based on recaps of previous days’ events, I expect him to be asking more questions directly of witnesses and counsel, but he mostly seems content to listen. ((Except this: Judge Walker admonishes San Francisco City Attorney Dennis Herrera for an underling’s poorly-executed deposition, saying that the aide needed a “woodshedding.” It’s a really uncomfortable moment, like a professor announcing a student’s failing grade while passing back exams.))

You see little visible difference between the two legal teams. They are both predominately white, predominately men, and invariably dressed in dark suits. ((After a careful census, I decided the men on the plaintiff’s team had slightly longer, shaggier hair.)) Crossing paths at the bathroom, you are never sure who is on which side. But everyone is polite, holding doors and squeezing tight in the elevator.

For each witness on the stand, one member of each legal team is empowered to speak. Everyone else keeps to leaning-in whispers or silently mouthed words as binders are passed. Post-It notes are passed back and forth, with additional staffers squeezing in through a side door that’s partially blocked by a large monitor.

Witness testimony is often accompanied by demonstratives, PowerPoint slides that show a graph or related text excerpt. Both teams have staffers assigned to getting these on-screen, along with other pieces of evidence such as video clips. The defendants had brief trouble getting video to play with a clip from the Yes on 8 campaign, but the day was otherwise free of technical issues.

Structure
—-

For each witness, there’s a direct questioning, a cross-examination, and a redirect. During each phase, everything is more or less locked down. Attorneys and observers can (quietly) enter or exit the room, but everyone is expected to sit down and shut up. Judge Walker permits laptops and cell phones for email and tweeting, but beyond the light tapping of fingers on keyboards, it’s library-quiet in the room. ((I had forgotten my iPhone charging cable, so I kept my phone switched off to save the battery. This e-chastity ended up being a good thing, as it forced me to pay attention and take notes on paper, which became this sketch. A kind-hearted woman let me borrow her cable to charge up before my flight home.))

That all changes the moment it moves from direct to cross, or cross to redirect. Suddenly, it’s a flurry of pent-up action and re-setting. It reminds me most of film production, with crews swarming the set the moment the director yells cut. Staffers bring new binders and huddle for quick conversations.

The judge calls a ten-minute break in the morning, and another one later in the afternoon. At lunch, everyone heads downstairs to the commissary on the second floor. I have lunch with the plaintiffs. It’s a small world; Jeffrey Zarrillo manages the same movie theaters in Burbank my husband used to run, and we know some of the same people.

While there is a lot of trial coverage online, I don’t see any traditional media all day. No cameras, no tape recorders, nothing.

The day’s work ends at 4 p.m., after the plaintiff’s redirect of Professor Lee Badgett.

Dialogue
—-

In a trial without a jury, attorneys are not trying to elicit sympathy. That’s not say there are not emotional moments; several witnesses have teared up on the stand. But feelings are not as important as facts. Both sides are trying to get things on the record, which means getting witnesses on the stand to say what they need to say.

For direct testimony, this is pretty straightforward. The attorney asks a structured series of questions that allows the witness to make the required points.

During the cross-examination, the opposing attorney tries to make his case, either by presenting contrary evidence or drilling into a something the witness said. As an observer, this often feels like hearing the setup to a joke, trying to anticipate the punchline. The attorney asks a series of questions, and you wonder, “Where is he going with this?”

A few years ago, I had to give a deposition in a civil trial. I started the day giving very detailed answers, treating it like an EPK interview for a movie I’d written. Then I realized that every new thing I said introduced four more questions. By the fifth hour, I’d figured out the advice generally given to witnesses: listen, evaluate, formulate, talk. And then shut up.

We have a natural instinct to move things along and fill awkward silences, but the best witnesses take their time, unhurried and unflappable. When asked, “Would you also agree..,” they don’t. They restate their points in simple terms.

It’s nothing like movie or TV courtrooms with their zippy rhetorical boxing. Rather, it’s slow and calculated, like a chess match. During one particularly soporific stretch, the defense asked Professor Badgett to work through a lot of hypothetical math. Written figures are dry; spoken figures are numbing. To her credit as a witness, she cooperated without ever indulging his conclusions. But the audience thinned noticeably as the cross-examination reached its third hour.

The verdict
—-

The trial is expected to wrap up as early as next week, so anyone hoping to see it in person should plan on getting there soon.

Depending on the testimony, it can be riveting or dull. Like church, you may find yourself squirming, trying to find new ways to sit on the benches without your tailbones breaking through your flesh.

But no matter how strongly you feel on the issue of same-sex marriage, it’s a fascinating opportunity to see a part of government that otherwise functions off-screen. I’d recommend a day in court to any interested citizen.

For a broader overview of the issues in this case, I’d point you to an excellent piece in the [New Yorker](http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/01/18/100118fa_fact_talbot).

What does a showrunner’s assistant do?

Film Industry, First Person, QandA, Television

In addition to a name that sounds like a children’s book hero, Jonny Sommers has a job many readers want — or at least, think they want: the assistant to a successful and busy TV showrunner.

I met him through Larry Andries, who is also writer/showrunner (but not Jonny’s boss). It was at a birthday party at a speakeasy in Koreatown, complete with a password at the door. So don’t forget that mixing and mingling is a crucial part of the industry.

When I found out what Jonny did, I asked him to write a first-person account for the blog. And here it is.

—

first personMy name is Jonny Sommers and I’m a 25-year old nascent screenwriter. I’ve been living in Los Angeles for a little over three years. For the past year and a half, I’ve been employed as a showrunner’s assistant on a network hour drama show.

The job is akin to any other assistant gig in Hollywood. Difference is, your boss is running a corporation called a “TV show” and it employs hundreds of people. It’s the showrunner’s job to run the corporation smoothly, to make the best television possible. It’s your job make sure your boss can do their job well. This means:

* managing their schedule
* rolling calls (keeping a thorough call log and forwarding any calls to their cell)
* setting up travel
* coordinating their day
* making sure they are where they need to be and are as informed as possible
* reading scripts and writing coverage (providing a story synopsis and comments)
* taking notes on calls
* getting coffee
* getting gas for their car
* sending gifts
* setting up dinners
* getting that salad from that one place they love
* listening to them vent their frustrations
* being a gatekeeper and sometimes, their confidant.

There’s a large learning curve to the job. When I was new, I made more than my fair share of mistakes.

jonny sommers wga strikeYou cannot forget that word “assistant” in your title. Though you have access to every aspect of your boss’ life, you’re not an executive. Your thoughts, your feelings, and your opinions aren’t particularly important. Maybe one day your boss and you will forge some professional relationship and you’ll become more than an assistant. Until then, be quiet, listen, and make sure your boss looks good.

Your boss can ask you anything at any time and they don’t want to wait for an answer. Maybe it’s the name of an actor’s agent, or the shooting start time, or casting director’s cell number. You need to have all of this information ready.

The job requires long hours. You could be there late into the night. If you’re a clock-watcher, you’re doomed. I don’t mind the long hours because each moment is a chance to learn. It’s not that I have to stay until 2 AM because they’re still shooting, it’s that I get to stay.

Being flexible means your life plans take second place to the job. You will disappoint people because you will often have to blow off the 7:30 movie you planned or explain to your significant other that you’re working late, again.

Gatekeeping and Trust
—

With the hundreds of people associated with a network show, your boss is a wanted person. Everybody wants a piece of his or her time. Whatever issue they want to talk about, to that person, it’s the most important thing in the world.

It is your job to prioritize their day and protect their time so they can deal with more pressing matters. You’ll need to have a solid working knowledge of Hollywood and its players. Beyond knowing the names of cast, crew and executives on the show, you need to know who’s currently important in Hollywood. Is that person who just left word (industry term for leaving a message) a big movie producer or some no-name agent making unsolicited calls?

The relationship between showrunner and assistant requires trust. Since you are listening in on many of their calls, you’ll have experience with how the entertainment industry works. This also means that you’re privy to very confidential information. Subsequently, people on the show will try to buddy up with you to glean information.

sommers under deskA few years back, a young woman, brand new to Hollywood, somehow landed an assistant position at a major agency. At the end of her first week, she sent her hometown friends a breathlessly gushy e-mail about all the important people she’s met, and the juicy conversations she’s overheard. Unfortunately, she accidentally sent the e-mail to her the entire agency. She was fired on the spot.

The Good
—-

For any open showrunner assistant gig, there might be 200+ applicants. It is the job that most assistants would kill for. Tourists pay fifty bucks a person to get a tour of where you work. You’re surrounded by celebrities. If you freeze your DVR, you might see your name in the end credits. You get to go to various parties and drinks with other assistants. You get free show presents such as sweatshirts, DVDs, screening tickets and so on. Plus, the pay isn’t that bad.

You’re in proximity to brilliant writers, directors, actors and other industry professionals. When my boss was hiring a writing staff for his show, I was able to get a first-hand look at how he, the studio, and the network, selected the staff. Those lessons will be beneficial when I’m going out for a job as a staff writer, which is my next career goal.

Not all showrunner’s assistants want to write. Some want to direct, produce, or work as a studio executive. Whatever your aspirations might be, this job can help you get there but it doesn’t guarantee that you will. If you don’t make the most of the opportunity, it can pass you by. This job, no matter how cool it is, should be a springboard and not an ultimate destination.

The Bad
—-

There are some weeks when I’m just praying for it to be Friday. Beyond the long hours, the job is extremely fast-paced and very stressful. There are times I feel as though I’m drowning in work and my “To Do List” is growing infinitely.

Sometimes, what your boss is asking for may seem impossible. A friend of mine received a phone call at three in the morning. His boss was in New York City and wanted a private plane to fly him back to Los Angeles at 8 AM. That gave my friend two hours to locate a plane, a pilot, and get his boss on the plane. Somehow he got it done. When his boss arrived to work, my friend was treated with no fanfare. What he did was difficult and impressive but that’s the job. Your boss doesn’t need to thank you, or acknowledge a job well done. This is what you signed up for. If you’re a person that needs constant praise, this job may not be for you.

One executive I know described the assistant-showrunner relation this way: “You’re sort of like my fridge. I just expect it to work.”

From the second my boss walks in the door, to the moment work is done (not when he leaves because your responsibilities will keep you in the office long after your boss leaves) you have to be ‘on’ constantly.

Have you ever been to the circus and saw a juggler juggling fifteen sharp knives? Well, sometimes my job feels that way. Most days start off with my boss rattling off things we need to get done. “Jonny, did we call this person?” “Jonny, are we shooting on the location next Thursday?” “Jonny, can you get my car washed?” “Jonny, did you schedule that meeting?” “Jonny, did you read the pages that came out last night?”

Do your job, wear a smile, and don’t whine. When I first moved to LA, a friend who is a successful writer on a famous show offered me some advice. I asked, “What makes a good assistant?” He answered, “Just shut the fuck up and do your job.” It’s some of the best advice I’ve ever received.

Oh, and you should write, too
—–

The most challenging part of the job happens when the day is over. After a fourteen-hour day of phone calls, endless questions, boring reading, and double-checking schedules, you’re fried. Here comes the second part of the job -– the part where you go home and practice your craft.

There is no such thing as a career assistant in Hollywood and no one is going to promote you to staff writer because you’re really good at rolling calls. You need to be really good at writing. Writing is the only credential that matters.

When you finally get home, you are in complete control of your career destiny. At the end of these long days, writing is the last thing you want to do. Motivating yourself to write in the wee hours, and knowing that you need to get up early to do it all over again, is really difficult. However if you’re serious about making the leap from a Hollywood assistant to a Hollywood writer, you’ll find the time.

It can be tempting to want to share your work with your boss, but there’s an appropriate way and an inappropriate way of advancing your career. The first few months is not time to ask for your boss to read your script. The absolute worst thing you could do is go behind your their back and ask one of their colleagues for a read of your script. The dynamic is akin to any relationship that takes time and trust. Use common sense before you call in any favors. The safe route would be to wait until boss offers to read your script.

Speaking of script, I should really get back to this spec script I’m writing.