QandA

Uncredited writing by a script coordinator

January 9, 2020 Assistants, Television

On Scriptnotes episode 432, a listener asked what could be done when a writers room assistant or script coordinator was doing actual writing but not getting writing credit. This morning, another listener wrote in with their own tales of uncredited work and how they pushed back.

As this listener makes clear, writing credit and low assistant pay are related issues. I believe there’s an ethical way to help assistants and script coordinators gain experience without having them do unpaid writing. This letter shows why it’s so important we address this issue.

I interviewed for a position as a script coordinator on a comedy. From the start, there were many red flags:

The current script coordinator was leaving before production,
There were severe miscommunication issues, and
People were already telling me about their own mistreatment

But I was coming off a five-month hiatus and needed a job. So I took it.

Before I started, I was told that most of the episodes were already written. When I got there, only three episodes were done, all of which would end up being heavily re-written and there were only five writers to break and write the rest of the season.

I was encouraged to pitch, as was the writers’ assistant. I was happy for the opportunity, but as we began shooting, I stepped up even more. Our showrunner was busy, so I’d get sent to rehearsals with directors and would be trusted to implement the rehearsal rewrites with little to no supervision. When it was clear that I was capable of writing in the voice of the show, I found myself re-writing chunks of episodes and full scenes in different corners of the stage, or at 1am, as well as implementing new scenes throughout multiple scripts.

Not all of the episodes had been assigned, so I thought that my hard work would be noticed. It was not.

Eventually, I realized I’d have to ask for a credit. But before I could, we found out that the showrunner had given an episode to a writer that was not on the show, had never been on the show and was not in the room when we broke the episode. And, in the end, the episode had to be completely rewritten.

By this point, I was exhausted. I was doing the work of a script coordinator, a staff writer, and navigating the manipulative and abusive work environment that was designed to keep people in lesser positions of power from speaking out because of fear of retaliation.

When the job ended, a weight was lifted. I came home and got a new job. The showrunner asked me to go onto the next show with them as a script coordinator, but I declined.

When the WGA reached out to confirm what other writers had told them about the showrunner’s behavior and the writing credits, I gave them the information they were looking for but declined to take anything further. I regret this now. I should have asked for credit; I should have spoken up for myself afterward and I should have never let it get as bad as it did.

But this industry is a dumpster fire that feeds off the lowest on the totem pole and tricks you into thinking that you deserve nothing. It’s a lie. I deserved to get credit for my contributions.

The show I’m currently on is a better environment, yet the same thing almost happened. The only difference this time was that I was annoyingly persistent and several writers had my back. It took weeks of convincing the showrunner to give me credit for an episode that I pitched to a room full of writers who all agreed that it was mine.

What it really comes down to is if you, as a showrunner, don’t want to give someone credit for their work, don’t let them contribute and certainly don’t take their ideas.

Yes, we’re apprentices, but apprentices work with the intention of moving up. It’s so hard to go from script coordinator or writers’ assistant to writer because the system feeds off free labor.

A showrunner once said to me that an assistant’s need for credit is purely driven by their want of compensation. Yes, money is important. But we’re trying to be writers. To be staffed. To turn this into a career.

That’s not going to happen if our work is never credited and we’re never seen as anything more than free labor. And, clearly, if we’re good enough to have you use our jokes and our ideas, we’re good enough to be staff writers. The problem is that we’re cheaper and taught to keep our mouths shut for fear of losing our job.

Fuck that. Ask for the credit. And don’t delete your emails.

Professionalism in the Age of the Influencer

November 20, 2019 Film Industry, Follow Up, General, International, Random Advice

On October 24, 2019, I presented the Hawley Foundation Lecture at Drake University. It was an update and reexamination of a 2006 speech on professionalism I originally gave at Trinity University, and later that year at Drake.

What follows is a pretty close approximation of my speech, but hardly a transcript. It’s long, around 14,000 words. My presentation originally had slides. I’ve included many of them, and swapped out others for links or embedded posts.

If you’re familiar with the earlier speech and want to jump to the new stuff, you can click here.

Back in 2006, I gave a speech here at Drake entitled “Professional Writing and the Rise of the Amateur.” In it, I presented my observations and arguments about how the emergence of the internet had made the old distinctions between amateurs and professionals largely irrelevant. Tonight I want to revisit that speech and look at what still makes sense in 2019, and more importantly, what I got wrong.

To do that, we need to start with a bit of time travel so we can all remember what 2006 looked like.

Here’s Facebook:

facebook 2006

Here’s Twitter:

twitter 2006

Here’s Netflix:

netflix home screen 2006

Here’s Reddit:

reddit 2006

Here’s Instagram:

instagram debuted in 2010

Oh, 2006 was a simpler time. The internet existed, but it wasn’t as all-consuming as it is now. We had blogs. We had MySpace. But we didn’t have the internet on our iPhones. Because iPhones wouldn’t come out for another year.

However, even in this innocent age, issues would arise that would feel very familiar today. We had fake news and trolls and pile-ons.

For example, back in 2006, I started my speech with this anecdote:

> On March 21, 2004, at about nine in the morning, I got an email from my friend James, saying, “Hey, congrats on the great review of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on Ain’t It Cool News!”

Let’s start by answering, What is Ain’t It Cool News? It was a movie website started by a guy named Harry Knowles. It looked like this:

aicn 2006

Ain’t It Cool News billed itself as a fan site. I’d argue that it was an incredibly significant step towards today’s fan-centered nerd culture, for better and for worse. Online fandom has brought forth the Avengers and fixed Sonic the Hedgehog’s teeth, but it’s also unleashed digital mobs upon actors and journalists, women in particular.

Back in 2006, the nexus of movie fandom was Ain’t It Cool News. It wasn’t just a barometer of what a certain class of movie fan would like; it could set expectations and buzz. Studio publicity departments checked it constantly.

So, back to my email from James. He’d written:

> “Hey, congrats on the great review of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on Ain’t It Cool News!”

This was troubling for a couple of reasons.

First off, the movie hadn’t been shot yet. We weren’t in production. So the review was actually a review of the script. Studios and filmmakers really, really don’t like it when scripts leak out and get reviewed on the internet, because it starts this cycle of conjecture and fuss about things that may or may not ever be shot. So I knew that no matter what, I was going to get panicked phone calls from Warner Bros.

I click through to Ain’t It Cool and read this “review.” And it’s immediately clear that it’s a complete work of fiction.

aicn article 2006

The author of the article, “Michael Marker,” claims to have read the script, but he definitely hasn’t. He’s just making it up. It is literally fake news.

Fortunately, back in 2004, I knew exactly one person at Ain’t It Cool News. His name was Jeremy, but he went by the handle “Mr. Beaks.” So I emailed him, and say, hey, that review of the Charlie script is bullshit.

Actually, I don’t say that. I say, “That guy is bullshitting you.” It’s not that I’m wronged, no. It’s that that guy, Michael Marker, is besmirching the good name of Ain’t It Cool News by trying to pass off his deluded ramblings as truth. How dare he!

And it works. Mr. Beaks talks to Harry Knowles, and Harry posts a new article saying that the review was bogus.

aicn article screenshot

They don’t pull the original article, but oh well. It’s basically resolved.

I can’t help but think — this article was wrong, but it was really, really positive. What if it had been negative? Would Mr. Beaks or Harry Knowles have believed me? Probably not. They would have said, “Oh, sour grapes.” My complaining would have made the readers believe the bogus review even more.

It might have led to the Streisand effect, where complaining about something just brings more attention to it.

Back in 2006, if you tried to really go after any of these film-related sites, criticizing them for say, running a review of a test screening or just outright making shit up, you’d get one standard response:

> Hey, we’re not professional journalists. We’re just a bunch of guys who really love movies.

Their defense is that they’re amateurs, so they can’t be held to the same standards of the New York Times or NBC.

That became the topic of my speech in 2006: the eroding distinction between professionals and amateurs.

The classic, easy distinction is that the professional gets paid for it, while the amateur doesn’t. For a lot of things, that works. You have a professional boxer versus an amateur. You have a professional astronomer versus an amateur — some guy with a telescope in his back yard.

Writers PA left to pick up the tab

October 25, 2019 Assistants, Television

Our mailbox keeps overflowing with new tales of assistant-dom. Producer Megana Rao reads every one and sorts them for future episodes. She also forwards a handful to me. This one, from a writers room production assistant (WPA), felt like one that should be read in its entirety, so I got the author’s permission to publish it here.

I was in my early 30’s when I finally landed a Writers PA gig on a comedy. We had a toddler so just to take the job, I had to work weekends waiting tables to pay for the childcare during the week. (Which is another issue entirely.)

The WPA job destroyed my soul. I was invisible to the writers except when they needed something or when I wasn’t at their immediate disposal for an errand. They would leave the room at the end of the day with their plates and cups and half-eaten meals on the table for me to clean up after them. One writer even told me when I asked if she would please throw out her food that “it was my job to clean things.”

I took it in all in stride. Lunch was brutal. (ed: Most TV writers rooms order in lunch. It’s a big part of a WPA’s job.) They were incredulous about the studio-imposed dollar limit, and at me for trying to enforce it. If they went over, some paid, others refused. It’s only a few bucks — who would notice – be creative with the numbers they’d say. They would become so enraged when I’d let them know they went over that I simply stopped asking to be paid back.

A few writers sent me on special snack runs and told me to charge it through. When accounting told me I had to get reimbursed by the writers, these writers would instruct me to tell accounting where they could shove it. Accounting would get angry and respond in kind. This would go back and forth and the whole time, the lunch overages and snack-run tab grew and grew. Eventually [the show] got cancelled and everybody split. Accounting told me I would be blacklisted if I didn’t pay the tab. So… I paid. It was almost $500. And I never told anyone.

If you’re wondering why I paid or why I I didn’t stand up for myself, then you don’t understand what it’s like to be a writer trying to break in. How working writers see you — writers who might be in a position to hire you one day — is critical. And I know this because one time I did stand up for myself and it came back to bite me.

Towards the end of our run, one writer who would often tell me how he had “paid his dues the hard way and that’s just how it is when you’re an assistant,” told me to go on a bakery run and charge it through. I told him that accounting had reprimanded me that morning for the millionth time regarding yet another sketchy charge for the writing staff and I simply couldn’t do it.

This was a mid-level writer who I could tell was on his way up…but I’d had enough and said no. I was respectful. Later that day after an all-writing-staff meeting, the higher ups left and this writer turned to me and very publicly kicked me out of the room making it clear I was no longer welcome when it wasn’t food-related.

When you’re support staff and you speak up, regardless of the reason or how polite you are, there are consequences.

I could have told the showrunner about this. I could have told him about the $500 tab. He would have paid. He would have brought me back in the room to be a fly in the wall —- but he was a kind and sweet person who was in over his head running his first show and I wanted to get staffed one day.

I’m no longer a PA or an assistant and I’d never do it again. I believe that forgiveness, of others and yourself, along with letting things go. It’s an essential part of being a healthy person. But for some reason, these experiences still upset me to this day.

I deeply appreciate you shining a light in this issue. It means a lot to all of us.

Hollywood assistants have always been underpaid, but this is different

October 14, 2019 Assistants, Film Industry, Television

One of my first jobs in Hollywood was as an assistant. It was 1994. I was just finishing film school, and felt lucky to get a job working for two busy producers. I spent my days answering phones, reading scripts and making copies. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was exactly the position I knew I needed, learning how the business works.

My assistant salary¹ was enough to pay rent, buy groceries, and see all the movies I could. I wrote on nights and weekends. Like every assistant I knew, I aspired to bigger things. I managed to get an agent, get some meetings, and eventually get hired to write a feature. In all, I spent about two years in assistant-dom.

Since then, I’ve had nine incredible assistants — all of them aspiring writers — so I want to believe I still have a connection to what that experience is like. But my sample size is obviously limited.

On a recent episode of Scriptnotes, we asked listeners to write in with their experiences as assistants, focusing on the impact of their low wages. To my surprise, we got by far the most mail we’ve ever received on a topic — more than 100 emails at last count. Scriptnotes producer Megana Rao made a 26-page reading packet for us that covered the highlights, from which we excerpted sections for the podcast.

In this post, I want to go into deeper depth on a few issues. As on the show, we’ve changed names and identifying characteristics in these emails.

Barry writes:

There is a widespread assumption that assistant jobs are for those “right out of college.” But in 2019, this is fundamentally not true.

Most of my friends who are getting their first staff writer jobs right now logged at least a decade in assistant positions. I became a WGA member and still had to keep taking assistant jobs for years after that, and so did many of my peers. Now of course, some folks get big breaks quicker than others, and move out of assistant jobs much faster — that’s always been the case. But for the vast majority of us right now, the days of being a writers’ assistant for one year and then getting a staff job are mostly over.

A staff writer job used to be viewed as an apprentice job (hence staff writers not getting script fees). Nowadays, showrunners are increasingly wanting experienced writers in those positions, often with multiple episodic credits already. There’s so much more competition now that showrunners can afford to set the bar that high.

However, if assistant jobs are still being paid like they’re for people who are “right out of college,” this becomes an enormous problem as assistants get older. It’s one thing to make such a paltry salary at 22, when you’re living the Ramen lifestyle, and have roommates, and are on your parents’ health insurance, and you’re maybe still driving their car, etc. But if you’re making basically the same amount at 32, when your financial needs have changed significantly, these jobs actually become MORE unsustainable the longer you’re in the industry and the more experience you have.

To me, this is the crux of the issue. Decision-makers — people in their 40s and 50s — imagine these jobs as being filled by their younger selves. What are they complaining about? they ask. I was an underpaid assistant, too!

These decision-makers are making two fundamental mistakes. First, they’re assuming that assistants are pretty much exactly like, well, me in 1994: white Americans just out of college with no kids and little debt who often have parents that can help out with expenses.

Second, these decision-makers are ignoring how much has changed since they were assistants two decades ago. A non-exhaustive list:

Los Angeles has gotten much more expensive.
Assistants stay assistants longer than they used to.
Owning a car is still essential, and costs more.
Medical insurance is pricier.
Short seasons make it harder to advance.

This last point merits a closer look. Barry again:

I currently work on a successful tv show. I worked for five months on the first season, then we took nine months off, then I worked for five months on the second season, they we took AN ENTIRE YEAR OFF before the third season started.

It should be pretty clear why the folks who make the least amount of money — and have the fewest contacts, and don’t have agents/managers repping them for other jobs — are going to be hit hardest in a scenario where the new world order is that the majority of jobs only last a couple months. This is a huge difference even from when I started in the industry, where getting a job on a hit show would AT LEAST mean that you had a few years of steady work before you had to start looking again.

In the old days of 22-episode season orders, it was not uncommon to promote a writer’s assistant to staff writer after the second or third season. At that point, the showrunner had plenty of experience seeing what that writer could do. But almost no streaming show runs for 40 or more episodes — and if they do, it would be after many years, with frequent breaks.

Christian writes:

I am a Writer’s PA (WPA). I have been working as an assistant in various executive and personal capacities for more than five years now. This is my third show as a Writer’s PA, though I’ve also been a Showrunner’s Assistant (SA) in the past.

You may be asking why I’ve been working for five years as an assistant, with SA experience, and am working as a WPA now. To keep a long story short, with streaming keeping rooms small and wrapping before production starts, there’s not a lot of growth potential for assistants on streaming shows. None of the ones I’ve worked so far have heard whether or not they’re getting renewed, and with wages so low, there’s only so long you can hold out on unemployment before having to take the next gig, even if it is a demotion.

Unintentionally or not, making sure assistants are not paid enough to build up a savings cushion between gigs is one of the ways in which the system benefits our employers. Many of us are so desperate to pay rent that we’ll accept the low-ball offer, because at least we’re getting paid. Those of us who try to negotiate are dropped from consideration for someone more desperate and ready to accept the low pay.

I’m still getting paid minimum wage. Because that is the “industry standard” for WPAs. Because being a WPA is considered an entry-level position, even when most showrunners are looking for–and receiving resumes from–assistants with experience.

What’s worse is that this production model of “room first, production later” is putting a LOT more responsibility on the Writers’ Room support staff. I’ve opened two rooms now, both without the help of a production office or production accountant. I’ve done the work of a production coordinator, office manager, and production accountant. I was the financial approver for the Writers’ offices on two of my shows, which meant any time we needed the studio lot where our offices were located to do something for us, I had to “approve” the studio charges.

The studio also made it VERY clear that they wouldn’t hire a Script Coordinator until production started (so after our rooms wrapped). Well, no surprise, there are script coordinator duties that have to be done the second writers start to write, so the burden to proof, distro, and handle contractual paperwork fell to me. Many times I found myself contemplating the ironies of being the lowest paid assistant on the show, stuck doing the highest paid assistant’s duties without title or pay bump. (Note: I was recently informed by an IATSE Union rep that this breaks union rules. I had no idea.)

Again: these are just two out of more than 100 emails we received on this topic. Then on Sunday, the #PayUpHollywood hashtag started trending with more horror stories.

I don’t know why the dam suddenly broke open, but my hope is that by engaging assistants, showrunners, agents and executives we can start to grapple with the inequities that are making assistant jobs unsurvivable for many folks who want to work in this industry. Both on the podcast and this blog we’ll be sharing more stories and solutions as they come up.

I originally put this as $550/week — $952/week in 2019 dollars — but I’m now doubting my memory. Was it actually $425, or even lower? I don’t have any pay stubs or tax returns to check. Perhaps a better yardstick is rent: It was enough that I could afford to live alone in a 1-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood, which in itself seems incredible. ↩