by Pamela Douglas

Recently, a student on the verge of graduating asked me what was the single most important lesson I’d learned in writing for television. Her question started me thinking. Of course, I’d acquired writing skills, some insights into what works on screen, and a few experiences negotiating the system. But that’s not what she meant. She was looking for career advice gleaned from what I might have done better.

I fast-forwarded through mistakes I’d made, like the time I turned down a staff position on a series because three better opportunities were around the corner. Well, one show wasn’t picked up; on a second, the producer decided to write the pilot himself; and for job three, another writer was chosen. I found myself out of work as a writer for more than six months. Fortunately, I’ve had a “day job” teaching screenwriting at USC throughout my writing career, but it’s not unusual for writers to be “between assignments” for months at a time. I’m telling you this taking into consideration the pay is consistent and you may feel lulled into a sense of security. Here’s my advice: Get yourself some other survival resource, whether that’s an alternate writing venue (like journalism or educational videos), or a non-writing job, or a partner who helps carry expenses.

But was that the most important lesson I wanted to pass on to the student?

I also thought about scripts I might have written better. When you see your work on screen, sometimes you’re grateful – really – to the actors and directors who bring a moment to life. But once in a while you cringe, “I did not write that clunky line …did I?” Or, “Does this seem as slow to you as it does to me? Why didn’t I tighten that beat? No, it was the director’s fault …or was it my fault?” But all that’s really fleeting.

The more I considered what mattered in building a writing career I came to a single lesson: Make friends. No doubt, you’ve heard the line “it’s who you know, not what you know;” or, put another way, “this town is all about relationships.” Those glib sayings fit certain agents, managers and producers. But I suggest you think about it somewhat differently as a writer.

Especially on TV series staffs, the act of creating is not private, though you certainly bring your unique talents. Writers tend to want to work with other writers who enable them to do their own best work. That often means choosing collaborators who make them comfortable enough to take creative risks, and who can be trusted to deliver quality dialogue or story twists or humor or tales of life. Much of this rests on what’s on the page. But no producer-writer has the time to comb every writing sample. Producers hire who they know.

Now, that doesn’t mean you have to party with powerful people or suck up to their families. It means forming networks of professional trust. You do that through good work followed by staying in touch. Students just out of film school often form workshops that meet at each other’s apartments, not only for continuing feedback on writing, and commiseration, but also for the connections. One of my writing students formed an alliance with a producing student who wanted to be an agent. On graduating, the junior agent got a job as, well, a junior agent, and brought along the writer as a first client. In time, they rose together.

If you’re not in film school, you might make similar connections at seminars, workshops, and extension classes open to the public. Or maybe you’ll land a beginning assignment on a small show. The people in the cubicles next to you aren’t always going to be in those cubicles. Someone’s going to move on to a better series, someone’s going to become a producer, someone’s going to be asked to recommend a writer, maybe with qualifications just like yours. Join professional groups, and when you’re eligible, become active in the Writers Guild. Even if you’re shy or a hermit (or so focused on the characters you’re creating you don’t want to be bothered with actual humans), push yourself out of your shell. That’s the one thing I wish I’d done more, and I offer it to you as the career lesson I learned.

If it wasn’t for my history with one particular network executive I wouldn’t have been able to tell a story that meant a lot to me. A teenage friend of my daughter was visiting one day and mentioned, all too casually, that her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. The girl blew it off as if it didn’t affect her. I realized she was in deep denial, utterly unprepared to face the reality of the upcoming surgery. Thinking about her, it occurred to me that dramas had been done about breast cancer – and the last thing I wanted to do was a disease-of-the-week movie – but no one had dealt with this serious subject from the daughter’s point of view. What interested me was not the illness but the relationship and how such an event would affect a teenager’s sense of what it means to be a woman, and what would happen if she lost her mother.

Had I set out to write a script, or even a treatment, or even a pitch, and asked my agent to arrange meetings with potential producers, followed by waiting for their responses, followed by scheduling network meetings, and re-scheduling them after they’re postponed, followed by who-knows-how-many network pitches, followed by who-knows-how-long-I’d-wait for an answer that might be no … half a year might go by before I could write this, if ever.

Instead, I picked up the phone. I had some credits at CBS – four were on series and a couple of others on original dramas – and a year earlier I’d shared a table with one of the CBS Vice Presidents. We were at the ceremony for the prestigious Humanitas Prize that gives awards for writing in film and television, and I was a finalist for an original drama that she’d greenlighted. When I didn’t win, she leaned over and whispered something like “let’s try again,” or “let’s do something else.” I don’t think I actually heard her words over the applause for my competitor.

But that was enough of a “relationship” for her to take my phone call. I did a minimal pitch, like “let’s do something about breast cancer but from the teenage daughter’s point of view.” She said “Sure. Who do you want to produce?” I chose a company I’d worked with before because I liked their attitude of respecting the script and I believed I could trust the taste of a particular producer there. Also, I knew they’d be approved because they were a frequent vendor. The network V.P said fine. One quick call to the producer’s office, and the deal was done. A year later, that project, “Between Mother and Daughter,” did win the Humanitas Prize. My point isn’t about winning awards, of course. I’m showing you how wheels turn based on relationships – not personal ones, but through mutual respect.

At other times, I’ve lost out on being considered for staffs of shows because I wasn’t part of a social circle – the show-runners simply didn’t know me. I understand how frustrated you may feel on the outside looking in. So in the spirit of learning from my mistakes, here’s a tale of:

The Staff from Hell

(Cue howling wolves and lightning)

Anyone who has been on staff has a war story. That’s because the proximity of staff writing resembles a trench during a battle. You make close buddies, or have to watch your back, or both. When I entered my own staff hell, I already had a number of produced credits and had spent time on staffs before, though they were either outside the mainstream or short-lived because the series were quickly cancelled. So this was my first experience on a staff of a major network show, and I made every mistake in the book – only there wasn’t any book at the time.

Mistake 1: Don’t Separate from the Staff.

Since the series was new, it was allotted a floor of empty offices on a studio lot. The show-runner walked the whole staff over and let each of us claim the office we wanted. I thought the quality of my writing was what mattered so I grabbed the quietest spot waaaay off in a distant corner. Meanwhile, the savvy guys nabbed offices that hugged the show-runner’s. Every time he walked out of his office he saw them, and they’d be at hand for quick rewrites – the staff members he’d come to rely on. And they’d be first to overhear gossip – actors in or out of favor, network pressures, production or story glitches – and nudge their drafts accordingly.

This principle of staying in the mix infuses all the situations below, though it applies mostly to beginning staffers. At higher echelons, producer-writers can’t be in the office all the time because they’re on the set or away on location shoots. And on many shows “creative consultants” aren’t around at all unless they’re called. But these lessons are meant for you.

Mistake 2: Don’t Mix Personal and Work Issues.

Every staff becomes a family, dysfunctional or mellow. Now imagine your family members locked in one room together all day, every day for six months. Got the picture?

A degree of intimacy is unavoidable at the writing table when the staff is delving the feelings and motives of characters, pulling from their own experiences. “When a guy stood me up, this is what I did…” That sort of insight can inform the realness of storytelling – a good thing.

But honesty can rise awfully quickly to “tmi” (too much information). You’ll know you slipped over the edge between confessions in group therapy and story beats by the discomfort in the room or the head writer saying “let’s move on.” Remember, this is collaboration on shared character arcs that involves “catching the voice” of existing characters. One day, if you’re the series creator it may also be a more personal expression; now, you’re on a team.

Even if you’re cool at the writer’s table, watch out to maintain “friendly professionalism” at lunch, at the water cooler, everywhere at work. The other writers may be competing with you. On the staff-from-hell, I stopped by the office of my “new friend,” who I’ll call Mr. Horns. Like me, he was a lower-level staffer trying to get a toe-hold on the career ladder. Two tiny pink booties from his baby daughter hung from his desk lamp.

I related immediately – I also had a young child. Ruefully, he said he left in the morning before she was awake and came home after she was asleep and was too busy writing on the weekend to spend time with her. “I’ll see her in six months when we’re on hiatus,” he shrugged. I commiserated and confided that juggling my schedule was an issue. He shook his head – his wife didn’t work, so she took care of everything at home. “You’re not going to be able to do this job,” he said flatly, as I noticed the protrusions on the sides of his head. And he was sure to relay my problem to the boss.

Mistake 3: Don’t Have Other Plans.

Unfortunately, Mr. Horns was partly right. Working on a series staff consumes most of your time and all your energy. It’s great for people who have few outside obligations, but balancing a home life is tricky. I did work on one show where the entire staff had kids, and it was so well-organized that we almost always arrived at ten and left at five. The Supervising Producer had the clout to negotiate a deal to arrive at 8:30 so she could leave at four, most days, and be around when her kids came home from school. That’s rare, though.

This is not about women’s issues or family versus career. When you agree to join a series staff, your life has to change. You can’t take much of a lunch break with friends. Chances are you’re catching lunch in the studio commissary or at your desk. You may have only an hour between the morning staff meetings and an afternoon screening, or between casting and dailies, or between a quick, urgent script polish and breaking a story for the next episode. If you drive off the lot to lunch, you’ll be late for your afternoon meeting. Fuhgeddabout it. As for your other screenplays, your novel, dating, or camping out in the desert – hey, that’s what hiatus is for.

Mistake 4: Don’t Work at Home Instead.

Each staff member writes individual episodes in addition to work-shopping everyone else’s scripts and re-writing other people’s drafts. In a full season, you can usually count on two episodes, but depending on the size of the staff, how much the boss likes your work, and how clever you are at pitching stories, you might write more.

Maybe you’re used to working in bedroom slippers at 4:00 AM, or blasting a CD in your private room, or shutting your door and hovering over the computer in silence for hours, then going to the gym before returning to your computer. Sorry, folks, none of that’s likely on staff. Personally, I find it difficult to concentrate in a public office off a noisy corridor with interruptions every half hour, having to break for screenings and meetings. But some writers tune out the world so well they can write in the office all day. And headphones may help.

On the staff from the netherworld I wanted to prove myself by bringing in a wonderful draft of the first episode assigned to me, and deliver it ahead of schedule, certainly within two weeks. So I asked Mr. Horns if he thought it would be okay to write at home. “Absolutely” he grinned widely. “Do whatever it takes to write what you want to write. Just go. And if it takes three weeks, that’s cool too. Don’t waste your time coming in.” I asked the show-runner for permission, and he shrugged “Sure,” though he was busy with something else.

So I went home. For two weeks. Let me tell you, in that two weeks the script slated to run before mine killed off the character I needed to twist my story, a pivotal location was ruled out by the network, two actors in the cast were having an affair, and an intern took over my office because “no one was in it.” By the time I brought in my draft, still warm from copying, it was out of touch with the series. And so was I.

Learn from my experience: Stay connected, even if you get virtually nothing written all day and have to work all night at home.

Mistake 5: Don’t Be Precious About Your Script.

You become attached, of course. Look how wonderful your script is: The shape of a certain scene builds to a climax then twists unexpectedly and turns the story just in time; a precise detail reveals passion felt but hidden; in a nuance of character, the backstory is deftly sensed; a phrase came so perfectly as if the character was writing instead of you. It’s everything a writer would want from a script, or so you believe as you type “Fade Out.” So it’s difficult to bring your script to the table, no matter how supportive the staff, and no matter how often you’ve been through the process.

But the day arrives when copies of your script have been distributed to the staff, and everyone is assembling for the meeting at which it will be discussed. I said discussed, not shredded. Let’s not be paranoid. Somehow, you’ll need to distance yourself from it now. Try to think what’s good for the show, not what bolsters your ego. It really doesn’t matter how hard you worked, or how you arrived at the reasoning under a speech or action, or how much you don’t want to lose a certain moment.

If the consensus of the staff – or simply the opinion of the head writer/show-runner – is that something isn’t clear or doesn’t tell the story well or is not credible or steps on something in a different episode, or any other criticism, I advise you not to argue. Of course, you may clarify your intention, but then let it go. If you’re a good enough writer to be on the staff you’re skilled enough to re-write and come up with a revised draft that’s even better than this.

If you don’t, someone else will.

Mistake 6: Don’t “Dis” the Culture of the Staff.

Skilled professional writers fill the staffs of television shows, but that’s a little like saying most human families consist of people – it’s a minimum requirement but doesn’t tell much about what goes on. Each staff develops a kind of culture, just as families do. This comes from shared interests, experiences, memories, and (in the best cases) shared goals. If you think you and your dog begin to seem alike after awhile, consider a room full of writers melding their minds to tell stories about the same characters.

Often the show-runner sets the tone – formal, laid back, brooding, artistic, intellectual, homespun, political, romantic, pious… and so forth. Sometimes the culture fits the nature of the series, but not always. In the case of the staff from hell, the prevailing ethos had nothing to do with the subject of the series. It was blatant misogyny.

Every staff meeting began the same way: A half hour of sports talk, football, basketball or baseball, recapping the plays from a game in detail, arguing over which man is better. And there I sat, the only woman in the room, irrelevant because I didn’t know about guys doing things with balls.

Even when the sports-talk gave way to writing, the sense of the room remained. And one day, when we were working on an outline for an important episode, and it was time for a break, the entire staff (except me) convened to the men’s room, where they stayed for twenty minutes, finishing the outline.

I wracked my mind to figure out how to function with this staff since watching sports and shooting hoops in the parking lot seemed more important than anything I could write. The frustration mounted until one day I erupted “are you finished with the male bonding yet?” Mr. Horns couldn’t contain his smile that I’d finally sunk myself, so my future episodes would be his; he’d get the promotion, the raise, the credits and acclaim – or so he calculated. If I’d been wiser and more confident, I wouldn’t have tried to join on their terms, but might have discovered other interests in common with at least one of the staff and created an ally. “Dissing” the culture of the show – putting it down – alienated me further and made it more difficult to work.

Think about high school. Everyone is in cliques and you’re the new kid who just transferred. How do you begin fitting in? Probably you start with one interest, and someone else interested in it; a first friend. An important lesson.

Mistake 7: Don’t Work on a Series that’s Wrong for You.

The staff from down below was probably a wrong fit, no matter what I’d done. Lots of TV series are out there and even though you (understandably) need to start somewhere, misery is not an essential rung on the ladder. You need references as well as good work to move ahead. A show that you have to omit from your resume can hurt you more than having had no job at all. When you apply for your next staff, the new producer will certainly phone the former one, and may ask the other writers how it was to work with you.

I stayed through my entire contracted season with this show, but in retrospect it would have been better to leave sooner and get on with my writing and career. I’m not advising you to quit when the going gets rough; if the quality of the show is worth it, and you can write well despite bad vibes, stay with it and amass those credits. But if the quality of your writing is suffering, go ahead and bail after speaking with the show-runner, especially if you can negotiate a non-damaging reference from him. With all you’ve learned, you can go on to another, better staff. You’re not alone. Almost every TV writer has had a difficult experience at least once, and everyone omits the rubble of their history from their resume. You’ll survive it too.

Pamela Douglas is the author of “Writing the TV Drama Series” published in 2007. The best-selling second edition has been adopted by mentoring programs at both CBS and NBC networks. With numerous credits in television drama, Ms. Douglas has been honored with awards and nominations including the Humanitas Prize, Emmy, the Writers Guild Award, and American Women in Radio and Television. At the University of Southern California, she is a tenured Professor in the School of Cinematic Arts.