Category: Television

In about an hour, I’ll be at the studio to be fitted for my Criminal Minds wardrobe. Tomorrow, I start work on the show.

The script’s been rewritten a few times since I first read it, and I’ve been able to read each draft in its entirety, which has been really interesting to me as a writer, as I track the changes and try to figure out what network and studio notes they were intended to address. It’s got to be so difficult for these writers to take a certain scene or character in one direction, write really great dialog and stuff to get them there, and then be told that they have to throw it all away and take things in a different direction. And do that three times in five days. I honestly don’t know how they do it.

People ask me all the time if I’m working on a screen play, or if I’m interested in writing for television. In fact, a staff writer from a show we all watch told me last year that I’d fit right in on that show, and that I should think about taking my writing career in that direction.

I said thanks, but no.* I know how hard it is to write a good story with compelling characters and an engaging plot. I also know how arbitrary and soul crushing the entertainment industry is, and that’s just as an actor. The people who write for television are basically writing the equivalent of thirteen features a season, serving several different masters, including the show’s producers and the people at the network. For a fascinating insider’s view of this process, you must read John Rogers‘ posts about his show Leverage:

Leverage: Lessons from the Script Pile
Leverage Week 1
Leverage Week 2
Leverage Week 3
Leverage Weeks 4 + 5
Leverage Week 6

(There are more Leverage posts, but that’s a good place to get you started.)

I had a hard enough time coming up with something clever to write every week for Games of Our Lives and Geek in Review, and in both of those cases, I only had to make one editor happy. I don’t even want to think about what it’s really like to make a whole bunch of different people happy, especially when all of those people work in the entertainment industry, and there are millions of dollars at stake. I have nothing but respect for the people who can do it.

Anyway, this post is about changing gears, so I suppose I should get to that.

When I went for my Criminal Minds table read last week, one of the writers introduced herself to me and offered to answer any questions I had about the character and script. My first instinct was to ask if I could some sit in the writer’s room and take notes, but before I could jam my foot in my mouth, I reminded myself, “You’re here as an actor. Do your job.” It was then that I realized I’d have to switch gears before I started work on this show. I’d have to take off my rookie writer’s pants, and put on my veteran actor’s pants for a week. That sounds simple and logical, but it’s been tough, especially because I was really building momentum on these short stories I’ve been writing. I guess it’s a good problem to have, though, so I’m not complaining.

This week and last week have been weird for me, because though I don’t think of myself as a full-time actor any more, I can’t deny that I’m super excited to bring this character to life, and I’m proud of myself for booking the job. Allow me to quote Shane Nickerson: “There’s something to be said for not needing it and not seeking it, isn’t there? I won’t say not wanting it, because I am too keenly aware that no matter how much we try to convince ourselves otherwise, we actors may never stop wanting it, somewhere deep inside.” That is 100% true, and I’m not even going to try to deny it. As much as I hate dragging my ass all over town for auditions, and as frustrating and demoralizing as the whole process is, when I’m actually working with other actors and creative people to take words on a page and bring them to life, it’s almost worth it.

Almost. Which is why I’ve mostly traded taking the words off the page for putting them on it.

Yesterday, I tried to spend the day writing. For eight hours, I did everything I could to knock ideas out of my head and give my characters interesting things to say and do. I failed in every attempt at masonry, growing more and more frustrated with each highlight and delete. Finally, I accepted that my internal creative CPU wants and needs to be doing actor things, like breaking down scenes, developing and understanding this character, and learning my lines. Luckily, I’ve done this long enough that it’s all second nature, and it’s all deeply satisfying, so it doesn’t feel like work at all.

You know, it feels strange, but also good to change gears for a few days. Hopefully, I won’t grind them too much.

*There’s been a lot of confusion about this, and I want to clarify: I wasn’t offered any jobs on any shows. I was told by an experienced writer that, in that writer’s opinion, I would be able do it if I wanted to, and I said I wasn’t interested in that kind of thing, because I don’t believe I have what it takes.

I haven’t had a theatrical agent for years, so I don’t have as many auditions or opportunities to work as an actor as I once did. I have a fantastic manager, though, who always gets me into quality auditions, where I have a real shot at booking the job.[1]

My manager and I have an understanding that I’m primarily focused on writing at the moment, so he can put his time and energy into his other clients who are full-time actors, while keeping an eye out for parts like NUMB3RS, where I have a better than average shot to nail the audition.[2] This arrangement has worked out really well for both of us.

Last week, he got me an audition for a wonderful role on [awesome show redacted]. I had less than a day to prepare it but I did my best, and when I got into the room . . . I sucked. Oh, man how I sucked. I think the stink of my reading is still sitting in that building, a week after I left. In fact, if you see hazmat teams in Studio City, now you know why.

Luckily for us, the casting director was willing to give good, honest, useful feedback on my audition. The bottom line? He felt like I was really “acting” when I was in there. My performance wasn’t organic, it wasn’t honest, it wasn’t real. In other words, it wasn’t very good.

When my manager relayed this to me, it was like Billy Zabka swept my leg. Getting caught acting was one of my worst fears realized. Good actors don’t get caught acting, bad actors get caught acting. Ergo . . . well, I’d rather not say it out loud.

For the next couple of days, I spent a lot of time thinking about how that happened, and I had to face an uncomfortable reality: maybe I was so out of practice, and so focused on writing (instead of acting), maybe I just don’t have what it takes to be a successful on-camera actor anymore.

I had a real crisis on my hands, but before I could call my manager and discuss it yesterday, he called me with another audition.

“Okay,” I thought, “I’ll just go on this audition, and after the holiday weekend, I’ll see if we can have lunch, and face this reality together.”

I prepared the audition, keenly aware of all the things I’d done wrong with the [awesome show redacted] audition. I went through all the things I’ve written about acting and auditioning, and listened to a lot of my own advice and experience. I decided that I’d get in, do my thing, and get out.[3] I thought about a number of conversations I’ve recently had with a friend of mine who just booked a similar role on [very very very awesome show redacted], and applied some of his decision making to my own. I kept it simple, and I never thought, “Well, this is it. If this one doesn’t work, I’m hanging up my dance belt.”[4] Instead, I just prepared my take on this character, made some deliberate-but-risky choices, and went to work.

When I was in the room, I didn’t think about the people there, I didn’t think about what was at stake (directly or indirectly) and I just focused on the person I was reading with. I didn’t do anything fancy, just gave them my simple-but-deliberate take on this guy.

I felt better than I felt after I sucked out loud last week. I didn’t know if I nailed it, but I’d made my deliberate-but-risky choices, and I’d committed to them entirely. Whether I got the job or not, at least I had that to take home with me and keep in a box on the shelf for the weekend.

A few hours after I got home, my manager called me.

“Well, I have some feedback,” he said.

“That was fast,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess they wanted you to know right away that you’re hired.”

“Really?!” I said. I always say that, even though I know that my manager is never going to call me up, tell me a got a job, and then say, “Ha! PSYKE!”

“Yes, really.” He said.

So I squeed, and he outlined the deal for me. I get guest-starring billing at the beginning of the show on my own card, I work for eight days, and — best of all — I’ll earn enough to qualify for SAG’s “good” health insurance for at least another year.

I can’t say anything about the role, because I don’t have permission from the producers and the network, but I think I can safely reveal that it’s for Criminal Minds on CBS, and it’s a part that I am going to love bringing to life.

There is a lesson here about not giving up. There’s a lesson here about learning from your mistakes and applying that knowledge, instead of wallowing in self-pity. I’m not pointing that out because I think anyone else needs to hear it; I’m pointing it out because I’m going to forget it sooner or later, and I want to remember it the next time I go searching through my writing for advice from myself.

One more thing: when I had the audition last week, I did my best, even though my best was crap. When I did my audition yesterday, I did my best, and it was much better than what “my best” was just a week ago. Someone once said to me that we should always do our best, and understand and accept that “our best” will vary from time to time. I’m glad I remembered that.

And now, footnotes:

[1] That may not make sense. Let me explain: pretty much every agent I ever had would submit me on as many projects as possible, whether I was really right for the role or not. I guess the logic here is that you get more chances to score when you take more shots, which makes a certain amount of sense, but in practice is pretty frustrating for actors who keep getting sent out for roles that they have no chance of booking. (I realize that, to actors who are struggling for any auditions, this seems like a wonderful problem to have, but it really isn’t.)

[2]Years ago, I took an extensive and comprehensive marketing class, where I learned a whole bunch of stuff about how to market myself as an actor, and how to find breakout roles that are supported by five or six things that define my personality — my essences, in the language of this course. My manager looks for roles that match up with my essences, while a larger team of agents may just look for parts that call for a white male, 30-36.

[3]This is one of the valuable things I learned while writing sketch comedy.

[4]What? You don’t wear a dance belt to every audition?

I was picking tomatoes in my back yard yesterday afternoon when the phone rang. Caller ID said it was my manager. I picked it up and said, “Mister Black! What’s up?”

“Seth Macfarlane wants to work with you tomorrow,” he said.

The next thing I knew, I was looking into the concerned faces of my wife and kids, while a machine behind me went ping!

“What happened?” I said.

“You answered the phone, screamed like a little girl, and fainted,” Anne said.

“So it wasn’t a dream!” I said. I leapt to my feet, doffed a Fedora, twirled my mustache and added, “Quickly! To the auto-gyro!”

Minutes later, I was airborne, soaring over the Los Angeles basin, while striped-shirt-wearing nogoodniks chased after me in pedal-powered flying contraptions. It was perilous, to be sure, but my superior piloting and my trusty manservant Kwame’s peerless skill with curare-tipped darts assured my escape.

My brief and unexpected foray into a 1930s pulp novel concluded, I returned to my home, where I got back on the phone.

“What just happened to you?” He said.

“Um. Nothing,” I said. “What am I doing tomorrow?”

“Seth Macfarlane has a new online project called Cavalcade, and he wants you to work on it.” He said.

“Seth Macfarlane wants to work with me? Are you sure he didn’t mean the other Will Wheaton, the well-known jazz singer?”

“Yes, you.” He said. “I’m e-mailing you the script right now.”

The script arrived, I laughed myself silly, and called my manager back. “This is hilarious! There isn’t a single thing about this that I don’t like.”

“I knew you’d say that,” he said. “I’ll call them now and confirm you.”

. . . and that’s the story of how I got to work on Cavalcade this afternoon, where Seth Macfarlane complimented my beard and told me I was funny.

I am, without a doubt, the luckiest guy in this room right now.

Some parts of this story have been mildly exaggerated for dramatic effect.