#27 The long distance lesson

The next day my brother called from Chicago. He and my dad had just gotten back from a New York buying trip for their stores. He says now that Dad has seen my name under episode titles on television, he started grabbing vendors at the convention with, “Let me tell you about my son the writer!” This is coming from a man who said I was crazy to move to L.A. and “bang my fingers on a typewriter.”

Tom tells me that while they were in New York, they met with Citibank to try and close a deal for a quarter of a million dollars to buy spring inventory.

You should know my father always harbored borderline hostility toward the college-educated, himself having barely graduated from high school. As an aside, he made up for his lack of formal education by voraciously consuming two or three novels a month.

On this day, Tom and my dad are in the office of a Citibank VP, my brother nervously glancing at framed diplomas from Wharton, Harvard Business School, and Princeton. For the next half hour Tom listened to my father saying “Yes, Mr. Franklin”, “No, Mr. Franklin” and “Of course, Mr. Franklin.”

After they left the office and headed toward the elevator, Tom shook his head. My dad asked, “What?” My brother said, “I know how you feel about college boys. I’m shocked how you handled that.” My father asked, “Did we get the loan?” When my brother said, “Yes”, my father said, “Screw him...”

Lesson? Sometimes you have to bite your tongue.

#26 The charming and sometimes irritating Frenchman…

The next morning – not too early, as I’d had a ‘late’ night -- I found Jean had slipped a folder under my door. It was my five story springboards. He’s circled Deadly Jewels and Tut the Second. I’m pleased. Two out of five wasn’t bad.

I also saw my latest script for The Littles – Twins. It was marked up…heavily. Twins was my third script. But I feel like it’s always one step forward and two steps back. Every time I get a script back from Jean, with Page One revisions, I have to re-type the entire script. (Remember, this is still the IBM Selectric Typewriter Era.) I’m a fast typist and I can retype a script overnight. But it’s not just typing. There are revision notes I have to address and every revision means the dialogue or action that preceded and followed it also has be changed so it all so all hangs together.

I reminded myself I signed on for this. I dove into the revisions. I amazed myself, finishing the revisions by nine that night. I took it down the hall and started to slide it under Jean’s door. To my surprise, he opened the door. He looked like he’d just gotten back from a late dinner. After a brief greeting, he picked up the script and, French accent heavy, said, “You work fast. I give you that.”

Weary and in no more for levity, I say, “Is that how you talk to Jeffrey Scott?”

Jean’s eyes narrowed and he answered, “You’re not allowed to even mention Jeffrey’s name.” Then he smiled a thin smile and, with my script in hand, closed his door.

#25 My ‘ah-ha’ moment

I agree with the playwright Noel Coward who said, “Work is much more fun than fun.” I’d always been a writer, even before I was paid for my work. I’d worked hard to master my skills as a novelist, and had “fun” doing it. But now I was mastering a new craft. And I was mastering it fast, which Jean, Andy and Lori all liked. I wrote the five springboards overnight and delivered them to Lori the next morning. She tucked the springboards into a folder and said she’d get them to Jean.

I nodded and went home. I took a long nap and woke at seven, feeling much better. I showered and headed out to La Frite in nearby Sherman Oaks, thinking “All work and no fun makes Jack a dull boy.”

La Frite’s an upscale L.A./French eatery. Great escargot and lots of good-looking people hanging at the bar. I was sitting next to a beautiful young woman who, thirty seconds after I sat, said, “Hi”, quickly followed by “What do you do?” One of the things I loved about L.A. was that there was no warmup. Straight into the game.

“I’m a writer.”

“Really?” she responded, unimpressed, having heard this before. She followed with, “What do you write?”

“Children’s TV.”

She tilted her head, a little more interested and asked, “What shows?”

When I said, “The Littles” her mouth hung open. After she regained her composure she said, “I love The Littles! The turtle! He’s so cute! What’s his name?!”

“Slick.”

“Right! Slick! I love the sound he makes.”

Summoning my best Slick impersonation, I offered, “Eeee! Eeee!”

She let out a long, lilting laugh. “That’s it!” Then she gently laid a hand on my right forearm and cooed, “I’m Jocelyn…”

Ah-ha, I thought…