by Nell Scovell
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Contents
Foreword by Sheryl Sandberg
Introduction
Stage 1: Who Is Nell Scovell? Chapter 1: Every Character Needs a Backstory
Chapter 2: Sports and SPY
Chapter 3: The Setup
Chapter 4: The Big Twist
Chapter 5: The Payoff
Stage 2: Get Me Nell Scovell! Chapter 6: The Simpsons: Fugu Me!
Chapter 7: Brush with Greatness: Working for Letterman
Chapter 8: The Meet Cute
Chapter 9: We’re All Oompa Loompas
Chapter 10: So You Want to Run a TV Show
Stage 3: Get Me a Younger, Cheaper Nell Scovell! Chapter 11: Poetry Is in the Doing
Chapter 12: The Ones That Got Away
Chapter 13: You Sexy Motherwriter
Chapter 14: The Decade-Long Roller-Coaster Ride
Stage 4: Who Is Nell Scovell? Chapter 15: “Fame Whore”
Chapter 16: The One I’d Been Waiting For
Chapter 17: Lily Tomlin, the Kennedy Center . . . and a Surprise Guest
Chapter 18: Our Funny President
Chapter 19: Stage Five of a Hollywood Writer’s Career
Job Timeline
Acknowledgments
Permissions
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Epigraph
Every good story needs . . .
A BEGINNING
Frances and Rubin Cohn
Rhoda and Louis Scovell
Cynthia and Mel Scovell
A MIDDLE
Colin Summers
AND AN END
Rudy Summers
Dexter Summers
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Foreword by Sheryl Sandberg
Introduction
Stage 1:
Who Is Nell Scovell?
Chapter 1 Every Character Needs a Backstory
Chapter 2 Sports and SPY
Chapter 3 The Setup
Chapter 4 The Big Twist
Chapter 5 The Payoff
Stage 2:
Get Me Nell Scovell!
Chapter 6 The Simpsons: Fugu Me!
Chapter 7 Brush with Greatness: Working for Letterman
Chapter 8 The Meet Cute
Chapter 9 We’re All Oompa Loompas
Chapter 10 So You Want to Run a TV Show
Stage 3:
Get Me a Younger, Cheaper Nell Scovell!
Chapter 11 Poetry Is in the Doing
Chapter 12 The Ones That Got Away
Chapter 13 You Sexy Motherwriter
Chapter 14 The Decade-Long Roller-Coaster Ride
Stage 4:
Who Is Nell Scovell?
Chapter 15 “Fame Whore”
Chapter 16 The One I’d Been Waiting For
Chapter 17 Lily Tomlin, the Kennedy Center . . . and a Surprise Guest
Chapter 18 Our Funny President
Chapter 19 Stage Five of a Hollywood Writer’s Career
Job Timeline
Acknowledgments
Permissions
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Foreword
by Sheryl Sandberg
For decades, archaeologists assumed that prehistoric cave paintings were the work of male hunters who wanted to capture their dramatic feats. But a recent study revealed a hidden truth. One researcher looked at the artists’ “signatures”—handprints stenciled on the walls—and compared the relative lengths of fingers to those of modern humans. The data showed that 75 percent of the early cave painters were women.
This revelation is important for our understanding of prehistoric human culture. It also means that the last time women held most of the jobs in the entertainment field was about twenty thousand years ago.
The entertainment industry is notoriously tough on women. Then again, so is every industry. The challenges Nell has faced during her TV career will seem familiar to many women and be eye-opening for many men. Nell overcame those obstacles in the ways most women do: by working hard, taking risks, making her career a jungle gym instead of a ladder, and having a partner who was a true partner. Nell didn’t just help me write Lean In, she lived it.
Whoever said feminists weren’t funny never met Nell. Her sly sense of humor is one of the main reasons why I’ve asked her to collaborate again and again. Comedy makes the good times—and the bad times—better. While working on Lean In, Nell and I found ways to laugh in the face of gender bias. And while working on Option B, as hard as it was, we found ways to laugh in the face of death. One of the most irreverent stories in Option B involves Nell at her beloved mother’s funeral. Nell has four siblings and she opened her eulogy by holding up an envelope and declaring, “I have in this envelope the name of Mom’s favorite child.”
Humor is a release. It breaks the tension in stressful situations. And as Just the Funny Parts shows, Nell has been in a lot of stressful situations. She knows the pressure of being the lowliest writer on a TV staff as well as the pressure of being a showrunner. I love that she is passing along the inside knowledge she gained during three decades in the trenches. Nell’s voice is filled with honesty and wisdom—even when it occasionally shakes with rage.
Humor can also give us hope when there is no hope, which is why women have always been funny. They just haven’t always received credit for it. As Nell maintains, if Larry David were living in eighteenth-century France and heard the peasants had no bread, his response—“Let them eat cake”—would have made people laugh. But when Marie Antoinette said it, they chopped off her head.
Like the cave painters working in the shadows, women have long toiled behind the scenes in Hollywood. That’s why it’s important that writer/directors like Nell speak up. Her story is inspiring, not because she was unstoppable, but because when she did get stopped, she found ways to keep writing, continue being creative, and always but always, maintain her sense of humor.
I’ve seen firsthand Nell’s commitment to support and advocate for other women. She once told me about a talented young TV writer who reached out to vent after a soul-crushing meeting. The woman said she couldn’t take the rudeness and rejection any longer. She was tired of competing for the “one female slot” on comedy shows. Nell gave her a pep talk, sharing tips on how to deal with the frustration. A week later, the young writer emailed her, excited.
“You have been such an inspiration for me to follow my writing dreams,” she wrote, “that I wanted you to be one of the first to know that I just got my very first staff writing job.”
The young woman mentioned the name of the project, which Nell recognized because she’d been up for the “one female slot” herself. Nell laughed as she relayed the story. She was truly happy for her colleague.
Both Nell and I look forward to the day when there are no “female writers”—just writers. We share an unshakeable belief that having an equal number of men and women sitting at the table where decisions are made will make this world fairer and better. It will also make the world funnier. ◆
Introduction
That which doesn’t kill me . . .
. . . allows me to regroup and retaliate.
—My personal motto
IN 1991, A FRIEND TOLD ME A JOKE THAT MADE ME BOTH laugh and shudder. We were strolling through the Universal Studios lot where I worked on the sitcom Coach and felt awed by my surroundings. Our writers’ offices were located in Lucille Ball’s old dressing room. On the way to the commissary, I passed Alfred Hitchcock’s bungalow. A
fter lunch, I might sneak onto Soundstage 12 and visit the Visitor’s Center of the original Jurassic Park. That day, my friend and I were heading to the backlot to check out the clock tower from Back to the Future.
I was feeling excited about my own future. Although my first five TV jobs had ended abruptly, my career had finally taken off. I even had an upcoming meeting with a feature film producer who wanted to hear my “fresh” ideas. My friend, who had more experience in the industry, listened to me gush and then jumped in.
“You do know the joke about the four stages of every writer’s career, right?”
I shook my head. He launched into an old show business joke, using my name to illustrate.
What are the four stages of every Hollywood writer’s career?
Stage 1: Who is Nell Scovell?
Stage 2: Get me Nell Scovell!
Stage 3: Get me a younger, cheaper Nell Scovell!
Stage 4: Who is Nell Scovell?
The joke was like a DeLorean time machine and I instantly glimpsed the unfolding of my entire career. Just three years earlier, I’d been an unknown. Now I was hovering between Stage 1 and Stage 2. My rise probably meant an experienced writer was getting pushed out, and someday that experienced writer getting pushed out would be me. My fresh take would become stale and I’d return to obscurity.
The “four stages” joke has made me laugh for decades. It’s funny in the same way that getting attacked by a bear while standing in front of a “Caution: Bears” sign is funny. It’s a warning that prepares you for tragedy while doing nothing to prevent it.
Stage 1—“Who is Nell Scovell?”—is a question I’ve pondered more than anyone on the planet. For those who have never given it a moment’s thought, let me fill in the broad strokes. Nell Scovell is a TV writer, producer, and director who has worked on popular series like The Simpsons, NCIS, and Late Night with David Letterman, as well as cult favorites like Charmed, The Critic, and MST3K. We all know “Sabrina” is the first name of the teenage witch who fronted the hit ABC series in the nineties. But you might not know that Sabrina’s last name was “Spellman” because Irving Spellman was one of my dad’s closest friends and I chose that witchy surname when I created the series.
Looking back on my career, I feel lucky and grateful, and all the other things women are supposed to feel so that people will like us. But I genuinely do feel lucky and grateful because the average TV writer’s career lasts about eleven years and I managed to beat the odds.
My first TV job could easily have been my last. I was 26 when I flew from NY to LA to meet with an executive producer about writing on a late-night comedy show for the brand-new FOX network. During my flight, I came up with pages of ideas and jokes for the meeting. I shouldn’t have bothered. The executive producer talked nonstop, laying out his plans to combine comedy and journalism that would shake up the late-night format. After half an hour, he wrapped up his monologue and asked me a question.
“So are you okay with moving to Los Angeles?”
“Yes,” I said. And since I finally had an opening, I continued. “I jotted down some ideas if you want—”
He didn’t want.
“Great,” he said, jumping up from his chair.
He told me his next call would be to my agent and that he was looking forward to working together. I practically skipped across the parking lot to my rental car. I had gotten the job and learned my first lesson about Hollywood meetings: the more you let people talk about themselves, the more they will like you.
The show hired ten writers, nine men and me. The team in the office next to mine was hilarious and I couldn’t wait to get to work every day and spend time with them. The three of us ate meals together, wrote sketches together and, after work, we’d play Pictionary and miniature Ping-Pong. It was only their second TV job and we all cared deeply about making the show a success. We figured if it flopped, our careers would be over. You’ve probably never heard of The Wilton North Report but those writers—Conan O’Brien and Greg Daniels—did just fine. Greg went on to co-create King of the Hill, NBC’s The Office, and Parks and Recreation. Conan went on to become Conan. Actually Conan was always Conan, it’s just that his audience expanded beyond our office hallway.
With Conan O’Brien, 1986
Courtesy of the author
Historically, talk shows are developed around a charismatic host. Not The Wilton North Report. Two weeks before we launched, the executive producer still hadn’t filled the position. Ellen DeGeneres auditioned and came across as both friendly and edgy, the ideal talk show host. The Executive Producer passed on her.
In a panic, he dispatched Conan, Greg, and me to scout talent at a comedy club. The three of us struck up a conversation with Jay Leno who happened to be hanging out in the lobby. Jay was already a household name as guest host of The Tonight Show. It would be another two years before NBC handed him the reins . . . and another seventeen years before Jay handed them to Conan . . . and then another nine months before Jay snatched them back. But that night, Jay was the coolest person in the world for chatting with three nerdy twentysomethings. At one point, I made a smartass comment and Jay pointed at me.
“You’re funny,” Jay declared. “You should do standup.”
“What, me? No!” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a writer, not a performer.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Jay coaxed, gesturing toward the showroom. “Don’t you look at the people up there and think, Hey, I could do better than that?”
“No. I look at those people, even the bad ones, and think, ‘Wow. They’re really brave.’”
Jay stared at me and then with perfect timing said, “You shouldn’t do standup.”
The last thing I wanted was to attract attention. Gloria Steinem once said, “For me, writing was a way of staying invisible because I felt invisible, only a little seen through words.” I agree with one adjustment: I didn’t feel invisible, but I did feel like I was getting away with something and if I just kept my head down, they’d let me keep doing it. Keeping a low profile also suited my New England upbringing where you’re only supposed to be in the papers three times: when you’re born, when you marry, and when you murder your husband. Or something like that.
My plan was sly: stay out of the spotlight but near the action. It worked. I’ve stood on the red carpet at the Academy Awards as Daniel Craig passed by inches from me. I may have even touched the back of his tuxedo jacket—unless you think that’s creepy, in which case, I definitely did not. I’ve sat in a hotel suite late at night with Mark Zuckerberg and Andy Samberg working on a funny opening for a Facebook conference. And I’ve played Fuck-Marry-Kill with Key and Peele during an interview for Vanity Fair before the 2015 Emmys.
Jill Miller/Vanity Fair © 2015 Conde Nast
My career has let me put words in the mouths of iconic performers like Bette Midler, Bob Newhart, Craig T. Nelson, and Miss Piggy. Those performers make everything funnier. It’s like having Serena Williams as your doubles partner. If you can just get your serve in, she’ll do all the work for the win.
And just because you’re invisible, doesn’t mean you’re powerless. For five years, I contributed jokes to the White House Correspondents Dinner, including one in 2012 where the punchline was the stage direction “WINK.”
© 2011 Getty Images. Reprinted with permission
That night, I was responsible for making the leader of the free world shut his right eye. For a nanosecond, I was the most powerful person on the planet. Clearly, that power went to my head because now I’m tossing off my cloak of invisibility. After a career capturing other voices, it’s time to dig deeper into the question, “Who is Nell Scovell?” I can already hear the conversation with a network executive:
Does it have to be “Nell”? What if you turned “Nell” into “Neal”?
A placard that greeted me on a first day of a new job.
Courtesy of the author
ME: Why would I do that?
&nb
sp; EXEC: You want men to read your book, right?
ME: Right.
EXEC: Then you gotta have a male main character. Helps them relate. Oh, and maybe Neal should be into Thai boxing. That’s big these days. Think about it.
Okay, I did. And although Neal sounds awesome, his story just isn’t that unusual. There are probably a dozen Thai-boxing Neals who have written for TV, but when I started, it was hard to find any woman doing what I wanted to do. That’s why in 1988, I was so excited when a manager connected me with Marilyn Suzanne Miller, one of the three original female writers on Saturday Night Live. Marilyn agreed to meet me for coffee near Gramercy Park and I was eager to soak up her wisdom.
She kept her sunglasses on throughout our coffee date and while I don’t recall the exact words, her advice basically boiled down to this: TV is a horrible business. You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t destroy you. Run. Run for your life.
I left the coffeeshop, rattled. I remember thinking that if I were ever in the position to speak with younger writers, I would not be so discouraging. Besides, my experience would be different from hers. Marilyn had to break the glass ceiling. Now, in part thanks to her, we were a decade closer to equality. If there were obstacles in my way, I would clear them. If there were people in my way, I would prove them wrong. I would rise up fighting.
Thirty years later, I want to thank Marilyn for trying to warn me. She was right. I quickly discovered that in Hollywood, the glass ceiling is not actually made of glass. Instead, it’s made of that Terminator metal that shatters then reconstitutes and re-forms. I even thought about calling this book, Just the Angry and Bitter Parts, but I want to keep my promise not to be discouraging. Also, that would be an eight-volume set.
Television can be a horrible business, but my advice is not to run.
There have been times that I wanted to bolt, like during the final week of directing my second film. We were on location at a Women’s Club in Vancouver, shooting a low-budget cable movie that I’d co-written with my sister Claire. After a strong morning, we came back from lunch and the set fell apart. Three hours later, we were two-and-a-half hours behind. During a scheduled break, I found a coat closet to hide in and sobbed. I called my friend Jesse Dylan and through gulps explained that it felt like the director of photography was sabotaging me and I didn’t know what to do.