by Nell Scovell
Jon nodded. “So what would you do instead?”
“Well, what if . . .” I said. “What if you wore a pair of So Fine jeans?”
“So Fine jeans?” he said.
“You know like from the Ryan O’Neal movie.”
So Fine was an early eighties Andrew Bergman film about a business man who needs money and launches a new fashion craze: buttless pants.
The poster for So Fine. What can I say? The eighties were weird.
Licensed by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. All Rights Reserved
“Are you serious?” Jon asked.
I wasn’t really, but on the drive over to the meeting, I realized that a move to New York didn’t make sense. My husband liked LA and we had two kids under four. Since I didn’t want the job, I had nothing to lose. I doubled-down on the joke.
“Yes, I’m serious. I mean, you wouldn’t wear the So Fine jeans every night. The idea is to build up anticipation as you near the end of the monologue, so the audience can’t wait for you to turn around and head to the desk: ‘Will he be wearing the So Fine jeans or not?!’ And when you do, they’ll go nuts.”
Our meeting wrapped up quickly. There was no callback.
Jon and I have bumped into each other a few times since. I’ve never had the nerve to ask if he remembered my ludicrous pitch. My guess is he erased it from his memory, which means . . .
The So Fine jeans idea is still up for grabs. James Corden, call me!
Marshall Brickman
On May 25, 1997, I emailed a friend, gushing like a teenager: “I spent two hours on the phone with Marshall Brickman this morning. There’s a chance we’ll work together on a TV show!”
I have a huge comedy crush on Marshall who was the co-screenwriter of Woody Allen’s funniest movies. Here’s mathematical proof:
Woody Allen + Marshall Brickman = Annie Hall, Sleeper, Manhattan
Woody Allen − Marshall Brickman = Scoop, Folly’s Friends, Whatever Works
Okay, I made up Folly’s Friends, but if you didn’t immediately realize that, I’ve made my point. Marshall worked in TV early in his career, writing for Candid Camera and The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Thirty years later, he was looking to make a return. He’d written a hilarious pilot script, Norman of the Future, about—wait for it—a guy named Norman who lived in the future. NBC bought the project and Marshall was interviewing TV writers with recent sitcom experience to executive produce the series with him.
I had just left Sabrina and loved his idea with all my heart. We spoke over the phone about how the future and magic overlap. I quoted Arthur C. Clarke’s third law: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. He thought I’d be a fine addition to the creative team and told the network. NBC refused to approve me. They wouldn’t even meet with me to discuss the project. I was devastated. I felt like I’d proven myself as a showrunner. Did Sabrina not count because it was a TGIF show? Did my gender factor into the equation? Marshall was a complete class act and went to bat for me. The network refused to budge.
In this case, my disappointment goes beyond the personal. Marshall’s unique brand of smart/silly comedy never made it to air. Norman of the Future had no future.
Seinfeld
Seinfeld was wrapping up their second season when my agent Abby Adams submitted me to be a low-level writer. The show wasn’t a hit yet, but I’d been a fan back when it was called The Seinfeld Chronicles. The first step to meeting with co-creators Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David was to get the approval of Castle Rock executive Glenn Padnick. Abby sent my scripts over and Glenn responded with this letter:
Courtesy of the author
Here’s the key sentence: “As you know, the bigger issue is whether we have a next season.”
Seinfeld was on the bubble. It scraped by for two more seasons before breaking into the Nielsen Top 30. A meeting never happened, but I held on to the Castle Rock letter because it offered encouragement early in my career. Now it hangs in my office as a reminder of how the greatest success story in the history of television came close to getting cancelled.
I did eventually get a chance to work with Larry David. In 2007, Curb Your Enthusiasm threw out a net, soliciting ideas for the upcoming season. I typed up a few notions, including one where “Larry” needs to bring flowers for a hostess gift and decides to steal them from a roadside memorial. Larry bought the concept and turned it into season six’s “The Ida Funkhouser Roadside Memorial.” The show didn’t give me onscreen credit, but they paid me two thousand dollars. Larry also gave me his word that the show would pay writers better in the coming season.
With that incentive, I pitched some additional story areas. Larry seemed interested in one concept, but it didn’t move forward. A year or so later, we both attended a book party. Our mutual friend, Kimberly Brooks, introduced us.
“Larry, do you know Nell?”
“Nell! Of course, I know Nell,” Larry said. “In fact, I was just talking about you today.”
Whoa. Larry David was talking about me? That felt good.
“Really? How come?” I asked.
“Well, one of the producers said that you’d sold us two ideas for episodes, but I insisted it was just one. We argued about it, and now here you are. You can solve the mystery!”
“Oh,” I said, a little disappointed. “It was just one.”
“Yes!” said Larry, happy to have been right.
“But you did like another idea of mine,” I added quickly, trying to save face.
“Which one?”
“The one about the pee drinker.”
Larry looked confused. I re-pitched the idea.
“Larry’s at a party with a guy who won’t stop talking about all his thrilling adventures. The guy goes hiking in the Himalayas . . . helicopter snowboarding . . . sailing around Tierra del Fuego. And in every story, he runs into complications and recounts how, in order to survive, he was forced to drink his own pee. Later, Larry sees the thrill-seeker go into the bathroom with a near-empty bottle of beer and when he comes out, the bottle is filled to the brim. Larry watches as the guy takes swigs from the “beer” bottle and becomes convinced that the guy is drinking his own urine. The great adventures are just a cover! The truth is the guy is purposely putting himself into life-or-death situations because it’s the only socially acceptable way to drink your own pee!”
I didn’t say “ta da” at the end of the pitch, but it was implied. I looked at Larry expectantly.
He shook his head and offered one long, drawn-out syllable: “Nooooo.”
Cue the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme mandolin and tuba.
Chapter 13
You Sexy Motherwriter
I believe the children are our future . . .
meals.
—Shorter Jonathan Swift
AT THE EXACT AGE OF TWENTY-NINE, I OPENED THE New York Times Book Review and thought, “How nice! Kurt Vonnegut, one of my favorite novelists, wrote an essay.” One paragraph later, I felt sucker-punched. Here’s what Vonnegut wrote:
If Lloyds of London offered policies promising to compensate comical writers for losses of senses of humor, its actuaries could count in such a loss occurring on average at 63 for men, and for women at 29, say.
Say what?
My comedy career was just taking off and now someone I respected was predicting that I’d lose my sense of humor—the source of my livelihood—at any moment. And why did men get thirty-four more years of being funny than me?
While the ages seemed off, Vonnegut did identify a truth. In comedy, growing old is an occupational hazard. In 2010, TV and screenwriters were awarded $70 million to resolve a class action suit that charged networks, studios, and talent agencies with age discrimination. The cutoff age for participating in the suit was not sixty. Or fifty. It was forty. Forty is when doctors, lawyers, and accountants start hitting their stride. Sadly, writers line up more with strippers: after forty, everything’s downhill and nobody wants to talk about what’s really g
oing on in the back room.
Because of age bias, looking young in Hollywood becomes important even for writers. Both men and women are affected although not everyone buys in.
“I just try to come across as the kooky aunt,” the phenomenally successful Paula Pell told me.
I wish I could adopt Paula’s attitude. It’s ridiculous to spend time and money on superficial appearance. Yet, I’ve done it. I started experimenting with Botox in 2002 as part of “research” for a Botox party scene for a script. Still, I haven’t gone full Real Housewife. When one dermatologist suggested fillers for the laugh lines around my mouth, I passed. My mom had the same lines and when I look in the mirror, they remind me of her. Also, if my coworkers and I do our jobs right, the lines are concealed by actual laughter.
Along with youth, it often helps for writers to exude sex appeal. Sadly, this doesn’t come in a syringe. I once left a pitch meeting where I’d been the only female and as soon as the elevator doors closed, my agent snapped at me.
“Why don’t you flirt a little, Nell?” he said, peeved. “You could get away with it.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. Clearly, I had missed some subtext. Those words stuck with me. I don’t know of many jobs where it’s detrimental to act too professional. And not everyone does.
“I just texted a photo of my boobs to my boyfriend!” a female writer once declared to the room after a bathroom break.
The straight men responded with hoots and applause. I stopped myself from adding, “And I just texted my husband a photo of me rolling my eyes.”
It was hard to avoid sexual innuendo in that particular writers’ room. Once, our director doubled over on the set in pain and required an emergency appendectomy. The next day, we were speculating on his recovery time. Since I’d had abdominal surgery, I decided to chime in.
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “I’ve had two C-sections and if you don’t twist . . .”
Before I could finish my sentence, a male writer interrupted.
“Wait—so you’re still tight?”
I looked at him hard.
“Yes, that was the point of my story,” I deadpanned. This was one of the rare times that I brought up giving birth in the room so it was disheartening that my colleague turned it into confirmation that I could still sexually satisfy a man. Years later, this same colleague was accused by nineteen coworkers of “inappropriate behavior.” He denied the charges, insisting that while he had made comments about coworkers’ looks, those comments “were not sexualized.” I guess he meant that I was “tight” in the nautical sense.
Stereotypically female topics often get short shrift in the room. Two male writers used to give detailed updates on their fantasy football teams at the start of almost every workday. Then while trying to break an episode about a wedding, a female writer shared a story about her disastrous honeymoon. She didn’t race through, but told the story beautifully, letting it build to a funny climax. The moment she stopped talking, one of the two football fans jumped in.
“Thanks for telling the story of your weeklong honeymoon in real time,” he said.
The storyteller’s head dropped and she let her hair dangle over her face.
“I just thought . . .” she muttered, then her voice trailed off.
I wanted to lunge across the table, grab the writer by his collar and say, “I’ve listened to your endless fantasy football discussions and never made you feel like you were wasting my time. So fuck—and might I add—you!”
Women are rewarded for talking about sex in the room, but talking about marriage or motherhood often brings a room down. Some view motherhood as the antithesis of funny since moms are associated with nurturing, gentleness, and safety while comedy wants to be twisted, dangerous, and mean. For example, Mother Teresa spoke at my college graduation and didn’t crack a single joke. She did explain to all the graduating women that “the greatest gift you can give your husband is your virginity.” My roommates and I laughed really hard, but I don’t think that counts.
The entertainment business is not the only field where motherhood is a disadvantage. A 2017 report showed that if a man and a woman work identical hours at identical levels, the woman’s income will drop four percent after she delivers or adopts a child while the man’s income will rise six percent after he becomes a dad.
“The motherhood penalty is not a disputed finding,” sociologist Marianne Cooper told me. “Oh, it’s real.”
She then described a study that discovered a woman’s chances of getting hired nosedives if four words appear on her résumé: Parent-Teacher Association Coordinator.
“The assumptions are that mothers aren’t committed to their careers,” Marianne explained. “And this is a huge problem since seventy percent of moms work.”
“Is there anything moms can do to offset this?” I asked. “Can’t we just work even harder?”
“That can help in some cases. But then those hard-driving women get dinged because people think they aren’t good mothers and are cold,” she said. “You really can’t win.”
I didn’t need any studies to prove the “motherhood penalty” existed. Instinctively, I kept my pregnancies hidden for as long as I could. My first pregnancy was complication-free, which made it easier. My first delivery went less smoothly, which leads me to a story I would never feel comfortable telling in the writers’ room.
At my thirty-nine-week checkup, my obstetrician measured the baby and concluded that I should be induced on my due date. A week later, Colin and I drove to Cedar Sinai in the dark and by six a.m., the Pitocin was flowing. Contractions started and my OB stopped by around eight to cheerfully observe, “You’re having a baby today!”
Not so fast. The hours ticked by and the baby wasn’t descending into the birth canal. I started to run a fever so a second IV was added filled with an antibiotic. I had monitors everywhere—and I mean, everywhere. Seventeen hours later, my OB informed me that the baby’s head was too big to pass through my hips. The situation required an emergency C-section.
“We’ll get you in as soon as possible,” he said, moving toward the door. “I already called for the backup surgeon. Any questions?”
I phrased my question in the form of an emotional breakdown and burst into tears. The OB stopped. He returned to my side and took my hand.
“It doesn’t make you any less of a woman,” he said, sympathetically.
If I’d had the strength, I would have slugged him. Not for a moment did I think I was “less of a woman.” I was exhausted and scared and concerned about my baby.
Rudy made it out safely and I was lucky not to suffer any postpartum depression. I continued to push myself professionally. Two weeks after giving birth, I was in casting sessions for my pilot, Prudy and Judy. And two months later, I teamed up with Joel to do a pass on George of the Jungle. Joel was cool about me taking breaks to pump milk and often clowned around with Rudy.
Joel inscribed the Polaroid himself.
Courtesy of the author
After turning in our George rewrite, Joel and I got called in for a notes meeting at Disney. We were waiting for the top executive to arrive when I felt a sudden, painful stab in my left breast. I knew from experience that it was a blocked milk duct, and the key with a blocked milk duct is to unblock it fast. I excused myself and ran into the hall, sprinting past the centrally located women’s room to look for a more remote restroom. When I found one, I checked under the stalls to make sure I was alone, then I whipped out my left breast, and started working with my hands to express the milk into the sink. It was excruciating—the kind of pain that radiates down your spine. I kept my head lowered so I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. No Disney Imagineer would have imagined this. After ten minutes, the pain began to subside and the milk streamed more easily. The dam had broken.
I turned on the faucets and washed the milk down the drain, splashing handfuls of water against the sides of the sink. I ran back to the conference room and r
ejoined the meeting just as it was starting. It was one of the few times I was grateful that movie executives are always tardy. I sat through the notes, which turned out to be more painful than a blocked milk duct.
Oh, and please tell me again how mothers aren’t dedicated to their jobs.
During my second pregnancy, I again kept a low profile, writing mostly at home. Then, exactly two weeks before my due date, just when some cultures send their women into a hut to squat until it’s over, I got a call from my agent. Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt were taking meetings for a job opening at Buffy the Vampire Slayer. My agent knew how much I loved the show and even though I had no hour-long credits, with my Sabrina background, she thought she could get me a meeting. The timing was terrible. At thirty-eight weeks, every inch of me was bloated. My belly was so distended that I could rest my folded elbows on it like a shelf. But Joss and David were making staff decisions right away so I couldn’t push it off.
Before the interview, I brainstormed ideas for episodes, including one where Zander, Oz, and Giles all become magically pregnant. I found a shirt that wasn’t completely stained from pregnancy-induced clumsiness and drove to the meeting. I described my reception in an email to a friend.
April 22, 1998 11:06 AM
I am 38 weeks pregnant. I went in to meet with Joss Whedon, creator of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (my favorite show on television) on Monday. He took one look at me and said, “Boy, are you fat.” I laughed so hard, I thought I was going to have the baby. Co-Executive Producer David Greenwalt followed up by asking, “Should I put down a tarp?”
They didn’t hire me. On a happier note, I gave birth to a healthy baby two weeks later with the cool, geeky birthday of May the Fourth aka Star Wars Day. (“May the Fourth be with you.”)
“Nell, you’re a terrible mother,” Penn Jillette once told me. “But you’re the world’s greatest dad.” His words stung at first until I realized he was making an astute observation about cultural stereotypes. Now I find Penn’s comment comforting. Comparing myself to stay-at-home moms, I fell short. But comparing myself to working dads, I held my own or even excelled. Did other dads have to unblock a milk duct before a meeting? Factually, they did not.