How to Succeed in Business Without Really Crying

by Leifer, Carol

  Side note: As a souvenir from that episode, I got to keep the empty industrial-size can of Beef-a-Reeno (Chef Boyardee wouldn’t grant us permission to use the name Beef-a-Roni) that Kramer’s horse Rusty devoured. I have few regrets in life, but one is that when I relocated, the moving men thought it was just an empty can and tossed it. Arghhhh!!!!!

  Working at a show that had no writers’ room turned out to be the best experience a new sitcom writer like me could ever have. Most people are unaware that every episode of Seinfeld you see on the air was rewritten by Larry and Jerry. They had the final pass on each and every writer’s draft, and when they were done, the script always turned out better and more finely tuned than what the writer originally handed in. To me, this was an opportunity: I pored over their drafts, studying which parts of my script they kept, what they threw out, and what they altered. I learned an invaluable amount. Whenever your ideas don’t rise to the top, or if they get changed along the way, it’s important to understand why.

  I’ll probably never have another writing experience as brilliant as Seinfeld. Not only did I learn how to write sitcoms from the masters, but those guys involved each writer in every aspect of the show. They included us in the process from start to finish: casting, editing, wardrobe, props, even down to attending the final sound mix. That doesn’t happen on most shows, and how fortunate I was to be taught all those essential elements of TV production right out of the gate.

  The show was the very definition of lightning in a bottle. Where can you even find actors like Jerry, Jason Alexander, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, and Michael Richards, let alone all on the same show? The synergy of those four together created a once-in-a-lifetime cast. And Jerry and Larry had an amazing chemistry of their own. I liken it to the partnership of Lennon and McCartney: Larry’s more cynical and sullen perspective mixed with Jerry’s sunny and pop sensibility. The combination was comedically lethal. I had so much fun every day that on the weekends, at a party or some other event with whomever I was with, I’d inevitably turn to them and say, “I have a much better time at work.”

  It’s funny that my inexperience as a writer turned out to be the biggest advantage I had going when Seinfeld came a-knocking. Not just because Larry and Jerry were looking for writers free of the sitcom way of working, but also because it freed me to focus on pitching my ideas and figuring out why some worked and others didn’t. And it was my experience as a woman that kept me on track in finding story ideas, which kept me employed for more than seventy-five episodes.

  Keep your ideas concise, and you’ll find it much easier to pitch them to the appropriate person. (If it helps, pretend you’re pitching to Larry David and his arm’s already in motion.) Keep alert for ideas rooted in your own life experiences or from those unsolicited suggestions that come your way (even if it means smiling politely at the 99.9 percent that are totally useless). Keep track of your ideas after you pitch them, so you can learn why some fly and some land with a thud. Also keep a little notebook with you all the time—I’ve been doing so since the first time I set foot onstage in 1977—because you never know when inspiration will strike.

  And one last piece of advice: when you relocate, be careful to remove your prized memorabilia before the movers on the premises. Something I seemed to miss in the Mayflower Movers pamphlet.

  You Can’t Have Any New Old Friends

  Seinfeld set the gold standard for television comedy, and even if it’s a career high not likely to be repeated, my time on that show nevertheless taught me lifelong lessons about how to write comedy. The experience also taught me how to be a boss. Larry and Jerry were the easiest showrunners (biz lingo for the executive producers in charge of it all) I’ve ever worked for. They were always fair, direct, and generous with everyone on the set. They never treated a crew member differently from one of the network suits. I’ve tried to emulate that attitude whenever I’m in charge of a show and staff. (I’ll talk about the very best boss I ever had—my father—later in the book.)

  This situation is especially notable because it all took place during the era of the stand-up comedian in network TV. I heard plenty of stories from writers on other comedian-centered shows (Roseanne, Grace under Fire) that would make your head spin. But Jerry Seinfeld never had the requisite hissy fits or ego trips that went with a lot of his contemporaries. For him, the show was all about the work (he had the same attitude, from day one, as a stand-up comic). He knew that with his name as the show’s title, it was up to him to set the tone. To this day, he remains the most un-hung-up person I’ve ever known, and without a day of therapy.

  Earlier I mentioned the most common question I get, “What’s Jerry Seinfeld really like?” (see Chapter 9, “The Singer, Then the Ventriloquist, Then the Chick”). I’ll take a moment to address it here, since we’ve been talking about the show. Simply put, Jerry’s a mensch. (That Yiddish word, “mensch,” is so much better than merely saying “nice guy,” isn’t it?) A buddy who’s always been there for me in countless ways. Here’s a great example.

  Julia Louis-Dreyfus, in Jerry and Larry’s office after a taping, kicking back.

  One day a few years back, when I was in Los Angeles, I got a distressing phone call from my mom on Long Island. My dad had taken a fall outside their house, hit his head, and had some dementia as a result. He was taken to a hospital in Mineola to recover. Needless to say, I was a wreck.

  Jerry happened to call soon after the conversation with my mom, and I filled him in on the bad news. “Well the good news is,” Jerry said, “I’m scheduled to go back to New York tomorrow. Why don’t you come with me on my private jet”—the dude has worked hard over the years—“and when we land, you can go out to Long Island and see your dad.” I was ecstatic with his generous offer and, of course, grabbed it.

  The next day we boarded Jerry’s jet—and if you’ve never flown privately, I really encourage you to try to have friends who are so successful that they’ve earned this perk in life. Jerry had lox and bagels on board, fresh from Nate and Al’s Deli in Beverly Hills, and the fun plane ride certainly took my mind off my ailing dad whom I was so anxious to see.

  We landed a few hours later, and off to Winthrop Hospital in Mineola I went. When I arrived, my dad was doing so much better than I had hoped—he was way more lucid than I’d imagined, with just some bumps and bad scrapes. My pop was so happy to see me, and I shared the story with him and my mom of how Jerry had graciously lent me a ride. (The folks always ate the show biz stuff up with a spoon!) When I left the hospital that night with my mom, we were both very encouraged by my dad’s progress.

  The next morning, I arrived at the hospital in an upbeat mood. I ran into the nurse and asked how my father was doing.

  “Oh, not too good this morning,” she said. “We’ve definitely taken a step backward.”

  “Oh, you’re kidding,” I replied dejectedly. “But he was doing so well yesterday!”

  “No, no, the dementia’s back,” the nurse said. “Your father woke up this morning talking about how his daughter flew in on Jerry Seinfeld’s private jet, eating lox and bagels at thirty thousand feet …”

  So even though he was almost responsible for an extended hospital stay for my dad, they don’t come better than Jerry. Friends are so important—they help keep you sane every day as you brave the mercurial working world. Where would any of us be without them? If you have a Seinfeld or two in your life—and I mean a mensch, with or without a private jet—hold on to them. The saying “you can’t have any new old friends” is a sage one.

  The ceremonial “draw a line through the episode title” after taping.

  On set with Estelle Harris and Jerry Stiller, “the Costanzas.”

  CHAPTER 16

  KEEP YOUR SOUR CREAM OFF THE COUNTER

  After writing for Seinfeld, there was only one television show I wanted to work on in the worst way: The Larry Sanders Show. I was a huge fan, and no other comedy captured my imagination like that show did.

  I was in a good p
osition to get hired. I knew Garry Shandling from my stand-up days. The first time we met (by the elevator in 30 Rock as I left a Letterman appearance), he complimented me on a joke I did, and it made my day. (The joke was about how ridiculous it is at the airport when they ask you, “Did you do all your own packing?” My response being, “Of course. Like most people, I use Mohammed’s Packing Service.”) Plus, just coming off writing for Seinfeld certainly didn’t hurt either.

  So, my agent got me a meeting to interview for the coexecutive producer position. The show was specifically looking to hire a woman. Now, sometimes that intention is good—those in charge truly care about adding female voices to the mix. Other times, they’re doing it only because they have to. But regardless of the circumstances, when that’s the objective, I’m always ready to prove it’s the right decision.

  Anyway, I went in to this interview well-armed. If there’s one thing I learned from Seinfeld, it’s that ideas are the gold that set good writers apart. (I also learned that Red Vines are delicious candy and hard to resist when showcased in a big plastic tub.) If you hand the star of a show or the showrunner a unique idea, you’ve got a serious foot in the door.

  The day of the meeting, I did my usual. I went to the gym to get the shpilkes out (as my tribe says). I was pleased that I was scheduled for late morning, having always felt that being scheduled before lunch makes for a better meeting. After lunch, I feel like the other party is either reliving their meal or second-guessing their order. I was ready, and I went in pumped and positive.

  When I walked into the room, Garry was there, as was the showrunner John Riggi (multiple Emmy winner from 30 Rock). I knew and liked John, a fellow stand-up from back in the day. Our banter up front was light and fun, and we were off to a good start. I went on to talk about my passion and enthusiasm for the show. I was familiar with the previous season’s episodes and touched on a few specific ones that I particularly loved. The meeting was going great.

  So I decided to pull out the big guns (not those guns, you pervert): I told Garry and Riggi that I had some ideas for the upcoming season, and I asked if I could share a few. They were happy to hear them. Then the best thing that can happen during an impromptu pitch session happened—Garry and Riggi started to run with a few of my ideas, and soon we all started spit-balling together. As we wrapped things up, Gary and Riggi told me they had a few more meetings to take with other writers but would know something definitive by the end of week.

  I left that meeting flying. I phoned my agent as I pulled out of the building; this one was easy to call a ten. Even better: later that day, my agent followed up with the Sanders camp, and their feedback was amazing. (There’s nothing worse than being the only one who thought a meeting was a ten. Although having the back of your dress tucked into your pantyhose after leaving the ladies’ room is a very close second.) I was confident that by the end of the week, I’d be the new hire at The Larry Sanders Show.

  The week ended with no news. Not unusual. Another week went by, still no news. My agent was told they were “still thinking about it.” Then two weeks turned into four weeks, with the assurance of “it’s looking good.” But I wondered if that was truly the case. In business, I’ve come to learn that the longer you have to wait for a decision, the worse it is. Sour cream left out on the counter for a few hours ain’t going back to the fridge. Or so said my Grandma Becky.

  Larry David even offered to call Garry to put in a good word for me, and I gratefully took him up on it. Finally, a week before the start of the new TV season, I heard they’d hired another woman for the coexec position. I was devastated. After all those weeks of stringing me along and keeping my hopes up, this was such a stone-cold bummer.

  A few months later, Paul Reiser was hired to host the Emmys and asked me to write for him. Lo and behold, the night of the awards, who did I run into but Garry Shandling. We talked for a while, and then the subject turned to his show. I shared how disappointed I was that I didn’t get the gig, and how I believed I could have really made a difference there. Garry was very gracious about it. Then, completely out of the blue, he asked, “If something were to come up where a position became available, would you still be open to it?” “Absolutely!” I gushed, even though I seriously doubted that would ever come to pass. I thought he was just being nice.

  A month later, my agent got a call. The woman writer they had hired wasn’t working out, and they asked me to come onboard. I was thrilled. Even better, my time on Garry’s show turned out to be phenomenal, even resulting in an Emmy nomination. Garry is not only an amazing actor but a brilliant writer/producer, with an innate sense of scene structure and dialogue that is uncanny. I learned so much from him. The Larry Sanders Show was also my first experience with the classic sitcom “writers’ room.” I got to experience the beauty of it, the remarkable synergy of all that comic energy in one room. One idea leads to another, and the volley never stops until a joke or a scene achieves its best evolution.

  It’s really hard not to take things personally in show business. When you’re rejected, it’s you someone doesn’t want, there’s no way around it. It plays to your insecurities, and insecurity in this business is as common as the name Jayden in a Santa Monica preschool.

  But I’ve thought a lot about this Garry Shandling story over the years. I could have held a grudge about being rejected. I could have developed an attitude about them stringing me along all those weeks and then ultimately not giving me the job. But how would that have served me? What I wound up doing when I saw Garry—being friendly and sharing, in an honest but light-handed way, that I was bummed not to get hired—turned out to be exactly the right thing to do.

  Disappointments are fast and furious in show business. And, unfortunately, I’d say the bad experiences often outweigh the good ones. I imagine the same is true in most vocations. Most of us hear “no” far more often than “yes,” and it never feels good to be turned down. When the inevitable rejections happen, it’s healthy to get out your anger and bitch and moan and vent. But do it to your friends and family—or the guy at Starbucks you’re now unfairly ahead of in line because he politely held the door for you—or to whomever is your designated crap receptor. Then move on.

  In other words, don’t hold a grudge. Don’t turn bitter when an opportunity doesn’t pan out. Sour cream belongs in the fridge, not out in the open where everyone can see it spoil. In the business world, bringing your sour grapes wherever you go is only slightly more attractive than pulling out a piece of floss and whaling on your gums during lunch.

  CHAPTER 17

  AGAIN WITH THE FAILURE?

  If you’re not failing, you’re not doing something right.

  So there I was. This was the night I’d been waiting for. The pinnacle of my career. I was starring in my own pilot for a sitcom that I had written and created.

  My nerves before the evening’s taping were off the chart. I was shooting on the same lot as Seinfeld, so Jerry came by for moral support. He could see how nervous I was and he said, “You know, there’s not just one thing, Carol.”

  I shrugged, and he correctly figured out that I had no idea what he meant. He continued:

  “Take the pressure off yourself. It feels like the most important night of your life, but it’s really just another night in the bigger picture of everything you do. Now, go have fun out there.” (That last piece of advice is the one he’s always given me, ever since my first Letterman shot.)

  At first, I thought Jerry was being a bit of a buzzkill. “Of course, it’s the most important night of my life! I’m shooting a pilot for my OWN SHOW.”

  But seventeen years later, I see the wisdom of Jerry’s advice. Yes, there are highly pressurized, important moments in anyone’s career. But the key at those times is to see the long game. Because that, and not a single moment, is what ultimately defines the course of your career.

  In the end, it did turn out to be a great night. The pilot we shot went on to be picked up. But my sitcom Alright Already r
an on the WB network for only one season. We had amazing reviews that I’m still so proud of, from many top critics, but it was a “ratings-challenged” show (as most everything was on that fledgling network).

  I still remember getting a big laugh at the “upfronts” that year in New York City. (An upfront is a meeting where new shows are introduced by the network to advertisers and the press.) When they announced my show and I stood up to say a few words, I said, “A lot of people put down the WB. But I’m here to tell you, I’m taking this show all the way to number a hundred and eighteen!”

  So, do I look back on the experience as a failure because Alright Already got canceled? Not for a moment. (Okay, maybe for a moment.) I met some great writers and crew with whom I continue to work to this day. I learned invaluable lessons about being a boss and the importance of having a strong support team in place. And I had a ton of laughs in the process. “Not just one thing” indeed.

  Writing this book has been a real time trip for me because so many of the things I’m anxious to give advice about are things I wish I had known when I was starting out. I’d love to be able to go back in time and tell my younger self all I that I know now. (And tell her to invest in Apple.) But the biggest piece of advice I’d want to impart to the young Leifer—and to whatever-age-you-are you—is about failure. Because when I was young, I was terrified of failure. And that fear can stop you dead in your tracks, especially when you’re attempting something creative. Yet, the only way to become successful at anything is to fail. And here’s the kicker—to fail over and over and over. (Okay, maybe just two “overs.”)

  Amy Poehler said this in an Entertainment Weekly article in 2013: “Be okay with writing really bad stuff for a long time—just keep doing it. The act of doing it, the muscle memory of it, is more important than how it is. That’s why improv was so instrumental for me, because you would do shows every night, and they would suck every night, and one night they’d be okay, and it would sustain you for another year.” Or how ’bout this amazing quote from director Mike Nichols? When Elaine May asked him in a January 2013 Vanity Fair interview “What have you learned?” Mike responded, “I’ve learned that many of the worst things lead to the best things, that no great thing is achieved without a couple of bad, bad things on the way to them, and that the bad things that happen to you bring, in some cases, the good things.”