Normally, This Would Be Cause for Concern

by Danielle Fishel

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  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  WILL ACT FOR SHOES

  CHAPTER 2

  WALK MUCH?

  CHAPTER 3

  AS SEEN ON TV

  CHAPTER 4

  SOMETIMES THEY WISH I WAS ADOPTED

  CHAPTER 5

  WANNABE JOCK

  CHAPTER 6

  NEVER TOO OLD

  CHAPTER 7

  BEFORE THE RING

  CHAPTER 8

  I HEART YOU WITH ALL MY FART

  CHAPTER 9

  I DO . . . WANT TO SCREAM AT EVERYONE

  CHAPTER 10

  THE POOP WHISPERER

  CHAPTER 11

  I WANT TO BE A RAPPER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT DANIELLE FISHEL

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  WILL ACT FOR SHOES

  Aside from a certain segment of A-list actors, most of us who act professionally don’t have much, if any, control over what we work on and when we work on it. Considering that “Type A Personality” should be my middle name, this makes me crazy in the head.

  Auditioning for a role you really want can be awful. You only have a few minutes in the room to show what you’re capable of, and you might only have a couple of hours to prepare for it. You audition for a thousand more roles than you’ll ever actually book, so there is a ton of rejection, and it isn’t always about your performance. Is your hair color right? Is your weight right? Are you the right height? Can you walk and chew gum at the same time?

  The problem is, you have no idea what the casting director, director, or producers are looking for, so you just have to walk in naked (figuratively; I don’t suggest actually going in naked, but if you do, please let me know so I can laugh my ass off ) and hope they love you.

  Sometimes auditions are the opposite of what I’ve just described. The show or movie is fantastic, the casting director is incredibly kind, and you feel great about what you’re doing. I wish I could say that’s how my Boy Meets World (BMW ) audition went when I auditioned for the role of Topanga. But it wasn’t.

  I started acting at ten, because when I was in elementary school there was a tall, gorgeous girl who was a year or two older than I was whom I really looked up to. That’s not just a short-person joke; I actually wanted to be like her. She came to school one day and told me she had just signed with an agent and was going to be a model. She told me I could be a model, too.

  That was all I needed to know.

  “Mom,” I said when she picked me up from school, “I want to be a model.” She asked why, and I told her it was because Heather, the aforementioned tall, gorgeous girl at my school, was going to be a model. My extremely kind, warmhearted, and supportive mother explained to me that you have to be taller than four feet to be considered as a model in any capacity. I had been hoping that endless enthusiasm for posing in front of every camera I came across since the age of two would make up for my being vertically challenged, but . . . no. Hmmm. I hadn’t anticipated a hang-up in my career path this early on.

  I went to school the next day and told Heather the bad news.

  I started my nonexistent modeling career at two years old.

  “Ugh, my mom said that I’m too short to be a model,” I lamented.

  “Oh!” Heather said. “My agent is also going to put me on TV, and I don’t think you need to be tall to be on TV.”

  She was right. You don’t have to be tall to be on TV, and that was going to be my new goal. Forget the fact that starting a career in the entertainment industry is next to impossible, or that we lived fifty miles from Los Angeles, or that I didn’t know the first thing about acting. I was going to make this happen.

  Truthfully, my parents didn’t want me to be an actor. They had only heard horror stories about former child stars, and I had to beg them for a year to let me get an agent and start auditioning. They only relented because they figured I would probably get bored with auditioning before I would ever be lucky enough to book a job and make the almost inevitable downward spiral that plagues young Hollywood. Ha! Wrong. Well, at least half wrong. Maybe my spiral is coming and my crazy just hasn’t kicked in yet. I still have time to ruin everything!

  By age twelve, I had been acting for almost two years. I had done several commercials and a couple of guest spots on TV shows. None of these jobs required a whole lot of acting, because they were parts where I was just a slightly exaggerated form of my own naturally perky, carefree personality at that age. And then I got the call for an audition for a new show called Boy Meets World. The name of the episode was “Cory’s Alternative Friends.”

  The role I was auditioning for was Topanga. She was a young “flower child” who was quirky and could possibly end up being a recurring character. I went in for the audition and read the lines exactly the way twelve-year-old Danielle would have said them. I spoke fast, with too much energy, and guess what? I didn’t get the part.

  The next day, I got called in to audition for the same show, even the same episode, but for a different character. This role was much smaller and, much like my other roles, didn’t require much acting. I got that one! Yippee!

  I showed up to work and realized that my part was in the same episode as the role of Topanga. This was pretty cool, because I got to see how the girl who got the job acted the part out. They obviously liked her, so maybe I could learn something from her.

  First of all, this girl was incredibly sweet. She was also very talented. The role was meant for someone who could talk very slowly and still be funny. She seemed to know how to do that. I watched her work with our director the whole first day. Even though I had been in acting classes before, this was like my first real lesson. It changed my life.

  I remember David Trainer, our exceptionally gifted director for the first two seasons, giving her notes on how to improve her performance. She seemed to have trouble there. He’d give her a note telling her to change something, and she’d do it the exact same way again. I felt like a little kid in a classroom; I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Can I try?” Even at twelve, I knew that was unprofessional, so I kept my mouth shut.

  On set the next day, she wasn’t there. They had let her go, and the executive producer, Michael Jacobs, needed to find a new girl to play Topanga. To this day, I don’t know why Michael gave me another opportunity to audition for Topanga, although I suspect it was because it was easier than having to do a whole new casting call, but he did. It was down to me and another girl, Marla Sokoloff, who was also doing a guest spot on the episode.

  I knew this was my chance to show everyone how much I had learned about acting since they saw me last. I had to shine. I had to be Topanga.

  Marla went in first. When she came out of her audition, the casting director was gushing over her. “Please, give me every possible number where I can find you tonight in case we need to get hold of you,” is what the casting director said to Marla’s mom. I felt like I was already at a disadvantage.

  I went in for my audition. When I was done, the casting director said, “Thanks, Danielle.” That was it. Just “Thanks, Danielle.” No begging for phone numbers. Nada.

  My mom and I walked to the car, and I started sobbing. I told her there was no way I got the part and
I wanted it so badly. She was very comforting and tried to remind me that we didn’t know anything for sure yet.

  What we did know for sure was that we needed to call my dad. He was expecting us home hours earlier and was anxious to hear how my second day on the job had gone. This was 1993 and long before the convenience of small cell phones you could carry around in your pocket or purse. But my mom had a pager, which is hilarious to me now, because if someone has a pager today, I automatically assume they deal drugs. My mom might drive seventy miles per hour in a sixty-five-mph zone, and one time she did call a man a “jerk head” for honking at her, but she has never sold drugs.

  She also had a “car phone.” When I asked my mom to describe the details of the phone for me so I could include them in this story, she said, “It was a phone that never had good service, cost a million dollars per minute to use, and was massive.”

  Basically, she had Zack Morris’s phone from Saved by the Bell.

  My dad had been paging my mom for the last few hours, wondering where we were. The minute we were in the car, we called him.

  My mom was driving and wanted to be safe, so she handed me the phone, and I started to tell my dad about the events of the day. I don’t remember the exact words of the conversation, but I know he asked me to repeat myself several times. Partly because of the bad car-phone service and partly because I hadn’t stopped crying.

  And then it happened. My dad got another call and put me on hold. He came back and said, “Some woman named Sally Stiner just called and said that you should come back to work tomorrow as Topanga? What does that mean?”

  I started screaming. Sally Stiner was the casting director. I started bouncing up and down—seat belt on, of course, safety first—and yelled, “I got Topanga!” My mom started screaming, and my poor dad still had no idea what was going on. I finally calmed down and told him the whole story.

  The next day, I went back to work with my new role. I worked hard all day and thought I was nailing it. And then we had a run-through.

  A run-through is exactly what it sounds like. You “run through” the episode of the show you’ve been rehearsing for the last couple of days. It’s basically a full performance of that week’s show for all the producers, writers, and network executives. It gives everyone a chance to see what’s really working in the episode and where changes need to be made. When the run-through is complete, all the actors sit together in front of all the writers and get notes on what was good and what, well, wasn’t so good.

  I was incredibly nervous during my first run-through as Topanga. I knew Michael had high expectations for all his actors, and I wasn’t going to be any different. But I felt pretty darn good about how I had performed. How bad could it be, really?

  On BMW, we did our notes session in the Matthews family’s living room. I can remember exactly where I was sitting when Michael started off the notes session with me. “Danielle,” he said, “there were a few things you did really well today, but overall, you are way off from where I want you to be. I have so many notes for you that I’m not going to make everyone else sit here while I give them to you. We’ll be here all night. I’ll speak with you privately after we’re done here.”

  Then I had to sit for what felt like hours, listening to everyone else get minor notes about small adjustments they needed to make with their performances. I only had this job because they had already fired the first girl. Was I going to get fired? Marla was still on set and playing the same role she’d had from the beginning. They could easily decide that they had made a mistake and give the role of Topanga to her. As quickly as the opportunity came to me, it could be taken away just as fast. I was a ball of nervous energy, and it was a miracle that I didn’t pee my pants while sitting there.

  When the notes session was over, Michael pulled my mom and me into the Matthews family’s kitchen. We sat down and went over every single line I had in the script. Michael told me exactly what he wanted from me. It was surprisingly different from what I had been doing, but I knew I could handle it. Michael ended the conversation by telling me that I had one more day to get this right . . . and if I didn’t, they’d have to recast the role. I wanted to cry.

  My mom and I went home and got right to work on the script. My mom read my lines with me and gave me notes on what Michael wanted. We did this until four A.M., when my mom and I eventually passed out. When we woke up, my mom said, “You can do this, Danielle.” I wasn’t quite as confident.

  We drove to the set, and I worked all day with the director. He seemed pleased with the adjustments I had made, but all I really cared about was getting positive feedback from Michael. Unfortunately, I had to wait all day for another run-through to see if my changes were worthy of that.

  The run-through came and went, and once again, I felt pretty good about what I had done. This time, however, I was painfully aware that I had felt the same way the day before, when I was told my whole performance needed to change if I wanted to keep my job.

  Michael started the notes session off with me again. My heart stopped beating regularly, and my palms got sweaty. “Danielle, yesterday I gave you an enormous amount of notes. I did that because I believed you were capable of handling them,” he said in front of all the writers and producers and my fellow actors. Then he stood up. I panicked. Was he going to fire me, slam his script on the ground, and storm out of there? “However, with your performance today, you exceeded my expectations,” he concluded. He started clapping, and all the writers stood up and clapped next to him. Michael wasn’t going to fire me. He believed in me. He gave me a freaking standing ovation.

  To this day, I’ve never felt such a rush of emotion. I was so happy I wanted to jump for joy. I had been included in this family of talented people and had earned the right to be there with my hard work and the hard work of my mom, who not only believed in me but helped me and encouraged me.

  As you know, Topanga did become a recurring character for seasons one and two and eventually became a series regular, present in every episode. When people ask me what my favorite episode of BMW is, my answer is always “Cory’s Alternative Friends,” because it was such a roller coaster of emotion for me and it changed the course of my whole life. It was also the episode when I had my first on-screen kiss and my first real-life kiss.

  After you’ve had the benefits of being a series regular on a sitcom for seven years, you have a new sort of auditioning freedom. You have some money in the bank, and you start thinking, Maybe I don’t have to go on that audition to play the sexy high school dropout who tragically, yet comically, loses an eye while playing beer pong with her controlling but gorgeous boyfriend. Or the athlete’s foot commercial. Or the fourth-season reality show. Maybe, just maybe, I’m too good for that crap now.

  I confess that when I finished Boy Meets World, this was my frame of mind. I would like to say that I insisted on only the most top-notch, crème-de-la-crème roles, but I didn’t want to be too cocky. Instead, I said simply that I didn’t want to audition for any roles in horror movies or soap operas. See? I’m open-minded!

  For the record, I only dislike horror movies because I hate being scared. I do not get the appeal. I once went to Halloween Horror Nights at Universal Studios with a guy I was dating. I’m sure he thought that this was going to be a romantic night as he protected me from all the scary ghouls and goblins. We were standing in a dark room with neon-green polka dots when a man wearing a black suit with neon-green polka dots jumped out of the wall at me. I screamed, punched him in the face, and then cried for two hours. My date took me home and never called me again. I was so good at dating.

  As for soap operas, my mom used to watch them when I was a kid, and even then, I felt bad for the talented actors stuck working with that writing! My God, the writing. I will say, though, that my love of the British accent started with Finola Hughes, who played Anna Devane on General Hospital. I used to sit in front of the mirror and practice my accent into my microphone/hairbrush. (I also used that same micro
phone brush to act out my future appearance on Oprah, where I would obviously discuss my insanely perfect marriage to Jordan Knight of New Kids on the Block, but that’s a story for another time.)

  Unfortunately, Hollywood wasn’t as ready to begin its love affair with me as I was with them. After spending several years being too good for these types of roles and not once working, I decided it might be time to expand my horizons. Perhaps I could learn to love being scared; I did have an above-average “I’m frightened” face, usually elicited when I spilled chili dip down my white silk blouse at Thanksgiving. And perhaps General Hospital deserves the Pulitzer Prize for soap-opera writing. So in a fit of (forced) enthusiasm, I called up my agent and said “Bring. It. On.”

  It didn’t take him long to find some choice projects, and I got a call a few days later. “Danielle, we have two auditions for you on the same day next week. The first is for the horror movie Cabin Fever, and the second is for The Bold and the Beautiful !” Not my dream gigs, certainly, but after a few years of fruitless auditions, I would take what I could get. I mustered all of my phony enthusiasm and said, “Great!” Within minutes, I’d printed off the sides—industry-speak for pages of the script you’ll be reading during the audition—and started scanning.

  At first, I was pleasantly surprised by the Cabin Fever scene. It was a horror movie about a group of kids who go camping for a weekend and somehow contract a flesh-eating virus. In the scene I was sent, I didn’t have to do any ridiculous screaming, I didn’t have any long, dramatic monologues, and I didn’t die a horrible death. In fact, I didn’t do much of anything. Why’d they pick this scene? I wondered to myself.

  I read to the end and noticed that at the end, there were three-quarters of a page of stage directions. For anyone who hasn’t seen a script, these are little notes that tell the reader what is going on in between the lines of dialogue. Things like “Karen puts her glass down and walks toward the door. Michael enters.”