by Hale, Mandy
I must have had what it took, because about a week later I got the call that I was the newest associate producer at News 2.
I could barely contain my excitement. I felt so grown-up! So accomplished! So validated for not giving up on my dreams! I would be working “Nightside,” which meant I would go in at onethirty in the afternoon four days a week and work until after the ten newscast, meaning I usually got off around eleven at night. I would be helping to write stories for five daily evening newscasts (the 4:00, 4:30, 5:00, 6:00, and 10:00) as well as running scripts, answering phones, manning the teleprompter, and doing whatever else needed to be done that the producers didn’t have time to do. I spent hours meticulously picking out my outfit for that first day on the job, and I just knew that like my longtime hero, Oprah, I was about to take the news world by storm. (Since she got her start in Nashville, I took that as a sign.)
I got to work extra early my first day on the job, expecting that there would be intensive training to be done before they would turn me loose. My “intensive training” consisted of someone sitting me down in front of a computer, facing me toward it, and saying, “Go.” I have never felt more terrified or more like a fish out of water in my life. For the first hour I couldn’t even figure out how to turn the computer on. No one gave me the log-in info, so I had to search frantically through an old, raggedy manual they had given me to see if I could find the right password. Meanwhile, everyone around me was typing fast and furiously. I felt beads of sweat start to drip down my back as I frantically jabbed at the computer, trying to pull up something, anything, so I could at least give the impression I was working. About two hours into my workday, I escaped to the bathroom to call my mother in tears from my cell phone.
“What is it?” she asked in alarm when she answered the phone and heard me sobbing. “What’s wrong?”
“Mom, I can’t do this,” I sniffled. “I have no idea what I’m doing. No one is telling me what to do. I haven’t received any training. I can’t even get the computer to work. Can I just sneak out the back door and come home?”
My mom was silent for a moment. Then she said something I’ll never forget.
“Yes, Mandy, you can come home.” I sighed in relief. “But,” she went on, “if you do, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
“But, Mom—”
“You can do this. Listen to me. You can do this. Don’t walk away from this. You wanted this so badly. Don’t walk away and always wonder what might have been.”
So I didn’t. I stuck it out.
I quickly learned that there was a reason they didn’t provide much in the way of training to the newbies. The news business is fast and furious, sink or swim, survival of the fittest. Things moved too quickly not to be. You pause, and you miss the story. You hesitate, and you get scooped. You leave, and someone else is lined up immediately to take your place. It’s a brutal, dog-eatdog business. But if you stick around, refuse to give up, and keep furiously paddling, eventually you’ll stop sinking and start swimming. And I did.
Now, that’s not to say I didn’t have my share of newsroom fiascos.
The teleprompter was particularly evil. I’m not sure how it works now, but in those days, there was an ancient-looking computer screen with a little knob that you twisted to keep the story scrolling so the anchor could read it from the prompter and not have to stare down at his or her hard-copy script. The associate producers (AP) would sit at the prompter wearing headphones so we could listen to the director and the producer give directions from the control booth. If, along the way, a story got “killed,” or taken out, the producer was supposed to remove it from the prompter; but sometimes a story died too late and didn’t get taken out in time. When that happened, the AP was forced to switch to an even more ancient contraption that projected actual hard-copy scripts onto the screen for the anchor to see. We were responsible for cranking those through the machine manually. For the most part, I caught on to the ins and outs of the prompter pretty quickly. There were a couple of particular incidents, however, that still stick out in my mind as some of the most humiliating experiences of my early career.
One such incident occurred the day we were reporting on two stories back-to-back, one about a major drug bust and the next about a local state representative’s latest campaign stop. Unfortunately, the two stories got swapped somehow in the prompter, so the anchor merrily launched into a story about the state rep while a graphic of a giant marijuana leaf loomed over his shoulder. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late to do anything. So I watched in horror, sinking lower and lower in my chair as the news anchor grinned his way through the shiny, happy story while unknowingly linking the state representative to illicit drugs. I could hear the director screaming through my headphones, and for the second time in my short news career, I considered slinking out the back door and never looking back. But somehow, though I did suffer a seething tongue-lashing from the director, I managed to come out on the other side relatively unscathed. (My pride and the state represen-tative’s reputation, not so much.)
I had all sorts of wild adventures in that newsroom, from crawling under the news desk to deliver breaking news to the anchors via Post-it notes during bad weather, to fielding calls from crazies (one lady complained that our meteorologist yelled at her nightly through the TV), to handwriting an entire newscast worth of scripts the day every computer in the newsroom went on the fritz and didn’t come back up until a half hour before our first newscast. Still another time I managed to singlehandedly shut down all the computers in the newsroom when I accidentally blew a fuse using my space heater. (It was freezing in that newsroom.) Thankfully the computers were only down for a few minutes, but my beloved space heater was confiscated as a result.
Still, through all the fiascos and shenanigans and meltdowns and teleprompter debacles, that newsroom was my training ground. It was where I learned to be a writer. If you could write compelling, bold, attention-grabbing copy while up against five different deadlines for five different newscasts on a daily basis, you could confidently call yourself a writer. And even though I managed to screw up royally a few times, I hustled, persisted, and didn’t give up until I became the best AP I could be. That’s what you do when you’re tossed into a terrifying, unfamiliar, and intimidating situation. You scrape and claw and fight and challenge yourself until you rise to the occasion. Because no matter how bad you might mess up, or how foolish you might look, or how hard you might crash, there is absolutely nothing worse than the feeling of regret you will have if you don’t try at all. My mom was right. Had I run out of the newsroom like a scared little girl that first day, I would have regretted it for the rest of my life.
About nine months after I started at News 2, I applied for a job at Country Music Television as a production assistant. It was a heavily sought-after position—basically my dream job—and I knew it was a long shot. But if my time at News 2 had taught me anything, it was to play the odds and bet on myself.
A few days later, much to my surprise and excitement, I got the job.
I didn’t know it then, but because of my time and experience at Channel 2, I was about to walk into a new job that would change so much more than my career path. It would change my entire life.
I was happy and relieved to discover that my training would be much more involved and well-rounded than it was at my first television job. I would be working in the news department at CMT, so I shadowed one of the associate producers for about a week. She was very friendly and helpful, answering all my questions patiently, even though I’m sure I asked some pretty dumb ones. Within a couple of weeks, I was turned loose to start my official duties as production assistant. I transcribed tapes for hours, which basically meant I watched interviews conducted by producers and typed out everything that was said so the producer could go in and quickly pull sound bites for their news packages. I also logged tapes, ran errands, and conducted research—it was essentially grunt work, and I relished every sec
ond of it. I remember walking through the halls of CMT, looking around in amazement as I thought of how blessed and lucky I was to be there. And even though I was at the very bottom of the totem pole, the job came with some major perks. We would have up-and-coming musical groups brought in at lunchtime to play for us in the conference room. Once, a new and supercute artist set up a grill at lunchtime in the alley beside our building and grilled steaks for us. Every day it seemed there was something new and exciting to look forward to, to the point where it never felt like I was going to work. It felt like I was just showing up for another day of fun.
I was also starting to make new friends. One day I was typing away at my desk, transcribing a tape, when I looked up to see a skinny, adorable guy in glasses standing outside my cubicle.
“Mandy, this is our new producer, Jeremy,” my boss piped up from the cubicle beside me. “He comes to us from E! News out in LA.”
I stood up with a smile to shake Jeremy’s hand and was instead enveloped in a huge hug.
“Hey, Mandy! It’s so great to meet you!” Jeremy said excitedly.
“You too.” I laughed. “I didn’t know people from LA were so . . . huggy.”
“Oh, well, my family is originally from Kentucky,” Jeremy explained, gesturing to the University of Kentucky sweatshirt he was wearing. “So I have Southern roots.”
Jeremy quickly became my partner in crime at CMT. The laughter never stopped. I’m happy to say that in the decade since, it still hasn’t stopped. Jeremy is one of my very best friends to this day. His sister, Erin, would eventually move to Nashville from Arizona, and she would become one of my closest friends too. And her wedding a few years later would act as a major catalyst for the creation of The Single Woman blog—another example of how some of the smallest acts, like making a new friend, can lead to some of life’s biggest moments.
About three months after I started working for CMT, I was called up to the fourth floor to the Really Big Guns’ office. As in, my boss’s boss. As in, Chet Flippo, world-famous journalist and former editor of Rolling Stone. I was a little terrified, wondering if I was in trouble or even getting fired. I couldn’t understand why I would be summoned by Mr. Flippo upstairs unless it was a really big deal. I looked to my boss for reassurance as she escorted me up to the fourth floor, but she was tight-lipped. A sense of impending doom started to hover over me as we walked up the stairs, down the hallway, to Mr. Flippo’s office door.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in!” I could hear him call from the other side.
We walked into his very grandiose office, and I glanced around nervously at the many awards lining his walls. I had never been in this office before, and I wanted to take it all in just in case it was the last time I saw it. His entire back wall was a picture window with a killer view of the riverfront. Pictures of Mr. Flippo with any and every country music star you could imagine lined his desk.
“Hello there, Mandy,” Mr. Flippo greeted me.
“Hello?” I squeaked, more as a question than a response.
He laid down the file he had been looking through and peered across the desk at me intently. “We called you in here today to talk about something really important.”
I closed my eyes for a second, frantically thinking about my last couple of weeks at work. Did I do something wrong? Did Jeremy and I create too much of a ruckus cutting up in the hallways? Was my dream job about to come to an unceremonious end?
“Okay,” I said finally, holding my breath.
Mr. Flippo looked slightly amused. “I’ve heard that you’ve been doing some really good work for the news department. In fact,” he went on, “I was told that you did a sample news package last week that was absolutely fantastic.”
I exhaled in relief. This sounded like it could be really good! “Thank you so much, Mr. Flippo!” I replied with a big smile. “That means so much to hear, coming from you.”
“We liked your news package so much, Mandy, we’d like you to consider stepping down from your production assistant position.”
Wait, what?
“You see, we’re looking to add a new associate producer to the team, and we’d like that person to be you.”
Oh. They didn’t want to fire me. They wanted to promote me!
“Oh wow!” I exclaimed. “Oh wow. That’s so great! Wow. Of course! Of course I’ll take the position!”
They went on to tell me that with the promotion, I would be getting a raise and increased responsibility. In fact, they were even entrusting me to cover an upcoming music video shoot! I could hardly believe it. My dream job had just gotten even dreamier. I said a silent prayer of gratitude as I made my way back to my cubicle. What a day! I was going to be writing news packages for national television! Me! Me, who just a year ago had been standing on the side of a highway dressed like Gandalf the Grey. I had come a long way, baby!
That’s not to say my time at CMT was fiasco-free. It seems my “Mandy Moments,” as I had come to call them, followed me across town from Channel 2 to my new job.
Once, the whole news team was at a party celebrating a number one hit for Dierks Bentley’s single “What Was I Thinkin’.” I thought Dierks was adorable, and I loved his music and could hardly believe I got to be included in such a momentous occasion. As any country music fan knows, Dierks has a cute Heinz 57 dog named Jake who has appeared in several of his music videos and has even walked the red carpet with him a few times. Well, just as Dierks was taking the stage to give his speech at the party, I helped myself to a giant Styrofoam cup of soda from the bar, filled to the brim with ice. It rivaled a Big Gulp from the 7-Eleven in size. I had hardly taken a sip of the soda when I tripped over a cord on the floor and nearly fell flat on my face, sending the massive soda flying into the air and all over me and several people in the near vicinity before it hit the ground with a nice, loud, wet splash. Not only did several people stop what they were doing and turn to see who was creating such a commotion, Jake the dog loped over and started excitedly lapping up the soda. And all of this just happened to go down right as Dierks was summoning Jake to join him onstage. (I have nothing if not impeccable timing.)
“Here, boy!” Dierks called, whistling. “Here, Jake!” He put his hand to his brow and peered out into the crowd. “Where is that dog?”
Much to my mortification, everyone in the room swiveled around to stare at Jake the dog eagerly licking up the spilled soda. My spilled soda. I wanted to melt into the floor as fast as the ice that was melting into Jake’s mouth. I breathed a sigh of relief when someone finally managed to wrangle the dog away from the giant puddle of soda and onto the stage.
Another time I was rushing to get to work in time for our morning meeting when I got stuck behind a gigantic but superslow-moving SUV in the parking garage. Since I had to climb eight or nine floors to get to the right entrance, getting trapped behind someone going at a snail’s pace when in a rush was a nightmare. I sighed in frustration as I edged closer and closer to the SUV’s bumper. Obviously, the driver had no idea where he was going. I didn’t have time for this! I pressed my horn lightly, then a little harder as the SUV continued to creep up the levels like the chaffeur in Driving Miss Daisy. Finally, I got to the right level, my road rage levels at dangerous capacity. How dare this pokey SUV detain me from my morning meeting? I huffed all the way inside the building.
Later that day I was headed out the front door to lunch when I noticed that same SUV exiting the parking garage. It was so mammoth that it blocked the entire sidewalk, forcing me to stop and wait for him to pull out. I sighed. Twice in one day! “Who does this guy think he is, anyway?” I muttered to myself.
As he drove away, the driver turned back, and our eyes met. I was almost ready to make a very unfriendly (and not entirely Christian) gesture at him when I realized, Wait a minute. He looks familiar. Is that . . .
Kenny Chesney.
I had ridden Kenny Chesney’s bumper all the way through the parking garage that morning and had honke
d repeatedly. I had gotten road rage at Kenny Chesney! Not exactly an enemy you want to make in the country music world. I tucked my head down and shuffled away down the sidewalk, hoping he wouldn’t see me well enough to recognize the crazy-parking-garage-roadrage girl in any future red carpet encounters.
Of course you already know from chapter 1 the giant fool I made of myself on the red carpet at the CMT Music Awards, blowing past Loretta Lynn in my eagerness to get to Keith Urban, and the scene I caused on the airplane headed to Vegas, but those incidents wouldn’t happen until a little ways down the road. In the meantime I got to cover the CMA Awards red carpet that year with another producer. I got to assist on a shoot with Dolly Parton. I got to tag along with our host, Katie Cook, as she interviewed Matthew McConaughey when he was on a promotional tour for a movie in Nashville (and yes, ladies, he is even more handsome in person). I was getting to do things far beyond my wildest dreams. God had promoted me to a place in my career I had once only dared to imagine I could be.
But you know what the problem was?
The further my career advanced, the further away from God I got. The more He blessed me, the more I forgot to thank Him for it. The more I looked to my new friends, my new job, and my new life for my identity, the less I looked to God for it. And that’s a dangerous place to be. I wasn’t out drinking or doing drugs or having multiple impure relationships, but my sin against God had never been more pronounced. I was ignoring Him. I became too busy for Him. I stopped giving Him credit for my amazing new life and started taking credit for it myself. And the fuller my life got, the emptier I got.
Things got worse when I made the decision to make the move from Murfreesboro, where I had lived my whole life, to Nashville. I had never lived farther than ten minutes from my family, even while I was in college. And now I was leaving them behind in favor of my new life. That wouldn’t have been a bad thing had I been in a good place in my life, but at that moment, leaving my roots, my family, the people who loved me the most, was almost like the last stop on my tour of destruction. Even though Nashville was only a thirty- to forty-five-minute drive from Murfreesboro, it felt as if it were a million miles away. I didn’t know myself anymore. I can remember feeling a cloud of darkness hanging over my head as I packed up my final box in my apartment and got ready to head to my new apartment in Nashville.