I gave myself the goal of writing one thousand words a day. Sometimes I hit it, sometimes not. I had no routine—I wrote at work between scenes, at the kitchen table, on airplanes. My process was nonlinear and often chaotic. If I hit a scene or a plot point that stumped me, I’d put the missing scene in bold so I would remember to come back to it later: Dan wedding scene to come. Sometimes I didn’t even know what the missing scene might be: Franny says blah blah something here. Talk about medical, medical!
I was filling every free minute, working harder than I had in years. So it was surprising that when I told people I was writing a novel, the two questions I got most often were “Is anyone helping you?” and “Are you doing that all by yourself?” You know, the same questions male authors get asked! I guess there is a tradition of memoirs sometimes being ghostwritten. (Chuck—make sure this part really seems like I wrote it. And remind me to delete this note!) But fiction? There seemed to be some bias I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
The book was far from perfect, but eventually it was done. Letting go of it was the strangest thing. I’d feel happy with a passage one week, but a week later I’d find things about it I wanted to change. I realized that the practice of writing the book had actually, slowly and over time, made me a better writer. So I’d see parts that I’d done months back and realize I could now do better. Which meant I wanted to keep revising. But when does the revising end? I’d committed to a publishing date, for one thing, but even if I hadn’t, at some point you have to let it go or it isn’t a book for sale, it’s a pile of papers on your desk. The actor equivalent of this would be to film a scene, then watch it and think, why’d I do that with my hands? That shirt isn’t flattering, I’m not as connected as I could be—let’s go back and do it again. You could keep improving that one scene over and over, but the movie would never get made. “I’m going to pull this out of your hands now,” Jen finally said.
Promoting the book was a new experience too. I did some signings at bookstores and got to be interviewed onstage by Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite authors. I was asked to (forced to) join Twitter, which I dreaded at first, but have come to (mostly) enjoy. I figured doing interviews would be the least revelatory experience, since I was used to those. But in subtle ways, I found the same “Who helped you?” tone was back once again.
The biggest example of this was an interview I did with a national newspaper. For starters, the journalist came to the interview a bit gruff. He didn’t seem particularly familiar with my work or generally psyched to be there. It was a lunch interview, and he seemed annoyed at having to order something. I decided that I’d win him over with my sparkling personality! This is a very bad way to start an interview. You are not there to entertain like a clown at a kid’s birthday party. Actually, maybe that’s not a bad analogy. This party was about to turn a little scary and maybe even end in tears.
The interview was conducted more like a scene from Law & Order in which I was the perp and he was trying to trap me into making a confession. He opened up his notebook and methodically went down his list of questions.
HIM: On page 9 of your book, Franny has trouble with her curly hair. I read that you’ve had trouble with your curly hair.
ME: Yes, well, a bad hair day is sort of something many women can relate—
HIM: On page 11, Franny waitresses. Have you ever waitressed?
ME: Yes. Many actors, when they’re starting out—
HIM: On page 39, Franny has an audition that doesn’t go well. Have you ever had an audition that didn’t go well?
ME: Yes, well, it’s a book about a girl who wants—FINE! I DID IT OKAY? JUST HANDCUFF ME NOW.
Fairly quickly I felt he’d written the article before I ever showed up. I don’t mean this literally, but he might as well have. He’d decided that my fiction was nothing more than a bunch of thinly veiled diary entries, and therefore deemed it unworthy—not “real” writing. I could have just stayed home in my pajamas.
I didn’t need him to pat me on the head and tell me I’d done a good job. I didn’t even need him to like what I’d written. But this wasn’t supposed to be an article reviewing the book. This was supposed to be an article about the process and how the book came to be, and I found it strange that he’d come prepared mostly to dismiss the accomplishment itself.
“Thanks for doing this,” I singsonged in an overly cheery tone as he left.
“Don’t thank me until you’ve read it,” he grumbled over his shoulder.
What was it I’d encountered that day, and those other times? Why would anyone assume I’d need help with, or take credit for, something that wasn’t my work? Was it…sexism? In my Hollywood life, the sexism is so rampant that it’s easy to spot. Every single feature film I’ve ever done was directed by a man, for example. Women who are hotter than me get parts I am up for all the time. What am I going to do—sue the Screen Actors Guild because I’m not Megan Fox? It is what it is. I do what I can to effect change within the system. But this brand of condescension was something new, and seemed woman-specific somehow. Maybe it had to do with being an actress, a job some people think is full of pretty dumdums. Male actors don’t seem to face the same bias. Even though my former boss Ron Howard practically grew up on sets, when he was first starting out as a director I doubt anyone ever asked who “helped him” direct Tom Hanks in Splash.
In contrast, a few months after the book was published, I got word that Ellen DeGeneres’s production company, AVGP, wanted to option it for television. There were discussions about who should write the script. Some advised me to stay open to suggestions, that to give the book its best shot at being made into a TV show it should probably be adapted by someone who’d actually written a TV script before. This made complete sense to me. But when I sat down with Ellen and her producing partner, Jeff Kleeman, and asked whom they were thinking of to do the adaptation, they looked at me funny. “You,” they said, like it was the most obvious answer. That one word opened so many doors.
Now, that script was a delight to work on, but it didn’t get picked up at the CW, so both opinions about who should write it probably had merit. But that experience led to a chance to write a pilot the next year, and that led to a feature agent at my agency taking an interest in me, which led to the opportunity to adapt the book The Royal We with my producing partner and husband, Mae Whitman. When Mae and I went to pitch the book to Terry Press, the head of CBS films, Terry looked at me and said: “Who’s going to write it—you?” I nodded, and she said “Okay,” giving me another first chance to do something I’d never done before.
I guess what I’m saying is, let’s keep lifting each other up. It’s not lost on me that two of the biggest opportunities I’ve had to break into the next level were given to me by successful women in positions of power. If I’m ever in that position and you ask me, “Who?” I’ll do my best to say, “You” too. But in order to get there, you may have to break down the walls of whatever it is that’s holding you back first. Ignore the doubt—it’s not your friend—and just keep going, keep going, keep going.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, writing Someday, Someday, Maybe in the first place led to the book you’re reading right now. And all of those other writing assignments, plus the filming of Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life, are why the next novel is taking so long. But don’t worry. In the meantime, you can pre-order my next book, Monkey Doodles, coming soon to a store near you!