“that’s the lady from the T-Mobile commercial. And the Transformers Chevy commercial. What a low-rent bitch.”
“wasn’t really funny, but the girl was decent.” Or to put it in words the OT can comprehend “I’d pee in her butt.”
But whatever was written, it was feedback. And I discovered that internet feedback, in any format, is pretty seductive.
I don’t say this to exaggerate the feel-goods, but the day we uploaded the first episode of The Guild was the day my life was transformed. Outside the fun of making it, we also had the faint hope in the back of our minds that someone “mainstream” would see the show and say, “Hey! Let’s take this Guild thing off the internet and put it on television!” But as soon as I saw the view count tick upwards and the comments section fill up with “Hey, I’d do that chick!,” the people I wanted to please in life shifted from Hollywood insiders, who’d shoved me into the quirky secretary box for so many years, to the people online who actually liked what I was doing. Or hated it. Either way, the feeling of “THEY LIKE US, KINDA!” was magical.
A week after our third (and last) episode was uploaded, I was acting in a terrible, low-budget Western movie. The kind you see in the bargain bin and say, “Wow that looks cheap.” While riding to set in a van, wearing a hideous prairie woman outfit, my phone started going crazy, buzzing like a lady’s pleasure toy with text after text.
“You’re on the front page of YouTube!”
“Your face is on YouTube!”
“Do you have a show on YouTube? I swear this is you on the front page!”
Back then, YouTube handpicked cool videos to share with the community on the front page. Most old-school YouTube stars were created this way. And on that day in late 2007, our hard work was blessed by their magic wand.
It paid off big-time.
Tons of people found us through that featured spot. Seeing “Where’s the next one?!” typed in the comments section over and over wasn’t a BAD thing for the ego. Our views for the first episode skyrocketed past one million, and the brand-new episode three was up 200,000 in twelve hours. With that boost, I knew someone would be knocking on our door to help us make more episodes!
I held up the phone to the other actors in the van. “My show is on the front page of YouTube!”
They all looked over at me, confused. “You can make a show for the internet?”
[?A Series of “You Go, Girl!” Events?]
After the influx of fairy godmother YouTube views, we were able to get a snazzy Hollywood agent and started taking meetings with “the fancies” to pay for more episodes. I won’t lie; it was pretty awesome to be courted. I’d always wanted a “coming-out” party, like seventeen-year-olds had in Regency romance novels. Taking meetings around town felt like my version of being presented to the Queen. I always held my left hand out like it should be kissed when I was introduced to people at meetings. “Lovely to meet you, sir and/or madam.” (No one ever kissed it. The hoi polloi are so uncouth.)
The truth was, we were like the pauper girl trying to snag a prince. We literally didn’t have any money to make even ONE more episode on our own. But we thought by meeting with tons of web video companies and networks, someone would just write us a check, no strings attached, so we could get on with filming our next season. Fund us! Our hymen is intact, take us to the altar, Prince Hollywood!
The first episode of The Guild is titled “Wake-Up Call.” That’s exactly what I got out of those meetings.
“But I don’t understand why you have to own the show completely.” I squinted at the digital executive across from me. We were meeting for breakfast in a douchey hotel restaurant, and for the fiftieth time I thought to myself, Why am I bothering with this Hollywood meeting thing again? Oh, right. I have to, if I want to keep making my show.
“Writers don’t own their work in this business.” He patted me on my hand, and I looked down, wanting to wipe it on my jeans.
“But there wouldn’t BE a show if it wasn’t for the person who thought it up in the first place.”
He smiled condescendingly. “The show wouldn’t get made without the producer and network, though. We provide the money. It’s 101.”
Did he seriously just throw a “101” at me? How dare he. I have a 4.0! I leaned forward. “But it says here you can’t guarantee me to star if it ever goes to TV. That’s the whole point of why I wrote . . .”
“Don’t worry, those issues are way down the line! We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” His “Aren’t you cute!” attitude was really starting to piss me off.
“But . . .”
“We’re offering to fund your show! Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“You’re giving me two thousand dollars a season. Total.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Since we’re gonna work together, tell me the truth. You didn’t ACTUALLY write this yourself, did you?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, girls don’t really game, so . . .”