Name: Daniele Nathanson, writer, CSI: NY (2006–8)

Situation: Getting into the business as a writer

The first day my ass hit the seat in a writers’ room was June 2, 2005. I had just gotten married and was supposed to be on my honeymoon, but a writer’s assistant job for the TV show CSI: NY opened up, and I had to take it. I’d worked too hard to get this opportunity, and a friend told me I shouldn’t risk setting the wrong tone by asking to have the first week of my first season off. But my husband, the one who had been supporting me in my attempts to pursue this writing dream, wanted me to go to Rome. So I flew to Rome, where I stayed for 36 hours. Then (without sleeping) I got back on a plane, arrived in LA, slept for 8 hours, and—jet-lagged out of my mind—started the first day of what I hoped would be the rest of my writing life. That’s how much I wanted this job. So when my ass hit that chair, I was ready. And that’s a good thing, because things were moving quickly—the white boards were already crammed with writing from the beginning of a story break from last season. I was confused about whether I was supposed to type what was on the board or what people were saying. I began typing what was on the board but was then told to do that later and to just take down what people were saying. This was not an easy job; there were about ten writers, and they were all talking. I didn’t know what to type first and was terrified that if I missed an idea, I’d be called out and fired. But the writers were patient, and I was very focused (my boss had to tell me it was OK to get up and go to the bathroom). I survived that first day and then took the night to process that I was actually part of a major network television show. It was a dream come true.

Breaking into the business is difficult—not a shocker—but possible, especially if you work hard and don’t expect things to immediately go your way (i.e., in a straight line toward your career goals). You might be a writing rock star, but that’s not what’s important in the early stages of the game. What’s most important is that you work well with others, stay as calm as possible, and know that as an assistant, your career needs are not the priority. The concept of paying dues is still important in Hollywood. You may catch a miracle and get in quickly, but eventually people are going to want you to put the grunt work in to show that you can handle it and deserve the shot.

There’s a variety of ways of breaking in: you have an agent (but they’re hard to get without a job) who tries to get you on a staff; you know someone, and he or she decides to give you a break; or you work your way up the tried and trusted Hollywood ladder. That’s what I did, but it took some time. Here’s how it worked: My husband was in a band with a guy whose sister was an executive assistant on the television show CSI. When I moved to Los Angeles from San Francisco, I called her up and told her my plan—to write for television. But, and this is important, we also became friends. If we didn’t like each other, this wouldn’t have worked. It’s one thing to know what you want and go after it, but I don’t advocate calling people randomly and asking them for things—people know when they’re being used, and even if it helps you in the short term, it won’t help you foster actual relationships. And relationships are vital; you need to maintain them in order to remain viable in this business.

Anyway, the assistant and I became great friends and hung out for a year or so. And then one day she invited me to a party and told me she wanted me to meet someone, another assistant on CSI, who was the “writers’ assistant.” The writers’ assistant is the person who sits in the room with the other writers and writes down everything they say. It’s a hard job but worth it, if you know how to use it. The writers’ assistant and I became close friends as well, and I picked her brain about what she did for her job, and how to do it, and was learning as much as I could even before there was a job to get. But knowing the writers’ assistant helped me form my plan of action—to get an assistant job. And I did—after four years. I went on numerous interviews for PA jobs (production assistant, mostly involving getting lunch and coffee for the writers), for which I was told I was overqualified, and in the meantime I worked a variety of day jobs, including being the assistant to the world’s only identical-twin belly dancers (and was bitten by one of their boa constrictors), working at a nonprofit, and tutoring English.

I finally landed the job when CSI spun off the show CSI: NY because I knew people on the original show. As soon as these insiders heard that there was a writers’ assistant job available, they arranged for me and my writing sample to be seen by the correct people, and three interviews later, the job was mine. (Important: always keep samples of your writing so that you have different types of material to show people.)

I kept pretty quiet during my first several months—so quiet that the other writers joked that they didn’t know if I talked or had a sense of humor or was anything other than a typing machine. But I felt the best tack was to keep my head down and focus on doing my job. I figured if I did it really well, they would eventually come around and ask what I did or ask to see a sample of mine or be in such a huge time crunch they would ask me to write a scene or two for them. And this is exactly what happened. I wrote some scenes, and people liked them, but more than that, they liked that I was a hard worker and did everything I could to help the other writers; for two years, these people were my priority.

My first season as an assistant, I got very lucky and was given a script. The following year, I was given another (cowriting this time) and another, and then I was promoted and I was in. That’s when I got my agent: after I got the job.

Takeway: Offer to help people, and don’t assume everybody is dying to read your material or give you a break before they know you. Do your best to be nice or charming or gracious or whatever is the opposite of a Hollywood jerk. Be the person you’d want to work with.