When I first arrived in Los Angeles, years ago, a talent manager invited me to dinner under the pretense of discussing my future. I declined the after-dinner invitation to have sex with him. He slithered away and was never heard from again. I was down one talent manager and no farther ahead with my career. I never should have agreed to dinner. I was young and naïve. Now I am neither.
I recently attended several gifting lounges for the 63rd Annual Emmys where dozens of starlets—looking more like porn stars than actresses—paraded around with predatory producer types who have neither credentials nor business cards. One such producer offered to introduce me to the head of a major network to help turn my novel into a TV show. Sounds enticing to the naïve Hollywood outsider. In reality, a seasoned Angelino such as myself knows that one does not bypass agents and attorneys and set up meetings without having a) read the material or b) constructed a well-rehearsed pitch. Our correspondence went something like this: