Scared Scriptless

by Alison Sweeney

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Maddy Carson is a mass of contradictions. She loves her job as Script Supervisor on a hit TV show, but hates "Hollywood." Super-organized and down-to-earth, Maddy is clearly one of the best at her job, and her strict dating rule - "No Actors!" - helps her keep focused on her career. However, a budding relationship with Craig, one of the executives at her company, may even propel her into the big leagues. Could Wolf County, her beloved hometown in the mountains, be saved from a financial crisis by creating a reality show featuring the eccentrics in the small ski village? Maddy is determined to try, even when she learns that Craig's agenda doesn't exactly line up with her altruistic goal.


Meanwhile, Maddy still has a full-time job to manage, her family to deal with, and a gorgeous new actor, Adam Devin, determined to wear down her resistance. Eventually Maddy must learn to break all her self-imposed rules and simply follow her heart.


Scared Scriptless offers an engagingly relatable heroine, laugh-out-loud humor, and a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at how television is made.

Release date: June 3, 2014

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

“I can feel the arrhythmia in his femoral artery.”

“He’s going into cardiac arrest.”

“We’re not going to lose him!” Intense eyes meet mine over the patient lying on a makeshift hospital bed.

Momentarily startled by the urgent gaze, I quickly recover. “Yes, he’s in V-fib,” I say.

“He needs another four hundred cc’s of propofol.” His eyes remain glued to the monitors all around us.

“But you said the max his body could handle was two hundred…,” I reply.

“I know what I said, but if I can’t finish the surgery, everything we’ve done for him will be worthless. He’ll die if he wakes up now.”

“Doctor, his body isn’t responding to the treatments. What makes you think the surgery will make a difference?”

“Nothing.”

I glance up at the seemingly cavalier reply, but his face is anything but casual. His expression shows the tension, the responsibility, and, most importantly, the concern he has for the patient under his care. “But I don’t have another choice. We’re a hundred miles from the nearest hospital. At this point my instinct is all I’ve got to go on.”

For a split second, I am caught up in the moment. It’s so easy to actually believe we’re in a surgical tent in a dusty Middle Eastern desert. Then I shake my head and remember that we are, in fact, on a sound stage at Hogan Chenney Productions in Studio City, Los Angeles. That’s a testament to Billy Fox’s acting talent; even in rehearsals, he gives it his all. If I weren’t holding the script in my hand, ready to prompt him with the next line if he needs it, I’d totally buy that he really is about to save this man’s life.

“Nailed it,” I say, with my best School of Rock impression. Billy breaks character to grin back at me. There is, also, a weird backward dance with guitar, but I skip that part since there are other people watching. “As always, you’ve got it word for word.” I am a details person, and nothing makes me happier than an actor who knows his lines perfectly.

Billy’s stellar performance is one of the reasons The Wrong Doctor has become a hit show, fan favorite, and Emmy nominee in its very first season. Of course, the rest of the cast and crew and the terrific writing have all contributed to our success. I like to think that I played a key role myself, in my job—which I love—as Script Supervisor for the show. Today is our first day shooting the second season, and the energy and excitement on the set is palpable. The pressure’s on too. We have to deliver the same high standard as last season, which is why we’ve been rehearsing this scene so many times.

The U/5 actor—so named because he gets less than five lines of dialogue—playing the patient lying on the table peeks up at me. “Are you rehearsing the scene again? Can I take five?”

“Of course,” I answer. “We’re going to be relighting for another five to ten minutes. Be sure to let the AD know you’re leaving set, okay?” Given his deer-in-the-headlights look, I add, “Frank. That guy right over there.” I point helpfully. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just need to use the restroom.” His gaze shifts to Billy and is immediately infused with hero worship. “But if you need me to stay, Mr. Fox… you know… for an eyeline… I don’t have to go right now.”

Billy, who’s been making notes on his script, glances up at the hapless guy. “No, thanks, dude. No problem. I got this.” He smiles casually and goes back to methodically reciting ER phrases. Real doctors have incredibly hard jobs, but actors playing doctors don’t exactly have it easy. All that technical jargon has to be letter-perfect and usually requires a high-paced, tension-filled, commanding delivery.

Billy stars as Dr. Jason Lucas, a hotshot LA plastic surgeon who gets arrested for a DUI and is sentenced to do community service for Operation Smile, an organization that sends doctors to the third world to fix cleft palates. The steamy locations also require Billy to be sweaty and shirtless a lot. Between the action-packed edgy drama and the eye candy, there are lots of reasons our show has become a fan favorite. Billy has kept his shirt on during these rehearsals, much to the disappointment of the interns.

“Okay, Billy. You’re good?” I have to be super careful about the dialogue for this scene because the director wants it all in one take for the “master shot.” Since it establishes everything that happens, it’s the most important angle of the day. We’ll then go in and shoot close-ups, but I think he’d rather use the one camera angle if he can get it, so Billy has to get his lines perfect in one take.

“Femoral artery, arrhythmia, cardiac arrest… yeah, I got it,” Billy says while continuing to study intently.

It’s my job to micromanage these sorts of specifics. There are plenty of actors who cringe when they see me coming. If the actor doesn’t know his lines well, I’m the one who calls him on it. In other words, I sweat the small stuff.

“Just remember, Billy, four hundred cc’s and a hundred miles away.” He nods absently as Bobby, the prop master, steps in to go over the specifics of the fake needles that he’ll be using.

I head back to my director’s chair and get settled in for the next take. I open my large spiral notebook, which is always (always, always) by my side and helps me keep meticulous track of every detail of my work and personal life, in list after list. Some might call it compulsive, but I call it organized. With a few seconds of downtime before we shoot the next scene, I look at my recent lists: Groceries: Animal crackers, PB Cheerios, granola bars. I quickly jot down oranges. A girl can’t live on cereal alone. Below that, there is a list of ideas for presents for my mom’s upcoming birthday: “Real Simple subscription? Slow Cooker? Inspired by an infomercial I watched way too late last night, I start to add panini maker to the list when Frank, the assistant director (best AD in town), cuts into my thoughts. There is so much happening on a set all at once… the lighting guys are setting up a ladder on the floor, the sound mixer is testing various mic packs, a couple of grips behind me are in some sort of hacky-sack play-off while waiting for the all-clear before moving the delicate camera equipment into its new position. I can zone out whenever I need to, despite the chaos. But when I’m on, I’m on.

“Maddy!” I hear my name through the chaos.

“Sorry, Frank.” I immediately dump the list in the side pocket of my chair. “What’s up?” I look up at him. “What’s all over your shirt?” He may be a first-rate AD, but his competence on set is matched only by his ability to spill things on himself… and anyone else in the vicinity.

“Oh shit, must be mustard from my In-N-Out,” Frank says, scratching at the yellow stain.

“When did you sneak away to In-N-Out?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear? Hogan brought an In-N-Out truck to set today. Burgers for the crew as a ‘back to school’ treat.” He hands me an unwrapped burger. “I got an extra. You want?”

“That’s okay, I’ll try to grab one later—” Before I can even finish my sentence, Frank is unwrapping it. My stomach growls looking at the delicious string of cheese and special spread, which no doubt is two seconds away from landing on his jeans. I do love burgers, and without question there are times I eat them just as a silent form of protest against all the girls here in LA who wouldn’t dare touch one. It’s the same rationale as to why I wear flats almost exclusively—and not even designer ones.

It’s not at all surprising that Hogan Chenny, or as Frank calls him, “the Big Guy,” got us all In-N-Out today. As head of Hogan Chenny Productions (HCP), Hogan is head writer, creator, and executive producer for The Wrong Doctor and an all-around prime-time drama icon. Given his success and his reputation for being a hard-ass, a lot of people are intimidated by him. The fact that Hogan stays in his office most of the time contributes to his Oz-like reputation, but he’s also the classy kind of guy who gets In-N-Out for the crew, just because. And although few people are aware of this, I know firsthand that Hogan has a softer side because he has been a family friend since I was a little girl. He was a regular at my family’s ski lodge up in Wolf County, California. When I worked the lifts after school and on weekends, Hogan and I would often chat about movies and TV. He introduced my brothers and me to the old classic ’80s dramas St. Elsewhere, Hill Street Blues, L.A. Law, and all my favorite old movies that I am constantly quoting.

As a self-professed type-A person, I grew up with a plan: attend University of California–Davis, move home to Wolf, work at my dad’s resort, marry my high school boyfriend Brian, have kids… yada yada yada—but things didn’t quite work out the way I’d planned. Instead, right after graduation, Hogan offered to help me (just that one time, I might add) get a job as a production assistant, so I could “give TV a shot.” It was the ultimate entry-level position, but I was willing to do the grunt work for every department.

I’ll never forget getting off the plane at LAX wearing my Marmot fleece and Merrell boots. It was like landing in another world. While it was hard to get used to the traffic, the smog, and being a natural dish-water blonde in a sea of highlighted perfection, from the very first day, I loved being a PA on 300 Madison Avenue, a drama about the residents of a luxury apartment building. Turns out my passion for organization, eye for detail, and willingness to work fourteen-hour workdays were essential skills when it came to the chaotic beast that is television production. That was ten years and twelve shows ago, and now here I am as script supervisor on The Wrong Doctor.

“So what do you think, Maddy? Are we gonna actually make some TV now?” Frank asks, shaking me out of my trip down memory lane.

“I hope so. I’m pretty sure that’s what we all came here to do,” I deadpan.

Frank and I are a little frustrated that Ernesto Diaz, the director for the season premiere episode, keeps insisting on so many rehearsals before actually shooting anything, which risks putting us behind schedule. And speak of the devil, Ernesto appears out of nowhere. I send up a quick prayer that he didn’t hear our disgruntled exchange.

“We changed the angle of the opening sequence,” he announces, all business. “Cameras need to see it one more time.”

Meaning we’re doing yet another rehearsal. I groan internally, and through the monitor I see from the flinch on Billy’s face that he has the same reaction to the news of yet another rehearsal.

Ernesto suddenly takes off, charging back toward the set. I quickly redo the perpetually messy knot of hair on my head—a nervous habit. I can feel strands of my stick-straight hair slipping free as I grab my script and give chase. One thing about my very un-Hollywood-like athletic frame, I am built perfectly to dodge set pieces and leap over moving cables. It’s no sweat to navigate through the backstage “jungle” and ease into the “surgery” tent set as unobtrusively as possible. I sense Frank appear next to me and know that we’re both having the same thought. This is going to start getting expensive if we don’t start reining Ernesto in. This is our first time working with Ernesto Diaz. Normally the directors who come to The Wrong Doctor have done TV before and understand the balance between creativity and finances. Ernesto seems to be getting swept away with the former at the expense of the latter. It’s clear that Frank and I are going to have our hands full keeping him on time and on budget this week.

“All right, let’s get ready to shoot one,” Frank booms to no one in particular. The camera crew takes some final measurements as Bobby puts all the props back in the start positions for the scene. Ernesto is still in deep discussion with Billy. I mosey over to listen in, see if maybe I can subtly help us stay on track.

“I feel this scene is pivotal. This is the moment Lucas realizes he cannot save this man…” Ernesto continues to gush over the plot point. After Billy has made several “I agree” type noises, he glances at me helplessly. I make my move.

“Billy, here’s that line you wanted to see again.” I slip in next to him and hand him my pages, pointing to a line that he has gotten right in every rehearsal. Ernesto watches us for a second.

“Good, good. This will be good.” He pats Billy’s shoulder confidently and marches off.

“Well, Maddy, I just want you to know, we’re all counting on you.” Billy quotes the immortal words from Airplane as he hands me back the script. He can’t be any more specific than that since the mic under his shirt picks up every sound, but I know exactly what he means.

“I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue,” I murmur darkly. I hear Billy snicker as I return to video village. Sometimes “video village” can be quite the who’s who, especially on a hit show like ours, but if any network execs or producers decide to stop by to watch the action on the monitors today, they’re in for a tight squeeze. There’s barely room for Ernesto, the sound guy, our producer/writer, and me. Those of us with “need-to-know” status are all huddled together in the tiny area carved out for us between huge set pieces, slipping our headsets on to hear the dialogue as Ernesto yells, “Action!”

We do several takes, as I make notes of the action and specifics in each of the wide shots to later match in the close-ups to guide the editors in postproduction. Billy picks up the needle on his second speech; the nurse moves the tray away from the bed before she exits; the U/5 has the blanket pulled up to midchest area. I snap a picture of the screen with my digital camera to make sure I can replicate the exact placement of the blanket.

It’s vital, if tedious, that I keep detailed and specific notes since it ultimately means the difference between the audience losing itself in the story or being distracted because they notice, consciously or subconsciously, inconsistencies in the filming. Not on my watch!

After filming the scene two more times, Ernesto mercifully calls for a ten-minute break and I take the opportunity to wander over to the nearby craft services table. “Crafty,” as we call it, is set up behind the Dr. Lucas’s Prison Tent set. Billy Fox/Dr. Lucas will spend much of this season trapped in this cramped prison after having been kidnapped by Islamic extremists in last season’s cliffhanger finale. I glance over at his sad little cot as I round the corner. Good thing this is only TV because movie star Billy Fox, with his perfectly mussed hair, wouldn’t last one day in the desert. Taking in the boring offerings at the table, I am debating if I can make it to the In-N-Out truck and back before rehearsals start again when Craig Williams steps next to me.

“How’s the afternoon going, Madelyn?” He reaches for an apple.

“Good, good.” I try to stifle some of the unexpected awkwardness I feel by faking extreme interest in the pretzel bowl. Craig is the executive in charge (EIC) of production at HCP, which means he oversees the budget and personnel and is involved in creative decisions for The Wrong Doctor.

“I love how Ernesto followed that single-camera angle from the tunnel into the terrorist cell. If he can nail it, I bet that makes it on the season preview for the show. It looked amazing. And we need a killer sizzle reel for the network to promote season two. They can run promos of just that shot and the fans will freak out. It’ll go viral.”

“I know, I love that shot too. He’s really committed to making that work. It’ll be great.” I make sure to infuse my tone with enthusiasm. This is not the time or place to express doubts.

“Well, it’s already two-thirty. He better end up with something to knock our socks off after spending all day on two pages of material. According to the call sheet, there are five more pages to shoot today.” Although it doesn’t stop anyone from asking questions all day long, the call sheet has all the information the cast and crew need for that day of production, from the time everyone is expected to arrive on set to what pages of material we will be filming and in what order. “Will you get those all done by the time we wrap?”

Craig drives me and practically everyone else on the crew crazy at times with this micromanaging, but we all put up with it because we know how much pressure he is under.

“Yep, don’t worry. We lost a little time this morning, but we can make it up this afternoon. Frank and I are sticking to our guns here. We don’t want to fall behind our first day back in production.”

“I tell you what, Maddy. Let’s talk more about this tomorrow night. A PA will call me to let me know when you wrap, and you can just come straight to my place. I’m making you my infamous pineapple grilled salmon.” He winks at me as he walks away, before I can even respond.

And this is #702 on my list of why it may not be a good idea to date your boss.

Exactly twenty-four hours later, after a mad dash home to shower after we wrapped (late of course), I am wandering the aisles of Monte’s Wine Emporium near my apartment in Studio City, trying to find the perfect bottle of wine to go with Craig’s salmon. Beyond my standard glass of Pinot Grigio, wine is not my area of expertise, so I am a little overwhelmed as I walk through the Argentines. Robust notes of cherry? I’m so out of my comfort zone here. Back home, we Carsons usually drink beer or a whiskey concoction my dad perfected in Vietnam (supposedly) and that my older brother, Mike, christened “Waxy Sour” because of the strange film it leaves on your tongue after a glass or two. So I am really out of my element evaluating tannins, but I finally settle on a Malbec recommended by none other than Monte himself and head back to my car and onto the windy canyon road taking me to the city side. As I sit in traffic—another thing about LA that I will never get used to—I find myself mentally reviewing the pros and cons list I made last night about dating Craig. Since tonight is the third time that we’ve gone out and I am going to his house for the first time, where he is making me dinner, I think it’s fair to use the term “dating.”

Pros: Craig is the right age—thirty-seven, two years older than me. He’s already at the executive level at HCP, code for “job security,” meaning he’s not in one of the many Hollywood jobs that are completely unstable and unreliable. He has East Coast manners. Small-town people like my parents (and me, I’ll admit) love that old-school gallantry. I can count on one hand the number of guys in LA who have actually opened the car door for me. I’m not saying he has to run around the hood to open the door, like Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties, but it’s nice to feel looked after.

Cons: He has a bad habit of name-dropping and often uses industry expressions like “Let’s put a pin in that.” He gets manicures on a weekly basis—on any given day, his nails look nicer than mine. And also, the biggie: He’s my boss. Yes, the hierarchy in the entertainment industry can be a bit fuzzy, but at the end of the day, the week, or the shoot, I turn those time codes in to him. When we’re paying the crew overtime, I get chewed out just as much as the much-higher-paid directors.

As I turn onto Sunset Blvd, I go right back to the plus column, which is headlined by two words: “dry spell.” It’s like being in the ocean and dying of thirst with the guys in LA. I know, ten years is a long time. That’s not to say there wasn’t a fling here or there. I dated a sound guy for a while and had a yearlong romance with a guy who gave tourists paragliding lessons. But given my main rule, established from day one—NO ACTORS—dating in LA is hard. I’m around a lot of actors and even more would-be actors. Their reputation for being vain, insecure, and needing attention—a deadly combination—is not unfounded. Billy Fox is an obvious exception to that, but even he has his moments. Before you go getting ideas, there is absolutely nothing going on between Billy and me. I’m happy to admit that most of the preconceived notions I had about him when we first started production turned out to be false. Working together on a set bonds people quickly, and only one season later, I know he’s one of my true friends in this town. But every time I see his picture in US Weekly with another gorgeous supermodel, I’m equally happy that’s all he is.

The truth is—and I think a therapist would probably be quick to point to this as a reason for my dry spell—I have a bad habit of still measuring every guy up against Brian, my high school/college boyfriend. Does that always happen with first loves? Brian has long since moved on and married a lovely girl from our hometown. And I am happy for him—I am!—I just wish there were more guys like him in LA. Guys who have calluses on their hands from something other than lifting kettle bells at the gym.

Wanda—yes, I named my trusty GPS after my favorite John Cleese movie—announces the turn into Craig’s neighborhood, which is marked by a wooden sign that reads GABLE ESTATES. The twisty road keeps going up into the hills above the Sunset Strip, which according to the map is “Beverly Hills Adjacent.” Taking in the mini-mansions around me, I suddenly have an eerie feeling that I am trespassing. The gorgeous brand-new houses are mixed in with older hillside homes similar to what I was surrounded by as a kid up north, but it’s mostly a lot of huge estates hidden behind tall fences. Compared to my tiny but adorable studio and my modest childhood home that my dad built himself in thirty days (or so the story goes), it’s clear that I am not in Kansas anymore. I’ve been in LA for a long time, but it’s sometimes still hard to wrap my head around the differences in culture, taste… excess. I wonder which will be Craig’s—the rustic cabin style or the mansion. Then the guessing is over as his house falls into view: a gorgeous Mediterranean-style version of the latter. My friends back home imagine that my lifestyle involves designer clothes, a membership to the beach club from the original 90210, and daily convertible rides up the Pacific Coast Highway. My life is so far from that scenario that it makes me laugh every time. Yet here I am pulling up to an actual gate and intercom.

Before I buzz the intercom, I do a quick check of hair and makeup in the rearview mirror. After deciding to wear my hair down tonight, I have to stop myself from reflexively reaching for the hair band next to my watch to pull it up in its usual knot on my head. The tiny mirror shows only parts of my face at a time, but no question the mascara really does accentuate my almond-shaped brown eyes. All the sports and outdoor lifestyle as a kid seems to have left me with a permanent farmer’s tan, but right now, I’m grateful that the smooth rich tone means I didn’t have to attempt slapping foundation on my face, which I feel sure would have left me looking clown-like. Makeup in general is not my thing. What little I know, I’ve learned from watching the talented makeup artists work their magic on so many actors over the years. So I feel only a little bit self-conscious reapplying the rosy lip gloss that my friend Stella, The Wrong Doctor makeup artist, gave me. One last deep breath, and I hit the call button.

“Hello?”

“Craig, hi. It’s me.” I barely get a few words out before a loud buzzing noise interrupts me and the gate starts to open, allowing me to pull past an overgrown bougainvillea onto Craig’s circular driveway. Craig is standing outside his front door, and I must admit he looks great in a navy T-shirt, cuffed linen pants, and bare feet. It’s weird to see him wearing something other than a power suit. I suspect he’s thinking the same thing as he takes in my Gap T-shirt and tie-dyed maxi skirt.

“Maddy, hi. How was traffic?” he asks, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

People in LA are obsessed with talking about traffic and discussing the best routes to get anywhere. If you don’t believe me, check out “The Californians” on YouTube, a Saturday Night Live sketch that is twice as funny if you live in LA because it’s not that far from the truth.

“It was fine.” I return the kiss—he even smells different than he does at work. “It only took me forty-five minutes or so. Here…” I rather inelegantly hand him the bottle of wine.

“A Malbec, perfect. Let’s head to the deck.” Craig ushers me to his gorgeous backyard, which is surprisingly homey and warm, with lant. . .