From Delusion to “Maybe This Isn’t the Stupidest Thing I’ve Ever Done”: 7 Stages of a New York Actor’s Move to Los Angeles

The following is a guest post from actress, Claire Winters, co-founder of the fantastic actor resource website, Brains of Minerva, which we spotlighted here a while back.

In acting circles it’s called The Move – no adjectives necessary. It’s the westward migration, the pilgrimage to The City of Angels, the land of the entertainment industry’s milk and honey. At least that’s how one imagines it before The Move.

Some relocate after a promising pilot season; others have extended family or a supportive spouse to cushion the landing; some get off the proverbial and/or literal bus with $100 and the name of a youth hostel; and of course there are those lucky, enviable few who come out to do a real live acting job for cash money.

And then there’s you.

Stage 1: The Decision

It’s a cold January morning. You’ve walked 15 icy minutes from your Brooklyn studio apartment atop a methadone clinic to the subway for your 40-minute ride into Manhattan. You’re off to see your career coach for an hour before hauling ass to your office job before hauling ass to perform that night in a promising but troubled play about Heinrich Heine and Karl Marx in 1830s Germany. For real, that is what the play is about. You are going to see Dave, whom you pay a $150/hr every other week to keep you focused amidst the auditions, the rehearsals, the job, the boyfriend and the fight for a seat on the subway.

You’re kneeling on Dave’s office floor. You both collate copies of reviews from the play, headshots/resumes and cover letters, assembling packets for casting directors and agents in service of the big coaching goal: Claire to get a new agent who “gets” her. Or at least gets her more auditions. You step back. Some imaginary off switch has flipped inside of you.

“I just don’t know,” you say, “if I should stay here, move to LA, or move to a smaller market where I could possibly work more.”

Dave stops mid-staple and looks at you as though you’ve just turned blue.

“We’ve been working together for months,” he says, “and this is the first time you’ve ever talked about moving.”

A torrent of words that turns to tears that turns to snot pours out of you. You confess your waning interest in theater, how inspired you are by your job teaching on-camera acting to kids, how on the sets of the few independent films you’ve done you’ve felt at home in a way unlike anywhere else, how you no longer wake up in the morning wondering how to get on stage at The Public Theater, how your dream job is to adapt the experimental theater piece you developed last year into a film at The Sundance Lab…

Dave interrupts. “Do you hear how diffident your voice is when you talk about theater? Do you hear how direct, how ‘on-voice’ you are when you talk about film? Listen to that.”

The good news is that you got your $150 worth. The bad news is that you’re going to have to do something about it, and that’s a lot harder than collating.

Stage 2: The Balm of Delusion

For two months, you hem and you haw. You have a habit of becoming involved with men who are not interested in decamping for LA (New York Board Certifications, family in New York, pathological fears of traffic…) and you are presently single. You. Must. Go. Soon. Before another romance threatens your resolve. You set a time-line. You’ll leave in the fall. On the first date, you tell your prospective lover you are moving – you are serious. You worry. You budget. You research. And late at night, when you get scared and sad, you console yourself with math:

New York:

6 shows shoot in the city.

You have 2 auditions for episodic TV per year.

6 divided by 2 = 1 audition per 3 shows.

In LA, 105 shows cast annually.

105 divided by 3 = 35.

You will audition for 35 shows a year! Good, you think. ‘Cuz lord knows playing Heinrich Heine’s would-be mistress is not paying the bills. You will be able to go to Whole Foods and buy whatever you want! You will drive on to the studio lots in a car, with air conditioning! You are going to do well, because you can act!

You count the imaginary new credits on your resume as you fall asleep. Fantasies of “Grey’s Anatomy” guest stars get you through the tears of the inevitable break-up, the pain of taking your hard-earned Ikea furniture to be collected on the curb, the barbs your (not bi-coastal) agents toss as you say good-bye, and the nerves of boarding the Jet Blue flight and realizing you know very little of what to expect when the plane lands.  

Stage 3: Strange New World

LA looks as pretty as it did the last time you were here, and it smells even better. Your first day, the friends who’ve invited you to stay while you get your bearings seem very happy to see you. It could be that they love you, it could be the free childcare you’ve offered, and it could also be that Angelenos like houseguests. They generally don’t live in leaking shoebox apartments on top of methadone clinics, and they have exotic things like spare bedrooms and extra place settings. And young children who need taking care of.

Your second day, your friends’ young child in tow, you spot Rachel Griffiths at Ikea and Sandra Oh at Gelson’s. People tell you this is an omen. People in Los Angeles like omens.

Your third day, you show up to a class with a famed television casting director. You’re not going to lose your focus! So what if the threat of the WGA strike hangs over your friends’ heads like Pig Pen’s dirt cloud? You are going to do well, because you can act!

The famed casting director says that Erica and John will do their scenes early in the evening because they can’t stay past 9:30. Because their moms have to come get them. Because they can’t drive. Because they are too young to drive!!

You have an MFA, yet you are in class with kids who can’t drive yet. You freak out. You calm down. You notice that Erica and John are actually quite talented, and polished. You notice the casting director tells them to say Hi to their parents for her, one who is a soap star and the other who is an agent at CAA.

Class confirms that a) you can still act, b) so can a lot of other people, and c) several of them are hooked up.

Within a week days the WGA strike brings the town to a halt. You’re passed on (though in a lovely LA way) by your NY agent’s LA affiliate, your other referrals dry up in the panic of the picket lines, and the cute guy who’s your new roommate turns out to have a wife on another continent whom he says just “didn’t come up” during your interview.

But while the Strike is a serious wrench in your “Grey’s” Guest Starring Plans (and others’ mortgage-paying plans), it’s also given you a crash course in the economics and food chain of Hollywood. You are in a place where acting is bought and sold and matters. You get chills when you hear SAG execs interviewed on the local public radio programs. You catch labor-dispute fever and walk out of your temp job. You call your agency from the parking lot and tell them you do not do Excel formulas for $16/hr. You get a raise (retroactive!). This, you think, is a good omen.

Stage 4: Glow

You look good: you’ve put some serious time into perfecting your eyeliner application, you’ve bought a couple shirts that aren’t black, and you’ve lost a few pounds because you don’t know where all the great muffins are in this town, and, even if you did, you wouldn’t want to stop the car you’re barely in control of to parallel park and buy one.

You’ve become a children’s film auteur (ie, you teach filmmaking workshops to kids), a referral finally lands you a commercial agent, you’re hosting acting school alumni get-togethers once a month and they’re encouraging you to start that weird project based on a novel that you’ve been tossing around.

You notice a curious phenomenon: Telling people what you want in a direct and positive manner  – that you came here to work in television and to continue your esoteric weird acting projects – makes them want to help you. You have a new round of meetings. Your friends in New York say you sound so much happier, calmer on the phone. You say it’s the weather, though secretly you’re wondering if it’s the calmness induced by the infrequency of auditions… But you soldier on, and, one day, while editing your kids’ new opus in your room, your phone rings. It’s a big manager to whom you sent your reel. In the mail. ‘Cuz imdbpro told you he had a weird indie actress client and if he ‘got’ her, you thought, maybe he could ‘get’ you.

In The Manager’s granite lobby you think This Is More Like It. Wearing Italian leather shoes, a polo shirt and jeans, he leads you into his glass-walled office. Your inner goth teenager is skeptical of the aging frat boy before her. You tell her to shut up – this is Hollywood and everyone knows that serious agents and managers look like frat boys. Looking you up and down, The Manager sighs, “To tell you the truth, I thought you’d look older. I really need a mom on my list.”

You’re not deterred. You launch into your talking points, culled from the many “Ugh, why didn’t I say that?” moments in your car after other meetings. You pull out the visual aid you brought for your weird project – the novel on which it’s based. You talk of your goals, your progress, your weird project and how the character from the novel is being developed into a film by a huge producer.

“Why bother?” says the manager, “They’ll just give it to Amy Adams.”

“Because I’m an actor, and if I go for the big role, I’ll show them I can be in the ring.” The manager’s eyes change. He asks you to bring 20 pictures by the next day.

In your car, after the meeting, on your way to a workshop with the casting director from “Grey’s Anatomy,” you think you are going to throw up. This is not an omen, you try to convince yourself. This is a virus.

Stage 5: F—*

*the approximate length of this stage is equal to the combined length of all the others

The calm induced by infrequent auditions is turning into a panic induced by the calm induced by infrequent auditions. Sure it’s nice to not have to re-shuffle your day at the drop of a hat, to not have to scramble for someone to read sides with at 10pm. But you’re feeling neutered, anesthetized, like you’re missing a limb. You want to be in the ring.

You’re averaging one commercial audition every six weeks, and in the ensuing months the manager has netted you an audition. A single audition for a great part on a great television show that was over in what seemed like a single minute in which the casting director did not skip a single bite of the sandwich she was eating throughout.

You’ve started shooting the weird project based on a novel and you’re at an impasse – you and your adaptation of the material are not meeting your expectations. Budget cuts mean your filmmaking classes are getting unmanageably big and being a children’s film auteur was never a money-maker in the first place. You now know where the muffins are, but the economy’s totally bottomed out you can’t afford them. $16/hr for Excel formulas would be a godsend.

You are a better driver, but that doesn’t stop a crazy therapist from backing her Lexus into your Honda in the Malibu Greens parking lot. Nor does it prevent your car from getting keyed when you spend the night downtown. When the cops come post-keying, you want to smack the man you’ve been seeing for six months when he describes you to them as his “uh…friend.”

One day you’re poking around you Actors Access profile, and see that the name of a new, (and bigger than the old) management company is listed as your representative. You assume it’s a mistake. You call the contact number and are greeted with “—-‘s office.” (—- is The Manager)

“Hi.” You introduce yourself. “Is —– available?”

The assistant is perplexed. “Umm, are you a client?”

“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I was at —-,” you say, stating his previous office, “but I didn’t hear from —- that he was moving.”

“Oh. I see. Hold on.”

You are granted an appointment with —-. You walk into his still-being-unpacked office.

“Hey,” he says. “What are you trying to do with that outfit?”

“Uh, do?”

“Yeah, what character is that?” he asks, pointing at your jeans and blazer.

“Um…documentary filmmaker young mom?”

“Well then I’d say you nailed it! Listen, sorry about the move. Thought I emailed everyone. So, I thought it’d be good to meet. You know, can’t represent people without seeing them a couple of times a year!”

He asks whom you’ve been meeting, and you realize you have little to report. Where are your talking points?! The chit-chat peters out as your eyes fall on the giant oar he displays in the corner, an autographed gift from his client on the hit sea-faring television show. You have lost focus, you think. You are not doing well, and you only hope you can still act.

You get nostalgic for the nights spent in your hard-earned Ikea bed, the days spent earning real money and auditioning for real parts, and the evenings spent performing in real plays and spending time with men who called you their real girlfriend. You remember how scared you were to move to LA, how you’d imagine becoming a heroin addict and living in a Super 8 in the Valley (you can be a little dramatic). You did not imagine malaise. You did not imagine $300 in your checking account. You did not imagine one promising road after another turning into a dead end.

The cute roommate has gone to his wife on the other continent. Alas, your new roommate works in TV. She charmed you with mentions of Joan Didion and Virginia Woolf in her interview, but turns out to have a serious clutter predilection and the habit of inviting several young friends over, unannounced, for rounds of a board game which involves screaming and vodka drinking. You often stagger into the living room, half-asleep, barking, “Keep your voices down!” You do not play a mom on TV; you play one in your living room.

You remember how you used to console yourself with math. You remember you were never that good at math. You revise your formula:

In LA, 105 shows cast annually.

105 divided by 3 x (quasi-representation) x (8 billion other actresses your age living here with 6 series under their belts) = -20 auditions/year.

You didn’t know it was possible to have negative auditions.

Now you do.  

Stage 6: Acceptance

The now-ex-semi-boyfriend has redeemed himself for the car/friend thing with some enormously helpful feedback on the weird project based on a novel. You’ve co-founded a popular acting website and that gives you satisfaction and purpose. You remember what it is to have good days. But you have plenty of not-good ones, especially when you think on the first half of the purpose you so optimistically expressed when you first arrived: to work in television.

You still experience moments of acting grace in class, but mostly you feel on the outside of the business, shut out of the ring. You remember a favorite acting teaching saying, “Life and acting aren’t fair.” You wonder if acting in Los Angeles is simply “not for you.” You do not want to spend your life chasing something just out of reach.

You are in your car, on the freeway to Pacoima to volunteer with high schoolers who’ve written a play. Your exit strategy is taking shape. You know you will have acting in your life – volunteering with the high schoolers, taking class…continuing the esoteric art projects. But you will take your hat out of the ring.

You fantasize about your new life. If you are not chasing professional work, oh, the money you will save – no more headshots, workshops, camera-ready clothes! The over-$16/hr job you will take because you won’t need to be available for auditioning! You will read the New York Times in the morning instead of The Breakdowns!

But as you watch the high schoolers solving the problems of their play, you notice that a parallel track in your mind is solving the problems of your career. What hours ago seemed like insurmountable mountains of fate now seem like simple – though painful – products of cause and effect. The parallel track thinks of the more lucrative day job you’re perfect for, it makes a note to check out the writing studio on your radar, it realizes you can shave a little time off The Breakdowns each morning and hit a couple of stories on The New York Times.

The high schoolers happen to have written a brilliant play. But it is not their brilliance that changes you – it’s the fact that they are in there, solving their problems. They are in their ring. They’re letting you share in their work, the work that you love, that’s been a part of you since childhood. It can be the best part of you, it can be the worst part of you, but it is you. And you’d be in the ring, surveying the ring, traveling towards the ring even if you found yourself in a hut on Madagascar. You remember another favorite acting teacher saying, “For every problem there is a solution.” You have had the great good fortune of having gotten yourself to the City of Angels, the land of the entertainment industry’s milk and honey, so tackle the problems here you will.

Stage 7: Maybe This Isn’t the Stupidest Thing You’ve Ever Done

You know you can’t work harder, but maybe you can work smarter. You create small, targeted lists of casting directors to form relationships with. You stop beating yourself up for being broke and decide there’s some spiritual lesson – yet to be revealed – in having to know your bank balance to the penny. You inadvertently discover that Match.com is a much more efficient (and cheaper) way of meeting directors and producers than workshops and mailings.

When The Manager doesn’t respond to your campaign for a role in a pilot you’re perfect for, you send him an email (and are grateful for the friend who edited out your defensiveness before you hit send) asking about the future of your relationship. You get an extremely thoughtful, encouraging, and you’re-right-this-is-not-going-to-happen-right-now response. You inner goth teenager is impressed.

You’re working part-time for the Census, walking up and down your neighborhood, trying to get the deadbeats who didn’t send in their form to man-up. You hear a familiar gravelly voice behind you, turn around and see E—, an actress you performed in a play with ten years ago, smoking Marlboros on a stoop with a friend. E’s gone on to several series, including the one she’s now headlining.

“E—?!”

She hops up from the stoop and shouts your name. As she walks toward you, you throw your scarf over the Census badge around your neck and smash your hand over the government logo on your messenger bag. You gossip, you reminisce, you notice her eyes darting towards the scarf-covered badge and the bag logo under your hand. Instead of releasing your death grips gracefully, you thrust the badge in front of her.

“The Census!” you say, “I’m working for the Census!!”

E— nods, furrows her brow and asks for your number. She says she’ll call you. You slink away.

At your nightly staff meeting, you tell the story to the others, expecting them to commiserate. Instead, your co-workers – Jared, a director about to go into pre-production on his second indie feature, and Anna and Dave, two improv actors just moved down from San Francisco, start playing you, improvising all the brilliant things you could have/should have said, which Dave caps with, “Oh, you’re still on that series? Right now I’m researching a role for a feature – you may have heard of it – ‘Census’ – starring Robert De Niro?”

LA is pretty great, you think, if you can run into TV star on the stoop. But the fact that talent so permeates the city that your day job coworkers can turn your embarrassments into high-concept pitches in under two minutes is the real testament to the town’s creativity.

You remind yourself that you moved across the country, not the solar system. You put more time into calling your friends and colleagues back east, which you admit you haven’t done more of because you’re afraid they think you’re not a success. But if one thing LA has taught you, it’s that people are generally too preoccupied thinking about their own place on the food chain to give yours much thought. The calls make you feel better and even net you a referral to a new commercial agent who takes you on.

You soon find yourself back in audition rooms regularly, pushing around Swiffers and washing imaginary dishes. You remember how much you like, well, not doing dishes, but being in the rooms, seeing your colleagues in the lobbies, and wondering what five-minute adventure lies on the other side of the door.

The new agent calls one day. A New York casting director has requested to see you for the iconic lead in a classic play. The play’s director hasn’t seen you in three years, but you’re on his list. What?! You’re shocked, terrified, perplexed, but you get on the plane and you do your best.

After the audition, you sense you’re not in the running. You felt that infinitesimal contraction in the room that tells you their minds are elsewhere. You look around the casting director’s lobby and remember the many auditions you’ve had here in the past. You remember crying in the hallway after the Othello, you remember your ego soaring, feeling you had booked it for sure after the one for the Mamet play. But you don’t remember this feeling: that you are just a little more yourself after this audition, regardless of whether or not they’re buying what you’re selling. Your heart is a little bigger in your chest.

On the way home, you think of how grateful you are for New York’s intensity and integrity, how the city demanded your discipline and excellence. And you think of how happy you are to have moved to LA – where media, art and commerce collide, making the intersections that become game-changers, where no one will tell you that it can’t be done because they know that someone, somehow just might do it. You think of the website, the auditions, your growth as a teacher, your better grasp of the industry; in LA your acting roots have deepened and reach farther. New York gave you your craft. LA is letting you make it your own.

Thanks, Claire, for sharing your story. Readers, if you haven’t already, pop on over to Brains of Minerva and check it out!

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