That Sound You Hear? It's My Head Hitting the Wall

When I was younger I spent a lot of time desperately trying to gain credibility in what was primarily a man’s game: music journalism. Thanks to women like the infamous Pamela Des Barres, Tawny Kitaen and the legions of girls who followed in their dubious footsteps, almost any female involved in rock and roll in any way was and is, suspected of having less then honorable motives. 

                

The truth be told, I often was the only girl backstage that wasn’t there for the express purpose of getting into someone’s pants.  It complicated matters that I actually made and maintained good friendships with number of bandmembers.  (That’s also true of most male music journalists.  But as far as I know, no one questions their motives.)

There were a few of us girls successfully writing about pop music, but it wasn’t easy. Even our (male) bosses at the newspapers and magazines would occasionally give us a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. It was frustrating but most of us did our jobs, wrote about the music we loved, and kept our sex lives separate from work. Just like the professionals we were.

Eventually I switched sides, and went into publicity, though a few of my contemporaries – Melinda Newman, Edna Gunderson and Ann Powers - soldiered on. They have solid, well-deserved reputations for being among the best critics/journalists in the business – regardless of gender.

               

When I started to go back into writing, I ran headfirst  into another ‘ism.’ This time it was my age. 

I was told, in no uncertain terms, by two different male editors that they could not hire me because I was too old.  Apparently female ears age faster and more completely than those of males. Who knew? Someone should study this. I bet they could get a grant.

               

I guess I was naïve, because when I decided to reinvent myself for the umpteenth time, I completely forgot the lessons I’d learned.  Oops. She who does not remember the past is destined to bump headlong into it.

Now I'm primarily writing screenplays. It’s not that I didn’t know that there is no business more sexist and ageist than the film business. I did and I do. But I didn’t think that as a writer this double standard would apply to me. I mean, have you seen some of the men that go to the podium to accept non-acting Academy Awards?  It’s not pretty.

Even many of the male actors get a pass. Take a good look at Dustin Hoffman, or Robert DuVall. Clint Eastwood is considered a craggy treasure. You can bet no female actor could rock that look and still get work and be revered.

Still, while I was concerned about my age, I didn’t think it would get in the way. After all, the message that was presented throughout my screenwriting class was that relationships are the basis for this business.  I still believe that.  

But it’s getting harder. I recently applied for a master class at that same school. It was going to be a pretty nifty course. We were going to work with actors and directors and shoot an actual scene. Cool. I thought hard about applying, because I was starting UCLA soon, but I figured there was no down side to learning as much as possible.

I interviewed, and it went swimmingly.  At the end of the meeting I was told I was in. Not only did they know and like my work, but former students were being given priority.  There was an approval process, but it was simply a formality. I was asked to clear my schedule for the next 10 weeks. Which I did.

Then I didn’t get accepted. No one actually let me know – I learned from a friend. Ouch. Oh, and except for my friend and another guy, all of the writers were young women. Really young.  Even more galling, at least one of the ladies has somewhat, um, questionable qualifications. Double ow. And these are writers. God knows how they picked the actors.

I spent the next weekend pretty much curled up in a fetal position.  I don’t mind fighting battles. I’ll put my work up against anybody’s. I do the best I can, which is sometimes pretty okay. Unfortunately, I can’t change my age. Even if I could afford it, I’m not going the Joan River’s route

Thankfully, the people at UCLA don’t seem to care that I am verging on codgerhood. Most of the professors are already there.  As far as the female thing goes, that’s looking good too. The guest speaker next week is Shondra Rimes. I can’t wait to meet her. She’s built an empire and she’s not only older than 30 and female: she’s black. She’s my new hero. Rock on Shondra!