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Author:
Elisabeth Finch
Assistant on her way to boss.
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Elisabeth R. Finch earned her MFA in Screen and TV Writing from USC and BA in Creative Writing and Drama at Carnegie Mellon; won a Television Academy Internship for Script Writing; and finally changed her New Jersey driver’s license after six years living in L.A.
Her essays were recently featured on Fresh Yarn, Annalecta, and her mother’s refrigerator. A 2008-2009 Jerome Fellowship Finalist for playwriting, Elisabeth's work has been performed at the Kennedy Center/American College Theater Festival and the WorkShop Theater in New York. She is currently a writers’ assistant on True Blood where she successfully drinks her weight in Diet Coke on a daily basis.
Elisabeth taught at the American School of Madrid, learning no Spanish whatsoever (except "swing set" and "furnished apartment"); stuffed dead squirrels in high school for extra credit; and can recite 147 prepositions on command. She has neither a sense of smell nor sense of humor.
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GETTING OUT FROM BEHIND THE DESKSeveral years ago, fresh out of undergrad, armed with an expensive briefcase full of idealism and Diet Coke, I was hired as an assistant to an executive at a respectable production company. Like most of my fellow assistant-sisters, my salary was less than a year’s tuition at the college I assumed was my ticket. But my boss was a seasoned professional who made no uncertain promises that if I gave him one year, he would “do what he could” to push my writing further, either at the company or with a known and trusted colleague. Ever the optimist, I convinced myself over a celebratory IHOP Grand Slam breakfast that this was my official entrée.
Two and a half years later, I was exactly where I started. Yes, I had years of rolling calls, managing talent databases, and writing script coverage under my belt, but as great a rapport as Bossman and I had, he was no more my mentor than I was making headway on my mounting student loans. I watched two female receptionists make lateral moves elsewhere while two male assistants made vertical strides up the creative ladder in and outside of the company.
Countless IHop Grand Slams and Ramen dinners later, my fellow assistant-sisters and I bemoaned our similar fates. Our excuses for staying too long in bad jobs sounded suspiciously like our Deadbeat Boyfriend discussions: I couldn’t leave. I’m invaluable. He needs me. Because his wife just had a baby. His dog just died. And no one else knows all his passwords and who would plan his wife’s birthday at the exact restaurant when he inevitably forgets and I’m the only one who instinctively knows the tone of his voice that means “get chocolate and fast.”
Watching the new male receptionist successfully leap over me into a CE position within eight months at the company slapped the stupid right out of me. I needed to get myself out from behind the desk and onto the track I imagined for myself. But how?
Anyone who has ever successfully extracted herself from a long-term relationship knows it’s an uphill and messy battle. On any given day, you can find yourself downing a cocktail of doubt, self-loathing, anger, empowerment, anticipation, and weepy indignation. But what happens when the breakup isn’t a boyfriend or a spouse but rather, your boss? Is it possible to “agree to see other people” without bruised egos or burned bridges?
I knew, in order to end my stalled relationship with Bossman, I needed an attitude adjustment. I’d watched too many male colleagues leave the nest harboring no conflicting emotions. They’d done their jobs, learned from their experience and sought out new endeavors without hesitation or feeling as if they were leaving their bosses in the lurch. And since none of my assistant-sisters had been taught how to do that either, we decided it was time to teach ourselves. We began to adopt (and remind each other daily) of the mantra: It’s Professional, not Personal.
The First Step: Ask for what I needed. I could easily blame Bossman for not mentoring me for the two and a half years I was loyal to him and the company. But I’d been just as inclined to keep my mouth shut, take my medicine, and accept what was handed to me. I could easily blame my mother who taught me that a pushy woman is not an attractive woman -- that being affable, smart, and helpful at every turn was the way to get ahead. I could blame a society that tells women that any whiff of aggression will only earn you the label of “bitch.”
But blame only goes so far. I was responsible, too. I never clearly asked to be mentored in any specific way. I never asked him to read my work or give me notes. I never asked to shadow him on projects or articulated any of my specific goals to him so that he could be of any help. I decided to change that.
I asked if he had a few minutes to sit down and meet. At first, he seemed unsure why I wouldn’t want to just “hop into the office and chat” but I knew I wanted to set this meeting apart from our casual banter. This was business, and he conducted business by setting meetings. We agreed upon a time and the appointment was typed into his daily calendar. Asking for the meeting time was easy. Asking for what I wanted during the meeting was, shockingly, even easier. I articulated my goals for myself and asked what his suggestions would be for my next steps towards those goals. He was seemingly impressed with my specificity and clarity. He responded earnestly, sincerely. He filled me with ideas and promises.
And never delivered.
I could have easily been deflated and discouraged, but this time his broken promises weren’t an ego blow; they were a gift. It was finally clear he had no intention of advancing me beyond my assistant position. And I knew, without a doubt, it was time to get out.
However, landing the next job isn’t always quick or painless, and extracting yourself from a several-year relationship is never black and white. Especially in this small Hollyweird town with big mouths and even bigger egos. So making a graceful exit was, for me, a complicated necessity.
Step Two: Drawing boundaries. I was so busy being “invaluable” day in and day out that I forgot to place any value on my time. I was all too willing to do extra favors, do the unusual task not remotely in my job description, and field phone calls at ridiculously inappropriate hours. In the beginning, this seemed “industry-standard” -- and it was for many of my assistant friends. But from the very beginning I was told this wasn’t a personal assistant position; it was a “desk job.” And everyone else in the company left each evening with their boundaries and evening/weekend hours intact. Two and a half years into a job that I knew wasn’t going to launch me in any way, I was still being asked to pick up diapers for his newborn and frame a piece of artwork across town for his wife and reconfigure the internet server at his house and make Mix CDs for his brother’s wedding. My answer this time was Yes, I’d be happy to do it. And then I paused. And I asked him what he thought about establishing an hourly rate for non-office related tasks. I waited for his head to explode or at very least reveal a condescending smirk. Instead he simply asked what rate I thought was fair and then paid me as such for the next year! By assigning monetary value to my time, Bossman began to value it, too. (And finally affording a meal at a restaurant that didn’t have pictures on the menu didn’t hurt my own self-worth, either.)
Step Three: Learning how and when to say “no.” Being less available for Bossman suddenly gave me the time I needed to really search for the right job. I still showed up to work and gave 100%, but when the day was done, the day was done, and my time was spent making connections, taking interviews and pushing my own writing forward instead of being at someone else’s beck and call. I’d always been taught that saying “no” was a bad thing; that it went against the feminine ideal of being a caretaker, supportive and available at every turn. And yet the times I said “no” were never met with scorn or anger. If anything, I was suddenly viewed as someone with other important things to do. The more I turned him down, the higher my stock went up. When I was able to turn my cell phone off during the weekends, when I was asked to do a personal task “immediately” and I responded that I could do it but needed a different time-frame, when I was finally able to say “no,” politely and professionally without guilt, I knew I’d turned a corner. (And possibly turned my grandmother over in her grave.)
Step Four: Keep your enemies close, but keep the Sisterhood closer. I’ve never been a Sex and the City kinda gal. I don’t really “do drinks” or day spa with the girls or giggle over Cobb salads. I’m not above it; I’m frankly quite bad at it. But there’s no clearer path to seeing the error of your ways than surrounding yourself with like-minded and similarly snarky female friends. Yes, the male contingent would much rather imagine that a group of united women will only result in a pillow, cat, or bitch fight. However, the reality is much less enticing and far more productive.
The formula was simple -- by sitting down and articulating our individual struggles, the patterns almost immediately emerged. Not only did we realize what was (and wasn’t) happening, we could also figure out how to change it. It may be every man for himself, but I remain convinced that my assistant-sisters are what make the daily hurdles and successes possible. Bearable. Or, at the very least, a helluva lot more interesting.
The reality is, it took me several years to completely break up with Bossman and the company for which I worked. Several years before I could finally come to the conclusion: It’s not you, it’s me. Sure, his inability to mentor and encourage a female assistant held me back. But I gave him permission by not asking more of him or myself. He’s still somewhere making promises to D-girls he has no intention of fulfilling. And I am now happily armed with the ability to work my ass off while still protecting it.
It took a while, sure, but eventually I got out from behind the desk. The view isn’t perfect. But at least it’s mine.
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