The Pitch Meeting From Hell

Pitch meetings…everybody’s been through them, and we all have our war stories. Can we learn from the mistakes that other writers have made? More importantly, can we learn from our own? Executive producer and showrunner Gary Jacobs, whose credits include Newhart and Empty Nest, says definitely.

Question: “What was the biggest mistake you ever made in a pitch meeting, what did you learn, and how did you recover from it?”

When I was a fresh-faced, struggling young writer with dreams of one day working on sitcoms, a great opportunity fell into my lap. I was invited to pitch ideas for a new series created by one of the most respected, veteran writing teams in the business. And so I attended a screening of the pilot at the studio, then spent the next two weeks at the typewriter coming up with story ideas.

And then it was time for the meeting. You can imagine how excited and how very nervous I was as the secretary escorted me to the office. I wondered if I would one day look back on this meeting as my Big Break. Then I walked through the door and there they were, two giants of the industry.

One of the men, whom I’ll call Harold, opened the meeting by saying, “What did you think of the pilot?” Now here’s the thing—I thought the pilot was pretty bad, not at all representative of their other work. But how to respond? As you will see, I was not only young, I was extraordinarily naïve, and after considering a moment, I replied: “Well, it wouldn’t necessarily be the first show I’d watch, but I understand what you were going for.” To appreciate the full extent of my naivete, as I was uttering these words, I was actually feeling guilty for not being more forthright. As it was, Harold’s face immediately dropped (faces really do drop) and he snapped, “I see no point going any further with this meeting, because it’s my belief that unless you love a show, you can’t possibly write for it.”

It was like I’d taken a blow to the solar plexus—no, make that the groin. I had obviously insulted this great man. But he was an Emmy-winning writer! Why would he care what some nobody like me thinks? But he did. A lot.

I was so shaken, I became bolder than usual and said, “Surely in your long career, you’ve worked on shows you didn’t love.” 

“Never,” he seethed. 

At this point I had entered something of a fugue state. “I’m so sorry,” I sputtered. “I have nothing but the greatest respect and admiration for you guys. The last thing I wanted to do was insult you.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t make me feel better,” Harold shot back. At this point, Harold’s partner took pity on me and mercifully called the meeting to a close.

I left the room a broken young man. I desperately needed some words of comfort and solace, so I found the nearest pay phone and called my agent and told her what happened. “You idiot!” she said. “You told him you didn’t like his pilot? Are you crazy?” Not feeling particularly comforted or solaced, I then called my mentor, an older man and distinguished writer, wise in the ways of Hollywood. “You idiot!” he said.

But then he added something that I never forgot. He said, “You basically told the man his baby was ugly.” And then I understood. From that moment on, if anyone asked what I thought of their “baby,” I would find something complimentary I could honestly say about it—and there’s always something nice to say about even the ugliest babies. A valuable lesson learned in the pitch from hell.