How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Read online

  Time to get started. You’re only a handshake, a hilarious anecdote, and a few strategically placed compliments away from being the next big thing!

  TALK OF THE TOWN

  PHONE(Y)!

  When I began my writing career, the best piece of advice I ever received was from a famous writer I had the pleasure of meeting on the subway. He told me, “This business is about who you know. So start schmoozing.” I was always the kind of kid who played well with others. I have a bold personality. I strike up a conversation with anybody—the man who bags my groceries, the intimidating boss, even the hot guy at the bar. If “making it” was a result of social skills, I was golden. So I picked up the phone and began cold-calling magazine editors to schmooze my way into getting an assignment. At first I didn’t have much luck. I left very upbeat, chatty messages on various voice mails, always making sure to compliment the person I contacted. (“Hi, this is Karen Robinovitz. I’m a freelance writer. I have a ton of ideas that I think would be perfect for you. And I just love your section. It would be a privilege to contribute. I look forward to talking to you soon and possibly working together. Thank you.”) Almost nobody returned my calls. It was discouraging. But I refused to let it get me down.

  One afternoon, after yet another editorial rejection, I caught The Secret of My Success on Lifetime, television for women. It’s that Michael J. Fox movie about a small-town kid who schmoozes his way to the top in the big city. I was inspired. I turned off my TV and vowed that persistence would be my savior. So I kept calling and calling and calling what I hoped would become my future contacts. I was diligent about following up with people once a week. I began to leave hints of my ideas on answering machines to try to entice them. I faxed. I sent e-mails. I messengered detailed letters. And eventually people returned my calls—and gave me work.

  At the onset, my assignments were small—how to handle hair on the nipples, a one-hundred-word piece on the legalization of garbage disposals in New York City, and a breakdown of the multisyllabic words used by Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee in their much-hyped sex tape. I had to prove myself and build my reputation. In time, little pieces led to large features and, within months, I was getting published on a regular basis. The more articles I wrote, the more editors called me back. I landed a column at Marie Claire, and when my editor left the magazine to work for another, we had built such a chummy, schmoozy relationship that she put me on contract to pen monthly features for her. I made sure to keep my relationships friendly and positive. The magazine business is not a strict and conservative one. Staffers wear jeans and talk about orgasms in office meetings. Many of my appointments with editors and other writers revolved around long chats about the latest restaurant opening, dating traumas, and the minutiae of our daily lives. What can I say … I have a gift for gab. Before I knew it, I was writing full-time, breaking into all of the magazines I had always dreamed of working for.

  Except for one, which I’ll call Magazine X. For some reason, I could not penetrate my one and only contact at that publication (we’ll call her J). I met J at a dinner party and mentioned, casually, that I’d love to write for her. “Call me with ideas,” she said. “We’re always looking.” While this might be a sort of polite, off-the-cuff thing to say—no different from “Stay in touch”—I took her words as a sign of encouragement. I combed through the pages of the magazine each month to get a genuine understanding for their niche. Then I began to call her weekly with a bright new idea.

  It took her three months to return my calls. By the time we finally spoke, she hadn’t looked at the ideas I sent her—and most of them were “dated.” I didn’t take it personally. I just kept reapproaching with more ideas. Again, she didn’t call me back or reply to my e-mails. I decided to stop leaving messages. But I didn’t stop calling. I would just hang up when her machine answered. She seemed never to be at her desk. Sometimes I’d ring her five, six, ten times in a day, just waiting for her to pick up, which happened about once every ten days. (I went so far as to dial *66 in order to block my number from showing up on caller ID, just in case her office had caller ID.) She rejected each and every idea. I was beginning to feel very frustrated. Magazine X had become my kryptonite, the one thing that made me feel weak.

  “Is there something specific you’re looking for?” I asked her when I got her on the phone. I was trying to get some guidance.

  “Yes,” she said. “Stop calling me.”

  Ouch! There is a fine line between persistence and stalking, and I guess I had crossed it. I was crushed—and petrified she had warned her staff about me. I didn’t know how to mend it. A few weeks later I sent her an e-mail to try to smooth things over and let her know that I would love the chance to work with her in the future. The message bounced back to me! I surmised that she had put me on her “blocked” list. I was blackballed!

  But it turned out that the reason the e-mail was returned was because she no longer worked at the magazine and a new editor was in her place. It was a new opportunity to get my foot in the door! So I picked up the phone and made a new attempt at the schmooze. “Hi, this is Karen Robinovitz,” I said. “I’m a writer and I used to talk to J all the time. I was actually waiting to hear back from her on a few great ideas, but now that she’s gone, I hope to follow up with you and work together.” Technically, I did talk to J all the time. I just didn’t mention that our conversations were basically one-sided. I wasn’t really lying. I was turning a bad communication into a good one. I was schmoozing.

  “Great,” she said. “Why don’t you come in for lunch and we’ll discuss?”

  I started writing for her immediately.

  THE POPULARITY CONTEST

  There’s nothing I hate more than meeting new people. Growing up, I was the classic shrinking violet—I shirked from my peers, nodded dumbly at my teachers, and brought home report cards that exhorted me to Speak up in class! We don’t know what Melissa’s voice sounds like! (Friends who now know me as the loudmouth who gets shushed in restaurants are doubled up in hysterics.) High school was the same geeky story. I was the kid who spent lunch at the computer lab or at the library, reading tomorrow’s history homework. When I arrived at college, I was determined to leave my shy and withdrawn nature behind forever. I decided to reinvent myself and adopt the personality of the most popular girl in high school—dropping hints about my boyfriend (fictional), my crazy prom night (ditto), and my gang of good-looking friends, whose pictures I displayed prominently in my dorm room (stolen). I crafted a peppy, exuberant, and fearless disposition. For the first time in my life, I didn’t flinch when I met someone new—I smiled and chatted. It worked. I was even elected class president.

  With my “popular girl” persona in place, I learned to exaggerate, beguile, and mimic the kind of intimacy that turns strangers into insta-friends. I tailored my anecdotes to a few standard ones that showcased my irresistibly “zany” character. But even if I’ve come a long way from the girl who spent every Friday night watching Quantum Leap, schmoozing still does not come naturally to me. A few years ago I was employed at a famous glossy magazine. I had gotten this job through a friend’s recommendation. For six years I had been trying to break into the magazine with no luck, sending story ideas and resumes every time they had an opening. But with one phone call from an insider, I was immediately accepted. It probably didn’t hurt that I was an alumni of the same ritzy high school that the human resources director’s daughters attended (even if I was a scholarship student), and that the editor-in-chief adored the expensive new designer trousers I wore to the interview. Still, I was slightly taken aback at how easily it all happened.

  Once I arrived at its frosted glass doors, instead of charming everyone with my winning popular-girl personality, I reverted to my geeky high school persona. I kept to myself at lunch, closing my office door, diligently typing away on my assignments instead of chatting with fellow editors about the latest trendy restaurants and the cuteness of the fashion director’s shoes. I exchanged only a few s
hort words with my immediate supervisors in the morning, and curt nods with the junior staff over the tofu platter at the cafeteria. I was paralyzed with shyness. It had always been a dream of mine to work at the magazine, but instead of relishing my triumph, I was wrecked with insecurity and terribly intimidated. I was worried my colleagues would see through my fake “popular” persona and ascertain the real loser underneath, so I didn’t even try.

  Blind to office politics, I thought I could count on my writing skills to speak for themselves. In retrospect, I should have joined all those hour-long Simpsons discussions at the water cooler instead of spending every moment locked up in my office. I was shown the door only a few weeks later. “Everything was great,” the managing editor who hired me said ruefully. “The whole package was perfect,” he said, waving a hand at my outfit. (I had clocked a lot of compliments on my clothes during my stint—a very important plus, but somehow I hadn’t been able to translate it into anything more substantial.) “But somehow it doesn’t fit,” he said, puzzled. Perhaps it was the story on hair care that I handed in which I compared curls to Chia Pet growth that sealed my fate, but he didn’t mention it. I took four shopping bags filled with beauty products, and hightailed it out of there.

  I had drinks with a colleague at a rival publication a few weeks later, who said, “You know, to get ahead, it’s not about how interesting your work is, but how interesting you are. If you don’t contribute a fun personality, there’s almost no point. Which is why I’m surprised. What happened? Didn’t you schmooze anyone?”

  Sadly, I didn’t.

  THE BIG ART OF SMALL TALK

  THE SECRETS TO SUCCESSFULLY SCHMOOZING IN STYLE

  • Don’t go out if you’re in a nasty mood. Proper schmoozing requires that you turn your personality “on” all the time. Nobody likes a grump.

  • Give a warmhearted hello to all, whether you know them or not. Celebrities who work the media junket, often meeting fifty or more journalists a day, say “Hi! How nice to see you!” to everyone, instead of “meet you,” just in case it’s not the first meeting.

  • Know who you’re schmoozing and act appropriately. If you’re not fully aware of what the schmoozee does, who he or she works with and is connected to, and what his or her political beliefs are, stick to neutral topics. “This is the best cheese I’ve ever had! You must try it!”

  • Read. Know the gist of the events of the day (not just the gossip columns) so you can glibly fake your way through conversations about breaking news stories. While you’re at it, pick up a copy of “smart” magazines like The Economist, The New Yorker, Harper’s (not Bazaar, although you will need Bazaar for fashion knowledge), or a general-interest publication like Newsweek or Time. Make offhand references to riveting articles. “So apparently the new American home has a spa, a gourmet kitchen, and an airport lounge!”

  • Keep a host of witty or fascinating anecdotes up your sleeve. If you have nothing in your repertoire, get creative. Try building something around a friend in the CIA, an African safari (so what if it was at Animal Kingdom), and your near-death experience. “Oh, my God, it was such a trip to see my body on the operating table!”

  • Brush up on things that other famous people are interested in and engage them in a soulful conversation on the topic. Current hot-convo stimulants in Hollywood include: the difference between ashtanga, vinyasa, and anusara yoga, the advantages of taking digestive enzymes (don’t ask!), and, when all else fails, Scientology.

  • Be helpful to your peers. If you can do anything to support another person in attaining a goal, do so. Give unto others—and ye shall receive. If you generously share and the recipient never returns the love, make a mental note so the next time they seek your help, you can find a way to gracefully decline.

  • During conversation, make direct eye contact, and every now and then softly touch someone’s shoulder as you talk. It will make the person you’re with think he or she is the most fascinating person in the room.

  • Ask many personal questions. People love to talk about themselves. It makes them feel important.

  • Use people’s names in sentences as you chat. (i.e., “What do you think of that, Calista?”)

  • Play down your talents. There is an old saying: “Show, don’t tell.” If you have to remind someone that you’re good at something, they will not only be turned off, but they may not believe you. Modesty, my friend, is a virtue. While it’s good to be confident, it’s bad to be aggressive.

  • Excuse yourself from conversations at the right moment. You always want to leave them wanting a little more of you. Just make sure your exit is poised. Some surefire excuses: “Pardon me, I need to refill my glass,” “I’m sorry, Donald is waving me over. I must say hello. I’ll be right back,” and “Will you excuse me? I have to find the rest room.”

  • Know how much talk time people will allocate you before they start looking bored. When Jennifer Tilly started out in Hollywood, she knew that she was a “thirty-second” girl—that she could converse with big power players for only that long. As she became more famous, she was promoted to a minute and a half of people’s time, and at the present she says she clocks in at a solid three minutes of face time.

  • When asking people for favors, do not be beneath begging. In fact, you can make begging come off as cute if you smile right.

  • End all conversations with, “I’m so glad we got a chance to catch up; looking forward to seeing (or talking to) you again soon.”

  DARLING, YOU ARE SO FABULOUS!

  FIRST CLASS ALL THE WAY

  We were flying from New York to Los Angeles to meet with our movie agents—inscrutable men in mirrored sunglasses who called us “babe” and wanted to turn any idea we had into a Christmas movie, where Tom Hanks, Jim Carrey, or any other big-name box-office material starred as Santa. Even if we were confused (Santa?), we were also thrilled—it was our first “Hollywood” experience and we meant to enjoy every minute. Since we had yet to make our agents any money, we had to pay our own way, and we could only afford to fly in the veal pen confines of economy class (the shame). Even more unfortunate, the flight was packed, and we were assigned middle seats (and not in those cushy exit rows either). We were staring at six straight hours of unmitigated hell.

  “I heard they sometimes bump models and high-profile people up to first class,” Karen said as we bemoaned our tickets. “Should we try it?”

  I shrugged. “What could we lose?” We sauntered up to the ticket counter. We struck quite a figure—the two of us were dressed more appropriately for a night on the town rather than a mundane transatlantic commute. Karen was wearing Mongolian lamb, while I had ostrich feathers on (we thought this was very “Hollywood” of us), and we both had sunglasses perched on our heads.

  “Hiiiii,” we said breathily to the slim, handsome man at the counter. We immediately pegged him as a Friend of Dorothy. He sized us up and grinned. “Let me guess, two one-way tickets to Vegas?” We laughed as if it were the funniest thing we had ever heard in our lives. “Seriously, though,” I said, “we’re going to Los Angeles to meet with our agents and we have some serious studio meetings set up.” (The second was a lie, but I thought I would exaggerate to make it sound more exciting.) He looked suitably impressed. “Are you girls actresses?” We tittered. “No! We’re writers! We’re writing a book about becoming famous!”

  “Any tips for me?” he asked.

  “Sure!” we said, as we handed him our IDs. But we soon cut to the chase: “Do you know, we’ve been given middle seats! Is there any way we can get them changed? We’ll do anything! We need to be fresh for our meeting!” His brow furrowed as he tapped on his keyboard. “Let me see….”

  While he searched the plane for more suitable seats, we gushed and fawned over him. “How cute is that shirt! Is it Dolce? Do people tell you that you look just like Rupert Everett? What is that cologne you’re wearing? It’s heaven. Ticket reps are usually so rude! You’re such an angel! Whatever you can do
is fine by us!”

  He frowned. “Well, there are no more aisle or window seats left in economy.” We pouted. “And business is full too … but wait … I do have seats in first class. Do you have any frequent-flyer miles you can upgrade with?” Miles! We didn’t want to spare our miles for a lousy upgrade! We’d rather save them for a free ticket! But we didn’t want to tell him that. “No, no miles. We don’t usually fly on this airline.” We made puppy-dog faces. Karen made the mmm-mmm-mmm whine, Bijon-style. “All right, if you were in jeans and sweatshirts I’d never do it, but you girls belong in first class.”

  Hooray! We air-kissed him, wished him luck on his acting career, and promised to send him a copy of our book when it came out.

  As we reclined, fully horizontal, swathed in cashmere blankets, eating warm nuts from a gleaming white china bowl and daintily wiping our foreheads with hot towels, while the latest Hollywood movie played on our personal video screens, we high-fived each other. We had parlayed our cheap tickets into luxurious amenities, thanks to the power of our personalities. Mama was right all along: the surest way to get into people’s hearts is through their egos.

  Epilogue: A few weeks later, we were invited to a party for the launch of a new private jet service at the home of its founder, Steve Green. At a time when flying private was the only way to travel (a celebrity publicist we know got accosted by security people who thought her Celine bullet belt was dangerous) and the ultimate status symbol for a single man under fifty was not his Rolls, but his G-5, Green Air boasted the cutting edge of private jet service, with beautiful Citation and Hawker planes—veritable Aston Martins in the sky. Green Air pilots wore uniforms designed by Prada!