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ACTING: Make It
Your Business
In ACTING: Make It Your Business, Second Edition, award-winning casting director
Paul Russell puts the power to land jobs and thrive in any medium—stage, film,
television, or the Internet—directly into the hands of the actor.
This blunt and practical guide offers a wealth of advice on auditioning,
marketing, and networking, combining traditional techniques with those best
suited for the digital age. Well-known actors and powerful agents and managers
make cameos throughout, offering newcomers and working professionals alike
a clear-eyed, uncensored perspective on survival and advancement within the
entertainment industry. This second edition has been updated and expanded to
include the following:
• More stars of screen and stage sharing acting career strategies

• Digital audition techniques for screen and stage, including how best to self-tape
• New tools to master modern marketing, both digital and traditional with
innovation
• Expanded actor resource listings
• Additional bicoastal talent agents and managers spilling secrets for obtaining
representation, and tips for successful actor-to-representation partnerships
• New insights on audition techniques
An excellent resource for career actors, beginning and amateur actors, as well as
students in Acting I and II, Auditions, and Business of Acting courses, ACTING:
Make It Your Business provides readers with invaluable tools to build a successful,
long-lasting acting career.
Paul Russell’s career as a casting director, director, and former actor has spanned
more than forty years. He has worked on projects for major film studios, television
networks, Broadway, and regionally. He directs for leading regional theaters and
teaches master classes to actors at universities and colleges.
Praise for the First Edition
“Humorous and witty. . . . Actors everywhere who are trying to succeed in the
business, young or old, on stage or on camera, in New York or anywhere in the
world, take note: This is your road map.”
—Bernard Telsey, casting director
(This Is Us, Th Greatest Showman, Tales of the City, Hamilton)
“All the right questions asked and answered . . . and with a generous portion of
good humor.”
—Suzanne Ryan, casting director (Law & Order, Unforgettable)
“Paul’s book made me proud to be a part of the acting community in this business
we call ‘show.’ ”
—Karen Ziemba, actress, Tony and Drama Desk Award winner
“A necessity for any actor. Read it again and again. Listen . . . and learn.”
—Richard Rose, producing artistic director (1993–2019), Barter Theatre
“Paul Russell’s words are not only blunt and accurate, they zero in on all the ques-
tions every actor wants to know but is afraid to ask.”
—Ken Melamed, talent agency partner, Bret Adams, Ltd.
ACTING: Make It
Your Business
How to Avoid Mistakes and Achieve
Success as a Working Actor
Second Edition
Paul Russell
Second edition published 2021
by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
and by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2021 Taylor & Francis
The right of Paul Russell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted
by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or

utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered

trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to
infringe.
First edition published by Back Stage Books 2008
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Russell, Paul, 1964– author.
Title: Acting : make it your business : how to avoid mistakes and achieve success
as a working actor / Paul Russell.
Description: Second edition. | New York, NY : Routledge, 2021. | “First edition
published by Back Stage Books 2008.”
Identifiers: LCCN 2020014801 (print) | LCCN 2020014802 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781138299498 (hardback) | ISBN 9781138503922 (paperback) |
ISBN 9781315145648 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Acting—Vocational guidance.
Classification: LCC PN2055 .R87 2021 (print) | LCC PN2055 (ebook) |
DDC 792.02/8023—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020014801
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020014802
ISBN: 978-1-138-29949-8 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-138-50392-2 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-14564-8 (ebk)
Typeset in Minion
by Apex CoVantage, LLC
For Sandy,
my mom,
who once dreamt of life upon the wicked stage
For Harry,
my father,
who “out there in the dark”
documented my acting career
Contents
Introduction: Cows and Greasepaint—A Journey Begins 1

1 Working Actors Speak Out: Candor and the Business 10
2 Being an Actor: A Tough Love 53
3 Training for the Actor: Tend Your Dreams 81
4 The Picture and Résumé: An Actor’s Business Card 95
5 Cover Letters and E-mail: Covering Your Assets 135
6 Actor Marketing: Set Yourself Apart From the Crowd 170
7 Auditions Actors Encounter: Are Your Auditions Safe? 210
8 Audition Preparation: Be First, First 232
9 Audition Strategies: Leaving a Lasting Impression 258
10 Negotiating the Contract: Get It on Paper 298
11 Rejection: “Thanks for coming in . . .” 313
12 Agents and Managers: An Introduction 322
13 Agents and Managers: Finding One 353
14 Agents and Managers: Keeping One 378
vii
viii Contents
15 Exit Lines: Parting Advice 399
Acknowledgments 408
Appendix 409
Index 419
About the Author 430

Everything I say is right.
Everything I say is wrong.
There are many confl cting opinions in this industry.

Don’t take one person’s words as gospel, including mine.
Take what works for you.
—Paul Russell
Introduction
Cows and Greasepaint
—A Journey Begins
Auditions can be hell. And lately . . . hell’s been getting worse. In this particular
hell, I, or my casting colleagues, have endured the following:
A male actor unexpectedly dropping his pants to flaunt his endowment dur-
ing an audition (his agent quickly disavowed association with the actor and
the endowment).
Actors auditioning on tape from their poorly lit bedrooms on their beds
littered with dirty clothes, or sometimes soiled dishware.
An actor being put on tape for a principal role in a major studio film plucks
his nose hairs mid-scene to provoke tears.
An actress, well past the prime of Ms., auditioning for an ingénue, climb-
ing a stepladder as she squealed in song “Climb Ev’ry Mountain.” The ladder
would do better on its own (I didn’t ask how, at her mature age and diminutive
height, she carried around town the five-foot-tall metal monster).
An actor submits, as his audition, his performance in a musical recorded
live in production. The camera capturing his performance is perched behind
him. I see his back. The camera shot includes the fi st two rows of audience
members. A woman sleeps. Some focus on their cell phones. Others day-
dream for escapism. Next!
An actor arriving at a Shakespeare audition without a headshot, résumé,
or prepared audition material. When asked why he was bare without tools,
his response was “I didn’t know I had to bring anything.” (Uh-huh. Just stand
there and look pretty, and we’ll do your work for you.)
At an audition for a new musical, an actor arriving without a song to sing
asked my fellow auditors and me if he could create one on the spot. Benevo-
lent fools, we indulged him (our mistake). The young blond boy in his twen-
ties began an impromptu rap. The gist of his jive?
I’m standin’ here,

up on da stage.
You sittin’ there,
me bein’ all da rage.
1
2 Introduction
The musical he was auditioning for based on the country folk songs of Woody
Guthrie. Woody ain’t no homie.
I’ve had weapons thrust my way, audition room mirrors smashed near my face,
and I’ve been routinely shouted at in soliloquy. Outrageous acts of emotional and
professional insecurity, a lack of preparation, and auditors’ senses being assaulted
by actors (gripping, yelling, and smelling) are not the only forms of actor self-
destruction that I have witnessed. This growing phenomenon of actors annihilat-
ing any hope of success (or personal dignity) is also prevalent before and after their
time in front of me in the audition room. There’s little escape from the increasing
madness.
Actors have called me on Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve asking for audi-
tions. One former celebrity’s call pulled me dripping wet from the shower. The
long-ago sitcom ex-heartthrob offered to fax me a copy of his Tony nomination
from the era of Watergate and polyester musicals as validation of his suitability for
a role, for which he was not right (the fax came; he didn’t get the audition).
The misguided attempts for attention have lessened by phone thanks to the dig-
ital revolution. But advances in technology don’t equal actors advancing them-
selves equally as impressive as is the technology. Among the 100s of daily e-mails
are too many in which the body of the e-mail is empty. Or actors e-mail 5,000-
word monthly digital digests detailing every open call attended, and family gath-
ering avoided. But often the greatest e-mail offense by actors is the one-sentence
inquiry. True example follows:
Cunsider [sic] me for anything ur casting I want to be casted
Possibly this actor omitting punctuation, misspelling basic vocabulary, and

inventing a verb (‘casted’) limits the majority of their writing to texts.
The digital revolution transforming the audition process isn’t limited to the
ineffective actor e-mails of which the majority go unnoticed swept into spam fold-
ers by virus protecting software. There’s the scourge that is social media. The vir-
tual world has boundaries. Respect them.
But then there are the actors who are the digitally dead. They have no presence
online. No career website. They don’t list themselves on any of the prominent
casting/audition websites. Some of these digitally dead don’t even have—wait
for it—a social media presence. (Oh, horror. Catastrophe appalling.) Yes, it is a
catastrophe—for the actor. Because when an actor I don’t know is suggested to
me I, like my gatekeeper colleagues, go online and enter the actor’s name into a
search engine. Or, as in North America, we may first go to Breakdown Service’s
Actors Access and seek out the actor. If I can’t find an actor via a search engine
(I’m hoping for the first result to be the actor’s website) or via Actors Access,
I move on. Next!
Then there’s mismanaging your marketing traditional style. For decades I’ve
witnessed actors wasting far too much money on ineffective marketing-by-mail
that makes Valpak appear chic. Land mail remains vital to an actor’s career. But
actors still make many a faux pas via postage stamps. Actors I’ve never met send
Introduction 3
me Christmas cards with well wishes from Christ their Savior, followed by a
plea to keep watch for their current erectile dysfunction commercial (if I were
Jewish, I’d be even more mortified). Along with the Christmas greetings from
people I’ve never met comes a deluge of actor headshot calendars with varying
poses to match each month. The more outrageous the actor mail marketing,
the more likely I am to toss it into the trash. However, on occasion, I’ve kept
misguided actor marketing by post. Once an actor sent me a cereal box, his
headshot on the box front, his credits listed as ingredients on the side, and his
video reel plunged deep into the cornflakes. This unique marketing package and
contents received my attention. The cereal was tasty, thank you; the actor’s reel?
Never watched it.
Some actors are more blatant in the food bribery ploy. One actress, audition-
ing for a country-esque musical, baked Rice Krispies treats in the shape of Texas.
As she sang, the sticky sweets were presented to us auditors from a small wicker
basket festooned with red gingham bows. She didn’t get the role. I’ve forgotten her
name, but the li’l ole treats were dang delicious.
Casting personnel are not the only bribed industry participants. Longtime
agent, Jack Menashe, former owner of Independent Artists Agency, told me an out-
rageous story of actor suck-up. Menashe was attending an actors-meet-an-agent
seminar (a common nightly ritual in which actors without representation hope to
attract the interest of agents and become a client). As one of the actors introduced
himself, Menashe commented that he admired the actor’s fashion sense, particu-
larly the shirt that the actor was wearing. OK, so you’re possibly jumping ahead of
me and guessing the actor took the shirt off his back and handed it to Menashe.
That would have been oh-so-Hollywood obvious, and this actor had keener sense.
Several days later, the actor arrived at Independent Artists and presented Menashe
a newly bought copy of the admired shirt. Did Menashe wear the shirt? Yes. Did
the actor bearing the gift of Guess become a client? No.
The most audacious apparel in exchange for an audition goes to the actor who
sent a sneaker to casting director Bernie Telsey. A note was attached to the shoe.
“Call me in for an audition and I’ll bring you the other sneaker,” the actor penned.
He didn’t get an appointment. The single sneaker sent by mail with a bribery note
attached wasn’t the freakiest of this actor’s failed ploy. No, what was truly disturb-
ing was that the sneaker sent matched Bernie’s shoe size.
Bribes, sloppy résumés, résumés without pictures, pictures without résumés,
freak-show headshots, Post-it cover letters, audition material not learned, audi-
tion material not understood, inappropriate audition material, no audition mate-
rial, auditioning with props, auditioning with pets (don’t ask), audition fashion
faux pas, embarrassing audition behavior, actors talking trash behind the backs
of others, actor wannabes without training, and offers of intimacy in exchange for
advancement—all examples of routine bad behavior that hinders an actor’s image
within the industry.
The entertainment industry is all about image, image, and image. Oh, and did
I mention the industry is all about image? Just like performing, perfecting, and
maintaining a proper self-image to others is an art itself. Many actors are not
4 Introduction
capable of maintaining an image that presents them favorably to audience and
industry. What’s become obvious, and frustrating to me (and my colleagues), is
that many seeking to land roles be it for stage, film, television, or other media,
hoping to work in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, or regionally—just don’t get
it! What’s “it”? The “it” is that there are better and smarter ways to becoming a
successful, professional working actor.
Actors, like the rest of the human race, all make mistakes. Smart actors recog-
nize their screwups, make appropriate alterations, and move forward. Ignorant
actors, unable or refusing to see themselves, repeatedly choose missteps that hin-
der their careers. I should know. I’ve been on both sides of the audition table.
Prior to being a director and casting director, I began my career in entertainment
as a working actor. Despite luck, talent, and a desire for perfection, I, too, made
embarrassing blunders (but I never bribed with baked or dry goods). I recovered
and learned from my mistakes. My education began with reluctance. My reluctant
schooling began in a pasture of grazing cows.
“You’re going to be in the show, like it or not!” Mr. DeMaio threatened. So began
my insane and incredible journey into entertainment. Decades ago, at North War-
ren Regional High School, located in the middle of a cow pasture in northwestern
New Jersey, an ambitious choral director pulled a painfully shy adolescent into
the ensemble of the school’s first-ever musical production, Brigadoon. The cows
outside peering into the chorus-room windows were granted immunity from per-
forming. I envied those cows. At the end of the show’s closing night, that timid
adolescent stood at the back of the rural school’s cavernous, brick-walled audito-
rium. Alone. I stared at the show’s set on the distant stage. A lingering audience
member poked his head into the doorway behind me to offer final congratulations.
His flattery, spoken in the past tense, privately signaled that I would no longer have
the stage as a refuge from the classmates who pummeled me in hallways and the
boys’ locker room. I was losing a place where others accepted me for who I was.
I was losing my safe haven. Tears welled in my eyes. I ran down the carpeted aisle
and jumped up onto the white linoleum-tiled stage. I darted behind the tower-
ing, twelve-foot-tall, revolving triangular flats that formed the mythical village
of Brigadoon (artwork courtesy of fifth period’s “Lessons in Paint”). I collapsed
behind the set, sobbing. I was hooked. Bitten. No matter how shy, retreating from
the footlights was not going to be an option. From that moment I was doomed,
destined to poverty of the pocket but on my way to a wealth of knowledge and
experience in the performing arts. How could I say no?
Damn those lucky cows.
After moving to South Jersey, forming a theater company at seventeen, per-
forming in community theater, and about to depart high school, I looked for-
ward to my continuing journey. The next step should have been formal training.
This is where I, like many actor-hopefuls, stumbled. I didn’t have the grades for
anything better than community college. Summer school is how I graduated
from Cherokee High School. My diploma was unceremoniously handed to me
in early August of my senior year, in the school’s front office, by a secretary. No
cap, no gown, no smiling family photographs. The fault was mine. I pushed away
Introduction 5
academia and focused far too heavily on the arts, a mistake many actor-hopefuls
often make. Besides lacking a healthy grade point average, I was also without
funds for a respected performing arts program. My family, like many families that
spawn actors, couldn’t afford the cost of my continuing education. Nor could I.
If I had taken after-school jobs that paid instead of pursuing theater that didn’t,
I would have had choices upon my leaving Cherokee. But I didn’t. So, like many
wannabe actors, I pursued the only path plausible to me at the time. I took what
little knowledge, talent, and luck I had and tried my best at being a working actor.
I was damned lucky. I was also foolish.
From my first professional audition, I began, like most actors, sweating in sum-
mer stock. The summer stock schedules were insane. Cast-house mating rituals
were often incestuous, and the producers, well, they were just basically bizarre.
One such summer stock producer drove corpses to funeral homes by day and
staged Neil Simon plays by night. The cadaver-cabbie-country-theatrical impre-
sario had converted a church, adjacent to an embalmer, into a theater. No air
conditioning. No windows. Dark. Moldy. Cavernous. It was less a church for a
congregation and more a cave for sinners.
An actor’s journey takes many forms, mostly none too glamorous. From sum-
mer stock, I ventured into regional theater and played too much the ham on the
dinner theater circuit. Some venues were grand; most were not. I made my dinner
theater debut at the short-lived Domino’s Pizza Box Dinner Theatre. The pizza-
with-a-play venue was located at the world headquarters for Domino’s Pizza in
Ann Arbor, Michigan. During an August heat wave, in a poorly air-conditioned
conference room, pepperoni and cheese pizza was shoveled to blue-haired audi-
ences as actors bottle-danced Fiddler on the Roof. I was Motel the tailor. Despite
the heat, cheese-scented costuming and having to use the audience bathroom as
a dressing room, my fellow castmates and I were ecstatic to be working in dinner
theater. OK, so it was dinner theater with paper plates and an entrée served hot
from a cardboard container. But the production was mostly kosher. The pizza defi-
nitely wasn’t. My love for Ann Arbor continues, but I shudder when passing by an
empty Domino’s pizza box.
Following some brief screen exposure, my path evolved into becoming a direc-
tor and an independent casting director. I jumped the audition table late in life—
late being twenty-nine. The jump wasn’t instantaneous but transitional. I began
to pull away from acting for several reasons. First and foremost was that I knew
I was too self-aware to be an actor. I was always watching myself, overevaluating
my work. Self-awareness is a trait that every actor should have, but when that
awareness becomes a constant drag on the psyche, with the wheels in your mind
spinning endlessly over every minute motivation, and response, it’s time for you
to get off the set. To be overly critical and self-conscious is death for an actor, but
these are great traits for a director or casting director.
Falling into casting was an accident. A producer I worked for (as an actor) hated
auditions. He invited me to sit in on a casting session with him to keep him com-
pany. I was instantly fascinated by the process and hopeful for every actor who
appeared before us. But my desire for each actor to succeed didn’t overshadow my
6 Introduction
critical eyes and ears. The producer took note of this, and the next day, he invited
me back. That invitation to return continued for several years, and I informally
became his casting director.
After several years of my casting for that producer, my then partner, who was
then an agent’s assistant, told me about an opening for a casting internship at a
major New York casting office. The pay was seventy-five bucks a week. He won-
dered if I would be interested in dropping to such a low-level entry position. I was
standing in our then slum of an apartment in Hackensack, New Jersey, looking
at myself in the bathroom mirror while shaving, and I half-heartedly mumbled,
“Yeah, what the hell. Why not?” I quickly became one of the oldest casting interns
ever. I worked for a high-profile casting office, but despite the casting director’s
impressive reputation, his office space was definitely low rent. The ceiling was
crumbling. Small pebbles often fell onto our heads as we juggled a handful of
Broadway musicals, several national tours, a dozen regional theater clients, and
the New York casting for a television network. The landlord had a cat that used our
entrance hallway as its litter box. There was no A/C. The windows wouldn’t open,
and the casting associates were smoking fiends. The owner, known in the industry
for his abusive temper, was a champion chain-smoker. His near-continuous nico-
tine intake did little to curb his temper. Of all the lessons I learned there, the most
important was when to duck.
Not long after avoiding several flying telephones, suffering inappropriate com-
ments bantered about my buns, and denying an indecent request (accompanied
by money tossed on my desk) made by my employer for a back massage, I left the
casting office that doubled as a litter box. I ventured off on my own to begin Paul
Russell Casting. Early on, money (lack thereof) dictated that I continue to work
in the casting offices of others. My next several projects were for film. I was a sub-
ordinate on studio films for the same person. After a telephone interview, I began
working for an English casting director of high regard, Mary Colquhoun.
Mary, a stout woman with a fondness for flowers and little patience for fools,
was a strict disciplinarian. Of her many commandments (and sermons supporting
them), her most stringent was that any correspondence sent from her office be
written in the Queen’s English, as the British Empire, Mary, and God all favoured.
Before Mary passed, we worked together on major films that were shot in New
York. God love her, here was someone more anal and image-conscious than me.
One day, after all the offers were put out and there was nothing to do but sit and
wait for agents to respond, Mary soundly scolded me for not reading a newspaper
as I sat. She was appalled and embarrassed that her assistant was sitting at his desk
with nothing to do. Her tone was forceful, not friendly, when she instructed me
that I should be solving a crossword puzzle, reading a book, or scanning a newspa-
per. When I foolishly tried to defend myself by saying that at most places of work,
such activities were not acceptable while on the clock, Mary stated, “This isn’t
most places.” When I returned to work on Monday morning, the first thing I heard
was Mary Colquhoun’s voice coldly coming at me from her office, asking, “Mr.
Russell, do you have something to read?” In my knapsack were two newspapers, a
book, and several scripts. I was prepped for goofing off.
Introduction 7
After the films came television. While juggling my own clients, I once again
worked as a subordinate, this time helping to cast the first season of Cosby. Not the
original, humorous The Cosby Show from the 1980s. This was that other Cosby,
that ambled along until put to a merciful cancellation after several seasons. As
I worked, I was actually being auditioned for my position. The casting director in
charge was trying me out on a week-to-week basis; despite my track record, I was
on probation.
One day we were searching for a male actor in his fifties to sixties who could be
funny, the character was a bit of a weasel. My first thought was a quasi-acquaintance
of mine, Larry Linville. Larry, then living in New York, had played Major Frank
Burns on M*A*S*H. When I suggested Larry, my boss, the casting director for a
major television comedy on CBS, turned to me and asked, “What’s M*A*S*H?”
She wasn’t being coy, cute, or funny. She was serious. She had not one clue as to
what M*A*S*H was.
Here was a person in charge of casting a highly visible comedy on CBS, the
very same network that was home to M*A*S*H one of television’s highest-rated,
longest-running shows! M*A*S*H is legendary TV, and this casting director, older
than I, in a position that required extensive knowledge of televised entertainment,
knew nothing of it! With reluctance, she finally agreed to meet Larry, but the
indignity she put him through was horrible and not unlike what actors continue
to encounter today. Every Saturday, she would invite inexperienced actors she had
found through ads in the trade papers to audition in a small studio on the West
Side of New York. This was an odd practice for a highly visible project like Cosby.
On one of those Saturdays, Linville, who appeared in numerous films and tele-
vision series, sat patiently on a metal folding chair in a humid, crowded hallway
among young, inexperienced actors, waiting to be seen. Disgusting.
Larry, who had had a notable career, was being treated as if he had no experi-
ence, no value. He should have been shown respect in the form of either being
called in for a private meeting with the director or given a straight-out offer for
the small, one-time role. Instead he was invited to a general open call. My dis-
taste for the way Larry was treated is not to say that newcomers or nonfamous
actors should be treated with any less regard. There should always be courtesy and
respect on both sides of the table. Unfortunately, there are many casting directors,
directors, producers, and, yes, actors, who falter at decency.
Once I jumped the audition table, I was astounded not only by the behavior
of behind-the-scenes industry professionals but also by the mistakes made by
actors—bad choices I remembered having made myself during my own acting
career. In auditions, actors make more errors than successful choices. Beyond the
audition room, many actors are unaware of how to properly market themselves.
Actors not only struggle with these challenges but also often suffer from poor net-
working skills and an inability to work well with others. These problems all come
into play no matter what training actors have had. I want to change that.
Academia for the performing arts concentrates on teaching technique. Fine.
Only recently have some collegiate programs taught actors career survival and
how to achieve longevity. The basics. Reality. I applaud those programs that now
8 Introduction
place an emphasis on the “business” of “show.” Informing actors on how to prop-
erly market, brand, and sell themselves. But unfortunately, there remain actor
training programs that place more emphasis on “show” and not enough, or at all,
on “business.” Worse off are the naturally gifted performers who cannot afford the
high cost of a formal education. They meander from open call to open call, gam-
bling with their natural talent, hoping for a lucky break.
As a casting director, what I do is nothing more than glorified human resources.
Actors and nearly all others in the performing arts are professional job-seekers.
Throughout an artist’s entire career, the pursuit of finding work (justifying his
or her ability and worth) is an interview/audition treadmill that never pauses for
rest no matter what level of success and recognition has previously been attained.
I have empathy for actors, having lived the hell of being a professional job-seeker
myself. No experienced Industry voice was available to me when I was an actor.
I wish I had access to a knowledgeable insider to advise me from behind the audi-
tion table. I, like many actors mystified by the process of casting, yearned for
answers to a slew of questions:
Where’s the best place to train?

What is the industry standard for picture and résumé format?
How do you compose a mailing?
Do I rely on e-mail only? Do I do land-mail marketing?
How do you get attention without appearing foolish?
What should you wear to auditions?
What’s considered proper audition/interview behavior?
How do you fi d an agent or manager?
How do you work with an agent or manager?
How do you get a callback?
How do you respond to repeated rejection?
How do you negotiate a contract?
Where do you fi d new avenues of work?
As the digital revolution changed our industry, the questions additionally mul-
tiply like memes:
How does an actor effectively leverage social media?

Is an actor website necessary? If so, what’s an effective actor website?
What are the best online tools for fi ding work?
How do you effectively self-tape? What is self-tape?
How do you get seen and heard in the digital noise of online submissions that is
the modern form of connecting talent to casting?
After years of actors contributing so much to the success of my work as a direc-

tor and casting director, I want to give back something more than a “thank you
for coming in today.” The time has come for me to share with actors what they
cannot see for themselves—to offer industry insight gleaned from both sides of
Introduction 9
the audition table. I first began to give back by teaching seminars, teaching master
classes at universities, and accepting invitations from actors for counseling-over-
soda sessions. I reached a broader audience of actors through the Internet with my
blog “Answers for Actors” at AnswersForActors.net.
Writing this book has become an opportunity for me to express thoughts and
advice long repressed—blunt commentary I’ve withheld, in part, because my
mother taught me to be careful of the things I say. Her advice maybe worked too
well, as there were times that, when speaking to actors directly, I’ve withheld sorely
needed commentary regarding their poor choices in behavior because I’m mind-
ful that many actors possess a unique sensitivity. I’m stopping that practice here.
At times, portions of this book may come across as aggressive or perhaps poten-
tially offensive or even beyond acceptable FCC standards. Bear in mind that it’s
my passion to help actors grow and create more fulfilling careers that sparks my
occasionally fiery tone.
Within the following pages, you will find interviews with present and past work-
ing actors and talent reps voicing their perspectives, each participant boasting a
varying level of visibility. Many of the chapters are designed to answer questions
that have been asked of and by me during my forty-plus years in the entertainment
industry as an actor, casting director, and director. Some questions are based on
inquiries from my university visits and blog, while others I’ve encountered near
daily from actors in auditions, via social media, and on the street. My replies,
advice, and commentary are generated by a career shared with many exceptional
people who added insight, magic, and lasting memories to my ongoing journey
in the arts—a journey prompted by an insightful teacher, Mr. DeMaio, to whom
I owe many thanks. And maybe some thanks should go to those talent-free cows
outside the chorus-room windows.
CHAPTER
1
Working Actors Speak Out
Candor and the Business
“There’s so many moments when you have this little internal, ‘Oh my God, I’ve
arrived!’ You know you never have, really. And then in a certain way you’re
never not. You’re part of this world. And you’re struggling to do it like we all are.”
—Kelly AuCoin
Actor
As you read this book, occasionally you will find candid insight from respected
present and past working actors giving their viewpoints, advice, and criticism on a
number of subjects, including the business of acting, training, auditions, rejection,
and career survival.
When I began this project and decided to include the voices of working actors,
I never thought that I would, in a way, be casting for my book. Upon reflection,
that’s exactly what I did. I didn’t want celebrities (although you may find some
here). I wanted the voices of working actors who I knew to be successful at having
ongoing careers. I wanted actors of varying visibility; not everyone included had
to be a household name. Most of the working actors included are industry names;
they are known among part or most of the industry but not necessarily recogniz-
able to all civilians.
The Working Actors

I assembled my cast aiming to include actors who had diverse and successful
professional journeys. Some found themselves working predominantly in TV
and film, while others ventured primarily into theater either in New York or the
regionals; still others gained employment in all three mediums. Whatever the
journey, the reality of being an actor is that you may plan for your destination, be
it film, TV, theater, or all three, but occasionally you have little to no control over
where the road will eventually lead you.
Of the actors whose ideas and impressions we’ll explore, some will be recogniz-
able beyond our industry borders, such as screen and stage actress Selenis Leyva
(starred as Gloria Mendoza in Orange Is the New Black). Another familiar face
10
Working Actors Speak Out 11
on television joining The Working Actors is Kelly AuCoin (The Americans and
Billions). You’ll meet the hyphenated actress-playwright Kate Hamill, who cre-
ated work for herself with the widely popular stage hits Sense and Sensibility and
Pride or Prejudice. Other actors we’ll meet include Robert LuPone (Emmy and
Tony Award nominee), Michael Mastro, Mark Price, and Phyllis Somerville—
thespians widely regarded for their performances on and off Broadway, as well
as on regional stages, while also crossing over into film and TV. Then there are
the journeyman actors, Darrie Lawrence and Bonnie Black, who both boast
career longevity but who perhaps enjoy less name recognition within the indus-
try. However, their thriving careers are nonetheless impressive in the regional
and Off-Broadway theater scenes, national tours, and/or in supporting roles on
Broadway. Black and Lawrence’s careers reflect those of the largest percentile of
working actors.
During the book’s First Edition shelf life, and subsequent writing of this current
edition, some voices of The Working Actors within left us in life: twice-Emmy-
nominated Charlotte Rae (widely remembered for her role as Mrs. Garrett on tel-
evision’s The Facts of Life) and James Rebhorn (a principal in over forty films,
including The Game and Independence Day, and he starred in the TV hit Home-
land). The wisdom they shared remains relevant and vital to an actor’s journey.
I couldn’t let their voices fade; I owe a service to you and to them. We learn best
from those who came before us.
No matter what level of visibility, all the actors included have one common
denominator: During their careers, they worked nearly consistently. Their pro-
fessionalism and grounded vision of the business has earned them each respect
from their peers and their audience. In this chapter, we meet The Working
Actors.
Selenis Leyva
Selenis Leyva, co-star of Orange Is the New Black (Gloria Mendoza), has a street
and an accompanying sign honoring her. But that marker heralding her name
doesn’t place Leyva as being out-of-reach as is the sign honoring her high above the
Bronx macadam in the borough where the Afro-Latina actress grew up. Despite
the celebrity signpost honor, which could detour peers onto a path of aloofness,
Leyva is warmly accessible—grounded. Kindness and her heritage are key to who
is Selenis Leyva.
Born of immigrant parents—her father escaped Cuba; her mother is
Dominican—Leyva vociferously, and proudly, proclaims herself from the Bronx.
And it’s that borough’s hardscrabble, grounded, rough-and-tumble persona with
a welcoming heart that backbones Leyva to seemingly freely envelope characters
with a tough exterior that protects an inner vulnerability. In Orange Is the New
Black as Gloria Mendoza, a fiercely protective mother who for years ran the Litch-
field Penitentiary kitchen, Leyva brings a heartbreaking and soulful performance
that endears viewers to the good-humored actress. Her inspiration for Mendoza’s
12 Working Actors Speak Out
Selenis Leyva
Photo by Paul Gregory
devotion to family is more than likely grounded via Leyva’s home life. A single
mother herself, Leyva’s priority off-screen is family. Her second priority is her
extended family—a prolific career.
Leyva’s first professional job as an actress was as a principal on Law & Order.
“I was a prostitute,” Leyva said, laughing. “I’ve been everything on Law & Order.”
Leyva appeared in twenty-five episodes of the Law & Order franchises. Both as
a guest star or in a recurring role. Leyva recalled her initial Law & Order. “That
was my first on set, and I was so nervous. I had a scene with Mariska [Hargitay]
and Chris[topher Meloni] . . . And I sat there, trying, you know, to keep up. Feel-
ing very conscious of everyone in the room. I was like, ‘Wow! There’s so many
people in this room!’ ” Leyva laughed at the memory. “I remember Mariska and
Chris said, ‘You’re going to be just fine. You’re going to be working for a long,
long time.’ And at that age I thought, ‘Wow. That’s cool. They’re stars. Maybe it’ll
come true.’ ”
Hargitay and Meloni were prophetic. “Working for a long time” Leyva has.
And from her work, Leyva has received an Alma Award for Special Achievement
in Television. Apart from being a series regular on Orange Is the New Black and
her Law & Order appearances, her lengthy list of television credits include (but
aren’t limited to) Veep, Madame Secretary, Blue Bloods, Person of Interest, Third
Watch, Girls, The Good Wife, and The Sopranos. Many of those credits include
multiple appearances for each title—a rarity of success for an actress. Her film
credentials are just as extensive: Spider-Man: Homecoming, The Place Beyond the
Pines, Custody, Sex and the City 2, plus providing voices for two Ice Age mov-
ies. And that’s only a sampling. Leyva has many more films on her résumé both
studio and independently produced. Theatrically, Leyva has appeared at David
Mamet’s The Atlantic Theatre Company, New World Stages, Repertorio Español,
and elsewhere. Oh, and then there’s the occasional celebrity guest appearance on
talk shows, including The Daily Show.
For Leyva, the impulse for acting arrived early. “I think it was something
I couldn’t even put into words when I was very young,” she recalled. Leyva’s inspi-
ration began at home; among family. “Downstairs,” she said, “I literally stumbled
upon an old collection of encyclopedias. And in those encyclopedias were all
these plays. One of the plays I picked up was Lorca’s Blood Wedding. I couldn’t
understand what the words meant but there was something magical in them.
I remember being lost in that. I held onto that Lorca book for a while.” Several
years after discovering Blood Wedding Leyva encountered an additional fas-
cination involving acting. “As I got older I was watching the telenovelas with
my parents—I would have to sneak in and watch them from a corner of the
room. . . . I loved all of that. I felt myself getting lost,” Leyva said of the Spanish-
language dramas. Her love drove her to an impulse. “I would go, and lock myself
in my room, and then act out all the scenes I had just seen. That went on for
years!” I asked Leyva if her parents had ever discovered her bedroom telenovela
reenactments. She laughed, and said, “Yes. I’d have a scarf on my head or a hat.
I had props to invent the different types of people. It became such a routine,
such a part of my life that my parents were like, ‘Oh, there she goes again.’ Like
it’s not a big deal.” Her parents weren’t alone taking notice of Leyva’s blooming
acting frolics. “My brothers did tease me growing up. And they were just like,
‘You’re so weird. Don’t pay attention to her. Look the other way.’ I always remind
them that whenever we’re at cool places, now thanks to my newfound celebrity,
I’ll go, ‘Remember the sister? The weird sister? Yeah, she’s the one who got you
those Yankee tickets.’ We have fun with it now.” Leyva laughs. Leyva continues
to hold the wonder of that young Bronx girl who discovered a play with words
she didn’t understand.
Long before Leyva found herself being a celebrity, she didn’t know to where,
or how, to pursue her fascination for acting, not until she surreptitiously saw
a movie about others emboldened with the dream of acting. “I was too young
to see it,” Leyva recalled, “but I’d sneak in the room and peer from the side.”
What was too adult for Leyva’s young eyes? Fame. “When I watched that movie
I said, ‘Wait! Is there a school that exists like that? Because if there is I need to go
there.’ ” Leyva auditioned for the school and was accepted. “It was like love like
I never felt.”
Now don’t think that the path for the Afro-L atina’s career and celebrity was
as accepted as easily as was her one audition to a performing arts high school.
People along her journey wanted to change who she is—although not always.
“At LaGuardia High School they do all these techniques to lose your accent.”
Surprisingly, the tailoring of Leyva’s accent wasn’t for off the rack. “I remember
walking into a room and I’m this Afro-L atina that they want to sound like I look.
And I was like, ‘You know what? There’s nothing wrong with me embracing
who I am. And banking on that. And, yes, I could do many versions of myself.’ ”
It’s Leyva’s self-awareness that is the foundation for her fervent belief that
actors discover themselves. “Know who you are. And don’t be apologetic about
it. And stop apologizing about being a Latina from the Bronx. And I started
embracing that.”
Embracing one’s differences while trying to work in the homogeneous Wonder
Bread that can be Hollywood (and occasionally Broadway) is almost always chal-
lenged. I asked Leyva what encouragement she had for actors of diversity. “[The
industry] has gotten a little better . . .,” she said. “But it’s still a work in progress.”
While progression remains evolving, Leyva encourages that “actors continue to
prepare themselves. Continue to do classes or [be] involved.” She advises a path
of proactivity for actors of diversity. “Know that there are . . . opportunities for
you to write your own stuff. A podcast. A web series or whatever. Put yourself
out there. There are so many ways of expressing yourself. If you are a good writer
or you know someone who is a good writer . . . sit down. Write a script. Write a
story. Do something. Write a play. I think that some of us get so scared of the idea
of writing and being creative . . .” Leyva described her own past doubts for her
writing. A fear that manifested itself into her thinking that if she began writing
it meant, “I was giving up on acting,” she said. She overcame fears but not alone.
“I have a wonderful friend [who] said to me, ‘You have to write. You have to write
for yourself.’ And I thought, ‘Yeah writing for myself doesn’t mean that I’m giving
up on me as an actor. It just means that I’m opening up other possibilities.’ So, I am
writing now. So, I am working to make sure that people like me; people that don’t
fit into specific molds have jobs.” Leyva believes that for actors of diversity, “we
need to be a lot more aggressive and creative with ourselves. Produce and write
for us . . . . If you find yourself always struggling to find your niche, then you have
to get really creative. And not just sit there and wait for someone to do it for you.
Take that dive.”
Paul Russell: What do you like most about the process and the business?
Selenis Leyva: I like creating the character. I think one of the things I liked most
about Orange Is the New Black, is that I came on with a completely blank canvass.
All I was given was, “Gloria Mendoza. Latino.” That’s it. And I was to do probably
one or two episodes and I fil ed it. I fil ed her world with life, and I think that’s what
gave me a longevity [in the series].
For me the creative process [is] really creating character; what they like. What
they don’t like. How they function. How they think. I love that. I love the building
of a foundation of a character. And then seeing it play out. I love that.
Russell: What do you hate most about the process and the business?
Leyva: Ah, the rejection. The constant, constant reminder that you’re not enough.
That someone out there thinks “you’re not enough.” People in this industry point
out your flaws all the time.
I remember as a young girl, I was probably fourteen, going into this agent’s
office and she said, “You know, you’re really cute and everything’s good about you
except that you have to lose some weight on your legs. Your legs are little bit too
full.” And I remember going for the fi st time, “Oh, wow. My legs are too full? ”
And going to the mirror and poking at my legs and thinking, “Yeah. She’s right.”
So you have to be really careful what you say to a young actor. And you also have
to be careful about people and what they say about you. That [agent encounter]
did a lot of damage. That helped me get to a very unhealthy place with food. And a
very unhealthy place with weight. That was really unhealthy. You have to be really
careful with that: How much you take from people.
Russell: When working with other actors in an audition, onstage, or on a set, what
are some bad work habits that have annoyed you?
Leyva: Nothing drives me more insane than working with an actor that over-
thinks. Every. Single. Moment. And wants to discuss every, single moment with the
director or with the [other] actor [in the scene]. And they just get so involved . . .
that they can’t deliver it.
I think if you overthink things, then you’re cutting yourself short. I think there’s a
part about acting that’s about instinct. And if you overthink [in your daily life], for
example, “OK, how is it we walk?” You’d be so aware of your walking that you will not
suddenly walk like a normal person. I think it’s the same thing with acting. We can’t
get so caught up in the technical and lose the instinct of an actor. I always hear people
say, “I love her. She’s so raw.” “I love him. He’s so natural. He’s so real. That’s because
they don’t overthink. There’s a part of them that’s just animalistic, and they just do.
They just act. And acting is that. It’s reacting to someone else. Reacting to a circum-
stance. Reacting to a situation. We get too caught up in the technique. We lose the fun.
Russell: What do you think actors should do to better themselves?
Leyva: Actors really need to get a really good sense of who they are. You need to
make a niche. You need to be comfortable with that. Actors really need to know
who they are. And that’s the difference between someone who’s really working and
someone who doesn’t work.
If you know who you are, then [casting is] going to come for it. They’re going to
eat it up. They’re gonna buy it. So think about all the actors that are working, and
you go, “Wow. They’re always cast as this type.” It’s not all they can do. They’re very
grounded. They know who they are. You gotta know who you are.
Leyva’s passion for acting is among the most fervent I’ve encountered. But what,
if any, desire did she have before discovering the words that fascinated her in
Blood Wedding? Did she ever fli t with the possibility of another career? “I think
I thought for a very short time I’d go into psychology,” Leyva said. “Because I was
getting scared of the idea that so many actors just don’t make it. I remember think-
ing, ‘What else will I do if I don’t do this?’ I thought, ‘Well, I like talking. And I like
helping people. So maybe a psychologist.’ And then, I quickly said to myself, ‘If
you set up a Plan B you are setting yourself up for failure.’ And I really stand by
this. Not for everyone but for me. I really felt if I give myself a safety net I’m giving
myself permission to fail. Or I give one-hundred percent every day when I walk
into an audition. I want to know that I have no safety net. That if I jump, I’d better
fly. Because there’s nothing to catch me.”
Robert LuPone
Yes, the last name is the same as his sister Patti LuPone, Broadway diva and vocalist
extraordinaire, a woman sometimes referred to as “La LuPone” and for whom I admit
I have great admiration. Prior to my meeting with La brother LuPone (referred to
as Bobby by friends and industry), his agent repeatedly advised me to not bring up
his sister in our conversation. But it’s difficult to ignore the 800-pound gorilla in the
room that is their tenuous relationship. The social dynamic between the siblings is
not what you would call Brady Bunch bright. While they share the same last name
and profession, there’s little else that is harmonious. “We don’t get along,” LuPone
openly confessed. “We’re not fighting; we have had a history of feuding.”
Robert LuPone
The son of an elementary school principal, LuPone grew up in Northport on
Long Island, a bedroom community on New York’s sandy extension into the Atlan-
tic. Ironically, it was his sister who, in an odd fashion, inspired LuPone’s desire for
the stage.
“I was in the sixth grade and my sister was in the fifth or fourth grade and we
had this PTA recital that my father ran in elementary school,” LuPone recalled.
“My sister was doing a hula dance at the recital and she was wearing one of those
plastic hula skirts, and the skirt changed color. I was fascinated by that. I couldn’t
believe that was a possibility in the sixth grade. I said to my mother, ‘I want to wear
that skirt.’ And she said, ‘The only way you can wear that skirt is if you go to dance
class,’ and that’s how I started. The whole drive was to try to wear that skirt because
it was blue, then it turned to red, then it turned to green, then it turned to yellow,
and went back to blue. I just thought that was magic.” LuPone paused, then added,
“I didn’t know what a color wheel was at that time.” He laughed at the memory of
not recognizing that his sister’s skirt was magically changed by a simple Christmas
tree color wheel.
LuPone moved to New York City at age seventeen and studied dance under
Antony Tudor, José Limón, and Martha Graham. After graduating from Juilliard,
LuPone began his career as a self-admitted “gypsy,” hoofing in numerous cho-
ruses of Broadway musicals. But LuPone knew he wasn’t going to remain a dancer
because, as he stated, “that was a life of poverty.”
Combating poverty and social injustice were prevalent themes in conversation
with LuPone. He is very conscious of the disenfranchised and disadvantaged.
While LuPone has ambition for applying his philosophies on a global scale for the
betterment of the less fortunate, he has been able to effect change within the enter-
tainment industry. LuPone was the dean of the New School for Drama in New
York at the time of our one-on-one conversation, and he had previously been the
board president for ART/NY and remains the cofounder/artistic director of one
of New York’s most socially progressive and issue-reflective theatrical companies,
MCC Theater (formerly Manhattan Class Company). All his endeavors are fueled
by a passion to enlighten and present storytelling through acting; he deeply desires
that acting be seen as a respected profession and as a means for holding a mirror
to society at large.
“I believe after years of being a dancer, an actor, being in musicals, being in
plays, TV, and theater and being a producer, and being an educator for the New
School for Drama—I believe that being an actor is a very noble and dignified pro-
fession,” LuPone asserted. “I think that it’s desperately needed in today’s world.
I think playwrights and directors are needed desperately in today’s world, but
I think particularly actors are needed.”
Earlier in his career, prior to leading artistic institutions, LuPone transitioned
from Broadway gypsy to actor. One of his first accomplishments was winning a
Joseph Jefferson Award for his role as Crow in The Tooth of Crime at the Goodman
Theater. He has graced the stages of many regional theaters, including Yale Rep,
Hartford Stage, Arena Stage, Berkshire Theater Festival, and the Williamstown
Theater Festival. On the boards in New York, LuPone received a Tony nomination
for his performance as the demanding director Zach in the original production
of A Chorus Line, a role mirroring the musical’s legendary creator, Michael Ben-
nett. LuPone’s other Broadway credits include A View from the Bridge, True West,
Zoya’s Apartment, and A Thousand Clowns. More than thirty television credits,
LuPone has appeared on Odd Mom Out, Billions, The Affair, Smash, Gossip Girl, The
Sopranos (the recurring role of Dr. Cusamano), Law & Order, Crossing Jordan, Sex
and the City, Comedy Central’s Stella, and All My Children, for which he received
an Emmy nomination playing Zach Grayson. His film credits include Breaking
Point (with Tom Berenger), directed by Helen Hunt in Then She Found Me (with
Bette Midler, Colin Firth, and Matthew Broderick), Funny Games (with Naomi
Watts), Nick of Time, The Doors, Dead Presidents, Jesus Christ Superstar, The Door
in the Floor, and Indocumentos. The man keeps busy. Before, during, and after his
having been the dean for the acting program for The New School, he continues
to produce theater in New York as the artistic director for MCC along with his
fellow artistic directors Bernard Telsey and William Cantler. His crowded résumé
accounts for some of his very pointed views on acting and his philosophy for those
who wish to follow in his footsteps.
“You’re entering a fiercely competitive field and a field that has mostly, I would
venture to say, profoundly evolved people in it,” LuPone mused. “I’m not saying
we’re scientists. I’m not saying we’re going to save the world, but actors are pro-
foundly involved and evolved people who care a great deal, I think, about an aspi-
ration for humanity that they express through art.” His eyes lit up as he admitted
that, “for all of us, no matter how bitter and cynical we become, there is that ‘ah-
ha’ moment, that feeling of I’m home when the lights go down and the curtain
comes up. It’s what we live for. It’s who we are. If you’re lucky enough to get a great
scene onstage and you’re satisfied or you’re lucky enough to hear the high C that
is sung as brilliantly as Audra McDonald or my sister can sing it, how fantastic is
that?! That’s life!”
Paul Russell: What do you like most about the process and the business?
Robert LuPone: What I like best about the process is rehearsal. I really get bored
with performing now. Once we get to opening night . . . and within six months,
I’m bored because I can’t do anything more with the character. If I’m so lucky to
have a run of six months, I’ve really got to get out of it. Because what I like most,
what turns me on, is working with actors, the director, the conversations on the
play, in a rehearsal studio. There’s nothing better, for me. I don’t really care about
performing. I really like the rehearsal process because of the conversations, and
the aspirations in those conversations are really wonderful. Actor to actor, actor
to director, actor to playwright . . . you’re all in this caldron of creativity, trying to
create something out of nothing. It’s fantastic.
As to the business? I don’t know that we have a business anymore. I don’t know
if we sold it to the corporations. . . . We lost the design, and I think that’s true of the
theater. I think that’s true in film. It’s certainly true on TV There’s a whole world
of artists who are on corporate mentality. . . . You can’t forget that it’s a business
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67. Two or three mortars, varying in size, should be in every household where it
is expected that the cookery should be well conducted: they are often
required also for many other domestic purposes, yet it is not unusual to find
both these and scales, weights, and measures of every kind, altogether
wanting in English kitchens.
No particular herb or spice should be allowed to predominate

powerfully in these compositions; but the whole of the seasonings
should be taken in such quantity only as will produce an agreeable
savour when they are blended together.
NO. 1. GOOD COMMON FORCEMEAT, FOR ROAST VEAL,
TURKEYS, &C.
Grate very lightly into exceedingly fine crumbs, four ounces of the
inside of a stale loaf, and mix thoroughly with it, a quarter of an
ounce of lemon-rind pared as thin as possible, and minced extremely
small; the same quantity of savoury herbs, of which two-thirds should
be parsley, and one-third thyme, likewise finely minced, a little grated
nutmeg, a half teaspoonful of salt, and as much common pepper or
cayenne as will season the forcemeat sufficiently. Break into these,
two ounces of good butter in very small bits, add the unbeaten yolk
of one egg, and with the fingers work the whole well together until it
is smoothly mixed. It is usual to chop the lemon-rind, but we prefer it
lightly grated on a fine grater. It should always be fresh for the
purpose, or it will be likely to impart a very unpleasant flavour to the
forcemeat. Half the rind of a moderate-sized lemon will be sufficient
for this quantity; which for a large turkey must be increased one-half.
Bread-crumbs, 4 oz.; lemon-rind, 1/4 oz. (or grated rind of 1/2
lemon); mixed savoury herbs, minced, 1/4 oz.; salt, 1/2 teaspoonful;
pepper, 1/4 to 1/3 of teaspoonful; butter, 2 oz.; yolk, 1 egg.
Obs.—This, to our taste, is a much nicer and more delicate
forcemeat than that which is made with suet, and we would
recommend it for trial in preference. Any variety of herb or spice may
be used to give it flavour, and a little minced onion or eschalot can
be added to it also; but these last do not appear to us suited to the
meats for which the forcemeat is more particularly intended. Half an
ounce of the butter may be omitted on ordinary occasions: and a
portion of marjoram or of sweet basil may take the place of part of
the thyme and parsley when preferred to them.
NO. 2. ANOTHER GOOD COMMON FORCEMEAT.
Add to four ounces of bread-crumbs two of the lean of a boiled

ham, quite free from sinew, and very finely minced; two of good
butter, a dessertspoonful of herbs, chopped small, some lemon-
grate, nutmeg, a little salt, a good seasoning of pepper or cayenne
and one whole egg, or the yolks of two. This may be fried in balls of
moderate size, for five minutes, to serve with roast veal, or it may be
put into the joint in the usual way.
Bread-crumbs, 4 oz.; lean of ham, 2 oz.; butter, 2 oz.; minced
herbs, 1 dessertspoonful; lemon-grate, 1 teaspoonful; nutmeg,
mace, and cayenne, together, 1 small teaspoonful; little salt; 1 whole
egg, or yolks of 2.
NO. 3. SUPERIOR SUET FORCEMEAT, FOR VEAL, TURKEYS,
&C.
Mix well together six ounces of fine stale crumbs, with an equal
weight of beef-kidney suet, chopped extremely small, a large
dessertspoonful of parsley, mixed with a little lemon-thyme, a
teaspoonful of salt, a quarter one of cayenne, and a saltspoonful or
rather more of mace and nutmeg together; work these up with three
unbeaten egg-yolks, and three teaspoonsful of milk; then put the
forcemeat into a large mortar, and pound it perfectly smooth. Take it
out, and let it remain in a cool place for half an hour at least before it
is used; then roll it into balls, if it be wanted to serve in that form;
flour and fry them gently from seven to eight minutes, and dry them
well before they are dished.
Beef suet finely minced, 6 oz.; bread-crumbs, 6 oz.; parsley, mixed
with little thyme, 1 large dessertspoonful; salt, 1 teaspoonful; mace,
large saltspoonful, and one fourth as much cayenne; unbeaten egg-
yolks, 3; milk, 3 teaspoonsful: well pounded. Fried in balls, 7 to 8
minutes, or poached, 6 to 7.
Obs.—The finely grated rind of half a lemon can be added to this
forcemeat at pleasure; and for some purposes a morsel of garlic, or
three or four minced eschalots, may be mixed with it before it is put
into the mortar.
NO. 4. COMMON SUET FORCEMEAT.
Beef suet is commonly used in the composition of this kind of

forcemeat, but we think that veal-kidney suet, when it could be
obtained, would have a better effect; though the reader will easily
comprehend that it is scarcely possible for us to have every variety
of every receipt which we insert put to the test; in some cases we are
compelled merely to suggest what appear to us likely to be
improvements. Strip carefully every morsel of skin from the suet, and
mince it small; to six ounces add eight of bread-crumbs, with the
same proportion of herbs, spice, salt, and lemon-peel, as in the
foregoing receipt, and a couple of whole eggs, which should be very
slightly beaten, after the specks have been taken out with the point
of a small fork. Should more liquid be required, the yolk of another
egg, or a spoonful or two of milk, may be used. Half this quantity will
be sufficient for a small joint of veal, or for a dozen balls, which,
when it is more convenient to serve it in that form, may be fried or
browned beneath the roast, and then dished round it, though this last
is not a very refined mode of dressing them. From eight to ten
minutes will fry them well.
NO. 5. OYSTER FORCEMEAT.
Open carefully a dozen of fine plump natives, take off the beards,
strain their liquor, and rinse the oysters in it. Grate four ounces of the
crumb of a stale loaf into fine light crumbs, mince the oysters but not
too small, and mix them with the bread; add an ounce and a half of
good butter broken into minute bits, the grated rind of half a small
lemon, a small saltspoonful of pounded mace, some cayenne, a little
salt, and a large teaspoonful of parsley. Mingle these ingredients
well, and work them together with the unbeaten yolk of one egg and
a little of the oyster liquor, the remainder of which can be added to
the sauce which usually accompanies this forcemeat.
Oysters, 1 dozen; bread-crumbs, 4 oz.; butter, 1-1/2 oz.; rind 1/2
small lemon; mace, 1 saltspoonful; some cayenne and salt; minced
parsley, 1 large teaspoonful; yolk 1 egg; oyster-liquor, 1
dessertspoonful: rolled into balls, and fried from 7 to 10 minutes, or
poached from 5 to 6 minutes.
Obs. 1.—In this preparation the flavour of the oysters should
prevail entirely over that of all the other ingredients which are mixed
with them.
Obs. 2.—The oyster-sausages of Chapter III. will serve excellently
for forcemeat also.
NO. 6. A FINER OYSTER FORCEMEAT.
Pound the preceding forcemeat to the smoothest paste, with the

addition only of half an ounce of fresh butter, should it be sufficiently
dry to allow of it. It is remarkably good when thus prepared, and may
be poached or fried in balls for soups or made dishes, or used to fill
boned fowls, or the breasts of boiled turkeys with equally good
effect.
NO. 7. MUSHROOM FORCEMEAT.
Cut closely off the stems of some small, just-opened mushrooms,

peel them, and take out the fur. Dissolve an ounce and a half of good
butter in a saucepan, throw them into it with a little cayenne and a
slight sprinkling of mace, and stew them softly, keeping them well
shaken, from five to seven minutes; then turn them into a dish,
spread them over it, and raise one end, that the liquid may drain
from them. When they are quite cold, mince, and then mix them with
four ounces of fine bread-crumbs, an ounce and a half of good
butter, and part of that in which they were stewed should the
forcemeat appear too moist to admit of the whole, as the yolk of one
egg, at the least, must be added, to bind the ingredients together;
strew in a saltspoonful of salt, a third as much of cayenne, and about
the same quantity of mace and nutmeg, with a teaspoonful of grated
lemon-rind. The seasonings must be rather sparingly used, that the
flavour of the mushrooms may not be overpowered by them. Mix the
whole thoroughly with the unbeaten yolk of one egg, or of two, and
use the forcemeat poached in small balls for soup, or fried and
served in the dish with roast fowls, or round minced veal; or to fill
boiled fowls, partridges, or turkeys.
Small mushrooms, peeled and trimmed, 4 oz.; butter 1-1/2 oz.;
slight sprinkling mace and cayenne: 5 to 7 minutes. Mushrooms
minced; bread-crumbs, 4 oz.; butter, 1-1/2 oz. (with part of that used
in the stewing); salt, 1 saltspoonful; third as much of cayenne, of
mace, and of nutmeg; grated lemon-rind, 1 teaspoonful; yolk of 1 or
2 eggs. In balls, poached, 5 to 6 minutes; fried, 6 to 8 minutes.
Obs.—This, like most other forcemeats, is improved by being well
beaten in a large mortar after it is entirely mixed.
NO. 8. FORCEMEAT FOR HARE.
The first receipt of this chapter will be found very good for hare
without any variation; but the liver boiled for three minutes and finely
minced, may be added to it when it is thought an improvement:
another half ounce of butter, and a small portion more of egg will
then be required. A couple of ounces of rasped bacon, and a glass
of port-wine, are sometimes recommended for this forcemeat, but we
think it is better without them, especially when slices of bacon are
used to line the hare. A flavouring of minced onion or eschalot can
be added when the taste is in its favour; or the forcemeat No. 3 may
be substituted for this altogether.
NO. 9. ONION AND SAGE STUFFING, FOR PORK, GEESE, OR
DUCKS.
Boil three large onions from ten to fifteen minutes, press the water
from them, chop them small, and mix with them an equal quantity of
bread-crumbs, a heaped tablespoonful of minced sage, an ounce of
butter, a half saltspoonful of pepper, and twice as much of salt, and
put them into the body of the goose; part of the liver boiled for two or
three minutes and shred fine, is sometimes added to these, and the
whole is bound together with the yolk of one egg or two; but they are
quite as frequently served without. The onions can be used raw,
when their very strong flavour is not objected to, but the odour of the
whole dish will then be somewhat overpowering.
Large onions, 3; boiled 20 to 30 minutes. Sage, 2 to 3
dessertspoonsful (or 1/2 to 3/4 oz.); butter, 1 oz.; pepper, 1/2
teaspoonful; salt, 1 teaspoonful.
The body of a goose is sometimes entirely filled with mashed
potatoes, seasoned with salt and pepper only; or mixed with a small
quantity of eschalot, onion, or herb-seasonings.
NO. 10. MR. COOKE’S FORCEMEAT FOR DUCKS OR GEESE.
Two parts of chopped onion, two parts of bread-crumbs, three of

butter, one of pounded sage, and a seasoning of pepper and salt.
This receipt we have not proved.
NO. 11. FORCEMEAT BALLS FOR MOCK TURTLE SOUPS.
The French forcemeat, No. 17 of the present Chapter, is the most

refined and appropriate forcemeat to serve in mock turtle, but a more
solid and highly seasoned one is usually added to it in this country.
In very common cookery the ingredients are merely chopped small
and mixed together with a moistening of eggs; but when the trouble
of pounding and blending them properly is objected to, we would
recommend the common veal forcemeat No. 1, in preference; as the
undressed veal and suet, when merely minced, do not produce a
good effect. Four ounces each of these, with an ounce or so of the
lean of a boiled ham, and three ounces of bread-crumbs, a large
dessertspoonful of minced parsley, a small portion of thyme or
marjoram, a saltspoonful of white pepper, twice as much or more of
salt, a little cayenne, half a small nutmeg, and a couple of eggs, well
mixed with a fork first to separate the meat, and after the moistening
is added, with the fingers, then rolled into balls, and boiled in a little
soup for twelve minutes, is the manner in which it is prepared; but
the reader will find the following receipt very superior to it:—Rasp,
that is to say, scrape with a knife clear from the fibre, four ounces of
veal, which should be cut into thick slices, and taken quite free from
skin and fat; chop it fine, and then pound it as smoothly as possible
in a large mortar, with three ounces of the rasped fat of an unboiled
ham of good flavour or of the finest bacon, and one of butter, two
ounces of bread-crumbs, a tablespoonful of the lean of a boiled ham,
should it be at hand, a good seasoning of cayenne, nutmeg, and
mace, mixed together, a heaped dessertspoonful of minced herbs,
and the yolks of two eggs; poach a small bit when it is mixed, and
add any further seasoning it may require; and when it is of good
flavour, roll it into balls of moderate size, and boil them twelve
minutes; then drain and drop them into the soup. No forcemeat
should be boiled in the soup itself, on account of the fat which would
escape from it in the process; a little stock should be reserved for the
purpose.
Very common:—Lean of neck of veal, 4 oz.; beef-kidney suet, 4
oz., both finely chopped; bread-crumbs, 3 oz.; minced parsley, large
dessertspoonful; thyme or marjoram, small teaspoonful; lean of
boiled ham, 1 to 2 oz.; white pepper, 1 saltspoonful; salt, twice as
much; 1/2 small nutmeg; eggs, 2: in balls, 12 minutes.
Better forcemeat:—Lean veal rasped, 4 oz.; fat of unboiled ham,
or finest bacon, 3 oz; butter, 1 oz.; bread-crumbs, 2 oz.; lean of
boiled ham, minced, 1 large tablespoonful; minced herbs, 1 heaped
dessertspoonful; full seasoning of mace, nutmeg, and cayenne,
mixed; yolks of eggs, 2: 12 minutes.
NO. 12. EGG BALLS.
Boil four or five new-laid eggs for ten or twelve minutes, and lay
them into fresh water until they are cold. Take out the yolks, and
pound them smoothly with the beaten yolk of one raw egg, or more,
if required; add a little salt and cayenne, roll the mixture into balls the
size of marbles, and boil them for two minutes. Half a teaspoonful of
flour is sometimes worked up with the eggs.
Hard yolks of eggs, 4; 1 raw; little salt and cayenne: 2 minutes.
NO. 13. BRAIN CAKES.
Wash and soak the brains well in cold water, and afterwards in hot;
free them from the skin and large fibres, and boil them in water,
slightly salted, from two to three minutes; beat them up with a
teaspoonful of sage very finely chopped, or with equal parts of sage
and parsley, half a teaspoonful or rather more of salt, half as much
mace, a little white pepper or cayenne, and one egg; drop them in
small cakes into the pan, and fry them in butter a fine light brown:
two yolks of eggs will make the cakes more delicate than the white
and yolk of one. A teaspoonful of flour and a little lemon-grate are
sometimes added.
NO. 14. ANOTHER RECEIPT FOR BRAIN CAKES.
Boil the brains in a little good veal gravy very gently for ten
minutes; drain them on a sieve, and when cold cut them into thick
dice; dip them into beaten yolk of egg, and then into very fine bread-
crumbs, mixed with salt, pounded spices, and fine herbs minced
extremely small; fry them of a light brown, drain and dry them well,
and drop them into the soup or hash after it is dished. When broth or
gravy is not at hand, the brains may be boiled in water.
NO. 15. CHESTNUT FORCEMEAT.
Strip the outer skin from some fine sound chestnuts, then throw
them into a saucepan of hot water, and set them over the fire for a
minute or two, when they may easily be blanched like almonds. Put
them into cold water as they are peeled. Dry them in a cloth, and
weigh them. Stew six ounces of them very gently from fifteen to
twenty minutes, in just sufficient strong veal gravy to cover them.
Take them up, drain them on a sieve, and when cold pound them
perfectly smooth with half their weight of the nicest bacon rasped
clear from all rust or fibre, or with an equal quantity of fresh butter,
two ounces of dry bread-crumbs, a small teaspoonful of grated
lemon rind, one of salt, half as much mace or nutmeg, a moderate
quantity of cayenne, and the unbeaten yolks of two or of three eggs.
This mixture makes most excellent forcemeat cakes, which must be
moulded with a knife, a spoon, or the fingers, dipped in flour; more
should be dredged over, and pressed upon them, and they should be
slowly fried from ten to fifteen minutes.
Chestnuts, 6 oz.; veal gravy, 1/3 of a pint: 15 to 20 minutes. Bacon
or butter, 3 oz.; bread-crumbs, 2 oz.; lemon-peel and salt, 1
teaspoonful each.
NO. 16. AN EXCELLENT FRENCH FORCEMEAT.
Take six ounces of veal free from fat and skin, cut it into dice and
put it into a saucepan with two ounces of butter, a large teaspoonful
of parsley finely minced, half as much thyme, salt, and grated lemon-
rind, and a sufficient seasoning of nutmeg, cayenne, and mace, to
flavour it pleasantly. Stew these very gently from twelve to fifteen
minutes, then lift out the veal and put into the saucepan two ounces
of bread-crumbs; let them simmer until they have absorbed the gravy
yielded by the meat; keep them stirred until they are as dry as
possible; beat the yolk of an egg to them while they are hot, and set
them aside to cool. Mince and pound the veal, add the bread to it as
soon as it is cold, beat them well together, with an ounce and a half
of fresh butter, and two of the finest bacon, quite freed from rust, and
scraped clear of skin and fibre; put to them the yolks of two small
eggs and mix them well; then take the forcemeat from the mortar,
and set it in a very cool place until it is wanted for use. Veal, 6 oz.;
butter, 2 oz.; minced parsley, 1 teaspoonful; thyme, salt, and lemon-
peel, each 1/2 teaspoonful; little nutmeg, cayenne, and mace: 12 to
15 minutes. Bread-crumbs, 2 oz.; butter, 1-1/2 oz.; rasped bacon, 2
oz.; yolk of eggs, 2 to 3.
Obs.—When this forcemeat is intended to fill boned fowls, the
livers of two or three boiled for four minutes, or stewed with the veal
for the same length of time, then minced and pounded with the other
ingredients, will be found a great improvement; and, if mushrooms
can be procured, two tablespoonsful of them chopped small, should
be stewed and beaten with it also. A small portion of the best end of
the neck will afford the quantity of lean required for this receipt, and
the remains of it will make excellent gravy.
NO. 17. FRENCH FORCEMEAT CALLED QUENELLES.
This is a peculiarly light and delicate kind of forcemeat, which by

good French cooks is compounded with exceeding care. It is served
abroad in a variety of forms, and is made of very finely-grained white
veal, or of the undressed flesh of poultry, or of rabbits, rasped quite
free from sinew, then chopped and pounded to the finest paste, first
by itself, and afterwards with an equal quantity of boiled calf’s udder
or of butter, and of panada, which is but another name for bread
soaked in cream or gravy and then dried over the fire until it forms a
sort of paste. As the three ingredients should be equal in volume, not
in weight, they are each rolled into a separate ball before they are
mixed, that their size may be determined by the eye. When the fat of
the fillet of veal (which in England is not often divided for sale, as it is
in France) is not to be procured, a rather less proportion of butter will
serve in its stead. The following will be found a very good, and not a
troublesome receipt for veal forcemeat of this kind.
Rasp quite clear from sinew, after the fat and skin have been
entirely cleared from it, four ounces of the finest veal; chop, and
pound it well: if it be carefully prepared there will be no necessity for
passing it through a sieve, but this should otherwise be done. Soak
in a small saucepan two ounces of the crumb of a stale loaf in a little
rich but pale veal gravy or white sauce; then press and drain as
much as possible of the moisture from it, and stir it over a gentle fire
until it is as dry as it will become without burning: it will adhere in a
ball to the spoon, and leave the saucepan quite dry when it is
sufficiently done. Mix with it, while it is still hot, the yolk of one egg,
and when it is quite cold, add it to the veal with three ounces of very
fresh butter, a quarter of a teaspoonful of mace, half as much
cayenne, a little nutmeg, and a saltspoonful of salt. When these are
perfectly beaten and well blended together, add another whole egg
after having merely taken out the specks: the mixture will then be
ready for use, and may be moulded into balls, or small thick oval
shapes a little flattened, and poached in soup or gravy from ten to
fifteen minutes. These quenelles may be served by themselves in a
rich sauce as a corner dish, or in conjunction with other things. They
may likewise be first poached for three or four minutes, and left on a
drainer to become cold; then dipped into egg and the finest bread-
crumbs and fried, and served as croquettes.

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Pound the preceding forcemeat to the smoothest paste, with the

Cut closely off the stems of some small, just-opened mushrooms,

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The French forcemeat, No. 17 of the present Chapter, is the most

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN: 978-1-138-29949-8 (hbk)

Introduction: Cows and Greasepaint—A Journey Begins 1

About the Author 430