What A Pot Smoking Tram Operator Taught Me About Art

In film school, we had a fellow by the name of Anthony Zuiker come in and speak to us — the creator of CSI. The biggest-name artist we’d ever had. He’d broken through, and he was clearly still grappling with the surrealness of overnight fame. He was funny, a bit of a class clown, yet in a sense he was completely unpretentious, and to this day I still wonder why he even agreed to show up. It felt like he came to laugh with us at the absurdity of it all - and a bit to brag.

I also wonder how much they paid him. Maybe he was visiting family in town and swung by to collect a nice little pay day.

He told us he’d been a pot-smoking tram operator in Vegas, going through the motions and not expecting anything in his life to change. At night, when he was finished with work he’d go home, smoke pot, and write story ideas. He passed these ideas along to the network until one day… one of his little story pitches hit. Suddenly overnight, there were meetings with agents, meetings with Jerry Bruckheimer. Checks were signed, shows were produced with spin-off shows. He was in the process of writing on giant feature films now…

He attributed his success to the pot, and his tenacity but didn’t have much else to say on the matter. He was crude for a lecturer, which I respected, because he clearly had no reverence for the institution or the teachers. He knew, same as I did, that they weren’t teaching us a damn thing that would get us where he was. If they knew how to do it, they would’ve done it instead of teaching. I remember the head of the program bragging about how he’d written an “incredible script” that was “stolen” and turned into a blockbuster film we all know. Seemed rather convenient to me. 

Anyway, one student asked Zuiker point-blank what advice he’d give us,  if we wanted to be where he was.

“Well,” he smirked, scanning the room with an arrogant smile, “I’d suggest you drop out of film school, smoke some weed, and start writing.” I just remember feeling like he’d stared them down and collectively bitch slapped all of our teachers in that instant.

The instructors rushed him out, and he waved goodbye with a smile as he was pushed out the door. The instructors flocked to the stage to do damage control, but the damage was done. Those of us with real ambition didn’t detect one lie in what he’d said.

“Now I’m sure Mr. Zuiker didn’t mean exactly what he said there.” One of them said.

Bullshit. He meant precisely what he said.

And that’s the thing: I love that Zuiker said it, but I don’t love “art advisors.” But what he did wasn’t advice. It was like anti-advice. It was hostile to the institution.

 It was:
ditch the box, ditch the rules, open your mind, and create.
Liberation, not limitation.

The problem — and I hate to say it, because I like many of them — is these instructors who haven’t accomplished any more than us have been soured by their own rejection. They tapped out for whatever reason, and then they built a story around it. Like the “stolen script”. Like, okay sir.

Becoming an instructor is accepting personal failure in the form of a shiny badge and an intimidating gun. It’s a lie you tell to others; that you’re an authority and you’re successful, so that you can convince yourself.

 It’s criticism disguised as mentorship. It’s often a coach who rose to a modest level and wants you to rise, but not higher than them. Because if you do, it exposes the truth. There’s no upper limit to what an ambitious kid can do if he’s not afraid. So they make him afraid; afraid of humiliation.

I have seen exceptions. I’ve had teachers who were genuinely excited when a student outpaced them. But those students almost always succeeded in spite of the instruction. They went to class, nodded, then went home and followed the Anthony Zuiker prescription: smoke weed, make stuff, break rules, get weird.

Looking back now, with some years and a different chapter of life behind me, the best teachers were the cheerleaders.

A college “artist” is someone with a burning desire to say something but without the confidence to spit it out yet. The best teachers simply said:
“Yes! That was fucking awesome.”
And they meant it. Even when it wasn’t awesome. Especially when it wasn’t awesome, because it was the formative stage of something else. And over time, those artists found their own edges and structure and created staggering things. And yeah, some stayed terrible. 

But encouragement is the little umbrella that keeps you dry when its raining, so you keep tinkering until the pieces connect. We shouldn’t interfere with that. Doubt implanted by someone with bad intentions can destroy an artist before they ever take off. And they do. I’ve seen it over and over. Unsuccessful artists are some of the most toxic people I’ve ever met. They don’t want anyone to make it until they do.

So now, when I see endless suggestions or viral threads or bestselling books on “how to be an artist,” I want to tell anyone who’s trying to make it (just like I am) don’t take the bait.

Everything you need is already inside you. If you bought a book called How to Succeed as an Artist, it should simply say:

“Make Art.”
That’s it. On every page. Throw smoke weed in there if you want.

Anyone selling you a formula is profiting off your desperation. They can smell how badly you want it, and they build these mock-institutions to drain your wallet. I know. My college got shut down for predatory practice and my tuition was refunded.
There was some value there, sure, but it could’ve been replaced by a single week of tinkering with your tools. Seriously. Especially now with YouTube.

Years ago, because writing isn’t my primary art, I made the mistake of reading a stack of “how to write a novel” books: plotting, character arcs, grammar, spelling. And you know what happened?

I wrote worse.
Significantly worse.
All I could think about was the rulebook. The “right way.” The spark was dead.

You know what pros have?
Editors.
Your only job is to get the damn thing onto the page. As a reader who loves art, who loves that hair-raising moment, I don’t give a shit how you write it. If it hits, it hits.

Same for music. Same for movies. Shoot it on an iPhone, break every rule of cinema. I don’t care.

If it hits, it hits. End of discussion.
And if it hits, it validates you and invalidates every critic and every teacher who tried to tell you they have the one-size-fits-all solution for making it to the top.