Pamela Ribon's Blog: the latest from pamie.com, page 11

We Didn't Win

For those of you who can't get enough of things my mom says, I had her play Game Time for the latest episode of Extra Hot Great, as I transcribed her answers. It was a maddeningly difficult Game Time where you listen to 21 clips of fictional languages from film and tv and have to guess where they're from.

My favorite part is where she just says "Nemo."

The transcript is here.

here is a test | come try to break pamie dot com

Ever since the shiny new redesign, whenever I let you guys know I have a new post, we somehow succeed in crashing the server. The guys at the help desk are watching right now, so feel free to click a few things.

Like, did you know I have tags? You can read all my posts about roller derby, or Oprah or flip through the remarkably popular dork tag.

Or you can flip through the OCD-skilled archives, picking a month at random.

Whatever gets this site fixed so that I can update more frequently without losing visitors because I have no tolerance for the slow load.

And for good measure: a picture of Cal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks.

Tales from the Accidental Asshole: The Wine Tasting

I am not the best when it comes to names and faces. I will remember one or the other, but I cannot seem to put them together. And I've even tried the thing where you hear someone's name and then you imagine them wrapped up in their name, like "Monica Berg" becomes a cheeseburger moaning in ecstasy or whatever, but the next time I see that lady, you can bet I'll somehow end up calling her "Patty Cheesescream," right to her face.

Part of it is I'm not good at recognizing people once they're out of the element where I knew them. Sticking forever in my GuiltSpot is the time I got caught checking the nameplate of a woman who was walking toward me for a warm reunion. "You had to read my name!" she marveled. In my defense, I hadn't seen her in close to three years and when I had she worked for an entirely different network. I believe I stumbled out a, "No, I just got confused as to which room I was entering HELLOOOOOOOOOO!"

Still. I'm bad at this. Therefore it stands to reason that if you throw booze into it, I'm going to be worse. Friday night I reached a new level of "Wow," so much so that I'm not sleeping so well over how stupid I must have sounded in trying to recover from my idiocy.

We went to a wine tasting on a hill in Hollywood, where you try various wines and enjoy a sunset tour of Frank Lloyd Wright's Hollyhock House. It all sounded lovely and like a perfect break from all the writing and rewriting I'd been doing, living in the imaginary worlds like a hermit.

Turns out it is the place to be if you're under five and you've got parents who like to drink wine. For a good ninety minutes I couldn't find another female who didn't have a child on her hip, in her lap, running toward her, running away from her, or growing inside of her.

So much wine and expensively-clad children. I was unprepared, and therefore made up for my lack of offspring with enthusiastic wine tasting.

Halfway into my second glass I saw a familiar face. A man I'm going to call "A—," because I've worked with him and this story is going to showcase my accidental asshole nature, so I'd rather just keep the focus on me. In any event, A— was wearing sunglasses instead of his usual frames, relaxed and smiling in a definite non-work mode. I opened my arms and he walked into them. "Hello, Pamela," he said, kissing my cheek.

PAMIE'S BRAIN

"Pamela," I didn't expect the full name like that. Oh, and the cheek kiss. Never prepared for that. Don't kiss back don't kiss back don't kiss back don't kiss back–

PAMIE

Hello! I'm the only one here without a baby. Can I borrow one of yours?

He has two. Twin girls, I remembered. I turned to the side to re-introduce my boyfriend, just in case people don't know names.

PAMIE

You remember Jason?

A—

No, I don't think we've met.

PAMIE'S BRAIN

Wait. If he doesn't know Jason, that must mean… he's not A—, he's S—! I haven't seen him in years! We worked on that show so long ago, but he also has two kids, so luckily I didn't say something stupid. No wonder, the cheek kiss and the "Pamela."

A—

Hey, so we're sitting over there. Come say hello to L— and —-. We're total regulars here. Come all the time.

PAMIE'S BRAIN

I think "L—" is the name of one of S—'s daughters. Or was it his wife's name? I've never noticed how similar they look before. I can't be drunk yet, that's insane. The point is: if he says he comes here all the time, then it must be S—, because A— lives like, almost half an hour from here. Who would want to drive to this every Friday night with a car full of kids? Okay, it's totally S—. That's funny. I can't believe I thought he was A—. It's the happiness that is throwing me. I'm not used to writers looking relaxed.

Just before the tour, an older couple stopped us and offered up all of their drink tickets. (I'm just reminding you, there was drinking.) We met up with friends, went on our Hollyhock House tour, and then refilled our glasses.

I stood off to the side, staring at a girl I was mostly sure was Jessica, but I had seen her staring at me earlier and she never once gave a wave.

I had noticed her because, well, she looked like Jessica, but more importantly she was one of the three women at the wine tasting without a baby, and I wanted to make sure we all knew we had each other's backs.

The more I stared, the more I became convinced that this woman fifteen feet away from me was definitely my friend. So I went over. Luckily, I was right.

PAMIE

You were staring, so I wasn't sure!

JESSICA

Because I was staring at your dress, it's so cute! I never looked at your head!

PAMIE

That's okay, there's a guy over there who I thought was someone he wasn't, and the only thing that kept me from being a complete asshole is that he also has two kids, because everybody here has at least one.

She was with the third woman who didn't have a baby, and we formed a tight, ovarian-shielding circle of solidarity as we talked.

During this time, S— had passed me a number of times on his way to and from the food trucks, the wine tables, etc. Each time we have mostly avoided eye-contact or chatting, because who wants to do that awkward over-step and exaggerated drinking-motion you have to do when you repeatedly pass someone on your way to lines or refills.

Four glasses in, emboldened by my, "I know everybody here and it's totally a reunion," feeling, I recognize the woman in line in front of me as someone I'd gone to college with, but I hadn't seen in a very long time. We weren't close in school but we were in the same department. I didn't know how to best approach the, "I'm not stalking," nature of our reunion, so I went with–

PAMIE

Hi, excuse me. You are Aimee.

AIMEE?

Uh, no.

PAMIE

Oh. Sorry.

NOT AIMEE

I get that a lot, though, that I look like someone.

PAMIE

Me too! All the time. So, I know how you feel. But, listen. It's not an insult. She's a lovely girl. Aimee. So. You should just, know that you look like… someone named Aimee, or how she would look now I'm guessing, I haven't seen her in a while. We went to college together. We weren't even that close in college, but she was friends with friends of mine, so that's why I wasn't sure you were her but I thought you were. I mean, it was totally a longshot. Maybe she lives in New York. I think I heard that. But anyway. I'm sure you're nice, too. I mean, you're here with friends, so…

[Pamie notices she's now talking to Not Aimee's back.]

I tell you this so you understand my fuzzy mental state as the next thing goes down.

It's late and getting dark as the wine tasting is winding down. I turn to see S— standing behind me with his wife and two kids — a boy and a girl. The girl is in her mother's arms. S— is no longer in sunglasses but in frames, and now really looks a whole lot more like A—, so I see why I had that earlier confusion.

S— says, "I just wanted to say goodbye and introduce you to my wife."

"We've met before," I said, boldly, as I'd met S—'s pretty wife on set. I didn't remember her being a blonde, however.

"Oh, I didn't think so," she said.

I shook my head dismissively with a laugh. "Well, it was a long time ago," I said, letting her off the hook. I pointed at the girl on her hip. "This one wasn't even born yet! There was just the boy."

S— took a second before he slowly, politely explained. "Well, they're twins, so…."

Which is when I IMMEDIATELY knew I was talking to A— and not S—, but I'd just made a super colossal number of factual errors all at once.

"Uh," I said, trying to joke myself out of this one with what is technically the truth. "I'm so bad at kids' ages. Honestly, they could be six or zero and I wouldn't know. Plus you've got one down here on the ground, and one on the hip. How am I supposed to know they're the same age?"

A— still wasn't finished. "Plus, they're four, so they would have definitely been born by the time you would have met my wife…"

I turn, "Have you meet Jessica? This is A—." The subtext clearly screaming: I KNOW YOU. I KNOW YOUR NAME AND YOUR KIDS AND WIFE AND WE ALL HAVE HISTORY.

Jessica asks, "Are they twins?"

Show-off.

I attempt to save face many times more, asking a series of questions so specific about A—'s current project, which I very much know about because at one point I was helping to work on it. I apparently asked him so many questions he finally admitted, "You're making me feel like I should be stressed out."

After I made sure to say A—'s correct name about fifty more times, they excused themselves and walked away. Jason shook his head, so uncomfortable for me. "You sit across from someone in a tiny room for more than six months and you don't recognize him in public?"

It felt like this time went to the Magic Castle and watched a magician perform a close-up card trick right in front of me. The cards never moved, yet somehow they changed suits, right in front of me, like they morphed, CGI-style, right before my face. (PS: Lots of drinking at the Magic Castle, too, so…)

But still. I was so confused. I thought it was A—, then proved through a series of questions that it had to be S—, only to be completely smacked in the face with it being A—!

Hours later, at home, I shouted, "THEY WERE BOTH THERE."

That had to have been the solution. I went on Facebook, Twitter, desperately trying to find some proof that both of those men where there, both with pretty wives and two adorable children.

PAMIE

Here. Here's a picture of S—. Wasn't that who we saw first?

JASON

I have never seen that man in my life.

PAMIE

They both worked on the same show, they know each other. They're similar!

JASON

If this is bothering you so much, why don't you write A— an email explaining how you got tongue-tied, that you thought he was S— because he said he didn't remember meeting me, which is how you ended up doing basically the same thing to his wife.

PAMIE

You mean the truth? That would be the worst thing I could possibly do!

JASON

You know that whole drive home his wife was going, "She didn't remember you."

PAMIE

That is impossible. I asked how his show is going! There's no way I couldn't know who he is if I asked about his show.

JASON

Then he was probably thinking, "I'm glad I didn't hire her. That woman can't even tell twins when they're staring right at her."

If you are wondering just how much this bothered me, that night I had one of my literal dreams that I sat down next to S— and told him the entire story.

The next morning, after some clarity and coffee, I realized that S— had never been there. There's just no way. The combination of A— in sunglasses combined with his (HIS!) initial faltering around Jason (and okay, FINE. Perhaps all the wine), made me unable to stop making an asshole out of myself.

It has been days, and I still cannot let it go, because it's something like this that makes me worry my brain is not what it used to be, and seriously, I am not okay with being that wrong in public! Forever, I will hear A—'s hesitant baritone in my head. "Well, they're twins, so…."

Just another addition to the list of reasons why I really shouldn't make it a habit of leaving the house.

Making it Work While You're Mostly Working for Free

I'm waiting on the phone to ring to find out about a project I pitched yesterday while simultaneously scheduling a pitch meeting around another pitch meeting I already have set, one that is effectively killing my original plans to attend a friend's wedding, which leads me to answering an excellent question about money with a whole lot of words on juggling multiple projects.

Heidi writes in the comments section of this entry:

If I may ask a question about the super secret fantasy life of a writer — how do you budget financially during the jags where you're working flat out for free until you can catch your breath and the unexpected income arrives? …I've found my own 1099 income years to be sort of jarring, so I wondered.

I'm sure there are many ways to do this. Unfortunately, I am not blessed with the "Rich Uncle" version, so I had to go about it differently.

My very first day of my very first tv show job, one of the more established writers said to me, "Save your money, kid." He didn't have to do that. I'm pretty sure I didn't ask for any advice at all. Because of that, I thought, "That man is telling me something he wishes someone had said to him. He is literally trying to pay it backward." So I do try to always save, particularly when I'm on a show that's paying me every week. I put a lot of that away, knowing it's my paycheck when I'm not staffed or waiting on a check from all my other writing, which pays about maybe four times a year.

Making it work while you're working for free takes some discipline, some planning, and still a bit of luck. But it can happen!

If I'd been fortunate enough to be on a show that lasted more than a couple of seasons, I could tell you, "Residuals." That's one of the reasons we were striking so hard those few years ago.

Samantha Who? still plays in other countries, and is on Netflix streaming, so every once in a while a "little green envelope" comes in the mail from the Writer's Guild that is my tiny cut of that pie. A very, very tiny cut. My last LGE was for around three hundred dollars, after taxes. I might get another one next year for less than that. But that show wasn't on for very long, and I wasn't at producer level. Someone more established on a show that lasts four seasons or five or is on multiple networks — those residuals keep you going during the times when you aren't on staff, when you are "working flat out for free."

But that's not me, either. I'm going to try to answer your question with the four rules I keep in mind when I'm doing this job.

I'm not one of those people who will ever say to you, "You need to just give yourself permission to do something. That's all that's holding you back." In my experience, if something is holding you back (something that's not an actual human being pinning your arms to the ground or a prison guard telling you to get back into your cell), you're probably mulling over a combination of fear and responsibility. So, no, I wouldn't say just "giving yourself permission" will solve that problem.

In fact, I'm going to give you a little bit of applause. I bet most people don't appreciate what an honest, hardworking, respectable citizen you are being by going, "Wait. Being a writer looks like it might be difficult and financially irresponsible. I do not want to eat cat food to be able to pay for my wifi. Hold on. Can someone tell me how it's done before I just try it?"

That's what happened to me, and I'm forever grateful. I didn't get permission to be a full-time writer, I had someone say, "You know, you've already laid the groundwork, and at this point, I'd say you'll be able to handle the gig financially with a couple of pointers. You want to talk about this over lunch?" These words were spoken to me over ten years ago, and they were spoken by John Scalzi. I've built on his advice over the years from my own experiences, but I don't think I would have had the guts to leave the 401K-life if someone hadn't told me I was pretty much already doing it.

Please note: at this point I'd been writing professionally and freelance for more than two years. I had a portfolio, a few steady freelance gigs, a weekly newspaper column and a website that generated ad revenue. And I was still nervous to leave the corporate world. Because I'm not an idiot, and I'm guessing you aren't either. Thus: these rules I use to tell myself I'm somehow doing something that isn't reckless and will still pay me ten years down the line, even though I have absolutely no control over that…. To the rules!

The biggest piece of advice I took away from John's lunch talk: Plan your life six months out. This will be a completely different plan if you are someone who is a full-time writer working freelance, waiting on those 1099′s that never, ever, ever arrive on time, compared to a part-time writer finding time to crank out words while keeping a steady-paycheck full-time job. Take a look at your life, know what money you can expect to make, and plan accordingly.

Which leads me to another one of my rules: The only job you have is the one you have right now. Never schedule finances for your next six months on jobs that aren't definite.

I cannot stress this enough. It's so easy to think, "Oh, and by the fall I'll have sold that script/article/website/organ." But the sad truth is, no matter how far along you are on a project where someone's like, "This will totally sell, don't worry," it might not. The job isn't really real until you have put a check in the bank. And sometimes not even then! I've been working on shows for over three months before my first check arrived. I've had development deals that took over a full year before I ever saw a dime. Right now I've got projects that have yet to "commence," which means people are still hammering out the contracts and while it's something I'm eventually going to write, I'm not writing it yet, because people haven't decided all of its terms and conditions. So I wait, and I work on the jobs I have.

Because of the length of time it can take for different projects to reach completion, I've upped that six-month idea to one year. I think of my finances and my workload one year ahead.

What I do is: Juggle like a motherfucker.

For example, let's take a look at my next year, as it stands right now.

Turns out in spite of my ridiculously awesome ability to type funny words straight from my vagina, I did not get staffed. Please, a moment of silence for that, as I put in a valiant effort. I had meetings. I had a lot of close calls. There were moments I was having to schedule my work for the rest of my year to include the possibility of a two-hour daily commute. But I didn't get staffed, so: new plan.

I'm sitting next to the printed manuscript of my latest novel. I'm going through it for edits, and it won't be the only time I'll do that. In about a month I'll be doing it again, with notes from my agent and editor. I've been writing it for many, many months now, but you won't see it until at least a year from now. That means I'm not going to get much money from it (ever) as I work on it (but also ever, because books don't pay much when you consider they take around a year or two to make), but it is the biggest time-sucker of my life. ["Hey, is that why when I told you I read your latest book in less than three hours you made that sad face?" -- you | "Yes. But thank you for reading because otherwise I wouldn't get to write them" -- me]

I'm also sitting next to the latest draft of my pilot script. I turn that in next week, wait for notes, and then do another draft, possibly another after that and then I wait to see if they want to film the pilot late in the summer. Which means come August, my life either changes dramatically, or not at all.

I need to turn both of those projects in, not just because they are due, but because that's how I get paid. In theory, I should spend my days working all day long on both of them. But that would be a very bad idea. I would only do that if I want all my finances to potentially come to a grinding halt right about the time the pilot script gets a pass. I have to look ahead and make sure that a good fifty to sometimes eighty percent of my day is spent hustling to get the next job. Jobs. Opportunities. That's what the hustle is for. A chance to try for a job.

So I'm pitching. When staffing season ends, the pitching season starts, where writers meet development execs and discuss ideas/concepts/areas/material that will hopefully lead to a development deal or a script order. I tried explaining this to my mother yesterday as I was going to a studio pitch with a producer I've been working with, but the fact that the studio had the same name as a network and yet I wasn't pitching a network, nor was I taking a meeting where at the end of it someone hands me a tv show kind of blew her mind.

"All that work, and in the end all you're getting is the chance to have another meeting, but with more people there?" she asked. Which made me have to go, "Yes."

It's not that easy to get a script deal when you're a "mid-level female writer," although I will say being an author makes people think I'm fancy. If you want to be a tv writer, I highly recommend being some other kind of writer first, because all tv writers know we are all lying, asshole hacks with self-esteem issues. Any other kind of writer is much more impressive, not just to us, but to the people who work with tv writers and long ago figured out they are all kind of lying, asshole hacks with self-esteem issues.

Sorry for the tangent. These pitches I've got on deck, some of them I've been working with producers for months and are now waiting for the "networks to open," an image that always makes me think of someone setting up a Monopoly board, going, "I'll be banker." Any (or all, but no, it won't be all, because the odds are slim no matter how awesome the project) could "go," meaning I scored another gig, collecting $200 from that Monopoly banker. Then I will schedule that project into my next year of work, along with the projects that are still in the drawing-up-the-contract phases, which will eventually (but I cannot predict when) "commence," which is when they fall right into my lap. And then I will reschedule the plan again. This is called success! This will all finish in the fall, right around the time lots of people who did get staffed will find their options running out on their contracts, which means sometimes means people are let go, which means potentially more meetings for me on shows, potentially rescheduling the plan yet again.

I think of my desk as the conveyor belt. I send something out knowing how long it'll take to come back with notes, or how long it'll be before we meet again, or how long I have until it's finished (it's never finished — my god, I'm writing a pilot script about the book I wrote in 2004 and 2005, you guys. I'll never stop writing the word chlamydia. I have done this to myself.)

Juggling is all about knowing how long it takes you to do something, combined with how long it takes others to do something. I'm a quick worker. It comes from my years on the grind at TWoP. While I was writing two or three recaps a week plus monitor a forum and run pamie.com, in order to to pay my bills I had to also write anime scripts, do coverage for a production company, and probably a few other projects I don't even remember anymore, in addition to balancing the free work world of spec scripts, pitches to lowest-level people, general meetings, helping a friend punch-up a script, and crying into a pillow after seeing my account balance, pissed off about my lack of a rich uncle.

Sound hard? It is! That's why every writer you know has that face.

But, listen. You have to juggle. You have to do lots of things at once because the free projects don't pay any money, and you have to do all sorts of free projects before any of them make money, which is why you'll probably have a "job" (or two or three) before you get "work" that pays money. And once you finally land a gig that pays a little bit of cash, you've walked through your first door. It gets a little easier there, but it's not over. It can be another year before you get another gig, and in that time you'll have to do even more free work. So when you're doing planning out your six months or your year, make sure you plan out your week. Figure out how long each project will take, and slot it into the time you have devoted to writing. Make sure you will have some kind of finished product at the end of at least some of these projects. Don't just take on other people's pitch ideas. Pitches disappear into thin air and often never do anything again. Make sure you're still writing specs or manuscripts or whatever it is you like to write, so that you can have those things "out there" working for you when you are "in here" writing like a lunatic.

Which brings us to the final rule: Write every day, and be your own dick boss.

When you're juggling, you have to give yourself deadlines. I always give myself earlier deadlines than other people give me, because I will work until the very last second I'm allowed. If they made a show on Bravo called Top Writer, during that final countdown I'd be standing at my laptop whacking keys, looking up at the time going, "UGH! UGH! I'M NOT READY! NOT READY!" but then I'd run out of time and of course it was totally ready, I just couldn't stop tinkering with it.

I've given myself multiple deadlines for various projects, but I also know that I can't sit here for eight to ten to twelve to sixteen hours a day, doing nothing but writing and editing. My brain starts to hurt. Some days the words won't come, and I will end up on the couch watching an HBO documentary designed to punch me in the stomach. Sometimes I'll intentionally find something related to what I'm working on, so there's inspiration. Exercise helps. Getting out of the house to see a friend who is feeling equally lost and frustrated helps. Going to see theatre or a movie or getting on a roller coaster also helps. Shift your view. Imagine the finish line. There are all kinds of ways to fill your non-writing time.

But that can't be every day. That can't be every day! Hey, really. That can't be every day. You can't always be thinking, waiting, researching, surfing, roller coastering. You have to sit and you have to type, and you have to keep the conveyor belt running with your projects, always sending something up and out, or nothing will come back around and then you will have no money and there will be no green envelope, no commencement check, no callback, no project. You will run dry. Working from home is a challenge to some, I know, because the XBox is right there. Use it to play Last.fm, and spend your time writing. You can't be a writer without all the writing. If you're a writer who isn't writing, you're just a breather.

The trick to making all of this free work and paid work work for you is to remember that you aren't just budgeting your finances. You're budgeting your time. You have to honestly judge your ability to handle multiple projects, how to best budget your workload, and then plan accordingly.

I wrote all that and the phone still didn't ring, so I'm going to go work on my script. Because even if that phone eventually rings with a no, I'll have something at the end of this day with words on it.

E/R Wonder Killers, Look!

I remember so much of this. And yet, did not remember the Martha Quinn.

Acts of Incompetent Genius

I had this sudden idea the other night while I was eating a steak dinner and watching some Frontline special about technology (settle down, boys, this girl's taken) that it'd be an interesting, potentially time-saving experiment to see if I could keep myself from Wonder Killing for an entire week. For me, that means not Googling something the very second I have a question.

I thought I'd probably need to keep a diary of this time, both to keep my hands from Googling, and to write about whether or not it was difficult for me to stay away from Googling. Then I imagined the essay I might write after the experiment was over. There'd probably be this list of things I'd been wondering over the week. Important things, like, "What season did George Clooney join Facts of Life? or "How many cups in a liter?" or "Horse jokes dirty" or "Bare Necessities Promo Code." Bloated by my Frontline-enhanced ego (it's similar to when we all think we could just write for This American Life or when someone says, "You should do my life as a sitcom"), I pictured this essay would create an entertaining discussion of how many random questions float through our minds during the day that we perhaps used to use to engage in entertaining conversations, but instead now we answer things on our own, clicking into our private encyclopedias at the end of our fingertips.

I decided to try it. Right then. One week without Googling. If that worked well, perhaps one month! There's a book idea! One month without Google. I'd be like a pioneer woman, constantly in the past, having to ask people what's going on and why is this happening and seriously, what season did George Clooney join Facts of Life, and why am I the only person who remembers he was a dreamy doctor on a sitcom called E/R long before he played a dreamy doctor on a show called E.R.?

I would definitely have to stay away from car trips and dinner parties, where I'm pretty much always answering a question (usually one nobody really needed answered) via my iPhone. I would have to tell you guys at pamie.com: No wonder killing spoilers! Because that would be cheating. I thought about making a Twitter account I could use to write all the questions I couldn't answer, just so you could follow my anxiety as I piled up unanswered wonders. Maybe all this pondering and questioning would lead to a breakthrough! Maybe I would solve something, cure something, develop a superbrain capable of remembering more than one phone number!

I was excited and nervous about giving it a try, which is why I thought it was probably a good idea. No more procrastinating deadlines getting lost in unnecessary research. No more solving other people's Facebook wonders with immediate links to click. Just me in the here and now, pondering all old school style. Sitting around, wonderin'.

I'd decided I was definitely doing it just as I took my very last bite of the steak I was eating, and then I thought about how I wasn't sure how many calories were in steak, so I googled "calories in steak" and then I realized I am my own problem.

Eyes on the Prize

I did it to myself, but it has happened and is happening, right now.

I have a manuscript and a pilot script due on the same day.

That day is quickly approaching.

This means there are, right now, four different documents open on my laptop screen, a notebook open to a page that says "MOM DOCTOR PAP JOKE," another pile of papers for a pitch I have this week, a pile of bills I won't bother to check yet, and a bottle of generic "All Day Pain Relief." I have random pieces of paper scattered around me, items scribbled with random thoughts I came up with in the shower, in my car, balancing on a tightrope. Basically anywhere I'm unable to type immediately, that's when my brain goes, "I FIGURED OUT THAT JOKE YOU WERE WORKING ON," and then I have to scramble to find some kind of paper and something that will leave a mark on that piece of paper.

One time I had gotten out of the shower having finally figured out an ending to a chapter, and the only thing I had to write on was an ATM receipt that was in the pocket of the clothes I'd been wearing before I got into the shower, and the only implement I had was my index finger, dipped in my own blood from a cut I'd given my shin with my razor in the shower.

It had better be the best damn chapter in the novel, because I wrote it in shinblood.

It's also jarring to one's brain to shift from the comedy pilot, which has to tell a big story in very few words, where just about every single sentence must

1. Push the scene forward

2. Inform us of something we'll probably need to know one act later

3. Either set up or deliver a punchline

and a novel, which is filled with all the words ever. So many words. You can write until you can't write anymore, and you won't be done writing all the words that need to be written just so you can get to the next thing you have to write. In the novel you have pages and pages that all have to push the plot forward, that have to inform us of things we'll need to know two hundred pages later. If I realize at page 276 that I want something to happen here because my shinblood says so, I can't just go back to page six, write a new joke, and then know I'll have payoff. In the novel, I've got to change page six, page sixteen through sixty-seven, search and replace someone's name for another, add a couple of pages describing someone's something or other, then try to figure out just how many times I'd written something that completely contradicts what I'd just decided to do.

I mean, look at me. Hair's crazy, chipped nail polish, skin a questionable pale even though I took some time to go to a beach (yet stayed inside and wrote while it was sunny, only swam in an ocean (gulf?) once — at one in the morning. (other pictures here.). I've been writing on airplanes and porches and beds that aren't mine. Thrice I have almost given myself third degree burns from distractedly pushing my French Press because I was thinking of a thing I had just written.

Basically, what I'm telling you is that right now I am absolutely no fun to be around. My head is swimming with characters and dialogue and lingering questions to the point where I imagine my face looks like I'm trying to remember the name of that guy that was in that one movie while also trying to remember the name of that guy that was in that other movie, while I've got a Beyonce song stuck in my head. I feel like I'm writing an enormous crossword puzzle. Not solving it; creating it.

I'm trying to keep my eye on the prize. I'm so close to the finish line. So very close.

It's times like these when I try to imagine what it'll be like when I'm on the other side of these drafts. Once other people can see these words, read these pages. Later, when it's more about me sitting still worrying about what others think of me, instead of right now, when I'm stuck in isolation, having to worry about what I think of me. I'm mean to me.

Later I'll be allowed back out in public again like last summer, when nice girls in the 108-degree Baltimore heat would ask me to sign their boobs.

Until then, I'm right here, typing away my nail polish, feeling an ulcer in my stomach, wondering if this is funny enough or that is smart enough or if this other thing is good enough for you.

I only have a few days left to figure it all out.*

(* That's totally untrue.  I turn in these drafts to the people who have requested them.  Then I wait.  Then I get notes.  And then it all starts again.  (Brought to you by Writing! A job for needy masochists.))

Your Parents Will Never Wish You This Life

Hi Pamie,

My name is Robyn and I'm a young aspiring TV writer in L.A. who found your blog after it was linked from Jezebel. Your post "The Magical Vulva of Opportunity" really struck a chord with me because between parents encouraging me to "go back to school and became a professional naval-gazer in a safe environment like a college campus" and the snippets I hear every day about struggling, unhappy TV writers, I'm starting to wonder if I'm setting myself for a life of disappointment. This sentence in particular made my stomach drop:

"There have been shows I was almost on, shows I was on, shows I almost created, shows I wrote but nobody read. There have been proposals and pitches and meetings and punch-ups and "I don't understand; they said you had the job, but now they just don't have the budget for your level." I've been singled out, recommended, read and "adored." I've been pitched to, passed over, rescheduled and abandoned. I've learned a lot, and I've written even more. I'm a couple of credits away from being elevated higher than "mid-level female writer," and I can't wait to find out what new, terrible, miserable problems the next level brings."

I know I'm 22 and still outside of that skyscraper looking up at its enormity, and I know it's not your job to reassure some kid who graduated from college and moved to L.A. the next day with no tangible career prospects except a dream to write for television and maybe movies, but I want to know that you're happy and that guy and his agent are just (albeit unconsciously) sexist jerks. I want to know that this is the only thing you'd ever want to do and could do. I want to convince myself that if you feel a richness in your life from this career, then my anxiety is for naught. I know it's a lot to ask, haha.

I currently work in an entry-level job at a tech/marketing company, work on endless revisions to my sitcom spec and half-hour pilot and sometimes send out that Very Dramatic play I wrote last year to theater company's reading committees. I presume you've been there and I'm curious what you would say to your past self knowing what you know now.

Thanks for being an inspiration to young women like me (neurotic as we are.)

All the best,

Robyn Bahr

Hi, Robyn.

Come out from under your desk for a second. Listen. It's important to know that this job is hard for everybody. It's hard. It's hard to break in, it's hard to stay working, it's hard to keep a show on the air, it's hard to get a show on the air -- it's hard! For anybody. For everybody.

Wait, you went back under the desk. Come back.

It's hard, but that's okay. That's part of what makes it fun.

The lines in my essay that made your stomach drop? That's a description of me working! That was a five-year montage of being a writer. That's what the job is. Meetings, and phone calls, and pitches and treatments, and maybes and so many no's and every once in a while a really great yes and sometimes a yes that turns out to be a trick. All of it, every day. But that means you're working. It's a good thing. And the truth is, I don't talk about all the yeses and and I don't talk about all the nos, because I really shouldn't. Sometimes I legally can't. Sometimes the things take years before they actually exist, or a contract is signed, and sometimes projects go away right in the middle of things.

Consequently, my mom still doesn't really understand my life. (But she likes the latest perk, which is that I call her when I'm driving to meetings.) Which leads me to talking to you about your parents.

Mine weren't exactly thrilled that I was going to use this brain to be an actor. My father repeatedly stressed that perhaps I should minor in nursing, something to fall back on. Writing was my fall-back job! Dad didn't really want me to be a nurse; he wanted to know that once I was legally allowed to not have to follow his orders, I wouldn't spend every day covered in tears and poverty.

Your parents love you and never want you to ever have a bad day. They do not want you to face rejection on a near hourly basis. They don't want your life to be hard. And they'd probably like it if they knew how to explain to their friends and family what it is you do for a living. My poor mom. "She's writing, I know that. She writes a lot. When she writes on shows, her name isn't usually in the opening credits, and that makes me look like a liar, but I'm getting used to it."

Your parents just want your life to be easy. Remember that. And maybe they paid for college, I don't know, and they'd like immediate returns on their investments.

But I want to address your first question: "Am I setting myself up for a lifetime of disappointment?

Yes.

Wait, you didn't let me finish.

Yes, but: only if you want it to feel that way. If you look at your life as not-yet-getting-enough, you'll always be disappointed. But even in what you've written here, I can tell you're already miles ahead of most of the people who are willingly signing up for this life. You've already got spec scripts, you've already finished some material. You are editing, which means you know something's not precious and perfect from the first draft. You're working at a job in entry-level, which means you could walk away without too much guilt, and it sounds like your mouth is the only one you're in charge of feeding. And most importantly: you already live here. That means you're two to five to a million years ahead of a lot of people, and two years in this business is equal to like, five years in the real world.

So right now I want you to see that you are 22 and already doing the work. You are already hustling. So pat yourself on the back. Because you have typed 'FADE OUT' and that is more than some people ever do. And you've done it more than once. So make sure you're sending those scripts out. Right now you should be entering contests and attending festivals -- the good festivals -- so that you can get feedback and make contacts and perhaps even win a certificate or two. Because it's all about who you meet right now, where you make connections, that will start to mold your career. I'm working with someone right now whom I first met seven years ago when we tried to get a pitch sold that didn't go. Seven years later we're in different places in our lives, we're more experienced, we're more trusted, we have more leverage -- and now we're doing something together. (I can't tell you what it is yet. Sorry.)



You don't have to be disappointed, as long as you know how to appreciate what you have right now. Because it doesn't get easier, it just gets different. And you'll have good experiences and bad experiences and some people really do suck and some will become your friends for life. (Also, 75% of this job is very lonely, as you alone sit with your computer and type). I would say you shouldn't do this if you have anything else that you're good at that brings you joy and strokes your self-worth. Because again, it's not easy. But I'm not really sure what's an easy job. They all look kind of hard. Stressful. Annoying. This is the one where I like it when it's hard, I get better at it when it's stressful, and inspired when it's annoying.

As for whether or not women have it harder, and if should you be worried about your chances because of your girlparts, I have some news. If you've been reading the trades (and you should be doing that so you know what to talk about when you go on those meetings and festivals and mixers to meet other writers and producers so that you don't sit alone at your job and freak yourself out of doing this), you'll see that there have been quite a few female-driven pilots ordered to series, and right now, at this very moment, two out of every three women you know is currently watching a screening of Bridesmaids, so it's a potentially exciting time for women in comedy.

That being said, I found out this week that I didn't get a job because I wasn't married with kids. (Which used to be why I was able to get a job!) So you know, there's always a way to be a woman the wrong way. But that really has nothing to do with being a woman, and more about what you bring to the table.

Right now you make sure you're living your life so that you have something to bring to the table. Write all the time, hone your voice, and make sure that you have a way of saying something that is yours and yours alone. Find a way to stand out. Be funny and be different. Live a life that gives you lots of stories. Love and laugh and make friends and get your heart broken and have stuff be messy and weird and sometimes too extreme. But make sure you write about it. Figure out how you feel about it. Write constantly, and be brave with your words.

Send your parents pictures of the view from the Getty, of being at the bank next to Marcia Gay Harden, of the gates of the Paramount lot, of you standing near the Hollywood sign. Remind them that you are already in the middle of the industry. Show them that you aren't living the safe life -- you're living the one that can't be predicted. It can't be duplicated. It's yours and yours alone.

Because if we really lived the lives our parents say they want for us, the safe, quiet, easy lives, we'd be miserable. We'd be bored. And they'd be sad for us. That being said, my mom still really, really, really wants me to quit roller derby.

My dad missed out on a lot of what I've done. But one of the last things he ever said to me was, "I'm really glad you didn't play it safe." That was huge. He would have never advised I take the risky path, no parent would, but he was proud of me for doing it.

He pointed at the television in his hospital room. "Your name's going to be right there one day."

At the time, I hadn't written a TV spec. Just one screenplay and a manuscript, both unsold. I'd only been in Los Angeles for just over a year. "I know things are going to happen for you," he said. "And I'm sorry I'm going to miss it."

If only I'd started two years sooner, he might have seen some of what I've accomplished. He'd have at least held a book in his hands with our last name. It makes me cry every time I think about what he missed.

So listen, Robyn. You're doing fine. It'll all be okay. It won't ever be easy, but I promise you'll have fun as long as you remember it's not something that's going to happen to you later. It's happening right now. Be a part of it.

The Magical Vulva of Opportunity

I read Tina Fey's Bossypants over the weekend, because as a lady who writes comedy it is some kind of law. They sent something to my house; it was very official. And because I'm a lady who writes comedy who also likes extra credit, I went to see Tina speak with Steve Martin last week, where I truly couldn't walk five steps without running into or recognizing another woman I'd either worked with or had a meeting with or interviewed with or knew through comedy since moving to Los Angeles. (I also held the World's Smallest Impromptu Book Signing, wherein I defaced Tina Fey's Bossypants.)

I bring this up for a couple of reasons. It's staffing season, which means right now writers are waiting to find out which shows are going to staff which writers, depending on which shows get picked up for the fall season, and it's all very hurry-up-and-wait while your scripts get sent to network executives, showrunners, assistants and trashcans.

Tina was very gracious whenever asked if there's a "boys club" in comedy writing, and I feel she's being intentionally diplomatic. I don't know her life; maybe it is just as easy as "Get a job writing comedy, stand next to Amy Poehler while you do it," but I bet she's holding back a bit of her truth.

She's a self-admitted "nice girl" who just wants to do a good job and not make waves and be fun and have fun and everybody makes a good show, yay! I get that. I am also that girl.

However.

About three years ago, right about the time that Samantha Who? was going into our second season, I had a phone call that haunts me to this day, and I think about even more during this frantic time of the year that is staffing season.

"I was talking to my agent," this male writer said to me. "And we were talking about how lucky you are."

"Yes, I know," I said, as I will and would say to anybody listening. "I'm very lucky to be working, I'm very lucky to be on a show people seem to like, and I'm very lucky that I like the show I'm working on. That's a job lottery situation."

"No," he says. "He was talking about how you're lucky because of what you are."

I know I paused before I asked, "What does that mean? What am I?"

"You're a mid-level female writer. People are always going to need one of you in the room. It's great. You can go from failed sitcom to failed sitcom for the next six or seven years. You're all set."

After he finished giving me that Thinner-esque curse, I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. I forced the angry Little Pam inside me to stay quiet and not get baited, not grab my nearest copy of Bitch Magazine, roll it up into a twat-baton and say something like:

"Well, THANK YOU for letting me know that I'm so lucky to be blessed with this MAGICAL VULVA OF OPPORTUNITY! I can't wait to help others by letting them gaze upon this sacred gynopart that's filled with diversity-requirement-fulfilling jobs!"

Instead I calmly asked, "Why was your agent talking about me?"

"Oh," he said. "He wanted to know if you were happy with your representation."

And then I thought I'd be able to let it roll right over me. Just let it go. Because I know that was a conversation not meant for me to hear. That was an agent talking to his client, telling him the reason this chick he knows is working is because she's a chick, and she can just bop from Ladyslot to Ladyslot telling jokes and showing boob and it's only because she's got some ovaries that she'll get a paycheck. And he'll pick up dinner and don't sweat not getting hired this year; there are no jobs out there, no good ones anyway hey call me later i'm on a plane, dude, bye.

I have to confess that I hate that I cannot let that go. I really tried to let it go. But, UGH. "Failed sitcom to failed sitcom." "What you are." The belittling "mid-level female writer," as if I'm some less-than out there.

I know that's what he said, because it's what I hear in my head every week or so since that night. It is the treadmill on which my brain runs while I'm up all night writing pages. It is the Rocky theme song that plays in my head while I come up with pitches. It is my fuel, my angry fuel. It is the machine I rage against.

It is so infuriating! On so many levels!

And what's frustrating is that his agent (and I'm going to keep telling myself it was his agent who said it because that makes me feel better about everything) was wrong. At least, in my experience, it has been very difficult to go from failed sitcom to failed sitcom because a mid-level female writer isn't exactly what each show needs. They need a cheap female staff writer or completely-free diversity hire, or they want an experienced co-executive producer who costs a lot because she's worth it.

Let's push aside that it's unfortunate that it's harder to get hired as a woman if the showrunner isn't in the habit of hiring women. Let's just ignore that reality, how many men think that women aren't funny. Or that hiring a woman brings "problems" because you feel less free to make your fart jokes and fake-fuck your co-worker on the table. Forget that part and pretend it's all equal out there, because I like to. I like to think my gender doesn't matter. So then you're up against the money. They don't really want any mid-level writers because they're still learning. In theory. In title. Nobody knows what I've done on each show unless they ask, but my title says: "She's been in some rooms, she knows how to write, she doesn't know how run a show yet."

That's taking a risk on both my vagina and my brain. That's a budgetary nightmare for a showrunner who just wants a bunch of writers who are going to make his or her day less shitty.

So. I have to rely on good agents, good word of mouth, people I've worked with before giving good recommendations. I have to make sure I have excellent samples, writing that makes people want to meet me. I must be patient. I must wait. I take meetings. I write specs. I write pilots. I keep working. I write novels so I can sell them to networks so I can create shows that way. Yes, folks, that's my secret. It's as easy as publishing a novel.

What I'd really like to tell whomever it is that thinks the chick in the room has got made is: If it's so easy to get staffed on a show as a woman, then why does my union hold a contest for it?

When I tell people that I've recently won a "diversity" contest from the Guild, they give this strange look. Because their first thought is, "I didn't think she was gay." Then their second thought is, "I know she can't be Asian... but maybe she's a little... black? Can I ask her that without sounding racist?" And then they say out loud: "Oh, my God! Because you're a woman?!"

Shocked, horrified, hands on face offended. "A woman is considered diversity! You're a minority?"

Yep.

I share that link because it brings me back to Tina Fey. My 30 Rock spec is included on that website. It's not what won me the contest -- my spec for CRAZY CAT LADY: MURDER SOLVER did. But having just seen the 100th episode of 30 Rock, I can safely say that my spec script is probably dead. But some of you write to ask what these things look like, and for some reason the Guild is just letting anyone download these things, so take advantage. That script was inspired by something I went through when I got my first sketch approved on Mencia, and parts of it we later used for a Samantha Who?. Incidentally, it isn't the closest I've ever gotten to writing jokes for Tina Fey.

This is:

In early 2007, right around this time of the year, I'd just moved into an apartment and started to get some semblance of my life in order, when I got a call from my own agent. "Are you willing to move to New York?" he asked. He told me that Tina Fey had read a script of mine (not that 30 Rock; you don't read specs of your own show), and that it was down to me and some other guy she was interviewing that week. "If he doesn't get the job, you're flying to meet her on Monday. Have a good weekend."

Now, keep in mind that this is agentspeak here, so just like some other agent told that male writer he was awesome and I was just a chick, my agent here was doing his best to make me seem like I was one plane ticket away from a job on 30 Rock. The dude must have nailed his interview, or they saw nine people before me or I was never one flight away from Tina's desk but the point is: I didn't get the interview. And one week later I got an interview on Samantha Who?. And I got the job.

...and then promptly went on strike. If I'd gotten the 30 Rock job, I'd have moved to New York and then gone on strike. Maybe I wouldn't have starved and gone broke, and maybe I would've kept that job for more than a year, and maybe I'd still have that job (actual percentage of these things being possible -- 34%, 27%, 08%). I can't even imagine how different everything would be. Truly, my whole life would be different. And I'm quite in love with my life, so thanks for saying no, Tina Fey. Sorry I defaced your book the other night. (I'm not sorry.) (Also, you can still say yes.) (I'm cheap! (see above))

I guess I'm about three years into the seven-year prison sentence stamped into my brain of being a mid-level female writer jumping from failed sitcom to failed sitcom. There have been shows I was almost on, shows I was on, shows I almost created, shows I wrote but nobody read. There have been proposals and pitches and meetings and punch-ups and "I don't understand; they said you had the job, but now they just don't have the budget for your level." I've been singled out, recommended, read and "adored." I've been pitched to, passed over, rescheduled and abandoned. I've learned a lot, and I've written even more. I'm a couple of credits away from being elevated higher than "mid-level female writer," and I can't wait to find out what new, terrible, miserable problems the next level brings.

But for now, I am here, perched over my Magical Vulva of Opportunity, wondering who's going to want some of this.

Come See Me! -- Los Angeles Times Festival of Books 2011

Attention all Southland book-nerds and stalkers, this is your warning that I will be in public, answering questions and dorking out on the lovely USC campus, Saturday, April 30th for a discussion and book signing.

Saturday Panel:

3:30 PM

Norris (room? hall? it just says Norris)

Page & Screen

PANEL CODE: 1074

Moderator: Ms. Heather Havrilesky

Mr. Howard Gordon

Ms. Pamela Ribon

Mr. Duke Vincent

The Los Angeles Times Festival of Books is free, packed with things to do and see, and so deliciously nerdy you will be in geek heaven.

Book-writing rockstars! College campus! Book signings! Street vendor food!

Where else but a book fair in Los Angeles does Ted Danson get top billing?

Last year I accidentally insulted a pregnant lady. The time before that I grossed out the entire audience explaining what a fistula was. What will happen this year? Come find out! Don't just read it later -- here's your chance to be a part of my inevitable humiliation!