…and then this morning I Googled “master cleanse.”
ooooooohhhhhhhhh man, I am full of food. This year’s food-trip with Tara and Dave was shorter than the last time, but I managed to get an extraordinary amount of eating in. I started strong and ended strong, you guys. I had ice cream for dinner last night. Yes, that is bragging.
We did some antiquing (someone please send me these chairs), some drinking (heh, “some”), and some friend-gathering as we repeatedly hid from the oppressive heat. I recorded a podcast as the first female guest for a future episode of Totally Hungover, which may or may not end up being the last time they allow a female guest. There was officially too much Whataburger and not enough migas.
This week has been an ass-kicker. A “no” on a job I wanted (that happened at the exact same time we got rear-ended on the highway), another no, another no, Oprah ending, a plumbing clog that has caused septic nightmares coming from inside the house. And since methane gas inside the house isn’t enough, a family of skunks have taken up residence in the backyard. Judging from the smell, they are easily frightened multiple times a day. I lost a notebook that had story notes I needed, but more importantly contained apparently the only copy I had of my landlord’s address and the rent is due… No, don’t bother looking for the notebook, I think I lost it 30,000 miles in the air. (Sudden screaming baby made me accidentally overturn my purse in 18C.)
Since my father’s no longer around to buy multiple lottery tickets every week, I need you to keep hope alive by blindly entering a contest with the brazen assumption that you’re going to win because you’re a winner and that’s what winners do. That’s what my dad would’ve done and I need someone to be a winner. Some good news, people. Let’s find it.
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,