Today’s Weekly Procrastination is for you.

Barbara has the distinction of being the first person to make me feel Twitter-famous by retweeting something I wrote about the plane I was on because we were on the same plane. I tweet-manded she introduce herself and we made small talk at baggage claim. She would perhaps be higher on my list of cool things that have happened to me on planes if it weren’t for Bjork.

Okay, so Pam the TV Writer is lucky because she does wear a few other hats. I currently have (paid) work both outside and inside the TV world, even though I’m not allowed to talk about them yet because they wrote in their contracts that I can’t. So that’s part of TV Pam’s writing world, the secret projects that actually pay cash. Those are great and I’m very grateful for them.

But here’s what I mostly do right now:

I take meetings.
I prep to take meetings.
I take more meetings.

I also write things to send out that get me meetings, but that’s more about features. Actually, that’s not exactly true. I have a pilot script that’s going around to introduce me to producers I haven’t met before to see if they’d either like to attach themselves to that pilot or meet with me to discuss something new we could do together. That means: more meetings. I am watching television and reading pilot scripts like some kind of monkey in a cage because I’ve got to be ready to talk about shows and meet on shows and be like, “Yeah, I’ve totally watched all six seasons of your show. It’s my favorite.” (But, I mean: It does become your favorite once you find out it likes you.)

I meet with people who like what I write and we talk about what kind of show I could bring them that we could pitch together. I go back to my house and write up pitches. I take more meetings. I get meetings rescheduled. I prep for more meetings. I work with my agency to let them know which meetings would be good meetings to try to get set up for me. I pitch ideas and concepts and generally try to figure out what kind of workload I’m about to take on. In the meantime I go on meetings for features, which is more about sitting over a cup of coffee talking about something way less specific. “We’re always looking for something, so if you ever come across an idea of anything, please let us know.”

This is a very exciting time of the year for the UPS delivery man, because he finds himself saying things to me like, “Hey, you’re not wearing pajamas!” or, “Wow, I didn’t recognize you!”

I spend my day getting ready for the rest of the year, either by finishing up the projects from last year or getting a jump on what’s to come. And on top of all of this: at any time I must be prepared for the sudden, seemingly random meeting to interview to write on an existing show — which would immediately toss out most of the prep I’m doing. (But that’s a good thing.)

I could also get called in for punch-up, because lots of people are currently prepping their pilots for production. Once they settle on their cast, they will find out that their cast has opinions, strengths, weaknesses, power. (Sadly, sometimes only opinions and weaknesses.) They will have their cast do a read-through and find there are things that need to be changed. They will do rewrites. And they will be tired and want some help.

This is when those writers will have to scroll through their ever-dwindling list of friends, hoping some of them owe a favor or two. They will bring in writers they know, writers who have been recommended, and writers they are testing out for a possible job later if the show gets picked up. A punch-up runs like a writers room, except nobody’s getting paid in anything but free food and maybe a small thank-you gift in the mail later. Invitations to punch-ups also come last minute, sometimes in an email the night before. “HERE’S MY LATEST PDF THANK YOU THANK YOU SEE YOU AT NOON YOU CAN EMAIL YOUR COFFEE ORDER TO MY ASSISTANT AND IT WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU.”

Then you go to the punch-up, sometimes for one day, sometimes more, where you watch a run-through, scribble in your script the changes you’d suggest, listen to the showrunner complain about the notes from the studio and network and then gently try to suggest changes to the one script that showrunner’s been working on since he or she started pitching it in July, which means he or she has only had to work on this one twenty-four minute story for about seven months, so they sometimes just start shouting: “IT’S NOT LIKE I HAVEN’T ADDRESSED THAT NOTE AT THE TOP OF THE SECOND ACT! I MEAN, IF THEY WANT TO JUST MAKE IT SHIT, THEN WHY NOT SAY, ‘I’D REALLY LIKE THE SHOW TO SUCK ASS BY THE END OF THE FIRST ACT. THAT’S MY NOTE. CAN YOU DO THAT?’ YES, I CAN DO THAT. I THOUGHT YOU WANTED THE SHOW I SOLD YOU, BUT I GUESS NOT.”

Punch-ups can be testy. And yes, showrunners are kind of always stress-yelling.

Oh! And all my friends who have been staffed over the past year are about to go on small hiatuses right around March, which means I will also get lunches and brunches and dinners with all of my friends I haven’t seen since last summer, when they were like, “I might get on this show — have you read it yet?” These friends will be lost and shell-shocked without the scheduled chaos of their rooms. They’re unused to doing anything on their own. They will be so relieved to be out of work, and yet: so worried they’ll never work again. They will complain about how hard their room was and moan about about how much weight they’ve gained and then they will guilt-pay the check. It’s fantastic.

Irwin Handleman wrote about what has happened to him now that the show he pitched was sold but not picked up, how sometimes your last year can become your this year, and it’s a very familiar story. I, too, had to go through the, “Do I want to change this half-hour to an hour? Wait. Do I really want to make a show about roller derby be more ‘male-oriented’?”

But the part that I truly identified with is when Irwin writes about how weird it is to pitch a show over a busy table in a deli during a meal.

I hate having to pitch over food, but not nearly as much as I hate pitching in a conference room. It’s always a giant table in a room that appears to be designed solely for the purpose of telling thirty people they aren’t getting their Christmas bonuses. At least during the pitch over food you can pretend you’re telling someone about a movie you saw the other night that you loved, but at the sad, echo-y, always-cold-to-the-touch conference table that may or may not have some people dialed -in on a slightly delayed video feed, there’s no good way to deliver jokes. It’s comedy death.

Plus I’m always on some kind of swivel chair thinking to myself, “Don’t spin. Don’t spin. Don’t rock. Don’t swivel. Just sit. Just pitch. Stop sweating. You have lost your place. These people aren’t listening. Why are you sweating when it’s so cold? Why are you here? What have you done? Okay, one little swivel, then stop. Hey, how about a random Madonna song stuck in your head right now? Gonna dress you up in my love. All over, all over. Your pitch is all over. You have nothing new to say.“

Okay, so to recap: I take meetings, I prep for meetings, I stay available for unexpected meetings and I write all the other things I have due that I got while I was taking meetings last year. I answer my email, I work on my fitness, I bring clothes to Goodwill, I think about learning Spanish, and then I write some more. And then I go take a meeting.

Hey, I did that one without any yelling!

If you have a question about writing or television or novels or screenplays or any of these places where I write words and other people read them, send an email to pamie at pamie dot com with the subject line: YOUR WEEKLY PROCRASTINATION.

That’s really all you have to read, but I’m going to elaborate.

I have been out of tea for a while because I don’t drink it.

That’s not exactly true. There are three hundred packets of stale Lipton tea in my pantry right now because I buy a new box for my mother every time she comes to visit, but nobody I’ve ever met other than my mother drinks Lipton tea. This spans more than one continent, because when my mother was in Paris she told every waiter we had that they didn’t have “the good tea.”

I occasionally have some chamomile on hand for days when my stomach’s a little upset or I feel like I’m catching a cold. Green tea can go fuck itself. Why do people drink this tea that tastes like metal shavings? I do not get it.

But I understand that sometimes I should drink things that aren’t coffee or wine. I want to be able to do this, I just haven’t found anything else as satisfying. I haven’t given up.

I don’t fast or cleanse or detox because I am honest with my ability to have the willpower required to starve myself for days. As animals, our most basic instinct is to make sure we eat. We kill things every day just so we eat, and we always have for as long as we’ve existed. Those things we kill also kill things every day just so they can eat. The only reason I can imagine we need to take a day or a week off from eating is because we are trying to enter some kind of hallucinatory altered state that comes just before you lapse into a coma. Since I’m not seeking that kind of miserable enlightenment, I eat food at least once a day.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to achieve all this “I FEEL GREAT” bullshit people who are high off cleansing (or, as science calls it: “starvation”) claim to be experiencing. I would love to know that my organs were detoxing, that free radicals were sloughing off my innards, that with every hungry minute I was becoming a healthier person.

That’s why they make herbal teas, right? So you can do that with just one cup a day? I mean, honestly, I can’t figure out any other reason to drink green tea. It is the worst.

So I’m wandering through the “ethnic foods” aisle the other day and I came across a section that could have been called “Bags of herbs and dried leaves you don’t understand because you do not have a Mexican grandma.” And it looked like the kind of magic I wanted. And there was one that was like, “For your liver and your gall bladder.”

Hey! I drink coffee and wine almost every day! (almost = sometimes more than once a day) I bet my liver needs some tea-relief! If I could drink this liver tea, opening the secrets of the ancients inside my intestines, then it’ll be like I went on some kind of four-hundred dollar, GOOP-approved scam-sham! All of the cleanse, none of the cash. This box costs two dollars? Sign me up.

This is how I ended up bringing home a box of Boldo tea. Boldo! It’s kinda Peruvian! I’ve been to Peru! I am worldly! This is what worldly people drink! Worldly, healthy people. This was going to be the first step toward the way-detoxed, super-skinny, glowy-skinned, pristined-livered me.

So the other night, instead of pouring a glass of wine to sip while watching Justified, I got all Gwyneth on myself and was like, “No. I will have a cleansing cup of tea.”

As soon as I removed the plastic wrap surrounding the box, I knew I had made a mistake. It smelled like feet. The whole kitchen immediately smelled like the inside of an Ugg boot. But I persevered. Maybe it wouldn’t smell that way once it was brewed. Maybe it tasted better than it smelled, especially once I added half a lemon’s worth of juice to it.

I’m just going to skip to the part where I tell you that it didn’t. It somehow tasted worse. It tasted like a licorice stick someone found inside their Ugg boot. One that had been dipped in lemon juice.

But I tried. I tried holding my breath while I sipped. I tried imagining I was drinking a potion made by a healer and focused on my liver squeezing out years of martinis and vodka tonics.

I got about three sips and one scene into Justified before I called the whole thing off. At one point I thought I was going to throw up, which would definitely count as cleansing, but ultimately I ended up just sitting around whining and complaining, which everybody knows is a form of stress relief.

Me and Danny Zuko don’t like tea!

And now I don’t know what to do with this box of foul. It seems wasteful to throw it away. It seems racist to ask the housekeeper if she likes that tea. It seems mean to give it to any of my friends. There’s no Goodwill for shitty tea, and I’m afraid to try to use the leaves for anything else because they stink like feet-waves.

Then I read up on it a little more and it says if you drink too much of it at once, you can die. Should they be selling that shit at Albertsons? I mean, that was nowhere on the box. What if I had made up my own liver cleanse and killed myself with some foot tea?

So, consider this my public service announcement. I almost died of Boldo tea so now you don’t have to. And once again, green tea: go fuck yourself.

But I’m not a hater, and I don’t think it’s stupid or childish, and I like other grown-ass people having fun on Halloween. All the sexy turtles and literal interpretations of catchphrases. It’s like watching Facebook memes come to life. It’s delightful.

But that’s once a year, and that’s how it should be. (I am not a crack pot.) This is why I’m not excited when you Evite me to your Themed Birthday Party.

I don’t want to dress like we’re flappers or ninjas. I don’t want to “Come as [my] favorite book.” Your black-and-white parties make me feel like we’re having a fake wedding. When your party requires me to make a costume change to prepare for the “game portion,” again I must ask, “What time does the balloon animal guy show up? Oh, he’s right there? Okay. Nevermind. PS: you’re a grown-up. Just reminding you. And tell him to make me a bunny rabbit.”

I come to your party to celebrate you. I don’t need you to hide behind all the bells and whistles.

All of this is to say: sometime last year I had to go to a themed birthday party that was filled with musical theatre people. The theme doesn’t really matter for this story. The point is: this is where I learned nobody gets into a themed birthday party like musical theatre people.

There was joy and song and puns and jazz hands. And they were all young and happily stacked in an apartment as only the young theatre set can. I sat in the corner with my fellow old-grumps who were all on the other side of ten-plus years of Hollywood rejection, watching these young, hopeful faces sip from their red plastic cups and chat about getting new headshots. We remembered those times when we’d head from our improv show to someone’s theatre party, loudly rehashing our favorite moments from that night’s game of “Party Quirks.” ["Your human dildo was the funniest human dildo I've seen in a long time, Cody."]

Let me tell you that for years, years, I was happily planted in the center of that part of the party. I loved standing in the loud group, drinking my yelling-juice, arguing about actors on Saturday Night Live. I was the person who you probably had to shove aside to get to the Doritos. I was definitely the girl breaking out into a Bonnie Tyler song for no real reason other than people laughed when I fell to my knees in passion.

It turns out after being that girl for more than a decade… you get tired. Instead of entering a party searching for the group with the kind of action you normally find at a craps table, you look for an empty chair, preferably a comfy one. You walk into the room and think, “I only have to do this for one hour and five minutes.”

The small group of similar elders I sat with chatted about the things old actors chat about, like how our knees hurt, and if they want to go through the bullshit of this year’s pilot season ["I mean, have you read what's out there?"], and why is this wine I’m drinking from a box. We sat on folded chairs and watched the happy musical theatre people pack themselves around the table of (themed) party foods.

It got quiet for a little while in my small group, which is when I noticed there was an odd smell. Like one of our old people had eaten something that disagreed with him or her. Perhaps that’s why we all fell silent, each one wondering which one of us had sprung a leak.

Then someone started a new line of conversation. “Oh, I smelled the worst thing the other day…”

Everyone joined in and commiserated with recent bad smells. This got us to the segue we needed. The next time someone passed us by, we were all like, “Yo, that person keeps coming by and farting on us, right?”

Happy to have a scapegoat, we engaged in stranger-judging, an important part of being in the corner of the party. We were entering a third round of teasing when I realized it wasn’t any of us being stinky, it wasn’t that poor girl we’d named Fartin’ Fanny.

It was the deviled eggs.

They were in the middle of the food table, about thirty of them, right where any passersby could whip up their scent and send it soaring through the tightly packed room. As soon as I identified it, we all knew it was true. The heavy sulfur tang in the room wasn’t from someone’s butt. It was from the eggs. All the musical theatre people had their very best acting faces on, eyes widened and teary, trying to pretend they weren’t ignoring whichever one of their friends had a case of the toots.

“I’m going to put them in the kitchen,” I said, happy to play the hero.

“But we aren’t supposed to go in the kitchen,” one of my friends reminded me.

“This is an emergency.”

We weren’t supposed to go in the kitchen because this themed birthday party had a lot of themed birthday party foods and drinks and frivolity going on, and all of it came out of the kitchen, where one busy woman in a retro fifties dress was doing her very best to serve a very large party. I’m going to have to go ahead and call her the Egg Lady, because that’s what I call her in my head, even though I know her real name. This night was that traumatic.

I entered the kitchen holding the serving tray of eggs.

“Is something wrong with the eggs?” she asked, eyes wide, terrified.

I immediately knew I had done the wrong thing. “No, not. Not no, not really,” I stammered. “There’s… you know, it’s smelling like eggs out there in the room because it’s kind of packed and hot with the heater on over the eggs and all so I just thought I’d rescue them and put them right here so the room can air out.”

I believe I said all of that while putting the eggs on the counter and backing out of the kitchen.

The Egg Lady took the tray and stared at it. “I guess I’ll put them in the refrigerator,” she said, sounding absolutely heartbroken. “If these eggs do offend.”

I turned around and walked the seven steps back to my group of cranky actor friends. “I think I have to leave now,” I admitted. “I’m pretty sure I fucked up.”

“Why? It already smells so much better now.”

“I think I offended her.”

“She’s not made of eggs.”

“She’s… not happy.”

This is when I saw the birthday girl emerge from the kitchen holding the tray of eggs. She marched over to the table and set them right back in their place of honor. Not the Egg Lady, you guys. The Birthday Girl.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I really should go.”

“Because of what you did with the eggs?” asked a friend who was nowhere near me during any of the previous story.

“Yes! How did you know that?”

“It’s kind of a thing now.”

I found the birthday girl to apologize for anything that I might have done. “Is she like, mad?”

“She’s… she’s upset. I put them back out there so she would calm down. I don’t know why you had to touch anything. You don’t live here. It’s not your job. She’s made a lot of eggs and you can’t just go putting them in refrigerators or on counters like you know best.”

“Should I go… apologize?”

“It’s probably best if you stay away from her.”

For the next hour I sat in my shame seat as all my old-actor friends stretched and yawned and headed off to their early bedtimes. All I could do was worry. During the “Happy Birthday” song, the Egg Lady sang her words staring right at me with such frozen sorrow, the word “happy” sounding ironic and bitter every time it came out of her mouth.

“This is ridiculous,” I said to nobody, because I was alone with the rest of the box wine. “I was helping. I was helping the party be less farty!”

When I did find a friend, she wasn’t very helpful. “Do deviled eggs smell?” she asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes! That’s why we go through this every Easter.”

“Maybe that’s it,” she said. “She’s Jewish. She probably doesn’t know eggs smell like sulfur.”

“I really don’t think I should tell her that this might all be happening because she’s Jewish.”

The party had crested and was well past one in the morning when I decided to brave the kitchen once again. I found the Egg Lady pulling another set of pigs in blankets out of the oven. I handed her an oven mitt and a serving plate.

“Thank you,” she said. Curtly.

“Hey, uh,” I started. “I just wanted to say sorry about the eggs earlier. I didn’t mean to offend you. I know you worked really hard on this party and all the food and everybody was talking about how great everything is. It wasn’t against you or the food. I mean, if anything it’s the egg’s fault for having that smell, you know?” I knew I was very close to mentioning her religion as a possible culprit, so I made myself shut up.

She tilted her head. Closed her eyes. Exhaled.

Here was the part where she’d melt, relax, and give a small chuckle. Where she’d shake her head and apologize right back for being so stressed out and for taking it out on me. Where we’d talk about how hard parties are to throw and how ungrateful everybody always is and aren’t deviled eggs just stupid, anyway? They are horrible for you and you always end up eating five or six, which you’d never do at breakfast.

But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she turned to me, gave this wide, weird smile and said, “I accept your apology.”

Bam.

Then she added, “I was really offended at what you did, so I think it’s good that you apologized.”

I zombie-stammered out of that kitchen with my mind blown. You guys, you can apologize to someone and they can just take it, like your dead-beat ass just paid off an old loan with interest. Like I’d been pardoned. Excused!

This bothered me for a long time. Not just days. Weeks. I’d think about it and get all tied up again in knots of frustration. I didn’t mean to offend! I was trying to help! I was trying to help and ended up apologizing, and then got chastised! I’d tripped into offending the hostess when at no point was I doing something offensive. The eggs were offensive!

My outrage, however, made me a raging dick about this. I was offended that I had to apologize for accidentally offending someone who — if she had been stuck in the room filled with poot clouds — would have been thankful that someone literally cleared the air.

It was an important lesson in my life. More important than “Don’t serve deviled eggs in a crowded room of animated people.” One I will take with me forever.

Never apologize just because you’re looking for one back.

I don’t blame the Egg Lady for this uncomfortable moment in my life that will haunt me forever. Not anymore. I now blame the themed birthday party. Because it’s a bunch of stressed-out bullshit. If you are over the age of… I’m just going to go ahead and say twelve, because these themed Sweet Sixteens appear to be the cause of everything wrong with girls, then you can have a party where people bring presents and we eat cake, but you don’t get to dictate what people wear. You are not a princess. You are the birthday girl. There’s an enormous difference. If I’m buying you a present, please don’t make me also have to buy a costume. Why am I your servant of fun?

And that’s what was happening to the Egg Lady. She was trapped in the kitchen, a servant of fun, handing out tray after plate of “Quiche-a Knight-Pulliams” and “Chocolate Chip Punky BrewSTARS.” I’d have gone bonkers after twelve straight hours of that, too. I might have cut a bitch for giving me shit about some motherfucking eggs. So I don’t blame her, nor her theme-appropriate Donna Reed outfit, nor the way she went all Stepford Wife on me. Even though I’m still involuntarily holding my breath, waiting for the reciprocal apology. This is how people make up! With two people apologizing, one after the other! When will it happen? WHY WON’T IT EVER HAPPEN?! I CAN’T BREATHE!!

Before you have a themed birthday party, please think about the collateral damage you’re going to cause. You will destroy first dates. You will stress already tense friendships. You will make that one person who’s barely hanging onto a social life decide to just stay home forever. It’s enough that we’re willing to celebrate you at all. Please, please. Think of the Egg Lady, and how she totally shot me down like I was some kind of asshole and how I will never really be okay with that.

Buy it right now over here.

Whenever I say something like that I feel like I’m working on exposing some shady corporation or I’m waiting to announce that I’m having Justin Timberlake’s baby (I promise to tell you AS SOON AS THIS HAPPENS). The truth is more about how long it takes to make things like contracts and working for big companies who make sure they have things written into those contracts that state what I can and cannot write about on this site.

So instead I’m going to write about what I can write about, which is about writing.

And before you ask: that prescription is for Allegra-D.

First of all, don’t call your work drivel. Secondly: it can’t happen if you don’t really want it to, so make sure you want it. Because it’s a lot of work to do it, and even more work once you get it done. And look, I don’t want you guys to think that I’m all You Can Do Anything!, because I am not that kind of ego-booster. I’m assuming if you wrote to me with a question about writing it’s because you’re taking this seriously. So I’m going to take you seriously. But I don’t actually believe that anybody can do anything just because they were raised to think that’s how life works. Otherwise I’d be playing Roxie Hart right now.

Since it’s been a while since I’ve had to find a literary agent, I assumed the process has gone through some changes. I must admit I found my (amazing) agents the tried-and-true, old-fashioned way: my friend recommended me. But for your letter I reached out to someone in the know and asked, “What’s an aspiring, un-represented author to do?” She replied:

She needs to send an email query to a number of different agents (NY Guide to Literary Agents is a good source) but send them individually and NOT on one mass-email. If I see I’m on a list of agents I automatically delete.

And she would be best advised to do some research, know some of their clients, write a very strong and passionate letter with credentials, go to as many agents (1 per agency) as she likes, and keep fingers crossed.

A query letter is one page in length (NO MORE) and describes both you and your book. You’re asking the agent out on a date, really. “Hi, I’ve got something I think you can sell and I’m going to convince you right here that I am not a crazy person and in fact capable of telling a story.”

You want your letter to start with your story’s hook, then go a little further into what the book is, and then close with who you are. I guess, unless, you’re pitching a memoir, and the more fascinating part of the book is YOU, and then why your book will tell your story.

PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THIS PART: You are not including the actual manuscript here. Don’t think to yourself, “It’s just an email attachment!” I am not a literary agent, and I’ve still received unsolicited manuscripts in email attachments and let me tell you exactly when I learned some stranger had sent me an enormous Word doc: as I was downloading my email to my iPhone. That’s not fun.

Do you have a hook? A concise way of describing your gigantasaur manuscript? You need one.

Why Girls Are Weird: A woman suffering her quarter-life crisis becomes a web celebrity when she fakes her identity online. When she finds herself in a serious relationship with one of her fans she must decide: does he love her, or who she’s pretending to be?

Why Moms Are Weird: When an auto accident has a woman flying across the country to help take care of her mother and sister, she is forced to confront their bigger issues head-on: hoarding, co-dependence, and her mother’s thriving sex life…which might have just resulted in something rashy.

Going in Circles: A heartbroken newlywed finds salvation through roller derby.

Now you’re going to go slightly more in depth with your story, touching on the themes, why this book would find an audience, what kind of tone/genre/comparison you’re going for. Think of the back cover you read when you browse books in a bookstore. (Sorry, kids. I’ll explain. A bookstore is a place where people sell books that aren’t shelved in a cloud.) You want it to sound intriguing. You want someone to say, “I would like to read all of this.”

Finish off by elevator-pitching yourself. Why are you so special? OH MY GOD, PLEASE DON’T WRITE THESE QUERY LETTERS THE WAY SOME OF YOU WRITE TO ME. And by that I mean, don’t be all, “I don’t really have any other reason to be published other than I figure the least you can do is tell me no, so what the hell, I’m just saying, if you want to say no, now’s the time.” Channel your inner Tracy Flick and talk about yourself as if you are a writer. Because you have written a book, and therefore you are someone who writes, which makes you — ta da! — a writer.

Be passionate. This is the agent’s first chance to get a taste of your writing. So, you know, spell check. Don’t go for cool, coy or mysterious unless that’s the kind of agent/agency you’re approaching. Don’t go for crazy unless you are hoping they say no.

Offer to send sample chapters or the entire manuscript if the agent is interested(You are finished with this book you’re trying to sell, right?), but don’t include them in your query letter. The more succinct and interesting your query letter is, the better chance you have of getting a response. A yes takes just as long as a no if the agent doesn’t have to delicately decide how best to respond to your weirdly wordy letter.

I didn’t just “get” my agent because someone recommended me. I was allowed to submit a proposal to my agent because someone recommended me. I sent a query letter (wherein I mentioned her client who had recommended me and reminded her that she’d emailed me asking for this packet I was sending), and included the outline and sample chapters she’d requested.

And then I waited. In the meantime, I did shop around to other agencies. You don’t have to have just one choice. Regarding your concern that you’ll be upsetting the Crips and the Bloods– know that it’s not your gang war. You’re just looking to get jumped in.

When the agent called me back she said, “Listen. I’ve got to tell you, I was about to say no because that outline is a mess, it barely makes any sense and it was so hard to get through. And then I read your sample chapters. I love them. So I can work with this, if you’re interested.”

I was lucky that she kept reading past the part I’d done so horribly wrong. I’d never written a manuscript proposal before and if I remember correctly it was something like twenty-five pages. When you are asking a stranger to read something that is a proposal to read something longer, try to keep that to around five pages or so. Gosh, if you can do it in one or two, people will be so grateful.

Be neat, be considerate, be honest and be interesting, and people will respond to your query. But before you write those query letters: MAKE SURE YOUR BOOK IS READY. Is it a non-fiction proposal? Make sure that’s ready. Is it a screenplay, a tv pilot, a packet for a late-night show, a children’s book? MAKE SURE IT IS READY. Do not look for interest before you write the material. Do not chase down the door before you have the keys you need to open it. (That girl never escapes the guy chasing her with a knife, does she?)

Lastly, don’t stop writing just because you’re waiting to hear if someone’s interested in what you wrote. They’re going to want you to have written more than just one thing. If you want to keep working, you have to keep writing.

Good luck!

-Pazanthemum

All I can do is tell you what I do, which I wrote about more extensively in Making It Work While You’re Mostly Working For Free. You juggle the things and you take them as the work comes and you’re strict with your daily workload. You’re honest about what you can and cannot take on and you don’t let yourself slack off just because there isn’t a bosslady walking past your desk every hour.

As for the day job, I suppose you want to take one that doesn’t wipe you out once it’s over, because you’ll be writing when you aren’t there. Or you can take one that has a lot of down time, so you can write while you are there. That’s how I got started. I worked a cubicle job in tech support, and I fit in writing between waiting on calls. Or I wrote on my lunch breaks. I wrote on weekends. When I was first starting out, I would work a nine-hour shift, update my website often during lunch, have a rehearsal at night, then recap for TWoP until one in the morning or so. But that’s what I wanted to do; I was happy doing that. But I had a desk job. If I’d been waiting tables all day or running after kids, I can’t imagine I would’ve still had the energy to write thousands of words every night. Also: I smoked a lot of cigarettes back then, and I do think that helped. I’m not encouraging it. I’m just saying smoking got me through a lot of times when I probably should’ve been sleeping.

[I don't understand how people can smoke pot and be productive. How do they do it? How do they make their fingers work? How are they not like, "You guys! Fingers are just hand sticks! FINGERS ARE JUST HAND STICKS. Did you ever notice how they move even when you aren't looking at them? I'M SERIOUSLY FREAKED OUT RIGHT NOW, YOU GUYS."]

Omigosh, just start it. Just write it. Pretend you are going to tell me what that story is about your parents and write it. Tell that story. When you are done you will see: did it come out like you barely scratched the surface, and you’ll need to write two hundred more pages until it’s technically a memoir? Or does it sound like an outline for a screenplay? Is it a short story? Or maybe… is there a tv show in there? A tight dramatic play you could write and produce locally using the talented actors in your city?

Colorful characters and unusual circumstances usually mean you’ve got something there. And you’re lucky enough to at least recognize you have a voice and you’re comfortable with it, so start. START NOW. Get it out on the page and then worry about what you have. Right now you have an idea. You have a mental story. You have a concept. Write it out and then worry about what you want to do with it.

Novels don’t start as novels. Films don’t start as screenplays. In that picture of my work piles, you’ll see that green notebook. Its pages are scribbled with what became my last screenplay, my last manuscript, my last two pitches, my last two pilot scripts, an unfinished screenplay, my next screenplay, a book proposal, another book proposal, a screenplay outline and about thirty phone meetings where I took notes. Without that green notebook of thoughts, direction, stories and plot points, I wouldn’t have that earlier sentence listing the work I did over the past year.

You don’t have to worry about your finished product right now. You have to worry about getting your story out. Start there, and good luck.

Okay, that last one I got kind of yelly. These letters are giving me anxiety, you guys. Why do you guys keep apologizing for wanting to do this? Does John August get so many apologies? I feel like he doesn’t!

If you have a question about writing or television or novels or screenplays or any of these places where I write words and other people read them, send an email to pamie at pamie dot com with the subject line: YOUR WEEKLY PROCRASTINATION.

Hi, Mel.

This letter broke my brain, I have to admit. As someone who can’t relate to the concept of “not having any ideas,” I struggled with what you could mean. I even asked friends for advice, because I desperately wanted to give you a good answer, one that wasn’t the first that came to mind. I’ve got three answers to your question, and if you don’t like hearing things that might be a bit critical, skip the last one.

1. Maybe you’re a songwriter. Okay, I am not the one giving this answer. I asked my friend Allison, who is a songwriter, what she thought about this, because I know she struggles with her own writing sometimes. She said, “That’s writing songs, you’ve got this little snippet of a thought or a phrase that sticks in your head, and you write the song around that distilled concept.”

I am not a songwriter, unless pajama-dancing in the kitchen while composing jingles about your cat having a fat butt counts for something. I find songwriting and music to be mystical and amazing. Like glassblowing and people who can write your name on a grain of rice. I’m not a poet, either, but maybe that’s how poetry works? I don’t know. I don’t even understand how someone can be a songwriter without knowing how to “do music,” but you know, “lyricist” is something people can be. So maybe write a song about that customer and see if it feels right. There. Go write a song. That’s only the most impossible thing I can think of.

2. You’re freaking yourself out. You said you’re throwing out things, so that means you’ve got something to throw out. What are you throwing out? Thoughts? Concepts? Paragraphs? How do you know if something is bad if you haven’t at least put three words down? You can start with just three words, right? Ten or so will make a haiku. Maybe you’re a haiku writer! Greeting cards! Fortune cookies! I’m seeing a whole world of tiny writing opening up for you.

I find that when people complain that they don’t have any ideas, they’re often saying, “I don’t have any ideas I don’t think make me sound stupid.” To which I say: that’s what writing feels like all the time.

(I’m going to have to start a section within the Weekly Procrastinations called That’s what it feels like all the time!)

There’s a lot of pre-writing before there’s writing, no matter how long or short the writing will eventually be (Ask people in advertising, television, or getting their masters degrees if you want to know just how long people can have to pre-write before they actually write.) Coming up with ideas great and crappy is part of the process. Even when you have a great idea, there will be times when you think it is a crappy idea, which is pretty much what’s going on 99% of the time you are working on it.

It might seem like I’m trying to talk all of you out of being a writer, which isn’t really goal here, but still, here’s answer number three.

3. You might not be a writer.

Wait, come back. I say this because I can’t tell what you want to write, if you’ve written anything, if there’s a goal or a passion in you to write. If you go through story prompts and nothing sparks, if you do freewriting and feel like you’re just spinning, I don’t know what to grab onto in order to encourage you forward. Is it the creative side that makes you feel helpless? Do you like research and writing more technically? Is it that you like reading so much that you wish you could write? Is there a romantic notion you see in writing that you’d like to be a part of? Would you be happier writing in a corporate environment, possibly one where you are handed assignments, and not expected to come up with what you’ll write?

This is not me telling you to give up on a dream. This is me asking you to expand your concept of what you could do.

I work with editors, agents, producers and development executives, and their jobs include — sometimes exclusively — helping a writer along with a project. They come up with the snippets and details. They spot the holes, the flaws. They recognize when they hear a good idea, a horrible one, or something that’s been done too many times. They have an ear for a new voice, an alternate path, a concept that might be risky or smart. I come to them with rough drafts, treatments, ideas and outlines, and they work with me to make things better than I could have imagined, stronger than I could have done on my own. They are there to make sure I don’t lose sight, that I keep things moving on time, and that someone has my back when this thing goes public.

I couldn’t do anything I do without agents, editors, producers and development executives. They are my teachers, mentors and sometimes tough love parents I’m constantly trying to please. I sit here and write thinking of them, hoping they’ll like a joke I wrote, an idea I had. We make little partnerships as we try to move a story forward in whatever shape it ultimately takes.

You don’t have to be a writer to work in storytelling. You don’t have to type FADE IN to work in film. If you don’t get inspired to write that might be because you’re not a writer. But that doesn’t have to be bad news.

But look, you started with saying you have a “complete and utter lack of ideas,” which will definitely make it difficult to work in any creative endeavor. To that I say: you might need a vacation. Or a massage. Or a silly night with some good friends. Something that makes you chill, girl. If writing isn’t your job, why make it feel like so much work?

Mel. Your letter kind of bummed me out because I imagine you’re just sitting in front of a spiral notebook, doodling random polka dots, cubes and daisies, beating yourself up for not filling those pages with inspired genius. Crying and doodling, wishing you had a different brain.

I guess there’s plenty of ways you can work in this business without having any ideas or talent, but you’ll be waiting on luck and cashing in on charm. Or sexual favors.

Maybe you guys can help me with this, because I don’t know what else to suggest. Do you often feel like you have a “complete and utter” lack of ideas? When you do, how do you break through it? Was there a point when you concluded you were definitely not a writer? And was that the happiest day of your life?

[If you have a question about writing or television or novels or screenplays or any of these places where I write words and other people read them, send an email to pamie at pamie dot com with the subject line: YOUR WEEKLY PROCRASTINATION.]

So if you like things I write (as much as I like you (I really like you, you know that, right?)), then please think about buying yourself your first summertime present. YOU TAKE IT FROM HERE comes out July 3rd, and I’ll share the cover with you as soon as I can, but for now, here’s the pre-order info.

From the author of Why Girls Are Weird comes a poignant, funny tale about two very different best friends—one terminally ill with cancer, and the other determined to do absolutely everything she can to help.

Practical, patient Danielle Meyers escaped her small Southern hometown as quickly as possible, landing herself in sunny Los Angeles as a successful homemaking consultant and recent divorcee. Her bossy, loud, impulsive best friend Smidge stayed behind in Ogden, Louisiana, and has succeeded quite soundly—wife, mother, karaoke superstar, social butterfly, and survivor of cancer. But when Smidge and Danielle reunite for their annual girls’ vacation, Smidge reveals that the cancer is back and terminal, and Danielle vows to do anything to make the last bit of Smidge’s life easier. Expecting her best friend to make such a promise, Smidge has just one request: for Danielle to take over Smidge’s family after she dies. Move back to Ogden to be a wife to her husband, and finish raising her daughter — a plan she demands they must keep secret. When the friend you love “the mostest” wants you to make her last wish come true, are you allowed to say no?

GALLERY BOOKS
PUB DATE: July 3, 2012, trade paperback and e-book.

Buy it here from Amazon for your nightstand or Kindle.
Don’t want to buy from Amazon? Simon and Schuster has more choices here.

I hope you enjoy it. This is my pre-thank you thank you.

And now here it is, Jan Two and you’re already trolling blogs for inspiration. I get it. I do it, too. I am taking a break from the things I’m working on to do a quick Weekly Procrastination because while I’m sitting here working, I’m also thinking of you. I mean that in the most literal way. When I’m writing, I’m thinking about the audience. Sometimes I picture a reader, sometimes I picture an actual audience of bodies in the dark watching the finished product. I think of my script or my story as one I’m telling to a real, live person.

We tell stories differently depending on who is listening. How you talk to a first date sitting across from you in a dark restaurant is different than how you gossip on the couch in your pajamas with your best friends. You know how to play to different audiences, how to keep them interested. Don’t forget to use those skills when you’re writing.

So, here we go:

All of the “special snowflake” stuff I addressed in that yelling answer linked earlier, so I’m going to skip the part where you sound a bit apologetic that you like to write. Shorthand answer to that: when the things you’re saying about yourself could also be said just as easily by Eeyore, perhaps you need to lighten up about your self-worth.

But your very last question is the good one. How do you know what you want to write about?

Look, you sort of answered it right in your explanation. You said: I like to write about myself.

Guess what? That’s what we’re all doing.

We take an idea and we put ourselves in it. We hear stories about something that happened to someone and we manipulate it through our own weird brains. Stand-up comedians are talking about themselves. Bloggers are talking about themselves, even when they are talking about cooking.

So back up some more. Other people have told you to write novels. That’s kind of a huge first step, because novels are long and I can tell you they’re kind of a bitch to write. You will feel overwhelmed starting at a novel when you don’t even know what you want to write about.

Okay, so you like to write about yourself. Your memoir class will teach you how to expand on that further, and will probably go a long way toward getting you to love and embrace your blog. One thing you could do for yourself is give assignments. This week on the blog I write about high school. This week I talk about mistakes I’ve made. This month is LOVE AFFAIRS I REGRET.

If you give yourself a task you will have structure, which will make you feel less like you’re just out there babbling to the universe, talking about doing laundry and what you ate for lunch. That’s what Twitter is for.

And maybe you like to write fiction, but you think you don’t have any characters or story. That’s a mistake, because you like to write about yourself and I’m guessing you are a multi-faceted, interesting human being with surprising thoughts and revelations. That’s a character! That’s probably at least three characters, because I’m sure you’re not the same lady every day. That one you are when you’re at your worst? That can be a fun character to write.

As for stories inside your head – take it from the Wonder Killer herself – you have them. All you need is an “as if.”

Write about yourself as if you’re thirteen. As if you’re fifteen. As if you’re about to get married. As if you’ve just quit your job. As if you just landed on Mars. As if you just found out you’re the last librarian on earth and you must save the future of the public library system. As if you just woke up from a crazy night of drinking and Brad Pitt is in your bed. As if you dropped your iPod and a dog grabbed it and started running and you’re chasing this dog and you end up getting hit by a car and the driver is the One Who Got Away. Let your imagination run wild and see where you take yourself. If you’re nervous to do this in public, don’t put it on a website yet. Keep it on your own computer (or paper journal) and work on it until you like it. Until you’re ready for someone to read it. Or never let anyone read it. Just see if you like to do it.

Don’t worry that you have to write a novel. Storytelling takes all different forms. Write a short story, write a play, write a treatment for a screenplay, write a video for You Tube. You already have a job as a librarian, so why make writing feel like work? Give yourself the freedom to play.

I was thinking about your question this morning as I sat down to work, because I was remembering the time that I didn’t write for a living. I was writing all the time. I couldn’t wait to start writing. I was filled with ideas. Writing was fun and felt like an escape. Writing was what I did with all my spare time.

Because it wasn’t my job. My scripts and journal entries didn’t get turned in, they didn’t get graded or rejected. (Well, that’s not true once I started submitting my scripts to contests, but still.) Everything I wrote back then was a possibility. And while I couldn’t appreciate it at the time, because it felt like I was taking a huge risk with my life putting words out there and making dream-plans to be a “real writer someday,” what I had back then was the freedom to surprise myself.

Oh, and one more memory your letter brought back. Back when I lived in Austin, I’d submitted a play I’d written to a local theatre. I never heard back, and didn’t think anything of it. A year later I was at that theatre again for a play festival, where I was a one of the winners with my newest script. Somehow I ended up in the main office and realized I was standing next to their slush pile shelves. I flipped through and found my old script, which had a slip of paper sticking out. The coverage. It said (and I promise you this is what it said because it haunted me for a long time, even though I was there as a winner of the festival for that theatre!):

Funny, great characters and fun story, but ultimately lacks a world view or sheds light on something important.

I hear “ultimately lacks a world view” in my head a lot when I’m writing, probably because it was the first time I’d ever read anonymous feedback about me. Now, because of the Internet, I could read vicious criticism about me all day long if I wanted to. But back then I was a fragile new writer who believed if one person thought I lacked the skills to be a writer, then everybody would probably think that. But I’ll tell you, I got a job this past year specifically because I wrote “Funny, great characters with a fun story.” Suck it, world view!

Okay, so all I’ve really done so far is remind you that you can write about anything. Your question also addresses the very important part of writing. I have all these ideas. How do I know which one I need to be writing? Which one is what I want to write about? How do I know when I want to write something?

For me, I get to a place where one idea or character or scene is playing over and over in my head, until it’s pretty much voices talking to me when I’m in the shower, when I wake up in the morning, when I’m working on something else. The story starts to take shape like I’m remembering a dream I had, and that’s when I start trying to get some of it down in some way (because we get distracted, we forget, we talk ourselves out of it for months). Sometimes I hesitantly talk about the idea with a few people to see if it excites them. And if more than one of them go, “That’s a good idea,” it moves up a little higher in my brain queue until I’m excited to work on it.

(Oh, I love an act one. It’s so exciting and fun. So filled with all the ideas you’ve already had. Then comes act two. Act two is hard.)

I have kept from yelling at you, and I think I wrote too many words to tell you the short answer to your question, which is:

Don’t worry. Just write. Something will eventually grab your attention and focus and before you know it, you’ll be “writing something.” Either your blog or your memoir or a piece for This American Life or all three, you’ll start to recognize when you have something to say, when you feel something about what you’re writing, and when there’s an audience eager to connect with you. That’s when you’ll know you’re onto something, that you are writing the thing you’re supposed to be writing. I hope you get to experience that feeling soon, because it’s the best.

All I really did with this question was answer, “You can do it!” But isn’t that all we want to hear on Jan Two, when we realize our new promises and declarations are a bit overwhelming and hard? YOU CAN DO IT! DON’T LET THE HATERS WIN!

(There. I did a little yelling at you. For love.)

[If you have a question about writing or television or novels or screenplays or any of these places where I write words and other people read them, send an email to pamie at pamie dot com with the subject line: YOUR WEEKLY PROCRASTINATION.]

However. I’ve found something I’d like to be held accountable to. It’s also something you might want to try as well. Because I think all of us, especially women and girls, will be better off with this resolution going forward.

I’m going to stop saying “sort of.”

I’m going to stop weakening my statements. Stop apologizing for the thing I’m saying while I’m saying it. Don’t let the listener have a chance to wonder if I might be completely full of shit.

I will stop deflating my statements with:

“Kind of.”
“Maybe like.”
“Or something.”
“A little like…”
“I mean in a sorta…”

This came from watching a serious amount of catch-up television this week while I am working on a new project. I don’t watch too much reality programming, but I like the “I Made This With My Hands So Now Please Vote For Me” shows. But when the designers/artists stand next to their works and defend them, I get itchy. Because they start saying “sort of.”

”I wanted to incorporate sort of the elements of nature and sort of make it all structural while still sort of kind of keeping it simple and beautiful. So I sort of used the lace here and then sort of filled in this part here while highlighting this other part here.”

Oh, my God, now I don’t want to vote for you! You sound like you hate what you’ve done and you’re afraid you’re about to get grounded for that dress!

When I hear “sort of” I cringe, because I remember how terrible I used to be at pitching. The first job I had where I had to pitch segment ideas in the room, I was so bad at it people did impressions of me pitching segment ideas.

They’d hunch down in their chairs, holding a notebook in a protective stance in front of their chest, squinch their faces as if someone has just smeared the table in fish guts, and then mumble, “Um, maybe in this one, he could sort of go to like, uh, like the store and um, go to like the express aisle and like, yell at the people who try to buy more than thirteen items or whatever Idon’tknowit’sstupidforgetit.”

And it was a spot-on impression.

Since then I’ve pitched hundreds of jokes and story lines and act breaks and episode ideas and show ideas and movie treatments and book proposals and I’ve had moments of inspired brilliance and long, quiet moments of tanking in front of so many people.

But I’ve gotten better. Much better. I no longer end my pitches with, “I don’t know, that’s probably stupid, forget it.”

However. When I’m on the spot and have to answer questions, or when I’m giving an interview, I find myself saying “sort of” right in the middle of my thought, and I hate it. I hate how it makes me sound. Like I don’t know what I mean. Like I’m already expecting the “no.”

Don Draper doesn’t say “sort of!”

…okay, so someone writes his words. You have a point. Okay. I got a better example.

Jamie Lee Curtis doesn’t say “sort of” when she’s talking about how well Activia works on her colon.

And I don’t think she’s reading words off a page most of the time. I think she’s just stoked about probiotics. Doesn’t she seem confident and assured? Don’t you trust she’s pooping on the regular? Don’t you want to sound like you totally know when and where you poop and you got that shit on lock?

The secret: No more “sort of.” Also: no more ending your sentences like they are questions. Don’t ask permission for your thoughts! State them!

More declarative sentences in 2012!

WHO’S WITH ME? Oh, no! Now that I’m assured I’m yelling more! I’M YELLING WITH CONFIDENCE! I’M SORT OF NOT KIDDING!

[Image from Obscure Protest]

I debated showing a picture here of the stack of work beside me, but I wouldn’t want you to get jealous. I’m about to have a lot of late nights and airplane writing stretches. This is a good thing! This is being a writer. We work through most major events and holidays. It’s why you think we don’t appreciate you and ultimately leave us.

Let’s get to the question of the week.

First of all, thank you for the compliment. I remember you because I like the name of your website.

Okay, so why don’t I monetize my blog? Well, there are a few reasons. I don’t know how long you’ve been around here, but I did monetize my blog, way back in 2000, when I was part of a “portal” called “Chick Click” and I had a tiny banner at the top of my website. It made some people go batshit. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was eventually there was a dot com bust and Chick Click folded. For a long time after that there weren’t a lot of options for a website like mine unless I jammed it full of Amazon links. And people were saying the internet was dead and that nobody liked a blog unless it was a news ticker site.

My site’s kind of like that corner market that sells weird foods where you’re like, “Oh, my god, that store is still around? It’s been thirteen years! WHO SHOPS THERE?”

These days lots of people make money off their websites, and while I have been tempted and even had a conversation or two about it, part of why I haven’t aggressively pursued it is that I’m not really a blogger, not in the way a blogger is perceived today. I don’t update every single day, I don’t curate links or offer helpful tips. Aside from the yearly charity and this new advice column, I’m not usually offering a service. This is my side site used for promotion, publicity, silliness, and a connection with my readers that might just be my abandonment issues presented in binary code. Most importantly, because I have this giant stack next to me of things that are due to people who are paying me money to do them, I don’t always have time to come to this site to write. I’d feel guilty if I wasn’t updating enough to merit the hustle it takes to successfully run ads.

This leads to the second part of your question. You identify yourself as a blogger, but then you’re embarrassed by it. That’s so unnecessary. This new generation of blogs and women who blog are powerful and amazing and take their sites and turn them into businesses. Brands. Money-making machines. Why would you be embarrassed to be a part of that? I don’t know how to give advice on how to market/improve your blog in this current climate so that you can start to make income through it, but maybe people will give you some help in the comments.

Back in 1999, when I decided I wanted pamie.com to make money so that I could transition to writing freelance full-time, I made a plan. I went to sites that were running ads with a similar tone, with a similar sensibility, and I paid attention to what they were doing. I went to SXSW Interactive and networked with the intention of turning my site into something that could be bigger than the online journal I had created. I started a forum, I got focused on what I was writing about, I made sure I was searchable and my site was listed near other sites like mine. (There were things called Web Rings back then. Don’t worry about it.) Not exactly like mine. That’s important. Make sure you’re using your own voice and don’t try to fit into what you think someone wants you to say or sound like. Nobody needs you to be somebody else. The best thing about your website is it’s the one place where you get to be exactly who you are… if that’s what you choose to do with it.

So maybe go to sites like BlogHer or conferences like SXSW Interactive and find out what you think is “legitimate” writing. Submit yourself to essay-friendly sites like Hello Giggles to build your audience. Talk with other writers, meet other people who tell stories on the internet, and find out where you fit in. I found my “people” through Television Without Pity, and it opened doors that eventually resulted in me finding an agent. But my goal wasn’t to write my website full-time. It’s part of the reason I shut it down temporarily in 2001. I couldn’t afford the bandwidth fees without Chick Click’s monetary support, I didn’t want to move into a subscription model, and I was spending so many hours in a day moderating forums and updating my site I never had time to write the novels and spec scripts I wanted to write. Not because I felt one was more “legitimate” than the other. But because I’m happier writing dialogue in a script. During the time I was writing pamie.com for money, I was also a weekly columnist for the Statesman, a recapper for Television Without Pity, writing the Americanized dub scripts for an anime company, working on a book proposal and entering my screenplays and teleplays into competitions. Would you say that one of those things was more legitimate than the other? I couldn’t. But back then I needed pamie.com to pay the majority of the bills because the other stuff didn’t pay much, if at all. I was a blogger out of necessity. (Actually, I was a web diarist. We didn’t have the word “blog” yet.) If I’d bailed on any of that because I was embarrassed, I wouldn’t have been able to get to where I am. I wouldn’t have the skills I have and the experience I have. It doesn’t always come up, but sometimes my background in anime really helps in a room (especially when you’re rocking a magical vulva of opportunity).

Don’t shit on what you’re doing while you’re still trying to figure out what you want to do. Especially when you enjoy it. Because here’s the secret I wish someone had told me back when I would get apologetic for being a “web diarist” or an “online journaller” or a “crazy person who writes about herself on the internet”: when you’re really liking what you’re writing, and you’re having fun doing it? That’s probably because you’ve found your voice. You’ve found your connection with the words and the stories. There’s an audience out there hungry for someone who knows how to use her voice. Don’t stifle it because you think you’re supposed to be… what? Franzen? I don’t even know. Dooce? That blogger started just like the rest of us did a million web years ago with an internet connection and some html knowledge. But Dooce found her voice early on and she connected with people and even when it was scary and hard and people hated her, she kept going.

It’s not like The Fug Girls woke up one day and were like, “I know! Let’s make a ridiculously popular website today!” They started with a passion and it grew to something bigger than most people allow themselves to dream. Because they were brave. And they were smart. And they stuck to their voices.

Oh, my god, I just went to your about page and saw that Dooce is one of your inspirations! And that she inspired you at a conference! You’re already doing it! Why am I yelling at you? I am internet-shaking you! I’m sorry! I can’t seem to stop! I think I need to take a walk or something!

The next time you write to me, I hope it’s because you are really proud of what you are doing. And if someone made you feel like your blog wasn’t legit? I hope one day that person is on the ground with apologies. It’s your website. Everybody else can STEP OFF.

I AM ON MY BLOGGER SOAPBOX! Writers! Stop making yourselves sound like you’re not writing! It’s hard enough as it is without you shitting all over yourself! Just write, God, stop trying to find excuses not to write!

Was this answer “thoughtful and friendly” too? I feel I might have gotten a little pissy. It’s because I hate it when people apologize for doing what they love to do. Unless your thing is touching kids or puking on strangers or putting your ferret in a sweater. I have my limits.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to all this “legitimate” writing, all of which will only keep happening if I keep updating this site so that people keep reading pamie.com and think, “I should buy one of her books, because this site is free and nobody buys books and Christmas is coming.”

(Yeah, I said it. I don’t have ads. I have books. And I’ll only get to keep doing that if people buy them.)

[If you have a question about writing or television or novels or screenplays or any of these places where I write words and other people read them, send an email to pamie at pamie dot com with the subject line: YOUR WEEKLY PROCRASTINATION. I will try not to yell at the next person who has a question. I WILL TRY.]