Read Me... Please!

Everyone knows the expression, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Of course, what they're talking about isn't what I'm going to be talking about on this blog... (Sorry!) Well, not what I'm planning to talk about. But let's be honest, things change. Hence, my milk...

I used to be writer. The kind who got paid for it. Now no one's buying, so I thought I'd give it away-- for free! I'm not real hip to this whole blog thing (I JUST got DSL last weekend), so I could be doing it all wrong. But maybe that's half the fun. Stories have structure, movies have structure (or at least they're supposed to...). And lives have structure, too. Except mine-- which is kind of all over the place after the "writing career gone wrong thing" as I like to call it. So my guess is that this blog could go that way, too. So be ready.

The short version of went wrong is this: One minute I was writing for a tv show, and the next, I wasn't. When I didn't get staffed anywhere else, I decided to write a screenplay-- an idea that everyone thought was great-- and when I finished, it was sent out as a spec, taken in to a few studios and then it was dead because David Spade wrote something similar (yes, the high point of my career was THAT long ago) and Ben Affleck (another sign) was going to be in something that was also similar so it was doubly dead and then I didn't get staffed for the second season in a row and hearing "reality TV is big and sitcoms are dead" really just meant my career was. Suddenly, my agent didn't think she could get other agents at her agency behind my work. And the truth is, she was never behind my work to begin with because she-- like most of the men I've dated, wanted me to be something I wasn't. I wanted to be me. I wanted to write things that meant something to me. I wanted to create things in my own voice. There was only one problem I encountered in pursuit of this goal... survival. Life takes money. And getting work to make money takes an agent. None of whom want you when you're not making any money. Who knew?

My first job in high school was working at Taco Bell. I hated the brown polyester uniforms, the "hair up in hairnets" rule and the smell of refried beans. I hated it even more when cute guys came in from school. I used to hide in the back. And I became anorexic. Those things weren't related, but they're what I remember most about the experience. When I was there, I wanted to disappear.

The past four years have been about survival. And bad jobs I never thought I'd have to take. Which naturally led to low self esteem, an even lower bank account and a lot of martinis. And sadly, not a lot of writing.

After having finally made it-- after years of paying my dues-- I was suddenly a 33 year old woman, single and desperately scouring craigslist, media bistro, the Daily Bruin and other odd places for jobs. I did transcribing of celebrity interviews, promoted wine at a warehouse store (in a white shirt with black pants and name tag), worked at a make-up counter (and I hate make-up), cashiered at the USC bookstore (and I'm a Bruin), catered for high profile events (where my designer white shirts and black pants came in handy yet again), and placed Valentine's Day orders for flowers.com. (which wasn't just hard because I made only $7 an hour and had to be there at 7am, but also because I was single and have never gotten flowers on this horribly auspicous holiday). In short, the humilating moments happened and the writing got lost. Soon I came to realize that my childhood and Taco Bell were not the worst things to ever happen to me.

Sometimes I've felt like a cautionary tale. More often, I've felt like a failure and a bottle of wine. When I was writing for TV and single at 31 years old, I was miserable alot of the time... and I was making six figures. So let's just say I didn't love having the distinction of being one of two friends without a husband augmented by the fact I didn't have any marketable skills, was poor and forced to take a roommate (more on that later). That's when I found fiction.

Even though I started writing a book when I was eight years old-- called "Life is a Bowl of Potato Chips" for reasons that esape me seeing that I hate potato chips-- I didn't pursue fiction because it didn't seem to be a practical way to make a living. So why in the throes of a career and life crisis did I turn to it? I have no idea whatsoever. To be inspired? To create something different? Or to ensure that bankruptcy was imminent? Maybe all of those things. Who knows? I just know that no one's buying it--- so hussy that I am, I'm going to put it out there for free and hope that there might just be a few takers.