you are viewing archives from 2004

i want it and i want it now!

It's 11:02am.

I've just gotten up, poured a cup of coffee (prepared by A., the kind soul) with a liberal shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream, and I'm sitting in front of the computer in my oversized Speed Racer t-shirt and my black and pink kimono wondering about the possibility of another two hours sleep.

A. looks over. Are you writing your slack?

Trying to.

You should title it why I’m so good: the Nina Bargiel story.

I try not to write fiction.

Why are you so good? he asks.

It’s the cheese, I respond.

Last night I went to a housewarming party for my friend J. and his parents who I worked with on Lizzie McGuire. A lot of the Lizzie people were there, congregating in corners, trading gossip and congratulations on our second Emmy nomination. Older SlackBrother J. and Slack S-i-L M. were there of course, as well as A. and I. I mingled a little, but was content to let J. work the crowd.

I just don’t really want to talk to anyone, I told A. I’m just done.

My father has always taught me to look on the bright side. And so far, it’s worked. I have an amazing boyfriend who begins every day by asking me what can I do for you today? I have a dog who follows me from room to room, with a look in her eye that screams I love you and only you – at least until someone new comes over, and then I’m old hat for the first five minutes. I live in a house that is everything I’ve always wanted: serene and peaceful but gorgeous and private with a view to die for. I have a small group of friends who I adore. I’ve maintained a good portion of my fifty-pound weight loss, I drive a spiffy car, and I still make an okay living considering I don’t really have to leave the house.

And I’m done.

I am of the strong belief that in life, we don’t just get things. You have to work at it. You have to play by the rules. You have to be a Decent Human Being. And even these things don’t necessarily guarantee you a spot on the Happy Train, but it’s a start.

Last year, Lizzie was nominated for an Emmy. Older SlackBrother J. and I were not invited to the ceremony, as we weren’t Producer-level-of-higher on the series. Another writer – Producer level or higher, of course – told Older SlackBrother J. that you guys should still feel like you really contributed.

Later we discovered that the episode that had been sent to the nominating committee was an episode penned by us.

But, you know - we contributed.

I shouldn’t have been shocked by her comment, but at some place at my core, I was. We were friends, of sorts. When J. and I work on a show, we play zone defense: everything is a team effort, and we do things not only to make ourselves look good, but to make everyone look good. Because writing television isn’t just about words on a page, it’s about giving the actors something to chew on. It’s about giving them something funny to say. It’s also about writing a producible script, something that won’t run you over time and over budget. It’s about a Line Producer wiping her brow and the Production Designer having something creative to work on but not stressing her crew.

I tried to shake her comment off, marking it up to Typical Hollywood Narcissism. Sometimes things suck, and that’s okay. We’d all go on and do our own things and it would All Be Okay.

Except that it’s year two. We’ve just received our second Emmy nod, and once again, it’s for an episode that was penned by Older SlackBrother J. and me. Once again, we’re not invited, although I’m tagging along as a guest of our former Executive Producer and my friend and mentor, S.

And just like last night, I’ll have to run through the commentary: No, we’re not working on anything specific. Yes, we’re out pitching series and movies of our own. No, I haven’t lost weight. Yes, we really do feel like we’ve contributed thanks.

When I first moved to Los Angeles , I had an informational interview with a woman who worked as a VP at TriStar Television. As I waited in the lobby, her assistant came out to see if I needed anything to drink. She was about to fetch my water when she turned back and said to me I’m going to give you a piece of advice: if you want to do anything else with your life – if you have an interest in anything else besides this – then do that. Trust me.

Lately, those words are on repeat in my head. When I moved out here, all I thought is: I need a job. If I can get that first job, I can prove myself. Then I got that first job, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do. I wanted to write. If I can get that first job, I thought, I can prove myself. And then I got that first job. And I proved myself. I earned my pretty paycheck. I got signed by an agent, and then a manager. I took meeting after meeting, where sweet nothings of development deals were whispered in my ear.

But it’s a year later, and I’m in the exact same space. Sure, Older SlackBrother J. and I are working on stuff: an animated series, another tween series, a reality show, two TV movies and a movie. We wrote the Christmas special for A.’s show, and we each penned a few outlines. I’m back to reworking and moving forward with my novel, as well as brainstorming an idea for a creepy children’s book that I want A. to illustrate.

But I want more.

This year, I’ve gone back to basics: I know that we have to create our own opportunity, our own luck. And we’re working on that. But I’d be lying if it wasn’t getting harder by the day, if every day I approached my computer and thought wow! Another opportunity to create! Instead of maybe I should just save myself the time and effort and take the paper this is about to be printed on and throw it right in the garbage.

It’s been, in the eyes of anyone, an incredibly, terribly, crappy year. My grandmother died. My identity was stolen for the second time. I gained twelve pounds. I put Peanut to sleep. My 18 months of braces has stretched into two-plus years, and now my insurance will cover the surgery but won’t tell me how much so I get to pay another $26,915 up front and then they’ll reimburse me.

I’m done.

I don’t begrudge anyone their success. I want the people in my life to be as successful as possible. But it’s hard not feeling like sour grapes when you were on the four-person baton relay team and the other three sprinters were awarded the gold. I don’t doubt my talent, but I am beginning to doubt that I’ll ever have the chance to showcase it in the manner to which I had become accustomed. My look-on-the-bright-side-of-life ways ingrained in me by my father are beginning to wane.

I need something good to happen. And I’m sick of waiting.

Like Miss Veruca Salt, I want it and I want it now.

But the other thing my father taught me?

It’s good to want things.