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whereupon the slackmistress discovers she's an asshole

In a reply to a comment this week, I wrote

It’s not that I don’t like you; it’s that I don’t like me very much.

I have, unfortunately, too much time to think. While the unexamined life may not be worth living, the overly-examined one isn’t much fun either. Generally, when I get into such time-sucks, everything suffers: my writing, my relationship, my diet, my general attitude. I’m prone to bursting into tears for no reason, feeling simultaneously sorry with and disgusting at myself.

This time I’ve managed to keep that all at bay.

However, I still have that voice that keeps asking how much longer?

I’ve been unemployed for three years now. THREE YEARS. I’ve still managed to eke out a living with freelance and residuals and royalties, but I have not had a regular job for THREE YEARS.

That’s not to say that I haven’t been close to a regular job for three years. There was the Prime-Time Family Show, the Disney Channel Show, the Kids’ Pilot Pitched to Nickelodeon, the Animated Movie Pitched to Paramount, the Big Movie Rewrite and Myriad Jobs In-Between. Every meeting taken ends with an Ohmygod, I cannot believe you two don’t have a job! I never laugh at these meetings! You’re so funny!

…then, a week later, comes the let’s just be friends speech. The Showrunner hired: his best friend, his nanny, the slew of other writers that he’s been working with, even though they got his last five shows cancelled. I could sing the refrain, it’s so familiar. And I begin to wonder if this Nina has had her Ninety-Nine LuftBallons. Am I one-hit wonder? Two Emmy Nominations for Lizzie McGuire amongst other awards, followed up by a Sophomore Slump (hello, Romeo!) and then Fade to Black?

If I wanted to get married and have babies, this would be the ultimate time. A. is doing well professionally. We have the space and I have the time.

Except that I’ve never wanted to have children. I have always wanted to work.

It’s embarrassing to admit, actually. I don’t like writing about it because I can hear the muttered remarks. You live with a fabulous boy and a fabulous dog in a fabulous house. You drive a fabulous car. You get to take fabulous trips. You have fabulous friends. You get to sleep to fabulous o’ clock in the morning. So you’ve got to lose fifteen pounds and earn more money. Wake up and smell the economy lady, everyone has it worse than you do.

Except that, well, I’m an asshole. A selfish asshole. Over the past year, I’ve been enjoying various blogs, from an Insanely Smart , Interesting Woman to a Sassy Redhead who Gives Advice to Directory of Wonderful Things. I realized the difference between them and me is that they write about things. I write about me. Me, Me, Me.

I think it’s because I don’t know anything else.

For those who think I don’t know my good fortune: trust me, I do. I said to A. the other day, eventually, I’m going to have to get a job. Like a temp job. I’ll be all “Hi! I’m here to file! Oh, yes, I did used to earn six figures a year writing for that show that jump-started the Tween Revolution, but what I really need to know is how you like your coffee – one sugar or two?”

You’re not going to have to do that, he said.

I have to do something, I told him. Don’t I?

You’re going to write, he told me.

I mean I have to do seomthing for a living, I responded.

It’s not that I’m not writing. I’m always writing. I’ll always write. And it’s not even like I have no work. A. has another special coming up. We’re being read for another job on a different Cartoon Network show. We’re being asked to come in and pitch something with a director friend of ours. We’re like the kids who score 1590 on the SAT. It’s really, frickin’ good, we came really frickin’ close, but it’s still not that elusive 1600 that makes everyone cream their jeans.

It’s not just me: the other writers, producers and directors that I worked with aren’t exactly burning up the TV screen either. I can’t figure out why this is: we all worked on something that created a star, which was pointed at as there’s where the money is, that had kids’ networks scrambling for something Lizzie McGuire-esque, yet no one wants to actually hire the people who came up with it?

At some point you have to wonder where the finish line is. I think it would be easier to throw up my hands and say screw this if we hadn’t been so close on so many things. Five out of six lotto numbers: enough for a few bucks in your pocket, but not enough for the big prize.

Do you give up and walk away? Can you escape Hollywood with your dignity intact?

Would you want to?

Talent is the easy part. Determination? The easy part. Luck is the hard part.


A. is incredibly successful, with one show on the air and another pilot on the way. My friend R. is a frickin’ rock star, burning up the red carpet as a voice on a prime time animated sitcom. So I think, why not me?

Because, well, I’m an asshole. There’s nothing else I even want to do.

And it sure beats being miserable and depressed.