WRITERS DANGLING OFF THE EDGE OF THE VERGE
And now I will speak of this...
This year I made it out of the pile for the NBC Writers on the Verge program. I had sent in my Mad Men spec. It was a kinda random choice. That spec is getting a little old and I'd been concentrating so much on other things that my spec pile as a whole was/is getting a little dusty. Of ABC/D, WB and NBC, I wound up sending each place a different spec. And WotV got this one.
There was the phone call on a rather lazy Monday. Jolted from bed, I was, in point of fact. Certainly one of my more preferred ways to begin a week.
Then, there was the interviewing. I hate the interviewing. Whenever these things don't pan out, I tend to blame the interviewing (whether accurate or not, and I'll never really know). Surely enough, twenty seconds after the point of too late is when I realize there were two or three things I should have/wanted to get in there and failed to do so.
There was the waiting. There was the trying not to think about it. There was the inevitable thinking about it. I didn't even want to tell anyone, because that led to the thinking about it.
Then, today, there was the not-getting-it.
Now I need to figure out what I'm going to submit next year. Then write it.
So instead of accepting congratulations and curses, I open the comments to condolences...and curses. There are pretty much always curses.
This year I made it out of the pile for the NBC Writers on the Verge program. I had sent in my Mad Men spec. It was a kinda random choice. That spec is getting a little old and I'd been concentrating so much on other things that my spec pile as a whole was/is getting a little dusty. Of ABC/D, WB and NBC, I wound up sending each place a different spec. And WotV got this one.
There was the phone call on a rather lazy Monday. Jolted from bed, I was, in point of fact. Certainly one of my more preferred ways to begin a week.
Then, there was the interviewing. I hate the interviewing. Whenever these things don't pan out, I tend to blame the interviewing (whether accurate or not, and I'll never really know). Surely enough, twenty seconds after the point of too late is when I realize there were two or three things I should have/wanted to get in there and failed to do so.
There was the waiting. There was the trying not to think about it. There was the inevitable thinking about it. I didn't even want to tell anyone, because that led to the thinking about it.
Then, today, there was the not-getting-it.
Now I need to figure out what I'm going to submit next year. Then write it.
So instead of accepting congratulations and curses, I open the comments to condolences...and curses. There are pretty much always curses.
MONDAYS
THURSDAY
SUNDAY