Pin-pointing the exact moment I knew I
wanted to be a writer is kind of fuzzy for me. It’s kind of like puberty:
the awareness that all these weird experiences are adding up, but you don’t
fully realize it until you look down one day and your C cups are busting out of
your training bra and it’s excruciatingly difficult to do any sort of physical
activity without sweating profusely, making your face a most heinous
battleground that your bottle of Clearasil clearly can’t cure.
While my inception story typically begins
with Lisa Frank notebooks and my penchant for soap operas as a child, I think
the real tale began when I was eight years old. As a mandatory assignment
for third graders at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, we had to participate in the
city’s Young Authors competition. While other students complained and
made up excuses to go to the principal’s office during writing time, I pulled
my finest No. 2 pencil out of my Spacemaker and began to pen a work of
brilliance. In my best cursive, on my extra-wide-ruled paper, making sure
not to make any mistakes (because everyone knew even the lightest eraser stroke
would tear that paper in half), I eloquently put my vision into words.
“The Blue Goo,” a
poignant mystery/suspense story with themes of friendship and personal hygiene,
was about Bridget, a young girl who becomes friends with a
glowing-blue-glob-turned-alien that her father accidentally created in his
science lab/their basement (admittedly, an idea taken by mashing up Flubber with a Goosebumps book I had recently
read). On the day of The Big Announcement, I sat on the edge of my seat,
nervously jiggling my feet against the tennis balls on the legs of my
chair. The PA system crackled. This was my moment. I waited,
clutching the straps of my purple L. L. Bean, pulling them closer to my
chest. And then there it was. “And the winner of this year’s Young
Authors Award is Jessica Hines for her story, “The Blue Goo.” I awaited
the applause. I awaited the glorification. And just as I was about
to smooth my brown plaid jumper in preparation to stand and curtsy, the kid
sitting next to me puked. All over his desk. All over the
floor. And just like that, my crowning moment was soiled.
And I think that’s when I looked down and
realized my dream was to be a writer.
***
It's an amazing thing to realize a dream
and vehemently pursue it. For me, this dream has driven me for two-thirds
of my life. Not only to be a writer, but to be known for my
writing. Known for entertaining with my bold and questionable observations.
Known for inciting stifled snickers at my wild inappropriateness. Known
for bringing people together through painfully honest humor. I was
destined to be a sitcom writer.
There’s a rush in it all. Recklessly
doing everything you can in order to fulfill what you truly believe is your
calling. Constantly composing yourself to say “fuck you,” as politely as
possible when people tell you to look at things realistically and more
responsibly. Reminding yourself that you’ve hyped this up so confidently,
and if you fail, everyone will be waiting to say, “I mean, I’m not going to say
I told you so, but…”
“Well, I truly appreciate your
concern. That’s sweet. Fuck you.”
***
I had my dream tucked in my back
pocket—where my wallet would be if I hadn’t spent all of my money on this crazy
dream. Ironic and fitting. I firmly planted my feet in every step I
took forward, no matter how big the risk, because my goal became tangible.
I found a graduate program that seemed
surreal—classes for spec scripts, classes for pilot scripts, classes for
sitcoms and dramas and TV movies, classes in development and production,
classes in everything I once thought was just a distant thrill, but had now
become so real. I was going to make it, because there was no other
option. Over a hundred thousand dollars in debt, because I was going to
fight until I wrapped my fingers around that dream and felt it squirm in my
palm.
I landed in Los Angeles for my last
semester of school; it was the pilgrimage to my Holy Land, the mecca for TV
writers and producers. I was convinced by all of my professors and all
the people who supported me through the entire process of my graduate program
that it was a done deal: I would write something brilliant, graduate, send it
off to every small production company and big network and talent agency in Los
Angeles and immediately land a job in a writer's room somewhere. It was
that easy. It had to be that easy if I worked this hard, right? I
had been busting my ass to crank out new ideas and new writing over the course
of a year and a half. I had received so much positive feedback and so
much encouragement and felt that I had prepared myself for success.
Effort and persistence are the things that get you somewhere, right?
***
Los Angeles was a country of its
own. Everyone you bumped into on the street was trying to be "in the
industry," as everyone refers to it. Everyone had some sort of
connection to a cousin’s friend’s dogsitter’s step-uncle who was the CEO or
director or producer or sound guy who’s still working his way up the
chain. I went into it bravely, knowing no one except the 8 other girls in
my graduate program who also made their pilgrimages, in hopes of similar
dreams. I loved the work I was doing: assisting a small production
company in their development department, reading freshly churned scripts from
budding writers, just like I hoped to be, and deciding whether or not they had
potential, and passing them along to the higher-ups if they did. Kind of
like a guard to the Pearly Gates of Hollywood, except less glamourous than it
sounds. I learned what companies were looking for. Who they were
looking for, rather. Most of these writers were fed through the weeding
out process by that weird-but-reliable, several-degrees-of-separation
step-uncle, and here were their scripts, sitting on a desk in front of me at a
REAL production company. I would be lying if I said more than 5% of them
were even worth the snide comments I jotted in the margins. But they had
made it. So why hadn’t I?
I networked. I made connections. I
had talent that I was waiting to share. But the thing I quickly learned
was that seniority and ass-kissing beat talent, 9 out of 10 times, and that 1
remaining time? Fucking step-uncle. I had planned to job hunt in
preparation to stay after my semester was over, in case by miracle, someone had
seen my potential. All the open positions that I could have realistically
been offered were for production assistants (imagine your version of The Office
Bitch, and multiply it by 72, and then add the irrelevance of your existence,
and you’ve got the picture). Making $11 an hour to get 17 coffee orders,
and then having to go back to Starbucks a second time because you slipped and
fell carrying the first 17 drinks because no one in the entirety of Los Angeles
County has the decency to lend a hand. I started to envision my
future. Coffee carrier for 3 years, mail sorter for 2 years, assistant to
the CEO for 3 years, and then if someone happens to stumble upon one of my
scripts, writer-for-hire for 2 more years, and then I’d be 33 and goddamn tired
of pursuing this fucking dream and living paycheck to paycheck, only to be
defecated on. Every. Single. Day.
Even if I had wanted to grit my teeth and
get through it, my student loan money had dwindled by the end of the semester,
and I had less than $1000 to my name. Well, if I’m being honest, I
actually had -$123,000 to my name, but let’s not dwell on the deterioration and
ruthlessness of the American higher education system. My bank accounts
were empty, my motivation was thwarted, and the dream I had held onto for so
long had been unmasked and revealed for what it really was: just a game of
luck. And I refused to be the joker.
So I left, and moved back home. And
it was the best decision I’ve ever made.
***
I am not a quitter, if that’s what you’re
thinking. I played the game and went all in, but I guess my hand for that
round just wasn’t good enough. I wouldn’t trade any of the experiences I
had, because I would not have ended up here: at home in my comfortable,
slow-paced Kentucky, with the love of my life who supported all of the
endeavors that went along with this unpredictable journey and our obnoxious dog
who has a proclivity for dirty socks and underwear, at a job where I get to
work with my mother every day and make a livable salary that allows me to put a
small chink in what I owe the DOE every month, and with the pride to admit that
I put my dream on hold because I wasn’t ready for it, and I don’t think it was
quite ready for me, either.
It's an amazing thing to realize a dream
and vehemently pursue it. I know my love of writing started somewhere
among vomit-covered linoleum, and my desire to pursue it went on hiatus
somewhere around empty pockets and the fear of perpetual Office Bitch-dom. I'll never give up writing. It's become part of me, and a
gift I'm thankful for every day. The ideas for sitcoms still swirl around
in my head, infesting my right-brain in totality. Sometimes I'll scribble
them on pieces of paper or type them out as notes on my phone, just as little
reminders that the embers of my dream are still burning, should I choose to
breathe life into it once again. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Atta girl Jess. You ar the best writer I know and I still believe Tina and Amy are going to pick you up under your armpits one day and make you their protege :}
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