Friday, May 28, 2010


My application for the WB's Writers' Workshop just went out... in the mail? Sorry? Mail? As in envelope? Stamp? This - does - not - compute. System - overload. Bleep. Blop. Bloop. Zzzzzzhhhhh. Boom!

Anyhoo, this application was much like NBC's, so no surprises there. Okay, there was one: I had to pay $30 this time, which would have sent up red flags if I hadn't been told about the program by a successful tv writer who I bother every now and then. Actually, by all accounts, the WB's program seems a tad bit better since they make the names of the participants public (I've looked them up -- most are working tv writers), something NBC does not do. Those differences aside, like NBC the WB also required me to write a short essay about why I want to write for tv. A valid question, but I hate writing these darn things -- they make me feel like a Miss America contestant but in glasses and an a-cup. Sigh. Here is a sample from my one-page (max!) answer:

My dad called it the boob tube. Only The Cosby Show “cut the mustard” and cable was for sinners, but I managed nonetheless. When it came to TV, I always found a way. Since my father frequently hid the antenna and we didn’t have a remote, it was hard to be sneaky. If he was home and a blacklisted favorite was on (The X-Files, NYPD Blue), I’d park myself close to the screen and set the volume on mute. It was a problem at first, not being able to hear the dialogue, the jokes, the dramatic soundtracks. But eventually, I learned to work with it, making up my own stories to match the fuzzy on-screen action and dubbing over actual lines with my careful whispers. And so it began. Out of the context-less, nude bum of Detective Andy Sipowicz, my first scripts were born.

Bet that photo of Mr. Dennis Franz kissing doesn't seem so bad, now does it?

You're welcome.

No comments:

Post a Comment