I panicked when The Haitian flipped on CNN in our Ukrainian hotel room. I expected reports of hunger in third world countries, violence between religious sects in the Middle East, melting ice caps. But the news was worse than anyone could imagine.
A potential writers' strike. Yes, that's right, a writers' strike. This could be the worst thing to happen to TV since Bob Saget. If no deal is reached, all my favorite non-reality shows could go off the air!
There is some good news, this blog is a non-union job, so you don't have to worry about anything here, other than me just getting bored and lazy.
That gives me an idea!
I've got a blog. I spend time writing. It's an easy job to do after all. There's no reason I can't be a copy salesman, destroy an evil paper company and write for a couple of TV shows at the same time. How hard could it be? I'm sure I could find the time to write something with at least as much sense as LOST. TV writing is like abstract art for literature. Just grab some cats, dip 'em in paint and throw them at the blank canvas. A masterpiece! I could carry around a notebook and jot down great ideas here and there, in between killings and espionage.
So, consider this my resume, big shot TV people. All writers need three things: an insatiable ego, self-proclaimed stylish glasses, and paper. Could I be any more qualified?
Just check out this excerpt from the novel I've been working on in my spare time:
Fountains of the AbyssChapter Three Excerpt
"Help!" Bethany screamed, as she dangled by her semi-see-through nightgown from a tall, vibrant, tree-like bush. The cold night air dampened her cries, but from inside his hotel room, Doug heard her yell through his open balcony door.
He dashed outside and immediately extended his hand, just as the nightgown ripped and she began to plummet. Her hand gripped his tightly and she swung into the plexiglass window of the room below. Her body bounced off the glass-plastic hybrid and using the momentum, Doug pulled her up onto his balcony.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," she said, "now."
"It's your father. He took everything! He took all of my jewelry, even the pearls my grandmother left me, and then he pushed me off the balcony and left."
Doesn't that just scream out, "Made for Television"?