I stand with the WGA in the extremely unlikely event that I get an agent anytime soon.
No, I’ve never been paid actual spendable U.S. dollars for anything I’ve written in my entire life. Hell, I had to rent space on my parents’ fridge to hang up my letter of rejection from the county lit mag, The Dead Catfish.
But, if an agent ever goes off their meds and decides to represent me, I will fire them immediately.
Why might you ask? Because I stand with the writers who blocked me on Twitter after I crashed into their DMs one too many times (17 to be exact). I was only asking for them to drive three hours round-trip so we could grab coffee at a sketchy Starbucks, despite the fact that I have literally nothing to offer them.
It’s their loss. I’m great at coffee dates. I know I’m a professional writer because my email signature says so, but also because I spend all my time drinking disgusting amounts of iced coffee with fancy names like “Vanilla Creme Lavender Infused Cold Brew” and “ma’am you’ve been sitting at this table for 13 hours and we’re closing so you have to leave now.”
I am ready and waiting to be repped by anyone from absolutely any agency ranging from ICM Partners, WME, and UTA, all the way to CAA. So ready, in fact, that sitting on the very writerly oak desk I inherited my from Great-Uncle Mort (who self-published a Kindle series of best-selling erotic fiction entitled “Good Thing These Walls Can’t Talk” in 2009) is a mug that says “Fuck Off I’m Writing.” That’s how ready I am have an agent who will send me schlepping my ass all across Los Angeles until the dawn of time.
You name it, I have a pilot script about it. Thirty-seven and a half pages of Shonda Rhimes-eqsue monologues from 58 different people all trying to find anti-dandruff shampoo in Costco? Done. Three quirky friends in New York? Done. Ten different ways. On 25 different streets in the hipster part of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Three quirky friends in Chicago. Three quirky friends in Toledo, Ohio. Except they’re all dead ghosts. And one of the ghosts is gay but he didn’t come to terms with his sexuality until after he died. Oh, snap. Take that, The Wire.
My future agent should be ready to take ten percent of jack shit for 20 minutes, until I send them a respectful letter that acknowledges all of the work they have put into building my nonexistent career, and the great relationship we have built over email the past three days. But also their ass is totally dunzo because #IStandWithTheWGA.
Also, how do you become a WGA member? Apparently baking cookies and dropping them off at the homes of prominent TV writers with a note in the dead of night isn’t the way to go (I swear they weren’t laced with anything, Mr. Sorkin!). Though I am scared to fire the agent that I do not yet have, I am confident that the WGA I am not yet a part of will have my back throughout the entire process.
Anyways, make sure to follow me on Medium! BTW, is anyone willing to read my feature on the agonizing, but also surprisingly whimsical process of writing a feature?