It's not an understatement to say that there is a wannabe screenwriter or TV scribe around every corner in Los Angeles. Most believe they have the golden box-office or sweeps idea; a few actually turn that idea into a pilot or 120-page feature script, but far fewer will sell it. And according to a Writers Guild of America, west report released this month, most of these successful writers will be white men.

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Writing about comedy writing is difficult because...well, because I'm worried that it won't be funny. Very worried. And I shouldn't worry because my desire to discuss comedy writing in an academic yet humorous way just proves that I'm dedicated to the 'comedy' part of it all. But does that mean I'm not AS dedicated to the 'writing' part of it all? I did, after all, use the phrase comedy writing rather than writing comedy. Which might mean that the writer part of me and the comic part of me are leg wrestling somewhere in my subconscious. Or it might just mean the old brain chemistry could stand to move a milligram or two in a different direction.

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My mother is a songwriter and my father is a pathological liar. It's pretty obvious I was born to be a storyteller. I've been at it since I was a tot. At the age of three I would regale relatives and neighbors with the adventures of the herd of pink 'ephelumps' that lived under our kitchen sink. I told these tales so well I convinced myself they were true, and my parents dutifully emptied their water and food dishes late at night so I'd believe my pachyderms had eaten well. I told stories to other children on the bus, to the nurse who gave me my vaccinations, and to the mailman--until he grew weary of me and began throwing the letters onto the porch and speeding away. It seemed any occasion--whether normal or new--would trigger my imagination. The very first time a boy tried to stick his hand down my shirt I began babbling about the gnomes who lived in our dirty clothes hamper and would do your homework if you left a cinnamon stick and some maple syrup for their enjoyment. He ran from the room thinking I was nuts and never managed to cop a feel. Some stories are meant to entertain and some are meant to scare away the neighborhood pervert.

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Eighteen months ago I was a brilliant, young, witty, zaftig sitcom writer. I had it all: wee hour rewrites, screeching Diva alerts and the contempt of the Religious Right. Last staffing season when I didn't get a job, veteran writers told me I was still brilliant, it was just the worst staffing season they'd seen in 25 years. This staffing season as I recline nervously, trying to maintain a wisp of a smile and my sense of karmic fairplay, veteran writers are telling me I'm still brilliant, it's just the worst staffing season they've seen in 35 years. Based on their wisdom and assurances I've decided to take a moment to reflect on my eighteen months of 'down time.' And based on my life experience, 'reflect' is how poor people who can't afford any leisure activities refer to the eternal search for a silver lining amidst all the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

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