December, 1993

Doug was morbidly obese and pear-shaped, his pallid sun-starved skin giving him the appearance of a T-shirt wearing cadaver. Gabe was short and round, like a beach ball, with a ridiculous forwards-leaning Groucho Marx walk. His features were so stereotypically Jewish that he may as well have been drawn by a Nazi political cartoonist. But they were, in this moment, the most beautiful men Tom and I had ever seen.

Doug and Gabe were Executive Producers. They were running a sitcom called The Has-Beens that had been picked up for the second half of the season. And they had just offered us a job as staff writers.

And not a moment too soon.

About six months earlier, and all at once, people started asking us The Question — the one that all struggling artists dread — When are you going to give up?

This was asked with varying degrees of circumspection and vastly different intentions. There were the people were worried that we were failing and there were the people who wanted us to fail. But either way, they were in agreement on the central fact: We were failing.

One of the things about trying to break into a creative field is that failure is gradual, while success is instantaneous. Not getting jobs can drag on indefinitely... but get your first break and — boom! — you are on your way! It's tantalizing and it's also a trap. It's what keeps losing poker players at the table, the knowledge that the next hand could pay off big. And you don't want to be the schmuck who walked away just before it did.

Changing direction would not have been easy for me. Five years out of college, my employment history qualified me to do absolutely nothing except continue to work as a secretary. I had the option of going to graduate school, but I blanched at the time and cost involved. If the comedy writing thing didn't work out, I would be starting over from scratch. So I was all in.

Tom, on the other hand, had massively hedged his bet. (And that's as far as we're taking this poker metaphor.) Whether this was by design or simply following the path of least resistance, he had accepted a full-time job in I.T. At first, this didn't present a problem, but then he started receiving promotions which required traveling around the country for days at a time to help other corporate branches with their I.T. issues. Our writing time diminished precipitously because of his unavailability and the quality suffered because he was almost always exhausted. He hated that job, but unlike me he could have, if necessary, seamlessly continued on his career track.

Anyway, the most aggressive version of The Question came — unsurprisingly — from my father, who called me up on the phone and yelled at me.

"When are you going to stop fucking around?" Whenever anyone accuses me of being too blunt, I want to introduce them to my father, to see how much progress has been made on that score in just one generation.

I bristled at his tone, becoming defensive. "We are not fucking around! We've written a bunch of scripts." And we had. Home Improvement, Murphy Brown, Who's The Boss, The Golden Girls, Blossom, something called The Fanelli Boys, whatever the fuck that was.

"And did they get you a job?"

"They got us an agent."

"You mean the crazy bird lady?" He knew the answer to that question, of course, but he paused because he wanted me to say it.

"Yes, Dad. I mean the crazy bird lady."

"And did she get you hired?"

"It's a process," I said feebly.

"What, exactly, has she done for you?"

"Well, she mails out our stuff..."

This was a lie, actually. If we wanted our stuff mailed out, we had to drive to her office and type up the mailing labels ourselves. We also had to pay for postage. So I guess it's more accurate to say that she didn't prevent us from mailing out our own stuff.

"You've been in L.A. For five years and you have absolutely nothing to show for it!"

Technically, that wasn't quite true. There had been a staged reading of Loneliness that was held in a seventy-five seat theater. We had to purchase our own tickets, granted, but our stuff played pretty well, getting a surprising number of laughs from the director's friends. Even her notoriously hard to please dog groomer chuckled a few times.

I didn't mention that to my father, of course. I was losing the argument badly enough as it was. I simply conceded that things were not going according to plan.

"According to plan?" he scoffed. "What is your plan?"

OK, people. I don't mean to beat a dead horse here, but remember when my parents whole-heartedly embraced our decision to move to L.A., no questions asked? Well, What is your plan? was the exact fucking question they should have asked! Because then they would have found out that we had no clue at all about scripts or show biz or anything really, and they could have talked us out of doing something we were so manifestly unprepared for, or at the very least made sure we came up with an actual fucking plan!

A quick aside: A few years ago, out of the blue, my daughter said to me, "Daddy, when I grow up, I'm going to move to New York City and become a Broadway star!"

And I said: "Oh, really? Have you taken vocal lessons? Dance lessons? Acting lessons? Movement lessons? Audition classes? Improv? No? Because thousands of other kids have. Starting when they were five! What about an agent? A manager? Head shots? A resume? And out of curiosity, have you ever had a lead in the school play? You haven't? Yet you think you're going to see your name up in lights in the most exclusive theater productions in the world? No, honey. I don't think so. Go do your homework."

That's right: I crushed her dopey Broadway dreams. Why? Because I am a responsible parent, that's why!

Anyway.

That night, Tom and I had a very serious talk about our flailing career. I gave him a speech that was, in essence, a watered-down version of the one my father had given me. Even so, the gravitas stood in stark contrast to the one we had as teenagers, airily agreeing during the commercial break of Family Ties, to pursue comedy writing. The difference between being nineteen year old dreamers and twenty-six year old failures.

"We're either doing this, or we're not," I concluded.

"We're doing it," he said resolutely. "Whatever it takes."

"Good. So you're going to stop traveling on weekends?"

And suddenly, his whole demeanor changed. "Well," he backpedaled, "I mean, it's part of the job."

"Um... if we don't write on weekends, when are we going to write?"

"But... I have a responsibility..." He was becoming very agitated.

"A responsibility to who?"

"They're paying me."

"You just said whatever it takes!"

"Yeah, but, I just..." He waved his hands around helplessly. It was unclear whether he didn't have an explanation, or he had one but couldn't articulate it. Either way, he acquiesced. "Yeah. OK. I'll talk to them tomorrow."

I couldn't begin to fathom why Tom had been so resistant. But I understand it now. We had shared an apartment — well, five apartments by that time — which meant he was never really free to be himself. Even when I was out, he never knew — as 1988's Mystery of the Misplaced Over-the-Shoulder Boulder Holder had demonstrated — when I'd suddenly return. He always needed to be on guard.

So going to a distant city where no one knew him, where at night he could leave his hotel and go wherever he wanted and just be himself — whatever that meant at the time — must have been tremendously freeing, a glorious exhalation after holding his breath for so long. But he gave that all up, and hoped to hell that it would be worth it.

It was.

Looking back, the swiftness with which we went from low point to our breakout was astonishing. First, we swallowed our pride and actually took a course on sitcom writing. It was a one-day affair in a conference room at the Universal Hilton and it lasted eight hours, including lunch. But we learned a lot about basic structural stuff, which we really should have learned earlier, but at least we had learned it now.

In addition to the class, the course's instructor — one of the premiere script-writing gurus — held a sitcom writing contest. The winning script would be read at several major studios. We won with a spec. Seinfeld script called "The Boot." I don't remember much about it, except people said the words "the boot" a lot.

The boot.

The boot?

The boot!

The boot, Jerry! The boot!

(You know, Seinfeld shit.)

We never heard from anyone at the studios, but that was OK because the next thing we did was a hilarious and powerful mass mail campaign to show runners, telling them of our triumph in the writing contest and inviting them to read our brand new, even better spec. script, this one for Roseanne.

Mom, I really don't feel like being humiliated right now.

Well, Darlene, I'd be happy to reschedule. Is Thursday good for you?

You never listen to me!

It's not my fault you're boring.

(You know, Roseanne shit.)

Only one show runner responded. But it was a good one. His name was Terry Quinn and he was running the hit, multiple Emmy Award-winning show called Group. He read our Roseanne script and loved it. He asked us to come in to pitch stories.

Now, pitching, for those of you who are unfamiliar, is when you go in and verbally tell the show runner your story ideas. It is quite bizarre, when you think about it. We spent years honing our writing skills and now we had to put on a performance. It's like you're a painter and when you go to show someone your portfolio, they hand you a trombone.

Show us with this trombone how good you are at painting.

People told us that we were supposed to be energetic and in that respect, we succeeded. But only in that aspect. The Group staff was known as the most refined writer's room in the business and they did not appreciate all the standing on the furniture and yelling; they stared at us like we were escaped zoo animals. They passed on us, telling our agent we "weren't patrician enough" which, when we looked up the word "patrician" we found quite insulting.

But that was OK, too.

Because the next thing we did was another mass mail campaign, this one to agents at respectable agencies telling them that in addition to winning a writing contest, we had just pitched at Group. (Yes, it was a failed pitch, but it still put us ahead of the myriad writers who couldn't even get in the door.) We weren't coy. We promised them we'd make them a shit-ton of money. It was cocky stuff, but we were swinging for the fences.

Only one agent responded. But it was a good one. His name was Danny Rosen and he worked at a reputable mid-level agency, an up-and-comer known for his discerning taste and astoundingly weak handshake — it felt like a meerkat paw — but what he lacked in grip strength he more than made up for in enthusiasm.

"I want to hear everything about you!" he said and then talked nonstop at us for a solid hour, about how great our script was, about his plan for launching our career. He concluded by saying that he would start mailing our stuff out tomorrow.

And this was how we knew we had hit the big time: they were going to pay for the postage.

A month later, we were sitting across an oval conference table from Gabe and Doug in the Has-Beens writer's room. In the center was a gift from the network congratulating them on their pick-up. It was a huge wicker basket filled with toys: Nerf balls, Koosh balls, paddle balls, Slinkies, Silly Putty. The kind of stuff that non-funny people think that funny people think is funny.

"So we really liked your spec. script," Gabe began. His voice was warm and good-natured.

Doug nodded in agreement. "Really funny, guys. Really smart." Doug, we would learn, knew a thing or two about smart. He had been admitted to Harvard at the age of sixteen.

"And it had a lot of heart," Gabe continued.

"That," I said, "was an accident." They laughed. A refreshing change from the horrified silence of the Group writers.

They went on for a few minutes, espousing the virtues of our work. It was really odd, this onslaught of positivity after so many years of indifference and rejection, and we didn't know what to say in response other than, "Thanks!" and "That's great!" and "Thanks!" and "Glad you liked it!" and "Thanks!"

"So we'd like to hire you on staff," Gabe said. Once again, the words that changed our lives forever were delivered casually, like a comment on the weather or the lukewarm applause for an opening act.

Tom and I exchanged looks, confirming that we had both heard the same thing.

"If you're interested," added Doug. That part almost made me laugh.

"If we're interested?" I repeated. "Hmm. Let me think about that..." I was being playful, but Tom knew better than anyone that what I considered playful could sound to other people — especially people who didn't know me — like condescension.

"I think what my partner is trying to say," Tom hastily interjected, "is yes, we are definitely interested."

"That is what I'm trying to say," I confirmed.

And then — incredibly — we were professional comedy writers, a fact that for a while we worked into every conversation.

Please pass the salt, professional comedy writer.

Here you go, professional comedy writer.

Thanks, professional comedy writer.

You, professional comedy writer, are quite welcome.

Do any of you non-professional comedy writers want salt?

'Cause we professional comedy writers would be happy to share it with you. Isn't that right, professional comedy writer?

It is, professional comedy writer.

It sounds obnoxious. It was obnoxious. I am not entirely sure why no one punched us in the face. But in our defense, we had been at it five and a half years (seven and a half if you count the two years we wrote scripts before moving to L.A.). We had nearly given in to doubt — the doubt of others, the doubts of our own — but in the end we didn't. We were professional comedy writers.

Which just goes to show what you can accomplish when you have talent, perseverance and a Dad who likes to yell.