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Jump
August 16, 2004

On Monday, I gave my two-week notice to the place I've worked for very nearly two years. At the beginning of September I'll be setting aside nearly everything my college education has taught me and everything I always thought I wanted to go to Los Angeles and work in an industry I know about only from observation.

And of course, it becomes a huge source of doubt. I'm fat and have disgusting hick teeth which I've never gotten fixed because there was always something else more important (but not really) and so I hardly ever smile so that I don't horrify people with my ugly hick teeth and is it possible to successfully pitch anything or get an agent if you never smile? Writers don't have to be part of the pretty people, I know, but I'm really, really not pretty.

I described my sit-com pilot to Sushi for that contest at Bravo and I don't think she laughed at anything and I can usually rely on making Sushi laugh at something I've written. Just describing some of the characters to her out loud made me feel stupid, like I was describing a comedy that was already airing on UPN. "No, see, the joke is that he'll have sex with anybody." Wait -- that's not even remotely funny. Is that really one of my character concepts? One of the characters has call-back jokes about percentages. Who doesn't love math humor? Maybe he'll move on to ratios in the second episode. Or maybe I'm trying to deliberately be unfunny so I don't laugh and show people my hick teeth.

I'm not as well-read as I should be. Not scripts, not books, not plays, not anything. Journalism has made me a dilettante. I know a little bit about everything -- enough to fake it for awhile in conversation. I don't even know enough about gay culture to make truly trenchant jokes about it.

So why the hell am I doing this again? Because … well, I'll never know otherwise. Neuroses aside, I am fairly certain I have the capacity to do this. Whether or not I can find a place in Hollywood where I'll fit, and whether or not I'll have the capacity to do it cheap polaris snowmobile parts well are questions that I cannot answer until I actually make that jump.

I was talking to Sushi earlier tonight and wondered aloud whether the more rapid pace of career shifts among us Generation Xers has caused us to hit midlife crisis earlier. It's taken me all of seven years of professional journalism to sniff around for something more interesting. Sushi makes an insane amount of money in a plum position for a major company, but she's been telling me for a few months now that she's not happy with it.

Maybe it's because the dot-com boom has caused "success" to happen so much sooner for Generation Xers than it had for previous generations. We've more quickly reached the "Is that all there is?" moment of discovery. Not that I would ever call myself a big success in journalism. I've never worked at any paper of note. But I look ahead and think to myself, "What you're heading for is like this, but with better pay and more stress. You better be sure that this is how you want your life to be."

Could I live with that? Yes. But if I could pick any career in the whole wide world to have, would I be an editor? No.

I want to tell stories. I always have. Somehow along the way I ended up in charge of other people's stories. I'm not entirely sure how it happened other than a facet of being there and able to look at people's stories and find ways to improve them. And being responsible and reliable. It amazes me sometimes how many flakes are out there who fold under any crisis. Sometimes it makes me think that the top qualifying requirement for management is simply attendance.

I need to get back into telling stories. All the stories I'm working on suck and I have to resist the urge to stop. Like somehow not writing is an improvement over writing something bad. That's being a flake on the creative level. I never do that as an editor. We don't cancel the daily paper just because I don't like something that I've done. I'll hate it, but it will go out anyway. I'll be embarrassed. I'll try to do better next time. I have to push that determination over to my own writing.

And so forcing my own hand continues. I'm taking a job that pays less than the job I have now that is also located in one of the most expensive cities to live. How's that for incentive? Now I have to write something or I'll likely end up starving. I'll end up like those guys in the Spider-Man costumes hanging out in front of the Chinese Theater offering to pose for photos with tourists for a buck or two. No offense, if you're one of those guys.

And maybe when I make that jump I'll write a sit-com that will only be good enough for UPN and I'll be embarrassed that I ever said anything bad about them. Or maybe I won't. I mean, I have a feeling they kind of know.

And maybe I'll do better and you'll see my fat ugly mug in the trades or Entertainment Weekly. But if I'm not smiling, don't take that to mean that I'm not happy.

It's the hick teeth.