You’ve never seen The O.C., but you’re sure it’s pretty good. You’re gonna watch it tonight, though, since there are two back-to-back episodes.
You need to watch it, especially since your career is in the crapper and your New Year’s resolution is to write a decent spec script and land an agent. Maybe then you can move out of Culver Fucking City and get a decent car like a Mini-Cooper or a BMW or, seriously, a Prius, please, a Prius, and maybe finally get a development deal with a major. Then, barring any further complications, get laid without paying for it.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When you moved to L.A. five years ago, you were bursting with ideas and potential. You were gonna be David E. Kelley, Joss Whedon, and J.J. Abrams combined.
Now, look at you. You’re writing questions for a kids’ basic cable game show that unwisely has the word “Cyber” in the title. In ’98 it seemed like such a great title, what with the web-television convergence plan the 29 year-old producer pitched: now, the website’s been dead since 2003 and that 29 year-old producer drives a Boxter and is developing a show with Jon Lovitz for Gavin Palone. (Why won’t that fucker not return your goddamn calls?) You still live in a one bedroom—and not even a big one by L.A. standards— and you’re not in a union. You can’t get a single agent on the phone and most of your friends with deals laugh and say they’ll call you when they need a little ‘cyber’ touch. Assholes. It wasn’t your idea: you weren’t even part of the show until last year!
That’s why tonight’s O.C. is so important. You’re not gonna just watch, you’re gonna study it, figure out what makes it tick and become an instant expert. It’ll be like when you pulled all-nighters in school: you’d spend a couple of hours catching up on all the Folk and Myth readings you’d snoozed on while attempting another round of ‘Poon submissions, then spend the rest of the night just banging out the paper. And some of them were great! One professor—okay, one adjunct—even suggested you submit your paper on The Family Guy (“In the Family Way: Stewie and Freud’s Theories of Early Childhood Sexual Development”) to a journal. You could’ve had a big career in academia, pounding out searing interpretations that turned conventional pop culture ‘wisdom’ on its head. You might’ve even gotten to write for the mainstream: Times op-eds, maybe some droll “Shouts and Murmurs” for The New Yorker.
Instead, you’re basically rephrasing Trivial Pursuit questions for 9 year-olds. You need to do something better with your life, something more meaningful.
Like writing for The O.C. If you could just watch the show, get a sense for its rhythm, internal logic, and… that third thing the screenwriter of the Justine Bateman film suggested in that Learning Annex class that cost you $400, you can do that. (Where are your notes?)
You need to hitch yourself to this show: It’s like this year’s Ally McBeal or Popular: It’s the show, and only a quality O.C. spec script can change your life—can make your life. You can almost envision your plot already: it’ll be something about a foreign exchange student from Sudan and it will address genocide and female genital mutilation. And a love plot. A love triangle. God, this is gonna be so good: your script is going to fully embody the show while simultaneously transcending it! Where’s your notepad? This is too good to forget.
After that, it’s a top tier agency. Then a good writing gig. Then a side project and movie sale. Then a producer job. Invites to Stuff parties and the “Midsummer Night’s Dream” party at the Mansion. Then, who knows? All this from The O.C.! Can you feel it? I can feel it!
Tonight I will watch The O.C.; It better be pretty good.
The O.C. airs Thursday nights at 8PM EST on FOX. Even when they’re just reruns.
Earlier: O.C.
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