TV hoor
Did you know that I now work in TV? Okay, before you get excited, as if you would, (I mean is there even a you to speak of? I guess I just like writing these things as though I am physically speaking to someone) I would just like to clarify that I work in TV but behind the camera. As a writer, you know. Totally part-time. In local lingo, a "racket". Am I good enough a writer to deserve a goshforsaken TV writing gig? Probably not. But as long as they (and by they I mean the producers) think I'm alright, I guess I'll ride this baby until I get busted and found out for the hack that I truly, truly am.
Anyhoo. I've been writing for this "lifestyle" show since, like, January -- but not really as they signed off first week of February and was in hiatus until, like, last week. So, all in all, I think I've only penned five or six episodes. And that's so not a lot. TV's a crazy gig. There's politics all over the place. Shoots getting "packed up", celebs going ballistic, overworked producers falling ill left and right -- crazy, crazy world.
And now I find myself segueing into another show. A "cooking" show. With a really hot chef. Of course nothing's gonna happen. But imagine if something could. That would be, like, a Harlequin romance. You know the kind. The impossible kind. Come to think of it, there's a book in there somewhere.
Imagine this:
The heroine: The lowly writer -- the one who arrived at a production meeting an hour late, drenched in sweat (it was 38 degrees Celsius out and her sedan's AC was on the blink), hair plastered on face and make-up melted down to neckline of what turned out to be a too casual Ann Taylor shirt. (It gets worse actually. Red beets from the organic spring roll get caught in her curls and the rainbow salad dressing drips all over uber-cazh tee.)
The hero: The globe-trotting executive chef -- the one with blond highlights, muscled forearms and who sits inappropriately close to one of the producers during the entire lunch meeting. (He also has a Governor Arnold accent and shows everyone how to properly toss a salad.)
They get together -- despite her clumsiness, his arrogance, against all the frickin' odds.
Of course, only the globe-trotting executive chef will appear on the cover of the book. His hair blowing in the wind. His chef's hat roguishly askew. His chef's uniform unbuttoned down to there.
Girls, do you think that's something you would pick up at the local bookstore?
Anyhoo. I've been writing for this "lifestyle" show since, like, January -- but not really as they signed off first week of February and was in hiatus until, like, last week. So, all in all, I think I've only penned five or six episodes. And that's so not a lot. TV's a crazy gig. There's politics all over the place. Shoots getting "packed up", celebs going ballistic, overworked producers falling ill left and right -- crazy, crazy world.
And now I find myself segueing into another show. A "cooking" show. With a really hot chef. Of course nothing's gonna happen. But imagine if something could. That would be, like, a Harlequin romance. You know the kind. The impossible kind. Come to think of it, there's a book in there somewhere.
Imagine this:
The heroine: The lowly writer -- the one who arrived at a production meeting an hour late, drenched in sweat (it was 38 degrees Celsius out and her sedan's AC was on the blink), hair plastered on face and make-up melted down to neckline of what turned out to be a too casual Ann Taylor shirt. (It gets worse actually. Red beets from the organic spring roll get caught in her curls and the rainbow salad dressing drips all over uber-cazh tee.)
The hero: The globe-trotting executive chef -- the one with blond highlights, muscled forearms and who sits inappropriately close to one of the producers during the entire lunch meeting. (He also has a Governor Arnold accent and shows everyone how to properly toss a salad.)
They get together -- despite her clumsiness, his arrogance, against all the frickin' odds.
Of course, only the globe-trotting executive chef will appear on the cover of the book. His hair blowing in the wind. His chef's hat roguishly askew. His chef's uniform unbuttoned down to there.
Girls, do you think that's something you would pick up at the local bookstore?
Ophelia came up for air at 4:45 PM
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