A Fine Whine

I devoured Neko Case’s memoir The Harder I Fight the More I Love You in two days, and wanted to physically fight the (blessedly few) two star reviews I saw on Goodreads. Case is just as bewitching a memoirist as she is a songwriter, which is saying a lot, since she’s in my (oof, I’ve never felt so High Fidelity-implicated) top five musical artists of all time. 

Neko Case doesn’t need MY approval or sympathy, God knows, but she went through some horrible things in her life – stuff no child should have to deal with – and the fact that she’s come through it all AND created such beautiful art is a testament to her uncommon strength. It’s hard for even the most confident among us to make themselves vulnerable through art, let alone those who’ve been pummeled by life. Her prologue addressed the self-doubt of creation in a paragraph that stopped me short. I’ll quote some here:

“I can’t help it” is a good stopgap answer to most questions about pursuing a creative life, the only one that makes sense when you don’t have the time or wherewithal to explain it, or if you just don’t think it’s anyone else’s business. You can get to the “Why” some other time. Making music is a soft rebellion in a world that’s always at your shoulder asking, “What makes you think you’re so important that someone should listen to you?”

I admit that (these days, especially) I’ve been asking myself a lot of “What makes you think you’re so important that someone should listen to you?”

I sometimes feel like I keep writing simply because it’s what I’ve always done. I’m an Energizer Bunny someone gave nuclear-powered batteries, with a half-life of my whole life. I write, and try to keep writing, because it’s what I want to do, even though I no longer have any particular faith that the world wants me to be a writer.

Why do I say that? Let’s review.

I was a writer for The Daily Show for about a decade, and for about half of that time, The Daily Show was one of the most important shows on television. Awards aren't much more than fancy paperweights for friends to take pictures with when they visit your apartment, but that hasn't kept me from proudly making a nook for my own – two Emmys, a Peabody, and (unlikeliest of all for me, a white Midwesterner of Celtic descent) an NAACP Image Award. I joke about their (un)importance, but lord knows I’m still proud of them. If a fire broke out, my priorities would go (1)Audrey (2)cats (3)Emmys – mostly because Emmys are harder to replace than, say, a guitar. The Academy frowns on stores like “Emmys R Us” and “Bed Bath and BeEmmys.” If you want one, winning it is kind of the only game in town.

I bring it up, because – back when I was a kid – I figured “Boy, if you win a couple of Emmys writing on a hit show, your career is set.” And maybe that was true at one point, back when TV was the only game in town, making advertising money hand over fist. But not these days.

Since leaving The Daily Show, I’ve had one other writing job – about half a year on a show called Hell of a Week, with Charlamagne tha God (where, btw, the otherwise all-black writing staff loved to affectionately-ironically joke about me being the only one NAACP award). It was a super-fun comedy room – Cynia, Bria, Charles, Andre, I miss you – but the show got canceled after that season, despite consistently increasing ratings and snagging a Writer’s Guild Award nomination. It wasn't that big a surprise. These days nothing is gonna be as profitable for Comedy Central than constant South Park and The Office reruns.

What happened? Well, a slew of things have made the already-difficult entertainment industry feel impossible compared to when I entered it. Streaming took the extremely functional advertising-based model and chucked it in favor of ad-free services that (speaking of South Park) worked more in the “collect shows > ??? > profit!” vein.

Sure, there were subscription fees, but that revenue was nowhere near what ads (+cable fees) could generate, so there was a lot of deficit spending, followed by an implosion. Meanwhile, young people decided they would rather watch social media reels of blandly attractive women dancing halfheartedly, Twitch streams of other people playing video games, or 3-hour YouTube video essays about media rather than original media itself.

(Interactive suggestion – insert “old man yells at cloud” meme here.)

Over the last six-ish years, the industry contraction has really been rough, for even more specific reasons – first, Covid-19 slowed EVERYTHING down economically, but was a particular problem for things like TV and movies which kind of require people to be in "the same space," unless you prefer shows where people are yelling at one another across a large field.

Then came the actors’ and writers’ strikes (which were absolutely necessary, as they sought to address a lot of issues brought up by the streaming system – a collapse in the size of writers’ rooms, keeping people tied to shows during huge work gaps, the lack of streaming residuals… basically companies seeking to solve the profitability issues they, themselves, caused in the traditional way: by fucking the workers – but even essential labor actions cause hurt). Those were rough coming on the heels of lockdown.

These days, studios are more risk-averse than ever, and even more committed than ever to figuring out how not to pay people. Despite union-won protections, it’s a constant fight against A.I. (a boondoggle that will produce far worse art than humans for far more money and at far more human and environmental cost… yet money people still chase the dream that someday they won’t have to pay those pesky demanding humans anything at all). Meanwhile, our deranged baby-president does his best to tank the economy in ways ranging from merely stupid to morally repugnant, increasing the money-people's risk aversion with every poop-handprint-signed order or law he shoves through.

It’s honestly that last reason that weighs on me most heavily. Most of these issues are mere workplace complaints. They’re specific to my industry, but basically mirror the way capitalist accelerations have screwed us all... whereas the abandonment of what I’d foolishly imagined were deeply held ideals cuts deeper.

How am I (or anyone) supposed to write anything, when masked gestapo crews are out there seizing people on the simple basis of ethnicity and disappearing them to god knows where? When the only people who have any power to stop these abominable actions are either collaborators, lack the moral fortitude to do anything, or are determined to nap at the switch until it’s far too late to do anything?

My career concerns are small potatoes compared to the actual horrors of the world, but that’s part of the point – it’s hard to rouse myself to work when I’m both dejected by everything around me and no longer have faith that the coming world is one that has a place for the sort of nonsense I’ve built my life around. Sure, there’s always the Sullivan’s Travels theory that people in difficult times need to laugh more than ever, but getting myself in that laughing mood is pretty hard – and I can’t even do a bathos-filled cry of “But Doctor, I AM Pagliacci” when the circus that used to employ me was run out of business by Prime Video. 

Boo hoo hoo. We’re all dealing with it, so suck it up, me. My social media is filled with takes that are variations on “And they expect us to just… go to work, like everything’s normal?!” I know I’m not alone – but I’m also basically my own boss, so I can’t even rely on my boss busting down my figurative door and making my depressed ass do more work, because he am my depressed ass (which, at least, looks better now that I do yoga). 

I press on, despite it all – during my time not “officially” working, I’ve been working all the time. I’ve written spec TV pilots, and screenplays, and I’ve put the latter in the hands of some directors and producers who – if not actually folks who want to make the movies – are people willing to help me make the scripts make-able by someone else. I manage the podcast, and promote it, and organize ancillary projects, and write the Flop House newsletter. Plus I write this personal newsletter... one that has, this week, gotten maybe MORE personal than either of us is comfortable with (and is its own bellwether of where I’m at, since – much as I love y’all – writing a pay-if-you-wanna newsletter about esoterica is not exactly a sign of a thriving career). 

I write daily, during “regular business hours” and beat myself up if my output is not what I think it should be. But it’s extra hard right now to find the motivation. Audrey recently told me that her co-workers are jealous that she has a husband who does so much cleaning, and does the dishes, and will cook, and bring her lunches at her desk. And I do like doing all those things, but I wonder if they'd be quite as jealous if they knew how much of it, these days, is my brain avoiding writing – telling me that absolutely anything else feels more urgent than work.

Fortunately, between my wife’s job and the podcast, we can still cobble together a living, and I’m very thankful for it. I had my time as a well-paid TV writer, and it's helped sustain me during a much more lean time. That’s the way the entertainment industry is supposed to work, with periods of work covering for times of unemployment, and it’s why (for all the glamorous lives of the big superstars) most of the folks who work in entertainment average out to a hustle-filled middle-class life. (BTW, for a better-written and funnier take on this, check out my friend Hallie’s most recent newsletter).

So, all things considered, things are still okay, and I’m very conscious that the woes of a “creative” probably sound very whiny to my readers with more difficult jobs, where heavy things are lifted, or sick people are cared for, or small children are taught. I roll my eyes at myself as much as you, I assure you (while still extending myself the grace to know – everyone’s troubles are real and important to them, and any sort of comparative "World Series of Pain" is unhelpful). 

Still, I do end up wondering… should I go out and find a different job and stop banging my head against writing if it’s so goddamned hard? And perhaps it’s only foolish pride that stops me – the aggrieved feeling that surely someone with my experience should be able to claw his way to further accomplishments. Or perhaps it’s the memory of how miserable I was with a different job, and a fear of returning to that misery.

I like to think, though, that it’s something a little more fundamental. Not “noble,” or any such bullshit (beyond the universal nobility of trying to be true to oneself). It’s simply that, like Neko, I just… can’t… stop. As much as I complain, and as much as I worry, this life is me. It's what I do.

Back to Case’s memoir, for the end of that paragraph…

I grew up believing I was nothing, and sometimes my own insignificance wracked me with pain. But luckily, somewhere down the line, I came to realize that if I’m nothing, and I have nothing, what is the real risk of putting myself out there? If I’m so forgettable, my humiliation will just be a short weather event. A needly little rain shower. I can live with that. There are way worse things to be remembered as.

Writing and trying to write is a part of me, and it’s come to be such a big part of me that for now, I have to keep going. Keep trying. 

Anywho. God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, but also God grant us the strength to struggle and push and hope and hope and hope for as long as we wish.

For earlier posts, check out the archive. In my other life, I’m a podcaster. Listen to my show The Flop House, here. In my other other life, I’m an Emmy-winning comedy writer. If you’re looking to staff, get in touch! And if you love the newsletter, you can always consider tipping me, by enrolling in the paid tier!