The bright future

I'm watching the Emmys. Yep, I'm the one. I'm not watching them because I think they're particularly in touch with what's good in TV--they're still nominating Two and a Half Men, but not The Wire, so there you go--or because the internet's down and I can't check the InStyle Style Watch, or whatever. I'm watching the Emmys because they make me want to write stuff.

There's just so much cool material out there right now--shows that are concept-driven and writer-driven more than anything else. Mad Men's Best Drama win gave me chills. Barry Sonnenfeld won for directing a kooky, magical, completely unorthodox pilot for Pushing Daisies. Tina Fey just won her third award of the night, and got to pick it up from Mary Tyler Moore and Betty White. Do you think, someday, I could win an award and accept it from a cardboard cut-out of Tina Fey? Because that would pretty much be enough for me.

I'd say that the Emmys wouldn't matter for me as a writer, but that's only half true. Of course I want to have written something that somebody performed and somebody else filmed, and then a bunch of people decided it was worth some crazy heavy golden statue. I can't believe these people get to roll out of bed and put their work energy into characters and plot and all those things that make my stomach flutter, and I'm so, so jealous. I would not object to any of those things. But writers onstage are always a weird thing, and I suspect my presence wouldn't do much to normalize the situation. They always look extremely happy but kind of freaked out, like groundhogs emerging in February, all, "Hey! It's a party for us!...OH CRAP LOOK AT THAT SHADOW." Also, female writers have it rough. It's like a wedding party: the guys head to Tux Hut an hour before, pick something off the rack, wear it, and bring it back in the morning. Actresses, who don't spend their days shut up in conference rooms with tables full of candy and pizza, have custom, designer gowns shoved at them from all sides. The women writers have to dress themselves and look nice without the benefit of a stylist. I'd like to think I'd come out on the winning side of this proposition--again, maybe my girl Tina will continue to wear awesome dresses make writers the new It girls--but it somehow seems like the odds are slim. I've met myself. Not that, you know, I'd let the gown thing keep me home. I do want people to applaud while I look pleased and confused, and then am escorted away by an anonymously glittery girl; I'm just not sure how well I'd deal.

Also, Lee Pace just lost. Do you think he needs consolation? I may be able to help. Call me, Lee!