To read the Hollywood trades, we in the Writers Guild are somehow simultaneously aristocrats and agitators, overpaid radical dandies. One thinks of Dalton Trumbo jawing about Marx as he swills cocktails by the pool.
The reality is less romantic. I schlep my kids to public school in a Subaru full of loose Legos and half-crushed Goldfish crackers, then spend the rest of my day in a constant hustle, inventing and pitching in and out of writers’ rooms and producers’ offices. I love my job and I’m lucky to have it. But even after five years, writing on great shows and making work of which I’m proud, I have to worry about every paycheck. And my story is typical.
Yup, poor little writer
But the alternative was even scarier: the permanent end of the middle-class Hollywood writer.
Their old contract gave them $60,000 minimum for a 30 minute script or $5,000 a week for working as part of a team.
Middle class…..kiss my hairy arse.