Sometimes it seems as though everyone wants to be a writer. No matter where I go I invariably meet someone with a novel or a screenplay or an episode of his or her favorite television show in the old word processor. The writers I encounter are all completely different, from different walks of life, with different needs and interests. But they all have one thing in common: They all have HOPE.

It's channeling that hope that's the big problem. Hard-writing wannabes want to know how to get rid of the "wanna," how to go from outsider to member of the in-group. Remembering that feeling (and awakening from the occasional nightmare still tasting it), I offer the following questions and answers:

1. "Larry, how did you get started as a television writer?"
2. "How do I get started as a television writer?"
3. "How do I sell my great idea for a TV series, so it can get on the air and entertain millions?"
4. "How do I keep all those Hollywood sharpies from stealing my great idea for a TV series and putting it on the air without me?
5. "What's a typical day in the life of a freelance TV writer really like?
6. "What's a typical day in the life of a TV writer on the staff of a series really like?
7. "Format is so confusing. How long are TV scripts anyway? Do I really have to put all those act breaks and angles and things in? Can't I just tell the story?"

"Larry, how did you get started as a television writer?"

All my life, I wanted to be a writer. Books had been magic for me, opening up worlds far more exciting than the one in which I lived, and since I felt that reading had in many ways saved me from an environment that was, to be blunt, crippling, I wanted to write and return the favor, so I could save others who were in a similar position.

As a student at Northwestern University, I majored in English and took as many composition courses as I could find, writing short stories, poetry, essays, you-name-it, being forced to turn out one completed work every week. An inveterate science fiction fan, I started writing in the genre, and by the time I graduated I was selling stories to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and various men's magazines with some regularity.

During this period, I acquired my first agent, in the time-honored way: My fiancee's father was an optometrist, and the agent was a patient. Sitting there with his pupils dilated while my future father-in-law told him what a great writer I was, the poor guy had no choice but to agree to talk to me and read what I had. He did, however, have a choice about whether or not to like what he saw, and, fortunately, he liked it a lot.

(A word to the wise: What he liked the most was the quantity. I think I gave him a dozen stories, proof that I was serious about being a writer, and that he'd be able to make some real money on his ten percent.)

This being the late 'Sixties, I was desperate to maintain my student deferment from the draft and stay out of a war I despised (not to mention a workaday world I didn't understand), so after my undergrad days were done I went off to Law School. After the first year, though, I dropped out, unable to understand how people could think that the way to redress all the ills done to others was simply by giving them money. (One of the terrible things about getting older is that--guess what?--I get it now!) Looking around for another way of stalling, I opted for grad school at the University of Iowa, known for its Writers Workshop, which was run by my idol Kurt Vonnegut.

Naturally, I got there just after Vonnegut left, which didn't exactly leave me overjoyed. The good news during that school year was that I sold my first novel. The bad news was that the Workshoppers totally disapproved. We were supposed to write "art," satisfying ourselves and then putting the work in a drawer, but I was actually trying to entertain other people!

Armed with confidence from my book sale, and determined to find a way to write and actually feed the family I hoped to have, I risked life and limb by leaving grad school after a year too. Only this time I went to Hollywood.

It seemed like a good idea. My agent, who understood that I didn't see much of a future in writing for two cents a word, had a friend in the TV Department at the William Morris Agency. Not knowing anything about what screenplays looked like, but being a hardcore television watcher from 'way back, I got a book out of the school library and used the format it described to write a TV movie. I sent this to my agent's friend, Sylvia Hirsch, and when she said that based on that I had as good a chance as anyone of getting work in television, that's it, my then wife and I were off and running.

What we didn't know, of course, was that even though I had as good a chance as anyone, that chance was about a hundred to one. Still, my wife went to work teaching school, and I went to work trying to finish my novel and take the meetings that I came to understand are a Hollywood way of life. I never finished the book (which didn't make me very popular with the editor who'd given me the advance), but boy did I learn about meetings.

Because, see, here's the key thing: In television and movies you don't sit down and write and then sell what you've written. That's a virtual impossibility. Instead, you write a "spec" or sample script, one that shows your skills and strengths, and your agent sends it around to various producers. If they like it, they meet with you, hear your ideas for other scripts, and, if you're lucky, hire you to write one of them, with payment guaranteed in advance by the Writers Guild rules.

For several months, my writing and my meetings went nowhere, but, fortunately, I was too young to despair. Instead, I would go out by the apartment house pool and get drunk with the rest of the unemployed wannabes, mostly actors who had never had a gig. One, however, had. His name was Sammy Jackson, and he had been the star of the TV series, No Time For Sergeants. Since its cancellation, he'd spent most of his time in a booze and sex stupor, consoling himself with the groupies who were always pounding on his door. By a strange mischance, the day came when Sammy was actually sober, and realized that I was writer. Immediately, he pounced...on me.

Sammy, it turned out, had a plan. He knew a number of producers, and he was sure that if he could go to them with the right project, he'd become a big star again. My part in this was to come up with the project, write it up, and then trust him to get it to the right guy. I'd end up creating a TV series, and we'd both be rich and successful.

Well, I admit it, I bought right into this one, and worked my tail off on a 20 page short story that could be the basis for a new Sammy Jackson show. And Sammy straightened out, called some of his friends, and showed them my work. For the first time in a very long while, Sammy had hope, and it paid off--for me.

What happened was that one of the producers Sammy showed the story to liked it and wanted to see what else I'd written. My new agent, Sylvia, sent him my TV movie script, and the producer not only optioned both properties, but hired me to co-write his next movie, a rock and roll epic for MGM, which was supposed to star Jim Morrison! My writing partner on this project was the director of the film, an old-time B movie mayven named Arthur Dreifuss, and Arthur showed me how to really write a script.

Sammy, however, was left out in the cold, because once the producer started concentrating on the movie, he lost all interest in the original two properties, and never pursued them. Sammy's drinking resumed, and so did his incredible sex life, but I was too busy to stay awed. I had a deal!

It took about three months to finish the script. Everyone loved it, of course--they always said they loved it in those days--but before production could begin it was time for the studio to have a little "look-see" with Mr. Morrison. The meeting took twenty minutes, and when it was over the movie, The Rise And Fall Of A Rock And Roll Star (oy!) was canceled. Now there were probably a whole mess of reasons why a meeting with a guy like Jim Morrison might cancel a movie, but the reason this one was cancelled was simple: Morrison had a beard and was adamant about not shaving it. And at this time, never in the history of motion pictures had there been a romantic hero with a full, flowing face, neck, and chestful of hair!

Was I upset? Absolutely. Was I devastated? No. I was too busy being devastated over the fact that I was never going to finish my novel, because now that I was in Hollywood I just wasn't interested in "real writing" anymore! Besides, the fact that the film was never made seemed at the time almost a blessing. This way, I as a talent could be judged only by the script, which Sylvia immediately shipped out to every producer in TV. And, because I had written a genuine, commissioned motion picture script, every one of those producers wanted me to write at least one episode for his TV series. All I had to do was smile and work hard, and I was all set!

Sort of. There were, of course, complications. But for now we're only talking about the beginning of my career, and that, my friends, was that.

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"How do I get started as a television writer?"

Well, bunky, it ain't as easy as it was in the old days, not at all. For one thing, there are now twenty times as many members in the Writers Guild. For another, there's a whole different showbiz corporate philosophy, with a lot less willingness to try anything new. One sign of that philosophy is the fact no one hires you to write anything these days, at least not unless you're already "in." Another is that now, no matter what you write or how you've written it, no one who reads it says, "I love it!" Now they just say, "Ho hum..."

But there's also an upside. Youth is in. TV execs in particular are often under thirty, and they feel more comfortable working with people their age. Also, there's film school. You don't have to guess at the format of a screenplay anymore, you can study the look, the style, and the structure, and get it down pat.

If I were getting started now, the first thing I would do is go to a well-reputed film school. UCLA has one. So does USC (complete with an "old buddy" alum network of showbiz biggies who are devoted to helping the newbies). Northwestern and New York Universities have good film schools too. The place I used to teach, the College of Santa Fe, has a great Communication Arts Department, and I recommend it as well.

Anyway, I'd go to film school. I'd learn all there was to learn, about writing and storytelling, about both TV and film production, even about acting, so that I could write words the actors really could say. While I was at school I'd make as many student films as possible, and I'd do them all on sixteen mil9CBE9Cter film, not tape, so I'd have a great sample reel. I'd also network at school, helping as many other students in their productions as possible, in the hope that not only would they do the same, but that if they ever made it big, they'd bring me along.

After I graduated (and you have to graduate; all your competition will have graduated too), I'd take my sample reel and go to L.A. I know, I know, L.A. ain't paradise anymore. It's not just the quakes and the smog, the attitude's bad too. So bad, in fact, that the New Yorkers who used to hate Los Angeles for being so laid back and relaxed now love it for being so uptight. But television and film are both businesses based on personal relationships, and L.A.'s where the people with the power are. So if you want to be in the biz, you've got to be there.

Once in L.A., I'd try to get a job that put me if not in the biz, at least close to it. The best gig you can get is as a reader, that huge army of wannabe writers who make $30 a script reading them for producers and advising that they not be bought (so the script they're writing will be bought instead). The next best gig is as a secretary, or assistant, or runner, or gofer, or driver, for a studio or a production company that's got a TV series or two on the air. The next best gig is as a waiter in a showbiz hangout.

Armed with one of these jobs, your attitude becomes crucial. You must let everyone you work for know how much you want to be a TV (or motion picture) writer. You must show them your knowledge of TV. You must show them your knowledge of, well, them. Because the bottom line is that you must become the nicest, sweetest, most eager young man or woman who ever pounded the pavement of Hollywood Boulevard, dedicated to learning all you can so you can do all you can to make everyone you work for as happy, happy, happy as they can possibly be.

The reason for this is simple: In showbiz, everyone is treated like shit. Everyone yells at everyone else, no matter how high in the food chain either of the parties happens to be. Stockholders yell at studio presidents. Studio presidents yell at producers. Producers yell at directors. Everyone yells at writers. That's the way it is. But because of that, the person who doesn't yell stands out. As unappreciated as everyone in power in showbiz feels, they all long to be mentors to the one man or woman who does appreciate them. As mentors, they'll do everything in their power to teach their charges the biz...and to further their careers. Believe me, this is the truth. It's the Way Things Work.

If you play the game this way, you have a chance. If you're there, on the scene, Mr. or Ms. Indispensable, you'll move up the ranks in no time. If you've got a script to show your mentor, or a student film, you could end up going from gofer to producer in just a couple of years. The credits of your favorite shows are loaded with the names of people who have done just that.

Sure, I'm oversimplifying. But the steps I'm suggesting are all based on one thing: Initiative. In the long run, having initiative is better even than having luck. I'm no Pollyanna, not by a longshot, but I know that you still can come from nowhere and make it as a writer in television. You can even change the world.

All you have to do is hold onto your hope.

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"How do I sell my great idea for a TV series, so it can get on the air and entertain millions?"

This, believe it or not, is the toughest question so far. The quick answer is, "Sorry, pal, you can't sell your idea." Period. End of quotes. The more thoughtful answer is, "Sorry, pal, but I don't think you can sell your idea." The very best answer I can come up with is, "It's a tough thing to do, my friend, very tough..."

There are two reasons for this situation: The good reason, and the real reason. They both have to do with what we can call the System, the procedure used for getting shows, whether they be comedy series, drama series, or Movies of the Week, onto the public airwaves. The System is based on the fact that every network, every syndication house, every studio, and every production company that has more than one employee has what's called a Development Department. This department is supposed to be hard at work finding properties that the public is dying to see, and putting them into production. In fact, the Development Departments of all these places do work very hard at finding properties, but they do it in the traditional showbiz way, which is to say they only talk to known writers, producers, and creators.

By "known," I mean people who are already part of the System, who have credits for scripts they've written and produced. When someone like this gets an idea, he or she calls either his agent, who sets up a meeting with a company, studio, or network, or he (or she) calls someone he already has worked with at a company, studio, or network and sets up his own meeting. This is the infamous "pitch meeting," where the creator tells the highest ranking member of the Development Department to whom he has access all about his great show. Probably, he leaves a couple of pages behind to keep the idea fresh in the Development Executive's mind, and then off he goes. If the Development Executive likes the idea, it gets pushed up the ladder until it finally reaches a Network or Syndy Vice President, who either turns thumbs down or authorizes a script.

If the creator is a producer, he or she then hires a known writer to work out the idea. If the creator is a writer, he or she does it himself. About ten thousand ideas are heard every year. About 250 of them actually make it to script. Of those 250, about 35 go on to get shot as pilots. Of those 35 pilots, about twenty or so are bought as new shows every year. Since nowhere in this process is there room for someone who is not part of the Hollywood Establishment (or community, as it prefers to be called), none of those new shows will come from any outsiders, or wannabes.

And that's the good reason! The real reason is even more political. Like all other businesses, the television biz has a rigidly delineated pecking order, even among the creative elements (i.e., the writers, producers, and creators). At the top of the pecking order are men and women who already have shows on the air. These people have as part of their current deals guarantees of future "buys." These guarantees commit the networks and syndicators to purchasing a given amount of what the biz calls "product" from those who are already their suppliers. Usually, this amount is greater than the actual amount of product that will be needed in any one season. So the networks are already overcommitted. They certainly can't go out and buy anything from someone on the outside!

Lately, though, I've noticed some changes. Things seem to be a little more open, as though the development executives are are starting to realize that they have to discover someone new every once in awhile in order to justify their offices and titles. With cable stations and entertainment dotcoms coming onto the scene, there are more markets and also more competition for those markets. Which means that more people from outside of the System are selling things. These sales are true miracles, and they're happening more and more.

The buyers most likely to take chances are the newer and edgier ones, such as MTV and COMEDY CENTRAL. Their doors aren't exactly wide open, but they're definitely ajar. The secret to taking advantage of this is to get to an insider. If you know someone who knows someone who's related to someone who's related to someone else who's working in development or even producing a series that's currently on the air, write down your idea and get it passed up the line. If you don't know anyone who knows anyone, etc., then try to get hold of the rosters of the various networks, channels, and companies, and get in touch with the right person directly. This information is scattered around various websites, and it's also available all in one place in an e-book I've put together called TV Writers Market 2000, which you can order directly elsewhere on TV Writer.Com.

After you've found your target, give him or her a call. Try to get a meeting, so you exist as a real human with a face and personality, a human Mr. or Ms High Mucky Muck might want to work with or, more likely, use in some way. If your idea is as good as you think it is, your insider friend just may be able to sell it. You probably won't get any credit or very much money, but you'll have some satisfaction, and a foot in the door.

Another way outsiders have triumphed has been by scraping up enough money to make their own pilots, and then beating on doors until they've been seen. This works best with syndication houses, because you can bring your wares to NATPE, a kind of convention of syndicators and those who buy from them, set up a booth like you would at any trade show, and let everyone who's anyone see your stuff. A few years back, I sold a series this way.

One final caution: Before you do any of this, be very certain that your idea is truly a good one. That means you have to keep in mind the Hollywood definition of "good," as told to me by a network Vice President years ago: "A good idea? Why that's one I think my boss will like!" How do you find out what the boss'll like? Hey, if I knew, would I have time for this Home Page? (But if you figure it out, e-mail immediately and LET ME KNOW!)

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"How do I keep all those Hollywood sharpies from stealing my great idea for a TV series and putting it on the air without me?"

This too is a tough one, and it also has a quick answer: "You can't." And, as far as it goes, it's the truth. If some power player wants to appropriate your idea, then that's what's going to happen, and all you can do is sue the mumser later.

But the operative phrase here is, "as far as it goes." Yes, the potential for being ripped-off exists, but that shouldn't keep you from submitting material or taking any meetings you can get. Strange as it may sound, it doesn't cost any more to buy an idea than it does to steal it. In fact, the going rate in television for even the greatest of ideas is $0. That's right, nothing, the proverbial nada. The Mucky Mucks can get all but the hottest writers to option their gems for free. Then, if the idea keeps progressing through the various stages of development, real money changes hands. At each stage of the process you get more, more, and still more. A beginner won't get as much as an insider, but that's actually a plus. In the ongoing effort to save big bucks, the studios and networks prefer to work with new people for one very important reason: They don't have to pay as much.

If you're still worried, there are several options. You can copyright your brainchild by writing it up as fully as possible and filling out the right forms with the U.S. Copyright office. The problem here is that your idea itself won't be protected, only the actual words you've used. To get around this, you can register what you've got in person or by mail with the Writers Guild of America, or over the web with places like WriteSafe.Com and ProtectRite. That way you have proof that your idea existed as your idea, which will help you with various legal remedies should it all come down to that. My favorite of these sites is WriteSafe.Com because it's the cheapest of the services I've mentioned, it will also post your work on the Web, where it can be seen and perhaps bought, and it has one heck of an ongoing contest with great prizes, including a guaranteed read by the likes of Stan Lee of Stan Lee Media (yep, that Stan Lee), Richard Kirshner of CBS, Tom T of Sony Entertainment, and a host of other bigshots. (I have to mention one more thing as well...I have a financial interest in WriteSafe. But that's because I believe in it so much.)

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"What's a typical day in the life of a freelance TV writer really like?"

The life of a freelancer is a paradoxical one. On one hand, you can spend all day in your bathrobe, doing nothing but sitting at the computer and creating. On the other hand, you have to earn a living, which means that writing isn't the end in itself but simply the means. Not only do you have to write an episode or movie of the week--you have to get paid for it.

When I was an "entry-level" writer, my day was spent very simply. I'd put in about twelve hours at the (then) typewriter and write what I wanted to. Then, when it was done, I would give it to my agent, and she would try to sell it. She never sold anything I wrote, but, more importantly, she used my work as samples to sell me.

This made me a "mid-level" writer, and then my day was spent writing on something someone else had assigned me. I soon learned that in many ways, getting the assignment was more important--and more difficult--than fulfilling it. Translated, that means that a mid-level freelance writer in TV spends about half his day on the phone, calling everyone he knows who may have a script assignment to give out (producers, story editors, studio and network execs) and trying to set up a "pitch meeting" where the writer can attempt to sell an idea for an episode of a series or MOW.

That, of course, means that another large chunk of time is spent coming up with ideas for shows that may or may not have openings, and another, smaller chunk is spent actually pitching. If the mid-level writer gets lucky and someone says "Yes," then the writer knows he or she is going to get paid for any writing that gets done, and the days of working at the computer start--while at the same time you continue to look for new ideas and set up new meetings so you'll have something to do as soon as this project is finished.

The "top-level" freelancer has a different life. He or she just hangs out at the beach, or at home, or at any great vacation spot, and waits for his or her agent to call and say, "I've got you a staff job." Because, even though it can be exciting, the freelance life is so fraught with fiscal uncertainty that, ultimately, every freelancer finds that most of the day is really spent praying for the freelance life to end.

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"What's a typical day in the life of a TV writer on the staff of a series really like?

Basically, being on the writing staff of a series is like being in Hell. The job--whether you be called staff writer, story editor, or producer--is the most stressful occupation outside of war.

The hours are long. You start at nine or ten in the morning, and come home at nine or ten at night, and while you don't have to go into the office on weekends, you do have to write at home during that time. Each script for each episode is written and rewritten and then rewritten a few more times, and it's common to be on the set changing dialog just before it's going to be shot. When you're on the staff of a series you can forget such things as haircuts, nights out on the town, or evenings with your family. You just don't have time for any of that, particularly once you realize that five thousand other people want your job and will do anything to get it. One slip, and you're history, replaced by another eager young face.

I know, I know...when you see this stuff on TV it doesn't look like its creators took it very seriously at all. But the fact is that so many people cared about it so much that they all had to stick their fingers into the pie--and we all know that saying about "too many cooks." Which means that not only are you the very definition of stressed-out, but you're frustrated as all get-out because the product starts getting worse and worse instead of better and better. Ultimately, the TV staff writer finds himself praying again--for the good old days when he was a freelancer!

Ah, but there are some good points. If you don't have a personal life, you won't need one. And the pressure is addictive. After while you stop feeling it, and then you start to thrive on it. You get to hobnob with stars, which can be very glamorous. Your friends become jealous of you. You get to be part of the greater showbiz community, a member of what is, after all, a very small and very "in" group. And, of course, you are very well paid. Staff writers get about $2500 a week to start, and that doesn't count any scripts you actually write. For those, you get--depending on the nature of the series--between $6000 (for animation) and $25,000 (for primetime drama) an episode more.

For many people that kind of money can make up for an awful lot of creative and personal frustration, but that isn't true for us all. The bottom line seems to be that nobody's ever satisfied. The guy with the job someone else is dying for hates it and wants out. The guy who's out wants in. Still, the way I see things, no matter how hard any showbiz job is, it's a whole lot easier than really working for a living!

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"Format is so confusing. How long are TV scripts anyway? Do I really have to put all those act breaks and angles and things in? Can't I just tell the story?"

The subject of camera angles in scripts has become my pet peeve, so I'll start with that. Listen carefully boys and girls, moms and dads, geniuses and revolutionaries: NO, YOU CANNOT JUST TELL THE STORY IN YOUR SPEC TV SCRIPT. YES, YOU MUST HAVE ACT BREAKS AND CAMERA ANGLES. On the practical side, there are several reasons for this. Since TV almost never buys original material, everything you write is the equivalent of taking an entrance exam into the field. Television scripts use act breaks and camera angles; therefore you have to show that you know how to use them as well.

We're not talking major orders for how your script must be filmed. No "WHIP PAN TIGHTEN ON a drop of blood, TILTING TO SHOW it sliding down the chracter's cheek," kind of stuff, but: "Character looks O.S. He sees: A HUGE BULL ELEPHANT CHARGING AT HIM BACK TO CHARACTER He gets out of there fast, running to a copse of trees. THE ELEPHANT pulls up short, TRUMPETS its frustration. THE CHARACTER heaves a sigh of relief..." With, of course, all of the above positioned properly on the page.

I know that the screenwriting books tell you differently, and it's true that you can sell a screenplay that has only INT. and EXT. as camera instructions (but it better be brilliant, and your chances would be better with angles) but the example above is what TV writing is all about. It's how scripts are written so that the directors will have an idea of the basic look and feeling of the show and can plan to shoot it accordingly. It's also what the readers of television scripts are used to reading, and if they don't see this kind of thing they figure you don't know what you're doing--and they just may be right.

Creatively, camera angles are, believe it or not, your friends. They're a shorthand for showing what's important, for heightening both action and emotion. If, for example, you ANGLE ON LILITH as she bursts into laughter, her laughter has much more of an effect on the reader than if you just say within a paragraph that Lilith laughs. The key with angles is not to overuse them. Kepe them simple. Don't call every shot. (You wouldn't break up a 2 page conversation by staging it as Master, Over Shoulder, Over Shoulder, Close Up, Close Up; that will automatically be done on the set.) Use them to enhance important points, and all of us who have to read your work will grin broadly.

As for act breaks, obviously you have to have them because TV scripts are constructed around them. You need to show that you can build tension, suspense, or action in television style, leaving the reader or viewer hanging breathlessly at the end of each segment. In television, pacing is at least as important as characterization, and pacing is greatly dependent on the breaks. It's not exactly creative freedom, but it's essential.

And now, last but not least, there's the subject of length. All scripts in film format run at about a minute a page, but an hour TV show is really 48 minutes, and a half hour is half that. In order to have film to edit but also be able to shoot on schedule, the average hour script is 50-55 pages, with action shows running on the shorter side and dramatic shows with a lot of talking running longer because action plays out longer than conversation.

On an hour show the 50-55 pages are usually divided into a TEASER and four ACTS. The Teaser is usually 3-4 pages long, with one "riveting" sequence, usually taking place with two scenes, to get you hooked on watching the show. Act 1 is about 14-15 pages long. Act 2 is usually 13-14 pages long. Act 3 12-13. Act 4 ditto. Some syndicated shows, like STAR TREK: VOYAGER, have five acts instead. Many shows have a TAG at the end of the last act. Sometimes it's just the last scene of an act. Other times it gets its own heading and comes after a commercial break. It's usually about a page and a half and is there to leave everyone smiling--or worried about what's happening next, depending on the series.

The average hour show has 25-30 scenes. As you can see, they're short even though you may not notice that when you watch the show because that's one of the great illusions created by film. One minute of screen time will feel like five. That's why we edit edit edit everything, paring it down to the bone.

Half hour dramas are basically the same as above but--you already guessed it--with all the numbers cut in half. Sitcoms are a whole 'nuther thing, however. Each sitcom has its own specific format. Some are shot on film and use conventional film format. Others are taped and use a kind of bastardized stage format, complete with double-spacing. The latter usually begin with something called a "COLD OPENING" and then list each ACT of two and each SCENE within the acts (usually about five). These scripts are often about 45 pages long--with a laugh coming every three speeches or you're considered to have failed.

The best way to learn what TV scripts are like is to read them. I've posted a couple of hour scripts on the ART OF TV WRITING Page on this site, and several animation scripts on the SILVER SURFER Page. Sitcom scripts are harder to come by, but the Links Page lists several places to get them.

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There you go. And now for the answer everyone really wants--the Secret of the Universe!. It's...it's...

Uh-oh, wouldn't you know it? I forgot...