invited to be on cool talk shows like The Tonight Show and The Late Show with David Letterman , and Dave and Paul Shaffer didn’t even have to pretend to know the show that I was on.
I got to see my friend B. J. Novak daily, which, when we weren’t fighting, was the absolute best. Greg and I were nominated for an Emmy for writing the “Niagara” episode, where Jim and Pam get married. But perhaps best of all, I had enough pull that the writers’ assistant kept the fridge stocked with my favorite junk foods—Australian red licorice and Pepperidge Farm cinnamon raisin bread—without my even asking. If that isn’t success and power, I don’t know what is.
Most TV writers, even the good ones, aren’t usually lucky enough to be employed on a great show. And even great shows get canceled. Most writers have to hop from gig to gig to pay for their Priuses and private schools and divorces. I was an exception. I had what most writers dream of: a consistent source of free lunch for eight years. I was a member of the core creative team of what some people considered a classic American comedy, with no end in sight. And did I appreciate it? Um … sometimes ?
The truth was, I had started growing a little restless. I had a dream job—was I ungrateful to wonder what more there might be for me? Or complacent if I didn’t? The fights in the writers’ room and the outcomes that didn’t go my way, the one or two great lines a week on-camera, and, of course, the snacks—was there more to life than an endless supply of Australian red licorice (OK, obviously not, that stuff’s amazing, but you know what I mean)?! And who was I to try to seek anything better? In high school I had been cast as a rag-picker/townsperson/vagrant in eight consecutive plays. Why would I think I could be anything more than part of an ensemble of anything? These conflicting feelings about my job were illuminating—I was finally experiencing what they call “White People Problems.” Or, maybe because of my socioeconomic background, this is more of a “First World Problem”? Or a “One Percenter” issue? I can’t pinpoint which conflict of privilege I was experiencing, but you get it.
THE SOMEWHAT YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS
In television, no matter what your title is, no matter how much you contribute, the only person who has the final say is the showrunner.
When you aren’t the showrunner on a TV show, you feel like a highly regarded attorney: you work hard, do the research, and argue your case, but the judge (in this case, Greg, or Paul Lieberstein, who played Toby on the show and became showrunner after Greg) gets to decide what will actually happen.
And though you understand the pecking order and respect the judge—and even if the judge says “Great argument, Counselor Kaling, the court concurs”—you also just want to not have to plead your case all the time. I wanted to be the judge, jury, and executive producer. (See what I did there?)
Here is a taste of the judge-versus-attorney dynamic between Paul and me in the final years at The Office .
Paul would give me an assignment, and if I didn’t like it, sometimes I would still do it … but sometimes I would do something else. Then I would turn it in and wait for Paul to read it, hoping he would come out of his office, full of wonder and appreciation at my risk taking. “Mindy, I’m amazed by you,” he would say, awestruck. “Not only did you complete the assignment, you reinvented the assignment. You reinvented comedy. Go home. Sleep the sleep of the creatively righteous.”
Instead this is what happened.
PAUL: Hey. This is not the assignment I gave you.
ME: I didn’t believe in the assignment you gave me, so I tried something else, and I’m pretty excited about the results, if I may say so—
PAUL: ( exasperated ) I don’t care if you don’t believe in it, go do it.
I can’t imagine how difficult I was to manage back then. I don’t think Paul could even have imagined
I got to see my friend B. J. Novak daily, which, when we weren’t fighting, was the absolute best. Greg and I were nominated for an Emmy for writing the “Niagara” episode, where Jim and Pam get married. But perhaps best of all, I had enough pull that the writers’ assistant kept the fridge stocked with my favorite junk foods—Australian red licorice and Pepperidge Farm cinnamon raisin bread—without my even asking. If that isn’t success and power, I don’t know what is.
Most TV writers, even the good ones, aren’t usually lucky enough to be employed on a great show. And even great shows get canceled. Most writers have to hop from gig to gig to pay for their Priuses and private schools and divorces. I was an exception. I had what most writers dream of: a consistent source of free lunch for eight years. I was a member of the core creative team of what some people considered a classic American comedy, with no end in sight. And did I appreciate it? Um … sometimes ?
The truth was, I had started growing a little restless. I had a dream job—was I ungrateful to wonder what more there might be for me? Or complacent if I didn’t? The fights in the writers’ room and the outcomes that didn’t go my way, the one or two great lines a week on-camera, and, of course, the snacks—was there more to life than an endless supply of Australian red licorice (OK, obviously not, that stuff’s amazing, but you know what I mean)?! And who was I to try to seek anything better? In high school I had been cast as a rag-picker/townsperson/vagrant in eight consecutive plays. Why would I think I could be anything more than part of an ensemble of anything? These conflicting feelings about my job were illuminating—I was finally experiencing what they call “White People Problems.” Or, maybe because of my socioeconomic background, this is more of a “First World Problem”? Or a “One Percenter” issue? I can’t pinpoint which conflict of privilege I was experiencing, but you get it.
THE SOMEWHAT YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS
In television, no matter what your title is, no matter how much you contribute, the only person who has the final say is the showrunner.
When you aren’t the showrunner on a TV show, you feel like a highly regarded attorney: you work hard, do the research, and argue your case, but the judge (in this case, Greg, or Paul Lieberstein, who played Toby on the show and became showrunner after Greg) gets to decide what will actually happen.
And though you understand the pecking order and respect the judge—and even if the judge says “Great argument, Counselor Kaling, the court concurs”—you also just want to not have to plead your case all the time. I wanted to be the judge, jury, and executive producer. (See what I did there?)
Here is a taste of the judge-versus-attorney dynamic between Paul and me in the final years at The Office .
Paul would give me an assignment, and if I didn’t like it, sometimes I would still do it … but sometimes I would do something else. Then I would turn it in and wait for Paul to read it, hoping he would come out of his office, full of wonder and appreciation at my risk taking. “Mindy, I’m amazed by you,” he would say, awestruck. “Not only did you complete the assignment, you reinvented the assignment. You reinvented comedy. Go home. Sleep the sleep of the creatively righteous.”
Instead this is what happened.
PAUL: Hey. This is not the assignment I gave you.
ME: I didn’t believe in the assignment you gave me, so I tried something else, and I’m pretty excited about the results, if I may say so—
PAUL: ( exasperated ) I don’t care if you don’t believe in it, go do it.
I can’t imagine how difficult I was to manage back then. I don’t think Paul could even have imagined
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