AJ Graves sat in a paddedediting bay at HGTV’s Midtown offices waiting for an audio clip to load into Avid Media Composer.
Her boss, Ian Farnum, clicked a pen over her shoulder.
“Not helping,” said AJ.
“Sorry,” said Ian. “We’ve just got no story.”
“Patience,” said AJ.
AJ had once heard Ian describe himself as a thirtysomething potato in glasses, which…fine. He was bald and pasty. But AJ would have added that he was a top executive producer by day and a crack comedian by night. Then again, she had Ian to thank for basically everything in her life.
They’d met her sophomore year at NYU during a networking event for the Film and Television department. AJ had settled on a writing concentration, aiming to apply all she had learned from her classes andthat summerto TV scripts. Ian worked in unscripted television but was a kindred spirit, and with no connections in the business, AJ had readily agreed to intern for him onHouse Hunters.
She had been working in reality TV ever since.
After graduation, Ian hired her full-time as an associate story producer onTurn It or Return It,the compulsively watchable feel-good show that pitted hapless house flippers against conservationists hoping to reclaim the underlying land for Mother Earth.
Which was how they had arrived here.
Even feel-good shows needed some drama, orstory.The problem was this couple—Jim and Malinda. They were too nice. Nothing had ruined their reno. They were going to pull it off.
It was terrible.
“If only they’d brought the mother-in-law on the walk-through,” Ian whined.
“Patience,” AJ repeated as the audio clip finally appeared in her timeline.
She hit play.
“They don’t show it, of course, but a motheralwaysknows.” The mother-in-law’s voice crackled over the speaker. “The truth is, they’ve been going through in vitro, and their bills are through the roof. Even the slightest issue with this house will completely bankrupt them.”
Suddenly, every corner of the pretty house on AJ’s screen exuded menace. Tada:story.
“How did you—”
“One of the field producers had it on her phone,” said AJ, rotating her chair to face him. “I figure we can really make it sing with some shots of that creepy carpet in the garage.”
Ian grinned. “NautiGurl, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”
AJ laughed and turned back to save her changes. She had told Ian, a fellow Nautical, about herAstronauticalsfanfic years ago—he only called her NautiGurl as the highest praise.
“Come on,” said Ian, standing. “The Frying Dutchman is downstairs, I’m buying.”
AJ jumped up—her favorite food truck.
As they walked toward the elevator, Ian said, “I heard the WGA is about to strike.”
AJ rolled her eyes. “They’re always saying that.”
Those who worked for reality programs, such as AJ and Ian, were exempt from union strikes. Because they weren’t part of a union. Because the industry didn’t considerstorycraft “writing.”
Ian shrugged. “Will you picket in solidarity?”
What went unsaid was that most in reality TV would give their left eyeball to get a shot at a real writers’ room. This included AJ, and, AJ suspected, Ian as well.
She shrugged. “I’m just glad to have a job.”
Outside of work, AJ’sentire world revolved around the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre, the grungy enchanted oasis for aspiring comedians founded by Amy Poehler’s improv quartet of the same name. Though housed in a dismal basement in Chelsea, UCB had massive cachet—those on house teams, like AJ, had a shot at making shows like30 Rock, The Office,andSNL.
