Every Script Needs A Friend

Can my next idea sit with you?

Jun 19, 2024

While cracking jokes on a big stage in front of thousands of people would be my worst nightmare—possibly worse than all my teeth falling out or accidentally showing up to a party naked—I LOVE stand-up comedy. Give me all the Netflix specials! Give me all the live shows! Laughing until my abs hurt is my idea of a perfect date (especially if you throw in tacos and palomas beforehand).

As a consumer, I love to watch comedy, but as a writer, I love to study comedy: the craft, the form, the creative process. After all, writing a great joke is not unlike writing a personal essay. Comedians are also out there telling the truth, but telling it slant. They, too, are searching for a universal hook, utilizing the element of surprise, and striving to engage an audience the way a writer compels a reader.

I’m not sure this is common knowledge, but most Netflix comedy specials are often the result of two to five years (Y E A R S !) of trying material out on tour. Comedians work out their sets on stages, over and over and over again, to see what gets a laugh and what doesn’t. They add and subtract, alter and adjust, performing their rough drafts in front of thousands of people across 100+ venues, revising on the road until their sets are TV-ready.

In other words: comedy is a slow art, which makes me appreciate it even more.

A few weeks ago, I listened to an episode of Mike Birbiglia’s Working It Out podcast featuring Judd Apatow. If you’re not familiar with Mike Birbiglia, he’s one of my favorite comedians.1 If you’re not familiar with Judd Apatow, I am certain you are familiar with his work. The man’s written and/or directed and/or produced practically every major blockbuster comedy in the past few decades.2

At one point in the episode, Mike asks Judd how he feels when he gets feedback on his work. Judd said this in response:

You know, I just remember James Brooks liking ONE line in This is 40 … and that line didn't even make the final edit. But I thought about it every day, the whole shoot. His enthusiasm filled my tank with enough confidence gas to take a lot of risks every day.

According to Judd, that tiny ounce of validation—one friend falling in love with one line—provided enough belief and encouragement for him to keep going.

He continued: … Mike Nichols always said, ‘Every script needs a friend.’

My ears perked up.

For the rest of the day, that line echoed in my head like a Taylor Swift lyric.

Every script needs a friend.

Every script needs a friend.

Every
script
needs
a friend.

I recently flew to Spokane to see my best friend Katie. The time flies by, as it always does, but one morning we’re sitting in the kitchen chatting about work and I feel compelled to show her something I’ve been working on.

Even now, I don’t know what to call this thing. This project. I keep referring to it as “a meaty PDF”—a phrase that conjures up images of ground beef, not exactly the vibe I’m going for. The working title is “Embracing Mystery” and I guess if I had to label it on the spot, I’d call it a guide for memory-keepers … or something like that. (Elevator pitches have never been my strong suit.)

I’ve been tinkering with this giant Canva file for months, contemplating selling it on my website someday. Per my usual process, inspiration comes in fits and spurts. I’ll obsessively work on it nonstop for three days in a row, and then I won’t touch the file for a month. One day I think it’s brilliant, a clever way to earn some extra income. The next day I’m convinced I’m wasting my time.

“Can I show you something I’ve been working on?” I ask Katie, pulling up the Canva link on my laptop.

She walks over to my side of the kitchen counter and peers over my shoulder as I click through the pages. And even though Katie is my best friend, my #1 hype girl by default, I still feel a flash of nerves. I haven’t shown this PDF-in-progress to a single person yet. The dream is still in a cocoon, only around 40% developed.

“ASHLEE!” she practically yells against my cheek, “OH MY GOSH IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL. I want to buy that right now!!!!”

A small laugh of disbelief tumbles out of me.

“Really? So you think I should finish this?”

“A thousand percent,” she nods, “People are going to love it!!!”

Just like that, my script found a friend.

On Everett’s first day of first grade at a brand new school, I could not let go of my biggest anxiety on his behalf: the cafeteria.

Who will he sit with? Who will he sit with? Who will he sit with?

That question haunted me all day as I relived my own memory of being The New Girl, freshman year, walking into an unfamiliar cafeteria where I hardly knew a soul. Even now, at 38 years old, I can transport myself there. Linoleum floor. Fluorescent lights. The air smelled like ham and puberty and a smidge of lemon disinfectant. I remember anxiety climbing up the walls of my chest as I searched for a kind face and somewhere to sit.

(I found both … eventually.)

Sometimes I think of an impending creative dream like a new kid walking into a cafeteria, all nerves and sweat and shallow breaths. Who will I sit with? Am I gonna sink or swim? Come to fruition, or melt into a puddle of unmet potential all over this sticky linoleum floor?

Everything hinges on this moment.

The half-baked idea stands in the doorway, scanning the room, desperately looking for someone to lock eyes with, desperately looking for a friend.

Just as the name suggests, at the end of the Working it Out podcast, Mike Birbiglia and his guests work out new material together. They take turns pitching ideas and testing jokes, an unspoken agreement that if the other person laughs, the joke is good. If they don’t, it’s not quite there.

As a mere fly on the wall—AKA a random woman listening to a podcast in her car—even I feel relief when a joke gets a laugh. What victory! What validation! Is there any better feeling than throwing a story out into the world and watching it stick the landing? Is there any better feeling than the exact moment your script finds a friend?

I hear from women all the time who don’t believe they’re creative. And while it’s something of my mission in life to convince them otherwise, I also think we underestimate the other side of the art-making coin: being a friend to a script. This might not sound like an important job, but scripts without friends don’t get made. Ask me how I know. I’ve got my own graveyard of dead dreams.

People say the world needs your art. I don’t disagree. But I’d like to add: the world needs you to be a friend to someone else’s art, too.

Both roles are significant. Both roles matter. The longer I’ve been at this work, the more I see art as an ecosystem. Just like animals and plants and weather and landscapes work together to form a bubble of life, art is made up of more than just an artist and a single idea. Art is made up of hard-working creatives and brilliant ideas and raw material, yes, but it’s also made up of laughs and nods and exclamation points and DMs that say, “Thank you for writing what I feel but have never been able to put into words.”

Whether your personal art is thriving or wintering, there is a significant role you can play in this ecosystem. Even better: it costs nothing more than a moment of your time. Maybe a smile, if you’re up for that. You could be the first person to hit the like button. The person who says, “Wow, that’s beautiful.” You could be the person who simply laughs at a joke.3

People are out there making art every single day, facing mountains of fear and insecurity and doubt. There’s so much to overcome, so many ideas tip-toeing into the metaphorical cafeteria, looking for a safe place to sit.

And I guess my point in all of this is to simply remind us:

Every script needs a friend.

And we could be that friend.

Create Anyway

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