. . . by making well.
Now I look back at all those moments when Treacher rapped me on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper for real and imaginary offenses against internet etiquette, and I think: He noticed me!
Actually, it’s kind of a cool story. It reminds me of back when an animation writer I know was working at the Wherehouse (a music store that may or may not still exist, and probably does not), when he got a phone call from Steven Spielberg’s people about a script he’d written. As I recall, he gave his notice that very day.
(Of course, that was before the animation crash, and before the reality TV craze sent sitcom writers streaming into the cartoon trade, where they brought in all their sitcom writer friends, and crowded the more experienced people out of an already shrinking market . . . So that particular story doesn’t end happily. But it “middles” quite nicely.)
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