We’ve prepped. We’ve cast. Now we shoot the pilot.

We just wrapped six weeks of prep for our pilot. We’ve cast the actors, scouted the locations, built the sets, selected the wardrobes. I watched our stars sit around a table and read my script aloud for the network. I’m exhausted, I’m nervous, in all truth I’m a wreck. But I’m ready. We start shooting THE ORDAINED on Monday.

Following are some scenes from prep:

Audition room

Casting is hard. Auditioning is harder.

Balls. Of. Steel. After sitting through round after round of auditions, I’m now convinced that’s what you need to be a working actor. You come in, say hi to the people who may or may not hire you, you pretend to be someone else for a few minutes, then you leave. And wait. Yep. Balls of steel.

Bus

Tech scout bus.

Last week, our staff and crew traveled around in this bus on the tech scout. That’s when we visit every single location plus our stages in a sort of dry run to make sure we’re maximally prepared. Electricians checked wiring. Prop masters discussed where pencil stands would go. Art directors measured door openings. Cameramen blocked shots.

Sign THE ORDAINED

Follow the arrow to our offices.

Maybe the most mind-blowing moment of this process was walking into a brick building in Brooklyn and discovering an expansive set of offices dedicated to our pilot. It’s a teeming hub of production coordinators and assistant directors and art directors and location managers. There’s even an accounting department (I don’t know why, but that impressed me most). It’s an operation. And big, humming operation that rose up out of a story I wrote.

As a writer, I’ve never thought of myself as a job creator, though I suppose you could argue content is what keeps the magazine and book industries alive. Still, I always felt like a skinny spoke in a massive wheel. Now I’m something more like the engine. It’s a wee bit terrifying.

Wardrobe

Ties and shoes and belts and hats and…

A big part of creating a world is dressing your actors to fit their parts. I had no idea what a gigantic effort this is. Our brilliant wardrobe designer and her assistants began with concepts for each character—is he young? Rich? Casual? Flashy? They gather our stars’ measurements and then they SHOP. Our world is luxurious and powerful; so are our clothes. The selection fills a small warehouse.

Set

Our interior set.

Here’s another moment that blew me away: walking into a drafty building and into our stages. Much of our filming occurs on location, but a few interiors have been built indoors. It’s one thing to find existing spaces that are allowing us to shoot; it’s another to create one from scratch.

Director's chair

The man with the plan.

Now it comes down to this guy. On the Friday before we begin shooting, his documentary, “The World According to Dick Cheney,” debuted on Showtime. He’s a remarkable director and a remarkable man, and we can’t possibly be in better hands.

Casting a TV pilot is no picnic

You’d think this would be the fun part.

My emotions thus far in casting our pilot: bemused > tickled > confused > fascinated > overwhelmed > tired > baffled > frustrated > hopeful > bereft > furious > cynical > surprised > thrilled.

The first time someone asked me who I saw in the roles I wrote, I laughed. Because I didn’t see actors in my roles; I saw characters. Truth is, I don’t really follow actors. It’s hard for me to remember their names. I enjoy flipping through People magazine as much as the next girl, but I can’t rattle off the cast of “The Office.”

The roomful of network execs turned to me, and they didn’t laugh back. I realized I had to get an opinion—and fast.

Star

Stars!

Our two top casting agencies (one in L.A. and the other in New York) put together lists of actors for each of the lead roles, categorizing them by who was “technically” available, and where they were based. We producers were to cherry-pick the ones we liked.

This seemed like a silly exercise. How would we know who would be interested in a particular role in my particular script? Shouldn’t they read it first?

Nope—not how it works. Most Famous Actors, and even some Not That Famous Actors, are “offer only.” That means they won’t even consider the script unless there’s an actual offer on the table.

Even if they read and like the script, lots of other factors come into play. Can the actor commit to a grueling network schedule? Does he or she want to work in New York, where we plan to shoot? Is the role big enough? Will we meet their quote?

Here are the entities who have a say in the decision: a) the network; b) the studio; c) the actors’ reps; d) the casting directors; e) the producers (including me); f) and, finally, of course, the actor him- or herself.

Star on red carpet

This is probably the fun part.

In a number of these situations, it comes down to a meeting or call. And I’m as surprised to tell you as you may be to hear that I am called on to play the closer. While the other producers do the heavy lifting of dealing with agents, negotiating and hammering out the deal, I trot out to talk to the actor to explain the story, the character, my visions of the trajectory.

I leave my soul on the table every time. So when it doesn’t work out, for any of a million reasons, the loss feels awful personal.

But when they say yes? It’s brilliant.

 

Location scouting for my pilot

I spent the last two days in a van driven by a Teamster with eight other people, scouting locations for my pilot. It was raining. The van kind of smelled. It was a total blast.

Times Square

The view from a location we scouted.

We’re shooting in New York City. This is no accident. I threw one after another iconic landmark and character into my script because I hoped this would force the issue. It’s a New York story! You can’t fake Times Square on some Hollywood lot!

Shooting in New York means a New York production staff. Who knew so many accomplished TV and film professionals live and work here? (Oh, you did? I didn’t.) Some have theater backgrounds; all just like it better here than in L.A. They don’t want for work, either. Their lists of credits are looong.

We trooped after our location manager into office buildings and churches and private residences and a courthouse. One law firm we visited would let us shoot while they work; one townhouse owner scooted away her daughter’s toys as we tramped from room to room. It’s not for free; each location demands a fee, and a hefty one at that. I suppose it’s one way to make your mortgage, but can you imagine letting strangers invade your beautiful home?

The best part was the van gossip. They’ve all worked with each other over the years on various projects, and when your colleagues are celebrities, there’s a lot of intel to trade. Even the van driver had stories. These guys know where all the bodies are buried.

Some things I learned during location scouting:

• If you’re shooting in March for a scene set in late summer, you’ll need special effects to color Central Park’s trees green.

• Likewise, if your script would force your poor actors sit outside in March on a fire escape in underwear, you’ll probably have to build that set indoors.

• Even if the scene is set in a small space, like, say, a starter apartment, you still need a ton of room for cameras and crew.

• New Yorkers get really pissed when you shoot near their homes. I know this from when we lived on the Upper West Side and we’d curse “Law & Order” for hogging all the parking on our street.

• The City has rotating “hot zones” where you’re not allowed to shoot. This is supposed to give residents in popular areas a break, but often a zone might magically sprout up in a VIP’s neighborhood.

See? Fun.

What happens when a network orders your pilot

So I’m sitting on the couch at 8:30 on Friday night, reading. The kids are in bed. My husband is beside me, K.O.’d by the flu.

The phone rings. It’s my manager. I know it’s not going to be about my pilot. The network has only ordered Jerry Bruckheimer’s drama so far, the one starring Toni Collette. It still has four other big-name “commitment” projects to announce before it gets around to deciding on no-name hopefuls like mine.

My manager has assured me we won’t hear until next week, but that the team is still “cautiously optimistic.” I don’t know why. We’re up against 60 other drama pilots. It’s the first pilot I’ve ever sold.

On the phone he says, “Hold on.” Then I hear a lot of beeps and background voices as he conferences in our producers, our studio execs, and then, finally, the network.

That’s how I learned CBS had picked up my pilot.

To be honest, the conversation after that is a blur. There were a lot of congratulations and thank yous. I do remember someone mentioning the name of a legendary star who is being considered for a leading role, after which my brain exploded.

I woke up my husband. He managed a weak, “That’s great, honey—I’m so proud of you,” before he passed out again.

So I went to Facebook, as you do. I told friends that CBS had picked up my pilot. Which is the language my team had used.

As little as I know about the TV business, apparently my friends know even less. I am still getting texts asking what time they need to set their DVRs. So, here, an explanation, courtesy of TVLine.com:

When a network orders (or “picks up”) a pilot, they’re asking its writers/producers/studio to cast and produce a very close facsimile of what their series’ first episode will look like. Each pilot is reviewed by network brass, and then typically put into testing before a decision is made on whether it will land on the schedule (for fall or midseason).

That’s what happens next. We shoot the pilot. And only the pilot. Which will only ever air if the network sends it to series.

Meantime, there’s lots to do. First we cast and hire actors, a director, and many other people whose functions I still have to learn. We started talking lead actors a while ago, and the discussions always made me giggle. It’s weird to think of someone famous playing a role named after my dad.

On my end, I need to cut ten pages from my script. Ten pages! A producer from CBS’s THE GOOD WIFE was kind enough to clock my script for us, and that’s what we need to bring it in on time.

So here I sit in my attic office in freezing-cold New Jersey (19 degrees!), fussing with my script, nipping here, tucking there. Just like I’ve been doing these past few years, writing in cozy obscurity. Hollywood (82 degrees!) seems very far away—and a significant part of me wants to keep it that way. But change, it’s a-coming.

My CBS pilot was inspired by my dad. This is him.

In case you haven’t heard me hollering, CBS ordered my drama pilot, THE ORDAINED. Here’s the write-up in Deadline by Nellie Andreeva (“The back story of Cullen’s project is the kind aspiring writers dream of”—if you dream of ulcerative colitis!) and the one from the Hollywood Reporter.

As Deadline reports,

the essence of the lead character inspired by her late father, a former priest.

This is true. So I thought I’d introduce you to my dad.

His name was Tom Reilly, and he was an ex-priest. My character’s name is Tom Reilly, and he is an ex-priest.

I am not yet so good at making stuff up.

Thomas J. Reilly, priest

This was Father Tom Reilly, before he became MY father.

My dad was born in 1933 in Philadelphia, the second of six children. My grandfather, his father, was an Irish-American lawyer who ran for district attorney but lost. My grandmother, his mother, was of Cuban descent.

In my pilot, Tom’s father is an Irish-American former governor of New York who ran for President but lost. Tom’s mother is of Cuban descent.

Making stuff up is hard.

My dad left the priesthood in his mid-thirties to marry my mom. In my show, Tom leaves the priesthood in his mid-thirties to try to save his sister, the mayor of New York City, from an assassination plot.

So I made THAT up.

After he quit the priesthood, the real Tom Reilly went into advertising. The made-up Tom Reilly goes into the law.

See the difference? I can do this.

Tom Reilly spent the next forty years in Japan, raised four kids, ran his ad agency, made everyone he met laugh, and remained a devout Catholic to his last. That last came in 2009, nine months after my mom died of cancer. Near as any of us can figure, he died of a broken heart.

I don’t know yet what the future holds for my Tom Reilly, the one in my head. I have so many adventures plotted for him, twists and turns, tragedies and triumphs, maybe a broken heart or two. All I know is he’d be damn lucky to live a life as rich as the real-life Tom Reilly’s. We all would.

So here’s to the resurrection of Tom Reilly. May he yet live.

How I met my TV agent (and my manager, and my lawyer)

Breaking into TV writing is about as mysterious a process to most of us as nuclear fusion. The biggest mystery of all is how one goes about getting an agent.

Here’s what knowledgeable people will tell you to do:

1. Enroll in film school.

2. Move to L.A.

3. Grovel till you find work as an assistant in a writer’s room on a show.

4. Grovel till one of the writers takes a look at your specs.

5. Pray your script will make the writer laugh/cry so hard he’ll introduce you to his agent.

That path only works if you’re 18. What if you’re not? And have a full-time job doing something else entirely, plus a mortgage, plus a husband and kids, and you live 3,000 miles from the Hollywood sign?

Here’s a short version of what happened to me.

Jeremy Piven Entourage

My agent is not this guy.

In 2007, I was a journalist, a staff writer for Time magazine. I had just published an article I thought—for no good reason at all—would make a super cool TV series.

My book agent—who had hoped the article would turn into a super cool book—sighed and introduced me to her friend, a TV agent in Hollywood. He called. I pitched the idea. He totally got it. He asked for a treatment.

I said, “What’s a treatment?”

I could say that was the start of my brilliant career as a TV writer, but that would not be true. That pitch died a gruesome death, but not till two years later, during which I continued to work at Time. Meantime, I took classes and workshops and read everything I could on how to write a TV script. I finally quit my full-time job in 2009.

In 2010, I went to L.A. for staffing season. That’s the month or so in late spring when new TV shows hire their writing staff. My agent set up a ton of meetings, but I wound up not staffing because all, and I mean all, the jobs that year were in L.A.—which is kind of a long commute from New Jersey.

But it wasn’t all for nothing. Because the most important meeting my agent set up was with the guy who would become my manager.

Whoa, whoa, you’re saying. Why would a broke-ass writer without a single credit need or deserve a manager? And what’s the difference between an agent and a manager anyway?

That’s a timeless question, and a tricky one. I can only speak for myself: my agent is my connector and negotiator. He’s my link to networks and producers as well as the other people and projects his powerful agency represents. My manager represents me. (Think Ari and Eric in “Entourage.” Without the drama.)

So that’s how I met my TV agent. I now have two at the same agency. And my manager. They hooked me up with my lawyer. They’re all great guys.

That’s a lot of commissions for said broke-ass writer, you’re thinking. But you know what? Ten percent of zero is zero. If I earn nothing, they earn nothing. I hope to earn them a little something someday.

 

The difference between selling a TV pilot and selling a novel

…is that one will eventually see the light of day. The other may not. Ever.

Last year, for the first and maybe last time, I did both. I sold a novel to Penguin, and a TV pilot to CBS.

In both cases, the sale is only the end of the beginning of the process. You get paid, partially; the rest comes in increments, after you hand in the next draft, et cetera. You and your people edit the hell out of the thing. You prepare. You strategize. And you wait.

In the case of my novel, “Pastors’ Wives” (pre-order now on Amazon!), we have a publication date: May 2013. Since we sold the manuscript in February 2012, it’s gone through two edits by my main editor, a copy edit, and something called a pass, which is kind of like a proof. We rejected two cover designs before we landed on one we loved. I begged other authors for blurbs. We’re currently circulating it among book bloggers and reviewers. Next week I meet with my agents, editors and publicists to devise an all-out marketing strategy.

And whatever happens, it will publish in May. If the only people who buy it are related to me by blood, it will still exist in the world.

Not so my pilot.

So far, the 66 pages I bled over have been read by under two dozen people: my manager, my agents, our producers, our studio execs, and our network execs. I made my husband read it. Also a very few people with expertise in my topic, for fact-checking purposes.

That’s it. And that may be it, ever.

In a couple of weeks, we’ll know if mine is among the seven or eight drama pilots CBS will decide to shoot, among the 60 or so it has bought this season. I mention this so you know my odds are loooong.

If it should happen to hit the jackpot, then, yes, many more people will read the script. And if it should happen to win the whole lotto and get sent to series, even the tiniest broadcast TV audience would dwarf a bestselling book’s.

And in the likely event it doesn’t? Then into the bin it goes. No chance of selling it elsewhere, as the studio now owns the rights. The Writer’s Guild stages readings of unproduced teleplays, but that would just be weird.

So here I send my two babies into 2013, their fortunes already set. I love them both. I hope they make it.

I sold a TV pilot. Here’s how it happened.

I sold a drama pilot to CBS.

Although this happened in early September, it didn’t seem totally real until this past week, when I was out in L.A. and people shook my hand.

Here’s how it happened.

Plane and pilot

Not this kind of pilot.

A year ago, I pitched an idea. That was all it was at the time: an idea. And lest you think that’s totally bizarre, this is how it works in Hollywood. Every September, writers troop into network executives’ offices, and they spin a tale they think could maybe work on TV. Then the network executives buy it, or don’t. I know. It’s an insane business model.

Anyway, I failed. I completely failed to sell my idea. So I went home to New Jersey, cried, drank, and finished my novel. My book agent sold said novel in February. So this spring I found myself with some time.

“Just write the pitch up as a spec,” said my TV manager.

Let me try to explain what those words mean to a writer. It’s how I came to write my novel, which began as a magazine article, then morphed into a TV pitch, which met a horrible, harakiri ending. My book agent told me to just write it as a novel. Even though I’d daydreamed of such a project, it meant everything hearing it seconded by someone who really understood my idea and, moreover, its chances on the market. It’s the equivalent of: “I believe in you.” When someone says that, you begin to believe yourself.

And so I did. I wrote my damn pitch into a TV pilot script. If you’re in the business, this is where you laugh. Because you know it’s near impossible to sell a spec. “Spec” is short for speculative. As in, a speculative script written on the speculation that someone somewhere may want it. What I didn’t know is that the chances of a spec pilot selling are about near that of Karl Rove winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

Like I said, I did not know that. So I spent the spring shaping and writing my script. My manager weighed in with note after note. We eventually had a script we rather liked. Now we had to shop it.

Last season, we’d shopped my pitch with a whole entourage. But the producer we’d worked with on the pitch declined to partner with us this time, “given how hard it is to sell a spec,” she said. That was my first hint. Oh. Maybe all this had been a total waste of time.

But my manager believed in the project. So he sent it out. CBS Studios responded immediately. After a phone meeting, they made an offer. Swiftly after that, they announced CBS, their sister network, was in.

The best part? I’ll make the Guild minimum and keep my family’s health insurance. I dream big, see.

What it’s like to pitch a TV show

Terrifying. Exhausting. Crushing. Humiliating.

Welcome to TV pitch season.

This is just my third go-round, so understand my view is that of a newbie who still kind of totally sucks at this. (For advice and a far more experienced take on pitch meetings, I’m currently reading Lynda Obst‘s wonderful “Hello, He Lied.”)

My first year, my manager managed to wrangle a blind-script deal from Warner Bros., so I didn’t have to trot out to the networks. Last year, my second try, I had a deal from Sony called an if-come, which means if I sold it, the money would come. This year, I’m pitching a spec*, so my meetings are by phone. Which is much, much easier.

Sold

If it were this easy… (Credit: Lucidio Studios)

But who wants to hear about easier? Let me tell you about last year!

I started with an idea. I started with a lot of ideas, actually, but only one that my manager and agents thought passed muster. Then began the laborious process of matching me up with an entourage.

The reason I needed a team is that I’m Lisa who? If a David Shore (creator of HOUSE) or a Shawn Ryan (creator of THE SHIELD) wandered into a network exec’s office with a germ of an idea, chances are they’d walk out with a bid. If a mom from New Jersey wanders in…well, she wouldn’t, because she wouldn’t get past the security guard at the gates.

Someone like me needs back-up, because back-up confers legitimacy. That means before I even hit up a network, I needed to first land a show-runner. And a production company. And a studio.

Show-runners, as you probably grew up knowing but I didn’t, are the rare breed who make a living orchestrating TV series. One of those meetings occurred a few hours after I stepped off a Jet Blue flight to Burbank (because it’s cheaper than flying into LAX). I was staying at a crack motel east of the 101 in Thai Town. My room smelled of nail polish and fish sauce.

Dizzy with fatigue, I arranged to meet the show-runner at a restaurant in West Hollywood. I parked nearby, and, as I crossed the street, I fell. I mean I fell. An honest-to-goodness, movie-stunt wipe-out—the one in which the girl in heels flies knees first into the asphalt, with three cyclist dudes watching, and her iPhone flies out of her hand into the puddle at the edge of the road.

I walked into the meeting shaking, my knees bloody. This show-runner was a man in his 50s, the award-winning executive producer of one of the most successful dramas in TV history, one that had recently ended its run.

“I just fell down,” were my first words. You’ll be stunned to learn the pitch that followed was incoherent garbage. He ordered a plate of fries, then sent it back because they weren’t crispy enough. That’s me, I thought. A pile of soggy fries.

“If he agrees to do it,” I later told my manager, “it would be a miracle.” Miracles happen. He agreed.

Albert Brooks

That’s me, pitching. I swear.

Then came the production company. I drove all over town for many meetings in offices big and small, one in a tiny cabin hard by Barham Boulevard, another in a hip renovated warehouse in Santa Monica. One of the last meetings was in a nondescript three-story building in Burbank. The exec and her assistant were young, warm and enthusiastic. They asked smart, probing questions. But they were also insanely busy covering one of the hottest TV dramas on cable, one festooned with awards and approaching its final season. Somehow, they too agreed.

Next, the studio, Sony. They agreed, too, albeit with the aforementioned deal. And for whatever reason, the deal took a long, long time to finalize, putting us at the tail end of pitch season. The result was that, by then, only two networks agreed to see us; the rest had fulfilled their roster of shows like mine.

Nevertheless, we gave it the old college try. My show-runner, producers, studio exec and I sweated to shape and polish the pitch. My pitch document (otherwise known as my crib sheet) grew to five pages, single-spaced. I’m not supposed to read from it…but you try memorizing 20 minutes of choreographed blather.

Let me just stop right here and tell you about my frame of mind at the time. I’d dashed back and forth from New Jersey to L.A. for two months, squatting in whatever crappy accommodations Expedia packaged with my el cheapo flights. My sudden disappearances did not raise my popularity with my spouse and small children. And now my family’s health insurance (I’ll explain this later) and a large chunk of our livelihood depended on how I performed on a single day.

Then: show time.

At the first network, I hit it out the park. I’m telling you. I was chatty, I was funny, the execs laughed, my team smiled. Leaving the room, we high-fived.

At the second, later the same day, I all but threw up on the coffee table. I blame the bottle of Orangina I carelessly swigged pre-meeting. I was working so hard not to belch like a trucker that I broke out in a sweat. You know that scene in BROADCAST NEWS? The one with Albert Brooks and the flop sweat? Yeah.

Bottle of Orangina

Whatever you do, don’t swig this before a pitch.

The execs were lavish in their praise, as is the habit in Hollywood. I heard words like “smart” and “surprising” and “different.” My team was enthusiastic after the first meeting, consoling after the second.

And in the end, neither bought. The flip side of an if-come deal is that if the pitch doesn’t sell, then the money doesn’t come. So I wound up with nada.

That’s what it’s like to pitch a TV show. In case you were wondering.

* This year, like I said, I’m pitching a spec, which is a script I already wrote on the speculation that someone somewhere would buy it. Specs are notoriously hard to sell. But a major studio has just given us a deal. Now they’ve got to sell it to network or cable. All digits crossed.**

** UPDATE: A network bought my pilot! More on this shortly.

I’m so pleased to meet you…

I got these flowers for Mother's Day. Pretty, right?

Let’s start with introductions. I’m Lisa Takeuchi Cullen. You probably have some burning questions for me. Because I am the type of person who hates to start sentences with “I am the type of person who,” I’d like to begin our relationship with candor and TMI. Here, below, are some queries I imagined you might have for me, and, also below, my answers:

Q. All so-called writers who have websites are trying to sell something. So. Are you? Selling something?

A. True! And yes! Sometimes, what we’re selling is a book. Other times, it’s our services as writers for hire. Yet other times, it’s what’s fashionably known as a personal brand. Like: “swashbuckling war reporter.” Or: “charming romance author.” Mostly, these days, it’s a relationship. You know…writer + reader = besties. I know. Creepy.

Q. I’ll say. On the off chance I want to know you better, I’m going to have to know you better. Is it true you’re from Japan?

A. True! I was born and raised in Kobe, which is a port city in the southwest. You know how the main island of Honshu is shaped like a sock? Kobe is located around the ball of the foot. You’ve heard of it for our beef, but as I learned only recently, the “Kobe beef” you think you’ve been splurging your annual bonus on isn’t even from Kobe. It’s illegal to export. Which begs the question, what is the stuff we’ve been savoring in our $28 burgers? Pink slime?!

Q. Red meat is gross. What brought you to America?

A. College! But I stayed for your world-class television programming. I love Japanese TV, but it’s pretty bad. Oh, and my husband. I stayed for my husband. (Hi, honey!)

Q. Oh…kay. You never did say what you’re selling.

A. A book! I’m selling a book. It’s a novel called “Pastors’ Wives,” and it’s about pastors’ wives. It’s going to be the lead title (!) from Plume, an imprint of Penguin, for summer 2013. It’s a beach read!

Q. Are you a pastor’s wife or something?

A. Nope! I’m married to a classical musician. He plays the clarinet. Real good, if you ask me, but then again I can’t tell Mahler from Mozart. Strangers assume I’m a musician because a) I’m married to one, and they tend to intermarry, and b) I’m Asian. Though my Tiger Mom made me take piano lessons for like 12 years, I can’t even bang out a decent set of Chopsticks. Isn’t that tragic?

Q. So what in heaven’s name moved you to write an entire novel about pastors and their wives?

A. An article! My article, so you don’t think I lifted the idea. Which would be a terrible thing to do. To back up: in 2007, I wrote this article for TIME magazine, where I was a longtime staff writer and foreign correspondent. (I say “longtime” because my friends who still work there get irked when “TIME writer” gets thrown around by, like, summer interns. But now that I think about it, maybe what it really says is that I never got promoted.) It all began when my editor, Jan Simpson (who now writes this wonderful blog about Broadway), told me to cover a convention of pastors’ wives. (I’ll write a lot more about all this in future posts.)

Q. So you already wrote an article. What’s the novel about?

A. Here’s what it said in Publisher’s Marketplace:

DEBUT: Time magazine writer Lisa Takeuchi Cullen’s debut novel PASTORS’ WIVES, following three women whose lives converge and intertwine at an Atlanta evangelical mega-church, a dramatic portrayal of the private lives of pastors’ wives, caught between the demands of faith, marriage, duty and love, inspired by her magazine reporting.

Q. I can’t wait. No, really. What will you be writing about here?

A. Stuff! I love blogging. Truly. I blogged extensively for Time.com and True/Slant (now Forbes.com), but I quit over a year ago to concentrate on writing books and TV pilots. I’ll post here with news about “Pastors’ Wives” as we prepare it for launch next spring. I’ll post about the swirling slop bucket of frustration that pretty much defines my so-called career as a TV writer. I’ll post anything I think might be useful to other writers out there looking to a) publish books, b) get into TV writing, and/or c) work in journalism. I’m not gonna lie: I’ll promote friends’ books and projects. I’ll post the deep thoughts of a New Jersey mom who every morning marches into her attic office to write something she hopes does not altogether suck.

I’m so very, very happy to meet you. Please come back. And next time you see Kobe beef listed on a menu for the price of a tank of gas, call the manager over and very sweetly demand an explanation.