Why The Writers Strike Matters

When I moved to New York, I thought I wanted to be a TV writer. I wrote and I studied and I watched and rewatched. A lifelong love affair with Saturday Night Live and a questionable crush on Pete Davidson pushed me to pursue a “dream job” at NBC. I applied to the famously competitive NBC Page Program, and with a bit of luck, made it to the second round interview. A disastrous interview and bit of divine intervention ended that journey there, and I was devastated. That is, until I learned of the compensation associated with the illustrious Page Program. The job that every young writer would kill for paid a sustainable $13 an hour. If you haven’t heard from me in a while, I am not a TV writer. Today, I can’t think of a job I would want less.

On May 2, the Writers Guild of America began its strike, stemming from an ongoing labor dispute between the guild’s more than 11,000 television writers and the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers. I could get into the nitty gritty of wages and pay structure in America’s least reliable workforce, but let’s not. Instead, I direct your attention to this first person essay published on The Cut titled, “I’m a TV Writer on Food Stamps.”

Here's the rub. The television industry is a $388 billion dollar market, and the writers who make the television are more often than not, not paid a living wage. The writers who are given Emmy Awards for their work and keep Jimmy Fallon’s career afloat live paycheck to paycheck, often under the weight of insurmountable debt. All of this plus some insider baseball have brought us here, to the first writers strike in fifteen years.

The strike is a big deal, the largest labor stoppage for the WGA since 2007. Fifteen years ago, that strike stopped television production for 100 days, cost the California economy $2.1 billion, and some argue opened the White House door to America’s most devastating former President who shall never again be named without the subtitle, “Proven Sexual Abuser.” Let’s break that down.

The 2007 strike stripped the television industry of labor, and more importantly, ideas. As a result, reality television boomed and certain reality shows were revived from cancellation in an effort to fill network dead air. One of these shows was Donald Trump’s The Apprentice. The show returned to the air and did better in ratings than any other year. People simply needed something to watch. The public interest around Trump was reignited and would continue its slow burn until, well you know the rest of that story. The 2007 strike also made celebrities out of the Kardashians, whose reality show debuted on the E! network mere weeks before Hollywood’s writers walked out.

Another reality TV boom is unlikely, given that they’ve already hooked us into watching 50+ hours of content per Love Island season and foaming at the mouth for the next Love is Blind locale. The consequence of this strike, many say, will be AI-generated television. If you don’t care about that, allow me to present a bit of real dialogue from an AI-generated Harry Potter adaptation, and you can let me know if this sounds human.

“‘I think it’s okay if you like me,’ said one Death Eater.

‘Thank you very much,” replied the other. The first Death Eater confidently leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“”Oh! Well done!” said the second as his friend stepped back again. All the other Death Eaters clapped politely. Then they all took a few minutes to go over the plan to get rid of Harry’s magic.”

End scene.

The fact is, if this strike lasts even a few more weeks, the halt on production will cost the big studios more than the writers demands amount to. The WGA’s proposals would cost Disney $75 million per year, Netflix $68 million, Warner Bros $47 million, Paramount $45 million, NBCUniversal $34 million, Amazon $32 million, Sony $25 million, and Apple $17 million. To someone who would’ve taken a $13/hour job at 30 Rock if given the chance, this is an unfathomable amount of money. To multi-billion dollar studios that run the world, this really isn’t much. For context, Netflix payed Chris Rock $40 million for two shitty comedy specials, and the cast of Stranger Things a whopping $78 million for one single season. Stranger Things is a fine show with a budget of $30 million per episode and a room full of writers on welfare. Make it make sense.

Really good television is a reason to live, and human stories are best told by humans. And isn’t it ironic that we’re having this conversation at a time when “event television” is more popular than ever? Despite the persistence of binge culture, millions of viewers are sitting down at the same time every Sunday night to watch new episodes of Succession and Yellowjackets. Netflix subscriptions have never been so expensive, television has never been so profitable, and it has never been easier to make the argument, “pay your writers,” so pay your writers. I shout this into the void, as I know not one reader of this newsletter is a television producer. If that were the case, I would’ve exploited our relationship for my own gain years ago.

If one good thing has come out of the early days of the writers’ strike, it’s the reminder that no one is funnier than an underpaid television writer. Read on for some of my favorite signs from the front of the picket line.  

“I was the head writer of a network late night show for half a decade and I drive a 2010 Honda Civic. We’re not asking for much.”

“Pay your writers or we’ll spoil Succession.”

“Please don’t make me move back to Ohio.”

“My brother’s career is more stable and he’s a magician.”

Now, a genuine thank you to everyone reading this, which mostly includes my family who are obligated to support me and my coworkers who I bribed into subscribing. If you haven’t heard from me in a while, I’m a magician.