“I always thought it was about taking. It ends up being about giving.”

Edited for length and clarity.

How did you get your start?

Paris Barclay: I was an advertising copywriter, because that looked like an easy job.

I wanted to write musicals, so I moved to New York and wrote a lot of musicals — but I needed to eat, so I became a copywriter and stayed ten years.

During that time I pitched a television show to CBS called Just Us, a terrible family half-hour comedy. And they bought it. Doug McGrath, a great writer who’s passed away now, was brought on as my showrunner to develop the script.

It never sold. But this is easy, right? You just write it and they buy it and you get paid.

It was many years before I sold another one. That’s the lesson.

I did write a film called The Next Hot Negro that was rejected by every studio — but off the back of it they called me to rewrite other films. So when I came to LA, a lot of what I did was rewrite movies for HBO and Hollywood Pictures, before my directing career took off.

John Quaintance: I was the town’s most unsuccessful actor.

I came out here to act, then started writing to get myself on stage. Stand-up, sketch comedy. The first thing I ever sold was a sketch pilot I was supposed to be in, which never got made.

My wife and I were trying to wait until we had money to have a baby, and so we just never had a baby. Eventually we thought — what the hell, let’s have one.

So my wife’s pregnant and I’ve got nothing. And I saw a thing on AMC about Dalton Trumbo: when his wife was pregnant, he wrote a romantic comedy he thought would sell, over a holiday, so he could lay it off on somebody else. His friend won the Oscar with it, but he made money for his pregnant wife.

And I thought — I’ll just do that.

I wrote a tween rom-com and sold it, back when there was still such a thing as spec season. May 2003. And that got me in the door for my first TV writing job, which is how I ended up in sitcoms.

Bad plans work sometimes.

Alison Flierl: My path was the assistant path. Assistant to a manager, showrunner’s assistant, writers’ assistant, script coordinator.

Alongside that I was doing live comedy and shooting short films. I made a web series for a hundred dollars called TV Guide Letter Theater, it got some national press, and that helped me get my first agent. Eventually I was writing pilots, then writing for TV, and more recently features.

Hayden Schlossberg: I always loved writing and directing. In high school I met a friend who, like me, had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the directors and writers on all our favourite movies.

We talked about writing a script someday, then went to college to do more traditional professions. And halfway through college we realised that wasn’t what we wanted.

So we wrote it. And it sold.

I had the lucky experience of arriving in LA having already sold a screenplay, thinking this would be the easiest thing in the world. That first script was about two guys trying to avoid the real world and do what they loved.

I quickly realised it isn’t always that easy.

How did you sell that first one?

Hayden Schlossberg: This was the late nineties. We were comedy writers and the Farrelly Brothers had just done Dumb and Dumber and Kingpin, and There’s Something About Mary had come out. We were obsessed.

So we said: how do we get our script to them?

It was the early days of IMDb. We looked at all their films and noticed a common first assistant director. We had no idea what a first AD even was — I thought they were the apprentice to the director.

And the Directors Guild listing gave us his phone number.

So two college guys leave a message saying, we have this script, it’s very similar to things you’ve worked on, we’d love you to read it.

And the truth is he doesn’t get those calls that often. He happened to be working on a movie called American Pie at the time. He gave our script to the producer of American Pie. And we got a call.

So our story was really: who would you love to get your script to? Then figure out who’s in that orbit that you can actually talk to.

Alison Flierl: For a feature recently it was the same — finding the orbit around an actor. But through producers I’d known for ten years and met at parties. I was in TV, they were in film, and I said, hey, I wrote this spec.

For TV, the advice I was given was to always be prepared for every opportunity. Having the right samples at the right time for the right show is what’s worked for me.

John Quaintance: Coming from being a performing comedian has helped me enormously with pitching.

When I supervise younger writers and ask them to pitch me, they’ve got it all written out and they read it, and it sounds like it’s written.

When you’re pitching, you’re getting somebody to buy a luxury jet. You’re getting them to buy a multi-million-dollar product. You’re a salesperson.

So: never look at notes. Tell a great story. Tell it like you’re telling your brother or your best friend the best story you’ve ever heard — listen to this.

Every time I’ve successfully sold something, it’s because I communicated how excited I was to write it and how much fun it would be for the audience. So that somebody will hand you millions of dollars. That’s what you’re asking for. It’s a really hard thing to do.

And that’s not anti-artistic. You just have to acknowledge that in a pitch — to an actor, a director, a studio — you’re asking people to put faith in you and money on the line.

Don’t read a thing you wrote that sounds like writing. Communicate why it’s a great idea you love and why you’re the best person to write it.

Paris Barclay: That’s such good advice, because I check out the moment someone pitches in a super-written, disciplined way. If you can’t get excited and sell it to me, we’re not going to sell it to anybody.

Tell us about the first one that got made.

Paris Barclay: It was called 1PP, about One Police Plaza in New York — specifically the hate crimes unit of the NYPD. Twenty years ago.

It was raw, and it was a bummer, and there was a lot of hate. Obviously. Because it was about hate crimes.

I worked with John Wells and gave him the script I’d written, because when you’re starting a show it’s hard to make people believe you without one. He said, this is pretty good, I think you could use some help. So we brought in James DeMonaco, who wrote The Purge, and he became my co-writer.

We wrote draft after draft. And then John passed. He said, I just don’t think I’m going to do this.

We thought it was dead. But our agent said let’s take it to pay TV. So we pitched Showtime — remember Showtime? There are a lot of RIPs in my story.

Showtime bought it. We made the pilot. Very exciting.

And Bob Greenblatt, who ran it, wanted to call the show Hate.

I know. We all know that isn’t a good idea. Because every single review was a layup for every possible hateful pun.

The show was good. Marcia Gay Harden starred, and we had a terrific cast. But it died in the Showtime world, and eventually they played it as a movie, I think so they could write it off and call it programming.

So it was a happy time and a sad time. Mostly sad.

How do you move between mediums?

John Quaintance: After twenty years of pilots that were sad and died and never got made, I got my first show made two years ago. It was something I originally sold in 2009 and it came back in 2024. Fifteen years later.

So things are never really dead.

And it was the first thing I ever wrote that wasn’t a comedy — well, it was comedic, but it was a one-hour procedural. I wrote it because I felt burned out doing half-hours.

Sitcoms are a wonderful training ground for structure. You’re writing twenty-two-minute stories with an A story, a B story and a C story across three commercial breaks. You really learn to construct tight stories. But I got boxed in by it.

So I said: I’m going to write something where I don’t know any of the rules.

Once you’ve been doing this a long time you’ve internalised enough of what you should and shouldn’t do that you’ll find you have the scaffolding to write in a different genre anyway.

And now I tell everybody I meet that I’m always working on something where I have no idea what I’m doing. I wrote a horror western last year. Never written a horror movie, never written a western.

What that does is give you back the enthusiasm of a twenty-year-old who doesn’t know what they’re doing. And that’s the first thing you lose when you get stuck in one genre — you become really good at writing something competently that doesn’t have much inspiration.

When I write a sitcom I already know what it is. I know what they’ll say, I know there are four sets. And you write something well-crafted that just lies there.

So write a musical. Write something crazy. Not knowing the rules liberates you.

Alison Flierl: Hope for the best, but embrace rejection. You’re going to get it no matter what — so aim for a hundred rejections a year and something good will come out of it.

I made a web series for a hundred dollars. It was very silly. Some producers saw it and thought it was funny, and a few years later that gave me the opportunity to write an episode of BoJack Horseman.

Random things lead to things. Just keep making stuff that feels good to you.

Writer to director.

Hayden Schlossberg: I have a theory that most writers can direct. If you have the vision to create a story, you can probably communicate that vision to other people. A lot of it is a personality thing — being able to put yourself out there.

There are different routes. Film school. Doing it cheap and showing you can. Coming up through the crew. I went writer to director, and to do that you first have to be a writer, make something, and develop relationships.

And through those relationships, convey a sense of authority. Executives like to know you’re hearing their notes. That you’ve taken it in. Not you’re the man, get out of here, give me the money for my dream. They actually quite like pushback, as long as there’s logic to it and you explain it.

Then you lay the groundwork for I want to direct this — and then you have to act like a director. Go in and say, look, this is something I’ve been talking about directing already. Even though that means nothing. Act like it’s a fait accompli.

I never loved screenplays growing up. I never read one. I watched movies and television. So I knew my way in was Final Draft, because it cost a hundred bucks. I wasn’t going to make a short film.

And you have to be active about it. I went to guild functions. I met people. I networked as best I could. Those connections don’t always deliver right away — sometimes it’s years — but someone you met ten years ago remembers you, and then you’re brought in.

A lot of people are sitting in their room wondering when fate is going to come and give them the job of their dreams.

Paris Barclay: I got from writing to directing by directing music videos. I did a lot for LL Cool J, including Mama Said Knock You Out.

Those became a calling card that let me into rooms.

Whatever you do — any genre, on the internet, verticals, anything — you need that calling card. Something to show. This is where I am, this is how I think, this is how I see the world.

The production value doesn’t matter. It does matter if it’s a script that it’s well typed — please don’t have typos, because people stop reading. But if it’s produced and the story is compelling, it’s a calling card.

Then you keep going. Show it to as many people as you can, send the links, work out where the people you need to meet are.

And everything is becoming less social, which makes the social game more important. We’re craving to be in rooms with other humans doing creative work. So don’t let the feeling that it’s all going to be AI and we’ll all be obsolete beat you down. The human thing is still incredibly powerful, and it’s the thing that gets you from here to where you want to be.

Do you think about the audience?

John Quaintance: I don’t want people to ever be bored. I think I’m deeply insecure that I’m going to lose them — but that’s a way of thinking about the audience. I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored. Cut this, cut this, cut this.

Alison Flierl: If I can make the other writers in the room laugh, that feels pretty good. Though some jokes work in the room and not with a live audience.

Hayden Schlossberg: I can’t help but think about it. And it’s changed — we’ve gone from a monoculture to very few shows having that kind of impact, and things being tailored to specific audiences.

So I’m always asking: is this for a certain demographic, or am I trying to reach everybody?

People judge a book by its cover now. They see the themes and, in politically divisive times, they can just check out. So I’m thinking — am I preaching to my own choir? Which is fine. Write it for you and your friends, if you feel there are enough people out there like you.

But other times you think: I actually want this to work on somebody who disagrees with me.

Notes.

John Quaintance: That’s the thing all writers hate. An executive says I don’t really like this and you want to kill yourself.

But the truth is, they’re an audience. A lot of the time they’re your first audience. They can just be inarticulate about it.

I always say: listen to the diagnosis, but ignore the prescription.

Someone reads it and says, I didn’t like the scene on page seven. And then they say, what if it was this? Stop listening at what if it was this.

Think of it like being an interior designer. Somebody says, I like the room you made, but I want you to put a zebra rug in it. And you think — a zebra rug would be the worst thing in the world.

What they’re actually saying is they want a splash. Or something that feels a bit exotic. Something.

You could show your script to your mum or your friend and they’d say I got a little bored on page ten. Well — you have a problem and you need to fix it. Same with network notes.

It’s a trap to say you’re a non-creative executive, so I stopped listening the moment you said you had a problem, because I know I’m right.

Fix it in a way that makes sense to you and is consistent with your tone. But solve the problem, because there is a problem. If they read your script and say the act two break isn’t working — that’s an audience telling you something. Listen to it. Just come up with your own solution.

What do you wish you’d known?

Alison Flierl: Be confident right away. Even if you’re a writers’ assistant — and not just, because they’re very important, I was one — be confident about what your goals are and what you want, from the start.

Hayden Schlossberg: You’re always going to have to prove yourself.

You do everything to get your foot in the door, and then you’re in the room and you think I did it. And then you realise you’ve got fifteen minutes to do something else or you’re out of the room.

It’s show business. You have to entertain right now. You may get lucky, but you’ll have to keep figuring out how to keep entertaining.

And embrace rejection. I don’t mean that discouragingly — it just makes the downs feel like part of the process. You put your heart and soul into every project, and a large percentage won’t happen the way you want. You’re laying eggs. Some hatch, some don’t.

I lived and died with every up and down for the first ten years of my career.

John Quaintance: I had a friend who was the first person I knew to become a successful actor. He came to talk to me and my wife about a discovery he’d made about walking into rooms.

Everybody wants you to succeed.

Everybody wants your pitch to be good. Everybody wants your script to be good. They might be cynical and tired and they’ve read a thousand things — but it’s very easy to walk into a room with a lot on the line and assume people are rooting against you.

They’re not.

Someone who’s heard ten bad pitches or read twenty bad scripts wants nothing more than to be delighted by you. Their jobs depend on finding something great. They would love nothing more than to be blown away.

That’s liberating. And I wish I’d known it.

Paris Barclay: I wish someone had told me this was going to be a spiritual journey.

I thought it would be about getting the house and the money and the car and marrying well and being accomplished and awarded.

What I discovered — through trials and tribulations, mostly tribulations, and addictions, and therapy — is that the journey is to humility. Which is odd, because I’m primarily a director, and you don’t usually associate humility with directors.

But I’m successful as a director because I have a degree of humility. Not as much as I’d like. And by humility I don’t mean I grovel. I mean I have a really good idea of what I’m good at and what I’m not — and I can admit it, and say I need your help.

That’s the balance I was actually looking for all along. Not being lower than you. Offering what I can offer, taking what you can give, and together making something great.

So now, even when I write characters, I’m thinking: these have to be lines that an actor could kill. I’m not writing it for myself. I’m writing it so an actor reads it and says, oh, that’s good, I love that.

It’s all a gift.

Whether I’m directing Glee or Sons of Anarchy or Dahmer, it’s about how I support people, how I give them love, how I get them through — in the case of Dahmer, some really tough times.

If I’d known that at the beginning I’d have been much happier through my whole early career. Because I always thought it was about taking. And it ends up really being about giving.

It’s a job about collaborating. About not having total control — just being successful in your space, offering what you have, and being willing to share and embrace the power around you.

Listen to the diagnosis, but ignore the prescription.

John Quaintance speaking on stage at State of the Story, Los Angeles