Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘TV Writing Success in a Nutshell’

“Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she wonderful?”

TV Writing Success In A Nutshell

by Larry Brody


Recently rediscovered this little epic written many years ago as I tried to put myself into the head of a writer-producer I used to work for, a man who continually surrounded himself with the latest symbols of his elevated estate. I wanted to know what the fact that he was at the time undisputably the most successful TV series creator in history really meant to him. The result taught me an important lesson: “Stay out of other people’s heads!”

TV Writing Success In A Nutshell

The limo driver hates me. He pulls

Away while I’m still on the street

Bending to slide inside the car. When he realizes

His mistake, he stops and glares, then

Makes himself apologize while he

Waits for me to get in.

The limo driver hates me, but I love the limo anyway.

Longer than a jet. And plush, with big seats facing

Front and rear, television, a bar with crystal glasses,

Champagne on ice, two different telephone lines, and a Fax.

A better stereo than in any home. Windows of

Tinted glass that let me peer out while no one else

Can look in.

I love the limo because it works so well.

The greatest construction tool a man’s ego can know,

It digs an unbridgeable chasm between roots and

Blossoms, past and future, success and failure,

I and thou.

“I Am That I am,” said the Lord, and know what? The

Limo says it too. “I am that I am,” and “Fuck you.”

My limo driver hates me, but I love my limo anyway.

It salves my tormented psyche, and keeps the

Undeniable away.

Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

LB’s Poetry: The Indian People See Things No One Else Does


In the early ’90s, when I had had enough of Hollywood’s reality as opposed to the dreams that had driven me to go there and succeed, I did when any totally impractical and probably insane person would: I packed my clothing, comic books, drum kit, and dog into an SUV and drove off to the Southwest to see if I could track the magic I had been writing about for so long but never experienced. I found it, kind of like this…

The Indian People See Things No One Else Does
by Larry Brody

The Indian people see things no one else does.

They hear the elements, and smell the spirits

Within each clod of their Mother’s earth.

They say I can see the magic too, if I try hard enough.

They say I’ll be able to hear, and even sniff out the scent.

But they don’t want me around.

They don’t want any wannabes,

Any turquoise-wearing Anglos,

No matter how high their cheekbones or their aims.

Even the most well-meant of intentions

Have caused too much pain.

Still, I took the form of an eagle once, and

Flew with a Hopi elder, through a sky that

Spoke straight to me.

Even in man-form, the elder had an eagle’s eyes,

All pupil, with no iris, although it was the middle of the day,

And black, as black as the heart of anyone

Working for the BIA.

He knew I was afraid of heights, and took me to a high

Mesa, where the wind roared like the sea.

There we prayed—a chant, the waving of a

Sacred gourd—and I gave myself to his wishes, which

Weren’t really his but mine.

I stopped fighting the gusts, and let them take me,

And together we took off.

It took only seconds for the fear to knot tightly

Around my newly-feathered soul, and I knew I didn’t

Wannabe anymore.

“Tough!” the sky said, and I soared. I saw the Indians’

Mother as eagles see her, smelled the clouds

as eagles smell. “This is real,” the sky said.

“Earth, air, wind, and sky. This is true.”

My fear was flung downward, plummeting to

the rocks far below, and I screeched a

Reply. “This is true,” I screeched.

“True. Earth, air, wind, and sky.”

Then we landed, and I was a man once more,

Sitting cross-legged beside a weathered Hopi

Who wore a red bandanna around his graying head,

A weathered Hopi with an eagle’s eyes.

I thanked him, and together we walked back to my truck.

I knew I was walking on his Mother,

And that she would never be mine.

I’m not of the people, nor do I wannabe.

But sometimes I dream about the

Mesa, and I see things no one else does.

I hear the elements, and smell the spirits

Within each clod of earth.