Paul's correct. As long as it's funny and doesn't have any fat on it.
There's a nagging suspicion that we must keep in mind that sitcoms are not made the way we think they are.
There are many variables involved in making a sitcom that have nothing to do with the writers.
Our job is to present the company with a world & characters & funny lines. From then on it's out of our hands. They can and will do whatever they want with the world & characters.
It's a large collaborative effort involving producers, director, actors, consultants, and writers. And the bottom line is money. It's a gamble to create & develop & produce a sitcom.
How many of us will never have a sitcom accepted?
How many of us will have a sitcom accepted that won't make it to the pilot stage?
How many of us will have a sitcom accepted, made into a pilot, but not picked up?
How many of us will have a sitcom accepted, made into a pilot, picked up but only the first 2 episodes are shown and then the series is cancelled due to piss poor ratings?
All those different moments of seeming victory adding up to zilcho.
Like Pop Idol: All the happy tears as they advance through the rounds as if they've won the final, but most won't win the final.
Sounding negative here...don't mean to. But I'm feeling it, brothers. Feeling that oppressive crush of doubts; the mountain looms large and my stone is heavy...Most of us here will never get a sitcom made; it's probably a statistical certainty. Most give up after a couple of years of rejections from 20-something readers making £6.80 an hour.
That's not to say we shouldn't be giving it our best shot because the thing is, you can't win if you don't play.
Since the end is uncertain, we best be enjoying how we are playing. Don't give a f**k about trends; write what amuses you. If you convey it clearly & simply enough, that amusement will reach the audience. If you don't get your scripts/sitcom accepted, at least you enjoyed writing them. You enjoyed passing the time in that way.
On the other hand, the garden wouldn't be choking with viney weed and bramble if you weren't upstairs writing stuff no one will ever publish or produce. You probably wouldn't smoke as many fags in a day either. Your wife would nag you less about how you never wanna go anywhere, and she would threaten less often to "smash that f**ken computer".
It's the frying pan or the fire, gents (and ladies).
F**ked if we do; f**ked if we don't. And I mean f**ked by a cactus.