Get With Your Own Program : A 1984 law requires cable companies to provide public access. Now the work begins for your half-hour show.

Only the very desperate produce and host public-access TV programs.

You know the type. The guy who invented his own religion and needs converts. The lady who wears a tiara and diaphanous gown and speaks to ascended beings on distant worlds. Actor-dancer-models who read monologues from “Death of a Salesman.”

You, however, have decided to enter the world of public-access TV for more lofty reasons than being scoffed at. You want to be discovered.

Thanks to a 1984 federal law that requires cable companies to provide access channels, your elusive 15 minutes of fame is about to stretch into an entire half an hour.

You need a concept, but all your ideas seem, well, desperate. You could read poetry on a black stool with lots of backlighting. An exercise show seems downright embarrassing. How about creating animated stick figures that act out old “Get Smart” episodes?

It’s been done. You decide on something safe--a talk show about writing.

You call CableVision in Chatsworth and sign up for their three-hour producer-training program, required by most cable TV companies. The training covers a 12-page list of regulations and suggestions--no obscenity, nothing libelous or commercial, and avoid wearing stripes, plaids or anything white in front of the camera.

You sign up for studio time and discover that the next opening is three months later. They said you could have access; they never said in what year it would be. For a guest, you phone a friend named Joan, also a writer, who can talk endlessly about anything.

After purchasing a three-quarter-inch videotape, you pick up the talent (Joan) and drive to the studio, where you huddle with a director and the lighting, sound and camera crew. Everything is free (except the tape) and that includes a spacious studio, an eight-member intern crew, editing suites, orientation meetings, three color cameras, and lots of sound and lighting equipment.

You begin to appreciate the democratic ideals public-access TV represents. Anyone can air their views. “Wayne’s World” started as a cable TV show. If you’re witless enough, you too can make it big.

Unlike some producers who cart in entire living room sets, you settle on a couple of studio chairs and dusty ferns. The crew adjusts the lighting and sound. You wait in the green room with the talent, who is being powdered by a makeup artist named Kate. You brainstorm with Joan about the show’s title. “Risking the Writer’s Life” seems catchy. You print out some quick opening and closing credits and hand them to an intern in the sound room. Half an hour later, your director calls you to the set.

A lighting spot the color of Windex blinks on as the floor manager signals that the tape has begun rolling. You watch the credits scroll across a monitor just opposite your chair. “Risking the Writter’s Life” it says. ‘With your hust, Daniel Foster.’

The camera’s red light blinks on. “Welcome to Risking the Writter’s Life,” you say, staring into the lens. “I’m your hust, Daniel Foster.” Your talent snickers. But you plow into some banter about the importance of grammar, spelling and humor.

Halfway into the show, you find that you’ve been talking into a camera for three minutes and it hasn’t been on. Doing a slow pan with your eyes, you spot a camera with a red light on, but the light suddenly blinks off and reappears atop another camera. You have a feeling that the crew is toying with your sanity.

As Joan launches into an anecdote with no foreseeable end, your floor manager signals 30 seconds to go. At 10 seconds, his hand gestures grow manic. You notice your horrified expression in close-up on the side monitor. You rattle off a five-second closing comment, then scrutinize the end credits but, luckily, fail to find any misspellings.

Later, you schedule an air date--sometime in November around midnight.