The True Confessions of ‘Millionaire’s’ Writer X

Locked behind security doors in a Midtown Manhattan office last September, I sat and stared at the question on my computer screen, “What color is the border of a U.S. stop sign?” and I tried to figure out how I had reached this point in my life.

When I finished my master’s degree at Columbia University’s journalism school in the spring of 1999, I saw myself writing hard-hitting investigative pieces and deeply moving feature stories on the human condition. I certainly didn’t expect to spend nearly a year writing and researching such scintillating queries as, “According to the traditional kids’ joke, why did the chicken cross the road? A) to visit friends B) to get to the other side C) to flee the farmer or D) to return a video.”

But in the short span of a few months, I had gone from what one professor haughtily called “the last bastion of literacy in a dumbed-down society” to working for ABC’s No. 1-rated “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” show, which has been described by a critic as “the programming equivalent of crack cocaine.”

Where did I go wrong? It was supposed to be a five-week temp job, something to support me while I searched for my springboard to Pulitzer prizedom. As the program became what was oft-referred to in the media as a “pop-culture phenomenon” and “ratings juggernaut,” the weeks turned into months, and I ascended from fact-checking to writing “fastest finger” questions for the phone tests, to creating questions for the show itself.

For much of that time, I managed to delude myself into believing I had not sold out. After all, I rationalized, in journalism as in a quiz show, the writing has to be rigorously factual, and double- and triple-checked. And even though the “Millionaire” material was fluffy, the consequences of a mistake were huge. Case in point was the controversial Lake Huron question from the August 1999 broadcasts.

For those who don’t remember, the “Millionaire” staff made a big boo-boo when a contestant was told he had answered the question, “Which of the Great Lakes is largest in area after Lake Superior?” incorrectly and it turned out he was right. (He was invited back on the show and eventually won $125,000.)

None of the writers who worked with me were around when that question aired; the show was being written in Los Angeles at the time. Still, the specter of Lake Huron hovered over us constantly. The tension of always needing to be 100% accurate, plus the tedium of always writing everything with a question mark, would have put me in the Home for the Trivially Insane had it not been for my fellow writers.

They were a remarkably eclectic and well-educated group that included several law-firm escapees, some aspiring sitcom writers, a clutch of puzzle people and a sprinkling of journalists. But any resemblance to a think tank ended there. A quota of questions needed to be completed each day, so it wasn’t as if we could take the time to craft the perfect query. We were the high-priced pieceworkers of prime-time television.

But it is a credit to the show’s producers that they allowed us a freewheeling office environment. What started out as the occasional Nerf football toss across the room developed into an ever more complicated series of diversions, including multi-hole golf putting tournaments, an office talk show and improv group, and byzantinely convoluted games involving Mafia and nighttime murders that you just don’t want to know about. One activity became so popular that three of the writers decided to market it as a board game, “Pop Smarts,” that will be out this fall. Two other writers created and sold a TV pilot to “Comedy Central.” All of a sudden we were a multimedia development factory.

I was getting some other personal perks from working on the show, too. For the first time in my life, I could go to a cocktail party and when people heard what I did for a living, they’d more than feign interest. Inevitably the conversation would either start, “Do you know Reege?” or “I never really watch the show, but how could that schnook miss a question about blah blah blah?”

Still, it was nice--for a while. As to meeting Mr. Philbin, I had to constantly explain that due to the show’s massive paranoia about security (resulting from the quiz show scandals of the 1950s), any of the people who had knowledge of the questions had to be kept apart from anyone who dealt with the contestants. So, as writers, we weren’t allowed to attend any of the tapings, were in an office well across town from the studio and couldn’t meet Regis.

Only once did the wall come down: at a post-Daytime Emmy award party that the show’s producer threw for the staff. Regis and his wife, Joy, dropped by, and several writers and researchers posed for pictures with him. But we didn’t speak.

The show also led to my on-camera debut in front of a national television audience of millions. On an hourlong “Behind the Scenes” documentary, I briefly blathered something about the security measures surrounding the show. But my 15 seconds of fame went by somewhat anonymously. Although the writers’ names appeared each week in the “Millionaire” credits, the producers decided that the staff was supersecret. I was identified only as the mysterious “Writer X.”

Aside from the pseudo-fame and fortune, I came to believe the best part of working on the show was the way I, in my small part, was helping to transform people’s lives. Whether it was the guy who won $64,000 because he correctly placed four ancient civilizations in chronological order for a phone question I had written, or the person who survived my $250,000 question about the sports association bought by former Microsoft employees, I could tangibly see the way my work affected people in a way I rarely could in journalism.

My ultimate “Millionaire” moment came during the first celebrity series, when the Ohio library system received $500,000 on one of my questions because comedian Drew Carey knew that a utility patent lasts 20 years. (Of course this was a two-edged sword: I will always feel guilty about the old guy who had the misfortune of getting my question about the rock bassist named Flea. Bye-bye, $125,000.)

Unfortunately, for every Sumerian or patent question I wrote, I have to own up to at least five inane questions such as, “With your right palm placed against a table, put the following four fingers in order from right to left: A) thumb, B) index, C) ring and D) pinky,” or, “What is the word for more than one mouse? A) mouses b) meece C) mice or D) moose.” Forever will I bear the shame and ignominy of releasing such stupidity on the public.

With the arrival of summer, the ever fickle pop-culture spotlight began to shift to a small island inhabited by a ragtag bunch of “survivors.” Next to the Machiavellian machinations of Richard Hatch and his cohorts, Regis & Co. receded to the background, and the “Millionaire” show was knocked from its ratings peak. I’ll never forget talking to one of my former editors, who asked me, “How are things over at ‘Survivor’?” When I explained that I was working for “Millionaire” and not “Survivor,” she sniffed, “Oh, too bad.”

On top of this, as my 10th month came and went, the primal urge to write sentences that didn’t end with a multiple choice grew stronger each day. When I wrote my 1,400th question, two weeks shy of my one-year anniversary, I knew it was time to go. I miss the golf games and office banter, and my bank account certainly misses the money. But am I glad I left? You better believe it. And yes, dear reader, that is my final answer. (You knew that was coming, right?)

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* “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” airs on ABC at 9 p.m. on Thursdays, Fridays and Sundays; and at 8 p.m. on Tuesdays.

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Sandy Lawrence Edry is a New York-based freelance writer.