Lorne Michaels wants to change a few words.

Blood rushes to my ears, pulsing and throbbing. A thin film of sweat covers my bottom lip. For a brief moment, I think I’m going to pass out. Or throw up. Neither would be considered cool in the writers room where I was personally invited to collaborate because of a blog post I wrote. Did Michaels read it? Someone on staff? Was it a friend? Another comedian? Amy Poehler? Tina Fey? Does how he found me matter? This was Lorne Michaels. He wanted my words. My writing. My skills. Me.

Our conversation is around words. That’s what stands out. He’s not talking down to me. Instead, Michaels takes a breath. A short pause. He’s waiting, watching to see my reaction before he continues.

“So.” It feels like he sucked the air out of the room. In seconds I will collapse from a lack of oxygen. He continues. “What you have here is so good. It works very, very well.” Is anyone else breathing? Because my heart stops. Again. “What do you think if we change…” And he describes it. Four words. They aren’t funny. Never were. But the context. The overall story. No one else can write it the way I did. Tell it just like I shared it. It worked.

Four words changed my life and the sketch made it to SNL.

Not his four words.

Mine.

Don’t screw this up.

The sketch aired two weeks later. I watched it with Alissa and a beer I didn’t drink.