For years, Patty Lin had what many would describe as a dream job, penning scripts for shows such as “Friends,” “Breaking Bad” and “Desperate Housewives.” Then she left it all behind.

In her funny and heartful debut memoir, END CREDITS, Lin delivers a warts-and-all look at the inner workings of the entertainment industry, exposing “the grueling hours, the egotistical bosses, the politics and dysfunction, the ways in which TV writing is more like making widgets than creating art.” She traces her journey from eager would-be television scribe to disillusioned professional, unpacking her difficult decision to give up a career that left her emotionally (and at times physically) wrecked and delivering a few entertaining nuggets of behind-the-scenes gossip along the way.

"Readers who want to learn more about how the TV sausage is made will find Lin’s memoir illuminating and at times disturbing. But her story will resonate with anyone who has struggled with striking a balance between their work and their personal life and goals."

The daughter of Taiwanese immigrants, Lin grew up in suburban Chicago and New Jersey, far away from the glitz of Hollywood. “I never imagined having a career in television, even though I watched a tremendous amount of it,” she writes. But a chance encounter while in line for “Late Night with David Letterman” tickets changed the course of her life. Carl, the NBC page who got her tickets to the taping, also explained how to apply for an internship with the show. That led to her first full-time job in television. Carl later became a writer for “Saturday Night Live” and “Seinfeld” --- and Lin’s boyfriend. He was an important source of guidance and connections as Lin started to work on spec scripts of her own.

Once she secured an agent, Lin packed up and moved to LA, much to the consternation of her parents. They were baffled (and, she feared, embarrassed) by her unconventional life path. Thus began a years-long rollercoaster of professional highs and lows. Her first staff job on the now-forgotten CBS series “Martial Law” was a trial by fire. “On my first day as a television writer, my boss used me to f*ck over one of the other writers,” she recalls. He ordered her to give notes on a veteran writer’s script. Her colleague didn’t take the feedback well, in part, she suspected, because she was a young Asian woman. “He glared at me like he’d been in the sh*t in Vietnam, and I was the gook who blew his legs off in a foxhole,” she writes. It would not be the first time she felt singled out on the job because of her race.

As Lin attempted to find her footing, she also dealt with personal struggles that will be familiar to many readers. She fretted about disappointing her parents by not getting married, having kids, or pursuing a more stable, respectable line of work. Her relationship with her workaholic, commitment-phobic boyfriend was another source of grief. But Lin was so stressed out by her job (at one point, she passed out in her kitchen and broke several teeth) that she could hardly summon the energy to fix things with her partner.

Lin loved the creative aspects of her work. And some gigs were truly satisfying. She speaks fondly of the time she spent on the cult series “Freaks and Geeks.” But more often, she was overwhelmed by the frenetic schedule and plagued by feelings of inadequacy. On “Friends,” she felt “like a nerd at the popular kids’ table.” Some jobs were downright toxic, particularly “Desperate Housewives,” which she describes as a “hellhole.” Creator Marc Cherry was an “awful boss” and “impossible to please.” (Lin uses pseudonyms for some, but not all, people in her book.) But despite growing reservations about her career, she couldn’t fathom quitting. It took several personal upheavals and a few more professional blows before she finally cut ties with a job that no longer served her.

END CREDITS arrives in the midst of the WGA strike. The industry has changed since Lin left, when streaming was just beginning its rise. Nonetheless, her book illuminates the often difficult conditions that talented TV writers work under. It’s also a thoughtful rumination on the rewards and challenges of pursuing a creative career. Lin’s identity was tied up with her work. But in order to find her true voice as a writer, she discovered that she had to step away from working in television.

Readers who want to learn more about how the TV sausage is made will find Lin’s memoir illuminating and at times disturbing. But her story will resonate with anyone who has struggled with striking a balance between their work and their personal life and goals.