I Just Love to Write So Much

Writing is simply my favorite thing! I spend so much of my life thinking about other people--analyzing them, learning about them, worrying about them--and wondering what they think of me. Writing is my time to think about what I think about. I feel at peace at my keyboard. I feel heard, by myself.

On runs, as I drive, in the grocery store check-out I can escape into distant plot problems or fresh characters. As long as I'm writing, I have a place to put all my angst and extremism and delight. As long as I am writing, I enjoy my day. In some ways, my love for writing is what's gotten me as far as I am. I fret about my stability constantly, but at least I love what I'm risking it all for. I've gotten my heart broken so many times when projects fall apart or I can't generate interest. But at least I had a good time at the time. On the other hand, if I didn't love the actual act of writing so much, I wouldn't be so annoyed with all the other aspects of the biz.

I've only recently realized some (most?) writers write as a means to be with friends?! No shade to this artistic path! There's nothing wrong with prioritizing connection and fun. Last week, a comedian I simply adore asked me if I wanted to co-write a pilot together. I said no, easily and quickly because I don't see a future for the project. I smell these situations a mile away now. "Wouldn't it be fun to write XYZ together?" No, it wouldn't be fun. Unfortunately I take everything too seriously for it to be fun. We'll have a meeting or two, and I will want to make something excellent, and you will probably lose interest because even the best idea ever is actually quite painstaking to flesh out and then trying to sell whatever it is is an even more obnoxious undertaking. And it will be way more than you bargained for, and you will dip, and I will be mad at you for wasting my time.

I spent four hours in the back of a cafe this morning. I didn't even know it'd been four hours with my oat cappuccino and marzipan croissant. Wasn't I just happy as a clam writing my new movie and yapping with my manager about my two pitches next week. There's a collection of friends I "owe" coffee to. People who want to sit near each other and write. But when you sit near each other and write, the first hour is gabbing and the second hour is sort of distracted work.

An ex-friend wanted to meet up and write all the time. I obliged, but quickly realized she never got anything done. My presence merely gave her peace of mind, like she clocked some hours. Like commiserating counts. But it doesn't count! And even if it did, I don't commiserate with writers who don't like writing! I'm a little cactus that way. This is the hardest job in the world (not counting surgeon, hostage negotiator, middle school science teacher, etc.). Why would you try to get the hardest job in the world and hate it?

So anyway, as I was trotting home today I thought, "I guess I should have invited so and so to write with me today." But truthfully, I just want to be alone. I network because apparently it's important. But in a perfect world I would never have to.

But Ahedonia Still, Yesterday

I woke up early before my alarm, nervous. I've been nervous. There's too much weighing on me, nibbling at me. My taxes, my gums, letters I sent and letters I meant to send.

I read my summery book, wrote in my journal, sipped a favorite tea (caramel shortbread). I did a hiit dance workout, showered while brainstorming for a feature pitch I have next week. I decide I need an iced coffee and bagel with strawberry cream cheese. I text my high school idol, "Dunkin?" She writes back "chocolate glazed if possible plz and thank u." I get a non-fat latte for my best friend in this cursed town. 

I sing along to ska covers on the drive west. I tuck into the upper deck office and write two scripts. I kick around ideas with Cowsk and AP. I'm tasked with writing a song. I begin tinkering. We all get Gwyneth Paltrow's salads and brownies for lunch. I send a couple emails to Giant Toy Conglomerate about my newest revisions. I'm in a fight with Giant Toy Conglomerate for not paying me on time.

I bounce early because I have movie tickets to the newest film in my favorite franchise. I jet home to my partner who I love immensely, shove licorice into my purse, and we meet our friends at the AMC. I get popcorn and root beer. I answer last minute texts from ____ ____'s exec. Another interested producer might attach to our project. The movie is fun. We four stand outside talking about it and life for 90 minutes before it's finally time to move it. I walk to the grocery store for veg bacon, which is on sale. I listen to more ska on the patio and then eat a whole bag of Sun Chips while watching You. I fall asleep easily, imagining waves.

City of Nightmares

It's been almost five unofficial years here. And I LIKE IT OKAY. But I do not love it and fear I never will.

It's March 1st. The last couple weeks of February were challenging, and I had a bad attitude. PP is in town briefly in the midst of her whirlwind tour. Her star is rising, and I couldn't be happier for her. But I'm busy too. We carve out exactly one hour to catch up. I'm too aware of this and dive right into all of my angst. My oat milk cappuccino quivering as I grip the table. I express how dramatic I know I sound, but how distressed I feel! Both are true! Much later she texts me: "And I am sorry you are going through this moment of extremely warranted anger and also I know that there are so many good exciting things coming for you."

Last night Puhg and I bailed on the second half of The Secret Garden. We had great seats, but were so bored. We'd preordered intermission ginger beer so we drank it on the patio clobbering the writing in the drizzle before driving home. "Tomorrow is March!" I announced, "I'll have a good attitude in March and use my moisturizer every day and not be on my phone before ten!"

It's 11:42. I woke up early, journaled, read, haven't been on my phone yet. I did a dance workout, I MOISTURIZED, went to my writers' group. I decided to really put a spring in a my step and do some writing at a cafe. But there was street cleaning where I usually park. And wouldn't you know, after several circles, there simply was no where to park in what seemed like the entire neighborhood. I was determined not to complain, but I also did change my mind--actually my second favorite cafe is where I'm supposed to be. I feel so personally attacked by LA. Like even getting coffee is a reminder there's no room for me here. And what's even worse is while I'm in my feud with this place, she doesn't even know who I am.

So now I'm here. After paying for parking and dodging rude drivers and having too many internal conversations about which unhoused people I should or should not try to pass a dollar to with my special little caramel cold brew and fruit and nut toast I've already wolfed and I am HAVING A GOOD ATTITUDE!