West to East

I wonder how I'll be different. I hope very much but not completely. Lavender turned 35 last year and felt such a way about it. I didn't get it. What's a year or two? I remember when a girl I did improv with in Chicago turned 35. She grouched into the greenroom, "I'm almost forty!" (No, you are not, I thought.) Carrie, mascara running down her face, wails "I'm 35" after no one shows up to her birthday.

It started in fall. I tried to chat with two recent college grads at gymnastics about TV. They straightened up, nodded respectfully at me, like I was an elder. Because I am. I find myself wondering about the next generation, and how I will bend to their vulnerability, when the time comes. On the way home from a screening of Legally Blonde I told Lo about a very old sketch I wrote, way back in Arizona. At 3 AM I couldn't sleep, and I went searching for it online. Wow, I look ten years younger. Because I am. I wore my signature ugly cut-off sweat shorts (during a show!) and was, frankly a very clunky actor. But I felt something so new toward that girl in the video. I felt she was a different person. Not a stranger, more like a student of mine. I nodded my head at the jokes. I wanted to encourage the person who wrote them, these aren't perfect, but they are good! These are fresh! You don't even know how weird you are--but that's not bad! I feel like Matthew McConaughey tried explaining this phenomenon during his Oscars acceptance speech a few years ago and everyone thought he was on drugs.

Something else has been happening too. This odd sensation every day that I wake up. Oh, it's me again. That young comedy writer had woken up 8000 times as herself. And now I've woken up 4000 more times as me. It's like, wow, give me a break, me. I've never gotten to experience a single thing without myself there.

She won't pick up the phone, she'd rather be alone.

The Time Things Take

It's very important to me to have a second draft finished the day before a script is due. No stress, I polish first thing in the morning and send. Last week was simply more chaotic than I planned, heavily influenced by a mystery illness that knocked me out and stole my voice for five days. What can I even do about that? Hence I had only written one of two B*rbie episodes by Thursday. I was eager to spring away Friday, rush to a cafe, pound at my keyboard. I was nervous I wouldn't make the 5 PM deadline. But wouldn't you know it? With a caramel glace on the table and my Puhg across from me, the story flowed easily. I'd also set myself up for success with a clear outline. I've also been writing for these characters for two years. I finished the draft, revised, proofed. Submitted five hours early. Brand loved it.

I just don't believe in myself (in some ways). But maybe it's worked to my benefit. It happened again this week. I had a pitch Tuesday and a (small) list of revisions to make beforehand. I couldn't get to it over the weekend and wrung my hands all Monday morning on a return road trip. Finally Monday afternoon I opened the doc, imagining myself staying up all night. I finished everything in two hours. The pitch went great.

First week of my cruise tour, we had a producer from S____ C___ aboard. At a cast lunch in Mexico I asked him how I could be promoted when I got back to land. MB snapped a chip, Bern flipped his baseball cap. The producer kind of stuttered and vaguely answered there are auditions and lists and whatever. The subject was changed. Later MB told me, as we got into pjs in our tiny underwater tomb, "You just asked. You just asked." I still don't understand why it was so awkward. I didn't know! What was I supposed to do? Never find out?

Been so inspired since I watched Rocketman a few days ago. Lately no matter what I try to do, I end up googling Elton John, reading old interviews.

Don't wish it away / don't look at it like it's forever.

The Puff to Pop Pipeline

Are you mad at me for doing exactly what I am supposed to do? Do you not want me to do exactly what I am supposed to do as some backwards display of loyalty? If you told me to my face, I would understand. But don't make me read your mind. Don't make me fret. I resent a secret threat of fret. I seem mousey now, but I will get bigger. I will puff my chest until it pops. I am not afraid of popping, unlike you.