2025 was the worst year of my life

Maybe I've been dragging my feet on this recap because of the title of this recap. There are certainly ways I could spin what happened last year. I could ignore a ton to rebrand 2025 as a love story or a buddy comedy or even some coming of age thing. But the truth is, last year blew. It was a drama. And not an uplifting one. There were some very lovely scenes, but there was not a happy ending.

January actually started brightly. There was a sense of newness in the air. Everyone bracing for inauguration, but in the mystery there was still hope. Then, six days in, the fires crushed the entire city's spirit. Despite Hollywood Hollywooding on, we haven't recovered. Not by a long shot. I haven't recovered. At BM's birthday last Saturday the four of us sat at the kitchen table, confessing we all shudder, still, in the middle of the night. We wake with starts remembering: obsessively checking the disaster app, repeatedly forgetting where important papers were because we stayed packed so long, feeling the complete hysterical lack of control that only staying in an Embassy Suites with a tubbed hamster can provide.

And yet all our neighbors walked to the outdoor mall and saw movies with our A-List passes. Flow and Baby Girl if you can believe. There were free animal crackers at 5 PM and I sat in the lobby for two hours eating them while reading Women Who Run with the Wolves. (I turned the last page on my birthday.) I finished the final draft of my new Toy Conglomerate musical at the hotel desk and Puhg and I talked a lot about environmental crises. We were home for our anniversary, picked up a cheese pizza and Caesar salad.

Early winter was, as you may recall, a political hellscape. Sitting under my tree, finishing the movie with AB, revising my play. I sent the script around, one timid reading at a time. I wrote three commercials for a big brand--a job I was very proud to get. It paid $4,500 with no benefits. I ran my women's talk group, every month, all year. I really enjoyed those nights and got a lot out of the yaps. All the gals told me they did too. We did karaoke at the end, ER sang "Lucky" to start.

Puhg's aunt suddenly went into hospice. We booked urgent flights and made it to her bedside, for maybe the last conscious minutes of her life. She looked up at Puhg with such delight in her fading eyes. "I love you!" she said over and over. We wrote her obituary in the room with vending machines.

A month later our darling Sweet P was gone too. I wrote about that day and never published it. I guess I will eventually. Started at critter care, ended at Cowboy Carter.

I saw a lot of concerts this year! In this bizarre time, one of the only things I seem to know for sure is concerts are worth it for me. A good concert can fuel me for a month if not two. I'm still riding high from Sabrina's rendition of "Nobody's Son" in November. From Gaga's "Applause" in August. Breezy nights of Japanese Breakfast, Dashboard, Goo Goo Dolls, Coldplay. I went to another universe when Chris Martin sang "The Scientist" and then we got little banana froths at the underground ferngully while the bassist strummed table to table.

April was restructuring and the big 70th birthday. We got sunburnt at Bernie and AOC's rally. I kept chugging along in therapy. I have to say May was really nice. Happy little birthday fete. The beach, the mountains, the clear pools, the creatures, the soft doughy treats, the hiking up a creek that Puhg dipped into. And then it all turned.

I was professionally chucked in the trash and Puhg was laid off and we had three weeks to get new health insurance. I fought tooth and nail to maintain any kind of stable insurance this year. I lost. I lost in my current deal, I lost when the billion dollar girls' brand told me I'd have to take three months off as a contractor or else (they winced) they'd have to give me benefits. I lost when I went downtown and waited in line at the social services office, behind all the meth heads and poor single moms. It took three months but I finally got on Covered California--and for what? All my rates were supposed to rocket in 2026, so I rushed to get my bloodwork done December 30th. I was billed $40. I spent an hour on the helpline to finally say, "I thought if my doctor prescribed necessary bloodwork it was free?" No, the agent told me. I asked what was covered under my insurance that costs $300/month with a 15K deductible. He told me I get one check-up per year. I said, "I guess I'm grateful I'm not being charged right now for you to tell me this." He did not laugh.

In terms of themes, 2025 was a big year for Disappointment. A lot of people disappointed me. Each betrayal more surprising than the last. Maybe next year I'll have wisdom about it. Today my takeaway is, "Alice you stupid naive idiot. When will you learn? You cannot trust people--even people you love, even people you thought loved you."

On the flip side was Openness. Someone bailed on me but then, randomly, my old professor sent the most affirming email. A department chair struck down a production of my play, but then the piece I dramaturged won an international award. I got yelled at on the phone but that night I recounted it all to Lav in our Portillos booth and we managed to chuckle.

Summer felt very long and sad. ICE terrorized LA, then the guard was deployed. I protested. I showed up for climate law at City Hall. I went out of my mind watching a genocide from my phone. I went to the pool every afternoon. A purple swimsuit this time. I read one book with a red cover very slowly. I clocked in for watchdog shifts. I listened to Man's Best Friend a lot, especially "House Tour." I got involved with multiple progressive groups but they all fell apart because rich people don't think fascism applies to them. Puhg's mom suffered her hellish accident and nothing will ever be the same. I wrote about that day too. I'll probably share, eventually. Did get to see my old friends, did get a mini trampoline, have observed my partner step into agonies. I have said it before, but I will always say it: I am so proud of him. He gets braver each minute.

Some college actors did a reading of my play. Then a young cohort of artists bootstrapped a production in July. They did such a good job. My mom came out for it and our trio celebrated the run at the taco shop with virgin margaritas. My sister graciously hosted us every quarter. We have our Things. I like her orange cat and the big coffee shop with cheddar biscuits and sinking into the sofa for a doc about Abercrombie or that short-lived series Players or that Netflix competition show about pop stars. She buys us seltzer and veggie bacon in advance. There are rainy Chicago adventures--facials and art and The Drake and Alice Sr did a fantastic karaoke performance, a classic from the musical A Chorus Line. There's a cold dark night and a bright snowy morning, there's a hot lake walk and a chilly bop to Brown's Chicken for fritters.

My workshop went very very well, and I am so pleased. The compliments haven't stopped rolling in, even now. My friends and former collaborators and even some newbies attended and gushed their heads off in the street. I shuffled out all haggard but was met with thunderous applause on Santa Monica Boulevard. Two friends told me it was all so moving they cried the whole way home. J sent such a perfect note--she loved it and hoped I was feasting on a well-deserved cheddar log. A high-powered showrunner sat in the second row, then left without a peep--but January 5th she pinged, "You are so incredibly talented and I am very happy to come see anything you do." This past Friday L said it was the most fun she'd ever had at a play. The chickie I invited when she was smoking a joint in a swimsuit sent me no fewer than 30 excited texts. It was so much work but work that is Mine. I worried the whole thing was a narcissistic voyage, but every rehearsal someone in the cast paused, looked up, said, "Wow, this is...too real." I feel bonded forever with the actors. My mom and sister were the ones who ultimately convinced me to do it and I thanked them from the bottom of my heart as we sat in the heart-shaped booth, before the Black Forest cake arrived.

What else? My book keeps selling. I keep stickering. My first ever world premiere will be set! Within the next month! I am gripping but I don't think I am afraid. I am impressed by how well I've been managing all the moving parts. I've learned so much. I sobbed firing my manager, snapped up a fancy new agent,  dropped the big time lawyer with an email, hired a new one in a parking lot. I wrote an incredibly exciting new animated series which may or may not ever exist. I was in the brainstorm room for a new musical show which may or may not ever exist. I am currently developing a movie with two dream collaborators which may or may not ever exist. A graphic novel adaptation came and went. Did six improv shows, I think. Spent a month finagling a group gift for SW--the expensive necklace she's always wanted. She opened the blue box and blurted out to everyone, "But this is against all of Alice's values!" Puhg took me for a beautiful romantic getaway down the coast with credit card points. There was a mini fire pit on our balcony and I wore the big fuzzy robe and toasted marshmallows.

I saw the ghost play and the hilarious vaccine show, which were cool. I watched a bunch of Survivor, which was medicinal friend time. Went to so many movies, adored Heated Rivalry like everyone else. Hamnet, Together, Nuremberg (!), Sorry Baby, Lurker, The Life of a Showgirl Movie (twice). The Life of a Showgirl album: well, I freakin' love it. Blondie's doc: well, I freakin' loved it.

I developed shingles right after Thanksgiving. It was terrifying and painful. The urgent care doctor told me I may have lost my sight and hearing if I hadn't moved as quickly as I did. Puhg served me applesauce and toast. My camp friends sent me a bouquet to commemorate my first prescription ever. I'm sure I'm missing a lot and this hasn't been a particularly well-organized post, but 2025 was not a particularly well-organized year.

Christmas was a peppermint swirl of hard and fun. My sister gifted me a little ocarina and my mother gave me notebooks. Puhg treated me to my favorite burrito. I told you about New Years Eve. There are five incredibly exciting and/or life-changing things that could happen with my art this year, but another Midwestern writer my age was recently shot in the face for no reason and then the president lied about it. So who can say?

I could take you to the first, second, third floor

minutes

Spent today with Tira. Unexpectedly even. Out of character for me, especially on a high pressure day like today. I had to set my goals and dream my dreams and all that. Was up early compiling a little batch of photos for the internet. I don’t usually like posting recaps, but for some reason I felt compelled this year. I bopped to the cafe to yap with Puhg. I sold him on the party for tonight by promising him we could leave by 12:30. The wild girl from our building cycloned in with her redheaded friend. Puhg tried to get their take, and I said, no no they’re nuts. They cackled and jumped around, told us they aren’t nuts at all! Redhead went on, they spent last new years shoveling ice cream into their mouths at 11:47, before the diet started.

So I sat on the balcony a bit, enjoying the rain, then gathered my little chipmunk bag and trotted to the crystal shop for a sound bath. Tira met me and we let the bowls wash us away. I wrote down three words I want to bring into 2026 and three words I don’t. I got an idea that is either insane or wonderful.

We went to use the bathroom at my alcove nearby, then why not have a little treat, you know? Tira said, “You can’t believe that stuff 100% or you go psycho, but you do have to believe…something.” We each got bowls of cocoa, a strawberry cheesecake for Tira and a snickerdoodle slice for me. She and her girlfriend broke up at Christmas and she just got a job as a line cook even though she’s been nominated for Emmys. We talk about how sad it is to grieve our industry but how we don’t feel it’s right to leave just yet. It’s hard to describe, but we both feel it in our bones.

Tira mentions picking up dinner for later. Money is weird. A big theme of the year. I haven't scrimped this hard since 2017 but it doesn't ever make a difference. I'll cut a subscription or a hobby or plans and that's when rent goes up. It makes me sick that Puhg and I throw 30K to a giant conglomerate every year. One thing I still haven't sorted out is how to think about things and not think about things at the same time. I recommend the local pizza shop instead of the high-end corner joint and once we get there it smells so good we decide to each get the lunch special. I buy, and it feels really warm because Tira bought me my first lunch in our old TV writers’ room. Things come back around. The owner hustles out with our little sauces and Cokes. She's in good spirits with a blonde ponytail. I get home at 2:30 and write for a long time. I don’t feel satisfied with any of the drafts, give up around 6 and take a shower.

I have to get ready for the aforementioned party, so I’ll have to reflect more on my year tomorrow or the next day. I try not to bring anything negative into fresh Januarys—even reflection maybe. I spent yesterday doing tedious tax calculations and getting bloodwork and writing my insurance and paying my bills. Still, I wish I could leave some of the chewing behind me too. But maybe this is good for me. Not much exists in perfect lines, from 11:59 to midnight what is the difference? But there is a difference. One can't let too many minutes slip.

Looking Backward Might Be to Only Way to Move Forward

If I had to describe 2024 in one word, I think I'd choose "stuffed." I swear I've lived so many years in this one. Like some kind of hot pocket. Only instead of broccoli cheddar I microwaved a steaming square of winter, spring, summer, fall.

January was like a sunny snow globe. I spent a lot of mornings in cafes writing my novella. Mostly I was alone, but my schedule was so consistent when friends would text “we should catch up!” I’d say, “well I’ll be sitting in this exact seat with half an iced oat latte for the next five hours if you’re free now.” And often, they would be. In the afternoons I’d do tedious administrative tasks and write my Toy Conglomerate series. I went to the movies all the time with Puhg and also with myself. I scurried around Los Angeles for a solid month finding the final theatre showings of Eras. I’d usually pre-order cinnamon pretzel bites and an XL Mr. Pibb.

February felt so exciting. A month of being at Marv’s house for a dinner party then jetting to NYC for Galas and truly life-changing shows. Sipping Shirleys in the lobby with my mother and hoofing around Central Park and chuckling with my high school bff and going backstage to hug TF and AP and seeing my old pink friend and my first editor. Finally caught Covid, but I recovered just in time for a magical Arizona getaway to see Olivia Rodrigo with my sister and meet Shells’ baby. Conglomerate hired me for a couple commercials, and it was revealed, I am their most prized writer. How to leverage that, working on it.

March was unpleasant. I’ll be the first to admit. Deals fell apart, execs waffled, bosses bossed, bosses didn’t boss. We went to a wedding in Ojai for people I didn’t know, and I danced with the force of a million angsty teen girls to "Mr. Brightside.” I posted up by the dessert table and ate every single petit fours. I was so moody Puhg and I whisked off to Mexico, where we ate the most delicious tacos and swam in the incredible sparkling pool and got upgraded to a condo, which was honestly too big. But it did come with its own little waterfall, which I goofed in for hours and hours in between reading a dumb book I bought off TikTok about not believing everything you think.

At the last minute we decided to see to the total eclipse. The nearest city was Dallas, and the flights were horribly expensive, but we couldn’t stop bringing it up—a sign. What an incredible feast it was. Got to see summer camp friends and walk around that One Cool Area and eat fresh bagels and I had the sudden idea to send a copy of my manuscript to my old English professor, who gave me very helpful notes.

I spent most of April running logistics for my book. I was irritated often and at least once a day deep in a pit of gripes about some shipping issue or flakey talent. Or maybe I was just, generally, completely overwhelmed by my own cringe. My sister visited for one day and we almost went to a bakery to write but last minute went to Universal Studios instead. Oh god, we had fun. Trotted around the Mario Land of the late 90s and both stood, cheered, screamed for the Waterworld Live Show, an image of which I just rubber cemented onto the top of my 2025 dream board.

The book events were incredibly special, and I’m immensely proud I got her in four stores. Around fifty people came, and I made a connection with each one. I made hundreds of rainbow cookies and we all sang acoustic “Cruel Summer” in an art gallery, to get back to what I was saying about cringe. I wrote an essay about it. I wrote another essay about confidence. I wrote another essay about consciousness and 22 essays about the Future.

Two jobs came up that I didn’t know if I wanted. I applied, which wasn’t unfunny, and didn’t get either. But unlike the Alice of 2018 or even 2022, I didn’t really care. It happens more often than not now, that I am relieved when I am rejected from a windfall of cash. Maybe I’m meant to be saying other things. In the meantime I get hired to write a TikTok, which goes massively viral in 48-hours, and brings 20K followers to the company. I am begged to page-one revise a M*nster H*gh commercial and punch up a pilot for Marv.

I finished out the project I once loved that turned into a project I resented, and we never said goodbye. I stood up for myself and was invisibly punished for it. I wrote about that too. I listened to TTPD four million times.

My other play broke my heart a million times over. I have cried so many tears over this stack of paper. Once I couldn’t even stand up I was so devastated. Laid on the ground letting the ache out, clutched at chair legs. I worried I had developed some intense disease or might need jaw surgery. Puhg told me I’d been chewing in the night, and I couldn’t speak freely anymore. Once I dissolved the fancy contract all the pain vanished. I tell Shan about it and she says, “The body keeps the score.”

Shan was a big character in 2024. So were Seline and Grief as always. One is fun and the other meets me in reality. The group watches Survivor less often, but still. I do a handful or improv shows—one an all-time favorite, with LA. It feels incredible to finally be here: I don’t need to rehearse or plan to crush. But then I get shut out of another show (a free late show that does not matter AT ALL) and I am so mad I stomp out of the theatre early.

I’m terribly embarrassed about how insane I feel on my birthday. I pick at myself, almost until I bleed, but then I have a little gathering on the side patio instead. I wear my white cowboy boots and bring the gals smol gifts I found just for them. A banana clip or socks or cherry earrings or a Japanese surprise ball.

I decide to make a commitment to Pride for June, I tell Grief. Nik and I go to the comedy theatre to see the queer ensemble and get ice cream after. I go to my first Dyke Day, which is the most organized, respectful adventure. I watch a Drag King perform “Blank Space” in the blazing heat and sit on a blanket as the entire world chants HOT TO GO. I split a cab there with Jordy and we, against all odds, end up on the sidewalk leaving together. Rain and I go for Mexican and get into it. “How did you get out of it?” I ask her, and she explains she had to rot. I try it that weekend, “rotting.” It works! For some reason, I recognize, it’s easier for me to rot than relax. Both can even look like laying in bed watching TV. But for some reason, the rot resonates and the rest doesn’t.

The turning point may have been the pool. The going every day. I let the wind blow me, and it blew me into writing with an iconic comedian and mentoring the girlies and analyzing (in depth) concert livestreams. I like being in the pool group: the two-toddler fam, the immigrant teens, the one chubby older man, and the guy my age who always brought a small hot coffee and old headphones.

My sister and mom visited, and we crammed eversomuch into one weekend! The woodland stand and facials and beach and Twister, followed by Twisters plural. I remember my mom holding my paw when the aunt tells Helen Hunt to keep working on Dorothy. “You’ve been chasing these things since you were a little kid. It’s what you do. Go, do it.”

The summer fun is fun. Bleachers and Joyce Manor at The Greek. Going to the waterpark and watching the Olympics at the movie theatre on a weekday morning, only stepping out to take a call from my theatre lawyer. The night Puhg lost his job we went to the pizza shop and I gave him a card with a shrimp on it. The day he started his new gig last month we went to our main haunt and I left a bright blue note on the table. There was that Sunday morning I posted up tapping away on god knows what by the bookshop, so I could drop off another sticker stack, and I see no fewer than six improvisers swing through. I take these opportunities to encourage them. I’ve spent a long time being ashamed I want to change the world with my art. Seems narcissistic. But I finally understand the truth: I want everyone to change the world with their art. Before I go to Illinois I pull off some kind of collaborative magic and start working with AB, it’s decided, on a Saturday night over clinked pink grapefruit while she is dolled up for the Emmys and I have secretly just slammed a whole plate of nachos.

The Prairie State is full of memories and long walks around the river and hot pink sunsets and a hike up to Starved Rock and tea at the Drake and bagels and art and a party, with just the cream, I think. I love all my lives and also don’t miss a single one. When I get back to California, I find a new therapist. I love her office, behind a red oval door, near a citrus tree.

It happened slowly, but I communicate like a true professional. I have excellent boundaries and don’t accept just any job offer. I don’t follow up with people anymore either. It’s too clear an indication of the rest of time, I have learned. You can burn your pitch decks.

There were two Arizona trips—one for Mothers’ Day. We have brunch and go to Nordstrom Rack. Kale and I have dinner at Cornish and she says, too seriously after a year of applying to hundreds of jobs, “I’m so glad my mom is dead so she doesn’t have to see what a failure her daughter is.” By the time we return in December for Puhg’s dad’s birthday, she has the best job she’s ever had. Far far better than any of the others she tried to get.

In September we went to Washington to stand in the quietest spot of moss and marvel at the old red sign. We saw the film festival shorts twice and enjoyed them more the second time? The gang went to Applebee’s and visited the high school movie set. I blasted Letters to Cleo while we turned the corner. Everyone was out of their gourds at dinner, the waiter gave us separate checks. Puhg got a truck and returned it. One of our favorite mornings of the year we got up before dawn to hit the drive-thru of Mochamotion, listened to all of Red TV on the long leaf-lined roads. Beach exploration and musing about Twilight and finally a sunny veggie burger, a seagull joined us. We laugh our heads off over fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, fool me five times you’ve fallen into my trap.

October was simply the best. Maine for the wackiest little gig in a beautiful little house alone, and then with my sweet family. I am empowered by this $800 gig. I sing my heart out to hundreds of people each night, pretending to be a fire-starting teen or a crossing guard or a haunted old woman. My mom and I drive to a tiny town and eat fiddleheads. My sister and her husband and I have blueberry pie. It feels so funny and wonderful to see them in the same shops I used to buzz around back when I was 26. Puhg and I get maple cold brews on the way to the airport. It’s a ten minute drive. AND THEN I GO TO NEW ORLEANS FOR ERAS. A top weekend of my entire life! HITS DIFFERENT. Super super, that’s what we are.

In November my reality collapsed, I led women’s groups, got pneumonia, and somehow went for a last swim. Henne hosted me in NYC, where I did nothing but cough in the shower and guzzle emergen-c. That’s not true--I also saw Stereophonic, which I loved, from the very back corner of the balcony, surrounded by Hall’s wrappers. The play workshop renewed my belief in myself and humanity! All 16 students impress and stamp on me. My director met with me a few days ago, at the spot with mirrored halls and incredible hand pies. We are going to make it happen, she keeps assuring under the winter sun. For Thanksgiving we made a vegan loaf.

December threatened me! Too much to do, but the bow was a long and beautiful Christmas. Tattoos, chocolate oranges, sits by the pool, Little Dom’s salad, names from a Tupperware, a hill scramble at golden hour, Puhg’s pancake birthday and later vegan hot dogs. I get overwhelmed and say, I’m sorry it’s hard to love me. My sister explains it’s not hard to love me but hard to support. “Amen,” Alice Sr. chimes.

What am I missing? (You see what I mean about “stuffed”?) OH GOD SWEET POTATO. The ever present lump who used to keep me up late chewing, who now resides so deeply in a shavings pile I will actually reorganize my entire morning around her sniffing snoot if needed! She is smart and she is fuzzy and she smells like the forest.

Our building manager passed away, and I still can't believe it. I don't want to take any more people for granted. She always called me "sweetheart."

I’ll need more time to think about all my favorite art of the year. Off the dome: Problemista and Perfect Days and Chappell and Sabrina and Wicked and Still Mad and OH MARY. Photo finish, one of my favorite arts of the year was Once Upon a Mattress with Sutton and Ana. It’s rare you know you’re in the presence of a genius geniusing. I’ve been blessed to see it many times in this one itty bitty life. Maybe that’s my purpose, to be a mouse near lions.

Today I wrote this blog post at the cafe, had a waffle (it’s a holiday, I screamed at the barista), and attended a sound bath. On my intention card I wrote I’d like to leave “control” behind and bring “lightness” into the new year. I got two (!) vaccinations yesterday, with no side effects. Talked with my sister and mom about resolutions, texted with my dad about Bob Dylan. I’ve sent mail and organized the bookshelf and paid my last bills and did the math on my spreadsheet. I wrote 930 hours and produced 1242 hours. That shakes out to about 17 hours of writing and 23 hours of producing per week, with no weeks off. I made 65k.

I finished the first draft of my newest play on December 23rd, 2024! I will begin revisions on January 2nd! I am so confused and terrified about the year ahead! I have few resolutions and fewer goals! But I will! Be doing a reading! Of this play!

two-thousand and twenty-three

I’ll always remember 2023 as an incredibly special year. It’s honestly hard to comprehend how much happened to and for me, how many once in a lifetime experiences were smooshed into the past twelve months. I spent so many days rushing around, peddling my feuds and hunched over my laptop and crying and laughing. But now it is time to slow down and reflect. I probably ate a hundred croissants—what other yardstick does one need.

I’ll start with my art. The two workshops of my new play were far more successful than I could have imagined. I applied for and was rejected from a dozen fellowships. But what came to be was SO much better. And the juice is so much sweeter! I squeezed it myself! I will never forget when those audiences leapt to their feet. The outrageously talented writers and managers and executives who gushed to me on the street, in my email, over cherry Italian sodas. The young actors who made the piece their own, the directors who cared more than was fair. To quote Kelly Clarkson quoting someone else, some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this.

I completed a B_rbie series, wrote another, have just started another. It hurts my brain to consider how much experience and magic the podcast brought into my life. Again, this year was such an embarrassment of creative riches. In another galaxy, my entire personality is those shows. In this galaxy I wake up in Tokyo, half skim an email about being in the New York Times. We’re number one again, we got this icon or that great mind into the studio. I make myself small next to AP and try to remember all the wisdom she casually throws away. She invites me to a fancy dinner and invites me to her girls' party and invites me over to be in her Masterclass, strangely something I wished for when I first bought a membership in 2019. Dramaturged a solo show I so believe in! Went to live comedy when I could! Never regretted it.

I pitched a show I co-created with ____ ____ to HBO and afterward the VP of comedy wrote me a nice email. Then ____ ____ asked me to punch up his newest movie, a serious honor. A showrunner out of my league asked to be in my league. I wrote a new TV sample, just because I had the idea. Wrote a third of my newest play—will finish in 2024. Wrote a third of a new movie—may not finish in 2024. It irritates me that I don’t want to finish this project. I typically finish everything I start. However, I’m trying to listen to the artist inside me when she pitches a fit.

I pitched on a sequel to an iconic movie (project killed). I pitched on IP with a fantastic producer (project stalled). I reflect on options for the show I sold (project died). A thriller killed. A youth podcast rudely offed. Made two TikToks for this fancy company I suppose I believe in. Wrote an essay I couldn’t get published.

My god! I was on strike for six months! I’m changed from it! We won! That was, like, an entire life of bump-ins and middle fingers and free snacks and sunscreen and holes in my shoes.

Acted in two improv TV shows, did maybe three live shows? Was in a pod episode with three heavy-hitters! Barely registered, which is evidence I really don’t have it in me to act anymore.

A new little ham at home! More time on the balcony than ever. Three weddings! Heavens the weddings! At an iconic inn! In bright, clear Denver! The most outrageous parties and pool time in Palm Springs!

My mom visited California. We roamed around getting facials and going to the movies. My dad visited California. We cruised windy highways and dined in the local pizza joint. My aunt visited California, and I drove back from lunch, toward the rolling golden hills, enchanted. I visited the midwest—twice! Lake Michigan and the Beach Bunny concert and deep dish and walks around Evanston and corn fritters and keeping up with the peace bugs. AND THEN everything reset at the summer camp reunion—a whole world! The gals went to Disneyland at Halloween for crying out loud!

I spent Christmas with all the people and summer obsessively searching for Taylor Swift tickets. Managed to pull off getting the literal best seat in the stadium? That concert shook me to my core, is now and forever a part me. That folding chair, a dot in the timeline of culture. “You’ll go to space,” Puhg said of my tiny cameos in the movie. I saw the movie over and over in theaters—with Puhg, with my manager, with strangers, with friends, alone. I went to so many movies in general, sometimes bopping around the mall after. Making good on a resolution to have more fun, I wore down my Six Flags season pass.

Puhg and I went to Japan twice! The first time so wrapped up in the tender spring, the second reflecting on autumn. I grasped for a fortune at the Nara shrine and cheered for it coming true over caramel corn at the Kyoto studio tour. Each day could be unpacked and repacked and unpacked a million times. Thick toasts, prayer tablets, steps, gates, Godzilla, moss, cream puffs, rotating sushi, speak easys, Hello Kitty, rocks, castles, ponds, rainy days, volcano black shells, cab rides, sunrises, ferry rides, fall colors, train nods, soft boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs.

FRIENDS! Had a big fat birthday. New York for theatre and Henne! An Arizona journey for Kiles’ big show and Shell’s almost baby. Two bachelorette parties. Swimming bitter with Buckle, game nights with the other couple, Survivor dens, jolly patios with K___, and a haunted house with SW. Last night, as always, dream boards with Tira. Went on a writing retreat alone but was somehow front row for Find’s set. Now anything is possible.

Ah the tough stuff. You know I have beat my fists against pillows and screeched about how unfair poor health or stupid benefits are. You know I have worried about the distance between things and people who float away. But you know I'm more resilient than I used to be. I do believe terrible things are happening now and in the future. I hope to be wrong, but at least there's nothing smaller to be afraid of.

Diligent work on my handspring. I am landing it, but I wish for something less ugly by this time next year. Oh yeah, and I won that playwriting award for something I wrote on a plane.

I Wish I Was Her

2022 was one of my favorite years of life. And then it kicked me in my teeth on its way out the door. Highs so enduring I forgot they were highs. Walking on clouds became status quo--until the plummet. I try very hard to remember things are what they are, not how they end.

Another year of habits. Workout every day, journal, read, meditate once a week, Scrapbook Sundays, no writing weekends, log everything, fill my checkered notebook with to-dos and to-do them.

I dislike how undone these twelve months feel. So much happened, but to what end is TBA. Which is why you're supposed to enjoy the journey and not the destination, but sorry, no matter how comfy the seats in first class, there are certain places you'd prefer not to land. There are certain trips I would never buy tickets for had I known there'd be an emergency landing in Boise, you know?

I worked with two of my all-time artistic idols this year. I was challenged creatively, I made them laugh, I sat in rooms torn between "pinch me" and "why me." I pitched and sold, twice. I wrote a new sample, revised a screenplay a dozen times, produced a live reading of it. I wrote another screenplay. I sold a short. I developed. An actress I admire "responded to the work" and we met. I wrote a new play, had a beautiful workshop of it. I consulted. I wrote for a fancy benefit of stars, attended a premiere of even more sparkles. I was pulled into the corner private booth of the Sunset Tower Hotel, surrounded by three powerful women I'd only ever seen on screens. People let me down, but maybe it wasn't their job to hold me up. I wrote five B____ series, still an accomplishment, but overshadowed by my vicious drive to Do More. I spent this past week writing a new outline for the first feature I'll write in 2023.

Hm, a few music improv shows. None very good, actually. But I did them all the same. A podcast recording. Parties, mixers, coffees.

There was, in reverse order, Mexico Christmas, post-Thanksgiving Scottsdale, a sister visit, a Santa Monica getaway, the hottest funnest week ever in service to a reunion concert and soy milkshakes, bucket list roller coasters with my mom, Wisconsin pontooning with my dad and aunt, Tahiti (!), the windiest wildest Palm Desert range, a celebration meeting of the Alice minds in a large tiled rental, San Diego family seaside excursion, Chicago for Dal's wedding, long-planned Disneyland, cool Arizona winter weekend, a Valentine cabin.

There were patterns. Like, what is my body doing when my mind doesn't know what's next? Or pretending it's not a big deal until it's not. There's no shortcut to putting in the time. There were unlearned lessons. About mind reading and getting older.

There were a million magic moments with beloved Cap. And then a thousand terrible moments I still can't shake. I walk around the sunny neighborhood in a raincloud. My coach at gymnastics encourages me I'm so close to the handspring even though what he really means is, "I can tell you've been crying in this Tumbling for Adults Class." The morning after she died, Puhg and I went for breakfast at the cafe with orange wallpaper. "Time to pretend," he sighed, stereotypical east side book in hand, as we walked in.

I saw some amazing theatre for the first time in years. At least a dozen productions, finally, in this tinsel town. Search for Intelligent Life and 2:22 and Man of God, the stand-outs. I liked several books--Evelyn Hugo and The Brittanys for certain--some TV, mainly Players and Yellowjackets, and sure, movies too. I can't think of what meant something to me right now. I had a low tolerance for things written by men this year, which can be a challenge. But I definitely know I loved going to the movies this year. I adore the Burbank escalators and the hummus shop around the corner and the butter machine and the Freestyle Coke and discussing with Puhg on the breezy ride home. My favorite albums were Beach Bunny and Taylor Swift. I got into a stupid little cooking game on my phone, and I really did enjoy dressing cartoon salads.

I lost a friend, I made a friend, I reconnected with all the best and took note of who wasn't there. Most of the brightest moments are never what you think. Laughing on the patio as the moon looks over me and Puhg, that day Cap ate her first blueberry, the Gatekeeper with my mom before park close, chatting with my dad while I looked at the sun setting on palm trees, my sister prancing around an art supply shop, our wooden bungalow, playing Mafia in a pool, all the Cornish Pasties and all the people I ate them with. So many sunsets in so many places. I cherished each one.

I tried my best. If there's anything you could say about me, it's that I always always tried my best.