Worked on My Book for the First Time Since October

As long as you write something everyday. I agree and I disagree. I don't count journaling. I don't count blogging. Outlining. But then I start to not count just a page or two.

It seems like there should be priorities with projects, but you can't make yourself make yourself. I have tried. I have failed. My main fear is that in my patience, someone else will write it. I remember a girl on the volleyball team in college saying she never misses a practice because somewhere out there her opponent is practicing. And I still think about that. But then I try to remind myself we don't have opponents. Not like that. That's what neutral me believes, at least, until I see a movie trailer and think, "That's...a lot like my XYZ." But as a lover of things that I love, I would go to all movies about things I love, right? Several people watched this quirky Netflix film and texted me about it. "It's so you," a thing no artist hopes to hear. I avoided it until I was home alone with lots of snacks and no more papers to grade. I sucked in a huge basket of air and pressed play. It wasn't me at all. Or, rather, I would never have made it. I have rarely known such relief.

It's not about what I want to do. It's really not. It's about what I can do. Okay and a little about proving something. (To be honest.) But what I want has never been what's going on. It seems so beautiful and fortunate that I have rarely wanted. What an enormous gift.

Anyway, I finished another chapter of my book just now. Chapter 8 out of 12, to be exact.

Not Helping Feminism?/Submitting to Misogyny

A couple years ago many of my Arizona comedy pals had a mass exodus of our improv group. It was time for me to go too. I knew my final year of grad school should be spent focusing on my thesis, and the group was getting younger anyway. The director put together a final send-off show on a Sunday night. It was pretty packed, and it was a great night for all of us. We bowed, and I felt a bittersweet twinge for these four other guys who were moving on. And then something "organic" happened. The director took the mic and thanked the huge crowd for coming out. But then he went on to say how much the group meant to him. Hm. And then he rambled about the legacy of the group. (At this point the audience started squirming a little. They just watched an hour plus of improv and were kinda ready to scoot.) Then the director starting giving personal shout-outs to guys who had been in the group when he was just starting. Then he gave little speeches about each of the guys leaving on stage. He said something like, "These guys are the funniest people and my best friends, and the ladies are lovely as well." It was pretty embarrassing. I was hurt too--I considered this person my friend. Oh well, it was almost over. NOPE, PSYCH. He handed the mic to someone else onstage. The audience let out a collective discomforted sigh and waited while three other dudes gave basically the same speech calling out the same dudes from previous generations. Not a single guy recognized the female director who had cast most of them initially. Not a single one called out any of the women who had been on teams with them. My female teammate took the mic and gave gratitude this is how she met her boyfriend, an ex-cast member. The whole goo-fest was probably fifteen minutes strong when I got the mic last. I, again, was feeling bad for the audience who was listening to this pretty self-referential sludge, so gave a polite shake of my head and the night was over. I had been thinking about what the group meant to me though. I just chose to appropriately tell the important people I met in-person, not assuming a crowd of strangers wanted to hear about it.

Some of those important people (specifically three other girls I formed an independent group with) were in the audience that night. I hugged them and told them why they meant so much to me. "But you didn't say it onstage!" Kale said. It was such a trap, I realized. I wasn't egotistical enough to sing my own squad's praises, and therefore, they went unsung. I didn't mean to submit to misogyny. I didn't mean to quiet the very few and underrepped female voices in comedy. I acted rationally as a person regardless of gender, but.

Shellz and I writing sketch comedy years ago.

Speak Up

Tonight at rehearsal a castmate I really like made a really ignorant remark. Not just "offensive" by Alice definitions, but legit offensive. He was talking about being approached by an angry black man and literally said, "Judging by the color of his skin, I knew he had a gun or knife."

My jaw dropped. I didn't know intelligent people still actually said that kind of thing. I jiggled between shutting up and speaking up. Of course, my voice won. I said, somewhat passive-aggresively, "Well, you can't assume that--" And I was even more shocked to hear him actively defend what he had just said. I walked outside. I felt some raindrops. I cursed man.

We are taught to speak up. To defend those who are not present. To explore the other and to love him. But sometimes it feels like our noble words get punted so far away. And, really, the metallic junk of stupidity will remain forever.

Break was over. I got into character and focused. How was I going to exchange dialogue--even in a pretend space--with this guy? I sent love vibrations to him. I made no eye contact. And, then, in a down moment an hour later, he came directly to me, apologized, and explained that he was wrong. He knows better, too. He was just mad and scared, and it was out of line. I explained I was just surprised that someone so smart and nice could say something so wrong. He asked, "You think I'm smart?" with a little grin. I nodded and I hugged him. He's no racist.

What if I hadn't spoken up? It's possible he wouldn't have considered his hurtful words, and perhaps he would have said and thought more of those poison thoughts for years. Maybe I made a difference to him and our society, but mainly, speaking up helped ME. I could leave the theatre with warm thoughts towards everyone. I can go to sleep without any nagging grudges. If I hadn't spoken up, I never would have given my castmate the opportunity to show me that I had only seen him at a low-point. I would have just nursed a small hatred until the run ended. This is much better.

Strangers are easy to like.
Thunder and lightening might strike.