Ideas to Reality

I learned about Lindy West's book talk in October via her Instagram. Lindy West is my favorite writer and has been for eight years. I've never laughed so hard reading essays, thought so deeply reading tweets. I set an honest-to-god alarm to go off when the tickets went on sale. I invited Lo. Then I invited Tira, who said "okay" and invited her gf as well.

I had a single ticket sent to my apartment. Monday I planned to arrive at the venue an hour before start so I could ensure four (good) seats together. Traffic was worse than anticipated, so I only arrived half an hour early. I was shocked to find only about fifteen women milling around and tons of empty seaties. I checked in to get my hardcover book. The nice lady couldn't find my name but finally announced, "Oh, you were in a section for paper tickets. You're the only one who had a physical ticket sent to you via mail." I needed the hard ticket for scrapbooking.

I sat down in the fourth row and my friends came soon after. This is what we did with our nights. We got four books, we spent an hour. Lo & I walked down the big event space hill to a French bistro and I got a cheese plate. It all happened because it was an idea, and the idea came to fruition. When I posted the pictures on Insta, several friends DM'd to say they were jealous. I wish I had invited more folks! More folks whose evenings/lives would have been altered by an idea.

The most powerful idea West shared with us (for me) was that sometimes it seems things will never change, or only get worse. But remember cigarettes in bars? When that legislation was presented even she (a non-smoker) rallied against it. "Cigarettes are part of bars! You can't tell us what to do! Even if it passes, we will revolt!" But look, after ten minutes, no one cared. Now if you were to see someone smoking in a bar you'd grow deeply concerned, maybe even scared. It would be uncanny.

Two Sides

If you believe in the ice pack healing your knee, that means you can also die of hypothermia. At least that's what my black-haired, chubby Sunday School teacher told me. In my memory she was wearing a blue green dress not unlike a peacock's body. She chewed on chocolate Ice Breakers, a candy I've only ever found in speciality stores and I've only ever seen her eat. Can't count on anything that can be taken away. Hold space for all that can't be.

Nov 10 18

It's been a long Sunday. The night begins at 4:45, so I'm left anxious like I wasted a day that was not, after all, wasted. Have a show tonight. I feel out of practice and don't want to go, but if I don't go when I can, then I'm even more out of practice, so I always go. When asked.

My anxiety has been topping out around 11 AM this week. I have to be on set by 12 or 1 or 2, and I've learned that isn't good for me. I don't want to go hard working in the mornings because I'll be on the clock until midnight, but I get frantic by the time I'm shoving my junk in a purse, trying to get out the door in the late morning. "I didn't even do anything!" I mutter.

My nails look great. I opted for a bright purple, which seems Novembery. I also put two stickers on my laptop today, which I have never done before. I thought about it for a long time. First, do I want to deface valuable object. Second, do I want to put stickers I like on an object that will eventually be valueless. I thought about a mural in a Thai restaurant by i_ in Chicago. It's downstairs by the bathroom. Something like, "Use the good China, you only get one life." I'm sure the person who painted those words in a restaurant basement didn't consider me, a decade later, putting a cartoon clam on my computer.

Friday afternoon I decided to spend some quiet time cracking this screenplay I'm outlining. But I didn't feel like my usual pastry antics, so I went to Del Taco for Beyond ground beef and Diet Coke. I set out my pens and paper and started going at it, but a very dirty man three booths from me was truly hacking so hard I thought he might die right there. He accentuated each cough with a loud, angry swear. "Can't even read the paper," he'd be yelling. I was afraid of him and afraid for him. I think I want to help people, but I can't help everyone. Perhaps I can help at least the people in front of me, but then sometimes the person in front of you is too scary or you've decided they don't deserve it for some other reason.

I've always had this belief that anyone can do anything I have done. I guess it sort of makes all my accomplishments less shiny. But I really really do believe any old person, given a couple weeks rehearsal could pop off an improvised musical, run a marathon, write a play, be in a healthy relationship, pitch jokes to their own high school comedy idol (current job). Lo tells me she is sure she could not do it. But I know she could. But also I don't know that!

I'm grateful to have been so close to shimmery possibilities this year and watch myself come to dislike half of them once they're out of my view. It's not fun, but it is telling.

Revisions

New play going up this week. I find myself exhausted after rehearsals. They're only three hours long, but I am dead and spent. I'm also sick, so that's not helping. Waking up with a neck ache and face full of mucus. Avoiding coffee. But it's amazing how I sit in a chair listening and jotting notes for truly minimal time and feel maximum drainage. Then I wake up and have to submit all the new pages by 3:30. It's like how when I started working at the Writing Center I'd get ungodly hungry after my shifts. I mean, wow, I'd meet with three students and then call in an emergency pad see ewe order, wolf it on break. Urgently text Puhg when I was getting on the train, "Start dinner now!" He'd reply, "It's four pm!" Staying at Kale's house while I'm here. I had all these fantasies of enjoying my days, bustling about the places I used to go, but instead I'm hunched over this laptop frantically chopping lines and rewriting scenes to make more metaphorical sense. The stakes are low, but I've never been good at not trying my best.

Really Feel

My first General meeting I was confused. I thought I was meeting a new friend through a different friend for coffee to talk about how weird Hollywood is. I didn't understand that I was actually trying to sell myself until I was back in my car. I had worn shorts, like we were going to walk down the boulevard and grab lattes and ask ourselves why we even try. Instead we sat in a conference room across a huge table, and she grilled me on shows I was or wasn't watching. There are right answers to these things, I learned. Or maybe right attitudes to the answers.

The next meeting I knew not to be sad. That's not what they want to hire. It took me a few more meetings to learn to pitch and then a few more to learn, oh, I'm just here to entertain. Do bits, make them laugh, essentially put on a play called I'm Positive About Everything. No one wants to know how you really feel. At least I know now, and my manager has been getting these post-meeting emails and calls "We just love her!" Meaning, "We loved the play!"

But that's work. That's not necessarily unique to this industry, I guess I guess. But everyone is work. I am my work. Cobra visited and I could sense at first she was enjoying the tragic stories. I mean, they're juicy, but then when I wasn't happy at the end of them, that was less fun. I can't get her anything, she realized. She cancelled our next plans. She read my most recent script and said, "I read it." I feel like I could lose my mind for less. I feel the need to tell a couple people about my disappointment, but it makes them uncomfortable too. I try to keep a mental tally of who would allow me to need, and it is a short list. I don't think actually you could logically call so few people a list.

Is it narrative structure that has ruined us? "But you struggled with that yesterday. Shouldn't today be better?"

Bucket

Someone told me trying to love me is like dumping a pail of water into a well. I believe this to be accurate.

I suspect I have been at the bottom of the well, digging it further down. “More room for the water, “ I’m probably thinking, which isn’t necessarily incorrect. Down there with a headlamp, sweating, shoveling. I have evaluated and think maybe instead I should work on finding a rope ladder, climbing up, and being part of the bucket brigade.

Through

What is a person underneath their use to other people? When teaching English 101 I knew half the class was learning to be clear and other half was learning to express. I’ve seen Precious. I know how to write through it, but it still surprises me when I do.

I’ve been reworking and reworking my newest pilot for a couple months. A little stuck, and finally with a clear paper, no plot points as far as the eye can see I wrote, “But then who is she if not useful?” And I don’t know yet.