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.

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!

Some Highlights of the Shortest Month (Partial List, In No Order)

80 for Brady with Lo, extra popcorn, Saturday matinee

Hiking the Observatory with friends I knew in college who knew me in high school

Pastries with my dad

Rewatching My So-Called Life on the projector in the bedroom

Mexican restaurant booth, free chips and salsa

Invite to the pinkest, cutest, Galentines party in town

Email from a very important woman: "Looking forward to our paths crossing again soon!"

Fuge with two of my favorite performers

What a week: closing a deal, celebrating with a karaoke truck, pitching anew in the morning, filming a music improv TV episode the next morning, hiking a mountain with a bachelorette party the next morning

Three other gals and I lighting prayer candles at the vegan restaurant for delusions

Walking the river and discussing union power with someone who's lost someone

Tried my hand at writing a difficult essay, positive reviews from my first reader

Double date with friends who feel like friends

An incredible play in Atwater

Changing Mur's life, he says

Tried to huddle in a corner of the Pasadena cafe, but someone had staked her claim. Ended up with a much better seat against the fireplace. I hunkered there for hours. An old man told me he was celebrating his birthday. He warned that God gave me a brain to follow my own path, not be part of someone else's.

Nobody tells you when you're young / how some friends will become strangers / and there is no greater danger than to live in fear. / Nobody tells you when you're young / cause a rebel heart won't listen / but to grow you must go missing, just don't disappear. / The wisdom's in the living, not the years.