The Experience of Being Me

So, I'm allergic to something that's supposed to be good for me

2012-01-26T10:54:00.000-08:00

Sunday afternoon a yellow box appeared on the kitchen table. And since then it has moved around the house - to the kitchen, to the coffee table in the living room, to my bedroom, it took a ride in the car with me Monday morning, and now it's residing in the front of the hall closet. I don't need it sitting out anymore but I'm also a little terrified to put it too far away.

In the yellow box? An Epi Pen. A shot of epinephrine, or adrenaline. And until this weekend I had never held one or given one a second thought. But now, I find myself thinking about it. A lot.

For the past month, yep, a month, I've had a cold. Yep, the usual winter fare that I always seem to pick up no matter if I live in Michigan, Arizona or sunny southern California. So while in Michigan I went to Urgent Care, was diagnosed with a sinus infection, and given antibiotics (specifically a penicillin-based antibiotic). I took them for ten days and eventually started feeling better. We all had the crud in Michigan and I knew it would eventually pass. I felt great the day we traveled back to L.A. and the day after. However, that next Monday I woke up feeling like I had felt before I'd gone to Urgent Care. Sick again. Sick still.

I fought it for a week and then gave in. Obviously the sinus infection wasn't licked and I had added a nice deep cough to the mix. So the next Sunday off I went to Urgent Care, here in L.A., and was again diagnosed with a continuing sinus infection and given a prescription for more antibiotics (specifically a stronger dose of penicillin). I took the antibiotics for six days and was to take my last doses on Saturday. But then on Saturday I woke up covered in hives.

At first I thought, okay, this isn't horrible. It's a few hives in a few spots and they really itch but I've had poison ivy and it was worse so I can deal. Angela went off to our local pharmacy to get me some Benadryl and talk to the pharmacist. Between her advice and my mother's and the fact that the hives were doubling every few minutes I decided to head to Urgent Care. Off we went.

And I have to tell you, the folks at the Urgent Care I go to are great. It's a night and weekend operation that works out of a doctor's office and they've been super helpful to me over the last few years. Once there the doctor confirmed that I was having an allergic reaction, most likely to the penicillin, and gave me a steroid shot as well as a prescription for oral steroids, more Benadryl and Pepcid (which somehow reacts with the Benadryl and helps it last longer). So we headed home, Ang headed back to the pharmacy and I settled in for an evening of trying not to itch.

It was a very long evening but as I headed to bed that night I felt a little better. I was drinking water constantly, taking all my meds and thinking maybe I could swing church in the morning, if the hives on my eyelids completely disappeared overnight.

And then I woke up Sunday morning.

My hands had swollen, not just my fingers but the palms of my hands too. And the bottoms of my feet. And the hives were back in full force. So Angela went to church and I took to the couch. But by 1pm we were headed back to Urgent Care.

Again, the folks there were great. Before registering me (i.e., billing me) the receptionist, who I know well by now, took me back to the doctor and asked if I should be seen or be sent directly to the ER. The doctor (a UCLA resident who I'm sure works in the ER most days, so I was not worried about my level of care at all) examined me thoroughly before deciding she could treat me. They tested my kidneys, my lungs and sent me home with that damn yellow box.

(And oh yeah, that box wasn't cheap either. My parents are awesome, that's all I'll say.)

So Angela and I went home and tried to settle down. I monitored the swelling closely and just as I'd notice my pinkie feeling better, my bottom lip would start to swelling incrementally. It was another long evening. And not just because of the physical issues, but I also experienced something new: what I think was my first (and second, third, etc.) panic attack. I knew things weren't right. I knew I didn't feel well. But I also knew we'd done what we could, we trusted the doctors and we had to wait this out. So I waited. That night Angela slept in my room, I wore winter gloves to stop from itching in my sleep and no one got much sleep at all. And when the alarm went off and I sat straight up in my bed, I knew it was game over. Something else had to be done.

I got up and went to the mirror and I couldn't really see myself. I wear glasses and contacts so that's not unusual but even when I squinted, it didn't work. I turned on the light and realized my face didn't look like me. I turned around to Angela and she made a sound and jumped out of bed. Within five minutes we were somehow dressed and in the car on the way to the ER. Luckily Angela's been there several times and we live just a couple of miles from Cedars-Sinai Hospital. There wasn't any traffic and before seven we were there. It's a good thing. I was dizzy and shaking and it was getting really hard to breathe on my own.

The hospital staff was excellent. They took me immediately in, and I was in a bed in the ER within minutes. The doctor and nurses who treated me - giving me my very first taste of Epi - were great. I was given IV steroids, Benadryl, Zantac, fluids, etc. I was given more meds. And I started to look and feel like myself again. I shook a lot from the IV, and they had these really nice heated blankets they put over me. Angela was allowed to stay with me the whole time and use her phone so she could keep my parents updated. And best of all? By the time we left, just over six hours later, the swelling in my face was completely gone.

That was three days ago. It's Thursday now. I'm still on steroids (tapering down through Saturday) but haven't taken the Benadryl in hours which is a good sign. The only evidence of the hives is faint. I feel exhausted and physically off a little but that's to be expected according to everyone, my body had to fight kinda hard this weekend to keep going.

And that yellow box? It's still close by, mostly for peace of mind. Hopefully in a few days it'll be shoved to the back to the closet and forgotten, never to be needed again.

I am grateful. I am thankful. I am blessed. But most of all? I am conscious of every breath I take, literally and figuratively.

Letters from the past

2012-01-18T17:29:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I got a call from one of my favorite people. She had been going through a box of letters and cards she'd found in storage and wanted to read me something. It was a letter I had written her circa 1996, when we were in our freshmen year of college. Yes, back then we wrote letters. See, she lives in Texas and at the time, I lived in Michigan.

In the letter I talked about taking working to save up money to buy a modem and enough money to pay for Internet services. I didn't yet have email and I was hoping to get it soon. Can you imagine? I'm having a hard time remembering a time before Facebook let alone before email. I do remember it being a year or so after that before I would get my first email account (the one I still use daily!). Gosh, that was SIXTEEN years ago. And yet...it seems like only a few days ago.

That's why I love letters. I love anything in written form. I can recount whole relationships with letters and cards and notes I have in Rubbermaid under my bed. My mom has been cleaning out my grandmother's house and I love when she brings home drawings or cards from when I was little. I love seeing the handwriting of those I love. Is there really anything better than finding a letter or a card in the mail?

It's hard to picture sixteen years from now - and know that there won't be such a box filled with memories from today. People, at least the people in my life, don't send notes and cards like they used to. Now we have Facebook and texts and, if it's a long drawn out affair, the old-fashioned email. But looking (and hearing) back on those memories is something special.

Back then I was thinking of moving to New York. I thought California was too far away. I was babysitting for the first time two little girls who are now out of college and all grown up. I was studying psychology and hating it. I was looking forward to the marriage of said favorite person - who now has three little ones!

Memories. In whatever shape or form or picture are so important. Lately I've been looking back, which I think is so important in moving forward. Looking back and holding tight. And to keep it going, I'm going to go write some letters and put some stamps on them.

610 Bates Street

2012-01-10T14:38:00.000-08:00

This is a blog by my sister, Angela Knapp. It's beautiful. She's beautiful.

"One of the things I needed to do during the three weeks I spent in Michigan over the holidays was to sort through some things at my grandmother's house. When she passed away in the spring her house was just as she had left it. My mom, aunt and uncle have been working hard to sort and box up everything to get the house ready for sale. It is a difficult job, both physically and emotionally.

Some of the items have gone to predetermined people. Grandma had "given" pieces of furniture, dolls, and dishes to us before she passed. Those were the easy things to distribute. Now it comes down to who wants what and how it will be displayed or stored. My parents have rearranged things are their house some to accommodate some larger pieces including a leather chair that belonged to my grandfather and he promised to me before his death in 1988.

When we went over to the house I was overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of stuff that can accumulate during a lifetime. Everything I looked at brought back some memory of my grandparents. It was so hard to choose one or two things that would assimilate into my life. I asked my mom what would happen to it when the family too had chosen their treasures. She looked at me sadly and I knew. It would be sold or donated to charity. I cannot describe the sadness I felt and feel about the life someone built being tossed away. It made me angry and I wanted to leave it all the way it was, untouched.

Later that night after thinking about it some I had an epiphany of sorts. The stuff doesn't matter. The important parts of my grandmother are still being used by the people who inherited them.

My mother, the oldest of three siblings, has my grandmothers amazing ability to feed people. Having 100 people for dinner doesn't faze my mother nor did it my grandmother. Food was such an important part of my childhood as we gathered around the table for every occasion to celebrate each other.

My uncle Tom, the middle child, has a love of tinkering. He loved racing his car and being around old cars, restoring and driving. My grandmother loved this too. When she died she still had 3 antique cars in her barn.

My aunt Marie, the baby of the family, got my grandmothers love of sewing. She is so talented at weaving fabric together to make beautiful quilts and a variety of other projects.

The oldest grandchild, my sister, got my grandmother's love of writing. My grandmother wrote in a journal everyday about the happenings of the day. My sister continues the tradition and is working toward being a professional writer, my grandmother was so proud of her.

Next in line by age is me. My grandmother and I shared a love of children and making sure the next generation was better than the present one. She served on a committee that restored a one-room school house and was a space for children to go on field trips to see how the children of the past learned.

My cousin Nicole is the next oldest. She and my grandmother shared a love of nature. My grandmother loved flowers and plants and always had large prosperous flower beds. She would spend hours tending to them. Nicole has this same passion and loves to plant and tend her flower beds as well. She works in a nursery where she shares her knowledge and love of nature with her customers.

John is the youngest cousin and he too has inherited wonderful things from my grandmother. He is analytical and detailed. He has a passion for things of the past and is a hard worker. My grandmother was all of these things. She loved to know how things work and ask questions. I see those same traits in John. They also share an affinity for beer :-).

While struggling with the physical belongings from the house I now see that it is what we take away from the person in our hearts not our hands. I did take some crystal that I carefully carried on the plane and a globe from an amazing trip my grandmother took to Australia. They are little things that will be physical reminders of her love and who she was, not what she had.

As we drove away from 610 Bates Street for the last time I was overcome with emotion knowing that someone else will soon occupy the house to begin making their own memories."

Looking back...and looking forward...

2012-01-09T14:59:00.000-08:00

We are nine days into the new year. 2012. At moments it is hard to wrap my brain around the fact that this is where we are. This is what I've chosen. This is where I am. In time. In my life. In physical location. In emotional space. In life.

I had a wonderful holiday vacation in Michigan, 21 days worth. I had been so looking forward to the trip, for months. We bought our tickets back in September and the anticipation grew quickly. I love Christmas. I love visiting friends and family. I love the idea of laying on my parents' big couch, sipping peppermint cream flavored coffee, reading, looking at the lit Christmas tree. It was such a needed few weeks.

It was insanely busy at times too. We arrived in Michigan Saturday night before Christmas. Sunday morning there were two church services, caroling to shut-ins, and a Christmas tea that night. It was a whirlwind that pushed right into Monday which found us cooking, baking, wrapping, shopping, cleaning, you name it, we were doing it! Thursday we hosted an open house for some 85+ friends that went on for eight hours and was a blast. Friday found us starting four days of Christmas celebrations with our three different families. Add to that decorating sugar cone trees with the grandneighbors, fighting off sickness (by the next week all four of us in our immediate family would find our way to the doctor and/or Urgent Care for bronchitis and sinus infections) and it was just a very busy time.

But through it all we laughed. We played games (Scattegories Categories and Wii Family Feud are new family faves). We shared books and stories (I read SEVEN books!!!). We ate too many cookies and not enough ham (stop by 822 North Michigan in Howell and you can have a sandwich). We spent long afternoons with friends and family. We celebrated holidays and birthdays and naptime. We did it all.

So by the time Saturday rolled around, as much as I hated to leave, and as much as I tried to pretend there weren't tears in my eyes, I was also realizing it was time to go back to life as it is most of the year. It's not that this vacation was abnormal and regular life is normal, it's just that it's time to refocus and begin the work of living every day again. Moving forward with workout routines, weight loss plans, writing samples, job applications, networking, etcetera.

So here I am. Looking forward. Looking at what this new year will bring. I'm back at my desk. I'm still feeling the affects of the illness that had a hold of me several weeks' back. I'm slowly returning to post-vacation life (just ignore the open suitcases scattered throughout the house). I've got my fingers on the keyboard again and things feel good.

So I'm looking forward, while always looking back. Always carrying in my heart every single conversation, every single hug, every single memory I've made. Now and forever. And all of it, every single second, will keep me going until it's time to go back. Because, really, there's nothing like the thrill of anticipation to get me going. Nothing at all.

Nothing new...and yet? Everything.

2011-12-31T15:00:00.000-08:00

This morning at about one o'clock in the morning, I finished reading Rob Lowe's memoir "Stories I Only Tell My Friends". It's a book I bought for my mom for Christmas after I saw her thumbing through it at a bookstore this summer. I wasn't sure if she was just curious or really interested so I thought I'd surprise her. So this week I picked up the book to take a look at it myself and instantly I was hooked.

Hooked. I couldn't put it down. I finished it in less than two days. I was fascinated by his stories, the way he told them, the life he's had and all that I didn't know about his career, and even that which I did know. Basically I knew him as Sam Seaborn, and now as a character on my beloved Parks and Recreation. But it was so interesting to read about his experience, his path, his choices. And to hear him own them all and cherish them all.

As I turned the last page in the book early this morning I immediately wanted to put my fingers on the keyboard. I love when that happens. When I see a movie or watch an episode of television or read something that makes me want to write. To tell great stories too. And that's exactly what this book did. Inspire me.

As most of you know, my journey as a writer has not been short. And it has not been easy. I've been at it for a long time. And it's taken me so many places and taught me so much. And yet, there are times, when I find myself wanting to stop. Wanting to not so much quit writing as quit the pursuit of professional writing. I realize I am probably not alone in this. But I like to think I'm different because well, I don't quit. I can't. To me, there is not a Plan B. There is no other option.

A few weeks ago after a writers' group meeting I found myself surrounded by four fabulous friends and I burst into tears. We'd been talking about jobs and money and how to keep going, how to get that break, any break, that we all so desperately chase. And these were not people I had ever really cried in front of before (sans Angela, of course). I hadn't meant to cry. I hadn't meant to let it all out. But I did and I felt stupid and yet, comforted immediately. My friends smiled and hugged me and told me that it was all going to work out. And then they called me the next day and told me all the same things again (in fact, two friends called at the same time!).

And since that day a few weeks ago I've been trying to figure things out in my head. Trying to make a plan. Trying to decide what's next. But really? There's nothing new in the works for 2012. I have no grand scheme. I have no other options. This is it. I want to be in the show. I want to do this. So this is what I need to be doing. I will head home to Los Angeles in January and I will polish my portfolio and I will do this. Because this is all there is. And yet? While there's really nothing new, there's so much possibility. So very much. So much I can't even imagine it all. And that's freakin' awesome.

So thanks, Rob Lowe, for sharing your stories. Thanks for reminding me that it's all up to me to pursue my dreams. No one else will do this for me. No one else will push me like I will push me. And so, off I go...

Love at Christmastime

2011-12-30T08:17:00.000-08:00

As I sit here typing I'm looking down at my right hand where there's a sparkly new diamond ring. Yes, on my right hand. The ring is gorgeous and fits me perfectly and yes, it's new to me. But technically it was new in 1941. It was a gift given to my Grandma MacDonald on her sixteenth birthday by her father. He died shortly after that. For as long as I can remember, the gold ring with the two diamonds set on a diagonal sat on her hand. And now it's on mine.

My mother gave Angela and I both one of Grandma's diamond rings. And to me, it means so much more than the weight of the precious metals and stones. To me it means she's with me. Her life and her stories and her smile are right here, close to my heart.

It's been a long year, missing Grandma. We celebrated our last Christmas with her on December 26, 2010. She was so sick for so long and then when she passed away in March it was a blessing for her but misery for those of us she left behind. I believe in Heaven, and I know she's up there with her husband and her son and her sister and her brother and her parents and all those who have gone before but it's still so hard.

Two days ago we, the grandkids and our parents, sorted through her Christmas ornaments. And I only teared up once (which is more than I can say happened during the writing of this blog). It was a joyous night being reminded of all the good times, all the laughs, all the happiness. And Grandma was right there with us. In the twinkle of the bulbs and the smile I'd see on my mom's or my aunt's face when they'd recount a story of Christmas long before most of us were around.

Losing someone is never easy. Remembering them never is either. But I am so thankful for those who remember her with me. For the ways in which she is with me every single day and will continue to be.

She loved Christmas. She loved holidays and everyone being together. And we loved her. So this Christmas has been the perfect celebration of all of that (she types, wiping tears off the keyboard).

Merry Christmas everyone. It's a celebration of love. One that goes on all year and all our lives.

Holding it together

2011-12-21T12:34:00.000-08:00

The advent devotion I wrote for today that appears in the Hollywood United Methodist devotional booklet:

Hebrews 1:1-4

Long ago God spoke toour ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last dayshe has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, throughwhom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and theexact imprint of God’s very being, and he sustains all things by his powerfulword. When he had made purification for sins, he sat down at the right hand ofthe Majesty on high, having become as much superior to angels as the name hehas inherited is more excellent than theirs.

Sometimes I feel like everything’s held together by thatfrosting you use on gingerbread houses. Yes, from the outside, it looks likecement. It holds on the red hots and the gumdrops and the M & Ms whilekeeping your cookie walls standing upright but add a little too much water ornot enough powdered sugar and the whole bowl is lost and nothing will staywhere it should. And sometimes I feel like life is that way.

Add a little (or a lot) of stress, a job change or loss, astrained friendship or broken relationship, money worries or even a feeling ofseparation from God and voila! the walls of the gingerbread house that is ourlife start to crumble and sag. But that’s where this reminder, this passagefrom Hebrews comes into play. “He holds everything together by what he says –powerful words!” (Hebrews, The Message)

God’s powerful words: he knows what to say to holdeverything, including our lives, together. He created us, he created Jesus, heis the reason we celebrate Christmas and Easter and everything else in between.His words are why we are what we are and do what we do. We live to worship himand he will hold us together.

There’s this great book by Max Lucado, Cosmic Christmas, that I read over and over each year about thistime. It’s a telling of the Christmas story from the angels’ point of view. Butnot just the Christmas story – the Christmas war. The fight that took placebetween good and evil that led, ultimately, to Jesus Christ’s birth. Thatstory, that imagery of a war taking place, gives me hope. God’s words give mehope. Hope that life is worth living and love is worth taking a chance on. Hopethat this advent season, as we all prepare for the remembrance of this littlebaby that God sent as a physical reminder of his love, we will remember notjust the stories but the words. And how they are with us all year long, foreverand ever, holding us together.

Dear Lord, please help us to hear your words this Christmasseason and to be comforted and enriched by them. Amen.

Mom's devotion (guest blogger!)

2011-12-19T18:24:00.000-08:00

This is the devotion my mom, Chris Knapp, wrote for the Down Home Devotional put out by Howell First United Methodist Church this advent season:

"The real meaning of Christmas through the eyes of a child"

Christmas was a busy time at our home, gifts to make, presents to wrap, cookies to bake, getting ready for the large group of relatives and friends who would share our holiday.

Christmas Eve was what I remember most, we would go to church, the lit candles, the beautiful Christmas tree, and the organ music. My Grandfather sang in the choir, you better behave, listen, and sit very still or Grandpa would have a talk with you, this was very hard with the excitement of the day. Standing outside in the snow and cold to watch the live Nativity after our service.

We would end our service with Silent Night, my Dad's favorite song. He would say this song is the meaning of Christmas. Silent Night is my favorite Christmas song, reminds me of the days when our life was full of family, love and giving. When I hear or sing this song it reminds me of my Dad and always brings a few tears to my eyes. Think about the verses written below, this is our true meaning of Christmas. He came to save all who believe in him.

Bible Verse Luke 18:15-17

Sing all 4 verses of silent night.

Dear God, I ask that all our church family have peace, love and happiness as you share the true meaning of Christmas this year.

Chris Knapp

Los Angeles in December

2011-12-15T13:36:00.000-08:00

Last night I hosted my writers' group's (FOS) last meeting of the year. I'll be heading to Michigan on Saturday (CHRISTMAS! YAY!) and we won't meet again as a whole group until the middle of January. So we decided (spurred by Angela's great idea, yes, she's a part of FOS, a very important part!) to have a little Christmas party potluck-style. And it turned out to be a fabulous evening.

The weather's cool enough to require heat here in L.A. this year (I've spent Decembers here when it's been in the 40s and when it's been in the 80s) which I love (though my checkbook does not) because it means I can light candles (and run the furnace - boo). I love candles. Especially peppermint ones. So last night I lit the candles and we had a wonderful evening. We ate (soup and rolls and chips and guacamole and cookies, too many cookies). We talked about life, about what's going on with our writing, about just everyday stuff. And that's what I love - FOS has become more than just a writers' group for me, they're my friends. I love that we can spend four hours on a Wednesday night talking and laughing and sharing stories, then jump right into a table read of a zombie script.

To me Christmas is all about spending time with the ones I love. The ones I hold most dear. I get to do that in Michigan each year. But now I get to do that in L.A. too. I get to spend time with writer friends, church friends, and all my other friends and to me, that's just freakin' cool.

So while I won't be doing much writing in the next few weeks, I will be doing a lot of living. A lot of listening and a lot of thinking. I'll be spending time relaxing and entertaining and just enjoying the heck out of life. Because, really, what could be better?

So "Merry Christmas" from Los Angeles. (It's only 57 degrees and threatening rain here today so don't hate us too much.) And Michigan? Bring on the snow!!!

O Christmas Tree

2011-12-12T09:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I performed a spoken word piece at a fundraiser at Hollywood United Methodist Church. I was one of six performers (five other writers and a musician) asked to tell stories of Christmases past. Here's mine:

(And if you'd like to see the You Tube video of the first four performances, including mine which starts around minute 31, click here.)

My birthday is in the middle of October but every year as achild (and frankly, into adulthood as well), growing up in Michigan I wouldwish for one thing on my birthday: snow.

It didn’t matter if it had been 65 degrees and sunny for theentire fall or that a hayride and bonfire was planned for my birthday party. Iwanted snow. You know why? Because it signified to me that Christmas was near.(We won’t talk about the occasional May snowstorms that most sane people inMichigan cursed.)

Christmas.

The golden season. The time of year when no matter what goeswrong or what is happening in the world, all seems perfect. Perfectly jolly andhappy and merry.

Christmas.

And nothing symbolizes the Christmas season to me more thanthe Christmas tree. The green (or white or pink or blue or whatever) fir thatadorns living rooms and shopping malls and sweatshirts (the one I wore inmiddle school that lit up? that tree on that sweatshirt tells you a lot aboutmy fascination with the tannenbaum and a little something about how manyfriends I had in middle school). And for me, it’s always been the tree thatholds a very special place in my heart. Whether it’s the tree of boys (more onthat later) or the first tree I bought or the trees I wear continually on myears all season long.

My obsession with the Christmas tree probably began longbefore I can remember; at least that’s what we’ll say for the sake of thisstory. Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, my father would drag the treeout of its box in the basement and he’d set to assembling it. Now mind you, asI got older, I was a big help but as a youngster, I think I was probablyhurting more than helping. He’d assemble the tree, swear at the lights thatnever ever worked, go to the local hardware, buy some more, and try again. Thisis one of my favorite parts of Christmas and one of things I miss most living2000 miles away from my family.

Once the tree was up, the ornaments would be unpacked. Andin my house, it’s not just a handful of pretty bulbs and some candy canes.There are no less than five television boxes (these are from back whentelevisions were the size of a Prius) that are full of hundreds of tiny boxesholding the treasures that adorn the tree. And each has a special meaning ormemory. To this day I can close my eyes and picture my parents’ tree and myfavorite ornaments and tell you if they’re in the right place or not (this is abone of contention in my family and as my mother proudly told me on the phone afew weeks ago, she didn’t move one single ornament this year because she heardme lamenting in her head about this, most likely ‘sarcastic me’).

My tree fixation continued on throughout my childhood as Iwas cast in a church pageant one year as ---wait for it ---yep, A TREE! Now, Ilike to think this is because I love what the Christmas tree stands for and theimportant role trees played in the story of Christmas (they did, I swear, thatpart was just edited out of the Bible to save on printing costs) but more thanlikely it was because I was (and still am) a horrible actor who, gun to myhead, couldn’t remember and recite my name and birthday on command.

So here I was, a tree. My parents made me this greatsandwich board that I am sure is still in their garage somewhere and glued cutup pieces of garland to it. And I killed as one of the three trees that year.I’m sure I did… Yes, yes. Very sure.

Anyway, when I moved away from home for college I realizedthat it was time to start my own traditions. My second year at school I livedin a house with three other girls and three guys. Yep, that meant the girls hadcontrol of the house because we outnumbered the guys. So that year we got the employeesin the physical plant to bring us a fake tree that wasn’t being used in thecafeteria and we set to decorating it. But we were poor, very poor, collegestudents who had no decorations, no lights, nothing (little aside: one of theguys in the house was so poor he kept his car running by keeping it plugged inall winter. He literally ran an extension cord through a window in the livingroom out to a heater on his engine block and no, we never thought about sillythings like the college’s electricity bill.) And because we were so poor, wedid what any sensible young college girls wanting to celebrate the season ofJesus’ birth would do.

We made a tree of boys.

Yep. We spent hours combing through magazines and cuttingout pictures. We printed photos off the Internet in the computer lab. And wemade hangers out of paperclips. And let me tell you, our house was a verypopular one that year. We’d come home from classes to find new pictures addedevery day. Some from other residents of the house, some from students who’dheard the tale of our tree and found their way over, the door always unlocked,and taken it upon themselves to add to our masterpiece. And before you think wewere scary stalkers, the boys were all celebrities and it was all in good fun.(At least that’s what we told the guys in the house when they objected. And ifI remember correctly, they eventually got in on the fun too.)

When I started grad school, I moved into an apartment withmy sister, Angela, and a friend. Our first Christmas there was a bit moretraditional. We put up an old tree my parents’ delivered to us and bought somelights. Then we set to crafting. We found ornament templates online and coloredthem then laminated them. We took the rings of Mason jar lids and wound ribbonaround them. We used glitter glue to write our names on cheap stockings and wespent hours studying around the tree. We didn’t need anything more.

But then when I moved to Arizona, Christmas lost some of itsluster. It’s hard to get excited about the winter holiday season when it’s a110 degrees outside. For the two years I lived in Arizona, there was no tree inmy apartment. And for the first year here in Los Angeles, there wasn’t either.But then, I made a decision. I wanted my own Christmas tree. I wanted to startthe season well before the day I’d make my way back to Michigan late in Decembereach year. So Angela and I went to Walmart (I am sure Clark Griswold’s familywishes he’d known about Walmart back then) and found the perfect Christmastree. And now we spend about an hour decorating and then several weeks sittingby it each night throughout the Christmas season.

So my obsession with Christmas trees is a long-standing one,and I’m okay with that. I have these awesome memories of staring at the lightsnight after night with family and friends (and if I don’t wear my glasses, thetree becomes this impressionist mosaic that’s really cool). I have theseawesome memories of fighting over dead lights and broken icicles (you know, theglass kind, that break if you even sneeze in their direction; they adorn everyinch of my parents tree and shards of glass cover the house for six monthsafter the tree comes down and most of them are snapped in half). And I havethese awesome memories of each and every tree that I have seen and worn andlovingly placed packages under.

I wore the tree pin on my shoe to the performance and my friend Pauley insisted on taking a picture of it!

And while I still have the tree pin I wore back in the ‘80sand I still wear the Christmas tree earrings my grandma gave me back in the‘90s and I still have the first Christmas tree ornament I ever received (amouse sleeping in a matchbox that was gifted to me at age two months by anothertwo month old), the tree that I hold dearest and think most fondly of?

That tree of boys.

I mean really, if you can’t have George Clooney under yourtree Christmas morning, the next best thing is to have him smiling at you fromamong the branches.

The storytellers: Chad Darnell, Jay Sowell, David Dean Bottrell, me, April Moore, and George Bellias

World AIDS Day

2011-12-01T10:51:00.001-08:00


Angela and I with two of the Compassion Bears collected by Hollywood UMC during the Christmas season.

Today is World AIDS Day. According to the event's website, "World AIDS Day is held on 1 December each year and is an opportunity for people worldwide to unite in the fight against HIV, show their support for people living with HIV and to commemorate people who have died. World AIDS Day was the first ever global health day and the first one was held in 1988."

And while I do not personally know anyone who has died of AIDS, I know plenty of people who are HIV positive, some friends, some I've met at my work with 5p21 - the AIDS hospital in downtown Los Angeles. And I've met many kids at the children's AIDS hospital as well. Each year our church delivers teddy bears, aka Compassion Bears, that have been taken home and loved and prayed over and sometimes dressed up, to the children's hospital in December. We collect money and toys to take as well. Some of my best holiday memories of Los Angeles involve going to the hospital with a huge carload of presents and feeling like Santa Claus, carrying them up the three flights of stairs to the office where they'll be kept until they're delivered. No, we don't personally give the toys to the kids but that doesn't matter, it's still an awesome experience knowing that these children will get something extra special this year whether their families can afford something or not.

I've been a member of the AIDS committee at my church since the first month I moved to Los Angeles. I was drafted, so to speak, after volunteering to make sandwiches one day. It's a small committee and I love everyone who serves on it. We have a great time making lunches once a month and passing out sticker ribbons a few times a year, the bears every advent season, and collecting the toys. Truly, I am so blessed by the opportunity I've had to help and to give and to learn. Before I moved to California I didn't know anyone who was HIV positive. I didn't know that it's okay to kiss and hug people with AIDS or to share meals with them or to do just about anything I'd do with any of my other friends. I was sheltered and uneducated but that quickly changed. There's stigma attached to all disease, I'm aware of that - whether it's cancer or AIDS or diabetes or migraines. But by reaching out, by praying, by loving, we can make a difference.

Brandon

2011-11-29T10:23:00.001-08:00

This is Brandon. He's one of the first people I met when I moved to Los Angeles. We met at the Tuesday Homeless Lunch I went to every week. And more often than not, I found him joking around, smiling and talking nonstop, especially to his friend Pauley (that's her and him in the picture below).

Over the last couple of years I'd run into Brandon on Tuesdays, on Sundays when I was in Hollywood, and at other random times. I remember going to a dinner party at an Italian restaurant one night and hearing from several friends that Brandon was there. He came in, had a drink, and was on his way. He was just always there. And he was always talking about how he was getting things together, figuring things out.

This weekend I found out through Pauley that Brandon was hit by a car and killed. I cried. And then when Pauley talked about him in church Sunday, I cried again. He was a sweet guy, always ready for a smile. And now he's gone.

But he won't be forgotten. Not by me, not by anyone who came into contact with him at Tuesday Lunch or anywhere in Hollywood. And to honor his memory, I'm going to pull out a few more t-shirts from my drawer and pick up extra socks at Target and throw some crackers in my basket at the grocery store to donate. It's such a little thing I can do, something I do regularly, but something that now, will mean so much more.

It's the Christmas season. It's a season of love and joy and happiness and peace. For many of us. But for so many more it's a season of cold nights (whether you live in Los Angeles or Detroit) and long days and wondering how you'll make it until your next meal or if you'll get a shower soon, if ever. So this Christmas season, think of Brandon as you eat too much turkey or buy those last minute gifts. Think of Brandon as you sing the carols and eat another piece of candy. Think of Brandon as you snuggle in at night and paw through the closet full of clothes you own to find just the right outfit. Think of Brandon and think about what you can do to make this season a little merrier for everyone.

Happy Birthday Grandma

2011-11-27T22:43:00.001-08:00

For my entire life this day, November 27th, has been a cause for celebration. It's the birthday of Barbara MacDonald, my mother's mother, my grandmother. Today she would have been 86 years old.

Grandma loved birthdays. She loved chocolate cake and presents and singing the Happy Birthday song. And as a family, we loved celebrating her day as well. It was always great fun because her birthday would fall either on Thanksgiving or the day or two after and the whole family would get together, share a meal and cake, and often, help her put up her Christmas tree.

Grandma's been gone now just over six months. There are times when I forget and I think about calling her or sending her a letter. There are times when I remember and I can't stop myself from crying. But mostly, I just think of all the time we spent together. All the birthdays, all the conversations, all the moments. I think about her all the time. I think about how much I miss her and how much she loved me, and how she showed she loved me. She was an amazing woman. And so today, I celebrate her birthday by celebrating her memory and her life because of how much she shaped mine. I love you, Grandma.

The first Sunday of Advent

2011-11-27T13:47:00.001-08:00

The advent devotion I wrote for today that appears in the Howell First United Methodist devotional booklet:

“There were sheepherders camping in the neighborhood. Theyhad set night watches over their sheep. Suddenly, God’s angel stood among themand God’s glory blazed around them. They were terrified. The angel said, “Don’tbe afraid. I’m here to announce a great and joyful event that is meant foreverybody, worldwide: A Savior has just been born in David’s town, a Savior whois Messiah and Master. This is what you’re to look for: a baby wrapped in ablanket and lying in a manger.” (from Luke 2, The Message)

One of the parts of this story that has always struck me isthe fact that the angel went to the sheepherders first. And in this passagealone the sheep get several more mentions. These animals seem to be such animportant part of the Christmas story. In fact, they and the other stableanimals are an integral part of each retelling of Jesus’ birth.

I have this little nativity set that’s porcelain, that I’vehad since I was maybe five years old, and it’s still my favorite. It’s foursimple pieces: Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, and a lamb. No sheepherders, nowise men, not even the nativity-staple barn, just mom, dad, baby and a lamb.

I always envision that little lamb watching over the family,making sure the baby Jesus is warm and safe and smiling, even offering his warmfur if the need should arise. As a child I thought this was his only purpose inthe nativity scene. But today, as an adult, I see it’s much more than that.Jesus is referred to in the Bible as the Lamb of God and I now know what thatlittle lamb represents to the world: safety, comfort, warmth and love. And Iguess, that childlike version of the lamb isn’t that different from my adultversion, and for that I’m thankful. For the lamb is unconditional love – in allversions of the Christmas story.

Pretzel rolls!

2011-11-26T13:38:00.001-08:00

So this morning I decided to make rolls. Specifically, pretzel rolls. I found this recipe online and I love trying new things in the kitchen so last week I went searching for all the ingredients (bread flour was surprisingly difficult to find in my neck of the woods). We have an abundance of leftover turkey and I'm making turkey soup tonight so I thought today would be a good day to try them. See the thing is, I've never made rolls from scratch before.

When I lived in Kalamazoo, in my first apartment, we'd bake bread and rolls but after buying that frozen bread dough at the grocery store. Good stuff, but not quite homemade. And my mom doesn't make rolls. She makes just about everything else but rolls are not her thing. She tries, God bless her, but she's never happy with the result (though Dad, Angela and I are always content to eat them).

I was a little nervous this morning because it seems like a thing you can screw up, making rolls. So much can happen. The yeast might not rise, you might add just not enough or too much of something. I'm a better cook than a baker. Cooking is not an exact science, baking is much more so.

I also realized early on we might not have the right equipment but my mom said that Angela's mixer with the handy dandy dough hook we've never used would take the place of the called for food processor. And it did, splendidly.

I was also a little skeptical that the recipe called for me to punch and knead the dough for five whole minutes. A) Five minutes is a long time. B) When my mom bakes, usually the less you touch the dough, the better - cookies and plunkett get tough when you need the dough too much.

While the recipe was a bit more complicated than what I'm used to (it's from Bon Appetit magazine), it wasn't really hard and it was kind cool seeing the ingredients transform.

And I even referred to the boiling of the rolls as my science experiment - until the science experiment went awry. The recipe called for me to add 1 and 1/4 cups of baking soda to a pot of boiling water. It did not mention to do this slowly or not all at once. So I plopped the soda in and BOOM! Big frothy explosion of water everywhere. I had three burners going (cooking down the turkey carcass for soup on two) and the oven and of course, there went the pilot lights. So once we cleaned up that mess...

We were back on track. I had enlisted Angela in helping and I was glad to have the extra set of hands.

And here are the rolls as they went in to the oven.

And when they came out!

Beautiful (though I did say I'll have to work on the sizing a bit).

And tasty! The outside was crunchy like a soft pretzel, the inside tasted faintly of celery seed and overall, a big success. This recipe's definitely a keeper and I can't wait to make them for Mom and Dad in Michigan!

So incredibly blessed

2011-11-23T23:25:00.001-08:00

I am thankful for the fall season. For crunchy leaves, even in Los Angeles, for early darkness (even though I complain about it the first few days), for cooler temperatures and for the holidays. This year I have so much to be thankful for. I'm alive. I'm a generally happy person. I have a roof over my head, I have a turkey in the fridge, I am doing work I love, I have family and friends who support and love me more than I can ever fully realize or appreciate. So much to be grateful for.

Am I a little sad that I won't be having a traditional Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow with a big group of people who laugh and cry and argue lovingly? Yes. Of course I am. Am I a little excited that Angela and I are going to see a double feature at the movies tomorrow? Yes. I am. I baked a pie and roasted a turkey today. We had a lovely dinner that left us satisfied and not stuffed. There is turkey to eat for the rest of the week and then soup to be made for the week after. It's been a crazy year, a long few months, a busy week so we're looking forward to a quiet long weekend. We both get to be away from school for a few days, away from the stresses of work and we get to eat leftovers. We get to float away into the world of vampires and werewolves and be transported into a land of puppets and songs. We are thankful.

But most of all I am thankful that I get to travel home to Michigan in December. Every year my parents gift us with the plane tickets to fly home at Christmas and that's what gets me through Thanksgiving, knowing that my family and I will be together again soon. I'm so thankful for that gift, for the feeling of anticipation of something great that's to come, for the joy to be had.

Tomorrow will be a good day. We'll talk to friends and family. We'll relax and take a walk. We'll eat some turkey and watch some movies. We'll remember that because of where we live and what we have we are so blessed. So incredibly blessed.

Angela is National Board Certified!

2011-11-22T08:31:00.001-08:00

When Angela and I moved to Los Angeles in August of 2008 she began teaching for the Los Angeles Unified School District and she began a process that we didn't know at the time would take four years and one month to complete. But she's done now and I am so proud of her and so amazed, daily, by her commitment to her profession, to her job and most of all, to teaching children.

Angela is now a National Board Certified Teacher. It took four years, three sets of exams, one beyond extensive portfolio, countless late nights and early mornings and weekends but she did it. She passed. And I cannot tell you how happy we were on Sunday morning at 12:30am when the scores were released.

Being Nationally Board Certified is something most teachers do not ever achieve, or even strive for. In the middle school where Angela currently works there are over a hundred teachers and only one, besides her, is a NBC Teacher. Holding this advanced credential tells the teaching community that she is committed to her profession. It also means she doesn't have to jump through any school district hoops when she changes jobs or even states. She has a "clear credential" and she is done with their tests and their requirements. For ten years and then she can renew her certification.

But most of all what it means is that she rocks. She is the best teacher I have ever met. She is beyond committed. She is who you want teaching your kids and the future generations. And I don't say that just because I'm her sister. Now she has the certification to prove it.

Imagining the joy

2011-11-17T22:25:00.001-08:00

Today I cried. I cried over a man who passed away who I haven't seen since I was probably in middle school. A man who was 30 but who I remember as a kid. A man who fought a terrible disease, got a double lung transplant just weeks ago, threw a clot, and had to be taken off life support on Tuesday.

I cried over Jeremy. I cried for Jeremy. For his wife, for his sister, for his parents. I cried because I remember spending time with him and his family when we were little. We went to church together, we went camping together. I remember one trip in particular where we spent many hours playing games inside a small pop up tent when we could have been playing outside. But it didn't matter or maybe we didn't notice. Jeremy had to stay in the tent because he wasn't feeling well and I remember playing cards and making up silly nonsense game, laughing and teasing. I remember that was a very good day. I remember that moment. I remember that person.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about death, I suppose that happens when someone you are close to passes away. I've been thinking about how unfair it is, to those of us left behind. I've been thinking about what might happen when we get to heaven. But mostly I've been thinking about how much I miss that person.

I'm so glad for that moment in the tent. For the memory of that moment. For the amazing reality that one person, so far removed, can still impact my life in such a profound way. I am better for that moment. It's part of who I am. Just as everyone who's gone before me is.

I cannot imagine the grief of burying a son or a husband or a brother. But I can imagine the joy in having that person in your life for even just a tiny moment. And I'm going to hold on to that joy. Tightly.

Veteran's Day

2011-11-11T00:47:00.001-08:00

My dad is a veteran. He served in the Air Force for several years before I was born. He lived in Greece and Taiwan and has some pretty cool pictures and stories to tell. But the coolest thing of all? He volunteered, when he was just a teenager, to serve his country. To join the military at a time when the country was at war, and to go wherever they sent him. Do whatever they asked of him. And for that, and for the service he gave, I can never thank him enough.

I am constantly amazed at the sacrifice that these men and women who join the military make. What they endure, what they accomplish, what they give up, what they provide. There simply are not enough words to express how grateful I am for what they give us. We live in a country where we can walk down the street without fear of suicide bombers or terrorist attacks and I generally feel safe. Too many people in our world cannot say that. And a large part of that safety is a direct result of the work put in by the women and men who serve us.

I come from a long line of military family members. Along with my dad, two of my grandfathers and my grandmother served. Countless friends and other relatives have put on uniforms and taken orders, leaving those of us at home to do the only thing we can: pray. And today, for all the veterans and for all those currently serving, I do just that. I pray and I say thank you. Thank you, for what you left there, for what you brought back, and for what you continue to give to us today.

Clowin' around

2011-10-31T17:26:00.000-07:00

Last Monday a box arrived in the mail from my parents. My birthday had passed and I wasn't expecting anything so I ripped it open with much curiosity. And inside I found a little piece of my family's history -- the clown costumes you see above and below.

My mom made these costumes back around 1979, and they've been worn by countless members of my family and peer group ever since. First by my parents and myself and most recently by Angela and I at our Halloween party Saturday night. But what was even more exciting than receiving the costumes in the mail was the memories they brought flooding back.

Halloween was always done right in my house. Each year we'd have a sloppy joe supper with the Roxberry family and then we'd bundle up and go out trick or treating. We'd hit Grandma MacDonald's house, Grandma and Grandpa Boutell's house, and Grandma Eileen's house for sure, and whatever else we ran into in between. There were years when no one saw our costumes because it was so cold we had to wear coats and hats and mittens. There were years it poured rain all night. Years we could barely fit in the Astro van doors (the year Angela and I went as a pair of dice) and years we wore elaborately homemade costumes lovingly sewed by our moms. Regardless, each year -- Halloween was special. And I love that. I love that it meant family time - even when I was older, I'd always volunteer to pass out candy and hang out watching the holiday specials on TV with whoever else stuck around. Halloween wasn't about the candy or the costumes as much as it was about the experience, the being together, the laughter and the fun. And it still is.

We had a wonderful party Saturday night with friends from all over Los Angeles - friends who'd never met each other before that night but who chatted and ate and laughed and enjoyed themselves. And yes, we clowned around. So thanks, Mom and Dad. I love that you shared these costumes with us. I love that I get to carry on the tradition. And I love that I have the picture above to remind me of those very first clowns! Happy Halloween everyone!

Learning about the world

2011-10-24T14:05:00.000-07:00

For the past six weeks the Bible study I help to lead at Hollywood United Methodist Church has been going through a study guide entitled "Building Bridges of Understanding: An Interfaith Response to September 11". It was created by the California Council on Churches (which includes HUMC's pastor) back in 2003 and includes studies on Hunduism, Judaism, Buddhism, Christianity, Islam and Sikhism. And boy, can I just say? It's been an eye-opening six weeks.

Before I started this study I thought of myself as a fairly knowledgeable person when it comes to spirituality and current events. I read the newspaper daily, I read weekly news magazines, I watch The Daily Show, I follow what's going on in the world. But until last week I apparently had no idea what the religion of Islam really was all about. And I'm shocked by what little I knew about so much else.

It was an interesting study and one I hope is only just beginning. I feel like I am so much more knowledgeable now but I know there is still so much more to learn. And I feel like this is a responsibility I have as a citizen of the world, as a Christian, as a writer. I'm sad to say most of what I knew about Muslims prior to this was from news organizations and television shows, with an occasional movie thrown in for good measure. But guess what? NCIS: Los Angeles and CNN have a narrow handle on what Muslims stand for, how they practice their religion and what they actually believe (did you know the Qur'an contains the New Testament teachings of Jesus? or that jihad has two basic meanings: to struggle in defense of the faith; the spiritual struggle to become a better Muslim - and that it does not mean "holy war"???)

So it's been a good six weeks, and next we're studying the book of Romans. But I'm not going to stop with my own study of world religions because for every fact we learned, we raised another question and I intend to find answers.

October 18th

2011-10-18T09:48:00.000-07:00

I was born on October 18th, 1977 at five a.m. My guess is my mom wasn't looking at the clock so I have no idea if it was five oh-one or five twelve and it doesn't really matter. Apparently I was always an early riser. To this day I feel a bit like my day's wasted if I don't get up before 9am. (It used to be 8am but I'm working on some of my issues, it's important to have priorities.)

I don't remember many of my early birthdays, frankly those who do kinda freak me out. And they really make me feel like a slacker. But I remember happy pictures of my pregnant mom in a yellow t-shirt with a chick on the front. I remember pictures of the baby birthday cake she made for all the first year celebrations back then, a tiny teddy bear that she'd frost in stars and that was all yours. I bet it was good.

I remember a Dukes of Hazard cake sometime in the early eighties. It was the General Lee, of course. And I had Daisy Duke pajamas (a nightgown out of that horrible synthetic material my dad loathed with a silk screened picture of short shorts and a plaid shirt tied up high). I remember going to Ponderosa for several birthdays. I remember one when my grandparents were there but my dad wasn't, I think he had a college class that night.

I remember always wishing for snow. I still do (I live near Hollywood now, anything's possible). Some years I'd get flurries and I'd be ecstatic. Some years I'd get warm weather. Most years? Rain. That's what Michigan's good for in the fall and spring.

I remember big celebrations with family from all over the state and friends. Birthdays were (and still are) a big deal in my family. Parties with sloppy joes and huge cakes, five quart buckets of ice cream and hours of sitting around and talking.

I remember my sixteenth birthday party. I had a new smart pant suit (don't ask, it was the early nineties) and I went with my Grandma MacDonald somewhere after church, I think to a reception at the local newspaper. I remember meeting a reporter, and it seemed very grown up and cool. I also remember the ring that I had picked out as a gift from my Grandma and my parents. It was a birthstone ring (that I wear daily still, eighteen years later) that I chose rather than having a class ring (I later got my Grandma's class ring which is way cooler than mine would have ever been). Sitting on the floor (there were never enough chairs) I opened the ring box in front of all these people and it was a fake. It was a huge gaudy thing my mom had a friend's daughter craft for her. My mom loves surprises - you've been warned.

I remember the year I got my varsity jacket for my birthday my sophomore year of high school. I'd gotten my varsity letter my freshman year which was pretty awesome. I remember not taking it off the whole day.

I remember going to get my driver's license on the day I turned sixteen. I wore these big earrings that had come from the south, from my grandparents who traveled all the time. They were wooden and painted bright colors and they were the shape of a cow's head. Yep, that was my driver's license photo until I turned twenty-one.

I remember turning twenty-one on a Sunday and they announced it during church. I was the youth group leader at the time and the kids surprised me at the meeting that night with a cake, ice cream and presents.

The next year I lived on campus at Olivet College and my housemates made me a spaghetti

dinner which was quite impressive as we rarely cooked at our house. There were gifts and cupcakes and everyone just hung out together that night.

I remember the year in grad school when Angela and our roommate Noelle took me to Bill Knapp's for lunch and they made me wear an over the hill hat. That was the same year I was the youth group leader at a different church and those kids toilet papered my car (and covered it in animal crackers). The other leaders had a surprise party for me that night too.

One year I went to the apple orchard with Angela and my friend Betsy and I remember thinking fall was the perfect time for birthdays. Everything's starting over (I will perpetually be in a school-calendar mindset) and you have so much to look forward to.

The year I turned twenty-five my parents surprised me twice. They showed up at my apartment in Kalamazoo after saying they weren't going to make the two hour trip and then they gave me a plane ticket to D.C. to visit a friend. Also, the clown at TGI Friday's made me wear a monkey hat the whole meal. Everyone loved it. Looking back, I did too.

One year Angela threw me a surprise dance party which was amazing. She held it at the Wesley Foundation on campus at WMU and they rented lights and put up sound equipment and we danced for hours and hours. Better than any bar birthday I could have ever had.

The year I woke up at the Bellagio on my birthday was pretty good too. We had lunch by the pool, sat in the hot tub, got free drinks from some guys at a very nice Italian restaurant (I remember the fact that the waitress gave us another set of free drinks in to-go cups as we left most vividly), did jello shots at one end of the strip and played poker at another end. That was a fun birthday.

The year Angela managed to get frosting all over our Abbey Place kitchen (including the ceiling) was memorable as well, for another reason last year when I had to go to the clinic for bronchitis was also memorable.

This year I've already celebrated so much. I have an awesome new bed that my parents gifted me with (I moved from a twin to a queen!). My writers' group had a cake and sang for me Sunday. Angela is preparing meatloaf (one of my favorites!) for tonight. I am blessed. Not just for today and for the birthday wishes but for all the memories. For all the people that have crossed my path, made my days brighter and lifted my spirits continuously. I am far away from so many of you today but it doesn't feel that way because I carry you all in my heart.

Believing in what's next

2011-10-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

I've been working with a literary management company for the entire year. And as most of you know, I've been pretty quiet on the subject. In Los Angeles people aren't really sure what managers do. They know what agents do (get you jobs/sell your work) and they really know what lawyers do. But managers are a new entity in the marketplace and one that hasn't been fully defined. Some are simply creative people wanting to help writers/actors/directors/producers become better at their craft. Some are producers who are looking for their next big project. I have friends who have managers and lawyers. Friends who have agents and lawyers. Friends who have just managers. It really depends on where you are in your career, who you like working with, etc. It's very individual.

And as I said, I've been working with this management company for a while now. And it's been an education and an interesting ride. And I've learned a lot, mostly about myself as a writer and as a professional. And I a couple of weeks ago they offered me a contract. I knew it was coming, they're a new company and they've been preparing me for this day. However, I didn't know exactly how I'd react.

I took a week to think about it. I talked with friends (some of whom are working with the managers as well, some who aren't). I talked with a lawyer. I had daydreams about possibilities. I had nightmares about possibilities. I worried, I cried, I made lists, I prayed. And I realized, with the help of some friends and my family, that ultimately if the company and I weren't a good fit, we just weren't a good fit.

So I made the first big decision of my professional writing career: not to sign with the management company. It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. Mostly because I knew what I was going to do from moment one but didn't want to admit it, to myself. I'm terrified of what will come next. I'm more terrified that nothing will come next. But I'm also confident in my abilities and in my perseverance.

The future is always uncertain, for every single one of us. We don't know if we'll get a tomorrow or a next year or a fifty years from now. We don't know if we'll find that perfect job, meet that perfect mate or end up with something completely different than what we envisioned. But for now, I take solace in the fact that I made a choice. I made a decision and I believe in it. I have faith that what's next will be awesome. What's next will be better because I am a better person for having gone through this experience. I'm moving on, toward the next big thing. Who's going with me?

French braids and loving parents

2011-09-23T12:37:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a picture of the back of my head. It's the best I could do alone in my bedroom, both with the picture and with the braid. See, this past spring, I taught myself to French braid. At thirty-three years old. Better late than never, right?

I've always had long hair, more so when I was younger but occasionally now as an adult I'll let it grow. I chopped it all off in June (well, I didn't, our favorite hair stylist Tony did) and I liked it. It felt nice not to have all that hair hanging around all summer. But then I started to miss it. Mostly I missed putting it into a ponytail and putting it up when I was working out. So I haven't had a haircut since June. And now...it's just barely long enough for this very messy braid. Tomorrow I'll visit Tony again, just for a trim and for him to thin it out. But I think I'm going long (-ish) again.

So why does this deserve a blog? Because it brought back memories of a class my mom took me to when I was young. I think it was through the Rec Center, which is basically the city of Howell. When I was little, and maybe they still do, they'd put on classes and events that kids and adults could attend - basically community ed. We didn't do a lot of them but once in a while an event would spark interest and we'd take part. And I specifically remember one winter going with my mom to the local middle school for a class.

I remember arriving and noticing it was all women and girls. And all the girls had long hair. The class was about learning to French braid. My mom had brought me here to learn how to do it. I remember being excited at first but then I remember it not going so well. Needless to say, we never went back (it might have been a one-night deal, maybe my mom will comment if she remembers!) and I never had my hair French braided by my mom again.

Instead, she spent hours putting my hair in tiny little regular braids so I'd wake up for school with the ever popular kinky look (until my other mother, Marilyn bought me a crimper!). She spent hours putting my hair in those spongy pink rollers so I'd wake up with really pretty curls, usually on Sunday mornings. She'd go through cases of detangler and spend hours combing through the mess that was my long hair. I still remember her saying she cried when I was very little and my dad brought me home from getting all my long hair cut off (that was the beginning of my little orphan Annie-curls stage) because she couldn't help me take care of it because she was very sick.

I never realized until recently how much my mom actually did for me when it came time to getting me ready to go out into the world. I don't want to forget my dad in all of this either. He was always the one designated to take the pink curlers out of my hair when my mom was getting ready for church. And this was no easy task. After having rolled around on them in my bed for eight to ten hours, they were often matted together and more than once I remember yelling when he had to pull really hard.

I am often amazed at how we children become responsible, presentable, mature adults. And it's mostly due to our families: the people who took out the curlers, the people who made sure we were wearing underwear (I always had it on, Angela? well...), the people who put us in clean clothes and washed our faces when if left to our own devices, we never would do any of it alone.

I am blessed beyond anything I could ever imagine every single day by my family. By my parents who tell me all about their days and encourage me to tell them all about my days and regal me with tales new and old. By the childhood I had which allows me to be the adult I am today. By the love that I experience. See what conclusion braiding my hair brought me to? A reminder about how I was and am loved. Oh so loved.

Giving thanks to the little ones

2011-09-15T22:40:00.000-07:00

Last week was the beginning of yet another school year. This was something like my seventeenth year to be starting September in a public school. But this was only my second time to start the year in kindergarten and the first was when I was four, so it's a little different this go around.

I'm a learning consultant at a school in a neighboring city and I really like what I do. I work with the kids in a kindergarten classroom three hours of every school day. It gets me out of the house, and more importantly, out of my head for a good portion of every workday. For writers, I think sometimes there's nothing more valuable than living life in order to then write about life.

I've learned a lot about wee ones in my two weeks at school and I've learned some things about myself. I've figured out that maybe I really could try my hand at improv since I've been doing it every day in front of a very live(ly) audience. Not to put you on the spot or anything but can you recite the Pledge of Allegiance right now? While simultaneously teaching children their right from their left hand? While telling a child to stand up and another to be quiet and yet another to please stop crying? While watching to make sure the parents get the lunch card in the right container? While making sure no one runs away to find find mommy? While also thinking about how to fill the next five very very long minutes before the teacher comes back? And that's just in the first two minutes of the day.

I am constantly amazed by the teachers I work with. To do what they do, every day for way more hours than I am there, for years and years, takes a very special talent and skill set. To be perfectly at ease with food coloring and Karo syrup in front of little ones, to be just as comfortable conversing with parents as with toddlers. To be calm enough to go with the flow no matter what yet completely organized within an inch of their lives. It's a gift they have.

I'm having fun. I'm getting hugs and little hands weaved into mine every day. I'm getting to give and receive smiles, to wipe away tears, to laugh and to learn, to sing and to dance and to stretch and to sit on the floor. I'm getting to live life as only a five year old can, only thinking about the moment. Only thinking about the immediate future. And for that, for all kindergarten is giving me, I am so thankful.

Ten years ago...

2011-09-11T07:57:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking all week about this day. How can you not? It's all over the news, the papers, everyone's talking about it and for the most part, I try to ignore the coverage. That's not unAmerican, really, it's anything but in my eyes.

Ten years ago today I was a grad student living with two other students in an apartment in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I didn't have Tuesday morning classes so I was home studying. I was alone but that didn't last long. By the end of the afternoon my apartment was full of friends. That's one thing I remember so well, how connected I felt after all of it happened. So close to others. We made tacos and ate together, watching television. We watched way too much television that September.

I remember an email I received shortly after the towers fell, from a cousin in Canada. She'd tried calling and couldn't get through to any of the family here in the states. So she emailed and said she was thinking of us and loved us all. I remember being more scared after getting that email than I was after learning what had happened. Someone couldn't call me, because of the attacks. It was hard to process that.

I remember driving to Office Max to tell my roommate what was going on, that her dad was being evacuated from a building in Chicago. I remember long hours on that brown couch in our living room. I remember classes being canceled and no one really noticing.

But even more so I remember what happened after that day.

We gathered at the Wesley Foundation on campus in droves; to pray, to worship, but mostly to try and make sense of it all. We had a wonderful pastor who not only counseled us but educated us, helping us to understand that this was not the act of a people of faith but an act of madmen. I will be forever grateful for learning the difference.

We talked about what had and was happening in our classes. I was teaching undergraduate communication at the time and I remember running into one of my favorite professors in the hall on September 12th, before classes started up again. We looked at each other and I asked him what to do, how to teach in this environment. He said he had no idea. For a moment, we were equals, we were colleagues who just needed to get through the day and get back to our families and our couches and our televisions.

And then something happened. The calendar turned a few pages and it was Saturday, just four short days later. And just as planned months before, my parents and some members of my extended family arrived in town. We toured campus, we went out to lunch, and then we watched a performance of "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" at Miller auditorium. And that was when I knew, despite everything that had transpired, and everything that was to come, somehow it would all be okay.

I still believe that today. Our country is at war, yes, but we've been at war for much of our history. Our country is as secure as the wonderful people who protect us can make it. I sleep in a bed at night, and though I do frequently hear helicopters in my lovely L.A. neighborhood, I don't hear fighting and bombing and I am not afraid for my life. I am thankful. I am thankful that I remember, that I can pray for our country's people and the people of the world, and I am thankful I can go out and live my life. And that is exactly what I will do today.

Hope and a haircut

2011-09-02T21:14:00.000-07:00

Two years ago today I got a tearful phone call from my mom. From my mom who doesn't really cry, not much anyway. The call was to tell me that her best friend, my "other mother" had been diagnosed with colon cancer, that the cancer had spread throughout her body, and that the doctors were giving her two years to live. This was incomprehensible. This was simply something I didn't know how to process.

I had no idea what a world without Marilyn looked like. This is a woman who has been in my life since the day I was born. Who has been with us at all the big events and all the small moments. Who has been just as much a part of the creation of my life as anyone else. There was nothing to do at that moment, during that call, except pray and cry. We cried a lot that day.

But I'm not crying today. In fact, today I am celebrating -- I've been thinking of her all day long. I've been thinking about that day, two years ago, and how hopeless I felt. How hopeless we all felt. But today -- two years to the day, Marilyn is doing well. There's been chemo and clinical trials and so much I cannot even fathom. She's been so strong. And I've seen my mom be strong too and it's so encouraging to me. What people can go through. What they can survive.

This week Marilyn got a haircut, which was a pretty exciting day as I hear it. She had to get a haircut because her hair had grown back after the latest round of chemo. If a haircut isn't cause for hope, I don't know what is.

Here's to many, many more years...not just two!

Thelma & Louise

2011-08-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

I was only thirteen when the movie "Thelma & Louise" came out in theaters. Much too young to see an R-rated movie (thank you, Mom and Dad -- I think too many kids see too much way too early) and frankly, I have no recollection of the film except for the title characters names and how our family quickly turned those names into nicknames for my grandmother and her cousin.

My Grandma MacDonald loved movies. She took us grandkids as often as she could sneak us away and I loved that about her. She and her friends went often I remember, she saw way more movies than I did growing up. And I remember her going with her cousin Elaine, from Canada, to see this particular film. And shortly after, they earned the nicknames because of all of their traveling. Those two traveled all over together. I love thinking of their stories and looking back at their photographs...

So when the opportunity came up to attend a screening of the 20th anniversary print of the movie, I jumped. Angela had never seen it so I bought two tickets ($3 and free parking - a steal in this town) and off we went. And had a great time. The screening took place at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences theater on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. And I have to tell you - it was quite something to watch a movie, surrounded by so many movie lovers and craftspeople - and to have two giant gold Oscar statues at either end of the screen. Very cool in deed!

There were a number of filmmakers and actors in the audience, some who'd worked on the film, others who were just there to enjoy I assume (Tate Donovan was directly in front of us!) which was pretty cool too.

All in all, a good night. The screening was followed by a Q & A with Geena Davis (actress), Mimi Polk Gitlin (the producer) and Callie Khouri (the Oscar-winning screenwriter) which was enlightening as well -- they talked a lot about how Hollywood needs more films made by and aimed at women. I agree. And I'm trying...

My day on "Dexter"

2011-08-04T16:42:00.000-07:00

Last week I got a call from Central Casting, the company that supplies extras to most of the movies and television shows filming in California. I'd applied with them last summer, called in a few times, hadn't been a good fit for anything filming, and given up on the dream of some easy cash for standing around. The call I got was that they needed a tall woman to be an extra on the Showtime television show "Dexter". This woman needed to block Dexter, the vigilante serial killer played by Michael C. Hall, from getting through a crowd as he followed a presumably bad guy played by Colin Hanks. Having only been on a few sets before I jumped at the chance to see things work up close.

And see them up close I did. Last Friday, dressed in my brightest "Miami garb" appropriate for a flea market (the show's set in Florida so we were told to dress accordingly) I drove to Long Beach (about an hour's drive from my house) and found base camp with the help of the SLICE signs (see above). I took two other outfits, complete with jewelry and bags as I was instructed but apparently my pink tee and white capris fit the bill. I was herded through several lines to get paperwork and get looked over by assistant directors and wardrobe people and then sent with the fifty others working the scene to set.

The set was amazing. The crew had transformed a small area between two apartment buildings and several businesses into a biergarten and flea market. And they hadn't just made it look like those things - they actually put hot dogs on to roast, carted in hundreds of cases of beer, set up wares in booths, etc. The time and attention to detail was simply amazing. Once I got there I was escorted off to the side with the other tall woman they'd called in for the part, Ruby who had a few years and a few inches on me. Ruby was dressed head to toe (even her fingernails and toenails) in day-glow orange. She looked awesome. And she'll likely be in more shots that any of us because she knew how to look "Miami"!

Ruby and I were given sides to read (industry-speak for script pages) and I quickly took note of the episode number (6 - entitled "Just Let Go" - it's scheduled to air November 6) and read all that I could. It was fun to get to see the scene in print that we were working on and to realize that what we'd spend eight hours shooting that day was less than two pages of the script. Two pages with barely any dialogue. And the dialogue we would hear would be only one side of a cell phone conversation.

After that we stood around for quite some time. Then we were moved into place and were given many, many directions over the course of several hours. Basically it was one giant crowd scene that they split into three parts. They filmed so many angels and my job? To walk like I knew where I was going. To walk past Colin Hanks and past Michael C. Hall and try to get in their way, just a little bit. After that, we moved into the biergarten and were instructed to do the same thing. And then again, in the flea market. There I got to pretend to look at t-shirts and camping gear and candy in different booths. But mostly my job was to look like a "real person" but stay out of the way of the cameras while blending seemlessly into the background. Here's hoping...

It was exciting to be on a set, to see the actors and the directors and all the crew working up close. To be a part of it. It really was. But it was also a very long day. It was hot, so hot and we were all in the sun, for hours on end, me and my big purse that I thought looked good but was really just heavy. And by the end of the eight hours or so I just couldn't wait to go home.

Today I got my paycheck, which includes mileage, a big perk for extras I hear. A whopping $67.15. Was it worth it? For the experience? Yes? For the money? Well, for an underemployed writer and teacher? Yes. But is it something I want to do every day? No. I am not an actor. I know which side of the camera I belong on.

Will you be able to see me in the episode? I have no idea. I brushed past both actors more times than I can count. I physically touched the title character time and time again. At one point, in character, he had to say "sorry" to my "character" for running into me. But I have no idea what the editors will do once they get the film. You might see a pink splash or you might see all of me. Or maybe just Ruby. Either way? It was fun. Very fun! And basically, my five minutes of fame. Glad that's done with, back to sitting behind the computer screen.

UPDATE:
My episode aired as scheduled in November and I was in a surprising number of scenes in the first minute of the show. Here are some still shots I took off the television:

Cousin Camp 2011

2011-07-30T12:24:00.000-07:00

After three weeks in Michigan, Angela and I headed straight to Texas for Cousin Camp 2011. I think this was the fifth year that we've all been together for at least a week. We stayed with our cousin Jamee, her husband John and their three little ones and we spent a lot of time with our cousin Jori, her husband Neil and her two wee ones! We even folded their cousin Justin into the mix most days!

It was such a fun week of pottery painting, Phineas and Ferb watching, long lingering meals, cooking, baking, crafting, window shopping, movies, miniseries (The Kennedys - fascinating), Wii dancing, swimming, napping, stories, and more. Basically it was just a chance for us all to be together and to make memories to last until we see each other again! And did I mention laughing? I don't think I've ever laughed so much! Between watching Jim Gaffigan's comedy specials with Jamee, John and Angela and trying to keep the tears away while sharing stories with each other it was just a fantastic week. A week I'll keep in my heart and in my soul forever.

Here's to cousin camp 2012! (There's a rumor it might be headed to Michigan! Watch out mitten state!!!!)

Traditions

2011-07-30T12:12:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I arrived back in L.A. after a month of traveling. Three weeks in Michigan and a week in Texas. And when I first made my travel plans, I remember thinking, hmmm....three weeks is a long time to be at home. It's a long time to be anywhere really, that's not where you normally live. But it's home. It's where my family is. And I started thinking about all of the things I just "had to do" when I was there and it seemed impossible to do it all in less time. Turns out, three weeks still wasn't enough time. But it was a pretty good time all the same.

In my family we have a lot of traditions and I find that as I grow older, I've been creating traditions of my own. The picture above is just one of our family's favorites. When Angela and I were little our family camped. That's what we did for vacation, we found a state park and we put up our tent. (Always a tent, always.) Sometimes we'd be up north or on the west side of the state or even just a few miles away from home on the state land near where my dad worked so he could go to work and come home to the campsite at night.

One of the treats we'd get when camping was fried donuts for breakfast. My mom would buy day-old cake donuts, nothing fancy please, slice them in half and throw them on the grill, "frying" them. Slather a little homemade strawberry jelly on top and there has never been anything quite so fabulous tasting. So I was mighty surprised, and happy, when I woke up one morning just before I left Michigan, to find fried donuts on the menu for breakfast!

There are so many other traditions we observed over the three weeks we were all together. Lugnuts games, Fourth of July BBQ, eating Gus's salad and breadsticks, playing the card game that doesn't have a name that we always have to find the directions for stuffed on a ripped piece of paper in the box of Joe Camel cards. Playing golf. Planting flowers at the cemetery and the house. Taking the little white car (the '62) to King Kone for ice cream.
Going to the movies just to go to the movies. Floating down the lazy river trying not to get sunburned. Pool party with the Niblocks. Swimming in the middle of Crooked Lake. Taking a ride through Oak Grove (where we came across a mama deer and her twin fawns!).

Playing more golf. Campfires in the driveway with all the neighbors. Sitting in the swing for hours on end. Reading book after book. Even more golf. It's no wonder we didn't want to leave...

But it's good to miss it. It's good to know there's even more to look forward to next time we visit. It was a wonderful trip. A wonderful way to recharge and refocus after a long few months. It was just exactly what I needed. And what I'll continue to carry on...

A day in the life...

2011-06-24T16:19:00.000-07:00

Today's one of those days, rare lately, where I've been totally immersed in writing. Since I started working at the elementary school I've had fewer chances to devote large chunks of time to doing so. I'm not complaining at all, it's just a fact that I have to squeeze the writing into the spaces a little more creatively. Combine that with my working with a manager who wants new ideas strictly in pitch form right now and I just haven't been as focused on the words lately.

But not today. Today I finished up the outline for my latest foray into spec scripts (scripts of TV shows I write for my portfolio, to show to people who can hire me to write for their TV shows). I'm working on a Community spec, it's a sitcom and I'm loving it. I've been mulling the story around in my head for probably eight to ten months now. It's just been rolling around up there like a snowball, slowly gathering more and more snow, until it was a fully formed snowman of an idea. This week I pitched the idea to my writing group and got their laughter-infused blessings so I moved to the next stage: the outline.

For me, outlining takes several forms. I first wrote my idea out in long form, then I put it into bullet points broken down by acts. After I get some feedback from my writing group this weekend I'll create a beat sheet (basically an outline with scene headings and maybe some more description/more jokes) and then I'll likely move right into writing the script. Once I have the idea down on paper the process goes quickly for me, something I am extremely grateful for.

So I'm writing this Community idea, which is silly and full of movie references and just plain fun. The stakes are high for a comedy show but no one's in danger, no one's getting hurt, and even the mean-spirited jokes are light. But once I send it out to my writing group folks, I move on to another project, even though I'd really just like to go lay on the couch and watch more Sports Night on Netflix Instant. (Best invention ever - I no longer have to put the DVDs in to watch some of my all-time favorite shows!!!!)

So now I'm working on a pitch for a new project, a television pilot (an original idea not one based on someone else's show). It's a one-hour drama and it involves spies. It's basically the complete opposite of Community. So I spend some time googling and here's what I'm researching: how to convert semi-automatic pistols into automatic mode. Yes, the complete opposite of what I was doing earlier. But guess what? I LOVE IT.

I'm fascinated by what I'm learning about pistols. I'm intrigued by what I've researched about the Department of Defense and I'm having so much fun creating these characters that they're already talking to me - sharing with me the rhythm of their language and the way they carry themselves. And I can't wait to figure out what should happen next. Because anything can happen, ANYTHING AT ALL. Because it's my show. They're my characters, my story, my decisions. Seriously, this is way too fun.

It'll get tedious, I know. I know all too well. I'll write a pitch, then I'll have to change the pitch. Then there will be outlines and draft upon draft of the script. There will be revisions and editing and proofreading. I'll be so sick of it all by the end I'll hide it and never want to speak it's name again. But for now, this story, what I get to do all day today, is pretty darn cool.

The purse

2011-06-18T09:06:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the first time you felt like an adult? Like a real, responsible, honest-to-goodness grownup? For me it was when I was seventeen. I'd just graduated from high school and in true Midwest tradition, we had spent hours sending out announcements and senior pictures, hosting a huge graduation open house at the state park where I worked, and in turn? I was overwhelmed with gifts. Money and packages. Lots of money and lots of packages. For me, it was an amazing outpouring of love, and an amazing haul.

Most of the money got put away in a savings account for safe keeping (i.e., college). But my parents told me I should get something for myself as well. My parents are pretty great like that. They realize the value in celebrating your accomplishments and commiserating special events with small tokens. And this time? I was encouraged to choose my own token.

And this brings me to the first time I felt like a grownup. We went to the Twelve Oaks Mall in Novi. The nice mall with the expensive stores. And we went to Hudson's where my mom took us sometimes for fancy lunches of Maurice salads (the only way I really enjoy green onions is in a Maurice salad). And I looked at the purses. I looked at the grownup, very adult in my eyes, leather purses. And I bought one. The purse in the photo above. I remember it cost a hundred dollars. I had never bought myself anything that had cost a hundred dollars before. I had never paid cash for something that cost that much before. But on that day, I did. I paid for it and I remember feeling so excited. I had a real grownup, woman's leather purse. And it had a label on it (Liz Claiborne). (NOTE: I have not to this day ever paid so much for a purse again. Mostly I buy purses that are half off at Kohl's or are in the summer section at Target).

Just this week I was cleaning out my closet and I pulled out this leather purse and I realized that I hadn't used it in probably ten or eleven years. The strap's a little out of date and much to my dismay, the leather was somehow rubbing off and sticking to other things in the closet (hmmm...maybe 100 bucks did not get me quality leather after all). So I decided to toss it. I have a bunch of other purses and it wouldn't be missed. But, in reality it would. I'd know it was gone because to me, that purse represented a very important time in my life. A time when I was starting a new adventure, when I was dressing for the part, when I felt like it was time to call the shots and make my own choices, not rely on my parents or friends to show me the way. That purse was the start of something.

That something continues and I know that although it's been *gasp* sixteen years since I stood in that department store and laid down my money, a piece of me still thinks back to the girl I was before the purse. She's not completely gone. She's still glad to have her family and her friends by her side. She's still glad she's on an adventure every single day. And she's really glad she still has good taste in purses.

"There's no elevator to success. You have to take the stairs."

2011-06-14T22:51:00.000-07:00

Patience is a virtue, I learned this a long long time ago. I've been learning and relearning this lesson my entire life. I am not naturally gifted at anything. I can't throw a football a million yards or sing the Star Spangled Banner perfectly. I'm not model thin and I don't have the ability to memorize anything (well, except for totally useless television facts). But I have desire. I have skill. I have drive. I have stamina and yes, I even have patience. And I think that counts for something.

I've been taking meetings with a management company for a few months now. We've been working on a career strategy and preparing me for "meetings" (aka, opportunities to be in a room with people who can hire me or buy my ideas). I've learned how to tell my story and I'm working on coming up with ideas I can pitch in short and long form. I'm basically learning to sell my skills and my desire and my drive. I'm learning what it takes to succeed in Hollywood as a writer.

Tonight I had another one of those meetings. It's quite something to share a story that I completely made up and have others talk about it, give ideas, even discuss possibilities for it. It's quite something to be taken seriously as a screenwriter with potential. Tonight that happened. In a big way.

There are no jobs yet. There are no contracts or checks or even meetings yet. But once again, it's a start. It's another step, a second step. And I'm trying so hard to be patient, knowing that the more I am, the greater the reward will be. Right? Right.

So many of you have taken this journey with me. So many of you cheer me on just by reading this blog, my writing. I'm amazed at what words can do, how they can make us laugh and cry and feel. I'm amazed at what my words can do. I'm amazed by this whole experience - the good, the bad and the in between. And I'm continually amazed by the lessons I learn.

So as I approach the end of my third year here in Los Angeles, I think about where I started. A girl with one poorly written, not properly formatted, screenplay. And now look at me. I've got a portfolio of screenplays and teleplays. I've got a novel. I've got a management company who wants to work with me. They chose me. Here we go...

No, it's not writer's block

2011-06-11T08:04:00.001-07:00

In March I finished a spec script I was writing for my portfolio, an episode of The Good Wife, a show I love. The idea for it had been marinating since November of last year. A long time if you ask me. But it worked. I’d found an article in the L.A. Times about death row appeals and clipped it and moved it from side to side of my desk for a while. I thought about it, filed it, pulled it back out and nothing. But I knew I needed to use it. And eventually I did – not the article but the idea it began in me, the idea for my episode. So I wrote it, rewrote it and poof! It was done. Before that I’d finished up rewrites of my two original pilots and before that I’d written an episode of Modern Family but that was back last summer. And now? I’ve got nothing.

I am trying not to freak out. I’m trying to be patient with myself and good to myself and not cry every few days. I’m trying to be strong and realistic and professional, as a good writer should be. But I’m not writing and it’s driving me crazy.

In working with this management company, I’ve been focused on crafting a career strategy plan rather than writing. It’s all fine and dandy. I’ve come up with pages of new ideas for shows, some bad, some worse than bad. I’ve written pages about my life story and my aspirations and learned to pitch myself, er, tell my story, in 120 seconds flat. I’ve also learned a 30-second version in case I ever run into Mr. Sorkin in an elevator ride (that pitch would also be contingent upon me being able to speak in said situation, which I highly doubt).

But again? I’m not writing. Yes, I’m journaling. Yes, I’m reading books and studying and planning. Yes, I’m being active, even proactive. But the thing is? I’M NOT WRITING. And it’s driving me (and possibly Angela) insane.

So I think I need to start. I’ve somehow convinced myself all my ideas are horrible, I should go try and get a job in insurance like was suggested, and move on with my life, leave this little fling with creativity behind. But then? I look up at my bulletin board, where I’ve tacked six pieces of paper from the past six months. Four are the WGA registrations for my spec scripts. And two are the Library of Congress copyrights for my original pilot stories. And I’m reminded again that I have done it, that I will continue to do it, and that I’d be a really really bad insurance saleswoman.

Ms. Nap

2011-06-08T22:54:00.000-07:00

My time with my elementary kids is coming to a close. We have seven school days left but it's that point in the year where every day feels like the last. There's assemblies and awards and movies and cleaning out desks and looking for lost library books. It's also the time of the year, as any teacher will tell you, when you feel most connected with your students. You've put in the time. You've earned their trust. They've let down their guard and learned to listen. Today was a perfect example of that.

My third graders were taking their final language arts test. Reading comprehension and a little writing with some vocabulary sprinkled in. I took my group of four to the middle room where we work on a daily basis. I didn't have to remind them to be quiet. I didn't have to tell them to separate themselves from the rest of the group. They knew exactly what to do and how to do it. And they were focused. They were on task. They were good. They were so good. (No, they didn't get all the answers but today, that wasn't the point. Today the point was they've finally learned how to take a test and write a complete sentence. Okay, well, almost complete.)

Afterwards they had some downtime as they finished the test at different times. The above picture is what came from one little girl's downtime. One little girl who has such a hard time focusing I want to cry for her. One little girl who has more than once had to leave my room because she can't handle being there with four other students. One little girl who can't spell to save her soul. But on her own time, she drew this for me and delivered it to me with such pride and love in her eyes. For precisely this reason, I do this job.

It was a good day. A very good day. Not all are but days like today remind me of what it's all about. And it's not just pictures, they tend to say it with words too. Later on today they were writing letters to their fifth grade selves and telling them about their third grade experiences. One little boy wrote, "I love doing math with my very own teacher". Mind you, I only worked with him one-on-one yesterday for the first time. But it stuck with him. And I hope long division does too.

Several other students wrote about Ms. Nap in their letters and it made me smile so much to read over their shoulders and see their little misspelled words of love. And to hear their, "You have to go now?"s when I grabbed my purse and headed out the door. And as they waved and yelled goodbye (more for the excuse to yell then anything I am sure) part of me didn't want to leave. And isn't that the mark of a really good job? A really good anything? When you don't want it to end?

Cheers to Sean and Lu

2011-06-06T20:45:00.000-07:00

On Saturday my friends Sean and Lu got married, for the third time. The first time was on 10/10/10 in Lu's hometown in China. Then they got married here in the United States so it was all legal soon after they got back from China. And finally, the last big wedding (we think!) took place this past weekend. And here's the really cool part - I was asked to officiate.

It was such an honor. Sean is one of the first people I met in Los Angeles. We met him at church and I distinctly remember a day in September, we'd only been here a month or so, when Sean had the day off work. He met us at Homeless Lunch and took us on quite the sightseeing tour, all over Los Angeles - to some of what are now our favorite places. From there our friendship morphed into game nights and birthday celebrations and just lots of fun times together. And then he met Lu. And then we met Lu, and she's fit so seamlessly into our circle. It's amazing to watch.

I read some scripture verses and several poems on Saturday as well as helped them recite their vows. It's something I did a while back, for my friends Kelly and Jason, and it really is an honor to be a part of someone's wedding day like that. One of the poems has stayed with me - Maya Angelou's Touched by an Angel. The last bit reads like this:

And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

When I think about that - the idea that love costs all we are and will ever be, I stop. I stop and I realize how very true that is. How I am nothing without love. Without the love of my family and my friends and even complete strangers. How I am nothing if I do not love. And yet, it's through that love that I do what I do, I am who I am, I thrive, I survive.

Sean and Lu's love brought a roomful of people together on Saturday. It's made a family and memories and forged friendships and created stories. But most of all? It's set an example for every single person in their lives to aspire to. To love. Nothing more. Nothing less. But simply, to love.

Imagination

2011-05-31T22:26:00.000-07:00

Last week I taught my third grade students about Picasso. Yep, the guy who made crazy cubism paintings with eyes where noses should be and noses where eyes should be. And they loved it. (See above picture as evidence - they so enjoyed making their own "Picassos"!)

So today we continued the discussion about imagination - after deciding last week that Picasso must have had a pretty big imagination. I asked them what they pretended to be or where they pretended to go when they played. Just one said they didn't pretend at all. And I told her that made me sad because I loved to pretend. I love to imagine myself in other places, doing other things. In fact, that's one of the things that lead me to writing. And to moving to Los Angeles.

And this discussion got me thinking about how my parents raised me to use my imagination and how some kids don't ever get that encouragement. I remember playing games with my parents that didn't involve any controllers or electronic devices. I remember running through the cemetary with my dad playing war when I was little with just a stick and my finger as a gun, hiding behind trees. I remember my mom encouraging Angela and I to close our eyes and imagine what land we'd go to every night when we lay in bed. We'd go to all different lands, lands she'd describe, lands we'd describe. And it was all pretend. All imagination.

I am so grateful that I grew up being encouraged to stretch my mind, to know about worlds other than my own. One of my favorite reading experiences growing up was Jurassic Park. It came out in 1990 and I remember reading it not too long after that, before the movie came out. I remember laying in my bed in the hot, humid summer nights before we had central air, dreaming of being on that island with dinosaurs. So much so that I had nightmares that baby velociraptors were chasing me.

For the past few weeks I've been doing a project - I've been attempting to come up an idea for a television show or a movie every single day. This has stretched my imagination beyond belief. But it's fun. To create stories and worlds that never existed, that may some day exist on a screen because I dared to dream of them. Dared to use my imagination...

I am ready to throw up (literally)

2011-05-18T14:56:00.000-07:00

Most people who know me know I can be outspoken. I'm not afraid to talk in front of large groups of people, I lead small discussion groups, not much scares me. I teach public speaking to college students and I've done my fair share of getting up in front of crowds number in the hundreds. But today, right now, I'm about to throw up at the thought of talking in front of two people.

Tonight I have to pitch myself as a writer to a couple of people in the industry. These are people I've spent some time with, not strangers by any means. But they intimidate me. Frankly, they scare the crap out of me. Why? Well, simply put, this is it. This is the real thing.

Talking to a friend going through the same pitch experience as me today, I realized something. This is my shot. I've always been a writer but I've always wanted to be a paid writer. A professional writer. A screenwriter. And this is my shot. This is the do or die time. This is the putting my money where my mouth is time. And it's terrifying. I'm literally shaking as I type this.

How many people say they could have done this or been that but never got the chance? Or never put any effort into it? Well here's my chance. This could be the beginning of something big. This is what all my work, all my dreams, have been about the past few years.

And tonight it all boils down to two-minutes. Two minutes of me telling people about myself. Not about nuclear physics or microbiology or Shakespeare. I have to talk about me. The person I should know best. But here are two things I've learned over the past two weeks of working on this pitch:

1) I'm a writer, not a pitcher. There's a difference and it's big. And I have to become both in order to succeed.

2) I am not an actor. I've written a lovely pitch but I can't memorize it for anything. Just ten minutes ago I stood up in my bedroom and attempted to tell the mirror my pitch. About myself. I got two lines in and froze. Yes. This is fabulous.

How will tonight go? I have no idea. I'll keep you posted. But I do know that I'm scared out of my mind. But I think there would be a problem if I weren't. This is the thing I want most and I'm on the verge of getting there. Nothing else has ever been this important.

And if I don't pass out, maybe I'll be able to remember something to say tonight.

***UPDATE: The meeting went well. I didn't throw up. My hands shook a little but not my voice. So happy I could cry. It's a start...

Still kicking!

2011-05-14T22:58:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday my dad, Angela and I got up with the sun and headed out to the Coliseum at USC. Last year my mom walked with Ang and I but this year her knee was bothering her so my dad took her place and we were so glad he got to experience the day with us!

It was another amazing 5K - it was a beautiful cool day, and we enjoyed the morning walking with thousands of others who walked for and with their loved ones. And most important - the event raised millions of dollars to kick cancer's butt! And thanks to all the support from the people on the sign I carried with me (see photo above) Angela, my dad and I raised $3500 for the cause!

So thank you all! We walked so others can continue to do good work to fight this horrible disease. We walked for our family: Marilyn and Grandpa Jim. We walked for all those listed above. We walked and we loved it!

It was a whirlwind and I'm still twirling

2011-05-03T15:13:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago today I was out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean wearing my winter coat, hood tied tight around my head, watching the water split where the large ferry I was riding in cut through it. My mom and I were the only two people gutsy enough to brave the cool weather and occasional peaks at the sun to sit on the top deck of the ferry. Angela and my Dad were below deck, in cushy seats, sleeping off their sea sickness. But not my mom and me. We were watching the blue sky, smiling at each other, silently taking in the quiet nature all around us. It was quite a morning. It was peaceful. It was still even though we were moving. It was amazing.

And then everything came crashing down. The stillness of my soul turned to shards.

By that night my parents were on a plane back to Michigan. And then eight hours later, Angela and I were following. An unexpected trip that came too soon. Or not soon enough depending on how you look at things.

My grandmother, my mother's mother, hadn't been well for quite some time. Eighteen months ago she fell in her house and spent a night on the floor. Three surgeries, countless procedures, a lifetime supply of antibiotics and meds, it just became too much. Her body had managed so many years. Years of pain starting with a terrible automobile accident before she married my grandfather through replacement hips and arthritis that crippled her. Through it all though she never complained. Never. She was amazing.

I have so many stories. Stories I want to record. Stories I will record. But not right this moment. It's too hard. Yesterday, Monday, I sat down to write out some cards as I do every Monday. I have a small list of people who get them regularly. Grandma was tops on that list. As I went to the box of cards I've collected from trips to Hallmark (I might have a problem, they send me very large reward checks) I looked at the pile earmarked for her. Cards I didn't have the chance to send...

Then today, as I was walking to my car after work I felt the need to talk to someone. My sister was at work. Several friends I knew were busy. My parents were traveling. Until eighteen months ago Grandma would have been tops on that list as well. I can't remember how many nights I called her and talked all the way home from my job an hour away from my apartment. I loved it. I miss it. So much.

It's been a whirlwind. Real life doesn't stop and so I continue to work, grade papers, proctor state-wide tests for the little ones, try to create a screenwriting career, connect with friends, buy groceries, dust the living room. But through it all, I can't help but miss her. A picture in the dining room. Her name in my cell phone. The ring she gave me. The life she helped me create.

I hope the tears don't stop. I also hope the memories don't fade. I hope the shards don't dull. I don't want to forget. I don't want to be too far removed. Here, now, feeling it is only where I want to be.

A bang of a night

2011-04-13T10:34:00.001-07:00

Last night I went to my sixth taping of the sitcom ‘The Big Bang Theory’. My sixth in two years. For baseball fans, this is akin to attending six baseball games in two years, not so odd. And cheaper. And funnier. I’m just saying, there’s not much levity in baseball until the big-headed mascot comes out to lead a song or a spinning of the heads on bats. (Full self-disclosure, I’m not a huge baseball fan. If I do one game a year, I’m good. And there better be some fun baseball snacks or a shopping trip on the way there or something.)

But yesterday I took my parents to the Warner Brothers lot, we waited in line for three and a half hours, passed through several security checkpoints, left our cell phones at home, and then sat smooshed together in tiny seats for about four hours. All to see some actors put on a little “play” as it were. A little play that takes about 150 people weeks to craft and execute and will eventually be seen by tens of millions of people around the globe. It was rather exciting. For all of us.

It was a special night because it was the taping of the fourth season finale. The cast and crew all seemed to have a light-hearted energy. They laughed and danced and waved. They broke up during takes, they came out to talk to the audience members (which rarely happens in my experience). Everyone had fun. So much fun. At work. Doing what they love. (Well, I am just assuming the guy who holds the mike and the guy who puts paper towels over the prop food love their jobs.)

And as the curtain call commenced I watched the guys over on the left hand side of the stage: Bill Prady and Chuck Lorre, the co-creators of the show. They stood there watching these actors bow and wave and be cheered on. They had pretty big smiles on their faces. And all I could think of was how much I want to be down there on that stage. Not in front with the cheering and the bowing but off to the side, standing with the other writers, watching what I’ve created happen. What I’ve created be applauded. What I’ve created make so many people happy. Amazing.

This is why I moved to Los Angeles. This is why I have spent the last three years worry over scene descriptions and one-liners. This is why I spend most of my waking moments thinking of the next script, or the current script, or the script that I wrote two years ago. I want nothing more to be down there, in the trenches.

It was an amazing night. It was awesome to see it through fresh eyes. To laugh, to be surprised, to smile at the little jokes, to watch all these people work. An amazing night. That’s what I want.

I'm starting

2011-04-05T22:52:00.001-07:00

Tonight I went to the taping of the sitcom The Big Bang Theory. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone, it won’t be the last. We already have tickets to take my parents next week to the taping of the season finale. But tonight, as I sat there, I realized something. I wanted to be down on the stage. I wanted more than anything to be a part of the hustle and bustle, the frenzied movement, the action. I wanted to be one of the writers bringing new pages to the actors, whispering about new jokes. I wanted to be one of the showrunners talking about sweaters and pacing and where everyone should stand. I wanted to be in the muck.

I’ve started the process. I’ve studied television episodes and broken down screenplays. I’ve timed scene lengths and transcribed dialogue. I’ve written joke after joke and spent hours just sitting here at my desk thinking of the perfect title or the perfect line. I’ve put in some time. A lot of time.

I’ve written spec scripts and original scripts. I’ve watched more television than most people should. And now I’m working to move beyond all that. I’m working to go out into the real world, if you can call Hollywood the real world, and put it all into practice.

Today I mailed out 56 query letters to agencies around town. It’s a start. It's scary but I needed to do it. Because I’ve realized, more than anything, I want to, I need to, be down on that stage, not up in the audience. I need this. Now. So I’m starting…

I just need one

2011-03-31T08:57:00.001-07:00

I’m kind of freaking out. It’s Thursday of my first week of spring break from the elementary school where I work each morning. It’s also the first week of the new quarter for my online university where I work each day. It’s 8:45am. I’m doing with the online stuff. I even prepped my postings for next week knowing I’ll be a bit busier next week. But I’m done. I’ve checked all my emails. I’ve read Facebook and Twitter several times over. I’ve read my Lenten devotion. I’ve read the paper. Yes, I need to make the bed and shower but other than that? I’m done for the day. It kind of freaks me out.

I’ve sent my “Good Wife” script out to some people to read and I’m awaiting feedback. So there’s nothing left to do there. Two rewrites and I’m done, which is weird for me. I don’t have another script to work on right now. Yes. I have a pilot that needs another go but I’m not sure I’m mentally or emotionally ready to bring those characters back into my life at the moment. They’ve been with me three years. A long three years. And they’re on vacation now. It’s good for them. And me.

I need to keep writing. But I don’t have anything to write. It’s so weird. I want to write. I have time to write but instead, I have to think. Ugh. The hard part of the job for me is always plotting. Making the story make sense in my head before writing it down. That invisible labor Victor Hugo speaks so fondly of.

I have a novel that is perched center on my desk (I have an L-shaped desk, so it’s in the center of the other side of the desk). It needs to be edited. So badly. It cries to me every day. But I really don’t know where to begin or what to do. I wish I did. It wants to be seen. It wants to be read. I want that too.

My to-do list is dwindling. It has things on it like ‘rewrite Trophy Husbands’ – oh, okay self, I’ll just rewrite an entire movie. Sure, no biggie for today. It also has on it ‘come up with new ideas’ – oh, okay, check. Moving on, what’s next.

New ideas. New characters. It’s scary. It’s exciting, yes, but it’s even more scary. I want to write a spec script of ‘Community’. I have the vaguest inkling of an idea. Really just four words. Not enough to write about. I need more.

I have an idea for a half-hour sitcom but really, it’s someone else’s idea, from a book, and I need to make it my own. It’s hard because the book was freaking awesome.

What to do? I know, a high-class problem. I’ll probably do some laundry. Make the bed. Shower, maybe curl my hair. I might attempt to make some Easter cards. Maybe I’ll watch “The Sweet Smell of Success” which has been sitting by the TV for way too long. Good thing Netflix doesn’t charge late fees. Maybe I’ll watch some ‘Community’ and try to be inspired.

I need a good idea. Just one. Or a hundred. I’m not picky. Here goes…

Runyon Canyon

2011-03-30T12:25:00.000-07:00

The view from part-way up! Today a friend and I went hiking. Right here in the middle of Los Angeles. Yep. I'd always heard of the mystical 'Runyon Canyon'. Celebrities boast of exercising there. People talk of Saturday mornings running the hills. But for some reason, I envisioned it as a far-off place I probably would never get to. Until my friend informed me that it was just down the street from our church and very easy to get to. And a gorgeous hike.

She was right on all accounts. We parked on the street and walked to the entrance. Easy as pie. There were people there, yes, lots of people but it didn't feel crowded. There were lots of dog walkers, some people with strollers, older people, younger people, even a few celebrities (CCH Pounder and Jeff Perry). But mostly, there were just people there to hike. To walk (and occasionally run, those people were crazy!) and enjoy the quietness of the hills, the sun before it got too hot, the dirt and the grass and the birds and the insects that all seem to elude us down a few blocks into the city.

My friend and I stopped a lot. We took in the views of the city before us. We caught our breath. We made sure the footing was stable before moving upward. But we also talked and laughed and got our heart rates up. There is nothing like a goal to keep you moving and pretty much, you have to go up to go down again!

A beautiful day. A beautiful hike. I can't wait to go again!
The view from the top!

Finishing

2011-03-27T00:21:00.000-07:00

There's this great feeling that comes with the end of a project. Being able to cross something off a to-do list. Having a weight, however small and insignificant to others, being shook from your shoulders.

I had a deadline. Self-imposed but those are often the toughest ones, in my opinion. No one else cares if you finish. No one will berate you for turning your work in late or missing the end of the work day or anything like that.

I told myself at the beginning of the week that I'd have a finished draft of the "Good Wife" spec script I've been working on done by Sunday. In time to share it with my writers' group. Those are important words - I told myself. This wasn't a deadline set by anyone else. More often than not 75% of the writers' group doesn't bring pages or anything to share with the group. It would be no big deal if I missed this deadline.

It's been a long week. We finally got heat in the house tonight after living without it in the rain and cold for seven days. I'm starting a new quarter with the University of Phoenix tomorrow and I had to prep two classes. Excuses excuses...

But ultimately, it's all about, it's only about, what I think. If I keep the deadlines for myself, then I prove to myself I can do it. I care enough to do it. Is it a great draft? No. Is it a shooting draft. No. It's what my favorite writing inspiration, Anne Lamott would call a "shitty first draft". But that's okay. In fact, that's exactly what it should be. It's just me getting the bones of the story out and on to paper. Now I can play with them. Now I can form them into the story they should be. This is a draft just for me. This is a draft that will only vaguely resemble the final draft.

But it's done. I finished it. And for that I am ecstatic. One more mile passed. On to the next one.

Ten on Tuesday

2011-03-22T15:21:00.000-07:00

Ten ways I feel loved...

Mail. Regular old snail mail. I have three new cards hanging around my desk from last week. I have fabulous friends and family members. They send me these little notes of love periodically and there is no more joy than opening up the mailbox and finding one tucked into the junk and bills. And I love how my moms (yep, mom #1 and mom #2) put stickers on the envelopes. Sometimes I hang the envelopes up with the cards. And yes, I still have one of the stickers on my bulletin board but don't ask me where the card went.
Electronically. Whether it's a 'like' on my Facebook status, a text in the middle of the day or a long long email, I love these little messages. Love love love them.
When people say 'I love you'. Most phone conversations with friends and family end this way. Sometimes I have to make a conscious effort, sometimes it happens more naturally. Either way, I've never regretted saying it, only regretted not saying it. Recently I had a friend, my first friend in L.A. as a matter of fact, move away. At our last coffee date he walked me back to my car and we embraced on the street corner. I said, "I love you" -- something I couldn't remember saying aloud to him before even though our emails always end in xoxo -- and he said it back. As I brushed away the tears I thought to myself how right it felt. Because when we love people, we should tell them so.
A smile or a quick little wave. My kids at the elementary school are good at this. They do the little T-rex, short-armed wave thing. It's so cute, I know it's meant to be secret and I love it.
My jewelry. The ring on my finger is my birthstone -- pink surrounded by gold. I received it as a gift on my sixteenth birthday from my mom, dad, sister and Grandma MacDonald. I wear it most days and it makes me feel safe. I constantly rub the back of it to remind me of that fact.
Where I am. Who I am. I would never be here in Los Angeles, California if it weren't for the hundreds of people who've shown me their love over the past thirty-three years. Every time I think about how I made it here, the journey, I see the faces of so many.
Complete strangers. The guy who rolled down his truck window and told me to check my tire pressure. He had no earthly reason for doing that. But he did and I was floored. (I also needed A LOT more air in my tires!) The checker at the grocery store who calls me honey and always smiles with recognition whenever I get in her lane. She doesn't know my name but she knows I shop there and she genuinely asks how my day's going.
Angela sharing her bed with me. It's cold in our house. Right now I'm not at my desk, I'm sitting in the front room closest to the window with the sunshine because the pilot's out again and there's no heat. We lost heat two days ago. But Angela has been sharing her bed with me because her room's warmer. And she doesn't complain. (Well, not a lot!)
Somehow, and only through the grace of God, I know, I'm still in my house, working, paying the bills, buying groceries, etc. I am so blessed that God continues to provide for me. So blessed.
People read what I write. It's true and it's astonishing to me. Between my blog, my Facebook ramblings, my scripts that I take to my writers' group, my friends who read my work when they probably would rather be doing anything but, etc. I am loved. Completely and utterly loved.

Just living

2011-03-16T14:14:00.000-07:00

Last night was the first night I’d watched the news since the earthquake and tsunami in Japan on Friday. I’m not a regular news watcher, most of it’s too depressing and I tend to skew more toward John Stewart for my political news. I do read the L.A. Times every day, I read Newsweek and Time, and I’m hyper plugged into the digital world so I feel I get enough. But last night Ang and I watched the evening news after we ate our dinner and the pictures were heartbreaking. Then they started talking about the potential here in California for radiation poisoning (there isn’t a potential, just so we’re all on the same page) and for an earthquake of our own (that, they’re not so sure about – you can predict them but they do come in clusters). After that I read the Newsweek that had come in the mail, the one, of course, about Japan. And I started to think.

That thinking drove me to the hardware store on my way home from work today. Apparently I was not alone in my thinking since I got the last 2 small emergency kits left. We already have one here at the house, the one my mom and I bought Ang last year, but I figured we couldn’t be over prepared. Plus, Angela had heard a presentation on earthquake preparedness at a meeting a few weeks ago and they suggested you keep kits in your car. So, these are for the cars.

The odd thing about all of this, at least as I sit here and think about it? I’m not scared. I’m not panicked or worried really. There’s not much I can do. I bought the emergency kits. We have 2 battery powered lanterns and we have batteries for them. We have food in the cupboards that’s canned. Here’s the real rub of it though – we can’t ever really be prepared for something like the devastation that has been rained down upon Japan. We just can’t. So instead, I prepare, I pray, and I go on with my life.

How can I live in California? I’m often asked by people who don’t live here. What about the wildfires and the earthquakes? Well, in Michigan we had tornadoes. We had ice storms that caused deaths. We had heat waves that caused deaths. You’re not immune wherever you might be. And so we go on. Preparing, yes, praying, yes, but most off all? Just living. Because really, that’s all we can do.

Keeping the faith

2011-03-15T19:08:00.000-07:00

Today 5,000 teachers were pink slipped in in the Los Angeles public school district. FIVE THOUSAND. Add that to the 3,500 laid off last year and the 2,500 laid off the year before that. ELEVEN THOUSAND TEACHERS LAID OFF.

How does a school system already on it's last legs, already showing huge signs of failing, recover from that. How does this generation of children recover from that. Right now Angela has more kids in her classroom than I'm guessing the Fire Marshall would sanction. She has 39 kids in each of her classes. Just close your eyes and picture that. Thirty-nine sixth graders. One adult. Chinese history. How much learning do you think is happening? How much of the time is spent on discipline? How much individual help do those special education students get (and she has many, many special education students).

I don't care what your political leanings are. I don't care what you think about taxes or politicians or a woman's right to abortion or the death penalty. What I care about tonight is the fact that all of these teachers are being laid off. These wonderful, newly minted, excited teachers. And it's not just teachers. It's counselors and secretaries and assistant principals. There have been several suicide attempts at the local middle school lately. What happens when the counselors only work one day a week because they have to cover more than one campus?

This isn't the solution. Neither is cutting back on police officers or fire fighters. Shuttering libraries isn't good either. I have no idea what the solution is. I just know that we need to find it. We need to get good teachers, young teachers, back in the classroom. NOW. We need to stop firing teachers. We need to stop demonizing teachers. If you had to do their job for one day, how might you fare?

I pray things change though I don't know how much faith I have in the system anymore. But, all it takes is a mustard seed right? And you know what keeps me believing more than anything? Those teachers, like Angela and all the others I know, who go to work every day, despite being pink slipped, and keep trying to teach Chinese history to a room overflowing with children. They're doing their jobs. They're fighting. And at some point, somehow, we'll figure out how to help them. We have to...

Lenten devotional

2011-03-11T13:56:00.000-08:00

Matthew 6:1-6

"Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven."

¹ “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven.

² “So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. ³ But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, ⁴ so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

⁵ “And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. ⁶ But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

I grew up in the church. My parents served on every board, my grandfather was the church custodian for years, and there was never any question on Sunday morning as to what we’d be doing. We would be at church. It wasn’t something we talked about, it was something we did. It was who we were.

And then in high school a national movement began called ‘See You At The Pole’ – where students would meet around the flagpole and pray in an effort to – well, I’m not sure, maybe raise awareness about their faith? I don’t know because I wasn’t there. I didn’t ever feel the need to head out early, one day a year, to gather in front of my school and proclaim to the town, well, to the students, parents and teachers mostly, that I was a Christian. That’s not how I was raised.

I was raised to help clean up after Sunday brunches and funeral luncheons at the church. I was raised to jump in and give a hand when the nursery was understaffed or the church sidewalks needed salting. I was raised to do what needed to be done, not talk about what needed to be done. And that’s still how I view my church service, and my faith, today.

Don’t get me wrong. I wear a cross necklace occasionally, I let others know I’m praying for them, I share my faith when I find an appropriate time. But I also make sure that I remember to act out my faith when no one’s looking, when it’s just God and me.

I chose this verse for my devotional mostly as a reminder to myself. At the end of the verse Matthew reminds us that our Father sees what we do in secret and He will reward us. Yes, it’s good to go out and spread the Word and to be a part of society and share our faith. But it’s also important to remember our relationship when no one else is around. Something I’ll try to refocus on this Lenten season as we prepare to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection again.

PRAYER: Dear God, I beg of you to help me remember that the most important parts of our relationship are those that are secret, just between us. You want nothing more than for me to go into my room and close the door and pray, alone, to you. And I want the same. Thank you for reminding me of that. Amen.

Barenaked Ladies!

2011-03-09T14:29:00.001-08:00

Last night I headed out to another taping of "The Big Bang Theory". It's become something we do every few months with a few friends and it's such fun. Yeah we wait in line for a few hours and then we sit cramped in with 200 other audience members for a few more hours but it's all a lot of fun. We get to watch the cast and crew work, see two brand-new episodes (the one taped the week before and the one performed live that night). And last night we got a surprise:

If you're a regular BBT watcher, you'll know that The Barenaked Ladies perform their theme song. And last night the Barenaked Ladies were there in the studio and they performed the entire theme song (yep, it has more than one verse!) after the curtain call. So cool! I've never been a big concert goer but this was much more intimate than I've ever experienced, especially with a band I've loved for a long time. Too fun! (The photo above was taken from a cast members' Twitter feed as no cameras or cell phones were allowed in last night.)

Not stuck in the middle

2011-03-02T15:32:00.000-08:00

I'm having a hard week writing-wise. The problem is I'm not in the middle of a project. I have to start a new project. Yes, there are some rewrites I should do. Do I want to? No. Not right now. The scabs are just healing and I need them gone before I just sit and pick. I need fresh eyes on those projects. And a real reason to rewrite.

I began a new spec last week - I decided to write an episode of a very popular one-hour drama. I have had this newspaper clip in my files since the fall and it's been marinating, inspiring me to create a story from the idea. And I started to. Then I did some research and today found out that the governor of the state my show is set in might change a law that would make my story obsolete. So I wait and ponder. Again, not writing.

It's a bit frustrating but I'll get through it. I just have to remember that soon enough I'll wish I was done with the new project or just starting again. It was like that before, it'll be like that soon enough again. Until then, I'll read. I'll ponder. I'll finish the Eiffel Tower cross-stitch I'm working on. I'll go for another walk. And I'll try to find solace in one of my favorite quotes:

A man is not idle because he is absorbed in thought. There is a visible labor and there is an invisible labor. -- Victor Hugo

Things I love right now...in no particular order

2011-02-25T15:18:00.000-08:00

Proudly wearing my UCLA sweatshirt on rainy L.A. days.
Long talks with my parents on the phone. It makes it seem like they're not so far away.
Texting. Again, it makes people seem not so far away.
Friends who respond immediately to emails.
Screenwriting podcasts that make working out seem like work so I don't feel guilty that it's 3pm and I'm outside walking around Hancock Park.
White vinegar. The coffee maker was dying a slow death. Or so I thought. Then my dad said pour some vinegar through it and Voila! It's alive again!
Steve Martin's autobiography "Born Standing Up" -- fascinating!
My Kindle.
Lavender tea.
That my third graders have pet mealworms on their desks. They're studying them!
Teaching fractions and making the kids laugh.
That my DVR is full of some of my favorite TV shows and I have all night to watch them.
That I have lived different places and done different things and have lots of stories to tell.
Playing Scrabble online with friends.
That I got a buy one get one free coupon for Chipolte that I get to use tomorrow.
Gnomes.

What do you love right now?

The beginning

2011-02-10T13:39:00.000-08:00

"I'm a writer." I said those words on Sunday morning when I met some new people at church and they asked what I do. I didn't start with, "I'm a teacher but working to become a screenwriter" or "I teach part-time...". I said the words, "I am a writer" and I meant them.

Over the past week I've been immersed in writing. I attended the Oscar-nominated screenwriters panels at both the WGA and Creative Screenwriting. I saw two Oscar-nominated movies (The King's Speech and The Fighter - both AMAZING). I listened to a ton of writing podcasts. I attended a three hour television writing seminar. I typed a full-length screenplay in exchange for getting notes on a television pilot. I'm going hardcore.

So on Tuesday when I walked out of the theater after watching The King's Speech I was thrilled to have a voicemail from the literary agent I met with a few weeks ago. I'd sent him another script on Monday and he was calling to invite me to be a part of their orientation process at the agency. Thrilled. Excited. Ready. That's me.

What does this mean? It means I'll spend the next few months meeting with the agency once a week learning about how they work, how we'll work together, and the best path to take my career down. Does it mean I'm their client? Not yet. It means we're having a trial period, on both sides. Kind of like dating. Yep, I'm dating a literary agency.

Some people have asked if this is traditional. No. But nothing about showbusiness is very traditional. If you ask a hundred people how they got their start, they'll each have a different story. If you ask a hundred people for advice on how to begin your career, you'll get a thousand different replies. So for now, this is my path. Wish me luck (though their offices are on the second floor, so no wishing for a broken leg, thanks)!

Still fighting

2011-02-05T09:46:00.000-08:00

This is a shot of the crowd last year at the EIF/Revlon Run/Walk for Women. I'm in there somewhere. I'm in there with Angela, with my mom, with a team of men and women from the middle school Angela works at. And it was an amazing day. A day I've recorded here. My mom, Angela and I raised $1185 last year for our walk. Our family and friends were amazing. They reached out when money is tight, when there are hundreds and thousands of other causes begging for support. They reached out. And I am humbled and grateful and filled with love because of it.

But guess what? Cancer has not been cured. Cancer hasn't gone away. We still have to fight just as my grandfather and my second mother have to (see last year's post on why I fight here). We still have to fight hard to kick cancer's butt. And we will.

This year Angela and I are once again doing the 5K. We've set a fundraising goal of $2000, $1000 each. I think we can reach that goal. I think we can help fight the fight. I think we can do it because two of the people I love most in the world fight the fight every single day.

Every single dollar counts. Every single prayer counts. Last year I walked with a piece of paper in my hands:
On that piece of paper was a list of all the people I walked for. I walked for my family and yours. I walked for loved ones still with us and loved ones gone to heaven. I walked for you.

So THANK YOU IN ADVANCE. Thank you for helping, for fighting, for loving, for sharing that love. Thank you. There's not much else I can say. But thank you. And I'll see you at the finish line.

You can donate by clicking here.

Beyond Words

2011-02-04T13:51:00.000-08:00

Beyond Words was the name of the event I attended last night at the Writers Guild Theater. It was billed as "a conversation with WGA and Academy-Award nominated screenwriters". It lasted about an hour and a half and was fascinating. Beyond fascinating. Beyond words...

There were screenwriters there who's work I enjoyed this year (Stuart Blumberg & Lisa Cholodenko - The Kids Are Alright; Aaron Stockard - The Town; Aaron Sorkin - The Social Network) and writers there who's work I've yet to see (Paul Tamasy, Scott Silver & Eric Johnson - The Fighter; John Requa & Glenn Ficarra - I Love You Phillip Morris, Mark Heyman - Black Swan; Nicole Holofcener - Please Give) but it didn't matter, they all had fascinating insights into the screenwriting and television writing process, and more than a few fun anecdotes from the trenches.

I've attended my share of panel discussions and seminars since moving to Los Angeles to pursue my writing career. Sometimes they're a lot of fun, sometimes they're educational, sometimes they're downright boring and repetitive. (No, I don't want to know about an agency contract. When I get one, I'm sure someone will explain mine to me, thankyouverymuch.) But this panel was different. I walked out of the theater on cloud nine. Ready to write a movie. Ready to write another TV pilot. Ready to take the world by storm. Well, at least Hollywood by storm.

At the end of the conversation, the moderator (an entertaining John August - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, etc.) asked about when the writers share their ideas with people, when they start to talk about their stories. A few people chimed in but it was Aaron Sorkin who summed it up perfectly for me (of course). He said he doesn't share his ideas with a lot of people until they're nearly done. Not because he's afraid someone will steal them but because he's afraid people will steal his energy and passion for the project. And I totally caught myself nodding. How many times have I told someone I'm a writer who's working to get her screenwriting career going and people are like, uh oh, yeah, good luck with that. You just know they're thinking, whatever, never gonna happen. They steal my energy and my passion. Same goes for story ideas.

So I've decided to take control, own my energy and my passion, and continue on, focused on my career. I want to write movies. I want to write television shows. I want to keep moving forward. And so I will with all the inspiration I gleaned from last night. It truly was moving beyond words for me...

Encouraged beyond belief

2011-02-01T21:36:00.000-08:00

This afternoon the handyman was here to fix the locks. We had some issues with the wood on the door swelling after the December rains. Well, turns out that the handyman did more than fix the door. He let a little green bird (about the size of my fist) inside. An hour or so later when I went into the kitchen I saw the bird fluttering about, pecking at the window in the laundry room. I got him outside quickly, thank goodness, as he'd already pooped on the dryer and kitchen counter! But for those few seconds that I was watching him ram the window, deciding what to do, I couldn't help but think how scared he must be. And frankly, how scared I was that he was going to get into another part of the house. And oddly enough, even though there was that split second of terror, ultimately, I was calm. I wasn't screaming on the inside or the outside.

I got the bird outside and I got dressed to go to my meeting with the literary manager. And guess what? I wasn't scared. I wasn't screaming. I was calm and well spoken and by the time I told my story the second time, to the senior partner, I had it down pat. And I was pretty happy about the whole thing. I'm not quite sure where all of this will lead. I really liked what they had to say about their brand-new company. I really liked how they seem to embrace emerging talent (basically us baby writers) and how they emphasize writing as a collaborative process. When he walked me out the lit manager asked about a second pilot script I'd mentioned. I pitched him my story and he seemed intrigued. He asked to read it. I think that's a good sign.

Will this be the company I work with throughout my whole career? I have absolutely no idea. If you'd asked me five years ago if I'd ever live in Los Angeles I'd have said I have absolutely no idea. But one thing is certain. I had a good meeting today. I felt confident and encouraged as I left the office building. And for what it's worth, that's really all I wanted out of today. And so it begins...

Screaming on the inside

2011-01-27T15:30:00.000-08:00

In December a friend introduced me (via email) to a literary manager she'd met. He said he focused primarily on television comedies so I sent him three scripts last Monday. Today he emailed to say he was impressed. I called him and we set up a meeting for next Tuesday.

Yes, it took me an hour to calm down before I called him. It was exciting. It's my first introduction to the real business side of television writing. I've been operating in a vacuum up until now. I've been surrounded by friends and writing peers, teachers and people who love me too much to give me any criticism at all. But now, now I'm jumping into the lake (or the shark-infested ocean) without a life preserver (wearing raw meat). I'm putting myself out there. And I'm screaming inside.

Yes I know it's my first meeting. Yes I know I'll have more meetings and this may amount to nothing. Yes I have a long way to go. But this is a start. This is the beginning. And it's freaking exciting. I'm going to revel in that for a day or two. Before I start obsessing about what to wear:-)

Selling myself

2011-01-20T14:29:00.000-08:00

This week I have done two things that I am very happy about (well, maybe a few more but only two that are blog-worthy at the moment). The first? I finished polishing all three of my comedy television scripts and I sent them out into the world, to someone who is not a member of my writing group, to someone who hasn't loved me since I was born, to someone who isn't a friend who'll tell me it's going to be just fine. I sent them to a literary agent. I sent them to someone who only wants "them" or in reality, "me", if I'm any good. So yeah. That was exciting, and not nearly as scary as I envisioned.

The second thing I did was apply to the Nickelodeon Writing Fellowship. I submitted a spec script I've written and I'm pretty happy with. It made me laugh, it made my friends laugh, so what more can I ask of it. (Well, besides to get me a job...)

So yeah, a pretty good week so far. And it's only Thursday. Now I start the process of tracking down other managers and agents who'll read my work. It's daunting. Incredibly daunting (which may be why I'm blogging instead of doing it). But I'll push forward. Because strangely enough, no one else in the world really needs me to be a working screenwriter. In fact, there are plenty of writers who'd probably prefer it if I just went back to the couch and took a nap. But nope, not today. Today I begin the process of selling myself...

Laughing all the way...

2011-01-15T08:36:00.000-08:00

This week I have been working on polishing (that is proofreading and editing) my half-hour comedy writing samples. I have three: a spec of The Big Bang Theory, a spec of Modern Family, and an original pilot I've written called Overexposed. And more than with anything else I've ever written, I feel so happy about the results. Ecstatic really.

I never pictured myself a comedy writer. I thought I was more of a long, drawn out drama writer, weaving stories over time. But last January I challenged myself by signing up for a comedy-writing class. I figured if I didn't try it in film school, when else would I try it? So I wrote my first half-hour comedy. And I loved it. Gone were the worries of how to solve the crimes I'd imagined my characters committing. Gone was the hours of researching serial killers and the tools they used. Gone were the huge plot twists and season-long arcs. Hello funny, slapstick, funny. Quite the change of pace.

So I wrote another comedy, and yet another, and while I'm still not sure it's my "brand" (see previous post), I'm sure of one thing: I LOVE WRITING COMEDY. I love making people laugh and smile. I love making myself laugh (yes, I know, I'm not very humble but I am truthful). I love coming up with the joke that's perfect for only that character or that moment. Don't ask me how I do it, it just happens. And I love it.

So I'm prepping my comedy portfolio to send out this week in the hopes that someone outside of my head and outside of my house's walls thinks I'm funny too. We'll see. In the meantime, I've got to come up with something new to write. And polish those serial killer skills!

Branding myself

2011-01-09T22:59:00.001-08:00

Today in my writers' group we talked about our brands. Who were are as writers, how our writing portfolios can best represent that and what we want to put out into the Hollywood system. One writer decided she was the Southern writer, another concluded she was the serialized writer, yet another landed on the youth writer. But then there was me. When it came around to my turn to talk I quoted a line from one of my favorite movies...

"I don't know what kind of girl I am." -- Juno

I started out writing stories. Stories without defined plots, without known endings. Then I wrote a romantic comedy. Someone told me I should turn it into a thriller but I'm not really a thriller kind of girl. Then I wrote a sweet little indie-type movie and people weren't sure which box to put it into. Not big enough they said. But not small enough either. Then I wrote a loud, brash, funny R-rated comedy. And someone put a movie into production with the exact same title. The title that sells the thing. So I turned to TV. My first love really.

I started out writing dramas. I didn't think I was really funny. I like to get the joke, the laugh, the smile but I never considered myself a comedienne. Then I took a sitcom writing class. And I liked it. I really did. So I wrote another comedy. But there was a drama brewing in my brain. I wrote a novel, a really long, involved, complicated novel that's not funny at all. It's truthful and messy and makes people cry. Which is really cool for a writer. But I still like the funny.

So I wrote some more comedy. And some more drama. And I like them all. I love all my children unconditionally (well, maybe not that first-born, I'm really really scared to go back and read it, I love the images I have of it and maybe that's all I need to love). But I don't know my brand.

I'm a writer. I love blogging. I like writing about current events and Bible stories. I like news reporting and writing research papers. Sandra Bullock is a great comedic actress. Then she went and won an Oscar for a very serious role. It wasn't her first. She gets to do both. Why can't I? (Yes, I know, I'm no Sandy B.)

But back to my brand...I'm working on it. It would be a lot easier if I was the slasher-flick girl. I have a film school friend who writes horror movies. He's good at it and they're funny and really slashery. He is his brand, he didn't have to search for it and make a decision, check a little box. He's lucky. But then again, maybe I am too.

I've never taken the easy road. I've never been one to follow conventions and do what everyone else does. And it's lead me down a pretty interesting path. I have fabulous people in my life. I've done some very cool things. And I make up my own rules. I design my own way. Here's hoping that someone, something, will allow me to continue to do that as a writer...

Hopeful

2010-12-16T22:12:00.000-08:00

Things change. All the time. I'm aware of this and yet I'm also aware that some things stay the same no matter what. No matter how much you want them to change or no matter how many years pass.

Saturday I'll travel home to Michigan to spend Christmas with my family. This year will be different. My dad's parents have moved from the house they've lived in just blocks from my parents to an apartment an hour away. My mom's mother has been in a nursing home for the entire year. Last year Christmas was spent at both grandparent's homes. This year things will be very different.

As my life changes day in and day out, as I grow and work toward my career as a writer and educator, I realize that no one else stays the same. People grow up, people move, people get sick and have to have others take care of them. But it doesn't make it any easier. I am grateful to be able to spend time with the people I love, no matter where they are however, I'm also grateful for memories of Christmases past and time spent together under different circumstances.

My grandmother is having a hard time staying in the present. She's remembering things from long ago and sometimes I wonder if this isn't how the brain helps us cope. Her reality is a small room shared with another woman, a wheelchair and illness. Last year her reality was her house and walking, even if it was slowly. There are moments when I think about this and it's all I can do not to break down in sobs. However, there are also moments when I remind myself that my grandma is being taken care of and loved and that in three days I will get to hug her and see the smile on her face.

Christmas is such a time of hope. But it's also a time of change. When that little baby who would change the world was born, most people didn't realize what was happening. But what would transpire because of that one baby's birth...it's amazing to think about. Literally amazing (causing sudden wonder). So this Christmas, as I prepare myself for the baby's birth and the excitement of going home for the holidays amidst all the change, I'm thinking about all that change is, all that it can be, and all that it creates. And I'm hopeful. So very hopeful.

My advent devotion from the Hollywood UMC booklet

2010-12-10T23:52:00.000-08:00

…be patient. Strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near. Beloved, do not grumble against one another…
James 5:7-10

I usually think of myself as a very patient person. And then something happens like my computer freezes or the paycheck I’ve been waiting for doesn’t come in the mail or the water won’t boil for the rice and I lose it. I’ve been known to have complete meltdowns over the smallest of things. Sound familiar? Of course it does.

This happens to all of us. We spend good chunks of our lives waiting: in line, for others, to get through the day, to graduate, to find that perfect job (or any job), for Mister or Miss Right. We wait. And we try to be patient but it’s hard. Really hard. And so we grumble. Just like James advises us not to.

The sad part about grumbling is that it’s usually those closest to us who are the recipients. We strike out and they’re the ones within punching distance. And what we don’t remember while we’re doing it, is that it not only hurts them, it hurts us and it hurts our relationship with God. Every time we grumble, every time we’re impatient or allow our hearts to harden rather than be strengthened, we slip.

It’s been a difficult year for me for so many reasons and I know the same is true for many of you. But I also know that God wants me to continue to be patient: with Him, with the world, with myself. And as we embark upon this advent season, a season of waiting, joyous waiting, for the baby Jesus to be born, for Christmas spent with loved ones, for vacations and new years, I’m going to try and grumble less. I’m going to try and breathe more. And I’m going to try and remember that being patient is exactly what God wants from me. He wants me to know He is near. In fact, He is here. He’s everywhere.

Be present

2010-12-01T14:17:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was not a good day. I woke up to an email explaining that one of the companies I work for (I'm a contract employee) laid off 700 people. This basically meant my contract wouldn't be renewed right away and I have no idea when/if it even will be renewed. Bad news as my current contract ended Sunday.

Things just got worse from there. Bills started rolling in that I have no idea how I'm going to pay. Angela's subbing hours have gone from robust to rare. She's subbed enough to keep her health insurance but it's not a good situation for someone who thrives best in her own classroom situation. There was talk of jobs that never come to fruition, resumes that apparently go unread (sitting in stacks of hundreds I'm sure), and what to do when we can't make rent anymore. There were tears and there was anger (it didn't help that the electrician turned the power off before I had saved my online gradebook). We enjoyed a good dinner of spaghetti and salad and were thankful for food in our stomachs but even though we know there are people out there starving, sometimes this does nothing to make us feel better.

I headed off to class, my last Creating for Television class at UCLA for the quarter, with a heavy heart. It's my last class for the foreseeable future. I just can't afford another quarter and though I know I've taken so much away from my time there, it's still hard to leave the comfort of a university and program and friends I've come to know well. But off I went.

We had a guest speaker who I found fascinating and the class went late. As the instructor wrapped up a little after ten he shared with us his last "nugget" of advice for the course:

Be Present.

He's been sharing nuggets with us all quarter and most of them are common sense stuff. Be nice. Work harder. Be grateful. And last night's was common sense as well but it was like I was hearing it for the first time. A light bulb would have gone off a top my head had I been in a cartoon strip.

Be present. It gets rid of fear and helps you to diminish the regret in your life. Be in the moment and don't allow other thoughts to creep in. It allows you to keep creating which is really fantastic, admirable even. Keep at it.

In that moment I recalled all those positive quotations and thoughts and encouragements I've gathered over my years. For some reason, I've always chose the most difficult road presented to me. I didn't settle down into a job right out of college, I went to grad school. I didn't settle down in a job right out of grad school, I wanted to keep teaching so I got four jobs, then five for a time. I wrote part-time. I created stories and scripts and novels. I sought out the roads that would help me fulfill my passion. Even if they were long and bumpy and fraught with potholes.

There are so many nights I lie in bed and beg God to help me understand the next step. I ask for guidance and aide and just a glimpse at the 'why' of it all. And then I scroll through the bible verses stored in my memory (not verbatim, my memory is a sieve with some big holes) and remember that I am not supposed to worry about tomorrow. God will do that. I am supposed to believe and have faith and trust in him to direct my path.

And so last night, I did just that. I decided to be present, and to think about all the positives. To think, realistically, about how I could continue down a path toward my passions and goals but without becoming homeless or bankrupting the people I love.

There are no magic answers. I'm well aware of this, as much as I wished it was true. But I have faith and I believe that something will happen that will make it all "alright". And I know, God knows I know, that it's not meant to be easy. It's meant to be hard and heavy and heartbreaking. Because that gives us more fuel to get down the path.

So today I will be present. That's all I can manage at the moment. And I'll write a little. And I keep repeating one of my favorite quotations of all time:

There comes a point you think is the end. But it's only the beginning. -- Louis L'Amour

My day in kindergarten

2010-11-18T14:46:00.000-08:00

I've been working in the elementary school for two weeks now but strictly with third and second graders. Until today. Today I got to go to kindergarten. Both of my usual classes were on a field trip so I was farmed out to three very grateful teachers on the lower level of the school (Angela was talking this morning about how kindergarten would probably not be on the second floor like my usual classes are. I believe her exact words were, "Could you imagine trying to get a whole class of Olivia's up and down the stairs several times a day?" and no, I couldn't. Mostly because I could carry my cousin's little one Olivia and it's not possible to carry all 20 kinders all around all day!)

So I found my way to room 8 (and yes, it was on the bottom floor) and was welcomed with open arms. I had a seat waiting for me in the front of the room and I was quickly welcomed with sign language! And just my luck today was an awesome day to be in kindergarten -- all 3 classes I would visit were making stone soup! So my first job was to help 8 five year olds cut veggies and potatoes with real, sharp knives! Very exciting. But can I tell you -- I never saw a drop of blood and the veggies were perfectly cut! They were awesome.

Then I moved on to my second classroom of the day where I was welcomed with hugs and Spanish. When I asked the teacher to translate she said they were asking if I knew any other languages besides English. I replied in French that I spoke "un peu francais" and they cheered. Apparently if I had said I didn't know any other languages they'd have hung their heads and said, that's so sad in Spanish! In this class I helped with a handwriting station while a grandma helped cut veggies. I prompted little ones to use the magic "c" to make their "a"s and their "d"s. And this is where I was very quickly reminded of one of the best things of working with the wee ones: their love of cuddling. I immediately had little Leah on my lap (I have no idea how she got there, one minute she was in her chair writing, the next - bam! on the lap) and she was snuggling close.

When I moved on to my third classroom they were just starting their stone soup and by now I was an expert. I helped wash veggies and pass them out and watched as they tried and tried to cut them up with plastic knives. Remember how I said there was no blood with the real knives? Well, there was blood with the plastic knives, 2 boo boos that I had to band-aid! But I totally understood why -- tonight, try cutting your raw veggies and potatoes with plastic cutlery!

As I said goodbye to the last of my kindergartners and headed out from the school I thought about these teachers who do this -- make stone soup, teach handwriting, bandage wounds, instruct on hand washing, cuddle, hug, teach sign language and Spanish and reading and math -- and so much more each day. And I think about my teachers. And then I say a prayer of huge Thanksgiving.

The new gig

2010-11-13T11:35:00.000-08:00

I've been at my new job a full week now. I'm working as an educational consultant at a public school in a neighboring school district (not LAUSD). And it's going really well. The first few days were very laid back as the teachers I work with (two teachers, one who teaches third grade and one who teaches a second/third grade split) figured out how I best fit into their classroom and their schedule. But as the week wore on I got my chance to start working one-on-one with kids and small groups and I loved it.

I'm doing reading and math intervention and this week it was mostly reading. I am constantly amazed at how many of the writing and reading principles we teach in elementary school are what I find myself reteaching in seventh grade and even college. This week we worked on transitions with my college classes and guess what, we talked about transitions (i.e., headings) in third grade!

I only work in the mornings which is actually really good right now. It leaves me time to come home, do my University of Phoenix job, and get some writing in (on a good day). My body is even adjusting to the earlier wake up call, this morning I woke up bright and early without an alarm!

So all in all, (transition!) it's been a good first week. I'm making friends, I'm learning what's cool with the seven and eight year old set, and I'm getting to be out in the world, making a teeny tiny difference each and every day, which is exactly what I was looking for. Sitting alone in my office, even if I was teaching online, was starting to feel a little too solitary for comfort. And when the new paycheck arrives, I'm sure I'll be even more excited about this new gig.

Tiny moments

2010-11-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

I just uploaded some new photos into iPhoto and Facebook and I got a little caught up in looking through some old photos I found along the way. Mostly snapshots of every day life taken from my phone or of some craft projects I'd completed and it got me thinking about how much I love taking pictures to remind me of the normal stuff. I once read somewhere (and I have no idea where or who said it) that this person took a photo of their house every day just to have some documentation of the regular everyday things. I loved that. Birthdays and holidays and special occasions are great and I love having way too many photos of those events but I also love having all the other pictures too.

The picture of Angela with newsprint on her nose because she fell asleep outside in the sun, wearing sunscreen, and her magazine fell on her face. The picture of my dad eating a huge sandwich at Canter's. The picture of my mom's first pedicure where she has the best little grin. The picture of my certificate from UoP saying I had completed more training so I could teach more classes. The picture of Gertie, the tiny Beanie Baby giraffe that sits on Angela's dashboard. The picture of the homemade strawberry pie we took to the nursing home to share with my grandma this summer. Sometimes it's so great just to remember the really tiny moments in life...

October the eighteenth

2010-10-18T20:45:00.000-07:00

Today is my birthday. It's been a lovely day, which followed a lovely weekend. I have windowsills lined with cards and a little corner of my living room piled with gifts. I have a gorgeous handmade quilt on my bed that my mother, father and sister lovingly created for me out of memories of my life (specifically, t-shirts). I got to eat at a fun restaurant today and have a wonderful homemade dinner. I even made sure to take care of myself by going to urgent care and getting some medicine for my cold. It has been a just a lovely lovely day.

When I woke up this morning I thought about all the birthdays I've had in my life and all the ways the people around me have celebrated me and I thought about how completely blessed I am. I remember my mom and dad making my favorite meals. There were always wonderful cakes -- sometimes in the shapes of my favorite things (The General Lee!) or from my favorite things (strawberries!). I remember big gatherings of family and friends. Gifts and love and laughter. There's the birthstone ring I still wear every day that I got on my sixteenth birthday from my parents and my grandmother. There's the day I wore the crazy western style earrings from my grandma and grandpa for my drivers' license picture. I had birthday parties - surprise and planned. One year everyone at the Wesley Foundation in Kalamazoo created a dance club for me complete with rented lights. Just for me.

There were meals at Bill Knapp's with roommates, there were mornings I'd wake up wishing for snow (in Michigan in October it is not out of the realm of possibility). I remember one particular year it snowed on our way to Ponderosa for dinner! There were hayrides. There were nights out at the bar. There were new friends and old friends and in Arizona, there were students who brought cards and gifts. I remember my thirtieth at the Bellagio in Vegas. I remember my twenty-first at church, leading the senior high youth group and them surprising me with a cake.

Amidst all the memories there is, more than anything else, the love I feel, today and always. I am completely astonished, time and time again, by the people in my life -- both new and not so new friends and of course, family -- who continue to make me feel so special. And I am blown away by it.

Today was a good day. Today there were phone calls, video chats, there were presents and cards in the mail, texts and so many Facebook messages. There was so much love. And I will never forget that. Never.

Just another week

2010-10-15T15:00:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I feel the need to blog and I don't have much to say. This week has been just another week really. Except for two things. One, I started to feel sickly Sunday night. And Monday morning I woke up with a full-on head cold. Lovely. Now, if you know me (and sadly, Angela experiences this way more than she should have to) you know I hate being sick. No, not like normal people hate it. I HATE IT. I think this is the end. I think my life is over because I'm sick. I start thinking about all the things I should do and can't raise my head enough to do and how I'll doom my career, my job, my life, if I don't and then I start to really freak out. Yeah. It isn't pretty. But there wasn't time for that Monday morning.

Because Monday morning I had a job interview. Yep. An honest to goodness, get the Spanx out of the back of the drawer, make sure the resume's crispy printed, job interview. With professionals I don't know and who don't realize that I normally don't sweat so much or breathe like I'm ninety-seven and smoke twelve packs a day. So yep. Off I went.

The interview went well I must say. I'm always good in interviews. I rarely get the job, I don't know why that is (and please, no need to tell me), but I'm always really good in the room. I think this bodes well for my life as a screenwriter where selling pitches is sometimes the whole shebang. So anyway, I interviewed. It went well. I came straight home and collapsed.

There was some back and forth this week and I sent some references, they sent some emails and then this morning I got the call. I am officially (pending fingerprint and TB clearance) an Educational Consultant for an elementary school in Culver City! Yep. I got the job.

So I guess this week has been pretty exciting. In that, yay, now I'll lay back on the couch and cough my brains out way. But today I made up some of Mom's (and Grandpa's) cough syrup (whiskey, lemon, honey -- don't judge me when I have to go make another batch very soon) and I'm finally starting to feel better. And get really excited about this new experience I'm about to embark on.

I've been feeling that I need to do something, go somewhere, get out into the world for sometime now. No, I'm not quitting my other job. No, I'm not quitting UCLA or writing. This is just 3 hours a day, 5 days a week. But I'll be doing something. Making a difference. And I'm over the moon. I'll be working with first and third graders, helping them with reading and math. (Yes, I'm pretty confident about my third grade math abilities.) This is something I did a while back in Kalamazoo and loved. I've been missing being in a real brick and mortar classroom. I've been missing people, being in the world.

I'm not sure when I'll start but soon. And I'm sure I'll have stories, and more head colds to look forward to (Ang reminded me of the petri dish that is childhood) but I have lots of Airborne. And I'm ready. So ready. So yep, just another week in L.A. Oh, and today starts me birthday weekend! WOO HOO!

Last night...

2010-10-06T13:07:00.000-07:00

Last night I headed off to UCLA in the middle of a rain storm (I use the storm loosely, on the east coast we'd call it sprinkles. Here it's the same amount of rain causes major traffic issues, meeting cancellations, etc. But I digress.) As I parked and wound my way to the film school building I met up with some new classmates and we found the lecture hall where our class would be held.

Let me just preface what I'm about to say by saying I went to college. In fact, UCLA is the fourth college/university I've attended and the third I've gotten a degree from. I'm very proud of my educational background and the road I've taken. However, I didn't go to Harvard.

When I watch movies about the typical (or in most cases, the atypical) college experience, I rarely relate. I didn't attend a Big Ten school or pledge a sorority. I didn't sit in lecture halls with hundreds of peers and get quizzed on facts and opinions. I attended small classes, even in grad school. And my experience at UCLA has been only vaguely different. Yes, I attended a lecture class through the professional program but that was my first exposure to UCLA and it was almost always lecture, very little interaction between students and instructor (I'm pretty sure if I approached my lecture instructor today, a year later, there would be no recognition on his part).

However, last night I sat in on my first "Creating for Television" class at UCLA. And I loved it. The experience was like those I've seen in the movies and on television. This is college.

There were maybe fifty (I don't really know, I was in the third row) or more students in the hall, a T.A. and the instructor. There were no 'get to know you' activities or going around the table meeting everyone like we usually have in these classes. Instead, from moment one, we were off and running. We were expected to answer questions, share opinions, get things wrong, try again, speak louder, say our name again, try for a different verb, and know things. Or at least make educated observations. And it was great.

We watched the pilots of two very successful television comedies (Roseanne and Malcolm in the Middle) and then dissected them as a group. Our instructor rarely took a breath. And Again, I loved it.

Last night I felt like what it must feel like to sit in a lecture hall at Harvard or Yale or one of those other highly-touted universities that they make movies about. But the best thing? I'm doing it for real. I'm studying something that fascinates me. And my homework for the week? To watch as much quality television as possible.

Improving...

2010-10-04T17:16:00.001-07:00

Saturday night Angela and I went to a sneak preview of the movie "Life As We Know It". Very cute, lots of laughs, great supporting characters. However, I was most excited to see it because it was the movie in development when I interned at Gold Circle Films. I smiled when I saw their name on screen and the name of one of the executive producers who I worked for. Very cool.

When I was at Gold Circle it was the second script they had me read just so I'd know what everyone was talking about (the first was their movie "The Haunting in Connecticut" that had just come out that weekend). There was a lot of buzz around the office because they had just confirmed that Katherine Heigl was going to sign to star in the film. No one else had signed yet but because of Heigl the movie had quickly leap-frogged from just another movie to a big deal. The budget had suddenly skyrocketed, the studios involved had tripled, and the headaches had suddenly multiplied.

I wasn't at Gold Circle through the whole development of the movie but it was still very exciting to see it up there on the screen. To think that just two years ago the words being spoken by these actors were simply words on a piece of paper, parts of a hundred page script written by someone just like me, sitting at a computer at a desk. That will never cease to amaze me.

I've started a new writing project, again. I'm rewriting a script for the third time, a complete rewrite, new scenes, new ideas, etc. And while I had heard rumors of such rewrites from instructors, I was sure that no one would re-conceive a project this many times. I was wrong. I'm proof. But it's also exciting. As I write this story I love again and again I'm realizing that I'm becoming so much better at my craft. No, I'm not an expert or accomplished or anything like that but I am improving. I'm learning and applying that learning to my words. Words that someday might be up there on that huge screen people watch while eating popcorn and Twizzlers.

END THE BACKLOG NOW!!!

2010-09-29T16:20:00.001-07:00

Last night was the first night of my new screenwriting class at UCLA. And instead of heading to campus our instructor invited us to a house in the hills of Beverly Hills (yes, way way up there) to attend a party with some industry folks. It was quite the event. The house was on par with, oh, the Bellagio in Las Vegas, and the views were breathtaking. Seriously, watching the sunset over the mountains while standing in a gorgeous yard next to a gorgeous pool, wow.

After some mingling we were all invited inside to screen tonight's episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit called "Behave". It's about a woman who's being victimized by a serial rapist and how justice is being denied to her. Her rapist hasn't been caught because of the government's backlog of rape kits that have not been processed.

Here's a couple of things you may not know:
- A rape kit is the evidence taken from a victim after an attack, it includes DNA, clothing, photographs, etc.
- "Experts in the federal government, including the US Department of Justice and members of Congress, estimate that there are hundreds of thousands of rape kits in police and crime lab storage facilities throughout the country" (from endthebacklog.org).
-There's a statute of limitations on prosecution for rape and many rapists are never charged because the rape kits are not processed in a timely manner. Illinois is the first state to make a change to this law -- a change that happens this month.
-New York city, in combination with some awesome volunteer groups, no longer has a backlog AT ALL. This is amazing. And from what I understand, took years and millions of dollars and a lot of work. A lot of work.

After we screened the episode the showrunner got up and talked about why he and his staff wrote the episode and what they hoped to achieve from putting it on the air. Most of all what I heard last night was that these people want to raise awareness. And that it did. I knew that governments took their sweet time (because of many different factors, I realize this) in getting through evidence but this is ridiculous. Just because the government is low on funds, criminals -- violent sexual criminals -- go unpunished, free to continue raping? Unacceptable.

I was very interested in the politics of it all, of the science of it all, and in the volunteer work that's been done and has to be done. But even more so I was interested in the reason I had been invited in the first place:

Television reaches people. Particularly 10pm dramas on major networks.

In grad school I took a class on health communication. I studied and wrote several papers on how television and media affect the communication of health information to people. I studied ideas like Does ER do more harm than good? and Do telenovellas really encourage people to get tested for diseases?

This class was my first taste of using media to impact social change. And last night I witnessed what I hope will be another step in the process of using television to get a message out. Should all television have a "message" or a "cause" to support? No. I don't think it has to. Yes, last night's episode of Glee had a plot that focused on a dentist and his "cause" but do I think it was intended to get high schoolers to floss? No. And that's totally fine. But sometimes I think television can use it's mighty reach to make an impact. To encourage people to sit up and take notice. And this is one of those times.

Last night as I stood at the end of the driveway and waited (and waited and waited) for the valet to bring my car around I reminded myself that the wait I was experiencing was nothing like the wait the young woman who attended the screening had experienced. She waited almost 15 years for her attacker to be prosecuted. And last night, as I watched her wipe away tears after watching the episode, I thought how no one else should be victimized a second time by the very government they rely on to protect them.

So I encourage you to watch tonight's episode. I encourage you to log onto endthebacklog.org afterwards and find out what you can do. Maybe you can donate money. Maybe you can write your congressperson or your local sheriff. Maybe you can spread the word just like the people who produce Law and Order: SVU are trying to. And let's end these backlogs all over the country. Let's change the law so that there is NO statute of limitations on this horrific crime. Let's make a change for the better. Because it takes ALL of us doing our part, using ALL of our voices.

Keepin' on keepin' on...

2010-09-21T07:54:00.000-07:00

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." --Matthew 7:7 (NIV)

"Keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you." -- Matthew 7:7 (NLT)

This scripture verse from Matthew is one of my favorite. I have it written on little pieces of paper and stuck throughout my house as a reminder to pray. Open my jewelry box, there it is. Open my day planner, there it is. Actually, all it says on those little pieces of paper is: Remember to ASK. And it does cause me to remember.

Last night as I got into bed I saw my devotion book. I'm a few days behind but I skipped ahead to the day's lesson and read about "Supersized Prayers" and Matthew 7:7. It reminded me that if I ask God for something I need to believe it will happen. Because without that faith, what's the point in asking. It also reminded me to pray big, for what I want and what I have, to praise as much as I pray.

I thought about that as I pulled out my prayer journal, which was a bit dusty. And I started writing. Yes, I've been praying a lot, as always, but I thought about how maybe I need to be much more specific in my prayers. And much more of a believer that God will actually hear my prayers and answer them.

I like the New Living Translation of Matthew 7:7 - it says "keep on asking". So that's what I'll do. I'll keep on. I'll keep on asking, keep on seeking, keep on knocking. For that job that will keep us in our house for one more month. For that job that I want when I'm exactly ready for it. For the people I love to be painfree at this exact moment. For the specifics and for the broadstrokes. I know God knows it all but I also know He wants to hear it from me. He also wants to hear my praise and I cannot forget that.

Getting lost in the stacks

2010-08-30T23:03:00.000-07:00

I got a package from my mom today, it contained a pair of pants I left behind when I visited, some sugar free cider packets for Ang, some stamps (yay!), and a few clippings. I love that my parents send me clipping from the paper. Sometimes it's coupons or cartoons or stories. One of today's was a story about the statue and plaque they put up at the Howell Public Library in honor of one of the librarians, Martha, who passed away several years ago. It was a lovely article and it reminded me of one of my favorite parts of summer when I was growing up: the library.

I never remember a time when we didn't go to the library. It was within walking distance when my dad was at work and there was only one car. It's where I first saw Pinocchio and got so scared I had to call my Grandma MacDonald to come and get me before it was done. (They get swallowed by a whale, that's terrifying when you're not much bigger than the wooden boy!) It's where I spent hour upon hour browsing the shelves, sitting in first the children's section, then the teen section and finally, the adult fiction section. (My Grandma Boutell introduced me to Danielle Steele at a very young age.)

We'd always arrive with stacks of books to return and more often than not Martha would be there to check us out. She knew my dad well, his library card had a hole burned in it he used it so much. She'd comment on our selections, give an approving nod and off we'd go, until the next week. We rarely had overdue books at our house, usually we ran out of books before they were due.

I still get lost in libraries. When I lived in Olivet I was fortunate enough to work in the library building for a year and I loved it. How quiet it was, how everyone there had a purpose, whether it was serious research or finding out the sports scores or getting lost in eighteenth century England. In Kalamazoo there was a gorgeous, fairly new library that I spent many days in researching information for my newspaper articles, reading screenwriting books, scanning the magazines. But nothing compares to those early days when I learned to love books in Howell.

This summer Angela, Dad and I trekked to the library in search of some Sue Grafton books we were missing from our collection. We found what we were looking for and then some. We came home with a DVD tour of Taiwan, where my dad was stationed when he was in the Air Force. And we all found a few extra books to read during our vacation.

I wonder what it would be like to live in a place with no libraries. To live in a world where no one wanted to share what they read or wrote. On second thought, no I don't want to know that world.

A little cracked

2010-08-18T20:37:00.000-07:00

This is my Cousin Camp mug. The one I painted at U Paint It in Texas and then they fired. It arrived in the mail today and the handle was broken off and there were a few chips. Thankfully Angela's survived the donkey ride.
When we unwrapped the mugs I was upset, okay, maybe a little more than upset. I have been trying to be calm for the past few weeks, trying to maintain my vacation vibe but it's getting harder and harder. I've been applying for jobs and getting no response, the checkbook balance is getting lower and lower, and the state of California wasn't being very speedy with Angela's unemployment checks (she's now caught up through the second week of July, yep, I said speedy). I've been writing but haven't heard from any of the programs I've applied to...the list goes on and on.
But I don't want to be a whiner. I really don't. I read the paper each morning and know there are people so much worse off than me. But this afternoon, I lost it. I'd been to acupuncture which had been painful (and it's usually not but apparently the left side of my body is just going to pot), I'd been to the grocery store which had also been painful, and I was hot. It's been near a hundred all week here and fans only do so much in the afternoon. So I lost it. I cracked a little when I saw my cracked mug.

So I put it aside, grilled some veggies for dinner and watched a little Jon Stewart. I laughed. I wrapped Angela's birthday gifts and giggled when I drew on the envelope. I read through a friend's beat sheet and thought about how great it was that I had ten people show up to my Writers' Group on Sunday. And then I went and got the Krazy Glue.

It took only a moment (well two moments, I had to pause mid-glue to read the instructions on the glue box to make sure I was doing it right, turns out there really is no wrong way to glue) and voila! my mug was whole again. Sure it has a few chips and you can see where the handle had been snapped off but it was fixed.

And then I thought about how I wrote on the inside of my mug that "love is all around me all the time". And you know what? It really is. And love isn't perfect. Love is cracked and smudged and a little broken and off-kilter. But you know what, it's love. And that's what I need to remember. I am loved. I am so loved. I am loved even though I am cracked and smudged and a little broken and off-kilter. And that even though my calm is waning, I'm going to be okay. Because my mug is.

Trying...

2010-08-14T14:57:00.000-07:00

I've been back from "Cousin Camp", aka my vacation in Texas with my cousin Jamee and her wonderful family, for four days now. And I've yet to write a thing. Well, I take that back. I wrote comments on all of my students' assignments when I graded them. And I wrote a bunch of stuff on the discussion boards for work and some emails. I even wrote notes on how I want to rewrite the last feature I wrote. But nothing on the TV pilot I've been working on or the spec script I'm trying to write of 'Modern Family'. Not a word. I've sat down to write plenty but that hasn't produced much.

I try not to beat myself up about it too much. It's been a stressful week, there have been job issues and money issues and Angela hasn't felt well and I've been dealing with jet/vacation-lag. (I've finally figured out that those are very real things.) I've done my job, I've paid the bills. I've even applied for several jobs (so far I've gotten one response, the Halloween store by the mall sent a 'we'll get in touch later this month' response -- no joke) and I've slept. A lot.

I was complaining to Angela today that I've been so exhausted this week and I don't know why, I was just on vacation for a week. Then she reminded me that I tend to cycle through life, I go go go for a while and then I have a week where I am drained and need to sleep more than usual (last night I went to bed at 10:30pm, yes, on a Friday, in Los Angeles and slept through till seven this morning). And if I think about it, maybe I didn't sleep a lot last week. Different environment, up late with the big kids, up early with the wee kids, etc.

So I am trying not to worry. I am reminding myself that I will write, that I will get back in a normal groove and that by tomorrow, in time for my writers' group, I will have something down. I've been going over and over my stories in my mind so it's not like there hasn't been progress. And I've been doing research and reading which are all good things. But sometimes that's not enough to quell the inner monologue that says, just do it.

So I'll try. These words here are a start. I'll open up the Final Draft document in a moment, go over some notes from my last read through and plow forward. Because, as the note above my computer reminds me: I am responsible for my dreams.

We had fun!

2010-07-31T09:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Angela and I headed to Universal Studios with our friend Angela and her two teenagers. This is the third time we've been in 10 months and can I just say, I never thought I'd be the kind of person who goes on the same rides over and over, but I loved it!

We did do several new things this time which means I have officially done everything at Universal (ok, I haven't eaten any cotton candy or bought a $11 beer but still...). We went to the Waterworld show and promply got soaked. Yes, we knew we were in the 'Wet Zone' though we specifically did not sit in the 'Soak Zone'. I should have clued in when a show cast member came out before the show and started throwing buckets of water into the audience. It only got worse from there. Nothing like being on the receiving end of a jet ski's quick turn!

Then we decided we'd go on the Jurassic Park ride, which our friend Angela assured us was a water ride but was very calm. Apparently the dinosaurs just spit a little every so often. So off we went. We watched people buying $2 ponchos left and right but we scoffed. Ponchos, whatever! And then we got on the ride.

Yeah, the only part of me dry after that was my butt. Literally. The ride took us down several drops, log ride style, and then ran us through several waterfalls. Literally just poured water on us! But you know what? We laughed and laughed and laughed the whole time. We loved it! It was a nice warm day and who cares if the sunscreen ran off and messed up my shirt? Who cares if my blue wrist band bled all over my shorts? Who cares if my bra filled up with water? WE HAD FUN!

And that's what yesterday was all about, having fun. We all have annual passes (Universal constantly runs deals, buy a day, get a year free) and the parking to get in is cheaper than a movie ticket per person. And we had coupons for free sipper bottles full of pop so it was a great, cheap day! And we topped it off by heading over to the studio tour and checking out the new King Kong show. But most importantly? WE HAD FUN!

Sometimes I think it's so important to remember that life is fun. Why shouldn't it be? A lot of life is hard and scary and sometimes you just want to hide. So why not grab those moments (or those 9 hours in our case) and leave everything else behind and just enjoy something, someone, some place.

The salt air

2010-07-25T23:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Angela and I headed to Malibu with our friend Angela. We drove and drove down Sunset Boulevard then cut north to the Pacific Coast Highway, the PCH here in California. We drove and drove and drove some more and finally found the much heralded Zuma Beach.

Clean sand (no rocks like down in Santa Monica and Venice), blue-ish water (except when the waves through the sand over), lots of waves (it's a big surfer area), Baywatch-type lifeguards in red uniforms, loud music, lots of families with canopies and too much food, and us.

It was a gorgeous day, not too hot (though we all returned a little pink in areas the sunscreen didn't make it too), a little breezy, cool water and relaxation. Sometimes I forget that's what the beach is all about. As we stood there, watching the waves, anxiously awaiting the dolphins to pop back up again and give us an encore, it was all that mattered at that moment. The ocean. The beach. And is there really anything better than the drop dead tired feeling you have upon return? I slept for nine hours last night, hard and fast, and woke up refreshed this morning. Yes, the salt air does agree with me.

I smile now

2010-07-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

Sixteen hours after landing in Detroit last month I headed over to MediLodge, one of the care facilities in Howell. This was a big deal for me as I had avoided this place for most of my life. I don't, or didn't, do nursing homes well. When I was little my mother's grandparents, my great grandparents, lived in a nursing home. We'd go see Grandma and Grandpa Larry on a regular basis as they were just over near Jackson, less than an hour's drive away. However, to me, a little kid, the place seemed horrible. It smelled like a hospital. People sat in wheelchairs in the hall, and the whole place had an institutional feel to it. I don't know why, I just didn't like it. At all.

Fast forward a few years and I became a youth group member and then a youth group leader in Howell. It was our charge to lead the worship services at the two local care homes every September. And every September for six years I bowed out. I couldn't do it. The thought of walking up to those glass doors made me cry. Literally cry. So I just didn't go.

Fast forward to now. I've gotten better, it's true, over the years. A treasured family member is in a facility in London, Ontario and we've visited and it's a lovely place. Really. I am not lying. And I've had my share of hospital and doctor experiences with other family members and friends to learn to suck it up and deal. However, this past month I found myself having to enter MediLodge to see my Grandma MacDonald. She fell in January and ended up having multiple surgeries that have left her physically impaired and very shaky on the details of what's happened in the past five minutes. Ask her about something that happened 15 years ago and your golden.

But off I went. I had to, there had to be no hesitation, no indecision. This was grandma. Grandma who we visited constantly growing up, weekly if not more. Grandma who lived four blocks away. And guess what? It wasn't so bad.

The place has been renovated in the last few years and it's amazing. Bright and airy and cheerful. The staff was friendly from moment one. Everything's all glass walls and windows, comfortable couches and aquariums. Libraries and concerts and state of the art technology. They even have a cafe. Color me impressed.

For the month that I was in Michigan I went to MediLodge countless times. I'd run over by myself to deliver the afternoon paper. We'd go as a family, take a homemade dinner complete with table cloth and hot dessert, and eat in one of the many common areas. We'd run into people we hadn't seen in years, catch up with friends, talk to patients, laugh and smile and laugh some more when we left. The people in this care facility are not just patients, they're characters.

My grandma is getting the care she needs and deserves. She's being well fed and they're helping her adjust. She plays cards and bingo and watches movies and chats. She's never in her room, one day it took 10 minutes to track her down. She gets her hair done at the salon that's right there when you walk in. And trust me, I'd get my hair done there. That's how nice it is.

Does it break my heart to see her there? Yes. But not for the reasons I might have suspected 1o years ago. It breaks my heart because she isn't well. And she's not progressing as we all had hoped. But on the other hand, I smile because I know where she is. I met the nurses and therapists and her roommate and her friends. I shared meals with her. I listened to a Frank Sinatra impersonator with her. I watched as they set her hair. I saw her try to reteach herself to walk. And all of that makes me feel closer, even when I'm far away.

Unwired

2010-06-28T12:01:00.000-07:00

I have been in Howell for two and a half weeks now and I'm enjoying it so. Besides seeing family and friends and playing a lot of golf I'm enjoying being unwired, untethered from my computer. Yes, I'm still working and yes I'm still checking Facebook, etc. but I'm not sitting at it for ten hours every single day. And I am loving it.

True, I am not writing very much of anything. But I think my brain and my back/neck needed the break. I'm reading books, spending time just sitting with people, leaving my phone on silent more often, even leaving it home. And it's bliss.

Just over a week to go -- maybe I can find a little more balance when I get back to L.A....

Goodbyes never get easier

2010-06-21T12:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we said goodbye to our pastor, Reverend Chuck Jacobs, and his wife, Ann. They have been at my parents church here in Howell for 13 years. Part of me was surprised it had been that long but part of me cannot remember the other pastors at the church well at all so I guess it has been that long.

I've experienced my share of goodbyes over the years, to pastors, to jobs, to friends, to relatives, to towns, you name it, I've said goodbye to it. And it never really gets easier. Which I think is a good thing.

As we stood in a circle yesterday, over a 100 of us at just one of the three worship services of the day, and sang Michael W. Smith's "Friends", I cried. Yep. As I often do when saying goodbye. I can't make it through a graduation, a wedding, sometimes even a TV show that's even remotely sad without crying. But I think that's a good thing. I wear my feelings on my sleeves, and my face and my hands and everywhere else. I think too often in our culture it's seen as a weakness to show emotion, particularly tears.

So yesterday I shed some tears. But so did many people around me. And it was really nice to be a part of a community who was mourning, celebrating and sharing.

Do you ever...

2010-06-05T00:11:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have one of those nights where you're tired and you're kinda sore and you get into bed and all you want to do is go to sleep? And you can't.

Yeah. That's me right now. I came home tonight, watched some TV, read a little and shut off the light. I laid there and thought about the new book I'm reading. Then I started thinking about writing. And my trip back to Michigan next week. And what will happen if Angela has to have surgery. And whether or not I'll get up the gumption to work out again tomorrow. And what I'll buy with the Kohl's cash I have. And whether or not the macaroni salad will still be good on Sunday.

Then I thought about how I shouldn't have eaten both of the peanut butter cookies at lunch. And about how I was kinda mean to Angela when I met her afterschool because I was hot and sweaty from walking over in the sun. Then I thought about the movie I'd seen tonight and if I'll ever have an idea half as good.

Then I thought about the script I finished yesterday. The 69 pages bound and sitting on my desk with my title and my name on the cover. Then I realized I never applied for the church scholarship this year because I hadn't been to church in a few weeks. Then I felt guilty and asked God to please forgive me. And tell me whether or not I should go back to school this fall. And then I thought about if I'd have enough money to go back to school. I tried really hard to remember if my credit cards have any open balances. And then that brought me back to the Kohl's cash and how I really need to stop at Target for dish soap. And maybe some laundry detergent.

And I suppose, if you're still reading, maybe it's because you have had one of those nights. Because it's a quarter after twelve and I'm sitting here in the dark, thankful I took typing in community college so I can type in the dark. Wishing I could go to sleep because tomorrow is a busy day. Lots to do, lots I want to do, including getting up early to make the 12 mile trek to Kohl's so it won't take 2 hours in traffic. Ah, apparently shopping is on the brain.

But yeah, so it's just one of those nights. So I'll go crawl back in bed and read some more and pray sleep comes easily. Sweet dreams to the rest of you...

Polar opposite feelings

2010-06-03T09:45:00.000-07:00

Last night I sat at my computer after returning home from my television pilot writing class at UCLA thinking, it is possible to experience hope and despair in the same breath. I'm proof of that.

I spent most of yesterday writing. Not just thinking about writing, not just fiddling with an outline or fleshing out ideas but actually writing pages. Writing dialogue. Coming up with character names and places and actions. I wrote over 25 pages yesterday. Yeah it's all first draft but it felt awesome. I felt like a writer and that's the best feeling in the world.

And then I went to class. With only one week left after last night we'd come down to the obligatory 'How to get an agent' lecture. And everyone has their two cents and it's nothing I haven't heard before. It basically boils down to two things: it's who you know and it's where you've worked.

This is great if your brother's an agent at CAA or your father's the head of his own production company. This is great if you came out of a writing program that placed you in an internship that naturally progressed to a production assistant position. This is soul-crushing if you're me.

I don't know many people in the business. And my one and only internship (out of the hundred or so I've applied for) is for a company that experienced a shift in staff after I left. So I sat here last night, listening to the tail end of a screenwriting podcast (my equivalent to watching bad TV before bed) and I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.

"I've literally put myself in the position where I cannot fail."

The screenwriter was talking about how he quit his job to move to Los Angeles (yep, me too). He went on to say how he couldn't get a job and so he just kept writing (I know the feeling). So I got to thinking. Yeah, that's me.

I'm not a twenty-one year old college graduate who's living on my parent's dime (not that my parents aren't awesome and don't help out whenever I ask, and even when I don't) and 'trying out' L.A. for a while. I'm a grown adult who's made a conscious choice to move here, to write, to support myself, and to make a go of it. There is no other option. There's no law degree to fall back on. There's no trust fund that will mature. There. Is. No. Other. Option.

So I crawled into bed and opened the Oprah magazine I've been reading and came upon a story about putting adventure into your life. And I got to thinking about that. A friend from Michigan had just asked me on the phone that afternoon if I truly liked living here. And I answered, I truly do. Because for me, this is my home. No, not home, that will always be Howell. But it's my home for now. And if I don't think of it that way then I will see failure as an option. I can't go home because I'm already there.

So I got out of bed this morning and listened to the end of said podcast, and another for good measure (I listen while I 'teach' so it's not like I'm just laying around in the sun, I wish it were sunny right now). And the second one got me thinking about my script. It got me thinking about the pages I've written and will write today. About how accomplished I will feel after I've finished this draft. What it's like to hold a bound copy of my writing in my hands. It's pretty awesome. And that, my friends, is not failure. It's the polar opposite.

Career Day

2010-05-27T09:03:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I was a speaker in Angela's classes for John Burroughs Middle School's career day. It was a good day, I always love visiting her classes mostly because I'm stared at a bit like an animal in the zoo.

"Are you and Ms. Knapp sisters?"
"Why do you and Ms. Knapp have the same last name?"
"I thought you were Ms. Knapp."
"Are you and Ms. Knapp twins?"
"Do you have a brother that looks like you?"

Yesterday was no exception but I also turned the tables on them a bit. I opened my career day discussion by asking them if they hated writing. Most said yes, happily. I asked them if they knew what a screenwriter was. Most of them did not. And then I just smiled and nodded when one child told me he thought my job sounded very easy. I wish.

All in all, a good day. One student told Angela I encouraged her to write seven stories about seven different animals. I think this came mostly from the prompt I had them write about for a few minutes: hippos who were found in the parking lot of their school. But still, it was pretty cool. And some of their stories about how the hippos got there or what they were doing was very imaginative. We had hippos who had come down from outer space via spaceship. We had hippos who had stolen a Ferrari. We had hippos who were there to go to school and hippos who were there to eat cars and students. We had hippos who carried signs protesting the legalization of pot. They were a creative bunch.

And the energy. You know, when you're in the trenches it's different, you don't notice how much energy they have and you have to give but I was reminded of it yesterday. And I was only there part of the day. God bless all the teachers out there. Seriously. If you know a teacher, do something kind for her. Tell her she's doing a good job. Take him a $5 gift card to Subway. Offer to watch her kids on the weekend for an hour. Seriously. You have no idea what they go through.

So yeah. Career day. I had fun, I'm hoping the kids learned something. And maybe, just maybe, I encouraged one of them to put pencil to paper and explore themselves a little bit.

The newspaper

2010-05-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

For the first few days of my mom's visit out here to Los Angeles I went to the gas station and bought her a copy of the L.A. Times newspaper. Then I decided it would be easier, and cheaper, to get it delivered. One call and the next morning, voila! newspaper on the front step.

I read bits and pieces of it while she was here but not the whole thing. She read it religiously and pointed out good articles and funny comics we cut out and mailed to my dad. Then she flew home Wednesday morning. But the newspaper didn't stop coming. Yesterday, on my way out of the driveway to take Ang's car to be service, I threw the paper in the passenger seat. And I read it while waiting at the dealership. I learned about the whale stuck in the nets at Dana Point. I learned about the overnight failures BP had with the oil mess. And I felt a little more educated than I had been that morning.

I've been thinking I should probably cancel the subscription but I haven't done it yet. So this morning I grabbed a bowl of cereal and headed toward the TV. Sometimes I eat at my desk, sometimes I eat in front of the Today show (which I really don't like after 7:20), and sometimes I eat while watching last night's The Daily Show. But instead, today, I saw the paper sitting there. So I sat down at the dining room table and I opened it up.

I learned that the whale has been freed (and nicknamed "Lilly", though they don't know it's sex) but won't go back out to sea. I learned that children who spend copious amounts in preschool have a tendency toward risky behavior as teens. I learned that LAUSD can't fire anymore teachers at 3 school because of a court order. And I learned that I really do like the newspaper.

It took me all of 15 minutes to go through the newsprint pages. There was a lot I didn't read -- ads and the sports mostly -- but I also got a chuckle out of the few comics I remember reading as a kid and I read my positive horoscope for the day (You'll do what you believe in, and that will work well for you.) and I felt a little accomplished.

I think I'll keep the subscription going for another week, see if this trend in slowing down and reading something not on a computer screen continues for me. I like it. I like the feel of the paper in my hands and the idea that I'm learning about my community a bit more by not skipping "all the boring" parts while reading the paper online.

Also, I think I'm a bit prejudiced toward actual print newspapers. I've spent a good chunk of my life writing and a good portion of that has been writing for newspapers. I still vividly remember finding out that a story I'd written had been selected to run in the Lansing State Journal back when I was in community college. Some friends told my parents the good news at church that Sunday morning and we had to go meet up with the Old Car Club for a trip that afternoon. As we were waiting for everyone to arrive I saw a paper box and I ran down to the corner with the requisite 50 cents. I put my money in, opened the box, and promptly took out every single copy of the paper in there. I don't think that's how the paper box is supposed to work but hey, I was excited!

So, for what it's worth, long live the newspaper! And here's to reading it with a bowl of cereal every morning!

Womentum

2010-05-08T17:54:00.000-07:00

(WOMENTUM> is an inspirational force gained over a distance of 5 kilometers applied to the eradication of cancers in women. (According to the EIF Revlon Run/Walk)

And today we saw that (Womentum> in full force. Us and over 50,000 other people on the University of Southern California campus, at the Olympic Coliseum, all walking with one purpose, for one reason. Because cancer has touched our lives.

It was an amazing day that started at 7am. When we got there the place was already packed. And the people had only started to arrive. But here's the thing that stood out to me the most:

Everyone there was there to help.
Everyone there wanted to make a difference and to remember someone.
Everyone there was showing their love in an outward fashion. By wearing it proudly on their chests and back and putting their feet into motion.

And it was a very cool thing.

Thank you if you donated money or prayers or kind thoughts to our walk this morning. We walked for Marilyn and Grandpa Jim but we also walked for so many others. We walked for everyone who fights this disease on a daily basis, we walked for everyone who fought with all they have and has gone on to a place where there is no cancer, we walked for everyone who has shed a tear or had their heart broken because of this awful disease.

"The world breaks everyone, and afterwards, many are strong at the broken places." --Ernest Hemingway

Today we saw how strong everyone is afterwards. We have womentum and we're still moving forward.

Story

2010-04-28T23:27:00.000-07:00

I recently finished reading the nonfiction book "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life" by Donald Miller. He's the guy who wrote "Blue Like Jazz" one of the best books on spirituality and Christianity I've ever read. It's a book I've bought several copies of because I just have to share it with everyone. I love books like that.

So back to A Million Miles. This book was about Miller making his book Blue Like Jazz into a screenplay. I had no idea this is what it was about when I bought it for Angela for Christmas (she had it on her wish list). But it kinda fits perfectly with my life right now. And Miller talks a lot about story. Writing story, living story, creating a better story, those who teach about story (particularly Robert McKee, the screenwriting guru on the subject), etc.

But what's stayed with me most is not any of the writing tidbits sprinkled throughout the book but the idea that because of all this talk of story, Miller made the decision to create a better story of his own. And he encourages all of us to do the same. We have the ability to create an awesome life story. No matter what. All we have to do is get off the couch. (Well, that's what he had to do at least).

That thoughts stayed with me over the last week or so since I've put the book back in it's dust jacket and slid it onto the shelf. Am I creating a better story every day? How can I write my the best story possible with my life? I thought about it today when I got up from my computer an hour before I should have and went out to the living room and asked my mom to show me how to knit, again (yes, she's shown me, several times, and no, I never remember but I really really want to learn from her).

I thought about it when I invited my two elderly neighbors over for coffee tomorrow morning. I want to hear about their stories, more than I hear in passing when we wave from the driveway or walk to the Neighborhood Watch meetings.

And I've been thinking about it as I make decisions and contemplate making decisions that affect my life in a much bigger, overall way. How can I write a really interesting story? What should I do right now? Tomorrow? Next year?

I want to write a good story. I want to live a good story. I want to create better stories. The question now is how?

Me and tuna

2010-04-14T12:17:00.001-07:00

I just ate a can of tuna. Yep. It's true. Me, the girl who doesn't like tuna. Who doesn't like any fish (this probably has something to do with my severe allergy to seafood).

I've eaten tuna before, this wasn't my first time. Tuna and noodles (a hot casserole) was a staple growing up and I ate my fair share of it and I liked it. And I distinctly remember eating several tuna salad sandwiches on a mission trip to Philadelphia because I was famished. I also remember that those sandwiches tasted better than anything I'd ever eaten and I appreciated the heck out of them.

But today was different. Today was me trying my hardest to be healthy. (And yes, thin but mostly, for today, healthy). I'm trying to eat more whole foods, more foods that are served the way they come if that makes sense.

I recently read a book called "The Game on Diet" by Krista Vernoff and Az Ferguson. If you're at all interested in creating a better, healthier life for yourself, I highly recommend it. Plus, Krista's a very funny writer (she's a writer on "Grey's Anatomy"). While I'm doing the game right now (because you're supposed to have 4 or more players and Angela and I are only 2) I am trying to put a lot of the principles into place. For instance:

-Less chemicals! Yeah, yeah, I like 'em too. I love Diet Coke. I adore ketchup. I put 2 packets of Splenda in my apple spice tea. But apparently chemicals are bad for you. So I'm cutting back. Less prepackaged food. Less pop (none in the house was big change number one), even less Crystal Light (sorry, Ang but I know you're getting used to iced tea!). And my tea doesn't taste so bad. And yes, I still had ketchup on my burger the other night, let's not get crazy!

-More protein, less empty calories. Before I'd reach for a bag of crackers or chips to accompany my lunch sandwich. Yeah, they're only 2 points on Weight Watchers (which I am still doing religiously). But they're 2 points that mean little in terms of fuel. So instead, I reach for the 5 point package of almonds - plain old unsalted almonds, and guess what? I feel better. And I really like almonds (this last week we also bought walnuts and cashews! Cashews! I thought they were only for Christmas but guess what? You can eat them any time!).

-Water. I am drinking water like no one's business. We splurged and bought these new stainless steel water bottles, three of them at Sam's for like 20 bucks. Now there are always 5 or 6 filled in the fridge. Makes life a lot easier.

-Fresh fruits and veggies. Yeah, they seem more expensive but I've realized, they're really not. Not compared to how expensive those 100-calorie packs of snacks are. And I've now got Ang hooked on asparagus. My mom would be proud!

-More movement. I bought this elliptical. I am trying to get my money's worth from it. (It's a lot easier on Wednesdays when I have 2 hours of "The Biggest Loser" to keep me going!) But not just that. For instance, last night Ang and I danced around my room for 10 minutes to some new songs I downloaded. It was fun and it was healthy.

So yeah, a few changes here on Abbey Place. Nothing big, nothing major, just making better choices. Hence the tuna. I ate a can of it, mixed with a teaspoon of olive oil and some kosher salt (I have the biggest box of this stuff, bought for some recipe I can't remember) and guess what? It was pretty good. And I feel good, I feel like I'm treating my body better. And hopefully, in return, it'll treat me better too.

A collaborative sport

2010-04-09T14:42:00.001-07:00

The other night I had an "Ah-ha!" moment. And I cannot tell you what a relief it was. I was sitting at the table with my classmates and instructor and I just couldn't figure out why my instructor had given me the same note on my script multiple times. It just didn't make sense. I got that there was a problem with the plot but I couldn't grasp what it was. I'd spent several hours that afternoon sitting there, thinking it through (remember Victor Hugo's quote: A man is not idle because he is absorbed in thought. There is a visible labor and there is an invisible labor.), re-reading the notes I'd received and I just wasn't getting it.

And then "bam!" right there, at that moment, I got it. And it was a relatively simple problem to fix. Some characters had to interact earlier, a few scenes needed to be changed and voila! the whole was filled. But it took me several weeks to get there.

As I was driving home that night I thought about how I just couldn't get to that realization on my own. I'd tried and tried and tried. I'd made outlines and notes and charts and nothing worked. It wasn't until I was talking with other people that I finally saw the light. And that led me to think about how for most of my life writing has been an individual activity. It's been a process I do alone, with a computer or a pencil, sometimes with music but mostly just alone. Me and my thoughts. Me and my crazy brain. (My grandmother once asked me where I came up with my stories. I didn't have an answer, they're just there, in my head, and once they're there, I have to get them out.)

But now my writing life is changing. It's becoming a group activity. It's becoming collaborative and I like that. I like talking about my characters and storylines with others. I like trying to come up with ideas for someone else's characters. I like working through the beats and the outlines, working together, discussing, creating.

I think that's what drew me to screenwriting at the beginning. I love the idea that I'm just the start of it all. I'm just the architect. And I love when I watch a movie or a television show I'm fully aware that those characters would have nothing to say if it weren't for some writer sitting around with a computer and a few friends. I love that.

But that's not to say it's easy. At least when I write my Bones or NCIS: Los Angeles or Big Bang Theory spec scripts, I know that I'm drawing from someone else's world, I'm just visiting for a while. But now, starting this week, I'm going to be responsible for creating the world again -- as I embark on my first pilot writing experience. I'm taking a class on how to write an original television show, so once again I'll delve back into my mind, to my own ideas and work out from there.

But now I know something I didn't know when I began my writing journey: that I don't have to do it alone. There's so much to be said for spending time with other writers. For learning from, helping out, just going along the path with them. And that's exciting...

Philosophy of Teaching

2010-03-29T11:52:00.000-07:00

I spent a good chunk of this morning applying for a faculty position at a local university. It sounds like a good job. I'd teach two sections of communication classes each semester, in the area of my choice (I'd love love love to teach interpersonal comm again, or public speaking! I've had enough of teaching writing for a while!). I'd also be responsible for the guidance of 175 students, helping them choose and register for classes, etc. I think this would be an interesting part of the job, I love working one-on-one with students.

So after I filled out all the boxes and attached all the documents I had to do one last thing: write a statement of my teaching philosophy. This should have been a simple task right? I've been teaching for almost ten years now. TEN YEARS. And that doesn't even include my time before that as a Sunday school teacher or a youth group leader. That's ten years of paid teaching in either an elementary school, middle school or college classroom. But I found out writing my philosophy out was a little difficult at first. And then I thought, wait. Just talk. Just write it like a blog. Just tell them what you're thinking. So I did. And I thought I'd share it with all of you too:

I believe a good teacher learns right along side of her students. I believe a good teacher tries new things, sometimes fails, learns from her mistakes, and tries again. I believe a good teacher encourages and pushes her students beyond what they thought they could do. I believe a good teacher does more than teach. She prods.

Students can learn a lot about the world from books. They can learn a lot about the world from the Internet. We now have teenagers going to virtual high school. We have college classes being taught to students on several different continents at once. However, what does not change is that the teacher has to continually prod. She has to engage her students. She has to ask the questions that aren’t on the pages of the book or on the website. She has to say, “Why?” and wait for the answer and then ask for a deeper explanation. She has to remember that Student X needs more encouragement than Student Y in getting assignments in on time but that Student Y needs to hear a few extra positive comments before she passes on the constructive criticism.

When I teach I am engaged in a dialogue, never a lecture. I love the back and forth between people, I love the idea that you can learn from another person or even just see something a new way. But most of all I enjoy the unfolding and discovering of what was there all along, of skills possessed and refined, of knowledge added to practice and what comes from that.

In the classroom my philosophy is simple: engage. Engage students’ minds, their mouths, and their hands. If I can do that, I can get them onto the path of learning. And to me, that’s the best end result I can hope for.

Putting a name on it

2010-03-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

(Me with Mom #1 Chris and Mom #2 Mariyln)

Growing up with a large extended family that included a very close church family I knew several people who went through battles with cancer. But it never impacted my immediate family or my daily life. I never heard about chemo and radiation burns and the secondary diseases caused by treatments. I never knew the fear that comes from hearing that a loved one has been diagnosed. And then I got the phone call.

I remember the call well, I was sitting in the parking lot of the mall in Yuma, Arizona about four years ago. I'd just bought a ridiculously expensive nightgown in preparation for a spring break trip to Palm Springs. I was giddy with the thought of a few days away from seventh graders laying by a pool, getting a massage, sleeping in the queen size bed the website for the inn we were going to promoted. (Side note: I still have the nightgown and I count it as one of my best purchases ever!)

My parents called and asked if Ang and I could get on the phone together, never a good sign. So we did, in the car, with our packages staring at us from the backseat. And they told us that my grandfather had been diagnosed with cancer. And it began.

Then this past summer we got another phone call. Another request to get us both on the phone. Through tears my mom told us that her best friend for her entire life, our second mother, had been diagnosed with colon cancer. The world started to crumble.

Four years later my grandfather still battles cancer on a daily basis. He's tried chemo, experimental drugs, his teeth have all broken because of the drugs, he's developed infections, he complains in his quiet manner that he doesn't have much to live for anymore, that he can't do anything. His cancer is not curable but not necessarily fatal either. For that we are thankful. Not that he's still sick but that we had another Christmas with him this year. I am thankful each time I get another hug from him or hear his voice on the phone.

Marilyn, my mom's best friend, is dealing with a more aggressive form of cancer. She has chemo almost weekly though you wouldn't know it from the brave face she puts out to the world. At Christmas we had a wonderful family dinner and I was so thankful to be able to create more memories with her. Because my life is filled with memories of Marilyn, she is a part of the fabric that has created my life. I cannot imagine life without her. I cannot imagine her not being part of the world, my world.

I cannot express in words how much I hate cancer. How much I don't understand why some people get it and others don't. I've heard we all have cancer cells in our body but I wasn't all that great of a science student in school. However, I do know that it takes money to research cures. And that's something I can help with. I can help by raising ten, fifteen, maybe even a hundred dollars to help keep these two people a part of my life, my memories, my fabric for a little longer.

Imagine your world without two of the most important people in your life. Imagine those same two people suffering on a daily basis. Struggling to keep water down. Sitting for days in the dentist chair because the cure is sometimes worse than the disease. Imagine losing people you don't have to lose just because there's not enough money to figure out how to save them.

I know money's tight right now, trust me, I know. But I also know that the $30 fee it took to sign up for the 5K Walk for Cancer wasn't much more than it costs for dinner and a movie and I decided that small concession was the best thing I could do this week. So what can you do?

Can you donate $5? That's all I'm asking for, a small donation. I know I've asked in the past. I'll probably ask again. But then again, cancer's not going anywhere either. Not unless we do something about it.

Visit my page and consider donating: (click here)

I thank you in honor of the two names I've put on my cancer fight: Jim and Marilyn. I thank you in honor of the millions of women and men fighting cancer on a daily basis and their families who fight right alongside them. I thank you because it's all I can do. That and raise a little money and walk a few miles. It doesn't seem like much but it might be the push this fight needs...

Another Lenten devotion for you

2010-03-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

Today the second Lenten devotion I wrote for HUMC's book runs. Here it is:

Luke 15: 17-20

And he arose and came to his father. But while he was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.

When I was growing up my dad would always settle arguments with a simple request: “give each other a hug”. And hug we would, although sometimes more begrudgingly then other times. But that request always reminded me of the fact that we were still family, that we loved each other despite what else happened, and that we were connected, emotionally as well as physically.

In this passage of Luke the lost son’s father’s first response upon seeing him return wasn’t to question where he’d been or what he’d done or berate him for leaving. The father’s first response was to hug his son. And to me, that simple act embodies the love of God perfectly. The lost son’s father exhibited that love to his son and my own father exhibited that love to me time and time again (and still does). An embrace. A hug. A physical act of pulling someone into your arms and letting them know that you love them.

How often do you hug others? When I ask myself that question the answer varies depending upon the day, how I’m feeling, where I’ve been, etcetera. But I know what I want the answer to be. I want to hug others regularly. I want to be a physical example of God’s love on a regular basis to those people in my life. To those people God loves and wants me to share His love with.

When I first started teaching I worked with first graders. They’re notorious huggers. And they’re equal opportunity huggers. If you have legs they’ll wrap their arms around them. If you get down on the floor you’ll quickly have little ones in your lap. And I love that about children. They love – and hug – so unconditionally. They are a physical example of God’s love to everyone.

I am going to challenge myself this Lenten season, and all of you, to be more physical in our expressions of love. Jesus gave us a very physical, tangible, expression of His love by dying on the cross. The lost son’s father hugged his son. My own father hugged me every time I’d do something wrong. Of course not everything can be undone or forgotten after a simple embrace but isn’t it a great way to start down the path of forgiveness? Of sharing God’s love? I think so. And I’m going to work at hugging more. Watch out!

Texas time

2010-03-06T08:56:00.000-08:00

Near the end of January a few things happened: I realized I would have two weeks without work at the end of February/beginning of March, a professor of mine at UCLA canceled a class in March so he could go skiing, and I found the little stash of Christmas money and the 20 year old savings bonds my mom had given me when I'd been home in December. That same afternoon I got a phone call. The caller ID showed it was my cousin Jamee, who I love and adore and consider to be one of my closest friends. But I held fast and didn't answer the phone because I was working and on deadline for a table read that night.

Then the phone rang again. And I'm of that mindset that if someone hangs up and calls right back without leaving a message, it's probably important or even an emergency. So I picked up.

It was Hannah, Jamee's six year old daughter. She wanted to know why I hadn't answered her call the first time and I chuckled. For the next twenty minutes or so I listened to tales of her basketball team, what color their uniforms are, how there's another girl named Hannah on the team, that she just learned I live in the same city where they film her favorite TV show American Idol, etc. And my heart ached because I hadn't seen Hannah in almost two years. For three years in a row Angela and I had visited Jamee and the Brick family in Texas while we lived in Yuma. But once we moved to Los Angeles we didn't have the time or the money.

So that afternoon when all my ducks lined up in a row I made a decision: I was going to Texas.

And I did. And it was fabulous!

I spent five days there, Friday through Wednesday and loved every minute of it. I got to meet grown-up Olivia who's now almost three and was only a babe the last time I was there. In fact, Olivia and I became best buds. I got to cook with all three kids, grocery shop for veggies and fruits (their favorite), I got to comb hair and find shoes and visit classrooms and run and play and laugh and cry and wipe away tears and kiss cuts. I got to go to Swampfest and watch as they played silly games for silly prizes, I got to hold Olivia when she drank her milk each night, I got to explain to Hannah what mascara was and dab some glittery lip gloss on her little lips. I got to play Super Mario Bros. with David and laugh at how serious he became about the game.

And I also got to spend time with Jamee, above mentioned adored cousin and friend. We snuck off to the bookstore and sipped tea and sat on the floor and talked for three hours Saturday night. We talked while she prepped her classroom for a sub Sunday night. We spent all day Monday without kids and laughed and shopped and read greeting cards for several hours (so fun, really -- plus they were 80% off so such a good deal!). We ran errands together, we did the dishes together, we watched the Olympics and bad TV together (who else was aware that a GIANT sperm whale exploded all over a city street in Taiwan?!?!?). We stood outside in the freezing cold temperatures (it was 34 in the morning) and sun (I have the sunburns still to prove it) for ELEVEN HOURS on Tuesday holding campaign signs for Jamee's mother-in-law who was running for state representative. And even though she lost, we had such a great day. We sang, we laughed, we danced, we joked, we teased, and we talked. Boy did we talk.

And on Wednesday, when I hugged the little Bricks goodbye on their way to school I was a little sad but mostly I was happy. I was so happy I'd been able to visit with them, to be a part of their lives for a few days, to be a part of their memories. And when Jamee and I parted at the airport, I did have tears but again, they were mostly tears of happiness, of love.

And guess what I did yesterday? Started saving for my next trip this summer. Because Cousin Sarah needs more little (and big) hugs!!!

Lenten Devotion 1

2010-02-21T09:43:00.000-08:00

This year I wrote two Lenten devotions for First United Methodist of Hollywood's devotional booklet. The first is for today:

Luke 4: 5-8

And Jesus answered, and said unto him, “Get thee behind me, Satan; for it is written thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and God only shall you serve…”

There are days when I really enjoy grocery shopping. When I know there’s money in the bank account, when I’m planning healthy, yummy meals, when I have the time to wander the aisles looking at everything. And then there are days I detest grocery shopping. I’m in a hurry and it’s raining and the line at the checkout is six people deep and they don’t have my favorite chips and I drop my coupons and I’m outraged that lean ground turkey costs a dollar more a pound than the fatty kind.

And some days it’s the same with worship and serving the Lord. I know, I know, it’s blasphemy. But it’s the truth. There are some Sundays when I wake up and am excited to put on my best clothes and drive to church and see all my friends and serve communion and sing loudly along with the choir. But then there are those Sundays when I just want to stay in my pajamas and drink another cup of tea. When I want to turn off the alarm clock and roll over. When I want to go out to breakfast and beat the crowd to Target.

And you know what? I think that’s okay. I realized long ago that I couldn’t beat myself up over every little thing, every teensy tiny bit of guilt I experienced. I grew up attending church every single Sunday. And we were often there on Wednesdays and Thursdays and other days doing whatever needed doing. It’s okay because I can worship God at home in my pajamas. I can serve God by helping out at the AIDS clinic on Friday. And I can pray whenever and wherever and God still loves me.

Don’t get me wrong; I still have to continually tell Satan to get behind me. I have to remind myself that I’m a Christian not because I go to church regularly (which I do love doing) but because of my faith. Because of my worship and my service and most of all, my relationship with Jesus. And I love that my God, your God, our God, has taught me that.

Me care

2010-02-14T17:16:00.000-08:00

It's Sunday afternoon and I just woke up from a two hour nap. If you know me, you know I hate naps. I don't care if other people take them but I don't like them. I always feel like I'm wasting time when I nap. And when I wake up I'm all fuzzy-headed for a good hour or more. I just don't like that feeling. That said, you know I must have really needed this nap. And I did.

I've taken many naps over the last twelve days. That's how long I've been fighting this stupid chest cold. Well, officially it's a respiratory infection -- according to the doctor I saw yesterday at the clinic. But I've finally come to the realization that if my body needs it, I'm going to do it. Because I need to take care of me, no one else is.

Now don't get me wrong - I have people who love me and care for me and want me to be well. Angela has made me food, encouraged naps, brought my tea and medicine and been the best darn nurse ever over the last two weeks. My parents continuously encouraged me to go to the doctor and even paid for above mentioned clinic visit. Friends helped me with recommendations of doctors and clinics and cures and didn't disown me when I canceled plans.

But at the end of the day, and at the beginning for that matter, I'm the one who has to take care of me. I'm it. I'm the one who takes the vitamins and lays down for the naps. I'm the one who exercises and puts food into my mouth. I'm the one who's looking out for me and this one body I get in this life.

As the nation spends so much time talking about health care or lack there of, I realized something about it all. It doesn't matter. I don't care if I have socialized medicine or the best insurance money (well, employment) can get a person. I only care if I'm well. I don't care if I have to pay for it (well, I do but you get the idea) or if I have to work for it (i.e., exercise) because if my body isn't healthy, I don't have a very good quality of life.

I've barely written over the past almost two weeks. I've gone to work every day but I dread it and do my job as quickly as possible so I can lie back down. I've skipped class and stayed home from church. I've eaten the bare minimum to get my body through the day and realized that I miss cooking and spicy foods and variety. Does it suck? Yep. It sucks being sick. It sucks not having the energy to put my fingers on the keyboard much less get on the elliptical that's grown dusty in the corner. It sucks laying on the couch watching television knowing that a few miles away my friends are drinking wine and playing Pictionary.

But I also know that I'm getting better. I've got some medication that the doctor swears will help me over the hump. I'm resting and taking vitamins and eating my fruits and vegetables and I feel stronger. I haven't coughed at all today (knock on wood) and that helps me not be so tired. And I'm really not complaining, I know there are so many people out there more sick than me. But right now, I'm the only one who counts in my world. Because again, if I don't take care of me, who will?

Yes, I think the public debate over health care is important but I also think me care is important. I think it's up to you and me and each one of us to take care of our bodies. And that's what I'll continue to do tonight as I lie on the couch. And tomorrow, I'll start writing again, because that's up to me too.

Breathing in the City

2010-01-30T13:27:00.000-08:00

Last week I found out that the public library just a few blocks from my house has a free yoga class on Saturdays at noon. Now I love our library, I've spent many hours there, attended meetings there, etc. but I was surprised because well, it's a library and most of the "classes" they offer are things like mah jong or black and white movie discussions. So today I rolled up my yoga mat and walked over to the library to check it out.

And it was awesome. Really. In Yuma I "belonged" to a yoga studio for almost a year and I really liked it. It was hard work, it was fun and it was good for me but it was also very expensive. So the free part here caught my eye. But this experience was something different.

I felt a little bit like what I imagine it feels like to live in New York City. Walking to a yoga class, settling in with all kinds of different people: young, old, in shape, not in shape, different colors, different sexes, even some very young kids. And then the instructor told us that if we took nothing else away from today she wanted us to take away the idea of breathing. Deep concentrated breathes that you focus on. For the first five minutes all we did was sit up straight and breathe in and out. She wanted to hear our breath. Then we breathed through just one nostril, then the other. It was a lot of breathing and it was exactly what I needed today.

It's been a busy week. I've spent hours each day grading rough drafts of essays, outlines, reference lists. I prepared and pitched ideas for spec episodes of both NCIS: Los Angeles and The Big Bang Theory in my classes this week. I edited my Bones spec and sent it and my screenplay to a manager. I applied for some internships and jobs. I volunteered. I picked a friend up at the airport. I worked out almost every day. I worked on editing my novel. I cooked and did laundry. I wrote two Lenten devotionals for my church. I worried. I ate. I went to see a sneak preview of Valentine's Day. I tried to be a good friend and sister and still squeeze some time in to read the third book of the Twilight series.

And guess what I forgot to do this week? Breathe. I'm not sure I did it at all. I marked things off the to-do list. I created other lists. I watched TV. I slept. But I didn't breathe. Not in the sense of sitting and focusing and doing nothing else and thinking of nothing else but that moment's breath. And I need to do that more often. As my yoga instructor said today, there is nothing more important in life than breath. With the first breath we are born and with the last breath we die.

This week I'll try breathing a little more. And I'm already looking forward to the next yoga class. Yes, there were too many people in the little conference room. Yes, some of them were noisy and came in late. Yes, the old women who run the book sale in the room before our class were crotchety when they were hurried out. But none of that matters. All that matters is the breathing.

This week I wish you many deep breathes. Many quiet moments.

Slimmin' with Simmons!

2010-01-25T09:47:00.000-08:00

When I was little I remember seeing Richard Simmons on infomercials for his "Sweatin' to the Oldies" workout videos and "Deal-A-Meal" diet. Later on I remember seeing him on David Letterman and it was always funny but I assumed the workout was for older people and just another one of those fads. But just a few weeks ago I learned that he teaches classes right here in Beverly Hills and my immediate reaction was, "I want to go!" And go we did...

Saturday I headed over to "Slimmons" - Richard's exercise studio, fifteen minutes from our house with Angela. We met our friends Tanya and Tony there. We went early for the "Project Me" class ($12) and found ourselves being hugged and kissed by Richard and then sitting in circle around him on the floor talking about forgiveness, food, exercise and laughing hysterically! This class lasted about 45 minutes and then he said we'd let the others in and get started with the exercise portion (another $12 which I didn't think was bad at all for a class). All of a sudden it was chaos!

The doors opened and the people rushed in. I estimated there were 200 people in that studio - which is totally 80s, mirrored walls (even hidden doors are mirrored), disco ball, pink and green steps for step aerobics, etc. And everyone just found a place so we did too - and then the music began (not oldies at all - Black Eyed Peas to start, a mix Richard assured us he made just for us!) and we were off.

Now I've always been a bit timid to do group exercise. I was a horrible P.E. student in school and even in Yuma where I enjoyed the classes I always felt like I was a step behind. And not quite dressed right. And too big to stand in front. But not here. At Slimmons there was no time to think about that because we just started! It was amazing. Richard yelled and moved and laughed and everyone just did it and it worked - so many people, squished together, even working out in the hallway but everyone was smiling and moving which was awesome!

And work out we did. I was sweating by the end of the first song but there was no break. We moved and moved and moved and then got water and then kept going. At one point we made a huge circle around Richard and he pulled people in to demonstrate moves with him. And of course Ang and I had been identified as "the sisters" right away so we got pulled in but even then, I just focused on moving my feet. It was pretty awesome. (He also walks around and constantly helps people, at another point in the class I was doing crunches with Richard Simmons holding my feet still!)

After the aerobic/dance part we did toning with 8 pound weights (yep, all 200 of us) and push-ups and stretching. We ended the hour and a half class with a little pep talk about forgiveness from Richard and more hugs. It was really amazing.

I never would have dreamed, years ago, that I would spend a Saturday morning working out with Richard Simmons who was wearing a $700 red tank top (Swarovski crystals!) and his short shorts! What I loved most was that the workout was for everyone - there were skinny people, heavy people, coordinated people, less coordinated people, celebrities (yep! honest to goodness, in a movie being considered an Oscar nom, celebrity), and me. And I loved it. I can't wait to go back. And next time, I'll take my camera!

Worrying about worrying

2010-01-11T09:39:00.000-08:00

I'm not really big into New Year's resolutions. I have a personality that borders on obsessive at times and if I fail to meet a goal it's not always pretty inside my mind. I remember the year I vowed to floss every single day (yeah, I know, something most people probably do all the time). It became nearly catastrophic when I went on spring break in the mountains and forgot to floss because there was barely time or the place to pee much less do anything else. Or the year I vowed to read the entire Bible, one day at a time via this nifty little arrangement. I did it but I spent many a Saturday in the fall reading for hours at a time.

However, I'm really good at motivating myself, I have to be to be able to work at home. And I'm usually good at keeping an even keel. And this year while I did make some resolution type goals for myself as I do every year (written in my day journal - they're very general and fairly achievable) I have decided and announced to several people I'm going to turn a new leaf. I'm going to try and worry less. The key word there being "try".

I worry a lot about my sister, the sister who lives with me. This is normal behavior for me - and for most people I assume, who live with another person. You worry about them. But this year I'm going to try and worry a little less and just let her be. I can't cure all her medical problems. I can't get her job back for her. I can't make her less anxious. So I'm not going to worry about it as much.

I also worry a lot about the future. About the fact that I'm 32 and I don't make much money. That I write and write and write and haven't sold anything in a long time. That I have a job that I wish was different. But I realize I can't control the economic state of our country. I can't force agents to sign me or producers to buy my scripts. I can only try as hard as I possibly can and let it work itself out.

I'm also not going to worry that I've made the wrong choice or followed the wrong path. I'm going to try and enjoy the ride. I'm going to sit at lunch with my friends and listen to them rather than worry that I should be home doing something else. I'm going to go to coffee. I'm going to hike in Griffith Park. I'm going to enjoy myself just a little more. I'm not going to worry if I don't lose three pounds this week, I'm going to celebrate the fact that I got on the elliptical at all and that I beat everyone at Wii boxing. I'm going to wear out my new tennis shoes and worry later where the next pair will come from.

I'm not going to worry that I'll never meet Mr. Right and that I am becoming too old to have children. I'm going to instead talk to people, go out, enjoy being myself and being free and living in this amazing city. I'm going to write stories and look every day at the plaque on my desk that I got for Christmas: "If you can dream it, YOU CAN DO IT." -- Walt Disney.

Will I be able to stop worrying completely? No. And I don't want to. I see worrying as a form of love and caring and concern. I worry about my friends and family because I love them. And I am grateful I have so many people out there in the world who worry about me. But I am going to try and dwell on it a little less. 2010 is going to be my year. And yours!

In love with Christmas

2009-12-16T23:16:00.000-08:00

I feel like a little kid this week, just vibrating with the anticipation of Christmas. I can't wait to give my friends their handmade gifts. I can't wait to walk the loaves of banana pecan bread over to the neighbors (and yes, I had to cut the bottoms and sides off because they were a little extra crispy but I think they'll still taste good!). I can't wait to get to wrap my presents for Angela and my parents and put them under the tree in Michigan. I can't wait to watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation with my dad. I can't wait to hug my grandparents. I can't wait to wear a scarf and mittens and freeze. I can't wait to see snow and sit on the couch and stare at the mouse in the matchbook ornament I received for my very first Christmas from my other mother.

Yes, I know it's just another week in the year. But it's exciting for me. I love the idea of people getting together. Of sitting and talking and taking photographs with my cousins. I love the fact that my whole family, all four of us, make the Christmas plunkett we'll eat on Christmas morning. I love the fact that next Thursday I get to go to church and sing Silent Night and hold my candle up high, just like I've been doing my entire life. And that next Sunday we'll sing Joy to the World, all the verses.

Christmas is my favorite time of year. I come from a long line of decorators and bakers and gift givers. And I love that. I absolutely love that.

Advent

2009-12-11T09:48:00.000-08:00

Hollywood United Methodist Church puts out an Advent Devotional each year written by members. Today's entry is written by me:

Luke 3:15 – 18

John answered, saying unto them all, “I indeed baptize you with water, but one mightier than I cometh…he shall baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”

When I first read my scripture assignment I thought, “Well, that’s not very Christmasy”. And then I let it sit for a while. And then, slowly, I started to realize that no, it’s not Christmasy in the way we usually think of Christmas but it’s exactly what God wants from us this time of year.

John is telling us that Jesus is coming, that he’s just preparing us for what lays ahead: the Holy Spirit and fire. Fire! Can you imagine? Jesus is coming and he’s bringing fire!

What does that mean to you? What do you think you should do to celebrate that Spirit and fire this advent season? To me, it means I need to be excited. I need to engage more and complain less. I need to not worry that most of my extended family has given up the traditional gift giving protocol and focus on doing more for those I love with what I have.

So I’m going to listen carefully to John: Jesus is coming. He’ll be here and gone (at least in the Christmas season ideal) before I know it. So I’m going to spend time with friends instead of worrying that I can’t give them shiny new trinkets and packages. I’m going to spoil my parents rotten with homemade gifts and goodies and one-on-one time. I’m not going to fret about what to get my grandparents who don’t need or want anything and instead sit with them and talk, and more importantly, listen.

This Christmas season I’m going to listen to John, I’m going to trust that he’s preparing me to enjoy this holiday of worship and I’m going to do my best to do just that. Even if it looks a little different than it has in the past. Baptism makes us new and I’m going to embrace the newness that this holiday season is laying in front of me.