Health Communication & Me

Last night after dinner, Angela and I clocked in for our shift at The Pitt. It’s a little joke we have after seeing a meme about how we all feel like medical pros after watching just one and a half seasons of the hit show. (Side note: yesterday Angela’s boss referenced a possible medical treatment for a student that he’d seen on The Pitt last week. So we are not alone in these feelings.) 

I love medical shows. I remember falling so in love with ER after its pilot aired when I was a senior in high school that I checked out MCAT books from the library. (Spoiler alert: I was not then nor will ever be suited for medical school much less anything to do with working in an actual hospital setting. However, I would love to write a medical drama someday. I’d kill it. Pun intended.) 

When a little show called Grey’s Anatomy premiered Angela was actually in-patient at a hospital in Chicago. She watched it in her room and called me immediately telling me I needed to watch it when it premiered an hour later in my time zone back in Kalamazoo. We’ve been watching it together for the last 22 years. 

I will give almost any hospital or medical show a shot. (Do not get me started on Brilliant Minds, the apparently-little seen NBC show that was just pulled before us fans could get an answer to the season two mystery!) And I enjoy the heck out of most of them. 

Well, I used to. 

Now I approach them with a bit more trepidation. After having spent the last 11 years dealing with my own medical mysteries, medical issues, and medical anxiety, watching my favorite shows can be scary. 

It seems I can’t go a few episodes of television without someone getting a blood clot (shout out to my legs where some invisible to the naked eye clots still reside), someone dying of a DVT (ah, a quieter shout out to the lung that fought off my very own DVT and still functions just fine, albeit a little less when I’m walking on any sort of an incline), or a woman missing signs of a heart attack (I know I haven’t had an actual heart attack but my symptoms were freaking real and the guide wire they put in my groin to double-check my heart’s health was terrifying to think about), or hearing about how a woman’s hypercoaguable state could cause vision loss and/or eye stroke!? (hi, my name is Sarah and I have antiphospholipid syndrome with a hypercoaguable state and yes, I know that’s super rare and super interesting if you’re a doctor and I’ll answer your questions and then can we please get back to my sinus infection? Thanks!). 

So last night’s episode of The Pitt hit a little close to home. First, we had the guy who is on Eliquis still hanging around to get his D-Dimer checked (yep, blood test I have had and still get regularly!) and is actually just there because he’s WORRIED. I see you, my guy. I am you, my guy. (I have gone to the ER because of what turned out to be a panic attack after having a very real medical event associated with my blood disorder. The symptoms were physical. The nurse practitioner who treated me was the kindest and most reassuring person I had ever met in an emergency room and I think about her whenever my brain tries to dismiss symptoms of anything that my brain deems frivolous. She told me to advocate for myself and I will always try to remember to do that.)

Then we had the woman who came in with partial blindness and the second the doctor mentioned in passing that she didn’t have a history of a hypercoaguable state I held my breath. And then I paused the TV and asked Angela if that could happen to me. She kindly reminded me that I am on anticoagulants to prevent just such a thing but much like my Eliquis guy, I wasn’t easily convinced. (And obviously, because I’m writing about this now, I am still not one hundred percent convinced and may never be but I know that and can move on.)

And finally we had Howard. The big guy with the big health concerns who waited until it was almost too late to get himself help. I have been Howard. In more ways than one. 

When I went to the ER for the aforementioned panic attack after a blood clot incident, I was hesitant to go at first because surely my symptoms didn’t warrant the trip. Surely there were people who needed medical attention more than I did. Surely I didn’t want to take up space or time or take those things away from people who needed them, nee deserved them, more than me. 

Also, if you know me or have seen a picture of me, you know I am a big person. Not as big as Howard but big all the same. I can’t count how many times I have been treated in medical situations differently because of my weight. Sometimes it’s the assumption that I have diabetes or high blood pressure or something else just because of my weight. Sometimes (almost ALWAYS) it’s that the blood pressure cuff doesn’t fit me and the medical professional either takes an inaccurate reading or just doesn’t take a reading. (Twice in recent years I’ve had medical professionals deal with this differently. One went in search of a cuff that fit and read the riot act to her staff when they didn’t have necessary tools available for her use in the room. Another took my pressure himself twice during an appointment, by hand, with an appropriate cuff, after he knew I’d have calmed down a bit, and declared my pressure perfect as he knew it would be.)

But twice assumptions about weight and bodies and people in general led to embarrassment for me in hospitals and in front of other people, things that really really suck. When I first was diagnosed with blood clots and the blood disease I have, I had to stay in the hospital and because at that time I did not have health insurance, I had to be transferred from the fancy hospital I went to that was closest to my house, to a hospital a million miles away from my house. (Fine, Alahambra isn’t a million miles away from Los Angeles but it sure seemed like it at the time. For the record it is 20 miles from where I lived at the time. And somewhere I’d never ever been.) 

I guess at some point they weighed me, I think they had a scale on the bed, and well, I don’t know if no one looked at me or considered what any of anything meant but when I had to be transferred it was late at night. Because of course, LA is a busy city and ambulances tend to go to priority patients, and transferring me was not a priority. And because it was late at night I wasn’t paying much attention. I was worried about my swollen leg and my pressing medical issues. And when someone asked if I could walk I said yes, of course. And when someone else asked if I could get myself onto the ambulance gurney I said sure. And I got up and I moved myself onto the plastic travel gurney. I was more or less fine at that point. And out of immediate danger. And just wanted to get all of the moving to the new hospital out of the way. And that’s when I noticed a group of firefighters standing in the hallway outside of my ER room. 

They weren’t just standing there, they were watching me. Because they’d been called for me. To help me. To move me from my ER bed to the gurney. Because someone told them or mis-told them that I needed help. And with my weight being what it was or what it was assumed to be, they felt the need to bring a whole freaking brigade. 

They quickly left and I tried not to think about what had happened. (I’ve obviously never thought about it again since that day!)

And then, when I got to the hospital and got taken up to the room they’d prepared for me, something seemed off. I remember the nurse who walked alongside my gurney on the ride upstairs. He was funny. And maybe a little nervous. He said wires had been crossed and it was fine and I was in great hands and yes, he’d get me something to eat since I hadn’t eaten all day, and yes, my sister could stay a while even though visiting hours were over since she’d followed the ambulance all those million miles to Alhambra. And then when they wheeled me into my room, there it was. 

A GIANT hospital bed.

Like a double hospital bed. So big they’d put me in a room all by myself because there wasn’t room for a second bed. 

Someone had relayed my weight and someone else was sure that I couldn’t possibly fit into a regular size hospital bed. Probably the same kind of person who’d decided I needed the whole cast of Chicago Fire to lift me onto a gurney. 

Anyway, we all chuckled politely and then Angela sat with me in the giant bed every time she came to visit because it was pretty comfy and hospital chairs never are. 

In The Pitt episode Howard was so sweet and so polite and tried to be funny and was oh so thankful and hi, again, that’s me. I always try my best to thank everyone profusely. Because I know I am taking up space and time and resources and effort. Not just because of my weight or my mental distress but often due to my mysteries. My health insurance is such that I am thankful for it, eternally grateful, and I am constantly aware of how tenuous my current situation is. I fear that I could become that person adjusting his meds (hi, reboot of the medical sitcom Scrubs that had a storyline about this very thing this very week!) or not seeking care because of cost in the blink of an eye (hi, diabetic father from the last few episodes of The Pitt). That anxiety comes in waves but is never more real than when I am in a doctor’s office or hospital and am faced with the actual cost of care. And the potential cost of not getting the care I need. 

And yes, I am careful to get that care. I try my best to keep all the appointments and tasks and concerns straight and juggle it with my insurance woes and my sanity. It’s never easy. And while watching my favorite shows adds to my emotional stress at times, it also comforts me. It’s a salve to the reality that is our current national healthcare crisis. One I am acutely aware of for so many reasons.

When I was getting my masters in communication at Western Michigan University, I took a class called simply Health Communication. And for my research project in the class I wrote a paper titled “Health information and entertainment television: Do perceptions represent reality or make-believe?” 

Here’s the abstract for the 24-page long paper: 

Health communication research has only recently begun to look at how television sends, or fails to send, accurate or inaccurate health-related messages. The question being asked by this study is how and why television affects people’s perceptions of health care and the medical community. A review of relevant literature surrounding the areas of mass media and health issues, entertainment-education, prosocial television, and health information content and use will lay a foundation for the study. A content analysis of 22 episodes from the television medical drama ER will be utilized to create a survey to gather information about how the television program affects people’s perceptions of health care. The study will target 2 populations: college-age, as well as retirement-age persons who are regular viewers of ER, to determine if there is a difference in how different age groups utilize health information gained via television. 

(I told you that ER had an affect on me.)

I am a staunch believer that television (or maybe now Tik Tok or Reels or Youtube) can and does have an affect on people. We can talk about the effects of Heated Rivalry (the uptick in NHL ticket sales, not to mention the author’s book sales, and the subsequent fall of those hockey players fans had put on a pedestal who came out in a very different way this last week). Or the effects of police and military shows on copaganda (yes, I love these shows and yes, I am a believer that copaganda is detrimental to all of us, I am large, I contain multitudes just like Mr. Whitman). Or how comedies lift our spirits or how emotional moments are cathartic or any number of things media can and does do for us. 

Television affects me in all of those ways. Good and bad. Sometimes it’s knowing I need to turn off something I’m not enjoying or that’s making me upset or even bored. Sometimes it’s helping me to feel seen, as The Pitt did last night and for many other shifts before that. Television helps me understand the world. Just as writing does. And if you’re still reading (this is a very long blog for someone who hasn’t been blogging much lately - hey, I made a movie and wrote two whole books so I haven’t just been slacking!), know you are also affecting me by reading my stories. Here’s to happy, healthy times ahead for all of us, and more seasons of The Pitt! 

Laughing Again

I saw the scenes months before I wrote them. 

The woman walking in circles. 

And today those scenes, that woman walking in circles, are in a film. A film that is premiering online for all the world to watch. 

Yes, it's true! My first film as writer and director premiered online today! Laughing Again is live! Laughing Again is out in the world! 

Laughing Again with that woman walking in circles. And it's true, I am that woman. I walked in circles around my pool in the backyard for hours. For miles. I did it while wearing my nightgown and flip flops and nothing else. I did it while recovering from a surgery that had been talked about for years and then was over in an instant but then stayed with me for months. 

The woman in my scenes does it while wearing funeral clothes, and then whatever else she's found that day. She does it as she recovers from a miscarriage. She does it as she finds her own way through grief. Her own way through pain. Her own way to post-traumatic growth. As so many of us do. 

When I started on the seemingly impossible task of beginning a writing project, staring at a blank page, I saw those circles. I saw her despair. And I wanted others to know that if they're experiencing this growth, or even want to, they are not alone. And now they can. They can because there's a story that tells about the circles, the trauma, the growth. A story that tells four characters' very particular views and experiences but that can be taken in and thought about and realized through so many others' lives. 

And that's what film is all about. Making stories come to life to share experiences with the world. 

And making this story come to life was a journey! 

Back in 2021 I was asked if I might be interested in writing a short film. I said I would be, if I could also direct it. And so the idea and those circles that would become Laughing Again was hatched. That was 1,431 days ago. (Here’s the blog I wrote about Making Something back in June 2022.) 

And today Laughing Again is a ten-minute film that will live forever.  

Since that December night back in 2021 I learned what it takes to not only write a movie, something I knew a bit about prior, but also make a movie, as we did in 2022. (Here’s the blog I wrote about that in August 2022.) And then...well then we had to edit the movie. (Here’s the blog I wrote about that in December 2022.) The editing process had only just begun when I saw that first cut of the film. What started as a 12 minute movie was tightened down into a 10 minute movie by the end. It may not seem like much but when the film is that short, every single second and every single frame counts. Tyson, our editor (and also our DP), and I went through four cuts before locking picture, when we knew we had the look of the film just how we wanted it. And then we started working on the sound. We had an original score that was written and performed just for our film by Steve. It was really cool to be able to say everything in our film came from our team. The establishing shots, the graphics, the music, everything!

So then what’s been going on since June 2023 you might ask? Why haven’t we seen this film until now? Well, that’s when we began our festival run, which just ended this month.

Since short films don’t run in traditional theater chains or movie houses or play on most streaming sites, the producers (me and Ayelette) tried to get as many people to see our work in other ways, mostly via film festivals. And so that’s what’s been going on. 

We’ve been creating materials, submitting materials and the film, to festivals all over the world. So many film festivals. Festivals that gets thousands and tens of thousands of entries a year. And then we wait. Wait to find out if we’ve been accepted. Wait to find out if we’ve won. Wait to find out if more people will get to see our work. 

Our run was two years long. During that time we participated in 13 film festivals all over the world which I think is pretty cool. Here’s our list:

• Indianapolis LGBT Film Festival 2023
• The Film Collective Short Film Festival 2023
• Paris Women CineFest 2024
• SaFFlicks 2024
• Lift-Off Global Network Los Angeles 2024
• FusionFilm International Film Festival 2024
• California Women’s Film Festival 2024
• FenceSitter Film Festival 2024
• SacFilm Challenge Music and Film Festival 2024
• Hollywood New Directors 2024
• Cinema Diverse Palm Springs LGBTQ+ Film Festival 2024
• Cinema Odyssey Film Awards 2024
• California Women Film Festival 2025 (yep, a different festival from number seven!)

For most of the festivals we were invited to be an Official Selection which means they screened our film and sometimes we get to attend (either in person or via Zoom, I got to do both several times!). But in a few instances we were honored: 

• Winner - Best Short Film - California Women Film Festival 2025
• Best Score - Cinema Odyssey Film Awards 2024
• Best Editing - Paris Women CineFest 2024
• Festival Favorite - Cinema Diverse Palm Springs LGBTQ+ Film Festival 2024
• Finalist - FusionFilm International Film Festival 2024
• Honorable Mention - Hollywood New Directors 2024

And I say we because no part of making this film was done alone. I couldn’t have done my very first bit which was think of an idea if Ayelette and Alya hadn’t wanted to make something they could act in and invited me to work with them. I would have had nothing to direct if the four actresses hadn't shown up on set and gotten ready with the help of our hair and makeup woman. We wouldn’t have had set dressing or flowers or leaves in the pool in August if not for our art department and production assistants. And on and on and on! We had a total of 17 people who worked on this film in one way or another, from doing an ice run on a hot afternoon to Zooming in from the other side of the country to talk sound cues. 

Recently I heard a big time screenwriter talk about how when he goes back and watches his work, or reads his words, he doesn't remember having done the work. He doesn't remember characters, he doesn't remember plots, he is completely amazed that the story came from him, and I get that. I recently re-read a script I loved that I wrote a decade ago and enjoyed learning what happened next every time I turned the page. But for now, right now, I cannot do anything but run Laughing Again through my brain. 

Each character is a part of me. Each beat is my beat. Every contradiction and conflict is one I own and feel deeply. Because for the past few years, every day I have thought about this story. 

And now the world finally gets to think about it too. 

Thoughts on Lent

Today was my assigned day for the Lenten devotional for Hollywood UMC: 

Joel 2:13

Return to the Lord, your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. 

 

When I opened my student bible to read more about today’s passage I chuckled to myself as I read the introduction to the book of Joel: The Meaning of a Natural Disaster. It seems as if our city, our country, and our world have been trying to understand the meaning of natural disaster A LOT lately and apparently that’s not a new thing.

 

The book of Joel begins with a description of a locust plague, which honestly, sounds horrific. It also sounds a bit like a fire: ruined land, no more food, no more homes…all of us in Los Angeles know all too well about such devastation. And then in the second chapter Joel talks about how God didn’t need outward expressions of grief or anguish from His children at times like these. Instead, He sought their broken hearts, inward expressions of desire for healing, in order to share His love with them. And this passage reminds us that He seeks us out today, in the midst of the chaos, in the midst of the turmoil, in the midst of literal fire, for that same reason. He wants us to come back to Him for healing because He loves us. 

 

It can be incredibly difficult to remember exactly that when we are deep in the middle of disaster. But it’s then that we need to remember it the most. And there has never been a better time to return to our God then right now, in this season of Lent, when we may be feeling the chaos more than ever. He is always there for us. Always, regardless of the fires burning around us. He is love, He is light, He is the blue skies, the rainbows, the healing we so desire. And all we have to do is remember that. 

 

Taken in February from Club Cleon's front yard: 
A rainbow peaked out as the sun set over Los Angeles

Mary, our Santa Monica Grandma

I have so many memories of being a child and then later a teenager and talking on the phone. The actual house phone. What we refer to nowadays as the landline. The one that had a curly cord attached to it that stretched the length of the kitchen. Or the one that had a rotary dial. Or eventually the cordless behemoth that had a pull-up antenna and sometimes patched itself into the neighbors' line (true story, we were hackers before we'd ever heard the word!). 

But I don't have a lot of memories of talking on the phone to my friends. When I was younger my friends and I talked at school, on the way home from school (walking, the bus, in the back of the Astro minivan every parent seemed to have at one point or another), or when we were actually hanging out at sleepovers or on movie dates. The memories I have of talking on the phone are of spending time with my grandmothers. Both my Grandma Boutell and my Grandma MacDonald, but mostly Grandma Boutell. 

She lived just up the road, sometimes down the road, or a few blocks over depending on what year it was and whether they were at the farm, on Preston Road, in the ground-floor apartment of the tiny high-rise in Howell or in the the cute little house by the hospital. (Grandma and Grandpa Boutell moved A LOT). Yes, we spent a lot of time with both grandmothers, yes they'd pick us up or we'd get dropped off and spend hours, nights or sometimes long weekends with them, but also, we talked on the phone all the time. 

I'd call Grandma Boutell after school and fill her in on the day. She'd tell me stories of work or friends or her soap opera. And it never seemed special or important or particularly note-worthy. But looking back, it was all of those things, because it was a connection. An important one. 

Mary Bremier

I was thinking about these connections the other day as I was thinking about Mary. Our Santa Monica grandma. When we first moved to Los Angeles, Mary lived in a duplex she owned directly across Abbey Place from us. Close enough to us that we could see her in her front window and hear her light blue car when it chugged into the driveway. She was so proud of that duplex. That she'd bought it by herself when it was cheap (by LA standards) and fixed it up over the years. Mary became one of my lifelines in Los Angeles, one of my very first connections. And since she was best friends with Betty next door, our other Los Angeles grandma, Angela and I had two wonderful women looking out for us. 

Mary & I

And look out they did. Bagels on our door after early morning runs to the farmers market, fresh flowers from their gardens when we returned home from trips, check-ins and favors and lunches and shared leftovers and community. Mary was the first person to take me to the LA Symphony downtown. She made us join her passion project, the MidCity Neighborhood Watch, and groomed us to take over because she'd been doing it since the 90s. And we were heartbroken when she decided it was time to cash in on the real estate market's success and sell her duplex and move to an apartment on the west side. 

But we never lost touch. In fact, our visits and communication became more intentional, on both sides. We arranged doctor's appointments and trips to Santa Monica around stopping at her apartment for tea and snacks. We discovered new restaurants on that side of town that she was excited to introduce us to. And she would stop in when she'd get back our way, I was always excited to see that light blue car pull into our driveway. 

So last year, exactly one year ago today, when Mary called us in the evening, the day before Thanksgiving, we gladly turned off the television and talked with her for over an hour. She was in an assisted living facility at this point, still by the water, just a few blocks from her Santa Monica apartment. She'd had some health scares and we'd had many phone calls over the past few years from her hospital bed or her rehab facility. That tends to happen when you're 95 years old. 

Betty, me, Bill, Mary, Jim & Angela - The Abbey Place crew!

Mary & her first published book

But she was a fighter and she always did her rehab and listened to any health guru she could and got herself feeling better and back on her feet. That's just who she was. She was born in 1928, into a large family that didn't make it through the Great Depression unscathed. She lived an amazing life and she was a writer so she wrote all about it. I remember when she first handed me the binder with her memoir manuscript pages in it back on Abbey Place, I couldn't put the book down. What she lived through, what she experienced, and what she did to change her life, to live her life, I can't tell you how much I want everyone to read her story. (You can purchase her book here on Amazon!) She had so many adventures, especially as an older adult, that it was easy to see her as this free spirit. But Mary's spirit was actually broken in two. She'd lost her husband and toddler daughter to a horrific car accident back a million lifetimes ago and that heartache made her the kind of woman who saw people and cared for them. Especially two girls from Michigan who were missing their grandmothers. 

Betty, Angela & Mary (in her Bernie shirt!)

As that call with Mary wrapped up that night in November of last year, she told both Angela and I how much she appreciated our friendship and how much she loved us, how good we'd been to her and how thankful she was for us. We echoed her sentiments right back. It was always in the back of my mind that Mary was only a phone call away, and she'd want to hear all about a new writing project or how school was going (she loved that I was a writer, she'd been writing her whole life after struggling with dyslexia, and had been in the same community college writing class since the early 2000s and she loved that Angela was a teacher as she'd taught in the Los Angeles Unified School District for decades). She'd get heated up over politics and I remember being so tickled when she appeared one day in a Bernie tee shirt! And she was always up for a walk. She spent decades walking with Bill and Betty, sharing their lives every single morning. And she was thrilled to be in Santa Monica now where she could walk the bright and busy streets and ocean paths. 

The last picture of Angela, Mary & I

But once we'd hung up the phone Angela turned to me and said it felt like Mary was saying goodbye. 

And she was. One last phone call was her last gift to us. One last chance to hear her beautiful voice (she wanted to learn how to sing and so began taking opera singing classes in her 90s!) and hear her smile across the phone lines. One last chance to hear her say she loved us and we could tell her we loved her back. 

Mary passed away the very next day. But because it was who she was, and even though she was not well, she took the time that night before to reach out to us, to care for us, to tell us she was worried about her sister who lived in a facility nearby, to ask about our families, to remind us she'd gotten to act in a horror film just the year before and it was coming out, in fact she'd gone to the premiere just a short time before. 

Mary is gone but she's not. And that's why it's taken me a year to process her passing and still not fully come to terms with it. She was a lifeline here for me, a person who needed us (mostly to work on her computer and make sure she was locked in tight at night, that that light blue car was parked at home) and a person who I needed. I spent hours sitting in her living room talking about writing with, a person whose voicemails saved on my phone still make me tear up when I scroll past them. 

Mary receiving an award from the city for her Neighborhood Watch work

Mary will never be gone. Just as my grandmothers will never be gone. I have their memories in my heart. And even though the loss of Mary is so fresh that there are moments where I think, "I should call Mary" forgetting she's not on the other end of the phone, I know that she's with me. She encouraged me to take chances, to write out of my comfort zone (her second published book, in 2022, is a book of poetry and you can buy it here) and to keep going. Sometimes I think about how it's time to stow the writing dream far far away. But then I remember Mary. Who didn't publish her first book until after her 90th birthday. And how proud she was to tell her story. And how important that was to her. And I think about how I have so many more stories left to live and to write.

Mary will never be gone. Because she's with me. She's with everyone who ever met her. And now, she's with her daughter and her husband again. She missed them so, it would break her heart anew every single day. And then mine to hear her talk and write about them. (She could not bring herself to put a photo of either of them in her house until she moved to Santa Monica. When I saw she's hung her daughter's picture on the wall by her new bedroom I cried. To know that much pain and to still be such a light and such a force in this world, is something special.) 

Mary will never be gone. She introduced me to new people and new ideas and she loved Angela and I so much. And I am so thankful for that. Without her, and Betty and Bill, our community here in Los Angeles would have been much less loving. I am so thankful for all the time we had with her. And wish we could have one more cup of tea by the ocean or one more phone call. Instead I will hold close every one of those we did have and remember the connection that meant so much, more so than the time. I will hold Mary close, just as she held all of us close. 

Thank you, Mary. For choosing to care for us. For choosing to love us. We will always love you. 

Dad, Mom, Angela, me & Mary

Have it rejected!

I saw a social media post yesterday (I have no idea where, it had to have been on Twitter or Instagram) by a woman who said she goes in search of rejection. That thought was fascinating to me. I've been thinking about it ever since. 

Going out in search of rejection. 

The thought was terrifying to me at first. But in reality, that's what us writers do. We put out our work, time and time again, constantly, hoping against hope, to just get it read. Whether it's by agents or managers or producers or show runners or anyone who can buy a screenplay or help us sell a manuscript or hire us to staff on a television show. 

We go out in search of rejection.

I have been thinking of this a lot lately as I actively go out in search of rejection. I send my first novel out to agents and await the standard (or once in a blue moon, personalized) rejection letter that reminds me there are so many great things about my manuscript that someone else will surely love it. Every time I mark the rejection down on my Excel spreadsheet (that I hate, writers should not ever have to use Excel spreadsheets) I think to myself, one day I will get to throw this away. I will get to never open it again. It just takes that one yes to blot out the hoards of no I've gotten every day since this endeavor started.  

But I want to be honest about rejection and about the heartache and heartbreak my creative career brings me. I make sure to share all my wins (tiny, minuscule and otherwise) on social media and in real life so I need to make sure I'm also sharing the hard stuff. Recently, I posted about my feature-length screenplay The 23-Year One Night Stand making it from the first round of 15,200 entries to the quarterfinals of 5,499 entries in a contest. Then it made the cut when they chose 252 semifinalists. From over 15,000 screenplays down to just under 300. That made me very happy, and just a little bit impressed with myself. 

This is a script that I have worked on since 2016. The script as it reads today, at draft number 30, is almost nothing like it was when I first typed 'The End' over EIGHT YEARS AGO. Do you know how much I've changed in 8 years? How much you've changed? I cannot begin to describe what this script has gone through. I mean just this year I changed the entire title of the script! BUT...some of the core characters and the main idea are still exactly the same as they were when I first opened a Word document and typed "ideas" at the top. 

And the thought that a few people read this script, just this year, and obviously enjoyed it, made me ecstatic. And then some friends and family members read it and told me how funny it was and how different parts made them feel and what they liked and what they wished they could have seen more of and I thought...that is the direct opposite of rejection. 

But...had I never gone out in search of that rejection in the first place, by putting my script out there, no one new would have read my work, heard my story. And that's the whole point. To get my work out there. And that means going out in search of rejection. 

My script did not make it to the finals of the contest. It did not win as I let myself daydream it might. I let myself feel that sadness and disappointment for a few hours last week as I cleaned the house and sung along with Beyoncé. And then I went back to my desk and clicked over to the new novel I'm working on and got busy. Because I've learned I've got nothing to send out in search of rejection if I don't keep my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keys.

So I'll keep writing. I'll keep sending my manuscripts and screenplays out. I'll keep submitting my short film to festivals (for all of the film festivals we've been accepted into, we've been rejected by dozens more! and the rejections to those keep coming in weekly!). And mostly, I'll just keep reminding myself that all of this rejection is paving the way to something unbelievable. That one YES. 

And that search for that one yes keeps me going. Recently, I've been listening to James Patterson's MasterClass and he reminded me to write a bestseller. Because that's what sells. And so I will...write that bestseller. Because anything less is unacceptable. Rejection is important. Rejection is part of the process. And rejection is something to be proud of. In the words of one of my favorite TV writers (and Twitter friend!) Hart Hanson:

Be proud of every rejection because every rejection is a sign that you've done something fantastic that very few people can do which is make something and have it rejected!

 

Thoughts on Lent

Today was my assigned day for the Lenten devotional for Hollywood UMC: 

Genesis 9:8-17

God said, “This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds….”

 

Growing up it rained a lot where I lived, in Michigan. It rained in every season. Sometimes a cold winter rain, sometimes a warm summer rain, sometimes the rain that seemed to set in and threaten to never end. We had raincoats and umbrellas and we’d put plastic bread wrappers in our boots so they wouldn’t leak. The rain would sometimes turn into ice and the rain would sometimes turn into green grass and tulips. It didn’t matter, we’d go about our business. Rain was a part of every day life. 

 

I now live in Los Angeles and when it rains here, it is an EVENT. People post about it online. Meetings are cancelled. Schools evoke emergency plans. Life is affected in major ways. Rain is extraordinary. But…unlike in Michigan where when the rains end, there’s usually a lot of wet gravel roads and grey days, Los Angeles knows how to shine when the skies clear up. We’re talking white puffy clouds in the blue horizon, shiny fresh pavement, and yes, often rainbows.

 

This passage in Genesis, the very beginning of the story, made me think about those rainbows after the rains in Los Angeles. And about Noah’s hope and his faith. He trusted God enough to do something that many might see as…well…a little bit bananas. He built an ark. And he followed God’s directions. But…that hope and that faith paid off in the form of a covenant, a rainbow. 

So many of us are waiting for those rains to clear, for the waters to subside, just like Noah was. And because we have this reminder from God himself, we know that our hope and our faith will be rewarded. The rainbow will appear. It might be faint, it might be tiny, some days it might even be far off in the distance. But we trust and know that it will appear. We know God keeps his promises. And we hold that belief close when it rains. 

 

Dear Lord – Thank you for such a visual, beautiful, reminder of your covenant. And for reminding us that it is for every single living creature on this earth. 🌈

My Advent Devotion

Wednesday, December 20, 2023

Isaiah 9:2

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

 

I’ve been thinking about how darkness has really settled into our bones as a society. For some, it started back in 2015. For others, years or decades or even centuries before that. A sense that there’s a cloud over everything, and it only intensified in 2020. That darkness seems to bear down even more harshly with every senseless act of violence or hatred or misogyny or ignorance. It covers us as a whole and as individuals. Rents go up, prices go up, wages stagnate, homes are lost, dreams are dashed. Life or death moments are literal states of life for so many. It’s sometimes hard to see light anywhere. 

 

But then we do. We, the people who walked in the darkness, we see it. Not all at once, sometimes barely enough to allow it to register. But we do. We experience it. We get a kind word from a stranger on the street. We get a hug from a loved one. We go the extra mile and it’s noticed. We taste our favorite flavor. We see a flower growing up through the cement in a parking lot. We take in a movie with friends and laugh and cry and smile on the way out. We get a Facetime call from a toddler. We realize a prayer we couldn’t even verbalize has been answered. We see the pink in the sky near the end of the day. We feel the Christmas spirit creeping in through tinsel and holiday lights and inflatable snowmen. That is the light. Those things are all the light.

 

And the reminder in the next part of these verses in Isaiah chapter nine is that a child will be born. And light will find us all through Him, because of Him. The baby is the reminder. The baby is the hope. The baby is the light. He will be laid in a manger, and we’ll sing songs about Him in our car and in the grocery store and, if we’re lucky, surrounded by people we love, and He’ll light the way because HE IS THE LIGHT. It’s so easy to forget that. It’s so easy to push that aside. But it matters. Despite all of the darkness we have seen, and continue to experience, as people of faith, we see the light, we experience the light, we love the light, we are the light. Because the light has shined upon us. We’re the lucky ones. We know what’s coming. And we get to share our light with others. And I hope you get to do that this season. 

 

Prayer:

Dear Lord, may we all get to feel your light this advent season. May we feel warmed and loved and lightened just enough to remember what you have promised and what is to come. Amen.