In love with Christmas

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

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.

My day in pictures

Yesterday Angela came home from work, where she teaches art to middle school students, and asked me what I did all day. So I showed her the dining room table where I'd set up my desk. (It has become winter in Los Angeles and the rain had set in so I needed to move closer to the lone heating vent in the house.) She was intrigued by my colored highlighters and all the little charts I'd constructed.

What I'd been doing yesterday, and what I continued today and will hopefully finish tomorrow is rewriting my Bones spec script. I had a solid second draft that needed to be put through the paces. Basically I needed to know if it met some of the television writing "rules" I'd been taught, if my plot was believable and if my "B" story and "C" story got enough screen time. So I made a big four-page outline. Then I made a plot diagram. Then I made a color chart to determine visually where I needed to put more "story". These are all tricks of the trade I've learned from classes and books and morphed into my own way of doing things. I'm a writer who needs to see things written out, sometimes it just gets to be too much in my own head so I write it down.

So here's a few snapshots of my work from the past two days. I once read or heard someone say we should take pictures not just of the special occasions and the big moments in life but also of the every day, of our homes and our regular lives. So here's my work day, here's what a television show looks like long before you ever see it in your living room:

xxxxx Something concrete xxxxx

I spent a great deal of this weekend cross-stitching. Yep, cross-stitching. I'm working on a project I can't even remember buying. I pulled it out of the closet last week and found I'd done a tiny bit and then abandoned the project. So I decided to get to work. And work I have. I'd estimate that I'll be close to finished by the time we finish the third season of Mad Men we're watching!

But as I was sitting there stitching yesterday Angela asked me a question. She wanted to know if I enjoyed doing it or if it was something I felt I had to do. I told her I did feel like it allowed me to "be lazy" and watch TV but that I also liked the sense of accomplishment I felt when I finished a project, or even a row of stitches.

Every day I get up and think about writing. Some days I write, other days I just think (I know, I know, I should write every day but whatever, no one does. And if they do I say they have problems, namely nothing else to enjoy in life). For me writing is a job. And for a lot of people they see results at the end of the job. They see a ditch dug or a person put back together or a grade on a test. But for me, I rarely see solid results. So much of what I do on a daily basis happens in my head. It's all me. Sure it's the paper and the computer but it's not terribly concrete. And I know, God willing, when I sell a script, it won't ever look like it did when it left my hands. It will change, it will never be finished.

But cross-stitch is something I can finish. I can do the french knots, I can finish up all the red stitches. I can frame it and put it up on a wall. I can give it as a gift. And I derive tremendous pleasure from that. From knowing something concrete has been accomplished.

Now the only problem is I'm running out of people to give things too!

I did it.

Before every golf match in high school I would get physically ill. Yep, every single time. I would be miserable. Riding the bus to the match, waiting for my turn to tee off, teeing off (don't even get me going on the day I whiffed in front of EVERYONE in Ann Arbor), all of it made me physically sick. Needless to say I don't like to put myself into stressful situations.

So why'd I choose a career in screenwriting? The NBA of the writing field? Because it's what I want to do. It's what I have to do. It's what I do for hour upon hour upon hour late at night, early in the morning, when I could be doing something, anything, else.

I say all this to announce something very stressful -- I have finished my latest screenplay. Yeah, yeah, I know, a script is never done, not even once it's shot and up on the screen. But I'm done for now. I wrote a blog back in March about getting the idea and first sharing it with a friend. And now, over eight and a half months later, I'm done. There's a stack of pages eight inches tall next to my computer (I measured) that indicates drafts done and rewritten in just the past few weeks. There are countless drafts on my external hard drive. But now it all comes down to one neatly bound (with three brads, yes, I know, there's synergy to those three brads) stack of 94 pages. Ninety-four pages that are basically me, standing naked, in front of the entire world.

Tomorrow Ang is going to take my screenplay to a co-worker who's husband is a retired agent. This wonderful co-worker insisted Angela bring it to her upon hearing that I was a screenwriter. So tomorrow I will stand naked in front of the world. I will bare my soul, my hard work, my brain, my creativity, my being, a good portion of my life for the past year to this stranger. And I cannot express to you what this feels like.

I am rational in realizing nothing may come of it. John Grisham had hundreds of rejections before getting published, yeah I know the stories. I know the odds are so not in my favor. But the fact is this: I wrote a screenplay. I didn't just talk about it like everyone in this town does. I didn't start it and never get back around to it. I wrote it. And then I rewrote it. And then I picked at the scabs and made it bleed and wrote it again.

And now I am done with it. I have to be. I have to move on and finish a "shitty first draft" (God bless you Anne Lamott) of my TV spec for class. I have to delve into this huge black binder containing my novel that I've been stubbing my toe on since I finished that first draft last December. And I have to start work on my next screenplay. Yep, that's write. Tomorrow I'll put away all my papers and notes and scribblings about "Operation Gold Digger" and I'll open up to the musings on several new ideas I've been playing with. And I'll begin again. All over again.

Turning the music up and the world down

Music has always been a big big part of my life. I can remember listening to eight tracks in our red car when I was little, and in the stereo that my dad finally sold a few years back at a garage sale...to my grandma who now has it in her basement. I missed the record generation but I had my share of cassette tapes. I still remember the first tape I bought on my own - Whitney Houston's Whitney. I loved that album. I now own it on CD.

There was Madonna and Bon Jovi and Tiffany and New Kids on the Block and all those really great, horrible late 80s early 90s groups like Color Me Badd and Kris Kross (Gonna Make You Jump, Jump!). I remember passing around the lyrics to Papa Don't Preach in a portable at Northwest Elementary School like it was the biggest contraband around.

And then of course, there was Michael Jackson. I remember hearing Beat It for one of the first times in my friend Sandy's room. She was older than me, our families' were friends and she was cool. Michael Jackson was cool. And I was reminded of that this weekend when Angela and I went to see This is It! - the concert documentary. I was immediately transported back to my childhood and just hearing those first few chords made my feet tap and my shoulders start to move. That music is a part of me. I came home and bought twelve Michael Jackson songs on iTunes Saturday night and have listened to them over and over all day.

And yet I go through stages with music. For the last year or so it hasn't been a large part of my life. In high school I was in choir and there was music everywhere. For a time in college, when I lived in a room with two other girls and barely had a mattress to call my own I played music all day at work, pounding the songs into my being. Jennifer Knapp's Kansas will forever be a part of my soul. Right now, it's silent in my room and yet I can hear the first song as clear as if the stereo were on.

I love country music, pop music, rock music, showtunes, even rap. I know the words to Kanye West and Eminem songs. I know every verse to more hymns than I can count. I love Billy Joel and Barenaked Ladies and obsure songs I get for free off the Internet. I listen to songs over and over again until I know all the words. And this summer that happened again. It started with a song from the Fox TV show Glee. And then another song and another and before I knew it I was listening to music again, all the time. Loudly, iPod plugged into the speakers, blaring through the house. I hope my neighbors loved it.

And then something else happened. I discovered this little known singer songwriter who I had been all but oblivious to until this spring: John Mayer. Yeah, I know, where I have been for the last ten years or so. Apparently not listening to John Mayer records. But suddenly I couldn't stop listening to his first studio release. I played it every day on my commute to my internship. I played it as I ate lunch in my car and then drove around the block and back in the parking garage. I listened to it until I knew the words and the chords and the stories. And then I bought two more of his CDs. And I've listened to them for a few weeks straight now.

It occurred to me, the other day, as I sat in Starbucks, trying to write, loud music blaring, that music helps me. I knew this a while ago, I don't know how I'd forgotten it but I had. While writing most of my novel I listened to the Garden State soundtrack (I adore soundtracks, and I buy them, all kinds of them!). It's the most played CD on my iTunes account, by far. Those songs have become white noise to me. I know them so well that I can use them to block out the world and focus on the project at hand. I'm now doing that with John Mayer's work. Or, while I'm writing my Bones spec, the Bones soundtrack.

I remember once, asking a new acquaintance what type of music he liked and he said he didn't really like music and I thought that was so strange. There had to be something. Yo-Yo Ma, the Beatles, Johnny Cash (just some of my faves), somebody, anybody. But no, he wasn't a fan of music in general. And I remember thinking how sad. Without music I think life gets too loud.

A view askew night

Saturday night Angela and I ventured downtown L.A. to the Orpheum theater - a beautiful, very ornate old building with surprisingly easy to find parking. We went to see Kevin Smith on stage for one of his Q & A shows. We'd gotten the tickets in June, a birthday gift from my parents, and we had second row center (yet on an aisle!) seats. We were excited.

Kevin Smith, for those of you who don't know, is a screenwriter, director and actor. He made his first movie, Clerks, in 1994 in the convenience store where he worked. His films are known for their fast-paced dialogue, for introducing the world to Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, for being completely past the line of taste at time, and most of all for being funny.

I first discovered Kevin Smith in college, when his movie Dogma came out. It the film Smith skewers the Catholic church and religion as a whole. But he does it in only the way a lifelong Catholic could do and get away with it. And there's a poop monster in the movie. You have to see it to understand. And laugh. But anyway, I was told by some friends that Dogma probably wasn't the movie for me seeings how I was very active in church and a person of strong faith. I shrugged and said okay. Then I saw it for myself. And loved it.

So fast forward over ten years. Kevin's made a bunch more movies, written blogs, produced hundreds of hours of podcasts and I've been a loyal fan all along. So Saturday, getting to sit and listen to this master storyteller talk about working with George Carlin and Bruce Willis and ordering eight hundred dollars of food online was just pure enjoyment. It was also very cool to sit mere feet across the aisle from Jason Mewes, one of Kevin's best friends and fellow actor in all his movies, and to see his wife in the balcony laugh along with stories she's probably okay with never hearing again.

It was just such a unique experience. And one I'm still amazed I had. Especially that I had it so easily. It took us twenty minutes to drive downtown (and there was a lot of traffic and an out light!) and we were there. Back as a college student at Olivet seeing a Kevin Smith movie for the first time I never would have dreamed I'd arrive the point in my life where one night in October I'd get to drive a few miles and sit right in front of the man who wrote all these movies that have entertained me countless times. So thanks Mom and Dad, for giving me one of the best birthday presents yet!

Workin' on my slapshot

I envy those people who go to work and do a job and at the end of the day have tangible results. Maybe it's receipts of items sold. Maybe it's a harvest. Maybe it's grades earned by students. Maybe it's patients cared for. Maybe it's widgets made.

When I go to work (and I'm not talking teaching here, I consider that one job, and I consider writing another job) and do my job I rarely have tangible results. I feel a little like what the philosophers must have felt like back in the day. If you watch The Big Bang Theory (and you really really should if you don't) you'll remember the sequence in this week's episode where Sheldon and Raj worked - basically they stood around and stared at equations for days on end. That's often what I do.

I've been working on my current screenplay since February. Technically, if you count the Final Draft document files, I'm on draft eight. But in reality, this draft is probably somewhere in the hundreds. I write and I change and I move and I rewrite. And then often I sit and stare. I did that for a good portion of today.

I have a good draft done. Angela thinks it's good. I think it's the best yet. People ask me when I'm going to send it out to producers and managers and anyone who'll accept an email attachment. And I stop dead in my tracks. It's not ready to go out yet. Not at all.

I'm not one of those people who thinks her work is precious. I know it is. It's precious to me. But I also know it's not sacred. I know that once I put it out into the world it is no longer my own. That begins when I show it to a friend or family member to read. That begins the second the words print out of the printer. Communication is as much about the receiver as it is the sender. It's not all about how I intend the message, it's about how you receive it.

So I have this draft. This draft that has taken almost eight months to come into being. This draft that changed quite a bit after a hard core plot session with Angela on Saturday afternoon. This draft that has jokes I love and is missing jokes I adore. This draft is good but not excellent.

So today I made a note card for every single scene in my film. I charted the entire plot. I wrote fifteen incantations of a logline before I came up with a simple sentence that defines my story. I went over notes from a whole year of study at UCLA. I went over notes from books and reels of movies stored in my mind.

And I realized two things. One, I have some work to do. But two, I can do it. Am I scared? Of course. Out of my mind. I cannot imagine sending someone my screenplay, these characters I have birthed, this world I have created, these words I have agonized over, and have them rip it to shreds. I cannot imagine having someone reject it as I know it will be. But I've also realized something else. I have to do this. I have to because it's my job. It's me.

I don't get paid to sit and stare at note cards for six hours on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. I don't get paid to come up with countless spec ideas for an episode of Bones. Yes, there are people who do get paid to do these things and I pray that one day, I will be among that group but guess what? I do it already, for free, because I have to. It's who I am. It's what I am.

Every time I think about giving up or wishing it was easier I think about athletes who spend countless hours training to get where they are. That's what I'm doing. I'm training. I'm trying to make my game the best it can be before I get in front of all those scouts. Because no one's going to pick me if I can't make free throws or get the puck to the net. And I really really really wanna be picked.

Blessings in no particular order

One of the nicest parts about my parents' retirement for me has been the opportunity to have conversations with them during the day. See, I work from home, so I have a flexible schedule. Sometimes this means I can take my sister's car into the garage for repairs (as I did today), volunteer at church (as I did Tuesday) or even work, as I do most days. But I also get to sneak in some quality phone time, something I've been doing lately with my parents who are back home in the eastern time zone.

And today as I was talking with my mom I realized something. I realized that I am blessed. I am so blessed. My whole family is really. But mostly me. I have parents who have loved and cared for me and still worry and care for me almost thirty-two years later. I have a host of people back home, and all around the world literally, who care for me. And I'm well. I can work. I can go out with friends. I have a house and food in the cupboards and heat and clothing and all that stuff one needs to live a normal life.

But mostly I am well. And I take that for granted too much of the time. Sure I've had a touch of the flu this week but who hasn't. And I thought about it as I was eating the eggs and toast Angela made me for dinner tonight as I laid on the couch. I'm okay. I'm going to be okay.

Because there are people who aren't. There are people in my life who might not be. And that breaks my heart. It breaks my heart to know that someone I love so dearly, someone who helped raise me, is hurting, isn't well. And I need to be thankful for what I have.

So here's my top ten list today. The things are I am thankful for on this Friday in October (in no particular order):
10. My parents and Angela.
9. My fingers that help connect what my brain says to the paper in front of me so I can do my job and write.
8. People who've known me only 365 days yet think I'm someone they should invest in. And that they went ahead and gave me a scholarship to prove it.
7. The Internet. It keeps me connected (sometimes, a little too frequently) to the outside world, to my family and friends, to people.
6. Warm blankets on my bed and windows that keep the wind out.
5. Legs and arms to carry me to the grocery store and lift all the packages that will sustain me through the week.
4. God. Even though we don't talk as often as we probably should, I know he listens when I whisper my pleas. I know he cares. And I know he loves me.
3. My hair. I really like my hair and I'm thankful it's full and pretty and getting long. Yeah, so what. I'm thankful for it.
2. My job. I make just enough to live on and that's really all I need, all anyone needs.
1. The past thirty-one years. For every single thing, event, person that's touched me. For all the good and the bad. It's brought me here, to this moment. And I wouldn't change a second of it.

Happy 96th Birthday Grandma

Today would have been my Great Grandma Ruth's 96th birthday. All month I've been looking at her name on my calendar. I'm a card sender and I kept feeling the need to send her card out. But I can't because she passed away in January. I also still have her number in my cell phone and I still remember the last time she called me. I loved that she called in the evening, late in Michigan but early here, because we'd be home. She'd tell me the same story about growing up in Yorba Linda, California and living just down the street from the boy who would become President Richard Nixon every single time we talked. She called more after I moved to California, I think she liked that I was here where she grew up.
These pictures are of a beautiful glass serving tray I bought in June. Grandma always gave presents on holidays, it didn't matter that she didn't have a lot of money, that she was the one who introduced us to government cheese when we were little, she liked to shop and it showed. And once I left home and got a place of my own my gifts changed from shirts and wallets to things for my house. I have a beautiful crystal bowl that I adore. A chip and dip server that comes in handy. Vases and candy dishes and just all sorts of things that are practical but really very nice. She had a sense of style about her.

This past fall grandma had to be moved permanently into a nursing home. She had lived alone for as long as I had known her, my great grandfather died the year I was born, and even though she didn't drive she managed to travel and go out to eat and was really never at home. She had wonderful friends and lived in a nice apartment steps from my grandparents' home. But she was getting older and had some health problems and it was time. So this was the first Christmas we spent without grandma at the table. But we went to visit her a lot over the few weeks I was in Michigan. We took her things for her room, Christmas gifts (she loved yogurt covered pretzels and crossword puzzles), and just sat and listened to her tell the same stories over and over again. But then the day before I was to fly back to California we noticed a change. She was agitated and didn't understand at all why she was there. She wanted to walk and couldn't and it wasn't going well. I left her that day with a hug, a kiss and a heavy heart.

Angela and I flew into LAX late on a Friday night. Saturday morning the phone rang before sunrise. Grandma had passed away. And as I moved through that day, that weekend, that week, very numb I thought about how it was really for the best. She was a free spirit. She missed her home and her life and what she'd been reduced to was not what she had wanted. So she went somewhere better. Someplace where she could be with her beloved Kenneth, have a kitten and gamble the day away.

This glass tray is what I bought with the money I got in my last Christmas card from grandma. I hemmed and hawed over the purchase for six months until Angela grew very aggravated with me. It was only ten dollars but to me it was so much more. I'd look for that perfect thing to spend the money on everywhere we went and I went back to Crate & Barrel several times to look at this piece. It wasn't until my parents visited this summer that we talked and I finally made the decision. It was also then when my mom brought the roses that sit on the tray. They're roses from the arrangement that we sent to grandma's funeral. The funeral I couldn't attend.

It broke my heart knowing I couldn't go back to the funeral. We'd literally just gotten home and the thousand dollars it would cost just wasn't there. But I took comfort in the fact that we'd spent so much time with her at Christmas. That I'd actually hugged and kissed her goodbye instead of just looking at a wooden box.

When my parents visited they not only brought the roses but several other mementos my mom had saved for us. Angela and I both got a cross necklace and a cat figurine (grandma loved cats but couldn't have one). There's a small dish for rings that sits on the kitchen sink window sill that reminds me of her every day and a wooden cross above a bookshelf that keeps watch over the house.

So happy birthday grandma, I know that today you're wearing one of your favorite sweatshirts, watching your programs, working on a crossword puzzle, sneaking a piece of chocolate and enjoying the freedom you deserve. I love you.

Turning on the TV within me

Last Tuesday I headed west again, onto UCLA's campus. Yes, I left early and no, there wasn't traffic so I ended up sitting in the classroom with a good forty minutes to spare before class started. But I didn't care. I was excited. I was ready. And I was terrified.

See this fall I'm taking a course on "Writing the One-Hour Television Drama". For the last year and change I've been studying feature film screenplays and using television for my escapism, purely for fun. I study every movie I watch for the three act breaks, the cute meet, the big gloom, the characters, the everything. I can't turn it off. I read screenplays so I know what happens in most movies before I pay to see them. I watch them over to understand how they work. And now I get to do that with TV.

It must be the same though, right? you say. A little bit so but then completely different. Four one thing TV has a whole extra act in it, and the thing at the beginning, the teaser. Also, each week (at least for most non-premium cable shows) you have to reintroduce the characters and the main idea of the show for the new viewers. Because you pray each week you have new viewers. So it's different.

What else? Oh, let's see, the fact that I have to write in someone else's voice. I have to use already well established characters and plot devices and settings. It's a little more like mimicry than actual creation. It's basically a whole new skill set.

So back to class. I found out that we'll be dissecting shows each week, writing our own beat sheets (detailed outlines) of them, and then working on our own spec scripts. A spec script is a TV writer's calling card. It's what's used to say, "Hey, I can write X on CBS just as well as their writers and I could do the same for you at NBC." A spec will never be read by the show it's written for but it'll hopefully be read by agents and others who could give me a job. So it needs to be good. And written as if it could be shot which means it has to sound just like a X script and has to be something they've never done. No small feat. Especially when some of the shows we're looking at specing are 80 shows in.

In class we've started breaking down The Mentalist. I've never seen it but don't worry, soon enough I'll be an expert in all things Simon Baker and company. Then we had to pick our show to spec from a list. I chose Bones for two reasons. One, I've seen every episode, many times over in repeats, and two, I like that it mixes comedy and relationships with the crime procedural format.

So what's next? Well, I've spent the last week brainstorming ideas. And this is where I start to freak out. What do I know about crimes and murder and forensic anthropology? Not much. And that I do know? I've learned from Bones and CSI and NCIS and all those other crime shows.

So yesterday Angela and I spent a few hours in Barnes & Noble pouring through the true crime and criminology section. (Patrons walking by were probably very scared, especially when I got all excited about what fire does to a person's cranium!) I made a lot of notes, things I hadn't heard of before, and started formulating ideas.

My teacher told the story last week about how he pitched over 100 ideas to two producers before getting his first writing assignment on a television show. Tomorrow night I have to pitch 4 and then pick one. Right now I have 2 very loose ideas. They're basically sentences. But they're mine. And they're what I've got so far so I'll forge ahead.

What I'm noticing already is how much I like the brainstorming process, the idea of learning about new things. I've always said I wanted to be a writer so I could do a million jobs: be a politician, a movie star, a lawyer, a cook, a parent, anything and everything. And right now I'm getting to be a forensic anthropologist and a special agent in the FBI.

Also, if you have any ideas you wouldn't mind me stealing, send away. By tomorrow at 6:30 nothing will seem to out there!

A very nice by-product

For the past four nights I've been out and about in Los Angeles. Three movies and last night a Dodgers game (my first Dodgers game mind you). I had a great time at each and every event. Tuesday Angela and I saw a free sneak preview of the movie The Informant! starring Matt Damon. Then on Wednesday I went to the Hollywood premiere of Jennifer's Body with a friend. This was something because it was my first time inside Graumman's Chinese Theater (which has hosted the Oscars and beautiful inside) and it was my first time see a horror movie in a theater. And frankly, I haven't seen many outside the theater either. And then on Thursday Angela and I went to a free sneak preview of the movie Love Happens starring Jennifer Aniston.

But you know what made each night, each event, much more enjoyable than I would have ever imagined? The people. The conversation. The fact that I had to slow down, step away from work and writing and life for a few minutes (in the case of the movies, a few hours) and just wait. And each time I got to wait with friends.

Angela and I met Daniela through our friend Emily, at the Big Bang Theory taping. She arranged for our tickets, got us to the front of the line, and got us awesome seats in the studio. Since then we've communicated via Twitter here and there. Then Tuesday who's right in front of us in line at the ArcLight but Daniela! It was great. See to get into these free movie screenings you have to stand in line. It's first come first serve. We've figured out if the movie starts at 7:30 we'd better be in line about 5:15. Sometimes Ang and I take a book or magazines but usually you're standing and moving and it's hard to concentrate. So it was great to run into Daniela, and her friend Eric, because now we had someone to talk to for 2+ hours! How fun!

Then on Wednesday was the horror movie that Angela refused to attend, frankly she's freaked out by the commercials for the movie. So I asked my friend Angela Garber to go with me. And the best part of the night (though the movie was really really good!) was getting to spend a big chunk of it talking with Angela. We've spent a lot of time together over the past year but we're usually in church, volunteering for this or that, or surrounded by our throng of mutual friends. And it was very cool to get to hang out with her one-on-one for a while and just chat.

Same goes for Thursday even though it was just Angela (my sister again, she was excited for this movie) and me. We ate dinner in line at the theater in Burbank and it was nice to hear all about her day and her week at school. A lot of the time we eat in front of the television but this was a nice change of pace.

And that brings me to yesterday, to Dodger Day.

We had fun, though it was a bit more stressful than I anticipated, going to a major league ball game by ourselves. We found the stadium fine but parking was a nightmare and we ended up on the opposite side of the stadium from our seats (and they won't let you in the wrong entrance) but we did eventually find out friends. And enjoyed talking and laughing for a while. Yes, I wore my Detroit Tigers hat but yes I cheered for the home team too. We watched some of our friends form a human red AIDS ribbon on the field (it was Strike Out AIDS night, thus the group discounts), we watched some ho-hum baseball (they were tied when we left, ended up losing), we watched our friend Pauley take picture after picture with fans and sign count autographs, and then we left early. But it was fun. And it was very cool to see the view from the parking lot: Los Angeles at night.

All in all, I have to say, the best part of the week was the by-product of each night's activity: the conversations. Sometimes, when I sit alone at my computer for hours and days on end, I forget that that's really what life's about.

Art class

Yesterday was Angela's first day back at work and since it was a non-student day, I went with her. We loaded up the car with the few boxes she had narrowed her stash to, and her laptop/projector cart and away we went. And of course, immediately, she found out she was required to attend the staff meeting at 8am. Had she been invited or informed of this before? No. So off she went. And there I was, car full of stuff. So I went in search of her new room.

It wasn't hard to find, it was directly across the hall from her old room. Once I got inside I stopped. It was overflowing with stuff. And it was dark and musty. And to top it all off, every visible surface was covered in rat poop. Not mice poop but big, gross rat terds.

But you know what? It didn't matter. It was Angela's new classroom. It was where she'd do her thing, teach her kids and spend a good potion of every school day for the foreseeable future. So I got to work. I found the head janitor and asked for all the trash bags he had and that he call the exterminator. (Mouse traps and ant traps are against LAUSD policy, go figure, rat poop and ants are apparently not.) I turned up the AC, opened all the blinds (she has a beautiful view of the skyline and palm trees) and went to work.

The art teacher before Angela retired in June. She didn't tell anyone she was going, just the principal on the last day I guess, and walked out. She left everything behind. Can you imagine doing this at your place of work? At a house you are vacating? It's insane but is apparently protocol for most teachers. Because every time Ang has moved into a new classroom we've had to clean it out. (Lucky for me I had only one classroom in my tenure as a seventh grade teacher and the teacher before me in there was Angela!)

But this teacher had been around for a hundred years or so and was a hoarder. No, she didn't just keep a few old papers and mementos. She could qualify for an Oprah exclusive. Stacks of paper and posterboard five foot high, never been used. Gallons of rubber cement. Eleven staplers, most not in working order. About forty rolls of masking tape. Hundreds of pencils. Boxes of brand new colored pencils, crayons, pastels. More sticky notes and paper clips and razor blades and compasses than Staples has in stock. And that was just some of the good stuff.

We filled up two boxes and a bag and set on down the hall like Santa Claus. We shared the wealth and then took the rest to the school office's supply closet. It was ridiculous. But then there was the cupboard of fabric that was home to some of the lovely rats. Angela bravely pulled on gloves and went to work in there. And remember -- this was all for sub pay. Several teachers stopped to gawk throughout the day and some even cautioned her not to do too much as she might have to move classrooms and she wasn't being treated fairly. To that we continually reminded people that rat poop is gross and unhealthy. Who wants to work in a place like that for even a day? Who wants to see kids sit amidst that?

So we kept cleaning. I doused everything in 409 and we filled the hallway with trash. And more trash. And more. That teacher had never thrown out a used eraser or greeting card. But amidst the trash we found something cool: art supplies. We found almost everything on Ang's list, including hundreds of pipe cleaners in every color for the mobiles. Felt and construction paper for the collages. Trays for the water colors. Charcoal for the sketches. It was fantastic. The sad part is that past art students didn't get to use any of the supplies (from what I could tell - they mostly did word searches. I tossed thousands of copies of word searches, literally). The exciting part is Ang's students are gonna use them all up!

When we left last night after nine hours the room looked good. We'd moved tables around, collected chairs (her biggest class has 48 students!), laid out supplies for this week, and things weren't sparkling but they were certainly better. And today, as she left for her sixth first day of seventh grade, she said she was excited not nervous. And I think that's gotta count for something!

Because it's what she does

When we came home from Michigan this summer Angela made the decision to go empty out her classroom. She's been assured by her principal at the end of the school year in June that this wasn't necessary. She'd have a job come September. Well, August was here and she hadn't heard a peep. She hadn't heard from the principal or her union or anyone. The secretary at the school said that it looked like she'd be hired as a permanent substitute teacher but as much as we both adore the secretary at her school, she's not the one who signs contracts or makes decisions. So she went to pack up.

So she went. She wasn't there twenty minutes when she called me in tears. Then she came home for lunch that day and hemmed and hawed and didn't go back. And didn't go back. And cried again. And then I asked her if she needed me to go back with her and she did. So I went. We packed and cleaned and admired the newly waxed floors she wouldn't be walking come fall. I sang songs, loudly, as I carried stuff to my car -- songs I made up about how LAUSD stinks and songs about unemployment and respect. I had a good blues ditty going for a minute.

These pictures are just snapshots of what makes Angela one of the best teachers I have ever known. And I know a lot. Working in different public schools for over four years, having gone through public school as a student, and college, and grad school and now teaching college myself for seven years I know a thing or two about good teachers. Angela is one of them.

This is a box of books that won't get read this year. It'll sit in our garage, in a nice expensive tub we bought to ward off moisture, in the hopes that maybe next year they'll get used. Here's what LAUSD has decided instead:

They have an awesome teacher. A teacher who has a full teaching credential in Michigan (preschool through eighth grade, yep, she went to college a semester longer to get her early childhood endorsement so she'd be extra prepared, extra smart), and in Arizona, and a provisional credential in California for several more years. A teacher who spent a lot of money, time and effort last year to go through the National Board process to become nationally certified. To become nationally certified means you have a full credential in 48 states. It's a big freakin' deal. She had to take tests, create a portfolio, go to classes, etc. It was like grad school hopped up on speed.

So they have this very qualified language arts teacher. And apparently, because of some rules we still don't understand though plenty of people in HR have tried to explain them (not very well), she's still not qualified ENOUGH. She has to have a master's degree to get rehired. A master's degree in teaching middle school language arts? Nah, not necessary -- just any old master's in anything related to teaching is fine. A master's degree from a fancy school? Nah, any old online degree will do. As long as you have one more piece of paper, that's fine.

Now don't get me wrong. I am a huge proponent of higher education. I went to college. I have a master's degree. I have a second degree from UCLA I got just this year. I'm going back to UCLA in the fall to start studying television writing. But for me, I need the practical knowledge. I need the experience, not the piece of paper. Angela has plenty of experience but not the right piece of paper. It's ridiculous.

So here's what LAUSD is going to do. They're going to hire Angela back, oh, how generous you say! But no -- there's a catch. They're going to hire her back to be a teacher. To do everything she did last year. To be in charge of over 180 children throughout the day. To educate said children. But not in language arts, her specialty. They're going to hire her back to teach art. Yep, art. A subject she has never studied. A subject she does not have a credential for. A subject she has little affinity for. Isn't that just inspired?

But wait, there's more -- they're going to hire her back to be a teacher. To do teacherly things like keep attendance records, grade work, submit grades, participate in parent-teacher conferences, write lesson plans (because of course there's no set curriculum, that would be too easy!), etc. And they're going to pay her LESS. They're going to pay her quite a bit less. They're going to pay her as a substitute teacher. Yes, she'll get health care benefits (technically she'll pay for them just like any employee) but nothing else. No sick time, no retirement, no payment for non-student days, etc. Isn't that just fantastic?
So why, you might ask, is she going to do it? Why will she go to her school on Wednesday and teach art and be paid as a substitute teacher for her time? Because of these boxes. Because of all this stuff. Because she's a teacher. Because she cares enough to buy books and supplies and plan and worry and read and not get paid what she should. Because she's one of the best teachers I've ever met. And because no one else is hiring teachers. And don't tell me that you'd expect a neurosurgeon who's been downsized to just go out and get any other regular old job. Neurosurgeons are neurosurgeons. Teachers are teachers. There are brains that need fixing. There are kids that need educating.

BIG

I have a Life's Little Instruction calendar on my desktop and occasionally the message really hits home. Sometimes they're things like: Never turn down a chance to participate in a small-town parade. (I don't - I even found proof when I was home a few weeks ago, a thank you note from Republican Congresswoman (I think she won once, not sure) Susan Grimes Munsell and a picture of me in my t-shirt!) But sometimes they're things like:

Think big. Plan big. Announce big. Timid, feeble dreams don't excite anyone.

I've stuck that one up on my whiteboard so it's staring me down. It's reminding me that everyone knows why I moved to Los Angeles. That every time I go home, I get asked how my writing's going. I get asked if I've sold anything or gotten a job writing. It's a little like peer pressure. But it's more than that. It's me pressure.

So today I'm digging back in. I'm refocusing. I had a great vacation at home. I read some books. I slept. I ate too much. But now I'm back. As I type a draft of Operation Gold Digger is being printed. I've gone back through all my notes from UCLA and made a rewriting checklist. I'm going in.

Because before the end of September I'm going to send my script to two managers and a production company executive -- all of whom have promised to read it. So here goes nothing!

Everyone needs an Angela in their life

In my lifetime I've had a lot of friends. And I've had school friends, work friends, church friends, etc. And some are still a part of my life. But many aren't. And yet, there's always been one constant in my life. One friend who is always there. Always by my side. Always a phone call or a shout away.

My little sister Angela.

Growing up it was just the two of us and it was never just Angela or Sarah, it was always The Knapp Girls. Even in college and even now. And you know what, I love it. I love that I am so blessed, so lucky, to have this person in my life who supports me no matter what. Who makes awesome pancakes. Who cleans the house. Who goes grocery shopping when I am sick (this may not sound like a lot but if you knew Angela you'd know that grocery shopping is one of her least favorite activities in life).

And she's a trooper, she really is. She has had a medical condition her entire life that causes her pain on a daily, hourly basis and she rarely lets on. She has spent more time in doctors offices, hospitals and clinics than you or I may ever experience. She graduated college with an education degree just as the demand for teachers in Michigan was declining but she never quit. She just moved herself across the country, to the border of Mexico, to teach underprivileged gangster kids. And can I just tell you, this was no small adventure for someone with an anxiety disorder. But she did it. And she was awesome at it. To see her with her kids, she's simply remarkable.

And then, when I decided to move to Los Angeles and become a screenwriter, what did she do? She decided to move away from the place she'd made home and support me. Seriously. Who does that? Angela.

We have a running joke that Angela will always live with me. I like to tell her I'll make sure I always have a garage apartment for her. My mom says maybe she can live down the street. But one thing I know for sure, anyone, and I mean anyone, would be changed for life to have Angela in his or her life. I know I have been and I am so thankful that I get to continue my life with her.

Happy 29th Birthday little sister. I love you.

God loves everyone

When I decided to move to Los Angeles one of the first things I vowed to do was find a church. And did I. One of the first things that caught my attention about Hollywood United Methodist Church last July (aside from the awesome building and awesome people) was that they were in the middle of a Crossflix sermon series, the pastors were preaching on different movies each Sunday of the summer. And when I visited that Sunday one of the movies scheduled to be preached on in a few weeks was Dogma by Kevin Smith.

I'm a huge Kevin Smith fan, which I know, might throw some of you for a loop. But I am. I remember back in college some friends went to see Dogma and when I asked them what it was about one girl said, "Religion but you wouldn't like it, they cuss a lot and there are lots of dirty jokes". And that intrigued me. I had a reputation for being a conservative Christian but in truth, I was just a Christian. The conservative assumption came from the belief by some in college that if I went to church ( I did, twice a week, and I was a youth group leader), I must be conservative.

But guess what? I'm not. And I now own Dogma and every other Kevin Smith movie pre-2009 (don't get me started on Zack and Miri Make a Porno, that's a whole other blog, the movie just wasn't that funny....). And when I saw that they were going to do a sermon on a Kevin Smith movie I vowed to be back in Los Angeles in time to hear it. And I was. And it was pretty cool.

But today was even cooler. We've had some great sermons in this summer's Crossflix series but today's was on Milk and I knew it would be intense given our church's activism. And when we snuck in late and sat behind our friend Pauley I wondered what was up. She seemed really excited about something. And then she whispered, "That's Dustin Lance Black" and pointed down the pew. Yep, the man who won an Oscar in January for best original screenplay of the movie Milk was sitting not five feet from me. So cool. And then I got to introduce myself and shake his hand.

Pauley had gotten word to him about the sermon and he showed up. She was shocked because she doesn't know him personally and because she was participating in the sermon, talking about his Oscar acceptance speech in which he announced to the whole world that God really does love everyone. Yeah. Pauley was excited. And so was I.

Dustin got a standing ovation after they showed a clip from his speech, and he was mobbed after church but as I stood back and watched it all I thought about the scripture Pauley had read:

Micah 6:8
"And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."

And I thought about how the spirit of that scripture was exactly what had brought me to Hollywood UMC, about how it had brought me back and kept me there, how it had showed me that God really does love everyone. He loves the television actress, he loves the Oscar-winning screenwriter, he loves the gay fathers and their little girl who walk into the sanctuary 15 minutes every single Sunday, he loves the homeless man who sat behind me and smelled so badly, he loves the crazy man who condems single mothers, he loves the drag queens and the ministers and the Kevin Smith fan. He loves us all. And I think that's pretty freaking cool.

10 things I have done in the last week

1. I finished another quarter at the University of Phoenix and started another, within 24 hours.
2. I spent two and a half hours in the world of Harry Potter and wished it had lasted another two and a half more.
3. I saw the movie "Adam" which is a very sweet romantic comedy, which we saw for free at a sneak preview!
4. I started scrapbooking again after almost a year sabbatical. I've made it through the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas '07 trips with my parents. I'm getting there.
5. I've discovered the delightful television show "Chuck" and watched almost two seasons. In fact I spent most of my graduation itunes card downloading an entire season that's not yet available on DVD.
6. I've figured out how to survive, and thrive, on less food, no caffeine, and no air conditioning in the middle of a heat wave in Los Angeles in July.
7. I have finished another draft of my script which is now entitled "Operation Gold Digger" and sent it out to several trusted screenwriting peers for feedback.
8. I saw the movie "Funny People" after standing in line for 2 hours outside to get in. I can't say anything about it because I signed a legal document and had to go through a metal detector to get in. But I can tell you it was free!
9. I went to a sneak preview of the movie "The Ugly Truth" (see a trend here, I'm finding ways to enjoy free AC) and enjoyed it way more than I thought it would.
10. I ate homemade hummus that Angela made and it was fabulous!

Hmmm...

Remember my post about me getting fed? And how I'd invited one of my Tuesday friends to come to church? Well, he came. It took two weeks of reminders and invites but he showed up yesterday and I was pretty excited. Not because I'd gotten him to come but because he was there. Because he decided he wanted to give church another try.

I have a hard time imagining what it would be like to have never gone to church since I've been going my entire life. But seeing Michael yesterday gave me a little peek into that world. He was nervous and thought we'd tricked him into coming to a Catholic church (our church building does look cathedral-like). But he stayed and he said he was glad he'd come.

More and more I think about my life on a small scale. I think about how my actions affect others, how others actions affect mine. I think about what I can do today, what I can do tomorrow. I think about life and the end and how different things might have been or could be.

It's a lot of thinking but as a writer that's what I spend most of my time doing. I'm in the rewriting stages of a script right now and that involves me spending most of my waking time, whether I'm watching a movie (ooh, that's the point of entry - is that a good idea to copy somehow?) or washing dishes (the opening scene needs to be funnier, that's all, just funnier. Ugh.) or waking up (I think that the wedding should be televised, internationally, yeah, that'd up the stakes). So thinking for me never stops.

What do you think about?

Musical thoughts

I don't remember where I was the first time I heard a Michael Jackson song. (I do remember where I was the first time I heard the Bon Jovi record "Slippery When Wet" though! And yes, it was an actual record. And it came all the way from Puerto Rico as I recall, a gift from a friend's grandmother.) I remember some older friends introducing me to his music because in the 80s I was still pretty little and I thought the music from the 50s, 60s, and 70s was current. I thought the Monkees were the latest thing. I thought my parents music WAS the music of the time. I had no idea there was this whole other culture out there.

To me Michael Jackson wasn't a music god like he apparently was to some people. To me he was a singer, a dancer, an entertainer. Granted, a very good one. And he was a part of my childhood. Until these last few weeks I had no idea that I knew the words to so many of his songs. I didn't know the impact they'd had on me. The memories they brought back.

Music does that for me. It reminds me of where I was at the time, what was going on. I remember very distinctly sitting in the portable at Northwest Elementary, in what was maybe third or fourth grade, passing the worn notebook paper that held the lyrics to Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach". I remember dancing around the backyard, grass beneath my bare feet, singing my heart out with Tiffany. I remember how those New Kids on the Block songs make me think of so many dance routines I put on in the Roxberry's cool basement on hot summer days. I remember singing The Fat Boys "Wipe Out" over and over again on the way home from school, and I wonder now what my dad thought back then!

Music is amazing. It stays with me. It colors my day. There are some days I want peace and I'll put in a slow, mellow CD, maybe Joshua Kadison or Yo-Yo Ma. There are days when only Eminem or Kanye West can help me express what I'm feeling. But I often turn to music, even if it's just a song or a melody. And I sing. I sing with all my heart. And today, as I watched the memorial service for Michael Jackson, I thought about what he'd done, with his gift of music. How he'd brought so many people together. How he'd brought so much joy to so many. And to me, that's pretty extraordinary.

ER

Fifteen years ago I remember watching a videotape of a show I'd recorded off NBC. I remember watching it and falling in love with the characters, the stories, the whole thing. It was a little show called ER.

Last night I watched the series finale (yes, a few months after the fact) and was saddened to think that something I've been watching for half my life is over. I grew up with those characters. And they affected me in so many different ways.

I remember that fall it premiered, I was still in high school, wandering the stacks of the Howell Library, looking for books. Not just any books. MCAT books, books on medical careers. I was going to be an emergency room physician I decided. I read and read. And then I finally realized I didn't have the right type of intellect (I can't memorize to save my soul, and that's pretty important in med school I hear). But I soaked up the information and research anyway, I was fascinated. (The Practice made me want to be a lawyer, The West Wing made me want to move to Washington D.C., Alias made me apply to the CIA, you sense a trend right -- hopefully writer will get me "into" all these careers someday!)

In grad school I took a course in health communication and we did a study on how health information was dispersed through television and movies. We used ER as an example several times. Finally, all my TV watching was paying off!

But more than that, ER showed me, every week, what good writing looks like. How it is quick and interesting and funny and serious and makes you cry and laugh and think all at once. And the finale did just that. I love television, and for me, ER will live forever as a part of my life.

I got fed

Today I went to Homeless Lunch at church, I haven't been since March maybe, it's been a while, and it had been on my mind lately. But there had been work and my internship and appointments and just life. I'd been dropping off supplies but I knew it wasn't enough. So today I left the work behind and headed on over. And I'm so glad I did.

It was hectic today -- there were about 10 extra volunteers, youth group kids and their 2 leaders in town on a mission trip, and lots of regular volunteers. There was a line part way down the block of people waiting for lunches, and all the usual business involved in getting ready to serve 100+ people. And I had reservations, I thought I might just sneak out because there was help but for some reason I stayed. I quickly found out why.

First off I talked to Michael, one of our regular guests. He told me he was glad to see me, that I'd been away a while. As he tried on shoes and pulled the laces out (he has a thing about laces) he asked if I went to church there. I told him I did, and so did most of the other volunteers. He told me about going to church in Pasadena once, and never going back, because people looked at him weird because he had a backpack. I told him no one would even notice here, we'd love to have him come to worship. We talked for a few more minutes and he said maybe and left. I called out that he could sit by me if he came on Sunday. Yep, God had a plan.

For the rest of the two hours I got constant "welcome backs", "hi sweeties", "good to see you Sarahs", etc. I got hugs and handshakes and lots and lots of thank yous. I got a hug from the youth group leader who I met an hour before. I got called gorgeous and intelligent and told I have a beautiful smile (yes, external validation can do a lot for the soul, I won't lie). Simply put, I got fed.

And as I watched the youth group kids helping out I realized what a mission trip always taught me, always reminded me: that whenever I go to serve, I am served. Whenever I go to feed others, I am fed. Whenever I love, I am loved.

Today was a good day. God is good. All the time.

Look before you pee

I read an interview with Kevin Smith this week, he's one of my all-time favorite filmmakers, and he said he keeps directing movies just for the stories to tell at his Q&As. I nodded to myself and thought, I completely understand.

That's the reason I stay in this house. Just for the stories.

Today was a day of errands and laundry and normal stuff. A step away from the sightseeing and business we've been up to lately. My mom and I made a picnic dinner that we all enjoyed, along with some key lime wine smoothies that were fabulous!, and then we settled in for a long night with our favorite superhero, Jack Bauer. We started the most recent season's DVDs on Saturday and we're down to the last disc. The Knapp family loves 24!

Things were going well, and after one episode Angela took a bathroom break. And then there were screams. Screams that wouldn't quit.

I was sure it was a spider. A big spider. I killed a medium-size one last night and we've been on alert. But no, I asked, loudly, and she just kept screaming. Finally she got out that it was a mouse. In the toilet.

Yep. A live mouse. In the toilet bowl. Swimming, trying to get out. And he wasn't tiny. (Why are all mice "he" in my mind?) And he was probably upset since he'd just been peed on. (I used my mouse voice when I regaled this thought to Angela, telling her he was probably like, "what the heck, where's this toxic rain coming from?!?!?")

I shut the lid and immediately called the landlord. Angela kept screaming. The landlord said to call the plumbers and just tell them there was a problem with our toilet but that would sound stupid I thought, especially once they got here and saw the mouse. But I called, and told them the truth, and they said to flush, and stay on the line in case it overflowed and they'd need to come over.

So I flushed. Once. Twice. Three times.

And the mouse was gone.

But not the hysterics.

So we've been flushing the toilet all night. Angela's attempted to pee without sitting and contemplated the bathtub. Tomorrow I'll call the exterminator. Our landlord and the plumber assure us a mouse couldn't swim in through the toilet pipes but I have strong doubts that he waltzed into the toilet bowl on his own. But who knows. Maybe he has some help from those friends of his, the rats, who allegedly marched through the front door a few months ago.

Because of him

My dad taught me what empathy was at a very early age. No, he didn't pull out the dictionary and explain the word to me, he taught me through example. He taught me by crying when I cried or laughing when I laughed or being happy when I was happy. He taught me by being himself.

My dad is the guy who flew out to Arizona and slept on the floor of my apartment to help me move to Los Angeles. My dad is the guy who cried at every awards ceremony I was ever honored at. My dad is the guy who drove hours in the rain to surprise me at my final college golf match. My dad is the guy who stood in the clothing store for hours on end, holding purses, looking for other sizes, commenting on outfits because he lives with three girls. My dad is, simply put, awesome.

I've been trying to write this blog for twenty-four hours and I keep starting and restarting and having a hard time getting what I want to convey through. I've been thinking about all the things I've done with my dad over the past thirty one years. All the golf games, all the board games, all the nights of homework (endless nights especially in eleventh grade, during AP U.S. History), all the hard times, all the good times, all the normal time.

When I think about my dad I think about him making tuna and noodles for dinner or scrambled eggs for breakfast. I think about him chaperoning all the field trips in elementary school, I think about him burying my fish in the backyard, my rabbit in the field, and holding my hand as we said goodbye to Brownie. I think about him playing basketball with me in the driveway and croquet in the front yard, I think about him putting up the Christmas tree and building the props for Trim-A-Tree every year.

I think about him picking Angela and Ben and Liz and I up from school every day and laughing as we played The Fat Boys' Wipe Out over and over in his Ford Tempo. I think about him calling me from work and talking for hours. I think about him driving me to and from college every weekend. I think about him and his big hugs. I think about him scrapbooking and writing for the church newsletter. I think about him making me laugh over and over again. I think about him being a part of my life, a part of everything, a part of me.

He taught me how to be funny. He taught me to golf. He taught me to use tools and change the oil in my car. He taught me to drive. He taught me to talk to people. He taught me to be nice. He taught me when to bite my tongue. He taught me to forgive. He taught me to forget. He taught me to love.

I love that I got to spend today with my dad. That I got to sit next to him in church and at lunch and that I get to hang out watching the U.S. Open with him. I love that he gets me, that he reads my novel and my screenplays and that he has never once, not ever, stopped encouraging me from doing anything and everything. Every single day he is behind me 200%. Every single minute. He is the glue that holds our family together. Just ask any of us. Without him, none of us would be the same. Or laugh quite so much.

Dad -- today and always, I love you and I love because of you.

My own brand of magic

On Tuesday night I graduated from UCLA's professional screenwriting program. I have a nifty certificate to add to the other nifty certificates already in frames and leaning up against the wall (thanks mom and dad for bringing these westward, they'll be hung soon!). But more than that I have a much stronger belief in myself. I have a year of professional training behind me. I have a year of study (I watched 67 movies). I have a year of listening. I have a year of reading (I read 59 scripts). I have a year of work. I have a year of writing.

On the very first night I sat in the lecture hall at UCLA I listened to several of the same men who spoke at graduation. One of them instructed us to let ourselves be a part of our own adventures and to have a plan but be open to where it would take us, to let ourselves be surprised. And surprised I am. A year ago I never dreamed I'd have two screenplays written by now. I never thought I'd write an R-rated comedy in the Apatow vein that people would laugh out loud during. I never thought I'd write a dramedy about a woman who falls in love with an undertaker after she opens a funeral home in her house. These things just never crossed my mind. But how often does that happen to us? How often do we let it happen to us?

I have naysayers in my life. People who think I should pack it in and move back to Michigan (and they are probably not reading this blog so don't worry -- it's none of you). I have people in my life who've told me how hard this career path will be. That it's like trying to get into the NBA. I have people who tell me it's a horrible time to be a writer, no one's making movies right now, blah blah blah. Here's where I say stop (sometimes verbally, sometimes in my mind, I am a polite girl after all). Stop. Don't tell me I can't. Don't tell me I won't. Tell me to try. Tell me to do it. Tell me to not only go to the NBA tryouts but to show them my stuff and wow the socks right off them. Tell me that I can do this. I will do this. Because there's no Plan B. This is it. This is my life. I believe in myself. And I chose to share my life with those who believe in me too. I'm lucky that that circle is so, so big.

At the beginning of this program Hal Ackerman told us we should have one goal: Become a better writer. I have met that goal. I have succeeded. And I'm moving on to the next one, to become an even better writer than I was last week. And there's only one way I can do that, to continue doing exactly what I'm doing. Writing. Living. Being here. Being me. My question to the naysayers (real and imagined, yes, there are a few of them taking up residence in my brain) is why would you not? Why would you not want to experience something you've always wondered about? Always dreamed about? Or never dreamed about? This weekend I touched a sting ray and it was so cool. I never dreamed I'd touched a sting ray (in fact, before this weekend I was pretty scared of them) but it was awesome. I felt like a little kid. And I think that's what life is all about. Doing those things that are interesting, different, cool, exciting, normal, whatever. It's about doing. It's not about talking or simply existing. It's about going out there and jumping in. Feet first, head first, elbow first. However it happens, it's about the happening.

At the graduation ceremony Hal read this poem by John Updike which I loved:

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death

is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,

which took a whole life to develop and market -

the quips, the witticisms, the slant

adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest

the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched

in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,

their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,

their response and your performance twinned.

The jokes over the phone. The memories packed

in the rapid-access file. The whole act.

Who will do it again? That's it; no one;

imitators and descendants aren't the same.

This poem blew me away. And I instantly thought, how true. We each have our own brand of magic. And this, screenwriting, is a part of mine. It's not all of me, not even most of me, but it's certainly a piece of me.

So I will continue to write. I will rewrite. I will join my classmates in forming a writer's group so we can keep encouraging one another and helping one another. That's one of the coolest things about UCLA's program -- how they encourage you to work together. Writing is such a solitary experience that I find I need, I crave, that interpersonal interaction, especially when it comes to talking about my writing. And it's something other writer's get. Not everyone does, and I understand that. I probably don't get your job or passion the same way that you do.

So I graduated. Once again. And finally, after seven years of school, I feel adequately prepared to enter a profession. I feel ready to do this, because, in fact, I already am. I'm writing. Every day. It's my own brand of magic. And I intend to sprinkle it all over the world.

Top 10 Reasons Why Disney is the Happiest Place on Earth

10. For the entire duration of your stay at Disneyland (or Disneyworld) you get to think only about Disney. Just what's next. What ice cream treat to buy. What ride has the shortest Fast Pass line. What route around the park will get you to the parade the quickest (or away from the parade as in our case). You enter a sort of Disney-survival mode wherein you only think about what's happening at that very moment. E-mails and life issues and everything else falls by the wayside.

9. The Tiki Room reminds you what life was like before computers and the craziness of modern technology. As I sat back and sang along with the birds, I thought for a bit about how glad I was to see all the kids there enjoying this. Experiencing it. Not on a screen or in their living room but outside in the real (Disneyfied of course) world, wearing sunscreen and fanny packs and eating apple slices out of Ziplocs and reading maps!

8. The customer service. We ate in sit-down restaurants for each meal (trying to get heatlhier fare) and we had excellent service. Also, people at the gates were wonderful and on all the rides. Really, Disney knows how to treat its' guests right. And I love that we're called guests!

7. The rides are interesting and a little exciting without being terrifying. There are twists and turns and your blood pressure goes up a little but nothing extreme (never was a huge fan of Cedar Point, I know, being from Michigan and all that's heresy...). Indiana Jones was fun, and so was Star Wars even though I've never seen the film. And it's all about the experience at Disney. You don't have to know about the movie, they tell you. In fact, I really enjoyed just walking through the Castle, reading about Princess Aurora (Sleeping Beauty) on the storybook pages. There wasn't a ride, just stairs but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

6. I think the photography system at Disney is genius. We've done it each time we've been to the parks but they've modernized it now with a website and keycard. How many vacations do you go on where your whole family isn't in the picture because someone has to be taking it??? Not true at Disney. In just one day we got 15 pics of the 4 of us. We ended up choosing only 1 to purchase but we have the option to order more or none at all, and we can even email them to friends and family for free. Free souvenirs (albeit virtual)?!?!? Cool.

5. Waiting time. I didn't even mind the longish lines when we happened upon them. I left my cell phone at home and just watched people, talked to my family, and observed. To simply be in the moment, that made me happy.

4. Mickey mouse-shaped ice cream dipped in Dove chocolate.

3. Giant boquets of colorful balloons and cotton candy sprinkled down Main Street.

2. Napping in the air conditioned darkened theater in the afternoon during the Muppets 3-D movie. I enjoyed the movie and I've seen it before and I liked shutting my eyes for 5 minutes.

1. How can you not smile when you see a little kid run up to a princess or Mr. Incredible and do a high-five or give them a tiny hug? I mean really. That's worth the price of admission right there.

The need to blog...

I have this nagging need to blog but I don't know exactly what to write about. I finished classes at UCLA last week and turned in my screenplay. And came home and instantly thought of a much better climax/ending for the thing. Figures. But I have a conference with my professor about it tomorrow so I'll talk it over with him and then move onto the next draft. The life of the writer...

My parents got into town on Thursday and it's been a whirlwind of sightseeing, looking at pictures of their trip (they drove from Michigan through Yellowstone, stopped at Mount Rushmore, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas), and just living life as a family unit again.

Other than that, I'd like to report that my neck is better. I went to the chiropractor three times last week and finally felt some relief, no more jaw pain thank the Lord. And after much loving and caring pestering from my friend Pauley, I am going to see an acupuncturist for the first time tomorrow! I'll report back on that. I'm not scared really, more curious and hopeful that it'll be a positive experience.

Work is going much better this semester, I'm in a groove and keeping on top of grading and my students seem good. I'm still looking for other employment but who in Hollywood and the country isn't, right? And I'm supposed to start a new screenplay today. Hmmm....maybe today will be one of those "invisible labor" days Victor Hugo referred to.

Oh, I also finished my internship with Gold Circle Films on Thursday! It was a great experience, I worked for some great people, and it was an awesome last day. I wrote coverage on one script and since the new interns were starting that day as I was finishing, our boss decided to screen one of the company's upcoming releases for us -- "The Fourth Kind". I'd read the script when I first started working there, it's about alien abductions, and thought it was interesting. But the movie was great. I'm not kidding, and I don't like alien movies. But it was intense, suspenseful, and really well done. And I thought it was very cool that I got to see it before it opened! (They're releasing it sometime this fall most likely.)

The Vomit Draft

That's what my latest screenwriting professor calls the first draft of any screenplay: the vomit draft. He says it's the draft where we just have to get it onto the page, and we can't take the time to make it look pretty, that's what the second through forty-seventh drafts are for. This draft, this first semblance of a story, is just the slightest hint of the skeleton that will become our script. The good news? Mine is done.

Yep. Done. At 4:30pm today. About eight weeks after I started writing it. Eight long weeks of vomiting. Eight long weeks of writing pages, reading pages, rewriting pages, throwing pages in the recycle bin, starting new versions, changing opening scenes, writing jokes that weren't funny, writing jokes that were funny, writing jokes that crossed the line, writing jokes that even I didn't get. Eight long weeks of sitting in the chair, staring at the wall, looking at the notes on my board above my computer:

• Think about dilemma, subtext, context, progressive complications, and stakes.
  
• What is the moment about? the scene about? the sequence about? the act about? the movie about?
• "Each minute of procrastination robs you of a minute of accomplishment." (Damn you Jewel Quest!)
• Have an attitude of expectancy.
  
• What is the simple, emotional journey?
• Comedy constants: be specific, remember the rule of threes, etc.
• Summer 2011
• Screenplay by Sarah Knapp
• Directed by Sarah Knapp

And now I get to start on the list sitting next to my mousepad. The items I need to address/to fix/to change/to improve that I was not allowed to go back to until I finished the draft. The stuff I am dying to work on. The character I need to develop. The jokes I wrote "FUNNIER" next to. The hilarious scene that played so well in my mind and so badly on the page.

One hundred and five pages. And then I got to write those three little words that are glorious to any screenwriter: Fade to black. I wasn't sure it was gonna get done there for a while last week, when I was on page forty-seven. When I had no idea what the climax was going to be or how to get the main character to end up with the right girl. When I thought, and had written, the entire second act and part of the third in Hawaii and then decided to move it to Los Angeles and Vegas. But it happened. It got done. Deadlines are great motivators.

I'll let it sit tonight and part of tomorrow. I'll read a friend's screenplay, do some laundry, grade some papers. And then I'll dig back in. I'll see if the jokes are any good. I'll read the dialogue aloud and figure out if that's how these characters really talk to their best friends. I'll color in some of the blank spots and throw a few wrenches in for good measure. And next Tuesday, come hell or high water, I'll have a second draft. Because that's what us NBA players do. We bring it.