Sleep writing

Writing a television pilot is unlike anything I've ever experienced. It's creative, it's exhilarating and frankly, it's hard. There are so many moving pieces, so much to consider, so much to invent and it all has to work together just perfectly to make an interesting script that might possibly get made.

I love it.

I've been working on my new half-hour comedy pilot for a few weeks now. I started with some vague ideas of what I wanted to write about. Then I got some inspiration from a PBS documentary on the Independent Woman on Television. I studied Lucy, Mary Tyler Moore, Betty White, Roseanne, Murphy Brown. I looked at what I wanted to write about and how I best could tell my story. Because really, that's the key. I have to figure out how to make the script interesting from my point of view. Not yours, not someone else's but mine. That's the key to making the magic.

Last week I started writing paragraphs about the main characters, four in all. I picked names and started envisioning sets. (I'm writing a multi-camera sitcom so it'll be filmed on a soundstage in front of an audience, like a play that's being recorded.) Then I set to outlining. I have notes from each class I've taken and each book or article I've read and I poured over and over them. Then Friday I spent three hours writing one sentence. But one really important sentence. The logline. It's an encapsulation of a script. It has a formula and it has to tell the reader almost everything he or she needs to know about the script in five seconds. Finally, by the end of the workweek I'd come up with that one sentence and posted it on my whiteboard, ready to get to work Monday morning.

And then Saturday night happened. I laid down in bed at about 12:15am and I shut my eyes. Angela and I had been watching TV and I was to tired to read as I normally would. I laid there, letting my mind wander and before I knew it, I was thinking about that logline and all of the notes still laying on my desk. And suddenly I had this image in my brain of my main characters and how we'd come to meet them in the first few moments of the pilot. I saw the episode begin and then play out almost as if I was watching it on a screen. And I have to admit, I said to myself, oh you'll remember it in the morning. Go to sleep.

But I couldn't turn the screen off. So I turned on the light and grabbed a legal pad and started writing. I scribbled as fast as I could and caught most of the scene as it played in my mind. Then I set the notebook aside, laid back down and turned off the light. I'd come up with the first scene in my pilot.

But my brain wasn't done for the night. As I laid there, the show came back from the commercial break and started playing again. I saw the next scene and another character enter and I knew I had to keep writing. So I turned on the light again and found the paper and my pen. I scribbled some more. Then I got up and went to my desk, wrote down a short outline for the entire episode's script and looked around the room. It was two o'clock in the morning. My eyes were burning, my body was begging for bed but my mind was reeling. Would it be funny in the morning? I had no idea. Would I be able to translate the scribbles into script form that would work within the confines of a multi-cam? Again, no idea.

But here's what I did know: These characters I'd been thinking of and playing with and tossing into the mix were talking to me. They were ready to go. And frankly, there's no turning off the screen or the light when that happens.

The verdict: As I looked back over the pages this morning I realized that, yes, they're good. They're what I want to say. They're funny. They're not perfect but no draft ever is. Most of all? They're my story. And I'm so freaking excited about that.

Life is good

Who feels healthy?
Me!
(Well, let's discount 2 weeks of vertigo episodes and a hyper-extended knee thingy)

Who has lost weight or feels super thin?
Not me!

So, the weight loss has stalled, never really started, despite solid following of Weight Watchers, no diet soda in a month, all fresh stuff, walking, etc. I've had the blood work and I'm still taking the liver pill things and I'm told it might take two years to detox from the episode last January. So...

I'm just embracing it. Angela and I went and bought some new clothes that fit really well and are really cute and I feel so good about that. I have ordered new tennis shoes per directions regarding knee issues. My blood pressure is fine. Our house is really clean (like ridiculously clean). I'm loving watching baseball and catching up on movies and planning National Night Out for our Block Club. I'm writing my sitcom pilot and getting way too excited about the possibility that it might be made. I'm making new, exciting food. I bought a fresh pepper grinder and four new kinds of cheese. I made my own croutons and am eating fruit like crazy. Oh, and avocados are on sale. This is when living in Southern California rocks.

I'm happy. For the most part. People in my life are hurting. Dying. Struggling. Sad. And while I pray and do what I can, I worry that it's never enough. But I keep on because really, that's all there is.

Today I splurged on a $14 car wash. It felt so luxurious. Yesterday we got Ang's car washed. Sunday I got my new pants and my new shirt dirty getting out of her car so it was time. I try to wash them myself but just haven't done it. Scrubbing the kitchen floor for six hours last week was enough for me.

Life is good. I remind myself of that daily. Hourly. God is good. So good.

I am networking more, meeting people for lunch, coffee, going out to readings and events. Life is good. I remind myself of that.

My parents are coming to visit in less than two weeks. We've got plans and new recipes to make and things to do and movies to watch and games to play and then we've got like three weeks and we head to Michigan for summer! YAY! Life is good.

I am so blessed. I remind myself of that. I am not the weight I wish I was at but I am determined not to let that define me. I am strong. I use my legs to stand for hours on end and volunteer at Homeless Lunch. I have big strong arms that hit the golf ball almost 300 yards. I love that. I would not trade that for anything. (Says the girl with the "How to Get the First Lady's Arms" magazine article clipped to her wall.) I have ears that hear the music I blare all day and the baseball games at night. I have eyes that watch too much TV and love it all. I have fingers that type really fast and help me send my story to the world (still reeling from the fact that Nia Vardalos read my blog on Monday!).

Life is good.
So good.

A book in a weekend - that good!

One of my favorite features of Amazon, and my Kindle, is that I can send first chapters of books to it for free. Right now? I have over 100 first chapters waiting there for me. Will I read most of these books? Probably not. But I do like looking them over from time to time, finding something interesting I'd heard or read about, and rediscovering it. Occasionally I buy the book, and more often than not, I delete the first chapter. It's kind of like browsing in the bookstore but I get to do it in bed or on the couch.

This weekend I had had enough of the week. The news, the bombings, Angela being sick and me being able to do nothing about it, query letters sent back unopened, et cetera. So as I laid in bed Thursday night I flicked on the Kindle and noticed a first chapter I had sent just a few days earlier: Nia Vardalos's Instant Mom. I'd heard about the book first on Twitter, where several of my favorite writers lauded the memoir of Vardalos' experience making it in Hollywood and adopting a little girl. I was intrigued. I loved My Big Fat Greek Wedding (yes, there's a DVD copy on my shelf) and the fact that she was nominated for an Academy Award for writing the screenplay. Love that.

So Thursday night I started reading that first chapter of Instant Mom and couldn't stop. Then I got upset because I didn't have enough money in my Amazon account to buy the whole book. (Yes, I know you can link a credit card to the account and no, I don't want to. I use gift cards only. Even if I have to buy them myself which I did on Friday.)

So Friday night I started reading again. And I read for two and a half hours. I read until my eyes were red and blurry and I could barely keep them open. And then Saturday? I finished the book. But I didn't just read the book. I felt the book. I sobbed opening for about 45 minutes Saturday as I read of her getting her daughter and learning how to take care of her (which sounds excruciating and exciting and wonderful all at once). I grinned as I read about her daughter finally choosing her own name and deciding that she was home to stay. And when I finished the book I thought about how open and honest and interesting the story had been. (And just a little bit about how much I want to work with Vardalos.)

Is it a book about adoption? Yes. Is it a book about Hollywood? Yes. Is it a book about perseverance and patience? God yes.

I often think about how my family and friends see me. What they think of me and how they must shake their heads in confusion at my choices and life. I was never the traditional Midwestern girl I saw all around me growing up. I didn't marry right out of college or have a baby right out of high school. I went to grad school and then grad school again. I took jobs, sometimes three or four at a time, that didn't pay well (or sometimes at all) because I loved the experiences. I loved teaching and writing and having time to explore life.

Do I regret some of my choices? I don't know. If I did, it would mean I wasn't a happy person, and I didn't believe I was exactly where I am supposed to be this very minute. If I did, it would mean I regretted so much more than just those choices, that I regretted the outcomes and the consequences.

As I read Vardalos' story I kept thinking about my own life and how much I want things other people have. How much I want a loving caring husband, like she has. How much I want children and a career and well, just everything. But then I realize how much she had to struggle to get there. How much we all have to struggle to get here or there or wherever we are. And as I wiped the tears, oh, they were such happy tears for her and her family, I felt peace. As I closed the book (powered down), I said a prayer for her family and for my own. For where she started and went, I will take a cue and follow. I will forge my own way, my own path, my own life. And it will be amazing. Just like hers.

UPDATE: I tweeted a link to my blog Monday morning. I included Vardalos' twitter handle in my message so she'd see my tweet. This is the response she tweeted back:

"We're even, you made me cry too. RT @sarahlknapp how much I freakin' loved #InstantMom. LOVED. #myblog" -- and she linked to my blog.

Love that!

A bowl full of love...

This Christmas morning the grandneighbors, Emma and Lucy (and Jack, but being a baby, he's still a little less active in these interactions), gave Mom, Dad, Angela and I our gifts and excitedly watched as we opened them. I had an inkling of what was inside as their mom had quizzed me a week earlier as to what my parents' favorite kinds of cereal were. Here's what was in the boxes:

The personalized bowls with their little handwriting and drawings, made specifically for each one of us. How much did we love that? Oh, there was also cereal too - but that's long gone now.

I took these pictures last week. Angela and I, Mom and Dad, had used the bowls for over three months. And then one day I left mine in the sink all day and the blue marker on the bottom started coming off on a plate. So it was time to recycle them. But not forget them.

Love drawn with little hands.

Living the NBA Dream

We all know the stories of how this actor or that actress became an overnight success. How Mark Zuckerberg founded Facebook in his free time at Harvard. How some people just figure out or get it figured out for them very quickly. That has not now nor ever happened to me.

I went to college to be a journalist. Well, really, I didn't know what I wanted to be but I knew I loved to write. Well, I take that back. I didn't know I loved it. I just did it. It was part of who I was. Since before I can remember, I have been filling notebooks with words. Long rambling stories. Short, not very good poems. And then in college I started writing nonfiction. I took a personal writing course where we wrote about ourselves. That led to me being published, for the first time ever, in a real newspaper. Not a college paper, a paper that you buy on the street out of the box for fifty cents. Then I took assignments for the college paper and started back in with the fiction classes, this time more disciplined and purposeful. By the time I left college I had part of a screenplay typed out and half of a novel. The screenplay I would go on to finish, the novel, not so much.

Then I took a few years to move through life. I gathered experiences, both good and bad, so I'd have something to write about though I wasn't aware of this at the time. I went to grad school and started teaching. I wrote professionally for newspapers and magazines. I moved to Mexico, er Arizona, and then to Los Angeles. I finished that first screenplay and got some positive feedback and then even more negative feedback. Then I wrote two movies in less than ten months. The spark had taken hold, the fire was lit. There was no turning back now.

It's been almost eighteen years since I graduated from high school and started seriously studying writing and seriously putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. Eighteen years. And many people ask, what do I have to show for it?

Well.

Um.

Yeah.

When I first moved to L.A. I heard someone say in a class or lecture that becoming a screenwriter is like becoming a professional basketball player. There are only so many spots, it's really freaking hard to get a tryout and then you have to fight to stay on the team, much less on top. That analogy stayed with me. I want to play in the NBA and a day of my life hasn't gone by in four and a half years that I haven't thought about it, planned for it, dreamed about it, worked for it, prayed for it, and knew somewhere inside of me that I just wasn't cut out for it. Some days the positive side wins, other days it doesn't.

There have been moments of hope. When someone reads my work and talks to me about it, tells me she likes it or it's funny. When I make an industry contact or feel like I've written a good query letter. When I get replied to or retweeted by someone I consider famous on Twitter (yes, to me, an executive producer on Community is famous). When I come up with a really good story idea (looking at you female baseball team owner script) or finish a spec script that I'm particularly proud of (looking at you Modern Family and Big Bang specs).

There have also been moments of utter sadness and despair. These are experienced mostly by myself, or Angela or occasionally my parents and writers' group. This is not the face I want to put out there to the world or Facebook. You will never see me write a status update talking about how much my life sucks. Because it doesn't. Yes, I have written bad scripts (see first script ever written) and have bad ideas (construction worker who inherits family wedding planning business, you might have been one of them - the jury's still out). But guess what? Those are so 'first world problems'. For almost five years I have been writing. That is my job. To be a writer. Just like those NBA-wannabes who spend their days shooting free throws and doing layups. My job is to practice. Practice practice practice. And I do.

I've met many self-proclaimed writers in Los Angeles who don't have a finished script to show me or even talk about. That baffles me. Or when people say they've written a script. As in one. One single script. I just don't get it. Time and time again I hear screenwriters say they wrote ten or twenty scripts before they hit it. And I believe them. I believe them when they say they've written fifty drafts of the same TV pilot. Why do I believe them? Because that's what I've done. That's what I'm doing. I have a solid portfolio of nine scripts at the moment. Nine. Yes. Nine. Nine scripts I would be comfortable handing to anyone who asked to see them. Friends. Showrunners. Directors. Producers.

And so that is how, when my friend Sonora told me this winter that she was looking to produce a sitcom pilot next year, I got the job. Yes, it's true, we're friends. But we've also worked together when I was a Production Assistant (PA) on her webseries last year. And when she asked to see samples of my writing before she even brought up the sitcom venture, I emailed her my entire portfolio. I showed her what I could do, I didn't just tell her.

So that's my big, little, medium-sized, whatever you want to call it, announcement. I am writing (well, I am making notes at the moment, the writing will happen soon) a sitcom that is on track to be produced. And no, I don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill. There are no contracts, there are no sure things here, there usually aren't in this city. But there are plans and hopes and dreams. There is the real possibility that in a year's time, my words will come out of the mouth's of actors on a soundstage somewhere in this city. And to me? That is freaking unbelievable. Truly.

Tuesday I was driving north toward my house, about two blocks away from home, with a car full of groceries. I was thinking about the meeting Sonora and I had had two hours earlier when I saw it. The Hollywood sign. I see it almost every day from a distance but the luster has worn off. When I first moved here it was exciting and now it's become common. But Tuesday, when I turned onto my cul-de-sac, I almost had to pull over the car. I was just smiling, staring at the sign and thinking, well, this wasn't the plan but it'll do. It'll do just fine.

What was the plan? Sell a movie right away. Get a Nicholls Fellowship and write the next masterpiece. Then it was get a staff job on a TV show or become Aaron Sorkin's assistant. Maybe PA on a show or become an assistant director. Honestly? There never was a plan. I'm a writer, I figured I'd make it up as I went. And so far? I guess I'm doing okay. Especially when I think about that soundstage and what's going to happen on it a year from now.

Dinosaurs!

I had a hard time remembering what it's like back in Michigan but I don't think there are as many billboards there as there are here. Here in Los Angeles there are billboards everywhere. Digital, regular, moving (buses and cabs), et cetera. And so, when a movie's going to come out in say, three or four months, by two weeks into the ad campaign I'm usually sick of the billboards and ready not to ever see those actors or that tag line again (I'm looking at you Tom Cruise or Bruce Willis who are everywhere in my neighborhood and have been since I moved here five years ago). But, a month or so a new, giant billboard on Highland Avenue (the street with all the palm trees that everyone thinks is representative of all of Hollywood, it is not). And I did a double take. Jurassic Park. Yes. Jurassic Park. Not number four or five or whatever is next. Not for a ride at Universal's theme park just up the road. Not for a new fragrance (come on, you know they pitched it). But for the movie. The original. The anniversary release.

And not just any anniversary. The twentieth anniversary.

I did some mental math. Could it be true? Could I have been in high school when it originally came out? Yes. And did I want to see a movie that was twenty years old in the theater, now, two decades past? Yes. Yes. Yes.

I'm not a huge scary movie buff (though, I have been turned into a Walking Dead fan but it's true, I hide my eyes when I hear walkers coming). But I love a good thriller. And I love a good adventure tale. And back in the early nineties, I was a huge Michael Crichton fan. I read all his novels. I was in love with ER from that very first minute of the pilot. And I remember reading Jurassic Park the summer it came out in paperback and being scared to death. Yep. I had nightmares. I dreamed that baby raptors were eating human babies in their cribs (you're welcome for that image - it's haunted me for over TWENTY YEARS). And I remember waking up in my bed, in my old room, in the heat of the summer, and feeling my heart race and being terrified because the dinosaurs were killing us. That's some good writing.

However, I also remember finishing the last page of the book, closing it, and smiling to myself thinking, okay, it's over. They can't get me. (And if you read the book, you'll know why.) That's quite a book. That's quite a writer.

So Saturday Angela and I headed to Burbank to catch an early morning (10am) screening of Jurassic Park 3-D on IMAX. I was so excited. I haven't seen the movie in years but I knew I'd love it. And? I did. It was like hearing a song you haven't heard in forever but still knowing all the words and loving the melody and being able to jump right in and keep up with the beat without any problem whatsoever. Though I didn't remember salient plot points or key supporting characters, I knew the story. And what was great was being surprised all over again. How cool is that? That a twenty year old film can surprise and delight and scare us so much?

The theater was packed, there were audible gasps and utterances of surprise throughout the movie, and at the end? Applause. Wild applause. I love that. I love that an author created this world that does not exist and that filmmakers were able to create it. And that the movie still holds up so well. I love that.

No more blank pages

Two weeks ago today Angela and I flew to Vancouver, Canada. Not my first trip to Canada, for sure, but something was special about this particular venture. Because we were flying, we got our passports stamped! I cannot tell you how exciting this is. Angela and I applied for our passports about eight years ago, around the time the U.S. and Canada decided a driver's license wouldn't be sufficient to cross the border. See we have family across the border and head over once or twice a year usually. But...they don't stamp your passports. They scan them, look at them, and send you on your way. Blank pages in tact.

The same goes for Mexico. Once Angela and I moved to Yuma, Arizona (aka basically Mexico) we spent many Saturdays or 195 degree summer days crossing the border into Algodones, Mexico or some other border town to have lunch, cheap margaritas, buy cigarettes for Marine friends stationed oversees, etc. Then we'd wait in line to walk back over (we drove once, only once) and flash our passports but still no stamps. Not even when we asked.

But two weeks ago that all changed, we got stamps after waiting in customs for about half an hour to exit the Vancouver airport! How exciting! And then Saturday morning? We woke up to the gorgeous view at the top of the page. The view from our cousin Doris' condo. Amazing.

We spent three full days in Vancouver, flying in Friday night and back out Tuesday morning. The flights were luxurious compared to what we're used to. Two seat rows, so no one was stuck in the middle, free movies (this year's Oscar nominees and movies still not out on Netflix!) and TV shows (um, yes, I did watch three episodes of The Mindy Project thank you very much), and very very pleasant people. So basically, I only want to fly Canada Air into Vancouver when I travel anymore.

Then Saturday we headed out for three full days of sightseeing. And I mean full. We hit the suspension bridge, the aquarium, parks, bays, harbors, museums, markets, shops, restaurants, taverns, pubs, and a few more restaurants. I had some amazing British Colombian wine, some locally made shortbread cookies that were amazing and some grape bread that I'm okay with not ever having again. Oh yeah, and I ate duck for what may be the first time ever. And loved it. And there was live music playing as I ate sitting in a giant leather chair. Very cool.

Basically, we had the best time ever in Vancouver. We played in the snow and picnicked outside. We wore mittens and went in our shirtsleeves. It never rained once (people don't believe me when I say this but it's true) and the skies were so blue I was sure we were in a movie. Oh yeah, we saw them filming something downtown Van. (Van is how the cool people refer to Vancouver I found out by eavesdropping. But I'll use it sparingly.) Also? We got to hang out with our cousin Doris for five days. How great is that? We all got to be tourists and take wine breaks in the afternoon and go to bed early and get up early and explore and talk and just enjoy each others' company. Pretty much what all vacations should be. I can't wait to do it again. Soon.

A little more conversation

This morning I wound my way north and pulled my car into the lot at Hollywood UMC as I do many Tuesday mornings. I went inside, deposited my donations (three heavy bags of books cleaned off the shelves last week during spring cleaning, a sparkling tank top that never did fit as well as I'd hoped, and a pair of well loved and well worn Converse) and jumped right into sorting clothes, moving bins of food and passing out numbers to our guests in line. A typical day though the crowd was much smaller than normal.

Through all of the morning's preparations I talked with my fellow volunteers, said hello to church employees and even gave the nickel tour to a new HUMC attendee/volunteer and her mom. I talked about the weather, baseball (I had my new orange Detroit Tigers shirt on), whether or not the donations to be put out were appropriate for this time of year, and how a former HUMC member and his husband had sent us three boxes of hand lotion (a wonderful surprise and well liked by many guests today).

The point? That I talked. I talked and I talked and I talked. I had quick conversations and longer ones. I laughed over jokes and the hoodie some caring individual had made into a vampire costume then donated. And then when our guests arrived? I talked some more -- but this time, mostly about whether or not the deodorant was scented, whether they wanted black or white socks, and whether or not the light brown pudding might be tiaramisu flavor. There weren't too many laughs or conversations that lasted over two sentences. And yet...

As I left the church this afternoon I left my phone in my pocket and looked around. I didn't check to see if I had missed any important calls (nope) or emails (nope again). I noticed that with the very balmy weather (70 and sunny at noon) today, people had stuck around. The church steps were covered with men enjoying their sack lunches and women chattering to each other in languages I don't understand. And to my left? One of our volunteers, who had never actually come in the building today, was still standing with a guest, reading with him from a book. They were deep in conversation yet took a minute to say goodbye when I waved and called out. I love that she spent her time today standing outside and chatting people up while helping with crowd control. I love that.

So I headed to my car but as I passed the front steps of the church I heard a "Hey" shouted in my direction. I turned and headed back. A few guys I had just served were enjoying their lunch. One, who I've known about five years, asked very conversationally, "Someone said North Korea is declaring war on us, is that true?" There was no preamble to this conversation, just a simple question, one I might have been asked an hour before by another volunteer. And so I answered. I told him what I'd heard on the news and read in today's Times. He talked about the book of Revelation a bit and laughed when I said we sent a boat over to take care of things. The guy next to him mentioned that I had it right with my shirt and then saluted me and all women for finding the most gold in the country. I really don't know what he meant but I played along, bowed, and thanked him. The other guy played along too and said he'd be on the lookout for my gold. It was the most I had ever talked to these guys in the five years I've been serving, and I have to say, I loved it.

I loved it because it was real conversation. Not just people with their heads down, on their phones, moving through life without touching or affecting one another. It was people interjecting and making assumptions and asking questions and it was real. True. Even the guy a few steps down who shouted in my direction, "Why do some guys sleep with other guys?" I answered honestly that I don't really know, that they must enjoy it. He nodded and went back to his banana, adding that some people made fun of him when he ate bananas. Are some of the people I meet on Tuesdays a little confused or overwhelmed or even unhinged? Yes. The conversations don't always make sense or follow a linear thought pattern. But guess what? Some of the conversations I have with people I meet on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays are the same. And it's all still part of the human experience, of my experience.

These guys today just wanted a moment to connect. And guess what? So did I. I enjoyed standing there and shooting the breeze and then waving goodbye as I drove past a moment later. I enjoyed hearing the poem about the woman with the beautiful eyes from the man in line to get his socks. I enjoyed being told how great my smile was by a man with one tooth first thing this morning. I enjoyed the heck out of it all.

How great is life that we get to talk to people, meet people, love people? How great is that?