Say Cheese!

I was walking down the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica over Labor Day weekend when I saw the sign in the Mac Store window advertising a free digital photography class. I snapped a picture of the information (yep, I'm even too lazy to put a note in my phone now) and fast forward to this week -- when I found myself sitting in that Mac Store, waiting for the class to begin.

I was excited. A) The class was free. B) I love all things Mac. And C) I love taking pictures. Love love love. I have since I was little. When I was in 8th grade I went to Fine Arts Camp in Port Huron and my emphasis was photography. That week I got to take pictures on a real, grown up camera (remember, this was before iPhones and Instagram and digital anything) and spent most of my time in the darkened bathhouse developing my black and white prints. I can still remember what it smelled like, the chemicals and that musty old building. It was amazing.

In college I lived with a photographer, Kelly, and so I spent many a long winter night holed up in the developing lab with her. I'd go to keep her company and help however I could. I still have two of the prints she made of our college house hanging in my living room today.

For me photographs are all about remembering, capturing, engraving moments in time. They're about those stolen smiles and those awesome shots and those funny pictures you laugh at each time you see them no matter how many times you've seen them before. I have this picture of Angela and my mom on the swing in our yard a few summers back that makes me smile just thinking about it. I have another picture of Emma, one of the grandneighbors, hiding in an old pickle crock, and it instantly transports me back to afternoons full of hide and seek and giggles. I have a picture of my parents and Mom #2 dancing the night away that I used as a jumping off point for a script. To me, that picture is the last memory I have while the world was okay.

I have pictures of my grandparents and family and friends scattered throughout my house and just recently I've started a wall of canvases (two walls really) of photographs from home, from Michigan, that I've taken. Pictures that might not mean anything to anyone else but pictures remind me where I came from and what it most important in this world.

The wall of canvases has begun

So course I want to learn more. I want to be a better photographer. I want to take amazing pictures in Paris next year. I want to have to crop less and shoot more. I want to learn how to run my camera and what to look for in another. And this class? It helped me get an awesome jump on all that. It was run by the owners of Digital 1 to 1, an online photography curriculum designed for regular people who want to take extraordinary photos. They spent an hour explaining composition, why you might need a flash on a sunny day outdoors, what megapixels are, and how to buy the right camera for what you want to do. It was great.

I love pictures. Each time we went home this summer we pulled out old photo books and sifted through them. We were looking for specific shots of my grandparents but we were also remembering. We were laughing and oohing and ahhing. We told stories and shared memories. We were there. For a moment, we were back to that place, saying cheese and being together. It was magic.

And the notes go on...

This morning I spent a very nice hour sitting at my desk talking about my sitcom pilot with a very nice woman via Skype. We discussed the story, the characters, the tone, TVLand shows, pilots, even whether or not a woman leaving a woman for a man is funnier than a woman leaving a woman for another woman or for no reason at all.

Just a regular notes session.

After the table read of a few weeks ago, I've just had the script for my sitcom pilot sitting here on my desk, staring at me. Yes, it's on top of the pile above the female arson investigator pilot needing a rewrite and the baseball pilot that doesn't need a rewrite but just needs to get made so it can't go away and be forgotten just yet. Yes, it's got a few scribbled notes on it. And no, I didn't know what to do with it next.

So Producer Extraordinaire Sonora suggested we have someone she's worked with in the past read through it, a sitcom consultant/writer, who's very good. And of course, I jumped at the chance. A) I love it when anyone, anywhere wants to read what I've written. B) If they want to read it and discuss it, all the better. And C) See above. I didn't know what to do with it next.

So I sent her the script earlier this week and fast forward to today. And the notes meeting. And no, she didn't comment on commas or phrases or anything like that. We were talking big picture things. And it was pretty great.

First she asked me to tell her the story in my own words. Which I'm getting better at, by the way. I'm not at pitching to the network good level yet but I'm getting there. I talked about why we're meeting these characters on this particular day and why they are all together in one story. I talked about their personalities and choices and motivation. I talked about jokes and throwaways and little asides. And she asked questions. Lots and lots of questions.

She told me what bumped with her, what she had to go back and read several times to understand, and what seemed muddy. And then at the end, after I had pages and pages of scribbled upon legal pad paper, I asked her my final questions: Is the script funny? Is the story good?

I held my breath as she answered. I wasn't nervous, just curious. Sometimes when you write alone in a room you truly don't know what works and what doesn't. I often love what I've written (as opposed to many writers I know who hate every single thing on their pages). I write things that move me, interest me, make me laugh. And then sometimes you take that script out into the world and have people read it but those people all know you and genuinely like or love you and are biased. Even if they don't realize it. Or they want to work with you and maybe don't want to hurt your feelings or burn bridges. So feedback can be tricky.

And I'm not saying that someone who's been paid to give it isn't going to be biased. There's definitely a customer provider relationship here. But...at some point you have to trust.

She said that the concept is strong. She said that it's genuinely funny. She said that the work I need to do is all underneath and perhaps people who've read it don't have notes because my dialogue and jokes are well done. She likened it to a sketch that needs to be turned into a painting. I like that idea. It'll still be recognizable when I'm done but it'll be so much more focused and brighter. It'll be complete.

Do I have to take her notes? Listen to what she said? No.

Do I want to make my script better? Yes.

And that means listening. Listening when it's read out loud. Listening when people give me suggestions or tell me what they don't get. Listening when the voice in my head says, "You know, she's right about that."

So what's next? Another draft. And then more notes. And probably another draft. And more notes. And the notes will go on and on and on until we're standing on a sound stage giving notes to the actors. And those notes need to be crystal clear so I'd better get painting...

Go Big or Go Home, said the writer

Saturday Angela and I trekked out to North Hollywood and found the lovely, large, Academy of Television Arts & Sciences campus. I'd never been up there and I was impressed. Theater, offices, what appeared to be an airport set from the 1940s which was actually a pre-Emmy party theme, just a very cool place. We wound our way into the theater and settled in for PrimeCuts, the panel discussion of Emmy-nominated editors hosted by Shawn Ryan (creator and writer of many amazing television shows such as The Shield, Chicago Code, etc.).

After Angela and Shawn found their way to the restrooms (apparently they bonded over a lack of signage) the panel began. And it was quite the afternoon. We heard from a woman who's been one of Woody Allen's editors since Annie Hall and who was nominated for her work this year on Louie. We heard from reality show editors (no, nothing is apparently staged on Project Runway!) and Mad Men editors (nominated for his first episode of the show) and several others.

Shawn Ryan (moderator), Susan Morse (Louie), Alexandre de Franceschi (Top of the Lake), Chris Heller (Conan), Lisa Trulli (Project Runway), Chris Peterson (Richard Pryor: Omit the Logic), Chris Figler (Mad Men)

What I love most about this panel (this is the second year in a row we've gone) is that the editors talk as much about crafting story as any writers I've ever heard speak. They talk about how important it is to build empathy and create the character on screen whether through action or dialogue. They talk about how important it is to create a story, not just cut together footage. I love that. And my hope is some day soon I'll be sitting in an editing booth alongside one of these amazing television professionals.

Then last night I headed into Hollywood to attend Sublime Primetime, a panel discussion with Emmy-nominated writers. This is one of my favorite industry events each year. Last night was cool because not only did I get to hear lots of crazy, cool stories from the people who bring you The Daily Show, Breaking Bad, and The Office, among other things, I also ran into a few friends! Sometimes L.A. can be a small town!

A common theme I heard last night from several writers was the idea of "Go Big or Go Home". This was particular to Breaking Bad and The Office but I've heard the sentiment a lot lately. It's one I subscribe to in other areas of my life but just recently started thinking about it in writing terms. It's the idea that you should leave nothing on the table, no story point should be saved for another season or another episode even. Write your characters into a corner, push your plot to the breaking point, do everything before those few precious primetime moments are gone. Because there's no guarantee you'll be back next week or next year.

I see this on TV more and more lately, particularly with cable shows. Just when you have no idea how a character could possibly come back from X, Y, or Z - he or she does. And I love that. None of us in life are guaranteed a tomorrow. Society rallies around the "You Only Live Once" and "Live Like There's No Tomorrow" philosophies. So writers should too.

At the end of the panel last night someone asked the writers what's next. Many of them have fires in the oven but a few were just happy to be enjoying this ride, this weekend, whatever the Emmy-envelope shall bring forth Sunday night. But I can't imagine I'm the only one, sitting down to work on a pilot today, who isn't thinking of the "Go Big or Go Home" adage. So here goes...

Richard LaGravenese (Behind the Candelabra), Lizzie & Wendy Molyneux (Bob's Burgers), Greg Daniels (The Office), Larry Wilmore (moderator), Kevin Bleyer (The Daily Show with Jon Stewart), Erica Oyama (Burning Love), George Mastras (Breaking Bad)

Twelve Years Later

When Angela mentioned Patriot Day last week I said, "What?" For the life of me I didn't remember that 9/11 had been renamed. (And as of last year it's now Patriot Day and National Day of Service and Remembrance). Generations down the line will call it that maybe (well Patriot Day anyway, that last part is a mouthful), although it will take some time for us to drop the ominous tone in our voice that distinguishes September Eleventh from September Tenth or any other day of the year. It may never happen, and I suppose that's okay. Right even.

It's been 12 years.

And yet? It seems like yesterday.

And yet? It seems a like a lifetime ago.

The students in Angela's sixth grade class weren't born the day the towers fell. They don't recall first hand watching the Pentagon burn on television or hearing of the brave women and men in the air. Take that in for a second.

Yeah. I can't fathom it either. But it's true.

And yet, their lives are still affected by that day. Just as mine is. Just as yours is. Each year 9/11 becomes a little more of our history, a little less of our reality but still, it's there. When we travel. When we take the elevator up a tall building. When we watch the news and hear words like air strikes and chemical weapons and terrorist attacks. It's there.

And yet? It's not.

Twelve years is a long time. A lifetime for some of us. I've lived in three states, four places, had over a dozen jobs, written thousands of pages of prose, scripts and news copy. It's a long time.

Do we still all remember exactly where we were that Tuesday morning? Of course. In fact, at the dinner party following my table read two weeks ago somehow the topic came up and we went around the room, telling our stories. It's a part of who we are, what we've become, individually and collectively.

Do I wish it had never happened? Certainly. Without a doubt. But am I thankful for the aftermath and how that has affected, even changed, my life? Yes, I think so. In grad school I studied group communication in depth and I learned how groups (be they corporations, families, friends, communities, any group really) come to be. There's the stages of forming, storming and norming. And for us? Collectively -- whether in small groups or large, that was a day and the period that followed it, of weathering those storms and becoming a group. Becoming better as a whole and as one.

Twelve years is quite a milestone. To look how far we've come and yet, how far we've gone, is important. Do I need to watch the clips of that day over and over? No. And if some do, that's what they need. But for me? Today is about remembering, celebrating, and knowing that we've come this far because on September Eleventh I'm not sure any of us thought we'd see another day, let alone 4,383 days.

A little fanatical...

VERY IMPORTANT UPDATE! 
A picture has been found! I repeat, a picture has been found! 

Verified proof of us at Tiger Stadium! 

A few weeks ago my dad found an old church directory that had a picture of a group of us at a Tiger game! He scanned the picture and voila! Here we all are. You can see me in the front row, next to Dad and Mom and Cousin John. Then two rows back you can see my Grandpa and Grandma Boutell! Love it! (Not sure where Ang is, my guess is she's off with Cousin Nicole and my Aunt Marie somewhere since Uncle Kim is there in the second row without Aunt Marie.) 

So yay! Yay for memories and fun pictures and Tiger games with friends and family! Here's to more of them in the future!

As many of you know, last year something happened to me.

I became a baseball fan.

Yes, I'd enjoyed baseball before last year. I went to my first Detroit Tigers game sometime before the old Tiger Stadium came down. Here's the proof:

I asked my dad if he had any pictures of us at the games and this was it. Out of all the photo books in all the world (we have a lot of photo books, a lot), this was the only picture of our trips to Tiger Stadium. It's not a bad picture. It's a lovely capture of the day -- what I can only imagine was a beautiful Saturday afternoon game. Maybe some of the guys in the picture are Alan Trammell, Lou Whitaker, Kirk Gibson, Willie Hernandez, even Sparky Anderson coming out to argue a call. Maybe that's the back of my head as I'm eating peanuts, reveling in the very cool charter bus ride we'd had into Detroit. It's my dad's writing on the back of the photo, so I can be sure of where we were at least. (Ah, the days before a camera in our pocket 24/7 and capturing every single moments of our lives on a data byte.) I'd like to think we were enjoying the game way too much to be bothered to take a quick family shot. Yes, that's what I'll choose to believe.

So, I've enjoyed baseball for a while. When we weren't going to Detroit for a game, you could find us on Thursday evenings in the summer cheering on my dad and his friends who played softball for the church league. Here's that proof:

Our friend Lisa, my sister Angela, and Me! 

And later on, once Lansing added the minor league Lugnuts in the mid-90s, we made their games a regular part of our summers. It didn't really matter who we rooted for, if you were playing in Michigan, you were the home team.

Then I went away to college and baseball became a once a summer trip to a Lugnuts game with my parents and their friends. I made it to the new Tigers stadium, Comerica Park, on an alumni trip one summer with a college friend after I'd moved to Arizona but baseball fell off the radar. I'd catch playoff games on TV if the Tigers were playing but that was it. Until the last few years...

Two years ago I got the idea to write a television pilot set in the world of baseball. And not little league or the minors or high school. Professional major league baseball. In Detroit. And that's when it all began.

Hundreds of hours of research. Listening to old games online. Watching any game that played on TV. Reading books about managers and owners and statistics. (I still don't understand all the numbers. I never will. And I'm perfectly okay with that. You do not need to try to "teach me". Really. Don't.) Watching the few Tiger games we got on cable over and over again. And that was the beginning of the end.

The word fan comes from the Latin word fanatical which is marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense devotion. Do t-shirts, sweatshirts, waterbottles, Tervis glasses, bracelets, pins, hats, apps, paid MLB TV subscriptions, calendars, satellite TV subscription for pre- and post-game shows count as excessive? 

Well, yeah, there you have it. Also, we made it to four games at Comerica Park in the span of six weeks while in Michigan. We'd have gone more but we really like those good seats, where you can see the players actually playing, and well, the Tigers don't pay us fans quite like they do those guys wearing the uniforms. 

So I became a fan. I also became a fantasy football, er, baseball league manager. (I call it fantasy football and no amount of correcting seems to stick in my brain, c'est la vie.) I joined a friend's league in the middle of July. I didn't even know such a thing existed before then. I thought fantasy was just for football and those horribly long books about trolls. (Don't yell at me, I'm just not a fan of them.) And what's the first thing I did on my FF team? 

Traded for all the Tigers I could get my hands on. 

Yep. Smart move right? Sure. When the Tigers are on a winning streak. I moved up from eighth to second place quickly. I "smack talked" on the boards. My friends congratulated me. And then? My plan backfired. I'm back in seventh place. Maybe having a team that's 75% Tigers isn't the best move. But? I'm a fan. What can I say.

And now it's football season. If you know me, you know I hate football. I find it boring. I find it confusing. I find it boring. Did I mention I find it boring. Did in high school when I went to almost every game wearing my letterman jacket and freezing my buns off on those aluminum benches. Did in college when our team (I think we had a team, we at least had guys who dressed up like a team) was horrible. I went to one game, stayed half an hour and headed back to the library. Did in grad school when I spent hours cleaning Waldo Stadium after the games as a fundraiser for our campus ministry. There was no way I could ever enjoy a game there watching thousands of people trash the bleachers I'd spend the next six hours climbing with my garbage bags. And I still don't get it. I've been known to inquire about Detroit's Lions (yes, Detroit has a football team, and no, that joke isn't funny even after the thousandth time I've heard it) from time to time. My dad watches them occasionally and he'll give me the ten-second update (they suck, what's new). I've seen my share of Thanksgiving Day games because it's more of a tradition then a game. But this year? I'm trying...and failing...to like football.

I was asked to join a fantasy football (I got it right this time!) team with the same friends who have the FB team. I told them I know less than nothing about football. They told me I was a warm body and that's all they needed. So I joined. And I got my sister Angela and my friend Susie to join. (Angela is team me in hating football. Susie is team football is awesome. She is trying to recruit us. It won't happen.) And we had our draft. My strategy? Pick two players I'd read about in national magazines (Time, I'm looking at you). They were cute. They seemed to be in the spotlight. I chose a few others who had good rankings on the site as well. And then? Let autodraft do the rest. (I did choose Detroit as my offense, or defense, I don't know really but I did it because, well, #DETROITpride people.) All in all, I put an hour into this endeavor, maybe two.

So what happened? Angela let autodraft pick her team. She spent maybe two minutes on the endeavor and all of that time was trying to remember her username and password that she'd set up a week earlier and promptly forgotten. And she got an A- on her draft. My score? D. And two of the players that were autodrafted for me? Free agents. Seriously. For the record, I still hate football. And if my FF team wins? I'll crow like nobody's business. But more than likely? I'll check my ranking once a week and forget about it the rest of time. Because, well, baseball isn't over and well, baseball's baseball. There's nothing else to say about that.

So. I'm a fan. I play fantasy football twice a year. I root for Detroit above anyone else. Who wants to come over for a game? 

Susie, Me, Angela -- I passed my fanaticism onto both of them and now we're all too far gone...

60 years - Grandpa and Grandma Cows part two

Sixty years ago today Bette Bartlett Knapp (I guess she was still a Knapp then, I don't know, and never thought to ask until it was too late) married Jim Boutell. I don't know where this wedding happened. I don't know if it was in Michigan or at a courthouse or a church or anything. To the best of the family's recall, they don't know either. It's possible my dad was at the ceremony but since he looked like this after they were married, he doesn't remember.

Tommy Knapp, Bette Boutell, Terry Knapp, Jim Boutell

I wish I had thought to ask more questions, and we did ask a lot. But there was just so much to cover. Sixty years. And that was just with Grandpa Jim. The boys in this black and white picture? They were from her first marriage to my Grandpa Bill. That's a lot of life to cover. And we never think about discussing it until it's too late. By the time Grandpa had passed and we started talking that last week, the answers had eroded and the tales had grown a little taller. But that's okay. The stories will stay with me and they'll be mixed up a little and added too and they'll be shared. And that's what life's about, sharing our stories. Even when they're not our own.

Here's what I do remember, the laughter.

The anniversary parties at our house, at the Pretzel Bell and MSU children's gardens, the cakes and the smiles and the laughter. Always laughter. Even when things were hard. Grandma and Grandpa did not have a perfect marriage, from my limited view I'm not sure anyone does, just as none of us has perfect relationships. But they kept at it. For a very long time. To me, that means something.

There were four kids between them. There were at least seven apartments and houses that I remember. There were grandkids galore. There was farming and General Motors and Sears and the schools and the church and growing old together. There was cancer and heart attacks and strokes and dying mothers and divorces. There was so much in that sixty years. And I was only there for a fraction of it.

But here's what I remember most vividly: Hot July afternoons on the farm. Grandpa coming home from work for lunch and clicking on the little black and white TV in the kitchen to find CBS at 12:30pm for The Young and the Restless. Even though Grandma had it on in the living room on the big color set. Eating fresh veggies and hot rolls and peanut butter. Them not saying much to each other because it didn't have to be said. It was a finely tuned, over thousands of practices, orchestra. It just worked. The hour would pass and Grandpa would head back out and as hard as I try, I can't remember if there was a kiss or a hug or a kind word. Chances are there wasn't. Chances are it was just part of the song. The leaving, the returning in a few hours to do it all again. It was just life. And they seemed to make the most of it, day in and day out.

My grandparents didn't get their sixty years together here on earth. They were just a few weeks shy when grandpa passed away. But a few weeks is not really important. What's important is the life they lived, together, for better or worse, here. And knowing that they must be having a big party (or maybe just eating rolls together watching their program) up in heaven today.

s

Grandma and Grandpa Cows - only part one

I have a list of blogs on my to-do list to write. I had great intentions to keep up with my writing this summer while in Michigan but then one month turned into almost two and things got, well, complicated. Add that to the fact that as soon as I was finished with work every day (on the computer, remember, I teach online) the last thing I wanted to do was stay behind the keyboard. There were grandneighbors to play with, baseball games to go to, bonfires to ignite and people to talk to. Always, so many people. I love that about home.

So I didn't blog a lot. And I'll try to do some remembering posts this fall. Goodness, it's fall already, isn't it. It seems strange. Mostly because it's 100 degrees here in Los Angeles and I'm literally sweating as I type this. But this is week four of school for Angela and her kiddos and it's September. There's talk of Halloween and baseball playoffs and all things crunchy leaved.

But as I get back into the groove of being behind my desk (which is different then being behind just the keyboard - I even have a new big time desk chair, with arms!) and at the computer, I'm feeling the need to write again. Because for me? Writing is life. Writing is like breathing. Writing is who I am and what I am and what I do. I write. It's that simple.

Plates Angela and I (and obviously Mom) made that hung in my grandparents' houses for years. They were Grandma and Grandpa Cows because, well, they had cows at their house when we were little. For kids, it's as simple as that.

But what's not so simple is the emotional side of things. In the past two months I've been, well, very emotional. I lost my grandfather in July. And then we buried him on a Monday. Angela and I were home for the funeral and home for the following week as it was still summer vacation. We spent so much time with my grandma that week. And it was such good time. We went out to lunch. We listened to stories. We cried. We laughed. Oh god did we laugh. It was so good. And then when we hugged goodbye on Friday I figured on the next trip we'd hear all about her planned casino escapade and her new girlfriends at her apartment complex. She couldn't wait to hear more about my pilot and my writing and she was excited that the Tigers were in contention for the pennant.

But that was all before the heart attack. And then? She passed away on August 17th.

I've lost grandparents before. I only have one left. (I started out life with six and a few great grandparents to boot.) But before I was younger. Or I didn't see my grandfather as much. But now I've lost the two grandmothers who have been a daily part of my life. I still reach to call the grandmother who's been gone several years. And now? Who am I supposed to call on Tuesday mornings?

She read every blog post I ever wrote. I know this because when I didn't post as frequently as she'd like she'd let me know. She read my screenplays and my novel. She told her friends about me and once spent quite some time bragging that I am friends with a celebrity to a cable repair man who could have cared less. When I called (she never called but she loved to talk on the phone, so much so) she'd be full of questions and comments and I knew that even though she feigned bad eye site she was hawkeye when it came to scouring her email and my Facebook page.

I really don't know what to do now. I feel like she's still out there. And I know, in a way she is. But I can't call her on the phone. I can't take her donuts from Quality Dairy anymore. I can't hear her say my name or give me a hug only a grandmother can give. Was it all good? Hardly. So much of it wasn't. But it's hard to remember that when all you can think of is the good. And right now the good is hard. Very hard.

So what do I do? (After wiping away the tears that are falling right now?) I check off the box marked 'blog about death'. I had no idea what this blog would be about when I started writing. Because, as I said, I'm simply breathing right now. I want to write more about these people who have been such a part of my thirty-plus years. But right now, all I can think about is how they're gone.

I've been around death my entire life. I lost brothers before I was old enough to realize I had brothers. I lost a grandfather before I hit double digits. My family owned a funeral home and we went to a big church and I was a regular at visitations and funerals before I ever knew exactly what they were. I've eaten and delivered my share of funeral ham. More than my share.

So, I guess this is a blog about death. It's been weighing so heavily on me for months that I felt like I needed to exhale deeply and let it all out. What ever it all is. And for today, I'm going to think that maybe there's a really good Ethernet cable connection in heaven and Grandma's reading this on a new laptop. And then maybe she'll get a good win in a game of solitaire. Then maybe the tears will stop for a while.

The first time through

Saturday night was our first time through. We'd all read the script before. Angela had. Sonora had. Even Susie, visiting from Michigan for the weekend, had read it. But we hadn't heard it. And there's a difference.

A huge difference.

Novels are meant to be read. They're usually long-winded (in the best of ways) and descriptive. Poems follow organizational patterns so that you can feel the words (yes, even poems that seem to have no rhyme or reason, they have a pattern, just ask the seventh graders who've had Ms. Knapp or Ms. Knapp for language arts). Newspaper articles supply information without color. But scripts?

They're meant to be heard. They're meant to be seen. They're meant to be experienced.

So Saturday night eight of us gathered around Sonora's big long dining room table, scripts in hand, and experienced a story.

And it was awesome.

Yes, I'd read the dialogue out loud countless times. I read it for cadence and proofreading and characters voices and jokes. But I had yet to read it to "see" the story.

Sonora had gathered a group of awesome actors from her travels around Hollywood and they were all very game to play along. They didn't just read their parts as us writers are prone to do when we sit in on a table read. They were their parts. They acted, as actors do. It was pretty freaking cool.

There was slurred speech for the drunk. There was yelling and pounding on the table at one point. There was whispering and laughing. Oh, yes, there was laughing. (My favorite part. I made hardly any notes on my script that night but I made lots of smiley faces - every laugh or chuckle or smile gets a smiley face. Smiley faces are king in the sitcom world.)

And Angela got to read the stage directions which was pretty cool - I love how excited every one was. Everyone. Those of us listening, those of us acting. It was just, a very cool night.

And then?

We feasted on the lovely dinner Sonora made. We drank wine and cracked open the champagne I bought (it had a screw top - maybe by the time we film the pilot I'll have figured out how to buy champagne that pops!). We sat around late into the night talking and laughing and listening. We shared our stories. We shared others stories. We laughed over the superhero audition video some poor boy in England had mistakenly sent to Sonora's wife. We all reluctantly ended the evening, hoping sometime to spend another night just as happy.

So, it was a success. A big one in my book.

And now? What's next...

The Screenwriter & The Producer/Actress

Well, that's the thing. We're not sure. There will be rewrites and notes and discussions and more rewrites. There will be work. That's for sure. There will be hustling around town to get meetings and move forward. Lots of work. But Saturday night?

That was just plain fun. Something I'd waited five years to experience. Something I'd had a hard time even imagining. And yet? There is was. I have a recording on my iPhone to prove it. Time to listen to those laughs one more time...