Donald Jewelers is family

Sometime last year I heard the news, Donald's was closing. Instantly I thought, no. Can't be. They've been there my whole life. And yet? Today is their last day. I'm happy for the men who run the business, that they get to go out and enjoy retirement, but I'm sad for a part of my life in Michigan, on Grand River Avenue, to be gone.

Donald's has always been more than just a jewelry store for my family. Located right in the heart of downtown Howell, right next to the courthouse my mom worked at for my whole life, it's been a place where we've gone in good spirits, in the blazing hot summer, in the cold winter snow, always with a smile and a joyous occasion to celebrate.

Donald's sold my parents my first pair of pierced earrings when I was thirteen years old and allowed to get my ears pierced. Fourteen carat gold butterflies on a post that came in a silver velvet box. I still wear them. Donald's is where my sister and I got to go with our parents prior to our sixteenth birthdays. In our house you got a class ring or a birthstone ring. Angela and I chose wisely, we both still wear our birthstone rings regularly.

Donald's is where my parents and I took the golf and choir medals I'd won at high school competitions to be engraved. Never once did Buss (the younger Donald) charge us for those engravings. He always spent time talking about my accomplishments, asking questions, spending a few minutes connecting even though I'm sure he had mountains of work in the back of the shop to focus on.

Donald's is where grandma got my first watch, a small Timex. I wasn't with her, as it was a birthday gift, but she made sure to tell me that when I needed a new battery she would take me to Donald's and we'd get one.

Donald's is where I accompanied my dad, year after year, to watch as he picked out just the perfect piece of jewelry for my mom for Christmas. Laid out there under the glass were always beautiful necklaces and fancy rings and lovely pins. Dad would pick something out, Mr. Yax (the older Donald) would wrap it up and we'd leave knowing Mom would be happy on December 25th.

Donald's is where I took old pieces, passed down to me, and had them fixed up, shined up, and was always surprised that Buss or Mr. Yax never charged more than a few dollars for this labor-intensive job. We'd shoot the breeze, and after I'd moved out to L.A., I'd listen as Buss told me stories that would work as scripts. He always has an idea or two to share, many I've written down and will someday claim as my own!

Donald's is where I took my grandmother's diamond ring after her funeral. It was now mine, the two-diamonds on the gold band that her father had given her when she was just barely sixteen. I'd intended to have it reset, something more modern. Buss took so much time with me and my mom, he found books and catalogs of settings, websites he e-mailed to me after I'd come back to L.A., wanting to make sure I found just the perfect setting to remember grandma with. And ultimately? He's the one who convinced me, not through specific words, but through his heart and his careful prodding, that maybe the ring was perfect as it was. It's solid, it's beautiful, it's timeless. And so? After months of talk and planning and him even drawing out a few settings on scratch paper for me, I didn't change a thing. And Buss seemed to think that was just fine. And it's a ring I wear every single day now.

In July Angela and I made some cookies and took two plates down to Donald's. Mr. Yax was off on a clock call, something I'm sure he'll continue doing forever despite his retirement. But when we walked in and saw the mostly empty glass cases, we knew an era was ending. We thanked Buss for what he has meant to our family, to our town, and to us. His family, including his mom, has been a source of joy in so many of our family's important moments and I love that about our Howell community. No matter how far I've gone or how long I've been there, people like Donald and Mr. Yax were always there to welcome me back and remind me of what makes a village.

I'll miss Donald's. But mostly I'll miss visiting with Bussy and Mr. Yax and gazing upon the jewels in those glass cases and wondering about what's next. For all of us.

We all have a story to tell...

When I first moved to Los Angeles I was in film school and I was in class several nights a week. When I wasn't in class I was tracking down movies in theaters across the city I had to watch and critique before my next class. There wasn't a lot of time for other pursuits. That first year of film school, my first in Los Angeles, I watched something like 100 movies. Both in theaters and at home. That's in addition to my normal television favorites, writing two feature length scripts, reading every script and book I could get my hands on, having an internship, teaching, and just the general business of living. So I didn't have a lot of time to get to events. But since finishing film school officially at UCLA I've tried to see film and television events around town as a way to continue my education, something that's very important to me. I make it a priority to listen to podcasts (mostly Scriptnotes which is a never miss, but sometimes Marc Maron and Kevin Pollock, occasionally KCRW's The Treatment, etc.), watch live streams of Q&As, and so on. I also try to get to Writers Guild events and every year, Prime/Cuts which is the Emmy panel featuring nominated television editors.

It's true, I'm not an editor. I have absolutely no experience or training in editing. I know it happens on a computer. I know it's important. I know that some day, God willing, I'll be asked to step into the editing booth and give my two-cents on how the cut looks. But for now? I'm a sponge wanting to learn. Also? One of my favorite showrunners, Shawn Ryan, hosts the panel most years. And I'm all for hearing him chat for an afternoon.

So yesterday Angela and I went off in search of the Skirball Center and Prime/Cuts. And we spent a few hours listening to how these seven editors do their job, how they contribute creatively to some of the best television out there, and how they see what they do as really another draft, another way of writing the script. In the words of Mr. Ryan, "Editing really is the closest you can get to writing without putting pen to paper."

And while the editors talked about their personal experiences and their work environments and how they coordinate with the writers and directors, I kept thinking about the fact that there were only two women on the panel. And wouldn't it be something if some day, there were five women on the panel and only two men. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad there were two women up there. But still...a few more couldn't be found? Maybe not...

When Mr. Ryan opened up the floor for audience questions I waited a minute or two and then finally stood up. I wasn't sure how I was going to phrase my question but it came out anyway. I said I wanted to ask the two women on the panel how being a female has impacted their careers. Whether or not they feel they've missed out on opportunities because they are women. And if there's a similar problem with women getting work in editing rooms as there is with women getting work in writing rooms.

I sat back down in the front row and watched as the first female panelist, Cate Haight, picked up her microphone and spoke directly at me. She said, yes, there's a problem. The editors guild is 75% male. That's a problem. She talked for a few minutes about how important women's points of view are in the process and though she had never directly experienced not getting a job because of her gender, she suspected others had. Then the second woman on the panel, Kate Amend, chimed in and echoed the sentiments and stated that she'd gone into documentary work because it seemed easier for a woman to get work in that world.

The panel went on for a while longer, we heard some funny stories, and then it was over. As Angela and I turned to leave, a young woman bounded down the steps and stated, "You're the one who asked the question about gender. Thank you. I have a story..."

She proceeded to tell us the experience she had recently of being interviewed for a job on a hit show, being almost 100% sure she had gotten the job, and then being taken into the editing room to meet everyone. She said immediately she knew the job wasn't hers anymore. The room was taken aback by her, a woman, in the sea of male faces staring back at her. She talked about how she just can't seem to catch a break in the male-dominated industry and she's hopeful if we keep talking about the issue, it'll change. I promised her it would, and that with more women writers and more women creators, hopefully we'll see a shift toward equality. We exchanged cards and I'm hopeful one day we'll work together.

Angela and I said goodbye and headed toward the restrooms. But before we could get a few stairs down, another woman, this time older, and a different race, grabbed us and said she was so glad I'd asked that question, that I'd spoken up. She's not an editor, her husband is, but she's a playwright and a vocal feminist and she said we need to stand up and make a change. We chatted for a few minutes and she wished me luck.

In the span of twenty minutes I'd met two very different women, and heard two very different, yet similar, stories. I'd heard that while there's so much excitement and promise in this industry, and in this world, there's still so much left to change, left to make better. And I want to be a part of that. I want to be the change I wish to see in the world. I really truly do. I want to make a difference. To help women know that we can do everything. We can make the decisions. We can be involved.

We all have stories. We all want to tell our stories. Sometimes that happens in writing. Sometimes that happens in editing. And sometimes that happens with each other on the steps, after we've stood up, hands shaking, and been just a little bit brave. Sometimes we need to stick our necks out and remember that the worst thing that can happen is really probably not so bad after all. And that even the final draft of something I write will be changed a million times along that way, even after I think it's finished. Much like life.

This very moment

I've gone through the last few weeks, actually the last month or so, thinking soon it will be fall. Soon things will be back to normal. Soon I'll be back in a routine. Soon I'll feel better. Soon I'll have more time. Soon. Soon. Soon.

The thing though? Soon is now.

I've had to spend some time recently coming to grips with the fact that this is life. There is no, oh I'll wait for this job or that event. I'll figure it out when I reach this milestone. Nope. That's not how it works. How it works is this is today. There are things that need to be done today. There are things that should be done today. There are things that could be done today. Likely, a small percentage of that will happen. I'll check Twitter too many times and I'll realize that I've been lying in bed for an extra hour instead of the extra ten minutes I promised myself.

It's been a long year, I keep telling myself that. I keep thinking about all that has happened in my life, how each day seems so short and so mundane but in reality, things add up, things are complicated. Life is messy. And some days all we can do is make it to the end and pray to God we get a few hours in front of the television lying on the couch, zoned out.

Last week I had a panic attack. I hadn't had one in quite some time. Well, maybe I had one in Michigan when I thought about boarding a plane and coming back to LA but I'm not sure. But last week it really happened. I was home alone in the morning. I had my ear buds in, I was rocking out to my favorite screenwriting podcast, and I was cleaning the house. I was cooking. I was doing a million things at once which is how a lot of my weekdays are spent. Don't be fooled. A script never gets written here straight through on Abbey Place. There will be plenty of distractions and events that hold it up.

But this day I was going full out. I was feeling good and I went into the bathroom where I keep my blood thinners and I noted that my little seven-day pill box was empty. I filled it up. I went to the kitchen. I did ten other things. Then I realized I couldn't remember if I'd taken one of my pills. Okay. No big deal, right? Except? It's kind of a big deal. My hematologist explicitly told me at my first visit never to stop taking my medicine unless a doctor told me to. Not to miss a day. And here I was, not sure if I had or hadn't taken it.

Sure, I could take a second (maybe first?) pill. But upon finding the pill manufacturer's website I learned that's a really bad idea. Like if you take two doses you need to go to the hospital bad. So I couldn't do that.

So instead? I sat on the bed and I cried. I cried big ugly sobs. And then I talked to Angela and my Dad (who takes the same medication and who apparently forgets to take his all the time and is still alive) and I wiped my eyes and I followed my Dad's advice: Forget about it.

See, there are only so many things we can worry about. There are only so many things we can do. Some days we'll feel like a million bucks. We'll look great, our hair will lay just so, we'll get our 10,000 steps in and our Fitbit will produce that computer smiley face we all crave. And then some days? We'll barely make it to the end. We'll feel like failures because we spent all day "writing" and we have a half of a legal pad page to show for it. Or we'll forget to get the chicken out for dinner and it's still frozen at seven o'clock. Or we'll get so angry we honestly never think we'll feel happy again. This, all of it, is life. I've been reminding myself of that weekly, daily, hourly. This is what we didn't sign up for but got anyway.

And those people who appear to have it better than us? I seriously question that. We all have shit we have to deal with. We all have to make it to tomorrow, next week, the end of the semester, or just through the next meal. We all have to make ourselves workout and eat better and read the news and not cry too much because there's nothing we can do about those kids coming out of Syria. We all have to try each and every day to be happy. To be healthy. To be love. No, not loved. To be love. To be light.

I want that for my life. I want to share my spirit, my voice, my heart, my love. I want to make it through the day and not be glad it's over but be glad it happened. I want that. So much.

And so today, and tomorrow, and the next day, I'll work on it. And it'll happen. Soon enough. Because soon is now. This very moment.

Loving Los Angeles

Los Angeles and I have a strong love hate relationship. I feel this is true not only for Los Angeles and me but for me and many other things. Me and writing. Me and exercise. Me and parts of my body. Me and driving. Me and so many parts of life. But recently, the hatred part of my relationship has grown stronger. When I left Michigan in July, after almost six weeks there, I was heartbroken. When I got back to Los Angeles just a few short hours later I was angry. It's hot. It's now humid to boot. It's so busy. The roads are congested. I hate all the restaurants. It's so expensive. I never see anything green. And on and on and on.

And then, a few days after being back home, I started to settle down. I started to remember that Los Angeles isn't so bad. I still like seeing the Hollywood sign when I drive north in my neighborhood. I still like the palm trees when the sun goes down and sits behind them for a few moments each evening. I have friends here. I might be moving back to the love side of things.

This weekend definitely helped our relationship. Angela and I ran a lot of errands and each time we ventured out, traffic was light. Stores were full but not busting. People seemed less on edge. Nothing like a holiday to clear out half the population and make things bearable. And then Monday Angela and I ventured downtown to our friend Krista's apartment building to go swimming. She has a glorious, huge pool right there in the middle of the city. And low and behold! Green grass in tiny patches surrounding it. By the time we headed out last night, the sun was setting and we were chilly. It was glorious.

But the night wasn't over. We had noticed something on our way downtown but we were going the wrong direction to slow too much to gawk. So on our way back home we slowed and circled the park. MacArthur Park. A place I would never really venture on a normal day. It's in the heart of a neighborhood that's not my own, one I fight traffic to get through when going other places. But yesterday we stopped. We found the last parking spot in the little lot to west of the park and we got out, still wet from the pool but giddy like kids. This is what we saw:

An art installation, right there in the middle of the city. In the midst of the trash filled lake. In the midst of the dirt covered hills. In the midst of the homeless encampments and soccer games and chess matches and cotton candy salesmen and people napping in the sun. An art installation.

We hadn't heard about it but that's because it had just gone up on Saturday and they were finishing it all weekend. Thousands of giant beach balls, hand-painted principally by schoolchildren, filling the lake. Just floating there in the water, under the setting sun. Brightening up the neighborhood.

The park was full, it normally is, but it was so cool to see so many people focused inward on the lake. Parents taking pictures of kids on the edge. A little boy explaining why the fish ball with the green fins is his favorite. So many people just soaking it in. Beautiful. Los Angeles, I'm on to you. You're wooing me again.

So we ended a long, tiring weekend of work around the house with a smile. A smile from a city that I've called home for over seven years. A city that is every single day smiling back at me.