Mary

There's a moving truck in the middle of Abbey Place right now. As I write I am listening to the sounds of furniture being lifted and shifted, of boxes being slid along the aluminum floor of the U-Haul. And no, Angela and I are not moving. But Mary is.

Mary has lived on Abbey Place longer than I've been alive. She's lived in the duplex she bought for herself, after what had been and continues to be a truly been an amazing life, over forty years ago. I know because I've spent the last three years helping to edit her autobiography. She's almost ninety years old and what she's experienced, what she's endured, it truly astounds me. But that is her story to tell, and hopefully one day soon you'll be able to read it for yourself. I'll be promoting the publication of her book, not to worry.

But today Mary is leaving us. She's in her late eighties and two years ago she thought it might be time to sell her house so no one would have to deal with it later on. So pragmatic, our Mary. She remodeled and then sold and was able to stay in the house for almost a year after the sale. But today it's time to go.

She's just moving to Santa Monica. To the beach. To an apartment with a swimming pool (she says she might venture in even though she never learned to swim back in West Virginia). To be closer to Santa Monica Community College because she loves taking classes. To be in better proximity to her sister who lives south of us. To be in a smaller, more manageable space.

Yesterday she came over and brought flowers. We gave her a copy of a photo we'd taken a few weeks back, of her and Betty. We chattered about the week and school and politics and the weather. Normal stuff. But we all knew that this would be the last time she'd just pop by. Or call and ask a favor, usually having to do with her computer, that would just take a second...

Yesterday morning early, as I laid in bed reading, I heard a rustling at the front door that has become familiar on Sundays. After a few moments I went out and checked, and yes, there was a Noah's bag hanging from the doorknob. See most Sunday mornings Mary drives our next door neighbors Bill and Betty to the farmer's market in the Larchmont neighborhood and they return with two blueberry bagels that they hang on the door for us. This has been going on for years now. It's always such a welcome treat and such a familiar gesture that it's just become a part of our month when it happens. And yet, yesterday that came to an end too. There may be Sundays when we give the neighbors a ride the mile over to the market but it just won't be the same, for them or for us. Those bagels were extra sweet yesterday.

Betty, Angela & Mary

This morning as I was arriving home after my walk, Betty and Bill stopped me on the corner of our street as they headed out on their walk. Betty commented that it was a sad day. I agreed and we stood there quietly for a moment. Then we talked about how it's obviously best for Mary. And how Angela and I will drive them over to have lunch with her in Santa Monica one day soon. And we hope Mary will still visit Abbey Place from time to time. But it will never be exactly how it has been.

For eight years I've noted that her powder blue car is in the driveway at night to make sure she's gotten home safely before dark. I've listened for the sound of her backing up, slowly, and deliberately, and have known she's off to volunteer or take a writing class or see a movie or attend the symphony. Mary's social calendar rivals most in this city. We've watched her house when she's been away and she's kept an eye on ours. We've celebrated holidays and worked to keep our neighborhood safer and just enjoyed being near one another, in community with one another.

Mary leaves us but this isn't goodbye. Last summer when I spent time helping with a rather unruly internet issue I had to phone several companies for her. Eventually I just started telling them that I was her granddaughtter to simplify matters and when I hung up from one lengthy call Mary said she liked the sounds of that, me being her granddaughter. I told her I needed another grandmother as well. At Christmas her card was slipped in our mailbox and addressed to "my two granddaughters".

Some days Los Angeles still feels like a foreign land. One I have not yet figured out and doubt I ever will. But some days, like yesterday, make Los Angeles seem just a little more like home. And it's because of the people. It's because of the people like Mary.

Abbey Place will miss her. We all will. But now we all have a reason to walk along the ocean, together.

Not throwing away my shot!

Summer has happened! Yes, I know, it's still technically summer. But our almost two months in Michigan are over. Angela has gone back to school in her new capacity of Instructional Coach (yay! promotion!). I've gone back to my desk. And I've finished another script.

Yes, finished. A draft. Not finished forever. But for now. It's a script I started over a year ago. An idea that's been bouncing around my head for a while now. And now there's a draft of it I really really like, on paper.

And it's a draft I'm going to send out into the world.

In July I found out I was one of the 50 semi-finalists in the Industry Insider Television Writing Contest. I'd entered a pilot proposal (a bunch of pages answering a bunch of questions about a story I wanted to tell) in May and was selected to submit a rough draft of my pilot this coming Monday. I've been making notes and researching this topic for a few years now. I'd come up with ideas I just didn't like as much as I should. As much as I wanted to. So when I found out about this pilot proposal contest I did something I haven't ever done before.

I'm the girl who still pulls out her notes from film school and writes her beat sheet, her outline, her note cards, just as she was taught. I use templates I've curated from all over the place. I have a specific routine. I write out how I think things should go. I use full sentences. I tell my story methodically and completely.

But this time I just wrote from my soul. I didn't pull out any of the material I'd created before. I abandoned all of the story lines (well most of them) I'd crafted. I put away the old outlines and notecards. And I just told a really entertaining story as if I was talking. I used language that might not be safe for work. I used incomplete sentences. I spiced up my punctuation. And I went to town. I had fun.

And apparently it worked. So I became a semi-finalist. And for the past three weeks I've been creating outlines and beat sheets and scenes and ultimately, this draft, of what I hope is a really cool story. I've sent it to four people I trust and they're reading for mistakes and holes and those big questions that cannot be unanswered. And this weekend I'll print a copy and go over it word by word and read it aloud with Angela and then I'll send it in on Monday. And I'll wait.

The contest will be narrowed down to 10 participants who will work with mentors and take classes and then ultimately one person will win. They'll pitch their story to a major network.

Maybe that person will be me.

Maybe it won't.

Either way? I've tried. I've done my best. I've sat in the chair. I've put in the hours. I've become these characters. I've lived this world. I've written the best that I can. And I love it. I love this story. I love how much fun I've been having with it. I love that I've wanted to get back to my desk this week when I've been away from it. I love that I've not been able to get these scenes out of my brain.

But I've also been fretting over the thought that this might not be my story to tell. That because this is not a world I have first-hand knowledge of, I maybe shouldn't try to write about it. But, as I've been listening to Lin-Manuel Miranda's Hamilton this week, and reading his book about his experience writing the musical, I've realized a few things.

Miranda didn't have first-hand experience in Alexander Hamilton's life or his world. But he wanted to tell the story.

I want to tell this story. I want to bring these characters to life. I want to write THIS.

And so I will. And so I did. And so I will keep at it.

My story is not of one of the country's founding fathers. My story is of women mafia members in Detroit. My story is not based in fact. And yet? The relationships, the conversations, the experiences, so many of them are universal. So many of them come from real life. Not mafia life. Not Detroit life. But life. And I think that's why this is my story to tell. Because this is my story to create. This is my story to curate. This is my story.

I don't know if I'll move on to the next round of the contest. I don't know if I'll ever have the chance to pitch this story to a studio or network. But in the words of Miranda, "I'm not throwing away my shot!" I'm going to keep writing. Keep telling these stories. I'm going to keep entertaining myself, and hopefully others as well.  It's the only way I know how to write. It's all I know how to do.