Red carpets and bedroom offices

It's been seven weeks since the red carpet premiere screening of The Couch. Seven weeks and seven seconds. Seven weeks and seven lifetimes. Seven weeks and seven years. It seems so far away and then a moment later, I feel as if it just happened.

It was a lovely night. So many of my friends showed up. My family was there. People who've cheerleaded me on for over ten years now. For over forty years now. It really was a celebration. A celebration almost two years in the making. And a celebration that was over in the snap of a finger. It really was a lovely night. A lovely blur of a night.

As I sat there, in the pews of the church I've been a member of since I moved to California, amidst people who have loved me and encouraged me, I wasn't nervous. I thought I might be. I'd written this story, that was so much of me, so much of my life, and really none of it at all, and I was asking people to watch, to listen, to laugh, to cry, to experience a world I'd created. This was something I had lived with for so long it was almost odd that others had not experienced it until that very moment. And yet, they hadn't. I had lived with the story, and then the actors' portrayal, and the photos, and the memories, that to be there in that room was just a big exhale for me. A chance to say, this is it. This is the end of this journey. This is the result.

The first scene I ever directed,
as show on the big screen

That night, as I saw an image I directed on the big screen, in the darkened room, and then heard words I'd strung together while sitting in my bedroom wearing my pajamas, I was not nervous. But I was satisfied. This was the goal all along. This was the goal from the very beginning. From the first film school application. From the first day in the lecture hall at UCLA. From the first writer's group meeting in my living room. From the first of dozens of scripts written. From the first moment I thought, I can do that.

I know it takes hubris to say the world needs to hear my story, the world should hear my story. I know it takes a certain bit of self-importance. I won't deny that. I can't deny that. If I did, I'd never put my fingers on the keyboard or pick up a pen. I have things to say. I have stories to share. I have this world, so many worlds, inside of me and they have to come out. It's how I experience the real world. It's how I make sense of the real world. I write about it. And I want people to read what I've written just as I read what others have written and made and created.

The red carpet premiere was a celebration. It was a whirlwind. I took hundreds of pictures, both in front of and from behind the camera. I spent mere moments with people I wanted to talk to all night. I didn't eat any of the lovely food the caterers made. I rushed and rushed and wished I could have slowed everything down and spread it out over more hours, more days. But that's not how celebrations work. Because the peaks are usually tiny compared to the valleys.

And there are valleys. I always want to remind myself of that. And to share that with others. It's not all glossy, filtered photos spread across social media. It's having a terrible cold on the night of the premiere and somehow, I'm sure God was involved, not coughing even once for those few hours at the church. It's things not always going perfectly, and some people not making it even though they promised, and forgetting to take one single photo with someone who cheers you on loudly every single day.

It's the other days of the year when I'm sitting here, in my office, that is also my bedroom, and wondering what I should work on next. It's abandoning a beloved project because the news of real life is too intense to translate into fiction anymore. It's feeling behind on life because I haven't created another new finished script yet this year and it's the middle of December. It's knowing we haven't shot a single frame of our movie yet, and feeling like maybe we never will.

But those valleys are never so deep that I can't see out. And the way up is always right there. I think about what I have accomplished this year. About starting out in January on the set of a hit network show, spending three weeks learning from a wonderful director, who when I saw him again this fall, was even more kind and made me and my work feel important. I think about the table read where over a dozen actors I didn't know spent hours preparing for and then presenting my work to me. So that I could learn. And it was amazing. I think about the Film Independent classes I've taken, the MasterClasses I've listened to, the books I've read, and the work I've done behind the scenes (social media is a lot, y'all. A LOT.). I count up the hours I've spent with people I love, volunteering and socializing and worshiping and cheering and laughing and I realize how blessed I really am. I think about the movie I'm writing -- the new movie, and how it's all there in an outline and how I did that. And how I can already see the first twenty minutes and how they're twenty REALLY GOOD minutes and how I can't wait to sit in a dark room and watch this one. I think about how I'm alive. How I'm loved. How I'm happy. I think about the headaches from my blood thinner and how they remind me that the pulmonary embolism I had almost four years ago did not bury me in that valley. I think about how I get to go spend Christmas in Michigan.

And then I think about that hubris again. And I think maybe it's not such a bad thing. That by believing in myself I get to create stories that give people some joy, some entertainment, even just for an hour or two. I get to meet and work with all sorts of amazing storytellers and we get to put on a show and that on Tuesday, I will step into the first movie theater I ever saw a movie in and show more of my friends and family something I made, right up on that big screen.

I saw Speed in that theater. I saw Harry and the Hendersons in that theater. I saw Little Women in that theater. I saw movies in that theater with my sister, with my parents, with my grandparents. With people who will sit with my Tuesday night and people I know are watching from up above. I get to do that. That's a definite peak.

It hasn't all been red carpets this year. And even when it has been, there's always more to the story than what most of us see or hear about. More time is spent alone, in my bedroom in clothes I'm sometimes embarrassed to answer the door in, then dressed up and sitting on a stage talking about the craft. But that's how it's supposed to be. That's the best part of it all. If we didn't have valleys, we'd never realize there were peaks. Glorious, beautiful peaks that make the whole journey that much more beautiful.

Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today my devotion was featured:

Isaiah 40: 6-8

This passage starts with: A voice says, “Cry out.” And I said, “What shall I cry?” 

I read this the Tuesday before our devotions were due because well, deadlines are a writer’s best motivation, and then I headed out to serve at our weekly Homeless Lunch. We were busier than we had been in a long, long time. We served 123 people. We passed out shoes and clothes and deodorant and socks and leftover Halloween candy and smiles. We always pass out smiles. We laughed with our guests. We teased our guests. We hugged our guests. We prayed for our guests. And when we closed the gates for the last time at the end of lunch I looked around and wondered what shall I cry?

 

There is so much need in this world. So much hurt. So much sadness. So much brokenness. So much violence. At our borders. In our schools. In our churches. In our homes. I honestly sometimes can’t handle everything that I’m bombarded with. The news comes in waves that never seem to quit. The fires. The shootings. The poverty. The homelessness. I sometimes ask God how much more? How much more can our family, our community, our country, our world endure? I cry out. So many do. We cry out but we don’t know what to cry. What to address first. There’s so much that needs our attention that we become overwhelmed before we begin. And then we feel worse. We feel useless. Helpless. Heartbroken all over again. 

But then I remembered, standing there looking at the dozen volunteers hurrying around me, at the mounds of clothing we have left for next Tuesday because the Presbyterians have started a clothing drive for us, at the five sleeping bags one volunteer wrote a grant to get, that God is good. Oh so good. He reminds me at the end of this verse: “The grass withers and the flowers fall but the word of our God stands forever.” 

When there is need, God helps. When there is hurt, God heals. When there is hopelessness, God shines. When we cry out, God hears. He hears, and he reminds us of his love in so many ways. In chocolate almonds from a friend. In dry socks for a stranger. In reminding us to cry out and what to cry about and that His word stands forever. He stands forever. His love stands forever. Advent is a wonderful time to remember that. To remember His love. Even when we cry out and don’t know why. 

Our Cruise

We read all the blog posts. We talked to everyone we know who's taken a cruise. We bought all of the medication and sea bands and helpful items suggested. And then we went on the practice cruise.

And Angela did not get seasick!

Not even a little! From the first day to the middle of the third day, it was smooth sailing. We ate, we drank, we danced, we sang, we laughed, we soaked, we napped, we explored, and we didn't get sick. But the smooth sailing did eventually end because, well...

OUR BOAT CAUGHT ON FIRE.

Yes. Let me reiterate that:

OUR BOAT CAUGHT ON FIRE.

There we were, relaxing on the 21+ Serenity Deck, reading and watching the blue skies as our ship travelled between Ensenada, Mexico and Long Beach, California and then, all of a sudden, there was black smoke coming from a lower deck. There was a very distinct smell of fire. There was a mass exodus of people from the hot tubs to go find their children. And then -- well, then there were empty hot tubs. And our Serenity Deck cruise employee was like, enjoy the hot tubs, they're empty now! So we did!

And then we were evacuated. And our encouraging Serenity Deck cruise employee vanished, we assumed, to go put out the fire. And while we wanted to evacuate we had these nice big, fluffy yellow towels that we'd "rented" from the Serenity Deck -- under threat of purchase if we failed to return them. But the employee who needed to mark down our returned towels in the binder was gone so...Angela activated teacher-mode and took to signing in towels. And then when all towels were returned and everyone saved that $29.95 fee, we too left what was no longer the Serenity Deck.

So, dripping wet, we moved onto the Lido Deck and we waited. And we waited. And we waited. And we heard nothing. Though we saw families who'd run back to cabins to get life vests and "go bags" (according to one father who's small child was as disillusioned as I was to have to get out of the water, the go bag was important. Both the small child and I were apathetic to this perceived fatherly victory).

But let me just say that one more time for the people in the back: LIFE VESTS WERE DONNED. But not by us. We stayed nice and soggy in our bathing suits and cover-ups. Angela announced she could swim and I wondered if I had time to go back to the cabin to get, not my life vest, but Grandma MacDonald's diamond ring out of the safe...

And when we didn't hear anything else or get any further instructions, we eventually went to our cabins and took showers and dressed for dinner. Because, well I guess everyone else looked nice that night on the Titanic so we figured we should too. (And no, it's not too soon for this joke. It's fine, now. But it was too soon for the piano player in the piano bar that night to try and get everyone to sing along to My Heart Will Go On. We shut her down. Quickly, loudly and in perfect unison).

And then there was a kerfuffle in our hall which we heard very well because by this time there was no AC in our rooms as they'd started shutting down various systems. There was some confusion as to whether life vests were simply needed in a cabin or if life vests were needed because we had to put them on. And finally, I stepped into the hall, holding my mascara, and said, "Do I need to put down this mascara wand and pick up a life vest?" And the kind employee smiled and said no and we all headed off to dinner.

Eventually the captain made an announcement, his first all week, telling us there had been a small fire in the laundry room and no one was injured, everyone was fine. We all took this in and -- well, we went on with our night. Because there wasn't much else to do. There was a formal dinner to be attended, and little did we know, our waitstaff was preparing Baked Alaska for us that they would serve complete with a dance routine that would get hundreds of us up and dancing around our tables. And then there were comedy shows to attend. And finally, last call up in the piano bar to make it to. So that's what we did.

Are we cruise people now? Well, we're not sure.

We had a lot of fun, a surprising amount of fun. It felt like Vegas but so well curated for people who like to be entertained but who don't mind limited options. We went to every show. We did almost all of the activities on board (Art show where they try really really really hard to sell you some terrible art? Check - there was a glass of free champagne at the end after all! Towel folding class where we made elephants out of washcloths even though we weren't the children it was intended for? Check - it was really fun and there were a ton of other adults there! Random dance party in the halls and lobby just because it was a Wednesday? Check - we danced our hearts out!) We relaxed in lounge chairs (though not by the pool because it was disappointingly small and filled to the brim with children) and soaked in hot tubs. We ate gourmet food and tried new things. We explored an island we've never set foot on before (Catalina, where we found a beautiful piece of Chihuly art on a second-story patio!). We didn't miss the internet or television or cell service one little bit (for the record - we made one call, to Dad, on our first day, from the island, to let him and Mom know Angela was doing great!). We made friends with people in the spa waiting room and then had casual conversations with them all week. We won money in the casino (me! And yes, just $8 on the penny slots!). We sang our hearts out at the concerts and piano bar. We laughed at the comedienne we loved. We spent so much time people watching (there are sometimes lines on cruise ships - mostly where food is involved). We won free stuff (me! A scarf at a jewelry store!). And we slept really really well each night, tired from full days of doing everything and nothing at all.

It was a good trip, a good vacation. It was a getaway, which was perfect. We're looking forward to Alaska, most likely via cruise ship. We know fires are rare and that life happens. We swam in the ocean with sharks in Hawaii. We were in Paris the day they evacuated the Eiffel Tower due to a threat. We've stood on the sidewalk outside a Vegas hotel during a small fire. Life is about risks -- and rewards.

And this reward was pretty great. I mean beside OUR BOAT CATCHING ON FIRE! Everything else, really great. Carnival is known as the fun ship -- and they lived up to their name. And every single employee we met was amazing, happy and helpful and kind. We hugged our waiter goodbye on our final evening. We wrote down the name of our room steward who chased us down the hall to gush over the tiny tips we'd left him so that we could praise him on the survey we were promised. We had a wonderful trip -- and are excited for the next!

Angela's Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today Angela's devotion was featured.

Isaiah 40:1-5 

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord; make his paths straight…Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain shall be made low; then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed”. 

While the previous chapters of Isaiah are words of judgement, chapter 40 marks a turn toward comfort. The prophet tells the people that comfort will ultimately come through God and that we need to prepare for His arrival. Don’t pick up your shovels just yet to turn those mountains into hills and raise the valleys, God is asking us for something else, something inside of ourselves. 

As I was thinking about this passage, I got my Bible off the shelf and read more of Isaiah for context. If I am being honest, there may have been some dust. I began to think about how I am preparing for God to comfort me. What am I looking for. What am I waiting for. 

We are living in unsure times. Our country, our world is divided. I spend too much time on Twitter, absorbing all the information I can. I talk to my friends, my family, my co-workers about all the terrible things happening and how I feel powerless to stop them. 

And then John Lewis comforts me. Yes. John Lewis. In all the noise, his voice comforts me. I know that he has been through tumultuous times in our country and he continues to have faith. Faith that good will win over evil. Faith that America is a democracy. Faith that all people are equal. Faith that peace is possible. 

It is our job to lift the valleys and lower the mountains. It is our job to stand up and speak out. It is our job to pray. It is our job to read the (dusty) Bible. It is our job to prepare the world for God so that we may be comforted. 

Our Practice Cruise

This is countdown I see when I log into the Carnival Cruise app on my phone, which I've been doing every day for a week. Right now, I have just over three days before my cruise. Yes, you read that right, my cruise.

We're going on a cruise, Angela and I.

It's such an odd thing to say, and I almost feel guilty admitting it. I tell people I'm going on vacation next week and I hang my head and my voice is almost sheepish, embarrassed. And I shouldn't be. I know that. Logically. But I also know vacations are extravagant and they're for people with money and well...

But when I get past all that, I think about how much fun we're going to have (fingers crossed). Most of our vacations over the years are trips back home to Michigan, which we love. But this time we're doing something different.

We're taking a practice cruise!

What's to practice? Well, cruising for one. And being on a cruise ship as well. See this summer, my parents told us they'd like to take a family trip to Alaska. We got all excited and then we realized that the best way to see Alaska, according to anyone and everyone, is via cruise ship, from the coast, from the water. And well, one member of our family gets horrible motion sickness.

That member is Angela. Angela has had motion sickness her entire life. In cars (she sleeps to fight it off). On trains (she sleeps to fight it off). On boats (she refuses to get on pontoons now, after one summer family trip on a friend's pontoon where she begged to get off and swim back to shore). On swings (do not sit with her in the driveway swing in the summer, she will not let you swing even a little). At the kitchen table (this is totally a real thing, this summer she got motion sickness while sitting still).

The first time we went whale watching as a family, Angela didn't see any whales. She slept in the bottom of the boat, on a bench, until we made it back to shore, just a couple of hours later. The second time we went whale watching, we sent her golfing instead.

So...we come to the practice cruise. Everyone we talk to says this will be different. This ship is huge. This ship barely moves (though it moves enough to take us to Mexico or Alaska so...). But we want to see Alaska, we want to have fun and enjoy the extravagance and excitement the cruising life offers (at least that's how it looks in all of their shiny brochures). So this summer, when we poured over Alaska tour guides and websites, we decide to do a practice run first.

Angela has all next week off of school for the Thanksgiving holiday so it seemed like the perfect time. And we found a cruise, on the Carnival Imagination, that goes for just four nights -- from Long Beach to Catalina Island, then to Ensenada, Mexico, and back to Long Beach. And there's apparently a clause where if you aren't having fun you can get off within 24 hours of setting sail, so if the motion sickness sets in...

But we're hopeful it won't. We're planning to have an amazing adventure. We've never been to Catalina Island though we've heard wonderful things. A friend who goes twice a year has told us exactly what bus tour to take and where to wander. We're planning to stay on the ship in Mexico, because basically, been there done that with Mexican tourist towns, and we really want to experience the ship life. We're hoping to see some fun shows, swim a lot, eat some good food, read books, and relax!

We haven't made reservations for Alaska yet, we're going to wait and see how the practice cruise goes first, but we're excited for this first step! And grateful for a bit of extravagance in the middle of regular life. In fact, we're deep in the list making and planning for packing on Saturday and leaving on Sunday! Oh, and we got our nails done for the trip! (My first time with a gel manicure, I think the manicurist was more excited than I was!)

So I'll report back once we're safely back in Los Angeles (hopefully next Thursday, not before!). We're pretty excited to be off the grid while we're on the ship too! So happy week of Thanksgiving everyone, I'll eat a little extra at the buffet for you and I'll try to win at the penny slots! Bon Voyage!

We will miss you Joe

Tuesday afternoon at one o'clock our merry band of Homeless Lunch volunteers boxed up the leftover clothing, crated the lonely shoes, and rolled in the carts of sack lunches we would save for next week. And then we all stayed. Normally at one o'clock we all hustle to clean up and be on our way, having spent the last four hours or so working together. But not this past Tuesday.

Instead, this past Tuesday we finished cleaning up and then gathered in the parlor in a circle, all sixteen of us. Pastor Denyse led us in prayer and then we took a moment. See, most of us aren't there all together, at the same time, on a Tuesday at one o'clock. And we weren't even all there.

But Tuesday we gathered. In community. In love. In grief. Because we had lost our friend.

Joe Abdo.

Joe was a volunteer from way back, from before we can remember. He would always be there before me and I tend to get there early. He'd be there with his name tag on already bagging lunches, counting the items off to make sure nothing was missed. And I'd stand there in the kitchen chatting until I knew I'd better go get busy. I'd move out into the parlor and work on organizing the toiletries or the clothing and eventually Joe would move out near me and start bagging cookies or crackers. And we'd chat some more.

He'd ask me what I was writing, or how my last trip was. He had amazing stories. He'd lived abroad for dozens of years. He'd written books and acted in plays and been a hospital administrator. He'd tell Andrew and I how hand sanitizer was bunk science and we'd use it only in secret when Joe wasn't looking. And I'd wash my hands more in the actual sink with actual soap and water like he recommended. Because he was Joe and he knew stuff and I listened to him.

And then a few weeks ago, he got a cold. And it turned into bronchitis. And he stopped by just long enough to say he shouldn't stay. And he'd be off. He couldn't read to his kindergarteners or help us out until he was better he said. And we all took him at his word. He often missed weeks, mostly because he was out traveling the world or off on an audition, but we knew we'd see him again soon.

Until we didn't.

Our leader, Linda, had tried to get a hold of her friend for a few days. She was getting anxious. Her anxiety wore off on me. And then two weeks ago Joe's photo popped up on my Facebook feed. I smiled. And then my face fell.

Joe's brother was letting all of us know Joe had passed away. That bronchitis had likely turned into something else or was something else and that was it. And my heart sank.

Joe was just always there. He could be cranky. He could be funny. He was intelligent and kind-hearted and a very good friend. And as we stood in that circle on Tuesday afternoon we shared all of these things. We told stories. We thanked him for his service. We bemoaned his too quick departure from our community. We surprised each other with stories of him. And we loved him. And we loved one another.

Funerals are for the living is something my mother taught me very early in life. Growing up as a member of a family with a history in the funeral business, this was not a sentiment shared lightly. It was a sentiment shared with reverence. And the reminder that people grieve in different ways. And even if you don't see the need for a funeral, or want to attend, or even want to have one for yourself once you've passed, it's not what you want that matters. It's what your loved ones want. Because they are the ones still living. They are the ones still dealing with death. They are the ones who need to process what has happened and how to go on.

Last week I woke up several mornings thinking about Joe. I never saw him outside of the context of Homeless Lunch. But I had seen him most Tuesdays for over ten years. That's a lot of time spent together. And spent together well -- serving others, conversing, sharing our stories, living out our faith. And his loss was acute. Immediate. When I walked into the parlor Tuesday morning I expected to see his face, to hear him say my name. And when I didn't? I was heartbroken all over again.

So we stood in that circle. We shared our stories of Joe. And then we ate muffins and cake and cookies. And we spent a little extra time with one another. Because ultimately, that's what we all want. More time together.

I'm sad I don't get any more time with Joe. But I'm so thankful for the time I did have with him. And that our time spent together was spent so well. We will miss you Joe.

My smile and my new pants

On Friday night Angela and I went to Culver City to see the play SCHOOL GIRLS, OR THE AFRICAN MEAN GIRLS. It was in a theater we've never been in but have driven by at least a thousand times. (Seriously, it's across the street from our dentist and if you know us, you know we go to the dentist a lot...)

When we first entered the theater we were greeted by a woman who asked us if we'd like to write on the mirror. In lipstick.

Um, yes!

I've never written on a mirror in lipstick like I'm the scorned heroine of a fancy story! But there was a catch -- we had to write what makes us beautiful.

So Angela and I both took a lipstick and we moved to opposite sides of the mirror and we thought and we wrote.

I wrote, "My smile."

Angela wrote, "My smile."

I love that. I love that we both see our happiness, or our trying to be happy, as beautiful. Smiles do as much for me as they do for others. They help me to remember that life is mostly good. That life is happy. That I want to be happy. That life is beautiful. That I am beautiful.

But as we walked around the lobby of the theater we were inundated with information that would be touched on in the play's subject matter -- the ideas of bullying, of racism, of colorism, of beauty pageants, and the messages we are sending to our world's girls, boys, men, and women.

SCHOOL GIRLS is about high schoolers who are vying to be Ms. Ghana and eventually Ms. World Universe. It's set in the 1980s and it's fascinating to realize not so much has changed since then -- since before I was in high school.

How we are still fighting these ideas that being different is bad. That you must be white, or at least very light, that you must be thin, that you must have a handsome or well-off boyfriend, that you must fit into this norm someone came up with long ago, to be considered popular or beautiful.

I don't know many women who haven't struggled with these things at some point in their lives. I have been on some form of a diet since I can remember. Literally. (I'm talking middle school or possibly before.) And it's exhausting. It's exhausting to count points, to calculate calories, to do sit-ups, to buy the merchandise and the books, to look in the mirror and not see the results. Or worse, to see the results. Because sometimes, succeeding feels even worse.

I lost eighty pounds after grad school. It was a lot. I felt amazing. I ran down hills and around blocks and didn't feel out of breath. But I also devoted so much time to Weight Watchers and exercise that I had to sacrifice other things. I know this is true because I lived it. And it was my choice. And I was happy with it.

But slowly the weight crept back. How do I know? Because I kept track in my journal. I wrote down every pound that I lost or gained. Oh that's sad, you might think. True. But it's also reality. It's reality for SO MANY WOMEN. And probably so many men. It was reality that life changed, I got a new job, a different schedule, and I had to sacrifice something else this time.

I never thought I was beautiful though, not out loud. I'm sure others told me I was. I'm sure I heard it and maybe even thought it. But what stuck with me most was a comment made to my father, by a friend of his. He wondered if I was sick. Like really sick. Because I looked so thin, too thin.

Even eighty pounds lighter (and still a size sixteen, mind you), I wasn't right. I wasn't beautiful. I still looked wrong.

And at forty years old, I'm at a loss. I love walking. And I do a lot of it. Some days over my 10,000 step goal. I'm happy if I get 30 active minutes. But I hate the treadmill. I hate the idea of going to the gym and doing some reps on some machines and not knowing if it's worth it or not. I'm very goal-oriented, if you didn't notice. But I love that I am strong, and I want to stay that way. I love that I can hit a golf ball two hundred yards and that is mostly in part to my very large arms. But most days I do not love those very large arms.

And yet, I quit Weight Watchers, again, last week. I hadn't been on plan for months. Even though every time I put something in my mouth I think of the point value. After more than sixteen years on WW, I can't help but continue with those point value thoughts.

And right after I quit WW, I bought pants, new pants. Pants that fit. Pants that are one size up from some of my pants from several years ago. Because those old pants, while perfectly fine and cute and acceptable, are TIGHT. VERY TIGHT. They look fine but I feel so uncomfortable in them I can't focus on anything else. So I practiced some radical self-care and I bought new pants. And I love them.

Do they make me feel beautiful though? Like my smile?

Yes. They do.

Also? They make me not think about pants. Or my weight. Or being beautiful on the outside for a while. Because I've got so much other shit to do.

I've got movies and television shows to write. I've got a web series to promote. I've got people to feed and a God to worship and books to read. I've got Christmas presents to craft and an InstaPot to figure out and a couch to lie on in front of a television. I've got miles to walk while listening to my audiobooks and beloved podcasts. I've got puzzles to put together and money to raise for robot shirts. I don't have time to think about my pants.

I'm not giving up though. I have to make that clear, to myself, every day. I still choose the things that are good for me. And when I don't, I try not to beat myself up. I eat popsicles instead of cartons of ice cream. I decline the candy I tolerate but don't love. I take the stairs even though I end up winded at the top. I get up early to walk even though I'd rather a few more minutes under the quilt. I eat boneless, skinless chicken for almost every meal. I can't help it. Even if it won't change how I look drastically, I still hold out hope...

Because I want to be beautiful. The way beautiful matters to me. I want to be beautiful through my smile, under my smile, because of my smile.

I want the beauty that I want for girls and women all over the world. I want to feel strong and capable and smart and successful and most of all -- beautiful.

What makes me beautiful?

My smile.

And my new pants.

We Are Celebrating!

It's almost fall. It doesn't feel like it in Los Angeles (or in Howell either, as I look at the weather report and see photos of my parents in shorts). But alas, it's mid-September and summer has been over for Angela and I for months. We spent six weeks in Howell, and they were wonderful. We swam three times a week with my parents and their friends. We ate and drank and laughed on the patio for hours on end. We saw family and friends and caught up with everyone we miss while we're on the other side of the country. We put together jigsaw puzzles and played cards and watched baseball and played Giant Jenga. We went through old photos, we cleaned out closets, we walked and we napped and we shared milestones.

And we also celebrated.

We celebrated that the web series I wrote, and that we filmed last year, won not one but two awards at the Oniros Film Awards. The Couch won for best web series and for best screenplay. And I was beyond stunned. I was so excited just to hear that we'd been nominated! What a surprise! Honestly. I've spent over ten years applying to writing contests. Submitting for fellowships. Sending in script after script, check after check, keeping a list, crossing out those contests when I find out I've lost. It's not a big deal. Rejection is par for the course in Hollywood. I know this. I expect this. So when I found out we'd won...

Well, that was something.

We had to submit three finished episodes of our series to be considered (we'll have seven episodes total) and the complete script. They liked what they saw, and read, and so, we won. Really, quite unexpected. This is not the norm.

But it is amazing. It's amazing because the words that I wrote, several years ago now, the stories I created, are being shared. Not just between Angela and myself. Not just between my best writer friends and myself. Not just between the cast and crew of The Couch and myself. But the stories I created are going out into the world. Literally. The Oniros Film Awards are in Italy!

Also, I love that while my words are being heard and my stories are being told, our entire Couch Team is being recognized because without them, my stories are just files on my MacBook, maybe pages I print out to run my hand across. And in particular that another female is being recognized for being behind the camera.

In August, right after we got back from Michigan, we headed off to church to hear Mark Stephenson preach on the film Wonder Woman. (Yep, if you go to Hollywood UMC you get sermons about movies all summer long!) And during his sermon he mentioned some statistics I'd recently highlighted on social media -- that of the top 100 movies in 2017, only 7.3% were directed by women. That's it, 7.3%. So I am super proud of The Couch for adding to the percentage of film and television being directed by women!

Also, it was so sweet of Mark to shout me out during the sermon. He mentioned my awards and The Couch and I love how supportive the Hollywood UMC community has been and continues to be of me and all females in this business.

So we won a couple of awards -- that's great! Everyone was so happy for us! BUT...they wanted to know when the series would premiere.

Well, last week we made a big announcement! We invited the world to the premiere of The Couch! On October 25th! We are so excited!

We're going to have a big, dress up affair! We're going to have a red carpet! We're going to have a screening! We're going to have live music! We're going to have a Q & A afterwards!

My parents are coming into town for the event! My friends, even those of them who go to bed super early because they kick butt at super early morning jobs, are going to come! I've already tried on my dress! I am EXCITED!

Because something I made is going to be shared. Again.

See this isn't the first time I've shown the world The Couch. Well, technically I've shown it to my world. In July, I got my hands on some almost finished drafts of the seven episodes and was able to show them to my parents and Angela. I was so excited. And so nervous. Because that was the premiere I'd been waiting for forever. These three people - Angela, Chris, and Tom, have made this possible. Without their love and support (SUPPORT, again, for the people in the back! THIS DID NOT HAPPEN WITHOUT ALL OF THEM) The Couch doesn't happen. These people, my people, my world, encouraged me. They saw that this was the most important thing I could do professionally with my life and they let me do it. They made me do it. They didn't let me have any excuses. They made the space in this world for an artist, a writer, to write. And that's a VERY RARE gift. I know that. We all know that. And I am so grateful for that gift. (P.S. - They loved it. They are biased but they still told me they loved it. They said it looked like a TV show (yay!). They wanted to know what happens next! I said well we'll have to see if season 2 is a go...)

But now we are ready for everyone to see our show! If you're in Los Angeles, RSVP, put on your best frock, and come on over! If you're elsewhere in the world? Well, don't worry -- you're going to see it in October too! Please watch. Please share. Please enjoy. Because we made this for you. We made this to share women's stories. And we made this to entertain.

#awomanwrotethat
#awomandirectedthat

I Will Vote Yes, signed Angela

A guest post from Angela -- 

#utlastrong #red4ed #schoolbeutner 

If you have been paying attention to any national news in the past year chances are you have seen stories about teacher strikes. All across the country educators are taking to the streets to demand fair wages, good healthcare, smaller class sizes, funding for programs and much, much more. The fight for these things and more is currently ramping up in the country’s second largest school district. This week the 30,000 plus members of United Teachers Los Angeles (UTLA), the Los Angeles public school teachers’ union, will vote to authorize a strike. While I can’t tell you with certainty that the members will overwhelmingly vote to leave the safety of our classrooms and schools, I know that I will vote yes. 

This is not an easy decision for myself and my colleagues to make. We know that by voting to authorize a strike, we will have to follow through. We will have to walk the picket lines, go without pay, worry about what our students and families will do for child care. And knowing the ramifications, I will still vote yes. 

I come from a long line of union members. I learned early in life that unions help families survive and thrive. When I had knee surgery and when I stayed at an inpatient clinic for migraine sufferers, the union was the reason my parents didn’t have to worry about going broke paying the medical bills. When my dad retired I knew that I wouldn’t have to worry about him and my mom as they grow older because they have pensions and healthcare. I refuse to take the opportunities I have been afforded for granted. I will vote yes. 

Over the next few weeks there will be newspaper articles and stories on the television about the outcome of the vote, the mediation that will take place and whether a deal can be struck between the school district and the union. I ask that you understand the entire story. Yes, we are asking for an increase in wages. That is not the entire story. If you want to know more about educator salaries in Los Angeles I am happy to talk to you and share resources that are unbiased. We are also asking for smaller class sizes. School started this week and I know of kindergarten classes with 29 excited kiddos to one teacher. I know of a third-grade class with 37 students ready to dive into math and reading. I know of a seventh grade English class with 40 students who are eager to start their first novel of the year. And let me be clear, these teachers are not complaining, they are simply asking for help. For all of the children who deserve one-on-one time with their teachers every day, I will vote yes. 

You will be hearing more from me in the weeks to come about this fight. This past Sunday, at Hollywood United Methodist Church, Reverend Kathy Cooper-Ledesma spoke about “Living a life worthy of your calling”. I, like every member of UTLA , was called to be an educator. We work hard for our students. Unless you are close to a teacher you may not know that we don’t leave our jobs at school. We don’t stop thinking about our students who are struggling at three o’clock on Friday. We worry, we plan, we grade, we take classes, and so much more. We do not do all of this for the accolades, we do not do it for the hope that we will get a salary increase, we do not do it for the breaks. We do it because we are called. Because I want to live a life worthy of my calling, I will vote yes.  

I am product of public schools and I am proud to be a public-school teacher. No matter what happens this week or in the coming months I will not stop being proud. I will not stop getting to work early and leaving late. I will not stop worrying. And planning. And taking classes. While I fight for better schools I will ensure that the one I have is the best that it can be. I will vote yes.

Take Care of Yourself, Please

The 1st selfie

Four weeks ago this morning I drove to Glendale Adventist Hospital while the traffic was still relatively light (there is no such thing as no traffic in Los Angeles, I've been on the roads at all hours and there is always, always, always, traffic) and the sun was still burning the grey out of the sky. I parked in a nearly empty parking garage and made my way to the imaging suite in the hospital. There was one other woman in the waiting room and we both were there for our yearly mammograms. She was getting her fifteenth or something, I was getting my second. We were both done before seven-thirty and as we rode the elevator up from the basement she commented that it's good to get that done for another year. I agreed and we parted ways to start the remainder of our Thursdays.

I posted my cute curly-haired selfie from the dressing room just before I went in to get my mammogram and I reminded everyone to practice self-care and get tested when you're supposed to! Done for another year I thought. 

And then five days later I answered the phone on my drive into Hollywood on a Tuesday morning. I was sitting in traffic and was listening to a podcast and figured it would be a robo call when I clicked the speakerphone button. But it was a nurse from my gynecologist's office. 

I wasn't one hundred percent sure what transpired in the next eighty seconds. I heard that there was something wrong with my mammogram, something amiss. I heard that I needed more tests. I heard that she'd deal with insurance and get back to me. And then she hung up. My brain went into overdrive.

I know from my experience with blood clots and my autoimmune disease that I should never Google my own health symptoms. And I didn't. But I sure wanted to. 

What I ended up needing was a bilateral diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound of both breasts. It took a few days but the insurance paperwork went through and the tests were scheduled. The first available slot open was last Wednesday, the only appointment they had until later in June. And of course this was the one day I had promised to spend with Angela at school scooping ice cream for her 2000 students to celebrate the end of their standardized testing. 

Needless to say, neither of us scooped ice cream last Wednesday. Instead Angela took the day off and we spent the morning running errands, getting regular blood tests (it's a thing for me and her doctor wanted to check her out and this seemed like as good as a day as any to do it), going to the post office, and eating one of the best breakfasts I've ever had (no, seriously -- we went to Porto's in Glendale and had omelettes, which were fine, but the avocado salad and potatoes they serve with the omelettes? Pure bliss, every bite). Then we made our way back to Glendale Adventist Hospital. We searched the busy parking garage for a spot and then made our way back to the imaging suite. 

And within forty-five minutes the tests were complete. And I took another selfie. But this one I didn't post. I didn't have cute curly hair and I wasn't quite as confident with my smile this time. This one I took just for me. Because this one might have marked a completely different kind of day...

And then we waited. We waited and I told the small handful of people in my life I'd told about the tests that I still had no ideas. And we waited. And it's really the waiting that might kill us in the end, right? Because that's when we go to dark, scary places in our minds that Google could never really compete with...

And then this morning it was eight days and still no news. I felt completely powerless. Should I think about the scary things that might soon befall my life? Or should I pretend nothing has changed at all? I needed answers. I needed power. So I called the doctor's office and I was told a nurse would call me with the results. And so I waited some more. And I am so blessed to have amazing people in my corner. People who will talk to me for hours on end to distract me, people who send emails and Facebook messages to check in, people who text silly bitmojis and news stories that keep my mind occupied, even if they have no idea what's going on at that particular moment. And then I got a call shortly after noon today, four weeks from the day of that first mammogram -- everything is fine. 

The 2nd selfie

I am not sure what exactly the nurse said. I heard fine and okay and I think she quickly sensed I was on the verge of losing it because she said something like are you okay and I answered yes through a sob in my throat and we hung up. And I made my calls and sent my messages and sobbed with relief. Because not everyone gets this particular call. 

I know not everyone has the opportunity to have this level of care in the first place. I've had three mammograms in thirteen months. And I am fine. I am sobbing the happiest of tears. But I know women who can't get even one mammogram. Or can't get that second one. Or who don't want to go. Or who are too afraid of what it will mean or what it will feel like. Or what will come next. And trust me, I get that. All of it. And I know there are some people who wouldn't follow up with their doctor's office. They'd assume no news is good news. And sometimes it is. Again, the happiest of sobs! But sometimes it isn't. And KNOWLEDGE is POWER. 

In the past three years one of the biggest lessons I've learned is to be my own advocate. And when I cannot be my own advocate to reach out for help. Because there are always people who will help. But mostly, I have to monitor my own health care. I have to keep track of my own tests and collect all my own paperwork and schedule my own appointments and follow up with busy receptionists and keep copies of everything and write in my health journal in a Word file I keep on my computer and on my phone because you will always need that piece of information you didn't think you would need. 

And that's what I hope to share with others -- Go for the test the doctor recommends. Go for that follow-up appointment. Get that prescription filled. Confide in a person or two or three. Share your fears. Share your joys. Embrace the reality that this is your one life. Your one body. No one else can take care of it for you. No one else will care as much as you do about your own health. And you are loved and we all need you in tip-top shape. I tell you, it's when I'm at my darkest, in those scary places Google will never even imagine, that I am constantly reminded how much I am loved. I'll get a smiley face emoji from a friend via text. I'll get an extra hard hug from someone. I'll hear a song sung on the sidewalk outside of Homeless Lunch from a woman who shouted, "I love you!" as she skipped away this week. I'll hear the relief in a dear friend's voice when she learns that my test results are okay, not her test results, but mine. To know that my life is so intertwined with others lives reminds me of how much I have to take care of. 

There will be more health scares in my life, this is something I rationally realize. I will get sick again. I will have more panic attacks. I will lose people close to me from health problems that could or could not have been prevented. I know this. Life is hard and scary and at the end we all die. I've had forty years on this earth to come to terms with this and on the other hand, I know I never will. 

Today I will know that I am okay. That for today I am healthy and I am smiling because I just can't stop even though I am crying too. I heard voices of loved ones today. I get to write something that I made up today. I watched the Tigers beat the Angels today. I am not just okay but I am great. And I hope and pray everyone else in my life is too. And if not, take care of yourself. Please. For you. For me. For all of us. 

Co-creators at the symphony

The Walt Disney Concert Hall

I have driven by the Walt Disney Concert Hall downtown Los Angeles countless times. I have friends who live on the same block. I've been to jury duty across the street and parked below the hall. I've been sightseeing and shopping and to concerts all within spitting distance of the hall. But I had never been inside until Friday morning.

Mary, one of our California grandmothers, had an extra ticket to her usual Friday morning symphony. She's offered me tickets in the past and the timing has never worked out. But this time, I thought, why not? Why not spend a few hours with her, listening to music, experiencing something new? The work would still be there the next day. The world wouldn't miss me too much if I took a little break. And so I did.

Mary arrived early Friday morning, eight-thirty-ish. I drove the rest of the way downtown and we found seats in the third row of the hall for the pre-concert event. I had no idea this was a thing. But it is! Before the symphony someone gives a forty-five minute lecture about what you're about to hear. How cool is that?

Gustavo Dudamel

Friday morning we were treated to a talk by Kristi Brown-Montesano, chair of the music history department at Colburn Conservatory of Music. She was smart and funny and full of so much information! She explained that we'd hear a Schumann Concerto, with a lot of cello, which is apparently a rare experience. She gave us some historical context and told some tales and then set us free to listen.

We climbed to the balcony and settled in. The concert lasted about two hours, with an intermission. We heard short concertos (10 minutes) and long symphonies (50 minutes). We got to experience an Argentine phenom named Sol Gabetta who played an entire concerto from memory and looked like an angel while doing it. Also, she was playing a cello built in 1730 which just blows my mind. We also got to witness the uber-famous conductor Gustavo Dudamel who I had previously only known from his picture on billboards all around town.

What stuck with me throughout the entire two hour concert was something Brown-Montesano said during her talk with us prior to the symphony's start:

We are co-creators of this experience.

I thought about that as I listened. As I processed. As I let my mind wander and then be drawn back in. I don't think I've ever sat still and listened to classical music for that long in my entire life. There was an intermission and a handful of breaks for applause but there was mostly quiet listening. I was a co-creator in that moment.

I sat there and I watched the women and the men. I counted how many people were on the stage (the sexes were pretty evenly represented). I watched as one musician cleaned his clarinet-type instrument countless times in between movements. I watched as musicians sat up straight, almost on the edge of their seats. I watched as musicians settled in more comfortably and awaited their turn to shine. I watched as the sounds blended and became indistinguishable from the piece as a whole. I listened as the songs swept me away.

And I meditated on the music. I thought about my day. I took in the experience of the room. Of the colors. Of the context. I looked around at the people I was sharing space with. I imagined experiencing this more often. I thought about writing and my own creation. I actually rewrote in my head while listening, thinking of a scene I had been playing with and wondering how the music might influence my process.

And I enjoyed myself. I let my self be there. Be with the music. Be a co-creator. Nothing else was being asked of me. I didn't have to take notes or try to solve a mystery or laugh at the right places. I just had to listen. To soak. To be.

I don't know how often I'll get back to the symphony but I do know I am grateful for the experience. I am grateful for the quiet and for the noise. For the co-creation I had Friday morning. I will take that with me into my week, into my creative process. I will listen to some Schumann and think about what I learned about him. About how he tried to do something new, despite being in the shadow of some of the greatest composers of all time. I will think about how when he got sick in his older age, mental illness taking hold, he gathered himself and asked for help, thinking more of his family's well-being than his own comfort. I'll think about how Brown-Montesano urged us not to consider his mental illness when listening to his work because the work should stand on it's own. But I will. I will think about his illness. Because it struck me that he was human, he was a man. A man who created this lovely music that so many people came together to celebrate on Friday morning in Los Angeles, so far away from his German homeland. So long after his death in 1856.

I will think about the music. The music that we celebrate. The music that informs our lives. The music that brightens our world. I will think about that and I will remember that. I will continue to co-create this experience over and over and over for it is now a part of me. A new experience that informs me and I love that.

Our future is written by all of us

17 chairs set with flowers to
represent those killed in Parkland

One of my biggest concerns in middle school was whether or not my blue Music in Motion t-shirt was clean on the days we had performances. We didn't have school uniforms so making sure my choir shirt was ready to go was a new concept for me.

That was the extent of my worries back then. As it should be for eleven, twelve and thirteen year olds.

But today? Today I stood amidst 1800 middle school students who are concerned they are going to be shot and killed on their campus. They're concerned their friends might be shot and killed. They're concerned that they'll lose the people they love because all around them people are losing the people they love.

The middle school Angela works at is a representation of the best and the worst of Los Angeles, of California, of America, of our world. Of the 1800 kids who walk through those doors every day, some don't speak English well, some don't have two parents at home, some are taking college classes, some have celebrity parents and are being taught they should get special treatment because of that, some are Christians, some are Muslims, some sit down during the Pledge of Allegiance, some are transgender, some are citizens of foreign lands, some live in big sprawling estates, some share a bedroom with multiple siblings, some are sweet and kind, some have chips on their shoulders, some cry at the drop of a hat, some fight like they're in the ring every day.

But today? On this bright Friday morning in April? They all had one thing in common. They all wanted to be safe. They all expected to be safe. Because they were at school.

But that's not a given anymore. That's not a given anywhere in our country. And these kids, they know that. They know about gun violence and the horrors that surround that. All too intimately. I didn't know a thing about guns growing up. My grandfather hunted but that's all I knew. I knew I didn't like venison but I ate it. That was enough.

These kids today, they stood up and they spoke. They read speeches they'd written. They held signs they'd painted. They spoke from the heart about wanting the people in charge to be better, do better. They spoke of Congress and working for common sense gun control. They know so much more than I did at their age. And that breaks my heart.

I stood there, amidst the students, taking photos, and listening. And crying. A boy got up to speak and though his thoughts weren't coherently laid out, his emotion was raw. He didn't want people to keep dying. A girl got up and she expressed concern that it would happen next at their school, and she was terrified of that. Their concerns, and their emotions, were so powerful. So strong. So grown-up.

The world is so much different today than it was when I was in middle school. It's bigger and at the same time, smaller. We know so much more, for better and for worse. And we have so much more influence.

These kids. They have influence. They have voices. They reminded me today to have an opinion and to share it. To use my voice. To not fall into the trap of believing I can't change the world. We all can, whether we're twelve or forty or eighty. As President Obama wrote about the kids speaking up from Parkland, Florida, in this week's issue of Time Magazine:

Our kids now show us what we’ve told them America is all about, even if we haven’t always believed it ourselves: that our future isn’t written for us, but by us.

Our future is written by us. All of us. We have the agency to enact thought. To enact action. To enact change. We all do. Kids and adults alike. Thank you, JB Bears, for reminding me of that this morning.

The leadership team who created the event

Writing Every Second I'm Alive

The notebooks from Doris

"How do you write every second you're alive?" -- Lin Manuel Miranda in the Hamilton song Non-Stop. 

Well?

My answer?

How can I not.

Last week my parents headed out on the second leg of their road trip. They'd been with Angela and I on Abbey Place for just over two weeks. It was a wonderful vacation -- for all four of us. We had adventures every day. One day we went wine tasting in east Los Angeles. One day we watched a baby hippopotamus sunning herself by a cement pond. One day we watched a silly movie about gnomes while laying in leather recliners. One day we explored a pier and ate ice cream while shivering and trying not to be too upset at ourselves that we'd gotten us lost and driven an extra hour away from where we were meant to be (that last part might have just been me). But every day was wonderful. Every day was something new. Every day was putting together jigsaw puzzles and watching new television shows and discussing current events and eating new foods and fixing the toilet seat and doing seventy-two loads of laundry. It was life. All of it. It was our best life.

When my mother first arrived she asked if I had to work the next day. I quickly answered nope. The next day she inquired again, and I expanded my answer a bit. I didn't need to sit at my desk and write that day. I had known of their arrival and our stay-cation in Los Angeles. I had planned to turn in a draft of a screenplay the day before they arrived and I did. I had let people know I'd be away from email a bit and taking some time away from the keyboard. Just as I do whenever I go to Michigan or on any other trip.

I wanted to be in the moment with my family. I wanted to be downtown riding the funicular and at the Getty looking at the Monets. I wanted to be shopping at the mall with my mom and getting pedicures with dad and not worrying about work. Yes, a luxury. Yes, a privilege. Yes, a reality since I'm underemployed at the moment.

But I also knew that I would be writing every single day they were here. Just as I am writing every other day of my life. In the song the question is asked of Lin's Hamilton how do you write every second you're alive. Every second.

And my answer is how can I not. Because every single thing that happens to me, every choice I make, every emotion I experience, every piece of food I taste, every sip of wine I savor, every person I communicate with is all leading to the stories I tell. They are all a part of the stories. They are all the stories.

I grew up hearing the phrase "write what you know". And as a young writer, and an aspiring professional writer, this was not good advice. This was ridiculous advice. I knew nothing. I'd experienced nothing back then. Still today -- it's not enough. I need to know so much more in order to tell stories, to do my job. Because if I were to only write what I know, then I'd write about a woman who sits in front of her keyboard and daydreams and taps on keys.

But there's more to unpack in that phrase. If I don't take it so literally, that I should only write about teaching and volunteering and watching TV and cooking and doing laundry, I come to understand that writing what I know is writing about the experience of being me. It's writing about the people in my life, my connections with them, it's writing about the work that I do, and how it affects myself and others, it's writing about my emotional life, my life.

And so, every day that I got up and ran to the fancy donut store early to surprise my family or sat down in the living room while my parents did the dishes because I'd cooked, I was writing. I was having experiences in being me. I was having experiences to draw from. To use to color my worlds. To use to create my worlds.

Yesterday I started a big rewrite project on my SEAL team pilot. I'm creating new characters and fleshing others out. I'm exploring new worlds and delving into relationships I've never had. I don't know what it's like to be the President of the United States or a CIA agent or a father. But I'm going to write about all of those things. And I feel confident in doing that even though it's "not what I know". I feel confident because of all of the experiences I've had in my 40 years. In the last few years. In the last few weeks. Every day I pull from my life. From the life I live, from the life I watch others live, to write the best stories I can.

A year ago today Angela and I were on our spring break trip in San Francisco. It was the last night of our stay and we sat in floor seats in the Orpheum Theater and watched Hamilton. It was one of the most amazing nights of my life. Here was Lin Manuel Miranda taking everything from every single day of his life and creating this musical. This movement. This masterpiece. Yes, Hamilton is about Alexander Hamilton, one of the Founding Fathers of the United States of America. But it's also about being an immigrant. Being a father. Being a son. Being a scholar. Being a husband. Being a friend. Being afraid. Being strong. Being weak. Being unafraid. All things I know Lin has experienced in his life.

Being a writer is a 24 hours, 7 days a week job. It's not something I turn on and off. I may go days without putting fingers to keyboard, weeks, months even. But I don't even go a few hours without writing. Other creative types know this. And the people in my life know this. And I love that. I love the encouragement I get, to keep writing. To keep going, Non-Stop.

This past fall I got a package in the mail from one of my favorite people in the whole world, my cousin Doris. In it was an assortment of beautiful notebooks. Small, large, colorful, practical, perfect. She'd seen them in a store and knew immediately that Angela and I needed them. We needed them to write down the experiences of being us. Because we all should. I love that. So much.

We are all writing every second we're alive. We're writing our lives. We're writing our existences. We're writing our relationships. We're writing our stories. And I'm so thankful I get to write my stories into other stories for the world to hopefully one day read, and see. And I'm so thankful to open a brand new journal from Doris today and start taking notes.