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.