Philosophy of Teaching

I spent a good chunk of this morning applying for a faculty position at a local university. It sounds like a good job. I'd teach two sections of communication classes each semester, in the area of my choice (I'd love love love to teach interpersonal comm again, or public speaking! I've had enough of teaching writing for a while!). I'd also be responsible for the guidance of 175 students, helping them choose and register for classes, etc. I think this would be an interesting part of the job, I love working one-on-one with students.

So after I filled out all the boxes and attached all the documents I had to do one last thing: write a statement of my teaching philosophy. This should have been a simple task right? I've been teaching for almost ten years now. TEN YEARS. And that doesn't even include my time before that as a Sunday school teacher or a youth group leader. That's ten years of paid teaching in either an elementary school, middle school or college classroom. But I found out writing my philosophy out was a little difficult at first. And then I thought, wait. Just talk. Just write it like a blog. Just tell them what you're thinking. So I did. And I thought I'd share it with all of you too:

I believe a good teacher learns right along side of her students. I believe a good teacher tries new things, sometimes fails, learns from her mistakes, and tries again. I believe a good teacher encourages and pushes her students beyond what they thought they could do. I believe a good teacher does more than teach. She prods.

Students can learn a lot about the world from books. They can learn a lot about the world from the Internet. We now have teenagers going to virtual high school. We have college classes being taught to students on several different continents at once. However, what does not change is that the teacher has to continually prod. She has to engage her students. She has to ask the questions that aren’t on the pages of the book or on the website. She has to say, “Why?” and wait for the answer and then ask for a deeper explanation. She has to remember that Student X needs more encouragement than Student Y in getting assignments in on time but that Student Y needs to hear a few extra positive comments before she passes on the constructive criticism.

When I teach I am engaged in a dialogue, never a lecture. I love the back and forth between people, I love the idea that you can learn from another person or even just see something a new way. But most of all I enjoy the unfolding and discovering of what was there all along, of skills possessed and refined, of knowledge added to practice and what comes from that.

In the classroom my philosophy is simple: engage. Engage students’ minds, their mouths, and their hands. If I can do that, I can get them onto the path of learning. And to me, that’s the best end result I can hope for.

Putting a name on it

(Me with Mom #1 Chris and Mom #2 Mariyln)

Growing up with a large extended family that included a very close church family I knew several people who went through battles with cancer. But it never impacted my immediate family or my daily life. I never heard about chemo and radiation burns and the secondary diseases caused by treatments. I never knew the fear that comes from hearing that a loved one has been diagnosed. And then I got the phone call.

I remember the call well, I was sitting in the parking lot of the mall in Yuma, Arizona about four years ago. I'd just bought a ridiculously expensive nightgown in preparation for a spring break trip to Palm Springs. I was giddy with the thought of a few days away from seventh graders laying by a pool, getting a massage, sleeping in the queen size bed the website for the inn we were going to promoted. (Side note: I still have the nightgown and I count it as one of my best purchases ever!)

My parents called and asked if Ang and I could get on the phone together, never a good sign. So we did, in the car, with our packages staring at us from the backseat. And they told us that my grandfather had been diagnosed with cancer. And it began.

Then this past summer we got another phone call. Another request to get us both on the phone. Through tears my mom told us that her best friend for her entire life, our second mother, had been diagnosed with colon cancer. The world started to crumble.

Four years later my grandfather still battles cancer on a daily basis. He's tried chemo, experimental drugs, his teeth have all broken because of the drugs, he's developed infections, he complains in his quiet manner that he doesn't have much to live for anymore, that he can't do anything. His cancer is not curable but not necessarily fatal either. For that we are thankful. Not that he's still sick but that we had another Christmas with him this year. I am thankful each time I get another hug from him or hear his voice on the phone.

Marilyn, my mom's best friend, is dealing with a more aggressive form of cancer. She has chemo almost weekly though you wouldn't know it from the brave face she puts out to the world. At Christmas we had a wonderful family dinner and I was so thankful to be able to create more memories with her. Because my life is filled with memories of Marilyn, she is a part of the fabric that has created my life. I cannot imagine life without her. I cannot imagine her not being part of the world, my world.

I cannot express in words how much I hate cancer. How much I don't understand why some people get it and others don't. I've heard we all have cancer cells in our body but I wasn't all that great of a science student in school. However, I do know that it takes money to research cures. And that's something I can help with. I can help by raising ten, fifteen, maybe even a hundred dollars to help keep these two people a part of my life, my memories, my fabric for a little longer.

Imagine your world without two of the most important people in your life. Imagine those same two people suffering on a daily basis. Struggling to keep water down. Sitting for days in the dentist chair because the cure is sometimes worse than the disease. Imagine losing people you don't have to lose just because there's not enough money to figure out how to save them.

I know money's tight right now, trust me, I know. But I also know that the $30 fee it took to sign up for the 5K Walk for Cancer wasn't much more than it costs for dinner and a movie and I decided that small concession was the best thing I could do this week. So what can you do?

Can you donate $5? That's all I'm asking for, a small donation. I know I've asked in the past. I'll probably ask again. But then again, cancer's not going anywhere either. Not unless we do something about it.

Visit my page and consider donating: (click here)

I thank you in honor of the two names I've put on my cancer fight: Jim and Marilyn. I thank you in honor of the millions of women and men fighting cancer on a daily basis and their families who fight right alongside them. I thank you because it's all I can do. That and raise a little money and walk a few miles. It doesn't seem like much but it might be the push this fight needs...

Another Lenten devotion for you

Today the second Lenten devotion I wrote for HUMC's book runs. Here it is:

Luke 15: 17-20

And he arose and came to his father. But while he was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.

When I was growing up my dad would always settle arguments with a simple request: “give each other a hug”. And hug we would, although sometimes more begrudgingly then other times. But that request always reminded me of the fact that we were still family, that we loved each other despite what else happened, and that we were connected, emotionally as well as physically.

In this passage of Luke the lost son’s father’s first response upon seeing him return wasn’t to question where he’d been or what he’d done or berate him for leaving. The father’s first response was to hug his son. And to me, that simple act embodies the love of God perfectly. The lost son’s father exhibited that love to his son and my own father exhibited that love to me time and time again (and still does). An embrace. A hug. A physical act of pulling someone into your arms and letting them know that you love them.

How often do you hug others? When I ask myself that question the answer varies depending upon the day, how I’m feeling, where I’ve been, etcetera. But I know what I want the answer to be. I want to hug others regularly. I want to be a physical example of God’s love on a regular basis to those people in my life. To those people God loves and wants me to share His love with.

When I first started teaching I worked with first graders. They’re notorious huggers. And they’re equal opportunity huggers. If you have legs they’ll wrap their arms around them. If you get down on the floor you’ll quickly have little ones in your lap. And I love that about children. They love – and hug – so unconditionally. They are a physical example of God’s love to everyone.

I am going to challenge myself this Lenten season, and all of you, to be more physical in our expressions of love. Jesus gave us a very physical, tangible, expression of His love by dying on the cross. The lost son’s father hugged his son. My own father hugged me every time I’d do something wrong. Of course not everything can be undone or forgotten after a simple embrace but isn’t it a great way to start down the path of forgiveness? Of sharing God’s love? I think so. And I’m going to work at hugging more. Watch out!

Texas time

Near the end of January a few things happened: I realized I would have two weeks without work at the end of February/beginning of March, a professor of mine at UCLA canceled a class in March so he could go skiing, and I found the little stash of Christmas money and the 20 year old savings bonds my mom had given me when I'd been home in December. That same afternoon I got a phone call. The caller ID showed it was my cousin Jamee, who I love and adore and consider to be one of my closest friends. But I held fast and didn't answer the phone because I was working and on deadline for a table read that night.

Then the phone rang again. And I'm of that mindset that if someone hangs up and calls right back without leaving a message, it's probably important or even an emergency. So I picked up.

It was Hannah, Jamee's six year old daughter. She wanted to know why I hadn't answered her call the first time and I chuckled. For the next twenty minutes or so I listened to tales of her basketball team, what color their uniforms are, how there's another girl named Hannah on the team, that she just learned I live in the same city where they film her favorite TV show American Idol, etc. And my heart ached because I hadn't seen Hannah in almost two years. For three years in a row Angela and I had visited Jamee and the Brick family in Texas while we lived in Yuma. But once we moved to Los Angeles we didn't have the time or the money.

So that afternoon when all my ducks lined up in a row I made a decision: I was going to Texas.

And I did. And it was fabulous!

I spent five days there, Friday through Wednesday and loved every minute of it. I got to meet grown-up Olivia who's now almost three and was only a babe the last time I was there. In fact, Olivia and I became best buds. I got to cook with all three kids, grocery shop for veggies and fruits (their favorite), I got to comb hair and find shoes and visit classrooms and run and play and laugh and cry and wipe away tears and kiss cuts. I got to go to Swampfest and watch as they played silly games for silly prizes, I got to hold Olivia when she drank her milk each night, I got to explain to Hannah what mascara was and dab some glittery lip gloss on her little lips. I got to play Super Mario Bros. with David and laugh at how serious he became about the game.

And I also got to spend time with Jamee, above mentioned adored cousin and friend. We snuck off to the bookstore and sipped tea and sat on the floor and talked for three hours Saturday night. We talked while she prepped her classroom for a sub Sunday night. We spent all day Monday without kids and laughed and shopped and read greeting cards for several hours (so fun, really -- plus they were 80% off so such a good deal!). We ran errands together, we did the dishes together, we watched the Olympics and bad TV together (who else was aware that a GIANT sperm whale exploded all over a city street in Taiwan?!?!?). We stood outside in the freezing cold temperatures (it was 34 in the morning) and sun (I have the sunburns still to prove it) for ELEVEN HOURS on Tuesday holding campaign signs for Jamee's mother-in-law who was running for state representative. And even though she lost, we had such a great day. We sang, we laughed, we danced, we joked, we teased, and we talked. Boy did we talk.

And on Wednesday, when I hugged the little Bricks goodbye on their way to school I was a little sad but mostly I was happy. I was so happy I'd been able to visit with them, to be a part of their lives for a few days, to be a part of their memories. And when Jamee and I parted at the airport, I did have tears but again, they were mostly tears of happiness, of love.

And guess what I did yesterday? Started saving for my next trip this summer. Because Cousin Sarah needs more little (and big) hugs!!!

Lenten Devotion 1

This year I wrote two Lenten devotions for First United Methodist of Hollywood's devotional booklet. The first is for today:

Luke 4: 5-8

And Jesus answered, and said unto him, “Get thee behind me, Satan; for it is written thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and God only shall you serve…”

There are days when I really enjoy grocery shopping. When I know there’s money in the bank account, when I’m planning healthy, yummy meals, when I have the time to wander the aisles looking at everything. And then there are days I detest grocery shopping. I’m in a hurry and it’s raining and the line at the checkout is six people deep and they don’t have my favorite chips and I drop my coupons and I’m outraged that lean ground turkey costs a dollar more a pound than the fatty kind.

And some days it’s the same with worship and serving the Lord. I know, I know, it’s blasphemy. But it’s the truth. There are some Sundays when I wake up and am excited to put on my best clothes and drive to church and see all my friends and serve communion and sing loudly along with the choir. But then there are those Sundays when I just want to stay in my pajamas and drink another cup of tea. When I want to turn off the alarm clock and roll over. When I want to go out to breakfast and beat the crowd to Target.

And you know what? I think that’s okay. I realized long ago that I couldn’t beat myself up over every little thing, every teensy tiny bit of guilt I experienced. I grew up attending church every single Sunday. And we were often there on Wednesdays and Thursdays and other days doing whatever needed doing. It’s okay because I can worship God at home in my pajamas. I can serve God by helping out at the AIDS clinic on Friday. And I can pray whenever and wherever and God still loves me.

Don’t get me wrong; I still have to continually tell Satan to get behind me. I have to remind myself that I’m a Christian not because I go to church regularly (which I do love doing) but because of my faith. Because of my worship and my service and most of all, my relationship with Jesus. And I love that my God, your God, our God, has taught me that.

Me care

It's Sunday afternoon and I just woke up from a two hour nap. If you know me, you know I hate naps. I don't care if other people take them but I don't like them. I always feel like I'm wasting time when I nap. And when I wake up I'm all fuzzy-headed for a good hour or more. I just don't like that feeling. That said, you know I must have really needed this nap. And I did.

I've taken many naps over the last twelve days. That's how long I've been fighting this stupid chest cold. Well, officially it's a respiratory infection -- according to the doctor I saw yesterday at the clinic. But I've finally come to the realization that if my body needs it, I'm going to do it. Because I need to take care of me, no one else is.

Now don't get me wrong - I have people who love me and care for me and want me to be well. Angela has made me food, encouraged naps, brought my tea and medicine and been the best darn nurse ever over the last two weeks. My parents continuously encouraged me to go to the doctor and even paid for above mentioned clinic visit. Friends helped me with recommendations of doctors and clinics and cures and didn't disown me when I canceled plans.

But at the end of the day, and at the beginning for that matter, I'm the one who has to take care of me. I'm it. I'm the one who takes the vitamins and lays down for the naps. I'm the one who exercises and puts food into my mouth. I'm the one who's looking out for me and this one body I get in this life.

As the nation spends so much time talking about health care or lack there of, I realized something about it all. It doesn't matter. I don't care if I have socialized medicine or the best insurance money (well, employment) can get a person. I only care if I'm well. I don't care if I have to pay for it (well, I do but you get the idea) or if I have to work for it (i.e., exercise) because if my body isn't healthy, I don't have a very good quality of life.

I've barely written over the past almost two weeks. I've gone to work every day but I dread it and do my job as quickly as possible so I can lie back down. I've skipped class and stayed home from church. I've eaten the bare minimum to get my body through the day and realized that I miss cooking and spicy foods and variety. Does it suck? Yep. It sucks being sick. It sucks not having the energy to put my fingers on the keyboard much less get on the elliptical that's grown dusty in the corner. It sucks laying on the couch watching television knowing that a few miles away my friends are drinking wine and playing Pictionary.

But I also know that I'm getting better. I've got some medication that the doctor swears will help me over the hump. I'm resting and taking vitamins and eating my fruits and vegetables and I feel stronger. I haven't coughed at all today (knock on wood) and that helps me not be so tired. And I'm really not complaining, I know there are so many people out there more sick than me. But right now, I'm the only one who counts in my world. Because again, if I don't take care of me, who will?

Yes, I think the public debate over health care is important but I also think me care is important. I think it's up to you and me and each one of us to take care of our bodies. And that's what I'll continue to do tonight as I lie on the couch. And tomorrow, I'll start writing again, because that's up to me too.

Breathing in the City

Last week I found out that the public library just a few blocks from my house has a free yoga class on Saturdays at noon. Now I love our library, I've spent many hours there, attended meetings there, etc. but I was surprised because well, it's a library and most of the "classes" they offer are things like mah jong or black and white movie discussions. So today I rolled up my yoga mat and walked over to the library to check it out.

And it was awesome. Really. In Yuma I "belonged" to a yoga studio for almost a year and I really liked it. It was hard work, it was fun and it was good for me but it was also very expensive. So the free part here caught my eye. But this experience was something different.

I felt a little bit like what I imagine it feels like to live in New York City. Walking to a yoga class, settling in with all kinds of different people: young, old, in shape, not in shape, different colors, different sexes, even some very young kids. And then the instructor told us that if we took nothing else away from today she wanted us to take away the idea of breathing. Deep concentrated breathes that you focus on. For the first five minutes all we did was sit up straight and breathe in and out. She wanted to hear our breath. Then we breathed through just one nostril, then the other. It was a lot of breathing and it was exactly what I needed today.

It's been a busy week. I've spent hours each day grading rough drafts of essays, outlines, reference lists. I prepared and pitched ideas for spec episodes of both NCIS: Los Angeles and The Big Bang Theory in my classes this week. I edited my Bones spec and sent it and my screenplay to a manager. I applied for some internships and jobs. I volunteered. I picked a friend up at the airport. I worked out almost every day. I worked on editing my novel. I cooked and did laundry. I wrote two Lenten devotionals for my church. I worried. I ate. I went to see a sneak preview of Valentine's Day. I tried to be a good friend and sister and still squeeze some time in to read the third book of the Twilight series.

And guess what I forgot to do this week? Breathe. I'm not sure I did it at all. I marked things off the to-do list. I created other lists. I watched TV. I slept. But I didn't breathe. Not in the sense of sitting and focusing and doing nothing else and thinking of nothing else but that moment's breath. And I need to do that more often. As my yoga instructor said today, there is nothing more important in life than breath. With the first breath we are born and with the last breath we die.

This week I'll try breathing a little more. And I'm already looking forward to the next yoga class. Yes, there were too many people in the little conference room. Yes, some of them were noisy and came in late. Yes, the old women who run the book sale in the room before our class were crotchety when they were hurried out. But none of that matters. All that matters is the breathing.

This week I wish you many deep breathes. Many quiet moments.

Slimmin' with Simmons!

When I was little I remember seeing Richard Simmons on infomercials for his "Sweatin' to the Oldies" workout videos and "Deal-A-Meal" diet. Later on I remember seeing him on David Letterman and it was always funny but I assumed the workout was for older people and just another one of those fads. But just a few weeks ago I learned that he teaches classes right here in Beverly Hills and my immediate reaction was, "I want to go!" And go we did...

Saturday I headed over to "Slimmons" - Richard's exercise studio, fifteen minutes from our house with Angela. We met our friends Tanya and Tony there. We went early for the "Project Me" class ($12) and found ourselves being hugged and kissed by Richard and then sitting in circle around him on the floor talking about forgiveness, food, exercise and laughing hysterically! This class lasted about 45 minutes and then he said we'd let the others in and get started with the exercise portion (another $12 which I didn't think was bad at all for a class). All of a sudden it was chaos!

The doors opened and the people rushed in. I estimated there were 200 people in that studio - which is totally 80s, mirrored walls (even hidden doors are mirrored), disco ball, pink and green steps for step aerobics, etc. And everyone just found a place so we did too - and then the music began (not oldies at all - Black Eyed Peas to start, a mix Richard assured us he made just for us!) and we were off.

Now I've always been a bit timid to do group exercise. I was a horrible P.E. student in school and even in Yuma where I enjoyed the classes I always felt like I was a step behind. And not quite dressed right. And too big to stand in front. But not here. At Slimmons there was no time to think about that because we just started! It was amazing. Richard yelled and moved and laughed and everyone just did it and it worked - so many people, squished together, even working out in the hallway but everyone was smiling and moving which was awesome!

And work out we did. I was sweating by the end of the first song but there was no break. We moved and moved and moved and then got water and then kept going. At one point we made a huge circle around Richard and he pulled people in to demonstrate moves with him. And of course Ang and I had been identified as "the sisters" right away so we got pulled in but even then, I just focused on moving my feet. It was pretty awesome. (He also walks around and constantly helps people, at another point in the class I was doing crunches with Richard Simmons holding my feet still!)

After the aerobic/dance part we did toning with 8 pound weights (yep, all 200 of us) and push-ups and stretching. We ended the hour and a half class with a little pep talk about forgiveness from Richard and more hugs. It was really amazing.

I never would have dreamed, years ago, that I would spend a Saturday morning working out with Richard Simmons who was wearing a $700 red tank top (Swarovski crystals!) and his short shorts! What I loved most was that the workout was for everyone - there were skinny people, heavy people, coordinated people, less coordinated people, celebrities (yep! honest to goodness, in a movie being considered an Oscar nom, celebrity), and me. And I loved it. I can't wait to go back. And next time, I'll take my camera!

Worrying about worrying

I'm not really big into New Year's resolutions. I have a personality that borders on obsessive at times and if I fail to meet a goal it's not always pretty inside my mind. I remember the year I vowed to floss every single day (yeah, I know, something most people probably do all the time). It became nearly catastrophic when I went on spring break in the mountains and forgot to floss because there was barely time or the place to pee much less do anything else. Or the year I vowed to read the entire Bible, one day at a time via this nifty little arrangement. I did it but I spent many a Saturday in the fall reading for hours at a time.

However, I'm really good at motivating myself, I have to be to be able to work at home. And I'm usually good at keeping an even keel. And this year while I did make some resolution type goals for myself as I do every year (written in my day journal - they're very general and fairly achievable) I have decided and announced to several people I'm going to turn a new leaf. I'm going to try and worry less. The key word there being "try".

I worry a lot about my sister, the sister who lives with me. This is normal behavior for me - and for most people I assume, who live with another person. You worry about them. But this year I'm going to try and worry a little less and just let her be. I can't cure all her medical problems. I can't get her job back for her. I can't make her less anxious. So I'm not going to worry about it as much.

I also worry a lot about the future. About the fact that I'm 32 and I don't make much money. That I write and write and write and haven't sold anything in a long time. That I have a job that I wish was different. But I realize I can't control the economic state of our country. I can't force agents to sign me or producers to buy my scripts. I can only try as hard as I possibly can and let it work itself out.

I'm also not going to worry that I've made the wrong choice or followed the wrong path. I'm going to try and enjoy the ride. I'm going to sit at lunch with my friends and listen to them rather than worry that I should be home doing something else. I'm going to go to coffee. I'm going to hike in Griffith Park. I'm going to enjoy myself just a little more. I'm not going to worry if I don't lose three pounds this week, I'm going to celebrate the fact that I got on the elliptical at all and that I beat everyone at Wii boxing. I'm going to wear out my new tennis shoes and worry later where the next pair will come from.

I'm not going to worry that I'll never meet Mr. Right and that I am becoming too old to have children. I'm going to instead talk to people, go out, enjoy being myself and being free and living in this amazing city. I'm going to write stories and look every day at the plaque on my desk that I got for Christmas: "If you can dream it, YOU CAN DO IT." -- Walt Disney.

Will I be able to stop worrying completely? No. And I don't want to. I see worrying as a form of love and caring and concern. I worry about my friends and family because I love them. And I am grateful I have so many people out there in the world who worry about me. But I am going to try and dwell on it a little less. 2010 is going to be my year. And yours!

In love with Christmas

I feel like a little kid this week, just vibrating with the anticipation of Christmas. I can't wait to give my friends their handmade gifts. I can't wait to walk the loaves of banana pecan bread over to the neighbors (and yes, I had to cut the bottoms and sides off because they were a little extra crispy but I think they'll still taste good!). I can't wait to get to wrap my presents for Angela and my parents and put them under the tree in Michigan. I can't wait to watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation with my dad. I can't wait to hug my grandparents. I can't wait to wear a scarf and mittens and freeze. I can't wait to see snow and sit on the couch and stare at the mouse in the matchbook ornament I received for my very first Christmas from my other mother.

Yes, I know it's just another week in the year. But it's exciting for me. I love the idea of people getting together. Of sitting and talking and taking photographs with my cousins. I love the fact that my whole family, all four of us, make the Christmas plunkett we'll eat on Christmas morning. I love the fact that next Thursday I get to go to church and sing Silent Night and hold my candle up high, just like I've been doing my entire life. And that next Sunday we'll sing Joy to the World, all the verses.

Christmas is my favorite time of year. I come from a long line of decorators and bakers and gift givers. And I love that. I absolutely love that.

Advent

Hollywood United Methodist Church puts out an Advent Devotional each year written by members. Today's entry is written by me:

Luke 3:15 – 18

John answered, saying unto them all, “I indeed baptize you with water, but one mightier than I cometh…he shall baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”

When I first read my scripture assignment I thought, “Well, that’s not very Christmasy”. And then I let it sit for a while. And then, slowly, I started to realize that no, it’s not Christmasy in the way we usually think of Christmas but it’s exactly what God wants from us this time of year.

John is telling us that Jesus is coming, that he’s just preparing us for what lays ahead: the Holy Spirit and fire. Fire! Can you imagine? Jesus is coming and he’s bringing fire!

What does that mean to you? What do you think you should do to celebrate that Spirit and fire this advent season? To me, it means I need to be excited. I need to engage more and complain less. I need to not worry that most of my extended family has given up the traditional gift giving protocol and focus on doing more for those I love with what I have.

So I’m going to listen carefully to John: Jesus is coming. He’ll be here and gone (at least in the Christmas season ideal) before I know it. So I’m going to spend time with friends instead of worrying that I can’t give them shiny new trinkets and packages. I’m going to spoil my parents rotten with homemade gifts and goodies and one-on-one time. I’m not going to fret about what to get my grandparents who don’t need or want anything and instead sit with them and talk, and more importantly, listen.

This Christmas season I’m going to listen to John, I’m going to trust that he’s preparing me to enjoy this holiday of worship and I’m going to do my best to do just that. Even if it looks a little different than it has in the past. Baptism makes us new and I’m going to embrace the newness that this holiday season is laying in front of me.

My day in pictures

Yesterday Angela came home from work, where she teaches art to middle school students, and asked me what I did all day. So I showed her the dining room table where I'd set up my desk. (It has become winter in Los Angeles and the rain had set in so I needed to move closer to the lone heating vent in the house.) She was intrigued by my colored highlighters and all the little charts I'd constructed.

What I'd been doing yesterday, and what I continued today and will hopefully finish tomorrow is rewriting my Bones spec script. I had a solid second draft that needed to be put through the paces. Basically I needed to know if it met some of the television writing "rules" I'd been taught, if my plot was believable and if my "B" story and "C" story got enough screen time. So I made a big four-page outline. Then I made a plot diagram. Then I made a color chart to determine visually where I needed to put more "story". These are all tricks of the trade I've learned from classes and books and morphed into my own way of doing things. I'm a writer who needs to see things written out, sometimes it just gets to be too much in my own head so I write it down.

So here's a few snapshots of my work from the past two days. I once read or heard someone say we should take pictures not just of the special occasions and the big moments in life but also of the every day, of our homes and our regular lives. So here's my work day, here's what a television show looks like long before you ever see it in your living room:

xxxxx Something concrete xxxxx

I spent a great deal of this weekend cross-stitching. Yep, cross-stitching. I'm working on a project I can't even remember buying. I pulled it out of the closet last week and found I'd done a tiny bit and then abandoned the project. So I decided to get to work. And work I have. I'd estimate that I'll be close to finished by the time we finish the third season of Mad Men we're watching!

But as I was sitting there stitching yesterday Angela asked me a question. She wanted to know if I enjoyed doing it or if it was something I felt I had to do. I told her I did feel like it allowed me to "be lazy" and watch TV but that I also liked the sense of accomplishment I felt when I finished a project, or even a row of stitches.

Every day I get up and think about writing. Some days I write, other days I just think (I know, I know, I should write every day but whatever, no one does. And if they do I say they have problems, namely nothing else to enjoy in life). For me writing is a job. And for a lot of people they see results at the end of the job. They see a ditch dug or a person put back together or a grade on a test. But for me, I rarely see solid results. So much of what I do on a daily basis happens in my head. It's all me. Sure it's the paper and the computer but it's not terribly concrete. And I know, God willing, when I sell a script, it won't ever look like it did when it left my hands. It will change, it will never be finished.

But cross-stitch is something I can finish. I can do the french knots, I can finish up all the red stitches. I can frame it and put it up on a wall. I can give it as a gift. And I derive tremendous pleasure from that. From knowing something concrete has been accomplished.

Now the only problem is I'm running out of people to give things too!

I did it.

Before every golf match in high school I would get physically ill. Yep, every single time. I would be miserable. Riding the bus to the match, waiting for my turn to tee off, teeing off (don't even get me going on the day I whiffed in front of EVERYONE in Ann Arbor), all of it made me physically sick. Needless to say I don't like to put myself into stressful situations.

So why'd I choose a career in screenwriting? The NBA of the writing field? Because it's what I want to do. It's what I have to do. It's what I do for hour upon hour upon hour late at night, early in the morning, when I could be doing something, anything, else.

I say all this to announce something very stressful -- I have finished my latest screenplay. Yeah, yeah, I know, a script is never done, not even once it's shot and up on the screen. But I'm done for now. I wrote a blog back in March about getting the idea and first sharing it with a friend. And now, over eight and a half months later, I'm done. There's a stack of pages eight inches tall next to my computer (I measured) that indicates drafts done and rewritten in just the past few weeks. There are countless drafts on my external hard drive. But now it all comes down to one neatly bound (with three brads, yes, I know, there's synergy to those three brads) stack of 94 pages. Ninety-four pages that are basically me, standing naked, in front of the entire world.

Tomorrow Ang is going to take my screenplay to a co-worker who's husband is a retired agent. This wonderful co-worker insisted Angela bring it to her upon hearing that I was a screenwriter. So tomorrow I will stand naked in front of the world. I will bare my soul, my hard work, my brain, my creativity, my being, a good portion of my life for the past year to this stranger. And I cannot express to you what this feels like.

I am rational in realizing nothing may come of it. John Grisham had hundreds of rejections before getting published, yeah I know the stories. I know the odds are so not in my favor. But the fact is this: I wrote a screenplay. I didn't just talk about it like everyone in this town does. I didn't start it and never get back around to it. I wrote it. And then I rewrote it. And then I picked at the scabs and made it bleed and wrote it again.

And now I am done with it. I have to be. I have to move on and finish a "shitty first draft" (God bless you Anne Lamott) of my TV spec for class. I have to delve into this huge black binder containing my novel that I've been stubbing my toe on since I finished that first draft last December. And I have to start work on my next screenplay. Yep, that's write. Tomorrow I'll put away all my papers and notes and scribblings about "Operation Gold Digger" and I'll open up to the musings on several new ideas I've been playing with. And I'll begin again. All over again.

Turning the music up and the world down

Music has always been a big big part of my life. I can remember listening to eight tracks in our red car when I was little, and in the stereo that my dad finally sold a few years back at a garage sale...to my grandma who now has it in her basement. I missed the record generation but I had my share of cassette tapes. I still remember the first tape I bought on my own - Whitney Houston's Whitney. I loved that album. I now own it on CD.

There was Madonna and Bon Jovi and Tiffany and New Kids on the Block and all those really great, horrible late 80s early 90s groups like Color Me Badd and Kris Kross (Gonna Make You Jump, Jump!). I remember passing around the lyrics to Papa Don't Preach in a portable at Northwest Elementary School like it was the biggest contraband around.

And then of course, there was Michael Jackson. I remember hearing Beat It for one of the first times in my friend Sandy's room. She was older than me, our families' were friends and she was cool. Michael Jackson was cool. And I was reminded of that this weekend when Angela and I went to see This is It! - the concert documentary. I was immediately transported back to my childhood and just hearing those first few chords made my feet tap and my shoulders start to move. That music is a part of me. I came home and bought twelve Michael Jackson songs on iTunes Saturday night and have listened to them over and over all day.

And yet I go through stages with music. For the last year or so it hasn't been a large part of my life. In high school I was in choir and there was music everywhere. For a time in college, when I lived in a room with two other girls and barely had a mattress to call my own I played music all day at work, pounding the songs into my being. Jennifer Knapp's Kansas will forever be a part of my soul. Right now, it's silent in my room and yet I can hear the first song as clear as if the stereo were on.

I love country music, pop music, rock music, showtunes, even rap. I know the words to Kanye West and Eminem songs. I know every verse to more hymns than I can count. I love Billy Joel and Barenaked Ladies and obsure songs I get for free off the Internet. I listen to songs over and over again until I know all the words. And this summer that happened again. It started with a song from the Fox TV show Glee. And then another song and another and before I knew it I was listening to music again, all the time. Loudly, iPod plugged into the speakers, blaring through the house. I hope my neighbors loved it.

And then something else happened. I discovered this little known singer songwriter who I had been all but oblivious to until this spring: John Mayer. Yeah, I know, where I have been for the last ten years or so. Apparently not listening to John Mayer records. But suddenly I couldn't stop listening to his first studio release. I played it every day on my commute to my internship. I played it as I ate lunch in my car and then drove around the block and back in the parking garage. I listened to it until I knew the words and the chords and the stories. And then I bought two more of his CDs. And I've listened to them for a few weeks straight now.

It occurred to me, the other day, as I sat in Starbucks, trying to write, loud music blaring, that music helps me. I knew this a while ago, I don't know how I'd forgotten it but I had. While writing most of my novel I listened to the Garden State soundtrack (I adore soundtracks, and I buy them, all kinds of them!). It's the most played CD on my iTunes account, by far. Those songs have become white noise to me. I know them so well that I can use them to block out the world and focus on the project at hand. I'm now doing that with John Mayer's work. Or, while I'm writing my Bones spec, the Bones soundtrack.

I remember once, asking a new acquaintance what type of music he liked and he said he didn't really like music and I thought that was so strange. There had to be something. Yo-Yo Ma, the Beatles, Johnny Cash (just some of my faves), somebody, anybody. But no, he wasn't a fan of music in general. And I remember thinking how sad. Without music I think life gets too loud.

A view askew night

Saturday night Angela and I ventured downtown L.A. to the Orpheum theater - a beautiful, very ornate old building with surprisingly easy to find parking. We went to see Kevin Smith on stage for one of his Q & A shows. We'd gotten the tickets in June, a birthday gift from my parents, and we had second row center (yet on an aisle!) seats. We were excited.

Kevin Smith, for those of you who don't know, is a screenwriter, director and actor. He made his first movie, Clerks, in 1994 in the convenience store where he worked. His films are known for their fast-paced dialogue, for introducing the world to Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, for being completely past the line of taste at time, and most of all for being funny.

I first discovered Kevin Smith in college, when his movie Dogma came out. It the film Smith skewers the Catholic church and religion as a whole. But he does it in only the way a lifelong Catholic could do and get away with it. And there's a poop monster in the movie. You have to see it to understand. And laugh. But anyway, I was told by some friends that Dogma probably wasn't the movie for me seeings how I was very active in church and a person of strong faith. I shrugged and said okay. Then I saw it for myself. And loved it.

So fast forward over ten years. Kevin's made a bunch more movies, written blogs, produced hundreds of hours of podcasts and I've been a loyal fan all along. So Saturday, getting to sit and listen to this master storyteller talk about working with George Carlin and Bruce Willis and ordering eight hundred dollars of food online was just pure enjoyment. It was also very cool to sit mere feet across the aisle from Jason Mewes, one of Kevin's best friends and fellow actor in all his movies, and to see his wife in the balcony laugh along with stories she's probably okay with never hearing again.

It was just such a unique experience. And one I'm still amazed I had. Especially that I had it so easily. It took us twenty minutes to drive downtown (and there was a lot of traffic and an out light!) and we were there. Back as a college student at Olivet seeing a Kevin Smith movie for the first time I never would have dreamed I'd arrive the point in my life where one night in October I'd get to drive a few miles and sit right in front of the man who wrote all these movies that have entertained me countless times. So thanks Mom and Dad, for giving me one of the best birthday presents yet!

Workin' on my slapshot

I envy those people who go to work and do a job and at the end of the day have tangible results. Maybe it's receipts of items sold. Maybe it's a harvest. Maybe it's grades earned by students. Maybe it's patients cared for. Maybe it's widgets made.

When I go to work (and I'm not talking teaching here, I consider that one job, and I consider writing another job) and do my job I rarely have tangible results. I feel a little like what the philosophers must have felt like back in the day. If you watch The Big Bang Theory (and you really really should if you don't) you'll remember the sequence in this week's episode where Sheldon and Raj worked - basically they stood around and stared at equations for days on end. That's often what I do.

I've been working on my current screenplay since February. Technically, if you count the Final Draft document files, I'm on draft eight. But in reality, this draft is probably somewhere in the hundreds. I write and I change and I move and I rewrite. And then often I sit and stare. I did that for a good portion of today.

I have a good draft done. Angela thinks it's good. I think it's the best yet. People ask me when I'm going to send it out to producers and managers and anyone who'll accept an email attachment. And I stop dead in my tracks. It's not ready to go out yet. Not at all.

I'm not one of those people who thinks her work is precious. I know it is. It's precious to me. But I also know it's not sacred. I know that once I put it out into the world it is no longer my own. That begins when I show it to a friend or family member to read. That begins the second the words print out of the printer. Communication is as much about the receiver as it is the sender. It's not all about how I intend the message, it's about how you receive it.

So I have this draft. This draft that has taken almost eight months to come into being. This draft that changed quite a bit after a hard core plot session with Angela on Saturday afternoon. This draft that has jokes I love and is missing jokes I adore. This draft is good but not excellent.

So today I made a note card for every single scene in my film. I charted the entire plot. I wrote fifteen incantations of a logline before I came up with a simple sentence that defines my story. I went over notes from a whole year of study at UCLA. I went over notes from books and reels of movies stored in my mind.

And I realized two things. One, I have some work to do. But two, I can do it. Am I scared? Of course. Out of my mind. I cannot imagine sending someone my screenplay, these characters I have birthed, this world I have created, these words I have agonized over, and have them rip it to shreds. I cannot imagine having someone reject it as I know it will be. But I've also realized something else. I have to do this. I have to because it's my job. It's me.

I don't get paid to sit and stare at note cards for six hours on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. I don't get paid to come up with countless spec ideas for an episode of Bones. Yes, there are people who do get paid to do these things and I pray that one day, I will be among that group but guess what? I do it already, for free, because I have to. It's who I am. It's what I am.

Every time I think about giving up or wishing it was easier I think about athletes who spend countless hours training to get where they are. That's what I'm doing. I'm training. I'm trying to make my game the best it can be before I get in front of all those scouts. Because no one's going to pick me if I can't make free throws or get the puck to the net. And I really really really wanna be picked.

Blessings in no particular order

One of the nicest parts about my parents' retirement for me has been the opportunity to have conversations with them during the day. See, I work from home, so I have a flexible schedule. Sometimes this means I can take my sister's car into the garage for repairs (as I did today), volunteer at church (as I did Tuesday) or even work, as I do most days. But I also get to sneak in some quality phone time, something I've been doing lately with my parents who are back home in the eastern time zone.

And today as I was talking with my mom I realized something. I realized that I am blessed. I am so blessed. My whole family is really. But mostly me. I have parents who have loved and cared for me and still worry and care for me almost thirty-two years later. I have a host of people back home, and all around the world literally, who care for me. And I'm well. I can work. I can go out with friends. I have a house and food in the cupboards and heat and clothing and all that stuff one needs to live a normal life.

But mostly I am well. And I take that for granted too much of the time. Sure I've had a touch of the flu this week but who hasn't. And I thought about it as I was eating the eggs and toast Angela made me for dinner tonight as I laid on the couch. I'm okay. I'm going to be okay.

Because there are people who aren't. There are people in my life who might not be. And that breaks my heart. It breaks my heart to know that someone I love so dearly, someone who helped raise me, is hurting, isn't well. And I need to be thankful for what I have.

So here's my top ten list today. The things are I am thankful for on this Friday in October (in no particular order):
10. My parents and Angela.
9. My fingers that help connect what my brain says to the paper in front of me so I can do my job and write.
8. People who've known me only 365 days yet think I'm someone they should invest in. And that they went ahead and gave me a scholarship to prove it.
7. The Internet. It keeps me connected (sometimes, a little too frequently) to the outside world, to my family and friends, to people.
6. Warm blankets on my bed and windows that keep the wind out.
5. Legs and arms to carry me to the grocery store and lift all the packages that will sustain me through the week.
4. God. Even though we don't talk as often as we probably should, I know he listens when I whisper my pleas. I know he cares. And I know he loves me.
3. My hair. I really like my hair and I'm thankful it's full and pretty and getting long. Yeah, so what. I'm thankful for it.
2. My job. I make just enough to live on and that's really all I need, all anyone needs.
1. The past thirty-one years. For every single thing, event, person that's touched me. For all the good and the bad. It's brought me here, to this moment. And I wouldn't change a second of it.

Happy 96th Birthday Grandma

Today would have been my Great Grandma Ruth's 96th birthday. All month I've been looking at her name on my calendar. I'm a card sender and I kept feeling the need to send her card out. But I can't because she passed away in January. I also still have her number in my cell phone and I still remember the last time she called me. I loved that she called in the evening, late in Michigan but early here, because we'd be home. She'd tell me the same story about growing up in Yorba Linda, California and living just down the street from the boy who would become President Richard Nixon every single time we talked. She called more after I moved to California, I think she liked that I was here where she grew up.
These pictures are of a beautiful glass serving tray I bought in June. Grandma always gave presents on holidays, it didn't matter that she didn't have a lot of money, that she was the one who introduced us to government cheese when we were little, she liked to shop and it showed. And once I left home and got a place of my own my gifts changed from shirts and wallets to things for my house. I have a beautiful crystal bowl that I adore. A chip and dip server that comes in handy. Vases and candy dishes and just all sorts of things that are practical but really very nice. She had a sense of style about her.

This past fall grandma had to be moved permanently into a nursing home. She had lived alone for as long as I had known her, my great grandfather died the year I was born, and even though she didn't drive she managed to travel and go out to eat and was really never at home. She had wonderful friends and lived in a nice apartment steps from my grandparents' home. But she was getting older and had some health problems and it was time. So this was the first Christmas we spent without grandma at the table. But we went to visit her a lot over the few weeks I was in Michigan. We took her things for her room, Christmas gifts (she loved yogurt covered pretzels and crossword puzzles), and just sat and listened to her tell the same stories over and over again. But then the day before I was to fly back to California we noticed a change. She was agitated and didn't understand at all why she was there. She wanted to walk and couldn't and it wasn't going well. I left her that day with a hug, a kiss and a heavy heart.

Angela and I flew into LAX late on a Friday night. Saturday morning the phone rang before sunrise. Grandma had passed away. And as I moved through that day, that weekend, that week, very numb I thought about how it was really for the best. She was a free spirit. She missed her home and her life and what she'd been reduced to was not what she had wanted. So she went somewhere better. Someplace where she could be with her beloved Kenneth, have a kitten and gamble the day away.

This glass tray is what I bought with the money I got in my last Christmas card from grandma. I hemmed and hawed over the purchase for six months until Angela grew very aggravated with me. It was only ten dollars but to me it was so much more. I'd look for that perfect thing to spend the money on everywhere we went and I went back to Crate & Barrel several times to look at this piece. It wasn't until my parents visited this summer that we talked and I finally made the decision. It was also then when my mom brought the roses that sit on the tray. They're roses from the arrangement that we sent to grandma's funeral. The funeral I couldn't attend.

It broke my heart knowing I couldn't go back to the funeral. We'd literally just gotten home and the thousand dollars it would cost just wasn't there. But I took comfort in the fact that we'd spent so much time with her at Christmas. That I'd actually hugged and kissed her goodbye instead of just looking at a wooden box.

When my parents visited they not only brought the roses but several other mementos my mom had saved for us. Angela and I both got a cross necklace and a cat figurine (grandma loved cats but couldn't have one). There's a small dish for rings that sits on the kitchen sink window sill that reminds me of her every day and a wooden cross above a bookshelf that keeps watch over the house.

So happy birthday grandma, I know that today you're wearing one of your favorite sweatshirts, watching your programs, working on a crossword puzzle, sneaking a piece of chocolate and enjoying the freedom you deserve. I love you.

Turning on the TV within me

Last Tuesday I headed west again, onto UCLA's campus. Yes, I left early and no, there wasn't traffic so I ended up sitting in the classroom with a good forty minutes to spare before class started. But I didn't care. I was excited. I was ready. And I was terrified.

See this fall I'm taking a course on "Writing the One-Hour Television Drama". For the last year and change I've been studying feature film screenplays and using television for my escapism, purely for fun. I study every movie I watch for the three act breaks, the cute meet, the big gloom, the characters, the everything. I can't turn it off. I read screenplays so I know what happens in most movies before I pay to see them. I watch them over to understand how they work. And now I get to do that with TV.

It must be the same though, right? you say. A little bit so but then completely different. Four one thing TV has a whole extra act in it, and the thing at the beginning, the teaser. Also, each week (at least for most non-premium cable shows) you have to reintroduce the characters and the main idea of the show for the new viewers. Because you pray each week you have new viewers. So it's different.

What else? Oh, let's see, the fact that I have to write in someone else's voice. I have to use already well established characters and plot devices and settings. It's a little more like mimicry than actual creation. It's basically a whole new skill set.

So back to class. I found out that we'll be dissecting shows each week, writing our own beat sheets (detailed outlines) of them, and then working on our own spec scripts. A spec script is a TV writer's calling card. It's what's used to say, "Hey, I can write X on CBS just as well as their writers and I could do the same for you at NBC." A spec will never be read by the show it's written for but it'll hopefully be read by agents and others who could give me a job. So it needs to be good. And written as if it could be shot which means it has to sound just like a X script and has to be something they've never done. No small feat. Especially when some of the shows we're looking at specing are 80 shows in.

In class we've started breaking down The Mentalist. I've never seen it but don't worry, soon enough I'll be an expert in all things Simon Baker and company. Then we had to pick our show to spec from a list. I chose Bones for two reasons. One, I've seen every episode, many times over in repeats, and two, I like that it mixes comedy and relationships with the crime procedural format.

So what's next? Well, I've spent the last week brainstorming ideas. And this is where I start to freak out. What do I know about crimes and murder and forensic anthropology? Not much. And that I do know? I've learned from Bones and CSI and NCIS and all those other crime shows.

So yesterday Angela and I spent a few hours in Barnes & Noble pouring through the true crime and criminology section. (Patrons walking by were probably very scared, especially when I got all excited about what fire does to a person's cranium!) I made a lot of notes, things I hadn't heard of before, and started formulating ideas.

My teacher told the story last week about how he pitched over 100 ideas to two producers before getting his first writing assignment on a television show. Tomorrow night I have to pitch 4 and then pick one. Right now I have 2 very loose ideas. They're basically sentences. But they're mine. And they're what I've got so far so I'll forge ahead.

What I'm noticing already is how much I like the brainstorming process, the idea of learning about new things. I've always said I wanted to be a writer so I could do a million jobs: be a politician, a movie star, a lawyer, a cook, a parent, anything and everything. And right now I'm getting to be a forensic anthropologist and a special agent in the FBI.

Also, if you have any ideas you wouldn't mind me stealing, send away. By tomorrow at 6:30 nothing will seem to out there!