Cousin Camp 2011

After three weeks in Michigan, Angela and I headed straight to Texas for Cousin Camp 2011. I think this was the fifth year that we've all been together for at least a week. We stayed with our cousin Jamee, her husband John and their three little ones and we spent a lot of time with our cousin Jori, her husband Neil and her two wee ones! We even folded their cousin Justin into the mix most days!

It was such a fun week of pottery painting, Phineas and Ferb watching, long lingering meals, cooking, baking, crafting, window shopping, movies, miniseries (The Kennedys - fascinating), Wii dancing, swimming, napping, stories, and more. Basically it was just a chance for us all to be together and to make memories to last until we see each other again! And did I mention laughing? I don't think I've ever laughed so much! Between watching Jim Gaffigan's comedy specials with Jamee, John and Angela and trying to keep the tears away while sharing stories with each other it was just a fantastic week. A week I'll keep in my heart and in my soul forever.

Here's to cousin camp 2012! (There's a rumor it might be headed to Michigan! Watch out mitten state!!!!)

Traditions

On Wednesday I arrived back in L.A. after a month of traveling. Three weeks in Michigan and a week in Texas. And when I first made my travel plans, I remember thinking, hmmm....three weeks is a long time to be at home. It's a long time to be anywhere really, that's not where you normally live. But it's home. It's where my family is. And I started thinking about all of the things I just "had to do" when I was there and it seemed impossible to do it all in less time. Turns out, three weeks still wasn't enough time. But it was a pretty good time all the same.

In my family we have a lot of traditions and I find that as I grow older, I've been creating traditions of my own. The picture above is just one of our family's favorites. When Angela and I were little our family camped. That's what we did for vacation, we found a state park and we put up our tent. (Always a tent, always.) Sometimes we'd be up north or on the west side of the state or even just a few miles away from home on the state land near where my dad worked so he could go to work and come home to the campsite at night.

One of the treats we'd get when camping was fried donuts for breakfast. My mom would buy day-old cake donuts, nothing fancy please, slice them in half and throw them on the grill, "frying" them. Slather a little homemade strawberry jelly on top and there has never been anything quite so fabulous tasting. So I was mighty surprised, and happy, when I woke up one morning just before I left Michigan, to find fried donuts on the menu for breakfast!

There are so many other traditions we observed over the three weeks we were all together. Lugnuts games, Fourth of July BBQ, eating Gus's salad and breadsticks, playing the card game that doesn't have a name that we always have to find the directions for stuffed on a ripped piece of paper in the box of Joe Camel cards. Playing golf. Planting flowers at the cemetery and the house. Taking the little white car (the '62) to King Kone for ice cream.
Going to the movies just to go to the movies. Floating down the lazy river trying not to get sunburned. Pool party with the Niblocks. Swimming in the middle of Crooked Lake. Taking a ride through Oak Grove (where we came across a mama deer and her twin fawns!).

Playing more golf. Campfires in the driveway with all the neighbors. Sitting in the swing for hours on end. Reading book after book. Even more golf. It's no wonder we didn't want to leave...

But it's good to miss it. It's good to know there's even more to look forward to next time we visit. It was a wonderful trip. A wonderful way to recharge and refocus after a long few months. It was just exactly what I needed. And what I'll continue to carry on...

A day in the life...

Today's one of those days, rare lately, where I've been totally immersed in writing. Since I started working at the elementary school I've had fewer chances to devote large chunks of time to doing so. I'm not complaining at all, it's just a fact that I have to squeeze the writing into the spaces a little more creatively. Combine that with my working with a manager who wants new ideas strictly in pitch form right now and I just haven't been as focused on the words lately.

But not today. Today I finished up the outline for my latest foray into spec scripts (scripts of TV shows I write for my portfolio, to show to people who can hire me to write for their TV shows). I'm working on a Community spec, it's a sitcom and I'm loving it. I've been mulling the story around in my head for probably eight to ten months now. It's just been rolling around up there like a snowball, slowly gathering more and more snow, until it was a fully formed snowman of an idea. This week I pitched the idea to my writing group and got their laughter-infused blessings so I moved to the next stage: the outline.

For me, outlining takes several forms. I first wrote my idea out in long form, then I put it into bullet points broken down by acts. After I get some feedback from my writing group this weekend I'll create a beat sheet (basically an outline with scene headings and maybe some more description/more jokes) and then I'll likely move right into writing the script. Once I have the idea down on paper the process goes quickly for me, something I am extremely grateful for.

So I'm writing this Community idea, which is silly and full of movie references and just plain fun. The stakes are high for a comedy show but no one's in danger, no one's getting hurt, and even the mean-spirited jokes are light. But once I send it out to my writing group folks, I move on to another project, even though I'd really just like to go lay on the couch and watch more Sports Night on Netflix Instant. (Best invention ever - I no longer have to put the DVDs in to watch some of my all-time favorite shows!!!!)

So now I'm working on a pitch for a new project, a television pilot (an original idea not one based on someone else's show). It's a one-hour drama and it involves spies. It's basically the complete opposite of Community. So I spend some time googling and here's what I'm researching: how to convert semi-automatic pistols into automatic mode. Yes, the complete opposite of what I was doing earlier. But guess what? I LOVE IT.

I'm fascinated by what I'm learning about pistols. I'm intrigued by what I've researched about the Department of Defense and I'm having so much fun creating these characters that they're already talking to me - sharing with me the rhythm of their language and the way they carry themselves. And I can't wait to figure out what should happen next. Because anything can happen, ANYTHING AT ALL. Because it's my show. They're my characters, my story, my decisions. Seriously, this is way too fun.

It'll get tedious, I know. I know all too well. I'll write a pitch, then I'll have to change the pitch. Then there will be outlines and draft upon draft of the script. There will be revisions and editing and proofreading. I'll be so sick of it all by the end I'll hide it and never want to speak it's name again. But for now, this story, what I get to do all day today, is pretty darn cool.

The purse

Do you remember the first time you felt like an adult? Like a real, responsible, honest-to-goodness grownup? For me it was when I was seventeen. I'd just graduated from high school and in true Midwest tradition, we had spent hours sending out announcements and senior pictures, hosting a huge graduation open house at the state park where I worked, and in turn? I was overwhelmed with gifts. Money and packages. Lots of money and lots of packages. For me, it was an amazing outpouring of love, and an amazing haul.

Most of the money got put away in a savings account for safe keeping (i.e., college). But my parents told me I should get something for myself as well. My parents are pretty great like that. They realize the value in celebrating your accomplishments and commiserating special events with small tokens. And this time? I was encouraged to choose my own token.

And this brings me to the first time I felt like a grownup. We went to the Twelve Oaks Mall in Novi. The nice mall with the expensive stores. And we went to Hudson's where my mom took us sometimes for fancy lunches of Maurice salads (the only way I really enjoy green onions is in a Maurice salad). And I looked at the purses. I looked at the grownup, very adult in my eyes, leather purses. And I bought one. The purse in the photo above. I remember it cost a hundred dollars. I had never bought myself anything that had cost a hundred dollars before. I had never paid cash for something that cost that much before. But on that day, I did. I paid for it and I remember feeling so excited. I had a real grownup, woman's leather purse. And it had a label on it (Liz Claiborne). (NOTE: I have not to this day ever paid so much for a purse again. Mostly I buy purses that are half off at Kohl's or are in the summer section at Target).

Just this week I was cleaning out my closet and I pulled out this leather purse and I realized that I hadn't used it in probably ten or eleven years. The strap's a little out of date and much to my dismay, the leather was somehow rubbing off and sticking to other things in the closet (hmmm...maybe 100 bucks did not get me quality leather after all). So I decided to toss it. I have a bunch of other purses and it wouldn't be missed. But, in reality it would. I'd know it was gone because to me, that purse represented a very important time in my life. A time when I was starting a new adventure, when I was dressing for the part, when I felt like it was time to call the shots and make my own choices, not rely on my parents or friends to show me the way. That purse was the start of something.

That something continues and I know that although it's been *gasp* sixteen years since I stood in that department store and laid down my money, a piece of me still thinks back to the girl I was before the purse. She's not completely gone. She's still glad to have her family and her friends by her side. She's still glad she's on an adventure every single day. And she's really glad she still has good taste in purses.

"There's no elevator to success. You have to take the stairs."

Patience is a virtue, I learned this a long long time ago. I've been learning and relearning this lesson my entire life. I am not naturally gifted at anything. I can't throw a football a million yards or sing the Star Spangled Banner perfectly. I'm not model thin and I don't have the ability to memorize anything (well, except for totally useless television facts). But I have desire. I have skill. I have drive. I have stamina and yes, I even have patience. And I think that counts for something.

I've been taking meetings with a management company for a few months now. We've been working on a career strategy and preparing me for "meetings" (aka, opportunities to be in a room with people who can hire me or buy my ideas). I've learned how to tell my story and I'm working on coming up with ideas I can pitch in short and long form. I'm basically learning to sell my skills and my desire and my drive. I'm learning what it takes to succeed in Hollywood as a writer.

Tonight I had another one of those meetings. It's quite something to share a story that I completely made up and have others talk about it, give ideas, even discuss possibilities for it. It's quite something to be taken seriously as a screenwriter with potential. Tonight that happened. In a big way.

There are no jobs yet. There are no contracts or checks or even meetings yet. But once again, it's a start. It's another step, a second step. And I'm trying so hard to be patient, knowing that the more I am, the greater the reward will be. Right? Right.

So many of you have taken this journey with me. So many of you cheer me on just by reading this blog, my writing. I'm amazed at what words can do, how they can make us laugh and cry and feel. I'm amazed at what my words can do. I'm amazed by this whole experience - the good, the bad and the in between. And I'm continually amazed by the lessons I learn.

So as I approach the end of my third year here in Los Angeles, I think about where I started. A girl with one poorly written, not properly formatted, screenplay. And now look at me. I've got a portfolio of screenplays and teleplays. I've got a novel. I've got a management company who wants to work with me. They chose me. Here we go...

No, it's not writer's block

In March I finished a spec script I was writing for my portfolio, an episode of The Good Wife, a show I love. The idea for it had been marinating since November of last year. A long time if you ask me. But it worked. I’d found an article in the L.A. Times about death row appeals and clipped it and moved it from side to side of my desk for a while. I thought about it, filed it, pulled it back out and nothing. But I knew I needed to use it. And eventually I did – not the article but the idea it began in me, the idea for my episode. So I wrote it, rewrote it and poof! It was done. Before that I’d finished up rewrites of my two original pilots and before that I’d written an episode of Modern Family but that was back last summer. And now? I’ve got nothing.

I am trying not to freak out. I’m trying to be patient with myself and good to myself and not cry every few days. I’m trying to be strong and realistic and professional, as a good writer should be. But I’m not writing and it’s driving me crazy.

In working with this management company, I’ve been focused on crafting a career strategy plan rather than writing. It’s all fine and dandy. I’ve come up with pages of new ideas for shows, some bad, some worse than bad. I’ve written pages about my life story and my aspirations and learned to pitch myself, er, tell my story, in 120 seconds flat. I’ve also learned a 30-second version in case I ever run into Mr. Sorkin in an elevator ride (that pitch would also be contingent upon me being able to speak in said situation, which I highly doubt).

But again? I’m not writing. Yes, I’m journaling. Yes, I’m reading books and studying and planning. Yes, I’m being active, even proactive. But the thing is? I’M NOT WRITING. And it’s driving me (and possibly Angela) insane.

So I think I need to start. I’ve somehow convinced myself all my ideas are horrible, I should go try and get a job in insurance like was suggested, and move on with my life, leave this little fling with creativity behind. But then? I look up at my bulletin board, where I’ve tacked six pieces of paper from the past six months. Four are the WGA registrations for my spec scripts. And two are the Library of Congress copyrights for my original pilot stories. And I’m reminded again that I have done it, that I will continue to do it, and that I’d be a really really bad insurance saleswoman.

Ms. Nap

My time with my elementary kids is coming to a close. We have seven school days left but it's that point in the year where every day feels like the last. There's assemblies and awards and movies and cleaning out desks and looking for lost library books. It's also the time of the year, as any teacher will tell you, when you feel most connected with your students. You've put in the time. You've earned their trust. They've let down their guard and learned to listen. Today was a perfect example of that.

My third graders were taking their final language arts test. Reading comprehension and a little writing with some vocabulary sprinkled in. I took my group of four to the middle room where we work on a daily basis. I didn't have to remind them to be quiet. I didn't have to tell them to separate themselves from the rest of the group. They knew exactly what to do and how to do it. And they were focused. They were on task. They were good. They were so good. (No, they didn't get all the answers but today, that wasn't the point. Today the point was they've finally learned how to take a test and write a complete sentence. Okay, well, almost complete.)

Afterwards they had some downtime as they finished the test at different times. The above picture is what came from one little girl's downtime. One little girl who has such a hard time focusing I want to cry for her. One little girl who has more than once had to leave my room because she can't handle being there with four other students. One little girl who can't spell to save her soul. But on her own time, she drew this for me and delivered it to me with such pride and love in her eyes. For precisely this reason, I do this job.

It was a good day. A very good day. Not all are but days like today remind me of what it's all about. And it's not just pictures, they tend to say it with words too. Later on today they were writing letters to their fifth grade selves and telling them about their third grade experiences. One little boy wrote, "I love doing math with my very own teacher". Mind you, I only worked with him one-on-one yesterday for the first time. But it stuck with him. And I hope long division does too.

Several other students wrote about Ms. Nap in their letters and it made me smile so much to read over their shoulders and see their little misspelled words of love. And to hear their, "You have to go now?"s when I grabbed my purse and headed out the door. And as they waved and yelled goodbye (more for the excuse to yell then anything I am sure) part of me didn't want to leave. And isn't that the mark of a really good job? A really good anything? When you don't want it to end?

Cheers to Sean and Lu

On Saturday my friends Sean and Lu got married, for the third time. The first time was on 10/10/10 in Lu's hometown in China. Then they got married here in the United States so it was all legal soon after they got back from China. And finally, the last big wedding (we think!) took place this past weekend. And here's the really cool part - I was asked to officiate.

It was such an honor. Sean is one of the first people I met in Los Angeles. We met him at church and I distinctly remember a day in September, we'd only been here a month or so, when Sean had the day off work. He met us at Homeless Lunch and took us on quite the sightseeing tour, all over Los Angeles - to some of what are now our favorite places. From there our friendship morphed into game nights and birthday celebrations and just lots of fun times together. And then he met Lu. And then we met Lu, and she's fit so seamlessly into our circle. It's amazing to watch.

I read some scripture verses and several poems on Saturday as well as helped them recite their vows. It's something I did a while back, for my friends Kelly and Jason, and it really is an honor to be a part of someone's wedding day like that. One of the poems has stayed with me - Maya Angelou's Touched by an Angel. The last bit reads like this:

And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

When I think about that - the idea that love costs all we are and will ever be, I stop. I stop and I realize how very true that is. How I am nothing without love. Without the love of my family and my friends and even complete strangers. How I am nothing if I do not love. And yet, it's through that love that I do what I do, I am who I am, I thrive, I survive.

Sean and Lu's love brought a roomful of people together on Saturday. It's made a family and memories and forged friendships and created stories. But most of all? It's set an example for every single person in their lives to aspire to. To love. Nothing more. Nothing less. But simply, to love.

Imagination

Last week I taught my third grade students about Picasso. Yep, the guy who made crazy cubism paintings with eyes where noses should be and noses where eyes should be. And they loved it. (See above picture as evidence - they so enjoyed making their own "Picassos"!)

So today we continued the discussion about imagination - after deciding last week that Picasso must have had a pretty big imagination. I asked them what they pretended to be or where they pretended to go when they played. Just one said they didn't pretend at all. And I told her that made me sad because I loved to pretend. I love to imagine myself in other places, doing other things. In fact, that's one of the things that lead me to writing. And to moving to Los Angeles.

And this discussion got me thinking about how my parents raised me to use my imagination and how some kids don't ever get that encouragement. I remember playing games with my parents that didn't involve any controllers or electronic devices. I remember running through the cemetary with my dad playing war when I was little with just a stick and my finger as a gun, hiding behind trees. I remember my mom encouraging Angela and I to close our eyes and imagine what land we'd go to every night when we lay in bed. We'd go to all different lands, lands she'd describe, lands we'd describe. And it was all pretend. All imagination.

I am so grateful that I grew up being encouraged to stretch my mind, to know about worlds other than my own. One of my favorite reading experiences growing up was Jurassic Park. It came out in 1990 and I remember reading it not too long after that, before the movie came out. I remember laying in my bed in the hot, humid summer nights before we had central air, dreaming of being on that island with dinosaurs. So much so that I had nightmares that baby velociraptors were chasing me.

For the past few weeks I've been doing a project - I've been attempting to come up an idea for a television show or a movie every single day. This has stretched my imagination beyond belief. But it's fun. To create stories and worlds that never existed, that may some day exist on a screen because I dared to dream of them. Dared to use my imagination...

I am ready to throw up (literally)

Most people who know me know I can be outspoken. I'm not afraid to talk in front of large groups of people, I lead small discussion groups, not much scares me. I teach public speaking to college students and I've done my fair share of getting up in front of crowds number in the hundreds. But today, right now, I'm about to throw up at the thought of talking in front of two people.

Tonight I have to pitch myself as a writer to a couple of people in the industry. These are people I've spent some time with, not strangers by any means. But they intimidate me. Frankly, they scare the crap out of me. Why? Well, simply put, this is it. This is the real thing.

Talking to a friend going through the same pitch experience as me today, I realized something. This is my shot. I've always been a writer but I've always wanted to be a paid writer. A professional writer. A screenwriter. And this is my shot. This is the do or die time. This is the putting my money where my mouth is time. And it's terrifying. I'm literally shaking as I type this.

How many people say they could have done this or been that but never got the chance? Or never put any effort into it? Well here's my chance. This could be the beginning of something big. This is what all my work, all my dreams, have been about the past few years.

And tonight it all boils down to two-minutes. Two minutes of me telling people about myself. Not about nuclear physics or microbiology or Shakespeare. I have to talk about me. The person I should know best. But here are two things I've learned over the past two weeks of working on this pitch:

1) I'm a writer, not a pitcher. There's a difference and it's big. And I have to become both in order to succeed.

2) I am not an actor. I've written a lovely pitch but I can't memorize it for anything. Just ten minutes ago I stood up in my bedroom and attempted to tell the mirror my pitch. About myself. I got two lines in and froze. Yes. This is fabulous.

How will tonight go? I have no idea. I'll keep you posted. But I do know that I'm scared out of my mind. But I think there would be a problem if I weren't. This is the thing I want most and I'm on the verge of getting there. Nothing else has ever been this important.

And if I don't pass out, maybe I'll be able to remember something to say tonight.

***UPDATE: The meeting went well. I didn't throw up. My hands shook a little but not my voice. So happy I could cry. It's a start...

Still kicking!

Last Saturday my dad, Angela and I got up with the sun and headed out to the Coliseum at USC. Last year my mom walked with Ang and I but this year her knee was bothering her so my dad took her place and we were so glad he got to experience the day with us!

It was another amazing 5K - it was a beautiful cool day, and we enjoyed the morning walking with thousands of others who walked for and with their loved ones. And most important - the event raised millions of dollars to kick cancer's butt! And thanks to all the support from the people on the sign I carried with me (see photo above) Angela, my dad and I raised $3500 for the cause!

So thank you all! We walked so others can continue to do good work to fight this horrible disease. We walked for our family: Marilyn and Grandpa Jim. We walked for all those listed above. We walked and we loved it!

It was a whirlwind and I'm still twirling

Two weeks ago today I was out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean wearing my winter coat, hood tied tight around my head, watching the water split where the large ferry I was riding in cut through it. My mom and I were the only two people gutsy enough to brave the cool weather and occasional peaks at the sun to sit on the top deck of the ferry. Angela and my Dad were below deck, in cushy seats, sleeping off their sea sickness. But not my mom and me. We were watching the blue sky, smiling at each other, silently taking in the quiet nature all around us. It was quite a morning. It was peaceful. It was still even though we were moving. It was amazing.

And then everything came crashing down. The stillness of my soul turned to shards.

By that night my parents were on a plane back to Michigan. And then eight hours later, Angela and I were following. An unexpected trip that came too soon. Or not soon enough depending on how you look at things.

My grandmother, my mother's mother, hadn't been well for quite some time. Eighteen months ago she fell in her house and spent a night on the floor. Three surgeries, countless procedures, a lifetime supply of antibiotics and meds, it just became too much. Her body had managed so many years. Years of pain starting with a terrible automobile accident before she married my grandfather through replacement hips and arthritis that crippled her. Through it all though she never complained. Never. She was amazing.

I have so many stories. Stories I want to record. Stories I will record. But not right this moment. It's too hard. Yesterday, Monday, I sat down to write out some cards as I do every Monday. I have a small list of people who get them regularly. Grandma was tops on that list. As I went to the box of cards I've collected from trips to Hallmark (I might have a problem, they send me very large reward checks) I looked at the pile earmarked for her. Cards I didn't have the chance to send...

Then today, as I was walking to my car after work I felt the need to talk to someone. My sister was at work. Several friends I knew were busy. My parents were traveling. Until eighteen months ago Grandma would have been tops on that list as well. I can't remember how many nights I called her and talked all the way home from my job an hour away from my apartment. I loved it. I miss it. So much.

It's been a whirlwind. Real life doesn't stop and so I continue to work, grade papers, proctor state-wide tests for the little ones, try to create a screenwriting career, connect with friends, buy groceries, dust the living room. But through it all, I can't help but miss her. A picture in the dining room. Her name in my cell phone. The ring she gave me. The life she helped me create.

I hope the tears don't stop. I also hope the memories don't fade. I hope the shards don't dull. I don't want to forget. I don't want to be too far removed. Here, now, feeling it is only where I want to be.

A bang of a night

Last night I went to my sixth taping of the sitcom ‘The Big Bang Theory’. My sixth in two years. For baseball fans, this is akin to attending six baseball games in two years, not so odd. And cheaper. And funnier. I’m just saying, there’s not much levity in baseball until the big-headed mascot comes out to lead a song or a spinning of the heads on bats. (Full self-disclosure, I’m not a huge baseball fan. If I do one game a year, I’m good. And there better be some fun baseball snacks or a shopping trip on the way there or something.)

But yesterday I took my parents to the Warner Brothers lot, we waited in line for three and a half hours, passed through several security checkpoints, left our cell phones at home, and then sat smooshed together in tiny seats for about four hours. All to see some actors put on a little “play” as it were. A little play that takes about 150 people weeks to craft and execute and will eventually be seen by tens of millions of people around the globe. It was rather exciting. For all of us.

It was a special night because it was the taping of the fourth season finale. The cast and crew all seemed to have a light-hearted energy. They laughed and danced and waved. They broke up during takes, they came out to talk to the audience members (which rarely happens in my experience). Everyone had fun. So much fun. At work. Doing what they love. (Well, I am just assuming the guy who holds the mike and the guy who puts paper towels over the prop food love their jobs.)

And as the curtain call commenced I watched the guys over on the left hand side of the stage: Bill Prady and Chuck Lorre, the co-creators of the show. They stood there watching these actors bow and wave and be cheered on. They had pretty big smiles on their faces. And all I could think of was how much I want to be down there on that stage. Not in front with the cheering and the bowing but off to the side, standing with the other writers, watching what I’ve created happen. What I’ve created be applauded. What I’ve created make so many people happy. Amazing.

This is why I moved to Los Angeles. This is why I have spent the last three years worry over scene descriptions and one-liners. This is why I spend most of my waking moments thinking of the next script, or the current script, or the script that I wrote two years ago. I want nothing more to be down there, in the trenches.

It was an amazing night. It was awesome to see it through fresh eyes. To laugh, to be surprised, to smile at the little jokes, to watch all these people work. An amazing night. That’s what I want.

I'm starting

Tonight I went to the taping of the sitcom The Big Bang Theory. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone, it won’t be the last. We already have tickets to take my parents next week to the taping of the season finale. But tonight, as I sat there, I realized something. I wanted to be down on the stage. I wanted more than anything to be a part of the hustle and bustle, the frenzied movement, the action. I wanted to be one of the writers bringing new pages to the actors, whispering about new jokes. I wanted to be one of the showrunners talking about sweaters and pacing and where everyone should stand. I wanted to be in the muck. 

I’ve started the process. I’ve studied television episodes and broken down screenplays. I’ve timed scene lengths and transcribed dialogue. I’ve written joke after joke and spent hours just sitting here at my desk thinking of the perfect title or the perfect line. I’ve put in some time. A lot of time. 

I’ve written spec scripts and original scripts. I’ve watched more television than most people should. And now I’m working to move beyond all that. I’m working to go out into the real world, if you can call Hollywood the real world, and put it all into practice.

Today I mailed out 56 query letters to agencies around town. It’s a start. It's scary but I needed to do it. Because I’ve realized, more than anything, I want to, I need to, be down on that stage, not up in the audience. I need this. Now. So I’m starting…

I just need one

I’m kind of freaking out. It’s Thursday of my first week of spring break from the elementary school where I work each morning. It’s also the first week of the new quarter for my online university where I work each day. It’s 8:45am. I’m doing with the online stuff. I even prepped my postings for next week knowing I’ll be a bit busier next week. But I’m done. I’ve checked all my emails. I’ve read Facebook and Twitter several times over. I’ve read my Lenten devotion. I’ve read the paper. Yes, I need to make the bed and shower but other than that? I’m done for the day. It kind of freaks me out.

I’ve sent my “Good Wife” script out to some people to read and I’m awaiting feedback. So there’s nothing left to do there. Two rewrites and I’m done, which is weird for me. I don’t have another script to work on right now. Yes. I have a pilot that needs another go but I’m not sure I’m mentally or emotionally ready to bring those characters back into my life at the moment. They’ve been with me three years. A long three years. And they’re on vacation now. It’s good for them. And me.

I need to keep writing. But I don’t have anything to write. It’s so weird. I want to write. I have time to write but instead, I have to think. Ugh. The hard part of the job for me is always plotting. Making the story make sense in my head before writing it down. That invisible labor Victor Hugo speaks so fondly of. 

I have a novel that is perched center on my desk (I have an L-shaped desk, so it’s in the center of the other side of the desk). It needs to be edited. So badly. It cries to me every day. But I really don’t know where to begin or what to do. I wish I did. It wants to be seen. It wants to be read. I want that too. 

My to-do list is dwindling. It has things on it like ‘rewrite Trophy Husbands’ – oh, okay self, I’ll just rewrite an entire movie. Sure, no biggie for today. It also has on it ‘come up with new ideas’ – oh, okay, check. Moving on, what’s next.

New ideas. New characters. It’s scary. It’s exciting, yes, but it’s even more scary. I want to write a spec script of ‘Community’. I have the vaguest inkling of an idea. Really just four words. Not enough to write about. I need more.

I have an idea for a half-hour sitcom but really, it’s someone else’s idea, from a book, and I need to make it my own. It’s hard because the book was freaking awesome.

What to do? I know, a high-class problem. I’ll probably do some laundry. Make the bed. Shower, maybe curl my hair. I might attempt to make some Easter cards. Maybe I’ll watch “The Sweet Smell of Success” which has been sitting by the TV for way too long. Good thing Netflix doesn’t charge late fees. Maybe I’ll watch some ‘Community’ and try to be inspired. 

I need a good idea. Just one. Or a hundred. I’m not picky. Here goes…

Runyon Canyon

The view from part-way up! Today a friend and I went hiking. Right here in the middle of Los Angeles. Yep. I'd always heard of the mystical 'Runyon Canyon'. Celebrities boast of exercising there. People talk of Saturday mornings running the hills. But for some reason, I envisioned it as a far-off place I probably would never get to. Until my friend informed me that it was just down the street from our church and very easy to get to. And a gorgeous hike.

She was right on all accounts. We parked on the street and walked to the entrance. Easy as pie. There were people there, yes, lots of people but it didn't feel crowded. There were lots of dog walkers, some people with strollers, older people, younger people, even a few celebrities (CCH Pounder and Jeff Perry). But mostly, there were just people there to hike. To walk (and occasionally run, those people were crazy!) and enjoy the quietness of the hills, the sun before it got too hot, the dirt and the grass and the birds and the insects that all seem to elude us down a few blocks into the city.

My friend and I stopped a lot. We took in the views of the city before us. We caught our breath. We made sure the footing was stable before moving upward. But we also talked and laughed and got our heart rates up. There is nothing like a goal to keep you moving and pretty much, you have to go up to go down again!

A beautiful day. A beautiful hike. I can't wait to go again!
The view from the top!

Finishing

There's this great feeling that comes with the end of a project. Being able to cross something off a to-do list. Having a weight, however small and insignificant to others, being shook from your shoulders.

I had a deadline. Self-imposed but those are often the toughest ones, in my opinion. No one else cares if you finish. No one will berate you for turning your work in late or missing the end of the work day or anything like that.

I told myself at the beginning of the week that I'd have a finished draft of the "Good Wife" spec script I've been working on done by Sunday. In time to share it with my writers' group. Those are important words - I told myself. This wasn't a deadline set by anyone else. More often than not 75% of the writers' group doesn't bring pages or anything to share with the group. It would be no big deal if I missed this deadline.

It's been a long week. We finally got heat in the house tonight after living without it in the rain and cold for seven days. I'm starting a new quarter with the University of Phoenix tomorrow and I had to prep two classes. Excuses excuses...

But ultimately, it's all about, it's only about, what I think. If I keep the deadlines for myself, then I prove to myself I can do it. I care enough to do it. Is it a great draft? No. Is it a shooting draft. No. It's what my favorite writing inspiration, Anne Lamott would call a "shitty first draft". But that's okay. In fact, that's exactly what it should be. It's just me getting the bones of the story out and on to paper. Now I can play with them. Now I can form them into the story they should be. This is a draft just for me. This is a draft that will only vaguely resemble the final draft.

But it's done. I finished it. And for that I am ecstatic. One more mile passed. On to the next one.

Ten on Tuesday

Ten ways I feel loved...

1. Mail. Regular old snail mail. I have three new cards hanging around my desk from last week. I have fabulous friends and family members. They send me these little notes of love periodically and there is no more joy than opening up the mailbox and finding one tucked into the junk and bills. And I love how my moms (yep, mom #1 and mom #2) put stickers on the envelopes. Sometimes I hang the envelopes up with the cards. And yes, I still have one of the stickers on my bulletin board but don't ask me where the card went.
2. Electronically. Whether it's a 'like' on my Facebook status, a text in the middle of the day or a long long email, I love these little messages. Love love love them.
   
3. When people say 'I love you'. Most phone conversations with friends and family end this way. Sometimes I have to make a conscious effort, sometimes it happens more naturally. Either way, I've never regretted saying it, only regretted not saying it. Recently I had a friend, my first friend in L.A. as a matter of fact, move away. At our last coffee date he walked me back to my car and we embraced on the street corner. I said, "I love you" -- something I couldn't remember saying aloud to him before even though our emails always end in xoxo -- and he said it back. As I brushed away the tears I thought to myself how right it felt. Because when we love people, we should tell them so.
4. A smile or a quick little wave. My kids at the elementary school are good at this. They do the little T-rex, short-armed wave thing. It's so cute, I know it's meant to be secret and I love it.
   
5. My jewelry. The ring on my finger is my birthstone -- pink surrounded by gold. I received it as a gift on my sixteenth birthday from my mom, dad, sister and Grandma MacDonald. I wear it most days and it makes me feel safe. I constantly rub the back of it to remind me of that fact.
6. Where I am. Who I am. I would never be here in Los Angeles, California if it weren't for the hundreds of people who've shown me their love over the past thirty-three years. Every time I think about how I made it here, the journey, I see the faces of so many.
7. Complete strangers. The guy who rolled down his truck window and told me to check my tire pressure. He had no earthly reason for doing that. But he did and I was floored. (I also needed A LOT more air in my tires!) The checker at the grocery store who calls me honey and always smiles with recognition whenever I get in her lane. She doesn't know my name but she knows I shop there and she genuinely asks how my day's going.
8. Angela sharing her bed with me. It's cold in our house. Right now I'm not at my desk, I'm sitting in the front room closest to the window with the sunshine because the pilot's out again and there's no heat. We lost heat two days ago. But Angela has been sharing her bed with me because her room's warmer. And she doesn't complain. (Well, not a lot!)
   
9. Somehow, and only through the grace of God, I know, I'm still in my house, working, paying the bills, buying groceries, etc. I am so blessed that God continues to provide for me. So blessed.
10. People read what I write. It's true and it's astonishing to me. Between my blog, my Facebook ramblings, my scripts that I take to my writers' group, my friends who read my work when they probably would rather be doing anything but, etc. I am loved. Completely and utterly loved.
    

Just living

Last night was the first night I’d watched the news since the earthquake and tsunami in Japan on Friday. I’m not a regular news watcher, most of it’s too depressing and I tend to skew more toward John Stewart for my political news. I do read the L.A. Times every day, I read Newsweek and Time, and I’m hyper plugged into the digital world so I feel I get enough. But last night Ang and I watched the evening news after we ate our dinner and the pictures were heartbreaking. Then they started talking about the potential here in California for radiation poisoning (there isn’t a potential, just so we’re all on the same page) and for an earthquake of our own (that, they’re not so sure about – you can predict them but they do come in clusters). After that I read the Newsweek that had come in the mail, the one, of course, about Japan. And I started to think.

That thinking drove me to the hardware store on my way home from work today. Apparently I was not alone in my thinking since I got the last 2 small emergency kits left. We already have one here at the house, the one my mom and I bought Ang last year, but I figured we couldn’t be over prepared. Plus, Angela had heard a presentation on earthquake preparedness at a meeting a few weeks ago and they suggested you keep kits in your car. So, these are for the cars.

The odd thing about all of this, at least as I sit here and think about it? I’m not scared. I’m not panicked or worried really. There’s not much I can do. I bought the emergency kits. We have 2 battery powered lanterns and we have batteries for them. We have food in the cupboards that’s canned. Here’s the real rub of it though – we can’t ever really be prepared for something like the devastation that has been rained down upon Japan. We just can’t. So instead, I prepare, I pray, and I go on with my life.

How can I live in California? I’m often asked by people who don’t live here. What about the wildfires and the earthquakes? Well, in Michigan we had tornadoes. We had ice storms that caused deaths. We had heat waves that caused deaths. You’re not immune wherever you might be. And so we go on. Preparing, yes, praying, yes, but most off all? Just living. Because really, that’s all we can do.

Keeping the faith

Today 5,000 teachers were pink slipped in in the Los Angeles public school district. FIVE THOUSAND. Add that to the 3,500 laid off last year and the 2,500 laid off the year before that. ELEVEN THOUSAND TEACHERS LAID OFF.

How does a school system already on it's last legs, already showing huge signs of failing, recover from that. How does this generation of children recover from that. Right now Angela has more kids in her classroom than I'm guessing the Fire Marshall would sanction. She has 39 kids in each of her classes. Just close your eyes and picture that. Thirty-nine sixth graders. One adult. Chinese history. How much learning do you think is happening? How much of the time is spent on discipline? How much individual help do those special education students get (and she has many, many special education students).

I don't care what your political leanings are. I don't care what you think about taxes or politicians or a woman's right to abortion or the death penalty. What I care about tonight is the fact that all of these teachers are being laid off. These wonderful, newly minted, excited teachers. And it's not just teachers. It's counselors and secretaries and assistant principals. There have been several suicide attempts at the local middle school lately. What happens when the counselors only work one day a week because they have to cover more than one campus?

This isn't the solution. Neither is cutting back on police officers or fire fighters. Shuttering libraries isn't good either. I have no idea what the solution is. I just know that we need to find it. We need to get good teachers, young teachers, back in the classroom. NOW. We need to stop firing teachers. We need to stop demonizing teachers. If you had to do their job for one day, how might you fare?

I pray things change though I don't know how much faith I have in the system anymore. But, all it takes is a mustard seed right? And you know what keeps me believing more than anything? Those teachers, like Angela and all the others I know, who go to work every day, despite being pink slipped, and keep trying to teach Chinese history to a room overflowing with children. They're doing their jobs. They're fighting. And at some point, somehow, we'll figure out how to help them. We have to...