Mr. Doane

Mister Edward Doane was 102 years old when he passed away earlier this month. I cannot hardly fathom that. One hundred and two years old. He retired from his assistant vice president job at an insurance company the year BEFORE I was born. My entire life that I've known him, he was retired. It's hard to wrap my brain around.

Ed was one of those people who was just always in my life. There was no 'oh, I remember when I met him' moment. That's because I'm pretty sure we met when I was an infant at church, at our church, at First United Methodist Church of Howell, where he was head usher and volunteer extraordinaire up until moving north to be closer to family in January of this year. That's right. He was an usher at Christmastime. This year. Again, hard to imagine.

Angela and I were fortunate enough to be able to attend his memorial service Thursday here in Michigan. And it was a wonderful chance to celebrate our friend, this servant of God who, in the words of one man at the service "was just a true gentleman".

When Angela and I moved to Arizona Ed was one of the first people to send us a Christmas card of our own. I loved that. In his perfect script he'd written a note that he looked forward to seeing us over the holidays. And we always did too. I loved seeing his bright smile when we entered the church and getting a big hug from him.

The last time I saw Ed was at our house this past December. He came for our annual Holiday Open House and because he came right when we began, I had time to sit and eat with him on the back porch. After some prompting he told us stories of growing up downtown Detroit and not having a heater in the house, or a toilet for that matter. He told us stories of being a little boy and loving Christmas. It's a conversation I'll cherish forever.

We snapped the picture right before he left our house that night. It's a little blurry but Angela says that's just because Ed couldn't hardly sit still. He was always out doing something, going somewhere, willing to lend a hand or a hug. I miss him but I know that he's up there in heaven, making sure that everyone finds their seats and that we all see his big smile when we walk through the front gates.

Be in peace, Mr. Doane, for I know you won't be resting! We all love you and remember you fondly.

My little summer hiatus

In the TV production world a hiatus is a work stoppage, usually over the spring/summer months (but now all crazy with cable schedules), when the actors, writers and crew take their break. Most of the hiatuses are finished (for instance Bones went on hiatus sometime in April/May and went back to work yesterday, well the writers did - the actors and crew will go back the end of July), some just began (Grey's Anatomy and Scandal started their hiatuses yesterday), and mine? It starts tomorrow!

If there's one thing I'm good at (and there aren't a lot of things, see my resume), it's meeting deadlines. Setting goals and reaching them. So when I decided to have a draft of my new sitcom pilot done by this week, before leaving on vacation tomorrow, I wasn't worried. Well, I was a little worried. At the time that I made that grand pronouncement (April 11) I didn't have an outline much less a solid idea of what my script would be about much less look like. And yet...less than two months later...

The first draft is done.

Yesterday I typed END OF SHOW on the bottom of the last page and it felt amazing. In less than two months I had come up with an idea, created some pretty solid characters (I guess we've surpassed humble bragging and just moved into boasting here), and devised their world. I figured out story lines and runners (jokes that move throughout the story) and gave each of the people in my script a voice. The start of a very distinctive voice.

This amazes me because two months ago my white board was blank. These 45 pages were blank (yes, 45 seems long for a sitcom script but a) it's a first draft and b) the pilot script for Two and a Half Men is 50 pages). Two months ago I didn't know these four people who now speak to me and talk through and around me. Two months ago I had no idea if I'd actually meet this arbitrary deadline I'd written down for myself (yes, I'm a big believer in writing things down - it feels so good when you get to check them off your list! So good!).

Also, the script came together much faster than I'd ever have dreamed because during those eight short weeks, my parents were here for three and there were many hours, so many, when I should have been writing and was not. Even yesterday I found myself squandering away precious hours wishing I could go back to sleep, doing laundry, checking in on the SIMS on the iPad, et cetera et cetera. And yet...

In the words of my favorite writer Anne Lamott, I have a "shitty first draft" complete. To me, that means the world. The world is exciting. The world has begun. The world is ready for what's next.

And so am I.

Something else happened as I finished the script yesterday, something new. I immediately texted my producer Sonora and let her know I'd finished. My goal included sending her the script yesterday by three p.m. though I knew that would be pushed back a little so I could proofread (she actually got the script this morning by seven a.m. PST!). She texted back a fun AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! Then my phone rang. I can't tell you how cool it was to have someone as excited as I was that I finished. She congratulated me, we talked for a moment and then that was it. Short, sweet and perfect. Exactly what I needed. What my little soul desired. And got. How cool is that?

So now? Now I'm going on my own hiatus. I'm leaving for Michigan in the morning and I'll be gone A MONTH. I'm so freaking excited for bonfires and grandneighbors and golf and family and Tiger games and swimming and fireworks and reading. So excited! I'll still be working (yay UoP!) and I'll still be thinking about my script (little tiny yay!) but mostly, I'll be having fun!

And then in July? We'll start work on draft two! But for now? HIATUS!

UPDATE: The picture on the right was sent to me this morning by Sonora - she immediately printed the script and read it! I love that!!!!! 

Surviving the writing

Yesterday was a long day at my desk. And around the house. Peeping in the fridge, checking on the laundry, looking out the window, messing with the curtains, shaving my legs and moisturizing them, thinking about how my hair would look short, wondering what it says about me that I was blasting Eminem when my neighbors were blasting piano music, not caring about what it says about me, thinking about the kettle balls gathering dust by the TV, wondering if they're kettle bells or kettle balls, then checking the Internet to find out (they're bells), then getting sucked into some baseball stories on said Internet, then reading about Detroit because well, my sitcom's set there, then finding a piece of pizza in the fridge and wondering if I should eat it, debating calling my mom about said pizza and then realizing I probably should just eat the freaking pizza, then eating it and wondering if I'd die what would happen to my stuff, like my journals and my computer files and my scripts and...

And that was just probably forty-five minutes before noon. So for anyone who ever wondered what it was like to be a writer, well, that's just a taste. A very small taste.

Yesterday I did write. A lot. I finished eight or more pages of the eleven-page final outline I'd been working on for the sitcom I'm writing. And I started the first draft of the actual script. I think a lot of people have this misconception that screenwriters just jump into dialogue and those crisp script pages we all have seen. But that's not how it works (at least, how it works best).

It starts with ideas and scribbles and lots of thinking. Thinking that for me seems to happen most often when I'm driving or showering or sleeping. Then it gets interesting. There are cards and circles and charts and pictures and yes, more scribbles. Eventually there's a page-long outline, then a beat sheet, then a full outline which became eleven pages yesterday (a half-hour comedy script usually runs thirty to fifty pages).

And yesterday as I looked back over the outline, I started to think about my other scripts and how this one fits into my portfolio, if at all. I thought about the story and the genre and the themes and the characters and I realized that this is exactly the type of story I tell. Somehow, my writing has found a voice. And that voice is mine.

Over the past few years I've worked with managers and teachers and crafted my little bio and pitch to tell when I meet people in the industry. I'd finally distilled it down last year to this:

The heart of my stories focuses on people who wake up one day and finally realize they’ve been stuck: in their jobs, in their relationships, just in their every day lives. And this forces them to make a change or face the consequences: never having the lives they wanted, never realizing their dreams.

What I write about is me, my life, my experience, my epiphany. I woke up one day and realized I was just getting through each day; I wasn’t living the life I wanted. And in order to live that life I needed to make a change. So I did. I made the choice to leave a stable, career-focused job to enroll in film school at UCLA. I took control of my life in order to realize my dreams. And that's what I'm doing.

And as I reread that yesterday I realized that my new sitcom script, which is in my mind a funny slice of life comedy, aligns exactly with my voice and my stories. And I wondered, how did this happen?

Then I thought about it. It happened from five plus years of intense work. Thousands of hours sitting behind this screen, staring at this blinking cursor, wondering how to say what was in my heart and my imagination. My blog is my brain with a little bit of a censor. So are my scripts. So is my novel. I love that I've finally gotten to the point where my voice, my point of view, is evident in my stories.

That didn't happen by accident but by specific design. By study. By hard work. By wanting to affect the world in some tiny way. To be heard. And that is why today, I sit down, open the Final Draft file on my desktop, stare at the file, and begin to wonder what I should order for dinner, how can I finish all of the episodes of the old seasons of Arrested Development and the new season before next Wednesday and keep up with my Tigers, should I take jeans to Michigan or just buy new ones, and why are those birds so obnoxiously loud?

Writing. Anyone who didn't love it wouldn't survive it.

Joshua Tree

My friend Krista and I have been talking about going to Joshua Tree National Park for over a year. You know, how people talk. When I lived in Michigan my friends and I always talked about going to the drive-in to watch movies. We went just once in all of my years and after the two hour drive to the drive-in, waiting for sunset for the movies to start, sleeping through both movies, then driving back, I vowed that was a dumb idea. Then in Arizona we always talked with friends about going camping. One winter there was even discussion of sleeping bags. We had them and were ready to go. But nothing ever came together. (And for the record - I was okay with that. Really. I like being tucked into a bed at night.)

So when Krista brought up Joshua Tree last year as we sat waiting for a play to begin downtown, I was intrigued but kinda thought, well, that'll never happen. Not that Krista's a flake (total opposite in fact, she was the one who invited me to the play and secured the tickets, the meeting spot, the coffee after, etc.). Just that, well, I find that humans often talk about doing things but aren't so good at the follow through (myself included at times).

Fast forward to a few months ago. I got an email from Krista and she said she really wanted to go to Joshua Tree and were Angela and I interested? Of course, I replied back instantly and that began a series of emails and planning and voila! This Saturday, IT HAPPENED.

We ended up adding a friend of Krista's to our little group, West, an actor in L.A. who just wanted to get out of the city. We met at Krista's parents' house where her dad made sure the trucks was fully stocked and we were prepared. He even threw an extra bag of Ruffles potato chips in at the last minute. (And guess what the first item used on the road trip was? The Ruffles!) And off we went...

We drove east for about an hour, talking, laughing, listening to the cassette tape mix in Krista's dad's truck. Krista, Angela and I have a very easy-breezy time together always, we talk and talk for hours. West fit in perfectly and became one of our gang. Then we stopped for date shakes. Well, they did. Even after three years in Yuma, aka Date Country, Ang and I are still fine with passing on anything date related. But we did eat sandwiches at this little country store.

A Joshua Tree at Joshua Tree National Park

We headed into Joshua Tree National Park around 4. We slathered on the sunscreen, double-checked our water supply, poured over the maps (not sure if any of us really understood them), and drove away from the last flush toilets for miles and miles (the Park Ranger was pretty intent on telling us about the toilets and later that night, I realized why).

We stopped first at a lookout point and headed into the desert on foot. My goal? Never lose sight of our truck. I figured if I could see it, I could get back to it. We also all agreed that if we saw a wild animal that might be a threat we only had to outrun the other three in the group. Yes, we're that good of friends.

The sunset above our campsite

We climbed rocks, got snagged by cacti, saw some lizards, watched rock climbers with harnesses and pulleys who went more than two feet off the ground (but hey! we were adventurous too!) and then headed back to the truck. We stopped a few more times to explore (one time we performed a random act of good karma - we pulled a mean note off someone's car that someone had left regarding that person's parking skills and then one time we negated said karma when West took a watch that someone had left on a sign post, though we decided the watch would somehow save our lives and make a really good plot point in the movie of our adventure) and then found a campsite.

Here's what still amazes me about that afternoon/evening we spend together. It was as if we'd been together for years. It was as if we'd been friends since the beginning of time and yet, still interested in finding out about one another. We played cards, teaching each other new games, already calling back to inside jokes from just hours earlier, laughing and telling stories. I learned about other cultures (Asian mostly, acting a little) and ate sushi on a camping trip. How cool is that?

As the sun set, we made a fire, welcome our sites resident kangaroo rat who was really bummed when we moved the graham crackers out of his way, and at burned marshmallows. We used an iPad app to find constellations and then we sat in the silence, telling quiet stories, just staring at the fire and the night. And when the fire died down, without much discussion, we packed up and headed back to the city. We talked about the coyote who'd crossed our path (while we were in the truck thankfully). The jackrabbits who skittered in front of us as we drove away. The bats that flew down at dusk. The lizards and the birds and the crazy campers all around us.

I love this picture even though it's all blurry - you can see West, Angela and Krista all laughing and that's what I'm going to remember from that night!

We got home to Abbey Place sixteen hours after we'd left. I fell asleep thinking of the stars and the little kangaroo rat who wanted to join our party. I smelled like fire and my feet were dusty and I was still slick with sunscreen. But I was quiet and happy and in love with the idea that it is possible to have new adventures and meet new people and make new friends and have an amazing time. No matter if you're in the city, the desert or somewhere in between.

I cannot wait to go to Joshua Tree again. But more than that? I cannot wait for my next adventure, whatever that might be.

40 Years Ago Today

My Grandma MacDonald liked to tell the story of how my parents barely knew each other when they got married. (In reality, they knew each other about six months.) She liked to tell the story of the snow storm that forced my Dad into sleeping on the couch on their porch and how she knew Tommy was a part of the family after that night. She liked to tell the story about how hot it was the day my parents got married. That day? Forty years ago today, June 2nd, 1973.

The bride and groom, 40 years ago today

Everyone who was at the wedding has a story, I'm sure of it. I've looked at the photos enough to know the stories almost by heart myself. The powder blue tuxedos, the 4-H hall reception, the beehive hairdos and the smiles. I've heard the tales over many nights. I've slept on sheets and used dishes that were wedding presents. I've even admired the napkins leftover from the reception. I've run my hand over the guest book and touched the lace on my Mother's dress.

I wasn't there but I share in the memories. I share in the happiness they've brought to each other and everyone they've met before and since. Forty years. Over 14,500 days together. It's an accomplishment and something to celebrate. It's rare in our society and it's special. Just like the two of them.

My parents headed home Tuesday after spending three weeks out here in L.A. with Angela and I. We added to the already huge book of memories we share with them. And I can't wait to see what they do with the next forty years!

I love you two! Happy anniversary! 

The groom and bride, just last week

A night inside the writers room of The Mindy Project

Occasionally Angela goes to writerly events with me -- and when I asked her over a month ago if she wanted a ticket to the Writers Guild's event Inside the Writers Room of The Mindy Project her quick response was, "Will Ike be there?"

Yes, Angela knows who the writers of many television shows are. She follows them on Twitter and often I only have to say a first name and she knows exactly who I'm talking about. Ike is just one example - but a good one. He's not only a writer on the sitcom but an actor on the show. And Morgan, Ike's character, is Angela's favorite.

So off we went to the panel, held in a movie theater on the west side. We met up with a fellow writer I'd connected with at Friday Night Drinks and we chatted, checking baseball and hockey scores all evening. A really great night.

After a screening of an episode the writers, including Mindy Kaling who's also the creator and star of the show, talked for over an hour about their experiences writing the show, working in Hollywood, and what it's like to enjoy the heck out of your job. And as the evening wrapped up, something Kaling said stuck with me:

"No one's going to believe in you except you and your mom so just do your own thing. I created my own opportunities and just kept chipping away."

I love that. I love that this woman who was raised to be seen and not heard, who knows it's polite not to be a drama queen and draw the attention of the room to herself, has gotten all the attention by doing her own thing. By writing her own material from day one, from preserving even when the network she wrote a hit-comedy for wouldn't make her next show, by just doing her own thing.

It was a fun, interesting night, for writers and television lovers alike. And a good chance to catch up with some friends new and old. And yes, we waited around long enough after to snap a picture with Ike, much to Angela's delight. And he was just so gracious and thankful to us and very sweet. Which was pretty awesome.

Angela, Ike Barinholtz, me & Akshay

The Magic Castle

Every week Angela and I go to The Magic Castle in Hollywood. We drive up to the big old house and wait in the valet line and then, just as quickly, drive ourselves down to the parking lot, get out and walk down the block to church. Not once had we ever gone inside the castle. Not once. Until last week.

Last week our friends Sean and Lu invited us and our parents to be their guests at The Magic Castle and we jumped at the chance to actually go inside. It's members only, unless you know the secret word, and we'd heard great things about it. They were all true.

We had a magical night. We explored the castle, we read about the history of the club, about the magicians who've performed there, we had a lovely dinner that cost a lot of money, and then we settled in for two magic shows. We giggled and laughed and oohed and ahhed in amazement. My dad supplied his wedding ring for one illusion and somehow the magician performing fused it with another man's ring. Then gave both men back their respective rings. So cool.

Lu, Sean, Sarah, Chris, Angela, & Tom - inside the lobby of The Magic Castle, the only place photographs are allowed!

It was just a regular Monday night in May in Hollywood but inside The Magic Castle you found adults amazed like children at the slights of hand, at the tricks and illusions, all dressed up (suits, ties, and dresses are required), out on the town. That was pretty amazing.

And as we wrapped up our evening and waited for the photographer to give us our commemorative photos, I noticed Angela watching an older man on a banquette. He was shuffling cards, two grown men rapt with attention before him. That's when Angela pointed out that the man in front of us was also the man in the photograph on the wall. One of The Castle's legends was performing card tricks right there at the bar. As we watched, and soon became involved in the trick, I couldn't help but think about how special the evening had been. Friends, family, good food, fun and just a little magic.

Frederick's brother!

When I was cleaning the fridge a few weeks ago I found this note pasted to the side. I'd forgotten about it but instantly had the memory of the day we received it when I saw it...and I laughed so hard! My parents are hilarious!!!

A commencement that is only the beginning...

On Saturday as we left the San Diego Convention Center in the middle of the afternoon after a lovely commencement ceremony my dad commented to me, "Do you think this will be the last one for all of us?"

I told him I didn't know. For our little family unit of four, this is the eighth graduation we've attended together. There was my dad's graduation from Cleary University back when Angela and I were little (but not too little that I don't remember that hot day sitting under the tree outside seeing my dad in his blue cap and gown!). Then there were high school and college graduations and then I managed to have two more ceremonies, from grad school then from UCLA's screenwriting program. With Angela's graduation on Saturday we figure we're done. But who knows? There are still doctorates and other degrees...(but we'll pay off this student debt first!).

But you know the coolest thing? My parents have encouraged us from day one by example and by instruction. Go to college. Keep learning. Read. Write. Study. They read the paper every day front to back. They both have college degrees. They lead Bible studies and learn new skills working on mission projects. They are amazing and exactly what I aspire to be.

So is it the last one? Who knows. For a while most likely. But it doesn't have to be. There's a lot out there none of us have experienced yet! But for now we'll bask in Angela's accomplishments - her Master of Education degree! - and celebrate for a while.

A Celebration

Sonora as "Mother" with her stage kids

Last night Angela and I headed north into Hollywood to a party at our friend Sonora's house. We took wine and a gift, we mingled with people I've met once before or not at all, and we spent a lot of time grazing the lovely spread of snacks laid out before us. We talked with a mutual friend we don't see socially enough and we had a great evening.

The reason for a Monday night party?

Sonora, our host (also the producer I'm working with), was in last night's episode of the CBS sitcom How I Met Your Mother.

I can't imagine what it must be like for an actor to see her or himself up there on the screen, knowing all that went into that day or that week or that year but I can imagine it must be pretty amazing. Not unlike knowing what it's like to hold a bound copy of a script I've written. And we were all pretty excited for her.

It was a lovely night, a night of happiness and love and laughter and something we don't do enough of in this town or this world - celebration. As Angela and I drove home last night I commented how great it was to mark this occasion with friends and family. How great it was to celebrate the little things in life and the big. How we have to be grateful for all that we have and every chance we get.

I'm so happy for Sonora, so happy that I got to hang out with my friends new and old, and so happy that I have an outline done for our sitcom that I'll get to show Sonora at coffee in a few hours! Yay for celebrating!

Challenge Accepted

Two weeks ago Noelle, awesome college apartment roommate of Angela and I, posted on Facebook that she was going to challenge herself to a reading contest. You know, like those ones we all had to do in elementary school where you read for 15 or so minutes a day and your parent signs off on it? I commented, "Challenge accepted."

Guess what arrived in the mail yesterday.

Just in time for May - so here goes. Starting today, I am going to challenge myself to read and write every day. For at least a few minutes. Maybe more. Maybe less. Off to a good start so far - today I read the new issue of Written By, the Writers Guild magazine, and a really long article in The Hollywood Reporter. Also, the LA Times this morning (most of it, well, fine, I read the front page article in Column One and the comics. It's still reading).

Also, I wrote. A lot. I wrote with my fingers too, not my computer. I wrote note card after note card detailing the new outline for my comedy pilot. I wrote jokes and dilemmas and conflicts and a long list of what might get thrown in a food fight. Then I wrote about the five stages of grief and how I might fit them all into a 22-minute sitcom script and make them hilarious. Yes, grief.

So -- here goes! May is reading (and writing) month! Game on, Noelle and Angela!

Sleep writing

Writing a television pilot is unlike anything I've ever experienced. It's creative, it's exhilarating and frankly, it's hard. There are so many moving pieces, so much to consider, so much to invent and it all has to work together just perfectly to make an interesting script that might possibly get made.

I love it.

I've been working on my new half-hour comedy pilot for a few weeks now. I started with some vague ideas of what I wanted to write about. Then I got some inspiration from a PBS documentary on the Independent Woman on Television. I studied Lucy, Mary Tyler Moore, Betty White, Roseanne, Murphy Brown. I looked at what I wanted to write about and how I best could tell my story. Because really, that's the key. I have to figure out how to make the script interesting from my point of view. Not yours, not someone else's but mine. That's the key to making the magic.

Last week I started writing paragraphs about the main characters, four in all. I picked names and started envisioning sets. (I'm writing a multi-camera sitcom so it'll be filmed on a soundstage in front of an audience, like a play that's being recorded.) Then I set to outlining. I have notes from each class I've taken and each book or article I've read and I poured over and over them. Then Friday I spent three hours writing one sentence. But one really important sentence. The logline. It's an encapsulation of a script. It has a formula and it has to tell the reader almost everything he or she needs to know about the script in five seconds. Finally, by the end of the workweek I'd come up with that one sentence and posted it on my whiteboard, ready to get to work Monday morning.

And then Saturday night happened. I laid down in bed at about 12:15am and I shut my eyes. Angela and I had been watching TV and I was to tired to read as I normally would. I laid there, letting my mind wander and before I knew it, I was thinking about that logline and all of the notes still laying on my desk. And suddenly I had this image in my brain of my main characters and how we'd come to meet them in the first few moments of the pilot. I saw the episode begin and then play out almost as if I was watching it on a screen. And I have to admit, I said to myself, oh you'll remember it in the morning. Go to sleep.

But I couldn't turn the screen off. So I turned on the light and grabbed a legal pad and started writing. I scribbled as fast as I could and caught most of the scene as it played in my mind. Then I set the notebook aside, laid back down and turned off the light. I'd come up with the first scene in my pilot.

But my brain wasn't done for the night. As I laid there, the show came back from the commercial break and started playing again. I saw the next scene and another character enter and I knew I had to keep writing. So I turned on the light again and found the paper and my pen. I scribbled some more. Then I got up and went to my desk, wrote down a short outline for the entire episode's script and looked around the room. It was two o'clock in the morning. My eyes were burning, my body was begging for bed but my mind was reeling. Would it be funny in the morning? I had no idea. Would I be able to translate the scribbles into script form that would work within the confines of a multi-cam? Again, no idea.

But here's what I did know: These characters I'd been thinking of and playing with and tossing into the mix were talking to me. They were ready to go. And frankly, there's no turning off the screen or the light when that happens.

The verdict: As I looked back over the pages this morning I realized that, yes, they're good. They're what I want to say. They're funny. They're not perfect but no draft ever is. Most of all? They're my story. And I'm so freaking excited about that.

Life is good

Who feels healthy?
Me!
(Well, let's discount 2 weeks of vertigo episodes and a hyper-extended knee thingy)

Who has lost weight or feels super thin?
Not me!

So, the weight loss has stalled, never really started, despite solid following of Weight Watchers, no diet soda in a month, all fresh stuff, walking, etc. I've had the blood work and I'm still taking the liver pill things and I'm told it might take two years to detox from the episode last January. So...

I'm just embracing it. Angela and I went and bought some new clothes that fit really well and are really cute and I feel so good about that. I have ordered new tennis shoes per directions regarding knee issues. My blood pressure is fine. Our house is really clean (like ridiculously clean). I'm loving watching baseball and catching up on movies and planning National Night Out for our Block Club. I'm writing my sitcom pilot and getting way too excited about the possibility that it might be made. I'm making new, exciting food. I bought a fresh pepper grinder and four new kinds of cheese. I made my own croutons and am eating fruit like crazy. Oh, and avocados are on sale. This is when living in Southern California rocks.

I'm happy. For the most part. People in my life are hurting. Dying. Struggling. Sad. And while I pray and do what I can, I worry that it's never enough. But I keep on because really, that's all there is.

Today I splurged on a $14 car wash. It felt so luxurious. Yesterday we got Ang's car washed. Sunday I got my new pants and my new shirt dirty getting out of her car so it was time. I try to wash them myself but just haven't done it. Scrubbing the kitchen floor for six hours last week was enough for me.

Life is good. I remind myself of that daily. Hourly. God is good. So good.

I am networking more, meeting people for lunch, coffee, going out to readings and events. Life is good. I remind myself of that.

My parents are coming to visit in less than two weeks. We've got plans and new recipes to make and things to do and movies to watch and games to play and then we've got like three weeks and we head to Michigan for summer! YAY! Life is good.

I am so blessed. I remind myself of that. I am not the weight I wish I was at but I am determined not to let that define me. I am strong. I use my legs to stand for hours on end and volunteer at Homeless Lunch. I have big strong arms that hit the golf ball almost 300 yards. I love that. I would not trade that for anything. (Says the girl with the "How to Get the First Lady's Arms" magazine article clipped to her wall.) I have ears that hear the music I blare all day and the baseball games at night. I have eyes that watch too much TV and love it all. I have fingers that type really fast and help me send my story to the world (still reeling from the fact that Nia Vardalos read my blog on Monday!).

Life is good.
So good.

A book in a weekend - that good!

One of my favorite features of Amazon, and my Kindle, is that I can send first chapters of books to it for free. Right now? I have over 100 first chapters waiting there for me. Will I read most of these books? Probably not. But I do like looking them over from time to time, finding something interesting I'd heard or read about, and rediscovering it. Occasionally I buy the book, and more often than not, I delete the first chapter. It's kind of like browsing in the bookstore but I get to do it in bed or on the couch.

This weekend I had had enough of the week. The news, the bombings, Angela being sick and me being able to do nothing about it, query letters sent back unopened, et cetera. So as I laid in bed Thursday night I flicked on the Kindle and noticed a first chapter I had sent just a few days earlier: Nia Vardalos's Instant Mom. I'd heard about the book first on Twitter, where several of my favorite writers lauded the memoir of Vardalos' experience making it in Hollywood and adopting a little girl. I was intrigued. I loved My Big Fat Greek Wedding (yes, there's a DVD copy on my shelf) and the fact that she was nominated for an Academy Award for writing the screenplay. Love that.

So Thursday night I started reading that first chapter of Instant Mom and couldn't stop. Then I got upset because I didn't have enough money in my Amazon account to buy the whole book. (Yes, I know you can link a credit card to the account and no, I don't want to. I use gift cards only. Even if I have to buy them myself which I did on Friday.)

So Friday night I started reading again. And I read for two and a half hours. I read until my eyes were red and blurry and I could barely keep them open. And then Saturday? I finished the book. But I didn't just read the book. I felt the book. I sobbed opening for about 45 minutes Saturday as I read of her getting her daughter and learning how to take care of her (which sounds excruciating and exciting and wonderful all at once). I grinned as I read about her daughter finally choosing her own name and deciding that she was home to stay. And when I finished the book I thought about how open and honest and interesting the story had been. (And just a little bit about how much I want to work with Vardalos.)

Is it a book about adoption? Yes. Is it a book about Hollywood? Yes. Is it a book about perseverance and patience? God yes.

I often think about how my family and friends see me. What they think of me and how they must shake their heads in confusion at my choices and life. I was never the traditional Midwestern girl I saw all around me growing up. I didn't marry right out of college or have a baby right out of high school. I went to grad school and then grad school again. I took jobs, sometimes three or four at a time, that didn't pay well (or sometimes at all) because I loved the experiences. I loved teaching and writing and having time to explore life.

Do I regret some of my choices? I don't know. If I did, it would mean I wasn't a happy person, and I didn't believe I was exactly where I am supposed to be this very minute. If I did, it would mean I regretted so much more than just those choices, that I regretted the outcomes and the consequences.

As I read Vardalos' story I kept thinking about my own life and how much I want things other people have. How much I want a loving caring husband, like she has. How much I want children and a career and well, just everything. But then I realize how much she had to struggle to get there. How much we all have to struggle to get here or there or wherever we are. And as I wiped the tears, oh, they were such happy tears for her and her family, I felt peace. As I closed the book (powered down), I said a prayer for her family and for my own. For where she started and went, I will take a cue and follow. I will forge my own way, my own path, my own life. And it will be amazing. Just like hers.

UPDATE: I tweeted a link to my blog Monday morning. I included Vardalos' twitter handle in my message so she'd see my tweet. This is the response she tweeted back:

"We're even, you made me cry too. RT @sarahlknapp how much I freakin' loved #InstantMom. LOVED. #myblog" -- and she linked to my blog.

Love that!

A bowl full of love...

This Christmas morning the grandneighbors, Emma and Lucy (and Jack, but being a baby, he's still a little less active in these interactions), gave Mom, Dad, Angela and I our gifts and excitedly watched as we opened them. I had an inkling of what was inside as their mom had quizzed me a week earlier as to what my parents' favorite kinds of cereal were. Here's what was in the boxes:

The personalized bowls with their little handwriting and drawings, made specifically for each one of us. How much did we love that? Oh, there was also cereal too - but that's long gone now.

I took these pictures last week. Angela and I, Mom and Dad, had used the bowls for over three months. And then one day I left mine in the sink all day and the blue marker on the bottom started coming off on a plate. So it was time to recycle them. But not forget them.

Love drawn with little hands.

Living the NBA Dream

We all know the stories of how this actor or that actress became an overnight success. How Mark Zuckerberg founded Facebook in his free time at Harvard. How some people just figure out or get it figured out for them very quickly. That has not now nor ever happened to me.

I went to college to be a journalist. Well, really, I didn't know what I wanted to be but I knew I loved to write. Well, I take that back. I didn't know I loved it. I just did it. It was part of who I was. Since before I can remember, I have been filling notebooks with words. Long rambling stories. Short, not very good poems. And then in college I started writing nonfiction. I took a personal writing course where we wrote about ourselves. That led to me being published, for the first time ever, in a real newspaper. Not a college paper, a paper that you buy on the street out of the box for fifty cents. Then I took assignments for the college paper and started back in with the fiction classes, this time more disciplined and purposeful. By the time I left college I had part of a screenplay typed out and half of a novel. The screenplay I would go on to finish, the novel, not so much.

Then I took a few years to move through life. I gathered experiences, both good and bad, so I'd have something to write about though I wasn't aware of this at the time. I went to grad school and started teaching. I wrote professionally for newspapers and magazines. I moved to Mexico, er Arizona, and then to Los Angeles. I finished that first screenplay and got some positive feedback and then even more negative feedback. Then I wrote two movies in less than ten months. The spark had taken hold, the fire was lit. There was no turning back now.

It's been almost eighteen years since I graduated from high school and started seriously studying writing and seriously putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. Eighteen years. And many people ask, what do I have to show for it?

Well.

Um.

Yeah.

When I first moved to L.A. I heard someone say in a class or lecture that becoming a screenwriter is like becoming a professional basketball player. There are only so many spots, it's really freaking hard to get a tryout and then you have to fight to stay on the team, much less on top. That analogy stayed with me. I want to play in the NBA and a day of my life hasn't gone by in four and a half years that I haven't thought about it, planned for it, dreamed about it, worked for it, prayed for it, and knew somewhere inside of me that I just wasn't cut out for it. Some days the positive side wins, other days it doesn't.

There have been moments of hope. When someone reads my work and talks to me about it, tells me she likes it or it's funny. When I make an industry contact or feel like I've written a good query letter. When I get replied to or retweeted by someone I consider famous on Twitter (yes, to me, an executive producer on Community is famous). When I come up with a really good story idea (looking at you female baseball team owner script) or finish a spec script that I'm particularly proud of (looking at you Modern Family and Big Bang specs).

There have also been moments of utter sadness and despair. These are experienced mostly by myself, or Angela or occasionally my parents and writers' group. This is not the face I want to put out there to the world or Facebook. You will never see me write a status update talking about how much my life sucks. Because it doesn't. Yes, I have written bad scripts (see first script ever written) and have bad ideas (construction worker who inherits family wedding planning business, you might have been one of them - the jury's still out). But guess what? Those are so 'first world problems'. For almost five years I have been writing. That is my job. To be a writer. Just like those NBA-wannabes who spend their days shooting free throws and doing layups. My job is to practice. Practice practice practice. And I do.

I've met many self-proclaimed writers in Los Angeles who don't have a finished script to show me or even talk about. That baffles me. Or when people say they've written a script. As in one. One single script. I just don't get it. Time and time again I hear screenwriters say they wrote ten or twenty scripts before they hit it. And I believe them. I believe them when they say they've written fifty drafts of the same TV pilot. Why do I believe them? Because that's what I've done. That's what I'm doing. I have a solid portfolio of nine scripts at the moment. Nine. Yes. Nine. Nine scripts I would be comfortable handing to anyone who asked to see them. Friends. Showrunners. Directors. Producers.

And so that is how, when my friend Sonora told me this winter that she was looking to produce a sitcom pilot next year, I got the job. Yes, it's true, we're friends. But we've also worked together when I was a Production Assistant (PA) on her webseries last year. And when she asked to see samples of my writing before she even brought up the sitcom venture, I emailed her my entire portfolio. I showed her what I could do, I didn't just tell her.

So that's my big, little, medium-sized, whatever you want to call it, announcement. I am writing (well, I am making notes at the moment, the writing will happen soon) a sitcom that is on track to be produced. And no, I don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill. There are no contracts, there are no sure things here, there usually aren't in this city. But there are plans and hopes and dreams. There is the real possibility that in a year's time, my words will come out of the mouth's of actors on a soundstage somewhere in this city. And to me? That is freaking unbelievable. Truly.

Tuesday I was driving north toward my house, about two blocks away from home, with a car full of groceries. I was thinking about the meeting Sonora and I had had two hours earlier when I saw it. The Hollywood sign. I see it almost every day from a distance but the luster has worn off. When I first moved here it was exciting and now it's become common. But Tuesday, when I turned onto my cul-de-sac, I almost had to pull over the car. I was just smiling, staring at the sign and thinking, well, this wasn't the plan but it'll do. It'll do just fine.

What was the plan? Sell a movie right away. Get a Nicholls Fellowship and write the next masterpiece. Then it was get a staff job on a TV show or become Aaron Sorkin's assistant. Maybe PA on a show or become an assistant director. Honestly? There never was a plan. I'm a writer, I figured I'd make it up as I went. And so far? I guess I'm doing okay. Especially when I think about that soundstage and what's going to happen on it a year from now.

Dinosaurs!

I had a hard time remembering what it's like back in Michigan but I don't think there are as many billboards there as there are here. Here in Los Angeles there are billboards everywhere. Digital, regular, moving (buses and cabs), et cetera. And so, when a movie's going to come out in say, three or four months, by two weeks into the ad campaign I'm usually sick of the billboards and ready not to ever see those actors or that tag line again (I'm looking at you Tom Cruise or Bruce Willis who are everywhere in my neighborhood and have been since I moved here five years ago). But, a month or so a new, giant billboard on Highland Avenue (the street with all the palm trees that everyone thinks is representative of all of Hollywood, it is not). And I did a double take. Jurassic Park. Yes. Jurassic Park. Not number four or five or whatever is next. Not for a ride at Universal's theme park just up the road. Not for a new fragrance (come on, you know they pitched it). But for the movie. The original. The anniversary release.

And not just any anniversary. The twentieth anniversary.

I did some mental math. Could it be true? Could I have been in high school when it originally came out? Yes. And did I want to see a movie that was twenty years old in the theater, now, two decades past? Yes. Yes. Yes.

I'm not a huge scary movie buff (though, I have been turned into a Walking Dead fan but it's true, I hide my eyes when I hear walkers coming). But I love a good thriller. And I love a good adventure tale. And back in the early nineties, I was a huge Michael Crichton fan. I read all his novels. I was in love with ER from that very first minute of the pilot. And I remember reading Jurassic Park the summer it came out in paperback and being scared to death. Yep. I had nightmares. I dreamed that baby raptors were eating human babies in their cribs (you're welcome for that image - it's haunted me for over TWENTY YEARS). And I remember waking up in my bed, in my old room, in the heat of the summer, and feeling my heart race and being terrified because the dinosaurs were killing us. That's some good writing.

However, I also remember finishing the last page of the book, closing it, and smiling to myself thinking, okay, it's over. They can't get me. (And if you read the book, you'll know why.) That's quite a book. That's quite a writer.

So Saturday Angela and I headed to Burbank to catch an early morning (10am) screening of Jurassic Park 3-D on IMAX. I was so excited. I haven't seen the movie in years but I knew I'd love it. And? I did. It was like hearing a song you haven't heard in forever but still knowing all the words and loving the melody and being able to jump right in and keep up with the beat without any problem whatsoever. Though I didn't remember salient plot points or key supporting characters, I knew the story. And what was great was being surprised all over again. How cool is that? That a twenty year old film can surprise and delight and scare us so much?

The theater was packed, there were audible gasps and utterances of surprise throughout the movie, and at the end? Applause. Wild applause. I love that. I love that an author created this world that does not exist and that filmmakers were able to create it. And that the movie still holds up so well. I love that.

No more blank pages

Two weeks ago today Angela and I flew to Vancouver, Canada. Not my first trip to Canada, for sure, but something was special about this particular venture. Because we were flying, we got our passports stamped! I cannot tell you how exciting this is. Angela and I applied for our passports about eight years ago, around the time the U.S. and Canada decided a driver's license wouldn't be sufficient to cross the border. See we have family across the border and head over once or twice a year usually. But...they don't stamp your passports. They scan them, look at them, and send you on your way. Blank pages in tact.

The same goes for Mexico. Once Angela and I moved to Yuma, Arizona (aka basically Mexico) we spent many Saturdays or 195 degree summer days crossing the border into Algodones, Mexico or some other border town to have lunch, cheap margaritas, buy cigarettes for Marine friends stationed oversees, etc. Then we'd wait in line to walk back over (we drove once, only once) and flash our passports but still no stamps. Not even when we asked.

But two weeks ago that all changed, we got stamps after waiting in customs for about half an hour to exit the Vancouver airport! How exciting! And then Saturday morning? We woke up to the gorgeous view at the top of the page. The view from our cousin Doris' condo. Amazing.

We spent three full days in Vancouver, flying in Friday night and back out Tuesday morning. The flights were luxurious compared to what we're used to. Two seat rows, so no one was stuck in the middle, free movies (this year's Oscar nominees and movies still not out on Netflix!) and TV shows (um, yes, I did watch three episodes of The Mindy Project thank you very much), and very very pleasant people. So basically, I only want to fly Canada Air into Vancouver when I travel anymore.

Then Saturday we headed out for three full days of sightseeing. And I mean full. We hit the suspension bridge, the aquarium, parks, bays, harbors, museums, markets, shops, restaurants, taverns, pubs, and a few more restaurants. I had some amazing British Colombian wine, some locally made shortbread cookies that were amazing and some grape bread that I'm okay with not ever having again. Oh yeah, and I ate duck for what may be the first time ever. And loved it. And there was live music playing as I ate sitting in a giant leather chair. Very cool.

Basically, we had the best time ever in Vancouver. We played in the snow and picnicked outside. We wore mittens and went in our shirtsleeves. It never rained once (people don't believe me when I say this but it's true) and the skies were so blue I was sure we were in a movie. Oh yeah, we saw them filming something downtown Van. (Van is how the cool people refer to Vancouver I found out by eavesdropping. But I'll use it sparingly.) Also? We got to hang out with our cousin Doris for five days. How great is that? We all got to be tourists and take wine breaks in the afternoon and go to bed early and get up early and explore and talk and just enjoy each others' company. Pretty much what all vacations should be. I can't wait to do it again. Soon.

A little more conversation

This morning I wound my way north and pulled my car into the lot at Hollywood UMC as I do many Tuesday mornings. I went inside, deposited my donations (three heavy bags of books cleaned off the shelves last week during spring cleaning, a sparkling tank top that never did fit as well as I'd hoped, and a pair of well loved and well worn Converse) and jumped right into sorting clothes, moving bins of food and passing out numbers to our guests in line. A typical day though the crowd was much smaller than normal.

Through all of the morning's preparations I talked with my fellow volunteers, said hello to church employees and even gave the nickel tour to a new HUMC attendee/volunteer and her mom. I talked about the weather, baseball (I had my new orange Detroit Tigers shirt on), whether or not the donations to be put out were appropriate for this time of year, and how a former HUMC member and his husband had sent us three boxes of hand lotion (a wonderful surprise and well liked by many guests today).

The point? That I talked. I talked and I talked and I talked. I had quick conversations and longer ones. I laughed over jokes and the hoodie some caring individual had made into a vampire costume then donated. And then when our guests arrived? I talked some more -- but this time, mostly about whether or not the deodorant was scented, whether they wanted black or white socks, and whether or not the light brown pudding might be tiaramisu flavor. There weren't too many laughs or conversations that lasted over two sentences. And yet...

As I left the church this afternoon I left my phone in my pocket and looked around. I didn't check to see if I had missed any important calls (nope) or emails (nope again). I noticed that with the very balmy weather (70 and sunny at noon) today, people had stuck around. The church steps were covered with men enjoying their sack lunches and women chattering to each other in languages I don't understand. And to my left? One of our volunteers, who had never actually come in the building today, was still standing with a guest, reading with him from a book. They were deep in conversation yet took a minute to say goodbye when I waved and called out. I love that she spent her time today standing outside and chatting people up while helping with crowd control. I love that.

So I headed to my car but as I passed the front steps of the church I heard a "Hey" shouted in my direction. I turned and headed back. A few guys I had just served were enjoying their lunch. One, who I've known about five years, asked very conversationally, "Someone said North Korea is declaring war on us, is that true?" There was no preamble to this conversation, just a simple question, one I might have been asked an hour before by another volunteer. And so I answered. I told him what I'd heard on the news and read in today's Times. He talked about the book of Revelation a bit and laughed when I said we sent a boat over to take care of things. The guy next to him mentioned that I had it right with my shirt and then saluted me and all women for finding the most gold in the country. I really don't know what he meant but I played along, bowed, and thanked him. The other guy played along too and said he'd be on the lookout for my gold. It was the most I had ever talked to these guys in the five years I've been serving, and I have to say, I loved it.

I loved it because it was real conversation. Not just people with their heads down, on their phones, moving through life without touching or affecting one another. It was people interjecting and making assumptions and asking questions and it was real. True. Even the guy a few steps down who shouted in my direction, "Why do some guys sleep with other guys?" I answered honestly that I don't really know, that they must enjoy it. He nodded and went back to his banana, adding that some people made fun of him when he ate bananas. Are some of the people I meet on Tuesdays a little confused or overwhelmed or even unhinged? Yes. The conversations don't always make sense or follow a linear thought pattern. But guess what? Some of the conversations I have with people I meet on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays are the same. And it's all still part of the human experience, of my experience.

These guys today just wanted a moment to connect. And guess what? So did I. I enjoyed standing there and shooting the breeze and then waving goodbye as I drove past a moment later. I enjoyed hearing the poem about the woman with the beautiful eyes from the man in line to get his socks. I enjoyed being told how great my smile was by a man with one tooth first thing this morning. I enjoyed the heck out of it all.

How great is life that we get to talk to people, meet people, love people? How great is that?

Maundy Thursday

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This is the devotion I wrote for the Hollywood UMC's Lenten booklet this year:

I Corinthians 11: 23 – 26

Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took a loaf of bread; and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Food and church have always been linked for me. I grew up attending potlucks, UMM brunches, pancake suppers, UMW salad luncheons, spaghetti fundraisers, and eating my share of funeral potatoes (cheesey potatoes with a potato chip topping that go well with funeral ham). And these meals always had the same thing in common: during them I was in community with my family. But not just my immediate family, my mother and father and sister, like a normal mealtime, but with my extended family, my church family. And this shaped me into the person I am today. It taught me that meals shared with loved ones are never just about the food. They’re also about the laughter, the tears, the arguments and the stories. They’re about sharing your life, sharing your heart. They’re about remembering what’s important in life.

Jesus knew this last supper, recounted in I Corinthians, was important. He tried to share that with His family, His disciples. Did they understand? It’s hard to really know. Do we ever understand what’s important at the time? Do we ever look around when sharing leftovers with our family or eating a burger at In and Out with friends and realize how very special this moment really is? Do we give those intimate times of community the importance they deserve? No. We eat and drink and laugh and then wash the dishes. I wonder if the disciples remembered Jesus’ wish as they cleared the dishes and washed the cups: “Do this in remembrance of me.”

As we move through the next few days, enduring Good Friday so we can get to the celebration of Easter morning, I want to remember Jesus’ words. I want to remember them whether I’m dipping my bread in the grape juice on the first Sunday of every month in worship or I’m sharing a can of soup with my sister or I’m chatting over cheeseburgers at Mel’s with friends after church. I want to remember that each meal, each moment, shapes my life, my relationship with Christ. And that His words are a reminder and a blessing.

Prayer:

Dear Lord,

Help us to remember you are with us, not just in the pews at church but at dinner tables and breakfast spots and even in our cars when we’re chugging energy drinks to make it to the next appointment. Help us to remember to remember you too.

Amen.