Ellyn Oaksmith's Blog, page 21
February 7, 2013
What I Did Wrong in Hollywood
Disclaimer: This isn't about old boyfriends. My Hollywood boyfriends deserve their own blog because there were a couple decent artists types and a lot of stock Hollywood characters. Bad guys who cared more about their wallets than the cat they'd just run over while checking their teeth in the mirror. So what is this about?
What I did wrong Career Wise in Hollywood. Number one: I believed my hot shot Hollywood agent. Agent X, (last I heard he's the president of one of the top 3 agencies. I won't say which one,) was sending me on so many meetings, with so many famous producers and their underlings that I complained I didn't have time to write and was running out of money. Agent X implied, very strongly that his big agency had a slush fund for struggling writers. Ha! Let me say that again: Ha! I was the dumbest cowboy-boot wearing hick from Seattle (okay, not Montana but it was the late 90's and that was part of the uniform: levi's, navy blazer, white shirt and the boots.)
When I did run out of money (my apartment manager, the former, possibly current Heroin addict who never left his room had his wife who couldn't pronounce my name yell up the hall in her South American accent: "E-leeen, come talk to my husbeeend") and called Agent X, I was mysteriously passed on to Agent Y, who said she'd never heard of any money for struggling writers. And no, I couldn't talk to Agent X. He'd gone onto bigger and better things.
I can't blame Agent Y because she was probably nursing knife wounds from Agent X, who clearly had a brilliant career in Hollywood ahead of him. When asked if he'd read my script, a touching story called "Secret Lives" about a family dealing with the death of their oldest son based on my own father's large Catholic family, he said yes, looking me right in the eyes. A second later he averted his slightly reptilian eyes and said "I can get you in to meet Sherry Lansing." And he did.
There was nothing wrong with Agent X not reading my script. He was fresh out of the gate and didn't have time to read everything. He relied on reader's notes, just like everyone else in Hollywood does. But what Agent X probably knows now is that it's better to be honest with writers because they know your name and can blog, tweet and tell your clients, the Famous Movies Stars what a dirt bag you are. His clients probably already know that but they don't know the body count from his past. Writers keep track of that kind of thing. We take notes and have long memories.
The other things I did wrong in Hollywood was not believe in my own story. When I tried to write for Hollywood -- I stunk up the place. No surprise there. I knew it would happen but I was running out of money. Almost everyone outside the Kardashian family knows what that feels like. A sex tape just wasn't in the cards for me. I high-tailed it for home, fired bewildered agent Y who said "We're always here for you." HA again.
My dad got me a job as a cook on a fishing boat where I could work 2 months on like a crazed weasel and take 6 months off to write, work out, travel a little and then ---- drum roll please -- attend a cocktail party where I met my future husband. Said future husband said "You work on a fishing boat?" I said no, I am a writer. He asked, "You work on a fishing boat?" I said "I'm leaving in 2 months for another contract."
Very early into my contract on said fishing boat Future Husband called on the ship to shore radio. I was called, bleary eyed from the galley to take said call. In front of the Skipper, the first Mate coming on duty, a deck hand covered in snow/rain/fish guts standing at the open wheelhouse door, my future husband said via satellite radio, "If you quit your job and fly home I'll take you to Hawaii."
I put the radio to my shoulder, and looked at the grizzled, possibly drug-addicted captain of the fishing vessel and said "Can I quit?"
He laughed, took another drag off his cigarette and said, "For a dude?"
I said, "No, this is serious."
He coughed and I thought about how much money this phone call was costing my budget conscious future husband. After a flem-filled moment the Skipper nodded. "If we can get someone into Dutch to take over your contract."
I just managed not to burst into tears. Just.
36 hours of galley-scrubbing, eager-packing, setting the ship's stores in order and saying goodbye to the crew whom I either adored or hated with a passion, I was on an Alaska flight to Anchorage, then Sea-Tac to spent the rest of my life with the man waiting, in those pre 9-11 days, at the gate.
Final lesson: Everything works out but leaving Hollywood earlier would have probably been a good idea. I could avoided at least 2 or 3 excruciatingly bad dates.
What I did wrong Career Wise in Hollywood. Number one: I believed my hot shot Hollywood agent. Agent X, (last I heard he's the president of one of the top 3 agencies. I won't say which one,) was sending me on so many meetings, with so many famous producers and their underlings that I complained I didn't have time to write and was running out of money. Agent X implied, very strongly that his big agency had a slush fund for struggling writers. Ha! Let me say that again: Ha! I was the dumbest cowboy-boot wearing hick from Seattle (okay, not Montana but it was the late 90's and that was part of the uniform: levi's, navy blazer, white shirt and the boots.)
When I did run out of money (my apartment manager, the former, possibly current Heroin addict who never left his room had his wife who couldn't pronounce my name yell up the hall in her South American accent: "E-leeen, come talk to my husbeeend") and called Agent X, I was mysteriously passed on to Agent Y, who said she'd never heard of any money for struggling writers. And no, I couldn't talk to Agent X. He'd gone onto bigger and better things.
I can't blame Agent Y because she was probably nursing knife wounds from Agent X, who clearly had a brilliant career in Hollywood ahead of him. When asked if he'd read my script, a touching story called "Secret Lives" about a family dealing with the death of their oldest son based on my own father's large Catholic family, he said yes, looking me right in the eyes. A second later he averted his slightly reptilian eyes and said "I can get you in to meet Sherry Lansing." And he did.
There was nothing wrong with Agent X not reading my script. He was fresh out of the gate and didn't have time to read everything. He relied on reader's notes, just like everyone else in Hollywood does. But what Agent X probably knows now is that it's better to be honest with writers because they know your name and can blog, tweet and tell your clients, the Famous Movies Stars what a dirt bag you are. His clients probably already know that but they don't know the body count from his past. Writers keep track of that kind of thing. We take notes and have long memories.
The other things I did wrong in Hollywood was not believe in my own story. When I tried to write for Hollywood -- I stunk up the place. No surprise there. I knew it would happen but I was running out of money. Almost everyone outside the Kardashian family knows what that feels like. A sex tape just wasn't in the cards for me. I high-tailed it for home, fired bewildered agent Y who said "We're always here for you." HA again.
My dad got me a job as a cook on a fishing boat where I could work 2 months on like a crazed weasel and take 6 months off to write, work out, travel a little and then ---- drum roll please -- attend a cocktail party where I met my future husband. Said future husband said "You work on a fishing boat?" I said no, I am a writer. He asked, "You work on a fishing boat?" I said "I'm leaving in 2 months for another contract."
Very early into my contract on said fishing boat Future Husband called on the ship to shore radio. I was called, bleary eyed from the galley to take said call. In front of the Skipper, the first Mate coming on duty, a deck hand covered in snow/rain/fish guts standing at the open wheelhouse door, my future husband said via satellite radio, "If you quit your job and fly home I'll take you to Hawaii."
I put the radio to my shoulder, and looked at the grizzled, possibly drug-addicted captain of the fishing vessel and said "Can I quit?"
He laughed, took another drag off his cigarette and said, "For a dude?"
I said, "No, this is serious."
He coughed and I thought about how much money this phone call was costing my budget conscious future husband. After a flem-filled moment the Skipper nodded. "If we can get someone into Dutch to take over your contract."
I just managed not to burst into tears. Just.
36 hours of galley-scrubbing, eager-packing, setting the ship's stores in order and saying goodbye to the crew whom I either adored or hated with a passion, I was on an Alaska flight to Anchorage, then Sea-Tac to spent the rest of my life with the man waiting, in those pre 9-11 days, at the gate.
Final lesson: Everything works out but leaving Hollywood earlier would have probably been a good idea. I could avoided at least 2 or 3 excruciatingly bad dates.
February 1, 2013
10 Reasons Why You Should Never Live With a Writer
1) The initial phase of living with a writer is romantic, much like the start of a book. She has the BIG IDEA. Coming from a screenwriting background, naturally the BIG IDEA is going to be a blockbuster. You will be able to quit your job, live on the beach and sip drinks while watching sunsets. Somehow the kids will raise themselves. This is the fun part.
2) The fun part isn't over, yet. Now you are in the steady working part. The big idea is still running strong. The ideas are fresh and new and the plot chugs along like the little engine that could. Characters are funny and witty. The house stays somewhat clean, although you've realized by now that your particular writer isn't a neat freak. But the cat's turds aren't sitting in the litter box. Which is great.
3) Now we get to the not so fun stuff. Your writer has reached the middle of her book. Oh no. She wasn't really writing a book about a woman leaving her husband. (No plot spoilers so don't worry.) She was writing something else. But she doesn't know what it is. She keeps writing but wow, her hair is kind of dirty and the kids' lunches have lost that fresh, tasty look. The cat is looking for someplace else to do his business and what -- you just came home to frozen pizza -- again?
4) While your writer is slogging her way through act two we'll digress into That Awful Summer. Yes, that was the summer that your writer mother decided that she was going to write the young adult novel because everyone else was doing it. And as any mother knows if everyone else is doing it then it must be a good thing. But wait, there's more. Mom decides to write something supernatural. Even though you've told her that she's not Stephanie Meyer and never will be Stephanie Meyer. Stephanie Meyer is busy trying be herself so no one else needs to do the job.... so there is that identity crisis which in a weird twist of fate is resolved by mom meeting Oprah.
5) When you are living with a writer weird things happen like Meeting Oprah. That phase is fun for you unless you happen to be at a company party at your friend's super cool house, it's sunny outside and everyone is having a good time but there is the one guy whose wife is really obsessed with Oprah and he wants just one detail to take home to her, which is really sweet. Your writer likes talking about it, sometimes but this is your thing, not hers, so she is kind of quiet and you have to end up telling the guy, at your company party to leave your wife alone. And if you are her kid you have to hear all kinds of inspirational claptrap about "owning your own decisions" and "making your own destiny" when all you really want is a second helping of dessert and more TV.
6) Meanwhile the second act thing works out. You are going to be rich again. Oh no, you're not. Yes you are. No you're not. This is called Who am I Coming Home to Today? It's a fun game that writers like to pull on their spouses. We whine about the heavy lifting of words we've done for wow -- THREE WHOLE HOURS. And yes, maybe you do work in a coal mine but whatever, have you ever tried to deal with a character that has a mind of her own and keeps falling for the wrong guy?
7) A book your mom self published is picked up by a publisher. Super cool -- Right? Wrong. Because it's the one with the talking breast implants. That's right. You are an adolescent and your mom has talking boobs in her book. Maybe you can talk about the next one. The one with infidelity and a grandma/stripper. Or the next one with the teenager who helps his dad with his career as a hit man? No, no and no. Why can't mom sell real estate?
8) Things are getting better with the whole Act Two thing. Your writer has come to the very rewarding phase of Act Three when all the hard work is paying off and things are gelling. This is the nirvana of writing. The blissful nerd high. You are Liz Lemon (which is what your kids think you would be if you never met your long suffering husband. If you don't watch 30 Rock, get the DVD at the library) when she realizes that everyone loves her just the way she is.
9) But you can't sleep. Things are going so well that you're waking up at 4:00 am ready to hit that computer. By 2 in the afternoon, right before your kids come home from school, you are the human jellyfish with the same brain capacity. Maybe worse. Do we even have a cat?
10) You have another idea. It's going to make you all rich. You tell your husband to quit the job he loves because you are all moving to Hawaii. He smiles and says "I love you."
2) The fun part isn't over, yet. Now you are in the steady working part. The big idea is still running strong. The ideas are fresh and new and the plot chugs along like the little engine that could. Characters are funny and witty. The house stays somewhat clean, although you've realized by now that your particular writer isn't a neat freak. But the cat's turds aren't sitting in the litter box. Which is great.
3) Now we get to the not so fun stuff. Your writer has reached the middle of her book. Oh no. She wasn't really writing a book about a woman leaving her husband. (No plot spoilers so don't worry.) She was writing something else. But she doesn't know what it is. She keeps writing but wow, her hair is kind of dirty and the kids' lunches have lost that fresh, tasty look. The cat is looking for someplace else to do his business and what -- you just came home to frozen pizza -- again?
4) While your writer is slogging her way through act two we'll digress into That Awful Summer. Yes, that was the summer that your writer mother decided that she was going to write the young adult novel because everyone else was doing it. And as any mother knows if everyone else is doing it then it must be a good thing. But wait, there's more. Mom decides to write something supernatural. Even though you've told her that she's not Stephanie Meyer and never will be Stephanie Meyer. Stephanie Meyer is busy trying be herself so no one else needs to do the job.... so there is that identity crisis which in a weird twist of fate is resolved by mom meeting Oprah.
5) When you are living with a writer weird things happen like Meeting Oprah. That phase is fun for you unless you happen to be at a company party at your friend's super cool house, it's sunny outside and everyone is having a good time but there is the one guy whose wife is really obsessed with Oprah and he wants just one detail to take home to her, which is really sweet. Your writer likes talking about it, sometimes but this is your thing, not hers, so she is kind of quiet and you have to end up telling the guy, at your company party to leave your wife alone. And if you are her kid you have to hear all kinds of inspirational claptrap about "owning your own decisions" and "making your own destiny" when all you really want is a second helping of dessert and more TV.
6) Meanwhile the second act thing works out. You are going to be rich again. Oh no, you're not. Yes you are. No you're not. This is called Who am I Coming Home to Today? It's a fun game that writers like to pull on their spouses. We whine about the heavy lifting of words we've done for wow -- THREE WHOLE HOURS. And yes, maybe you do work in a coal mine but whatever, have you ever tried to deal with a character that has a mind of her own and keeps falling for the wrong guy?
7) A book your mom self published is picked up by a publisher. Super cool -- Right? Wrong. Because it's the one with the talking breast implants. That's right. You are an adolescent and your mom has talking boobs in her book. Maybe you can talk about the next one. The one with infidelity and a grandma/stripper. Or the next one with the teenager who helps his dad with his career as a hit man? No, no and no. Why can't mom sell real estate?
8) Things are getting better with the whole Act Two thing. Your writer has come to the very rewarding phase of Act Three when all the hard work is paying off and things are gelling. This is the nirvana of writing. The blissful nerd high. You are Liz Lemon (which is what your kids think you would be if you never met your long suffering husband. If you don't watch 30 Rock, get the DVD at the library) when she realizes that everyone loves her just the way she is.
9) But you can't sleep. Things are going so well that you're waking up at 4:00 am ready to hit that computer. By 2 in the afternoon, right before your kids come home from school, you are the human jellyfish with the same brain capacity. Maybe worse. Do we even have a cat?
10) You have another idea. It's going to make you all rich. You tell your husband to quit the job he loves because you are all moving to Hawaii. He smiles and says "I love you."
January 17, 2013
Twittering Away
I always feel an uneasy sense of guilt after I post a Tweet, which lingers about as long as it takes me to compose my next one. Which isn't long. Turns out I am obessed with being funny in increments. So the whole guilt and then do it again theme makes me realize that Twitter is a very Catholic medium. Or maybe it's only Catholics that feel guilty. Or just me.
Why, you might ask would one feel guilty about tweeting jokes? (Sample: When my daughter gets her driver's license I am joining 2 soccer leagues and making her drive me.) Because I was raised by people who taught their children that they weren't the most important people in the room. Sure, you could crack a well timed joke and yes, our family gatherings were a yell-fest but that didn't mean you had to yell louder than anyone else. Which is what Twitter feels like. Egotistical. Self-centered. Righteous.
Do I think that it's part of what is wrong with America? Heck no. Do I think our kids are slipping down a rabbit's hole of technology that will swallow them whole and make them into quivering wraiths with the attention span of coke snorting squirrels? Nope. (but that was super fun sentence to compose)
So why do I do Tweet? For one thing my agent, editor and Harper Collins encourage their authors to dive into social media until they are soaking wet. I haven't yet told them my theory that Twitter was invented by another writer who wanted to distract other writers from the competition.
Another reason is that it's fun. Turns out in my past life I was a joke writer. Not for Johnny Carson because I'm just not that good but maybe a lesser comedian. I can't name a lesser comedian because they weren't famous.
How to conclude this blog or essay or whatever the heck this little warm up to my fiction writing is called? Just to say that I love each one of you that take the time to read my Tweets, my Facebook posts, my Blog and God bless you if you buy my book -- (coming out on 2/12!!!) because you are the people I knew were out there when I was getting up at 5:00 am to write when I was the mother of toddlers, dreaming of the day that I would have the luxury of a real desk instead of the kitchen table. And the time to Tweet, blog and be a Real Writer. What I didn't know was back then I was a real writer. Very real. Okay, off to my day job.
Why, you might ask would one feel guilty about tweeting jokes? (Sample: When my daughter gets her driver's license I am joining 2 soccer leagues and making her drive me.) Because I was raised by people who taught their children that they weren't the most important people in the room. Sure, you could crack a well timed joke and yes, our family gatherings were a yell-fest but that didn't mean you had to yell louder than anyone else. Which is what Twitter feels like. Egotistical. Self-centered. Righteous.
Do I think that it's part of what is wrong with America? Heck no. Do I think our kids are slipping down a rabbit's hole of technology that will swallow them whole and make them into quivering wraiths with the attention span of coke snorting squirrels? Nope. (but that was super fun sentence to compose)
So why do I do Tweet? For one thing my agent, editor and Harper Collins encourage their authors to dive into social media until they are soaking wet. I haven't yet told them my theory that Twitter was invented by another writer who wanted to distract other writers from the competition.
Another reason is that it's fun. Turns out in my past life I was a joke writer. Not for Johnny Carson because I'm just not that good but maybe a lesser comedian. I can't name a lesser comedian because they weren't famous.
How to conclude this blog or essay or whatever the heck this little warm up to my fiction writing is called? Just to say that I love each one of you that take the time to read my Tweets, my Facebook posts, my Blog and God bless you if you buy my book -- (coming out on 2/12!!!) because you are the people I knew were out there when I was getting up at 5:00 am to write when I was the mother of toddlers, dreaming of the day that I would have the luxury of a real desk instead of the kitchen table. And the time to Tweet, blog and be a Real Writer. What I didn't know was back then I was a real writer. Very real. Okay, off to my day job.
January 8, 2013
The Lost Art of Prayer
This afternoon I had a cancellation of an appointment that gave me a brief respite. I seized the opportunity to catch up on some much needed post-holiday housework. I was pushing the table leafs further underneath our bed (isn't that where everyone keeps them?) when I noticed out the window, the huge black pine behind our neighbor's house, swaying in the indigo sky, as though scrubbing the sky clean. At that moment I was thinking of someone I love who is dealing with a health problem and their spouse, who is worried and looking for reassurance. I could hear my daughter sighing over her homework and thought of the homeless encampment down the street, of those men and women trying to keep warm in the frigid rain. It felt as though our house were tilting toward chaos, not dangerously but certainly a far cry from the merriment of last month.
Looking at the tree I was flooded with a sharp change of mood. It was a sense of calm, of peace, of feeling that someone or something was looking after me and everything would be all right as long as I breathed. I stopped doing housework (easy, I know), kneeled and began what I thought would be meditation. Instead, it turned into prayer. I haven't prayed in a long time. Too long.
In my spiritual life God has a funny way of showing up when I am chasing my tail, frittering away my life with worries and cares and reminding me, gently, that I don't have to shoulder the burden alone. At that moment I let go and felt my heart expand, like the Grinch on that snowy hillside. (Trees often have this effect on me.)
In moments like this it seems that God is speaking to me. Egotistical as that might sound it's a whisper, not a shout. What he's saying is that it's all going to work out. I watched Shakespeare in Love again the other night. There is a reoccuring bit where one character asks :"How is this all going to work out. How will it end?" and the other replies "I don't know, it's a mystery."
For me, that's what God wants me to know. It's not up to us to puzzle it out. It's up to us to make it beautiful and enjoy the play. Because if there's one thing I know it's that Shakespeare was right. All the world is a stage and it's not how well we play our parts, it's how hard we try.
Happy New Year!
Looking at the tree I was flooded with a sharp change of mood. It was a sense of calm, of peace, of feeling that someone or something was looking after me and everything would be all right as long as I breathed. I stopped doing housework (easy, I know), kneeled and began what I thought would be meditation. Instead, it turned into prayer. I haven't prayed in a long time. Too long.
In my spiritual life God has a funny way of showing up when I am chasing my tail, frittering away my life with worries and cares and reminding me, gently, that I don't have to shoulder the burden alone. At that moment I let go and felt my heart expand, like the Grinch on that snowy hillside. (Trees often have this effect on me.)
In moments like this it seems that God is speaking to me. Egotistical as that might sound it's a whisper, not a shout. What he's saying is that it's all going to work out. I watched Shakespeare in Love again the other night. There is a reoccuring bit where one character asks :"How is this all going to work out. How will it end?" and the other replies "I don't know, it's a mystery."
For me, that's what God wants me to know. It's not up to us to puzzle it out. It's up to us to make it beautiful and enjoy the play. Because if there's one thing I know it's that Shakespeare was right. All the world is a stage and it's not how well we play our parts, it's how hard we try.
Happy New Year!
November 6, 2012
Fact is Stranger than Fiction -- Infidelity
The inciting incident (screenplay talk) that kicks off the action in my new book $38,000, is infidelity. When I tell people this they never, of course, jump in with stories about how they have been the victim or perpetrator of infidelity. But they will tell me about their friends and neighbors. One lady told me about a next door neighbor whose wife went on vacation with the children. The husband managed his own little "Stay-cation," complete with his girlfriend from work.
In order to keep things on the lowdown, the husband would go out to her car, parked in the street, with his own gym bag and tuck her little pink overnight bag inside, carrying it inside. Things came to an awkward head when the cheating husband's little dog got out of the yard one morning and made a dash for the neighbor's house, where his little dog buddies live. The neighbor tucked the dog under her arm, wanting to simply sneak the dog back into the yard and avoid anyone, male or female sneaking out of the house on their way to work. Of course the girlfriend was at the back door, half-dressed, looking for the dog. She dashed back in the door and the husband came out. The dog rescuing lady looked at the man knowing that she should have kept her mouth shut. She didn't say much, just a comment about his lovely family. He responded by telling her that he was just taking a little vacation, like his wife. No harm, no foul.
I couldn't have written a better scene. It was both funny and sad and left me wondering what happened later. Yes, I have a lot more stories that people have shared but I'm off to work on my own book.
Happy Election Day!
In order to keep things on the lowdown, the husband would go out to her car, parked in the street, with his own gym bag and tuck her little pink overnight bag inside, carrying it inside. Things came to an awkward head when the cheating husband's little dog got out of the yard one morning and made a dash for the neighbor's house, where his little dog buddies live. The neighbor tucked the dog under her arm, wanting to simply sneak the dog back into the yard and avoid anyone, male or female sneaking out of the house on their way to work. Of course the girlfriend was at the back door, half-dressed, looking for the dog. She dashed back in the door and the husband came out. The dog rescuing lady looked at the man knowing that she should have kept her mouth shut. She didn't say much, just a comment about his lovely family. He responded by telling her that he was just taking a little vacation, like his wife. No harm, no foul.
I couldn't have written a better scene. It was both funny and sad and left me wondering what happened later. Yes, I have a lot more stories that people have shared but I'm off to work on my own book.
Happy Election Day!
October 25, 2012
The Secret to Living
Toiling away in an imaginary world where characters are confronted with their own stupid mistakes and those of others, it's easy to believe in happy endings. All my screenplays have them. Damaged people move forward. Sad people smile. Everybody learns something, usually how not to be afraid.
Courage is a favorite word of mine. I've needed it in the upside down world of the LA entertainment industry, on fishing boats in Alaska and fighting the writer's ugly little frenemy: depression. I've learned that the absurdity and fundamental unfairness of life is best met, if possible, with kindness and a smile. Or crying in the shower. Take your pick.
Last night my youngest daughter came with me to drop off a few things I'd purchased from Costco for the tent city down the street. It pops up every year in the church parking lot three blocks down. (And is featured quite prominently in a few scenes in my upcoming book.)When it was first proposed, some people in my neighborhood objected. One man spent a lot of time in his garage making signs that read: NO TENT CITY. He and his wife each have one of those Christian fish logos on their cars. A lot of people agreed with Mr. Sign-Making NIMBY and tried to blame a rash of house robberies on the first tent city. The robberies continued after tent city packed up and moved onto the next church.
I'm not a member of the church but I am a big believer in being a good neighbor. I asked the outreach coordinator for a grocery list. My offering felt puny when greeted by the smiles, thanks and good cheer of the men (don't know where the women were) in the make-shift outdoor tarp office. Two of them were on computers. One manned the desk. The entire place, which houses a lot of people, is made of tarps, rope, duct tape with many electrical cord snaking their way out, like tails.
We'd bought batteries for flashlights and cereal for breakfast. You'd have thought, from their reaction, that we'd delivered a barbecued steer and a floor show. On the way home, my daughter made some sage observations about her new-found perspective. (Lord I hope it lasts.) I made a mental note to bring my other child along next week. We pulled into the driveway of our 2 story warm, cozy house, complete with a dog, elderly cat and fireplace feeling like the luckiest people in the world.
Back to writing fiction. The above episode might very well figure into a future book about how life can turn on a dime.
Happy Thursday!
Courage is a favorite word of mine. I've needed it in the upside down world of the LA entertainment industry, on fishing boats in Alaska and fighting the writer's ugly little frenemy: depression. I've learned that the absurdity and fundamental unfairness of life is best met, if possible, with kindness and a smile. Or crying in the shower. Take your pick.
Last night my youngest daughter came with me to drop off a few things I'd purchased from Costco for the tent city down the street. It pops up every year in the church parking lot three blocks down. (And is featured quite prominently in a few scenes in my upcoming book.)When it was first proposed, some people in my neighborhood objected. One man spent a lot of time in his garage making signs that read: NO TENT CITY. He and his wife each have one of those Christian fish logos on their cars. A lot of people agreed with Mr. Sign-Making NIMBY and tried to blame a rash of house robberies on the first tent city. The robberies continued after tent city packed up and moved onto the next church.
I'm not a member of the church but I am a big believer in being a good neighbor. I asked the outreach coordinator for a grocery list. My offering felt puny when greeted by the smiles, thanks and good cheer of the men (don't know where the women were) in the make-shift outdoor tarp office. Two of them were on computers. One manned the desk. The entire place, which houses a lot of people, is made of tarps, rope, duct tape with many electrical cord snaking their way out, like tails.
We'd bought batteries for flashlights and cereal for breakfast. You'd have thought, from their reaction, that we'd delivered a barbecued steer and a floor show. On the way home, my daughter made some sage observations about her new-found perspective. (Lord I hope it lasts.) I made a mental note to bring my other child along next week. We pulled into the driveway of our 2 story warm, cozy house, complete with a dog, elderly cat and fireplace feeling like the luckiest people in the world.
Back to writing fiction. The above episode might very well figure into a future book about how life can turn on a dime.
Happy Thursday!
October 11, 2012
Hoarding 101
When I am not feverishly working on my new book, $38,000 -- The Novel, (for those of you rightly getting on my case about the release -- Christmas, depending upon the speed and thoughts of my fearless first readers) I do things like drive my kid to the Justin Bieber Concert and watch Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf on my computer while Justin does his thing and my kids scream themselves silly.
Also, I grocery shop. But never like I did this morning, which was at a grocery store that was going out of business. I knew this place was closing. I'd stopped to get some eggs once and they didn't have any. End of story. Nope.
Today after my morning swim, I wandered, goggle rings circling my eyes, wet-haired and bedraggled, through Albertsons perusing empty shelves for anything of use. I found enough to justify the trip. More importantly, I discovered what people will do for 75% off their grocery bill.
They will skip work, returning again and again like looters until the shelves are stripped bare. They will wait in line with carts loaded with breakfast cereal and canned soup for a long, long time. They will chat about darned near anything to the other shoppers. (Cart loaded with Depends? Good story.) They will rejoice and laugh at their savings.
They will wander the barren aisles under harsh light in a scene reminiscent of a post apocolyptic action movie looking for something they can use and buy and most importantly -- save money on. They will stand in the parking lot behind their SUV loaded to the gills with non perisble food and read their arm-length receipt as if it is the hottest best seller. They saved $300 or more and they want to tell you about it. And they did the same thing yesterday.
What was my biggest savings? A Keurig coffee cup carousel. Would I have bought it if it wasn't 75% off? No. Did I really need four jars of cinammon sticks? No. Was it good clean fun? Absolutely.
Happy October.
Also, I grocery shop. But never like I did this morning, which was at a grocery store that was going out of business. I knew this place was closing. I'd stopped to get some eggs once and they didn't have any. End of story. Nope.
Today after my morning swim, I wandered, goggle rings circling my eyes, wet-haired and bedraggled, through Albertsons perusing empty shelves for anything of use. I found enough to justify the trip. More importantly, I discovered what people will do for 75% off their grocery bill.
They will skip work, returning again and again like looters until the shelves are stripped bare. They will wait in line with carts loaded with breakfast cereal and canned soup for a long, long time. They will chat about darned near anything to the other shoppers. (Cart loaded with Depends? Good story.) They will rejoice and laugh at their savings.
They will wander the barren aisles under harsh light in a scene reminiscent of a post apocolyptic action movie looking for something they can use and buy and most importantly -- save money on. They will stand in the parking lot behind their SUV loaded to the gills with non perisble food and read their arm-length receipt as if it is the hottest best seller. They saved $300 or more and they want to tell you about it. And they did the same thing yesterday.
What was my biggest savings? A Keurig coffee cup carousel. Would I have bought it if it wasn't 75% off? No. Did I really need four jars of cinammon sticks? No. Was it good clean fun? Absolutely.
Happy October.
September 18, 2012
Laughing Down the River
Last night I was feted on the almost eve of my 48th birthday by a group of friends. The older I get, the more amazing my friends become. In graduate school I was surrounded by a group of fun Europeans who knew how to party 'till dawn then get up and make a student movie. Now I'm surrounded by women who rush off at 9:00 PM to help their kids with homework, pick them up from dance class, get up and treat people in an ER, teach kids, run businesses, fly all over the world and design lighting. Although the friends of my youth were exotic creatures, the friends of my middle age are far more brave and resilient. They know when to laugh. They each shoulder their responsiblities with grace and dignity and model for their kids what it means to be a good, honest person. If I were traveling at warp speed down a river in a leaky boat, I'd trust any one of these women to help me figure out how to save our lives. Not that I want them in that boat with me. But I know if they were, they'd be laughing and bailing at the same time.
August 12, 2012
Adios Montana
After circling the parking lot in Logan's Pass in Glacier National Park for a half an hour with 4 bikes sticking off the back of my car, I spotted a man fooling around with a cooler in the back of his truck. He filled sippy cups, water bottles and all but took an ice bath in the parking lot. No one believed that he would ever leave but I sat there with my turn indicator on for 10 minutes, waiting.
Then, a miracle. He got in his car and pulled out. (Seemingly without his family.)A small truck with Oregon plates decided to test me. He pulled toward the parking spot to see what I'd do. I moved my SUV and 4 bikes as close as possible to to the parking spot, ready to slam it into park, run out and tell Oregon in no uncertain terms that I earned that parking spot. I sucked exhaust while everyone restlessly circled. He back off. I got the spot.
I refilled my water bottles, found my family on the slopes over looking the Continental Divide. We were all stunned by the view (not to mention the long windy Going-to-the-Sun Road Drive) and reluctant to hike to the snow fields. My husband and I set off -- telling the kids it was up to them. Come with us or turn around. After about 15 minutes of hiking a 300-ish pound mountain goat sauntered out of nowhere. He walked right up to the wooden boardwalk path, climbed on top and headed towards us.
A man with 2 and 4 year old boys let them run directly to the large horned wild animal. I suggested he might want to stop them. He finally did. I was free to enjoy the sight of this enormously muscled animal stepping delicately through the wildflowers. His feet seemed too small to support that massive frame. Soundlessly he stepped off the boardwalk, wandering off to nibble something in the distance, 2 dozen tourists snapping his photo.
We continued to the snow field, taking pictures of our kids playing in the snow in the 90 degree heat. On the way out we saw a mountain goat, then a bear. We spent that night in East Glacier, watched horses being herded down main street as we ate breakfast, donated money to help the large local population of much loved stray dogs. We'd heard them the night before barking happily. One of them, we learned, had been elected Mayor.
Adios Montana. Hello Seattle. Back to writing. (Except for Chelan. Thank you Tia M.)
Then, a miracle. He got in his car and pulled out. (Seemingly without his family.)A small truck with Oregon plates decided to test me. He pulled toward the parking spot to see what I'd do. I moved my SUV and 4 bikes as close as possible to to the parking spot, ready to slam it into park, run out and tell Oregon in no uncertain terms that I earned that parking spot. I sucked exhaust while everyone restlessly circled. He back off. I got the spot.
I refilled my water bottles, found my family on the slopes over looking the Continental Divide. We were all stunned by the view (not to mention the long windy Going-to-the-Sun Road Drive) and reluctant to hike to the snow fields. My husband and I set off -- telling the kids it was up to them. Come with us or turn around. After about 15 minutes of hiking a 300-ish pound mountain goat sauntered out of nowhere. He walked right up to the wooden boardwalk path, climbed on top and headed towards us.
A man with 2 and 4 year old boys let them run directly to the large horned wild animal. I suggested he might want to stop them. He finally did. I was free to enjoy the sight of this enormously muscled animal stepping delicately through the wildflowers. His feet seemed too small to support that massive frame. Soundlessly he stepped off the boardwalk, wandering off to nibble something in the distance, 2 dozen tourists snapping his photo.
We continued to the snow field, taking pictures of our kids playing in the snow in the 90 degree heat. On the way out we saw a mountain goat, then a bear. We spent that night in East Glacier, watched horses being herded down main street as we ate breakfast, donated money to help the large local population of much loved stray dogs. We'd heard them the night before barking happily. One of them, we learned, had been elected Mayor.
Adios Montana. Hello Seattle. Back to writing. (Except for Chelan. Thank you Tia M.)
June 1, 2012
How to Know When it's Right
After a short excursion into writing children's fiction with my daughter, and a too long hiatus from writing while I outlined and re-outlined my new novel's shape, (who knew it needed an entirely new ending?) I am finally back to writing. Real writing. With flawed characters who make mistakes, suffer the consequences and learn something along the way. For the first time in any story of mine I have a character who isn't going to get a happy ending. And this person deserves ones. (Don't worry hopeless romantics -- it's not the main character.)
After two sessions of writing Stripping Down, I was sleeping better, feeling better about life and had that very satisfying and hard to describe sense that I was absolutely, without a doubt, on the right path. That I was supposed to be working on this story at this point in my life. It's a feeling of deep peace. As though no matter what happens to the book, I will have kept my part of the bargain.
It's this feeling, I suppose, that keeps writers writing. God knows it's not for the money. (Although show me a writer who wouldn't "sell out" and I'll show you someone with a trust fund.) It's for the above mentioned serenity that comes in fits and starts and when it settles on my shoulders, it's magnificent.
Have a great weekend.
After two sessions of writing Stripping Down, I was sleeping better, feeling better about life and had that very satisfying and hard to describe sense that I was absolutely, without a doubt, on the right path. That I was supposed to be working on this story at this point in my life. It's a feeling of deep peace. As though no matter what happens to the book, I will have kept my part of the bargain.
It's this feeling, I suppose, that keeps writers writing. God knows it's not for the money. (Although show me a writer who wouldn't "sell out" and I'll show you someone with a trust fund.) It's for the above mentioned serenity that comes in fits and starts and when it settles on my shoulders, it's magnificent.
Have a great weekend.
