I ended up going for that run. Staggered to my feet under the weight of spectacular inertia and pulled on my shorts and shoes. I ran the ridiculously beautiful streets of Portland's Irvington district, dodging giant flowers and trees so unbelievably fertile it was like they were showing off. Look at us! They seemed to yell. We are alive, get it?! Gloriously, shamelessly ALIIIIIIIVE!
I realized I haven't been very nice to myself for the past month.
I am such an overachiever it's stupid. But what happens when I get 'overachievy' is that I end up paralyzed. Which is really not-at-all-achievy. It's sit on the couch and drooly, actually. And when I look back on May, I can see a hundred ways I've made life difficult for myself. I've resisted every single thing that has come along. Whatever the opposite of 'going with the flow' is...that's me.
Running, though, is my magic bullet. It is 100% guaranteed to make me feel better. (So are Stumptown Coffee Company lattes and chewy chocolate cookies. If I happen to be in the Portland area. Which I am. Yesssssss.)
After the gorgeous run and orgasmic latte, I decided to just relax. I sat down to write. Charlie was there, waiting. She took at drag of her cigarette and looked at me.
"Dude," she said. "Don't get your knickers in a knot."
"I know," I said, embarrassed. I didn't think she'd noticed.
"I'm just fucked up about my dad. I'm trying to figure it out, okay? That's all."
She shook her head and ground her cigarette out with a toe. "Walk with me," she said, turning. I followed her as she tried to figure out exactly, scientifically how her father died. She went to the coroner's office to look at the death certificate. And then she talked to the coroner himself.
She went all CSI and I couldn't help but say, "Charlie, he's dead. What does it matter?" She shook her head and said, "No. Shut up. I need to figure this out." She walked faster. As I ran to catch up, I thought she should be dealing with the emotions of it, not the logistics. But then, of course, it struck me. These details were protecting her from feeling the pain of losing someone. For a little while at least.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Stuck to the Max
This morning, I feel like flinging myself under a bus. Creatively speaking. My brain has gone into level four lock-down. I am anxious. Resistant to working. Feeling guilty about not going for a run. And not wanting to. If Pizza Hut delivered at 10 a.m., I'd be neck-deep in extra cheese right now.
Last night before one of the Top Ten Worst Sleeps Ever, I prayed for flow. I asked that my energy be aligned so I could tap into the river of creative energy that is always there and always flowing.
And then I couldn't sleep. Boyfriend decided to write the longest email of all time in bed with the light on. The sound of his typing entered into my brain, took up residence and morphed into Vietnam War machine gun fire. The upstairs people got home late and had a combat boot clog dancing competition on the hardwood floor above my head. Then, in the morning Boyfriend let the alarm go for a full hour, pressing snooze over and over and over, leaving me in a crack-addled half-sleep. He finally got up and left for his conference.
But then the guilt set in. I have a thing about not sleeping in. Sleeping in equals laziness in my world. Pathetic. I'm exhausted.
And that large order of creative flow I ordered? Not happening.
There is a distinct possibility that creative flow is waiting for me someplace else. There is a chance God-given inspiraton is waiting for me at the end of that run I'm avoiding. It could be waiting in the cute coffee shop down the street, halfway down a cup of dark roast. There's also the possibility that it's hanging out at the famous Portland Saturday Market down in Old Town. It ain't here in this dark-ass basement apartment. I can tell you that much.
Last night before one of the Top Ten Worst Sleeps Ever, I prayed for flow. I asked that my energy be aligned so I could tap into the river of creative energy that is always there and always flowing.
And then I couldn't sleep. Boyfriend decided to write the longest email of all time in bed with the light on. The sound of his typing entered into my brain, took up residence and morphed into Vietnam War machine gun fire. The upstairs people got home late and had a combat boot clog dancing competition on the hardwood floor above my head. Then, in the morning Boyfriend let the alarm go for a full hour, pressing snooze over and over and over, leaving me in a crack-addled half-sleep. He finally got up and left for his conference.
But then the guilt set in. I have a thing about not sleeping in. Sleeping in equals laziness in my world. Pathetic. I'm exhausted.
And that large order of creative flow I ordered? Not happening.
There is a distinct possibility that creative flow is waiting for me someplace else. There is a chance God-given inspiraton is waiting for me at the end of that run I'm avoiding. It could be waiting in the cute coffee shop down the street, halfway down a cup of dark roast. There's also the possibility that it's hanging out at the famous Portland Saturday Market down in Old Town. It ain't here in this dark-ass basement apartment. I can tell you that much.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Geek 2.0
Boyfriend is here attending RailsConf 2008 – an annual conference that I refer to as Geekfest. Basically, it's 2000 geeks in one place talking about Rails. Or Ruby on Rails. Or RoR. You know, the open source web application framework written in Ruby? Yeah that.
When I was working at WHERE Magazine, geek chic was coming up in men's fashion. Thick black-rimmed glasses, sweater vests, etc. Nerdy clothing that actually looked pretty stylin'...mostly because it was made by Calvin Klein. I suspect it was more about making male models look smart, rather than making nerdy dudes look cool.
For my analysis of Geekfest 2008, though, I think Geek and Chic are two ends of a spectrum. Geeks are a diverse species, friends. The standard-issue pocket protector geek doesn't even exist anymore. Get with the programmer. This is Geek 2.0.
Hopeless Geeks – Even geekdom has its geeks. These dudes are the bottom of the geek food chain. Impossibly, hopelessly, irredeemably nerdy. Awkward, shy and unable to connect even when surrounded by people for whom "I Am Root" is a hilarious punchline. Maybe it's just because we're in America, but the hopeless geeks I have observed are all spectacularly overweight. Like, bellies hanging out the bottom of the t-shirt overweight. I feel like hugging them every time I see them.
True Geeks – These are the geeks you think about. Glasses, either skinny-skinny or pudgy, terrible fashion sense, usually wearing either hiking shoes or those bizarre black sneaker-looking shoes. Like, where do people get those shoes anyway? This is also where the trench coats and long hair Dungeons & Dragons geeks fit in. One of the true geeks I observed was wearing a t-shirt that said: "Go Away or I Will Replace You With a Very Small Shell Script." Um. What?
She-Geeks – She-geeks are rare. Although there are more of them this year than there were last Geekfest. She-geeks range from man-looking bull sheeks to ultra-femme head-turners like the smokin' hot Asian she-geek in high heels from last year. I'm telling you ladies, if you want to date a geek, attend one of these conferences. The ratio is ridiculous.
Sub-Hip – Sub-hip geeks are true geeks that work in hip surroundings like cool software companies or boutique web design/advertising agencies. So some of the hipness soaks in. Gone are the strange black sneakers. We're talking golf shirts, jeans and stylie sneakers. These guys are invariably stick-thin and have flat-top haircuts and glasses. They are so close to being hip, it hurts.
Hip Geeks – Studiously cool, these dudes look more like creatives than geeks. This is geek chic at its finest. Smart-ass t-shirts, expensive jeans, tattoos and black thick-rimmed designer glasses. If you took off the glasses, you'd have an indie rocker. Or a Prada model. This is the upper echelon of geekitude. Basically, these men are hotties posing as geeks. Damn them.
Porn Geeks – These guys don't even count. They are so NOT geeks! They are the guys who run the company or are in sales or something. They are completely out of place with their chiseled George Clooney looks and expensive Italian shoes. I mean, seriously...dimples?! Come on. One of them walked by and I almost fell over: six-foot-four, tan, cheekbones from heaven, platinum mohawk. Are. You. Kidding. Me.
So, the question you'll ask me next is: where does Boyfriend fit in the rubric of geekliness? Boyfriend, for those who know him, defies categorization. This is not a cop-out. This is the truth. He has always defied categorization in everything. Even in boyfriend-ness. I have always called him a Jock-Geek. He is shy and loves computers. He wears North Face and Nike and runs marathons. He doesn't have chiseled Porn Geek good looks. But he has this set of brown eyes that make your insides melt. Maybe his category is this: My Geek. Hands off.
When I was working at WHERE Magazine, geek chic was coming up in men's fashion. Thick black-rimmed glasses, sweater vests, etc. Nerdy clothing that actually looked pretty stylin'...mostly because it was made by Calvin Klein. I suspect it was more about making male models look smart, rather than making nerdy dudes look cool.
For my analysis of Geekfest 2008, though, I think Geek and Chic are two ends of a spectrum. Geeks are a diverse species, friends. The standard-issue pocket protector geek doesn't even exist anymore. Get with the programmer. This is Geek 2.0.
Hopeless Geeks – Even geekdom has its geeks. These dudes are the bottom of the geek food chain. Impossibly, hopelessly, irredeemably nerdy. Awkward, shy and unable to connect even when surrounded by people for whom "I Am Root" is a hilarious punchline. Maybe it's just because we're in America, but the hopeless geeks I have observed are all spectacularly overweight. Like, bellies hanging out the bottom of the t-shirt overweight. I feel like hugging them every time I see them.
True Geeks – These are the geeks you think about. Glasses, either skinny-skinny or pudgy, terrible fashion sense, usually wearing either hiking shoes or those bizarre black sneaker-looking shoes. Like, where do people get those shoes anyway? This is also where the trench coats and long hair Dungeons & Dragons geeks fit in. One of the true geeks I observed was wearing a t-shirt that said: "Go Away or I Will Replace You With a Very Small Shell Script." Um. What?
She-Geeks – She-geeks are rare. Although there are more of them this year than there were last Geekfest. She-geeks range from man-looking bull sheeks to ultra-femme head-turners like the smokin' hot Asian she-geek in high heels from last year. I'm telling you ladies, if you want to date a geek, attend one of these conferences. The ratio is ridiculous.
Sub-Hip – Sub-hip geeks are true geeks that work in hip surroundings like cool software companies or boutique web design/advertising agencies. So some of the hipness soaks in. Gone are the strange black sneakers. We're talking golf shirts, jeans and stylie sneakers. These guys are invariably stick-thin and have flat-top haircuts and glasses. They are so close to being hip, it hurts.
Hip Geeks – Studiously cool, these dudes look more like creatives than geeks. This is geek chic at its finest. Smart-ass t-shirts, expensive jeans, tattoos and black thick-rimmed designer glasses. If you took off the glasses, you'd have an indie rocker. Or a Prada model. This is the upper echelon of geekitude. Basically, these men are hotties posing as geeks. Damn them.
Porn Geeks – These guys don't even count. They are so NOT geeks! They are the guys who run the company or are in sales or something. They are completely out of place with their chiseled George Clooney looks and expensive Italian shoes. I mean, seriously...dimples?! Come on. One of them walked by and I almost fell over: six-foot-four, tan, cheekbones from heaven, platinum mohawk. Are. You. Kidding. Me.
So, the question you'll ask me next is: where does Boyfriend fit in the rubric of geekliness? Boyfriend, for those who know him, defies categorization. This is not a cop-out. This is the truth. He has always defied categorization in everything. Even in boyfriend-ness. I have always called him a Jock-Geek. He is shy and loves computers. He wears North Face and Nike and runs marathons. He doesn't have chiseled Porn Geek good looks. But he has this set of brown eyes that make your insides melt. Maybe his category is this: My Geek. Hands off.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Next Level of Weird
We're undergoing a serious Charlie renovation. A character overhaul. New sinks, new tile, might even take that wall out over there. So, she's dabbling with suicide. We know this. Her dramatic finish in Paris may or may not have been a cry for (character development) help.
My dear friend and fellow writer D read the second draft and said she wasn't an appealing character. Didn't inspire empathy. And, when I re-read the script, I found that to be true. She's just kind of nebulously miserable. One of those really negative, poor-me people that you really wish would just go away. Always crying and minorly fucking up their lives but never doing enough damage that they reach the westbound Rock Bottom Life Change turnpike. So they just exist in this impossible-to-like Life Sucks and I'm Going to Talk About It purgatory. I actually hate people like that. I'm sorry. I know that's not very Buddha of me.
But honestly, sometimes it has to get worse before it gets better. Before someone reaches the TSN Turning Point of their lives and decides to take responsibility for themselves. So hey, if you aren't interested in making things better, why not get busy making things worse? Take up that meth habit you've been toying with. Marry that guy with the third-mortgage and the gambling problem. Siphon several hundred thousand off the top of the company coffers. Go for it! You can do it!
I say these things not without compassion. I've been there. And I'm sure the people in my life who had to watch the slow-motion train wreck of my early 20s went through hell. And I think we all felt huge relief once the Worst Marriage Ever Recorded finally bit the dust. Thank God, we all thought, it can't possibly get worse. (A risky thing to think, I know, but in this case it was accurate. One knows Rock Bottom when one sees it.)
A word about Rock Bottom. It is SO not as bad as it's marketed to be. I can tell you, from personal experience, that Rock Bottom is a great place. It is a hell of a lot better than plunging through the hellish, dark abyss. The thunk of hitting bottom is the first time you've felt solid ground under you for a long, long time. It's odd, but it actually feels supportive. Rock bottom is really the place where you can actually begin to stand up.
I need to send Charlie to rock bottom. But in a totally different way than I thought. Being 'just suicidal' isn't enough. It's not clearly motivated. Why? Why is she so obsessed with death? And if she's so bloody interested in suicide as a lifestyle choice, why not push that further?
So, my wee brain started chugging and it came up with this: maybe she's a student of suicide. Researching methods and variable efficacy of these methods and physics and chemistry...a suicientist. I remembered hearing about a web site that gave practical guidance on how to commit suicide. Comparative analysis on various methods, etc. I went about looking for it.
On my way there, I came across an article called 'How Not To Commit Suicide.' The article included stories of failed suicides. The human body is not easy to kill, it turns out. It's horribly sad and morbid, but many of the failed suicide stories were darkly funny. Like how most folks who slit their wrists and sit in the tub end up waking up in a bathtub full of cold bloody water. Imagine how that anticlimax would feel. Goodbye cruel world! Hello prune hands.
The site also included suicide notes collected by the coroner's office. Probably 90% of the notes said something to the effect of: "You hurt my feelings. This will show you." I think that was the most depressing part. People used suicide to get the attention of people who had hurt them. How terribly misguided.
Then I found the notorious suicide how-to site. There, one of the first things I discovered was a whole other side to the Pro-Life/Pro-Choice debate. Interesting, no? You never think of it that way. It's always in the context of abortion, not suicide or euthanasia.
After the comedy of errors of the first site, this one is a whole new world. This place is for serious seekers. It includes rational decision-making models to ensure that you are making a well-thought-out choice. It has a chart outlining the matrix of Lethality, Time and Agony of the various methods. Cyanide and Gunshot To Head are similar in lethality (97%) and time (under 3 mins), but gunshot trumps cyanide on the Agony factor (13 vs. 51.5).
I got to thinking...who writes this stuff? Who starts a web site or a blog about how to commit suicide? Are they suicidal? Or are they living vicariously through their army of kamikaze lab rats? I might take Charlie for a test drive down this road. See what happens.
My dear friend and fellow writer D read the second draft and said she wasn't an appealing character. Didn't inspire empathy. And, when I re-read the script, I found that to be true. She's just kind of nebulously miserable. One of those really negative, poor-me people that you really wish would just go away. Always crying and minorly fucking up their lives but never doing enough damage that they reach the westbound Rock Bottom Life Change turnpike. So they just exist in this impossible-to-like Life Sucks and I'm Going to Talk About It purgatory. I actually hate people like that. I'm sorry. I know that's not very Buddha of me.
But honestly, sometimes it has to get worse before it gets better. Before someone reaches the TSN Turning Point of their lives and decides to take responsibility for themselves. So hey, if you aren't interested in making things better, why not get busy making things worse? Take up that meth habit you've been toying with. Marry that guy with the third-mortgage and the gambling problem. Siphon several hundred thousand off the top of the company coffers. Go for it! You can do it!
I say these things not without compassion. I've been there. And I'm sure the people in my life who had to watch the slow-motion train wreck of my early 20s went through hell. And I think we all felt huge relief once the Worst Marriage Ever Recorded finally bit the dust. Thank God, we all thought, it can't possibly get worse. (A risky thing to think, I know, but in this case it was accurate. One knows Rock Bottom when one sees it.)
A word about Rock Bottom. It is SO not as bad as it's marketed to be. I can tell you, from personal experience, that Rock Bottom is a great place. It is a hell of a lot better than plunging through the hellish, dark abyss. The thunk of hitting bottom is the first time you've felt solid ground under you for a long, long time. It's odd, but it actually feels supportive. Rock bottom is really the place where you can actually begin to stand up.
I need to send Charlie to rock bottom. But in a totally different way than I thought. Being 'just suicidal' isn't enough. It's not clearly motivated. Why? Why is she so obsessed with death? And if she's so bloody interested in suicide as a lifestyle choice, why not push that further?
So, my wee brain started chugging and it came up with this: maybe she's a student of suicide. Researching methods and variable efficacy of these methods and physics and chemistry...a suicientist. I remembered hearing about a web site that gave practical guidance on how to commit suicide. Comparative analysis on various methods, etc. I went about looking for it.
On my way there, I came across an article called 'How Not To Commit Suicide.' The article included stories of failed suicides. The human body is not easy to kill, it turns out. It's horribly sad and morbid, but many of the failed suicide stories were darkly funny. Like how most folks who slit their wrists and sit in the tub end up waking up in a bathtub full of cold bloody water. Imagine how that anticlimax would feel. Goodbye cruel world! Hello prune hands.
The site also included suicide notes collected by the coroner's office. Probably 90% of the notes said something to the effect of: "You hurt my feelings. This will show you." I think that was the most depressing part. People used suicide to get the attention of people who had hurt them. How terribly misguided.
Then I found the notorious suicide how-to site. There, one of the first things I discovered was a whole other side to the Pro-Life/Pro-Choice debate. Interesting, no? You never think of it that way. It's always in the context of abortion, not suicide or euthanasia.
After the comedy of errors of the first site, this one is a whole new world. This place is for serious seekers. It includes rational decision-making models to ensure that you are making a well-thought-out choice. It has a chart outlining the matrix of Lethality, Time and Agony of the various methods. Cyanide and Gunshot To Head are similar in lethality (97%) and time (under 3 mins), but gunshot trumps cyanide on the Agony factor (13 vs. 51.5).
I got to thinking...who writes this stuff? Who starts a web site or a blog about how to commit suicide? Are they suicidal? Or are they living vicariously through their army of kamikaze lab rats? I might take Charlie for a test drive down this road. See what happens.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Letter to my (Second) Favourite City
Dear Portland,
I have two words for you: I. LoveyousomuchIcoulddie.
I have missed you, sweet Green City. You smell green. You do! Like an intoxicating mix of just-cut grass and dandelion. I could inhale you all day. I noticed that you dressed up for my arrival. All those pornographic flowers dripping off the trees. You hussy! (Keep doing what you're doing by the way. It's totally working for me.)
And God...the poetry on the train? I can't believe I forgot this about you. "I believe in myself slowly. It takes all my doubt. All my wonder." Swoon.
The neighbourhood you created for us is perfect. I feel like I'm in Kitsilano, except instead of an ocean of salt water, there is an ocean of vineyards. And instead of pot-smoking, patchouli-smelling hippies, there are endorphin-jacked, super fit athletes. The people you had meet us at the apartment were incredible. They had sunglass tans and the weathered faces of people who play outside a lot, y'know, running, biking, climbing Mt. Hood. They were so excited by the fact we were here! In Portland! The kick-assiest city in the world! (And the golden retriever was a nice touch.)
Although, what was with that ostentatious breakfast parfait thing from Milo's City Cafe? I mean granola, yogurt and berries is an annoyingly healthy choice, I agree. But this thing looked like a float from the Easter parade! Did you notice how half the restaurant stared as they brought it to our table? The umbrella was a bit much, don't you think? I mean, my breakfast looked like an ultra-healthy breakfast girlie drink. Honestly, I felt like Jessica Simpson. It was embarrassing. Delicious, but embarrassing.
Just going to grab a quick nap in our unbelievable apartment. Meet you at Wines on Broadway later for a pinot noir taste-o-rama? Aw yeah.
Love you,
Mel
I have two words for you: I. LoveyousomuchIcoulddie.
I have missed you, sweet Green City. You smell green. You do! Like an intoxicating mix of just-cut grass and dandelion. I could inhale you all day. I noticed that you dressed up for my arrival. All those pornographic flowers dripping off the trees. You hussy! (Keep doing what you're doing by the way. It's totally working for me.)
And God...the poetry on the train? I can't believe I forgot this about you. "I believe in myself slowly. It takes all my doubt. All my wonder." Swoon.
The neighbourhood you created for us is perfect. I feel like I'm in Kitsilano, except instead of an ocean of salt water, there is an ocean of vineyards. And instead of pot-smoking, patchouli-smelling hippies, there are endorphin-jacked, super fit athletes. The people you had meet us at the apartment were incredible. They had sunglass tans and the weathered faces of people who play outside a lot, y'know, running, biking, climbing Mt. Hood. They were so excited by the fact we were here! In Portland! The kick-assiest city in the world! (And the golden retriever was a nice touch.)
Although, what was with that ostentatious breakfast parfait thing from Milo's City Cafe? I mean granola, yogurt and berries is an annoyingly healthy choice, I agree. But this thing looked like a float from the Easter parade! Did you notice how half the restaurant stared as they brought it to our table? The umbrella was a bit much, don't you think? I mean, my breakfast looked like an ultra-healthy breakfast girlie drink. Honestly, I felt like Jessica Simpson. It was embarrassing. Delicious, but embarrassing.
Just going to grab a quick nap in our unbelievable apartment. Meet you at Wines on Broadway later for a pinot noir taste-o-rama? Aw yeah.
Love you,
Mel
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Let’s Get the Band Back Together
Awhile ago, maybe a couple of weeks before I left for Gay Paree, my intuition piped up and said, ‘Write a song. Now.’ So I tried. I choked out a few lyrics. Really tortured, over-written, teenage angst lyrics that made me very nauseous indeed.
So this weird song intuition felt like a bit of a bust. Although fantasies about writing and performing all the songs for my movie did cross my mind once or twice.
But. On the weekend in rehearsal, Director told us his band was disbanding after five or something years. I told him not to worry. That another band was waiting for him. He brightened and said that one of my fellow actors is a guitarist and they’d already tossed around the idea of starting something. I said I’d sing.
Deep Secret #721: Being a singer in a band has been one of the major dreams of my life. Very few people know this. Shh.
This whole band conversation was really off-hand and chit-chatty. But as I drove home, little bits of lyrics flitted through my head. And yesterday morning I woke up and, y’know, wrote a song. A whole bunch of lyrics just poured out. I don’t really know the normal structure of a song but I wrote several verses and a chorus and some bridge kind of thing (whatever that is) and an ending thingy (coda?) that could be repeated into forever as the song fades out (and the crowd goes wild).
It’s a breakup song. Using sports analogies. Really, I just wanted to see if I could get ‘TSN turning point’ into a sad love song. I think it works. It’s like she’s trying to speak his language at a point in the relationship where their communication is totally broken.
Deep Secret #722: It’s not my first song.
When I was in high school I taught myself to play a few chords on a guitar. Then I wrote a song. Then I sang it for my family. It was a Christmas gift to my parents who have been waiting for me to sing in public again since ninth grade when I...wait for it...sang Heaven by Brian Adams in front of the whole school.
Anyhoo, I wrote this song on guitar and played it. And the whole time I’m pouring my heart out to my parents, Middle Sister is giving me the full-frontal Death Glare. I’m talking, mach ten gamma rays of hatred pointed right at me. Incidentally, this wasn’t an abnormal occurrence. But something about the fact that she wasn’t hiding it, not even a little, was a touch unsettling. It was like my creative expression was taking place in a laboratory of loathing. Not exactly nurturing to a fledgling singer/songwriter.
I never wrote, played or sang another song. I was fifteen.
It is a sad and awful truth of my creative life that there have been a handful of extremely powerful people who have obliterated me. Fucking kneecapped me. Raped and pillaged my ‘creative body’ to the point where I couldn’t even stand.
I’m telling you this, not because I’m fishing for encouragement or laying bare my obvious low self-esteem problems. I’m telling you this because I suspect it’s not uncommon.
There’s a certain point of creative expression where you finally (sometimes after years and years and years) get brave enough to bring your work out into the world. Sometimes it’s to show your parents or teachers, sometimes a creative mentor, sometimes a friend. These initial ‘airings’ are critically important. And they really need to go well. Because if they don’t, they can send fragile artists scuttling back into the closet as fast as you can say Art Fag. (Maybe that’s what that term is all about.)
I don't know if Director's new band will happen or if I'll be the singer. But I do know this: seventeen years is way, way, WAY too long to deprive yourself of something that gives you a thrill right down to your toenails.
So this weird song intuition felt like a bit of a bust. Although fantasies about writing and performing all the songs for my movie did cross my mind once or twice.
But. On the weekend in rehearsal, Director told us his band was disbanding after five or something years. I told him not to worry. That another band was waiting for him. He brightened and said that one of my fellow actors is a guitarist and they’d already tossed around the idea of starting something. I said I’d sing.
Deep Secret #721: Being a singer in a band has been one of the major dreams of my life. Very few people know this. Shh.
This whole band conversation was really off-hand and chit-chatty. But as I drove home, little bits of lyrics flitted through my head. And yesterday morning I woke up and, y’know, wrote a song. A whole bunch of lyrics just poured out. I don’t really know the normal structure of a song but I wrote several verses and a chorus and some bridge kind of thing (whatever that is) and an ending thingy (coda?) that could be repeated into forever as the song fades out (and the crowd goes wild).
It’s a breakup song. Using sports analogies. Really, I just wanted to see if I could get ‘TSN turning point’ into a sad love song. I think it works. It’s like she’s trying to speak his language at a point in the relationship where their communication is totally broken.
Deep Secret #722: It’s not my first song.
When I was in high school I taught myself to play a few chords on a guitar. Then I wrote a song. Then I sang it for my family. It was a Christmas gift to my parents who have been waiting for me to sing in public again since ninth grade when I...wait for it...sang Heaven by Brian Adams in front of the whole school.
Anyhoo, I wrote this song on guitar and played it. And the whole time I’m pouring my heart out to my parents, Middle Sister is giving me the full-frontal Death Glare. I’m talking, mach ten gamma rays of hatred pointed right at me. Incidentally, this wasn’t an abnormal occurrence. But something about the fact that she wasn’t hiding it, not even a little, was a touch unsettling. It was like my creative expression was taking place in a laboratory of loathing. Not exactly nurturing to a fledgling singer/songwriter.
I never wrote, played or sang another song. I was fifteen.
It is a sad and awful truth of my creative life that there have been a handful of extremely powerful people who have obliterated me. Fucking kneecapped me. Raped and pillaged my ‘creative body’ to the point where I couldn’t even stand.
I’m telling you this, not because I’m fishing for encouragement or laying bare my obvious low self-esteem problems. I’m telling you this because I suspect it’s not uncommon.
There’s a certain point of creative expression where you finally (sometimes after years and years and years) get brave enough to bring your work out into the world. Sometimes it’s to show your parents or teachers, sometimes a creative mentor, sometimes a friend. These initial ‘airings’ are critically important. And they really need to go well. Because if they don’t, they can send fragile artists scuttling back into the closet as fast as you can say Art Fag. (Maybe that’s what that term is all about.)
I don't know if Director's new band will happen or if I'll be the singer. But I do know this: seventeen years is way, way, WAY too long to deprive yourself of something that gives you a thrill right down to your toenails.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
I'll Show You My Crazy
Aaaaannddd....fade to psycho. For real. I haven't been this nuts since the Bad Old Days. We're talking emotional, irrational, super-sonically oversensitive. My best girlfriend would probably ask me if I was pregnant. Now that I think about it, people have been asking that a lot lately. Well, folks, I am. In a manner of speaking.
I'm pregnant with a whole new idea of myself. I think I'm having morning-noon-and-night sickness. Only it's not sporadic puking and nausea. It's mental illness. The past few days have been a nutso roller coaster of rage, fear, euphoria and insight. And the carny doesn't appear to be letting me off the ride. He keeps yelling, "You wanna go fassssss-tahhhhh?"
Saturday, I was enraged because Boyfriend ran too fast on our training run. I chalked it up to an inflamed ego (he always runs faster than me...even though I train way more diligently. Damn his Y chromosome, Steve Prefontaine-style natural talent and apparent need to set land speed records on a casual Saturday run).
So, I took the classy road and made bitchy passive-aggressive comments. Then I made mac & cheese. I used a metal spoon to stir it in one of Boyfriend's precious pots. Which is a no-no. He called me on it. I flipped out. You see, Boyfriend doesn't buy a lot of stuff, but when he buys it, he buys the best. And he expects his things to be treated with respect. This is very unlike me, who buys cheap IKEA crap and abuses the shit out of it. I have also long suspected that he loves his dark-stained hardwood floor more than he loves me. He says he doesn't. I'm not so sure.
So the day wasn't going well. I jumped into my car and headed to rehearsal. Where I kissed a woman for the first time in my life. Unless you count that time in high school when my friend Jen asked me to help her come out of the closet. She wanted to see what it was like. I was game. Only she freaked right out as soon as our lips touched. Which was about as hot and heavy as things got in rehearsal. My very first lesbian kiss was the most chaste non-issue of a kiss I have ever experienced.
But, other than the boring kiss, that rehearsal confirmed something for me: I fucking love this. I love making creative work. I love rehearsing. I love watching other people rehearse. I love talking through scenes and scripts. I am so blissfully happy in a studio, it's crazy. At one point, I looked around and thought, "Holy shit. I'm working right now. This is my job." And I almost did a spontaneous happy dance right then and there. Glorious.
So, I celebrated by coming home and smashing one of Boyfriend's Reidel chardonnay glasses on the sacred hardwood. I was so irrationally, psychotically upset at myself that I stomped up the stairs and put myself to bed. It took a half hour before Boyfriend realized I was not coming back downstairs to enjoy the chocolate I had demanded as I swung my arms wildly (thus knocking the world's most expensive chardonnay glass onto the floor).
I appear to be locked in some form of internal mortal combat. Between Accepting and Resisting. Ego and Artist. Gnashing psychotic and enlightened being. Who will emerge victorious? Stay tuned.
I'm pregnant with a whole new idea of myself. I think I'm having morning-noon-and-night sickness. Only it's not sporadic puking and nausea. It's mental illness. The past few days have been a nutso roller coaster of rage, fear, euphoria and insight. And the carny doesn't appear to be letting me off the ride. He keeps yelling, "You wanna go fassssss-tahhhhh?"
Saturday, I was enraged because Boyfriend ran too fast on our training run. I chalked it up to an inflamed ego (he always runs faster than me...even though I train way more diligently. Damn his Y chromosome, Steve Prefontaine-style natural talent and apparent need to set land speed records on a casual Saturday run).
So, I took the classy road and made bitchy passive-aggressive comments. Then I made mac & cheese. I used a metal spoon to stir it in one of Boyfriend's precious pots. Which is a no-no. He called me on it. I flipped out. You see, Boyfriend doesn't buy a lot of stuff, but when he buys it, he buys the best. And he expects his things to be treated with respect. This is very unlike me, who buys cheap IKEA crap and abuses the shit out of it. I have also long suspected that he loves his dark-stained hardwood floor more than he loves me. He says he doesn't. I'm not so sure.
So the day wasn't going well. I jumped into my car and headed to rehearsal. Where I kissed a woman for the first time in my life. Unless you count that time in high school when my friend Jen asked me to help her come out of the closet. She wanted to see what it was like. I was game. Only she freaked right out as soon as our lips touched. Which was about as hot and heavy as things got in rehearsal. My very first lesbian kiss was the most chaste non-issue of a kiss I have ever experienced.
But, other than the boring kiss, that rehearsal confirmed something for me: I fucking love this. I love making creative work. I love rehearsing. I love watching other people rehearse. I love talking through scenes and scripts. I am so blissfully happy in a studio, it's crazy. At one point, I looked around and thought, "Holy shit. I'm working right now. This is my job." And I almost did a spontaneous happy dance right then and there. Glorious.
So, I celebrated by coming home and smashing one of Boyfriend's Reidel chardonnay glasses on the sacred hardwood. I was so irrationally, psychotically upset at myself that I stomped up the stairs and put myself to bed. It took a half hour before Boyfriend realized I was not coming back downstairs to enjoy the chocolate I had demanded as I swung my arms wildly (thus knocking the world's most expensive chardonnay glass onto the floor).
I appear to be locked in some form of internal mortal combat. Between Accepting and Resisting. Ego and Artist. Gnashing psychotic and enlightened being. Who will emerge victorious? Stay tuned.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Voice and Character
I've been thinking about voice these past few days. I'm working through my third draft in between slaving away on my copywriting and, oh yeah, rehearsing for a play in which I play a lesbian therapist. Yup. Did I mention the on-stage orgasm? Jesus help me. Actually, the fact that I'm creating character as an actor AND as a writer right now puts an interesting spin on the whole idea.
I'm thinking about the dialogue and how these characters sound. And how the people in my life sound. There are a few people in my life, past and present, who have really distinctive voices. The kind that stick in your head. Or even in your mouth. In the sense that you can't help yourself from imitating them, even just to try on the shape of their words.
I had lunch with a couple of these vocal inspirations today: Heather and Hilary. H&H. Heather told us about her romantic billowing white nightie, sighing out her words as she does.
Only, the best way to really get a good dose of Heatherspeak is to chit-chat with her on the phone. She has a way of prefacing whatever she's about to tell you by sighing your name in a kind of sardonic groan. "Oh, Mel...," she begins, and then she tells you some godawful this or that which has transpired, followed by an, "Oh my God." Everything she says has a world-weary quality that is undercut by a bone-dry sense of humour. It's lovely.
And Hilary has a way of curling her mouth around words. It's the only way I know to describe it. Accompanying the incredible way she speaks words, there are languid cat-like head movements. So, everything about her speech is smooth and unruffled. I remember her telling me once how much a certain someone drove her crazy. "I'm enraged," she said placidly. Her tongue wrapped around that R so deliciously, rage was suddenly the most succulent emotion in the world. Honestly, I could listen to Hil be enraged all day.
An old dance professor of mine was one of those that I couldn't help but imitate. She was from New York, but her accent was so faint that it was more of an inflection than anything. A kind of generic American tinge really. Her voice was breathy and emphatic. As though she exhaled her words one at a time.
And each of these words was filled with such a force of expression, it was like every one was a tale in and of itself. She. Would tell. These...STORIES. In such. A dramatic. Way. That you. Couldn't. HELP. But be. Drawn. IN. To all the. DRAMA. And everything she said ended in, "Y'know." Not a question, but a statement with a looooong, drawn out 'y' that actually sounded more like an 'e.' Eeeeeee'know.
The last of these vocal muses is my friend the dentist. Dr. Mel (her name is also Mel) has a way of punctuating stories with a very particular brand of one-liner. A kind of off hand summary-meets-conclusion-meets-punchline. These punchline summations always begin with 'And.' A drawn-out, soaring 'And' finished with a two-syllable machine gun pay-off. It's like the 'And' is the whistle as the bomb hurtles toward the earth, followed by the one-two punch of the explosion.
Aaaaaand...we're done. She'd say about some relationship gone terribly, terribly sour. Aaaaand....divorce. She'd say about another relationship (mine) gone just as sour. And...I'm drunk. (After three bottles of wine and a hot tub.) And...you suck. (Regarding a mass murderer.)
I immediately launch into And-ism when I'm around her. Yesterday I wrote her an email which included the line: And...fade to psycho. Although it's only just now I identified the two-syllable finish. 'Fade to psycho' is three. Not as effective. Although really quite clever if I do say so myself. And...I'm out.
I'm thinking about the dialogue and how these characters sound. And how the people in my life sound. There are a few people in my life, past and present, who have really distinctive voices. The kind that stick in your head. Or even in your mouth. In the sense that you can't help yourself from imitating them, even just to try on the shape of their words.
I had lunch with a couple of these vocal inspirations today: Heather and Hilary. H&H. Heather told us about her romantic billowing white nightie, sighing out her words as she does.
Only, the best way to really get a good dose of Heatherspeak is to chit-chat with her on the phone. She has a way of prefacing whatever she's about to tell you by sighing your name in a kind of sardonic groan. "Oh, Mel...," she begins, and then she tells you some godawful this or that which has transpired, followed by an, "Oh my God." Everything she says has a world-weary quality that is undercut by a bone-dry sense of humour. It's lovely.
And Hilary has a way of curling her mouth around words. It's the only way I know to describe it. Accompanying the incredible way she speaks words, there are languid cat-like head movements. So, everything about her speech is smooth and unruffled. I remember her telling me once how much a certain someone drove her crazy. "I'm enraged," she said placidly. Her tongue wrapped around that R so deliciously, rage was suddenly the most succulent emotion in the world. Honestly, I could listen to Hil be enraged all day.
An old dance professor of mine was one of those that I couldn't help but imitate. She was from New York, but her accent was so faint that it was more of an inflection than anything. A kind of generic American tinge really. Her voice was breathy and emphatic. As though she exhaled her words one at a time.
And each of these words was filled with such a force of expression, it was like every one was a tale in and of itself. She. Would tell. These...STORIES. In such. A dramatic. Way. That you. Couldn't. HELP. But be. Drawn. IN. To all the. DRAMA. And everything she said ended in, "Y'know." Not a question, but a statement with a looooong, drawn out 'y' that actually sounded more like an 'e.' Eeeeeee'know.
The last of these vocal muses is my friend the dentist. Dr. Mel (her name is also Mel) has a way of punctuating stories with a very particular brand of one-liner. A kind of off hand summary-meets-conclusion-meets-punchline. These punchline summations always begin with 'And.' A drawn-out, soaring 'And' finished with a two-syllable machine gun pay-off. It's like the 'And' is the whistle as the bomb hurtles toward the earth, followed by the one-two punch of the explosion.
Aaaaaand...we're done. She'd say about some relationship gone terribly, terribly sour. Aaaaand....divorce. She'd say about another relationship (mine) gone just as sour. And...I'm drunk. (After three bottles of wine and a hot tub.) And...you suck. (Regarding a mass murderer.)
I immediately launch into And-ism when I'm around her. Yesterday I wrote her an email which included the line: And...fade to psycho. Although it's only just now I identified the two-syllable finish. 'Fade to psycho' is three. Not as effective. Although really quite clever if I do say so myself. And...I'm out.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Cart...Meet Horse's Ass
Doing stuff you don't want to do. An integral part of the human experience. My knickers are in a knot about this freelance project I have to do. It's writing for a major mountain real estate developer (Expansive views! Well-appointed suites!).
The project is between 20 and 45 hours of work, which by my estimation, equals a lot of money. Like, if I worked my ass off for four days, I could take a month off. At least. I could take a month off and eat scallops every three to five days. Or drink nothing but Caffe Artigiano lattes. Size large. Or get weekly pedicures and possibly even weekly massages. Or maybe all of that. You see what I'm saying. Good. Money.
But. I'm rocking the resistance right now. Big time. I wanna take my marbles and go home. Why? Because I don't want to write about 360-degree mountain views. I want to be a famous screenwriter.
So, Melanie. Are you working on your screenplay while you're procrastinating on this project?
Well, no. I'm looking up literary agents.
But your script isn't done.
I know.
So, how can you get an agent if you don't have a screenplay?
Shove it, Killjoy.
You see where I'm at. I'm in fantasy retard land. I'm sorry if that isn't a very PC thing to say. But as a retard, I am allowed to call myself one. That's how it works.
I'm poring over agents' web sites and submissions guidelines. I'm watching the clock move closer and closer to a quarter past Get Some Fucking Work Done Jones. I'm considering that Mount Everest of chocolate again. And I'm not writing. I am actively, verbtastically, full-frontally, kick-assily NOT writing.
And that is bloody lame. But not entirely uncommon methinks. If doing stuff we don't want to do is part of the Human Experience, then dread, avoidance and eye-gouging are all part of the Doing Stuff I Don't Wanna Do Experience.
My friend Life Coach Cathy would tell me that this, this right here, is my life. And my life is my responsibility. So if I want to have what the kids are calling a 'good life' then I must make this moment right here good.
She'd say delicious. Make it delicious. She'd tell me to make a giant cup of tea. She'd tell me to wrassle up a few Simple Pleasures Spice Snaps (Low fat! Great taste!) and light the fire. She'd tell me to enjoy it. To relish every moment. And to be grateful for the fact that I have this project that is earning me lots of money and buying me time to focus on my creative work. Hello? A month of overdosing on scallops, lattes and nail polish? Sounds pretty sweet, no?
Actually, I don't really know if she'd say all that. She's kind of become my inner life coach. She's inhabited my brain with things that I can't for the life of me un-know. Like to treat myself kindly in both word and action. (The retard comment wouldn't wash with my Inner Cathy.)
And so, I (and all of you out there in Don't-Wannasville, which incidentally, is next door to Fantasy Retard Land) must keep my eyes on the prize. Which is this here Present Moment.
And the fantasy of a mountain of buttery pan-seared scallops. Covered in chocolate sauce. And male models. And showgirls. With a cherry on top.
The project is between 20 and 45 hours of work, which by my estimation, equals a lot of money. Like, if I worked my ass off for four days, I could take a month off. At least. I could take a month off and eat scallops every three to five days. Or drink nothing but Caffe Artigiano lattes. Size large. Or get weekly pedicures and possibly even weekly massages. Or maybe all of that. You see what I'm saying. Good. Money.
But. I'm rocking the resistance right now. Big time. I wanna take my marbles and go home. Why? Because I don't want to write about 360-degree mountain views. I want to be a famous screenwriter.
So, Melanie. Are you working on your screenplay while you're procrastinating on this project?
Well, no. I'm looking up literary agents.
But your script isn't done.
I know.
So, how can you get an agent if you don't have a screenplay?
Shove it, Killjoy.
You see where I'm at. I'm in fantasy retard land. I'm sorry if that isn't a very PC thing to say. But as a retard, I am allowed to call myself one. That's how it works.
I'm poring over agents' web sites and submissions guidelines. I'm watching the clock move closer and closer to a quarter past Get Some Fucking Work Done Jones. I'm considering that Mount Everest of chocolate again. And I'm not writing. I am actively, verbtastically, full-frontally, kick-assily NOT writing.
And that is bloody lame. But not entirely uncommon methinks. If doing stuff we don't want to do is part of the Human Experience, then dread, avoidance and eye-gouging are all part of the Doing Stuff I Don't Wanna Do Experience.
My friend Life Coach Cathy would tell me that this, this right here, is my life. And my life is my responsibility. So if I want to have what the kids are calling a 'good life' then I must make this moment right here good.
She'd say delicious. Make it delicious. She'd tell me to make a giant cup of tea. She'd tell me to wrassle up a few Simple Pleasures Spice Snaps (Low fat! Great taste!) and light the fire. She'd tell me to enjoy it. To relish every moment. And to be grateful for the fact that I have this project that is earning me lots of money and buying me time to focus on my creative work. Hello? A month of overdosing on scallops, lattes and nail polish? Sounds pretty sweet, no?
Actually, I don't really know if she'd say all that. She's kind of become my inner life coach. She's inhabited my brain with things that I can't for the life of me un-know. Like to treat myself kindly in both word and action. (The retard comment wouldn't wash with my Inner Cathy.)
And so, I (and all of you out there in Don't-Wannasville, which incidentally, is next door to Fantasy Retard Land) must keep my eyes on the prize. Which is this here Present Moment.
And the fantasy of a mountain of buttery pan-seared scallops. Covered in chocolate sauce. And male models. And showgirls. With a cherry on top.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Clearing the Decks
M'kay. I'm trying to keep humble about this. Trying to just, y'know, flow with the universe and whatnot. But, I gotta tell you. I'm feeling pretty effin' smug.
Here is what peace of mind feels like:
WHOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOO!!!! (Yep, four exclamation points, people.)
And here is what peace of mind costs:
$0.00 2006 Taxes
$561.00 2007 Taxes
$147.00 Library Fees
$392.00 Property Tax to May 2008
$430.00 GST Q4 2008
$0.00 Address change for Alberta Health Care
And whatever my car tune-up costs next Monday
So, it was an expensive day. It was a productive day. It was a glorious day! I'm free. Well, almost...my car and I have Doctor's appointments to deal with yet. And I'm waiting on two pieces of paper for my 2006 tax return. But other than that, I am pretty much a fully functioning, fully responsible Canadian citizen.
I'd been harbouring some weird surliness toward our government. I will admit, I was justifying not filing my taxes (and therefore paying what I owed) because of some strange and misguided belief that I don't use government services as much as, say, an unemployed blind single mother of a chronically ill child. And therefore shouldn't really have to pay. Or something. Now that I think about it, I really don't know what my logic was there.
I'm just finishing up a lovely book called The Soul of Money (by Lynne Twist). It talks about money as flow. And about using your money to support your highest ideals and consciousness, whether it is earning that money or spending that money. It talks about giving as a form of increasing the flow of dough in your world. It also talked about how paying taxes can be a beautiful way to support the rest of your fellow citizens. That by paying taxes, I'm actually helping that single mom to have a better life.
I have never been so grateful about paying my taxes in my life. And I actually felt giddy leaving the library. I did, by the way, go with the, "I'm here to turn myself in" line. It got crickets to tell you the truth. There might have been a language barrier though. Those five ballet books were no longer in the system. So, I paid $147 for five books and a library card, and then promptly donated the books to the Sally Ann.
Here's hoping some little child gets all turned on by ballet flipping through those books. Here's also hoping that little child runs out and buys my book, so I can make back the $0.62 I get in royalties on that sucker. But realistically, after reading all my source material, why would that child even need to read my book? And buying my book means actually finding my book on a shelf somewhere, which is nearly impossible and is the main reason I don't write for that publishing company any more. And probably why that publishing company is thinking of having a bank foreclosure garage sale of all the other books languishing in the warehouse in cardboard boxes and not on the shelves of booksellers and bookbuyers.
Enough sad-sackery! Because today, friends, is not about pathetic publishing companies who overextended themselves and paid their authors chump change. No! Today is about clearing the decks. Offloading years of psychic energy and making room in my life and my bank account for glorious amounts of success and abundance.
The best part of today was that I wasn't attached to my money at all. My money had a higher purpose. That higher purpose was checking off items on a to do list, which in turn, allows me to be free in body, mind and spirit to go after my higher purpose: being an artist. Being a successful, joyous, well-paid artist. (I'm working on my affirmations.)
Dear readers, I can now speak from experience and not some half-assed 'Do as I say, not as I do' soapbox: completing your unfinished business is a wondrous affair. Right now, there is Irish jig music flowing through my blood. I'm serious! There is a party going on right here, right now. Get into it.
Here is what peace of mind feels like:
WHOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOO!!!! (Yep, four exclamation points, people.)
And here is what peace of mind costs:
$0.00 2006 Taxes
$561.00 2007 Taxes
$147.00 Library Fees
$392.00 Property Tax to May 2008
$430.00 GST Q4 2008
$0.00 Address change for Alberta Health Care
And whatever my car tune-up costs next Monday
So, it was an expensive day. It was a productive day. It was a glorious day! I'm free. Well, almost...my car and I have Doctor's appointments to deal with yet. And I'm waiting on two pieces of paper for my 2006 tax return. But other than that, I am pretty much a fully functioning, fully responsible Canadian citizen.
I'd been harbouring some weird surliness toward our government. I will admit, I was justifying not filing my taxes (and therefore paying what I owed) because of some strange and misguided belief that I don't use government services as much as, say, an unemployed blind single mother of a chronically ill child. And therefore shouldn't really have to pay. Or something. Now that I think about it, I really don't know what my logic was there.
I'm just finishing up a lovely book called The Soul of Money (by Lynne Twist). It talks about money as flow. And about using your money to support your highest ideals and consciousness, whether it is earning that money or spending that money. It talks about giving as a form of increasing the flow of dough in your world. It also talked about how paying taxes can be a beautiful way to support the rest of your fellow citizens. That by paying taxes, I'm actually helping that single mom to have a better life.
I have never been so grateful about paying my taxes in my life. And I actually felt giddy leaving the library. I did, by the way, go with the, "I'm here to turn myself in" line. It got crickets to tell you the truth. There might have been a language barrier though. Those five ballet books were no longer in the system. So, I paid $147 for five books and a library card, and then promptly donated the books to the Sally Ann.
Here's hoping some little child gets all turned on by ballet flipping through those books. Here's also hoping that little child runs out and buys my book, so I can make back the $0.62 I get in royalties on that sucker. But realistically, after reading all my source material, why would that child even need to read my book? And buying my book means actually finding my book on a shelf somewhere, which is nearly impossible and is the main reason I don't write for that publishing company any more. And probably why that publishing company is thinking of having a bank foreclosure garage sale of all the other books languishing in the warehouse in cardboard boxes and not on the shelves of booksellers and bookbuyers.
Enough sad-sackery! Because today, friends, is not about pathetic publishing companies who overextended themselves and paid their authors chump change. No! Today is about clearing the decks. Offloading years of psychic energy and making room in my life and my bank account for glorious amounts of success and abundance.
The best part of today was that I wasn't attached to my money at all. My money had a higher purpose. That higher purpose was checking off items on a to do list, which in turn, allows me to be free in body, mind and spirit to go after my higher purpose: being an artist. Being a successful, joyous, well-paid artist. (I'm working on my affirmations.)
Dear readers, I can now speak from experience and not some half-assed 'Do as I say, not as I do' soapbox: completing your unfinished business is a wondrous affair. Right now, there is Irish jig music flowing through my blood. I'm serious! There is a party going on right here, right now. Get into it.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Library Fugitive
Okay, know how I told you to clear away all your unfinished business? And I told you what was on my list of Incompletes? Things like taxes and getting my oil changed? 'Member?
Well, I didn't do any of it. Sorry. And I didn't tell you about one thing. Ech. I mentioned it, in passing, lumped in with all my other incompletes. In an I'm-pregnant-pass-the-peas kind of way. I have five overdue library books.
So, what, right? No. These are so far beyond any normal concept of overdue that I don't even think that's the right word for them. They are undead. Vampire library books. Zombie books. Books that I have packed up and moved to three different apartments. Books that sit in my bookshelf groaning and drooling and sucking valuable life energy from me. Books the library probably doesn't even want anymore.
All five of these books are about ballet. All five were used during the research of my first-ever published book: a biography of Karen Kain, Canadian prima ballerina. I adored her as a kid and I got the opportunity to write about her. Write a book about her. A book that was going to be published, thank you, and would earn the trivial but strangely satisfying honour of being the #3 bestseller in Canmore.
For like five minutes. Maybe a week. But it happened. Which makes me think that I could justifiably call myself a best-selling author. *Snorts with laughter.* Maybe I'll try that at a party sometime.
This book I wrote was published in 2005. I can't remember how long it took between the writing of it and the publishing of it. But even if it was four seconds, that means I've had these library books for three years. Three years. And probably more like four.
So basically, I've been a fugitive from the Calgary Public Library for a long, long time. With any luck, I'm their #1 Most Wanted. #3 Bestseller AND #1 Most Wanted. Damn, I'm good! Only, they probably think I've died or gone into some witness protection program or something.
Who would the library's #1 Most Wanted be do you think? Maybe some perv who draws penises in the margins. All different sizes and shapes. Huge spooging yangs in all the self-help books. WANTED: The Calgary Cocksketcher. Imagine what his Wanted poster composite sketch would look like. Blech. And the description: "Suspect is male, circumsized and bends to the left."
For some reason, this is making me think about when we were kids and my dad found his copy of The Joy Of Sex open and face down in the basement. He gathered the three of us girls down there and asked us which one was reading the book and whether we had any questions. We all denied reading it. It was me. Obviously.
Anyhoo. I'm off to face the library music. Why now, you might ask. Why, after three to four years of a libraryless life? Seriously, just Google it. The thing is, friends, I love books. I love them to death. The feel of them, the smell of them, just holding them. They are, quite possibly, my favourite things on the planet.
And I just realized yesterday that I am stripping myself of the delicious gift of an unlimited supply of books. I never looked at my criminal ways from that perspective before. I always kind of thought it was just basic irresponsibility. But no. It's much worse. It's low self-worth. It may sound extreme, but what would you call it if someone has created a world where they don't give themselves FREE access to the thing they love the most. God. When you put it that way, any late charge in the world is pocket change!
My plan is to go in there and say something really dramatic like, "I am here to turn myself in." Or something. I haven't worked out the script just yet. But I'm going in there to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God. And when I do, three or four years of psychic weight will be lifted! All for the low, low price of five books!
I'll let you know how it goes.
Well, I didn't do any of it. Sorry. And I didn't tell you about one thing. Ech. I mentioned it, in passing, lumped in with all my other incompletes. In an I'm-pregnant-pass-the-peas kind of way. I have five overdue library books.
So, what, right? No. These are so far beyond any normal concept of overdue that I don't even think that's the right word for them. They are undead. Vampire library books. Zombie books. Books that I have packed up and moved to three different apartments. Books that sit in my bookshelf groaning and drooling and sucking valuable life energy from me. Books the library probably doesn't even want anymore.
All five of these books are about ballet. All five were used during the research of my first-ever published book: a biography of Karen Kain, Canadian prima ballerina. I adored her as a kid and I got the opportunity to write about her. Write a book about her. A book that was going to be published, thank you, and would earn the trivial but strangely satisfying honour of being the #3 bestseller in Canmore.
For like five minutes. Maybe a week. But it happened. Which makes me think that I could justifiably call myself a best-selling author. *Snorts with laughter.* Maybe I'll try that at a party sometime.
This book I wrote was published in 2005. I can't remember how long it took between the writing of it and the publishing of it. But even if it was four seconds, that means I've had these library books for three years. Three years. And probably more like four.
So basically, I've been a fugitive from the Calgary Public Library for a long, long time. With any luck, I'm their #1 Most Wanted. #3 Bestseller AND #1 Most Wanted. Damn, I'm good! Only, they probably think I've died or gone into some witness protection program or something.
Who would the library's #1 Most Wanted be do you think? Maybe some perv who draws penises in the margins. All different sizes and shapes. Huge spooging yangs in all the self-help books. WANTED: The Calgary Cocksketcher. Imagine what his Wanted poster composite sketch would look like. Blech. And the description: "Suspect is male, circumsized and bends to the left."
For some reason, this is making me think about when we were kids and my dad found his copy of The Joy Of Sex open and face down in the basement. He gathered the three of us girls down there and asked us which one was reading the book and whether we had any questions. We all denied reading it. It was me. Obviously.
Anyhoo. I'm off to face the library music. Why now, you might ask. Why, after three to four years of a libraryless life? Seriously, just Google it. The thing is, friends, I love books. I love them to death. The feel of them, the smell of them, just holding them. They are, quite possibly, my favourite things on the planet.
And I just realized yesterday that I am stripping myself of the delicious gift of an unlimited supply of books. I never looked at my criminal ways from that perspective before. I always kind of thought it was just basic irresponsibility. But no. It's much worse. It's low self-worth. It may sound extreme, but what would you call it if someone has created a world where they don't give themselves FREE access to the thing they love the most. God. When you put it that way, any late charge in the world is pocket change!
My plan is to go in there and say something really dramatic like, "I am here to turn myself in." Or something. I haven't worked out the script just yet. But I'm going in there to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God. And when I do, three or four years of psychic weight will be lifted! All for the low, low price of five books!
I'll let you know how it goes.
La Spazze Speaks
Welcome to the Holiday Monday Special Edition of Melanie's Complex Psychological Process! Thanks for joining us. In this episode we will examine the fascinating tendency to experience breakthrough moments of enlightened intuition followed by several days of gut-twisting anxiety and Olympic-level self-doubt.
Observe as our subject asks for guidance from the all-knowing Universe. Observe as she receives the messages she requested. And now observe as she sinks into depression, crawls into a hole and dies.
This intriguing behavioral reversal appears to be related to a condition known as spazzicus terrifibius – a highly infectious condition affecting the brains of humans and some rodent species.
This condition appears to arise from the realization that one cannot un-know what one knows. So, when a subject experiences an insight or epiphany that may, in fact, lead to life-changing results...and then said subject would really like to melt into a ball of goo in front of the TV and never do anything hard or scary again...said subject is painfully aware that such avoidance behaviour is diametrically opposed to the original insight.
Let's explore an example.
And let's quit playing doctor.
I had a major breakthrough last Wednesday night. Major. Huge. One of the biggest insights of my adult life, actually. That instead of selling my screenplay in order to be a full-time artist, I need to commit to being an artist first and then all the doors in the world will open. That I've had it backwards all along. It was an exciting, wondrous feeling.
And since then I've been a bag of shit. I've wanted to run screaming from everything and work in a pop bottle factory. I've wanted to rent forty-seven movies and watch them all back to back for eight days straight. I thought about amassing an Everest-scale pile of potato chips, cookies, chocolate and red wine...and consuming my way to oblivion. I've strategized the execution of a moderate car accident which would result in selective memory loss (and negligible damage to other parts...mine and the car's). I considered flying to India and hiding out in an ashram or maybe even an Afghan terrorist cell. I could be the entertainment.
I repeat: a bag of shit.
Yesterday, I hornswaggled Boyfriend into renting a bunch of videos with me and buying chips and beer. I was looking forward to an afternoon/evening of denial and drooling in front of the TV. But then he had the entirely wholesome and creatively nurturing idea that we plant a herb garden. I loathed him for 2.7 minutes and then off we went to the garden centre. We are now the proud parents of several aromatic organic children. We keep them in nice terracotta pots in the sunshine.
And the movies I did end up watching were inspirational and delicious. And then I woke up this morning and went running. And I remembered that May is the most precious month, so I set about soaking it up.
May is the month when spring finally ramps up. The crocuses are in their ground-hugging glory and the trees are actually green, exploding with juicy new leaves. May also goes by really fast because it's almost over before this new-life gig hits its stride and then Junejulyaugust might as well be a week long they're over so fast.
Every May I tell myself, 'Don't forget this.' And I try desperately to hang on. I stare at the little blooms and buds like a clingy teenage lover. I eat it all with my eyes, almost falling over myself on the pathway in my desire to consume and devour.
And then, usually, I forget. I get caught up in some struggle or problem and I forget that May is precious and passing me by.
I think there's a metaphor here about being an artist and releasing and staying in the moment. I also think that nature doesn't try so hard. The blooms happen when the time is right. They aren't too worried about it. They're just doing their thing.
Two more people made deposits to the 'Mel, you ARE an artist' bank account today. I'm amassing quite the fortune in there. And here I am freaking out and running in circles. Trying to hide when there's nothing to hide from. I am what I am. No matter what. So I might as well just freaking relax about it.
Observe as our subject asks for guidance from the all-knowing Universe. Observe as she receives the messages she requested. And now observe as she sinks into depression, crawls into a hole and dies.
This intriguing behavioral reversal appears to be related to a condition known as spazzicus terrifibius – a highly infectious condition affecting the brains of humans and some rodent species.
This condition appears to arise from the realization that one cannot un-know what one knows. So, when a subject experiences an insight or epiphany that may, in fact, lead to life-changing results...and then said subject would really like to melt into a ball of goo in front of the TV and never do anything hard or scary again...said subject is painfully aware that such avoidance behaviour is diametrically opposed to the original insight.
Let's explore an example.
And let's quit playing doctor.
I had a major breakthrough last Wednesday night. Major. Huge. One of the biggest insights of my adult life, actually. That instead of selling my screenplay in order to be a full-time artist, I need to commit to being an artist first and then all the doors in the world will open. That I've had it backwards all along. It was an exciting, wondrous feeling.
And since then I've been a bag of shit. I've wanted to run screaming from everything and work in a pop bottle factory. I've wanted to rent forty-seven movies and watch them all back to back for eight days straight. I thought about amassing an Everest-scale pile of potato chips, cookies, chocolate and red wine...and consuming my way to oblivion. I've strategized the execution of a moderate car accident which would result in selective memory loss (and negligible damage to other parts...mine and the car's). I considered flying to India and hiding out in an ashram or maybe even an Afghan terrorist cell. I could be the entertainment.
I repeat: a bag of shit.
Yesterday, I hornswaggled Boyfriend into renting a bunch of videos with me and buying chips and beer. I was looking forward to an afternoon/evening of denial and drooling in front of the TV. But then he had the entirely wholesome and creatively nurturing idea that we plant a herb garden. I loathed him for 2.7 minutes and then off we went to the garden centre. We are now the proud parents of several aromatic organic children. We keep them in nice terracotta pots in the sunshine.
And the movies I did end up watching were inspirational and delicious. And then I woke up this morning and went running. And I remembered that May is the most precious month, so I set about soaking it up.
May is the month when spring finally ramps up. The crocuses are in their ground-hugging glory and the trees are actually green, exploding with juicy new leaves. May also goes by really fast because it's almost over before this new-life gig hits its stride and then Junejulyaugust might as well be a week long they're over so fast.
Every May I tell myself, 'Don't forget this.' And I try desperately to hang on. I stare at the little blooms and buds like a clingy teenage lover. I eat it all with my eyes, almost falling over myself on the pathway in my desire to consume and devour.
And then, usually, I forget. I get caught up in some struggle or problem and I forget that May is precious and passing me by.
I think there's a metaphor here about being an artist and releasing and staying in the moment. I also think that nature doesn't try so hard. The blooms happen when the time is right. They aren't too worried about it. They're just doing their thing.
Two more people made deposits to the 'Mel, you ARE an artist' bank account today. I'm amassing quite the fortune in there. And here I am freaking out and running in circles. Trying to hide when there's nothing to hide from. I am what I am. No matter what. So I might as well just freaking relax about it.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Jumping off the Cliff
I'm sure you've heard the quote, "Leap and the net will appear." Or maybe this was the first time you've heard it. Delicious, no? A little nervewracking, sure, but what an idea! You fling yourself headlong into your dreams and the universe supports you. God, that kicks ass.
When's the last time you did that?
I do it a lot. People in my world like to refer to me as "impulsive," which could be (and has been) construed as "flaky." But I like to think of it as being intuitive and courageous. And that's how I will continue to think of it. Because when my gut speaks, I listen. Full stop.
And my gut spoke up the other night in the most exciting way.
I went to a screening of Louise Hay's "You Can Heal Your Life" in Cochrane on Wednesday night. A fabulous movie about metaphysical healing and the idea that if you change your thoughts, you can change your life. After the movie, my life coach friend Cathy, who was hosting the screening, got up and fielded questions and discussion.
Then she announced that she and I were going to be running a 12-week group course based on The Artist's Way. You remember...that book that I keep telling you to read? (Subliminal sales pitch: come to our course. Email me: melanie at melaniejones dot ca. Do it.)
Anyhoo. As Cathy announced our intention to run this course, she pointed to me. "Melanie just lived her dream by going to Paris for a month to write a screenplay." There was a collective gasp from the audience. How cool is that? It was quite thrilling. Made it all real.
I can't remember the precise timing of my epiphany. It was either during the movie or during the discussion. But, the instruction was this: do it now. Don't wait. Do it now. Be an artist NOW.
One of the people featured in the film was a doctor who suffered from serious and debilitating migraines. She said that, like most 'migrainous' personalities, she was obsessed by her need to do it right, get it right.
One day, on the verge of failing a university course, she called her parents and said, "I don't want to do this anymore." Her dad said, "So quit! Come home." For whatever reason, that was the key. She realized she didn't have to do anything. There was a way out. She didn't have to get it right and be perfect. Her migraines were cured.
What stuck with me was the sense of relief she had. The release you feel when the 'shoulds' just disappear and you let go of trying to get it right and be something you're not.
My brain has been working overtime trying to tell me that I need to finish my third draft and sell my screenplay before I can be a full time artist. That I have to do freelance copywriting to make money until I sell that screenplay.
What if that's backwards? What if it's just plain wrong?
What if I have to be a full time artist before I can sell my screenplay? What if I have to make that deep energetic commitment before the doors begin to open?
I have been sitting on the fence about being an artist. Believing that I shouldn't quit my day job until my art supports me. Um, how is that mindset supporting my art? That way of thinking keeps my creative work on the back burner. It keeps it playing second fiddle. It keeps it in the space of "later" or "wait until."
If you give the universe a wishy washy vibration, it gives you wishy washy results. Get clear and commit fully...and you get back what you put out.
Dana, in her very polite way, has been trying to tell me this all along. Melanie, she keeps writing, you ALREADY ARE an artist. You're already doing it. She told me last week that maybe I should stop writing about hardwood floors and boutique hotel chains. I totally ignored her. And then a few days later, the universe said it again. Do it. Now. Not later. Now.
Perhaps this time I should listen.
When's the last time you did that?
I do it a lot. People in my world like to refer to me as "impulsive," which could be (and has been) construed as "flaky." But I like to think of it as being intuitive and courageous. And that's how I will continue to think of it. Because when my gut speaks, I listen. Full stop.
And my gut spoke up the other night in the most exciting way.
I went to a screening of Louise Hay's "You Can Heal Your Life" in Cochrane on Wednesday night. A fabulous movie about metaphysical healing and the idea that if you change your thoughts, you can change your life. After the movie, my life coach friend Cathy, who was hosting the screening, got up and fielded questions and discussion.
Then she announced that she and I were going to be running a 12-week group course based on The Artist's Way. You remember...that book that I keep telling you to read? (Subliminal sales pitch: come to our course. Email me: melanie at melaniejones dot ca. Do it.)
Anyhoo. As Cathy announced our intention to run this course, she pointed to me. "Melanie just lived her dream by going to Paris for a month to write a screenplay." There was a collective gasp from the audience. How cool is that? It was quite thrilling. Made it all real.
I can't remember the precise timing of my epiphany. It was either during the movie or during the discussion. But, the instruction was this: do it now. Don't wait. Do it now. Be an artist NOW.
One of the people featured in the film was a doctor who suffered from serious and debilitating migraines. She said that, like most 'migrainous' personalities, she was obsessed by her need to do it right, get it right.
One day, on the verge of failing a university course, she called her parents and said, "I don't want to do this anymore." Her dad said, "So quit! Come home." For whatever reason, that was the key. She realized she didn't have to do anything. There was a way out. She didn't have to get it right and be perfect. Her migraines were cured.
What stuck with me was the sense of relief she had. The release you feel when the 'shoulds' just disappear and you let go of trying to get it right and be something you're not.
My brain has been working overtime trying to tell me that I need to finish my third draft and sell my screenplay before I can be a full time artist. That I have to do freelance copywriting to make money until I sell that screenplay.
What if that's backwards? What if it's just plain wrong?
What if I have to be a full time artist before I can sell my screenplay? What if I have to make that deep energetic commitment before the doors begin to open?
I have been sitting on the fence about being an artist. Believing that I shouldn't quit my day job until my art supports me. Um, how is that mindset supporting my art? That way of thinking keeps my creative work on the back burner. It keeps it playing second fiddle. It keeps it in the space of "later" or "wait until."
If you give the universe a wishy washy vibration, it gives you wishy washy results. Get clear and commit fully...and you get back what you put out.
Dana, in her very polite way, has been trying to tell me this all along. Melanie, she keeps writing, you ALREADY ARE an artist. You're already doing it. She told me last week that maybe I should stop writing about hardwood floors and boutique hotel chains. I totally ignored her. And then a few days later, the universe said it again. Do it. Now. Not later. Now.
Perhaps this time I should listen.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I Am A Big Bully
Yesterday was the first day of the rest of my life. Whatever that means. It was the day after the death of the Dating Dame. Which I didn't even think about once, incidentally. And it was the first 'Don't Talk To Me Until Noon' day. Which I extended to the entire day because things were rocking on the writing front. I decided copywriting could wait.
Breakthroughs galore in my screenplay. Dear old David (Mr. V-Neck), revealed his secret dreams to me. I knew he had something in him, something behind those perfectly pressed Banana Republic khakis and collared shirts. In the deep, dark recesses of his soul, he is a rock god. Who knew?
And Charlie made some noise, too. That bad bitch decided not to go gentle into that good night. Yesterday, she blazed into her shrink's office and demanded answers. She was having none of that 'what do you think?' psycho-crap either. "What's the fucking point, Doc?" And...I cut the suicide scene. Weird, hey? After that big dramatic deal in gay Paree, I CTRL X-ed it. Of course, I kept the scenes in a backup file, just in case.
Both people who have read this script asked me why she kills herself. I have no idea. I don't even think she knows. Maybe sending me bawling all over the streets of Paris was just a cry for help. So I'm pushing her around a bit. I'm making her tell me. What's the deal Chuckles? Why the dramatic self-finish? Huh? Why? She may off herself just to get me to shut up. I wouldn't be surprised.
Then there's the Undertaker. He's so put together, I almost didn't want to touch him. Look at him! Great suit, great car, great apartment. Making millions. Why would he need a rewrite?
Dude is the loneliest mo-fo I've ever met. For serious. He's constructed this perfect, sterile world where even grief can't penetrate. The only people in his life are his funeral home minions and his effed-up sister. Congratulations Buster. A gold medal in the Control Freak Olympics. He's my project for today. I'm going to rock his world.
I'm in the mood to fuck with these people. Pick some fights. Up some stakes. I'm sick of them acting all poetic and reticent. I wanna know what the hell is going on. I said I was going to push them to choose. Life or death, isolation or connection. Well, people, push has come to shove. Push has come to shove.
Breakthroughs galore in my screenplay. Dear old David (Mr. V-Neck), revealed his secret dreams to me. I knew he had something in him, something behind those perfectly pressed Banana Republic khakis and collared shirts. In the deep, dark recesses of his soul, he is a rock god. Who knew?
And Charlie made some noise, too. That bad bitch decided not to go gentle into that good night. Yesterday, she blazed into her shrink's office and demanded answers. She was having none of that 'what do you think?' psycho-crap either. "What's the fucking point, Doc?" And...I cut the suicide scene. Weird, hey? After that big dramatic deal in gay Paree, I CTRL X-ed it. Of course, I kept the scenes in a backup file, just in case.
Both people who have read this script asked me why she kills herself. I have no idea. I don't even think she knows. Maybe sending me bawling all over the streets of Paris was just a cry for help. So I'm pushing her around a bit. I'm making her tell me. What's the deal Chuckles? Why the dramatic self-finish? Huh? Why? She may off herself just to get me to shut up. I wouldn't be surprised.
Then there's the Undertaker. He's so put together, I almost didn't want to touch him. Look at him! Great suit, great car, great apartment. Making millions. Why would he need a rewrite?
Dude is the loneliest mo-fo I've ever met. For serious. He's constructed this perfect, sterile world where even grief can't penetrate. The only people in his life are his funeral home minions and his effed-up sister. Congratulations Buster. A gold medal in the Control Freak Olympics. He's my project for today. I'm going to rock his world.
I'm in the mood to fuck with these people. Pick some fights. Up some stakes. I'm sick of them acting all poetic and reticent. I wanna know what the hell is going on. I said I was going to push them to choose. Life or death, isolation or connection. Well, people, push has come to shove. Push has come to shove.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Surrender
I got fired yesterday. Kind of. Not really. I'm being overdramatic. The Dating Dame segment was canceled. And if I really wanted to get dramatic about it, I'd tell you that they canceled the segment while I was gone. Which is also true, only I wasn't surprised.
I will admit to feeling some rejection, though. Although the fact of the matter is, I asked for this. And I'm not saying this in a 'I'm trying to make myself feel better about being dumped' kind of way. I really did. I didn't want to do the Dating Dame anymore. And now I won't be. Weird.
I did it for four years. I started by pitching the idea to the producer of Breakfast Television back when I was still reeling from my divorce. They said 'We'll try it' and it really worked. I appeared on BT every couple of weeks for over two years before someone had the idea to shoot a pilot. My three friends and I actually ended up shooting two half-hour shows. Then we were offered the segment on Your City. My first paying TV gig. I also had a dating column in Avenue Magazine for a year.
The Dating Dame was my version of making lemonade. For the past year-ish, I've felt like I've outgrown her. That the DD served a very important personal and professional purpose, but that purpose had run its course. So here we are.
They want me to pitch some new segment ideas and my wee pea-brain immediately started spinning and chugging about how I could make an even better segment and be the star of the station and get my own show and be the next Oprah. But that's just ego talking.
In fact, it's been ego talking a lot of the time since I got back. My bully of a brain has become convinced that it needs to manhandle its way through this. "Figure it out." Strategize solutions. Brainstorm. Troubleshoot. Sigh.
Fucking middle management.
I've been ignoring God. I have been caught in the swirl of 'Gotta make money' and 'I don't wanna be here' and I haven't been listening. I haven't been writing either. Besides this blog, which I love, my creative work has consisted of booking hotels in Portland.
I looked at my money yesterday when I got home from my CityTV meeting. I am in much better shape than I thought I was. I've avoided looking at my bank account since returning, assuming that I (like most folks who return from European travels) was totally broke. Nope. In fact...I could take another month off if I wanted. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Here's another little gift from the universe. My BFF's friend David just got a job at a company in L.A. that, what, finances films. He's agreed to take a look at my script. And he's sure he knows someone who knows Peter Dinklage, the world's greatest little person.
Last night, I went back to the G-man. I said God, I know that this CityTV thing is clearing the way for something even better...please guide me to it. I surrender. So this morning, I am packing my laptop into my backpack and hiking to the nearest cafe. I'm going Parisian today. Like the good old days. I'm diving into my third draft. I'm going to start with The Undertaker and see where he takes me.
I will admit to feeling some rejection, though. Although the fact of the matter is, I asked for this. And I'm not saying this in a 'I'm trying to make myself feel better about being dumped' kind of way. I really did. I didn't want to do the Dating Dame anymore. And now I won't be. Weird.
I did it for four years. I started by pitching the idea to the producer of Breakfast Television back when I was still reeling from my divorce. They said 'We'll try it' and it really worked. I appeared on BT every couple of weeks for over two years before someone had the idea to shoot a pilot. My three friends and I actually ended up shooting two half-hour shows. Then we were offered the segment on Your City. My first paying TV gig. I also had a dating column in Avenue Magazine for a year.
The Dating Dame was my version of making lemonade. For the past year-ish, I've felt like I've outgrown her. That the DD served a very important personal and professional purpose, but that purpose had run its course. So here we are.
They want me to pitch some new segment ideas and my wee pea-brain immediately started spinning and chugging about how I could make an even better segment and be the star of the station and get my own show and be the next Oprah. But that's just ego talking.
In fact, it's been ego talking a lot of the time since I got back. My bully of a brain has become convinced that it needs to manhandle its way through this. "Figure it out." Strategize solutions. Brainstorm. Troubleshoot. Sigh.
Fucking middle management.
I've been ignoring God. I have been caught in the swirl of 'Gotta make money' and 'I don't wanna be here' and I haven't been listening. I haven't been writing either. Besides this blog, which I love, my creative work has consisted of booking hotels in Portland.
I looked at my money yesterday when I got home from my CityTV meeting. I am in much better shape than I thought I was. I've avoided looking at my bank account since returning, assuming that I (like most folks who return from European travels) was totally broke. Nope. In fact...I could take another month off if I wanted. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Here's another little gift from the universe. My BFF's friend David just got a job at a company in L.A. that, what, finances films. He's agreed to take a look at my script. And he's sure he knows someone who knows Peter Dinklage, the world's greatest little person.
Last night, I went back to the G-man. I said God, I know that this CityTV thing is clearing the way for something even better...please guide me to it. I surrender. So this morning, I am packing my laptop into my backpack and hiking to the nearest cafe. I'm going Parisian today. Like the good old days. I'm diving into my third draft. I'm going to start with The Undertaker and see where he takes me.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Dropping Threads
Yesterday, I was busy from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. straight. I woke up, finished editing a newsletter for a chain of resorts, cracked off yesterday's blog post (my grandmother gave me shit for not posting on Friday. I told her it won't happen again), jumped from the shower to my car with everything I needed for the day including two books, two journals, a change of clothing, a script, a computer, a water bottle and a notepad.
I drove downtown, my meditation CD not even cracking the surface of my adrenaline-charged mania. I was supposed to be imagining a golden light filling various part of my body, but instead I was imagining rear-ending the minivan in front of me. And how that would put me behind schedule by at least 15 minutes, which would throw off the delicate balance of my totally over-programmed day.
I was regressing to the Old Me. The Old Me would see a blank spot in her daytimer and gleefully plug in a meeting, briefing session, coffee date, TV shoot, whatever, without considering travel time, parking meter search time, Oh-Shit-I-Don't-Have-Change time, lunch time, or the extra time required for walking three blocks in stupid girly shoes with heels. I've lost count of the number of times I have been the idiot mincing down the sidewalk in that irritating, damsel-in-this-dress high-heel run. That's actually one of the things I love about Julia Roberts. She walks like a man, even in high heels. Check it out. Man walker.
I used to think I got off on the adrenaline high of being too busy for my own good. But now, as I slip back into an old pattern that no longer suits me, I realize I was just creating space for myself NOT to be an artist. Being too busy means being too busy for your dreams.
Yesterday, I felt two threads drop. My blog and my screenplay. I feel like I've been holding these delicate, precious threads...umbilical cords to the life that I want. And yesterday, I let my grip loosen and they started slipping through my fingers. I know what you're thinking: it's just one busy day, you can get it back. And yeah, I guess that's true.
But yesterday was a lesson about how easily, how quickly you can forget your dreams and step back on the hamster wheel of pointless action. It's like that kids' game of carrying an egg on a spoon. That egg on the spoon needs your total focus. One moment of distraction and it's over. In the game, there's no rule that says you can just put the spoon/egg down for a minute because you are really busy with some things right now, but you'll be able to pick it back up on Wednesday afternoon. Say...two thirty? No. Either you are walking with that egg on the spoon or you're not.
I don't even know if this is a good metaphor. Who cares. The point is, I felt the things that matter to me slip. And I know why I felt that. Over-programming my life is an old pattern that isn't going to work for me anymore, so it needs to change.
I can't just say my creative work is my priority. I have to live it. I have to build my life around the fact that I write plays and screenplays and books that are not going to languish in a drawer – they are going to be bought and read and produced and seen.
So, what does that mean? Tangibly.
I think it means no morning meetings for things like hotel web sites and hardwood floor brochures. The morning, for me, is sacred creative time. It's always been the time when I am most productive and creatively jazzed.
Okay, so, as of now, the morning is my time. Non-negotiable time for creative work. Whether it's Morning Pages or going for a run or blogging or sitting down with my third draft or emailing a producer or entering a contest.
The morning is now mine. I CLAIM THE MORNING.
God, this feels good.
The world will be fine without me until 12 o'clock. You hear that world? You are just going to have to fend for yourself.
What, this morning? This one right here?
Mine.
I drove downtown, my meditation CD not even cracking the surface of my adrenaline-charged mania. I was supposed to be imagining a golden light filling various part of my body, but instead I was imagining rear-ending the minivan in front of me. And how that would put me behind schedule by at least 15 minutes, which would throw off the delicate balance of my totally over-programmed day.
I was regressing to the Old Me. The Old Me would see a blank spot in her daytimer and gleefully plug in a meeting, briefing session, coffee date, TV shoot, whatever, without considering travel time, parking meter search time, Oh-Shit-I-Don't-Have-Change time, lunch time, or the extra time required for walking three blocks in stupid girly shoes with heels. I've lost count of the number of times I have been the idiot mincing down the sidewalk in that irritating, damsel-in-this-dress high-heel run. That's actually one of the things I love about Julia Roberts. She walks like a man, even in high heels. Check it out. Man walker.
I used to think I got off on the adrenaline high of being too busy for my own good. But now, as I slip back into an old pattern that no longer suits me, I realize I was just creating space for myself NOT to be an artist. Being too busy means being too busy for your dreams.
Yesterday, I felt two threads drop. My blog and my screenplay. I feel like I've been holding these delicate, precious threads...umbilical cords to the life that I want. And yesterday, I let my grip loosen and they started slipping through my fingers. I know what you're thinking: it's just one busy day, you can get it back. And yeah, I guess that's true.
But yesterday was a lesson about how easily, how quickly you can forget your dreams and step back on the hamster wheel of pointless action. It's like that kids' game of carrying an egg on a spoon. That egg on the spoon needs your total focus. One moment of distraction and it's over. In the game, there's no rule that says you can just put the spoon/egg down for a minute because you are really busy with some things right now, but you'll be able to pick it back up on Wednesday afternoon. Say...two thirty? No. Either you are walking with that egg on the spoon or you're not.
I don't even know if this is a good metaphor. Who cares. The point is, I felt the things that matter to me slip. And I know why I felt that. Over-programming my life is an old pattern that isn't going to work for me anymore, so it needs to change.
I can't just say my creative work is my priority. I have to live it. I have to build my life around the fact that I write plays and screenplays and books that are not going to languish in a drawer – they are going to be bought and read and produced and seen.
So, what does that mean? Tangibly.
I think it means no morning meetings for things like hotel web sites and hardwood floor brochures. The morning, for me, is sacred creative time. It's always been the time when I am most productive and creatively jazzed.
Okay, so, as of now, the morning is my time. Non-negotiable time for creative work. Whether it's Morning Pages or going for a run or blogging or sitting down with my third draft or emailing a producer or entering a contest.
The morning is now mine. I CLAIM THE MORNING.
God, this feels good.
The world will be fine without me until 12 o'clock. You hear that world? You are just going to have to fend for yourself.
What, this morning? This one right here?
Mine.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Letters from Suburbia: Part II
Day time in Burbage is stroller time. It's a veritable beauty pageant of Bugaboo Frogs and other inappropriately named (and priced) child transportation units. These vehicles are consistently propelled by new moms wearing black stretch pants and brightly coloured windbreakers with pervasive and confusing bum flaps. A rainbow of bum flaps bounce through this enclave: red, pink, yellow, lime green. The kinds of colours that say, 'Yo! Only fifteen pounds to go muthafuckas!' They pause at the traffic light, take a hit of Crystal Light and power walk into the labyrinth of paved pathways.I won't lie to you. They kinda make you want to be them. So driven in their motherhood. Manhandling those shopping carts, Starbucks cups and diaper bags like freaking MacGyver. I bet they have wall hangings that say Balance or Joy. I bet they have Treat Drawers with healthy, low-fat snack ideas for kids.
Some of them are downright intimidating. On the weekend, I was confronted on the sidewalk by a jogging-stroller-dog combo. The multitasking suburban mom commandeering this weapon flashed her veneered teeth in a smile (grimace?) and swung her blond ponytail at me by way of greeting (challenge?) as she jogged by. I responded with a wilted grin and the ovary-shriveling understanding that she and her soy-based, gluten-free child were Pleasantville perfect and I live a pathetic, selfish existence.
These creatures are vicious and they are powerful. They rule the streets.
I knew for a fact her Joovy Caboose stroller concealed all manner of high-tech single girl annihilation gear. On the patented rear platform, ergonomically designed for an older child, The Blonde Assassin stashed a goodie bag of throwing stars, laser-sight rifles and 9 mm handguns.
As she bounced past, everything went into slow motion. She snarled in my direction, reaching for her weaponry. My lightning-fast reflexes kicked in and I threw myself to the ground – the well-tended lawn of #45 Tuscany Boulevard. I rolled behind the fragrant juniper and ornamental cabbage for safety. As I grabbed a handful of decorative garden rocks, I wondered, 'Why did I leave the house so unprepared?'
Blondie fired a few rounds, using the Joovy as a shield. I knew that was a decoy infant. The dog barked viciously, saliva spraying from its rabid lips.
I grabbed the high-quality Rubbermaid trash can for protection, knowing that even the odour-minimizing lid wouldn't buy me much time. I looked at the pale pink quartzite in my hand. I prayed it would be enough.
Just then, a 2008 Lexus RX Luxury Utility Vehicle drove by. Blondie's blue-eyed gaze followed it, a sheen of drool appearing on her perfectly glossed lips. I guess everyone has their price.
It was just the distraction I needed. I squinted into the high-test glare of the alloy rims and took aim. The quartzite appeared to hover in the air in front of her ideally shaped head before smashing into her temple. She crumpled into a stylish, 115-pound heap on the sidewalk. Fido cowered and the Lexus' convenient rearview back up camera swiveled, taking stock of the carnage on the Boulevard. It drove on. Peace had returned to Tuscany...for the moment at least.
Some days, it's better not to leave the 2,000 sq. ft. two-storey, open-concept house.
Letters from Suburbia: Part I
Suburbia. I live here and I am an artist. I'll admit, it's pretty hard to nurture creativity in a place where all the houses (and people) look the same. And to be perfectly honest, I cringe every time I mail a book proposal or short story to some address in New York, San Francisco or L.A. I mean seriously, Tuscany Vista Crescent?It's no coincidence the word 'suburbia' closely resembles Siberia. Of course, suburban is also pretty close to subversive, but I don't think many folks would buy that.
Welcome to Tuscany. Yes, like the province in Italy. Believe me, if you experienced the sunbaked rolling hills and the Italian-inspired urban design, you'd have a mortgage here too.
Let me tell you about the Vista. Much like the Rocky Mountain vista visible from my favourite community pathway, the Vista here in the Crescent is a breathtaking sight. The vast expanse of shingle-capped peaks brings to mind the billions of years of history that have brought us to this point. Stark and rugged double-car garages emerge iconic from the muscular shifting of tectonic plates and relentless force of time and subdivisions. The postage-stamp lawns don't hinder the majestic 360-degree vinyl-siding views – a rhythmic rainbow of stone, taupe, salmon, repeat.
This wood-framed utopia is home to a vibrant nightlife.
Like the 30-something mixed-race couple next door who buck the cliché of exploring world cuisine and watching History Channel documentaries by playing Rock Band into the wee hours. Every night, the thumping bass of my neighbours' rock n' roll dreams seep through my walls. Their KISS-scented fantasies keeps me from sleep.
Two doors down is Bowness, so named because of the almost-constant presence of burnout cars and beer kegs. At Bowness, summertime means sittin' around the firepit, burnin' beer cans and celebrating the use of fuckin' as an adjective.
Life in the suburbs takes place mostly between my living room where my sweatpants have morphed with my skin, the pathway where the vinyl vista gives way to the mountain vista and Crowfoot Crossing, a sprawled-out, impossible-to-access wasteland of Boston Pizza and Blockbuster.
Here, excitement means dousing chicken breasts in President's Choice 'Memories of Montego Bay' marinade, slapping them on the George Foreman grill and watching Chef Gordon Ramsay turn a restaurant around in only 22 minutes of pre-recorded satellite cable television. Go Gordo. Go.
When I'm really steppin' out, I do the 30-minute drive to some stylish inner-city market where I pounce on contrived flavour combinations like fig and walnut as though they are the secret passage to freedom for an escaped suburban convict. The pomegranate-infused graphic design makes me feel better about my embarrassing street address. Hey, at least my spice rub is cool.
Third Drafts
I've never understood how writers got to the third draft stage. I have always been the kind of person who bashes out a first, squares the corners in the second and calls it a day. Even in the case of my books. I wrote four...nonfiction...terrible. Although, the culture of the publishing company I wrote for was that of a literary sweat shop. A bad example, I guess.
When I wrote my novel, the thought of a second draft (and the looming possibility of a third) was so intimidating that I didn't even bother. I blazed through the first draft in a month for NaNoWriMo 2006 and it's been sitting there, gathering dust for a year and a half.
Writing a 50,000-word novel in 30 days is more about quantity than quality, obviously. And it follows my philosophy about shitty first drafts. But the catch is, shitty first drafts need to lead to seconds and then to thirds. How that process happens is a bit of a mystery. I can't even be sure that what I did on my screenplay counts as a true second draft. If there is such a thing in the first place.
My first draft was a broad-strokes vomit of scenes, dialogue and character. As I wrote, I figured out (roughly) who these people are, what their problems are and where they are trying to go. On the page was mostly bad dialogue with enough scene description to get a sense of what was going on.
What I've been calling Version 1.5 was a polishing of the first, adding a few more layers to the skeleton. Bad generic-sounding dialogue became dialogue that this character might actually say (if they were highly sedated). I started thinking about how these people look (she's a rockabilly girl and he wears Banana Republic v-necks) and some internal opposition (he's really lonely, but is intentionally mean to everyone).
Version 2.0 was all about creating the world of the screenplay. I pared down the dialogue and explored how everything looked and felt from the rusty, dusty beater Claire drives to the yellowing paint on her walls. And although Dana the Artist advised me to write "like a miser sending a telegram to a four-year-old", I think the overlong descriptions of this draft taught me about how the outside of a character's world gives us access to their insides.
It was after Version 2.0 that I allowed people to read the thing. Only one has returned with feedback (good, usable feeback in fact), but I can't wait around for more. My third draft is already pushing on my chest, just like the second one did. I want out, it says. Let me at it. My characters are begging me to sit with them some more. They have more to tell me about who they are...their subtleties and contradictions. Their deepest desires. They are tugging on my sleeve again, whispering, "Listen."
Screenplays that Have Rocked My World in the Last Few Months:
When I wrote my novel, the thought of a second draft (and the looming possibility of a third) was so intimidating that I didn't even bother. I blazed through the first draft in a month for NaNoWriMo 2006 and it's been sitting there, gathering dust for a year and a half.
Writing a 50,000-word novel in 30 days is more about quantity than quality, obviously. And it follows my philosophy about shitty first drafts. But the catch is, shitty first drafts need to lead to seconds and then to thirds. How that process happens is a bit of a mystery. I can't even be sure that what I did on my screenplay counts as a true second draft. If there is such a thing in the first place.
My first draft was a broad-strokes vomit of scenes, dialogue and character. As I wrote, I figured out (roughly) who these people are, what their problems are and where they are trying to go. On the page was mostly bad dialogue with enough scene description to get a sense of what was going on.
What I've been calling Version 1.5 was a polishing of the first, adding a few more layers to the skeleton. Bad generic-sounding dialogue became dialogue that this character might actually say (if they were highly sedated). I started thinking about how these people look (she's a rockabilly girl and he wears Banana Republic v-necks) and some internal opposition (he's really lonely, but is intentionally mean to everyone).
Version 2.0 was all about creating the world of the screenplay. I pared down the dialogue and explored how everything looked and felt from the rusty, dusty beater Claire drives to the yellowing paint on her walls. And although Dana the Artist advised me to write "like a miser sending a telegram to a four-year-old", I think the overlong descriptions of this draft taught me about how the outside of a character's world gives us access to their insides.
It was after Version 2.0 that I allowed people to read the thing. Only one has returned with feedback (good, usable feeback in fact), but I can't wait around for more. My third draft is already pushing on my chest, just like the second one did. I want out, it says. Let me at it. My characters are begging me to sit with them some more. They have more to tell me about who they are...their subtleties and contradictions. Their deepest desires. They are tugging on my sleeve again, whispering, "Listen."
Screenplays that Have Rocked My World in the Last Few Months:
- Margot at the Wedding (laser-sharp characters and dialogue)
- The Station Agent (spare dialogue, beautiful characters, starring "my" dwarf, Peter Dinklage)
- Lars and the Real Girl (how to make a ridiculous scenario totally believable)
- The Savages (specific, subtle, nuanced characters, beautiful storytelling)
- Juno (smart-assed, punchy dialogue)
- Away From Her (lyrical and poetic)
- Death at a Funeral (a great example of escalating drama and high stakes)
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Pay-Offs
No dahling, not play offs...pay-offs. And yes, if you want to think about mafia soldiers palming wads of fifties from the poor-but-desperate grocery store owner, that works. Because the pay-offs I'm talking about are kind of underhanded. They're sneaky. They're kinda backwards.
But first, let's talk about your Feel-Good lists and how marvelous it was to write yours!
What?
You didn't write it?
And you didn't do your Incompletes list from the day before either, did you. No. Of course not. Great.
*Sigh*
It's alright. I might have anticipated this, just a little. You see, dear friends, there are pay-offs to staying stuck. And that is what Part Three of the Three-Part Heat-Seeking Anti-Denial Mental Missile is all about. The parts of you that want to stay stuck. The parts of you that (admit it) like the sympathy vote or the poor-me act or the myriad of comfy beliefs that keep you in jobs or relationships or situations you don't like "because that's just the way it is."
We love our underhanded pay-offs because they allow us not to move forward. They help maintain the status quo and they keep the warm, fuzzy walls of our comfort zone intact.
So, what are your pay-offs? What benefits are you receiving from staying in a bad situation or keeping a bad habit?
Let's explore an example. Workaholism. One of the most celebrated and rewarded unhealthy conditions (addictions) of our time. Despite the major 'Me Time' marketing thrust of yoga studios, Oprah and our health care system, we love overworking.
We get a lot out of it too. Even though our health is deteriorating, our relationships suffer and our leisure time consists of secondary addictions like television, porn and booze, we get the benefit of feeling driven, ambitious and better than those other lazy people. In fact, we begin to expect workaholism in others. If we are working this hard to get everything done, why shouldn't they? Clearly they aren't as interested in getting gold stars as we are.
Congratulations – you "survive" on six hours sleep! Congratulations – you send midnight emails! Congratulations – you haven't seen your mother/best friend/son in six months! Gold stars all around.
Bah, workaholism is too easy. Let's take a harder one: falling for the wrong person (again and again). What's the pay-off there? How can there be a pay-off in getting your heart smashed repeatedly? And how can you call this a bad habit...clearly it's just bad luck.
The pay-off is this: you get to be the centre of attention every time someone breaks your heart. Poor you! You deserve better! Etc! You get to feel 'better than' the jerk who dumped you. And, the bonus prize, you get all that delicious drama – the fights, the crying, the waiting by the phone – to distract you from dealing with your own low self-esteem. In other words, you get to not take responsibility for yourself.
Whew! Dodged that bullet.
That's mostly what pay-offs are about. Avoidance of responsibility. It's not your fault...it's your boss, bad boyfriend, overbearing mother, the fact that your creativity wasn't nurtured as a child. We are well-versed in the language of justification. And we love our pay-offs.
Look at the areas of your life that you aren't happy with. Let your Automatic Internal Excuse-Maker rest for a minute. Now answer this question: what pay-offs are you getting from staying stuck?
But first, let's talk about your Feel-Good lists and how marvelous it was to write yours!
What?
You didn't write it?
And you didn't do your Incompletes list from the day before either, did you. No. Of course not. Great.
*Sigh*
It's alright. I might have anticipated this, just a little. You see, dear friends, there are pay-offs to staying stuck. And that is what Part Three of the Three-Part Heat-Seeking Anti-Denial Mental Missile is all about. The parts of you that want to stay stuck. The parts of you that (admit it) like the sympathy vote or the poor-me act or the myriad of comfy beliefs that keep you in jobs or relationships or situations you don't like "because that's just the way it is."
We love our underhanded pay-offs because they allow us not to move forward. They help maintain the status quo and they keep the warm, fuzzy walls of our comfort zone intact.
So, what are your pay-offs? What benefits are you receiving from staying in a bad situation or keeping a bad habit?
Let's explore an example. Workaholism. One of the most celebrated and rewarded unhealthy conditions (addictions) of our time. Despite the major 'Me Time' marketing thrust of yoga studios, Oprah and our health care system, we love overworking.
We get a lot out of it too. Even though our health is deteriorating, our relationships suffer and our leisure time consists of secondary addictions like television, porn and booze, we get the benefit of feeling driven, ambitious and better than those other lazy people. In fact, we begin to expect workaholism in others. If we are working this hard to get everything done, why shouldn't they? Clearly they aren't as interested in getting gold stars as we are.
Congratulations – you "survive" on six hours sleep! Congratulations – you send midnight emails! Congratulations – you haven't seen your mother/best friend/son in six months! Gold stars all around.
Bah, workaholism is too easy. Let's take a harder one: falling for the wrong person (again and again). What's the pay-off there? How can there be a pay-off in getting your heart smashed repeatedly? And how can you call this a bad habit...clearly it's just bad luck.
The pay-off is this: you get to be the centre of attention every time someone breaks your heart. Poor you! You deserve better! Etc! You get to feel 'better than' the jerk who dumped you. And, the bonus prize, you get all that delicious drama – the fights, the crying, the waiting by the phone – to distract you from dealing with your own low self-esteem. In other words, you get to not take responsibility for yourself.
Whew! Dodged that bullet.
That's mostly what pay-offs are about. Avoidance of responsibility. It's not your fault...it's your boss, bad boyfriend, overbearing mother, the fact that your creativity wasn't nurtured as a child. We are well-versed in the language of justification. And we love our pay-offs.
Look at the areas of your life that you aren't happy with. Let your Automatic Internal Excuse-Maker rest for a minute. Now answer this question: what pay-offs are you getting from staying stuck?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Feel-Good List
Yesterday, I told you to shine the cold, harsh light of reality on your denial. What I didn't tell you is this is a Three Part Series! My patented Mel Jones Three Step Heat-Seeking Anti-Denial Mental Missile is guaranteed* to improve your self-worth and make life better.* * Results may vary.
So, Part One was a little painful. You made a big list of things that were holding you back, that you were avoiding and that otherwise lurked in your subconscious. You scraped around in old wounds and yucky places that you've been crafting your life in order to avoid. After making the list, maybe you felt hopeful, but you probably also felt guilty, ashamed and scared.
Wait. You did make the list, didn't you?
Well, shoot Skipper, get on it. It's good for you.
Yesterday's lesson was supposed to feel bad. You've been avoiding the pain, so of course it was there waiting for you. But today's installment feels a lot better. You probably figured that out from my expertly crafted title.
Today, I offer you hope. I offer you an exercise that makes yesterday's hurts hurt a little less, but also a provides something I like to call Healthy Alternatives for Dealing with Your Emotions. We learned about denial. We learned that it messes up our lives. We learned that it makes us avoid things, and that those things we're avoiding don't really go away until we stop avoiding them. We learned, perhaps intuitively, that denial is a coping mechanism we use to minimize the bad feelings of pain, fear and anger. Which might be helpful in the short term, but it doesn't offer us a lot over the long haul.
So, you've given up denial as a lifestyle choice. What the hell are you supposed to do now?
My answer (well, one of my answers...I have many, many more) is the Feel-Good List. The name pretty much says it all, but for those of you who are a little slow: the Feel-Good List is a point-form list of things that make you feel good. It's another Mental Judo move and it really, really works.
But it's deceptively simple. You have developed habitual ways of dealing with your pain. Things that theoretically feel good and are supposedly fun: flopping in front of the TV for five hours a night, drinking nine beers every Friday, treating yourself to a Supersize Big Mac combo, smoking a joint. You tell yourself this is how you have fun, cut loose, take the edge off. But, does zoning out in front of the television really feel good? Or does it just numb you out from feeling unhappy, lonely or depressed?
When's the last time you sat down and thought about what makes you feel good? And I mean really, deliciously good in an inside-and-out kind of way. The kind of feeling good that doesn't lead to hangovers or heart attacks.
Don't worry, we're not going skipping off to Sunday service here. There is such a thing as wholesome, healthy activity that doesn't involve becoming a born-again Christian. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Instead of resorting to unhealthy patterns when you feel scared, lonely, sad or anxious, you refer to your Feel-Good List as a toolbox of ideas to make you feel better.
Feel-Good things are simple things. Easy to manage things. Inexpensive things. Things like steamy hot baths with delicious-smelling bubbles. If that's your thing. Or running up to the top of Nose Hill to take in the view. Driving to the mountains. Walking by the river. Reading poetry aloud. Washing your car by hand. Rearranging your furniture. Listening to James Brown. Dancing to James Brown like James Brown while wearing a wig resembling the hairdo of James Brown. Whatever blows your afro back.
Make your Feel-Good List. And when you feel like drowning your sorrows in a bag of Oreos (or blotter acid), do something on the list instead.
It takes time and it takes tools to reprogram into health. And it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that browsing Internet porn isn't going to help you live the life you always dreamed of. I know your problems are too complex for a bubble bath to fix. But staring at HGTV isn't going to fix them either.
I'll show you mine if you show me yours:
MJ's Feel-Good List
Walking in the sunshine (preferably holding a latté)
Travelling
Baths/looooong hot showers
Being fit
Mid-afternoon chocolate
Writing morning pages with a big cup of tea as the sun comes up
Writing in cafes
People-watching
Making special meals at home (with people I love)
Saving money specifically for adventures
Reading for whole Saturday afternoons or before bed
Working hard on a project and then finishing it
Charging an hourly rate that values my skill/experience
Being creative
Being silly
Going to markets
That Wintersleep song (Weighty Ghost)
Meeting an interesting person for coffee
Going after my crazy artist dreams
Reminding myself I am loved
Listening to this mediation podcast I found
Monday, May 5, 2008
Unpack Your Baggage
My dead-body duffel bag still sits in our bedroom, wrinkled clothing spewing out from its gaping, open wound. I've at least taken out the dirty clothes and washed them, but they still languish in the laundry basket – clean, patient, waiting.
Ah, baggage. It just sits there. Relentlessly and patiently in the way, but still, we walk around it or work around it. Pretending it's not there, or not that bad.
I haven't done my taxes.
Which isn't surprising given the fact that I was in Paris when everyone else was getting their's done...and given the fact I have a serious block when it comes to financial responsibility. It's not that I'm intentionally evading the taxman. It's just that other things, every other thing in fact, is more important to me. This is how I've rationalized it for my entire adult life.
Don't get me wrong, I've paid taxes in the past. I'm never more than a year behind. But I have a pattern of avoidance and fear about taxes and governments and Alberta Health Care premiums that leads me to do irresponsible things. Like not tell Alberta Health Care that I moved a long, long time ago. And the address they have is two addresses out of date. Someone, somewhere on 17th Avenue SW is getting my Health Care bills and wondering what kind of yutz Melanie E. Jones is.
The point, dear friends, is this: you know what your baggage is and you're too afraid to look at it. But the damage it continues to do is holding you back. Right now.
You might think that my aversion to paying taxes has nothing to do with becoming a world-famous screenwriter. But it does. All that fear and self-loathing I cart around in various shades of Repression Blue is limiting my potential. All the energy you are putting into avoiding your demons is working against your success as a vibrant, abundant being.
You can run, but you can't hide.
The un-dealt-with skeletons in your closet may seem minor (I have a problem with getting my oil changed, too) or they might seem too big to deal with (in the case of additions or histories of abuse). Regardless of their perceived scope, they are all damaging on a fundamental level. You cannot reach your full potential if you are harboring guilt, anger or shame. Full stop.
You can eat organic food and practice yoga all you want, but if you are seething with resentment over your relationship with your father, you will never get to where you want to go. Sorry. Tough love Monday.
So, unpack your baggage. Air out those musty feelings, beliefs and parking tickets. Be honest. Be brave. Make a list of your Incompletes (I believe this is a Debbie Ford term) – that unfinished business that lurks in the dark corners of your consciousness and weighs you down. My list includes things like taxes, my health, library books and car maintenance, as well as things like my beliefs about money and my relationship with my family.
Maybe your list is overwhelming. Chances are, it is. I mean, you've been avoiding this stuff for a reason. You didn't want to deal with it yesterday and it hasn't gotten any easier today. Yet. So make the list. Air out all your dark corners and put it on paper. Get it out of your head and your guts or wherever you store your dirty secrets. Already, you'll feel lighter. There it is. There is all the unfinished business that has been holding me back. Getting out of denial is a beautiful, beautiful thing.
The next step is to take action. Thinking about it and making lists are one thing. Taking one, tangible action toward change is another. And in many ways, it's the only thing. I'd argue that your list of Incompletes has been hanging around in your conscious mind, fully formed, for a long time. So making the list is like the step before the first step. It's the prequel.
You must take action. Do one thing. What's the next physical action you could take to move an item on your list towards completion? Do it. Now. Don't think about it. Don't let your sneaky denial-addled mind try to weasel out of it with its clever excuses like, 'But I'm at work.' Call the car mechanic. Call the accountant. Call your shrink. I don't care how small this action is, just do it.
And then congratulate yourself. Seriously. I've said this before. If you start grumbling about how much more you have to do and how the only reason you are fucked up in the first place is because of your negligent parents, you won't be motivated to do a second action. Which is what I'm going to ask you to do next.
Just do it...again. And again. And again. Until you've done five actions and you can say, 'Holy Dinah! I'm moving forward!' And then you've got momentum and you keep going because now it's a game. It's a challenge and you're gonna win it. You are going to succeed.
Just by clearing your incompletes, you make huge strides in terms of moving toward your own greatness and improving your self-esteem. One of the hugest ways to improve your self-regard is to do things you are proud of. Be the kind of person you always wanted to be. I bet that person does their taxes on time. I bet that person has a clean car and a clean house. I bet they eat well and exercise. I bet they don't fester in denial and let it manifest in unhealthy ways like addiction, chronic illness and self-sabotage. I bet they tell the truth to themselves and everyone else.
Ah, baggage. It just sits there. Relentlessly and patiently in the way, but still, we walk around it or work around it. Pretending it's not there, or not that bad.
I haven't done my taxes.
Which isn't surprising given the fact that I was in Paris when everyone else was getting their's done...and given the fact I have a serious block when it comes to financial responsibility. It's not that I'm intentionally evading the taxman. It's just that other things, every other thing in fact, is more important to me. This is how I've rationalized it for my entire adult life.
Don't get me wrong, I've paid taxes in the past. I'm never more than a year behind. But I have a pattern of avoidance and fear about taxes and governments and Alberta Health Care premiums that leads me to do irresponsible things. Like not tell Alberta Health Care that I moved a long, long time ago. And the address they have is two addresses out of date. Someone, somewhere on 17th Avenue SW is getting my Health Care bills and wondering what kind of yutz Melanie E. Jones is.
The point, dear friends, is this: you know what your baggage is and you're too afraid to look at it. But the damage it continues to do is holding you back. Right now.
You might think that my aversion to paying taxes has nothing to do with becoming a world-famous screenwriter. But it does. All that fear and self-loathing I cart around in various shades of Repression Blue is limiting my potential. All the energy you are putting into avoiding your demons is working against your success as a vibrant, abundant being.
You can run, but you can't hide.
The un-dealt-with skeletons in your closet may seem minor (I have a problem with getting my oil changed, too) or they might seem too big to deal with (in the case of additions or histories of abuse). Regardless of their perceived scope, they are all damaging on a fundamental level. You cannot reach your full potential if you are harboring guilt, anger or shame. Full stop.
You can eat organic food and practice yoga all you want, but if you are seething with resentment over your relationship with your father, you will never get to where you want to go. Sorry. Tough love Monday.
So, unpack your baggage. Air out those musty feelings, beliefs and parking tickets. Be honest. Be brave. Make a list of your Incompletes (I believe this is a Debbie Ford term) – that unfinished business that lurks in the dark corners of your consciousness and weighs you down. My list includes things like taxes, my health, library books and car maintenance, as well as things like my beliefs about money and my relationship with my family.
Maybe your list is overwhelming. Chances are, it is. I mean, you've been avoiding this stuff for a reason. You didn't want to deal with it yesterday and it hasn't gotten any easier today. Yet. So make the list. Air out all your dark corners and put it on paper. Get it out of your head and your guts or wherever you store your dirty secrets. Already, you'll feel lighter. There it is. There is all the unfinished business that has been holding me back. Getting out of denial is a beautiful, beautiful thing.
The next step is to take action. Thinking about it and making lists are one thing. Taking one, tangible action toward change is another. And in many ways, it's the only thing. I'd argue that your list of Incompletes has been hanging around in your conscious mind, fully formed, for a long time. So making the list is like the step before the first step. It's the prequel.
You must take action. Do one thing. What's the next physical action you could take to move an item on your list towards completion? Do it. Now. Don't think about it. Don't let your sneaky denial-addled mind try to weasel out of it with its clever excuses like, 'But I'm at work.' Call the car mechanic. Call the accountant. Call your shrink. I don't care how small this action is, just do it.
And then congratulate yourself. Seriously. I've said this before. If you start grumbling about how much more you have to do and how the only reason you are fucked up in the first place is because of your negligent parents, you won't be motivated to do a second action. Which is what I'm going to ask you to do next.
Just do it...again. And again. And again. Until you've done five actions and you can say, 'Holy Dinah! I'm moving forward!' And then you've got momentum and you keep going because now it's a game. It's a challenge and you're gonna win it. You are going to succeed.
Just by clearing your incompletes, you make huge strides in terms of moving toward your own greatness and improving your self-esteem. One of the hugest ways to improve your self-regard is to do things you are proud of. Be the kind of person you always wanted to be. I bet that person does their taxes on time. I bet that person has a clean car and a clean house. I bet they eat well and exercise. I bet they don't fester in denial and let it manifest in unhealthy ways like addiction, chronic illness and self-sabotage. I bet they tell the truth to themselves and everyone else.
Friday, May 2, 2008
On Momentum
The moods swing from grateful comfort to blind, white rage. Half of the time, I'm so happy to be home. Tickled at the simple notion that I can lean over and give someone a kiss. That I have elbow room in the shower. That the chances of getting lost as soon as I walk out the door are very, very slim.
But then there's how I felt when I woke up this morning: rank with the desire to procure 100 lbs. of plastic explosives and detonate this vinyl-sided suburban hellhole and all it represents. The fact I have to pay triple for substandard cheese is the sole and necessary reason why I should get back on a plane to Paris. That jogging strollers are a blatant affront to my creative sensibilities and that my boyfriend, that supportive bastard, is holding me back.
Does all of this sound familiar? It does to me. The subtext of the previous paragraph is that of a whiny four-year-old and a high-pitched, "It's not faaaaaair!" So, I should shut the hell up. And turn all that poor-me energy into something else. Mental judo, or whatever that phrase was I coined the other day in the blog. Redirect.
I did my morning pages, writing lightning-fast to sneak past the bitchy gaze of a jetlag-addled Censor. I wrote about the blog. The next stage, refining the focus and all that. What is the point of it now that I'm back and how can I continue to add relevance to my twelve faithful readers' lives? (Hi everyone!)
Then the stream of consciousness changed focus to consider the messages I'd received in the past few days. Despite the fact that I've been in a kind of limbo, information is still flowing between the universe and me.
When she dropped me off at the airport, Dana the Artist left me with a final message: push it further. Take the writing and give it a shove. More extreme. Higher stakes. I realized that this blog was about not caring what other people think, but that's only the first step. The next step is to take what I think and push it further.
Yesterday, I received a perfectly timed email from Coach Ross. The first line told me to go for a run before reading the rest of the email. I ignored that and scrolled down the large-ish space he'd left underneath the first line. The second line read: Seriously Mel. Go running. I laughed my head off and laced up my shoes. My curiosity usually gets the better of me, but for whatever reason, I obeyed the instructions as given.
I went for a slow jog in the sunshine and I began crafting my next round of affirmations. Because I get to choose (we all do) what is next. I worked on ideas about success, about freedom. And about love. My tendency is to make Boyfriend the scapegoat – because I'm "stuck" with him and therefore stuck with Calgary, my career won't move forward. It's ungrateful and irrational, but it's where my mind goes. I might as well be honest.
As I was running, though, the realization came to me that I am not trapped. That freedom is already mine. Creative, financial, emotional, spiritual. I'm already free. I can write what I want when I want to. I know how to make money. I have someone's love and support, and a very strong spiritual life. If I imagine something is holding me back, it is. If I imagine everything is pushing me to grow, it is. It's all up to me.
This morning, out of nowhere Stephen Massicotte popped into my head. We went to university together and now he is living the dream, writing screenplays in New York. I ran into him 'randomly' in early March and couldn't figure out why he'd been put in my path. I've figured it out now. He holds the answer to my question of what's next.
Massicotte started in the theatre. He wrote a play that hit it big and launched him on the path. The play won awards and then he wrote another and another. Opportunity started flowing and away he went.
I may sell my screenplay next week. I may get into the Sundance Screenwriters Lab on my first try. Signor Producer may read the script, fall madly in love with it and start gathering a team. I don't know.
But what I do know, right now, is to start from where I'm at. My job is to write and make sure people 'see' my writing. I can write reams of poetry and stick it in a box like I've done for the past thirty-odd years. Or I can give my writing some air-time. Put it on a stage, on a television screen on a big screen, where ever I can put it. My job is to write things that people can perform, whether it's me performing or Peter Dinklage.
This has just, this moment, become clear.
Plays. Television. Short films, features. Even radio, why not? I start from where I'm at. From the things I know to be true. Writing and performing. These are things I know for sure. I look for opportunities to write. I write more plays, more films. I see if anyone I know wants to produce one. I see if any actors I know need a vehicle. I write and I give my writing air. I let it be seen and heard and experienced. I do what I do best. I stay right here, right now. No matter where that is. I do the work I've been called to do. And I keep doing it.
But then there's how I felt when I woke up this morning: rank with the desire to procure 100 lbs. of plastic explosives and detonate this vinyl-sided suburban hellhole and all it represents. The fact I have to pay triple for substandard cheese is the sole and necessary reason why I should get back on a plane to Paris. That jogging strollers are a blatant affront to my creative sensibilities and that my boyfriend, that supportive bastard, is holding me back.
Does all of this sound familiar? It does to me. The subtext of the previous paragraph is that of a whiny four-year-old and a high-pitched, "It's not faaaaaair!" So, I should shut the hell up. And turn all that poor-me energy into something else. Mental judo, or whatever that phrase was I coined the other day in the blog. Redirect.
I did my morning pages, writing lightning-fast to sneak past the bitchy gaze of a jetlag-addled Censor. I wrote about the blog. The next stage, refining the focus and all that. What is the point of it now that I'm back and how can I continue to add relevance to my twelve faithful readers' lives? (Hi everyone!)
Then the stream of consciousness changed focus to consider the messages I'd received in the past few days. Despite the fact that I've been in a kind of limbo, information is still flowing between the universe and me.
When she dropped me off at the airport, Dana the Artist left me with a final message: push it further. Take the writing and give it a shove. More extreme. Higher stakes. I realized that this blog was about not caring what other people think, but that's only the first step. The next step is to take what I think and push it further.
Yesterday, I received a perfectly timed email from Coach Ross. The first line told me to go for a run before reading the rest of the email. I ignored that and scrolled down the large-ish space he'd left underneath the first line. The second line read: Seriously Mel. Go running. I laughed my head off and laced up my shoes. My curiosity usually gets the better of me, but for whatever reason, I obeyed the instructions as given.
I went for a slow jog in the sunshine and I began crafting my next round of affirmations. Because I get to choose (we all do) what is next. I worked on ideas about success, about freedom. And about love. My tendency is to make Boyfriend the scapegoat – because I'm "stuck" with him and therefore stuck with Calgary, my career won't move forward. It's ungrateful and irrational, but it's where my mind goes. I might as well be honest.
As I was running, though, the realization came to me that I am not trapped. That freedom is already mine. Creative, financial, emotional, spiritual. I'm already free. I can write what I want when I want to. I know how to make money. I have someone's love and support, and a very strong spiritual life. If I imagine something is holding me back, it is. If I imagine everything is pushing me to grow, it is. It's all up to me.
This morning, out of nowhere Stephen Massicotte popped into my head. We went to university together and now he is living the dream, writing screenplays in New York. I ran into him 'randomly' in early March and couldn't figure out why he'd been put in my path. I've figured it out now. He holds the answer to my question of what's next.
Massicotte started in the theatre. He wrote a play that hit it big and launched him on the path. The play won awards and then he wrote another and another. Opportunity started flowing and away he went.
I may sell my screenplay next week. I may get into the Sundance Screenwriters Lab on my first try. Signor Producer may read the script, fall madly in love with it and start gathering a team. I don't know.
But what I do know, right now, is to start from where I'm at. My job is to write and make sure people 'see' my writing. I can write reams of poetry and stick it in a box like I've done for the past thirty-odd years. Or I can give my writing some air-time. Put it on a stage, on a television screen on a big screen, where ever I can put it. My job is to write things that people can perform, whether it's me performing or Peter Dinklage.
This has just, this moment, become clear.
Plays. Television. Short films, features. Even radio, why not? I start from where I'm at. From the things I know to be true. Writing and performing. These are things I know for sure. I look for opportunities to write. I write more plays, more films. I see if anyone I know wants to produce one. I see if any actors I know need a vehicle. I write and I give my writing air. I let it be seen and heard and experienced. I do what I do best. I stay right here, right now. No matter where that is. I do the work I've been called to do. And I keep doing it.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
I'm Home
I traveled back in time yesterday, flying over oceans and timezones and standing in a lot of lineups. I was awake for 24 full hours. I greeted my boyfriend and was Nice Girlfriend (TM) despite the fact that I had to make use of the air sickness bag while landing from my flight from Montreal. For real. For the second time in my life.
The first time was on a flight to Vancouver where the turbulence hammered us for the whole flight. This time may have been induced by the fact that I told someone the Vancouver-air-sick story combined with my decision to eat a Crispy Crunch bar for dinner during 16 hours of transatlantic travel. Anyhoo.
I'm home. And it kind of feels like I never left. Which is good and bad. I need to keep momentum up, but I also need some time to rebalance. As soon as I got up this morning, I was online looking at screenwriting competitions (many of which have May 1st deadlines). I'm in mortal combat with my overachieving side. The one that forces decisions and actions, even if I'm not ready or the situation feels not-quite-right.
The next step will come as a feeling. An intuition or a meeting or a "chance" encounter. I already had one, actually. On the plane from Paris, I sat with a guy with whom I connected early in my journey. He teaches men in the art of romance/seduction. He's like a world-famous male version of The Dating Dame. He also recently had a cameo-ish role as himself in a feature film due out soon. So, he knows a screenwriter, a director and a producer. We have yet to figure out why our paths crossed, but maybe that's it. Who knows?
I'm brain dead today. So this post will be short, but I wanted to reassure you all that although the Paris leg of the journey is over, this process has only just begun. Keep watching the blog. I've learned some powerful lessons and made some permanent internal shifts. After some more sleep, I'll let you in on all that n' more.
The first time was on a flight to Vancouver where the turbulence hammered us for the whole flight. This time may have been induced by the fact that I told someone the Vancouver-air-sick story combined with my decision to eat a Crispy Crunch bar for dinner during 16 hours of transatlantic travel. Anyhoo.
I'm home. And it kind of feels like I never left. Which is good and bad. I need to keep momentum up, but I also need some time to rebalance. As soon as I got up this morning, I was online looking at screenwriting competitions (many of which have May 1st deadlines). I'm in mortal combat with my overachieving side. The one that forces decisions and actions, even if I'm not ready or the situation feels not-quite-right.
The next step will come as a feeling. An intuition or a meeting or a "chance" encounter. I already had one, actually. On the plane from Paris, I sat with a guy with whom I connected early in my journey. He teaches men in the art of romance/seduction. He's like a world-famous male version of The Dating Dame. He also recently had a cameo-ish role as himself in a feature film due out soon. So, he knows a screenwriter, a director and a producer. We have yet to figure out why our paths crossed, but maybe that's it. Who knows?
I'm brain dead today. So this post will be short, but I wanted to reassure you all that although the Paris leg of the journey is over, this process has only just begun. Keep watching the blog. I've learned some powerful lessons and made some permanent internal shifts. After some more sleep, I'll let you in on all that n' more.
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