Wootastic Day of Mythic Proportions

Quel day. My mind is a little bit blown, so forgive any gaps in logic or reason. Yesterday was in-freaking-sane.

First, I met with my Pop to discuss my plans for committing to my creative work for one year. "This is the year?" He asked. "This is it?" Yes, I said. I'm tired of letting fear hold me back like it has for the past ten. So, right now, this year, I'm moving past fear to whatever waits beyond it.

I also told him about the pattern I've had since my giant-sized depressive breakdown thing six or seven years ago. It goes like this: go on medication, get an unfulfilling full-time job, quit after a year or so, go freelance, choose 'paying the bills' over 'creative work,' get depressed. And repeat.

This summer, I was able to see the pattern before I popped the pill, pulled the 'chute and abandoned my creative self once again. These are the stakes, Pop. Write or drown.

And then he said:
1. I get it.
2. I support you 100%.
3. What do you need from me?

Every moment when I'm not writing lately, I have repeated, "The universe supports my creative work. I take a risk and am rewarded." I walked away from my coffee with dad with the use of their car while they're gone, so I can sell mine, and later that evening, my folks called with an offer of a plane ticket on points.

Then, I returned all that damned IKEA furniture that was oppressing me and our garage and un-spent $1100. The $1100 that was going to be my plane ticket, but now represents a month's rent – if I can find a sublet or shared accommodation for 700 Euros...anyone?

Then Drea called to tell me that she might have $250k for her documentary and would I help her write a treatment for the investor. And, oh by the way, I'm writing the doc.

In the afternoon, a guy who rents executive suites to film people called. He needs one just like mine ASAP. He's a friend of a friend and we got to talking. I told him I'm a writer. I told him I wrote a screenplay in Paris. He said "Let's meet" because he knows people and there are lots of on-set writing jobs re-writing scenes as they shoot if I wanted to break in.

I immediately imagined myself running through the mud and pouring rain at one a.m. to my trailer, scribbled notes in my hand. This guy worked with Ang Lee on Brokeback Mountain. There are four projects shooting here right now, this minute.

In between those highlights, it's been a leeeeeeeettle chaotic. I talked on my cell phone so much I have a massive brain tumour. My idiot-per-hour rate has skyrocketed as a result of this condo renting adventure. Stress level? Atmospheric. I drove between Burbland and town six times yesterday, which equals well over two hours of emissions-chugging time-suckage. I did not write a word. I ate two lattes and a piece of frozen pizza at 9 pm. Which means I spent most of the day in my least flattering state. A state I call Bitch Hungry.

All I can do is stop getting spun by the chaos. I have to believe all of this is clearing the way so I can work. That this flurry of activity is setting the stage for a big, beautiful expanse of creative time, freedom and growth. That the perfect tenant fills my condo with light and love and a sweet chunk of change. That the right opportunities reveal themselves. That I receive the kind of support that leads me to my highest self. That everything is working perfectly. That the universe supports my creative work. I take a risk and am rewarded.