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:

• 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)

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?

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

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.

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.

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.