I found refuge in the handicap stall in the ladies’ restroom.  I chuckled  to myself as I crouched with my journal and pen to write about something.  “Something”  is trying to find my feelings that I had lost touch with, because I’ve been so busy keeping up with maintaining a life.

In the last few blogs during my round of blogging I hinted at being in “survival mode”.  Well I got deeper into it.  I’ve been slogging through hell.  (“When you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill.)

Then an awakening happened, and it was that I had become this mentality of being a victim of circumstance.  The awareness of this made me immediately stop on my tracks.  I stopped to consider what’s really important, then ask ‘Where am I going?’

Around this time, a friend from Vancouver, texted me.  He said he wanted to summit Golden Ears, and I was the only one he knew who was willing to do it.  That is true.  I’m crazy enough to do a ten to twelve hour hike into the woods without much training.  I had been living a semi-sedentary life of a desk job and imbibing on French cheese, baguette and wine, and minimal exercise.  I was ready.  I went for it and proceeded to book my flight, request for the time off, and asked a good man to take care of my dog.

I land in Richmond, home to Vancouver’s International Airport.  It was renovated prior to the 2010 Winter Olympics and its look and feel is about nature.  Passengers deplane and walk through a simulated rain forest (recording of streaming waters, bird calls, mild humidity from fake and real plants, wooden seagulls and stuffed animals) en route to the Immigration queue.  All this is familiar to me as I’ve gone home to Vancouver many times to renew my US visa since I decided to move to LA.  I miss home and yet I choose to live in LA.  It’s confusing.

It’s probably for this reason why I’ve allowed myself to seep into the mentality of being a victim.  I’m uncertain of what I want and allowed life to happen rather than making life happen.  It makes sense to me as I let the words spill onto this page without masking my feelings.

At the Budget rental office I’m rewarded with the luck of upgrading my rental car from an economy car to a convertible Mini Cooper for a reasonable cost.  I go for it.  I cruise into the jewel of the Pacific Northwest with the top down.  The cool wind and bright fall colors suffuse my senses…. Ahhhhh… I’m home.  My first stop is the Bikram Yoga studio on
Commercial Drive (the neighborhood I use to remember as artsy and bohemian that’s woven with modern urban amenities:  there’s a Starbucks and Waves tucked between the multitude of family owned stores and Italian and Portuguese cafes.  The yoga studio is across from the old standby “Joe’s Café” (the owner was a former bullfighter in Portugal, and he still serves the cappuccinos with a warm greeting and smile.)

After a good sweat, I’m ready to be a tourist in my hometown.  So much has changed, and yet there are still the familiar standbys like the Purdy’s Chocolate Factory.  That was my next stop.  Already, I’m shopping for goodies to take back to LA and also to give away to friends and family in Vancouver.  It’s the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend after all, and I was
feeling generous.  I spend the next two days between visiting friends and family and another yoga session.  The yoga was the only prep I had done for the hike.  At least, in my mind, I can sweat out the toxins and stretch my body.

The hike to Golden Ears was on Thanksgiving Day (the 1st Monday of October). It took almost 12 hours, and my friend and I got to his truck at 7:30 pm when the sky was already lit with stars.  We traversed through various terrains including wooded forests, alpine meadows and dry creek beds.  12 hours in the womb of nature is what I needed to recharge my battery and ground me to what’s important to me – to simply be happy.  A walk in the woods makes me very happy.  Spending time with an old friend makes me happy.  Watching 2 kids play street hockey in an empty recess ground makes me happy.  Chocolate makes me happy.  Multi-hued leaves on the trees and on the ground makes me happy.  Geese crossing the street makes me happy.

When the resistance is strongest; when I’m feeling up against the wall day in and day out, I really have to make the effort to consciously choose to be happy.  I think of the simplest joys I can make for myself and realize that that it does not take much to make me happy.

I land back in LAX the next evening.  I am waiting at the curbside for my boyfriend.  The whizzing and weaving airport traffic with the LA dry and cool evening weather makes the serenity of the last three days appear as an illusion.  A woman who was on the same flight waits for her ride too.  She turns to me and says, ‘Welcome to LA.’  I nod knowingly and we have a brief conversation about the contrasts of living in LA and Vancouver.  We agreed that we are here for a reason, though it’s not “home”.  Our rides arrive at the same time.  My boyfriend greets me so warmly my heart melts.  I’m home too.  It’s not a cliché.  Home is where the heart is.

What do you do when your Mac breaks down? CRASHES, COLLAPSES? Have you seen the blue screen of death? Have you stared at the small rectangle in the middle of a blue field with the smiling??? face in the center, alternating with a question mark? Have you followed the troubleshooting instructions in the manual? Held down the Option key, held down the start button? Have you turned the power on and off, pulled out the plug? Waited a few seconds and started everything up all over again?

I have. And I hate it.

I mean, how do you write when that happens? That happy hovering of the fingertips over the keyboard, the thought that the fingers might hit the keys and without ever engaging the brain might tap out something unexpected and undoubtedly brilliant is gone. No back space, no delete, no spell check. No dips into Google for a quick check on who, when, and where. No rest breaks in email, no welcome distracting photos of friends and family, no hilarious Youtubes gone viral.

I imagine that most of the modern playwrights we respect and admire had a typewriter. Lillian Hellman probably tapped things out. Arthur Miller. Carson McCullers. On a manual  typewriter, do we think? Or an electric Corona? But how did writers without machines manage to write such wonderful things and do it so fast?  Charles Dickens wrote fifteen novels with a quill pen before he died at fifty-eight. And he had ten children!

I recently read the oldest poem found, a Sumerian love poem, circa 2030 BCE. Here is the first stanza:

“Bridegroom, dear to my heart
Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet
You have captivated me
Let me stand tremblingly before you.”

The poet or poetess wrote that gorgeous poem by pressing the letters into wet clay using a reed stylus and then baking the clay into a tablet.

So, I’m not going to complain.  I can put words to paper. I have some pens I love – the Precise Pilot rolling ball in blue and black. I’m crazy about lined legal pads in white and yellow. I could jot down a few notes. Record some observations.

And stick the Mac hard drive into the freezer for ten minutes. That might work, too.

I have been under the weather and out of the loop and thought that before I blogged, I would catch up with my fellow bloggers. I’ve been reading and marveling at how much we have in common, how much support we need and give to each other, how informed and curious we are about the world, how engaged in life, and how madly, wildly, truly, persistently, we pursue The Play and The Production.

Almost all of us have suffered from writer’s block and have looked for ways to jumpstart ourselves, to beat self-pity and self-destruction and self-criticism and despair. I’ve read all of the blogs on the subject and have taken a lot of the advice but am still struggling with all four. The tip I liked most and consistently implement was #101 from 101 Tips to Fight and Overcome Writer’s Block. “Grab the chocolate.”

The links are always worth reading. It was good to catch up with Eve Ensler again and her passionate (everything she says is passionate) reply to Todd Akins and his theory of legitimate rape. I liked the article about the Pasadena Playhouse’s problems with Tales Of A Fourth Grade Lesbo, particularly the caution about email that I know and forget, which is that “you can’t tell tone in an email” and that “if you haven’t offended someone, unintentionally, recently, you will — trust me.” It’s the same with Facebook, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t really know how to use it and rarely visit my page and I find out I’ve been unfriended three times. What’s up with that?

It was lovely to find out that I share Ravenchild’s love of The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett. It’s one of my favorite books. (I was tickled to hear someone in the audience at the Odyssey say that the last line of the book was one of best she’d ever read. I agree.)

Jen Huszcza’s idea of going for silly in plays, too, resonated. I think that Singing in the Rain is the best movie ever made, and when Donald O’Connor sings Make ‘Em Laugh, I laugh. (After shooting that scene, Donald O’Connor was taken off to the hospital. He smoked four packs a day!).

The blogs about self-producing and looking for funding never grow old.

What we all seem to feel is the loneliness of the long distance playwright. Jessica Abram’s feeling about “how freaking lonely it is” hit home.

I always want to bridge that gap between the writer and the rest of the world and have to restrain myself on opening nights. If the production is good and the play works, I am so high with joy, I want to embrace the world. If I add a couple of glasses of wine to that, I hug, kiss, and press the flesh, wanting to share that crazy high, terrifying dogs, children, delivery people and passing strangers. I have to stop at two glasses. If I had three, I’d make everybody stand in a circle, hold hands and sing, “We Are The World.”

Of course, if the play isn’t a success and I can see only fixed smiles and glassy eyes in the opening night crowd, I just grab some sausage rolls and cheese bits from the lobby trays, retreat to my car, and sob.

It was a pleasure to read all the blogs and I was delighted to hear about Robin Byrd’s grandmother who could “sing a whole church happy.”   I think that’s what we are all trying to do.

Last March I began writing a gratitude list in my journal every night before I went to bed. The practice was supposed to be for 40 days.  The practice was inspired by Melody Beattie’s book Make Miracles in 40 Days, and I liked doing it so much (and things began happening that were pointing to the miracle I wanted), that I’ve kept it up ever since.   I won’t explain Melody’s thinking, she does it well enough in the book.

But I thought I’d share some of my gratitude from this week related to the Tactical Read of my play Handcrafted Healing that L.A.F.P.I. sponsored Tuesday night.

First a shout out to fellow L.A.F.P.I. bloggers Robin Byrd and Jen Huszcza as well as director Harriet Lewis for attending.

A big thank you to my fellow Fierce Backbone writers and actors who came — your presence very much helps foster the feeling of community in our group.

A tip of the hat to friends Carol and Stewart who were in the audience — what a joy to see you both.

Blessings to the actors who donated their time and talents to the reading.  I know it was tough doing it with just two rehearsals — as I said to a couple of them, you had to walk & chew gum & relate & ride a roller coaster & read lines all at the same time and that’s difficult.  Thank you for your vulnerability and passion on stage, you willingness to dive in and commit to the characters.  They very much seemed alive to me.

Thank you to director Sabrina Lloyd who took on this job and then had a number of life challenges come your way in August and September.  Thank you for persevering.

Finally, mucho gratitude to Sabina Ptasznik for putting it all together and your support in countless ways.

I asked the woman who literally wrote the book on writing business plans for films to read my film’s business plan (for a fee).  She lives about four blocks from me.  When I learned this, I thought it was a sign from God:  Get over there and get the EXPERT to weigh in.

The first words out of her mouth were, “You have to take the tone out that you don’t think it’ll make money.”  I guess my worries were pretty transparent.  I smiled politely and didn’t let on that all summer I’ve been wrestling with art-investor-money thoughts.

Perhaps you, too, have had thoughts like these as you waded into figuring out how to finance your plays, your projects:

Does all art have to make money?  (Of course it doesn’t.  Uh, but then… how do we pay investors back?)

Use art patrons!  They love supporting creative stuff after a hard day at the office making boat loads of money!  (Yeah, but still.)

Okay then, can I make a film for free?  (No.   I want to pay the cast and crew – and pay them more than food.)

Can I do the puppet version of the film for $25?  (No!  Ick!)

And then in a film’s business plan you have to do a chart of PROJECTED REVENUE.  That’s right, putting on your best prognosticator wizard hat, you look at the first, second and third year life of the film and take a shot at guessing how much money will come rolling in.  (Aren’t you glad you work in Equity Waver Theatre?  Can you imagine doing that for your original play that’s opening down there at Santa Monica Blvd. and Lillian Way?)

These conversations in my head make me feel as if I’m constantly justifying my film.  As if wanting to do it isn’t reason enough.

I will close with a snippet from screenwriter Charlie Kaufman’s speech at BAFTA in 2011 (thank you to a previous L.A.F.P.I. blogger who told us about his speech) from which I take some comfort:

“What can be done? Say who you are, really say it in your life and in your work. Tell someone out there who is lost, someone not yet born, someone who won’t be born for 500 years. Your writing will be a record of your time. It can’t help but be that. But more importantly, if you’re honest about who you are, you’ll help that person be less lonely in their world because that person will recognize him or herself in you and that will give them hope. It’s done so for me and I have to keep rediscovering it. It has profound importance in my life. Give that to the world, rather than selling something to the world. Don’t allow yourself to be tricked into thinking that the way things are is the way the world must work and that in the end selling is what everyone must do. Try not to.”