Present

Yesterday, we went to lunch at the Mission Inn and to the Cheech Museum for my mom's birthday which is Wednesday. I'm not always present is what I'm realizing. I don't know if it's my writing, or Covid, but sometimes I find it hard just to relax. I want to. I do, but it's not easy.

The same characteristics that make me a good writer and performer, are what make it hard for me to relax. I'm driven. I'm usually in my head. If I have a piece I'm working on, I'm intensely focused. If it's a reading or signing, I'm on task. Yet, I want to be me more. The real me.

Who is that though? Who am I? I've been asking that question for years. And years. Maybe I'm no one. Maybe I'm everyone.

I feel as if I lost my essence at times. That there is no me outside of the public persona or that on the page. Yet, there are times, sitting with my husband having that first coffee of the day, listening to Prince or Bowie in the background, that I see a glimmer of me. Or who I could be. 

This JEM would be herself, but a bit more laid back. As if you let me breathe, and took away all the anxiety, self analysis and neurosis. I am gonna work on it. I am. And I think I can. 

Writing addict

I'm addicted to writing. To memoir. To story. To memorializing my life.

It's not practical. It's not pragmatic. It's at times problematic.

There's no time, but I create it out of thin air. 5 am. Sometimes 4 am. If I was a night owl, I'd probably write all night.

Like now, I have to get ready for work soon. I have court calendar then a busy day in the office. So it doesn't make sense that I'm putting pen to page (well fingers to keys) right now. I'm compelled. 

Cut to scene of JEM downing expresso then furiously writing. 

I need to see myself on the page. Is it that I'm scared that I don't exist without my words? 

At times, I feel like I'm made out of air and maybe I'll blow away. Life is all an illusion. My words ground me. They make me real. I can see myself. Finally.

At times, it feels like a curse. Is there such a thing as a linguistic vampire (a writer with fangs putting blood on the page)? My own blood. There are days I want to come home from work and sleep. But there's more work to do. Always more writing. 

I suppose it's how you look at it. So let's reframe. Perhaps it is a blessing. My cup is full. I'm here doing what I love. Just writing. 

Rumblings

I'm here in Seattle. It's 4 am. I've been up since 3 am after falling into bed at 9 pm last night.

My stomach has been acting up all week. Whatever I eat bothers it. It's not fun. Usually intestinal distress is caused by stress. Am I stressed? I don't feel stressed although I am a bit tired, maybe even exhausted. It's fun as an extrovert to see so many people. But maybe it's too much stimuli and being "on" for hours straight is too much for me. I can do an hour or two. And I'm not even doing many evening events.

Yesterday, was fun. I spent the AM hanging out at the Inlandia table. So many people came by! Old friends, new friends, young kids and by "young kids", I mean twenty somethings.  

I kept thinking, some of these people look so damn young. I'm what's called an old whipper snapper

I didn't even get to walk the Bookfair or go to any seminars. Or readings. There wasn't time. After lunch, and by lunch I mean a sad cold turkey sandwich from a stand, I ran home to hang with hubby and go to the pop museum and then the space needle. Both were awesome. Then we went back to the hotel, ordered a pizza and crashed. 

I have to be in good form today. I have two readings. One in the morning. One in the evening. I'm a bit edgy about them. I don't get nervous but I do get a weird buzz, and am always a little overeager and excited. I always tell myself, slow down, you can do this. Be present. Really feel the words.

Just be you. That's all I can do I suppose. Upset tummy add all. 

Prime

It feels like something is about to explode. Like a balloon waiting to pop, I'm just getting more and more full. 

Life is weird. I have this theory that some people are never satisfied. Never content with where we are. Always looking at where we're going. We just keep on striving. 

It would be much easier if I could take a break and pull back. But it's not in my nature. I'm happiest when I'm busy. I love events and running around. I do a lot of performing in my free time. It doesn't feel like work most of the time. Reading from my works is a joy to me. Plus, curating events is fun and super social. I told someone the other day that I must have been a marketer in a prior or future life. If I could, I would do it all day and just lose myself in it. Instead, I spend ten to fifteen minutes every morning doing promotion work. I have to be efficient or I wouldn't have time to write. Also, I'm not about perfection. I just do the best I can, and let the little things go.

I guess what I'm saying is that I feel as if I'm just getting started. That this is the beginning of something big and beautiful. And I'm all primed up and ready to go.

Winter Wondering

It snowed yesterday. In North San Bernardino. Real snow. About half a foot.

It was stunningly beautiful. I took a deep breath and watched the flakes fall. I twirled.

It was unheard of. This has never happened since we moved in more than a decade ago. I don't remember it ever snowing as a kid either. The snow fell all across the North face of the Inland Empire. North Fontana and Rialto, Redlands and Upland too. 

It reminded me of my own journey. I've been a lot of things but never reached that high point I've always yearned for. That's not to say I haven't achieved a lot, because I have. But I'm talking about my biggest dream. To be a screenwriter and a movie maker. 

Since I was a kid, I loved movies. I mean I really loved movies just like my dad. Most weekends, we would go to the drive-in in Montclair to see a double feature and on the ride home, I would daydream. When I got home, I would snuggle into my twin bed like falling into a cloud and in my slumber, I imagined myself into the narratives. Then when dad bought a laser disc player, me and my sisters devoured movies along with popcorn at home. 

It might seem impossible. To go Hollywood. To try and reach the stars seems like pure folly. But I know that nothing is out of reach if you really work hard and believe.

If snow can carpet the ground in San Bernardino, and a high school dropout can go to USC Law and then write two books, then maybe, just maybe, miracles can happen. And my books can fly into the Hollywood universe by my own hand throwing them into the air like snowballs as hard and high as I can.

 

Band of misfits

So I've told you all about my next project. I'm adapting my two books into a show. I knew I wanted this before I ever finished my books. I naturally think in scene and dialogue. And secretly, I would love to bring my father back to life on the stage or screen.

What I didn't realize is how cool screenwriters are. I've been meeting some in a seminar one evening a week. It's fascinating. I've always been a bit "much", even in a group of writers. I can sometimes take over a room and have to pull back. That's because writers are not all extroverts like me. I get my energy and am inspired while in the presence of creative people. It's why I love doing my podcast. I shine best when around others shining. The positive energy polishes me like a gleaming teapot ready to heat up. 

In the screenwriters room, I am not too much at all. Screenwriters are group orientated. They work together in rooms. In teams. It's interactive. They brainstorm and bounce ideas off each other and practice together. It's collegial and fun. Colloquial. They are hyper verbal people and many are natural performers. And they're deep. Literary. Highly motivated. Super outgoing. It's not what I expected at all. 

I think I had stereotypes in my head of the superficiality in Hollywood, but this is not that. This is a bunch of artists striving to make their art sing. They want to sell it of course, because otherwise no one will ever really see it so they're pragmatic. But surprisingly, it's not about the product as much as I thought it would be. It's about the page. 

I've never felt so much at home. I see pieces of myself in everyone. And I'm really happy I found my people. My group. My band of misfits. 

Okay okay okay

Yesterday was a holiday. I could not relax. I tried. I meditated. Drank tea. Got a massage. Lit a candle. Tried to read a book I'm blurbing. But I could not concentrate.

So when I'm anxious I get on task. That usually helps me feel like I have a semblance of control. I did my homework for school. I'm two weeks ahead in my workshop MFA class because this is Carnival Week in New Orleans and we're on hiatus. I planned my AWP writers conference trip and looked at must see things in Seattle. But completing these tasks did not help. I was still anxious.

Then I realized that I was anxious because I was avoiding the task which actually made me anxious, my screenwriting project. 

Truth is, screenwriting is challenging for me and terrifying. I feel like I am a novice writer all over again, learning new structure and terminology. I am off kilter. Like Dorothy in the cyclone, I'm spinning round and round in my house that's set to land in a new world. A technicolor one to boot. So early this morning, before I started my day job, I reviewed some screenwriting materials I'd been avoiding. It wasn't hard. It only took an hour or so and all of a sudden I could breathe again.

I've had an epiphany that uncertainty is scary. And my adventure that I'm embarking on is a frightening one, but that also, I will be okay. I will be okay. I will be okay.