Crisis

I've had some crisis of faith, namely, a lack of faith in myself lately. I've been questioning my self, my performing and my writing skills. Wondering if I'm doing too much, reaching too high, over extending myself. Then I took a breath and let myself settle in. What am I looking for? External validation?

The reality is, not everyone will see me or you or any of us. You really just have to believe in what you're doing. And I promise that if you keep on working at it, miracles happen.

For example, take the screenwriting. It's not easy. I'm on draft 5 of my outline for my pilot. And I'm just starting to understand the genre. 

The thing I realized is that I just have to let myself get to that secret place of mine where all my stories, truth or fiction, live, and write. The genre and format may be different, but my process is the same. Truth is, I have never been an organized writer. I'm a "writing by the seat of my pants writer" as a writing professor friend of mine would say.

Sometimes, I also realize that I need too much validation and I need to let that go. I just need to do me, be me, and let the ego go. 

The one thing I know for sure is who I am. And I like me. I like my life. I love the performing and writing life I've built out a mix of of thin air, hope, dreams, my words and some pieces of paper stapled together. 

In the end, I may not be the perfect package. But I'm me. 

Reading

I'm wide awake. It's 2:41 am. 

It was a wild ride this week. Wednesday, I had to rush home after work to do my podcast. My account got hacked, my computer crashed and everything went wrong that could go wrong until showtime. Then, it all worked out. 

The next day, on Thursday after work, I drove to Venice. I left about 4:30 pm, thinking I would be early, but the drive took over two and a half hours. That damn LA traffic. 

The performance was at Beyond Baroque and I was reading with a legendary NYC writer and musician Peter Cherches and a Southern Californian writer, musician and one of my publishers, the awesome Dennis Callaci. It was intimidating to be performing alongside such great talent. And so I felt I had to step it up.

For the show, I focused on being present in my performance. On letting go. One of the pieces I read was a story called The Big O. It requires a lot of changing of voices. My YA voice, my mom's voice and my dad's, and there's a lot of dialogue. It's hard to keep my breath but I decided to try to do it the way I've been wanting to. I didn't practice because that messes me up. I just tried to be there, in the now.

I don't think I'm ever satisfied with my performances, but I did disappear while reading it. Meaning, I wasn't overdoing it, and I was present, in the moment, and just going with the flow and the story. 

My dad's voice is the one I so ache to hear. Yet, I never get his voice quite right. The tender side of it. My presentation of him sounds wrong to my ear perhaps because it's not him. It's me trying to capture him. On the page, I see and hear it. But when I try to perform it, I always fall short in my head.

Maybe one day, my dream of recreating my dad on the stage and/or screen will come to fruition. 

Until then, I'll just keep on reading. 

Rise up

Thursday 

My eyes pop open. My neck still hurts. With work and my evening podcast, I worked more than fourteen hours yesterday. I've started to see that I will have to make a choice soon. You can't have everything, or what I should say is, you can't do everything...

That said, I'm going to see X in Pomona this Friday. I need my fix although this is the umpteenth time I've seen them and I just saw Depeche Mode last week. Music rejuvenates me. It heals me. 

Friday 

It's Friday. Feeling much better physically. Had a heavy work day yesterday again, but nothing at night. It was nice to watch The Mandalorian with hubby and then a new limited series called Beef on Netflix (that's hysterical). I fell asleep by 10 pm and woke up now at 4 am. 

Seeing X tonight in Pomona if I can get the energy. I really want to go but even Pomona feels like a far drive.

I'm looking forward to this weekend. I'm working on a grant proposal for my podcast and some homework, and then taking my mom to breakfast on Easter. 

Ultimately, Easter is about rising again. And I will. 

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.