Of Restaurants and Writing (Or Time For a Change)

Remember when I used to post regularly?

Yeah, I miss those days.

I miss writing in general.

I’ve let life get in the way of my creativity lately.

See, I took a job waiting tables because I thought it would help me focus on my own personal projects… and because I can’t half-ass anything, I’ve ended up managing the restaurant. Over time I’ve taken on more responsibility there, and the demands have dramatically increased.

In the beginning of my restaurant tenure, I loved seeing the smiles on customers’ faces, and I enjoyed hearing their stories. I loved remembering what they liked, and I got a great deal of satisfaction from being a bright spot in their days.

I still have those moments, but the burden of hiring and firing staff, and constant texts requiring my attention at all hours of the day and night have sucked so much time from my life that my writing has suffered somewhat. I’ve managed to keep my skills honed, but a recent taste of real writing satisfaction has left me wanting more.

I had a fabulous experience writing an ad-sponsored episode of TXT Stories for Facebook at the end of 2018. I worked on the project with a former colleague from my producing days, and he gave great feedback on my script. It made me miss the days when I spent all of my time around fellow creatives — especially smart ones.

I don’t regret the time I’ve spent at the restaurant. I’ve met so many wonderful people whose paths would never have crossed mine if I had stayed in the cocoon of entertainment. The experience has made me more alive and open as a human, but the time has come for me to return to writing as a career — not just as a side hustle.

So, this is me declaring that I’m back in the creative business.

My dog is so excited for me that he can’t contain himself.

No, really… he is excited.

That’s just his face.

 

Old Friends Know What You Need (Or Emergency Encouragement)

Last night I was glum. I was watching Grey’s Anatomy when my phone vibrated next to me. Delighted to see it was my dear friend, Chris, I responded immediately.

He texts me when he’s working the night shift in the ER. He’s in Michigan, so I’m one of the few people still awake during the long, odd hours he is on his feet pulling bullets out of people.

We caught up on life: his twins, my dog, the state of my love life.

I admitted that my writing wasn’t going well. Forever an optimist, and forever my biggest fan, he encouraged me.

My life may not have been hanging in the balance, but my motivation certainly was. His belief in me was just what the doctor ordered.  (Forgive the cliche.)

As we texted, it occurred to me that the men already in my life — my friends — have set the bar exceptionally high and I told him as much.

“I pity the poor man who has to live up to the standard you’ve all set,” I told him.

“You’re too kind,” he replied.

“Well, it’s true,” I countered.

And it is.

Chris and I have been friends since we were 12 years old, and he is a tremendous human being. He has forgiven me for paying more attention to his soccer teammates when I was tutoring them in calculus… and other transgressions.

He has also come through for me with words of encouragement, a listening ear, and loyal friendship for 26 years. We first bonded over a mutual love of Twin Peaks at 7th grade camp, and we’ve never looked back.

That’s why it was easy to give a toast at his wedding.

After last night’s pep talk from the doc, I’m ready to do a little writing today.

(Writing other than this, that is.)

 

Marriage, Madeleine Ferguson, and the State of the Mirror (Or Things Delayed)

Today I could, or rather, should do seven loads of laundry and seek intervention in the form of a pedicure. I’ve opted to read my new book and watch my dog sleep instead.

I’m ambitious like that.

Honestly, I worked six days last week, today is my one day off before it starts all over again, and I just don’t want to be productive.

Besides, I hung my own mirror this weekend.

What more do you want from me?

The man who was supposed to do it for me is in Minnesota… perhaps permanently and I’m mad at him for as many reasons as that state has lakes.

In truth, I never really needed his help.

I was merely trying to make him feel useful when I asked him to do it for me, and if I’m being REALLY honest that was sort of a crappy move on my part, but I needed to know if he would do what he said he would, and he didn’t.

I wanted to give him a chance to show me who he was. And he did. In more ways than one. (It wasn’t just the mirror.)

As I recounted the story to my friend Mike on a recent phone call, I told him it was imperative that I could count on someone.”Yes,” he agreed, “because they can count on you.” #aww

That’s the beautiful thing about friends.

They know you. They see you.

They know who you are. They’ve walked with you through so many seasons of your life that you show yourselves to one another again and again, sometimes without even meaning to do so.

I find it hard to replicate this while dating, everyone on their best behavior at dinner, struggling to be mysterious or romantic or whatever. It just doesn’t feel like real life.

Real life, to me, involves situations like: Can we hang my faux deer head without killing each other even though we’re both covered in the gum we accidentally melted with the hairdryer? (Obviously that example is too specific to be fictional.)

My parents practically filed for divorce every time they put up wallpaper or got in a car to go anywhere that involved a map, so I’m not trying to subject any future hypothetical children to that noise.

I’m not saying I have anything against dinner (I’m actually quite fond of it), but I guess what I’m saying is: the other stuff matters more to me.

I started this post for another purpose, and now it has become this.

Oh well.

Like the laundry that should be thrown into the machine and the nails that should be filed and polished, those words and that purpose will be delayed another day.

Now I’m going to straighten the art my dog decided to rearrange last night and go back to my book.

Apparently he has a problem with Laura Palmer, Madeleine Ferguson, and all things Twin Peaks.

I, have a problem with my couch.

I almost can’t even look at that wretched thing.

Send help.

My Macabre Musings (Or I Return to My Roots)

Maybe it started with the Raymond Chandler novel my aunt encouraged me to purchase at The Last Bookstore, or maybe it’s my mood about my dog’s cancer, but I recently abandoned my usual girlie reading material for more macabre fare.

(Translation: no more Emily Giffin for a minute.)

I read the entire Chandler classic in the Mexico City Airport.

Now I’m reading two rather grim books, and I’m LOVING both of them.

(If you must know: The Murder Room by Michael Capuzzo, and Pretty Girls by Karin Slaughter are riveting. The former is non-fiction, the latter, fiction.)

Also?

The Last Bookstore is AMAZING, and you ABSOLUTELY have to go if you’re in LA. It’s like the only real culture we have here.

Aptly named, it’s also basically THE Last Bookstore in LA.

Inspired by my dark books, I tweeted last weekend, “Given the state of my love life, I think it’s time to shelve my rom com ideas and write stories about serial killers instead.”

I gained a few new followers after the tweet, so maybe I’m on the right track.

I have been utterly unable to write ANY of the soapy/rom commy ideas I’ve outlined in the last six months. Every time I sit down to write, I feel hollow, empty, and devoid of inspiration.

Sure, I actually had feelings for the first person in FOUR YEARS this year, but that was a raging dumpster fire of a disaster, and while the fallout SHOULD have sent me into a writing frenzy, it has utterly failed to do so. I spent hours journaling, trying to mine my heart and brain for reasons, but I came up empty.

Why was I crazy about him and unable to put the experience into words?

What was different this time?

Other heartbreaks have inspired my best work.

I mean, I should have known better than to fall for him in the first place, but feelings aren’t logical and that’s why I find them so maddening.

I had a date last week, but I couldn’t bring myself to go on a second with the poor guy. My feelings on the practice of dating remain unchanged. (#ihateit) I’d rather just hang out casually and slowly decide if someone annoys me or not.

Sure, I can be sentimental, and I am a bit of a princess (or so my friend Tim says when he hands me my Sauvignon Blanc after work), but I’m not sure I’m suited for the traditional trappings of romance. It all feels forced, contrived, conventional, and more disgusting to me than a rotting corpse covered in maggots.

I spent my adolescence devouring Stephen King, Thomas Harris, Christopher Pike, and Peter Benchley. (I read Jaws in the fifth grade for crying out loud.)

My friend Mike was recently shocked to learn that I have never seen The Notebook. He’s known me HOW long, and he’s surprised by this?!? (In his defense, I guess I was equally surprised to learn he HAD seen it.)

I think maybe my perky, let’s-put-a-bow-on-it, party planing side throws even my closest friends, but COME ON…

Have you seen the art on my walls?!?

My living room is a shrine to David Lynch.

(I am QUITE aware the prints are not hung symmetrically and it KILLS me.)

The stills are limited edition Richard Beymer originals from the set of Twin Peaks.

Also?

Who hasn’t noticed my creepy bathroom art situation?

My sorority roommate’s mother let me pick out one of her prints at the Ann Arbor Art Fair back in the day, and I selected the most disturbing one she had.

It’s a vintage mannequin head, and it looks simultaneously serene and unsettling to me.

I love it.

So, anyway, I think maybe it’s time to write about murder because I’m just NOT feeling love at the moment.

Productive Procrastination (Or Life Goals)

I should be writing today. I mean this kinda counts, but not really. I should be working on my second pilot, but I did that yesterday. Or maybe two days ago. Either way, I’m not feeling that script today… or my second feature.

Today I’m feeling sausage, bacon, and truffle popcorn, but that’s not really news. I’m always in the mood for those things.

Do you know what is news?

U of M and Notre Dame will be rekindling their rivalry in 2018. That announcement made my day. I’m already planning a pilgrimage to Ann Arbor for the 2019 match up in the Big House. I put the entire crew on notice as soon as I woke up.

Know what else I’m planning?

A trip to Michigan for the Wisconsin game in October.

We haven’t played Wisco in absolutely forever, and it’s always a good time. Plus that game coincides with my Grandma’s birthday, so the trip is sort of like multitasking. #winningatlife

The other thing putting me in a good mood?

The rose I found at Costco for $12.69.

It’s delicious.

Also?

Any wine purchased at Costco is well-deserved and can be opened immediately upon returning home because procuring it generally involves waiting in line behind someone buying 4,000 diapers and 42 bottles of hand sanitizer.

Costco needs an express line for single people. #truth

So, that’s sort of the latest. Oh, and I did a dialogue rewrite of a movie that starts shooting this week in New Orleans, so that was awesome.

In other news, I want to own a sports bar some day. I spend enough time in them that I may as well get a return on my investment, right?

In the spirit of learning the business from the ground up, I picked up a few shifts at a chill spot on the westside with good burgers and solid crew of regulars. I’m getting writing material up to my eyes, and I’m also learning things about city ordinances for grease lines, the importance of free goldfish crackers, and cutting off drunk people in baseball caps.

Plus? I’m having fun.

You’re not really living if you’re not having fun… or changing things up.

Speaking of changing things up…. I said goodbye to my stick this spring.

That may not seem like a huge thing, but I have driven manuals since I got my license, so it feels like the end of an era, because I’m not exactly 16.

I’ll miss you, manual.

It was time, though.

I needed more room for the Bubba… and my 92,000 bags.

Points if you can find the pup in the pic. #sorrybaby

It got the Mercedes GLA, and it may be a lot bigger than my last car, but the turning radius is TO DIE FOR. If you’ve ever had to pull an illegal U-ey in LA you’ll understand why this is key. German engineering is no joke.

So, things are changing.

And in the spirt of all that, here’s a song I’m into right now celebrating changes in the air.