This year I've seemed to have a love/hate relationship with my aspirations to be a TV writer.
I started writing dance theatre plays in college. I went to NYU for my MFA. I love the theatre. However I am from Los Angeles and I have never been one of those writers to say that I hate television. I love, love, love TV. I have been watching syndicated reruns since I was a kid. I was obsessed with television as a child. I'm happy that TV has become a destination for good writers and good writing. I'm into it. But I've gotten burned out.
I was at this theatre festival this weekend and realized that a lot of my expertise about TV through my work for a production company and work as a producer's assistant for a pilot on USA has served me well. I'm totally qualified for a development job. I am qualified to be a producer. I'm sure that last statement will gain the ire of many an agent, exec or producer. I haven't even been staffed as a writer on a show yet. . But I've been around enough and have seen enough and have produced my own plays and have worked as an events manager and have worked as a project manager in advertising and have been an office manager and have put my bosses' lives together and I still get calls about jobs where someone needs someone to "put their business together" for little money. Trust me, I'm qualified to produce.
But I'm a writer. And there's that old adage that you tell people how they should treat you. And for so long I have told people to treat me as someone's right hand. Let me be clear, I wouldn't trade that experience for anything. But I'm a writer. A writer with that sort of experience. But I'm also a writer with the experience of knowing his craft. I am a writer who has taught. I'm a writer who has worked with writers of all levels on developing ideas, from professional level writers to students. I know my shit. But what I want to do is write.
I say that and I have taken myself out of contention for pilot season this year. Not for lack of drive. But because I refused this year to get caught up in the paranoia. I decided to exercise my choice. I choose not to freak out by reading all of the pilots and figuring out how to get to certain showrunners. I have chosen not to try to write the perfect spec for the one show I want to write on. I have chosen to write. Plays. I had a meeting with an agent friend almost three months ago where he told me to take my pilot idea and write it as a play. And I followed that great idea. I now have a play reading two weeks from today for a play that I have spent the past three months writing. I am now embarking on my fourth draft. I plan to have the fifth draft read.
I became a member of The Playwrights Union about a year ago, after seeing their Festival of New Play Readings. And now I'm presenting in that very same festival. I liked that there are a group of like minded individuals in Los Angeles who are writing plays. Good plays. Plays of merit. Not just plays to get TV jobs, although we advertise ourselves as writers working in theatre, film and TV, so we would NEVER turn down an opportunity. But we're writing plays that we want to write and the rest of the world can figure out what to make of them or what they want to do with them.
I have a community which has supported me and given me a framework to write this new play. I met with my agent friend in early February, right before the PU was about to start its Playwriting Challenge to write a play in a month. Then a month later we read these fresh plays together over a weekend. Then we were given two months to rewrite, polish them up and get ready for the public reading festival. I learned in that first reading that I wasn't writing the play I wanted to write. It's not that I decided to write a different play with different characters and a different story all together. I thought my play was about one thing when it was about something else that also encompassed this one thing. I had an Oprah "a-ha" moment. Then I wrote the next draft of the play in four days. I sent it to my wing man Larry. He had some thoughts. Then I sat down to do the next draft. I probably had 3/4 of a third draft in that next week. Then I went to Portland to see my brother and his family. Then I had a party to attend to celebrate the 30th Anniversary of Wieden + Kennedy, a fantastic ad agency I used to work for. While I was in Portland I found out that they wanted to put my father in hospice at a facility. That began a three week journey of dealing with my father's health issues in a more focused way than we had in the past 9 months. I had to monitor my father's time in that facility. Then we had to find somewhere else for him to be. We decided he would come home. But in order to do that, we had to find him a night time caregiver to stay with him while my Mom was at work.
Two weeks ago we began the process of getting him ready to come home. That included a six hour intake at home with the hospice intake nurse. That included setting him up with a hospital bed, a walker, a wheelchair, an oxygen tank, a machine that would help his breathing with the use of Albuterol, a shower chair, hand rails in the shower and many more things too numerous to mention. Then the hospice workers started showing up. The regular nurse came for a visit. My brother and his family came to town to see my Dad and to help start the process of dealing with my parents financials. Then our nighttime worker started.
The idea of finishing this play in time to use it as a sample for staffing started to drift away. And helping get my father on his feet and to transition him into a life that would make him comfortable for the time we have left with him (which by the way could be several years still) took its place. I have spent the past month feeling angry and resentful in private, while being helpful and supportive with my family. Then my best friend Alanna said something important:
"It will do nothing but make you better."
We both realized how selfish that could sound. But you can't come through an experience like this, facing your father's mortality and what you have to do in the face and in the aftermath of it, without having been changed and made better. Life experience just makes you better as a writer. When I applied to grad schools I had four years in which I had moved to Portland not knowing anyone, made a life there, worked for W+K, then moved to NYC. I had been writing but not as actively as I did in school. But when I sat down to write that play that got me into NYU and got me a scholarship, I was a better writer. Not because of studying or even writing. But because of living.
So even though I wanted to finish the last 10% of the play over this past month, I had to live my life and deal with what was in front of me. I had to let it make me better. And I finished it. And I am going to read the 90 page play I have in front of me as soon as I finish this blog entry.
I'll let you know if it made me better. But I do know that I'm ready to write the next play and that play will be better. And I'm getting ready to write a new sample to try and get into these writing fellowship programs. After that I can pull up my list of pilot ideas that I wrote at the beginning of the year and pick one of those up. Then when I'm done with that I can pull out my list of new play notes that I keep. I can pull out an old play out of a drawer. I can direct again. I can go up to SCU and work with students. All of this will make be better.
The Drummer also said something months ago about teaching that echos what Alanna said:
"Teaching will make you better at what you do."
So I should be a ridiculously better writer than I was a year ago when I was pitching ideas for a proposed Season One of our show to my bosses. But that also made be better as a writer. Those ideas were even better than ones I had pitched year after year to my managers when I was working for them, working crazy long hours and squeezing in time to write at night, while also dealing with a dysfunctional relationship I was in for five years. But even that made me better. And when I rewind everything that has happened since I was in grad school, all of those things made me better.
I have been writing all of this time, here and there, very productively whenever I had the time. Now I have the time and I'm using that time. I need a respite from my Father's health issues. I need a break from figuring out what pills he should be taking and what he should have for lunch. I have an incredibly supportive and talented boyfriend who understands the need for space and who needs his own space. We both don't like being crowded and smothered...unless we're in bed together pretzeled up. Then we like being smothered.
So I might not be a contender at this moment. But that doesn't mean that I won't be a contender soon and shortly. I'm pouring everything I'm going through into my work. That's when I'm at my best. And right now, my cup runneth over.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Introductions
My friend Larry (my writing wing man) and I headed down to the Pacific Playwrights Festival yesterday at South Coast Repertory in lovely Costa Mesa, CA yesterday. It's across from my fave childhood mall, South Coast Plaza. We were going as members of The Playwrights Union, an organization of LA-based theatre, film and TV writers. It actually seemed pretty cool yesterday because there were a ton of playwrights at the festival.
In years past, I used to attend as a theatre and TV professional representing the management/production company I used to work for. Then I would wedge in the fact that I was a playwright in there somewhere. Now I get to introduce myself as a playwright in a year where they are really celebrating all playwrights in attendance. After all, it is called the Pacific Playwrights Festival. We even get our own special purple badges. And artistic folk are encouraged to come up to us purple playwrights and ask about our work and ask to read it. I love it when an organization is actually organized. That never happens. But it's great to meet other theatre folk, see old friends, and be in a community in the middle of white, Republican Orange County.
But because of white Republican Orange County, a theatre festival that has been actively been pursuing new work for the past 15 years can exist and thrive. And I've always loved my white OC boys, so I can't complain too much. I have a confession to make that I will make in the middle of this paragraph so maybe it gets lost or maybe someone happens upon it: I've always wanted to work at SCR. I've sent them my plays over the years. They have always been open to that. But it's in my backyard. I grew up going to the mall (not the important fact here) across the street. And I'm a homegrown kid. I'm from Downey, CA. I'm a native. And while that's not a reason they should workshop, read or produce my work, it's a reason I would be really excited if they did. It would mean something different coming from a theatre that was essentially in my hometown. It's the same reason I want to work at Centre Theatre Group and other LA theatre companies of note (even Theatre of Note, actually).
But what's nice now is that when I introduce myself to these people, some who don't even know about my past life, I can assertively talk about my work. I can talk about the play I'm having a reading of in two weeks. I can talk about the next one I'm getting ready to write. I can talk about the play last year that was a finalist for the O'Neill. I can talk about the workshop I had last year. I'm no longer "the buyer." And while that gave me a certain level of control and clout (and a hefty expense account which I took good advantage of), it wasn't the reason I should have been at the party. I'm a writer...whatever that means to people. Even if it comes with no expense account, no business cards, nothing but just me and my sparkling personality and body of work. That's fine with me. That's the person I want to introduce to you.
In years past, I used to attend as a theatre and TV professional representing the management/production company I used to work for. Then I would wedge in the fact that I was a playwright in there somewhere. Now I get to introduce myself as a playwright in a year where they are really celebrating all playwrights in attendance. After all, it is called the Pacific Playwrights Festival. We even get our own special purple badges. And artistic folk are encouraged to come up to us purple playwrights and ask about our work and ask to read it. I love it when an organization is actually organized. That never happens. But it's great to meet other theatre folk, see old friends, and be in a community in the middle of white, Republican Orange County.
But because of white Republican Orange County, a theatre festival that has been actively been pursuing new work for the past 15 years can exist and thrive. And I've always loved my white OC boys, so I can't complain too much. I have a confession to make that I will make in the middle of this paragraph so maybe it gets lost or maybe someone happens upon it: I've always wanted to work at SCR. I've sent them my plays over the years. They have always been open to that. But it's in my backyard. I grew up going to the mall (not the important fact here) across the street. And I'm a homegrown kid. I'm from Downey, CA. I'm a native. And while that's not a reason they should workshop, read or produce my work, it's a reason I would be really excited if they did. It would mean something different coming from a theatre that was essentially in my hometown. It's the same reason I want to work at Centre Theatre Group and other LA theatre companies of note (even Theatre of Note, actually).
But what's nice now is that when I introduce myself to these people, some who don't even know about my past life, I can assertively talk about my work. I can talk about the play I'm having a reading of in two weeks. I can talk about the next one I'm getting ready to write. I can talk about the play last year that was a finalist for the O'Neill. I can talk about the workshop I had last year. I'm no longer "the buyer." And while that gave me a certain level of control and clout (and a hefty expense account which I took good advantage of), it wasn't the reason I should have been at the party. I'm a writer...whatever that means to people. Even if it comes with no expense account, no business cards, nothing but just me and my sparkling personality and body of work. That's fine with me. That's the person I want to introduce to you.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
My Brain is Melting
This is my frustration lately in taking care of my Dad:
I have had the end of this play I have been wanting to write for a month and I haven't gotten it done.
Yes, I have been working on other things. I had to go back and forth between my parents house, my place and the care facility my Dad was in for a week and a half. I had to direct play readings that were about the Virginia Tech shootings. I've been making meals for my Dad, interviewing caretakers, taking to doctors and nurses and doing a care taker training at my house with my Dad's new caretaker. I have been busy. This is true. But this play is waiting to be finished.
My wing man, Larry, has even tried to motivate me by saying that the play wants to be finished and that I'll be so relieved when it is. I believe him, but this is the problem: All of the things I've been doing have caused my brain to melt. I'm sitting in Starbucks at 10:18 PM on a Thursday night and I can barely keep my eyes open. I can't think. I've been trying to strike a balance between my Dad's stuff and Me. I want to spend more time with my boyfriend, who has his own stuff to deal with. He's got a wacky nephew who flew into town to appear on Judge Judy and wants to appear in gay porn. He's got a lot of gigs coming up. And he's not getting laid enough I'm sure. I want to do it all. I know why I shouldn't want to do it all. I know that I shouldn't feel deflated or guilty or like a loser or crappy. But I do.
It's the brain melting thing. If my brain was more solidly intact, I would be able to handle everything. I could think rationally and know that I'm not failing anybody. But I feel like I'm letting everyone down. It's my melted brain, I tell you. In 40 minutes I need to show my Dad's nighttime caretaker how to use our washing machine. I'm tired.
Yes, I have been working on other things. I had to go back and forth between my parents house, my place and the care facility my Dad was in for a week and a half. I had to direct play readings that were about the Virginia Tech shootings. I've been making meals for my Dad, interviewing caretakers, taking to doctors and nurses and doing a care taker training at my house with my Dad's new caretaker. I have been busy. This is true. But this play is waiting to be finished.
My wing man, Larry, has even tried to motivate me by saying that the play wants to be finished and that I'll be so relieved when it is. I believe him, but this is the problem: All of the things I've been doing have caused my brain to melt. I'm sitting in Starbucks at 10:18 PM on a Thursday night and I can barely keep my eyes open. I can't think. I've been trying to strike a balance between my Dad's stuff and Me. I want to spend more time with my boyfriend, who has his own stuff to deal with. He's got a wacky nephew who flew into town to appear on Judge Judy and wants to appear in gay porn. He's got a lot of gigs coming up. And he's not getting laid enough I'm sure. I want to do it all. I know why I shouldn't want to do it all. I know that I shouldn't feel deflated or guilty or like a loser or crappy. But I do.
It's the brain melting thing. If my brain was more solidly intact, I would be able to handle everything. I could think rationally and know that I'm not failing anybody. But I feel like I'm letting everyone down. It's my melted brain, I tell you. In 40 minutes I need to show my Dad's nighttime caretaker how to use our washing machine. I'm tired.
Your Father Is Dying!
Apparently, that's what a friend of the family wanted to tell me today.
She had called to talk to my parents and I picked up because I was at their house. I might need to back up here. I don't remember what has made it onto the blog, but my Dad is in hospice at my parents home. He's got a hospital bed, two walkers, a wheelchair, two nurses, a nighttime caretaker and a chef/physical therapist/errand runner/counselor/mother hen/medicine giver (that last person is ME).
So when my parents' friend, who I've known my whole life as well, called and I said the word "hospice", she proceeded to lose her shit. She started out by saying, "Mercy...mercy me." She's from the South. I just thought that's what they say down there. I didn't think it was the equivalent of farting before you have an explosive shit.
Then she she started saying things like, "You know that hospice means that he's DYING." I thought I was calming her down by explaining some of the details, "Several years ago they added Congestive Heart Failure patients to the list of eligibility for hospice." "But that means he's DYING. HE IS DYING!!!!!" "Okay, but we're monitoring his medicine and his nutrition. Yes, there is technically nothing we can do. We can't make his heart stronger, but we're giving him as much comfort and pleasure as we can." Then the tears started. The sobs. Oh Jesus. I didn't know what to do. So I apologized for seeming so cavalier about the whole situation, but it's just that we've been dealing with this for a while and we're just trying to deal with what's in front of us and be focused. I'm in the Takin' Care of Business mode.
More crying. More apologizing.
Then she said she couldn't talk any more. I thought this meant that she needed to get off the phone in a minute. So I suggested that she use my parents cell phones because they never check the house phone. She had mentioned that she had been calling and calling and calling, but they never pick up. But she didn't mean that she needed to get off the phone in a few minutes after we said out goodbyes and made promises to call each other with updates. She meant I NEED TO GET OFF THE PHONE...NOW!!! And did. So it was more emotional for her. Too much for her to handle.
It's my father who's dying. And honestly, we're all dying. His heart is working at only 15% and there's nothing the doctors can do. So yes, technically he IS dying. He will eventually die. I don't know if that's in three minutes or three months or three years. I'm not in denial. And this woman made me feel like I wasn't owning up to that fact. But I'm well aware of that fact. It's why I'm spending time with him. It's why I'm talking to him because I don't know if he'll be this lucid towards the end and I don't know when that end will be.
But I don't need someone to freak out on the phone about it. I get the situation. It just wasn't what I needed to hear because then I did get emotional about it. I'm not afraid of this or any emotion. I'm a writer. I love being emotional and forthright. But at this moment right now I don't want to hear about what could happen when he dies. He's alive and I want to enjoy that.
My ex knew a great saying: Worrying is praying for something you don't want. And I feel that freaking out would be worrying. I'm just going to make his lunches and continue to tell him that he can't have char siu (chinese BBQ pork) or steak or a salt lick. I'm going to try and make this time as pleasant for all of us as possible and I want to make sure he's around as long as possible.
She had called to talk to my parents and I picked up because I was at their house. I might need to back up here. I don't remember what has made it onto the blog, but my Dad is in hospice at my parents home. He's got a hospital bed, two walkers, a wheelchair, two nurses, a nighttime caretaker and a chef/physical therapist/errand runner/counselor/mother hen/medicine giver (that last person is ME).
So when my parents' friend, who I've known my whole life as well, called and I said the word "hospice", she proceeded to lose her shit. She started out by saying, "Mercy...mercy me." She's from the South. I just thought that's what they say down there. I didn't think it was the equivalent of farting before you have an explosive shit.
Then she she started saying things like, "You know that hospice means that he's DYING." I thought I was calming her down by explaining some of the details, "Several years ago they added Congestive Heart Failure patients to the list of eligibility for hospice." "But that means he's DYING. HE IS DYING!!!!!" "Okay, but we're monitoring his medicine and his nutrition. Yes, there is technically nothing we can do. We can't make his heart stronger, but we're giving him as much comfort and pleasure as we can." Then the tears started. The sobs. Oh Jesus. I didn't know what to do. So I apologized for seeming so cavalier about the whole situation, but it's just that we've been dealing with this for a while and we're just trying to deal with what's in front of us and be focused. I'm in the Takin' Care of Business mode.
More crying. More apologizing.
Then she said she couldn't talk any more. I thought this meant that she needed to get off the phone in a minute. So I suggested that she use my parents cell phones because they never check the house phone. She had mentioned that she had been calling and calling and calling, but they never pick up. But she didn't mean that she needed to get off the phone in a few minutes after we said out goodbyes and made promises to call each other with updates. She meant I NEED TO GET OFF THE PHONE...NOW!!! And did. So it was more emotional for her. Too much for her to handle.
It's my father who's dying. And honestly, we're all dying. His heart is working at only 15% and there's nothing the doctors can do. So yes, technically he IS dying. He will eventually die. I don't know if that's in three minutes or three months or three years. I'm not in denial. And this woman made me feel like I wasn't owning up to that fact. But I'm well aware of that fact. It's why I'm spending time with him. It's why I'm talking to him because I don't know if he'll be this lucid towards the end and I don't know when that end will be.
But I don't need someone to freak out on the phone about it. I get the situation. It just wasn't what I needed to hear because then I did get emotional about it. I'm not afraid of this or any emotion. I'm a writer. I love being emotional and forthright. But at this moment right now I don't want to hear about what could happen when he dies. He's alive and I want to enjoy that.
My ex knew a great saying: Worrying is praying for something you don't want. And I feel that freaking out would be worrying. I'm just going to make his lunches and continue to tell him that he can't have char siu (chinese BBQ pork) or steak or a salt lick. I'm going to try and make this time as pleasant for all of us as possible and I want to make sure he's around as long as possible.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
My Boyfriend Needs to Get Laid
In the midst of all of my personal family craziness and this deadline for this play I need to finish, I'm starting to feel like a shitty boyfriend.
My boyfriend needs more sex from me. When I left the house this morning to come here to the Coffee Bean in Toluca Lake to "wake up" and to get some writing done before I meet my friend Larry for coffee and my friend Rebekah for lunch (yeah, lots of writing getting done there...but Larry is my writing wingman and Rebekah is my good friend who always has some sassy comments for me), I felt horrible because we were supposed to have sex last night.
I have friends who have kids who talk about having to schedule sex. And I'm actually totally supportive of that. Do I need to start scheduling sex? Because I have some self-judgment about that. Sure, it's fine for my friends who have kids to figure out how to get some boning into their lives between feedings, nap times and bathies. But I'm a grown man without kids who should be able to let my boyfriend poke me regularly without having to schedule it. But that's not happening.
There are blow jobs. Let's not be ridiculous, here. There are plenty of blow jobs. Lots of 69ing because The Drummer loves that shit and so do I. There's plenty of playing around at the Korean Spa when we go. It's not like there isn't touching. There's cuddling in bed. There's the constant expression of "I Love You." It's not like we're in a loveless relationship. We are totally still attracted to each other.
But the problem is that I get tired early. My boyfriend is a musician, so he's good to stay up until 2 or 3 in the morning. I'm a senior citizen (not really, but sometimes in spirit and sleep habits) and I like to be in bed winding down watching 1 GIRL 5 GAYS by 11/11:30. I knew it was over last night when we finished dinner, he left to make a deposit at the bank and left me to continue watching WATCH WHAT HAPPENS LIVE with Jeana Keough and Kristin Chenoweth--which I was only watching because he was doing other things. I struggled to stay awake. He came home. I was still awake!!!! Then he said he was going to take a shower. SHIT!!!! I kept slapping myself in the face to stay awake. It had better be a fast shower. Then he came back, looking all fresh. I think he climbed into bed and the next thing I knew, I was dreaming about the friends I saw at the party in Portland two weekends ago.
Then I woke up this morning, looked at his sweet unfucked face...and headed to the Coffee Bean to get work done. And now I'm blogging. Not getting work done. But getting the process started.
I really wish I was in bed right now. I wish we were both getting laid right now. Together.
For the record.
My boyfriend needs more sex from me. When I left the house this morning to come here to the Coffee Bean in Toluca Lake to "wake up" and to get some writing done before I meet my friend Larry for coffee and my friend Rebekah for lunch (yeah, lots of writing getting done there...but Larry is my writing wingman and Rebekah is my good friend who always has some sassy comments for me), I felt horrible because we were supposed to have sex last night.
I have friends who have kids who talk about having to schedule sex. And I'm actually totally supportive of that. Do I need to start scheduling sex? Because I have some self-judgment about that. Sure, it's fine for my friends who have kids to figure out how to get some boning into their lives between feedings, nap times and bathies. But I'm a grown man without kids who should be able to let my boyfriend poke me regularly without having to schedule it. But that's not happening.
There are blow jobs. Let's not be ridiculous, here. There are plenty of blow jobs. Lots of 69ing because The Drummer loves that shit and so do I. There's plenty of playing around at the Korean Spa when we go. It's not like there isn't touching. There's cuddling in bed. There's the constant expression of "I Love You." It's not like we're in a loveless relationship. We are totally still attracted to each other.
But the problem is that I get tired early. My boyfriend is a musician, so he's good to stay up until 2 or 3 in the morning. I'm a senior citizen (not really, but sometimes in spirit and sleep habits) and I like to be in bed winding down watching 1 GIRL 5 GAYS by 11/11:30. I knew it was over last night when we finished dinner, he left to make a deposit at the bank and left me to continue watching WATCH WHAT HAPPENS LIVE with Jeana Keough and Kristin Chenoweth--which I was only watching because he was doing other things. I struggled to stay awake. He came home. I was still awake!!!! Then he said he was going to take a shower. SHIT!!!! I kept slapping myself in the face to stay awake. It had better be a fast shower. Then he came back, looking all fresh. I think he climbed into bed and the next thing I knew, I was dreaming about the friends I saw at the party in Portland two weekends ago.
Then I woke up this morning, looked at his sweet unfucked face...and headed to the Coffee Bean to get work done. And now I'm blogging. Not getting work done. But getting the process started.
I really wish I was in bed right now. I wish we were both getting laid right now. Together.
For the record.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Tug O' War with Myself
I have a lot going on right now.
Isn't that what everyone says? At least in LA. And New York. And Chicago, Miami, Dallas, Omaha...probably everywhere. It can be hard when you're pulled in a ton of different directions. And right now, I am being pulled by this play I have to finish. And also by my father's health. We had to move him into a living care facility temporarily so he could get better. The problem with my Dad is that he's got renal failure and congestive heart failure, yet he hasn't been keeping up with his nutrition and his medicine. Now they're going to release him on Saturday and we need to, as a family, figure out ways for him to get some care at night and in the morning so that he can get stronger.
But now I find myself in a position where I have to worry about his finances and his health and continued well being. And he lives at home with my Mother, so I have to worry about her health and well being too because she's stressing herself out in a way that's epic.
And I need to carve out time for myself. I know people who think that I shouldn't even be thinking about that right now. That my place is with my family and that any petty, superfluous career ambitions should be cast to the side.
That's not how I work.
It's not just about career for me. It's my life's blood. Writing is how I perceive the world and make sense of it. So I need to protect that. I feel like that's my life lesson right now:
To make sure I make room for my voice. No matter what.
Yeah, I know that sounds all dramatic. But pushing for what you believe in and believing in your art is dramatic. It's a big deal. And I've watched people in my family give up who they are for someone else.
I just need to make sure I have room for myself. It's hard to make time for everything I want to do and everything I care about. I told my brother today that I started to sympathize with what he goes through as a parent and how he's pulled in a zillion directions. This is not fun.
Isn't that what everyone says? At least in LA. And New York. And Chicago, Miami, Dallas, Omaha...probably everywhere. It can be hard when you're pulled in a ton of different directions. And right now, I am being pulled by this play I have to finish. And also by my father's health. We had to move him into a living care facility temporarily so he could get better. The problem with my Dad is that he's got renal failure and congestive heart failure, yet he hasn't been keeping up with his nutrition and his medicine. Now they're going to release him on Saturday and we need to, as a family, figure out ways for him to get some care at night and in the morning so that he can get stronger.
But now I find myself in a position where I have to worry about his finances and his health and continued well being. And he lives at home with my Mother, so I have to worry about her health and well being too because she's stressing herself out in a way that's epic.
And I need to carve out time for myself. I know people who think that I shouldn't even be thinking about that right now. That my place is with my family and that any petty, superfluous career ambitions should be cast to the side.
That's not how I work.
It's not just about career for me. It's my life's blood. Writing is how I perceive the world and make sense of it. So I need to protect that. I feel like that's my life lesson right now:
To make sure I make room for my voice. No matter what.
Yeah, I know that sounds all dramatic. But pushing for what you believe in and believing in your art is dramatic. It's a big deal. And I've watched people in my family give up who they are for someone else.
I just need to make sure I have room for myself. It's hard to make time for everything I want to do and everything I care about. I told my brother today that I started to sympathize with what he goes through as a parent and how he's pulled in a zillion directions. This is not fun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)