Life in the Uncomfortable Zone.
Yesterday I spent the day writing. And hating what I read of everything I'd written before (of my screenplay). Not all of it. Just the first act. I feel a bit lost. Like I have too many stories, too many movie moments and I don't know what belongs in my tv pilot and what belongs in my screenplay and then there's the fact that I'm still trying to make sense of what the hell is happening to me right now in my life forget sifting through the past six years of material. But whatever. Whatever I have to do so I can move forward. Somehow. It's just that there's a little bit of self-help that needs to go into the process as well. I'm nearly 39, single, living with my mother, working for $15 an hour and I want children and so much more from my life. And sometimes, I don't know how the hell this happened to me. It just hits me. Hard. And other times, I can map out what got me here. The psychology behind it all. And that hits me, too. And sometimes, that's worse.
The only time I see men is at work. All the rest of the time, I'm holed up in suburbia. Suburbia being a place people move after they're married and have children because there's nothing else to do. If they're single, they're usually divorced. And have kids they resent. I have been doing yoga with the married and divorcees. But that's the extent of my contact with the outside world other than at work. I miss a social life. That was part of what kept me hanging onto the bottom rung when I was living in LA. Because I knew it would be like this. And I'm a people person. I know it's not like I had a choice in the end, but still. Working and sitting home all the time can be a huge downer. And that whole pick-me-up that people used to offer me of, "You still have time" doesn't really fly anymore when you're 38 years-old and have no idea how long you can have kids for or if you ever will. After all, ,y eggs aren't any better than anybody else's. It's not like God is doing this to me as some sort of case study or to get people to believe in miracles. There's science for that.
My sister, meanwhile is dealing with the fact that childcare is so expensive that she can't afford to get a job. And she needs to get one. I tried to offer suggestions but she just yelled at me. Whatever. I need to fix my own life anyway. I'd rather yell at myself than have someone do it for me.
I'm tired of being surrounded by boxes and garbage bags full of my things because there's nowhere for my stuff. It's hard to get ready every day, to find my things or even feel good about myself. I know I'm venting. Sorry. But every so often I panic that this is it. Which would seriously blow. And just think, five years ago I went to Flea's birthday party and met a guy I dated for awhile. That was a fun party. I bring up Flea because of the whole Grammy thing. He has a music school in Los Feliz. He's a cool guy. There are no Fleas in Cypress.
On another Grammy tangent, how gorgeous did Natalie whatever-her-name-is from The Dixie Chicks look with brown hair? So gorgeous, I almost feel like blowing off my whole root job and just buying a box of Clairol. But I've been doing pr stuff in trade for a hairdresser to get my 'do done for free. And that's what I did all day today, up in LA. So I honor Mr. Lincoln for giving me the day off. I think being in LA depressed me a bit. Being so close to what used to be home and not having one. Sometimes it just hits me when I'm sitting in traffic up there-- wanting to just turn left and go home-- but then I realize there's the 405 and an hour-and-a-half before that will happen. Taking the pain and suffering the pr work causes into consideration, along with all the pr work itself, my hair better look smokin' on Saturday, that's all I have to say. Then maybe no one will notice if I'm a basketcase.
One of my friends just sent me an email that she got from a producer who was looking into the life rights of the woman who I tried to contact to see if I could use her story as a "fix" for my screenplay "Fixing Macy." I emailed her a very sincere email. I called her and left a very sincere message, but I haven't heard back. It's been two weeks. My friends tell me to let it go and just do my version of the fix. I still need to finish this damn ex-convict screenplay before I get onto that one. And I'm worried her rights will sell. But I already played that game-- of trying to write as fast as I can and then get beaten to the punch. So if it happens with somebody else, I guess that's the way it was supposed to be. It doesn't mean I have to like i.
Okay, off to cry. I'm depressing myself.
The only time I see men is at work. All the rest of the time, I'm holed up in suburbia. Suburbia being a place people move after they're married and have children because there's nothing else to do. If they're single, they're usually divorced. And have kids they resent. I have been doing yoga with the married and divorcees. But that's the extent of my contact with the outside world other than at work. I miss a social life. That was part of what kept me hanging onto the bottom rung when I was living in LA. Because I knew it would be like this. And I'm a people person. I know it's not like I had a choice in the end, but still. Working and sitting home all the time can be a huge downer. And that whole pick-me-up that people used to offer me of, "You still have time" doesn't really fly anymore when you're 38 years-old and have no idea how long you can have kids for or if you ever will. After all, ,y eggs aren't any better than anybody else's. It's not like God is doing this to me as some sort of case study or to get people to believe in miracles. There's science for that.
My sister, meanwhile is dealing with the fact that childcare is so expensive that she can't afford to get a job. And she needs to get one. I tried to offer suggestions but she just yelled at me. Whatever. I need to fix my own life anyway. I'd rather yell at myself than have someone do it for me.
I'm tired of being surrounded by boxes and garbage bags full of my things because there's nowhere for my stuff. It's hard to get ready every day, to find my things or even feel good about myself. I know I'm venting. Sorry. But every so often I panic that this is it. Which would seriously blow. And just think, five years ago I went to Flea's birthday party and met a guy I dated for awhile. That was a fun party. I bring up Flea because of the whole Grammy thing. He has a music school in Los Feliz. He's a cool guy. There are no Fleas in Cypress.
On another Grammy tangent, how gorgeous did Natalie whatever-her-name-is from The Dixie Chicks look with brown hair? So gorgeous, I almost feel like blowing off my whole root job and just buying a box of Clairol. But I've been doing pr stuff in trade for a hairdresser to get my 'do done for free. And that's what I did all day today, up in LA. So I honor Mr. Lincoln for giving me the day off. I think being in LA depressed me a bit. Being so close to what used to be home and not having one. Sometimes it just hits me when I'm sitting in traffic up there-- wanting to just turn left and go home-- but then I realize there's the 405 and an hour-and-a-half before that will happen. Taking the pain and suffering the pr work causes into consideration, along with all the pr work itself, my hair better look smokin' on Saturday, that's all I have to say. Then maybe no one will notice if I'm a basketcase.
One of my friends just sent me an email that she got from a producer who was looking into the life rights of the woman who I tried to contact to see if I could use her story as a "fix" for my screenplay "Fixing Macy." I emailed her a very sincere email. I called her and left a very sincere message, but I haven't heard back. It's been two weeks. My friends tell me to let it go and just do my version of the fix. I still need to finish this damn ex-convict screenplay before I get onto that one. And I'm worried her rights will sell. But I already played that game-- of trying to write as fast as I can and then get beaten to the punch. So if it happens with somebody else, I guess that's the way it was supposed to be. It doesn't mean I have to like i.
Okay, off to cry. I'm depressing myself.
posted by jodypwrites | 7:45 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home