Stale.
Dried bread makes great croutons. *Chapter 121*
Writing weekly essays means that from time to time, I dry out. I shrivel up. Gas tank hits empty. I got nothin’.
I’ve never been one crippled by comparison. I rarely scroll Instagram and feel bad. Do I wonder where my time has gone? Do I worry for my dopamine levels and my obvious addiction? Sure, yeah. But generally I feel excited and inspired by other’s work.
On Substack, I marvel at writers who post weekly or even more often, essays that are polished, thought-out and enlightening. Week after week, I’m blown away but, I’m just not sure that’s my style. I’m a little more Live Journal than literary.
The first note I got from my acting teacher in Los Angeles was to “let my freak flag fly”… It confused me because I’d always seen myself as someone obnoxiously waving my freak around. It was shocking to hear he sensed I was holding back.
Ten years later it’s finally ringing true. I want to say more with my writing, I want to be frank. I want to share deeply and specifically my dreams, fears and insecurities because it’s in the details where we find intricate connection, proof that we are definitely NOT alone.
While I work on redefining my rhythm and discovering what and how I want to write, I’m not going to force myself to churn out paragraphs that feel inauthentic. Ick. No.
Thankfully, I have hundreds of essays to reflect on and re-post. Good ones that I read and think, “I wrote that?!” And while I cringe at sounding arrogant, it’s honest. Drive that freak flag into the ground, this is my plot and I’m planting my third year crops.
So please enjoy this essay I wrote exactly a year ago. Reading it made me pause, sit back and think WOW. Wow, wow, wow. How little I appreciate how far I’ve come.
I hope it makes you marvel at your own progress.
The focaccia I made last week sits on our counter, one 3x6inch rectangle growing staler by the second. I cut it up, tossed the tiny squares in olive oil and salt and fried them. Voila! Dried out bread turned delicious.
I’m off to water my seeds.
A Measurable Difference
Appreciating the freedom in discipline for 2025. *Chapter 76*
Originally published January 24, 2025
In New York City, I wrote a play that reached 91 pages in length. Ninety-one pages?? A playwright indeed! Indeed…when I read my play back I realized it was not in fact a play at all but instead 91 pages of dialogue plucked from my real life and transcribed onto a screen. It had no beginning, middle or end, no story, just words. A lot of words that now exist in the memory of one of my antique laptops sitting hoarded in the back of my closet.
I was always trying to be an actress or a writer. Trying so hard. Trying, trying, trying.
It was agonizing. Not getting auditions or managers or agents. Not getting more words onto screens. I watched my friends get cast in new, exciting plays. Direct shows. Finish writing books. It felt like nothing was working out for me. Like I was the little sister desperate to start high school with my older siblings. When would I get MY big break? When would MY TIME COME?
I moved to Los Angeles and did a lot of screaming bloody murder in my car alone at night. I garnered over a thousand dollars in parking tickets. I made amazing friends. I waited tables and felt deep shame anytime anyone asked me what I was trying to be. Trying, trying, trying.
Eight years later, I moved home. Pulled into my parents’ driveway three weeks before we would be sheltered in place for a year. I got new headshots. Tried to start a podcast from my childhood bedroom. Bought a new domain name, ijustmovedbackinwithmyparents.com. Did some more trying, trying, trying. Until finally I realized, I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING TRY ANYMORE I JUST WANT TO LIVE.
Call it getting older. Pieces of wisdom fitting together to form a chunk of the puzzle. I started enjoying the smallest of activities. Became obsessed with brewing coffee with my mom’s Chemex. Birthed a sourdough starter and named her Mary Lou Conroy, something I would consider basic if I weren’t still making bread to this day. I planted dahlias in the backyard and marveled last fall at how much heartier they are even though I never tend to them anymore.
In my early 30s, I’d just gotten out of a terrible, toxic, world-destroying situationship and into therapy. After working through the shock and terror of the year and half spent worshiping a nightmare human, I started digging into areas of my life I had no idea were therapy-worthy.
Why did I let the laundry pile up for weeks? Dishes for days? Why was my apartment so messy all the time? I hated myself for being so irresponsible and gross. “I hated myself,” key phrase. Thank God I was in therapy.
So, I forced myself to start making my bed everyday. It was really annoying and then it wasn’t. A habit formed, it felt weirder NOT doing it. Slowly, the laundry was getting done, the dishes washed and put away. I felt calmer. More put together and more like the version of myself I pictured and desired to be. Tidiness built the foundation of my self worth.
It was a few years later that I found meditation and self-development. Similarly to making my bed, I became diligent at listening to my self talk. According to me, I was fat, broke, hopeless and would never find love again. I was mean and selfish and alone and HOLY SHIT, who was I talking to?? Without going too far into a story you’ve heard 1,000 times, after about a year of monitoring my thoughts, I got 1,000 times better at upgrading them.
I told the truth. I am kind, compassionate, hopeful, full of passion and drive and I am grateful to be alive.
This collection of habits now run on autopilot. At 41, leaving dishes in the sink, the bed unmade or berating myself with lies sounds preposterous. My routines have become so innate, I’ve forgotten to appreciate that they are past goals achieved. Fantasies of my younger self come to life. They’ve set me free.
And so, back in August, when I completed my challenge of a year’s worth of posting, my weekly writing practice had become so habitual, I forgot to let my accomplishment sink in. Lately, I’ve found myself deeply reflective and impressed. For someone who packed away a 91 page screenplay, who felt ashamed and left behind, this achievement is a big deal. I deserve a Prosecco.
For the first time, I am patiently working towards my dreams. No longer the little sister desperate to be somewhere I’m not. I’m happy to be starting from a place I’ll be able to measure come December. It makes me excited to have something to work towards and look back on.
I’m grateful to be in a place in my life where trying doesn’t feel so bad anymore. Where I am much more attuned to my own successes and thrilled to watch them bloom like my untended dahlias. My two year old Substack hit 1,000 subscribers this week and since we’re talking about measurable success, this is one I’ll cheers to. I continue to be amazed that you’re all here and I’m excited to spend another year growing and documenting it in new and fun ways.
Here’s to living, living, living.
I still feel the same.
Talk to you next week.
xoxo.
I love the pre-amble mini-essay ahead of the repost, leaving us knowing you are tending your garden…leading me to another Bob Weir/John Parry Barlow lyric from their song ‘Let It Grow’…
“Morning comes, she follows the path to the river shore
Lightly sung, her song is the latch on the morning's door.
See the sun sparkle in the reeds; silver beads pass into the sea…”