Three Quarters

Reflecting on consistency. *Chapter 40*

Six years ago I was sitting on the floor of my lovely Echo Park apartment. It was a few months before my 35th birthday and I’d been in Los Angeles for nearly 8 years. On my vision board was a tree made of money, a girl in a bendy yoga pose, a scrap of a screenplay and a check I’d written myself for a million dollars because that’s what Jim Carey did. I wanted desperately to make it, a twenty year old dream I’d been wringing out for years not realizing it had dried up.

Dear Italy, by Bonnie Lynn Felton, lynnfelton.com

I told people I was a writer because it was less embarrassing than claiming actress. The luster and coolness of having 3 lines in an episode of 30 Rock had worn off and it was mortifying to tell people the one and only time I’d “worked” was in 2007. At least writers can write whenever. As long as no one asked me what I was writing, my identity was safe. But what if someone did ask? I’d made one short film and had written a few others…? The line between pride and shame was thin, highly breakable. It took little to shatter me, pieces of my career facade circling the “what AM I doing” drain.

And this is the spiral from which I was attempting to steady myself as I sat on my floor pondering who I really wanted to be. Thirty-five felt so adult and saying I was a writer felt childish if I had nothing to show for it. So I decided to embark upon a 90 Day Challenge. Write everyday for 30 minutes in the hopes of creating a habit that would eventually produce a real career. I did it and bore 90 entries that resembled Morning Pages. A 3-month journal I discontinued as soon as I checked off the last box on the calendar I kept to track my progress.

By 36 I’d begun to suspect that making it might not be for me. I moved home under the pretense that I’d get myself out of debt and then come back to LA. It took a pandemic and a dog bite to the face to finally reveal my deep, honest desire to be close to my family and to stop trying so damn hard. It took another two years to really let that sink in. If I’m not trying to BE something, what am I doing?

I am distracted this week. Alan was sick for three days, we lost a close family friend and all I want to do is go outside, take a bunch of deep breaths and think. This makes me miss having the dream of making it, a fantasy to escape into. Now that I’m solidly into this new version of my dream life, what do I do now?

I took a walk. See the hydrangea?

Now I’m sitting in the coffee shop around the corner from our apartment. I started this post at 9am, it’s now 2pm. I’m struggling to bring this entry to life but weirdly not frustrated. After forty weeks of regular posting, I know this will get done. This bout of consistency has built the foundation for the writing habit I’ve longed for since I started telling people I’m a writer.

The dream I was reaching for never existed where I was looking, up in the air to be prayed for and sought after. It’s been down in the ground waiting to be dug up. Learning about patience and appreciation. Acceptance and awe and letting go. Remembering truths that have existed all along. A five page story I wrote in fourth grade because I was inspired to and because it came easily. Trusting my fingers to fly over a keyboard, thoughts funneling from my soul onto the screen enough to make me feel like I’ve made it.

Consistency has given me permission to expand naturally. I don’t feel forced or beholden, I feel grateful. Picturing my future self felt challenging until a few months ago when it became apparent to me that Alan and I could use a larger living space. That someday we will benefit from a house with rooms to hang all our mothers’ art and grass to walk on in the morning. It’s allowed me to trust that the book I’ve always suspected lives somewhere in me actually IS there just waiting for it’s time to emerge. Permission to believe that everything has its time and that I’m right on schedule.

To my 34 year old self sitting on the floor in Los Angeles fretting about what to do. Thanks, bitch. It’s because of you and your confusion and frustration and constant seeking that I get to calmly sit here now. Confident that I am a writer and always will be.

READING

Great Circle by Maggie Shipstead. I’m 50 pages in. I’m loving it. I can’t wait to become fully enveloped because I can feel it has the capacity to do that for me.

WATCHING

I skipped over Season 2 and went straight into Season 3 of Bridgerton which I let play delightfully in the background while my mother and I chatted for two hours. Perfect for drifting in and out of while doing something else.

LISTENING

Cricket noises every night to fall asleep. Really magical.

I’d planned to record my next podcast episode with the most famous person in my life, my mother, Bonnie Lynn but this week has been a doozy and plans evolve. I’ll be going solo this month because why the heck not? Expect that episode this Friday.

As I mentioned, we lost a dear family friend this week and I am deeply sad for my parents who are feeling this loss profoundly. Life is so weird. Constantly reminding us that tomorrow isn’t promised. I’m trying to work on accepting that with grace instead of fear and, at the very least, taking all the opportunities I have to appreciate everything that is and express as much love as I can.

I love you. Thank you for being here.

xoxo.