this is cutting it close

I've been writing for DTLAX Magazine, a quarterly magazine for/about Downtown Los Angeles, published by my friend Bert Green (longtime downtown resident, director of the Bert Green Fine Art, and founder of the wildly successful Downtown Art Walk).

My latest, titled, "Peeing In Public" can be found on p13 of the Winter Issue and "I Can See The Streets From Where I Am Now" is on p16 of the Summer Issue. I bring this up because the next issue will be going to press soon and I have to turn in 600 words by tomorrow. And so far, I have nothing. Nothing.

unpublished blog posts

A friend once told me that my best stories were the ones I didn't blog about. Although I never published those stories, they are written. And it's almost a novel. Which could then be adapted into a screenplay. I just wonder if it's dramatic/comedic/cinematic/interesting enough to warrant that kind of effort/attention.

moving past the happy ending i wanted

I've been a longtime fan of celebrated writer Rick Moody. During my sister Laura's battle with cancer a few years ago, I used one of his short stories, "Boys", which uses repetition to evoke multiple images of the same characters through time, as a jumping-off point and I wrote an homage-of-sorts using the same structure and aping his style, titled "Girls". I wrote it for Laura, because by then she couldn't talk and I didn't know how to tell her adequately how profoundly I loved her, so we communicated through our blogs and our writing. I have to admit that I didn't like the ending I wrote back then. It was a happy ending, which doesn't work for the story, but I didn't want to/couldn't imagine anything but a happy ending for my sister, even if it screwed up the story. Last week, in anticipation of September 3rd (the third anniversary of her passing), I rewrote the end:

GIRLS

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house. Girls, and with them the ideas of girls (ideas bright, expansive, flexible), enter the house. Girls, two of them, one charging ahead, one lagging behind, girls dreaming of princes, enter the house. Girls, sugar and spice, girls clad in jumpers with butterflies, flowers, and “Daddy’s Little Girl” t-shirts, enter the house. Two girls, heads together, whispering secrets and giggling, enter the house. Girls enter the house speaking a made-up language. Girls, one with scraped knees and unkempt hair, the other pristine, enter the house. On a Sunday night in September, the night before a new school year, unable to sleep, eager to wear new outfits, girls argue about whose turn it is to turn out the lights. Girls disturb their Brother down the hall with giggling and loud noises. Girls receive a scolding from said Brother to shut up and go to bed, after which the girls giggle into their pillows.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house. Girls, trailing after their Mother, attempt to emulate her walk. Girls enter the house, repair to their room to daydream and play pretend. Girls enter the house, sneak into Mother’s closet to try on high heels. Girls enter the house and repair immediately to the kitchen, alchemists with the Easy-Bake Oven, stirring sugar with magic and will it with all their might to become frosting. Girls persuade their Brother to sample half-baked creations; later they sit quietly beside him as he lays groaning, grateful he doesn’t snitch, terrified that complicity in his silence will result in death from food poisoning.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house. Girls enter the house clad in velvet dresses and lace stockings that itch so bad. Girls, fresh from Sunday service, one with long raven locks curled and gathered in ribbons, the other disheveled, yanking ribbons from her hair, uncertain if girlish things - such as playing quietly with dolls, waiting for a prince to rescue her from her tower, and feigning horror rather than displaying interest when the redheaded boy from down the street shows his shriveled boy-penis to the girls - are as much fun as boyish things.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house. Girls enter the house wearing Catholic schoolgirls uniforms, drained from piano lessons, violin lessons, ballet lessons, volleyball practice, choir rehearsal, volleyball practice, auditions, dress rehearsals, group study sessions. Girls enter their brother’s room unbidden, denude brother’s nose and brows of hair while he naps. Girls are grounded, don’t leave house except to go to school for a month. Girl enters the house dressed in a cheerleader’s outfit, the other, not. Girls enter the house, go to separate corners of their room. Girl slams a car door on the other’s finger, the other slams a car door on the other’s head. Girl enters the house bleeding profusely and is sped to the hospital for stitches, the other watches, scared and full of regret. Girls, with their Father (an arm around each of them), enter the house, but of the monologue proceeding and succeeding this entrance, not a syllable is preserved.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house. Girls with acne enter the house and squeeze and prod large skin blemishes while locked for hours in the bathroom. Girls with acne treatment products and lip gloss enter the house. Girls braid each other’s hair, try on outfits, scowl their disapproval and practice their dance moves in front of the mirror. Girls bat their eyelashes at their brother’s friends, boys to whom they would not have spoken to only six or eight months prior. Girls enter the house with boys lanky, gangly and graceless, and rebuff the boys’ awkward attempts for physical contact. girls talk long into the night about boys, school, boys, future plans, boys, hair, boys.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house. Girls enter the house having kissed boys! Girls kiss boys in backyards, on the beach, sitting in bleachers, at night under stars, in cars, backstage, and between classes. Girls practice kissing constantly: on pillows, back of hands, on more boys. Girls enter the house, go to their room, put on loud music, feel despair. Girls enter the house, fight over the phone. The girls are pretty, popular, adored. One girl knows she is pretty, the other feeling less so. Girls enter the house and kiss their Father, who feels differently, now they have outgrown him. Girls skip school and head for the beach. Girls cut class and go shopping. Girls enter the house, one before curfew, one under cover of night and through the bedroom window. Girls enter the house, one carrying bottles of liquor, nervously seeking hiding places where no one would look. Girls, with their Mother (an arm around each of them), enter the house, but of the monologue proceeding and succeeding this entrance, not a syllable is preserved.

Girls enter the house, one very worried, didn’t know more worry was possible. girls enter the house, one carrying and concealing controlled substances, the other carrying and concealing a pregnancy test, neither having told the other that she is carrying a controlled substance or a child, possibly. Girls enter the house, girls enter the house, one awash in relief, the other hung over, complexion ashen, blissfully ignorant.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house, each clasps the hand of the other with genuine warmth, one wearing a suit and a severe hairstyle, the other paying no attention to her clothes or hair. Girls enter the house, enter the house and argue bitterly about boys (other subjects are no longer discussed), one girl smug, the other believing that the other gets away with murder, refuses flan, though it is created by her Mother in order to keep the peace.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house and announce future professions. Girls enter the house, enter the house and change their minds about said professions. Girl enters the house with a boyfriend; the other, having no boyfriend, is distant and withdrawn, preferring to talk late into the night about going to school far away. Girls seem to do nothing but compose manifestos, for the benefit of parents; one follows their Mother around the house, having fashioned her manifestos in celebration of brand-new independence: I’m never going to date anyone but artists from now on, mad men, dreamers, practitioners of black magic, or A woman needs a signature fragrance; the other sits with their Father: Dad, I like to lie in bed late on Sunday morning and watch political and cooking shows while eating cereal, but these manifestos apply only for brief spells, after which they are reversed or discarded.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house, listen to their parents explain the seriousness of their Brother’s difficulty, his situation. Girls enter the house; girls go to their Brother’s room, sit by his empty bed. Girls enter the house, enter the house and miss their Brother. Girls hold hands, laying aside differences, having trudged grimly into the house. Girls enter the house, embarrassed, silent, anguished, afflicted, angry, woeful, grief-stricken. Girls enter the house, one back from visiting their Brother in prison, the other never visits, never speaks of it.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house arguing about one girl’s boyfriend. Girl accuses other girl: You just don’t want to see me happy. Girl complains to their Mother: Love is blind and he’s a crackhead. Girls enter the house, girls enter the house on a pre-arranged schedule so that they do not run into one another, one visits on Saturday, the other on Sunday. Girls enter the house, girls enter the house, one on the wrong day. Girls enter the house and say hurtful things. One storms out, takes the other’s keys and throws them onto the roof. Girls don’t talk for months. Girls call and email home and thereby enters the house only through a phone line or the Internet.

Girls don’t enter the house at all, except as ghostly afterimages of younger selves: fleeting images of heels clacking down the hallway; makeup strewn all over the bathroom; pantyhose dripping water as they hung to dry in the shower; girls as an absence of girls, blissful at first. You go to the bathroom, it’s unlocked and available. You put a thing down on a spot, put this magazine down, come back later, it’s still there; you buy a box of tampons, use three, later, three are missing. Nevertheless, when girls next enter the house, which they ultimately must do, it’s a relief. Girls come together in preparation for an important birthday, a benchmark age. Girls change into their dresses and heels (one wears ladylike kitten ones, the other preferring stilettos), as though heels are the mark of womanhood. Girls enter the house after the celebration. It was a good time! Girls enter the house, one flanked and aided inside by friends, having had one too many cosmopolitans; the other just happy to be part of the celebration.

One girl misses her sister horribly, misses the past, misses a time worth being nostalgic over, a time that never existed, back when their Brother finally came home; the other avoids all mention of that time. Each of them is once the girl who enters the house alone, missing the other, each is devoted and each callous, and each plays her part on the telephone or via email, over the course of the months.

Girls enter the house, girls enter the house with bad news. One girl enters the house with cancer. Girls enter the house, girls enter the house, girls enter the house.

Girls hold open the threshold, awesome threshold that has welcomed them when they were not able to welcome themselves, that threshold which welcomed them when they had to be taken in, here is its screen door, here is its doorbell that never worked, here’s where the girls peered anxiously through the window at their dates, here are the scuffmarks from when girls were on the wrong side of the door desperately searching the bottom of the handbag for the keys, here’s where boys kissed them goodnight, here’s where the newspaper always landed, here’s the mail slot, here’s the light on the front step, illuminated, here’s where the girls are standing as they pose for what they know will be their last picture together.

Girls, no longer girls, exit.

I miss you Laura.

laura always said i'd be good at this

My husband Jim has told me repeatedly that I have a tendency to take on too much. This time, I think he may be right. We have our art and architectural supply store, Raw Materials, opening in just weeks. We just finished taking down the drop ceiling and are ready to paint, shelving is being delivered as I type this, and we still have inventory to order, electricians and the phone company to deal with, and all sorts of details to be attended to. Additionally, we found a space to house Winstead Adams Projects and are negotiating a long-term lease. I know that doesn't sound too overwhelming, however, we still have our demanding day jobs and our business partner James has been in the Amazon for the past month and unable to help.

With all that on my plate, I take on another big project - clean out my closets, participate in an awesome group yard sale, put the sofa/chair up for sale and decide to redecorate. We're also selling our coffee/end tables, round dining room table/chairs, refrigerator, and a full-size washer/dryer set (putting that up on craigslist is on Jim's list of things to do).

Oh yeah, another tiny detail I left out - in addition to writing feature films, I'm now producing them. Since Bigshot Producer optioned my screenplay over two years ago, I've learned a few things and I guess he noticed. So now Bigshot Producer and I are working together on a slate of films. Although I'm very rusty at raising funds (not having done it since the Internet boom days), I managed to luck into a Mysterious Investor with deep, very liquid pockets. Unfortunately, Bigshot Producer and Mysterious Investor both require a lot of massaging and consequently I find myself on the phone with them and stressing out a lot.

I have to admit, it's very difficult to switch from producer mode to writing mode and my writing time is suffering. But opportunity was knocking and now I'm finding that I'm very not bad at this producing thing. Still, something has to give. But what?

tough choices

What does it mean to choose a life of art when success is impossibly out of reach? What kind of person does that? Selfish? Delusional? Or someone who just knows? How can you tell the difference?

I was reading about a woman who gave up a successful law practice to write her first novel. Twelve years later her debut novel was released to Critical Success. So how long do I give myself? Ten years? Five? How about now? Can I have it now?

hello 2008

Jim gave me the Hello Kitty 2008 calendar pictured above, titled, "Hello 2008". So happy. I follow Jerry Seinfeld's advice on writing every day and will continue doing so in 2008, so I'm looking forward to crossing off the days with my neon pink Hello Kitty pen. Silly? Yes. But I do whatever works.

I don't usually make resolutions (though my dog did), and I don't think this year will be any different. However, I might reactivate my gym membership. And eat more fruits and vegetables. But other than that, nothing new because I'm having a hard enough time sticking to my old list of things I'm supposed to be doing (like walking Wonton 2X a day and crossing off the days I write with a big pink X).

In a couple weeks, Jim and I will be celebrating our one-year anniversary. Woo hoo! Take that, all you naysayers who said it wouldn't last! One big year of wedded bliss! A few months ago, our landlord Abe was in the building, checking on the renovations to the floors below. He came up to take in the view from the patio and Jim went out to say hello. Jim said that Abe asked him, "So, how's married life?" Of course, Jim said it's been great. To which Abe replied, "Eh, wait until you've been married twenty."

busy days ahead

I haven't written much about what's really been going on with me, there's been so much "doing" rather than reflecting, and unfortunately the lack of activity on my blog shows that. As the WGA strike continues and we head into the holiday season, I'm afraid it's not going to get any easier.

Tonight is the Downtown Art Walk, which means Jim and I will take Wonton to The Lofty Dog for Yappy Hour. We've been taking Wonton on twice-daily walks and anytime we head north on Main or Spring past 4th Street, Wonton assumes he's headed for The Lofty Dog and damn near runs the whole way. I hope we'll have time to check out a few galleries and MOCA's Murakami exhibit, but I look at my pile of things to get done and I don't think it'll happen.

Every morning, I check Wonton's eyes, clean out any schmutz and apply the ointment that his veterinary opthalmologist gave us. Yes, our vet referred us to a specialist for Wonton's eye troubles. Yes, I realize this ups my ridiculousness rating considerably (as if it weren't high enough, what with Wonton blogging). At least I don't take him to a psychic or a therapist, but I'm getting off the subject. This morning, Wonton threw up on my comforter and his Hello Kitty blanket. Might have something to do with him trying to hoover up whatever he finds on our floors, or his eating the orchids off my orchid plant, or chewing the monkey sock slippers Jim's mom gave me last Christmas. I threw the bedding in the wash and Jim took Wonton out for his morning walk. He was probably trying to keep me from insisting on taking Wonton to the vet in a panic, like I did last time. Now he's napping (Wonton, not Jim), nestled inside the wooden basket that he normally tries to chew apart.



I was on a conference call with a WGA strike captain the other night. That, and some questions aimed at an entertainment attorney and a few producers, helped to clear up a few things as regards what I can and cannot do during the strike. I'll write about that in a separate post, it deserves more, um, reflection.

In other writing news, I'm working on a graphic novel. I'm in the outlining stage right now, but I do have a few panels written and have been lucky enough to get some sage advice from a friend and a seasoned pro in the field. I'll post more on my progress as work, um, progresses.

I've been meaning to check out one of those $15/hour foot massage places in San Gabriel, on Valley Boulevard. I'll probably need it after walking the picket line. Who wants to check it out with me? Anybody?

Oops, look at the time. If you're out Art Walking, stop by The Lofty Dog and say hi to me, Jim and Wonton (and other downtown dogs)!

what does a strike mean to me?

The WGA strike is on, I'm reading Shawn Ryan's reasons for striking on Nikki Finke's blog (I heart you Shawn Ryan), and I'm trying hard to not be annoyed by the Fox production that's shooting on location below my window. The phone rings, it's our location rep asking if they can send a location scout over this afternoon to look at our loft. My husband Jim asks me if we'd rent out our space to a prodco that's shooting a scripted production. I finish chewing my bagel and calmly say, "Hell to the no." My puppy Wonton stretches out on the sofa beside me and yawns in solidarity. Jim nods in agreement.

I've had friends and strangers ask how and if this strike affects me. I'm not yet a member of the WGA. The producer who optioned my screenplay and has been developing it for the past year is a WGA signatory. He won't go forward and shoot this without a writer on the set, so the project has been effectively derailed until the strike is over. This project would've made me eligible to join the guild, it would've put me in the game. It would've also put a decent production bonus in our bank account and paid for Wonton's eye surgery. Do I support the strike? You bet I do.

I attended Creative Screenwriting's Expo the other week and was amazed at how few attendees understood the issues and what's at stake. If you haven't been following the WGA strike and the ramp-up to it, John August writes a short summary of the situation here and Nikki Finke's DHD has the best coverage. I heard that in addition to picketing the studios and the signatory companies, the WGA will also be striking at location shoots. If so, may I suggest using the Downtown Locations Filming Map as a resource? And if you will be picketing at any downtown filming locations, please let me know so I can 1) offer my support and 2) blog about it so that my readers who support the strike can also offer their support.

Here's a list of the picketing locations and schedule, a list of struck companies (WGA signatories), and again, the Downtown Locations Filming Map.

next meeting of the downtown writers group

The next meeting of the Downtown Writers Group is scheduled for tomorrow, Thursday, October 4, 2007 at 7:00pm, at the DLANC Outreach Center at 450 S. Main Street (between 5th and Winston Streets), Los Angeles, CA 90013, next to the Regent Theater.

I'm kind of on edge right now. I submitted an unfinished version of my screenplay to the group two weeks ago, but I've since completed it and submitted that to my producer. Tomorrow, I get feedback on something that no one else but my producer, his development execs, and Jim have read. Fresh eyes. That's one kind of anxiety. Then over the weekend, I get to meet with one of my producer's development execs to discuss the draft I submitted. I know this will sound silly, but I can't tell which one is making me more anxious.

working out the kinks

The Downtown Writers Group met last week for the first time. Due to too many things going on downtown, several of our members couldn't attend. Then when I got to the DLANC Outreach Center, I saw that there was a scheduling snafu and a DLANC Affordable Housing sub-committee meeting was already underway. Brady explained the scheduling mix-up and our need for another venue. So I walked over to the group and interrupted, "Excuse me, but we have a downtown writers meeting scheduled, so, everyone else will have to get the hell out."

The walls of the DLANC Outreach Center echoed with laughter. Loud, raucous laughter. Brady tapped me on the shoulder and stage whispered, "I think they're up a little higher on the food chain than we are."

I stage whispered right back, "I know that Brady. That's why it was so funny."

More laughter. God this was a great room to work. So I tried out some new material. I killed. "Thank you and good night! Tip your waitress and be careful driving home folks!"

They still threw us out. No matter. We repaired to Red Dot and had some yummy chili fritos and beer while we figured out how this group was going to function.

I was worried that the group would be comprised of novelists only, but I worried needlessly. Although one of the group writes science fiction/short stories, he used to review films for the Village Voice and was willing to read/review screenplays. Another member, who has complained to me only of the lack of progress on her novel but was a creative executive at a big production company, announced that she wants to submit her screenplay (a "sober comedy") for review. I am hopeful that I will get some good feedback from fresh eyes on the screenplay I'm submitting.

Details regarding the group and our next meeting can be found on the Downtown Writers Group blog, but basically, we meet once a month on the first Thursday of the month. In order to review other members' work and give feedback, one must submit pages for review. There's more, but I have to get back to finishing this rewrite.

downtown writers group meeting

The first meeting of the Downtown Writers Group is scheduled for tomorrow, Thursday, September 6th, at 7pm. We will meet at the DLANC Outreach Center on Main Street, between Winston and 5th Streets, right next to the Regent Theater.

Please consider joining us if you are an emerging or professional writer interested in meeting other downtown writers, and participating in a peer-reviewed writing group.

attention downtown writers

A small group of downtown writers have banded together to start the Downtown Writer's Group. We will meet regularly to network, discuss processes, and most importantly, to review each other's work. Most of us are screenwriters but our group can include playwrights, novelists, short story writers, poets, movie trailer copywriters, and other types of writers who are interested in working with us.

This is not a workshop for people who want to learn how to write. There are many other places that we can recommend, many online and in Southern California. This is a group for professional and aspiring writers with some level of experience and/or expertise. Several of us are in the final stages of projects, a few of us write professionally. However, our goal is to expand and develop forums and sub-groups so that everyone downtown who is interested in writing, no matter what level or genre, can learn and work with other fellow downtown writers.

If you're a writer, living and/or working in downtown Los Angeles and are interested in joining the Downtown Writer's Group, please email me or Brady Westwater. check out our blog.

this could explain my anger

I read this the other day:

"The responsibility of a writer is to bring forth words that capture, through painful personal experience, people's suffering, pain, faith and hope. This is because a writer is charged with the mission of speaking on behalf of his fellow human beings. Everything that happens in the world is happening to me personally."
--Chingiz Aitmatov

This does explain somewhat why it's been so difficult for me to write and rewrite the screenplay I've been working on. I'm writing about ex-slaves, six years after the Civil War. I explore themes of loss and hope. It's heartbreaking and I often find myself veering wildly between grief and anger, often hours after I've finished writing for the day. Most people who know me know I can be very scary when I'm angry. But the grief part, I think is scarier for others to witness because it's so unexpected that I'm such a sap. My sister Laura once rolled her eyes then hit me in a movie theatre for tearing up during a screening of The Parent Trap. Okay, that wasn't grief, but you know what I mean.

I am really looking forward to writing a comedy.