I’m feeling more “heels” than “hippie” lately. I judge this feeling as being a negative one, yet it is the other side of me, the other side of my life, and so I should be equally embracing. Thing is, a girl’s got to make money. And commercial modeling is alive and well in Los Angeles, and I’d be fool to turn down paychecks when they come my way. Yet–I haven’t written in 34 days. I confess this to you now, unwillingly. I haven’t had a “chance” to. Which is bullshit. Every stray thirty minutes is a chance. To do something creative. To jot down a few ideas. Thing is, I’ve taken a gig with a spokesmodel agency. Hooray for actually making ends meet. Boo for all the time literally in heels, mourning my inner writer who wants to play in the dirt and write poetry. I know, I know. Poor me. I realize what a ridiculous complaint this is.
I had big plans to write these last 34 days. So many blog posts got started in my mind. I tossed around opening sentences to a “Year In Review” sorta thing. I scribbled words towards a “Reflection on being home in Nevada for the holidays.” I even considered writing my yearly Christmas Eve letter to my mom as a blog post. Something I’ve tried to do every year since she died (and often only got down a few sentences). But I never wrote these jaunty little ideas. They’re floating in the abyss with all the consumed eggnog, funny Reno moments, and gazes out steamy car windows at sparkly, snowy ground.
Until last night. I picked up my screenplay for the first time in two months. And I reveled once more in the glorious brevity of screenwriting. Its sexy, punchy dialogue.
It all came flooding back to me–what I’m doing here in this crazy town, what I really am. Which is a writer. Which is a job, but also, unequivocally, me.