MAScriv

I have gotten a slew of emails regarding the fires on "my" studio lot.  First off, as far as I know, no one was hurt, for which we can all be grateful.  What's sad is that an archive building burned, and while it's possible to duplicate the film negatives that were contained there, apparently it will be a long process.  The really sad part is that this archive building also contained a music library, which there is no way to duplicate.  And also, New York Street and the Back to the Future clocktower have burned to the ground.  I think.  All I really know is that my office smells like hickory bacon, and this is the view from the back entrance to our building:

I will see if I can sneak down there for more pictures during the day.  Thanks everyone, for checking in!

I like to imagine that there has been a great deal of begging and pleading and tears and bribes and back rubs to get me to update more frequently.  I like to imagine it, because it is So.  Not.  true.  Is it wrong that I like to picture someone waking up in the morning, logging onto their computer, and salivating as they wait for my blog to load, only to have their day ruined by the fact that I haven't written a word in ages?  What's that?  That's arrogant?  Oh.  Right.  So you're saying it's not wrong?

Truthfully, the past month has been a blur.  As some of you know, I am getting my own place, for the very first time in my ramen-noodle-plagued life.  I cannot tell you how excited I am.  No more fighting for the couch, the remote, or the shower.  No more having to clean up other people's shit or try to dust around their clutter.  I am SUCH an only child, and this promotion has only caused my space issues to break through my thick skull and clamor for my attention. 

Apples to Apples has expressed her concern that living on my own will turn me into a shut-in.  To which I replied, Who cares?  Is there ever anything happening in the world that beats a good episode of Law & Order?  Okay, yes, maybe, but only, like, once every three months, and when that thing happens, whatever it is, I will be there to witness it.  But I will spend the remaining twelve weeks sleeping on the sofa to the gentle lilt of syndicated USA.

In other news, I went home for my mom's birthday two weekends ago.  I have a love/hate relationship with home.  I love my parents, love spending time with them, but there's something stifling about my hometown.  If I'm there more than ten days, I start to go batshit crazy.  I have no idea what that's about - maybe the fear that I will have to move back there one day.  Then I remember I don't have to do anything, because I am a spoiled, entitled child who has had a relatively easy time of it.

One annoying thing did happen.  I sent out an email two weeks before my visit to all my friends from home, telling them I would be in for the weekend and would love to see them, and letting them know I was promoted, because I thought they'd be happy for me.  How many emails did I get in return?  Zero.  Fine.  I don't expect a party or a ticker tape parade.  What I don't like, though, is the accusation that I think I'm too good for them, which I occasionally get when I go back there.  How can I be the snob, when they are the ones who won't respond to an email?  I talked to another one of our writers about this.  She's from a small town in Texas, and she said her friends were happy to talk to her and hear all her LA stories when she was struggling, but as soon as she got her break, they wanted nothing to do with her.  I think that's sad, but I guess I understand it.  I don't think for one second that any of my friends are that insecure.  They are probably just busy with their own lives, which, good for them.  But if I said my feelings weren't hurt, I'd be lying.  And snobs don't lie.

Anyway, I have nothing else to complain about, and that in itself is worth celebrating.  PLUS, I got to meet the lovely and talented author of Dating Is Hell (www.dating-is-hell.blogspot.com), the novelist herself (www.katiemorton.com).  She has long been one of my very favorite bloggers, and we are both working on novels, so when she emailed me to say she was coming to LA, I was thrilled!  I find her ambition and energy very motivating, so we are going to start "answering to" each other for our prose.  I mean, I haven't talked to Cliffhanger about this, and I should, because she's the only person I've let read any of that crappy monstrosity of run-on sentences.  She will most certainly object, because she objects to most ideas I have.  And I haven't told my agents I'm even writing a novel, because they will run screaming in the general direction of the poorhouse.  I would get the same response from them if I told them I were writing a play, a short story, or crafting a diorama.  As I like to say, you don't move to Hollywood for artistic integrity.  Oh, wait.  I don't like to say that.  In fact, no one I know says that.  In fact, when someone asks us what we do for a living, we say, "We make the stories that come between the tampon ads." 

I have a dilemma that's been plaguing me my entire life.  I have a hard time remembering which candybars I like.  Sure, there are the simple ones - Hershey's milk chocolate is fine, but don't even bother bringing me the dark.  I cannot deal, because my palette is more suited to trashy foods like hot dogs and tater tots.  Dark chocolate begone!  I know I used to love Whatchamacalits, but now their crispy insides remind me too much of chocolate-covered, well-preserved maggots.  Plus, I don't think anyone eats them anymore.  I certainly don't run across too many out here in La La Land.  Twix is a go, but only if someone removes the caramel top and leaves me with the crunchy cookie part.  Sadly, it's one of the few times I find myself yearning for a significant other.  No one likes throwing caramel away.  Oh, wait.  Me.  I do.  

To make a long story short, our production staff is back today.  There are many benefits to this - the phones are actually answered, packages received, coffee delivered every afternoon... but mainly, our kitchen is now fully stocked.  Before it was all soy milk and fat free yogurt (what is it with writers having eating disorders now?  I thought I would bypass that when I gave up the acting aspirations I never had).  Now it's chocolate covered pretzels, pita chips, fresh fruit, cereal, sandwich stuff, rice frickin' pilaf... and assortments of candybars!!!  And today I remembered something I'd filed away years and years ago - I LOVE Mr. Goodbars!!!  It's one of those things I knew I either loved or hated.  And now, after trying one, I remembered - LOVE!!!  At first bite!!!  Pardon me while I go gain five pounds... it's good to be back in production.    

Is apparently what I need.  I mean, really, what kind of writer updates her blog every two weeks?  One with no discipline.  See, I have never fallen for the artist-as-free-spirit myth.  I am much more the get up every morning at six, pour myself some coffee, and approach the blank page before I am conscious enough for the work to terrify me.  Free spirit to me equals lazy.  Free spirit equals hangover which equals getting no work done.  The successful artists I know are some of the most disciplined people in the world.  To me, success is more about fearlessness than letting life pull you in any direction it might.  It's about focus.  And it is always about hard work, above all else. 

This is all a way of reprimanding myself for not updating the blog, so there you have it:  I am a lazy, non-free spirit who apparently fears sharing her life with others.  But I knew that even before I started the blog, so there you go.

The past couple of weeks have been interesting.  It's kind of the calm after the storm.  I think, as a result, I've been in a bit of a snit.  What do you do when you have worked so long for something and you get it?  You are thankful, right?  And boy, oh boy, am I ever thankful.  The people who gave me my break fought for me.  They saw something in me I knew was there.  But unlike others, they didn't ignore it.  So yes, I am grateful.  But now... now things are settling in again, and life is becoming... life. 

One thing that is going to help is getting my own place.  I am SO EXCITED for this.  My own space.  Not having to worry about NEVER having the apartment to myself.  I am an only child.  I have been my entire life up until now, and I will continue to be so.  I am a tantrum-having, feet-stomping, passionate person who has MAJOR space issues.  I used to think I needed to change.  Now, I just really don't give a shit.  I am sick of planning my life around when I will have the apartment to myself.  I very much feel the need to be alone right now, and I'm not sure why exactly that is.  Why now?  I feel like I've been pushing my friends away a little, being difficult for no reason, but sometimes that's just the way I am.  I like it when people fight for me.  Childish of me, totally, but my friends are smarter than I am about who I am and what I need. . They are mind readers.  They have been there for me every step of the past few months.  They have fought for me.  They have made sure I never felt alone or scared or like an unemployed loser.  And then I got promoted, and they celebrated with me, and they continue not to let me feel alone or scared. 

Some people love to knock Los Angeles and the people who flock here, but I have really lucked out.  Even in my darkest hours out here, I've always had faith that this town would take care of me.  Just like I've had faith that my discipline would pay off.  And I'm right... for now.

I'm totally finally writing a post!!!  Wait... is she kidding?  Is she kidding?  No, she's not!!!  I'm so sorry for all you zero people who get your daily blog fix from here.  It's just that, well, the past couple of months have been a roller coaster.  I got accustomed to having full days to accomplish small tasks, like going to the bank.  When I went back to work in late February, my time management skills, usually so well-honed, were all but non-existent.  And I must admit it was strange, going from writing and letting my creativity flow, if only as an escape from the real world, to answering someone else's phones and keeping their schedule.  Despite the fact that that someone is a someone I respect, and who is kind and respectful towards me as well.  I was just... over it. 

And then something weird happened.  Something incredible.  Due to my lovely bosses, I got an agent.  Two agents, actually, who call me every week to check in and call each other names and both despise bowling, just as I do.  And then my lovely bosses took a chance on me, fought for me, and gave me my break.  So I'm a real live, paid writer now, working on a show I love, with people I respect, and I'm still pinching myself, nearly a month later.  I'm still wondering what I did to deserve this, even though I am a bit of a workaholic and I would rather be writing than talking, and I wanted to prove all those people who laughed when I told them what I wanted to do with my life wrong.  There's nothing I despise more than people who dream but don't act on those dreams.  That's just lazy.  When I told my high school English teacher I wanted to write and would appreciate some advice, she laughed and said, "Marry rich."  Imagine my surprise that I don't have to.... for now..... 

Can also be called "One of the only Romantic Comedies I Like."  Too bad my dinner tonight involves Mexican food.  Oh, well. 

My parents are going to a funeral today.  A funeral of a woman I didn't know that well - she went to my parents' church and never learned to drive.  That is the extent of my knowledge of her.  So you might be wondering why my parents attending a funeral would make front-page blog news.  To which I say, do you READ this blog?  Yesterday I recounted the E! True Hollywood Story of the cast of Full House.  Any boring old thing is fair game here.  But funerals are never boring when my parents are in attendance, especially my father, who is the proverbial funeral shit-stirrer.  Yes, the man who cries at every episode of Little House on the Prairie can't stand a normal woe-is-me funeral, so he considers it his job to make sure everyone is having fun.  Case and point, my Uncle Ronnie's funeral several months ago.  Ronnie was not the most responsible member of our family (I write as I sit my unemployed ass on the couch with Law & Order on in the background), and to that end, he was not particularly punctual.  So when he wasn't fully cremated in time for his own service, my father remarked, "Isn't that just like Ronnie?  To be late for his own damn funeral!" 

Then there was my Uncle Sarge's funeral... Uncle Sarge was my great uncle, the brother of both my grandmother and the infamous Mammy Jane.  So of course he attended Mammy's eightieth birthday party.  My parents, who were out of town camping with the annoying dog, did not.  I was asked to go in their place, and, since the Honeybee happened to be visiting that weekend, she came along.  There was cake, there were flasks, there was the proverbial group photo, which my family insisted the Honeybee join.  Fast forward several months, when Sarge has kicked the bucket.  Someone decided it would be a good idea to make Sarge a funeral collage, which they did, with posterboard and streamers and the photo of Mammy's party, among others.  I found my father staring at the collage, so much so that no one else could really get a good look.  "What are you doing?"  Says I, "There are other people here who want to see pictures of Sarge jitterbugging and herding cattle (or whatever the hell else Sarge was doing in those photos - the man liked to dance.  And drink.  Often at the same time.)."  And my dad says, "I'm not in this collage."  I respond, "So what?  He was an uncle-in-law.  You're not fair game for a funeral collage."  "But..." Dad sputters, "But...The (Honeybee) is in this collage!  I've been a member of this family for twenty-five years, and she trumped me!"  "Well," says I, "Guess you should have gone to Mammy's party." 

Dad is now upset with me.  Very upset.  And granted, that comment was a bit snarky.  But it was NO REASON for him to stand beside the funeral collage for the rest of visitation and point to the Honeybee, telling everyone who looked upon her that she was "Melissa's special friend."  It confused my grandmother in particular, since I'd just been through a bad break-up.  With a BOY.  But it made my dad feel better to tell everyone I was a lesbian, so whatever.

I was discussing the funeral the 'rents are attending today with my mom, and I have gained additional insight into the dead woman.  Apparently, when I was three, said woman asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I responded, "Hamburger buns."  So she sent me a card with a dollar in it so I could buy myself some hamburger buns.  I'm wondering why I would have asked for them - they don't seem to be any sort of forbidden fruit item.  Can anyone think of any reason why hamburger buns would have been a holiday-worthy treat in 1983 Kentucky?  Cause I got nothin'. 

Guess what, all you peeps who haven't been commenting?  Now, you don't have to register with Movable Type to let me know who you are and what you think of my shabby-ass blog/life.  What you cannot let me know?  If you are peddling some sort of penis enlargement/EDD/QVC product.  If that starts happening, I will lift the moat once more. 

Carry on.

Several of you have complained (aka Chlydia) that you cannot post comments on this site.  This perturbs me, in a time when everything perturbs me.  I'm going to try to work this out - meanwhile, if you couldn't before and now can post a comment, please let me know.  Or something.  I won't be able to fix any problems, but I'll bite my nails and cry in the corner because here I've been thinking no one loves me enough to comment, when perhaps it's the site.  Bah!!!

The pilot is (relatively) finished.  I was going to try to get away with not really looking at it anymore and sending it off to the powers that be, but Cliffhanger texted me as soon as she got off the plane last night demanding (not asking if it was done, mind you) that I email her the script immediately.  I pity people who don't have soul-crushing drill sergeant friends to keep them in line. 

I also pity Jodie Sweetin, whose meth addiction got a poor excuse for screen time in the E! True Hollywood Story - Full House I watched this morning.  All I'm saying is it should have taken top billing over the Olsen twins' successful clothing line/exercise video/pre-porn empire.  Meth is much more interesting than success. 

Which brings me to Heath Ledger.  I'm sorry he's dead.  He was hot, he was talented, and he named his daughter Matilda.  And I like that name because of the Roald Dahl book.  Anything else I say won't be profound or snarky, so I'll shut up now. 

I am distraught.  At the end of my rope.  At the end of my noose, even.  I am a few hours away from finishing this pilot, which tomorrow must go to one of my VIBs (or Very Important Bosses), as well as the agent I met with on Thursday who ALLEGEDLY wants to sign me (and I'll believe it when I see a check or someone brings me free bagels with chive cream cheese - either one.  I'm not picky).  Apparently, this is a big deal, despite the whole I-haven't-signed-with-him-yet and still have to go back to the agency and meet some of the partners this week.  But Cliffhanger and the Staff Writer are practically throwing me a frickin' ticker-tape parade, so I s'pose that, whatever happens, it's worth celebrating.  So much so that Cliffhanger has left me all alone to finish the pilot while she goes crazyin Vegas with the single nickel I gave her to play the slot machines.  According to her latest text, I am ten cents richer.  Finally... some income!

Despite all the stress of, you know, producing something that will trick people into believing they can make money off me, I have had a lovely weekend.  Dinner at Tender Greens (if you're ever in Culver City and strapped for cash, stop by - nothing costs more than ten dollars) Friday, hiking Saturday morning, Mexican food with Prancers Saturday night, then writing all day yesterday. 

Let me just stop myself right here - I am a diva when I'm writing.  I lose all sense of decorum, I will eat an entire pound of chocolate MERELY TO PROCRASTINATE and not because it tastes good, and I get upset if I can't find an episode of "Little House on the Prairie" to keep on in the background.  Did you hear me when I mentioned the word procrastinate?  Okay, good.  Because yesterday, I discovered Facebook.  So you'll be glad to know I was able to put the chocolate down in lieu of stalking everyone I have ever met and whose name I can remember.  I now have almost forty friends.  I think I can break a hundred before I get this &*&#$ pilot done.  If it weren't a frickin' national holiday, with people not checking email and spending their days at the beach and whatnot, I would SO TOTALLY have already broken a hundred. 

Yesterday, I spent a sum total of three hours on Facebook.  Between scenes.  During lunch.  And I may or may not have sidled on over to see if anyone had confirmed/validated/whatever the proper Facebookian term may be our friendship while I was in the midst of writing the crucial Act III break.  They hadn't.  Assholes.  Anyway, as a result of this newfangled way to make every adult on the planet feel like they will eternally be in middle school, I got behind on my writing.  I was supposed to grab dinner from Bay Cities with the Designated Driver, and they close at 6.  She knocked on my door promptly at 5:30, when I had just installed the Good Karma function on my Facebook page. 

"Oh, no," says I.  "I am right in the middle of this VERY.  IMPORTANT.  SCENE.  And I cannot possibly think about food until I can understand the central conflict.  Not only of this character, but of the world.  Because these issues I'm dealing with in the script, they are small, but they can be applied on a larger scale, see, and how can I stop now?  I cannot.  And I cannot leave to get something so trivial as food, when art is feeding my soul--"

"--So you want me to bring you something back?"  Says the Designated Driver.

"I couldn't ask you to do that." 

"So you want maple turkey with havarti cheese, the works, and hot peppers, right?"

"Oh, fine.  If it makes you feel better, go ahead.  But I can't even think of eating--"

And she was already out the door with a roll of her eyes.  Half an hour later, I ate that entire sandwich in five minutes.  Then I washed my hands and went back to Facebook.  

Art's cool and everything, but given the choice, I'd pick a turkey sandwich every time.