Loose ends.

“be easy.

take your time.

you are coming

home.

to yourself.”

– Nayyirah Waheed

I just started rehearsing a new play. Well, a play, and a monologue, two short pieces I’m directing this summer as part of a larger show. But the play, a one-act called Closing Time at Graceland, is the reason I’m still in L.A. Because when I started writing it (or rather, when it started writing me), something about the story stuck in my bones. Without realizing it, I wrote a longing-tinged love letter to my past. To opportunities missed. To the road not taken. To the dreamy hopefulness of youth, and the realization – that only comes with age – that hope is expensive.

I watched countless auditioning actors perform the play’s bittersweet climax and never once failed to feel a lump rise in my throat. I’m sure my emotional state had something to do with the timing: we held auditions in the weeks before and after I packed up my Cashio apartment; weeks I spent going through old photos and mementos, journal entries and play scripts, saying goodbye to my neighbors.

These last few weeks I have been engaged in a persistent tug of war between holding on and letting go. I’ve been reaching out to friends and making plans, checking items off my “things to do before I leave L.A.” bucket list, sorting through boxes of stuff in my summer sublet, and continuing to work on paring down my belongings to the bare minimum.

I have six weeks left. I feel the need to tie up all the loose ends, to see all the people I want to see, do all the things I want to do. I know that’s impossible. I’m still a person who craves closure, even though I’m not sure I believe it exists. As a writer, I prefer an open ending, probably because I’ve learned that few things in life ever truly resolve.

It’s the calm before the storm; these last sleepy, hot July days represent a lull in the calendar. Time in which to work behind the scenes and get my life in order before the chaos of August descends – the play, the parties, the fast push to the big departure date – signaling the end of an era.

I should be working harder than I am, but I feel heavy, unmotivated, and exhausted, prone to short bursts of energy followed by long afternoons where it’s tough to find a reason to leave the apartment. Friends ask how the New York plans are going, and instead, I steer the conversation toward the play I’m working on, my upcoming storytelling show, the new David Hockney exhibit at The Getty. Because this moment – this one that I’m currently living – is the one I’m preoccupied with.

Do I feel guilty about the fact that I don’t have more boxes checked with regard to the future? Yes. Does it make me uneasy when people ask me where I’m going to live in New York and how I’m going to pay my bills and I still don’t know? Yes, and yes. But here’s the truth: I wouldn’t be taking this leap if I didn’t have faith that somehow, some way, it will all work out. Perhaps for the first time ever, I trust myself. I trust the decision I’ve made. And I trust in my intuition that everything will come together when I need it to.

For a recovering (meticulous) planner, this type of faith in the unknown marks real progress. I’m scared as hell, but I’m proud of myself, too. So, for now, I’m going to enjoy where I am. I’m going to enjoy the last few weeks of this beautiful, sweltering Southern California summer. And I’m to going to continue to tie up those loose ends, wherever I can.

Until next time, friends.

Love and War.

“You take your life in your own hands and what happens? A terrible thing, no one to blame.”

– Erica Jong

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I can’t remember exactly when I began to silence my phone. I only know that there was a period of time during the not so distant past when every time it rang or chimed or buzzed, the news was bad. And even though switching my phone to mute didn’t solve the problem, the magical thinking I adopted during those dark days meant that if I didn’t receive the message, then the bad thing didn’t happen. The crisis had been averted. For one more day, I was OK.

And so, barring rare exceptions, I’ve kept my phone on silent. But these days, the mute button is no longer about protecting myself from bad news. These days, it’s the only thing shielding me from the unbearable silence of the calls that aren’t coming.

Tomorrow, February 3rd, is the opening night of my play, War Stories. Another opening, another show. But this one is different. Not only because of the length of time I’ve been working on it, or because of how uniquely personal the subject matter is, but because its opening marks the end of something; it means I’m standing on the edge of something.

War Stories originated as a one-act that I wrote for last summer’s Hollywood Fringe Festival, and this new iteration is a longer, two-act piece, centering around the same four characters, a band of thirty-something Angelenos with time running out on their dreams, who are looking for love in all the wrong places.

Writing this play – particularly this latest, longer draft – was utter hell. I don’t think I’ve ever struggled so much or felt so inadequate as a writer as I did during the process of reworking this script. And if I didn’t have so many other people counting on me, people who I like and with whom I’ve been talking about this new production for months, I’m quite certain that somewhere along the line, I would have given up.

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In truth, I’ve been wearing a heaviness in my heart since last September, and this script demands a level of emotional honesty that I wasn’t sure that I was up for. All through the fall, I carried the story within me, writing bits and pieces of it in my head when I couldn’t bear to face the page. The stories of Chelsea, Sam, Jake and Jen and their messy, intersecting love lives followed me into the jostle of crowded streets in Mexico City, and onto a sweaty campaign bus pushing through the Nevada desert, and high into the Santa Monica mountains, as I gazed down on the sweep of Los Angeles below. Everywhere I went, these characters and their broken hearts followed, demanding that I give them voice.

And the power of a deadline is something to behold, because as difficult as it was, finish the script I did. And we cast some incredible actors who breathed life into the characters in ways that I couldn’t have imagined and gave meaning to words I wrote that I didn’t know existed. And now, here we are: a day before opening and we are ready. We have a show.

A few days ago, I found a rare blank spot on my calendar; the only day in the entire month of January with nothing written on it. And so, in that last gasp of stillness before the play begins, I returned to the place I always go when I need to think, that stunning art museum perched high on a hill above Los Angeles called the Getty Center.

I wandered through the Getty’s now barren winter garden, drank espresso while taking in the city below, and stayed until the sunset spread its tangerine warmth across the Pacific Ocean. And as I did, I asked myself who I want to be. Not who I think I should be, or who other people want me to be, but who I actually am and who I, perhaps, have not been giving myself permission to become.

For months, this production of War Stories has been my excuse to put off making decisions about my future. “I can’t do anything until after the show,” I’ve said, time and time again. And it has been true, at least, mostly. But come March, my calendar is wide open and I can do anything I want, a prospect that is both exhilarating and terrifying.

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Which leads me back to the calls that aren’t coming, and the need to continue to keep my phone on silent to avoid thinking about them. In the summer months, everything seemed to flow. Work was coming in, money was good, and life was sweet.

But as the calendar switched to fall, things got harder. I started hitting walls. Work slowed down. People started disappointing me, stopped showing up. Promises were broken. And the future that I thought would unfold on its own simply hasn’t.

And now it is February. Money is running low and the hour is running late. And I’m no closer to receiving any sort of sign of what to do next, or which way to turn. Which means that I’ll have to trust myself, and that trust, due to some unfortunate events, has recently been shaken.

Last week, staring down on the city that I love, I felt less invincible than I usually do from that favorite perch high above L.A. I felt uncertain, a little afraid, even. I know that it’s time to take a leap. I know that it’s time to begin the next chapter of my life. I just thought I’d know what that was by now. I thought that by now, the answers to those questions would be obvious.

But maybe it’s OK that I’m so uncertain. Maybe it’s OK that there’s no crystal ball, no prophetic vision, no knight in shining armor swooping in to save the day. Maybe it’s a good thing to stand on the edge and ask myself to be braver than I feel, to take a chance, to be the hero of my own goddamned life.

Maybe I’ll learn something from this, something that I needed to know.

Maybe.

But right now, I’ve got a show to open.

Until next time, friends.

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Where I Write: The Getty Center.

At 12:27 p.m. on Friday, September 9th, I find a parking spot on the third level of the subterranean garage and open my car door to be greeted by an oppressive wall of heat, the humidity wrapping itself around me as I quickly head for the exit, for higher ground, for cooler air. I take the elevator three flights up, disembark, and approach the bag check line. I open the canvas tote that’s slung over my shoulder, allowing a man in a polo shirt to briefly scan its contents, and then join a small – blissfully so, now that it’s after Labor Day – group of people waiting on the open air platform. The tram arrives and I claim a spot in the back, trying to settle into a comfortable position against the seat’s hard plastic. My limbs are sore from yesterday’s punishing kickboxing class, and my brain whirs from a sleepless night and an early wake up call to complete a project deadline. In truth, there’s so much work waiting for me at home – half-finished projects, a never-ending to-do list, my own personal writing deadlines – that I feel a bit like a delinquent child playing hooky from school, both giddy and guilty about this afternoon escape. But as the train climbs the hill, making its slow ascent toward the summit, a palpable sense of relief rushes through me. No matter how busy I am, I know that I need this.

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Last month, in August, I hit my seventeenth anniversary of living in Los Angeles. Seventeen years. That’s essentially half my life, and longer than I’ve lived anywhere. I suppose there’s no denying it: for better or for worse, I am an Angeleno. And today, needing a brief respite from the hectic pace of this city and the life I live within it, I’ve come here, to my favorite sanctuary high up on a hill: the Getty Center.

If you’re a regular reader of Extra Dry Martini, you’ve probably noticed that mentions of the Getty – with its stunning grounds and gardens and sweeping views of Los Angeles – show up fairly often in my blog posts. I’ve been visiting the museum ever since I moved to L.A. all the way back in 1999, when I was a baby-faced college freshman, newly arrived from a small town in Washington State. And though things have changed dramatically for me over these last seventeen years, the Getty is one part of my L.A. life that has remained a constant.

I’ve come here on New Year’s Day, watching the first sunset of the year set the sky on fire. I’ve come here during the high heat of summer, seeking shade underneath flowering trees in the Japanese garden. I’ve come here when I’ve felt happy, come here when I’ve felt sad, come here when I’ve had something to celebrate, and come here when I’ve been at my lowest, needing to have my sense of possibility restored.

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I often come to the Getty when I want to feel close to my mother – including one trip two years ago on the anniversary of her death that I documented on this blog – because she loved the place every bit as much as I do. She loved the lush, tranquil gardens, the natural light and open spaces that float between the solid and sure travertine stone columns, the small but expertly-curated collection of Impressionist paintings, including its crown jewel: Van Gogh’s Irises, with such vibrantly textured lavender petals and emerald green leaves that I never grow tired of gazing at it.

When it comes to writing, I believe that reflection is just as important as action, and that in order to keep creativity flowing, we must take time to consume words and images other than our own. It’s a concept that Julia Cameron, author of the book The Artist’s Way, calls “filling the well.”

Fortunately, the Getty provides ample space for both, so before I settle in to put pen to paper, I take some time to wander the museum’s galleries and grounds. I get lost in an evocative collection of paintings on loan from the Tate – appropriately titled London Calling – and then am transported to 19th Century France via a black and white photography exhibit called Real/Ideal.

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Exiting the West Pavilion, I pause for a moment at one of the Getty’s many vantage points overlooking the city. As I stare down at this vast, sprawling metropolis, at the traffic inching along the 405 freeway, I can’t help feeling a surge of pride that a small town girl from the Pacific Northwest could come here, to Los Angeles, to the place of movies and dreams, and make it her own. And though L.A. can be brutal (and has at times, been brutal to me), I can’t help but love it, perhaps because of its brutality, perhaps in the same way that a gladiator, bloody and bruised though he may be, loves the arena.

Even when crowded, you can almost always find a quiet space at the Getty in which to write, whether it’s a shaded table tucked away in a corner of the outdoor plaza or a bench in an overlooked section of one of the art galleries. But my favorite place to write is always the breezy open-air terrace, perched above the garden and adjacent to the café. So when I’m finally ready to put pen to paper, that is where I go, choosing the most private table that I can find.

I have several writing projects in the works, but this afternoon isn’t about projects or deadlines. It’s more internal, more introspective. I pull out a brightly colored hard cover notebook recently gifted to me by a friend, called the “Letting Go Journal,” (something I’m actively trying to do these days), the pages of which are peppered with inspirational quotes on that very topic. I flip to the first page and the saying from Andy Warhol printed there makes me chuckle. Yeah, I think. So what? And as the soft September breeze meanders across the terrace, its cooler winds an early indicator that summer is pressing onward toward fall, I begin to write. That afternoon, I will fill the pages of my journal with things that I won’t tell you, with things that I won’t tell anyone, because – for a few hours at least – on this perfect late summer day, this time is just for me.

Until next time, friends.

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Endings.

“There are no happy endings.

Endings are the saddest part,

So just give me a happy middle

And a very happy start.”

-Shel Silverstein

On Monday, I grieved. I didn’t know what else to do. I told myself I should get to work on my very long, very ambitious to-do list with the heading “Post Fringe,” but in truth, my heart wasn’t in it. Instead, I hid from the sweltering Southern California heat inside the walls of my one bedroom apartment, and I moped.

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June was a fun month. To be honest, it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Months of hard work and preparation culminated in the production of my play, War Stories, at the Hollywood Fringe Festival. Over the course of three and a half weeks, we put up six performances, and my friends – many of whom I hadn’t seen in months – came to see them. And in between the performances (which garnered better-than-I-could-have-hoped-for reviews from both critics and audiences alike), there were parties and mixers and seemingly infinite amounts of theater to see. I saw thirteen shows in June, everything from cabaret to burlesque to improv to musicals to solo performance. Fringe was three and a half weeks jammed full of inspiration and artistic creation and community in the heart of Hollywood, and it was wonderful.

But now it’s over. And if June was all about celebration, then July is all about work. Because not only do I have to get back into the laboratory and continue to shape the next, two-act draft of War Stories for an upcoming production this winter, I also have a whole list of other important things to tackle that I put off while I was out fringe-ing. Boring, tedious, life things. Such as figuring out how I’m going to pay my bills now that I’ve decided to enter the brave new world of freelancing.

I suppose it’s not surprising then that on Monday, I felt like I was in a ravine, looking up at the next, larger mountain needing to be scaled, thinking, “Oh, hell no. Not today.”

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But then Tuesday arrived, which also happened to be my late father’s birthday. I never know quite how to approach these emotionally-loaded anniversaries, but I usually try to do something nice for myself, so I went up to one of my favorite places in Los Angeles: The Getty Center. I typically rush through museums, but on Tuesday, I turned off my cell phone and I took it all in: the replica caves of Dunhuang with their intricately painted walls and ceilings and Buddhist icons, Rousseau’s landscapes, the Greek and Roman sculpture, the Medieval tapestries. And somewhere among the decorative arts in the South Pavilion, a perfectly paneled Parisian drawing room transported me to 17th Century France, and I felt better.

Leave it to my Dad, the biggest kicker of ass and taker of names I ever knew, to inspire me to shake off my self-pity and resolve to get back to work. And maybe I also needed to spend an afternoon immersed in the work of other artists to remind me that there are still many, many stories inside of me waiting to be told. Yes, writing is hard work. It requires time and dedication and solitude and sometimes even a little blood. (That may sound dramatic, but if anything I’ve ever written has made you cry, I promise it’s because I cried while writing it.)

Writing is hard. Doing the work is hard. But I also love it. Most of the time, I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing. And since I’ve decided that – one way or another – it’s how I’m going to make my living, it’s time to get back to it.

Well, almost. With the Fourth of July holiday upon us, I’m not quite ready to go back to reality just yet. Moping done, I cashed in some airline miles and booked a plane ticket out of L.A. Because in order to fully recover my equilibrium, I need to spend a few days in a beautiful place with people I love. I’ll make sure to bring my journal.

Until next time, friends.

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