It was a snowy day in Cleveland. I sat alone in my much-too-large-for-only-one-person-apartment, wondering. Wondering entirely-too-intensely-about-everything-I-could-think-of. Has anyone ever died from eating non-cooked Toll House cookie dough? How long would it take to save up enough lint to make a sweater? Would George Clooney like me? If my neighbor started secretly feeding my cat Fancy Feast would Ms. Fluffypants desert me for the better meal? If I had a significant other in my life would I be boring him to tears with my ponderings?

Just then…

I hear a knock at the door. I race over to the peephole and…

I bow to the wind that tickles my face,
the covers that keep me warm,
the earth that holds me up.
I bow to the bird’s song that lulls me,
the tree that shades me,
the gravity that keeps me from floating away.

I bow to the death of my mother,
the pain in my back,
the sorrow of days gone by.
I bow to uncertainty,
I bow to fear.
I bow to loss.

I bow to my body; my legs, my heart, my mind… for taking me to all the places I need to go. I bow to my…

Hundreds of them, climbing over each other in sad desperation.

But, I’m on the guest list! They scream while throwing out names that they just heard the guy next to them say. We are awaiting approval from the cocky, well-dressed bouncer at the door. The guy I’m with pretends not to care if we get in. It’s a first date and he’s making like he doesn’t really want to get into this VIP club in Beverly Hills. He makes like he could care less if they lift the velvet rope and allow us regular folx to enter the plastic people haven. Even though, he’s the one who brought us here.

…

A Letter from filmmaker, Henry Jaglom

If you read my interview with the legendary indie filmmaker, Henry Jaglom, then you’ll remember we became friends, quarantine e-pals, and exchanged many, many, many emails back and forth in 2020 during the lock down.

Here it is for a refresher:

The letter below was not addressed to me but Henry sent it to me to read and it struck something in me about the romance of filmmaking and the concept of changing with the times.

I thought fellow film lovers and curious minds would enjoy reading it so I asked Henry if I could post it. …

Why do you write what you write?

“Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.”
— Sylvia Plath

I was a guest on a podcast the other day discussing my upcoming young adult novel, Just a Girl in the Whirl and the host asked me how I came up with the idea for my story.

Well, I was at a film panel in Hollywood a few years ago listening to a producer talk about how he takes his daughter out to dinner once a week just for one on one time with her. I remember thinking that was so sweet. It’s such a good way for his daughter to feel special and seen by her dad. Then I couldn’t hear anything else he said because my writerly brain kidnapped my thoguths and started asking…

Robert and Susan leave their not-so-great-way-over-priced-but-in-the-right-zip-code abode and hurry into their much-too-flashy-no-matter-how-you-justify-it Mercedes Benz and speed their way through Beverly Glen to their horrid destination.

Susan stares out the window while Robert futzes with the radio dial. Where’s the big band station? Susan has her gaze out the window, lost in thought. Robert repeats, Which one is the big band station, Susan? Susan?

Not turning her head away from the passing trees she says, The flower shop across the street from us is hiring.

Honey, we discussed this, you don’t need a job. …

Anne Beatts (February 25, 1947–April 7, 2021)

forward-moving
a life of action
visions come in flashes
sometimes scenes

I was in an awe of your past
the work,
the awards,
the company you had kept
you, the writer
you, the observer
you, the participant
you, in the thick of it
you made a life — from laughs
and you had the balls
to be a woman while doing it
yes, I was in awe of your past

and then I was gifted with your presence
in the present

I pitch a sketch and you scrunch up your face and say…