A Worthy Epitaph

In 6th grade I had a girlfriend who dumped me for an older guy. I was heartbroken, but it didn’t phase my desire for another one. I spent much of my time in junior high and later years trying to impress girls, but I failed to snag another GF until late in my senior year.

By then I was a needy, lonely male animal. And I fell really hard for a gorgeous girl who was a year younger. My impending departure from the civilian world a month after graduation made our relationship even more intense and hyper-romantic.

Unfortunately, she also happened to be my BFF’s ex-GF. Thus I was forced, initially, to choose between my loyalty to him and my hormones. Let me assure you, deciding what to do required a lot of soul searching for several seconds.

Their breakup was tumultuous. Lots of tears all around. Her heart was literally being torn in two, and her parents were naturally very concerned about her. In the heat of it, I just learned, her mother offered her some advice.

I got a pkg in the mail recently from my high school GF, filled with pics I took and letters I wrote between 1976 and 1983. She’s in the middle of moving, and she reached out to see if I wanted them. I said "Yes, please," though with a bit of angst. (I was a bit of a cad back then.) (Really. No, REALLY.)

It is a testament to her character, by the way, and to her husband’s character, that these items have been allowed to remain undisturbed in a shoebox all these years. But I digress...

When she was trying to decide whether to go back with him or move fwd with me, her mom said, “You laugh a lot more often with Dave.”  And so, she ended up choosing me.  

We remained a couple for another year or so, before life took us in different directions, but it’s heartwarming to know that all my clowning around back then wasn’t a total waste of time. In fact, I think those words would make a great epitaph.

Brief Blog from a Bubble

It’s been 34 years since I drove west in an old beater from Delaware, with just my clothes and a stereo system, and no job waiting for me.  It was challenging to find a foothold, but I was determined to find a way.

Looking back, I’m glad I made that choice, and grateful that I found a way.

Even back in 1982, the cost of living in the SF Bay Area was outrageous, but I quickly fell in love with its temperate climate, with its proximity to both Lake Tahoe and the beach, and with its diverse range of job options, attitudes, and cuisines.

There are still moments, often near sunset, when I’m awed by the beauty of this place.  I lived all over the east coast as a kid, so sometimes I miss the change of seasons and the lush greenery that regular rainstorms enable, but I tell my kids that, all things considered, we are living in the best area of the best state in the best country on earth.

I warn my kids:  we live in a bubble and you have nowhere to go but down if you ever choose to move away, so be kind to everyone you meet, because they are probably suffering in at least six ways that you are not.

And now it is being reported that we live in the best city  of the best area of the best state in the best country on earth.

“A new report finds six of the top 10 most expensive U.S. cities to buy a home are in the Bay Area, with Saratoga topping the list.”

http://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/2016/09/08/priciest-housing-markets-saratoga-silicon-valley-bay-area/ 

Rowing Toward Success

Finding just the right words can seem impossible when sitting in front of a blank page.  I wonder how Hemingway did it, and on a friggin' typewriter no less.

Still, I yearn to put together timeless, perfect words.  Eloquence that will fly like an arrow in the precise arc necessary to unify the heartbeats of an audience. 

Words that will keep an audience riveted precisely long enough to feel a particular emotion or understand a specific point of view.

Finding those words will be, for me, the peak of artistic success.  It is the point, way far away on the horizon, toward which I row with mild optimism. 

Of course, commercial success, which usually requires talented writing as a base, would also be nice... but whether a work stands the test of time often depends on how much money is spent to make it visible, as well as on the timing of promotional efforts. 

Even if these things happen just right, the effectiveness of words on a page can get muddled by layers of context and subtext, not to mention by interpretive choices made by an actor, director, or editor. 

Writing that transcends all of these factors is what I hope to put forth in the world, even though a consensus of opinion about its merits might not occur until well after I'm gone.  

I believe that whatever ultimately happens is bigger than me - that the end result of artistic efforts is unknowable by anyone - and so the joy I get from the creative process, from taking artistic risks, is the only payoff I should expect.

If a typhoon comes, I'm screwed.  But I do have oars.  And making it across the ocean is only possible if I keep rowing.

Remember That You Get to Choose

Shit happens, right?  When something happens that you didn't expect and don't like, try to remember that YOU get to assign meaning to whatever is happening. You get to choose how to feel.

When my first marriage was failing, I faced the situation without a support system.  I'm not a church goer, and my side of the family were all "I told you so", so there was no one for me to talk to, really.  So I ended up in a very dark, disconnected, scary place.  Alone.

The lone candle flickering in the darkness was the fact that I had a daughter who needed me.  For her sake, I chose to do what had to be done in order to move forward = not die. I found gratitude for the one thing in my life that was undeniably awesome, and I focused my attention on it, taking baby steps, minute by minute, hour by hour.

Eventually things got a LOT better.

The pain I went through then was necessary, I realize now, for me to be available for what was to come, seven years later, when I was lucky AND ready enough to start a new family, which not only healed my heart, but gave me a more compassionate view of the world and nudged me closer to my dream of becoming an author worthy of representation.

Everything has meaning if you can find gratitude. And if you find meaning, it fills you with more gratitude.  Gratitude is a wellspring of creativity.

Several years later, things were going just peachy when the financial collapse of 2008 happened, and over 90% of my hard-earned nest egg went POOF.  (I watched helplessly as my IRA shrank from over 700K to just 70K.)  When the tide goes out, all boats go down. There is no safe place to run.

I questioned why I had slaved away for almost 30 years in cubicles without windows, hoping to amass enough wealth to someday be able to finally follow my artistic passions without ending up a poverty case.  

I felt like a fool.  I was angry -- at myself, at the government, at employers, and at Republicans in particular.  I still have regrets about decisions I made.

At the time, I was devastated and exhausted, both emotionally and intellectually. Nothing made sense any more.  Logic and wisdom held no power.  As a result, I lost faith in banks and insurance companies, I even doubted the soundness of our currency.  (This is STILL the case years later, by the way.)

But when I lifted my head and looked around, I noticed that each of my kids was healthy and happy, and I remembered that THIS is 90% of what matters to me.  In gratitude I chose to move forward in life with less anger.

Funny story longer, in a "F*ck you, Universe" move, I took what was left of my nest egg, and I put it ALL into one stock that had fallen to 35 cents a share, and a decade later it was bought out at $3.00.  I got lucky.  So it turns out I will have enough to retire after all.

Until something ELSE happens that I don't expect.

Getting older can be especially depressing if you were once blessed with impressive artistic or intellectual or athletic talents that fade over time.  One of the most difficult things humans ever do is say goodbye, and though we might feel alone in our pain, we all eventually grieve for the more vibrant person we once were.

I used to be somewhat handsome, but now I look in the mirror and ask "Who the HELL is THAT?!?" 

Watching my gifts get taken away is depressing, but lately I'm finding gratitude for body parts that still function.  It's actually quite freeing to stop worrying so much about how I look. You never lose something without gaining something else.

Shit could happen in 6 hours, 6 weeks, or in 6 years. I have no idea when, if ever, but regardless of when or if it haps, it's all good.  Because The Universe is my bitch, yo.

Some Words About My Pal, Gordon Rothwell

I went to a memorial service recently for an 86-year-old pal who passed. 

When I met Gordon, he had recently retired from a career in advertising – a career path that I’ve always yearned to follow, but which I have lacked the courage and confidence to pursue. Instead, I’ve sought the relative safety of technical writing, which rewards predominately left-brain writers like me with a steady paycheck.

But the yearning to be Don Draper, to be thought of as one of the magical Mad Men, has never left me.

As we know, Gordon Rothwell was the real deal. I wanted to learn from him, and he did not let me down in this regard. I met him when a fellow wannabe screenwriter invited me to attend a monthly meeting that Gordon had organized. I remember his warm smile, as he welcomed me, and I quickly became impressed by his easygoing leadership style that was a mix of intellect, humility, and a subtle sense of humor.

It was 1998, and the internet hadn’t really caught fire yet, so Gordon could always be counted on to bring reams of printouts, from film industry magazines and books, to share with everyone at each meeting. This was a tradition that I’m sure would still be occurring, hardcopies and all, if the group was still meeting. Gordon was kind of like our very own wild-haired professor, inspiring each of us to push through the different challenges we faced with our writing projects.

I was basically a “one idea author” who had started writing a novel on an actual typewriter in 1983, and was now trying to write it as a screenplay. Over the next few years, as a member of Gordon’s South Bay Screenwriters group, I eventually finished a first draft of my first feature-length script. This was a major milestone for me as a writer, a major turning point if you will, and if I ever win an Oscar, Gordon will surely be among the first people I thank.

As time passed, we all took turns sharing our works-in-progress, and we weathered the inevitably painful feedback offered by our peers, but eventually, the importance of having awesome snacks at the meetings threatened to overshadow the writing projects we were there to critique. Yes, we were in real danger of becoming foodies, before there was such a thing. At one point we started holding meetings in a conference room at the Mountain View Library, but they had a very strict “No Snacks” policy, so I remember us all covertly sneaking our snacks in, and then having to eat them with one eye on the door...

Eventually, the real world dramas in our lives pulled each of us in different directions, and our group agreed to disband. Gordon moved north, but unlike many his age, he learned how to keep connected with us online, and he never stopped writing. Just a week before he passed he alerted me to his latest novella available on Amazon, and I am so glad now that I listened to my gut and took the time to show him some love by buying a copy and posting a review of it online. I hope those actions gave him some measure of satisfaction and peace of mind.

I will never forget the magic that occasionally happened during our meetings, when anything seemed possible – even earning a living as a creative writer. I know that the magic of those moments never would have happened were it not for Gordon. The memory of that magic is, I think, what connects us – it’s why our group has kept in touch with each other.

Gordon remains a part of who we are, and he will surely be a part of the successful writer I might yet become.

A Thing That Happened When I Was 11

When I was 11, I saw a six-year-old girl fall off of a dock.  The dock was too high for her to climb back out, so I ran over, laid down, reached down as far as I could, and I was just barely able to grab onto her hand.  I held on until some adults heard us yelling and came to help. 

Decades later, I was standing at a backyard party with Risa, who was just three months old, in my arms, near an inflatable wading pool that was less than a foot deep. 

In the noise and chaos of a dozen parents chatting and laughing while kids splashed around, I noticed one two year old who was on her hands and knees but couldn’t lift her head above water. Her mother was actually closer than I was, but before she could react I had already stepped into the pool with my shoes on and lifted her baby with my other arm. 

The Universe put me in the right place, at the right time. TWICE. This is why I became trained in CPR and Basic First Aid so I could be an ERT member where I work, just in case a THIRD situation arises...

Recently I faced a difficult dilemma. I occasionally chat with my 78-year-old neighbor, a retired internist, when we’re both out getting the mail at the same time or hauling garbage cans to the street. 

When he complained of vertigo I dragged his garbage cans up for him. He’s a brilliant man who has spent decades diagnosing illnesses, so I was concerned, but a week later I saw him, and he seemed to be getting better.

However, about a week after that, his condition seemed worse, and he had a bump on his head from a fall. Before Thanksgiving, I began texting or calling once a day to check on him, assuming he was seeing a doctor. I offered to bring him and his wife a plate of leftovers, but he politely declined.

When I didn’t hear back for 48 hours, I went over and knocked, and his wife (who uses a walker) came to the door, so I knew he was in bad shape. She let me in and I asked if he had seen a doctor. He had not, but he promised me he would. 

As he showed me to the door, he seemed to be in a lot of pain and was a tad delirious, so we had a frank conversation about what his ailment might be. He told me “I think I have metastatic prostate cancer, and I don’t want to die in a hospital. I’ve treated patients for this, and I know exactly what tests the doctor will run and what comes next, and I’d just rather die at home, holding my wife’s hand.”

I told him that I totally agreed with his desire to die at home, but I urged him to see a doctor anyway. He thanked me for my concern and closed the door.

As I walked back home, I wrestled with deciding what to do. My father and grandfather both had prostate cancer in their late 70’s, so this was a bit of a wake up call for me in my late 50's. My grandfather died from it, but my father lived to be 88, thanks to treatment.

Because I have volunteered on workplace ER teams for years, my training was kicking in, telling me to not walk away until convinced the situation was being handled by someone with superior training. 

Yet, at the same time, I wanted to respect his wishes, to not be intrusive.

My brilliant wife convinced me to call Kaiser and speak to an advice nurse, and when I did so, the nurse arranged for a doctor to call my neighbor in about an hour.  I walked back over to tell him, but when I arrived, the doctor was already on the phone with him and had convinced him to let me drive him to the hospital. 

So I did that and assured him that we would check on his wife regularly and told him it was his turn to let others take care of him for a change.

According to his doctor a few days later, he had become unable to think straight due to extreme dehydration and might not have survived the night. Turns out I did the right thing by calling for help, against his wishes. He had misdiagnosed himself.

I was right to be a bit pushy and to remain engaged until I was convinced he was receiving care from a medical professional.

When I went to see him later, he thanked me for saving his life. I told him that, had I been working late on that day, I probably would have been too distracted to go check on him.

The Universe sometimes seems to have plans that are bigger than us, ya know?

Progress

Looky! Looky! No progress on the script, but I created a meme:

OMG WTF HID (have I done!)

Decided today to try to write a sequel (of sorts) to The Princess Bride, after joking around about it on FB.  Found a free PDF of the script and ordered 2 (cheap!) DVDs online, so that I and possible co-writer(s) can begin by analyzing the original. 

I have no idea where this is going...  Due to not being able to buy the rights, we'll prolly end up crafting something different enough to not require rights, and yet similar enough to be successful.  What success will look like:  Maybe a six-figure sale to a prodco? 

First things first...