Fiction Friday: Mabel

He was shooting birds for sport. A cruel, heartless activity in Mabel’s mind. She was just taking a walk through the prairie behind her house, savoring the warm sun emerging after months of cold. It was meant to be a relaxing walk. A walk where she could forget what had just happened. And for a moment, it was. Her canvas shoes flattening the smooth grass as she walked. Her fingtertips brushing through the breeze and sliding against the cool fabric of her dress. It gave her peace, walking amongst the greatness of the earth. Then she heard the gunshots.

The first one had flattened her. She had thrown herself on the ground, ducking in fear. The crack was loud, but as she pressed her body against the grass, she realized that it was in the distance. How far she could not tell. With the second shot, she looked up to see birds scattering in the sky in the direction of the Cutter’s farm. As the third shot rang out, Mabel could see the birds were fleeing from a cluster of trees on the edge of their property. It was the oldest boy Hank, no doubt, shooting into the trees with his father’s shotgun. Amusing himself by terrorizing others. Just like he’d always done at school when they were younger.

Mabel stood, anger and indignance filling the empty void in her being. She began to stride purposefully across the field, heading for a fight. A few more shots rang out, a few more birds scattered. As she got closer, she had to put her fingers in her ears to shield her fragile soul from the booming sounds.

Finally, she could see him. Standing with his back to her, aiming up at the trees. Wearing a pair of overalls and a cap, he cocked the gun and fired.

“Hey!” Mabel shouted. But her words were drowned out by the cacophony of frightened bird cries. She could see Hank setting up for another shot, so she took a deep breath and tried again.

“Hank Cutter!” she screamed. Hank swung his body around at the sound of his name, gun still raised. Mabel dropped down to the ground to get out of his line of fire. Hank, upon realizing who was standing there, or rather now lying there, lowered his gun to his side.

“Mabel Weatherly? What are you doing sneaking around like that?”

Mabel jumped to her feet, head dizzy with rage. “What do you think you’re doin’ shooting birds for target practice? You think those birds don’t have feelings, you stupid piece of shit? Why don’t you go back to shooting cans off the fence, for Christ sake?”

Hank’s expression was odd. He wasn’t sheepish or guilt-ridden like she’d hoped he’d be after her tirade. Instead, he stared at her curiously, his eyes filled with worry and compassion. Her feet started to give beneath her and she swayed.

“Well what the hell’s the matter with you?” she asked. “Never been yelled at by a woman before?”

Hank shook his head slightly and simply said, “Mabel. You’re bleeding.”

Click here to read Mabel, Part 2

Tools of the Trade: Business Cards

How many times have you heard this at an industry networking event?

"I forgot to bring my business cards."

Now, how many times have you been the one saying it?

Business cards are a must in entertainment, no matter if you’re an actor, a writer, or a forest fire fighter. The currency of entertainment is relationships, and business cards are a great way to track those relationships and establish your brand at the same time.

If you don’t have current business cards, visit Vistaprint to get 250 free business cards. Just pay for shipping and you're good to go!

I'm Sitting in a Chair in the Sky

I am currently blogging while 36,965 feet in the air on a red-eye flight from LA to Boston. How do I know my exact altitude? My trusty RED in-flight interactive entertainment system tells me so. I’m also catching up on episodes of LOST on Hulu.com, thanks to WiFI from GoGo Inflight Internet. When I touch down, I’ll text a few people to let them know I arrived safely, then use my mobile phone to send a Tweet that will also update my Facebook status.

The world has truly become an amazingly connected and advanced network of personal relationships and technical devices. It’s awe-inspiring, especially when I consider all the changes that have happened during my lifetime.

Then again, is the feeling of wonder that I experienced when introduced to the iPad any different than the wonder I felt when my dad introduced me to the Commodore 64? Or when I was introduced to email in 1992? Every technological breakthrough is a game changer, no matter how awesome the world was before it came along. The advancements will never end. The innovation continues because our imaginations are endless.

So if you're feeling overwhelmed by our increasingly complex society, my advice is to get over it, because it’s only going to get worse. Find a way to go with the flow while maintaining a healthy sense of humor. You’ll be much happier.

Louis CK says it best:

I Have So Many Words

There’s this lyric from the musical "A New Brain"that keeps circling through my head. “I have so many songs.” Gordon sings this in his dream state as he’s being wheeled into the emergency room for a brain abnormality. He’s an unfulfilled songwriter who sings about all the songs he has left to write.

I feel that way about words. I have so many words to write. In the pages of my journal, in this blog, in my scripts. So many things to say, describe, express. The words dance through my brain, across my tongue, and into my pen.

I don’t think of myself as a storyteller. At least, not yet. I never have stories for The Moth StorySLAMs. I’m not that girl with stories of all the cool and amazing experiences from my youth. I have no story about jumping out of a tree at Old Mill Pond or sleepwalking in Walla Walla, Washington. I have one good one about being left alone in the Nevada desert and communing with nature, but even that story is a bit internal. Nothing compared to Ed Gavagan’s story of being stabbed and left for dead.

But I do have words. Words that shape the fabric of my existence. Words about my soul’s inner journey, words in response to the world’s shenanigans, words about the people who have drifted in and out of my sphere of knowing. These words are infinite and ever flowing. On my best days, they stream out articulately and succinctly. My worst, they dump out as babbling, driven by passion or wine consumption.

They’re always there for me, my words. Dependable and abundant. I thank them for the gift of their existence. Because of them, I’ll always have something to say.

Everyone’s a Critic. Especially Me.

Personal statements / letters of interest are necessary evils of the worst kind. They’re totally contrived assignments that are meant to take the place of a traditional face-to-face interview, which is in and of itself filled with so much bullshit, the thought of attempting to write the bullshit down on paper is agonizing.

And I hate the idea that being able to eloquently blow my own horn is a skill that’s directly related to my career success. Where is humility and modesty in this paradigm? What about the old adage, “My work stands for itself.”

<sigh> End rant.

Neither argument has any place in the real world, I know. Because as a writer, I am the product. My letter of interest is my product description. They’re not asking me to write a letter of interest to gauge my skill at writing letters of interest. They want a one-page glimpse into me. What am I like? Do I get the creative process? Am I someone they’d want to work with? Or am I a nutjob?

I’ve always told actors that to be successful, you need to be a little bit of a diva. You need to walk into every audition knowing that the part absolutely deserves to be yours, no matter who you saw in the waiting room that might be better for the role. Staunch self-confidence is a must at all times.

So when it comes to being a writer, why is self-assurance so much harder to anchor?

Maybe it’s because, as someone once told me, being a writer is simply the ongoing process of trying to get the critic off your shoulder. My critic is always there on my shoulder, and she’s as stubborn as my Taurus self. I can calm her with meditation or chocolate, but she’s always at the ready with doubtful comments and eye rolls galore.

She’s bad enough when I’m working on a script, but when I sit down to write a personal statement about how fantastic I am, she’s suddenly an Olympian in her criticism. I can only hope to distract her with hot chocolate long enough to get out one double-spaced page about my value. After that, it’s back to the critic’s table.

Fiction Friday: Girl on the Go, Part 2

Click here to read Girl on the Go, Part 1

In another week, his wish came true. He was just stepping out of a deli carrying a while plastic bag with a gourmet sandwich he couldn’t really afford when she power-walked past him, long brown hair swishing behind her like a flag. He stopped, stunned as she disappeared into the sea of New York bodies moving along the sidewalk. He hesitated for the briefest (or longest) of moments and then started to run. His long legs stretching and breathing, despite their confinement in his cheap label jeans. The sandwich in its bag bouncing around noisily, the laptop case slung around his shoulders getting heavier and heavier.

Still, he ran. Repeat encounters like this didn’t happen in New York. There must be a reason. Some destiny he was fulfilling by chasing after this girl. He didn’t think about what he was going to say. He just had to catch her.

He dodged through the oncoming foot traffic, throat too dry to ask people to get out of his way. So he panted and waved his arms and turned his wiry frame to the side to slip through the cracks in the crowd. All the while, locking his sights on the girl that wasn’t going to get away this time.

Finally, he found her standing at the corner, waiting to cross as soon as the light turned. This was his chance. This was the moment.

He approached her carefully, trying to temper his breathing so he didn’t sound like a crazy person. Mouth and lips dry, he willed the saliva to come so he could speak. He circled around her until her soft profile filled his view. She turned to him instantly and smiled.

“Hi,” she said. He stared at her, mind still processing the sound of her voice while also taking in her warm, open smile. She was looking at him in a way that made him confused and dumb. She was looking into him, through him, up into his brain, down through his organs. She could see him, he was sure of it. And he was seeing her. And it felt like home.

He stared, unable to speak. What could he possibly say at this moment? It felt so much bigger than his little life. A monumental connection in a city of disconnect. A life disconnected. He had nothing to say.

Her smile widened as she stood there, feet on the ground, looking right at him. She reached out with her hand. “You have a hole in your jacket,” she said as she stuck her finger into the hole and brushed against his hot skin. Her fingertip was soft and smooth and cool as silk. He closed his eyes, drinking in the feeling. She was here. Touching him. He was complete.

He heard a ding. The light had changed. He opened his eyes and she was still smiling at him. “Bye,” she said, and hopped off the curb and crossed the street. He watched her go, too tired to move, too overwhelmed to call after her, too…everything.

She was a girl on the go, that was for sure. And he stayed just where he was. Stuck in New York, in his life, unable to go. He lived in reality. But he’d glimpsed the other side. And it was beautiful.

Loco for Coco

I heart Conan O’Brien. When my then-boyfriend introduced me to The Late Show with Conan O’Brien in the early 2000’s, I was doubtful. How funny could this pasty white Harvard graduate possibly be?

Wicked funny, I discovered. Conan’s comedy was fresh and smart. He genuinely fit the overused descriptor “out of the box” and appealed to me in a time when my comedy palette was growing more and more sophisticated. I couldn’t help but laugh every time he drove his desk around New York or challenged Martha Stewart to take a shot of hard liquor followed by a bite of some disgusting fast food burger. Probably because she always did it!

Conan also gave me moments that will live forever in my memory. After the tragedy of 9/11 overwhelmed the country, Conan faced a unique dilemma. When is it okay to make people laugh again? What is the place of a comedian in a time of nationwide mourning? Conan eased into it gracefully and hilariously, starting from the basics – a baby lifting a six-pack of beer. I laughed and felt grateful.

Watching Conan take over the Tonight Show was delicious. The joy continued – Twitter Tracker, Conando, puppies dressed as cats, Cody Devereaux, stunts with Hollywood stuntman Steven Ho. I attended a taping and saw firsthand Conan’s focus and commitment to making every moment of his show magnificent. This was not a self-absorbed comedian generating laughs to feel accepted. This was a professional entertainer skillfully developing his craft…and succeeding.

So imagine my excitement after the late night war finally ended when I heard Conan was going on tour! The Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television Tour – A Night of Music, Comedy, Hugging, and the Occasional Awkward Silence. His show at the Gibson Amphitheater last night was equal parts tribute, celebration, and group therapy.

Conan opened with a killer monologue in which he described the 8 Stages of Grief After Losing a Late Night Talk Show. One of the stages – 36 hours of Red Bull and Halo. He played a few tunes with his band, shared the stage with Andy Richter and former Tonight Show writer Deon Cole, and launched into a power ballad only to be interrupted by Jim Carrey dressed as Kick Ass. Seth Green, Aziz Ansari, Jack MacBrayer, Sarah Silverman, & Jonah Hill all came out to help him pull The Walker, Texas Ranger Lever. And he closed out the night with a cover of Cake's cover of Gloria Gaynor's hit "I Will Survive."

As Conan prepares for a new late night show on TBS launching in November, his live show seemed to say to his fans, “Thanks for everything. Now, let’s have some fun.” That we did, Conan. That we did.