Good

   I've been trying to be a novelist (with the occasional break in productivity) since I was 20 years old.  This July, early July, I turn 35.  So that's 15 years of "trying." What do I have to show for it?  I've written three screenplays but I can't "show" them because I don't have them (casualties of lost floppy discs).  That's okay: writing them was priceless experience and I don't think anyone wants to read some unmade teen movie scripts from the early 2000s (though Spring Break 2078 did have potential).  Oh, I have had scripts produced by Probot Productions, even been a show runner- though it was all rather miniature.  http://www.youtube.com/user/probotvideo#grid/user/DEE5390AB2146CCD   Beyond that, I've written about two short stories I'm actually happy with and one mystery novel.  I know I should be proud to have written a book but, truth be told, I finished it for the final time about six years ago, so what have I been doing since?  Moving back and forth across the country?  Completing a second novel then shrugging it off?
   But all things considered I'm not that bad off for 35.  I figure (if I'm really fucking lucky) I could have a good 40 more years of productivity.  I just have to get good soon.  And I mean "good" in every possible way.
 

Askew

The past six months have been a surreal whirlwind for me and my life has been left askew.  I wonder now whether I’m crazy or was helpless in the hand of fate and - as with most questions of this sort – the answer is probably some combination of the two.  What happened to me is pretty unspeakable – I broke someone’s heart and then got my heart broken – and it’s felt pretty impossible to even write about it (and I get that I’m not really writing about it now, but this isn’t my diary).  And now the topsy-turvy twists of my life have deposited me back in Hollywood, CA, living with my ex-husband and partner of over twelve years.  And I’m wondering: was this somehow meant to be?  Guess it depends how you define meant to be. 

In a way I feel like I’ve killed off every option for personal happiness except my writing, which I’ve somehow stayed committed to through the worst.  Whether this is brilliant and necessary or, as previously mentioned, insane, I’ll maybe know someday.  The mystery novel I’d been working on (off-and-on) for five years, Split Screen, Damon has helped me see had some issues.  I have a tendency to make the murder parts of my mysteries kind of light and fluffy and silly and it was starting to read like Scream 2 or something.  Most likely I’ll return to Split Screen someday, but it needed too much retooling to jump right into.  So much of the writing comes so naturally to me, even the nuts and bolts of the mystery plotting, but my weakness appears to lie in action and violence.  This probably connects to the fact that I was a non-tom-boy only child who just wanted to stay inside and read Agatha Christie novels.  Well, the best way to improve is to start by identifying your flaws.