I am trying to be better about deadlines. Tomorrow night, the pre-final draft of my play is due. I think I may also submit a couple of more pieces just to throw it in the mix. Writing original comedy is a scary new thing for me. Earlier in the summer I did an episode of “Bob’s Burgers” for a fellowship application which fell through. But I am going to try at it again. Hopefully all the various writing classes and stage productions will aid my technique and strengthen my style/voice.

Once I have a collection of work under my belt, I have to find someone to support me – a manage or agent, I dunno. I wonder if I should also try ghost writing? Though, I’ve heard horror stories about that.

Coffee won’t let me sleep for another 2 hours. I suppose the best I can do now is get to it. Time to polish.


Submitted the spec and now the waiting game

Well, it’s official. I have submitted a spec to the writing competition. I had Pollo Loco for inspiration, wrote a bunch, sent the work to some people I trust, I slept 3 hours, ate coffee, and made the deadline. I turned it into the post office handler with care. He RE-ASSURED me three times that the envelope is postmarked electronically and manually.

Thank you post office men and women of the world, and the stuff you have to deal during deadline/application season. I am sure you see a lot of crazy.


The Clown

I was in the bathroom doing my business and thinking about death, as I sometimes do when I am in a vulnerable position. I washed my hands and looked in the mirror; I stared at my aging face. In just a few months…31. Wow, time flies. I traced the sleep mark that was still on my face. A small crease between the side of my lip and my nose. Hello crease, I said to myself and then focused on my neck and went down to the rest of the body. Time catches up and so do all those burritos and burgers I had in high school. I giggled to myself and opened the door like a good germ-a-phobe, with the outside of my sweater. Walking down the narrow hallway I admired the markings on the wall, much like the indent on my face. The faded blue paint was scratched up with words and gibberish that someone had cared to leave behind. Scratches to remember me by…some from food trays, some from delivery boxes, and some from people who don’t want to be forgotten.

I love Jenna forevah.
Tommy sucks b@lls!
Never forget how beautiful you are. <—sidenote: only ugly people say this. <— f*ck whoever this is, stop trolling.

And then there’s the non legible writing that makes me squint; the words that will take work to decipher and I give up and return to the restaurant. I enter the back part of the diner and pass by an old broken juke box. The waitress who brought me water with a smile greeted me in the back room with a twisted nose. Is it sad to say I am used to it?

Sometimes young girls like me and find me ridiculous and silly. Sometimes young girls hate me because I remind them of someone they hate. Who am I kidding! This also applies to anyone! Not just womyn. Anyways, I keep walking and pretend I don’t see her grimace and decide to focus instead at the poster of Elvis by the entrance door of the restaurant. I knew I was almost to my table as I reached the new electronic juke box; it was telling everyone the song it was playing and the era it came in. It resembled an oversized iPod — the old original clunky one.

I was feeling heavier by the time I reached the side of the restaurant where my boyfriend waited. I was feeling fatter, older, slower and then just before I reached the booth I something in the corner of my eye. Something I would have missed if I would have continued focusing on Elvis. I see a clown.

He was sitting in the booth in front of ours. He had taken off his hat, and you could only tell he was a clown by seeing his face. White cloudy eyes, and bulbous blue lips too big for his face. The drawing was a large smile on his face, though he was not smiling. He was staring out into space. He must have been in his early 50s; grey hair, a tiny overweight and before him a sweaty glass of water.

I sat down and tried to motion to my boyfriend that the clown was behind me, and that he looked sad. But gave up after my boyfriend proceeded to ignore my game of charades, he bent over and took a bite of his meatballs. I sighed to myself.

It was a lazy Sunday. There was no one else in the restaurant beside two servers, the clown, me and the boyfriend. I imagined his life — he must have come from a birthday party, or maybe he’s a street performer, or maybe he’s just a local Berkelyan who dresses as a clown on Sundays to confuse people around him. Did he draw a smile on his face because he could not keep it up himself? I had so many questions.

We walked out of the diner feeling bloated and ready for the movie. I looked back before exciting the restaurant and noticed the clown  was no longer there. Was there a back exit? Or was he now in the bathroom staring at his reflection. And what was he thinking about? What did he see when he looked at his reflection? Did he wonder when his pores got so big? Did he look at his balding head and re-imagine a full set of hair? Was he hiding a sleep crease behind the blue markings around his mouth?

I wondered if when the clown walked out of the bathroom, he would focus and be able to read those markings that seemed foreign to me. I giggled again, and it confused my boyfriend. He waited for me to say something, but instead I pulled out my phone and pulled out of the potential conversation.

Sometimes it’s hard to describe to people what makes you laugh. Sometimes, it’s hard to say, today just feels like a giant joke without a punchline.

Sometimes it takes too much damn energy to explain crazy. It’s better just to live it.


Spurts of Writing and This Crazy World

A Sugar House Sunset post Thunder Storm (Summer 2013)

Okay so I’ve only written a section of Chapter 1 for my new Fantasy story. I’ve been getting spurts of writing every now and then, especially in Utah — but now I’m back in Berkeley and I have no idea what the next few days of freedom will have for me. I went to a coffee shop and ended up reading an article about people reacting negatively to a mixed race Cheerios commercial. It was definitely a little procrastinating moment, but it was good to watch. Sometimes I forget about the crazies in this world. Here I am trying to write about long tailed creatures who live in a desert, while this country battles the issue of racism. Some try to sweep it under the rug, some say things are blown out of proportion, some are in denial about their own identity, some (like me) want to understand without feeling angry. It’s difficult. I think maybe that’s why I stop writing sometimes. The sense of hope in art and storytelling just falls by the wayside and I think, why should one care? It’s terrible to admit this, but it crosses my mind.  I met a man at a party and told him that my projects seem hopeless at times. He told me he felt the same when he was in prison once. He said it served as a lesson because of what he looked like. Because he was black, he had to adapt. I cried very quietly and smiled at him, and he said, “It’s okay. This world needs good guys and bad guys, it’s just the way it is,” and he lightly touched my shoulder. I guess I haven’t made peace with that reality. Many authors have expressed their frustrations through art, I guess this Fantasy project can serve for that purpose. I have to better define the world, my characters, and why they exist. They are reaching out their hands waiting for me, and I feel as if I’m almost there. Why am I making this? should be the question I ask myself. It’s becoming clear. I am so sick of the ignorance in this world, and I want to do something about it.



Hurricane Sandy…(aliens)

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Blog Land, I am stuck indoors. My flight, that was supposed to fly me back to sunny California, got cancelled. I am keeping busy with editing work, whilst catching up on some Netflix shows and flicks with my boss lady. This trip to New York has been a great experience, but, as many  of you know, there’s a hurricane hitting the shores of this great state. Things are getting pretty nasty outside. Sandy is kicking some butt. Thankfully, my boss lives in Uptown Manhattan, and we haven’t gotten any of the flooding up here, but the winds are crazy-wild!

The window rattles as we sit and watch Star Trek Voyager; I never knew how fun that show can be. Shows how much a person can change in a matter of hours…when she is stuck doing nothing else.  : /

Also, some guy was on a water jet ski earlier today taking pictures of himself on the waves. A news lady was like, “What’s  your name?” He said something like VELKOR…or VELKIN…and all I kept thinking was, ALIENS!

They’ve come for us! They’ve masked themselves as a hurricane—-and—AND–!

Thanks a lot Star Trek!            There goes my imagination, running away with me again.

Stay safe New Yorkers, and I will try to do the same.