things have been challenging

“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.” ~Maya Angelou

2016 was a very challenging year. I lived with a great deal of physical and emotional pain. Sat next to my mother while she endured surgeries and had to recover from my own hysterectomy in early fall. While all those terrible things were happening my writing found an audience.

I was published and even went viral. One story opened many doors. I felt empowered. I felt like I found may way as a writer. My book was selected for Twitter contests. I made more writerly friends. I had all the support I could imagine, which made the rejections I received less painful.

And then I received a few R&Rs for my YA manuscript and I thought, ooooh this is it! All my hard work is paying off.

But instead of an offer my father had a heart attack and needed a triple by-pass. I rushed to NY to be with him.

The notes I received from agents about my R&R were opposing views. What one loved the other questioned. Yet another had no issues at all with anything the others did, but still wanted a R&R. I began writing to please and lost my way. I lost my MC’s voice. I lost my passion for the story. I lost all the confidence I gained and depression settled in. I had to walk away from  years of work and do self-care.

I watched as friends signed with agents, I cheered them on and believed my time was still coming, but couldn’t help but wonder, why are they signed even though they need to do significant revisions and the notes I have ae so minor for R&R? Why am I being tested? I’ve received rejections from agents who say they love my writing but they have no idea how to sell my story. Those kind of notes piled up, and even though it’s a digital note, it carried a weight. It’s message was I’m not good enough. My stories aren’t what they know. But these stories are my truth, and I began taking it personally.

I heard from old friends. They have jobs title’s with Chief in front of them. They earn lots of money. They fly places on vacation and don’t struggle with words on a page or bills.

Everything around me made me feel less than. I knew depression had me good when the crying started. I hate it when the crying starts. I began isolating myself, got off social media, and began the work of getting healthy.

Then I read a post from my friend Tod Goldberg, and despite searching FB I can’t find it now, but it basically said this:

I’m so lucky to be a writer, I spend all day using my imagination to tell stories.

And that made me cry, too. But happy tears because instead of feeling less than for not pursuing a career that would have placed a “C” in front of a long title, I choose this. I am a writer.

I will not stop writing my stories. I won’t stop sharing my experiences in essays and eventually a memoir. I will tell stories with dead people, complicated, unconventional, and messy love because all of that is my truth.

It can be incredibly hard to remain self-motivated. But I’m not a quitter.

See you on the page.

So if you’re having a bout of self-doubt, I feel you. I see you and don’t let that dark voice win.

You can come out of it.

You matter.





#DVPit & Why I Didn’t Know I Could Participate

Diversity as a trend upsets me.

Life is diverse.

People are diverse.

The world is diverse.

It is not a trend.

And as I wrestle with the term being oddly trendy while the concept is not I find myself straddling the definition, too. You see, I’m a Jewish cis woman. I never thought about myself as diverse. I’m just me, as much as you, however you see and define yourself and find yourself defined, are you.

My husband and I often debate when is being Jewish a minority and when is it a religion? Do both count when talking about diversity? Where do I fall on the spectrum of diversity? My Jewishness informs my writing. It’s an integral part of me and therefore my work. And Jews are the world’s smallest minority, but we are very rarely given the opportunities of other minorities because we are defined by religion.

Anti-Semitism. Anti-Israel fanatics. The KKK. Neo-Nazi’s. BDS movement. These are all organizations that hate me. I don’t know if they hate me because of what I look like. How I pray to God. Or old stereotypes and myths.

I’ve been confronted with this hate in the writing community. A NY Times bestselling YA author once turned to me at the LA SCBWI annual event and said, “You must be a Jew,” after hearing part of a conversation. I was appalled. Shocked into silence. The friend next to me said, “Yup,” and nodded with wide eyes and embarrassment knowing that writer is known for her wild unfiltered mouth. And of course she was drinking so she had that excuse, too.

Outside of the writing community I’ve been asked where I come from. When I tell them I was born in New York, went to school in Washington D.C., lived in LA for 18 years, but now make Charlotte my home they say, “No, what religion are you?”


“Oh,” and some walk away. Some look at me with distant eyes when a moment ago they were friendly. I become something other than the person they were just getting along with.

But why are they asking me that? I’ve been called a kike. My very own JCC received bomb threats this year. I feel threatened and viewed as an acceptable casualty in the war on terrorism because if something bad happened to me, it happening to a Jew is okay with the rest of the non-Jewish world.

DV Pit began yesterday on Twitter and I never even considered pitching. I didn’t believe others thought being Jewish was diverse. Until found this article on the We Need Diverse Books website and it meant so much to me. I always understood #DiverseBooks to mean #ownvoices. Stories written by people sharing underrepresented cultures depicting those cultural stories and truths.

Then I saw Beth Phelan’s Tweet:

You don’t need to be writing an ownvoices ms to participate, tho those are very welcome. ’s focus is on the creator themselves.

I always believed when an agent reads a story all they see are words on a page. It’s a blind audition. Why isn’t this true? Why isn’t the slush pile a place of equal opportunity?

I write essays as well as fiction and see how people of certain factions of diversity attack a writer for sharing their experience. That somehow that experience eradicates the readers experiences, belittles, and demeans them. And I think WTF are you doing? Write your own story and share your experience. Would Flannery O’Connor be able to publish today? Would we know about Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer? Would the bigot Archie Bunker make it on TV? Could today’s audiences stand watching All in the Family?

I wonder why the world has to agree. We don’t. We need to have open honest conversations and hear one another. We should try seeing the world through the eyes of one another. Isn’t that the whole point of reading?

And when a terrible book comes out- why is it that people attack the author? Not the agent, publisher, editors, marketing, sales teams and printer of the book?

I wish the world would embrace our differences and not fear them. I sent a message to trusted friends explaining how I felt. And one sent me this


and I want to share it with you. I wish this for us.

I wrestle with feeling I have a right to the opportunities DVPit offers marginalized people. I’m afraid this conversation will end up with many angry at me. But all this policing is silencing some people. Making them into liars and having them doubt their own experiences. I do not know what it feels like to walk in your shoes. Do you know what it’s like to walk in mine?

What does diversity mean to you? How does it affect your habits? I’m curious. This is meant to be an open honest conversation, if you’re brave enough to share your opinion and feelings. If I see any hate I will not include it. Be respectful.


Puddle of Tears

Any time between now and tomorrow afternoon I’ll be a mess. All of the emotions I’ve kept inside and moved past so I could be next to my father while he had triple by-pass surgery will come bubbling out of me.

The tears will also be about me.

They will be tears of frustration with where I am in the querying process. They will be about the heartbreak I feel when I’m told:

How my writing touches them.

How I know how to tell a story, BUT they don’t know how to sell my kind of story.

I’ll watch as my friends, who are deserving of signing with agents, get the happy phone calls and do the work of revision with the support of a contract between them and an agent and I don’t. I feel traditional publishing is a series of test and I am running fast at the hurdles thinking fast makes it better.

Fast isn’t better- it’s quicker. And there is no fast track in publishing.

I’ve been twisting myself and my story into origami trying to please agents and a few weeks ago I realized I lost my way. I was working so hard to be accepted, the story suffered because of it. It wasn’t the story I was meant to write, it became a stinky version of it.

Going home reminded me that this is a position I found myself in a lot as a kid. I moved through the world trying to fit into it despite the fact I expereinced the world differently. I saw the world with texture and shape, but lived with those who saw shades of gray. In order to make it through high school I did my best to be me, but conformed to survive.

The thing is- life isn’t about surviving. It’s about thriving.

My dad is recovering beautifully from his surgery. It was challenging to be a helpless bystander as he was wheeled away and I had to wrestle with the fears that manifested despite my intuitive gifts telling me- he’s going to be fine. The person they were taking away was MY DAD not patient 007 as the board showed. It was my dad I waited for. My dad I saw unconscious at 9 PM not yet fully awake after a six-hour operation, with an intubation tube tugging the right side of his mouth slack and disfiguring the left side of his face. The man in ICU with saliva bubbling from his mouth, and spasming  with tubes in his throat, arms, neck, chest and legs was my dad. The man I love, the one who gave me the work ethic I have, the man who makes me crazy, the man who is sober for 12 years, the man who I look like, is vulnerable in a way I can’t protect him from.

I can’t understand why all the physical pain I’ve personally expereinced the past few years isn’t ending. I can’t grasp what the lesson is. What’s the lesson in the timing of my life?

And I want to grasp it. I held Dad’s hand to reassure him.

I want to find the person who will not only love my prose, but understand the magic in it without having to dissect it in terms of gray- a person who will see all the glorious color. I will always tell stories about complicated love because it’s what I know. It’s how I love.

You know what?

Complicated love is still love. Go and tell the person you love how much you love them. Do something nice for them- for me it’s the smallest acts of kindness that mean the most- they’re precious and life and dreams are precious.

Go cultivate precious.

I know this is rambly, my heart and mind have’t connected all the dots. I’m sad and I’m hopeful and I’m greatful and I’m disappointed.

I’m a mess. So excuse me while I cry for all of that because I know once I let it out the fighter in me will be back – and that’s what my Dad and I deserve, champions.


Ode to LA LA Land ***spoilers warning

The moment in LA LA Land when Mia walked into Seb’s club, five years after the night they said goodbye because despite the love their timing wasn’t right because love isn’t enough and I hate that it isn’t enough, guts me.

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The look in Mia’s eyes when she sees Seb used her design for the club’s logo then walks downstairs with her husband and Seb sees her and starts playing their song and we glimpse all they could have been if only…

I hovered in the air with their breath in the underground club because it made me think of you and our what if. What if you let yourself love me enough to release that part of your mind that made a vow to marry a different kind of girl. What if instead of doing what you thought was right you did what felt good? When I met you you were living a life safe between the double lines in a lane and I took your hand and helped you skip over the faux barrier, and we enjoyed freedom because loving someone for real is freedom.

Freedom to be yourself, to be your whole messed up self and be seen and loved and I gave you that. I saw you kept secrets and I let you because I didn’t know your secret was it didn’t matter you loved me because loving me was a truth with an expiration date.

Even though I sat at the table with your parents and shared dinner and holidays. And even though your father kissed me on the lips and his lips felt so similar to yours, soft and gentle, it stunned me because maybe you’d be kissing me when you were that old, too but that was the lie. Then your mother hugged me and smiled a warm welcoming smile. We even got mail sent to your house with both our names. Little did I know my expiration date was nearing.

My replacement was young, blonde, and gave you three kids and walks with you down the lane not knowing it was me who planted the garden she tends in your back yard or it was my idea to put those long windows in the living room, or it was my face in the frame that keeps your picture pressed in place.

I let myself dream along the shared heartbreaking dream with Mia what would life have been like with you? because at one point I wanted this lifetime with you.

And when we were no longer together, but not yet friends like we had been for years, before we were more, you invited me to your birthday party. And I came with a smile and your favorite cookies gift wrapped and saw how she slipped in next to you and I wanted to be nice, I did everything to be nice, but I saw my picture replaced in the frame and you laughed in embarrassment and moved it to a place I wouldn’t see, and I thanked her when she handed me a drinking glass from the cupboard I used to reach into wearing a t-shirt and panties and I had to turn away because she didn’t know we ever dated. Throughout the party I did my best not be too close to you, but there you were, at my side and it hurt so much I didn’t think I could be your friend.

Then you confessed you messed up. And I saw it in your eyes that I became one of the secrets inside you, but some of our secrets were hers now and I had to let you go. You took her to Hawaii and proposed and I fell in love with someone else. Years went by and my life took me across the country and you are still in that same house.

Then Seb finishes playing their song and I know how Mia feels. There are so many could’ve beens and almosts in life. It made me miss you.

The movie ended. I follow Mia’s lead and take my husband’s hand and catch the breath that’s been hovering in glorious color, wrapped in jazz, and live my life knowing it’s okay to let you have that piece of my heart and I’m okay being your secret.



Oscar Week Continues with the story of how an Academy Award winning director and his first AD abused me

My story first appeared in xoJane‘s It Happened To Me and was picked up by Jim Zub to be the first essay to appear as back matter in Glitterbomb.

Glitterbomb comes out in March. If you want to read a great story about Hollywood Horror and enjoy sweet revenge read Glitterbomb.glitterbombvol1-cover-front-rayfawkes-alt-674x1024

I wrote this essay so my daughter would know and understand if someone treats you badly- you leave! I want her to know being physically and emotionally assaulted at work is unacceptable. I want every person to know that for all the noise Hollywood makes about how unjust and disgusting politicians behave they do the same abhorent thing and sometimes worse.

Here’s my story:

George foisted me up on top of a plastic picnic table in the middle of the front office and began dry humping me. He pinned me in place as the table legs scooted back against the wall with his bodily force. The front doors opened letting the fall chill my exposed skin. He was laughing. They were all laughing.

George was funny like that. I thought there were only five people in the front lobby. A few producers, the production manager, the director, maybe a driver from transportation a production assistant or two. But memory is funny. I also remember people saying to me later, when we were alone, not in front of anyone who could fire us, “I can’t believe he did that! If we worked anywhere else he’d be fired.”

“Yeah,” I said. I thought the same thing.

But none of us did anything about it.

What could I do? I was pretty low on the food chain. And my bosses all saw it. All guffawed. Enjoyed the show. I wasn’t a person. I was an expendable.

I gave up my home to be part of this movie crew. Moved all my belongings into storage and was living in a Motel 8 off an Omaha, Nebraska highway with a great view of the parking lot. Everything a girl dreams of when she works her way up in the film business.

I wish that was the only time George humiliated in front of people. But it wasn’t He took pleasure in making jokes at my expense, asking me if I wanted to act in the porn the characters in the movie watch, and told me I was stupid.

He didn’t know me. He didn’t care that I spent seven years working in production already, that I worked for Spelling Television and produced my own show when I took the job. Took the steps down in rank to help my friend and in theory myself.

Victor called me, “I need your help. Linda can’t come out-of-town, I hoped you’d be willing to live in Omaha for three months and help me on the movie. They (the producers) want me to hire locals, but I can’t trust them, they don’t know anything.” To sweeten the deal he said, “It’s low budget but a negative pick up from Paramount. The pay isn’t good, but I need someone who knows how to run an office.”

I thought the call was heaven-sent. I served my husband with divorce papers and wanted to put as much distance between me and the man who spent five years mentally and emotionally battering me.

I wanted to fill all my holes back in and prove I still had worth. I was at my best at work.

My boss at Spelling called me into the office one day and said, “Holly, one day we’ll all be working for you.”

And there was Victor’s cheery voice over the phone, laughing, giving me an escape route. If I said yes, I had three days to put my house on the market, my things in storage and put fifteen hundred miles between me and my soon-to-be ex.

Little did I know I had victim written on my forehead. That deciding to leave didn’t mean the first door was an exit.

“Yes,” I said. And I went.

George wasn’t the only man on set to treat me disrespectfully. But he was the only one to apologize. After calling me an idiot at a production meeting for asking how he preferred his paperwork he wrote me an apology note.

“I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.” When he gave it to me he told me I reminded him of his soon to be ex-wife. He was in the process of divorcing her and leaving his small child because he started an affair with the gorgeous lead actress on the movie he wrapped before starting this– this low-budget movie. He and his big budget girlfriend were better than us. His brown eyes laughed and I wondered if this was the bullshit he fed his ex-wife, too.

I thumb tacked George’s apology in pubic view behind my desk. I figured if he had the audacity to embarrass me in public he should publicly apologize. There was still some fight in me.

One of the six producers on the film was a jerk too. Each producer had an agenda. Each peed on places in the production office, marking their territories, fighting for dominance. It all rolled down hill toward me.

It was Jake’s first time as a producer. He came from post production and didn’t have much time on set. He overcompensated by informing the office staff of what our jobs entailed. The first day on location he had his assistant hand me a print out of a production coordinators jobs and responsibilities were. It was ironic.

First off I was a Production Coordinator for years and had long relationships with the Screen Actors Guild and the Directors Guild of America. I filed all the DGA paperwork on several Spelling Television shows and built a reputation with my contacts as honest and hard-working. I knew who to call to get a solid answer and worked tirelessly on maintaining those relationships.

Jake asked me to forge SAG sheets, changing the working hours of actors. I told him no. He threatened me to do it. I said no. He said the producers didn’t want to get in trouble. But they had no issue with hammering me down.

“Just do it. We can’t. We’ll get in big trouble.”

As if I wouldn’t.

Jake called me one morning from location, while I was in the production office. “How could you let us run out of film? Why are you including short ends in the total? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m not the camera department. I don’t fill in the totals on the production report, and if you don’t want short ends in the total talk to camera. The Director of Photography, the first assistant camera, second assistant camera or loader. All on set.”

He slammed the phone down on me. He conveniently forgot that according to the paperwork he gave me a Production Coordinator wasn’t allowed on set. That my job had me firmly planted in the production office across town. Any time I asked to visit set, they wouldn’t let me.

“You have to keep it together in the office.”

I stayed. I’d chat with my friend, the one who hired me. We talked about how clueless Jake was. How he didn’t know equipment. Didn’t know what a chimera was or lug to pin electrical equipment. How if I handed him a list of vendors without telling him what each one provided he wouldn’t know Leonetti from Panavision or a dolly from a makeup brush. We laughed at how my assistant kept trying to get me fired because she wanted my job.

She wouldn’t fax production paperwork to Paramount or get production assistants to pick up supplies. We laughed at how terrible it was that I couldn’t keep a good production assistant because they wouldn’t work the twelve to fourteen hour days for less than one hundred dollars a day. We sat in his office and commiserated about how the producers told us each to do opposite things. Then he’d leave for set and I’d be alone with a girl who wanted my job and bosses who used me as a punching bag.

I thought I could take it. I wanted to prove I was strong. I could handle all the bullshit. I was smart. I spent years learning all about each department so I could help solve problems. I had something to prove.

Having something to prove is a waste of time and energy.

The second assistant director felt bad for me. Sean was a good guy. Didn’t understand why George was such an asshole to me. Came by to apologize every now and again give me set gossip. Like how one producer was sleeping with a production assistant and that’s why she was promoted to a transportation department driver.

Sean knew my bad situation was not of my making. To make up for the hell I dealt with he invited me to set the day before Thanksgiving. He placed me as an extra in a scene. I sat in the shot during rehearsal, while lighting the set and just before the director, Alexander, was about to shoot, Alexander asked me to leave.

You see I refused to forge the SAG sheets. And I had the nerve to send a whole script to a minor. Sending scripts to cast was part of my job. (I had the paperwork to prove it) He didn’t want the minor’s family to read the script. He thought he was Woody Allen and could send only the pages with the dialogue for the young actor spoke and get away with it. He didn’t want the parents to back out because of the scene of the actors watching porn or the lesbian relationship in the movie. Which is what happened.

Alexander called the production office and asked for me. It was the first time in eight weeks he spoke to me directly.

“Tell me Jake made you do it.” His tone was terse. I felt his temples sweating and imagined his thick black-rimmed glasses sliding down is hot face.

“Do what?” I asked. I had no idea what he was fuming about.

“Send the script. Tell me Jake made you do it.”

Looking back, I know at this moment everyone else would have said, “Yes. Jake made me do it.” Would have told the up-and-coming director that their tormentor told them to do it. I could’ve made myself the hero. I could have moved up the food chain and saved myself. I wish I said yes. But I thought the truth mattered. I didn’t want to join in the blame game.

“No. He didn’t,” I whispered.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Alexander cursed me out for a good minute or two. He called me every nasty female derogatory term and anything else his quick wit thought of. He drowned me under his tidal wave of rage.

Calm came over my mind as my body began to shake with fear and fury and inferiority. I kept my voice flat. “I’m going to have to stop you there. No one talks to me that way.”

“Fuck you,” the director said.

My floodgate burst.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re talking to but no one talks to me like that.” I leaned forward on my desk. I needed its strength. I couldn’t fall. My voice grew powerful. All the pain they inflicted at me was returned tenfold. I know I told him of. I remember enjoying it. The phones started ringing off the hook again. I had work to do. I was over being the punching bag.

“Fuck you!” I yelled and hung up on him.

“Holly, phone,” my assistant said. She held the receiver toward me. She was across the room at her desk. Her eyes reflected her brain’s calculations about the probability of me being fired and her opportunity to take my job. “Line two is Victor.”

“Hi Victor.” I sank into my chair. “I think I may be fired.”

He laughed. “I heard the whole thing.” He was standing next to Alexander as he screamed at me and was on the phone with the production office– but not put on hold- and heard my side too.

I wasn’t fired. Alexander waited. He waited to dole out his punishment.

It was the day before our Thanksgiving holiday.

We had worked six days weeks and it had been a long time since many of the crew had seen their families. Family members came to Omaha and took up residence with us in the Motel 8 to share a rubbery turkey dinner and 12 hours off with us. My mom was kindhearted enough to visit and lift my spirits.

To make up for the hell I dealt with the second assistant director, Sean, invited me to set the day before Thanksgiving. He placed me as an extra in a scene. I sat in position during rehearsal, while lighting the set and just before the director Alexander was about to shoot, he asked me to leave.

Sean couldn’t believe it. “Let her stay,” he said.


Without a word I got up. As walked off the set Alexander spoke.

“Get back to the office,” he said. “I don’t want you on my set…at all.”

Alexander didn’t know my mom was on set that day too, working as an extra with me. The assistant directors made sure she got camera time. Their I’m sorry.

Mom saw how they treated me. How I let myself be dismissed. She saw how small I’d become.

More bad days followed.

A blizzard drowned the city in three feet of pristine white snow.

At six in the morning my hotel phone rang. “How are we going to get to the production office?” It was Jake. He was hysterical.

“What are you talking about?”

“Open your goddam window,” he yelled. As if I made it snow. “You need to get to the office!”

I already spoke to Victor. We knew the roads were closed. No plows got through. We’d lose a day of filming. And now we could no longer shoot locations as fall, we’d have to get art department to match all scenes for winter. Victor said he’d call me and let me know what the producers decided to do with the rest of the day, where they’d meet to reschedule the rest of the shoot.

I have no idea why Jake called me. There were at least eight other people he should have called. He was the one who had to make decisions. I should have printed out Producers responsibilities for him. Clearly he needed the help.

Then there was the drunk driving incident. The Director of Photography hit a fire hydrant and ruined his renal car. I think it was 6:30 AM.

“Jim hit a hydrant,” Victor said. The black plastic phone was pressed up against my ear.

We all knew he drank. I didn’t know he’d be drunk that early in the morning. I handled the insurance claim. Of course it was my job to make sure nothing about alcohol was included. Not that I saw him drunk, he didn’t come to the office but the rumors of his behavior did.

The worst day came not so long after that.

An art department truck was in an accident at the high school we used as the main film location. The cube truck hit a passenger vehicle. Killing the teenaged driver.

I don’t remember who called me to tell me about the accident. It must have been Victor. It was too terrible. How could we stay? How could we finish the movie? How would we continue filming at the scene of a student’s death? How did the movie matter now?

My phone blew up with calls. Red lights flashed across the phone. There was no way to answer them all.

“You’ll probably get some calls,” Jake said. His voice was soft. “Don’t tell them anything.”

“What could I tell them? I wasn’t there.”

Ringing filled the space between us.

“Don’t pick up.”

“What if it’s one of our producers? The director? You?”

“Fine, pick up but take messages. Don’t tell them anything.”

Jake didn’t come to the office and neither did the other producers. I don’t recall handing it well, and I may have shared a producer’s phone number besides taking messages.

I sat in the room under fluorescent lights and cried thinking about the kid who died and his family. I thought about the twenty something-year-old who killed a teenager– because of a movie. Maybe he was on his way to pick up a prop or drop off a table, lamp or paint. It was too terrible. I think that’s when I broke.

I lost my taste for the business and all the belittling I endured. How could a movie be more important than the people working on it? The idea that I had to know more and be tougher because I was a woman didn’t feel right. The last day of filming I walked away from the business.

The careers of George and Alexander took off. Alexander was nominated for an Academy Award or two. People talk about his genius. George is a first assistant director on A-list blockbusters and became a producer for Alexander. (His actress girlfriend dumped him and married Hollywood Royalty.)

I don’t think of any of them that fondly. I wonder if they’re still up to their old tricks. I wonder if the actors who looked up to them and the viewers of their movies knew how misogynist they were if they’d still be successful. And I know the answer is…yes.

I took a two-year break from show business after Election. I lost any passion I had for the art.

I didn’t understand why I let myself be treated so badly. I couldn’t wrap my brain around why being good at my job wasn’t enough. I got therapy. I found my voice and backbone, built boundaries, filled in my holes and remembered my worth.

I didn’t want to be bitter. I wanted to be whole. It was immensely hard work putting a grown woman back together.

When I ventured back into production years later I realized it was still filled with people proving they could do it. Proving they were better than others around them by shitting on them, backstabbing and stealing creativity.

I no longer needed to prove my worth to famous strangers. I didn’t need to prove I was strong enough to take the abuse. I learned I had my own creative longings and I didn’t need anyone’s approval to pursue them and I certainly didn’t have the desire to give my ideas or self away any more.

I elected to thrive away from the abuses of Hollywood. And by walking away I learned I no longer found myself forced on my back, on top of a table locked in place and shaking. I didn’t require a desk to steady my voice. I found my own legs, my own worth and voice.


Academy Award Week

In honor of my past and the 18 years I worked in Los Angeles in film and television, this week I’ll share snippets of my former life.

Exhibit A:

My ex-husband in a Quiet Riot video- but wait…it gets better- Beavis and Butthead make fun of him. Enjoy Come on Feel the Noise!


“I saw that guy in detention.”

“He doesn’t want to get up because he’s got morning wood.”



My friend Kimberly posted a tweet for #MuseMon:

She took her broken pieces and threw them into the hottest part of the fire.

“Giving up?” they asked.

“Reforging,” she said.


I printed her luxurious words out the moment I read them and pinned them in front of my computer so I can look at them when I feel discouraged.

I’m currently querying a YA manuscript. Querying isn’t for the weak. Writing isn’t for the laissez faire. Both take courage and flexibility, but this week had too many ups and downs. My well of strength is running dry. I feel parched and spent.

I don’t feel good about myself, doubt my abilities, and creative worth.

As a writer, I know revisions take compromise and time. It can take me days or weeks to settle into notes I receive. My ego must be quieted and then I have to let my creativity find a way to tackle an issue.

The thing is, I’ve made the changes to my book I was asked for, was told I did a fantastic job, and still got turned down. I’m hardly the first writer who dealt with the ego crushing, “I’m sorry it’s a pass for me,” email.

But while reading those words I swear I saw parts of me crack and fall off as if I was being chipped away. Made to watch my own demise.

Then I looked at Kimberly’s words and I remembered who I am.

I’m a badass.

I pulled my big girl business panties on and gathered my broken parts scattered around my desk and kitchen floors, laying flat between dirty laundry, picked up the fragments left between the pages of revisions and taped myself back together enough to allow my character to shine, a bit of my quirk to sparkle, my humor and determination to pulsate before putting it all into the fire.

So don’t mind me, sizzling in these searing orange flames, a phoenix regenerating, forged in my trial by fire.

I can’t wait to see what I’ll look like when I rise.


Hope you’re doing well, too.






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