ramblings of a recovering insecureaholic

For those who have followed the journey of our feature adaptation of the Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Slavery by Another Name, you already know the documentary version of the same book is competing at Sundance.

Douglas A. Blackmon, the book’s author and the documentary’s Executive Producer, tweeted this morning the opening night’s packed house rose to their feet in applause.

As I read his tweet, I grinned. I couldn’t help but think back on the long journey Doug and I have had together the past three years. From my tireless efforts to get the adaptation gig, endless hours of condensing 70 years of U.S. history into a dramatic, entertaining story, to the countless rewrites.

Our goal was always to have the feature script solid by the time the doc premiered.

I am delighted to say, she is ready.

Why did it take so long to write? Because that’s what this subject matter deserves.

As my Daddy always says, “If you’re not going to do something right, don’t do it at all.”  I couldn’t agree more.

Many people have asked me if knowing there was a separate documentary version made it harder for us to write the adaptation. On the contrary, it liberated us from the burden of teaching a history lesson. We were free to focus on creating an engaging, gripping, horrific tale that reaches every emotion a moviegoer can handle… and even some they can’t.

I’m confident when you watch the documentary, you’ll understand why this project has been so deeply important to us.

I look forward to the day I can share the news our adaptation will be coming to a theatre near you. Until then, watch the documentary on PBS February 13th, 9pm EST.

You might even give it a standing ovation in your living room.

Every weekday morning, I make the 30-minute drive, taxing my teenagers to school, complete with loud “ghetto music,” frantic last-minute studying for tests, and the random, “Shit, I forgot my backpack!” as we pull into the school’s lot.

Sure, I bitch about “teen taxi time,” but the truth is, I’ll cherish these days long after they’ve left the nest.

My kids crack me up.

The other day I decided to give them relationship advice – not that they wanted it. I just like to annoy the hell out of them sometimes. So the topic of the day was “What to look for in a life partner.”  I could feel them cringe at the announcement.

I started with what I feel are the two most important questions to ask when you’re considering spending your life with someone:

1. Can you imagine your life without them?

That got a shrug, with my girl blurting, “I can’t imagine looking at someone’s face day in and day out… forever.”

Hopeless romantics they are not.

My boy’s response was, “Yeah, whatever.”

Then I hit them with number two…

2. Would you wipe their ass?

My girl confirmed I just solidified my most-inappropriate-mom status.

I went on to explain how in life one never knows what will happen health-wise, and you always have to be prepared to take care of someone.

My boy ponders this concept for a minute, and then chimes in.

“Mom, I only have one question – why the hell would I marry someone who couldn’t wipe their own ass?”

Excellent point, Son. Apparently personal hygiene is actually important to them. Go figure.

This morning, the topic was “Is there any room of our house our dog hasn’t shit in?”

We proceeded to go through each room and reminisce about “perv dog” and his poo. My boy groaned how the cats keep pissing in his game room, but quickly pointed out the upside, “At least you wouldn’t be able to tell if I was smoking weed in there.”

Who would have thought pet excrement would lead to drugs. I may have to kill the cats.

But the reality is, even if he was smoking pot in there, I just gave him an opening to talk about it with me. I guess I should thank our incontinent cat.

In “teen taxi time” we swear, we sing, we laugh, and sometimes we’re even silent. In fact, I learn a hell of a lot from those quiet moments too.  It’s not always what people say, but what they don’t say that speaks volumes.

Yes, that is me rationalizing them putting duct tape on my mouth.

Just now, on the ride home, after the F bomb had been dropped a dozen times, I stated, “I think we need to stop swearing so much.”

My girl: “blah, blah, blah”

My boy: “Shit, no!”

A swearing ban is not going to happen, but not because I’m a horrible, undisciplined mother, but simply because my car is a safe zone for us to just be us. No veneers, no judgment, and no topic off limits.

What happens in the teen taxi, stays in the teen taxi… except if your mom is a writer.

“Life is short.” We’ve heard the expression a million times, but how often have you soaked in what those words truly mean?

Last week, a fellow writer and friend suddenly passed away. Just gone. One day he was there, the next, vanished. Far too young with so many dreams left unrealized.

I’ve had Mark Worthen’s Twitter page up on my laptop since the moment I heard the sad news.

Why?

As a reminder to live my life as if I wouldn’t wake tomorrow.

It forced me to analyze how I use my energy. Do I want to spend my final moments thinking about the people who have bullied me? Do I want to gasp my last breath and not have told those dear to me how much I love them? Do I want to feel my heart slowing, worrying how the mortgage will get paid?

Imagine today is your last day. What would you do?

I’d hug my parents and thank them for always believing in me. Kiss my teenagers, seeing their love for me twinkle in their eyes. I’d admit to the people I have wronged that I failed to live up to my own expectations and ask for forgiveness. I’d find the people who have wronged me and simply wish them well, confident they’d still screw people over until someone did the same to them. I’d take a long walk in the mountains with my best friend, ending with the longest, strongest hug I could give. I’d kiss the man I love. I’d pray. I’d email Slavery by Another Name to every producer, actor and agent in town and tell them to do it justice… and send the check to my kids. I’d have a party and celebrate the amazing life I have had.

I’d cry. I’d laugh. I’d love. Most of all, I would give love.

I’m fairly certain of one thing: I would not waste my last day sitting at this computer. I would live it.

“Life is short” – three, powerful, one-syllable words.

Now go live.

Dedicated to Jeannie Eddy, the beloved wife of Mark W. Worthen

A giggle, a smirk, a jealous comment said behind someone’s back. Seems harmless, but what happens when the person you’re gossiping about overhears?

Recently I’ve been a victim of such gossip. “Friends” I thought respected and supported me both professionally and personally spread a wave of negativity and lies. Their words were hurtful, mean-spirited and false assumptions that demeaned my character.

After I wiped the tears away, I took a good hard look in the mirror and realized I’ve been guilty of spewing venom on occasion myself. It was a rather eye-opening week.

The one question spinning in my head is why do people act out like this?

The most obvious is jealousy, insecurity, or unhealed inner wounds. Personally, when I think back at times I have inappropriately spoken ill of someone, those were the reasons.

But these people’s words were just cruel and complete lies based on assumptions, not facts.

People falsely read into the words you say, trying to find hidden meanings and agendas. They project their own wants and issues onto you. Before you know it, they’ve spun a web of fantasies they believe must be true, if only in their pinhead minds.

I have no hidden agendas. I’ve always been an open book. Anyone who reads this blog knows that.

The saddest part of all is it’s made me question every single person in my life and wonder who my true friends are. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. As my career moves forward, I’m sure more of these venomous predators will slither from the cracks.

Why someone would piss off a Sicilian black belt is beyond me.

But I won’t hurt them. I can’t. It’s not my style. Nor will I ever call them out in public. They know who they are. However, I will never help them, nor will they be the beneficiaries of my philosophy to pay it forward. Karma will kick their ass for me.

I will forgive them, because the God I believe in wants me to. But I will never forget what they said and the callous way in which they insulted my professionalism and my character.

As much as this gut-punch hurt, every hit I take in life brings a valuable lesson:

• Be careful whom you trust.
• Be careful what you say.
• Be careful of what you don’t say.
• Always watch your back.
• People are instinctively selfish.
• Jealousy is ugly.
• Insecurity is uglier.
• Rise above those who try to push you down.
• Forgive.

I have taught my children never to post anything on a social media site they wouldn’t be comfortable seeing printed on the front page of a newspaper. I am now adding another golden rule to the mix:

Never say anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face.

Believe me, if these “friends” had the balls to speak those vial assumptions to me directly, I would have slapped the words right out of their mouths.

Words are weapons. Once you have stabbed someone with them, that wound will leave a permanent scar.

And if you are a person who feeds on venomous rumors and laughs along with the insecure gossiping liars of this world, what makes you think they aren’t spreading rumors about you too?

The reality is, most gossipers are serial ones. No “friend” of his or hers is safe.

Be careful what you say, someone is always listening.

For weeks, my left arm throbbed, pain shooting down, leaving my forearm tingling and fingers numb. I was either going to die from the longest heart attack on record or from lack of sleep.

I did what any person in denial does – drank a huge margarita and pumped myself with Motrin each night. I also took a baby aspirin before bed, just in case it was indeed my heart. All those years of medical transcriptioning were finally coming in handy.

After tossing and turning in agony for far too long, I cried “uncle” and went to a masseuse with hands of a warrior. Those gladiators in 300 had nothing on her. She left bruises on my body and gave me pain worse than childbirth, but after 90 minutes on her table, she diagnosed my problem – writing.

Uh oh.

For the last month, I’ve been busier than ever. Each morning, I would sit at my laptop literally on the edge of my seat, mulling over my long, intense to-do list. I would write for a couple of hours before realizing I hadn’t sat fully back in my chair yet.

Just one more sentence… maybe one more. Another hour would go by, and I still hadn’t left my perch.

Then it dawned on me – I wasn’t just sitting on the edge, I was living on the edge, and my body was leading a revolt. It wanted to breathe.

I think your body should breathe too. Do it right now. Sit back in your chair and close your eyes, then inhale and exhale slowly ten times.

No cheating… shut your eyes and do it. Don’t make me come smack you aside the head, cause I will. You, over there… I see you not breathing!

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10

Look! The world didn’t come crashing down because you took a few moments to breathe. Imagine that.

Over the past week I’ve been consciously forcing myself to sit back in my seat. If I find I’m creeping forward, I stand up and stretch and take some deep breaths, then sit my ass all the way back in my chair.

The pain is dissipating… slowly, but it’s working. But more importantly, I’m listening to my body.

But I did just notice I crept closer to the edge. Damn, I need a seatbelt!

Maybe writers do need seatbelts to strap us down in the proper position. It might even keep our asses in our seats long enough to get more work done. I should market it and sell it to Staples. Wouldn’t it be funny if that were how I got my big break?

Pay attention to the signs your body gives you. It’s miraculous how it knows what you need. Your job is to get off the edge, sit back, listen, and breathe.

What are your tricks for keeping the aches and pains of writing at bay?

In my Panera office, I’m as much a voyeur as a writer – though I’m not sure there’s a difference. I witness everything from chattering blind dates to retired couples slurping their soup-of-the-day, not speaking at all. Occasionally I’ll see two people who had no idea they’d serendipitously meet that day, sparks flying. Those are golden moments.

Sometimes they happen to me.

On my travels I meet random strangers either in restaurants, hotel bars, airports, or waiting in line for water. What I notice most is the energy they give off.

It’s the vibes people exude that either attract you or repel you.

I’ve been told there’s something about me that makes people feel comfortable. Sometimes they share their deepest, darkest secrets within moments of meeting me. But every once in a while, I meet a person who makes even “Smiling Jeanne” want to hiss at them.

I have never understood why people would want to impart such negative energy onto a stranger.

Maybe they don’t want to be bothered, or maybe their public veneer has turned into impenetrable armor, or maybe they don’t even realize they are coming across as assholes.

Nah, I bet they do. They just don’t care.

Recently, I met a woman who within five seconds made me want to recoil. Anytime I tried to speak, she either cut me off, or put on the most disinterested look I’ve ever witnessed. I clearly bored her to tears. While she had no enthusiasm for me, if I handed my business card to someone else in the room, she’d quickly interject into the conversation and pass out hers as well. It was all about her.

Luckily, I don’t run into people like this often. But despite my attempts at dodging her jerkitude, she had already ruined my mood. I needed a survival strategy.

I sat back and pretended I was in my Panera office, put my voyeur hat on, and watched her every move. She instantly sized people up, deciding if they were worthy or not. The majority of the time, they weren’t. In between gracing people with her me-me-me conversation, she’d flip her hair and repeatedly put on lip gloss.

She may have been a twit in real life, but she was indeed an interesting character to observe. It was like being at Jerk Zoo.

Fantasies about passing her the link to my “BALLS OF STEEL: First Impressions” article turned my snarl around – mwhaha.

But the lesson that day was mine to learn. Once I pulled away from her bitch rays, I noticed positive energy all around me. The same thing happens when I’m on a flight. Sometimes I’m seated next to a snarly, I-hate-life person, and other times, I meet the most remarkable people who I instantly click with.

It’s people like that who make venturing outside of my writer cave fun. We can chat for hours in-flight, then part, usually never to speak again. But even in that short time, people can have a profound impact on my perspective.

Bottom-line: There’s a power in anonymity. When you put forth welcoming energy, you give people a safe place to spill their thoughts. You can learn the most important lessons from someone else’s life experiences.

So the next time you’re traveling or sitting in a coffee shop, make sure you put forth some great vibes. You’ll be surprised who you can attract… and what you can learn from them.

Every human being I come across will have an opinion of me as I walk away. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be the asshole in the room. I want them to walk away thinking, “Man, it was really cool meeting her.”

I’d love to hear stories of people you’ve serendipitously met in your daily life. Share them with us, and we can all learn together.

In the past two years, I can count the number of days I’ve taken off on one hand. One hand. I plow through each day with an overfull pile of work and constant requests for help as if I am Wonder Woman. Believe me, she’s got nothing on this pimp… well, except a really hot outfit.

But after seven hundred and twenty five 12-hour days, I finally lost it. Totally and completely.  All while on a professional phone call.

I don’t do anything half-ass, even falling apart.

My day started on a high note. I had stayed up late the night before doing the final polishes of Slavery by Another Name (SBAN) in preparation for our LA trip. I had that baby printed and ready to read upon my return from the morning hour-long-teen-taxi-school run.

But first came a preproduction meeting for a film I’m producing, gone Elvis, with writer/director David Newhoff. If anyone but David had asked me to produce, I probably would have said “no.” I love his writing and his passion for filmmaking so much that I had to be a part of this project, but that’s a whole other story. Plus, he buys me breakfast. I’m a cheap date.

Finally time to read SBAN.

I curled on the couch, red pen in hand. As I flipped each page, I wordsmithed, marking little typos I had missed, and tweaked the dialogue one more time. But as the pages went on, I started remembering each moment of writing it. Each keystroke. Each word. Each decision. Each character’s birth.

But the one who really was born in the writing of SBAN was I – the true Jeanne.

I’ve written often of my passion for this project and my intense need to see this produced. I felt it more than ever as I read the final pages through tears. But it wasn’t just the horrific truth of our nation’s history that made me cry. It was my battle scars all over the pages, like the stretch marks of pregnancy.

I hadn’t read the script in several months, and when I finally did, those scars popped. It was like reading my baby book. I could see my transformation from fearful to fearless in each word.

My life changed the day I picked up that phone and called the author. In doing so, I stopped being a disease-to-pleaser and started pursuing my dreams. I took the first step to living an authentic life.

So how does this revelation make someone crack? Good question. I’m still not sure myself. But by the time I read “FADE OUT”, I was a worthless bawling mess. I managed to pull myself together and made the changes to send to my writing partner.

Not five minutes after hitting “send,” the phone rang. Uh oh. It was the professional call I had on my calendar long before I ever thought I’d be reading SBAN that day. Oops.

I answered.

In our discussion of my current comedy script, I lost it. Just lost it. The caller was challenging me on my concept and the marketability of it, and while I know he was only trying to help, all I could see was one more Herculean task ahead of me to fix it, a task I was already well aware of. Frankly, if I could write SBAN, I could fix this script, of that, I was sure. But at that very moment, I didn’t have an ounce of energy left in me. I just didn’t give a shit.

I’m getting ready for meetings in LA in a few weeks, I’m in the middle of writing a TV episode for an incredible showrunner and friend, another friend called with a fantastic TV series idea I’m dying to create with her, my teens were buzzing about waiting for dinner, karate class was in 15 minutes, and there chirping in my ear was another problem I needed to fix.

Why at that moment, did I lose it? Why with this person? Timing? Maybe. Being tired? Maybe.

But what puzzles me is I’m normally so open to feedback and brainstorming, yet that night, I wasn’t. I was done. Shut down. A blank wall.

He stated, “I can’t figure out if you’re protecting the script or protecting yourself.”

Excellent question that I couldn’t answer at the time, but I can now.

Instinctively, I don’t protect my work. I welcome feedback. I crave it – the more challenging, the better. Last night, I was protecting myself, not my work. I shut down.

It was a matter of survival.

I’m not even sure why I’m sharing this. Maybe one of my readers has had a similar experience and can provide insight. Or maybe one of you is on the brink of losing it, and works insane hours too. Maybe the purpose of this post is to try to find an explanation for a situation that has none. Maybe I’m just tired and I need a day off.

Funny how that very morning as I walked up the stairs to my office to print SBAN at 6:30AM, I saw my reflection in the mirror. I stopped, noticed the exhaustion and thought, “It would be so easy to quit right now… but not for me.” I opened my laptop and the day began.

I do know one thing. I work at an insane pace, and I cannot keep this up forever. But the momentum of my career is moving me forward every day. I’m going to hang on for my life on this wild ride. But I’m also going to try very hard to slow down. I need it. My children need it. My writing needs it. My sanity needs it.

So yeah, I had a little breakdown. I think it was a good thing.