I’m trying really hard.

I’m putting myself first.

Making time for my art, my labor, my love. Embedding new narratives into a world that is so stingy and rigid when it comes to change.

I’m trying to be ok with the fact I am not living up to the picture in my head.

I did what I could. I did it best. I thought I could support myself with my passion, yet that tangible pay day is still eons away.

I’m terribly happy. Like 70% of the time I feel deliriously content.

Its’ when I have to pay bills and when I tweedle my thumbs doubting my own abilities, do I start languishing after my tragic artist days.

I’m mostly convinced that I can’t succeed in my work unless I am failing at everything else…unless I’m miserable.

Because then there would be balance. Give and take. I can’t be happy and successful. Miserable and successful is all I’ve known. It’s the absolute. The categorical imperative.

I’m trying so hard to keep the faith. Writing 5 pages a day. My manager claiming this one is going to be the one. Even though the last two were supposed to be “the one”.

I scramble for gigs yet still fall on my parents’ paycheck.

That’s the worst of it. Not being completely independent. I receive a stipen from my dad to cover my basic bills.

Maybe he feels sorry for me.

Maybe he believes in me.

It doesn’t matter that I’m accomplished. I’m talented. I’m great at what I do…

It doesn’t matter because accomplishments and talents aren’t paying my rent.

My dad is taking a chance on me to succeed. To really succeed. Not half succeed and then concede to a mediocre life.

No, he’s putting his money on me. I’m the racehorse. The contender. Sometimes I think why shouldn’t it be me? Really, why can’t I succeed. Why can’t I pay my bills with the written word? Why can’t I be what I want to be? Why can’t I have the life I’ve been fighitng for? The life I promised myself when I was 8 years old.

I want my own house.

My own bathroom.

With locks on the doors.

I want to eat whatever I want for dinner.

I want to not be bothered by people that I don’t really care about.

I want to love my animals, my furry children.

and most importantly I want to write visual stories. Change culture. Harness the power of visual storytelling. Have a franchise. Create a piece of literary work that leads to its own fandom.


I’m so embarassed that I call myself a writer. I can’t really own up to it.

But I’m a writer.

a wriiiitttt–eerrr

specifically television and film writer. Screenplays. Treatments. Series….

all of it.

I can’t admit that I’m a writer. And that its my career and livlihood and passion. It’s somehow embarrassing to be a writer. Because everyone tries to be a writer–some poppycock like that.

But my writing has directed my life thus far. It’s my craft and my blood. It’s my gift and it was once stolen from me by the rapist.

I can’t turn my back on the one part of me that makes me unique. I can’t sit around waiting for people to tell the stories I want to tell.


I must do it on my own.

I must believe in myself.

If I don’t, who will?



“believe in yourself, you’re a unicorn”




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