A Mess of a Writer

Yet another writing outlet that I probably don't need.

Yet another mindless blog that someone probably won't read.

But because I don't know how to stop writing, this will be yet another canvas for the words that I've written.

And because these are my words, this will be yet another time when I use cliches like "canvas for the words that I've written," because while I am sometimes original, I am other times not so original and most of the time quite melodramatic.

Today's post will display my tendency towards melodrama. I do (not) apologize in advance.

I went to San Francisco today, a place that I fell in love with in a few short hours. As my mother said, "It's a city with trees!" What more could I ask for? Genuine people, beautiful scenery, to-die-for architecture--it's got everything, right?

Except for that tiny detail that it's about six/seven hours away from where I need to be to make something out of my TV writing career. A tiny detail that is responsible for ruining all of my future plans.

Because of course I didn't plan for this. I didn't plan to hate Los Angeles. It just happened.

I planned to love the City of Angels. I wanted desperately to fall in love with it like I did with SF, to know as soon as I stepped onto the busy street that it was a place I wanted to spend at least a significant part of my adult life in. But Los Angeles is not that place. And I don't think it will ever become that place, even with time.

I think I've set myself up for failure. I find myself doing that a lot with my larger-than-life expectations. And you know who/what I blame, don't you? (Hint: it's not myself. Because ha, why would I take responsibility for my actions?)

I blame movies. Film. Television.

I blame it all for making the life look so glamorous, for making the industry look so appealing.

When nothing could be further from the truth.

Hollywood isn't this magical place of sunshine and celebrity where dreams come true. It's the place where dreams go to die (I told you I was melodramatic) and entitled actors and nobody celebutantes act like the world revolves around them.

Tinseltown. Tinseltown. So very hollow. So very empty.

I can't help but wonder what would've happened if I'd made different decisions. If I didn't grow up in front of the television (of my own will and volition), if I didn't make a conscious choice to continue to immerse myself into this world in my adult life.

Where would I be? Would I have gone to law school? Would I have stayed in Muncy? Would I still be writing?

Would I continue to be disappointed that this life isn't at all what I thought it would be, what I made it out to be in my head?

Living with "what ifs" is a waste of time. I've made these choices for myself and I'll continue to live with them. I'll go to LA for a few years and attempt to make something of myself before I hightail back to the East Coast to hole up in New York or Boston, where the vegetation is as real as the changes in the seasons.

I wanna write, God knows I do, but the more time I spend on this side of the country, the more I begin to doubt that this is what I'm meant to do. This life as a screenwriter.

I want it all. I want my family fifteen minutes away from me on the farm while I'm hidden away in the writer's room fleshing out the next act of the episode I'm breaking down.

Sometimes I wish I could throw the plan out the window and just see what happens. But I don't know how to do that. The uncertainty--whether it's financial, personal, or professional--I don't know how to deal with it. Where would I even start?

I've already made so many plans. Move out here after graduation with Emma and Elizabeth. Immerse myself in grunt work for a while as I attempt to luck into something before Em and I become writing partners.

I want it.

But at the same time, I don't.

Which is how I've gotten to be this...

mess of a writer.