dignified pajamas

Today Nora says, “Mom, we need a pajama party.” And she’s right.

So we head down to Memphis blues and order something slow cooked and Elvis, minus the peanut butter and the pussycats. Then we bag the 101 Dalmations at the Black Dog video store (if only because we can) get home and snuggle up in our tackiest fuzziest plaid pajammies with our chosen libations: hot chocolate and marshmallows for Nora, Temptations for Licorice and 1.5 oz of Bookers bourbon on ice for Mommy. I enjoy the evening 80%. 20% of me is very anxious that I spent money I shouldn’t have. I SHOULD have cooked chickpeas and brewed up a nice cup of hot water. 

As we watch Cruela DeVil swish around in her fabulous red and black coat, I do the math on my income this week. I worked seven days in a row at six different jobs morning to night, I performed for 1200 people and made exactly $470.00. Weeks like this feel violent.

This time of year the theatre seasons get lined up. I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen to me if the phone doesn’t ring. This little person lying in my arms, so happy with flannel and tri-coloured mini mellows…relies on me. My heart starts to beat in my throat like a swallowed butterfly. Yeah. I guess some nights it gets to me.

But I also had an incredible week. Some profound conversations with colleagues that have come out of writing. One that left me very raw and rumbling to the core in that good good facing the truth sort of way. I spoke at Pecha Kucha with nine other inspirational speakers who packed out the Vogue. What these people have done, what they’ve accomplished in their twenties…it’s incredible and humbling. One speaker made fun of the term “starving artist” and said it was a negative and false mantra. (this person was not living off their art by the way) And I rephrased in my head: the truth is, sometimes artists starve, but it doesn’t have to be a mantra.

I am writing this at 1am because I am too panicked to sleep. I have drafted it three times and have tried to go to bed. But I can’t leave these thoughts unfinished. My bile, people, my bile!

Plus I can’t end it like this because it makes for a shitty story.

Do I tell you all my solutions? I am tempted to because otherwise someone will write “but Lucia, have you thought of switching careers over to do blah blah blah?” or the untrue, “It will all work out, it always does”. Yeah, tell that to my liver.

So, here are MY solutions: I am writing a spec TV episode to pitch to a film agent, I am adding yet ANOTHER class to teach in the spring, hopefully my upcoming reel and new head shots and better fitness will help with auditions. I have my guest room rented until Sept. I completely rewrote Leave of Absence, Diamond Willow and Frankie Armitage this month. Once we have a CD of the Chickens music I am going to pitch to USA publishers who have shown interest. My blog followers continue to grow, perhaps this will lead to advertisers? Exhausted yet?

When I was little and things got frightening, I would line up words like a little boy might line up toy soldiers, and I would build a fortress impenetrable. Behind it I would create my better world. Writing and prayer have always been synonymous with me. It’s how I worship. It’s how I plead. It’s how I think. It’s how I bleed. It’s how I always discover great joy and clarity. The spirit is the same as the muse and it is always wilder than anything I conceive. I was fairly unchurched as a kid so my faith was never manmade. I guess that’s why I never felt it was small. I never felt the need to rebel against it.

Therefore, when I chose to be baptized at the age of sixteen, I was not only making a pledge to try and follow the teachings of Christ, but to live out my vocation as a storyteller. I can’t go back. I made a promise. It’s a done deal. Thank you, sixteen, for being idealist enough to believe.

This is what youth is for.

There’s something about that promise to myself that settles me.

It finishes this story.

It gets me into bed.

It dignifies me.