My Body, My Bullshit

Good Lord I've abandoned this long-form blog, haven't I?

Find me on facebook, where I can't stop writing, apparently.

I have been taking a screenwriting class since January. I have written one first draft of an entire feature, and the outline for my second feature, which I plan to finish in the next six weeks. I'm currently volunteering for the Austin Film Festival, reading screenplays entered into their screenwriting competition. I have to read 70 scripts by the end of this month. So far I've read 30.  Whew!  What's the point of this, you ask?

Well, I always wanted to be a screenwriter. I wrote my first script as my senior thesis in college. I debated going to film school, chose poetry school instead, for graduate work. After grad school I moved to LA with my playwright friend, who is now a tv and screenwriter. I loved LA and the whole Hollywood Game.  Unfortunately, like many, I got caught up in my own emotional dysfunction and alcoholism and blew SO. MANY. OPPORTUNITIES.  I also HAD so many opportunities, a really good and successful time overall. But then I moved back to Texas, and decided to pursue instead the Healing Arts. I'm pretty damn good at 'em too. But ultimately, my calling is elsewhere. Is it screenwriting? I don't know. But I need to find out.

Last Fall, as part of this year-long life-coaching program I am in called "Evolve," we did a bunch of work around "Your Best Year Yet," in which we wrote and processed around our deepest dreams. I came to realize that not only was winning and Oscar for screenwriting my deepest dream, but that actually, when it came down to it, I wasn't doing shit toward realizing my dream. Not one thing. Just fantasizing. So I looked up screenwriting workshops in Austin (and online; there are several good ones) and found the class I'm in now. I'm taking it for the third time, and plan to continue all Summer until I get this damned second script written! So at least I can say, as a mom, that I took heed when I spoke of living my dreams. I'm doing it. Not winning the Oscar, which would be okay I guess, but actually pursuing learning the art and craft of screenwriting and then getting off my ass and putting in the ungodly hours it takes to do it. Seriously...major butt power needed for this form!

So I say to parents, especially Moms, PURSUE YOUR HEART'S DEEPEST DESIRE AND YOUR WILDEST DREAM. Try it. Your kids will be so happy that you did. I decided that rather than resent my family for eating up my time, I would devote myself to pursuing my wildest dreams. Can you imagine? My kid is going to grow up knowing that I had the courage to pursue this crazy dream shit? And he may even grow up believing that he can pursue his own heart's deepest desires?  (In another entry, I'll relate how I actually grew up in a house with a parent who followed his passion and succeeded in realizing his wild dream, so I knew it was possible. And preferable.)

Oh, but there is still fine art.

Tonight, instead of going to my screenwriting class, I'll be reading with Spike Gillespie and her usual suspects from the Dick Monologues for a night whose theme is "My Body, My Bullshit." I only wish I had some material! (HA!)

I figure I'll recite "My Country, My Cunt" then read something short about my poop incontinence post partum.

Luckily that's no longer an issue.

My son will be FIVE in October. He has bloomed! He tells me all the time: "I love you Sweetie," and "Honey I love you." He tells me he's going to protect me, to which of course I say "Honey, you don't have to protect me, it's my job to protect you. But thank you." It is so awesome.

On the other hand, he often hits me and tells me how much he hates me, and wants to kill me, and wants me to die. We'll see a butterfly, and I'll say, "Oh! How pretty! Look at the yellow butterfly!" And he'll look at it then say "I want to smash it and kill it!"

Man, the life of the mother of a young child. Particularly a young son.

In some ways I admire his freedom to express his desires to crush, maim, destroy and kill things. I sublimate my anger instead. I think we'd all be a lot healthier if we could express our anger in a way that gets it out but doesn't harm anyone, really, and can be contained and expressed with a loving adult nearby to hear it and really play witness to it.

He's been going to occupational therapy since April? May? And for the most part, it's okay. He enjoys it. I observe every session. I've had a couple of problems with his therapist, which I mostly attribute to her not listening to me and to the practice being kind of a kid-mill. I've also overheard some really shitty, shaming words coming from some of the other therapists there, and I told on them. So I'm "that parent," maybe. But too bad. I think most of B's core strength issues are getting resolved, and it's been helpful for us as a family to work on giving him boundaries, chores, work, more outdoor and heavy play...really the usual stuff of childhood.

Anyway, this has been the VERY BEST way for me to procrastinate writing my stuff for tonight. So thank you for reading. And see you sooner than five months from now, I hope!