January is a longass month. Even if you don’t make resolutions, there’s a buildup around the holidays that expresses itself in feelings of restlessness. Or maybe that’s just me. So I turned harder than ever into my practices—journaling, breath meditation, and finally, yoga!
Over the past couple years, between the tear in my ACL, broken leg and shoulder injury, it’s been rough to exercise at all. But if I learned one thing from my years of trying to think my way into bliss it’s that feeling good is an emotion that lives in my body. And my body is only happy when it’s kept moving. Of course my brain is part of my body, but it’s mostly a warning system and not necessarily conducive to happiness.
What got me through besides working out:
Speaking of that alert system known as my brain… Asking “wouldn’t it be amazing if” was a tool I tried out this month. Whenever I heard myself asking “what could go wrong,” I’d flip the script. That way I was imagining possibility rather than improbability.
Look, asking this question didn’t make everything work out. I launched a new product I was nervous about using on live TV, teeny tiny labels I had to peel and stick repeatedly. The item bombed. But asking ‘wouldn’t it be amazing if’ made the process much less painful, AND I immediately got a new client (whom I turned down so I could focus more on writing, but that’s an amazing problem to have).
A craft class I’m looking forward to teaching, Unlock Your Heart Story:
After the incredible experience I had with you at the journaling workshop, what I heard from attendees was how much they wanted to tell their story, but didn’t know where to start.
I hear you. For a long time, I was in the same boat. Until I found some techniques to give me enough distance to start writing. If you’d like to get your story unstuck, join this free 5-Day, Unlock Your Heart Story Challenge.
This challenge, should you choose to accept it, will get that story out of your head and ready for whatever form you choose, whether it’s an essay, a book, a script, or a solo show. In five days, in about 15 minutes a day.
Coming in February! Timing is flexible for the sessions but the live event will happen the week of February 13. (And that day will be more than 15 minutes.)
Sign up here so you don’t miss out and I can send the details of the challenge right to your inbox!
A craft class I’m looking forward to:
For those of you who have your story locked and loaded, check out the Write Way Better Scenes, February 7-9.
Have you ever heard, Great writing. I’m not connecting with the story. It comes down to how you move your characters through the story, scene by scene. The good news is, there’s no need to settle for subjective opinions about what makes a scene “work.” There are objective criteria you can apply to a scene to ensure it’s riveting, and know how to fix it when it’s not. Click here to learn more about this workshop. I took a previous version and it was a revelation. Can’t wait for this one!
And one more!
I took this class with Daniela Saioni—an experienced screenwriter based in Toronto—and came out with an original TV comedy pilot. If you’re interested in screenwriting, even if comedy isn’t what you’re going for (mine is more dramedy), I highly recommend this class!
Click here for Daniela’s From Schtick to Script.
An essay:
At last! I’ve rebooted my live, local storytelling show, True Stories. If you’re near St. Pete, come check it out! If not, find such a show near you and light up your inner storyteller. Below the video is a modified version of the story I told at the show.
Competitive Dog Rescue: A New York City Story
Cutthroat as you may think New Yorkers are, there’s one arena where their ambitions are at their most exaggerated. Dog adoption.
When I landed there in 2007, fresh on the heels of divorce, I had no idea competitive dog rescue was a thing. And god help me if I ever find myself trying to adopt a dog in New York City after telling this story. But not long after settling in, I began to joke that I missed my dogs more than my ex.
As with all humor, there was a grain of truth. What I really missed was having love in the house. By 2013 however, I was pretty sure love in the house was not going to manifest through dating, so I’d been trying to find a dog.
None of this was on my mind the freezing cold January day when I met my friend Paula at a Brooklyn diner for brunch. But there we were, sitting in front of a huge window waiting for our overpriced eggs when across the street I see a gaggle of hipsters clogging the sidewalk, all attached to these dogs in neon vests that say “adopt me.”
I look back at Paula. “It’s a Badass Brooklyn Animal Rescue dog adoption event! Let’s go!”
Paula takes a sip of her coffee. Puts down her coffee. “It’s so cold out,” she says. “And anyway, they’ll all be gone by the time we get there,” she says.
I’m thinking, then let’s ditch brunch, but I say, “Please?”
And Paula’s a good friend, and she agrees.
When we do get there, I don’t know if all of the dogs are spoken for, but there is only one left inside. A little slip of a thing, all of 20 pounds, about a foot high, looking miserable, shivering in the corner. We lock eyes.
This dog has these flying nun ears that perk up when he sees me, and in that instant I know, this guy hates the cold as much as I do. I will rescue this boy.
I kneel to the ground, and he marches right over and puts his paws on either side of my shoulders. And I think, “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
There’s just one problem. I am about to leave for India again.
This was the period in my life where I went to India every other year for six months at a time to study yoga and meditation. Thanks to these practices, my life has gotten bigger and this will be the shortest trip I’ve ever taken to India. I’m headed to the Kumbh Mela in Rishikesh—a trip I wrote about in part here—the world’s largest spiritual festival, a trip I’m hoping will soothe my unholy angst.
I cannot tell BBAR I’m about to be gone for a month. Such revelation could lead to uncomfortable questions, like, “How often do you do this sort of thing?”
Fortunately, competitive dog rescue is a marathon, not an event. After filling out the application and paying my deposit, I have to send in references for them to contact, a clean vet record, and prepare my home for inspection. I can stall for three weeks.
For the first time ever, while I’m away I can’t wait to be back. I keep seeing my soon-to-be adoptee’s amber eyes, his little paws, his flying nun ears. It feels like forever until I get to go home and feel the love in my house.
When I do get back I play it cool and don’t reach out to BBAR immediately. Then I start to get nervous. I reach out to my references. Two out of three confirm they’ve spoken. I don’t hear from the third. Now I’m getting really nervous. Did I get a bad reference? What if his foster mom decided to keep him?
I’m back two weeks before I hear from them. But I can’t be mad because she tells me she’s bringing my dog along since it’s been so long. This is not at all their standard operating procedure, but I’m psyched. I can’t wait to see him again.
When she does come, I’ve got his leash, dog bed, food, toys, everything. And my baby is just as perfect as I remember him.
Anyway, she starts looking around and I’m praying she’s not going to ask me any questions. I live in a studio apartment, by myself. Was I really prepared to care for this life?
But she doesn’t, and when she turns to leave she stops at the door and says, “You’re ready. You can keep him.”
WHAT!
I’m so excited I think I might pee, so I take my fur baby to the dog run at Tompkins Square Park, which I’ve been dying to get into since I moved to this neighborhood, but again, dog ownership is serious business in this town. No people allowed without dogs inside.
All that’s behind me now. I am officially a dog mom again. In we go. I love watching all the dogs run and play together, it is as magical as I hoped it would be.
I am entirely unprepared for what happens the next morning: food poisoning.
That’s right. I’ve gone to India five times in the past eight years and never gotten a bug. I come home and get food poisoning from the deli around the corner from my house. And it’s ugly.
A neighbor kindly takes him around the block in the morning, but when night falls I am not so lucky. This is exactly what I’d worried about. I am failing.
It’s 11PM by the time I limp out, and truly, I’m mostly motivated by my need for electrolytes. I have already asked Paula if she will take the dog when I give in to this thing inside my body that clearly wants me dead. We inch to the bodega at the end of the block, only to find they’re closed.
Fine. The one on the next block is still open, thank the gods.
No dogs allowed.
Fine. I tie him to the metal window grate and head inside to find Gatorade, which naturally they don’t have.
Fine. I’m dying. I settle for some artisanal ginger ale. I’m psyched to get back to my toilet. But when I get outside… There’s no dog.
Impaired as I was, I’d tied the lead in a sailor’s knot, one my dad the Marine would’ve been proud of; there’s no way that came undone. Did he Houdini his way out of his collar?
I search the grate —maybe I was mistaken on where I’d left him? But no. Now I see— the goddamn grate has been pulled down. Some asshole had to actually untie my dog so that they could lock their grate rather than take one second to walk inside the store and ask whose dog was tied outside.
I really want to go inside and yell at that person. Anyone, really.
But there’s zero time. It is pitch black outside. My dog is all of one foot tall. I can’t imagine a car seeing him, but I can imagine…
I look left. I look right. He’s nowhere. I start to yell for him, but, Does he even know his name?
One thing he does know? Treats. I race to my apartment and as I’m fumbling for the keys, all of a sudden Hartley appears.
I kneel down to pet him, and he does that thing again, puts his paws on my shoulders. Now I know. It really him who’s saying, “I got you.”
