"... the world spins madly on..."

It took me a while to put this post together. I wanted to make sure it was perfect - beyond perfect actually. I felt that the circumstances deserved it.  Calling upon my personal writing heroes, I wrote and re-wrote this entry countless times in my head.  But it wasn't perfect.  And it won't be.

Dear friends of mine lost their youngest son in the recent school shooting in Newtown, CT.  He was only 6 years old.  In the immediate aftermath of that horrific event, I spent several days cycling through crying jags, then numbness, then rage and back again.  I prayed and prayed for my friends and their older son, also a student at Sandy Hook Elementary, who survived.  I sobbed for the people I love who were so cruelly affected, for the whole community of Newtown, for this entire country.  I seethed at the hold that the NRA has on our politicians.  I grieved for the collective well-being of a country in the grip of so much gun violence, and raged at the cowardice of our elected officials to stand up to the gun lobby.

Like many, many others, I felt profound disbelief, anger and dismay as the NRA recommended arming teachers and putting MORE guns into our schools and on our streets.  I was dumbfounded.  The idea is so egregiously preposterous that to any sane person reading this, I needn't list the reasons why.

I read all sorts of editorials, nodding my head in agreement with those who wrote that, contrary to what many in the right-wing were saying, this was EXACTLY the time to discuss gun violence in this country.  I yelled at my television upon hearing pundits go on about how a crazy person determined to do violence will obtain a gun regardless of regulations.  YES, I screamed, there will always be violence and we won't be able to prevent every madman from getting his or her hands on guns but shouldn't we - at the very least - make it more difficult for them to do so??!!

Today is December 31st.  As I sit here thinking about my new year's resolutions (establish a regular meditation schedule, establish a regular writing schedule, drink less Mountain Dew, keep fresh cut flowers in my home, be more patient with myself and others), I'm also thinking about my hopes for this country in 2013 and beyond.  I hope we become a country of greater empathy.  I hope we start to embrace vulnerability.  I hope we learn to value kindness and grace.  I hope we stop killing each other.

Meanwhile, the world spins on.

Thoughts. (And a book recommendation).

I have been thinking a great deal lately about being of service. How can I be of service in the world?  Yes, I can volunteer with various organizations. Yes, I can donate clothing and food.  I can be a good friend, daughter, citizen and hopefully someday soon, a good wife.  Supportive, patient, fun, honest – qualities vital to all relationships, no matter their definition.  I can be kind to strangers and rescue an animal from a shelter.  All of these and more are ways that I can be of service. 

What about on a larger scale?

I believe very deeply – to the core of my being – that theatre is useful. I would go even further to say that it is necessary.  Art, music, dance, theatre – these are all necessities.  But my relationship to the theatre has changed over the past few years.  On sabbatical from acting (I prefer the word “sabbatical” with its intimation of something temporary; the idea that I will never again act in a play is a thought so painful I cannot entertain it), I am putting my creative energies towards writing.  

Words are vital, living things.  They can illuminate, educate, soothe, and entertain.  Provoke, calm and confound.  They can be of service.  The books that have been a balm to me throughout my life are too great in number to list in this blog post.  I recently finished another one: HOW TO BE A WOMAN by Caitlin Moran.  This collection of essays is hilarious, thoughtful, bold and unafraid.  Reading this book showed me that I needn’t be ashamed of calling myself a feminist.  It made me laugh and think and feel compelled to put my own truths on paper.  It was of service to me in those ways.   

I can contribute my own words to the plethora that are already out there. Perhaps they will be read on a huge scale, perhaps only by a few dozen.  Those numbers don’t really matter though, do they? What matters is that I speak my truth. 

At this moment in time, my truth is that I have a day job that is so far from what I want my life to look like that it makes me sad and frustrated.  So I guess I can write about that. Perhaps that will be of service to someone stumbling upon this blog, by letting them know they are not alone – that, for many, creative pursuits must be squeezed into the small spaces found in our lives, even if we feel tired and lonely and afraid. 

I am tired and lonely and afraid. But I'm going to keep writing.

Random Anecdote #1

At work a few months ago I took a phone call from a client asking to speak to my boss who was, alas, on a conference call and couldn't be interrupted.  This particular client was not happy to hear that he’d have to wait 45 minutes to speak to the boss man.  With some cheer in his voice he asked if I were the “messenger” and when I replied in the affirmative he chuckled and said “Well, I kill the messenger.”  He went on to ask what I looked like.  Startled, I begged his pardon only to hear him respond “How big are your titties?”  After another "excuse me, sir, what did you say?" he chuckled and said "I only asked how big they are, I didn't ask to see 'em."  He continued "Are they big?" at which point I decided I'd had more than enough and told him in my German ancestor voice (clipped, pointed with a strongly disapproving tone) that I did not appreciate his comments and that I would have my boss return his call as soon as possible. Undeterred, this man then told me I was being overly sensitive and that I needed to get laid (a favorite charge of misogynists applied to women when we dare assert ourselves).  Really getting my German on now, I told him he was rude and then I hung up on him. 

Clearly it need not be stated that there are no situations in which it is okay to ask a woman "how big are your titties?" unless you are starring in a porn film playing a priest hearing confession. 

Love Child

Recently, I’ve done a lot of thinking about my creative identity.  Based on several (highly unscientific) polls of friends and family, comments from writing instructors and classmates and a review of my acting credits (www.julieevansmith.com if you are interested in my bona fides), the time has come to announce my creative DNA.  It goes something like this:

If Laura Linney, David Sedaris and Eve Ensler had a three-way, I would be their creative love child. 

So that’s good to know, right?  Sure, if I need to do my “elevator pitch” anytime soon to an agent at CAA.  But I’m trying to determine which of the several unfinished projects in my BIG FAT WRITING BINDER (thank you, Sofphronia Scott), to concentrate on.  Yes, the collection of personal essays is scratching at the door of my brain to get out, ready for the Barnes & Noble book tour.  At the same time, the actress in me wants to create a one woman show in order to showcase my talents and feed the significant part of my soul that loves being onstage.  Then there’s the activist side of me, the one concerned about women’s rights and female autonomy in a world still considerably hostile to the female sex despite it being the 21^st Fucking Century!!  Judging from my creative DNA, the answer is obvious, isn’t it?

I need to write a funny solo show about abortion.

That should be easy, right?!  ‘Cause we all know that abortion is A) hilarious and B) a subject that is not remotely controversial.  Everyone is like “WHERE is that comical show about reproductive rights that I keep waiting for?  Sheesh – I wish someone would hurry up and produce THAT play.” 

Come on In!

Welcome, dear readers!  For those of you familiar with my previous blog (wordsmithatplay.blogspot.com), I decided that a fresh start was necessary; hence, my new address.  I like to think of my new web home as the 1920s Craftsman style house I will live in one day in the real world, with my dog and my husband. Alongside it is a picture of my London brownstone - necessary as my future husband and I will divide our time between the States and the UK.

For those of you that enjoyed reading my political tirades, there will be less of that here, but rest assured, I’ll still rant-n-roll from time to time.  Despite the election being over and Obama being re-elected (thank GOD!), I’ve no doubt that Republican idiots will utter something inane about female anatomy and/or autonomy sooner rather than later.  Rest assured, it will piss me off and I will take to this blog to vent my rage. 

But I would like to explore more than politics here.  When we find ourselves at the dinner table (made of reclaimed wood) in my 1920s Craftsman house, we’ll dish on all things policy and wonky, just like Rachel and Chris and Lawrence over at MSNBC.  But you may find yourself in the study/library of my London flat, in a cozy chair with a glass of Reisling, in which case I’ll likely be recommending the latest book that kept me up past my bedtime.  Or we might be in the family room, watching a little TV, eagerly awaiting the Golden Globes – hosted this year by TINA FEY and AMY POEHLER!!  Either that, or we’re watching BBC. 

Warning – we could also be curled up under the covers, frustrated over where to put our creative energies now that acting is on the back burner.  In that case, comments must be limited to cheerleading and positive reinforcement! 

No need to remove your shoes.  Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge (most likely some Mountain Dew, cheese, salad fixings) or the pantry (lots of crackers, butternut squash soup, pasta).  Make yourself comfortable.  I'm glad you're here.