What Can Wait

Los Angeles has been through hell this week. On Tuesday Santa Ana winds came blasting into the city. A hot, dry, dehumidifying gift from the desert, roaring at hurricane strength. The next part was all but inevitable. All it took was a spark.

Over the following days, we all watched as the fires raged through the communities of Pacific Palisades and Altadena. And even in this sprawling city of villages and neighborhoods where we often feel disconnected from each other, it all felt very close. Soon we were hearing from our friends who’d been evacuated at a moment’s notice from their homes and about how, in too many cases, those homes were now smoldering ash. It’s trite to say it’s apocalyptic, but until someone comes up with another word to describe this level of trauma and devastation, it will have to do.

As the fires and the accompanying panic have spread it’s been nearly impossible to think of anything else. Much less your script deadline, unfinished spec, or upcoming pitch meeting. And yet, if we’re being honest, some of us probably are. That’s not a pretty thing to write, but there it is. For those of us who make our living in entertainment… often struggling to do so… this is a recurring problem. How do you keep working on your fun half-hour comedy spec when the world is, quite literally, burning? Is it even okay to do that? Also, what the fuck is wrong with you?!

Let’s talk about it.

When I moved to LA from Florida in the early aughts it was hard. I thought I’d prepared myself for the move. I’d done all the research a person could do in an era of slow internet and dumb phones. This included several “How To Move To LA” guides, all of which were woefully inadequate. While they included lists of notable attractions and what to put in your Earthquake preparedness kit, they left out little things like how Los Angeles is a huge, complicated, anonymizing maze of pitfalls, traps, dead ends, and monsters for which there is no reliable map. I quickly discovered that the only way to learn how to move to Los Angeles was to move to Los Angeles. So I set out to write a better guidebook.

The concept was simple. I would forgo all the lists in favor of interviews with actual people about their first year in L.A. and maybe get some funny/harrowing/instructive stories along the way. Not a bad idea. Sadly, I only did one interview before giving up the project - a very on-brand move for me. But that interview did teach me a lesson.

The interview subject, a friend and actress, told me she’d moved to the city from the South with a theatre degree and a place to stay. It started okay. Skint for money, she’d moved in with a second cousin she didn’t know well but who owned a house in the San Fernando Valley and had agreed to let her stay rent-free. Then she got a job at a clothing store on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood. Not around the corner, but looking at a map (and this would have been a PHYSICAL map) she could see it was only 8 miles from the house. She didn’t have a car, but she had a bike - so doable. The only hiccup in this perfect plan was the Santa Monica Mountains which bisected her route. And though they weren’t The Rockies it was, as they say, “a lot of up”. But before she could process the fact that her commute was more or less the uphill stage of the Tour de France, her cousin had a psychotic break. He started tearing out the drywall from the house to find the listening devices he was sure the FBI had planted.

She told me she’d had six jobs and moved house four times in her first year. But throughout all that chaos she kept her dream at the forefront. She was here to act and live a creative life. So she took her lumps and kept on track. She saved up, bought some new clothes (no doubt leaving the tags on so they could be returned), and got some decent headshots. Then, in pre-online fashion, she busied herself prepping a large mailing of blind submissions to agents. All she needed to do was take them to the post office on her day off and wait for someone to say, “Yes!”. Her next day off was Tuesday… September 11, 2001.

It was horrific. The country was under attack. Information was spotty and panic was setting in. So why was she still thinking about that pile of envelopes on her kitchen table? She’d worked so hard and endured so much. And with everything going on, she reasoned, maybe other actors wouldn’t do their mailings, and hers would arrive with less competition. Besides, if this tragedy stopped her from getting an agent, then the terrorists had won, right? So she scooped up those envelopes and pedaled off to do her mailing.

She told me that, after getting to the post office just in time, she’d stood outside on the sidewalk as they locked the doors behind her. It was eerily quiet on the street and her only company was two unhoused gentlemen, one of whom was wearing shiny gold short shorts. The first one asked, “Did you hear they brought down those towers?” and Mr. Gold Shorts replied, “What? Again?!” Oh my God, she thought, these two had no idea the gravity of the moment. Then she realized the only reason she’d overheard this conversation was because she’d just done a headshot mailing on 9/11.

I don’t share this story to shame my friend. It’s just the opposite. I want to extend her grace. Because, as borderline crazy as this story seems, I understand where her head was at. Trying to make it as an artist is incredibly difficult. Unless you are very confident and/or independently wealthy, it’s a struggle. No one is going to give you a break, so you have to create your own.

You’re dealing with self-doubt, FOMO, and the constant feeling that you’re a step behind. You always feel like you’re running out of money, youth, and time. And because no one can really help anyone else, you have to become your own taskmaster and cheerleader as you navigate the seemingly endless parade of obstacles this industry puts in your way.

This single-mindedness has some side effects, one of which is the tendency to make every obstacle look identical. Weird landlords, insane commutes, hostile casting directors, firestorms, terrorism… it’s all the same. It’s incredibly easy to lose perspective. And I’m here to say, that’s okay. You are not a terrible person. This is hard work. But, it is just work.

That’s why, when real-world events intervene and you find yourself feeling guilty about your wandering focus, you have to take on yet another job. You have to become your own therapist. Forgive yourself for your lack of perspective and remind yourself that it’s okay to shut down the grind for a while. Because there is no deadline. You’re not too old. You have plenty of time. And the work will be there when you have the bandwidth to address it again. Until then, live in the world. Be there for your friends and family.

And try to remember that being your own boss also means you get to decide what’s important and what can wait.