At the end of February, I entered a featured length film script in a screen writing contest. I just found out that I did not even place as a finalists. Being that there were only 25 entries in this local contest, I felt even more down than usual by this rejection. For Pete's sake, I studied and went to grad school for screen writing! After the disappointment wore off I needed to be honest with myself. I don't like script writing anymore. It's torture. I could paint everyday but working on a script doesn't bring about the same drive in me like painting does. For years I've been trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
Was writing really this hard for everyone, or just me?
Did I just get burned out from living around the Hollywood stuff for 5 years?
Why did I do well in school but not afterwards?
Was all that time and money for nothing?No answers.
NoneI just know that I don't want to write scripts anymore. Perhaps I'll tell theses stories in a narrative format at some point. I do love the stories and they won't let me go. I never tackled prose writing because I just never got very good grades in English class so I always thought I wasn't good at writing. It's funny what a high school letter grade makes you think about yourself and your abilities. Come to think about it, I only had one English teacher I really liked. She loved writing. The rest of the time, English was a chore. For now I've put away the scripts in a box - to be free from the pressure and the reminder of all that I've left unfinished... for now...
Guilt is never a good emotion, and the least useless in creating. You really can't be free if you're working on something out of guilt, because it then becomes all about the outcome and not the process, the struggle and what you learn. It's just finished and you feel relieved. Still this honest look at my time and my skills doesn't change the face that I secretly long to be a famous writer who knows how to manipulate words like I do paint and water.
"How we spend out days is, of course, how we spend our lives." - Annie Dillard
True - and this is what I did today..
I could hardly let this day go by without a quick watercolor of peonies from "my," yes, "MY" front yard. You see, I haven't had a yard of my own for nearly a decade and these are a glorious celebration for me in many ways. I'm just so thankful that the previous owner planted so many. When you walk by them, you think someone sprayed a little too much perfume. Or if you enter a room where I've put a few in vases you might ask who lit a candle. How I wish there was a scratch and sniff link so you could smell them. 
Then this past weekend I picked a little miniature bouquet. Again, it was nice to pick them from my very own garden. Nearly 8 years ago when I first moved to Southern California I was blown away by the flowers - all the time and everywhere. So many people with yards and flowers that seemed to take over. Did these people know what they had? You really don't understand and appreciate flowers until they're gone or you have to experience winter again. Though I don't love winter, I do think it's a necessary part of really feeling grateful and thankful for Spring. Anyway, late at night I would wonder my California neighborhood and well, um, yeah, steal flowers.... I know its wasn't exactly up and up. But some how I justified it by saying the rose bush really did need a pruning and at times I really felt my sanity was at stake when I first moved to Los Angeles - alone, single, unsure of what my future held. Today my friend Judy said that my Peonies were hope. Yes, flowers do remind us of hope and I think that's why I paint them constantly and never grow tired of them. We need hope as much as we need flowers.
