Tag Archives: life list

The Moment

Stolen from the Facebook profile of fellow "Moment" contributor Deborah Copaken Kogan (clicking on pic takes you to her website)

The second item on my Life List is: Publish a book. When I look back at it now, I realize I should have been more specific because I’ve sort of done that already. I have run the gamut of publishing jobs ranging from book publicist to book researcher, coordinating sub rights, and e-book producing (where I produced a NYT Bestseller, baby!) If I was to take #2 at face value, however, I’d have to classify it as a book on which I appear as the author complete with name on the cover and author photo on the back flap. So those publishing gigs are subsets of #2.

BUT

This book you see above puts me a step closer. In “The Moment,” you’ll find 125 beautiful moments that changed the lives of writers and artists both famous and obscure. My essay, “Fearless Flyer,” appears in here. It’s my first contribution to a publication that is bound and made of pulp, not pixels. Even more exciting, some of my favorite writers, storytellers, and friends also appear between these covers. I fell in love with Deborah Copaken Kogan’s words in college; I sometimes wonder if Rebecca Woolf (whose insanely gorgeous essay ends the book) and I weren’t separated at birth; Gregory Maguire always enchants me with his stories. Ever since Baratunde Thurston and Sara Barron did the Six-Word reading series I co-produced, I’ve been stuck on their every word. Jennifer Egan and Elizabeth Gilbert (two literary rock stars), also contributed pieces. When I heard Liz Gilbert was contributing a piece, I put Larry Smith, the book’s editor, in touch with my friend/Liz’s sister, the awesome YA writer Catherine Gilbert Murdock, who turned around an essay in no time flat. She’s that good.

“The Moment” also contains pieces from people who aren’t writers by trade, but who are incredible storytellers. Some of my favorite pieces in this book are written by people who are: unemployed, zoologists, still in school, a camp director, and a former trend-forecaster. Everyone has a Moment that changed their lives. What’s yours?

Life List #71

If you check out my life list, you’ll see it’s a work (life) in-progress. #71, Return to the Santa Ynez to walk in the fields and write, was one of those Lift List goals that snuck up on me and that’s part of what made it so enjoyable.

Last month, I traveled to California for an extended period of time to see friends, meet babies, and work from a different location (as lovely as my apartment/workspace is, sometimes I need a change of scenery). During that trip, I visited a friend in Santa Barbara — a place I had only been once before, where I fell in love with and vowed to return to the Santa Ynez mountains.

Since I had a few work days to kill before my friend and I went on an adventure to Hearst Castle, I decided to spend those days writing up in the mountains. At 9am every morning, I made the 30(ish) minute trek up through the gorgeous mountains and settled on the deck of  Corner House Coffee, in Los Olivos. While I typed away on my laptop, I watched the citizens of this small town come in for their morning coffee, stop in for a muffin or a lunch time sandwich or meet up with a spouse after their work day. I heard their local gossip, learned about new construction underway, and pet a few adorable dogs.

During my lunch breaks, I shut my laptop, got into my rental car, and drove around aimlessly through the mountains, marveling as their peaks changed from purple to green and taupe. There were times where I’d comment out loud to myself how it didn’t look real. When you daily commute consists of pavements and subway tunnels, winding roads and expansive views that look as if they were painted with watercolors makes it harder for an urban brain to absorb. It almost makes you feel giddy. Since I was already in a state of euphoria (or maybe it was the altitude), I would follow whatever small sign struck my fancy. One day it was “Lavender Farm, keep right.” Another day “Miniature Donkeys for Sale + Petting Zoo.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I turned down long driveways and was greeted with the smell of fresh lavender or manure. I bought linen spray and almost walked away with a miniature donkey. I walked through an olive grove, picked a few olives off a tree, and absently put them in my pocket — where I rediscovered them a few weeks ago, shriveled and hard as rocks, but they made me smile. I’ll keep them in that jacket to remind me that I took a risk, went off the beaten path, turned off the GPS, didn’t follow Mapquested directions or my hour-by-hour itinerary and just drove — only turning when I encountered small hand-painted signs to destinations that sounded interesting. This freedom from schedule, even from knowing where I was, was exhilarating.

After my lunch break adventures, I went back to the coffee-house and moved indoors, where it was warmer and I could plug-in my laptop. From there, I’d lose myself in World War I and lost romance while the milk steamer hissed and the baristas chatted with each other during their downtime. When the local school children started pouring in and ordering frappes, I emailed my collaborator my rewrites, turned off my computer, and prepared for the trek back down to Santa Barbara. I wrote (and rewrote) two scenes during those days in the Santa Ynez and, not surprisingly, they are my favorite moments in our musical. I’d like to think I first recognized a magic in those mountains that provoked me to add #71 to my Life List — something that lead me to include  the words “and write.” An instinct of sorts. Maybe even a connection to nature. Whatever it was, I’m so happy I listened to it, took advantage of my days there, and had the opportunity to be inspired by such a breathtakingly beautiful region.

Life List #58 – Part IV

If you check out my life list, you’ll see it’s a work (life) in-progress. #58, See every show/lab in an entire season at the Vineyard Theatre, is ongoing. This is the fourth post in the series on #58. You can find the first post here, the second one here and the third one here.

The Vineyard lab productions are some of my favorite ticket buying gambles. They can be really awesome and inspiring works or they can be a seed of an idea that still needs to undergo germination and several growth spurts until it’s ready to bloom. The lab productions are unique in that they offer the audience an opportunity to see a work-in-progress. The labs operate on a small-scale, limited run that allows the creative team the opportunity to develop a new piece in front of a live audience, and for audiences to witness the creative process at work. The production values are simple and actors hold scripts on stage, since the creative team will continue to write, revise, and cut scenes throughout the run. Anything that reveals someone’s process, how they do what they do, is a treat and an inspiration. Combine that with the fact that this year’s lab, entitled Now. Here. This., was a new work from the collective brains of people I know and had previously interviewed, was just another example of Vineyard karma (another “k” word to add: Kismet. When I returned for the closing performance of this show, I eavesdropped on a conversation between the guy sitting next to me and the older woman sitting next to him. He introduced himself to her. I recognized his name. He was the author of a NYT Modern Love essay I optioned with my writing partner almost six years to the day ago).

Cast/Creative Team of Now. Here. This. Photo by Dirty Sugar Photography

Before I saw this production, I had to write about it for an online publication. I interviewed Hunter, Susan, and Jeff at Camp Vineyard while they were rehearsing. I transcribed our interview. I wrote a first draft of the piece that was way too long and very very first drafty. I rewrote it. I left it alone for a day, then tweaked it before sending it to my editor. He called me and asked the one question I couldn’t answer: “What is this show actually about?” I didn’t know. They really didn’t know what they had up on stage and how much rewriting they would do over the course of the run, so we had talked about the production in the most general way possible. So the question remained, what was it and how was I going to convey it to readers? I tore apart my second draft and laid out 12 pages of the transcribed interview on my bed to see what I had. At 1:30am, I finally saw the angle: the creative process is more important than the final product. Take the reader through the process of developing a new genre of production (dubbed the theatri-concert) from the perspective of the book writers and the composer/lyricist. If this was a roller coaster, I was going to tell you how it got made. By 4:30am, I had my story and my third and final draft completed.

When I saw the production two days later, I had a way more emotional response than I ever expected. The stories were both specific and universal, funny, raw and sometimes cut deep. It was like watching a brand new baby take its first breaths of life. It has the potential to be something big and great and wonderful, it just needs time to grow. Like a new baby, the show really makes you think about your self, your life (the parts you’ve lived and the parts you have yet to live), your place in the world. There were moments that reminded me a lot of Lynda Barry’s workshop (both in the way the stories were told and my visceral reaction to them). It explores ideas like how to take risks and celebrate being our true selves, but even more than that, it looks at the moments where we find happiness, how we stumble upon those moments and haven’t yet mastered the art of hanging out in the “Now. Here. This.” If you were too lazy to click and read my piece (you are forgiven), here’s one of my favorite quotes, from the super sound bitey Susan Blackwell, who describes the idea behind the Now. Here. This. theory:

There was this monk, Thomas Merton, who said that if you can get to the intersection of Now: this moment in time; Here: exactly where you are; This: exactly what you’re doing—if you can get to the intersection of those three things, then there’s nothing to fear and you can really appreciate your life. 

I should add I cut this quote off right before her next line, which was: “but we suck at this.” The quote reminded me of a conversation I had one summer with a friend as we sat on a fake lawn overlooking a fake Santa Barbara house in the middle of soundstage in Brooklyn. He asked me if I thought this, everything that surrounded us (in both its real and fake forms) was happiness. Could this make someone happy? I will never forget my response to this question, because I’ve thought about it ever since: I think it provides moments of happiness. I don’t believe there is a complete state of true happiness that last for extended periods of time. It’s pockets and moments. It’s bigger than us and smaller than us at the same time. Sometimes, we don’t even realize it was happiness until we look back on it later — we were happy only comes we when learn new levels of unhappiness or differentness. But that’s what makes it so special. That’s what forces us to live. We want happiness, we strive for it, we work for it, but the reality is, it usually finds us when we’re not looking for it. The trick is to recognize the moment just as it finds us. That’s something no amount of money, set dressings, make-believe worlds, or people can duplicate. It just is and you are just in it. In other words, that monk was right.

Live in the Now. be in the Here. and go see This.

If you like hearing about/seeing the exciting work the Vineyard Theatre is contributing to the theater world, check this out: They recently received a grant from Bloomberg Philanthropies in recognition of its mission to develop and produce new plays and musicals, and to support artists. Bloomberg has challenged The Vineyard to match the grant of $75,000 with new donations. They’ll MATCH your donation. This grant makes your gift work twice as hard, so your support is worth even more. Please consider participating in the Vineyard’s NOW. MATCH. THIS. campaign.