Thankfully, my mom didn’t have a bizarre impulse to wash the dog bed, so my notebook remained undiscovered. But her unearthing of my alt world shut down all enthusiasm I had for the project.
And in retrospect it was probably for the best, because I was starting to add TV characters to the ledger at that point. Joey Gladstone from Full House and Anne had gotten involved in a caper with a chambermaid that was . . . it was just becoming odder as I got older, even by my authorial standards. The next morning I got up at the crack of dawn, grabbed the ledger, and dumped it into the trash can. As I closed the lid, I said good-bye to Anne. “Have fun in Cabo with Jason Bourne! Don’t worry, you’ll protect him from the neo-Nazis with your Krav Maga. I imagined it, so it definitely happened.”
[?Let’s Try That Whole “Writing” Thing Again?]
Fast-forward to adulthood, when I decided to revisit the idea of writing by taking a comedy sketch class in Los Angeles. Motivation? I was bored, and that’s what Hollywood actors do. Take classes. And have coffee with other actors to complain about their agents.
It’s a hard life.
I enrolled at the ACME Comedy Theatre in 2005 with a dozen other people who, I was sure, were 5,000 percent better writers than me. The year before, I’d started writing a screenplay because the “original screenplay” Oscar acceptance speech that year had been stirring and made me think, I could do that! (The speech, not the screenplay.) But the results of my work were, er . . . semi-mortifying.
Amendment: No “semi” about it. The script was mortifying.
I wrote about a girl named “Harper Jessamyn” who was graduating from college music school and couldn’t decide what to do with her life.
HARPER JESSAMYN
I can’t help being good at the flute, but it’s a trap. What do I do, who do I become? Cut off my fingers and cast me in the ocean! Maybe it’s better if I feed the earth with my flesh. At least I’ll be contributing to the world somehow! There would at least be some kind of . . .
(BEAT)
. . . MEANING!
Harper runs away from Jax, into a practice room, sobbing.
Yes, there was a sexy jazz trombone player love interest, and his name was “Jax.” The script included four montages of Harper Jessamyn gazing off into the sun to the sound track of Schoenberg. And then one to Bach. In the first thirty pages. Who knows what other genius montages could have been born if I’d plowed through and finished the script, but I didn’t. I bailed. Ninety pages was too daunting. But writing a three-page sketch where I could wear a funny wig and make boner jokes? That was something I might be able to channel my creativity into!
The teacher at ACME, Kim Evey, was a tiny Asian lady in her thirties who had the gentle spirit of a baby panda bear. No matter how bad someone’s sketch was, she would find something positive to say. “Sure, you fell off the stage, but it was great kinetic energy!” A good teacher is someone you’re willing to share your ugliest, roughest work with and who doesn’t make you feel ashamed or stupid. Kim did that for me, and I loved her for it.
I wrote about a dozen sketches in the class, and surprise! My best ones were based on my (many) real-life insecurities. There was an awkward one about running into a hairdresser I’d ditched, an awkward one about my inner dialogue during a massage (I’m always paranoid about farting); “awkward” was a strong theme for me. My favorite was about a boy and girl arguing in a car about the morality of peeing in a McDonald’s without buying anything.
Jill: But if I use the bathroom without buying something, it’s stealing!
Robert: One flush is not equivalent to armed robbery.
Jill: Fine! I’ll be right back.
Jill grabs her purse and reaches for the door.
Robert: Why are you taking your purse?
Jill: I need it . . . for feminine things.
Robert: You’re going to buy something, aren’t you?
Jill: No, I’m not . . .
Jill tries to get out. Robert grabs her purse.
Robert: Give me the purse.
Jill: Stop it, Robert!
Robert: You’re not going to buy something.
Jill: Just one apple pie; I didn’t have dessert!
Robert: Be a man! Or grow another valve!
Jill: I don’t know what that means!
(For the record, I still will not pee somewhere without at least buying a dip cone.)
I wasn’t the best writer in class, but I wasn’t the worst, and I enjoyed myself. It was . . . strangely fulfilling?
Then the class ended, and I stopped writing because I wasn’t paying someone to hold me accountable anymore. I proceeded to do nothing but play World of Warcraft for the rest of the year. But my teacher, Kim, and I later reconnected at a commercial audition (for soap or cat food or cat shampoo? I can’t remember. Something with a mortifying jingle) and over lunch, she invited me to participate in a new side project.
“Would you be interested in joining a support group?”
“A what?” Ugh. Sounded lame.
“I know, it sounds lame when I put it like that.”