If you haven’t been to a residency, I highly recommend them for any creative person. Each one is different, but they’re all generally designed with the goal of providing you with dedicated Time and Space to work on your craft.

There are residencies all over the world, some that you can pay for, and many that are free or subsidized and have to be applied to. You might get into one on your first try. Or you might have to apply multiple times, in which case don’t be discouraged. If you keep trying, you’ll get in. And once you get the first one, it’s easier to get the next.

The length of a residency can vary from a few days to a few months (or longer), but the average is between two to four weeks. During this time, your sole purpose is to work on whatever it is you want to work on, without the distractions of work, children, partners, pets, neighbors, chores, television, and so on.

You’re given a space to work in, which could be a studio or an office. Sometimes the studio/office is in your living quarters; sometimes it’s a separate space that you have to walk to. And for the time you’re there, this space is all your own.

There might be some residencies in big cities, but all the ones I’ve been to, or heard about, are in remote settings, surrounded by nature, walking paths, relative quiet, and tranquility. Cell phones and electronic devices are often discouraged, especially in shared areas, to minimize distractions. Basically, everything is designed for maximum concentration and creativity.

The last, but certainly not the least, important aspect of a residency is the people. You meet creatives of all ages, backgrounds, and stages of careers. There may be a few, or there may be up to fifty, other residents. But one of the most wonderful discoveries at a residency is realizing you are not alone.

In civilian life, we creatives are often the odd man or woman out in a sea of “normals.” But at a residency, we’re swimming with our own kind. And, regardless of discipline, most creatives are struggling - or have struggled - with similar issues. This helps create a level of camaraderie and connection, sometimes even lifelong friendships and/or professional relationships.

In February, I happened to be at Hedgebrook, a residency specifically for women writers located on an island off the coast of Washington State. Each writer gets her own cabin in the woods and all her basic needs provided for. The only requirement is that she show up for dinner every evening at 5:30. Otherwise, she’s completely on her own to work as much - or as little - as she wants. There is no one looking over her shoulder, no accountability except to herself. She’s given total freedom and privacy.

I tend to be extremely productive at residencies and have a lot more energy than usual. This time was no different. I went with the ambitious goal of writing the first draft of a new screenplay in three weeks - a horror film no less (what fun it was to share the daily “kill list” with my sister writers at dinner). I arrived with an outline and left with exactly what I set out to accomplish, a rough first draft.

I chronicled every day in a work log, inspired by the book Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey (which I mentioned in another post and highly recommend).

A typical day:

5:00 am - Wake. Make fire and coffee. Read. Journal.

7:00 - Shower

8:00 - Review pages from day before; make breakfast.

8:30 - Start writing.

1:15 pm - Take a walk and think.

2:15 - Lunch

2:30 - Start writing again

5:15 - Leave for dinner

7:30 - Get back from dinner. Make fire again. Write more.

9:30 - Read + journal.

10:30 ish - Go to bed

People sometimes have issues with so much alone time. And I’ll admit, even for a single person, it’s intense to be that alone with your thoughts all day. To give you an idea of the rollercoaster of emotions that accompany such a time, I’m sharing below one sentence from each of my personal journal entries while at Hedgebrook:

2/5/26 - I can’t believe I’m here and this is real. Now, if I only I could give myself permission to play and stumble and not get it out perfectly on the first try. Begin. That’s the first step. Just begin.

2/6/26 - Amazing first day. Took the first step off the plank. Now I’m in the ocean. Swimming for my life.

2/7/26 - So far, very productive. Yesterday 14 pages. Who knows if they’re any good. And who cares. The point is to get it out. Meet the characters – get to know them – listen to and identify their voices. Play with the structure a little, let it marinate, mix it up, get loose and then reassemble. The first draft is so special. Innocent, unfettered, pure. Also, probably the worst. Ha!

2/8/26 - Dreamt I was part of some judging contest and David Bowie was there and we were flirting.

2/9/26 - Up at 4am (couldn’t sleep). Fire started. Trying to remember my dreams. Thinking about how bad my script is.

2/10/26 - Woke up at 3:40am from a nightmare. Writing this horror film in the woods is really something.

2/11/26 - I will miss everything about being here but especially these early AM hours of reading, journaling, and making notes with coffee by the crackling fire. And doing all this without any pressure to be anywhere or do anything by a certain time.

2/12/26 - Feel a little lost with the screenplay. Not sure it’s scary enough or good or makes any sense or is worth writing. Typical writer morning.

2/13/26 - I think I’ve entered the F it phase of my time here. And possibly my life.

2/14/26 - Last night at dinner, ____ told us how she told her partner years ago that her first priority in life was her writing and if that was a problem for him, they could break up. Dude. How fierce is that?! Forever, my hero. I’m so inspired by the other women here.

2/15/26 - If there’s one thing I really am feeling here it’s confirmation that I’m a writer. Maybe not a famous writer or a paid writer or even a great writer. But a writer. Feels good.

2/16/26 - Today I might finish the draft. Need a twist! Tomorrow I will finish this god-awful draft.

2/17/26 - I’m a little in shock. I finished the draft. It’s very rough and possibly very bad, but at this moment I don’t care. It’s a draft. Not an idea. Not a f-ing outline. A DRAFT. Tomorrow I print it out for the first time.

2/18/26 - Script isn’t as bad as I thought it was. There are quite a few things that don’t make sense. Or that don’t add up. I’ll sleep on it and try to figure it out in the AM.

2/19/26 - My brain might be tired.

2/20/26 - Last night I dreamt of these huge waves crashing down on the city I was in, waves so big they blotted out the sun as they rose. When they fell the water came as high as my upper floor window and sloshed into the apartment. In reality, I think a wave like that would level a building. Also, I’ve dreamt about Madonna twice! And Ralph Fiennes once.

2/21/26 [skipped this day]

2/22/26 - Life has been a blur. I’ve been revising. 24 more hours and I’ll be on my way home with a completed screenplay.

2/23/26 - Well, I did it. I finished the draft.

2/24/26 - This residency defined me. Here, I proved that I am a professional writer. A good writer. An extremely disciplined writer. And a fearless writer. What matters now is to keep writing and creating and pushing and do it regularly. Writing every day here made such a difference. Pushing beyond my comfort zone. Am determined to keep the momentum going. To keep the fire going.

Well, keeping the momentum going has proved impossible - at least, to the extent I was going at Hedgebrook. But I am inching along. Regardless, this demonstrates why it can be so difficult to re-enter the “real” world after such an intense experience. To be bombarded by work, bills, family obligations, the phone ringing, grocery runs, waking the dog, cooking, laundry, traffic, the news! Not to mention the draft I wrote still needs a lot of work.

But this is how it is. These are the ups and downs of being an artist, of struggling to balance life and work, to find that precious time and space to do what we’re born to do, to maintain our equilibrium and forward momentum, to finish something.

And this is why residencies are so valuable. Despite the potential comedown after they end, they really are a gift. I’ve done four now, and each time I’ve met and befriended incredible people, experienced beautiful areas, and accomplished a huge amount of work (a rough draft is better than no draft!). I’ve also reconnected with myself as a writer. It’s like I remember, “Ah, yes. This is who I am. Hello, you.”

In this way, residencies are like a gift that keeps on giving… because sometimes we need those reminders. Until the next time…

If you’ve ever wanted to know what it’s like to be a writer, let me sum it up: it’s torture. Not all of the time, but a lot of the time. This is because writers spend most of their creative existence in a vast state of Not Knowing. I described this feeling to a friend the other day as “being lost in the wilderness.” The struggle lies in trying to figure out the thing that you’re writing.

Imagine… you have an inkling of an idea or a rough sketch of a story. Maybe you see specific images and characters. You can hear certain dialogue, picture certain scenes and moments. All of these elements are like random puzzle pieces to an image you can’t see clearly yet. You ask yourself: Where do I start? Should I start? Will it be worth it in the end? Or will it be a big waste of time?

If the idea has grabbed hold of you enough - if you’ve caught its virus - you have no choice but to begin the journey. You take the first step, then another, and before you know it, you’re on your way… in search of your story.

Like the explorers of old who set out to find the “new world,” sailing with full confidence in waters they’d never crossed before, the journey is arduous, fraught with mishaps and pitfalls, moments of exaltation, despair, and insanity.

The process of trying to devise, structure, and write a compelling story that both makes sense (very hard) and is original (nearly impossible) is like trying to catch whispers of smoke and shape them into a marble statue.

It’s like being dropped into a vast desert and trying to find your way home.

It’s like trying to navigate a maze, blindfolded, with only smells and sounds to lead you.

It’s like being stuck in a submerged submarine that will only come up to the surface once you’ve figured out the riddle.

It’s a rollercoaster of emotions. You keep thinking, “I’ve got it!” Only to realize you’re way off mark, possibly nowhere near your original goal. You feel mad, exhausted, lonely, and afraid.

During this period, it’s not uncommon to think dark thoughts. Doubt creeps in. You start questioning your motives, your talent, your purpose in life. You emotionally self-flagellate for not being able to figure it out faster. You wonder what you might have done in a past life to be cursed in this one with the desire to write, and the delusion to think that you have any talent for it.

Why would anyone put themselves through this severe unpleasantry? Because the pay off is the complete opposite.

Should you be one of the few who perseveres and doesn’t abandon ship… you will eventually get to the other side of the Unknown. You haven’t yet reached your destination, but at least the fog has cleared and you can make out land on the horizon. You’ve mapped out the way and know where you’re going. You’ve done all your research and put it aside. You may even know what your story is really about.

At this point you enter a zone in which the words start to FLOW out of you, and your fingers seem to type on their own, as if channeling some divine force (I always imagine the great composers writing their masterpieces in such a state).

On an extraordinarily productive day, you may feel as if you’re vibrating with the energy of the Universe, as if you’re levitating out of the chair - out of your body even - and watching yourself writing from above, the way people do sometimes while under anesthesia or during near-death experiences. Even on a normal day, it still feels like the warmth of a thousand suns.

In the wonderful book Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, edited and with text by Mason Currey, there is a section on Gustave Flaubert. While he was writing his debut novel Madame Bovary, (which took him five long years to complete), he wrote this to a friend:

… Sometimes, when I am empty, when words don’t come, when I find I haven’t written a single sentence after scribbling whole pages, I collapse on my couch and lie there dazed, bogged down in a swamp of despair, hating myself and blaming myself for this demented pride that makes me pant after a chimera. A quarter of an hour later, everything has changed; my heart is pounding with joy.

For the past few months, I’ve been developing a new film screenplay, and it has not been easy. I have to keep reminding myself that this period of extreme discomfort, if not agony, is part of the process and that I should carry on, despite my fear, despite the dark thoughts and self-doubt. The trick, I know, is to stick with it.

The three quotes I have on the wall behind my computer that I see every day:

“Stay in the chair and work it out.” - David Mamet

“Success is not final. Failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.” - Winston Churchill

“The place in which I'll fit will not exist until I make it”. - James Baldwin

May we all have the strength to persevere and not abandon ship.

Until the pandemic, I worked almost exclusively in office settings. I would sit at a computer all day and go outside only on my lunch break, and then try to write on the weekends or, if I could manage it, early in the morning before going to work. It wasn’t all bad, but I would usually feel mentally drained at the end of the work day.

The pandemic changed all of that. Like millions of others, I stopped going to the office in 2020 and started working from home, albeit still sitting at the computer. I was still going outside on my lunch hour, but now I would be in my yard where I would inevitably start tinkering in the garden. When my job ended, I started freelancing, still on the computer. But in the last two years, I increasingly wanted to be outside. So, I decided to try working outside.

I didn’t write about it while it was happening and only told a few people in person. But for 20 months I worked as a dog walker in Brooklyn. Now you know the truth, ha.

For the first time, I was moving my body, and outside, every day (and some weekends) for work. It was really challenging in the beginning. Walking for hours a day when you’re not used to it wreaks havoc on your muscles, especially if you don’t have the right shoes. Dealing with all types of weather, animals, their humans, the city, all while trying to stay on schedule… it was a lot. But I got used to it. And grew to love it.

This past year, I also started doing freelance gardening for folks upstate. For a while, I was walking dogs in BK during the week, gardening and curating an art exhibition upstate on the weekends, all while balancing other stuff.

After the Greece vacation, I decided to simplify life to be more conducive to writing. I moved back upstate where it’s quieter and there’s fewer distractions. And again, I sought a job working outside. I found one on a farm-like property where I do some admin, but mostly physical work.

Now, I wouldn’t say this work is 100% the opposite of writing, because there’s a fair amount of creativity and problem-solving involved, much more than with dog walking. But the physicality of it - being outside - is the opposite of sitting at a desk all day. And, in my opinion, a great counterbalance. It’s more than the benefits of breathing fresh air all day. It’s the presence of mind that comes with using your body.

I am, by nature, a daydreamer. My mind easily drifts, usually to my writing… characters, dialogue, word choices, story points I’m trying to work out. When doing a repetitive task like shoveling mulch for hours, it’s okay to daydream a little. When chopping or splitting wood, not so much. If you stop paying attention, you could lose a finger.

When I was walking dogs, I also had to pay attention, but the city was much busier, louder, and full of distractions. Now I’m working in a bucolic setting that really encourages being present, calm, focused on the task at hand, or what my co-worker is teaching me, or the surrounding environment.

The day-to-day sounds, smells, and sights, the incremental seasonal changes, the angle of the sun, the wane and wax of the moon, training the eyes to see in the dark or to identify various clues out in nature, training the ears to recognize different sounds, learning to be more attune with the plants and animals so that you can spot when something is amiss. I’m the rookie at work. And every day I notice something, learn something, and experience something new. No two days are the same.

There’s also something about working with my hands, actually touching and feeling things - dirt, animals, plants, tools, different textures and vibrations. It all brings me into the moment, the here and now. I find that at the end of the day, my body may be sore, but my mood is buoyant. And it’s been good for my writing.

I’m currently developing a horror film, a new genre for me, and working on a few other projects. I’ve settled into a routine of waking up at 5AM every morning and writing before going to work. My mind feels sharper, clearer, faster at picking up where I left off and getting into the “zone.” My mood has stayed steady, I’m filled with gratitude, and I’m being productive, getting things done, and sticking to deadlines.

The word I’ve used most often when talking about my job to friends… is wholesome. It’s the most wholesome work I’ve ever done. And these days, anything wholesome feels unique and priceless.

Incidentally, here are some jobs that famous writers and artists had before (and in some cases during) success: nurse (Agatha Christie), construction worker (Jack Kerouac, John Steinbeck), fiction editor (Toni Morrison), exterminator (William S. Burroughs), dishwasher (Octavia Butler, Jack Kerouac), potato chip inspector (Octavia Butler), fruit picker (John Steinbeck), freelance writer (Mary Shelley), postmaster (William Faulkner), airline ticket clerk (Harper Lee), janitor (Stephen King, Curt Cobain), truck driver (James Cameron). The list goes on…

Physical work isn’t for everyone. But if you can manage, I recommend it. Especially for writers or creatives who sit in front of a computer screen a lot. If you can’t do it for work, find some other way to get out outside and use your body, break a sweat, pick up a tool, learn a new skill, get your hands dirty. You’ll be surprised how it affects your writing… and your life.

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For creatives, life is a constant pining to be in the studio (wherever they can be creative), and a constant fight against the steady stream of obligations, financial realities, and interruptions that stand in the way of that burning desire. Our happiness - and often sanity - is directly related to how well we navigate that stream, the ratio of hours spent in vs out of our studio.

Then there’s the negative voices. Friends, family members, strangers, society, fellow artists, and even yourself (is there anyone better at putting you down than you?). Most people, including our own inner demons of doubt, genuinely believe they’re trying to help you, so much so that if you question their motives, they get offended. But the truth is, they are usually projecting their own disappointments, failures, and frustrations onto you in the form of a hundred nearly imperceptible paper cuts of unsolicited advice/criticism, always given to you “for your own good.”

[By the way, I’m not saying that all criticism is bad. Some criticism is extremely helpful and constructive. If you’re ever questioning whether a particular encounter is a boon or a put down, pay attention to how you feel afterwards. Do you feel lifted up and encouraged? Or do you feel like someone just trampled on your favorite flower?]

Collectively, I call all of the above NOISE. Noise is everything that tries to distract you or take you off your game. Everyone that puts you down or throws you shade or tries to make you question creative instincts and choices, whether intentionally or unintentionally. Noise is everything outside of you being in the creative zone.

What makes a great artist is not merely having talent. It’s also having the ability to access that talent and let it move through you unfiltered and unapologetically. The ability to Shut Out The Noise, both external and internal. In my opinion, this is one of the biggest challenges for creatives.

So, whenever you encounter noise, in whatever form it comes, I suggest repeating the mantra coined by Bianca Del Rio in Ru Paul’s Drag Race in response to a comment from a fellow contestant. “Not today, Satan. Not today.” Truer words have never been spoken.

When you experience the noise, be like Bianca (she went on to win her season), trust your instincts, and shut that sh*t down. Then get back to work.

Since then, I’ve traveled plenty but always with an agenda. In fact, that’s how I would justify a trip—it wasn’t just a getaway, it was serving some purpose, whether to do research, to write, to have meetings, or to push some project forward. And I always brought my computer, just in case.

This year, I started to feel burnt out. My body, brain, and soul were tired—everything stretched too thin—the accumulation of intense hustling, doing too many things at once, and not really taking any proper breaks. That is, until this summer.

Thanks to a generous relative, I was able to take 10 days off in the Greek island of Mykonos. I left the day after the opening of the exhibition I recently curated. And after much deliberation (including polling friends and family), I did NOT bring my computer. My only goals were to spend time with my relative, sleep, swim, read, and relax. And maybe figure out my life.

I was so exhausted when I arrived that I slept for 14 hours, so soundly that I didn’t remember my dreams. I woke as if from anaesthesia… to the gentle swaying of the mosquito netting around my bed and the sounds of distant birds and goats.

My host was recovering from a cold, so I ended up by myself most days, which was fine. I rented a scooter and set out to explore the island. Specifically, the beaches. Like Goldilocks trying to find the perfect bed, I visited a different beach every day.

I quickly discovered that the best beaches were the hardest to reach. Fragia took me a 15-minute scooter ride and then a 30-minute hike over a treacherous path, made even more treacherous in my flimsy sandals which finally disintegrated at the end of the 10 days (I threw them out before coming home). Fokos took about 25 minutes to reach, the last two miles of which were on a rocky dirt road that billowed white chalky dust as I rode through.

My reward at the end of these treks, however, was always worth it. Every beach had its own characteristics, from the path to get there, to the crowd (locals vs tourists vs families vs nudists), to the quality of the sand, the water, and the nearby tavern if there was one. My favorite beaches were the ones with less people. At Fragia (below), I found myself completely alone, which felt surreal.

Time seemed to slow down. Life was now ruled by the position of the sun rather than a clock, and by the intensity of the wind. I was staying in a house overlooking the sea. Every morning I’d look at the water below. If it was mostly blue, then the wind was mild. If it had lots of white strokes (the waves looked like brushstrokes), then it was going to be a windy day.

It so happened that while I was there, the island was besieged for several days by a strong wind that canceled boat trips and made swimming, and even riding my scooter, challenging. Compare the gentle water at Little Lia on day 1 with the waves at Fokos a few days later.

Going to the beach by myself every day made me not only relax, but also reflect. I stared at the water for hours, mesmerized. I wrote in my journal. Questions that had been percolating all year, but that I hadn’t had enough time and space to really contemplate, now came to the surface: What’s working in my life? What isn’t? What makes me happy? How can I live healthier, work smarter? What internal/external blocks are holding me back? What should I focus on? What do I want?

The word that kept coming up was STABILITY. Rather, the lack of stability that I’ve been feeling for quite some time and been in denial about. Life has become entirely too hectic, too mobile, fractured and saturated, giving me little time and even less energy to be creative. And creativity requires SO much focus.

For me, focus only happens in an environment which is ordered and quiet, in which I have privacy and routine. Focus is directly linked to stability—knowing that everything is taken care of, that life has a firm foundation. My creative soul needs solid ground to feel safe enough to take flight.

After a week of beach-hopping, I took a day trip to the nearby island of Delos, also known as the birthplace of the god-twins Apollo and Artemis. The boat ride was extremely choppy but it smoothed out as we got closer to the island.

For centuries, Delos served as an ancient holy site, a place where people would worship, celebrate the gods, and purify themselves. Today it is empty save for the ruins, a museum, a few workers, and dozens of cats. But as I walked around, I felt the presence of spirits past. I sat on a hilltop and closed my eyes and asked the Universe for guidance.

On my last day in Mykonos, I swam out far enough so that the blue of the water filled my entire peripheral vision. Blue has always been my favorite color; my mother’s eyes were a deep blue, the color of the sea. I felt her with me while floating out there. I could hear her whispering to me in the wind.

Simplify… go back to nature… do fewer things… reduce the noise and the distractions… and make space for the muse.

Water has a way of healing, perhaps because our first home is in liquid, our first sensation is one of floating. I’ll be forever grateful for this gifted respite, and for the clarity it gave me… which calls to mind one of my favorite quotes:

Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.

- Gustave Flaubert

I started blogging in 2012 (on my old site RidingBitch) as a way to express my thoughts about grief after my late husband died, as well as to reach other people who were grieving, especially other widows, my “tribe” at the time. There were so many aspects of grief to unpack and so few people to talk to about it, I needed an outlet. So, I poured my heart onto the page and started meeting other writers, some who were also actively grieving, others that weren’t but still related to my posts.

The blog became a community. Like many of these other folks, I was trying to figure out how to rebuild my life and how to deal with the rollercoaster of emotions while doing so. The posts were a collection of observations, confessions, discussions, memories, and updates. And it started off anonymously. I think in the beginning I didn’t even say my name. I only told a few people about it, and I didn’t share it on social media. It was a secret outlet.

Until, one day, one of my posts got shared on the host platform and thousands of people read it and followed the blog. Strangers became invested in my journey, which was both flattering and a little nerve-wracking. A lot of people were suddenly reading my posts and knew my name, which made it more challenging to be forthright. I started to feel pressured to write ‘content’ even as I started to move forward with life.

Grief reared its head again when I lost my father, and then my brother. But after a while, I wanted to write about other things. Then, a couple of years ago I switched platforms and renamed the blog to The Think Tank. And here we are.

I started out here with the intention of writing about life as a creative. But I’ve hesitated to divulge the truth of the matter… which is that life as a creative… life for this creative has been extremely f-ing challenging. And since this site comes up with a cursory search of my name, is that the image I really want to project? Do people really want to know that sometimes I’m living on fumes and barely scraping by? Surely, there’s something more to contribute. And anyway, life is a whole lot harder for millions of other people, so who am I to complain?

Another factor that’s made me hesitant… is that I know some of my subscribers “IRL” as the kids say (in real life). I could very well post my true thoughts about a subject in the morning and run into someone who’s read them in the afternoon at the dog park. In fact, that has happened.

Should I ask people to ignore me in the street? Or ask them to pretend that they don’t know that I know that they know what I’m thinking or what’s really going on with me?

Obviously, that’s ridiculous.

No, I’ve thought about all of this quite a bit and concluded that the only way to approach this site is to write as if no one is reading it. Stop caring what anyone thinks and just let go…

I want to write about all kinds of things, not just about the Struggle. I want to write about what it feels like to be alone on a beach, about the books I’ve read lately, about people I know, about my dog getting older, about traveling abroad, about my feelings and fears about what’s happening in this country, about story ideas, about films, about gardening, about what I’m learning, about politics, and so much more. Because all of that is part of my life as a creative.

And freedom of expression is both the most important tool in the toolbox and a pillar of democracy. I’ve been blessed with the ability to communicate. And I want to practice that skill as much as possible… honing and sharpening it like the tip of a spear.

"Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth".

- William W. Purkey

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My instructor mentioned EX MACHINA, a science fiction film written and directed by Alex Garland, in our first class as a good example of establishing “the hook” in a screenplay. The Hook, for those unfamiliar with the term, is a narrative device that draws you into a story. It usually happens within the first few pages of a screenplay, the first few minutes of a film, or the first chapter of a book. There can be multiple hooks, but the first one - the main one - is the reason you keep reading/watching.

We read the first 5 pages of the screenplay for Ex Machina in class and learned the following: a smart young computer coder wins a contest at his work. The prize is to spend one week alone with the company’s uber wealthy, eccentric founder who is out there in more ways than one. Not only is he a genius, but he also lives in the middle of Alaska, so far from civilization it takes a multi-hour helicopter ride to reach him (over his own land). The coder has no idea what to expect, is a little nervous, but also very excited for the opportunity.

The instructor was right. Reading those first few pages made me want to know what happens next. That night I watched the film and within 10 or so minutes knew the entire premise – the programmer has been brought here to test a new Artificial Intelligence, a beautiful young woman, that the reclusive founder has created. And it goes from there.

I’m not going to spoil what happens, but if you haven’t seen it, you should. It’s smart, well acted, and has interesting twists that you don’t see coming.

Also, considering the direction that AI is taking these days, it feels frighteningly plausible. It reminded me of themes in the TV show Battlestar Galactica, and even of the original Adam and Eve story from the bible, except a much darker, more terrifying version. The ending, to me, perfectly encapsulated the theme.

TRULY, MADLY, DEEPLY was recommended to me because it’s a movie about grief like the script that I’m rewriting. This film has been mentioned to me before, but this time it registered. The story follows a woman who is actively grieving the death of her partner, when he returns as a ghost and moves back in with her.

I loved this film for many reasons. Firstly, even though this is one of the most realistic depictions of grief I’ve ever seen, the film is overall, quite lighthearted and even funny in parts. I mean, look at the poster. It looks like a rom-com.

Secondly, the acting is superb. The woman is played by Juliet Stevenson, the man by the late, great Alan Rickman. And they have perfect chemistry.

Finally, the premise is brilliant—it’s a fantasy that anyone who’s ever lost someone has had. We’ve all fantasized about the person coming back. “If I could just see them one more time…”

For anyone who’s lost a lover, the scene when the partner comes back is so real and the woman’s range of emotions so believable – it’s one of those truly magical scenes that allows you to live vicariously. Through her, you get to feel what it would be like to have someone you loved and have been missing terribly suddenly appear before you in the flesh.

What follows from there is both endearing, hilarious, and believable. It wasn’t until the end that I realized it was written and directed by the late Anthony Minghella, but it made sense. I’m a big fan of Minghella, who made another movie about grief and love that I absolutely love, THE ENGLISH PATIENT (1996). I’ve probably watched it a dozen (at least) times.

HEREDITARY, a supernatural thriller written and directed by Ari Aster (his feature directorial debut, no less), was recommended to me because it’s also a movie about grief, albeit a very different kind. The story revolves around a family – and the strange things that start happening to it – after its mysterious grandmother dies. She has left several boxes of witchy stuff behind, and the family tries to resist its “inheritance” but, of course, cannot escape it.

Now, I don’t usually watch movies like this alone—I’m too much of a scaredy-cat. But I could handle this film. It wasn’t a jump-scare movie. It was a slow-burn, suspenseful movie that has a few nightmare-inducing moments (one moment in particular).

Toni Colette plays the witchy grandmother’s estranged daughter and the mother of the two kids that the strange things start happening to. The plot of the film is so-so. There were certain things that didn’t add up for me. But Colette’s performance is so on point and gut-wrenchingly raw, it elevates the entire film.

I also loved that slow-and-suspenseful pacing. Another film in the same genre that had similar slow pacing is THE WITCH (2015), written and directed by Robert Eggers.

All of these films, while wildly different from one another, had strong premises. Strong hooks that kept me engaged. I wanted to know what would happen in the next scene, and I couldn’t guess where they were heading, or how they would end (believe me, I was trying).

They also had strong themes… which didn’t become entirely clear until the very end, which was very satisfying as a viewer.

It all makes me think about how to restructure my own project. I’m still figuring that out, but it helps to read and watch other films for inspiration.

What are you watching?

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The irony is that I started this year with a vow to “do one thing at a time.” For the most part, I do do one thing at a time. It’s just that I have multiple things going on.

I’m working, looking for more work, developing a TV series, rewriting a feature screenplay, taking a rewriting class, going to occasional film festivals to promote the short film I directed last year, trying to get a new short film off the ground, trying to get other projects off the ground, applying to programs/grants/residencies, maintaining my house upstate (while living in Brooklyn), taking care of my elderly pup, taking care of myself, and curating an art exhibition upstate that opens in August.

And, of course, all these things break down into dozens or more tasks. It’s like a juggling routine. One that I’m weirdly good at.

I’ve often wondered why I do this. Why do I do so many things at once? Is it some sort of self-sabotage? A form of attention-deficit disorder? Proof of ambition? Or proof of my inability to say No or Maybe Later. Is it lack of foresight? Or is it the city energy embedded within me? (I invite the psychoanalysts out there to comment.)

One of my theories is that being busy is my way of coping with tough times – like a defense mechanism. I distract myself from the fact the ship is sinking (or has been taken over by a madman) by trying to clean all rooms and round up all the animals and write a book and maybe invent something meaningful. Basically, I make myself so busy that I can’t think (too long) about how messed up things are.

Staying busy also satisfies my need to control something when there is so much out of my control.

Then there’s the “spaghetti on the wall” theory. Basically, you throw everything you’ve got and hope that something sticks.

As funny as it sounds, I really am trying to be strategic (I admit, I might need help with this). I can explain how everything is related, how one thing serves the other or is essential. But this doesn’t necessarily mean it makes sense. Or is easy.

I’m also not the only one. Everyone I know is busy - most people are working multiple jobs, trying to maintain homes, families, small businesses, at the same time as pursuing creative passions and careers. We’re all on the same boat. We’re all hustling. Trying to thrive, not just survive.

All I know is to keep going and keep doing my absolute best at every individual thing. So far, I’ve managed to do just that. And I swear I’m not taking on anything else this year—unless it pays well. And then I might have to drop something else.

I dream about taking a real vacation, about having enough money to not have to hustle all the time and having the freedom to write all day. I dream about walking onto my own film set knowing that all the minutia of life are handled. And these dreams sustain me.

In the meantime, life is busy and might seem complicated, but it’s not chaotic. There’s a method to the madness, and believe it or not, I have it under control. Some might even say I’m kicking butt.

Everything Everywhere All At Once, directed by Daniel Scheinert and Daniel Kwan.

I entered the city of angels for the first time heading west on Interstate 10 on a blazing hot day in August 1995. Before this I had never been to L.A. or California or anywhere west of Ohio. I was there now because I’d been accepted to graduate film school at the University of Southern California. My license was less than a month old and I’d owned the car I was driving for only a couple of weeks. I’d spent the past 8-10 days driving from Philadelphia, PA—that is, really learning how to drive and, thankfully, at high speeds [the first thing to know about L.A. is that people drive fast there]. It wasn’t a sexy entrance, but I’d made it! I was totally overwhelmed.

I now know this not to be true, but at that time what L.A. represented to me more than anything else was HOLLYWOOD—both the business and the myth.

Everything I knew about the city, every image and every impression, was from media. Movies like Sunset Boulevard, Chinatown, Down and Out in Beverly Hills, Beverly Hills Cop, Die Hard, Boyz in Da Hood, Speed; television shows like Melrose Place, Baywatch, Beverly Hills 90210; news footage of the Rodney King beating, subsequent police trials, the post-trial riots, and O.J.’s Bronco car chase (which happened just two months before I arrived); and music - so much music - Tupac (still alive in 1995), Ice-T, N.W.A., Fishbone, The Beach Boys, the Doors, Metallica, The Eagles, and so much more.

[The brilliant opening to Sunset Boulevard (1950, Paramount Pictures) directed by Billy Wilder.]

L.A. was Iconic. Legendary. Similar in its romantic mysticism to New York City but even more exotic and new and warm and perfect. It was full of possibilities. A place where dreams came true. Where anything could and did happen. The city radiated with golden sunshine, blue skies, tall palm trees, millions of cars and people, some of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. Anytime I encountered one of these perfect people I wondered if they were an actor or a pornstar or an agent. I couldn’t stop thinking that I was breathing the same air as many of the actors and directors that I admired.

That first year of school, I spent any down time driving through the city trying to locate some of the places that I’d seen in films or heard about in the news. This was before GPS, so I got lost a lot. But this was how I got to know the city… by driving, getting lost, pulling over to refer to my Thomas Guide, and gradually using the topography to figure out where I was. The Hollywood hills were north (unless in The Valley and then they were south), the sun rose in the east over downtown L.A. and set in the west over the Pacific Ocean, the airport and my school were south.

My favorite drive was to take Sunset Boulevard west starting in Hollywood all the way to the ocean, then up the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) past Pepperdine University and Zuma Beach to one of the remote clothing optional beaches that only local folks knew about, followed by lunch at Neptune’s Net, a biker bar in Ventura County. On the way home, I’d drive the PCH south through Malibu, maybe stop at Moonshadows to catch the sunset, and then continue south to Santa Monica and east again on the 10 freeway to home. [Much of this route has completely burned to the ground.]

I went out by myself at night too. Hotel bars, tiki bars, places I’d heard of like the Beverly Hills Hotel, the Viper Room (where River Phoenix died), El Coyote (where Sharon Tate had her last meal), and eventually, places that people told me about.

Once, while getting a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel bar, Barbra Streisand walked by me, so close I could reach out and touch her (I didn’t). Another time, while driving west on Sunset Boulevard, the city aglow with that orange sunset light, the song Hotel California came on the radio. I turned it up as loud as my car radio would go and screamed it at the top of my lungs.

It all felt unreal. Magical. Sun-kissed and golden. Spacious. It was unlike any other city I’d been to and certainly light years away from any city on the East Coast, which now seemed extremely stuffy, dirty, old fashioned, cramped, and grey in comparison.

Of course, as the years passed and I got to know the city better, got an apartment, started dating, made friends and films, worked in production and at various studios, the city’s mystique dissipated a bit. L.A. became more of a reality.

When I met my late husband Kaz, who worked in the music business, he exposed me to LA’s vibrant live music scene. We went to shows at The Western, the Troubador, The Hollywood Palladium, the Whiskey A Go Go, and dozens of other spots all over the city. We also explored other places: Joshua Tree National Park, the Hearst Estate (the inspiration for Charles Foster Kane’s “Xanadu” in Citizen Kane), and drove the PCH all the way up to San Francisco (like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate).

When Kaz got sick, I got to know the city in a whole different way, from suites and rooms in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center - where Paris Hilton once walked by us in the waiting room, buildings and wings were named after Steven Spielberg and Johnnie L. Cochran, hallways were lined with original artworks by Picasso, Rauschenberg, Chagall, de Kooning, and others, and a pianist played a grand piano in the lobby daily - to support groups in West L.A., Thai Chi gatherings in the hills, and the Hollywood farmer’s market.

It was around this time that L.A. took on a surreal quality. It was an extremely odd place to be dealing with illness and death, to be gripped in the throes of grief - a city obsessed with health and fitness and entertainment, always sunny and so very bright. I got tired of it after a while. The original magic and mysticism and dreamy feeling of limitless possibilities had finally worn off. So, I left… 19 years (almost to the day) after arriving, this time with my dog Ruby.

It’s safe to say that, while I grew up on the east coast, L.A. was where I became an adult and really learned about life, love, film directing, and more. In subsequent visits, the city has struck me as both different and, in many ways, the same as I remembered it.

Now, with these fires, it has radically changed. Entire neighborhoods are gone leaving behind only the memories. When I lived there, there were fires but never quite like these—in multiple densely populated areas, with up to 100 mile per hour winds, and during a drought. There’s not one person in the city who hasn’t been affected by the air quality and stress of the situation, not to mention the unfathomable amount of loss. I wish I could donate to everyone who needs help. I wish I could wrap my arms around the entire city and hold it tight.

Next month, I’ll be in L.A. again for a film festival and will drive through some of the places that burned to pay my respects. For now, I just wanted to share some of these memories and remember how much this beloved city means to me.

There have been many moments since then when I’ve questioned that decision. Ha!

But seriously.

New York City is No Joke. There’s a reason why they say, “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.” The City is not for the weak or the timid. It’s loud, dirty, indifferent, expensive, crowded, fast-paced, competitive, complicated to navigate, ugly at times, infuriating at times, and very challenging, especially if you’re a struggling artist.

And yet… it’s also a wonderful place to be an artist or creative person, primarily because it’s full of ENERGY. Yes, living here requires an enormous amount of energy, but it also gives a lot of energy. All of the things that make it challenging also make it… well, New York.

The city is also beautiful, full of art, architecture, history, culture, diversity, interesting people, creativity, romance, and inspiration. There’s every type of person here, every type of food, every type of culture. There are so many museums, libraries, book stores, random places, nooks, and crannies that will inspire. You walk down the street and hear five languages being spoken by people who live and work here, not just tourists.

It’s never boring. It’s full of contradictions. Strangers will yell at each other one day, and laugh with each other the next, walk by without making eye contact, then have lengthy conversations on the bus. Even though people here can be terribly indifferent (New Yorkers are known for minding their own business), there’s also a connection here between people that’s unlike anywhere else I’ve ever lived. There is a collective identity, despite all the differences and languages and cultures.

New York makes you want to do things, makes you want to strive and go after whatever it is you want. It makes you faster at detecting BS and toughens your skin. The motto “if it doesn’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger” is a real thing here.

There have been moments when I have cursed the city with frustration, and many others when I have walked its streets filled with a sense of wonder and discovery, even euphoria.

When I expressed this feeling to a friend recently, she said it was related to the myth of New York City. Maybe she’s right. But there’s a reason for that myth. There’s a real and palpable magic here that’s hard to describe. The city vibrates with energy and, because of this, can be both stimulating and overwhelming. The trick is, I think, to figure out how to not let that energy drain you more than it fills you.

As a writer, the people and scenarios and visuals and sounds here will never cease to fascinate me. Every day something catches my eye, or I hear something that makes me smile, gasp, shake my head, get emotional. I’ve had moments of connection with people in traffic, at the pet food store, on the sidewalk, on the bus, at the dog park, in restaurants, at movie theaters, you name it. I’ve seen things that made me wince, and heard things that made me cry, like the other day when a woman yelled a racial slur at some workers before disappearing back into her building.

But that’s New York. Harsh and in your face. Brutally, unapologetically authentic.

Not surprisingly, I have found it necessary to find some quiet, peace, and solitude on a fairly regular basis. When I lived in Los Angeles (a far less hectic city), I found these moments at the beach, on hikes, and at the desert (Joshua Tree was a favorite destination). In NYC, I also go to the beach and parks. The city has tons of pockets… spots that are quieter, greener, less populated, more relaxing. I’m still discovering them.

And I’m still making friends, which is perhaps the greatest challenge of all here… finding one’s tribe. In Los Angeles, I had the advantage of meeting folks through graduate school. In NY, so far, it’s been tough to meet people and make lasting connections. But I’m not worried. These things take time, and I’m still a newbie. Plus I do know people here, and (very importantly) I have family here. I am very, very lucky in this respect.

I still have a long way to go to learning the ins and outs of the city. But I’m so happy to be here. And when I leave for a little break, I’m always happy to get back.

There’s nothing like the feeling of driving back into the city, or taking that first taxi out of the airport after flying back from somewhere. The noise, the traffic, the driver’s inevitable accent, the grime, the views… are like a collective pulse. I’m not saying it’s for everyone. But for me, at least for right now, it makes me feel alive and motivated to get things done.

Here’s to another year here! And happy New Year to everyone. xo

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In last night’s dream, I started off flying but later I was falling (I’ll get back to this). What’s interesting is the act of falling has become another recurring dream element in the past year or two. Specifically, falling into water.

Earlier this year, I had this very vivid dream of falling into a well of sewage water… yes, falling into shit. It was crazy. I can still feel the sensation of sinking into this cold, disgusting, stinky fluid, arms flailing in slow motion, my body extremely heavy and going down deep into the murky darkness, the view of the world above moving farther away to almost just a pinpoint. It took every ounce of emotional strength to not panic, to allow my body to fall as far as it needed to, knowing that as soon as it reached that point, I could start swimming to the top again. Which I did in the dream, and pulled myself out of the well, at which point I woke up.

Last night, the dream started with me going up into the air like a normal flying dream. Except I went really high, so high that I could see the topography of the landscape below. I was wearing some kind of ear piece and could hear people talking to me through it. Apparently, I was supposed to show up to an important event, but I had decided to take this detour for some reason. The people talking to me in the ear piece were concerned that a) I was going to be late for the event, and b) I was going to land in the wrong spot and possibly hurt myself, or worse. I kept reassuring them that neither would be the case. But… I wasn’t entirely sure. I was kind of winging it (no pun intended).

So, I was up there in the sky, not in as much control as usual, partially flying, partially falling, a combination of control and chance. I could feel strong winds carrying me this way and that, and could see myself heading towards spots that would be dangerous to land at the speed that I was moving - shallow rivers, forests, and fields. [I’ve never been skydiving but I imagine it feels similar.]

As I got closer to land, holding my breath with anticipation, trying to steer against the strong winds, I realized that I was heading towards a large body of water, one deep enough to be safe. A feeling of relief and surrender washed over me.

Sure enough, moments later, I hit this body of water and SANK… way down deep… because of the velocity I’d been traveling.

I should probably add that I’m a good swimmer in real life, and can hold my breath for a long time. I love being in water, the sensation of weightlessness, of being buoyant, and I love the mysteries of the underwater world. So, in these dreams when I fall into water, I might feel fear but only fleetingly. I never feel like I’m drowning, though I’m aware that the danger of drowning is always there. The overall sensation is that I know I’m in a dangerous situation, and the way to survive is to momentarily surrender, keep my wits about me (not panic), and then remember how to swim. If I do all those things, I’ll be fine. And that’s exactly what I did last night.

When I finally got to the surface again, I saw a vehicle on the shore waiting to pick me up. I walked out of the water and got into the back of this truck. The folks inside were relieved to see me, handing me towels and clapping my back, congratulating me on making such a brilliant landing. The truck took off towards the event. Then I woke up.

I’ll be thinking about the possible meanings of this dream on my drive back to NYC this afternoon. For now, I wanted to leave you with some images from my residency at Cill Rialaig in Ireland in April 2023. I took dozens of photos of the ocean. It felt like being on the edge of the world.

Yes, that happened.

If you feel about this new-but-familiar-but-also-worse situation like I do, then perhaps you too are pulling yourself out of despondency by getting active.

We creatives are now the front lines. The Artists. The Thinkers. The Writers. The Musicians. The Sculptors. The Filmmakers. The ones who dare to express themselves freely and openly. The ones who shine a mirror back at the world.

For inspiration, I did a deep dive on how artists have resisted and protested - in the past and today - against racism, sexism, political oppression, fascism, censorship, and a host of other issues. The list is, of course, endless. Below are several that spoke to me. Maybe they will speak to you too.

I look at the world

By Langston Hughes

I look at the world

From awakening eyes in a black face—

And this is what I see:

This fenced-off narrow space

Assigned to me.

I look then at the silly walls

Through dark eyes in a dark face—

And this is what I know:

That all these walls oppression builds

Will have to go!

I look at my own body

With eyes no longer blind—

And I see that my own hands can make

The world that's in my mind.

Then let us hurry, comrades,

The road to find.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/101581/poems-of-protest-resistance-and-empowerment

Words by Shady Habash, from his last letter (in Tora prison, Cairo, October 26th 2019) Spoken and composed by Ramy Essam

“Springtime for Hitler and Germany” from Mel Brooks’ brilliant satire The Producers (the 2005 version, not 1967 original)

Time go get busy, y’all.

With love.

1 – Writing

Generally speaking, without a script (or a very detailed treatment), you can’t make a film. I mean, you can try, but chances are, if you’re trying to tell a specific story, you’re going to run into trouble at some point if it’s not written down.

The script is to a filmmaker what a blueprint is to an architect. It is The Plan. Even if you’re Mike Leigh and your film is mostly improvised, you need a plan to begin with and to guide you.

It’s more than having the story, structure, characters, and dialogue laid out. The script is also what producers use to make the schedule and the budget. All the department heads use it to get a sense of the characters, the story, how the film should look, what the locations are, what the sets should look like, the costumes, and so on. The script allows everyone to get on the same page, literally and figuratively.

Writing the script involves developing the idea, researching, outlining, writing, rewriting, receiving feedback, more rewriting… it can take weeks, months, or years. Every project is different. [This entertaining Reddit thread about John Hughes writing The Breakfast Club in two days shows how much work goes into such a feat before the writing begins, and after the first draft is written.]

Sometimes a producer or director will find a script that’s already written and most of that work will have already happened. But most likely it will still need more changes before it can go out to actors or be filmed. Often scripts are tweaked during subsequent phases as well, even during production. In any case, you can’t move to the next stage without a finished screenplay.

2 – Financing

Films are expensive. There are exceptions (there are always exceptions). A friend just saw an independent feature film in Los Angeles that was made for $15,000!

Still, unless you already have all the money you need in your bank account – or you’re working with someone who does – you gotta either find the money or get permission from whoever has the money to make it.

Most of us don’t have that kind of money. Or any money. So, we’re not only trying to find money to make the film, but also money to live on while making the film.

Suffice it to say, other than winning the lottery, finding the money can be a long and challenging process. Often, you need money to find money. For example… with feature films you usually need a “star” attached to attract investors, but you need some kind of money to offer the star to get them (or their reps) to read the script! This is why producers who know how to raise money, or have access to money, are so coveted and can be quite powerful. I’m still learning how to finance films, honestly.

But the good news is… once you have the money and are what they call “greenlit,” you can move on to making the film.

3 – Pre-Production

Around this time in the process, the film starts to feel like it might really happen. Ideally, there is now a production office and a small crew of folks working with you, and you’re all getting paid a little something. Your Assistant Director will have broken down the script scene by scene, made all kinds of reports and a shooting schedule that you will discuss – and probably change – umpteen times before filming begins. Every scene is analyzed for cast, number of extras, set design, locations, props, costumes, equipment needed, special effects, stunts, shots, number of set-ups, company moves, and more.

It might surprise people to know that most of the decisions on a film are made during this phase. In addition to all of the above details that you discuss with your department heads, this is when you cast all the roles. If you’re lucky, you will have some rehearsal time with the actors. At some point, you will schedule a reading of the script with the entire cast and heads of department, ideally all of you in the same physical space.

One of my favorite activities during pre-production is location scouting, which is like casting but for physical spaces. I could write a whole post on this process (and maybe I will!) because locations are crucial to a film and a lot of factors go into choosing them (here’s a few of them).

Sometimes financing is still happening during pre-production; often the writer is tweaking the script based on input from actors, or ideas that come up in rehearsals, or possibly to accommodate a specific location, or change in the schedule. And sometimes both continue even during production and post-production.

Ideally, however, everything is in place – and every (or almost every) detail is worked out – before you start shooting.

4 – Production

Let me tell you, there is nothing like the feeling of walking onto the set of your own film for the first time on the first day of production. It’s similar to when a team walks onto the field before a big game… or a conductor walks up to the podium… or the generals of old used to ride into battle. You are filled with hope, determination, butterflies in your stomach, and courage in your heart. You feel like you are fulfilling your destiny and maybe, just maybe, about to accomplish something amazing.

There are so many things that can go wrong and derail the film before getting to this point that, often, this moment can feel like the pinnacle of the whole experience. Watching the trucks arrive, people introduce themselves, grabbing a cup of coffee at the craft service table, visiting the actors in hair and makeup, talking to the A.D. about the day’s flow, while the crew begins setting up, all around you the pleasant hum of many moving parts working together in controlled chaos.

It’s a beautiful feeling of anticipation.

The irony is that, as much as you have planned and designed and tried to anticipate every possibility to the nth degree, trust me, shit will STILL happen unexpectedly. This is normal and happens on every film at some point. And when it does you will have to PIVOT from the original plan, very quickly, so as to not lose money, momentum, and morale, to another plan… on the spot… and under enormous pressure. All without losing your cool.

Believe it or not, this is the fun part of filmmaking! The part when you solve problems creatively. Often the best decisions come out of these extremely difficult, tense, do-or-die moments.

I’ll give you one example from personal experience.

When we shot my second short film Milk and Honey, we scheduled the first and last scenes of the film (which took place in the same location and were daytime exteriors) for the end of the day on the last day of filming. By the time we got to shooting them, however, we were running out of daylight, as the sun was setting.

The DP Sarah Levy and I had designed the first scene with a bunch of shots to cover the following action: a cop car drives up to a car that’s parked on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, the cop gets out and approach the abandoned car, he looks inside, then sees footsteps in the sand that lead him to walk into the desert to try to find whoever owns the car.

Because we were losing light so quickly, the producer Carol Shine told us we didn’t have time to do all those shots. We had to come up with a different plan IMMEDIATELY.

Sarah and I stepped aside for a moment and figured out how we could capture the first and last scenes with only two shots for each scene. Carol told us we would have time (daylight) to do only ONE TAKE of each.

It was a bold move. But we trusted each other and the team. So that’s what we did. Everyone, including the actors, moving as fast and with as much concentration as possible. And not only did we pull it off, but the result was better than the original idea.

Watch it for yourself HERE (the first scene begins at 00:39; the last scene at 20:25).

5 – Post-Production

As the saying goes, a film is written three times: when it’s originally written, when it’s filmed, and when it’s edited.

On big films and television shows, post-production usually overlaps with production; meaning, the editing process begins before the film is finished shooting. The editor will be compiling, syncing, and logging footage and sending ‘dailies’ to the director and producer and cinematographer to view the day’s footage. [One of the more infamous stories about this process is detailed in this New Yorker article about the making of Francis Ford Coppola’s masterpiece The Godfather. Among other grievances, Paramount Pictures thought his dailies were too dark, Brando was incomprehensible, and Al Pacino was too short!]

In general, however, by the time you get to post, principal photography is complete, and you are most likely exhausted, if not traumatized. You collapse on the editor’s couch and go through this emotional rollercoaster of facing the reality of what you actually shot. It’s one thing to watch dailies, and a whole other thing to start putting the shots together to make an actual film.

Over the next few weeks or months, you and the editor will obsess over and wrestle with this footage to such an exhaustive extent that you will be able to recite the entire film by heart, you will dream about it, and quite possibly you will lose all perspective.

A lot of people don’t realize what goes into post-production or appreciate how important it is. And how long it can take. It takes many iterations, screenings, and rounds of notes to get to picture lock. And only then can you seriously delve into probably the least understood/appreciated, most overlooked, and most important aspects of film - the SOUND DESIGN.

Often, it’s a film’s sound that ultimately makes it look professional… or amateurish.

The process of getting it to sound good includes cleaning up production sound, adding sound effects to each scene, recording additional dialogue (ADR), recording foley if necessary, placing source music, composing and recording the film score, and editing and mixing the entire soundtrack. It’s A LOT OF WORK.

And that’s not all!

When the sound is finished, you still have to color correct and color grade the film, and design and finalize your title sequence and credits. Basically, every edit, sound, color, name, EVERY DETAIL of the film is scrutinized repeatedly until it is right. Post-production is fun, exhausting, exhilarating, frustrating, immensely creative and ultimately hugely satisfying. It is literally the final lap of the marathon.

And once you’re finished, pop that bubbly and celebrate because your film is IN THE CAN and ready to be shared with the public!

By the way, some might say that the sixth stage in making a film is Distribution or getting the film out there. I wouldn’t argue with that. But distribution is not the creative process of making the film, it’s the business side, which I’ll write about in another post.

We are currently submitting to film festivals, so the work is by no means over. But at least the film is finished. I’m so proud. And grateful to everyone who helped make it.

I started directing in college (Temple University in Philadelphia).

My older brother Oren used to help me with my productions, writing some of the scripts and even acting in the films. I think we had this fantasy of being a brother-sister filmmaking team. We didn’t pursue it because he became a journalist instead. Also, filmmaking as a career seemed very far-fetched back then, at least to us.

After college, I didn’t make a film for two years. My mother had passed away in my senior year (three weeks after my 22^nd birthday). I mourned her with all kinds of reckless behavior at night while working as a secretary at an insurance company during the day. Not surprisingly, I got bored with both. And I missed making films.

But I had no idea how to parlay that longing into action. I didn’t feel like I knew enough. Also, I wanted out of Philadelphia, which only reminded me of my mother. So, I applied to graduate school… and was accepted by only one. The University of Southern California in Los Angeles, the best film school in the country.

At USC, I directed a bunch of small films for classes, and I absorbed as much as possible from the esteemed professors. But it wasn’t until my thesis film Kings that I directed my first major production. The directors Robert Zemeckis and John Singleton were my mentors on the project, so that elevated the whole production. My lead actors had worked with Paul Thomas Anderson and Michael Mann, respectively. My composer was a colleague of Zemeckis’. And I was shooting on 35mm for the first time. It all felt very legitimate and real.

On that film, I discovered how much I truly love directing. It came naturally to me, like it was my natural state of being. I loved the research. I loved location scouting. I loved solving problems with the producers, trying to figure out how to accomplish our goals with little to no money. I even liked the pressure of trying to “make the day” during production, which put me into a super focused zone. I loved collaborating with all the department heads – camera, production design, costumes, hair and makeup, the editor, and the composer. I absolutely loved working with the actors, discovering the nuances of the characters, tweaking the dialogue for them, and watching the characters that had thereto only lived in my brain come to physical life. It was nothing short of magical. Actors have my utmost respect.

I’ll be writing about the relationship between the director and all the departments in the future, but suffice it to say that everyone brings something to the making of the film. The director may lead the charge, but it is truly a team effort.

Of course, there were aspects of directing I didn’t like as much. There never seemed to be enough time or money. I wasn’t totally comfortable being the focus of everyone’s questions on set, and wasn’t great at dealing with behind-the-scenes politics. I also wasn’t always confident in my decisions, for example that I had covered a scene enough, that it was okay to move on, or that I knew what I was doing at all and wasn’t just faking it. I also didn’t like the stress caused by things not going right. It was very challenging for me to not betray my emotions, which is a no-no.

But the pros far outweighed the cons. By the time I finished KINGS, I was one hundred percent hooked on directing. I directed fairly consistently for about ten years, a few short films, music videos, a two-hour television movie, a feature documentary, and several theatre productions. On every project I learned something new and felt more in my element. I also still had this nagging feeling of being unsure of myself.

The last day I worked as a director before recently was April 9, 2010. I remember the date because my boyfriend at the time (later husband) Kaz called to say he had stayed home from work due to headaches. He’d been experiencing headaches off and on for a few weeks at that point, but this was the first time he was staying home from work. When I hung up the phone, I turned to the editor and musical artist I was working with and told them how worried I was. They reassured me that all would be well.

The following day Kaz got an emergency MRI which revealed a mass in his brain. We would soon discover the mass was a terminal brain tumor. Thirteen months later, on May 3, 2011, he died in my arms.

After that I lost my passion for filmmaking.

It was more than just a broken heart, or the shock of having my world yanked away, that left me unmotivated. It was having experienced real-life drama in such a visceral way that I couldn’t imagine mustering any interest in, let alone the necessary energy for, anything fake or “made up.” The idea of dealing with film people and the film business in general seemed ludicrous.

Instead, I focused on writing… first in my journal, then letters to Kaz, then prose, articles, blog posts, and eventually screenplays. I started thinking about directing again when I finished a screenplay and couldn’t imagine handing it over to anyone else. But it had been so long. How would directing feel after so many years? How would I feel? Was it something I really wanted to do? I put the question out there in the universe.

Then, last October, when I was in Israel, a friend contacted me a few days after the October 7 attack asking if I’d be interested in directing a short film that she was producing. The original director had dropped out, and the shoot was scheduled for about ten days after I was supposed to return to the U.S. I said yes with no hesitation and tried not to burst into tears. Yes, yes, yes, YES. I dove into the project as if grabbing a lifeline.

I was still in Tel Aviv when we had our first production meeting via Zoom. I warned everyone that we might be interrupted by air raid sirens (we weren’t, thankfully) and couldn’t hold back my emotions. I was simply overcome with gratitude… for the opportunity to do what I love again, to talk about something creative and think about something positive instead of the new war that had just erupted.

Over the subsequent days of pre-production and then production, I felt areas of my brain coming alive again. The night before the first day of filming back in NYC I could hardly sleep. I got up ahead of the alarm, dropped to my knees, and said a prayer in the early morning stillness. A couple of hours later I walked onto a film set for the first time in almost thirteen years.

It felt like coming home.

The process of directing came back to me as if no time had passed at all. But what surprised me the most was how different I felt. Gone was the struggle to be decisive, to ask for what I want, to speak up when I was displeased or wanted something different. I felt self-assured and confident. I knew what I wanted and had no qualms asking for it. I trusted myself and didn’t second guess my decisions. When things got tense, I was still happy and filled with gratitude. Were there things I could have handled better? Absolutely. Every project teaches me something new. But overall, I knew what I was doing and didn’t feel that old nagging insecurity that I used to.

How interesting to come back to what I love so many years later and notice these changes. Obviously, I’m a different person than before. It’s not just that I’m older - though this is part of it. I’ve also lived and lost - since 2010 my husband, my father, and my brother. And I’ve grieved.

The process of grieving is similar to healing a wound. Eventually that scarred part of your soul grows tougher, stronger. During grief you go into the depths of yourself and put yourself back together. You come out of that process knowing yourself better and fortified on a deep level.

The key takeaway: this current directing experience has shown me unequivocally that directing is my passion and what I’m meant to be doing. Life may have knocked the wind out of me and taken me off course for a period, but not in vain. It prepared me. Not only by making me emotionally stronger, but also by sharpening my instincts. Now, I am truly ready. And I want to do it again and again… until I can do it no longer.

The conversation reminded me that I haven’t been writing either. Not creatively. I’ve been writing a lot of emails, proposals, applications, and To Do lists, but I haven’t started a new creative project. And, while I’m not anxious about it (yet), I am wondering when I’m going to have the proper bandwidth to either rewrite something old, or (preferably) write something new.

Suffice it to say… writers gotta write. Maybe that’s how you know you are a writer, when you view it as more than just a job… but a lifeline.

Writing is how we writers stay grounded, how we process the world and our emotions, how we purge our demons. A brief period of not writing can feel like a vacation for our brains. But it doesn’t take long to start feeling anxious. Too long and we start wondering if we still can write, if anyone will remember us if we never write again, and questioning the purpose of life in general.

So, what happens when life gets in the way? Or we’re not in our preferred environment? Or we only have a limited amount of time? How does one get into the mindset of writing?

Let’s break it down.

The first step is creating a space to write - both physically and mentally. I use the phrase “Think Tank” to describe both.

My home office in upstate NY is the original Think Tank.

The beauty of being a writer is you can set up your Think Tank almost anywhere. All you need is a desk, a chair, your computer (or whatever you write on), light, relative quiet, and privacy.

For me, some other things that create the Think Tank include candles, music, inspiring images and phrases tacked onto the wall, and alters made out of interesting things I find in nature (like my ever growing rock collection). I’m also into smells. For some reason, having an incense, palo santo stick, sage, or combination of these burning in the background helps me concentrate. Finally, I keep a small bowl of crystals near my computer. I like having plants nearby. And I need order in my house or room. I can’t write in a messy environment.

These touchstones have become such an integral part of my practice that I take them with me when I travel. Or buy them when I land. When I went to Ireland last year for a residency, one of the first things I bought was a big bag of tea candles. In fact, the first thing I do when I arrive anywhere is set up the Think Tank.

Here in NYC, I also have a Think Tank, which is still evolving. And I’ve been productive in many respects, but I haven’t yet been able to write creatively, for a number of reasons. The main one is I’ve just been too damn busy.

The second requirement for writing is time. And here in lies the rub. Because sometimes we just don’t have time. Or we don’t have enough quality time. Sometimes it’s out of our control, like when I was caregiving my late husband and too overwhelmed to do anything else. Other times it’s just… life.

There are ways around this. Sylvia Plath used to write at 4:00am before her children woke up. So did Toni Morrison. Other writers work at night, and on the weekends. I’ve done this before too, and it works.

But I also have a bad habit of trying to do too many things at once. Sadly, I cannot do my freelance work, look for more work, fundraise for one short film, direct another short film, go to the gym, start dating again, watch everything I want to watch, read everything I want to read, keep in touch with everyone I want to keep in touch with, keep up with the news, write regularly on this Substack, and write a new screenplay.

Somethings gotta give.

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When my client mentioned her need to write, I started feeling bad about my own lack of writing. I had to remind myself of a few things.

First, trying to do everything at once is unsustainable, unproductive, and not good for our mental health. We end up feeling like we’re getting nothing done despite our working ALL the time and pushing ourselves to the limit! And then we feel discouraged, depressed, and crazy. Or we get so stressed that we get sick (I had shingles in January, followed by a bad cold in February).

Better to prioritize fewer things. For me right now, this means my freelance work because that pays the bills, going to the gym because I’ve de-prioritized my physical health for too long, and directing a short film. I’ll get to everything else too, but these three things are my primary focus at the moment. Others might prioritize their lives differently.

Second, as a writer/director, sometimes one is in writing mode, and other times one is in directing mode. For the past few weeks, I’ve been in pre-production on my third short film, which shoots THIS WEEK in Arkansas. Directing requires a ton of concentration too, but in a totally different way than writing.

If you’re like me and struggling to find the Think Tank (the mindset), remember that sometimes the best we can do is think about writing, about what to write next, different story ideas. Jot ideas down, journal, carry a small notepad. Let ideas percolate and remain open to inspiration. Don’t wait too long to start writing. But know that this period is also part of the process.

And, lastly, have faith that when you do get back to writing, it will FLOW.

It was as simple as that.

Oddly, this message has repeated in different ways the last month or so.

Around New Years, another friend posted a short video on Instagram saying quite emphatically, “Whatever you want to do in life, don’t wait. Do it now.”

My niece, who loves podcasts, recently introduced me to The Diary of a CEO with Steven Bartlett, on which people talk about common sense tools for living your best life. One guest said she doesn’t set goals. Rather, she strives to create a life that aligns with her values. Another guest talked about how the key to happiness is not being rich, but doing what you want to do with your time.

And this sticker fell out of a book I randomly picked up over the holidays.

I happened to spend the holiday season in Brooklyn, NY, relaxing with my journal, taking long walks with my dog, and doing a lot of deep thinking (like a lot of people, I get introspective at the end of the calendar year). I wrote pages of lists – what I love, what I want to improve, what I want more of, different ideas for achieving all the above, and the pros and cons of each decision. Basically, brainstorming life.

On Christmas eve the pup and I strolled down to the Brooklyn waterfront. I was delightfully surprised she wanted to walk that far (she’s 11.5 years old), especially in a direction we don’t usually go. I could tell she was curious. We both felt a sense of excitement as we neared the view. And what a view!

It might have been in this very moment that I decided to move to New York City.

When I say “move,” I don’t mean sell my house and relocate entirely. This isn’t like the moves I’ve made previously, driving across the country for graduate school and years later driving back across the country to move to New York state. I’ll still be going upstate and voting upstate. But I will be based in the city, as opposed to the other way around.

This is more of a new geographical emphasis.

What does this mean in a practical sense? A lot of things. Will this decision make me happy? Time will tell. But I will say this.

The world feels very precarious right now. It feels like civilization as we know it is careening (slowly, or not) towards… something. Is it a precipice like at the end of the film Thelma and Louise? Is it a confrontation? I don’t know. All I know is, as my brother in law recently summed up, “things are very messed up right now.”

Which is why it feels like if ever there was a time to do what you makes you happy, this is it.

The truth is I’ve been wanting to be in New York City for a long time. I’ve lived two hours north of the city and going back and forth fairly regularly for eight and a half years. Now, it’s time to stay and commit to the grind. I do still believe in goals and laid out some very specific ones a couple of posts ago, and the only way to make them happen is to be here, in the thick of things.

The city is harsh, dirty, loud, and (right now) very grey and dreary. I’ve used the word “accosting” several times when describing to a friend of mine in Los Angeles how it feels to be in NYC every day. Suffice it to say, it is not an easy place to be. But it’s also full of the kind of energy and inspiration that I’m craving these days.

And when it gets to be too much, I will head upstate and recuperate.

For now, I’m here, taking public transportation like everyone else, walking fast, moving my car on street cleaning days, and avoiding eye contact for the most part - one of the many aspects that are totally the opposite of living upstate. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been upstate so long that I’ve lost my city girl edge.

Nah… I’ve always been a city girl. And I got this.

2024 is about making bold moves. Excited to share the journey with you. xo

PS. I did get my phone at that event. And used it to take photos of the art.

When we left the house, the sun was shining. As we drove up the mountain, I noticed it getting misty. And by the time we got to the lake, we were surrounded by a very thick fog. So thick that it almost completely hid the lake… and everything else.

The fog also created a hushed silence over the area. The sounds we did hear seemed more pronounced. Indiscriminate voices on the other side of the lake. A sudden cacophony of honking and splashing from what must have been a flock of geese taking off. We couldn’t see the sources, and the sounds disappeared as quickly as they rose up from the silence.

Ruby and I walked slowly, and carefully, pausing often to listen to whatever might be nearby. To the stillness. We’d both been on this path before. Many times. But not being able to see much made us more aware. Who was to say there wasn’t an animal out there, or someone around the bend?  

The first time I encountered this kind of fog was almost ten years ago, during the first winter after moving to this mountainous region of New York state. I had never associated fog with winter for some reason, so it surprised me. I remember thinking it looked like a physical manifestation of the grief I was then still experiencing.

The other day at North-South Lake, I interpreted it differently. It made me think of faith.

Before writing this post, I looked up the meaning of the word faith to make sure I was understanding it correctly. According to the Oxford dictionary, “faith” means “complete trust or confidence in someone or something.” We hear the word used mostly in terms of religious faith, meaning trusting in a “belief in G-d or in the doctrines or teachings of religion.”

The key word… is trust. If you trust something or someone, you have faith in them.

I don’t mean the kind of blind faith that borders on delusional, like people who don’t believe in modern medicine, or who expect to achieve their goals without making any effort. I also don’t mean religious faith. I mean having a gut feeling, a confidence, an inexplicable trust that, despite the unknowns, everything will be okay. And if it’s not okay, we can handle it.

If you think about it, faith comes into play in so many aspects of life, perhaps every aspect. If we didn’t have some kind of faith – in the world, in each other, in the future – we might never leave the house. We operate on a daily basis with some level of confidence that events will generally unfold as they usually do (which is, of course, why it’s so shocking when they don’t).

Back to the fog.

As we walked through that eerie, quiet, semi-blinding fog, I kept thinking of life’s unknowns. Especially the unknowns in a life dedicated to the pursuit of an artistic endeavor.

When we pursue goals that don’t have an obvious path, or that other people might see as unrealistic or, at the very least, incredibly risky, we often contend with issues of motivation. What keeps us going despite everything?

I would argue that the answer – and what all artists need to have – is a sense of faith.

Faith that we’re doing what we’re supposed to be doing. Faith in our own capabilities and talent. Faith in the people we’re working with and their capabilities. And yes, maybe faith that the universe is rooting for us.

I am the first to admit that this is easier said than done. There are A LOT of reasons to lose faith and give up when you’re an artist. Sometimes, it feels like we spend as much time convincing ourselves not to give up, as we spend actually making art.

And yet, we do not give up. We keep going. We trust in… something.

The other day at the lake, I was tempted to turn around and go back to the car a few times. I think Ruby was too.

Then, at some point, it just made more sense to keep going.

My friends and I sometimes play this game called “If Money Were No Issue”.

If money were no issue, what would you do?

“I would live in penthouses all over the world, do drugs, and f*ck a lot of high-class hookers,” a friend answered. He’s a freelance journalist.

Another friend once told me she would bake every day. She’s a documentary producer.

“What would you do?” she asked me back.

“I would make films!” I exclaimed, as if it were obvious. I’m an independent filmmaker.

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My dream has always been to make films. “Films that bring people closer together by inspiring them to relate to a different point of view than their own,” I wrote in a recent grant application.

And I have made films. Good ones. Award-winning, even. But I made them some time ago before losing my husband, my father, and then my brother, all in the span of ten years. Those events, plus moving across the country to start fresh, were huge off-ramps from the highway of ambition that I had been speeding down.

Then the pandemic happened, and in all the craziness I delved into creativity head first as a means of salvation and found my authentic self… writing screenplays and living a full-time creative life.

And creatively it paid off.

Today, I’m in the middle of directing my third short film and about to start fundraising for my fourth. I have two feature screenplays and two television pilots ready to go. I’ve been on two writer’s residencies in two years, and this year traveled to Ireland and Israel (more on that later) for work. My days are full with meetings, phone calls, planning, writing, research, correspondence… basically, grinding. I’m blessed in many, many ways, and I don’t take any of it for granted.

The only problem is I have no security. Every month I manage to cobble together enough to eek by through a combination of freelance work, credit cards, and occasional paid writing/directing gigs. But barely. And it’s not for a lack of hard work.

Apparently, mine is a lifelong quest to figure out: How does one make a living as an artist? Not asking for a friend.

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From observing my peers, it seems the answer is: to be independently wealthy, to work a full-time job, to have a spouse, to own multiple investment properties, to have between one and four roommates or live with your parents, or some combination of the above.

Of course, you could also sell your work. But that seems like winning the lottery in today’s post-strike climate.

And in the meantime, it feels like there’s a ticking clock getting louder each day. Not the biological clock - the actual ticking clock of Time.

“How much longer does she have to pursue this madness?” I can see the thought in some of my friends’ eyes. Or maybe it’s my own subconscious reflecting in their eyes. In moments of weakness, sometimes wonder, am I super tenacious… or delusional? Have I made ALL THE WRONG DECISIONS?

Then I shake the negative thoughts away. Get back, evil spirits!

But the truth is, without getting an enormous break very soon, like getting hired for a writer’s room, or selling one of my screenplays, or finding a duffle bag of no-strings-attached legal money… I will have to go back to a job job. Also known as a day job.

Of course, there’s worse things than having a job job. From where I stand, the stability and security it would provide would feel like coming in from the cold and sitting by a warm fire. But I also know that once you have that security, it’s much harder to pursue your art with the same energy, and even harder to return to the level of risk that an artist life seems to require.

“Do you think I could get a well-paying part-time remote job with benefits where I could make my own schedule?” I asked a friend the other night.

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” he replied slowly. Then we both laughed so hard we started crying.

I know I need to get over it.

BUT

Since it’s the season of miracles and wish-making, I’ve decided to proclaim my intentions for the new year.

Last New Year’s Eve, I yelled my 2023 intentions into a forest in Austerlitz, NY and everything pretty much happened. I don’t know if it was directly related, but I do believe there is power in saying things out loud. This year, I’m sharing my intentions here, with all of you as my witnesses.

In 2024:

I’m going to make two short films. I’m going to secure the creative team and begin pre-production on my feature film. I’m going to make six figures. I’m going to travel to Europe, the Middle East, and Africa. And I’m going to continue to lay the foundation for an independent life because living independently is my happy place.

Yes, I’m doubling down on the dream.

And I’ll be sharing all the trials and tribulations here.

The Think Tank is going to be a place for inspiration, questions, musings, observations, and commiserating.

The struggle is real. Thank you for joining the Tank!

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I spent the rest of that day and the next two days questioning whether I had made the right decision. What had it meant to say YES? What had I gotten myself into? Was I really ready for this commitment?? The more I thought and talked about it, the more I realized I AM READY. And that all my doubts were about FEAR.

Let's talk about Fear. A lot of people think that the opposite of fear is Courage, and that Courage is being "fearless." Let me tell you something. No one is fearless. NO ONE. Unless they're delusional.

Fear is natural. It's one of the most natural emotions out there - probably every living thing on this earth feels fear at some point. It's a self-preservation tool. Our brains tells us to fear something because it wants to protect us from danger or pain, or more complex emotions like embarrassment or ridicule.

I have a friend who admitted her greatest fear is WASTING TIME. So, it's very difficult for her to start something new because she is afraid it will be all in vain.

One of the greatest fears we commonly have is the fear of FAILURE. What we don't talk about nearly as much is the FEAR OF SUCCESS. You know that phrase, "Be careful what you wish for"? Fear of success is a real thing.

We're told to envision what we want and strive for it with all our being. What happens when you get what you want? There's a real possibility that you might freak out. And THAT'S OKAY. How you move through a moment like this is crucial.

The first thing to do is BREATHE. Don't panic. Don't do anything sudden. Take a moment - or a few days - to analyze the situation from all sides.

You might want to seek advice from loved ones and close confidants. But only reach out to people who know you really well and that you 100% trust to be both honest and discreet (a crisis of faith is a vulnerable moment and the wrong type of person can take advantage of that). Finally, be ready to hear what people tell you.

When I reached out to my closest friends, each one had different advice.

"It sounds like you're looking for permission to let yourself off the hook," one observed.

Another told me to write the Pros and Cons of my decision down and call her back. Ironically, my Cons list was longer! But the Pros were more compelling. And, on further reflection, I realized that everything I'd listed in the Cons was fear-based. And I had vowed to not make my decision based on fear.

The most consistent thing people told me was, "That's the Fear talking."

The most important thing is to let yourself have this moment without berating yourself. FEEL IT. Let it move through you. It's normal. It's healthy! It means you realize the gravity of the situation, the stakes. And it's good to think things through.

Back to the word Courage.

The definition of Courage is doing something DESPITE your fear. Put another way, Courage is about overcoming fear. This is a huge part of drama, right? We want our heroines to slay the dragon even though they're afraid. We want to see them push through it and come out the other side victorious. Even if they fail, it's far more satisfying to see someone overcome their fears than not to.

And how do we overcome fear? With PREPARATION.

With the right preparation - doing your homework - you can do anything you set your mind to. After I had made up my mind to go forward, I texted one of the people I'd spoken with. She wrote back, "Be prepared."

There is no getting around putting in the time and work. So, if you're not willing to do that, maybe you should walk away. But if you ARE... the world is yours.

So, go ahead and slay that dragon.