This is what happens when you talk to someone...

Writing's hard.

It's a solitary endeavor and it's difficult to do.  

But it's even more difficult when you feel like you're stuck inside a vacuum.

That's why having a community of writers, of friends and supporters, is important.  

This past weekend I was reminded what a strong support system I had

when I was working on a reading of a new play.

I had been working on this new play,

the first act of which I worked on during my retreat 

a couple of weeks ago.  

Then I had to work on the new pilot rewrite

and started work on that on the retreat

then had to finish that up when I got back.

That was done by Thursday,

I took Friday to regroup,

and went to the reading festival on Saturday.

Saturday night and Sunday were to be the days

I was going to work on the rest of the play. 

Then an actor dropped out,

we got a replacement because my friends reached out

to actors they knew.

I rehearsed on Sunday afternoon,

did some major cutting on the play an hour

before we were set to do the reading.

My actors completely came through for me

by killing it.

My friends came through for me

by showing up with their support.

I had two great conversations with two playwrights who are becoming new and fast friends.

The conversations were about real important things we

think about as writers:

how to make a living

how to make ourselves happy

how to get someone to advocate for you (aka agents and managers)

and at the same time 

how to stay true to who you are as a writer.

It's that age old conversation

of how to stick to your guns

and trust your instincts in a town

where no one trusts their instincts.

And that trickles down to us,

the ambitious, hopeful, eager to please, vulnerable

writer

who just wants to do a good job.

And the other conversation was about 

privilege,

what that means

how to embrace the world you've been born into

without being insensitive

and how to be sensitive

without being

condescending.

I am a writer of color

who doesn't come from privilege

financially

but comes from great privilege 

on an educational level 

and has so successfully assimilated

that I start to forget

that my struggle is a part

of my story.

But I was raised with the idea that my struggle

is not an excuse.

So I don't excuse myself.

And I excuse myself so very little that I act as if 

I only come from privilege.

And something about that failure to tell that side of my story,

because I don't want to depend on sympathy or pity,

has kept me from my goals.

My conversation with my very good friend

reminded me of that

without him telling me that is what's happening.

I think that if I tell that story,

I am exploiting the truth 

instead of sharing it.

I am brown.

I am smart.

I am barrio adjacent

as well as 

Beverly Hills adjacent.

Someone told me years ago

that I haven't told my story yet.

Maybe that's my story:

Barrio Adjacent.

Those two conversations about instinct and race

are so connected to who I am.

I have a story.

It's a strong story.

It's a real story.

It's my story.

Some people have an idea of what my story is.

And because I know that they think they know what my story is,

I reject it.

And I reject them.

So therefore, we cannot work together.

I have to stand behind my story,

but also in front of it

and to either side.

I have to be my story's bodyguard

because I know how precious and fragile

it is.

It could break at any second, 

much that chip I have on my shoulder.

That tortilla chip on my shoulder,

light, brittle, not immediately noticed.

So I have protection,

I can keep the tortilla chip that I wear on my shoulder

safe and unbroken.

It's fine.

I'm fine.

I have no excuses for not

working together with these people who think they know

what my story is,

but if I keep it hidden and guarded

then they won't know what my real story is.

Nothing's going to happen to that chip,

I need that chip

in order to remind me to be on watch,

but if it broke into a 

thousand pieces

I'd still have the memory of that chip,

the memory

but no longer the burden of having to keep it safe.

Yet the memory

lingers to remind me of who I am

and what I am

and what I stand for 

and what I just can't stand.

It doesn't have to be there 

for me to know,

a chip cannot live forever,

eventually that chip gets stale

and outlives its purpose,

eventually it's irrelevant 

through no fault 

or action of mine.

And then it just becomes a reminder

to stay true to myself

but not a burden

to make sure that I hold on to it

so preciously.

These are the conversations that occur when you've got an open dialogue

and good friends to talk to…

It always finds its way back into the work. 

It's all writing.

I am grateful for talks with friends.

I am grateful that I have a new group of people in my life.

I am grateful that those conversations have meaning.

I am grateful to not get stuck in a certain type of conversation.

I am grateful for love and support in my life.

I am grateful to know what I deserve.