I moved to this beautiful, brutal city in February of 2008.
Luke and I had no jobs. No apartment. Nothing, really, besides a U-Haul truck full of everything we owned and the absolute know-it-in-your-soul certainty that Los Angeles was exactly where we were supposed to be. We’d come out to LA at the end of January for vacation and “just to see” if maybe one day we might be able to pull off living here.
The sun. The ocean. The farmer’s market. The hint of promise in their air. The sense of We are home.
We flew back, quit our jobs and moved to LA three weeks later.
I was 8 when I came home from school and announced I’m going to be a writer when I grow up.
I was 18 when I realized that I wasn’t going to have to give up writing like some sort of childhood habit I was outgrowing. I am going to be a writer. I am a writer. This is actually going to happen.
I was 28 when my first episode of television aired.
And that is a hell of a lot of in-betweens.
When I first moved to LA, if someone would have told me that it was going to take five years between driving across the California state line and the first time I wrote a script that got shot — I would have died. Five years is an eternity. An absolute, unending eternity when you’re standing at the beginning. It would have felt like the insurmountable challenge of my life.
When I was 8, I couldn’t even comprehend the idea of 28.
I had so many in-betweens, eternities and a half in the moments ahead.
But that’s where all of life was lived — one day at a time, in all of the moments that fed into my stories to make them real. Journeys are always the scariest at the beginnings. Projects are always the most overwhelming when you’re cracking the very first book for research and thinking Six whole months here? It’s true — I probably would have died if someone tried to explain 28 to my 8 year old self.
But I wouldn’t trade all that time for anything.
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