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Quarter to Life

August 3, 2000. 2:22 PM. Twenty-five years later. Something about the quarter-life sentiment struck the fear of God in me. Am I really at my quarter-life point? My father — three strokes and two heart attacks before fifty. Still hanging in there, somehow. My father’s father died of a stroke before fifty. My father’s mother died before forty, of cancer. I’ve already had open-heart surgery. Sure, they had their vices: smoking, chewing, sitting around. I don’t remember my grandfather. I never met my grandmother. The only biological grandparent I have left is sitting in memory care. I want veins on my arms and legs. I want clear piss. No acne. A jawline.  When friends ask me to hike Mount Timpanogos, I don’t want to debate myself. I don’t want limits anymore. Being active has always been the solution to everything, so why the hell have I avoided it? I want to feel better. Look better. Live better. I want sex to be better. I just want to be better. The uncertainty of what’s ahead flippe...
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Creative Insularity and Becoming Someone Worth Listening To

I publicly screened my first and only directed film twice. Once at a student showcase, and once at a film festival in Montecito, California. Both times, my film played near the end, so I sat through everything that came before. As I watched, compared, critiqued, and sometimes admired, I started noticing a pattern. A sort of domestic sameness in many of the films. We were all in a bubble.

I went to film school to get better at screenwriting. I wasn’t there to impress anyone. I just wanted to understand the full script-to-screen process. So when I watched the other films, I looked for the story. Some were beautifully shot, impressively edited, and even had standout scores. But writing rarely seemed to be the focus. A lot of these projects, including mine, felt like they were written just to have something to shoot. A showcase for technical skill. My own script was rushed. I didn’t put real care into it. That’s a regret, but also a lesson.

My film, like many others, lacked a lived-in feel. It didn’t come from a place of experience. I saw the same storylines again and again. The alcoholic father. The emotionally absent or unstable mother. The rebellious kid trying to escape. These stories weren’t new. They can be told in fresh, stylistic ways, but at the core, they were all too familiar.

It reminded me of advice I got years ago. Someone told me I write like I haven’t lived a life that has shaped a clear voice. It wasn’t an insult. Just honest feedback. And watching my film, I realized I hadn’t broken that pattern. Not yet.

After the Montecito screening, I knew something had to change. I couldn’t stay in the same place, doing the same things, and expect to grow. I needed to move. I needed to make a shift in my life.

That shift was delayed. I was still living with a girl at the time. Two months later, she left. She had every right to, but it left me feeling empty. 

So I packed up and left too. No real plan. I just needed to start over. The goal of becoming a writer was still there, but I couldn’t stay in a place that wasn’t giving me anything.

Since then, I’ve been writing every day. I’ve gotten published in different outlets. Met people who feel grounded and real. Finished two feature scripts, two pilot specs, and I’m close to finishing a third feature I’ve been working on for three years.

Things are starting to look up. I still have things to figure out, but I feel like I’m finally moving in the right direction.

There’s one last thing I want to admit. I used to hate Damien Chazelle. I thought he was this Harvard guy who got lucky. I didn’t understand how someone who seemed to come from comfort could write with that kind of depth. I resented it.

Then I watched La La Land.

It was the first movie that ever made me cry. Not just tear up. Really cry.

Now I want to open a jazz club.