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August 23, 1968

 

August 23, 1968

 This entry reminds me of a line from Annie Hall by Woody Allen – “I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.”  The quote has also been attributed to Groucho Marx and it crystalizes some Freudian concepts (according to something I read on the internet). While the quote isn’t mine, the idea it expresses resonates.

Literary Screening Committee
Wilcox 1967 Literary Screening Committee (School Magazine)

 The moment I got kicked off the Wilcox literary magazine, I wanted to get back in. Once reinstalled, I lost interest. Cathy was right when she questioned my commitment, although she should’ve done it to my face. Wanting what I’ve lost (or can’t have) wreaked havoc with my adolescent love life. Nice guys who genuinely liked me got taken for granted; I obsessed about jerks who couldn’t care less. I identified with sad songs of unrequited love, not joyful tunes about finding my soulmate.

Wilcox Literary Magazine '68
Wilcox Literary Magazine ’68

Sad lyrics still move me more than happy ones, but today I make better choices. That said, sometimes I still treat the people closest to me worse than I treat virtual strangers, whose approval I crave. Fortunately, the people I love – who love me back – are forgiving and understanding. They deserve my best and one of these days, they’ll get it.

 

August 13, 1989

August 13, 1989

The Villa - Elizabeth Taylor's former digs were just down the beach
The Villa – Elizabeth Taylor’s former digs were just down the beach

It’s weird to read an entry like this when photographs of the same day tell a different story. Several explanations spring to mind.

  1. I’m a born curmudgeon and complainer.
  2. I suffered a hormonal imbalance.
  3. It takes me a while to acclimate to new places.
  4. I lost at bridge, which always puts me in a terrible mood.
  5. No matter where I find myself, I want to be somewhere else.
  6. All of the above.
Me with our host, Ed Cutter
Me with our host, Ed Cutter

In 1989, the answer was “all of the above.” In the ensuing decades, I’d like to think I’ve matured to the extent that I no longer yearn to be someplace else. On the contrary, I’m grateful to be exactly where I am right now.

John, me, Ed Cutter
John, me, Ed Cutter

Why did it take me so long to realize the benefits of living here and now, something most people don’t need to “learn” at all? I believe I was born this way. If you know anything about the enneagram, I identify as a #4 – people prone to melancholy nostalgia over a lost, idealized past. Not exactly the life of any party (that might be a #7).

Puerto Vallarta 1

You can’t get over being a #4 (or any other number) – we are all who we are. That doesn’t mean we can’t be a better version of ourselves.

Puerto Vallarta 2

In this case, believe the pictures – not my words.

 

August 2, 2004

 

August 2, 2004

Friends forever - Chris Varaste and I
Friends forever – Chris Varaste and I

Looking back, I realize Chris was correct – I handed him a sheaf of shapeless unedited diary entries. Not only did they lack a story, they didn’t have a point.  The only reason Joyce and I weren’t bored witless was we were in the cast of characters. This was neither the first nor the only time I resisted negative feedback only to recognize its wisdom later.

My friend of at least two decades, Chris Varaste, with my dog Nicky
My friend of at least two decades, Chris Varaste, with my dog Nicky

When readers fail to rhapsodize over my first draft – which has happened exactly never – my first reaction is, at best, defensive. Sometimes, I’m downright hostile.  That’s one of the reasons friends like Chris are so valuable. They’re not afraid to tell me the truth because they know that after my ego settles down, we’ll still be speaking.

Chris and I with Zelda
Chris and I with Zelda

No writer enjoys criticism, but I’ve come to realize it’s a gift. Some people can’t accept it. If I recognize them, I tell them their first draft is perfect. Taking the time to analyze the strengths and weaknesses in someone else’s work is a sign of respect – even though it doesn’t feel like that when I’m on the receiving end.

July 30, 1994

July 30, 1994

How I try to look on social occasions like birthday parties.
How I try to look on social occasions like birthday parties.

I don’t need a personality test to tell me I’m a classic introvert. Reserved, reflective, check. Prefer observation to participation, check.  Exhausted by too much social stimulation, check.

How I really feel after too much socialization.
How I really feel after too much socialization.

However, for a brief spell in my thirties, I passed as an extrovert. John and I threw outrageous parties and paid heavenly bills. Instead of waiting for invitations, I had to send them.  I had to place calls (and risk having them not returned!) instead of waiting for people to call me. Hardest of all, I had to feign interest in other people’s lives instead of thinking about me, me, me all the time. It didn’t come naturally, that’s for sure.

David Schnorr (?), Dianne Simon (?), Dale, Michael Elias, J, Debbie Blum, Laraine Mestman (I'm taking the photo)
David Schnorr (?), Dianne Simon (?), Dale, Michael Elias, J, Debbie Blum, Laraine Mestman (I’m taking the photo)

Amazingly, 27 years ago, we made it to a birthday party in South Pasadena and a dinner party in Beverly Hills and had a fine time at both! Today, either one of those events would exhaust my reservoir of sociability for a week. I need my time alone to wonder what you think about me.

David Schnorr & Dianne Simon (?), me, J, Debbie Blum, Dale, Laraine Mestman (Elias behind camera)
David Schnorr & Dianne Simon (?), me, J, Debbie Blum, Dale, Laraine Mestman (Elias behind camera)

I suspect even extroverts socialize less as they age, despite theoretically having more time. A couple of F. Scott Fitzgerald quotes suggest depressing reasons why.

F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald

It is in the thirties

For most men and women

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beneath his party-boy facade, he must’ve been an introvert.

July 24, 1979

July 24, 1979

Around 1979 (I think)
Around 1979 (I think)

I’ve always looked to others, frequently male, for validation, especially when it came to my looks. My personal bar for beauty was Jean Shrimpton. I was tall, but she was taller and thinner. The Shrimp didn’t suffer bad hair days. She never over-plucked one eyebrow, dyed her hair an unfortunate shade of orange or popped a pimple, as far as I could tell.

JS

When I was 17, all I saw in the mirror was my chipped front tooth, the scar on my lower lip, my nose. Time changes everything. I’m sure I’m not the only boomer babe who stumbles across a photo of her teen-age self and thinks, “Wow. I used to be something” – even if I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room.

At 17
At 17

I’m not the girl in those photos anymore and I’ll never be the prettiest girl in the room, unless it’s an AARP meeting. So what? Dave gave me a much more important compliment that night. There’s no shelf life on being interesting. It’s possible I’ll be more interesting at 100 than I was at 28 – even as my skin and joints go downhill.

Today - not 100 yet - but far from 17!.
Today – not 100 yet – but far from 17!

Every year it’s easier to recognize what holds its value. My family. My faculties. I’m no longer young and beautiful, but plenty of people love my “aching soul.” For me, today, that’s enough.

July 18, 1974

July 18, 1974

Inga and I share a melancholy moment in San Diego.
Inga and I share a melancholy moment in San Diego.

Moving back in with my parents at age 23 was not part of my master plan, but there I was – stuck in my old bedroom in San Diego. I’d blown my first shot at the dream – being a professional screenwriter. I didn’t have a plan B.

Inga and I catch some zzzzs on the family room sofa.
Inga and I catch some zzzzs on the family room sofa.

I needed a new launching pad. Academia had been kind to me. I applied to USC’s grad school. In those days, UCLA ran roughly $250 a quarter. I don’t have figures for USC, but it’s safe to surmise you can add a couple zeros to that even in ’74 dollars.  The only way I could swing it was if  I moved in with my parents and saved my pennies.

Inga and I lounge on the floor (I have no idea about the white fluff).
Inga and I lounge on the floor (I have no idea about the white fluff).

San Diego is a beautiful city. Everyone says so. Unfortunately, my parents relocated there during my first year at UCLA. My life-long friends lived in Santa Clara. What’s an introvert like me to do? Make new friends? I don’t think so.

I refinish an old desk in our San Diego backyard. Something I would never, ever do. But I did.
I refinish an old desk in our San Diego backyard. Something I would never, ever do. But I did.

I clung to an old friend, the one who never (willingly) left my side – Inga, the dog I brought home from the LA pound. Even when I didn’t deserve it, she gave me limitless love and devotion. If you need a friend who won’t let you down, someone steadfast and loyal who quivers with bliss at the gentle touch of your hand………..

Check out your local animal shelter. I’ve never been sorry I did.
Check out your local animal shelter. I’ve never been sorry I did.

Please do check out your local animal shelter, as I did and continue to do.  I’ve never been sorry.  Let me know your story.

May 17, 1969


May 17, 1969 Diary Blog Today I wonder if I read the situation and reacted appropriately. I was barely eighteen. I assumed Bob’s invitation to dinner and a movie was a date; perhaps it was. In any case on the following day, I told him I couldn’t go.  He looked hurt which made me feel as awful as I expected. After that, he avoided the store when I was working.

KK - 18 A

Writing this, I’m older than Bob was when he asked me out. That hasn’t kept me from forming friendships with some of my former millennial students. Maybe all Bob wanted was somebody sympathetic to talk to. There’s no way to read someone’s intentions, especially fifty years after the fact.

KK - 18 C

So, if my eighteen-year-old self had another chance to respond to this invitation – given today’s accumulated wisdom and experience – would I react the same way? Probably. I wish I could claim I’d have the self-awareness and courage to explain myself instead of saying “yes” then backing out at the last minute. The sad truth is, I still say “yes” to far too many invitations knowing I won’t follow through – proof one can grow old without becoming wise.

 

May 6, 1964

May 6, 1964

What made these particular incidents so traumatic was feeling publicly humiliated. I didn’t realize nobody paid the slightest attention to me or my embarrassment. I took myself far too seriously. I still do, but not to this deranged degree.

Worrying about what other people think of me (they don't)
Worrying about what other people think of me (they don’t)

The other thing that anchors this entry in 1964 is the reference to a “Jonah” day. Growing up PK, we play-acted Bible stories like the Good Samaritan or the Israelites discovering “manna” (cookie dough). Biblical names were part of our language. “Jonah day” isn’t a term I’d use today but it’s familiar – I know what I meant even though some details are hazy.  It involved Jonah in the belly of a whale which – I learned much later – is one of many universal myths, variations on Carl Jung’s “dark night of the soul.” The symbolism in many Bible stories ran deeper than my adolescent imagination could comprehend. I was lucky to be exposed to them.

I'm not sure what this game was, but Janet and my Dad are having fun.
I’m not sure what this game was, but Janet and my Dad are having fun.

As so often happens when I review old diary entries, events I considered tragic in 1964 seem merely amusing today. This gives me hope that today’s disasters will – someday – be revealed as trivial, forgettable.

 

 

 

May 2, 1965

May 2, 1965

 A PK?

A spoiled 13-year-old wrote this. Reading it today, I realize how incredibly lucky I was to be my father’s daughter even though as a PK (Preacher’s Kid), I felt pressured to be an “example” to others. The pressure didn’t come from my father. If anything, he urged me to be exactly who I was. Don’t act religious to please him. Don’t go Satanic to rebel. Listen to your own voice.

My dad, my mom and the three PK's
My dad, my mom and the three PK’s

I didn’t get any static when I chose UCLA instead of a Lutheran college. He made no effort to direct me toward a more practical major than film writing. He was even fine when I married a Catholic.

I think the idea that PK’s should be held to a higher standard is a commonly held, rarely challenged belief. That’s why a casual observer like Jane’s mother could say, “Somehow, we thought the pastor’s daughter would be different.” It’s why Dusty Springfield sang about being despoiled by “the son of a preacher man,” not “the son of a plumber.” It’s just the way it is.

Standing proudly next to my father
Standing proudly next to my father

Growing up PK was a challenge I didn’t choose but in retrospect it was a privilege. I wouldn’t trade a minute of being Pastor Vance’s daughter to be anyone else.

 

April 23, 1979

April 23, 1979

 I remember this well – my excitement was so intense it’s still indescribable. All of those times I came so close to my goal and missed taught me to lower my expectations. I didn’t let myself hope for more than another meeting. To learn my spec script had been optioned by a real producer for real money (not a lot, but more than I’d ever made writing before) seemed surreal.Writing - the dream
Part of me always believed I’d make it as a writer, otherwise I wouldn’t have pursued it – but another part saw a screenwriting career as a dream, out of reach.  One of my high school teachers told me I wouldn’t be a real writer until someone paid me to write and I believed her – so, Steve Friedman optioning the script was validation.

Writing - looks like a vacuum cleaner sitting unattended in the messy background.
Writing – looks like a vacuum cleaner sitting unattended in the messy background.

In my dizzy euphoria, I assumed everything would be different now – my career would come easily. That proved overly optimistic. Steve didn’t make the movie and the option lapsed. The same script would be optioned twice more, by two different producers, and it attracted some top-tier female directors and talent, but as of today it remains unproduced.Page One - 17 ©
Doesn’t matter. It’s still one of the top ten days of my life.