Being a writer means always having to say you’re sorry. To the network, to the studio for not delivering the perfect draft, to your family for spending too much time at the computer, to your dogs for not staying long enough at the park, to your friends, for not returning their calls fast enough and most of all, to yourself. The script isn’t good enough, you didn’t crack the story yet, act two sags… What’s at stake? Well, not much. The characters are too nice, too nasty, too shallow, too complex and of course, you’re sorry. Being a writer also means that you never stop writing. You may be driving, writing an email, getting a pap smear or waiting in line for an iPhone, but you’re still writing. You’re thinking about the story, editing the script, thinking about a scene that doesn’t work and you’re tortured. Stress. Anxiety. High blood pressure. Racing heart. Insomnia. Acid reflux. Absolute conviction that you’ll never sell another thing again. No more medical insurance. And then we’re back to stress. So, my holistic doctor, who, for years, has been telling me that yoga would really really help me, finally broke through. Okay. I’ll try it again. Maybe this time it will take. Now, I’ve always been an athletic person. I was a devoted, obsessive ballet dancer until I was eighteen and realized that it was either ballet or college, and since I’m Jewish, there was no contest. In summer camp as a little kid, I was the fastest girl runner in my left-wing, Commie, interracial camp in the Catskills, until a black girl with really long legs arrived one summer and beat me in the Olympics. I was so pissed. I really like to win. When Jane Fonda’s Workout opened in L.A., there I was, four times a week, doing aerobics with Jane and her incredibly toned band of instructors. I was in fabulous shape. But then, I became a writer. And now I need yoga. Because I’m very very stressed.
I’ve tried numerous yoga classes over the years and frankly, I just get bored. I try to be spiritual, I’d really like to hang out in an ashram with Gurumayi, feel the buzz of true enlightenment and change my life. I’d like to be serene. Right. So, I decide to give yoga one more chance. Even my gastroenterologist, (remember the acid reflux?) does Iyengar yoga and he seems very serene.
My gym in Beverly Hills has lots of yoga classes and I already pay for membership, so why not take classes there for free? After a full day of writing, I decide to give it a try. This will be my first step toward de-stressing, toward finding true inner peace, to stopping the goddamn pounding in my heart because I live and work in Hollywood, in an ageist business, with great health insurance only if you keep on working and executives who don’t read books and have no idea who Proust is or what madeleines really taste like. So I go to the class.
When I walk into the supposedly “serene” room, all I smell is sweat and the heat is overwhelming. It’s like a sauna. Is this relaxing? I don’t think so. But since I’m in search of true enlightenment, I grab a mat, take off my shoes and wait for the instructor. Breathe. Everyone else seems to already BE serene, so I really feel like I got off at the wrong bus stop. But I start doing stretches. Those I can do. Still. I’m limber, I’m pretty strong and I want to de-stress. I can stay on the treadmill for 30 minutes, so what could be so hard about this class? The instructor finally comes in and asks us to get into child position. I can do that. I used to be a child. Then, the dog. Great. I have two at home. Then some other animal and then the swan. He asks us to bring light from heaven into our hearts and I’m thinking about my act two that sags. I’ll never figure it out. Shit. Why is act two so damn hard? That’s what’s killing me in the script I’m writing now. Breathe. Concentrate on the breath. Back to the dog. Relax. If I sell it, I can keep my medical insurance. Breathe. Oh, did I Tivo “Big Love” for a season pass or just the next episode? My wrists are hurting. My wrists? What is that???? Oh my god, that guy to my right looks just like Robocop. Wow, it IS Robocop. Shit, he looks OLD! If that could happen to Robocop, then what on earth has happened to me? Don’t look in the mirror. But there are mirrors everywhere in this room. Keep your eyes closed. I better look up Robocop on IMDB and if he’s not older than I am, I’ll slit my wrists. Where’s my BlackBerry? I could do it right now and then I’d be serene. I could really relax if Robocop is older than I am. My wrists still hurt. Is there any data about wrist pain and serenity? I should have taken some Advil before this de-stressing yoga class. Or a tiny tiny bit of morphine. This wrist pain is stressing me out. Oh, look… there’s Matthew Perry. I really liked “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.” “Clear your mind. Focus on the breath,” says the teacher. Okay, so maybe every character on the show talked like they were on “The West Wing.” Is that really such a bad thing? I liked the show. A lot. Aaron Sorkin is so brilliant. His dialogue is always great, the stories were compelling and yeah, it was a little inside, but they shouldn’t have cancelled it. I dug it. And now I have to take it off the Tivo. Why can’t I write a show like that? I’m actually writing a pilot right now, but I’m not as good as Aaron Sorkin. Why can’t I be as good as he is? He’s a genius. So? Does everyone have to be a genius? Can’t you just be… I don’t know… really really good? I’m halfway through it, but sometimes I find excuses not to write. Has that ever happened to you, Aaron? You probably sit down and just knock it out, Aaron. You’re probably so serene, Aaron. Fuck you, Aaron. Breathe. Watch your breath. My fucking wrists. What is this? Arthritis? Oh, look at that girl over there? She’d be perfect if she lost five pounds. Then I’d like to look just like her and I could get that guy to my left who’s thirty two or something. What is wrong with me? Do I want that girl to be anorexic? What kind of town is this? I should really go back to New York. People are normal there. This is a sick fucking town. Breathe. Relax. I hate cold weather, so I can’t go back to New York. Those gray winters. S.A.D. Totally. Focus on the breath. Swan. Dog. Bring the light from heaven. Could you give me a break? Don’t you know my wrists hurt? I need to see my doctor. Get some wrist medicine. Otherwise, I can’t do yoga and I’ll never relax. I’m doomed.
Let me just say that it’s so damn hot in this room I think I’m going to faint or throw up. I’ll do one more stretch. One more chance at serenity. Should I leave? I’m leaving. Then I’ll never – I’m leaving. Breathe. Dog. Swan. All I keep thinking is Chardonnay. Chardonnay. I roll up my mat. My instructor says “Have a nice day” with such heartfelt sincerity that I just know he’s mocking me. Serenity has eluded me. Defeated, I walk out of the class into the coolness of the gym. Oh my god, there’s the guy from “Alias!” Does EVERYONE come to this gym? He’s so much cuter in person. I need to get out of here. I’m so not serene. I failed at yoga. I failed at serenity. My mantra right now remains the same: Chardonnay, Chardonnay, Chardonnay. I hate yoga. I love Chardonnay. Chardonnay. Chardonnay. That is what being a writer is like in this town. And by the way, Robocop is older than I am. I looked him up.