For the first time, it had dawned upon me that we might actually have to live in Los Angeles. When we packed our bags and took a few simple things to spend the month of April here in California, it never even occurred to me that our lives could be shuffled out here in a much more permanent way. Now that I’m actually faced with the proposition, I suddenly miss the little farm in Columbia County with the longing of a hundred distant suns. When our manager talked about writing pilots until Halloween, all I could think about was my pumpkin patch.
Obviously it would be the thrill of a lifetime to actually get a job writing for television, the sort of rat-a-tat-tat all-consuming team collaboration that I’ve been missing since my days at the DTH. It would also be an amazing testament to Tessa, who managed to miss all American television from 1977-83 (just think about that) and can still deliver dialogue with the effortlessness of the natives.
But I’m reminded of the day I came home from a winter school trip in 12th grade, to find that my mother had left town and taken my brother and sister with her. I had no idea she was even looking for another job, I had no idea I’d suddenly be alone in my room, and I felt an abandonment as pure as a puppy.
In her defense, she was offered an incredible job writing, editing and recording every song you ever sang in grades K through 9 (and certainly didn’t need my permission) but that sense of “the rug being pulled out” is very palpable, and I’m feeling a bit of it now.
Is it possible to pull the rug out from under yourself? And are there usually nice hardwood floors hiding underneath?