I’ve been a Nashville singer/songwriter and a Hollywood script doctor, a professional photographer and a political consultant, a kept woman and the Happy Hour Girl at the Airport Hilton in Allentown, Pennsylvania.
I’ve skinned road-kill raccoons and learned to cut my own firewood and unclog my own sinks and kill my own spiders (and later, not to kill them at all). I’ve climbed mountains in high heels, and given corporate presentations in bare feet, and stood on a runway and felt an F16 fighter jet kick diesel fuel back into my face on takeoff.
At 18, I upheld the family tradition and married a man I didn’t love to get out of a situation I didn’t want to be in. Five years later, I left dinner and a goodbye note and drove 2500 miles to New York City with a guitar playing ex-con who smoked too much weed and looked too much like Tom Cruise.
(Of course) Tom broke my heart, and so I packed up and drove myself, my cats and a binder full of mostly-finished songs west on I-40 to Nashville, where I slept with a record producer to get my CD cut and a film director to get my video produced, and got as far as an almost-record deal before I realized what I had to sing about wasn’t worth the price required to sing it, so I went to Hollywood where the price was higher still.
As a screenwriter, I wrote words for other people and forgot that I had any of my own. One night, I drove a brand new silver BMW M100x down Wilshire Boulevard at 90 mph with an ex-race car driver, changing lanes on his say-so without checking my mirrors, laughing and immortal and in love.
I’ve danced with a coven around a bonfire in the Tennessee woods at midnight, and felt a calling to be a nun while standing on the wild Oregon coast at dawn. I believe in science and I believe in God and I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t spend generous amounts of time thinking about whether or not the universe goes on forever, and if it doesn’t, what’s at the end of it and what’s after that.
I will never get over Princess Diana’s death.
I’ve ended two pregnancies, one I mourned and one I didn’t. I’ve slept with men to get what I wanted and I’ve slept with men I loved and ended up alone either way. I’ve been a wife and a lover and the lover of a man with a wife.
I’ve been in love with a spy and I know what the inside of an S&M dungeon is like and those two things are related in ways that I’m sworn to secrecy about.
I’ve been generous and compassionate and forgiving and wise, and I’ve been jealous and self-righteous and rigid and rude. I’ve made terrible choices I can never take back, and leaps of faith that changed my life in an instant. I trust no one and I trust too much. I’ve learned that love isn’t enough, that chances are taken and not given, that wisdom is more important than knowledge and that no matter where you go, there you are.
I’m terrified of dying and unapologetically in love with my dog (and cat) and have mad crushes on John Denver and Billy Joel, and lesser crushes on Dr. Tom from “Being Erica,” and Rodrigo from “Mozart in the Jungle.” Spike was a better match for Buffy than Angel was, and Doggett was a better match for Scully than Mulder was.
Sometimes I confuse being important with being happy.
I’m an edgewalker and semi-feral and not quite tame, and I’m happiest in the middle of nowhere within walking distance from everything. The only place I really want to live is Cicely, Alaska, and the only things in life I can’t do without are my self-respect, and the company of animals and wild places.