For the love of an old dog

My best friend is walking a little slower these days. The dog who once drove me crazy begging for her dinner, now mostly sniffs it and needs to be coaxed to eat. She is deaf. She gets confused. She still gets excited to go for walks, but when we get four houses down the street, she's ready to go back home again. In the morning, she pauses at the top of the stairs, nervous that her legs might not work the way they used to.

So, I carry her down the stairs. And clean the floor when her bladder gives out. And hand-feed her scrambled eggs when she doesn't want to eat. And massage her stiff hips.

There are Good Days and what I optimistically call Less Good Days. But I'll be there for all the days until the end, making her as comfortable and happy as I can. And when there is no more comfort and happiness to be had, I'll be the one who has to decide that it's the end.

This is the deal we make when we love. This is the brutal contract we sign when we open our hearts. Whether we adopt a springy young thing or, like we did with Gracie, adopt a senior dog, it's pretty much guaranteed that they will leave and we will be shattered.

My husband and I walked into the SPCA four years ago and she was waiting for us. She chose us. And when the sign on her cage said "senior" - I winced. I winced because I didn't want to feel this helpless pain so soon. I wanted at least a decade with this crazy, speckled, toothless mutt. But she was our dog and she made that clear. So we brought her home and bought a bigger bed so she could sleep with us and we promised to be grateful for however long we got. We agreed to the deal.

But now I want to amend the contract. I want to negotiate for more time.

I'm dreading the day when there is no one waiting outside the bathroom door for me. The day when there is no one using me as a pillow as I binge-watch Breaking Bad. What is the point of 11 am if there is no walk with Grace? My shadow will be gone and a piece of me will be gone with her.

But that time is not now. Now, my job is to care for her in this final chapter, for however long that is. My job is to put her comfort above my sadness. I am here for her, in these times that are much less fun than the hikes and trips to the beach that we used to have. I don't turn away from the hard parts, it's my responsibility to be as devoted to her as she has always been to me.

This is love in action: I rub her back and give her medication and clean the floor for the third time today. I pester our vet with endless questions. I try to be thankful for these days, even as I know the heartbreak is coming.

The heartbreak is always coming.

This is what it means to be truly alive. To show up and feel what it is to be human - to not turn away because it's unpleasant. We have to surrender and lean into the whole of it. We fully experience love and loss, joy and pain, happiness and suffering. There is no way to have one without the other. They are intrinsically linked and no amount of negotiating with the universe will unravel them. Trust me. I've tried.

We are all brave as hell--those of us who love so entirely. We expect to be broken by our love. But we still do it, again and again, offering up our tender hearts, our endless devotion and our unconditional love for those wise souls who teach us how to be better humans.

And really, I'm not sure that there is a more beautiful way to be broken.

Speaking events in Elizabethtown, PA

Pennsylvania, I'm coming to visit! I'll be at Bowers Writers House at Elizabethtown College this weekend!

There will be three public events:

Dinner and Conversation with visiting author Lisa Jakub. Friday Oct. 16th, 6-8pm (wherein I try not to talk with my mouth full.)

You Look Like That Girl book signing. Saturday Oct. 17th, 2-3pm (wherein I try to spell your name correctly.)

Reading and Reflection: a special evening with visiting author Lisa Jakub. Saturday, Oct. 17th 7:30-9pm (wherein I read and reflect and try to make it special for you.)

For more information and to reserve your spot - click here.

There's real famous. Then there's me.

It is possible to leave Hollywood.

It's not easy.

People wrinkle their foreheads at you and ask "why?" in this tone that makes you feel like you have just announced your intention to dress yourself entirely in tinfoil. People say you're crazy for walking away from a good career just because it wasn't making you happy. But it can be done. You can leave the film industry and do new things and you can almost leave it all in the past. Almost.

Certain things tend to linger.

I've been friends with people for a while and they have no idea that I used to be an actor. They know me as I am now, a writer and a yoga teacher and a wife and a dog-mom. My acting past is simply not relevant. Usually, it will come up because I have to explain why I never graduated from high school or why I have DVDs of the movies that are still in theaters on my coffee table.

It's not like I'm legitimately famous. It's not like I walk into a room and I'm Jennifer Lawrence and everyone starts squealing. Occasionally, people recognize me. Often they squint at me and ask if we knew each other in high school. Or, it's just odd.

My past creates certain challenges when making new friends - because I don't know if they know, either from recognizing me or hearing about it from someone else. So, I don't say anything, because saying something would be obnoxious. Why does my old job matter now? Who's like "Oh, just so you know, 15 years ago, I worked at The Olive Garden, I hope that doesn't make things strange now."

So when I dance around the issue of my past, when I get flushed and nervous and look at my feet while using vague language like, "I was in Honduras once, for this...um...you know...work thing...." I look like I might be a repentant drug lord.

So, I test the waters and mumble "Oh, dunno if you know or not, I used to be an actor, so um...yeah...there's that." And I nervously wait for their reaction and try to come up with an excuse to check my phone.

I've had people get weirded out and uncomfortable, thinking this somehow makes me exotic and un-relatable because actors are apparently made of different stuff than regular folk.

I've had people get too excited and too comfortable and then they only want to talk about whether or not Fran Drescher really talks like that.

And then there is my all-time favorite reaction. When one of my friends found out, after months of knowing each other, she looked at me and said "Oh my God, it's like, you're....fake famous. That's hilarious. Hey, hand me that yoga mat."

She's right. I am fake famous. I have this little bit of recognizability, but I don't get mobbed in public or walk the red carpet anymore. I never enjoyed those things, they just sent my anxiety into overdrive. I like my life so much better now.

As it turns out, the authentic me is much happier being fake famous.

————– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter

You might also like:

• “You look so familiar” : what it’s like to get recognized
• Flying in full color: how to travel without getting divorced
• Learning how to run

Last call for my online writing class!

My online memoir class starts this weekend - want to join us?

This class is open to all levels - from experienced writers to those who have only written emails. All we require is passion and enthusiasm. You'll learn a lot about memoir craft, we'll do fun exercises to open the creative floodgates and I'll offer feedback on your work. We'll read great writing samples and totally nerd out about words. It'll be awesome fun.

Here are some of the topics we'll be covering.

• Class #1 - Where to begin: on beginnings, middles and ends
• Class #2 - The Hero's Journey: structure and story arc
• Class #3 - "Truth" and dealing with the real life people you write about
• Class #4 - Living like a writer: deadlines, scheduling and writer's block
• Class #5 - Go deeper: show don't tell and finding your voice
• Class #6 - Covering a few Ws: Character, dialogue and settings
• Class #7 - What's next? Pitching, queries, agents, publishing and editing

The class will be held ONLINE - on seven Sunday afternoons:

Sept. 27

Oct. 4, 25

Nov. 8, 15

Dec. 6, 13

 From 12 - 2 pm PST  (3 - 5 pm Eastern)

I hope you'll join me! No grades, no stress, just great information and motivation for your book. Sign up here.

(And if you want a little writing tip to get you started - here you go!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_Tx2j1I2bE

Want to hang out with me and write?

I'm teaching an online memoir writing class with Writing Pad! It's open to folks with all levels of writing experience - you just need to be courageous enough to want to share your story.  This is going to be a fun, supportive environment where we can all work together and create something wonderful.

The class will be held ONLINE - on seven Sunday afternoons: Sept. 27, Oct. 4, 25, Nov. 8, 15, Dec. 6, 13

 12 - 2 pm PST  (3 - 5 pm Eastern)

I hope you'll join me! Sign up here.

(And if you want a little writing tip to get you started - here you go!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_Tx2j1I2bE

Recipe for happiness: squash the expectations

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This is apparently the mathematical breakdown of what it means to be happy. I totally agree, don't you?

Actually, my idea of happiness doesn't ever include exponents, but what this equation means is totally fantastic.

There was recently an article in The Atlantic that offers this equation and says that happiness doesn't depend on how things are going. It depends on whether things are going better or worse than you thought they would.

Happiness is all about expectations. 

This is entirely true in my experience. My life used to go like this:

• I get manically excited about something (starting a Facebook page to share my blog)

• it starts off the way I hoped it would (I post stuff, I have 9,000 people following the page)

• then, that's not enough, I change my expectations and emotionally crash because I don't have the upgraded version of that manically exciting thing (why do I not have 90,000 people following the page?)

And when things don't go at all as I expected? If someone doesn't respond the way I want them to respond, or I work really hard on something and it flops - suddenly I'm curled up on the couch claiming I'm eternally destined to be a dismal failure. It's a screwed-up roller coaster of emotional angst.

And it's the nature of the human condition.

It seems we've always been that way, and that's why 2,500 years ago, the Buddha said that life is suffering. (He used the Pali word dukkha, which could be less-dramatically translated as "unsatisfactory" or "stressful.") We suffer because we are constantly clinging to something that is slipping away. Everything is slipping away because everything is impermanent and nothing lasts forever.

Which seems kind of dark and horrifically depressing, until you realize this is just the reality of the world and there is an answer for dealing with it:

• The Buddha called it equanimity

• The coach from the UVA men's basketball team told his guys to not get "too high on themselves or too low"

• Gin Blossoms said "If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down."

It's all about managing expectations. Of course there are things we want. That's good. But when we tie our self-worth and inner peace to whether or not we get them, that's when the trouble starts.

I want to do well in life.

I want everyone to like me.

I want to have a nice glass of scotch without it giving me a massive headache.

I can't always have all the things I want. But I want them anyway. And sometimes, I expect them. Which, if I look at that another way, can seem like I'm saying that I am entitled to have those things. And an attitude of entitlement is gross.

So, is the answer to never want anything? Or to wander around like Eeyore expecting life to generally suck? No. It's finding that beautiful middle ground. It's about living in a place of contentment, where what you have is enough, and your expectations are humble - so you are pleased when things are going well and only slightly ruffled when they are not. It's riding that wave of life with gratitude, rather than fighting with the tides because you'd prefer if the ocean was a puddle.

Let's stop thinking the world owes us something, let's work hard but let go of the emotional attachment to the outcome, let's be kind without looking to get something in return. Suddenly, 99% of what happens is a joyful surprise.

And that is a really happy thing.

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

You might also like:

• Don't just do something - sit there

• Why I write: losing and finding my voice

• Panic attacks, social anxiety and other perks of being me

The art of stealing: books I loved while writing mine

Since my book was published, I've been getting a lot of book-ish questions.

I was recently giving a talk to writing students and they asked me what I like to read, and what I think writers should be reading. I found myself saying, "I think it's important to read great work and then steal it."

I quickly backtracked - okay, I'm not encouraging you to 'steal' as in 'plagiarize.' I mean steal like...borrow another author's voice and try it on. See what it looks like with your own spin. A voice is just like a dress, it's not going to look the same on me as it does on Heidi Klum. But learning how writers we admire use words and tone, and then seeing what that looks like when reflected through our own unique lens, can be really beneficial.

This doesn't just apply to writing. Inspiration about how to live well and work better is all around us - it can come from anywhere. We get to observe the world around us and decide what aspects we want (or really don't want) in our own lives.

Here are some books that inspired me while I was writing my book.

Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim - David Sedaris

I love to read anything and everything from this man. I attended his reading once, so it's fantastic to hear his cadence in my head as I read his books and New Yorker articles. His attention to detail and ability to find side-stitching humor in mundane circumstances delights my soul. Because of this book, my book got funnier.

Stories I Only Tell My Friends - Rob Lowe

Hands down the best celebrity memoir I've ever read. He tells great stories and is honest and I loved it. I found it interesting that he was able to stay throughly engaged in the actor's life - something I personally was not able to do. It's the perfect example of people needing to pursue their bliss - whatever that is. Because of this book, my book got more candid.

A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving

This one is a classic for me and I reread it often. The characters are what bring me back. They are developed and flawed and confusing. They are real to me. I wonder about how they are doing now. Because of this book, my book got more interesting characters.

1Q84 - Haruki Murakami

This was my first Murakami book and I freaked out over it. It was so strange. I've always been worried about fitting in and being seen as "normal" and this book was wacky and totally okay with it. Such a fun, crazy read. Because of this book, my book got a little weirder.

The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt

I fell madly in love with this one. The detail of the narrative was exquisite and I felt every detail of that world in all five senses. It was all so vivid to me that I still miss that world, and I have an enduring literary crush on Theo, the main character. Because of this book, my book got more detailed.

Liz Gilbert - TED Talks

"Liz Gilbert is your spirit animal" - my husband.

When I was writing, I read The Signature of All Things, which was beautiful, but it was really her talks that got me. Her TED Talk on creativity broke my world open. I think every writer/artist/creative soul should watch Your elusive creative genius.

Still Writing - Dani Shapiro

A lovely little book about writing, meditation and presence. Some of my favorite things. My writing process got more easeful, as I remembered to breathe through the challenging parts and remember that it's all part of the bigger picture. Because of this book, my book got more spiritually connected.

On Writing - Stephen King

One of my very favorite books about writing. Part practical instruction, part memoir, this book ignites my soul on those days when sitting down in front of the computer feels too painful to even contemplate. Because of this book, my book got done.

We are constantly evolving and changing as human beings, whether you are a writer or a painter or a dental hygienist. It's a wonderful thing to keep reassessing what you want for yourself and your work - because that is always in flux. That's the beautiful thing about life - we get to start over, every day, and decide who we want to be.

Books are an incredible way to explore your options, and the world...and you don't even have to leave your couch.

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

You might also like:

• A love note to books
• Storytelling: honesty or exploitation?
• Reader question: on motivation, writing and everything else

Embrace your weird

I've always felt like I was weird.

I'm goofy and dorky and awkward. I make faces like that when I'm supposed to be a composed bride.

Sometimes people stare at me. There is pointing. And whispering.

I didn't go to school the way most other people did. I had different experiences and I didn't know things that other people knew about. I didn't know how to play hopscotch or jacks, I knew how to play poker and craps - those were the kinds of games we played on set.

I was super insecure about that. I liked my job as an actor, I enjoyed working, but I also felt ashamed because it made me different.

I felt like I'd never fit in anywhere.

But I've realized that the vast majority of people feel like they are different for one reason or another. They think that they don't fit in. That they have to hide something about themselves so that other people will accept them.

But the problem with that fear is that it isolates us and keeps us in situations that stifle our talent and true purpose.

That thing that makes us feel weird is actually really important. That thing can make us powerful. Because if we can learn to embrace that, we can do anything. If we embrace our weirdness, we can be our true selves and bring our own unique perspective and experience to the world.

Hiding and feeling ashamed just doesn’t work. The desperate desire to fit in only makes us invisible.

I was always terrified to share my writing because I was worried that people would tell me that I sucked...and I didn’t know if I could recover from that. But I realized that I'd never be happy if I didn’t at least attempt thing I was most passionate about. It got to the point where it was more painful to stifle what I loved than it was to be criticized for it.

After I started this blog -- that really scary thing actually happened. There were some people who told me I sucked. Anonymous Huffington Post commenters said all the terrible things I worried people would say, that I was washed up and irrelevant and a bad writer and it made me cry and feel miserable.

It felt like a punch in the face.

But it didn’t kill me.

Because, actually, it didn’t matter what they thought of me. There are plenty of other things those people can read on the internet. There are lots of things about cats wearing sunglasses and endless Buzzfeed lists -- and I hope they enjoy those more than my work. Eventually, I stopped crying and went back to my desk and I wrote more. Because my job is to write. Because it's none of my business what those other people think about me - it matters most what I think about me.

That's what happens when you embrace your weird.

When you get comfortable with your weird, then you no longer feel the need to pick on someone else for theirs.

In embracing my weird, I wrote my first book. And then my second book. I started giving talks at colleges, high schools, and conferences. I brought to light everything that I was once ashamed of. I talked about how I never graduated from high school, that characters in books were my best friends, that I struggle with anxiety and panic attacks.

I've gotten to the point where I would rather fail than quit - and that's when cool things become possible.

——–

(By the way, this is pretty much what I talk about when I do workshops and talks. If you think your school/conference/company might want to hear more about embracing your weird - contact me - LisaJakub108@gmail.com) You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

You might also like:

• What are you?
• Clubbing baby actors
• Little Mis-Perfect

Fighting the demons: typos

I started acting when I was four years old and by the time I was five, directors had nicknamed me "One Take Jake" because I tended to be well-prepared and didn't usually need more than one take. I've always prided myself on my ability to get in there and get it done. Get the shot. Nail it the first time.

But this means I give myself very little wiggle room when it comes to making mistakes.

I could not be more thrilled that my book is being published, and the day it went to print was overwhelming/exciting/terrifying. Then, a few days later, I started recording the audio book. In recording the audiobook and reading each one of my words out loud - I came face to face with my demons.

Typos.

I found typos.

I had read through the final version of my book at least four times, but some typos got through. My husband read it, but some typos got through. My publisher's editor and proofreader read it, but some typos got through.

How have I dealt with this discovery of typos?

I decided I didn't want to publish my book anymore.

I decided I didn't deserve to call myself a writer.

I decided that the years of hard work that I put into this were worthless because the book is completely ruined.

I've been essentially having a temper tantrum, like a toddler who dropped her ice cream cone. I'm frustrated that I didn't catch these typos and I'm worried that readers will think I'm dumb. I want to run and hide in shame. But there is nothing I can do about these typos - the book is printed. If we do another printing, we can fix them, but there is simply nothing else to be done about it.

That's the thing about life. We can't always go back and fix our mistakes. Sometimes we just have to surrender to whatever it is, even if that means accepting that we are disappointed. But being disappointed is not going to kill us.

The Serenity Prayer might be cliché at this point, but it is so very valid. I just make a slight edit to it:

God grant me the serenity to accept the [typos] I cannot change; the courage to change the [typos] I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

I have a hard time accepting the perfectionist label for  myself because I don't feel the need to be perfect all the time. I don't care about my hair or makeup or clothes, I don't care if my house looks like the Pottery Barn catalogue or if I have whatever thing is the cool thing. But I do care about my work. It's the thing that I feel most vulnerable about. It is an expression of my soul, and apparently, I want it to seem perfect.

Brené Brown talks a lot about perfectionism. It is essentially the idea that if you are perfect and have everything under control all the time, that you will escape criticism, blame and ridicule. It's a shield that we carry around, thinking that it will protect us. But all that shield does is weigh us down and keep us from really being seen. It doesn't protect us from suffering at all, it just masks our authentic selves. It's different from healthy striving, which is internally focused - perfectionism is driven by the fear of what other people will think.

It's pretty clear which of these I'm dealing with.

I have caused myself a massive amount of suffering over these damn typos. My perfectionism is causing pain, not protecting me from it. And when I look around me, there is not a single person in my life that I love because they are "perfect." There is no one I respect more because they seem to do everything right. If anything, the people I love and respect are the ones that screw up and laugh it off, the ones who do things in a way that works for them, regardless of what anyone else thinks.

So, of course, I'm still going to publish the book. It just has some mistakes in it. I tried my best, but I'm not perfect. I'm not One Take Jake anymore. I'm just me. I'm messy and I'm whatever is the opposite of a Grammar Nazi (a bunny rabbit who takes creative license?) and I don't write perfect, typo-free sentences. I write sentences that are full of life and passion and sometimes an extra word gets thrown in with all that excitement, or I forget to add an article. And although I do know the difference between chose and choose - that one got by me, too.

I hope you enjoy the book, anyway. Because typos and all - it's just me.

——–

If you want to know more about Brené Brown's work, check out The Gifts of Imperfection. I reread it in two days during my Typo Breakdown Spiritual Awakening.

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

You might also like:

• Panic attacks, social anxiety and other perks of being me
• Little Mis-Perfect
• On letting go: growing pains and book publishing

The curing of a sleepwalker: hypnosis, trust and a pretty fish

The sharp click of the breaker box was what woke me up. As my eyes came into focus, I snatched my hands away from the fuses and looked in horror as I wondered which ones I'd already flipped in my sleepy panic.

I was in my garage. And I was sleepwalking again.

Being a chronic sleepwalker is truly bizarre. Sleepwalking has a distinct undead quality. You wander around in a subconscious fog, unaware of surroundings but somehow functioning, albeit on a low level. Being in this limbo between sleep and wake feels both fascinating and terrifying. If you can get a little distance from it, it's pretty damn funny. It'd be even funnier if it were not an offshoot of my anxiety and panic attacks.

I've been sleepwalking since I was a child. It's something most people grow out of, but I never did. I've walked out of my house, I've wandered around like a creepy little zombie while staying at other people's houses, I've rearranged everything in my kitchen and have written myself desperately important notes - like "salad dressing singing." I walked out of my dorm room when I was studying for a summer at Oxford, franticly stumbling around the ancient halls like the ghost of Percy Shelley.

But eventually, the whole thing became less of an amusing quirk and more like it could lead to my unintentional death. My sleepwalking could be more appropriately called sleep running. Which, thanks to my inherent clumsiness and the fact that I'm not actually conscious, often means that I fall down. Falling down stairs and playing with electricity while in a undead state is just not good.

When my grandmother noticed the bruises on my arm, I explained that I had fallen down the stairs again while sleepwalking. She nodded knowingly; sleepwalking is a family trait. My grandma reported that her twin sisters used to sleepwalk -- together. (Yeah. I thought of The Shining, too.)

"You should try hypnosis," my Grandma said.

I had been to many doctors, who all claimed that sleepwalking is only manageable with drugs. The idea of knocking myself into oblivion every night didn't sound appealing. Also unappealing is the way comedian Mike Birbiglia deals with it, which involves a highly restrictive sleeping bag and wearing mittens so he can't undo the zipper.

But I had never been hypnotized before, and it sounded...out of control. It sounded like handing over my subconscious to be splayed open for judgment and manipulation, while I napped.

My poor, sleep deprived husband was building elaborate structures with chairs and sheets, topped with precariously placed bells, in his attempt to safely cage me in our bedroom. I still escaped every night like a sleepy Houdini. Something needed to change.

I went to a hypnotist who came highly recommended and was not one of those people who had a neon hand flashing in the window. Her office had a large bowl with one of those beautiful Siamese fighting fish in it, something that I found inexplicably comforting. It seemed to indicate permanence. Who would abscond in the night after training my brain to cluck like a chicken at the mention of the word "eggs" - if they had a fancy fish to care for? Fish are not easily transported, and who would leave a nice-looking fish like that to die of starvation?

The fish convinced me.

When I explained my almost-nightly routine, along with the graphic and detailed nightmares that involved violent acts with much blood and torment, she said,

"Okay, this session, we’ll get to know each other, because I can't hypnotise you if you don't trust me. Next time we'll go into deep trace, then we'll have one last clean up session."

"That's it?" I asked. She was so calm and confident and didn't seem unnerved by my 30 years of undead behavior at all.

"Well, trance is difficult and exhausting work. But yes, three sessions ought to take care of it."

Know what else is exhausting? Waking your husband up with your screaming twice a night. That's tiring, too. For a couple of people.

I decided to trust her.

Hypnosis is strange. It feels like being half-awake, like in those moments right before you fall asleep. I remember everything that went on. I never felt out of control or scared. I saw some really wild stuff way down there in my subconscious. Memories and thoughts and images float around. I told stories about things I hadn't thought about in years. I saw scenes play out that and I have no idea what they were. Was it all just my imagination? What is imagination, anyway? She walked me through my own brain, told me to visualize things and categorize them in my mind.

And since my sessions with her, four years ago, I'm pretty much cured. I've had a couple of relapses, which were largely margarita-induced.

Even after all this time, I can't really explain why it worked. Even though I don't run screaming through my house anymore, I still think of myself as a sleepwalker. It's kind of like being an alcoholic, you always hold on to that label of yourself.

It's strange to realize that you don't always know what is going on in your own mind. It's scary to admit that you don't totally understand. But eventually, you might need to surrender a little control and trust someone who is worthy of your trust. Sometimes you can find help in unusual places, and sometimes when you get there, there's a really nice fish.

——–

You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

You might also like:

• What are you?
• Psych 101: memories and lies
• Mom, mom’s mom and me: under one roof

You Look Like That Girl: Goodreads giveaway!

I'm giving away five Advanced Reader Copies of my memoir - enter to win at Goodreads. (And friend me while you are there, so we can talk about books!)Good luck!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

You Look Like That Girl

by Lisa Jakub

Giveaway ends June 07, 2015.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to Win

Managing anxiety: off the yoga mat and onto the stage

 

I went to Providence, Rhode Island last weekend to speak at Johnson & Wales University and The Lady Project Summit. I did a reading from my book, spoke on a writer's panel and gave a talk about the rewards and challenges living an authentic life and embracing who you really are.

It was a phenomenal weekend for many reasons. I  had lots of teary-eyed hugs with people who are on their own journeys towards living a life they truly believe in. I also met wonderful people like Maureen Petrosky who took me to Gracie's, which is a restaurant that not only has unbelievable food, but also shares a name with my dog.

I was also scared out of my mind a lot of the time.

I have structured a pretty quiet little life for myself. I struggle with anxiety and get overwhelmed easily, so I try to keep life as simple as possible. I spend time with my husband, dog, and close friends. I do yoga. I stay home a lot, watching Netflix and reading books and cooking dinner. It's lovely.

But I've started doing these events which thrill and terrify me in equal measure. Sometimes, when I am in a new place, standing at the front of the room with a bunch of people looking at me, I panic and go into fight or flight mode.

This is a pretty typical evolutionary response to fear. When our ancestors had to face down a woolly mammoth, we had a couple of choices. We could try to kill it or we could run away from it.

The thing is, these days, we don't see many woolly mammoths.

We see public speaking. Or an uncomfortable conversation. Or a group of strangers. Or an opportunity that is unnerving. Or a situation we can't control. Or an outcome that is unknown.

But our minds go back to woolly mammoth territory and we want to either fight it or run from it.

What if there was a third way?

This is the most monumental thing that doing yoga has taught me.

I do hot yoga. That's the one that is 90 minutes in a room that is heated to 100 degrees.

It's hard. But it's not nearly as hard as life.

So, the yoga studio is my place to practice dealing with the actual hard things in life. Because when I get to a yoga posture that is challenging me - and my instinct is to either run out of the room or walk up and kick the instructor in the shins for making me do this - I hear my teacher's voice in my head:

Meet resistance with breath.

Maybe I can get beyond my caveman mentality and just stop for a minute. I can realize that I'm stronger than I think I am and I can be still for a moment and stop the spinning of my mind. I can take a breath - then decide how I want to respond.

So, as I stood in a glorious theater in Providence, RI, with a group of strong and interesting women all sitting there, ready to listen to me speak - the spinning started:

What am I doing here? Who the hell am I? What makes me think I have the right to stand here and say anything about anything to anyone? They are going to throw things at me. I need to run out of the room right now.

And then I took a breath. I met that resistance from my inner critic, with my breath. Then I remembered that they actually invited me to come speak. They wanted me to do this. These people had voluntarily signed up for this workshop of mine and no one was tied to their chairs.

So, I said:

"Hi. My name is Lisa Jakub. Thanks for being here today. I'm a kind of nervous, but really want to talk to you about something that is important to me. I want to talk about how we can all live a life that feels authentic even if it's different from what other people expect of us. And the reason that I feel like I can talk to you with some authority about this topic is because I screwed it up so majorly, for such a long time."

And then they laughed and then I loved them.

That's what can happen when we don't operate on automatic pilot and when we are open to options beyond the binary way we are tempted to see the world. It's not always yes/no, black/white, good/bad, kill/run - the world is nuanced and so are we. When we can still the story line in our minds, a whole beautiful world of middle options become clear.

Sometimes we get a chance to make friends with the woolly mammoth, and we're rewarded with a fantastic weekend, spectacular people and some really good macarons.

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

You might also like:

• Panic attacks, social anxiety and other perks of being me
• Don’t just do something – sit there
• How to care for your introvert: a helpful guide

"You look so familiar" : what it's like to get recognized

I recently got an email asking me about the "recognizing thing." I get this question a lot, so I thought I would answer it here. People want to know if it still happens (yes, but not as much as it used to) and if I hate it (hate is a terribly strong word. I hate bigotry and raisins. I don't hate getting recognized).

But most people say something like "I don't get it - is it invasive if someone just comes up to say hello?"

The answer is no, it doesn't make me angry or upset or annoyed - it's nothing that simple or dramatic.

It makes me kind of embarrassed. It makes me shy. It makes me awkward. (Okay, more awkward.)

It's never something I got accustomed to, so every time someone approaches me, I'm surprised. I worry that:

• I'm going to say something stupid to you
• you are going to see the pimple on my nose
• I'll try to be funny and I'll just be odd
• I'll make a goofy face in the selfie we just took and that you'll have that forever
• the friend that I am with - who is a nice, normal non-Hollywood mother of two - feels weird about me getting recognized and is now laughing uncomfortably and looking for an escape route

I never feel like I should be...human. People tend to call me by my character name and I feel the pressure to live up to whatever they thought Lydia/Alicia/Sandra/whoever should be. And should I be who they were at age fourteen? Or am I supposed be a projection of who those fictional characters would be in her mid-thirties? See? It's complicated.

And then I get the people who think we went to high school together. They are absolutely convinced and won't let it go. And then I never know what to do, because I can't say, "maybe you know me from movies" -  without looking like a self-obsessed-Troy-McClure-jerk.

So, no, I don't find it invasive when someone just comes up to say hi. I find it flustering, just in the same way that I get flustered when someone at Whole Foods asks if I need help finding anything - I'm just not skilled at talking to strangers. (See: introvert.)

To be honest, what happens most often is something much more tricky to manage. It's staring. It's whispering. It's pointing. It's attempted incognito photo-taking. And I've never known what to do about that, so I just try to sit there and not feel too much like a zoo animal.

And then there is the really icky stuff - the stuff that started when I was a teenager and made me feel non-human to begin with. There is the feeling of being treated like a commodity and not a real person, like when someone yells "Hey, Doubtfire Girl!" across a room at me.

There is the lack of boundaries and demands of things I'm not willing to do, like the man who approached me at a hotel pool when I was sixteen and wanted me to take a photo with him in my bathing suit. When I asked him to please wait until I could put some clothes on, he said I needed to do it now because, “You’re an actor. You owe it to me.”

I could tell you lots of stories like that - several more appear in my book. I wouldn't say it's common, but it happens, and it hurts.  So, now I have the moment of feeling on guard, wondering if it's going to happen again.

When someone says they just don't understand how getting recognized could be anything other than fun - I get that. When it happens in movies it looks fun. I am grateful that people want to express their appreciation for something that I have done. That's lovely. But the attention and the feeling of being not-quite-human was never something that I was comfortable with. It was one of the many reasons for my retirement.

So, if you see me somewhere, you are absolutely welcome to come say hello. And if you want to help make me feel more human and comfortable about the whole thing - just ask about my dog or tell me about yours.

As long as you understand that I will totally make you look at photos of Grace on my phone.

——–

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• Spinning out of control
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Pondering profanity

I was probably eight years old the first time I swore in front of my parents.

I was playing outside and saw a garter snake. I love snakes and - being the stupidly enthusiastic animal lover that I am - I said, "I love you, snake, come here" as I rushed to pick it up. The snake wisely turned and bit me. My affection quickly extinguished, I dropped the snake and screamed "You bastard!"

(Now that I think about it, this was an accurate foreshadowing of my love life through my early 20s.)

My parents, after a moment of wondering if we needed to go to the emergency room, started laughing.

I learned something really important that day: swearing is funny.

Swearing is funny for a number of reasons, but mostly it is funny because it is unexpected. It jolts us out of the regular flow of things. It wakes us up.

I love swear words for this simple reason -- I love words.

Words have long been my closest friends. I learned to read when I was three years old, and since I started working as an actor and traveling for shoots when I was four, books were more commonly my companions than other children. Whenever I was lonely, I could dive into that literary world that was populated with characters who would always be there for me. I have a deep and everlasting love affair with the written word.

That's why I refuse to believe that some words that are "bad." I just can't think of them that way. (Okay, maybe except for the word "slacks" which is just a terrible word and it should be banished from the English language entirely.)

But words themselves simply can't be good or bad. They just are, and that's the beauty of them. They can only be infused with our intent. They can be used in ways that are beautiful or ugly or heart wrenching or enlightening. The only way I won't use words is to degrade other people, so words that are commonly used in that way don't show up in my work. But as for the rest of them, they are fair game in all their magical combinations.

I know some get offended when I swear. People say that I'm not a "lady" because of my language (don't even get me started on that) and I think some people forget that I'm no longer 14-years old and so I can say whatever I'd like, which is one of the many perks of being an adult person. But I figure if I can drop the F-bomb in front of my grandmother and she never flinched - she was a master of words and could use some choice ones - no one else should get overly worked up about it.

I don't swear because I can't think of a different word. It's not out of ignorance or a desire to annoy anyone. I use profanity as a punctuation mark. It reaches out and grabs a reader and brings them fully into the moment of the piece. It's meant to express how I truly feel, the words come from the depths of my heart out of my fingertips and onto the keyboard. And sometimes what comes up is a curse word.

I use them sparingly because, with overuse, any word can lose its power. I use them thoughtfully because I choose every word I put on the page with the loving care that one might use to tend a rose garden.

And I know that it makes some clutch their pearls in horror, but the simple truth is that I swear because I love my garden of words.

Even the words with thorns.

---

***Recently, the New York Times even backed all this up. Yay for swearing!

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

How to care for your introvert: a helpful guide

Does the photo above look familiar to you? If so - congratulations! You're in a relationship with an introvert!

This introvert might be your romantic partner, friend, child, parent or even yourself. No two introverts are exactly alike - some are more introverted than others, some are outgoing introverts, some are shy introverts - but these simple care tips will help you to have a long, enjoyable relationship with your introvert.

• Give your introvert a minute. We are not always fast on our feet and sometimes we need a while to adjust to a new situation. We need to quiet the voices in our head and figure out what we really think. We'll get back to you as soon as we can get the words together in a succinct way.
• Understand that if we never call you, it's because we have a deep and eternal hatred of talking on the phone. Texts or emails are how we connect.
• Please don't tell us to not be shy. Shy is different from introverted, anyway, and it's pretty much like telling someone not to be tall. It also insinuates that there is something wrong with us. Not everyone needs to be extroverted.
• Last minute invites are often challenging for introverts. Dinner with just one close friend usually takes several days to gear up for. Large gatherings (more than three people) need even more emotional prep. Sometimes, we just can't manage it. No offense. But please keep inviting us to things, with as much notice as possible, because we have a wonderful time when we're psyched up for it.
• New people can be intimidating, but we'll warm up. Introverts don't need an army of friends, but we have a tight inner circle of people who we love wholeheartedly.
• If we leave early, it's not because we are having a bad time. It means we are leaving before we get overwhelmed. We probably had an absolutely lovely time.
• We love the environment but we're not carpooling because we need to have our own get-away car, in case we need to leave early. (See above.)
• We are not judging you, we're just good listeners. We are not bored or annoyed or zoning out. We like observing. We're just taking it all in and we'll share our thoughts when it feels appropriate.
• Small talk will make us want to peel off our fingernails, but engage us in a conversation about the deeper things in life and we'll talk for hours.

Trouble shooting

• "My introvert is being quiet. Sitting on the couch, reading a book and looking serious. Is there something wrong with my introvert?"
  • There is nothing wrong with your introvert. This is her natural state. Allow her to recharge. Maybe bring her more tea.
• "My introvert said she didn't want to come out with me to a concert with all of my friends. Does she hate me?"
  • No. Your introvert still loves you. In fact, she loves you so much that a quiet dinner and a Netflix binge sounds much better to her.
• "My introvert invited me to go to a loud concert with all of her friends/is talking in front of a large group/seems to be enjoying the company of others. I feel like I don't know her anymore. Is my introvert still an introvert?"
  • Yes! But sometimes even introverts enjoy extroverted activities. Some introverts are great at public speaking and performance. Just be aware that she will likely need lots of downtime afterwards to recover.
• "Only, like, two of these things apply to my introvert."
  • People are different. We are not actually like plants. This is just the guide I wish I could hand out to everyone in my life.

(For a great read on introversion - check out Quiet: the power of introverts in a world that can't stop talking by Susan Cain.)

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

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• Panic attacks, social anxiety and other perks of being me
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The writer's bloodline

When I was six, I learned how to tell a good story by sitting on the diving board of my grandmother's pool. Every night, Gramma would swim laps before bed. Her best friend would come over and as the two of them sliced slowly through the water, I told stories. I was obsessed with a stone owl statue that stood guard over her garden, and I chronicled his adventures with the toads and butterflies and squirrels.

As I perched on the edge and dangled my toes in the water, I played with story arc and character development.

I leaned about suspense and foreshadowing.

I learned how to utilize supporting characters to bring out the essence of your hero and how to use humor to illuminate an essential truth.

I learned how to be a writer.

After the swim, Gramma would critique the story as she toweled off, telling me the parts she loved and the parts where she lost track of the plot line. She never coddled me, never gave praise when it wasn't due. I'd nod and thoughtfully furrow my brow and considered how I could refine the owl's story for tomorrow night's swim.

My Gramma knew how to use words. She came up through the newspaper world. She was one of those gutsy young broads of the late 1940s - working long hours as an editor at the place she reverentially referred to as "The Paper."

She lived at the YWCA, and wondered if the fellas in the newsroom were saying she looked tired when they told her she had "bedroom eyes." One day, with shaky hands, she marched into her boss's office and demanded to be paid on par with those men. After that, they respected her more and started offering her cigarettes. She tucked them away in her purse, saying she'd smoke them later. She didn't like cigarettes, but her boyfriend did, and the man who would become my grandfather couldn't afford his own smokes.

Her love of words traveled through the bloodline and directly into my heart. However, unlike me, her spelling was impeccable. She slaughtered me at Wheel of Fortune.

In so many ways, she made me a writer.

And I am so deeply grateful. For that, and a million other things.

My grandmother is not here anymore, she passed away two weeks ago and I'm still learning to talk about her in past tense.

But the stone owl from her garden now stands watch over mine.

And he reminds me of where this writer's soul of mine came from.

A love note to books

I recently saw a little kid almost walk into a wall because she was reading a book.

It made me so very happy.

Not just because I think it's funny when people run into things, but because I totally understand the enraptured joy that kid was feeling because of her book.

I've had several people ask me recently why I love books so much. (I'm assuming it's just a question, and not an accusation, like, what is wrong with you, you freaky book girl?) Some people ask me how to start the reading habit, or how they can encourage their kids.

I began my love of books as an extremely emotional and introverted three-year-old. Books were a way to discover the world, escape from my own, and inspire my writing. Characters in books became my closest friends. By the time I was four years old, I was working as an actor and traveled frequently for shoots, so real-life friends were harder to maintain than the ones on the page. Those characters were always there when I needed them, and they always accepted me and welcomed me into their world - it didn't matter how different I was.

My heart sighs with delight to see a kid reading. They are expanding their mind, learning about the world and figuring out their place in it. Especially now that video games and movies and TV can be all-consuming - reading is all the more sweet.

I'm not going to go on a technology rant and bash TV- I love a good Netflix binge. I love technology. I love my Kindle. I also love paper books and I think there is room for both. I once heard someone say that in the whole physical vs. ebook debate, they were "container neutral" and I thought that was brilliant. I don't care how we get the words. We just need to get them.

The incredible thing about books is that you can read about absolutely anything. I don't believe you need to cave to books you "should" read. If Dostoyevsky doesn't do it for you - no sweat. Read what makes you feel alive and inspired. Read what you love. Is it sailing? Robots? 14th century farming techniques? Great. Find a book about it. Can't find a book about it? Write a book about it.

Read a book that grabs you by the collar and throws you into the chair. And - this is controversial advice - if you don't like a book, I believe you have permission to stop reading it. I give a book 50 pages to make me fall in love. If not, no hard feelings, but we go our separate ways. There are too many things I want to read, I won't force myself to slog through something and resent it. I don't think authors want you to suffer while reading their work. (Okay, maybe some do, but I don't.) For me, reading is pure joy. Pure happiness.

That doesn't mean you shouldn't read something that challenges you, pushes you out of your comfort zone and makes you think differently. Great art has a way of doing that. Art, at its core, is an expression of life and beauty. It might not seem traditionally beautiful - but the best book will contain something breathtaking, hidden in the form of deep truth and skilled wordsmithing.

And there is nothing that makes me happier than discovering something unexpectedly beautiful.

(If you are interested in knowing what books I love, and what I'm currently reading - check out my Goodreads profile, and friend me so we can share book recommendations! I also have specific shelves there for my favorite books on anxiety, meditation, writing, etc.)

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

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Through the looking glass of fame

The University of Southern California recently bought a letter at a London auction, penned in 1891 by C.L. Dodgson. The only reason that anyone cares about a really old letter from C.L Dodgson is because he wrote books under a pen name -  Lewis Carroll. It's a three page letter, on sepia-toned paper with perfectly old-timey slanted script. The letter seems to have the sole purpose of explaining to his friend, Mrs. Symonds, why Carroll hates being famous. He says:

“All of that sort of publicity leads to strangers hearing of my real name in connection with the books, and to my being pointed out to, and stared at by, strangers, and being treated as a ‘lion.’ And I hate all of that so intensely that sometimes I almost wish I had never written any books at all."

It's fairly shocking to learn that Lewis Carroll was so appalled by fame that he had some regrets about writing Alice in Wonderland. (It's also surprising to learn that he was such a fan of underlining.) But clearly, he really didn't like that whole celebrity thing.

What did it even mean to be famous in 1891? What was it like to be a celebrity in the days before TMZ and paparazzi and Twitter fights? Were people hiding in the bushes at Thomas Edison's house? Did W.E.B. Du Bois get hounded for autographs while getting his mustache groomed at the barber shop? Could it really have been all that bad?

Yes, clearly for Carroll it could, because some people are just not cut out to be famous.

I am also one of those people. Now, let me state this clearly, before anonymous internet commenters beat me to it: I am not claiming any major type of fame here. I had a taste of that celebrity lifestyle when I acted in movies that did well at the box office. I had that mobbed-in-malls, autograph requesting, red-carpet walking lifestyle for a few years -- until I was 22 and realized, like Carroll: I hated it. I found the rejection, the lack of privacy and acting as a puppet for someone else's writing to be increasingly harsh and unsatisfying. It threatened to completely overwhelm me. Panic attacks struck and I found myself gasping for breath in dark corners, clutching my chest in an attempt to keep my heart from ricocheting off my ribs and busting through the skin.

So, I quit.

But sometimes when people find out that I used to be an actor, they often ask, with this wide-eyed expression, why I would ever leave Hollywood. I try to explain that it's just a job, with all its pros and cons, and sometimes you get tired of a job and want to try something new. Some people give me this look that apparently people have been giving for 124 years, because Carroll references it in his letter:

"Of course there are plenty of people who like being looked at as a notoriety and there are plenty who can't understand why I don't share that feeling. And they probably would not understand how it can be that human beings should have different tastes. But it is true, nevertheless."

Not everyone is cut out to be a doctor, likewise, not everyone is cut out to be famous. Yet, unlike being a doctor, most people think they would be pretty good at being famous.

But we see people who are bad at being famous all the time. Some celebrities crash their cars, go on bigoted rants and get dragged out of theaters in handcuffs. The problem comes when we fail to remember that these are people simply doing a job. If someone is a bad bartender, they get fired, but unfortunately, it appears to be quite difficult to fire a celebrity. Poor job performance just seems to get them promoted up the celebrity hierarchy.

This disastrous behavior could be blamed on money or power or access to every indulgence imaginable, but I believe it's the result of being treated - as Carroll said - as a "lion." It sounds enviable, after all, who wouldn't want special treatment? But in reality, "special" inherently means "different." And it's hard to be different.

I've recently realized that in my desperate attempt to not be a lion, I became an ostrich. By pretending that 18 years of my life never happened, I was simply sticking my head in the sand. We all have a past that stomps its feet and demands to be dealt with. My past pops up during 90's movie marathons, regardless of whether I acknowledge it or not. While the past is not deserving of a staring role in the present moment, it can be worthy of a little thank you in the credits somewhere. Because where would any of us be without it?

I hope that Lewis Carroll got to a point where he could see that the work he did meant something to people and realized that he was not required to be a lion or an ostrich or even Lewis Carroll.

All he ever needed to be was C.L Dodgson.

————– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter

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Don’t just do something - sit there

  The search for a deeper understanding of self is both inherently natural and completely exhausting.

That kind of self-reflection can leave you sweating and chewing your toenails if you aren't prepared for it. It’s the reason that we have reality television -- so that we don’t have to do the hard work of sitting with ourselves and trying to figure out who we truly are. But we do reflect, because it seems more selfish to just wander through life and not think about what you want your contribution to be.

Since I was a kid, I've had a nasty habit of getting so anxious about things that I hyperventilate and black out. It could be about a phone call or a party or merely pondering what the hell I am doing with my life. Panic attacks can happen anywhere. I can be in my living room or in a restaurant, when suddenly there is gasping and shaking and trying to fight the tunnel vision and convince myself (and anyone else who might be present) that I'm not actually dying.

My shrink recommended that I try meditation. She sent me home with stacks of books and the instructions to just sit there and breathe. Just sit there. Alone. In silence. With my own self. I would have preferred a recommendation to massage my eyeballs with sandpaper.

I had an entire film career based on the fact that I could let my thoughts run away with me. Acting required me to completely believe the worst possible scenario, such as the fact that my computerized house was really trying to kill me, and let my body react accordingly. My mind was the master, and my emotions needed to follow.

However, I tend to do what I'm told and so, I sat. Every emotion that I wished would stay lurking under the bed, got in my face. Those voices pointed out all the other people in the world who understood how to do this life thing just fine, and how pathetic it was that I had massive anxiety about going to the grocery store.

But I still sat.

I started going to a weekly group that did Yoga Nidra, a deep form of meditative relaxation. Most of the other people in the group were vets from Iraq and Afghanistan. They possessed this disconcerting combination of looking both very young and very world-weary. They picked at their cuticles and talked about their PTSD. They mentioned their lingering pain from combat injuries and they pulled down their sleeves and tried to cover up the scars.

I stayed quiet at the gatherings, deciding not to bring up the whole “I’m stressed because I’m a former child actor” thing. It lacked the drama of mortar fire and made me feel like a massive jerk.

Instead, I just listened. I listened to these young warriors who knew more about sacrifice and suffering than I ever would. One guy told me he hadn’t been able to sleep more than a couple hours a night since he got back from his tour. He said this "chanting hippie shit" was not his scene, but he had actually started sleeping since doing a meditation practice. So, he was happy to trek down the pathway, which was draped in Tibetan prayer flags and Obama signs, to come to this little shed near the chicken coop in a yoga teacher’s backyard. He’d do whatever it took.

We sat together and breathed deeply. We sat with the voices that tormented us and we sat with the uncomfortable unknown. We didn't fight with the doubts and fears and regrets, we just stared them down until they exhausted themselves and slithered away. We let go of the past and the future and simply practiced gratitude for this moment right here. Eventually, I noticed that I was spending less and less time gasping like a fish who had just leapt out of her bowl.

It wan't like some lightning bolt where I saw God.

But I saw some peace.

And then I saw that maybe those are kind of the same thing.

————– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter

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Stepping back: lessons of 2014

As I said last year, I'm not really a fan of New Year's resolutions. They tend to be vague proclamations, glorifying some unrealistic ideal, and often resulting in a deep feeling of inadequacy and another lapsed gym membership.

I prefer to look back at what I learned over the past year. Once again, 2014 was a year of throwing myself into a free-fall of new and slightly terrifying situations. Some I managed okay, many I could have done better. But I can say this with total certainty: I showed up for my life.

Sometimes you need to believe in yourself even when some other people don't

I heard "no" a lot this year. I received a stack of rejections for my book. Each one made me want to hide in shame. But there was a tiny part of me that clung to a fundamental truth -- I came into this world to be a writer. That voice was almost drowned out by the much louder voice that said I should just quit this whole writing thing and take up cake decorating. But persistence tends to pay off. I could not be more proud that I found a supportive and enthusiastic publisher this year, and that my book will be published in June.

Sometimes people are more wonderful than you could have imagined

I remain in humbled awe of how kind you all are to me. You send me emails and tweets and Facebook messages and funny memes of dogs. You tell me about your families and your jobs and your dreams. You tell me how we are alike and how you feel connected. There are more of you now, and I can't always respond to everyone. But please know that I read every message and each one is more meaningful than I could ever express. You are why I show up at this keyboard every day.

Sometimes you need to do things that you swore you'd never do

I have continued to do talks at conferences and colleges. Two years ago, I would have said this was as likely as me becoming the heavy-weight champion of the northeast. The biggest shocker of all is that I actually enjoy it. This completely introverted girl with social anxiety and a general loathing for anything that requires more than sweatpants, actually has a good time talking in front of people. Go figure.

Sometimes the world fucking sucks

Robin Williams died. And it still breaks my heart.

And sometimes there is poignant beauty that comes from the world and its fucking suckiness

As a country, and as a little community here on this site, we started talking about depression, anxiety and loneliness. We connected and comforted each other and we told the people we love that we love them. We said the most important thing, over and over again. You are not alone. And you all inspired me to start working on my next book, which will be grounded in this topic. It will be honest and it will offer hope and it will be funny - because we have to be able to laugh.

Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain. ~Joseph Campbell

I wish all of you joy and peace in 2015.

xo,

~L

——– You can leave a comment here, or join us on Facebook or Twitter!

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