Romantic comedies aren’t getting made anymore—at least not often. I don’t know how many times I’ve read this or heard this over the past few years. Nancy Meyers and Reese Witherspoon, two women in Hollywood I idolize, with proven track records of making these films hits, have been saying this for years. And this time last year I went out to lunch with a friend who works in Hollywood and he told me the same thing. “If it’s not a remake of a Disney film, or an action flick with lots of special . . .
My generation does a lot of things really well, but something we don’t do well, is tell it how it really is, on social media. Lots of accounts encourage us to follow our passion. To live our bliss. To go after our dream jobs. And beneath these calls to action are photos of young people running off into the sunset. Or sunbathing on a beach. Or frolicking through a field with friends. As someone who has chosen to pursue my dream job, I can tell you my life does not look like this. It does . . .
This is a mailbox. I’ve included several pictures in this blog for all my readers who haven’t visited theirs in a while. They’re cute, right? But—I get it—they’re not the most efficient way to receive news and they definitely aren’t the most immediate way to communicate. I could send thirty-six text messages and seven emails in the time it would take me to walk to the post office down the street from my house, buy a stamp, and drop a letter in the mail. So why bother? Let me tell you a . . .
Not only do I tend to draw inspiration from romantic comedies when I’m writing, I have been known to dramatically turn my life upside down after watching particular ones. I moved to Charleston, South Carolina years ago solely because of The Notebook. While backpacking through Europe I did a house-sit near the Cotswolds like Cameron Diaz does in The Holiday. And this time last year, I spontaneously rented a three-bedroom house for a life I “didn’t have” (nor was I sure I could afford) just . . .
I have happy hour every evening at my house on Balboa Island at five o’clock p.m. “Every evening?” My neighbor’s boyfriend, who was visiting a while back from Germany, perked up when I announced this his first night in town. He knew no one in Newport Beach and his girlfriend typically doesn’t get home from work until after happy hour (sorry anyone with a job that doesn’t let you out in time for happy hour. Here’s a list of career counselors in case reading this post makes you want to change . . .