My JooJooBee,

I wrote a lot this week for work. Some 16-hour days.

I loved it. I like to work. I like to write.

I wrote several ad campaigns. I liked some at first, but then — 

Like screenwriting, it’s an art. Like any art, it takes years to master.

I’m working hard at it. I’m working hard at many things still trying not to do too much.

At the same time I write letters to you in my head. All week. Every week.

(Who knows if they’re art. It’s not for me to decide.)

This reminds me:

In his Easter sermon, the rector said many things I thought I would say.

If these letters start to sound like sermons, slap me.

I’m not a man on a mission. I’m a man who is smitten.

In old movies husbands keep pictures of their wives on their desks.

(Do people still do that?)

I keep your photo on my desktop.

(Does that make me old fashioned?)

It’s my favorite one.

I won’t tell you which it is but I’ll tell you why it is.

I like it because it shows the inside on the outside.

In the picture, they’re the same.

(You’re not my wallpaper I just want to make that clear…)

I love this picture.

This week I thought:

I can write a sentence as beautifully as any living writer, in any language.

Can and have.

(I have a bit of an ego.)

In fact if I got arrested, my fingerprints would look like sentences.

For that reason, I’ve changed my approach lately.

I realize I need to tell a story that well too.

So I think more about stories than sentences now.

I have all the stories I’ve told you about and more.

I want to finish my story quickly.

That isn’t my life anymore. My life is happening now.

I have other stories I want to tell too.

(They will be so much easier!)

Besides telling stories better, I want to write them more efficiently.

I have found ways to do that, which I’ll share.

I go from writing for myself to writing for work like moving between rooms in a house.

Writing feels like home.

(You feel like home.)

This week I dreamed you disappeared from my life.

I felt devastated, despondent…

When I woke up, you hadn’t left.

(Thank my sweet God.)

Everyone has irrational fears.

We are all only human.

I talk to you at night before I sleep.

Not full conversations, just reminders.

(I’m not that crazy.)

I say your mantra for you too sometimes. —You are… You are… You will be…

(I figure you forget. It should work. Consider it an experiment!)

I don’t know why I just thought of this:

My editor at work keeps correcting me.

She keeps reminding me that “data” is plural: “these data,” not “this data.”

I usually ignore her but this time I messaged her —Omnes vincere no potes.

(—You can’t win them all.)

I thought that was funny.

This is my life too.

Now I must break a promise I made, to myself.

I wanted to wait, to tell you in person but — 

You should know:

I want you

I need you

I miss you

I love you

(I love you,

I love you,

I love you)

I have all along.

I want to keep you, love you, and care for you always.

I plan to. If you’ll let me.

You needed to hear it, didn’t you?

(I know, I’m dumb sometimes.)

Anyways now you have it in writing.

As usual I have so much more I want to tell you — but what can I say after that?

— Your Fortune Cookie

P.S. Actually now that I’ve told you, I won’t stop telling you.

My T —

This is your first official lesson on L.A.

(Never too soon to start!)

+

You reminded me of something.

First, lunch.

I had the day off and a craving for Chinese food.

There’s this one place I go to — that I’m absolutely ashamed of — near my old apartment.

You can’t even really call this Chinese food.

(Not simply because all the workers in the front and back are Mexicans.)

I call it “sticky Chinese” — what no-nothing Americans think is Chinese food.

Corn syrup, food coloring, msg, fried everything — unhealthy, sickening.

So why do I go there? Two reasons.

Reason 1: You get a lot of food for 12$. Which is why everyone else goes there.

When I went there was a Mexican family of 6 (4 young kids) there. I’m sure they fed the entire family for 60$ and had leftovers for days afterwards.

(It is literally impossible to eat that much food in one sitting.)

This family also bought a meal for the homeless guy outside, who came in, sat down, and ate.

Another old guy came in and ordered. He was hard of hearing and yelling at the staff.

He took his box out to his van to eat. I suspect he lived out of his van. Not by choice.

You’ve gathered by now that this is not a wealthy neighborhood.

Which brings me to —

Reason 2: It reminds me exactly of the Chinese food I ate growing up.

Two blocks from my house there was a restaurant only slightly better than this one.

The Golden Lion.

It was every American stereotype of a Chinese restaurant — and Chinese culture — you could imagine, with an eggroll on top.

I don’t think I need to describe it to you: you already have the picture of it in your mind.

It was all I knew — until my Asian friends in High School took me to get real Asian food.

My hometown was the same too: working class, poor, Mexican, decent, mostly.

Funny how you can have such fond memories for such awful things.

+

This is not what you reminded me of but it’s related.

You reminded me of a story idea I had a long time ago.

It’s not a story yet. It’s still just an idea.

To appreciate it, you’ll need that lesson on L.A. history.

So, once upon a time, in the middle of the last century…

There were two small, poor, Mexican barrios, just north of downtown, in a little valley:

La Loma and Palo Verde

(Sounds nice, right?)

They are still there.

UNDER Dodger Stadium.

Literally, under.

You see, after the city forcibly removed all the residents, they took the tops of their homes and schools off, filled the valley with dirt, and built Dodger Stadium on top of it.

I cannot see a ballgame there and not think that somewhere, beneath me, their towns still stand.

A ghost city.

This is as L.A. as it gets.

This city is layer upon layer of stories.

Mine is not a story yet though.

I thought of making it a children’s book — I have no idea why — but I think it has to be a film.

Maybe you can help me with it.

You have no fear of the truth and complete objectivity, at least with this material.

There’s a book of pictures of those neighborhoods taken by Don Normark.

(I lent my copy to the girl at my coffee shop but she never returned it. So rude.)

This story is special to me.

When I think of those towns and people, see those pictures, I think of my hometown and my family. Not much different, really.

Incidentally, one of my favorite albums by one of my favorite musicians tells this story:

Chavez Ravine by Ry Cooder, a native Los Angeleno.

This record is about as L.A. as any record I know. Check it out.

Track 2 is what it sounds like to drive through L.A., I think.

(Guess which tracks are my favorites. I think you can.)

It even has a sci-fi angle:

Parts of the story are told through the eyes of an alien on a UFO who visits and wants to go to a local dance.

+

There’s so much I still want to say to you, tell you, but I think I will stop for now.

It rained so hard last night it woke me up. I love that.

It sounded like the rain in movies.

It is cool, clear, bright, and blue outside right now.

Maybe I will take a walk.

— Your D

P.S. My Easter was nuts. I thought I’d write you about it. I might still.

My T —

I got some bad news this week.

It fits this letter.

No worries, it will work out.

It always does.

+

A priest shared this metaphor once:

On a trip with her wife, she kept taking wrong turns.

After each wrong turn, their GPS said —Recalculating…

The destination didn’t change but the route did.

Like life.

Don’t mind the twists and turns. They make it more interesting.

+

I want to tell you about the glow.

In my first letter I talked about feeling “bathed in sunlight.”

In another about being a “great man” one day.

(Still embarrassed about that.)

It’s somewhere in between.

I will try to describe it.

Let me tell you when I felt it.

+

Once in high school.

I had been selected as a California Senate intern.

(I had wanted to be a diplomat back then…for like five minutes.)

The interns went to Sacramento and lived in college dorms.

I lived with eight others across a few rooms.

It was the farthest and longest I had ever been away from home.

Felt like I started college already.

Crazy shit happened:

One guy lost his virginity — to a uni girl.

Another guy snuck out to go clubbing — then got sent home.

I addressed the entire Senate — you could have heard a pin drop.

(Apparently I have a commanding voice.)

I felt safe but challenged and had no idea about the next day.

Or the next. Or the next.

I felt the glow.

+

Again in college.

I remember laying on the grass on a spring day.

The sunlight was a haze, a misty golden light, a bright warm fog.

They had a crab boil — the smell of shellfish, sausage, corn, and butter…

There were big, long tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths.

I had a girlfriend but no idea where she was.

It didn’t matter.

(Her grandfather, a 5th-gen Buddhist priest, always said

—What is life without possibility?

Except he had a thing for teenage girls.)

I felt entirely myself.

I remember thinking, I had no idea where life would take me.

None at all.

I felt the glow.

+

Years later an ex said to me:

—If you can see your entire path, it’s not your path.

(—The unanswered question carries you to The End.)

It is not knowing.

In a good way.

The glow feels…good.

+

My old boss said many stupid things, like

—Get comfortable being uncomfortable.

Yet I’ve given gifts to people who, for unknown reasons, felt overwhelmed or embarrassed.

(Eg, that Hermes Rocket typewriter.)

It’s too much, I don’t deserve this, they say.

Life gives us all the possibility, all the freedom.

Accept it.

This is the glow.

+

Buddhism describes the inner treasure.

It’s inside of us — is us — and no one can take it away.

The trouble is, we don’t notice it.

If we do notice it, we doubt it.

Even if we believe in it, we don’t live into it.

(People are impossible.)

You get it.

+

Where does my confidence come from?

Trust.

(Even if you don’t believe. Especially if you don’t.)

Where does trust come from?

Love.

+

As I said:

Science says bumblebees can’t fly, but they don’t know that.

So they fly.

+

—We can’t choose our genes but we can choose our jeans.

+

On my patio I asked the universe a big question.

In seconds a hummingbird flew straight at me.

We faced off, NOSE TO NOSE.

I got my answer.

(If you know what they stand for…)

It’s happened before.

You cannot make this up.

+

I feel the glow.

+

Happy Easter, my dear one.

— Your D

P.S. I started a list of things that foster wellbeing. Some obvious, some not. It’s handy!

P.P.S. Remind me to tell you why I think I’m living my life backwards. It’s a good thing.

Another day, my usual coffee shop, and just overhead a great story for a new script. Life is good.

— D

My T —

I had the day off and went to a diner.

A couple of old men, 80s, sat down at the booth in front of me.

They had a boyish charm, like the ushers at my church in Boston.

80 going on 8.

They seemed like retired aerospace engineers.

(There are plenty of companies like that in this neighborhood.)

They couldn’t stop talking about — their model train sets.

What would go where, how to build this, what they hoped to add.

I immediately thought of my dad.

My dad was blue collar, a mechanic — not a professional at all.

When I was a kid though, we built a model train set together.

(It’s completely destroyed now.)

As you can see, a story began to form:

An adult son returns home to take care of his aging dad.

Everyone thought the dad would die first but the mom did.

The dad and son have a rocky relationship.

The dad ignored the son during his childhood.

Instead the dad spent all his time building his model train set.

Without involving the son.

The dad ignored both the son and the mom.

So the bad blood runs deep.

(OK so you see who this story is really about now.)

The dad, now old, has a best friend also into model trains.

So the son feels like a third wheel — it’s a triangle:

DAD – FRIEND – SON

(MODEL TRAIN SET IN THE MIDDLE)

The son now has to compete with the model train and the friend for his dad’s attention.

Here’s the beautiful parallel:

The dad had a shitty childhood that he never talks about.

That’s why he’s obsessed with the model train set.

It’s his dad’s way of remaking his own childhood.

(The model is what his dad wanted his childhood to be like.)

Except in the process he’s ruined his son’s childhood.

His son is now trying to rebuild his childhood.

Or at least make peace with it.

I even have the ending. I think it’s perfect.

(I think you’ll think so too but I won’t spoil it.)

I even have the title:

The dad is fixated on building this one railroad crossing.

Exactly like the one he remembers from his childhood.

So the title would be “The Crossing.”

Where their lives, hopes, dreams, past, present, reality cross.

Crash, really.

(This has made me a little teary.)

It’s also fun just to make movies about things you love:

Trains — I loved my train set.

Subcultures — model railroad people are OBSESSIVE NUTS.

Like me!

I don’t think this story is big enough for Best Picture.

Best Original Screenplay, maybe…

I take a day off and before lunch I have a new 9-month project.

It’s L.A. — stories are in the air.

I will write this one.

I already have the Penpal one, the Perfumer one, the Anniversary one, the Sci-Fi one…

…the script I’m not telling you anything about because it’s a surprise one…

…I’m forgetting some.

I want to write a screwball one too — I love those.

My scripts will be different from your scripts.

It’s OK.

You’ll make mine edgier. I’ll make yours…I don’t know.

Yours will probably be better than mine anyway.

Let’s just not push each other off a roof or anything.

— Your D

I have no wit or wisdom for you tonight.

I just wanted to write you.

I hope that’s enough.

— D

My T —

I wrote you a long letter but I’ll send it next week. It feels like an Easter letter.

(It tries to answer a question you asked me.)

For now let me update you on my projects.

I told a coworker yesterday that I feel like I have two jobs: one that pays the bills and one that I love.

(Writing you letters I just love. What is the opposite of a job?)

In my first letter, I told you how hard it is to write your own story. 

(I’m curious if you’ve ever tried. I want to know everything!)

I think I also chose the hardest topic to write about — letters.

(How the @#^&* do you make a movie about letters?)

Lately I’ve watched a lot of movies about them.

I realized how thin mine was. I have a puddle. I need an ocean.

I’ve read a lot too.

I realized I didn’t know how to write this. I didn’t know what I was doing.

(This explains why my previous scripts were trash.)

I read this quote yesterday:

—Not knowing what you’re doing is the first step to making something new.

(Don’t you love this?)

I always find my way by getting lost.

Failure is key.

I realized everything my story was not then I saw what it could be:

I opened a blank document and wrote it all out beginning to end.

(I had tried this before and failed even though I lived it!)

Now it was all there. Almost…

When I had written it out I saw again what it still needed.

Then I began filling in those pieces.

Then again.

I kept digging deeper and deeper, to let more water in.

Then, again.

I had to learn to write, maybe for the first time.

Yes, even after writing for years, I had to learn. Relearn.

—Know what you don’t know, then learn each thing one by one.

(I don’t know a lot — so I have infinite potential!)

It feels good. I feel good. I feel happy.

I’m writing something I feel proud of. I have far to go, but I will get there.

Don’t worry, I will teach you all my tricks.

(You will find your own though.)

Something else I learned:

—The simpler your process, the more complex your work.

(I can explain why later.)

I started doing the same for other projects.

On my laptop I have eight “desktops” open, each its own project. When I get stuck on one, I switch to another.

I care most about my story — let’s call that one “Penpals” — and the new children’s story.

I don’t want to give too much away but the name of the new children’s story is — for now — “The Girl Who Slept.”

I care more about that one — one is about me 🤢, one is for someone 😌.

T, you make me a better writer.^*

You inspire me.

You motivate me.

I want to impress you, make you smile, even cry…

…in a good way.

— Your D

^*This means you make me a better person too.

My T —

You already have my letter.

You already have my everything.

— Your Fortune Cookie

This has happened at least twice already. Are you looking over my shoulder? Or reading my mind? Hmmmm… Maybe it’s what they mean when they say —being on the same frequency… D.