Of course, the wiser part of me knows this is a recipe for disaster (or at least disappointment). But sometimes the id screams like a toddler being forcibly removed from the toy aisle and the hubris of me insisting on doing things my way prevails.

But in saner moments, I realize that I simply need to catch the dreams and ideas that come to me, give ‘em some love, take a few action steps…and then release the trajectory of their manifestation to God.

My best friend recently gave me one of the most beautifully thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received: a very cool replica of an old school drive-in theater speaker. Her note said:

“To remind you that you are a screenwriter and filmmaker. Regardless of the fact that it may not look like what you thought it would.”

I was touched not only by her belief in my work, but how spot-on she was about the fact that our desires don’t always come to us in neat little packages designed by our imaginations.

Ever since I fell in love with screenwriting in college, I pictured that my films would one day end up with one of the big studios.  (Granted, this was when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and before everything was available on YouTube…but I digress…). My producing partner Curt Apduhan and I tried for years to get into the Hollywood club. Curt is an Emmy award-winning cinematographer, who has worked with a lot of famous people who are well-entrenched in the studio system. But even with his personal and professional connections, we always seemed to get thisclose with one of our scripts, and then…crickets.

Finally, we decided that it was time to stop wasting time courting approval and just make a movie on our own. Even if it wasn’t a full-length feature backed by millions of dollars and starring a household name, it was still tangible proof that we knew how to write and produce something screen-worthy.

So, we shot our first short film, “Anniversary” with an amazing cast of three in a friend’s home (whose living room was miraculously transformed by our set designer into a hotel suite). We were on a shoestring budget, but everyone involved gave so generously of their time and talent that we ended up with a beautiful film that was very well-received at several festivals in the U.K.

We may still make it to Hollywood one day. Or maybe not. But I will never forget the thought that came to me as I stood on set for the first time and watched the actors say my words:

“I don’t know if I could be any happier if this were being played out on a giant soundstage or a glamorous location. I love filmmaking, period. I just want to be in the game.”

And as of this writing, I still am. Another short film produced and screened at festivals last year, and one more in the works that will be expanded to a feature. At least that’s the plan.

(I know, I know…cue the “we plan, God laughs” jokes.)

But I’ve done my best to catch and cultivate the dreams that come to me. Now begins the continual process of prying my fingers off of the steering wheel.

Time to let the Divine do the driving.

I remember my last night as a grade-schooler, unable to sleep as I pondered my upcoming first day on the big bad junior high campus. Instead of the same familiar pack of munchkins I’d been running with since kindergarten, I’d now be forced to meet an entire legion of new students.

And I was terrified.

In the midst of my angst, I actually had the thought, “I wish I could wake up famous tomorrow. Then everyone would already know and like me.”

I was absolutely convinced that if I were Brooke Shields (the gold standard of teen stardom at the time), I wouldn’t have to face the awkwardness of trying to fit in, saying something idiotic or just flat-out being disliked.

Thankfully, I outgrew the naïve notion that “recognition = adoration” long before the internet and social media took public scrutiny to a stratospheric level.

And while it’s tempting to complain about the TMZ-style world we live in today, there is a proverbial silver lining to the often-moronic tidal wave of reality show starlets, viral videos and vitriolic rants:

It’s proof that the gatekeepers are done for good.

And so is your excuse for remaining invisible.

You no longer have to genuflect in the presence of movie studios, radio stations or art galleries, begging them to anoint you as a legitimate artist.

But as the barriers that keep your work from being shared with the world dissolve, so do the walls that keep you shielded from criticism that ranges from the mildly disheartening (actual review for my first short film: “That’s 20 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”) to aggressively hateful.

The fact is, if you’ve got something to offer the world, you’re going to have to deal with online trolls who are more than happy to announce that your novel was apparently written by an orangutan with a MacBook Pro and your abstract canvas looks like a sewage explosion.

And I’ve found the best way to handle the hate is to have empathy for those that dish it out.

No, I did not misspell “Twitter war.” I actually do mean empathy.

And here’s why.

These are people that have opted to spend their precious time and energy on a mission to seek and destroy. And their target isn’t something they despise, but rather something they desperately wish they had:

The courage to offer their gifts to the world, and to keep on doing it, whether the response is kudos or condemnation. 

Your book, film, blog or painting may not be their cup of tea. But the fact that they opt to attack – rather than simply ignore – your creation signals a human being burdened by regrets and hammered by creative Resistance.

Someone imprisoned by fear of failure, success, or both.

Simultaneously facing the dread of taking – or not taking – that first step toward a dream.

And in my book, living that way is suffering enough.

So, the next time snarky or scathing words are lobbed at you, consider the source.

Allow yourself a moment to be angry, annoyed or even amused.

Then let it go.

And give thanks.

Because you, too, could be hiding behind a screen name instead of making a name for yourself.

Mr. Emerson’s quote is famous for a reason. It really is an ideal way to see your existence.  Adopting a viewpoint like his makes it easier to handle frustrations.  To see great progress in small victories.  To appreciate life as the weirdly wrapped gift that it is.

But I didn’t always feel this way.

For most of my years, I thought that throwing that quote around was just a way to excuse yourself for not being where you should be in your career or creative pursuits. Journey? Bah.  I didn’t want to be mindful of every painstaking step toward my desire.   I wanted to teleport straight to my glorious arrival.  STAT, please.

I honestly wasn’t trying to call bullsh*t on one of America’s greatest poets. The idea that the journey really could be its own reward was a lovely one.

But I just couldn’t grasp how being on some meandering voyage was supposed to be more gratifying than actually grabbing the prize. More amazing than having that moment where you finally succeed.

So, what finally got me to accept the truth of his philosophy?

Doing something I’d been dreaming about for decades: making my first film (Anniversary).

The day that I realized my producing partner and I had secured funding and our wish list cast and crew, I felt unstoppable. Something I wrote was actually going to be viewed on a screen larger than my laptop.  I could really call myself a filmmaker.

I was elated. For about fifteen minutes.

And then the real work began.

Don’t get me wrong. It was work that I had fantasized about year after year as I was parked at my desk in the cube farm.  But between budgets, scheduling, script revisions, equipment rentals and about forty other things,  I soon realized that I had been watching way too much E! Channel.

All those “behind the scenes” segments seemed so glamorous. Everyone laughing, joking and  throwing out cute quotes for the camera.  Actors waxing poetic on their craft as they sat in the makeup chair.  The crew seamlessly gliding around on location, making every shot look effortless.

But while there was plenty of fun and games on our set, there was also plenty of…reality.

Airplanes that kept flying overhead during a critical scene, causing the sound guy to mainline Pepto Bismol.

Major equipment almost no-showing.

The script supervisor actually no-showing.

The family cat expressing displeasure with us shooting in “her” house by strolling through several shots. (She also requested a guest starring credit, but that’s a whole other story.)

This filmmaking stuff was not for the faint of heart.

But it was awesome.

And then it was over.

And I was bummed out.

Not just because the experience had come to an end. What really hit me was the realization that I had spent 95% of the pre-production and actual shoot time in varying degrees of anxiety.

Even when I wasn’t cranked up to eleven, I was almost always in a state of mild disquiet.

Thinking about what else I was supposed to be doing.  What I might be doing wrong.

If I looked like an idiot.  If I was an idiot.

And as a result, I witnessed – but didn’t fully absorb – so much of this once-in-lifetime experience:

Hearing an actor say my words for the first time.

Watching a group of virtual strangers become instant collaborators.

Noticing how the set design almost perfectly mimicked what I’d seen in my mind’s eye.

And so many other things.

I was making memories, no doubt. But what I should have been doing was making moments.

Staying present. Not stressing about what would come next, and how fast it would come.

Not wondering whether the film would be a pile of crap or a critical darling.

Not trying to guess whether this would be the start or the end of my filmmaking career.

As I write this, my second film Waiting for Goodbye is one week away from being in final form and ready for festival submission.  I’m excited to get it out there, and hopeful for a warm reception from audiences.  And I won’t lie, winning an award or two would be a dream come true.

But unlike my maiden voyage with Anniversary, this time I paid attention to every bit of the experience.  I savored the times where things went smoothly.  I rolled with the inevitable mishaps (which were amplified by the fact that our leading man was a cranky 16 year old Shih Tzu…but I digress).

And this time I left the shoot with a peaceful, grateful heart…and a new mantra:

Making memories is wonderful. Making moments is magical.

But that wasn’t the whole story.

When my filmmaking partner Curt Apdhuan first spoke to me early last year about writing the script for WFG, I immediately fell in love with the idea of the film being created as a tribute to his dearly departed Maltese Priscilla. And it was also a nice way to create a memento of Beau, his sixteen year old Shih Tzu (and our leading man) who is starting to feel his years quite a bit.

So, I got to work on it right away and after several go-rounds we had a final draft by spring.  My heart ached for Curt’s loss, but I was silently grateful that my two dogs – Ranger and Devo – were only 3 1/2 and 6 1/2 years old, respectively.  Surely, I would have many more years before I had to even think about memorializing them.

I never dreamed that before the end of 2015, I would be saying goodbye to both of my sweet boys in all too rapid succession.  Ranger in August.  Devo two days before Christmas.  Both had forms of cancer that were inexplicable in such otherwise healthy and youthful dogs.

I have a friend who often says, “Never ask the ‘why’ question.” But when grief goes to work on your psyche, that’s a pretty tall order.  Where had we failed them?  Feeding the wrong food?  Missing symptoms we should have seen?  Toxic pesticides on the dog park grass?  The possibilities were (and still are) endless and maddening.

But even as I try to stop torturing myself with the aforementioned “why’s,” there is one that remains.  And it’s not so much painful as it is simply confounding.

Why did I end up living my own script?

I’m not sure I’ll ever have an answer for that one. But what I do have is this:  an even greater desire than before to share WFG with as many people as I can.  My hope is that this film can provide comfort.  To reassure people that they aren’t alone in their pain of losing their beloved animal companion, and console them as they try to make sense of something that seems so senseless.

Ranger (“Bear”)  Hughes 2012-2015                                                              Devo (“Peanut”) Hughes 2009-2015