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.

We’re all made of the same basic building blocks. We all eat, drink, work, sleep…lather, rinse, repeat every 24 hours. The Constitution even confirms that we’re all created equal.

But somehow, we just don’t get that “all” includes us, too.

She sings like an angel. I sound like a cat being attacked by a lawn mower.

He’s written five bestselling novels and he’s only twenty-six. I’m um…not twenty-six and have barely finished one book that approximately nine people know about.

The entire planet follows them on social media. My dog follows me to the kitchen.

So, why do we habitually catapult those we admire to godlike status, while relegating ourselves to watching silently from the cheap seats?

I think it’s because we forget (or at least I do) that those who have attained stratospheric success are there for inspiration…not imitation.

Big difference.

In the midst of flailing about writing my first novel (which is now thankfully in the hands of some amazing beta readers as I write this), one of my favorite – and futile – things to do was to look at famous authors and note all the ways that I wasn’t following in their esteemed footsteps.

I don’t write long tomes (my head explodes when I think of Ayn Rand spinning out 1000+ pages for Atlas Shrugged).

I’m big on dialogue and nearly non-existent when it comes to description (welcome to the side effect of 25+ years of screenwriting).

And I’m completely missing the “vampires and wizards obsession” chip (somehow I doubt that Anne Rice and J.K. Rowling are losing any sleep over this, since I am one of approximately 15 people worldwide who feel this way).

But the further along I get in my own work, the more I realize that even if I wanted to imitate the aforementioned greats…it’s just not gonna happen.

And it shouldn’t.

Mark Twain said, “Comparison is the death of joy.” And he’s right.

Because there is nothing that sucks the beauty and fun out of creation like wallowing in angst because you don’t paint like Cezanne, sing like Adele or write brilliant prose about blood-sucking creatures of the night or magical adolescents who fly around on broomsticks.

You weren’t put here to be a half-assed copy of someone else. Respect the talented masters that you admire, but don’t revere them. They are just like you, except they’re doing the one thing you might be avoiding:

Being 100% true to who they were created to be.

So, take them off the pedestal. Or better yet, climb up there with them.

There’s more room at the top than you think.

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.

When we’re already low, our monkey minds go to town…blowing up minor missteps into irrefutable proof that we are complete idiots:

The time you choked during your presentation and forgot the name of your own company.

That stellar moment when you asked your co-worker when she was due. And she wasn’t pregnant.

The night where you had one (or three) too many at cousin Barb’s wedding and assaulted the dance floor with gyrations that looked like MC Hammer on peyote buttons.

“All right.  I can forgive myself for stammering through a presentation or dancing like a jackass.  But what about the really big stuff?  Opportunities I lost out on.  Things I didn’t step up for.  I would be soooo much further along if I had (fill in the blank with regret du jour).”

Let me tell you a story…

When I was in my early 20s, my best friend’s stepfather (Gale) turned his experience as a criminal court judge into a screenplay that was made into a TV movie. As a newbie  taking my first screenwriting class in college, I remember going to the film’s screening with (literal) stars in my eyes. Oh my God…there are famous people here!

I was totally in awe of the fact that his debut script had been produced, seemingly overnight. He had not one but TWO agents.  He was being courted to write for several television shows, including the then wildly popular L.A. Law.

I wanted his life.

Being the cool guy that he was, Gale offered to read a few of the screenplays and TV scripts I was working on in class. He was impressed (or perhaps just kind) enough to suggest that his agents take a look at them.  After I got up off the floor and the paramedics left, I gratefully accepted his offer.

A few weeks passed, and Gale got back to me with the agents’ input. No surprise, they had some notes on what could be improved, what wasn’t quite in line with industry standards, etc.

But then Gale said something I’ll never forget.

“They said you could make a living at this.”

So, what do you think I did? Jump up and down in elation that a couple of Hollywood big shots said I had the chops to be a professional screenwriter?  Start writing movies and teleplays like a woman possessed?

Nope.

I stopped writing for an entire year. And only sporadically after that for the next several years.

I could look back at that (and have, trust me) as an abysmal failure. Why did I run away, cowering from encouragement that most twenty-somethings (or any-somethings) would die to receive?

I could tell you that I focused on the agents’ critiques more than their kudos and that’s what sent me scurrying.

But that would only be a half-truth.

The reality was, I was simply not ready to put myself out there in the world. The initial excitement I felt about possibly being “discovered” quickly  morphed into abject terror.  And I hid.

Gutless? Stupid? Wasteful? Yes, yes, and yes.

But it was where I was at the time. I knew somewhere inside of me that I didn’t have the rhino-thick skin I needed to succeed as a scribe in Hollywood (or anywhere, for that matter).  I didn’t have the resolve  to withstand criticism.  And I lacked the emotional maturity to realize that while praise is awesome, it can’t be what motivates you to create.

I kept the self-condemnation going off and on throughout my 30s. But once I started skidding into the Big 4-0, I realized that it was time to not only forgive the past but truly bless it.

Put the lost opportunities in perspective once and for all.

Maya Angelou said it beautifully:

Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.

I didn’t know what to do then. But I do now.

And I’m getting on with it. Writing.  Sharing.  Encouraging.  Running my own race.  And not giving a sh*t if I trip on my shoelaces while doing it.

It’s a good place to be. Finally.

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

A few months later, when the winners were announced (and none of them were me), I received my evaluation via email. I was nervous as I opened the document, but still eager to receive some encouragement from a pro. Instead, my eyes jumped immediately to these words:

“I kept waiting for something to happen, but nothing ever did.”

So much for Hollywood-ready.   Try dumpster-ready.

The rest of the review wasn’t much better, and it left me doubting not only my writing ability but my own judgment. Was I so delusional that what I thought was a solid story amounted to 120 pages of “nothing happening?”

So, after a brief stint of ignoring my writing in favor of a pity party, it was time to get over myself and get back to the page. Because the best way (for me, at least) to soothe the sting of rejection is to write past it. Leave it in the dust. One person’s “no thanks” isn’t the end of your writing life, nor proof that your talent is non-existent.

So, write on. And on. And on.

When have you had to write past rejection? How did you do it/handle it?