I am good at many things; primarily living within my own imagination. I am less good at the common sense, duh, obvi type things.

It took 30 years on this planet… but here are ten things I’ve learned that I CAN do and that have made my life significantly better:

1. Schedule Send Emails

This is both a blessing and a curse for my OCD-brethren.

Now, I have hours to check and recheck the email I scheduled to a work colleague to ensure I did not attach a photo of a naked man or said something wildly offensive. It also gives me time to run my specific response by my mother, sisters, and girlfriend so they can all weigh in and tell me — “stop being annoying, you’re fine” — giving me a newfound sense of comfort when my important email sends at 12:32 PM

2. Not Respond Immediately… or Ever

I am a sensitive soul (famously). In high school, college, and a few years beyond — it broke my heart when I was left on read by friends. Why do they hate me? Did I do something terrible? Am I destined to be a friendless loser forever (although I had plenty of friends)? What was the reason?!

In the last year or so, I have started leaving people on read.

And it feels amazing.

I don’t leave them on read because I hate them or don’t want to talk to them or want them to feel like shit; I leave them on read because I’m overwhelmed or in the middle of something or both in the middle of something and overwhelmed.

I can respond in a day, or two days, or three weeks, or six months, OR NEVER.

“I’m sorry I missed this!” Does not have an expiration date!

At the moment, my text inbox is at 72 messages and it feels fucking great.

When I’m ready, I’ll sit down with my coffee and get back to everyone.

Just because someone can reach you at all times; doesn’t mean you must let them.

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3. Don’t Finish the Drink

Something about college greek life and an artist salary made me think, for many years, it was an abomination to leave a half-drunk cocktail on the table.

C’mon that’s like twenty-bucks! Are you really going to let it go to waste?

Yes. Yes you are. Just because you are paying for it, does not mean you need to finish it. You will thank yourself tomorrow.

4. Buy Wifi on Airplanes

In the theme of being cheap, for some reason, buying wifi on a plane felt like an inexcusable luxury reserved for corporate expense accounts and not my own checking account.

My dear friend Morgan felt similarly… until she realized: you wouldn’t bat an eye at buying a $238 flight vs. a $230 flight.

So buy the damn wifi.

But do NOT touch the hotel minibar BY ANY MEANS, what’re ya — Daddy Warbucks?!?!

5. Be a Fan

Four years in art school taught me to critique everything. To find the failings and weaknesses and let them be known because adoring something without critiquing it is a sign of possessing an unrefined palette.

But statues are never made of critics darling and I feel a lot better when I LOVE something than when I NITPICK it.

It’s cool to be a fan. It’s cool to celebrate your peers work and successes. It’s cool to love something for what it is and not need anything more. It’s cool to realize there is room for everyone.

It’s also cool to dislike things… but I feel a hell of a lot better when I am enjoying them.

6. Make the Food I want to Order

On Monday, I desperately wanted a hot fudge sundae. I perused DoorDash longing for thirty minutes, trying to decide if it was ridiculous or brilliant to spend $25 to get ice cream delivered to my door (again, I am cheap on an artist’s salary).

I put my phone away but the craving remained. I got out of bed and rummaged through the fridge…

A scoop of Greek yogurt, cut up dark chocolate, sliced fresh cherries, and a drizzle of Vermont maple syrup — voilà — a makeshift sundae.

I enjoyed the treat with the newfound satisfaction. I was an amateur chef, capable of making my cravings a reality (with a little bit of creativity).

For years, I thought I couldn’t cook — but I had just never tried.

Now, I’ve grow to love the taste of self-sufficiency.

7. Cancel Plans

I said it. Sue me.

For years, I refused to cancel plans. I took loosely made commitments as seriously as matrimony. As I got older and older, and felt myself spreading so thin across the countless networking coffees and drinks or film screenings or catch-ups with old friends and dinners with new ones — I was often relieved when the social obligations were cancelled.

I was free.

I could hangout at home watching Housewives decompressing.

After I turned 30, I realized that… I too can cancel plans (in a respectful way, these rules all have exceptions).

I no longer needed to run myself down until I got so sick, that I couldn’t commit to anything for weeks — or jump on a plane to flee to California just to have a geographical reason forcing me to be physically unavailable.

Extroverted people pleasers, it’s ok to rain check when you are not 100 percent.

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8. Mute People

My favorite modern invention is the mute button.

One does not need to block or unfollow, one can simply mute.

It’s incredible how quickly the pesty gnats in your life and thorns in your side disappear when their digital footprint is hidden.

And one can always unmute.

9. Leave a Thrift Store Without Buying Something

I am a Beacon’s Closet, Buffalo Exchange, Crossroads gal. Since high school, I’ve loved perusing the second hand finds (hello 100% brown leather Paige denim jeans that fit just right for $35 instead of $350). But too often, when I make my pilgrimage to the store and weave around throngs of judgmental Gen-Z employees with piercings in places I didn’t even know could be pierced… I don’t find anything worth purchasing.

To avoid feeling like I embarked on a failed expedition and wasted hours, I force myself to love some heinous article of clothing and purchase it anyway for the dopamine rush of a great find.

My closet’s filled with these misfit articles (the long CBK-esque skirt that makes me look like the least fashionable Hasidic woman, a pinstriped poofy shirt that screams “Blair Waldorf” in drag).

Now, I walk out of a store itemless — knowing that you do not find the perfect second-hand clothes; they find you.

10. Do The Thing

Anything is possible if you decide to do it. Start a Newsletter and write once a week? Do it. Host a Storytelling Show and get back onstage after a five-year hiatus? Do it. Run a marathon? Do it.

In the last few years, I’ve decided to do the damn thing. You won’t start where you want to end up, but if you get comfortable with JUST STARTING from somewhere — the world is your oyster.

(BONUS)

11. Get over Splitting the Check at Group Dinners When You Ordered Less Than Everyone Else

Do not order less. Get the steak. Get the second cocktail. If you only eat an appetizer and do not drink, you’ll still get slammed with the “split if six ways” bill. And it’s fine. You will be ok. Money will return. That’s just how it goes sweetheart.

Have your own list? Small changes that have drastically improved your life? Lets talk about it in the comments xx.

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A few weeks ago, over a late night martini and tipsy card game — one of my closest friends said that when she’s in doubt, she asks herself:

“What would Dolly do?”

On Tuesday, we lost an icon.

Words cannot describe the heart, talent, and legacy of the angel — so I’m not even going to try. But for the last few days, I’ve been listening to her music, watching her films, learning about her life, and diving into her wise “isms”

One quote in particular has stuck with me:

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What would Dolly think about REPAVING a road?

I am in the midst of it.

Before I was a filmmaker, I was a performer.

As a kid, I can’t remember a time that I wasn’t performing.

Whether it was my line-for-line rendition of FUNNY GIRL in my parents’ living room, at wildly cut-throat youth dance competitions, or in random Coloradan student films — I was always a ham.

When I was nine years old, I did my first “pilot season.”

My mother, two sisters, and myself lived in the famed LA Oakwood apartments while auditioning for the first three months of the year. Our days filled with driving around town from casting to casting; our nights filled with a hit show called LOST and voting by phone for AMERICAN IDOL.

That pilot season — I booked my first major role, a series regular in a CBS series. I spent the summer living in another temporary apartment while filming at Raleigh Studios.

At the time, I did not realize I was part of a machine — I was just having fun, chasing my dreams while school was out for summer. (I rly wanted to be on the Ellen Degeneres Show — to give you a sense of the era).

As my sisters and I continued booking, my family ended up moving out to LA permanently.

I loved acting but around fourteen years old — in an angsty pubescent haze — it started to feel like a job. I landed another series regular on an NBC TV pilot. When the show didn’t go, I decided to take a step back from my career.

Focusing on my education… and dare I say… performing for fun.

I was in high school musicals, my college improv team, and post-grad indie NYC comedy shows… the pressure was off, no money was on the line, I didn’t have to worry about getting dropped by my agent. It was purely for joy.

When COVID hit, theaters closed, and the performing arts were thrust into limbo — I stopped performing altogether, I threw myself into studying writing and directing.

I started paving a new road for myself.

I always figured I’d return to my roots… I just didn’t know when… perhaps when I was older, wiser, more confident…

And sometime last year it hit me — the time was now.

I’d never be ready; I had to just go for it.

I’d have to work through adolescent baggage, fear of being “cringe,” and imposter syndrome.

It was going to be a long process… so I started it… the way most things start today — I added “actress” back into my instagram bio.

And more concretely…

Tomorrow evening, I am getting back on stage (or in this case, an elevated platform in the backyard of a Bushwick club… we must all re-start somewhere).

I’ll be hosting and performing in a new storytelling show, “OOPS,” that I created with .

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The show was born from this page.

I’ve loved writing and recording my stories about f*cking up and figuring it out — and the responses to my posts, people telling me their own tales of iconic mishaps.

Lisa and I are both perfectionists; we figured what’s more cathartic than making light of our mistakes and inviting our friends (and a vibrant artistic community) to do the same.

Through creating this show, I’ve realized that I shouldn’t think of my art as existing on different roads.

Instead, it’s a highway — there’s multiple lanes, on-ramps, off-ramps, detours, (if I’m lucky) a fast track.

Sometimes there’s traffic, or a closure, other times it’s smooth sailing.

When I was fifteen, my stoner driver’s ed instructor made me get on the 405 long before I was ready. I hyperventilated, screamed a little, and thought I was gonna die on the six-lane LA highway… but then I merged into traffic… and settled in… and turned out alright.

I was just fine.

That’s kind of how I feel right now preparing for tomorrow night.

I’m not going to lie — it’s scary to put myself out there and begin again but in the wise words of Dolly:

Tomorrow is for you Ms. Parton; thank you for inspiring generations of women to put their heels on, get on stage, and stand in their light.

Learned a great lesson from Dolly? Started down a new road (or repaving one)? Returned to who you’ve always been? Let’s talk about it in the comments.

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updates: I’m hosting a storytelling event OOPS with stories about f*cking up & figuring it out with — Friday Aug 28th 7:30 pm The Tiny Cupboard Comedy Club — hope to see you there! $5 discount code: EVERHARDEDIT for readers :) + paid subscriber bonus at the end of this post <3

The internet is constantly selling me things.1

Not just clothes and anti-aging products and kitchen gadgets. It’s selling me the promise of reaching my dreams or banishing my OCD or unlocking my diva-confidence.

Always, in ten simple steps.

Often, behind a paywall.

Most likely, sold by an unqualified creator.

It feels like everyone on the internet today is a snake oil salesman. Hawking their wares in whatever digital niche they inhabit. Hooking you with a carousel of shiny photos beneath bright yellow text ending with a call to action to buy their 10-step guide.

As I found myself scrolling through one of these posts earlier this week, I wondered about that phrase — “snake oil salesman” — and where it came from.

So, I found out.

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ORIGINS

In the 1800s, thousands of Chinese indentured laborers arrived in the US to work on the Transcontinental Railroad. A grueling gig, the workers brought medicine from home — including omega-3 rich oil from the Chinese water snake — to ease their joint pain.

The workers shared their snake oil with American laborers, who were amazed with its anti-inflammatory properties.

As word of the miracle snake oil spread… American “entrepreneurs” wanted to cash in (classic).

The only problem, there were no Chinese water snakes in the US.

But there were rattle snakes…

THE RATTLE SNAKE KING

Cue, Clark Stanley, AKA “The Rattle Snake King.”

In 1893, the enigmatic businessman rocked up to the Chicago World’s Fair in full western attire.

The former cowboy claimed that he learned about the healing powers of the rattle snake from Hopi medicine men.

In front of an enthralled crowd, Stanley procured a live rattle snake, slit it open, plunged its carcass into boiling water, and when the fat rose — skimmed it off the top.

Then and there, he bottled “Stanley’s Snake Oil.”

The enraptured crowd bought every last vile.

Rattle snakes had three times LESS omega-threes than Chinese water snakes.

Stanley’s oil had no medicinal property; he sold from showmanship alone.

In the early 1900s, the federal government cracked down on unregulated medicines marketed as panaceas.

In 1917, after being on the market for over 20 years, federal investigators seized a shipment of Stanley’s oil. Their tests concluded that the product was comprised of beef fat, red pepper, and turpentine.

No snake oil at all.

Stanley was fined $20 for violating the Pure Food and Drug Act, shut down his shop, and slipped away from private eye.

TO BE A SNAKE OIL SALESMAN

After Stanley got busted in 1917, “snake oil” became associated with fraud. “Snake oil salesmen” were charlatans selling cure-alls to unsuspecting customers. They appeared as common characters in American poems, plays, and Westerns. The idiom lives on today.

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HOW’D STANLEY GET AWAY WITH IT FOR SO LONG?

He was a hell of a salesman.

He self-promoted and marketed and created spectacle.

He never learned from the Hopi medicine men and probably was never even a cowboy. But he sold his oil as “the strongest and best,” “immediate relief,” that’s “good for everything.”

He created a mythology; much like the influencers and content creators that grace our screens daily.

THE CATCH

As a content creator, I’m (sort-of) in this space.

I have turned down propositions to use my digital platform to promote a male masturbation toy (no), anti-face sweat lotion (that was an insulting email), the new Nicolas Cage movie, slimming tea, miracle vitamin gummies, acne-ending cleanser, lip plumping gloss, etc.

Products that promise me beauty and health and happiness but I don’t believe in (sorry Nic).

Artists need to be business people; we have to support ourselves as the traditional film/TV pipeline shrinks and revenue-models shift (goodbye residuals). We have to use our skills for profit in a sector that encourages “faking it ‘til ya make it!”

Show biz — and capitalism — never reward modesty.

But we have to draw the line somewhere in the unregulated creator economy — when embellishment becomes fraud, creating hype is falsifying (like did anyone follow the UNDONE BY KATE tiktok drama?).

I see the irony, as I’m selling tickets to my live show + have a paid subscriber tier on this newsletter — and I wouldn’t turn down a brand deal with a product I love.

The difference is — I believe in this work. It’s meaningful and it takes time and fuck, it won’t cure your ailments but it’ll make you forget about life for awhile.2 Isn’t that enough to be worth twelve bucks?

So here’s the line I draw — Stanley sold bullshit.

I never will.

Ever encountered a snake oil salesman? Got thoughts on the influencer economy? Let’s talk about it in the comments. xx

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updates: I’m hosting a storytelling event OOPS with stories about f*cking up & figuring it out with — Friday Aug 28th 7:30 pm — hope to see you there! $5 discount code: EVERHARDEDIT for readers :) + paid subscriber bonus at the end of this post <3

The summer entering seventh grade, I begged my parents to send me to sleep away camp. They were baffled, since we lived in the South Bay — a beautiful summer vacation destination on the Pacific Ocean. Why would I trade that for humidity, bugs, communal showers, and mess-hall slop?

I had my reasons.

The last few years, my best friend had gone off to an Upstate New York camp and returned with a great tan, elaborate friendship bracelets, and salacious stories of getting felt-up by a counselor-in-training in an upside-down canoe.

Unlike me, she wore padded bras and a newfound sexuality on her sleeve.

I wanted to be just like her — which meant, I had to follow in her footsteps — going to second-base after winning color war, whatever that meant.

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After a few google searches, I settled on a random camp in the Berkshires — guided by nothing but an intriguing brochure and an infatuation with the first act of The Parent Trap, I convinced my parents to sign me up for a month-long session.1

When I arrived, I realized that campers had been summering together since second grade. No one new came to camp at thirteen years old… and definitely no one came from outside of Massachusetts.

As the lone Californian new girl, I was excited to explore this new ecosystem and pleasantly surprised with how quickly bonds formed.

Despite my early letters home declaring, “I’M MISERABLE — GET ME OUT OF HERE!” (I always had a flair for dramatics) — I loved the weeks of kayaking, woodworking, softballing, cabin raiding and plenty of illicit backwoods fun.

It was sublimely picturesque.

I never went back to camp.

Until 18 years later.

My dear friend Charlotte hosted a weekend at her family’s Minnesotan lake house aptly deemed: “Camp Hardy.”

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Eight of us descended on the land of ten thousand lakes.

A gaggle of folks in their late-20s and early-30s who — for a few days — agreed to leave behind our work and partners and earthly obligations in various major cities.2

I pulled into the driveway late at night, a little nervous. I only knew the host well. Instead of a fearless horny seventh grader, I was now a medicated socially anxious adult.

My trepidations melted away as I was greeted with a “Welcome Drink” — a pickle-back shot — and a fired-up grill. They’d waited to eat, true class acts.

As we dug into late-night lobster rolls under the stars, an inky black lake in the distance, I finally relaxed. We had made it.

We were on the lake for three full days, a luxury in adulthood.

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This camp had chardonnay and cigarettes and caffeine — but it also had canoes, friendship bracelets, communal meals, story time, campfires and s’mores.

Strong cold brew and stronger martinis, paired with morning lake dips and late afternoon showers. There were bills to pay and leases to sign, but there were aspirations and dreams.

We discussed the lives we had and the lives we wanted, while swinging in hammocks without make-up or shoes. Popsicles and ice cream sandwiches in the afternoons.

We played music from an eclectic CD collection and an old boombox, working in the kitchen as everyone contributed to our new self-sufficient society.

Each night, we gathered round the table and said a secular “thanks” before digging in. Reminiscing on the day’s perfect sunset pontoon and afternoon sandbar “float-illa” — followed by living room games and tipsily finding our way to bed in the early morning hours, excited to wake up and do it all again.

The trip culminated in a themed final dinner, “Birds of a Feather.”

Each gal debuted a curated look — red robin, peacock, swan, parakeet, phoenix, flamingo, and platypus.

Somewhere over smoked salmon dip and lake trout, I realized that over the past three days — we really had become birds of a feather.

The next morning, I pulled out of the driveway lined with my new pals waving goodbye. As I turned up the aux, rolled down the windows, and marveled at the grandiose size of Minnesotan American flags — I smiled.

Instead of discovering my womanhood, I’d returned to my girlhood.

@imlwangHighly recommend if you’re going through it… to take a trip to the lake with the homies and let Mother Earth heal ♥️ #girlhood #friends #healing

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Ever been to summer camp? How did it inform your summers? What about an adult trip that brought back that childlike wonder? Let’s talk about it in the comments. xx

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Welcome paid subscribers! Every week, I’ve decided to include an exclusive look at what’s goin’ on in my head (and career).

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updates: everhard edit will now be publishing weekly on thursday’s (yay!) & I’m hosting a storytelling event OOPS with stories about f*cking up & figuring it out — Friday Aug 28th 7:30 pm @ The Tiny Cupboard — hope to see you there!

On Monday, I reached into the depths of my media console and procured: a tinsel wall of pink penises, a “pin the banana on the man-anana” game, a glittery dick-embellished table runner…

Hand-me-downs from my older sister’s bachelorette that I’d held onto for three months. Now, I was taking inventory for my little sister’s upcoming bachelorette.

That is correct — both of my sisters are getting married this year. And I am their dual Maid of Honor.

As I pulled out the sparkly phallic-paraphernalia, I felt a sharp twinge in my lower back.

Fuck.

My back had been bothering me for the last few weeks — a deep radiating pain, which I attributed to old running shoes and bad posture and overdoing it in a yoga class in a moment of false bravado…

I ended up at the doctor, who diagnosed a strain. She prescribed multiple muscle relaxants and PT. While I waited in the Duane Reade pharmacy line, I updated my father on my woes.

He enthusiastically recommended Dr. Sarno’s book: “Healing Back Pain: The Mind-Body Connection,” which promised to teach me to identify stress and other psychological factors causing my TMS (tension myoneural syndrome).

Supposedly, anxiety and repressed anger were the root of my pain.

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As I read the book description, I had deja-vu.

A few months prior, I’d had the same conversation with my father about my daily migraines and recently diagnosed TMJ — which a dentist claimed $900 of NONCOSMETIC botox (lame) could ameliorate.

My father recommended: “Doctor, Why Does My Face Still Ache?: Getting Relief from Persistent Jaw, Ear, Tooth, and Headache Pain” Another book about the mind-body connection and incorporating stress management exercises to improve your health.

My dad is a cool guy but he’s no hippie. When he suggested these alternate medicine books, he knew something deeper was going on with my health.

I did not buy the book or the botox; I just took too much Advil and worked with my curtains closed for a month.

Come June, the pain subsided. Oddly enough, a few weeks after my older sister tied the knot — I felt healthy again.

On the corner of Fulton and Smith, I realized that I had traded my TMJ for TMS just as my Maid of Honor duties shifted from my older sister to my younger one.

Well, I’ll be damned…

My sisters’ weddings were making me physically ill.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE MY SISTERS.

They are my best friends in the entire world. I love their husbands and their future hypothetical spawn. Plus, I have far less work to do than the couples — or my parents — in actually pulling off these weddings.

But there’s a very specific role I play as the sister:

I am the mediator.

Middle children often get shit for being attention whores (guilty) but we are also known for abating conflict.

It’s been a long time since my sisters were at each other’s throats… but leave it to their weddings… only four months apart… to ignite the flames.

A sampling of receipts concerning a bridesmaids dress blowout last week:

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Plenty has been written on the Wedding Industrial Complex and the financial cost of attending marriages, but I’ve seen little written about the physical and emotional toll of nuptials.

They are hurting me… literally.

I have to wonder where the pain is coming from?

Rewiring my brain to care about linens and card stock and bustles? Reviewing menus and speeches and websites for typos? Critiquing potential photographers and bands and florists’ portfolios?

Was this the toll of being a 24/7 sounding board; yes, no, I like the other one better, keep looking?

Perhaps it’s from emailing twelve male exotic dancer companies and getting quotes, before I realized that bachelorettes don’t really do that anymore… then looking into magicians to discover that they are MORE expensive than strippers?! And settling on a mediocre tarot card reader, who everyone was angry wasn’t a psychic?

That’s gotta have an impact.

As I packed the leftover glittery penis wall for Olivia’s bachelorette, I realized why I was in pain:

I want my sisters to be happy.

So ridiculously, unbelievably, stupidly happy.

I want their bachelorettes to be unforgettable.

I want their weddings to be flawless.

I want their “Bride Era” to be perfect.

And that pressure is hurting me.

But if right now, nothing is more important to my little sister than coordinating 12 girls’ Saturday night outfits for her “Last Rodeo-Hoe-Hoe” then so be it.

I’ll take two more months of back pain for a lifetime of sisterhood…

But in the meantime, I’m buying that damn book.

Have you been the Maid of Honor or Best Man? Thoughts on the pressures of weddings? Let’s talk about it in the comments.

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In eighth grade, my friends held a one-day recess workshop called “Teach Emily to Be a Bitch.”

The goal was very clearly stated.

I don’t remember exactly what inspired the lesson, but it must have involved my highly sensitive nature. Whenever I was teased, I didn’t retort — I cried.

My friends wanted me to fight back.

As a child actor, I was conditioned to be a people pleaser. My employment hinged on being pleasant and accommodating. “Easy to work with.” When I was hurt, I kept my mouth shut — or worse, blamed myself.

Despite the forty-five minute workshop, led by the girls who’d previously held me down and spread “icy-hot” across my chest and forced me to watch “The Ring” even though I was terrified — I did not learn to be a bitch.

And not much has changed since middle school.

When I was wronged or hurt, I thought — it must be my fault. I did not get mad; I got sad.

Until I started watching THE REAL HOUSEWIVES.

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I had always kept BRAVO at arm’s length; perceiving myself as “above” the reality TV industrial complex. I read “literature” and watched “films” (while scrolling mindlessly on social media, duh).

I can’t pinpoint what made me start watching — if it was the constant memes from gay-male creators gagged by these fabulous women, or the ladies beside me on the CRUNCH treadmills who were entertained for miles by the silicone-plumped women — but one night, alone in my former bachelorette pad, I decided, what the hell — let’s see what it’s all about.

I started with Season 1 Episode 1 of THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NEW YORK.

It premiered in 2008; post-financial crisis and pre-Instagram. Bethenny Frankel was the “down on her luck” single housewife scrappin’ by, Luanne was still a Countess. There were Blackberries and fedoras and unironic skinny jeans and statement necklaces.

As a former history major, I was intrigued to watch this time capsule of city life — an anthropological study of Manhattan’s ELITE (I told myself). And while I used “academia” as an excuse to hit “next episode” — I was sucked into these women’s lives.

I watched all 15 seasons of RHONY. Roughly 210 hours. Almost nine full days of my life.

And what kept me watching, episode after episode, was the fighting.

Unlike me, these women did not let anything go.

A side-eye, an off-handed comment, a quote to the Post.

Everything was fair game for a seasons-long conflict that erupted into major confrontation.

And if you didn’t fight back — you weren’t asked back.

The series cycled through a cast of rotating players. The women who survived the franchise — and built multi-million dollar empires — were the ones who brawled.

Sure, it’s entertaining to watch the women throw drinks and break glasses and flip tables and meltdown. But beyond the sheer shock value, I saw something important — I saw women standing up for themselves.

I realized that I was a complete push-over.

Conflict-avoidant under the guise of “being chill” and “well-liked.”

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While I don’t necessarily think the Housewives are role models — seeing them go apeshit on each other — unlocked a deeply buried feminine rage inside me.

I started saying, “no,” telling people they’d hurt me, and fighting back when I was being gaslit or bulldozed.

It was itchy and uncomfortable and painful. I still feel the urge to say, “I’m sorry, let’s forget about it.” Or ask, “are you mad at me?”

But the Housewives never do.

Luanne does not give a flying-fuck if you’re mad at her.

So, I borrowed the Housewives’ confidence until it became my own.

Yes, I know it’s reality TV (which means it’s scripted) — but if we’ve learned from heroes in literature and films… why not take a thing or two from these women?

Our fights don’t need to be as dramatic as throwing limbs on a table or screaming at each other in Saint Barths — but women are socialized to be pleasant and quiet and submissive.

The Housewives are anything but.

And although it can take seasons, the Housewives always made up — or at least made peace. Perhaps, falsely, promising me that there can always be a resolution — which made confrontation less terrifying.

How have the Housewives changed you? Any other shows or characters that have impacted your life? Let’s talk about it in the comments. xx

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This week, my feed has been flooded with headlines about Richard Gere’s new movie: Asymmetry — about a 48-year age gap relationship. The online discourse is a reminder that these salacious pairings are always up for debate.

While my relationship falls FAR short of a 48-year difference. I am still, famously, in an age-gap relationship.

When Lisa and I first started seeing each other, age was an excuse for why things would never work. With 11 years between us — I was too young for her and she was too old for me.

Seriously, the concept of being 37 was so far outside my mid-twenties imagination — it was an age reserved for bosses… and now a mysterious attractive lover.

The gap took the pressure off. Things would never be serious, which is exactly what we wanted. We were both heartbroken and looking for anything but a relationship (more about that here).

I enjoyed the things that age gave her: confidence, stability, an apartment with an in-unit washer-dryer.

While she enjoyed what “youth” gave me: spontaneity, exuberance, entertainment from stories of never-ending fuck ups.

I grew to love the pop-culture chasm between us. I taught her about wearing wide-leg jeans and how to edit tiktoks; she taught me about Ani Defranco and THE CRAFT.

There was room for discovery in the decades we’d missed of each others. And it expanded beyond entertainment. She helped me navigate a toxic-boss and health insurance, while I taught her how to pack a carry-on for a two week international adventure.

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The packing lesson came before our first trip together — a spur-of-the-moment escapade to the Berlin Film Festival. I was an MFA student studying to be a filmmaker; she worked on big budget films as a production manager — and her dear friend had just designed Berlinale’s Opening Night Film.

What started as a screening, quickly turned into one of the wildest nights of my life.

After the premiere, we met her friend in the back garden of a boisterous brasserie — she happened to be dining with one of my favorite filmmakers of all time — and posse of accomplished artists: poets, composers, designers.

My hand trembled as I drank a glass of red wine to fight the nerves. Instead of wincing, as I usually do on the first sip of the cheapest glass on the menu — the vino slipped down my throat, velvety and complex.

This definitely was not a screw top bottle.

While I basked in the light of heated debates about politics and film, from people twenty to thirty-plus years my seniors — I was too scared to say anything. I did not want to put my foot in my mouth, the kid at the table.

But when the bill was graciously paid and the diners stood, everyone turned to me: “where should we go?”

FUCK.

As the resident “youth,” it was my job to navigate the club capital of the world. This crew was not one for the techno temples or sex warehouses, I’d previously visited. But I wanted to earn my seat at the table.

So I smiled, and did what all actresses are taught: fake it.

“I know exactly where to go!”

I had no fucking idea.

Luckily, they wanted to catch the end of the opening night gala. We stopped at a five star hotel hosting the black tie event. Whispers about how “Steven [Spielberg] had just left.” “It’s too bad we didn’t get to say hello.”

It’s fine — Lisa would work with him a few years later, finally getting her chance.

The end of the party gave me just enough time to find our next stop.

A “digital nomad” friend with Berlin-roots JUST sent me a map of all his favorite places in the city — neatly organized into categories: bars, restaurants, clubs, etc.

I scrolled through before settling on a divey spot known for great music and a locals-only atmosphere (according to the reviews) — that was near everyone’s hotel.

Eight of us spilled onto the gray post-industrial sidewalk, less depressing under the soft yellow light of street lamps, and hopped into cabs.

Somehow in the transportation chaos, Lisa and I ended up sandwiching one of the greatest cinematic minds of all time. Yes, this Academy Award Winner was stuffed in the middle seat between us.

I panicked, wracking my brain, wondering what the fuck you say when you’re casually hanging out with an idol. While Lisa was (mostly) unbothered. Used to it.

I blacked out those fifteen minutes. And returned to reality when we got out at the bar I’d so confidently selected.

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It was thick with cigarette smoke and tattoos and leather-daddies and cheap beers. Music thumped through a state-of-the-art speaker system and pinball machines dotted the corners.

The filmmaker HATED it and stood outside for the rest of the night, irritated by the tobacco. I thought I had failed… until I learned that his (younger) partner LOVED it. FINALLY, an unstuffy place to let loose — and smoke inside!

That’s when I realized that every couple we were with… was actually… in an age-gap relationship.

Each opening new avenues to the other.

Lisa and I locked eyes; smiles spreading across our faces. Somehow both knowing, this was the beginning of many adventures to come.

The night inspired my first love letter to her, “may we always feel the exuberant ease of youth.”

And just as the title of Richard Gere’s Asymmetry suggests; there can be a power dynamic in age-gap relationships — but that is true for any relationship.

In those that span decades, I think that there is a balance that’s rarely acknowledged. Each person holds a different power and brings something that the other wants to the table. I can’t speak for a 48-year gap, but the distance of the 11 years between us has shrunk more and more as we build our future together.

xx

Thoughts on age-gaps? Let’s talk about it in the comments.

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March 7, 2022 is the oldest Final Draft document on my computer — marking my first stab at “UNTITLED FOLEY PROJECT.”

A short romantic comedy about a foley artist for pornography who falls in love with a porn star during an ADR session. (completed film here).

It was the third short film I’d ever made — and my second year film at Columbia University.

Fast-forward 1,575 days later to July 14, 2026 the award-winning short film is FINALLY online & the completed feature film screenplay is sent off to my rep.

In the four plus years since I first thought a foley artist for pornography sounded funny, a lot has happened.1 And as an Aries, my worst quality is impatience, so it amazes me that I’ve stuck to this project for so long.

Thus, I think it’s worth looking at the short film’s journey — as I enter the project’s next stage and prepare for the long road ahead of making the feature.

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At a Glance:

Could this have happened faster? Probably.

Is it divine timing that the short released the same week that I sent the feature screenplay to my rep? I like to think so.

Now, let me take a walk down memory lane to share some takeaways and excerpts from every major stage in SPECIAL DELIVERY’s life (so far):

Genesis

The question I’m most often asked is: “how did you come up with this?”

The most barebones answer: “I was in film school making shitty low-budget shorts and one night, I was watching p*rn and thought about the production… and thought it’d be hilarious if there was a foley artist for pornography.” (sorry family members reading this).

The deeper thematic answer: “Being a young (petite) female director at a serious film school who wanted to make comedies, I sometimes felt like people didn’t take me seriously. I wanted to make a film about two people who take their work EXTREMELY SERIOUSLY even when no one else around them does.”

As for the genre: “I wanted to make a very innocent romantic comedy, in an extremely raunchy setting.”

When I really think about it, SPECIAL DELIVERY was born from so much more…

My acting days doing ADR sessions… my childhood friend whose dad made his fortune in adult film… my documentary job, where sound guys were famously the weirdest… my own closed-off, independent nature (like my protagonist, Sandy).

To me, this film illustrates how as artists — our unique life experiences give us wholly original stories to tell.

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Casting & Prep

I wrote the lead role SANDY for Kate Owens. We’d met years prior, when we both performed at a comedy show. Kate is a trained clown and magnificent at dry, physical comedy. I was dying to work with her and thrilled when she accepted the role. Kate worked closely with me in casting Tad, the brilliant Rob Kellogg. We did multiple callbacks and chemistry reads, determined to find the perfect fit. The most consistent compliments I receive are about Kate and Rob’s performances. They are simultaneously earnest and hilarious, bringing such depth and vulnerability to their characters.

My favorite part of prep was hanging out with real foley artists — Marko Costanzo and George Lara. Paul Hsu of C5 executive produced the film and gave us permission to film in their foley studio, which PERFECTLY captured the film’s intended look.

The studio was a treasure trove of artifacts, collected over decades of making the sounds for our favorite films (bowling balls from The Big Lebowski2, swords from Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, a kiddie pool from Magic Mike).

It was an archive of human craftsmanship and an art that Ai threatened to destroy — which made me want to showcase the tactical skills of foley artists so much more.

Production

We had a 2.5 day shoot. Half-a-day to shoot the fake porno that we’d cut and color to project on screen during our two day shoot in the foley studio.

Somehow, we traveled to Jersey, shot 11 pages, and found time to improvise in our quick two-day shoot (the benefits of a single location short). The crew was incredible and I could not have done it without them — one of the best feelings in the world is yelling CUT & having everyone BUST into laughter. The things I would do to bottle that…

I think the greatest joy of this project, and the secret to its success, is that there was no pressure on it. It was only my third time EVER directing and not a lot of money was on the line. I’d never screened at an impressive festival, so I had no expectations. I just wanted to explore, play, and make something that felt like ME… something that made me LAUGH — and that made all the difference.

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One of the first things I learned in film production is that it can only be two of the three: GOOD. FAST. CHEAP. I opted to make something good and cheap, which meant… it took awhile.

In school, I swore that I’d finish every film I started. I think this was honestly key to most of my learning — never abandoning the ship. Knowing the film wasn’t going to be perfect, but forcing it across the finish line anyway.

The best parts of indie-post were the DIY filmmaking; like doing all my own foley for the film, with the help of my brilliant composer (and dear friend) Kyle Ogren.

Most importantly, we had FUN with it. We LAUGHED, we pushed it TOO FAR, we WENT THERE. It’s a period of artistic exploration that I will never forget.

Festival Run

This. Fucking. Rocked.

The film premiered as the first film in the coveted Friday Night slot at Palm Springs ShortFest. I was SO NERVOUS but the second the crowd erupted in LAUGHTER when Tad says, “I don’t have a pen… but I do have a penis.”

I finally relaxed and let myself enjoy.

From Palm Springs, word of mouth spread. Special Delivery was programmed & invited to festivals around the country and the world — kicking off one of the best seasons of my life — traveling throughout the US, hearing audiences from different geographic regions react to the short. The best part was doing it all with my girlfriend (and producing partner) Lisa Cossrow ;)

During Special Delivery’s run, Lisa and I made three more short films as a team. And while we planted new seeds, this was the time to enjoy what I’d finished.

I learned a TON at these festivals, which I will share in another post to come.

Feature Treatment + Fellowship

After I received a Sundance Fellowship for a different project, I signed with a manager. While he shared my material with execs, in my general meetings, I quickly realized that SPECIAL DELIVERY was RESONATING with them.

Execs commonly asked, “what’s next for it?”

With the encouragement of Lisa, I thought about an expansion of the short. I puttered around with some ideas, but nothing quite stuck. I wanted to keep upending genre troupes in new and exciting ways.

Two words from Lisa inspired everything:

“Body. Drop.”

I wrote a one-pager for a procedural TV series about Sandy and Tad solving crimes using only auditory clues.

“Sounds more like a feature”

My manager said — he was right.

And in the beauty of divine timing, I was invited to apply to a screenwriting fellowship that required a feature film treatment for an unwritten script. While Lisa worked on location for Steven Spielberg’s DISCLOSURE DAY, I holed up in her hotel room in the New Jersey sticks and broke the story for:

SPECIAL DELIVERY, THE FEATURE

a neo-noir crime comedy set in Atlantic City

When I wrote the treatment, I thought it was the most BATSHIT story ever.

I couldn’t believe what I was typing. I thought that there was NO WAY a fellowship would choose this SMUTTY ridiculous crime-comedy. But I remembered, in writing the short film, the moments that felt the most ridiculous — like a fully-clothed orgasm — became the most beloved.

I had nothing to lose.

So, I sent it. And thank god I did.

I got the NY Screenwriting Fellowship with WGAE and FilmNation and started a 6-month writing bootcamp that changed my life.

I spent the summer developing & writing the feature, culminating in a fully-cast TABLE READ. I spent the next six months revising and refining the screenplay. Thank you endlessly to the WGAE, FilmNation, my mentors, and my other fellows.

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Release

This Tuesday, Special Delivery (the short) dropped on Crafty’s youtube channel. In true DIY-indie filmmaking, I cut my own trailers, sent marketing emails, and led a social media promo campaign to drive people to the film.

While I believe that cream rises to the top, I also believe that we need to make our own destiny as indie filmmakers. Marketing is the key and final step to getting a film out there.

Take Aways

As a filmmaker, YOU are going to be the first person who believes in your project. You’ll be with it from genesis to completion — and to see something through, you need to LOVE it. I hope that I spend the next years of my life making the feature version of this film because I love the characters, the world, and the story. The short film is far from perfect, but I believe that it made programmers and audiences feel something.

Another take away is... GO FOR IT. Make the crazy thing. Get outrageous. Make your OWN jaw drop. Entertain YOURSELF — that will entertain others.

Ultimately, SPECIAL DELIVERY is on its own path, from short to feature. I took my sweet time, but good things come to those who wait.

I hope you enjoy the film. I’ve seen it upwards of 1,000 times and it STILL makes me laugh. If you do, please like & comment :)

CHECK OUT SPECIAL DELIVERY, THE SHORT FILM HERE

xx

E

Got a short film you’d like to share? A long-term project? Drop them in the comments, let’s talk about it!

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My girlfriend, Lisa, texts me.

It’s 5 pm on a Tuesday. She’s tied up for another few hours on location.

We’re in Upstate New York for the next month, while she’s shooting a major studio franchise movie that rhymes with Shmiet Shmlace Shree. I came with her, creating a makeshift writer’s retreat from her boutique hotel room.

It’s a win-win. We’re both working.

But inspiration hasn’t struck me yet.

I texted her complaining about my aimlessness. I’ve procrastinated with Peloton yoga in the windowless gym and staring at a blank white wall and reading my friends’ scripts to avoid writing my own.

“Go be a solo traveler like you love.”

She encourages me to get out of the hotel I’ve holed myself up in, convinced that genius comes from suffering — I am a gay Jewish artist, after all.

Fine.

I leave the confines of our room.

I wave goodbye to our tasteful cuck chair and brass table lamps and sleek CB2-esque mass produced furniture with the essence of a girl you’d describe as “nice.”

And I head out into the charming backroads of this small upstate town.

Rolling green hills dot the horizon interrupted by red brick houses with pride flags and tasteful floral displays. The Amtrak whistles in the distance. Farmers Markets and Bongo Circles and Baby Yoga Classes are advertised on telephone pole flyers.

I’m in Hudson, New York — a beloved queer artist haven.

***

After a mile-long stroll along Warren Street, I settle on a restaurant that screams MUMFORD AND SONS in a twee millennial “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT WILLIAMSBURG WAS LIKE IN THE AUGHTS” way (complimentary).

The menu declared that Tuesdays were for $10 martinis and $1 oysters.

Like I said, I am a gay Jewish artist.

This deal was made for me.

I squish into the only remaining bar seat, between a mid-life couple on vacation dipping into pimento cheese and two local best gal pals lamenting their clueless fiancés over coke and rums.

I order a half a dozen oysters and a dirty gin martini.

I settle into my seat, alone on at the bar.

And I think about the first time I ever did this… sat alone at a bar while traveling.

It was back in 2018.

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I’d just graduated college and completed a month-long backpacking trip through Southeast Asia with my friends (I wrote more about it here).

And while my responsible pals returned home to begin their corporate jobs in various major cities — I did not have employment prospects (yet).

But I was a confident traveler with a savings account burning a hole in my pocket. So there was one clear option.

Continue my trip.

I went to Australia alone for two weeks. A week in Sydney (uneventful, too pleasant) and another in Cairns (eventful, chaotic).

I chose Cairns because it’s the gateway to the Great Barrier Reef, which my environmental studies friend warned me would be gone VERY soon.

I decided to seize the day before biodiversity ceased to exist.

But I quickly learned that you do not need more than two days in Cairns.

You get on a boat, scuba, check out the reef (what’s left of it) and get the fuck out of there.

After my scuba expedition, I had four more days to kill in Queensland.

I was in a cheap hostel, inhabiting a top bunk in a room with eighteen other people. A room that HOSTELWORLD.COM made look far more appealing online than it was in reality.

On my third morning, after forcing down a “complimentary” breakfast of wheat bread and instant coffee, I wandered into the front office.

I glanced at the hostel’s activity offerings:

Sky Diving

Tempting… but a quick google search revealed a tourist had died last week.

Pub Crawl

Meh.

Tour and Overnight Stay in the Daintree Rainforest

Lush green trees, white sand beach, glistening turquoise water.

I picked up the pamphlet, intrigued.

“If you’re here, you gotta go to the Daintree Rainforest”

The tattooed and septum-pierced front desk worker grinned, a gap in their teeth. I didn’t realize they got a kick-back from my admissions fee.

“Sign me up!”

“Overnight stay?”

“Sure!”

Why not; I’d do anything to get out of that dormitory.

***

The next morning I loaded onto a bus with thirty other folks — friends, couples, siblings picked up from various cheap accommodations — and we drove hours out to the Daintree Rainforest.

Our tour guide, Sam, a disgruntled ginger in his 30s and short-shorts, managed to make the fun facts… not so fun.

Even though we were in the world’s oldest tropical forest (180 MILLION YEARS OLD!!! That’s CRAZY!!!) and the only place in the world where TWO UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITES converge (the Rainforest and the Great Barrier Reef!)

And while we “oohed” and “aahed” at nature’s marvels for a few hours. Sam eventually loaded us all back onto the bus and asked:

“Who is staying over?”

I raised my hand.

The lone hand amongst thirty others.

I looked around and thought… hmm, strange.

But I didn’t think, MAYBE I SHOULDN’T GET OFF THIS BUS ALONE IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS PRE-HISTORIC F*CKING FOREST.

I just assumed all these people were missing out.

The bus dropped me and my 1 liter REI clearance backpack on the side of the road by a small wood lodge.

Sam told me they’d be back tomorrow to pick me up.

But he didn’t say when.

And as the bus pulled away, I had a sinking feeling in my chest. There was no cell service. And no other buildings as far as the eye could see.

I didn’t even write down the name of the travel company.

I fought off my fear with the promise of adventure.

The beauty of an undeveloped pre-frontal cortex.

I walked to the humble lodge that advertised itself as a beachside property and gateway to “CAPE TRIBULATION.”

A harbinger for the trials to come.

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A Scottish boy, with shaggy black hair and a silver chain barely thicker than his accent, checked me in. His name was Dan.

He gave me a key and a map and a fair warning:

“Do not go in the water. Under any circumstances. Dinner’s at seven”

That’s when I learned the beachside property was crocodile infested. Supposedly, a tourist had gone in last week and lost a limb.

If the crocs didn’t scare you — the box jellyfish should, they’re the most venomous creature on earth. And they’re in the water too.

“Exotic!” I thought, looking at the glass half-full.

I checked into my room, a euphemism for a cell.

“Good excuse to get outside!”

I remained a cockeyed optimist.

I found my way to the beach and lay in the fine white sand. I glanced out at the glistening water - all the more tempting since I couldn’t touch.

***

Night fell and I did something I’d always wanted to do, but was too scared to try.

I sat alone at the bar.

I ordered a light beer and opened my red moleskin, pretending to write.

The only other guests were two British gals from Essex — with fake tanned orange skin and teased-up hair and short skirts but shorter tempers. I watched them play pool, but I hadn’t worked up the nerve to say hello yet.

But one beer became two, and silence became hello, and watching became playing.

Dan from the front desk finished his shift and joined us. We struck up a friendship under the festive twinkling Christmas-lights and tinsel. He invited me and the British Oompa Loompas to join the staff for dinner.

We slipped out of the grungy bar to the back patio, next to staff housing.

There was a long table filled with young people from Germany, Brazil, Norway, Argentina, Peru, Spain and more. Sharing broken English conversations while passing around plastic troughs of over-cooked pasta and sweet red wine.

Breaking bread in a commune.

This was the adventure I wanted.

But as the cheap twist-off bottles emptied and were replaced with cheaper beer cans, the workers opened up about their circumstances.

This was no Eden.

Dan gripped my arm:

“We are stuck here. It’s a prison”

Other workers chirped in — and the communal facade shattered.

“We have no way out.”

“It’s sixteen hour days.”

“I haven’t seen a paycheck.”

“It’s a labor camp, not a hostel.”

“We’re trapped because of our visas.”

The “joyous table” was actually more of a barrack for trauma-bonded indentured servants… They were marooned in the middle of the Daintree Rainforest thanks to their Working Holiday Visa’s.

A year-long visa that allows you to travel Australia for six months as long as you complete six months of MANDATORY REGIONAL work — these people were placed here by an “agency.” One that specialized in finding labor for undesirable, rural areas with no local workers. These agencies deducted fees straight from travelers paychecks for housing, transportation, admin and more.

It was a company town dynamic.

And every employee counted down the days until they were free to leave this Jurassic hell hole.

Foolishly, I had volunteered to be here.

And while my rose-colored glasses were shattered, we were still kids in our early twenties. There were ways to have fun despite our geographic limitations.

Drunk on sweet wine and sticky beer, I wandered down to the beach sandwiched between a Norwegian and an Argentinian, guided only by the moonlight.

Dan hooked up a projector to a generator and jerry-rigged a white sheet over a steel frame.

They had a make-shift sea side cinema.

It was movie night.

Tonight’s screening: ALMOST FAMOUS.

Kate Hudson and Billy Crudup flickered across the crinkled screen with yellow subtitles beneath them — assuaging the language barriers.

Everything felt romantic again.

My toes curled up in the white sand, in the oldest rainforest in the world, in an audience of people I’d just met and would never see again, watching one of my favorite films.

When Tiny Dancer played on the bus — we all raised our red cups and sang off-key in various accents:

“Hold me closer, tiny dancer

Count the headlights on the highway

Lay me down in sheets of linen

You had a busy day today”

I like to think the crocodiles danced in the Coral Sea.

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I’m back at my hotel in Hudson, sitting comfortably alone at the bar. I’d rather be here than in my room.

A woman with a brassy voice in her early-60s, Kimberely haphazardly slices limes in front of me.

I ask her if it’s always this quiet.

“It’s always DEAD here, that’s why I like it.” she grins.

Somehow, our pleasant small talk shifts — Kimberely tells me about her days sneaking out of her Long Island bedroom and into Manhattan to see live music at CBGB’s in the ‘80s.

“The place was a shit hole, But DAMN the music was good.” She croaks.

Kimberely saw Debbie Harry —

“No one gave a crap about her until she came back from London.”

And Madonna —

“Always making out with the hottest men.”

I ask her what street CBGB’s was on.

Kimberely screams into her phone:

“HEY SIRI, WHERE WAS CEE-BEE-GEE-BEES.”

Siri doesn’t understand her. She tries it again, louder.

“CEE-BEE-GEE-BEES.”

Still doesn’t work.

I want to look it up myself, but I don’t want to be rude. Kim gives up on her own. She tells me this hotel is shutting down for six months to get renovated. She’s scared it’ll become too corporate. She still likes rock ’n’ roll.

***

Lisa gets back from a long day of work — we settle into bed together — nuzzling in under the turned-down sheets.

“How were your solo travels?”

“Good. I know just what to write about.”

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traveled alone? had an adventurous evening solo? let’s talk about it in the comments. xx, E.

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It’s 2010.

Lena’s dad watches the finals in a bright orange jersey.

I don’t understand why this middle-aged man is in bright orange.

“He’s dutch,” Lena tells me.

He’s also an alcoholic, nursing a glass of Maker’s Mark. Neat.

Spain defeats the Netherlands in the finals 1-0 in overtime.

Her dad is pissed and properly drunk off the same Maker’s Mark we’ll dip into later that night while he’s fast asleep.

It’s midnight.

We raid the liquor cabinet with our other friend, Nat.

We were only fourteen, freshmen in high school, but we were old for our age. Raised on a diet of Gossip Girl and Lohan Crash-Outs.

Last weekend, Lena’s older brother told us we could get high if we smoked black tea. We tried it by peeling the metallic outside off a Five gum wrapper. A makeshift rolling paper. We ripped open a Lipton bag and sprinkled in the leaves.

We inhaled and inhaled but felt nothing.

This weekend — as we sipped a little from various liquor bottles, carefully replacing what we drank with water, like they did in SUPERBAD —

We definitely felt something.

That night we did more than what friends do to each other.

And it felt good. Fuck, it felt great but we never talked about it again.

I never forgot the feeling. Ecstasy then shame.

I think about that night every time I see Maker’s Mark.

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It’s 2014.

My older sister is a junior at NYU and lives in Union Square.

I walk to her shoe-box apartment from my parents’ hotel and think to myself, “yuck, I will never live here.”

We go to the Chelsea High Line. I’m in high-waisted American Apparel acid wash shorts I got at a Downtown LA warehouse sale. I make my sister take a photo of me on my Lomography film camera.

It’s hot and sticky and crowded and smelly.

It’s Pride.

We get swept into the West Village crowds and somewhere between the naked bodies and glitter and firecrackers and marijuana smoke — I have a panic attack.

I can’t breath, I physically break down.

I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE

My family jokes that “I’m homophobic.”

Little do they know.

I swear it’s just the crowd.

We sit at the BIG GAY ICE CREAM SHOP for air conditioning. My sister gets me a “Salty Pimp.” The ice cream drips down my hand.

I avert my gaze from the women making out next to us.

My sister decides that’s enough gay for the day. We go to Houston Hall. They don’t check my fake-ID, proclaiming I’m a twenty-two year old from Ohio.

I get served a beer in a stein. We eat a gargantuan pretzel as two South American teams duke it out. Crowds of Frat Boys cheer.

I get warm and giggly from the lager, I think I could live here.

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It’s 2018.

We’re at a bar in seating that spills onto the street. On little plastic stools at a little plastic table. Drinking Angkor beer in the thick humidity. Our hair’s frizzed up, our skin’s flushed. Our drinks cost fifty cents but we pay in bills marked by the thousands, feeling richer than ever before.

The game is projected on a wall outside.

We’re in Siem Reap, Cambodia. We just finished college and are back-packing South East Asia as graduates do. But everyone’s a little uptight. There’s five of us — to my chagrin, we’re reading our Kindles more than hitting the clubs.

We’re all a little traumatized from trying to financially cut too many corners. On our previous leg, we booked a “two-dollar” a night hostel on the decrepit party island of Phi Phi.

I split a mushroom shake with my most adventurous friend. We figured “when in Rome,” the other girls were scared, rightfully so — we bought the shake from a bar that sold nitrous oxide balloons.

We swore we didn’t feel anything.

Until it was midnight and the moon glints off the shimmering sea. We wade into the bathtub-warm water. I slice my toe on a rock, but feel nothing as blood seeps out of me. It looks like my nail polish color, OPI Big Apple Red.

I am outside myself, like I’m in one of the movies that I so desperately want to make.

I still have a scar today.

We sleep on the beach instead of the scary hostel — mostly to avoid our drunken stranger Australian roommate who lost her passport and may be scamming us.

We leave the island as soon as we can. On the first ferry out, we know more about ourselves than when we arrived — which is the whole point of this trip.

We are not party island girls.

Cambodia’s our last stop, then everyone’s starting a corporate job — except me. I’ll go on to Australia alone for two weeks, then Bali. I haven’t figured out what I’m doing with my Ivy League degree yet.

A team scores a goal; the street ERUPTS.

We do too; we cheer for whoever’s winning.

And while I feel different, I feel fucking great.

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It’s 2022.

I don’t remember anything about soccer from this summer — I’m attempting polyamory (more here) and in graduate school.

I live a block away from my sister’s old apartment in Union Square… the place I swore I’d never be in 2014.

I am so sucked up in myself and sex and love and work that nothing else matters.

A new chapter of my life is beginning.

I can feel it, I just don’t quite understand it.

It’s Tuesday.

2026.

I walk to dinner with a friend I haven’t seen in years but keep up with through Instagram DM’s and Close Friends stories.

A heat dome is descending on the city.

I pass the French bistro on my Boerum Hill corner. They play World Cup games on an outdoor TV daily. Somehow, they’ve managed to keep their COVID-sanctioned outdoor seating.

Zidane jerseys, red and white and blue, face paint and glitter, spill onto Smith street. I walk through cigarette smoke and aperol spritzes and bisous as France plays Sweden.

I live with my love, I am thirty, and I just had a big professional win as a screenwriter.

My friends are having babies on purpose. It doesn’t scare me to talk about getting married. And it’s the World Cup again.

I think about the last time it was the World Cup.

And the time before.

And the time before.

And before.

I never really watch it, but I always remember it.

Reflecting on your life in four year increments? Let me know in the comments.

xx, Emily

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“I’m single now, I hope that doesn’t change anything.”

I texted Elle. She was six hours behind, in New York City. I was in Paris, in bed, next to my ex-girlfriend, Bea.

It was a hot summer night — the kind of heat that only exists in the last two weeks of August, in a European city without air conditioning. While most Parisians fled for their summer vacation, Bea and I took advantage of the empty city and a free place to stay. My friend’s vacant studio — a perk of keeping in touch with the middle school foreign exchange student.

Usually, Bea and I lived together in my Greenwich Village apartment. We’d been together for two years but for the last ten months, we’d been long distance while Bea worked abroad. We planned an end of summer trip to the “City of Love.”

And though I’d envisioned many things for this trip, the last thing I predicted was that Bea and I would be in bed together, texting other women.

Yes, I was completing the lesbian rite de passage — going on a pre-planned vacation after breaking up. And my ex-girlfriend already had a new girlfriend because we were poly.

Well she was… and I was really, really trying to be.

It started back in May, Bea WhatsApp’ed me:

“An interesting thing about [REDACTED LOCATION] is that there’s a lot of couples who swing.”

My immediate response:

“Woof.”

This should have been the first sign that what was to come was not for me.

But if there’s anything lesbians are good at, it’s ignoring red flags.

What ensued was an extensive text conversation (another red flag) about her new discovery from the swinging community: polyamory.

Bea: “Yeah idk I think poly is cool. Requires a lot of honesty and communication but like it’s very evolved to me.”

Emily: “Evolved in the sense of just a more modern/open view of relationships?”

Bea: “[It] makes sense when you look at how rare manogamy is in every other species and the heteronormativity behind it.”

She spelled monogamy wrong. Bea blew up our relationship over text and couldn’t even spell the reason right. That’s when I really should have gotten out.

But I thought I was in love — Bea was my first girlfriend, which Sapphics know is famously the most tumultuous, blinding, and unforgiving kind of love. I figured, if we’d survived a global pandemic together, couldn’t we survive this?

So I stayed, desperate to diffuse a bomb I didn’t know had been ticking.

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In the conversations that ensued, Bea explained that she saw polyamory as more than just a relationship structure, but her sexual identity — like she was “coming out” again — and the desire to be poly always hung over her long-term relationships, but she never explored it from a fear of being judged.

I was no monster; I would not judge her.

Instead, I did some research.

I thought polyamory sounded like communism: great in theory, but horrific in practice for someone like me — a medicated, anxious, perfectionist Jewess. And yet, I would try anything to be a good, understanding partner — even sleeping with other people.

My new lifestyle began. I bought the books, read the blogs, listened to the podcasts, studied the shit out of how to be an “Ethical Slut.” It had no surface level appeal to me, but Bea was thriving – so I figured there must be something I was missing.

And I hit the town.

The town meaning the small pocket of lesbian night life in New York City: Cubbyhole, Henriettas, The Woods on Wednesday, and the digital-hellscape we call “Hinge.”

I quickly realized that I was not interested in another emotional connection, which left one thing to pursue: sex.

If my girlfriend was sleeping with other people, goddamnit I would too.

So I sexted, and DFMO’ed, and one-night standed… Unfortunately, I’m more of a prude than I realized and ended up primarily just “making out” then crying, alone, at home. Turns out heartbreak is not an aphrodisiac. But Bea already had a full roster and I felt like if I wasn’t hooking up, I was falling behind.

As the weeks wore on, a side of me emerged that I didn’t like — a transactional side, where all of the romance disappeared from dating. There was no intimacy, no connection, no passion. I just wanted to say that I’d done it, but really, I felt nothing.

Until one night at Cubbyhole.

It was a typical Sapphic Friday: my vodka cran was too strong and I kept locking eyes with NO ONE I WANTED TO… Until my friend, Kay, approached. She was in fishnets and 28 rings, despite only having 10 fingers (lesbians defy the laws of physics, I don’t make the rules.)

Kay pulled me aside:

“I HAVE SOMEONE FOR YOU TO MEET. SHE’S ONLY DATING POLY GIRLS.”

Kay excitedly declared. Fine, whatever. I rolled my eyes and let her drag me to the front of the bar — then, like the parting of the Red Sea, a gaggle of NYU baby queers moved aside… and I laid my eyes on the most beautiful woman. Big brown eyes, dazzling smile, and honey-colored, curled hair (which I later learned was dyed in a post-breakup haze) — this was Elle.

Elle sipped her Modelo while my knees went weak. It was one of the moments you hope for on a night out — walking into a disco-balled gay bar and meeting a gorgeous stranger that will change your life.

A classic West Village night ensued — drunkenly jumping in a cab to Henrietta’s, a round (or two) of shots, singing under the flashing lights. On the dance floor, I whispered in Elle’s ear, “I’m so incredibly attracted to you.” Only for her to respond, “awww” before being whisked away by another woman.

Damnit. Not only was I rejected, I was “awww”-ed.

That night, I went home without her number.

Not just home to my apartment, but across the country to my parents’ house in LA. Although I was still technically in a relationship, I was more heartbroken than ever. I made the executive decision to get out of the city and do some soul-searching from my childhood bedroom.

As much as I wanted to ignore it, the entire foundation of my relationship had shifted. I couldn’t call my girlfriend on a Sunday morning because she was in bed with someone else — and while I tried to accept it, I couldn’t. I was following along someone else’s playbook, desperate not to be left behind.

My heartbreak sabbatical lasted a few weeks, until:

DING.

My phone chimed. A text from an unknown number.

“Hey, it’s Elle. I got your number from a friend. I’d love to see you again.”

I was intrigued. Maybe it was time to go back to New York.

The next week, Elle and I were at a cozy wine bar on Jane & Eighth on a first date. Well, a very untraditional first date — because we were both completely disinterested in falling in love.

Elle’s long-term relationship had recently ended and she had strict criteria for who she’d date to avoid another heartbreak. The new women had to be: poly (preferably in a relationship), shorter than her (a challenge when she stood a mere five-feet-three-inches), and twenty-six or under (to avoid any serious marriage talk).

I checked all the boxes.

Later that night, we had our first kiss in the same corner of Cubbyhole where we’d met. Elle did the impossible, she made the Daffy Duck barstools sexy — and she was a really, really good kisser.

While there is no greater foreplay to me than conversation — we stopped it right there.

Just a kiss.

Elle wasn’t like everyone else I’d seen that summer. I felt deeply connected to her, despite barely knowing her. So naturally, I wanted to push her as far away as possible.

Especially because Bea was coming back to town.

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Three days later, Bea came to New York to spend a few days in the city before we left for Paris. Things had been… complicated as she was getting deeper into a new relationship with another woman. Our communication was breaking down. For months, I’d asked Bea to read a chapter of the holy text on non-monogamy:

POLYSECURE, CHAPTER 7: THE FOUNDATIONS OF BEING POLYSECURE.

Because, sure, we were poly. But we were anything but secure.

Bea promised she’d read it before landing in New York.

The evening of her arrival, I wanted everything to be flawless. This was the first time we’d seen each other in person since becoming non-monogamous. I wanted to prove to her I could handle it, when months prior she’d callously declared, “I don’t think polyamory’s for you.”

I cleaned the apartment, lit candles, dimmed the lights, put on music and waited.

When Bea walked in she asked:

“Do you have my packages?”

Of course, I had piled high everything that she’d shipped to the states because it was too expensive to send to her place abroad.

The first thing Bea did, was open the packages, try on her new bikinis, and look at herself in the mirror. She took photos of herself and texted them, presumably, to her new girlfriend.

It was at that moment that I realized exactly what I’d become: a storage unit.

A place for Bea to hold onto her New York life, while she was temporarily abroad. Bea got the best of both worlds – emotional support and an address in the states; sex and adventure elsewhere.

Surely, Bea’d read the chapter and we’d be able to work this out.

“Did you read it?” I asked.

“My wifi didn’t work on the plane and I didn’t download it.”

She didn’t read the book. Not even the book, a CHAPTER. An EXCERPT of the TEXT on how to have a healthy non-monogamous relationship. She was winging it. Poly was her newfound sexual identity that she had no interest in academically understanding – but she had the nerve to tell me to “listen to podcasts to educate myself.”

And as the rage boiled inside of me, I had to ask:

“Are you going to be poly forever?”

“Not for the right person.” Bea said.

Finally, the straw broke.

I was done. I couldn’t do this anymore, she had to move out. It’s one thing to be polyamorous, it’s another thing to be an asshole.

I went to Paris two days early; she stayed behind while I cooled off. Whether it was guilt over Bea’s PTO, sado-masochism, or sheer curiosity of what would happen next (I am a writer after all) – I still let her come to Paris.

We took our pre-planned vacation. Afterwards, she’d go back to New York and move out; I’d stay in Europe and go to Berlin. The summer would end along with our relationship.

On our first night together in Paris, as we lay in bed, I thought about Elle.

Her warmth, her kindness, her laugh. I’d kept Elle at arm’s length, scared that we’d be something real when I wasn’t ready for it. Besides, Elle said she never wanted to fall in love again. She liked me because I didn’t carry that risk.

Brave from the Bordeaux and restless from the time change… I texted her anyway:

“I’m single now, I hope that doesn’t change anything.”

It changed everything. We did exactly what we swore not to; we fell in love. We didn’t rush into anything — we took our time, I promise. Almost four years later, Elle and I are still together — in a monogamous relationship.

Turns out, Elle wasn’t poly either.

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Had a brief tryst that changed your life? let’s talk about it in the comments xx

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In your 20s, there’s always next time.

Next week, next month, next year. And then as time creeps on, calendars fill up. Bachelorettes, weddings, baby showers. The time to see the people who once lived a five minute walk away grows smaller and smaller. So small — that when you receive a 30th birthday party invite six months in advance, the only legible answer is:

“I’ll be there.”

And the date sits on your calendar until everyone looks around and says, “I can’t believe it’s already June.” And neither can you, as you sit in the United Lounge at Newark at 7 am watching too many people drink beers on airport time.

When I touched down in San Francisco it was straight to the United Lounge to send a few emails. I grabbed an espresso… and decided screw it, I’d have a Prosecco too. I’d made it — that was cause for celebration.

Despite being 30, I still get nervous asking airport bartenders for a drink. My eyes get shifty, my heart flutters, I have my ID in my hand, waiting on deck as if I haven’t been of age for years. Of all bartenders, the airport ones are always the toughest on me (not to humble brag).

This time, I didn’t get ID’ed.

Huh.

Maybe I looked older.

I sucked down my poor man’s espresso martini, fired off emails I’d been avoiding, and it was off into the city — only thirty minutes and 20 AI-propaganda billboards stood in my way.

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I stayed at my little sister’s house in Russian Hill. We talked about her wedding and her future babies and for the first time, it didn’t freak me out.

Maybe it’s because there was still a volcano vaporizer on their shelf — I imagined the paraphernalia getting neatly tucked away before it was really time for little ones. My sister modeled custom merch she’d bought for her bachelorette party that I’m supposed to be planning. When she asked what I’d gotten her for decor — I told her I had an extra glitter penis wall from our older sister’s bachelorette — she said “absolutely not.”

That night, one of my best friends from college flew in — Morgan. She’d stay at my sisters and we’d have a sleepover like old times. We saw each other most days on campus, now we see each other two (or three) times a year if I’m lucky.

Over tacos and a single margarita, I realized how our conversations had shifted over the years — from boys (yuck), or sororities, or majors, or internships, or what city to move to, or graduate school, or apartments to…

“Have you talked about getting engaged?”

“When are you freezing your eggs?”

“Remember that time we drank too much tequila in the East Village and I lost my phone?”

We’d changed a little… but not too much.

Recently, I’d noticed changes in my friends I’ve known for years.

At a dive bar on the Lower East Side, when lines stayed etched along a college friend’s eyes long after she was done smiling.

The wispy stray grays on another friend’s head I noticed when she sat down and asked, “how the hell are ya?”

The baby fat thinning from our hands, our veins more prominent.

Fine lines and sun damage and dark circles and receding hairlines.

And while I thought these signs of time moving forward would fill me with existential dread — the way the media’s trained me to feel — they weirdly… make me happy.

I find them beautiful.

Seriously.

And this is coming from a girl who had a decade long eating disorder and did accutane twice to close every pore on her face.

I didn’t even freak out when I saw my first, singular gray eyebrow hair. I plucked it and forgot about it… but it kept growing back. Reminding me, even if I tried, it wasn’t going to go away. It was part of me.

And when I see these changes on the people I love, the people I knew when we were just kids running around campus and the city… they feel like badges of honor. Like marks that, “we did it.”

We grew up. We were all turning 30.

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Ross rented out a Shuggies, a fabulous natural wine bar & restaurant in the Castro with lime green and bright orange walls and decor. He had over eighty people come to his birthday party — many flying in from around the country to celebrate for one night only.

Morgan and I were greeted by the birthday boy himself and promptly guided to a tower of martinis, negronis, and mai tais. Swept into a sea of family, friends from growing up on long island, eclectic san francisco queers, and our old classmates.

Some engaged, some married, all done with our post-graduate degrees.

I popped a mushroom capsule and my friend, Caroline, gave me a shot.

I said, “good thing I’ve been drinking tequila.”

Caroline told me, “that was vodka.”

I pulled my sunglasses on and shook my ass to a Charli XCX remix. I wasn’t a girl; but I wasn’t quite yet a woman.

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The party wound down, Morgan and I did what all best girl friends do — we went to the bathroom together.

As I washed my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. I raised my eyebrows and smiled — studying the lines across my face. Like everyone else at the party, I realized — I looked older too.

And I looked good.

The night ended at a raucous packed queer bar — a circle of friends formed around Ross as we danced and sang our hearts out to millennial anthems.

We transported back to the frat basements we frequented in college. For one night only, we were all together again for our dear friend. Running it back. Having a catharsis on the dance floor screaming TEENAGE DREAM by the questionably cancelled Katy Perry.

After LMFAO’s SHOTS played, Morgan and I decided it was time to go home.

We spilled onto the street and jumped in a driverless car. We’d both fly home tomorrow, returning to our regularly scheduled programming. Unsure when we’d see each other next — a birthday, a bachelorette, a wedding, a baby shower…

But knowing when we get the invite - we’d show up.

xx

have any thoughts on turning 30? seeing your friends grow up? drop ‘em in the comments.

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Three-ish years ago, I found myself working as the personal assistant to an A-list Hollywood family’s matriarch in New York City. There’s a lot to unpack here — which I’m sure I’ll work through in essays to come — like when a Soho Apple Store employee asked me if I was being human trafficked because I was so terrified of my boss — or when the quest for specific frozen dumplings from a shutdown East Village restaurant (that her daughter’s perfect assistant HAPPENED to find) led me on a day-long hero’s journey to every Amish market in Manhattan — or how ninety-five percent of the job was overnight street parking her car downtown, a task more challenging than sailing the seven seas — but today, I’d like to focus on one of my favorite stories.

When I mailed her my underwear.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it — I was a mediocre assistant at best. I’m a creative with two Ivy League degrees: I have charisma, people skills, wit and grit — but I’m missing the fundamental organizational prowess required to be in charge of someone else’s life.

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In college, I showed up to my older sister’s graduation two weeks early. I took a six-hour bus from New Hampshire to New York City. Forty-five minutes into the ride, I texted my sister:

SEE YOU TONIGHT!

She immediately called me and asked WTF I was talking about — I’d been texting my family all week about what to pack and what to wear for the ceremony and they all just thought I was being annoying, instead of being a full fourteen days off.

Hence — dates, times, logistics, those incredibly basic skills… have never been my strong suit.

I picked up this job while finishing grad school at Columbia. It was on the UTA job list — a weekly blast about entertainment openings that I’d been perusing for years while trying to get my foot in the door. There were rarely any positions in New York — and when there were, you rarely got a response to your cold email.

PART-TIME PERSONAL ASSISTANT SCREENWRITER NYC.

PERFECT! I thought.

I soon learned that the UTA job list is kind of like THE RING tape — remember the movie where “you’re going to die in seven days” unless you get someone else to watch the video and then you’re free? And they die instead?

The UTA job list is that but for gigs. It’s jobs you’d never recommend to a friend but would absolutely throw a stranger under the bus for to free yourself from the grips of your boss.

I know because I did that ten months later.

When I landed the job, I felt special the way the entertainment industry makes you feel for being an idiot accepting an hourly minimum wage job with no benefits: I was chosen, these were hard to come by, and I’d beaten out a ton of other hungry, highly educated, underemployed kids.

I even thought I’d get a mentor out of the job. She was a lady in her golden years, maybe she’d want to impart some storytelling wisdom.

WRONG.

THIS WAS NO SWEET GRANDMA.

THIS WAS A DIABOLICAL EMOTIONALLY ABUSIVE NARCISSIST.

Luckily, I had an ace up my sleeve. My wonderful girlfriend, Lisa.

At the time, we’d been dating for well over six months and things were heating up… we were getting serious. Lisa was in the industry and had years of experience dealing with these personalities… When I tell you Lisa could successfully negotiate a hostage crisis and make everyone think they had a fun time doing it, I mean it. She has an insane talent of handling people.

She also has a parking garage attached to her building… key when ninety percent of my work was parking a f*cking Subaru.

The saving grace of this job was my boss disappearing for weeks on end to one of her other properties. This left me feeling special — I AM CHOSEN! I AM EMPLOYED! — without much work to do.

Even in these down weeks, something about New York City, part-time jobs, being an artist, etc. had me moving at breakneck speed at all times — I wanted to get everything done as quickly as possible.

So, when my boss texted me that I needed to mail her a trench coat when I was already late to a date with Lisa —

I rushed over to her loft, threw the trench in my overnight bag, and jumped on the train to Brooklyn. I’d mail it the following day on my way to class at Columbia. Perfect plan.

Lisa and I had an incredible night, the wine flowithed, I stayed over and the morning came too soon. I startled awake, with the dull headache of a good time and running just ten minutes behind.

Slipped into my fresh outfit, collected my scattered garments from her floor, and threw everything… I mean EVERYTHING… into my overnight bag with my boss’s trench coat.

And uptown I journeyed.

Five blocks from Columbia, there’s a post office. I had to go to USPS, because despite having the finances to pay for a personal assistant, my employer did not have the finances for UPS.

I ripped her trench out of the overnight bag, stuffed it in a box, wrote the addresses, paid, dropped it in the postage box and off I went.

That day, I was taking a masterclass with one of the industry’s top TV directors - Breaking Bad, 30 Rock, randomly the pilot I starred in when I was fourteen that never got picked up. And somewhere between his camera blocking diagrams and a clip of Jesse floating drugged out from one of his Breaking Bad episodes — I had a terrible sinking feeling in my chest.

My thong was gone.

My used, lacy, black thong.

To be fair, I have OCD and part of the mental illness is intrusive insane thoughts like these. But I just… felt it in my bones.

This time was different.

I riffled through my overnight bag in the middle of the class — pretending I was looking for a pencil. Shirt, check. Pants, check. Bra? No, I didn’t wear one, I am gay.

And. No. Thong.

My morning flashed before my eyes, like the highlight reel you imagine of your life when you die. I was back in Lisa’s apartment, whimsically throwing everything into my bag, balling up my underwear in the same hand as the jacket…

I broke into a cold sweat.

What that f*ck was going to happen when my boss opened her USPS package to find her trench coat and MY USED UNDERWEAR.

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While the masterclass continued on around me, I jumped up and stated:

I’M GOING TO THE BATHROOM.

Despite being in my mid-20s and not needing permission for the lavatory.

And.

I.

RAN!

I ran down the stairs, through campus, out the gates, and five blocks south — sprinting as fast as I could in the January cold to

STOP. THAT. PACKAGE.

I flew into the USPS, out of breath, red-faced and slammed my hands on the front desk. The clerk was unbothered because this is New York City, I was probably a six on the scale of 1 to INSANE patron.

“PLEASE. I need my package back.”

“We can’t do that.”

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.”

I argued with the clerk for a few minutes, trying my hand at another thing Lisa is incredible at but I constantly fail to do — “not accepting no for an answer.”

“THE ANSWER IS NO.”

“I ACCIDENTALLY MAILED MY BOSS MY UNDERWEAR, OKAY?!”

I screamed across the post office. Another woman behind a desk heard, her jaw dropped. She stepped to the front and immediately took control.

“You think you mailed your underwear… on accident?”

“Yes.”

“How does that even happen? Actually — I don’t want to know.”

She took out a massive key ring.

“Come on, I’m only doing this once.”

I almost fell to my knees crying.

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The women unlocked the package bin and sifted through until she found my box. I ripped it open, kneeling on the floor, hands shaking.

I pulled the trench coat out.

Lo and behold.

Out tumbled, my black thong.

“YES!” I screamed.

My intrusive thought won. I WAS RIGHT.

Moments later, the mailman came in and emptied the package bin — dragging the parcels out to his truck.

“Close call” the woman told me before she disappeared into the back.

A New York City angel I’d never see again.

I folded the coat back up, taped the box, dropped it off for good this time — and as the adrenaline pulsed through my veins — I sprinted back to Columbia.

I returned to class sweaty, heart pounding, breathing heavy, and absent for well over fifteen minutes. My classmates probably thought I took the world’s most life-altering sh*t… if they even thought about me at all.

I texted my boss:

“Package is on it’s way :)!”

Like I said, I was not the most detail oriented employee. But boy, do I have grit.

@emmevvIt’s a long story #nyc #work #girls #gays #lgbtq #newyork #job #boss #morning #oops #corporate #motivation #dayinthelife

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Have you ever f*cked up on the job? Sent your boss something you weren’t supposed to? Let’s laugh about it. Let me know in the comments.

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Three years ago, I achieved every queer-millennial-gen-z-cusp-chronically-online-freelance-gigging girl’s dream: I was paid to run the social media account of an iconic LGBTQ+ institution. I got the keys to a gay digital kingdom. And being an overachiever, I wanted their accounts to blowup.

I’d been clipping footage and posting trends and adding hot songs to some success, but not the virality that I desired.

When Pride month rolled around, I knew it was time to bring out the big guns. I went through the archival footage and discovered that Taylor Swift had performed at this institution to kick off Pride back in 2019.

BINGO.

You wanna go viral, you use Ms. Swift.

I reposted the performance and it got some traction… but still not enough.

So, I consulted my influencer older sister and she gave me great advice: go through the feed and interact with every video that mentions said institution. That will bring people to your page.

Brilliant, I thought.

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That weekend, I was in Philadelphia meeting my girlfriend Lisa’s entire family for the first time at her nephew’s high school graduation party.

While I got ready in her brother’s guest bedroom, I did what I was advised: commented on every video mentioning the institution.

Nothing in depth, just a heart, a smiley face, a few emojis — hoping to drive people to our page.

I wanted to be fully present at the party, so I left my work phone upstairs and headed out to the garden to meet an entire extended family.

No pressure.

In the hours that passed, I’d small talked and hugged and heard stories of Lisa as a baby, and sipped rosé and really… just… survived the gauntlet as the new girlfriend getting brought home to meet the family for the first time.

As the party wrapped up, Lisa and I slipped upstairs to change.

I checked my phone.

There were hundreds of notifications.

That’s when I realized, I’d unintentionally inflamed a small but mighty corner of the internet: The Gaylors.

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Who are The Gaylors?

A devoted community of fans who believe that Taylor Swift is a closeted bisexual or lesbian forced to conform to heteronormative society. They believe Taylor signals her sexuality through her artistic output.

They find clues in anything and everything.

So…

When the social media account of an iconic LGBTQ+ institution posts a video of her performing captioned:

“Hey @taylorswift - remember when you helped us kick off PRIDE 2019? Come back anytime ;)

The Gaylors are going to find meaning.

Hear me out, I use winky faces ALL THE TIME.

But when a rampant conspiracy theorist internet group sees the birthplace of the LBGTQ+ rights movement using a winky face regarding Ms. Swift “coming back.” It’s not interpreted as fun, silly, flirty.

It’s interpreted as a secret message.

That was Strike One for me.

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Then came Strike Two.

In an effort to boost engagement, I liked everyone’s comment on the video before I went downstairs for the party.

So, I liked this comment:

For some people, this was considered confirmation of Swift’s sexuality because… why would she show her pride… if she was an ally? And why would the birthplace of the LGBTQ+ rights movement like a comment that would be INCORRECT for an ally to post.

Unintentionally, I’d fueled a fire. These videos accumulated thousands of likes.

As I scrolled through the notifications that had been building for hours… I flashed to that story about Justine Sacco, the woman who posted an offensive racist tweet before an 11-hour flight, turned her phone off, only to land and discover her entire life on fire.

In my case, I’d gone downstairs to meet my girlfriend’s entire family and returned to an inflamed internet community.

I panicked.

And so did Lisa.

We love each other for many reasons, but one of them is definitely that we share the same delusions of grandeur. We spun out and were convinced that Tree Paine was going to sue my ass. And I really… really… didn’t want to get fired or be responsible for taking down an LGBTQ+ institution.

The damage control began.

I went back through Tiktok and deleted every comment on videos that and I limited the comments on the Instagram video to mitigate the influx of Gaylors piping in.

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Turns out... that was Strike Three.

It was interpreted as admitting guilt. Back-pedaling. And only fueled this microcosm of the internet’s fire.

At this point, I realized that I was cooked either way.

I’d unintentionally opened pandora’s box by just trying to do a good job — which, unfortunately, happens to me often.

I was ready to go down for it, my naïvety proving to be my fatal flaw.

But Tree Paine never called. Swift never made a statement. The Gaylors found something new to fixate on. And my bosses never knew it happened.

Until, maybe now, if they’re reading this — I’m sorry!!!

It all got forgotten as things often do on the internet. And moving forward… I learned to be more discerning with my hashtags and emojis. ;)

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Have you ever unintentionally f*cked up on the internet? Let me know in the comments. Happy Pride & c ya next friday!

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Yesterday was Grandma’s funeral and we all laughed a little too much.

By we, I mean my sisters — Sophie, Olivia, and I. We’d never had a graveyard funeral. We were more of “celebration of life” kinda family — no headstones or open caskets. In fact, our paternal grandmother, Claire, is still in a box in my father’s closet.

But my maternal grandmother, Lyn, was a good Jewish girl — which meant, she’d have a good Jewish funeral.

I. THE ANNOUNCEMENT

It was a late October Friday night in New York City. I was recovering from a cold and preparing for the NYC marathon that was the following Sunday, but also a people pleaser with terrible boundaries. I’d spent all day wondering how I’d get out of a NewFest Film afterparty I’d committed to with a new friend. I am many things, but I am not a flake. When I commit, I’m in.

But I really did not want to go to this party.

While sitting through a block of films, I checked my phone. There is no right way to spread the news of someone’s death. But I did not expect to find out this way:

EVERHOUSE (my immediate family group text)

MOM: “GMA died.”

That was it. During the credits of some comedy short about “Gay Jesus,” I found out my very straight, very Jewish, Grandma was gone.

I slipped into the lobby of the SVA theater and joined a FaceTime with my two sisters, Sophie and Olivia. We were more in shock from the text announcement than the news itself. They were both drunk, it was a Friday night after all.

And now, I had a very clear excuse to avoid this soirée:

“I can’t go, my grandma died.”

That has to be one of the most intense things to say to someone you just met two hours ago.

But what a way to get out of a party.

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II. THE JOURNEY

A lot of paperwork ensued to get Grandma from Rancho Cucamonga, California to New York. Specifically, to the Montefiore Cemetery in Massapequa. Supposedly, the largest Jewish cemetery in the country — where we had a family plot.

I imagined Grandma flying first class, like she deserved, landing in LGA and getting picked up in a limo escorting her out to Long Island. In reality, she was in the cargo hold of a plane and worst of all — she landed in JFK. The most atrocious of the New York airports.

I’m so sorry Grandma.

And while Grandma flew in, so did my parents, and little sister, and cousins once removed (whatever that means), and great uncles, and aunts, and friends.

My father planned to bring his mother’s ashes and scatter them in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. A two-for-one kinda trip. Until he panic texted the family group chat on the plane:

EVERHOUSE TEXT CHAT

DAD: Shoot, I left grandma in the closet.

My girlfriend, Lisa, asked if that was a double entendre. I said that I wouldn’t be surprised.

We couldn’t help but laugh.

The night before, all the mourners had pizza in Williamsburg — talking about everything except the death. Excited to see each other, hugging, catching up — forgetting, for a moment, what actually brought us together.

My little sister slept on my couch while Lisa and I watched THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. It was Sunday night of Halloweekend…

The next morning, we were up early. Lisa and I wore matching black leather jackets and took a selfie in the car on the way to the funeral. My little sister scolded me, inappropriate — after she’d taken photos of Halloween decorations on a Cobble Hill brownstone stoop and posted a skeleton to her Instagram story. Potentially, a more inappropriate move.

And for all my little sister’s pearl-clutching, she had no idea my older sister was showing up in four-inch thigh-high heels, a short skirt, and dramatic long black coat — apparently, she was wearing a more “over-the-top” look involving feathers, before her fiancé reminded her, “this is not a fashion show.”

Sophie pushed back, “Grandma loved my fashion.”

That was true.

As everyone gathered in the Montefiore parking lot, Olivia said, “this feels like Succession.”

But it didn’t at all. We were surrounded by Subarus.

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III. THE CEMETERY

A plump man in a taupe suit stood alert in front of the main office.

“Family name?”

“Cohen.”

“We’ve got a lot of those.”

Right. It was the Jewish cemetery after all.

The Funeral Director stepped outside in a cowboy hat and the Rabbi arrived in a white, Moncler sweater. Turns out, it didn’t really matter what we wore.

Nothing could get started until my parents paid inside. I went in with them, entering an office that felt somewhere between the DMV and a doctor’s waiting room. The tissues were kept behind a wall of glass. It felt like they wanted $2 a sheet. Definitely a capitalist purgatory.

My eyes flitted over to a pamphlet, “What Happens After You’re Buried.” I felt like I was going to puke; I had to get out of there.

So, I did what most women do when we want to leave shitty situations — I found the bathroom and went with my sisters. No matter the circumstance, women travel to the ladies room in flocks.

Inside, Olivia chirped, “Wow, the Google reviews said the bathrooms were horrible but this isn’t so bad.”

Apparently, cemeteries have Google reviews. And Olivia, being Olivia, read them. She is always prepared.

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IV. THE BURIAL

We got back in Lisa’s car and followed the hearse to the burial plot.

I wish we’d been a little further back in the procession.

Unfortunately, we had a front row seat to the grave diggers taking the plain pine box casket out and nearly dropping it. The coffin twisted and turned as they struggled to keep it upright, like some slapstick comedy duo — an Abbott and Costello pair.

It’s an image I’d love to erase from my mind — one that’s probably mentioned by another unhappy customer in their Google reviews that I didn’t bother to read.

Everyone got out of their cars and gathered around the family plot. The grave diggers retreated a few sites down, resting their arms over headstones. Another day in the office.

I quickly realized our family plot was next to the WEINERS.

With a last name like Everhard, you had to stifle a chuckle..

Then, I realized we were also next to the JACOFFS.

Yes, Grandma was being laid to eternal rest between the JACOFFS and the WEINERS.

I wondered if my family bought the plot for a discount. And if one day, my parents would be there, completing the trifecta: THE EVERHARD JACOFF WEINERS.

You know what they say about real estate? Location. Location. Location.

I mentioned the observation to my father, who turned bright red — struggling to contain his laughter. My father whispered it in the ear of our great uncle, who laughed.

And I watched as the dirty game of telephone made its way around the mourners — each extended family member and friend giggling — despite the circumstances.

The Rabbi threw on a sports jacket, opened a pocket Torah, and started reading — a plane flew overhead and he quipped, “I even arranged a flyby for her for only an extra $49.99” — we didn’t laugh.

The family could make jokes, but not the Rabbi.

We cried and spoke about Grandma and shared stories as the Rabbi speed read through the service. After my father spoke, the Rabbi said: “Not a lot of men would say that about their Mother-In-Laws!” Again, we didn’t laugh. We were allowed to joke; he wasn’t.

Finally, the Rabbi invited us to say the Mourners Kaddish… my sisters and I locked eyes. Bad Jews, we mumbled along not really knowing the words.

“For dust you are, and to dust you will return”

We all dumped dirt into her grave. My mother flung the shovel so hard, she stumbled in her heels. For a second, it looked like all five-feet of her was going to tumble in. We GASPED — she steadied herself.

It was my turn. The first time I did something I’d only seen in movies… I really wish that I hadn’t looked down.

As we drove away for a post-funeral lunch at the Infinity Diner — which felt a bit on the nose, but was the only restaurant nearby — Olivia waved goodbye to the grave diggers.

Olivia noted: “we made their jobs easier, we should get a discount.”

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V. THE MARATHON

That Sunday, I rocked up to the Whitehall Terminal to catch the Staten Island Ferry for the New York City Marathon. Now, I was running it in honor of my grandma.

It was my first marathon and I was going at it alone.

I boarded the ferry, making sure to sit on the right hand side for the view of the Statue of Liberty. I imagined it was the same view Grandma’s dad had when he — as family legend goes — jumped ship and emigrated to New York to escape persecution during the Russian Revolution.

Now, I was looking at it to go run 26.2 miles for no real reason at all — intentionally choosing to struggle. How fourth generation of me.

The woman next to me — late-30s, thick Long Island accent — struck up a conversation. We were both alone, doing this for the first time. Her, to find peace of mind from her busy life with work, marriage, and three little kids. Me, because I impulsively signed up drunk and again — when I commit, I commit.

We rode the ferry and the bus and stretched at start village and stayed together until we split into corrals hours later.

At one point, I asked where she was from.

She told me, “Massapequa.”

“I was just there! For my grandma’s funeral!”

I sounded too chipper; she immediately replied with condolences.

“Do you know the Montefiore Cemetery?”

“Of course.”

“Did you know they have Google reviews?”

She laughed. I did too.

Do you have a story about laughing while grieving? I’d love to hear it, share below in the comments <3

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As I grew into womanhood, I learned the true significance of getting bangs. It was a marker of profound change. One often met with tears and friends reassuring you, “No, no — you look great! Your face is definitely not too rotund!”

If anything, getting bangs meant making a decision (even if it happened under total duress).

And for the last few weeks, I’ve realized it’s time for me to get some bangs. Digitally at least.

In 2020, I started a Tiktok as a creative outlet and an anonymous digital persona. I used the videos to explore my takes on politics, queerness, movies, my (semi-traumatic?) childhood acting past and more. I was told to “find a niche” if I really wanted to pop-off, but I refused. I didn’t want to limit myself.

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When I started this Substack, I wanted to try something different.

I’d had an account for years but never published anything — I thought, maybe, it would be easier to niche down. That way, I’d have some direction.

This winter, I decided to experiment with The Everhard Edit focusing on my interest in history, film, and the artistic process. I needed to fill the liberal-arts-lecture-hall-shaped gap in my heart — I’ve spent most of my life as an avid student, from BA to MFA… and as a chronically online filmmaker, my feed is filled with artists telling me what to do and how to do it.

I always felt like, if they can dole out information — can’t I?

I’d spent years tight-lipped in graduate school, listening to film bros tell me how I should make my movies — what I was doing wrong, what wasn’t working, even attempting to take over on my sets — only to discover that outside the arthouse hallowed halls of school people actually… liked my stuff.

So, I was done being quiet — I had something valuable to say.

And while I’ve loved examining what’s happening in the Film/TV industry, how it intersects with the past, and connects to the future of my work — I want to start doing something a little different on here.

I want to get personal.

Earlier this month, published my first personal essay (check it out). It was terrifying to put out into the universe, but also cathartic.

The Lesbian Bar Project

Cumming of Age - ALONG CAME POLY

This week’s Cumming of Age features a guest essay by writer-director and friend of the project Emily Everhard…

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4 months ago · 8 likes · 1 comment · The Lesbian Bar Project and Emily Everhard

I’ve obsessively written in a diary since I read Anne Frank’s as a kid (sorry, but trust me, there is a certain subsect of young Jewish girls who definitely did the same). Plus, I’ve always loved memoirs and short story collections (David Sedaris ily). It’s been a dream of mine to write one forever.

So, why not start here?

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What does this mean?

The Everhard Edit is going to change a bit; instead of solely focusing on Film/TV, history, and the artistic process — I’m going to share personal essays that explore love, queerness, family, anxiety, OCD, surviving my 20s and being an artist in New York City.

Like all my work, they will be humorous and heartfelt — and showcase the lens through which I see the world:

One where I did it for the plot, laughed so I didn’t cry, and somehow ended up a chauffeur to an A-lister’s mother despite famously maiming every car I’ve ever driven.

I accidentally almost mailed this boss my underwear too, but that is a story for another time.

I’ll still muse on historical parallels to today; like how Sydney Sweeney’s Rise resembles the Tulip Bubble and share insights into my writing process, like the seven principles I used to rewrite my screenplay (which has finally been deemed market-ready (again)! woo! I did it!)

But now — I’ll also be sharing about myself, and mainly, my fuck-ups.

For paid subscribers: you’ll get access to the juiciest personal stories and deepest insight into my creative work — especially as I embark on financing my debut feature film.

It’s going to be a wild ride; I hope you stay on it with me.

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Have a bangs story? A rebrand moment? Share it in the comments, I’d love to hear.

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Until next time.

xx,

e

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Remember that script I mentioned? The one that I was rewriting and hosted a table read for—well, I did it. I rewrote it, sent to friends, revised, sent to more friends, revised again, sent it to the same friends—and reached the moment I’d been waiting for, finally deciding that it was ready to send to my manager.

I’ve gotten the advice from plenty of mentors: wait to send the project to your team until you think that it is 10,000% READY. One mentor told me, you should think the Pulitzer Prize committee will call you TONIGHT and congratulate you (he’s a playwright)—another said, you need to feel confident cameras can roll tomorrow. TLDR; send the script to your team when you think it’s perfect and absolutely undeniable.

Because of course, it won’t be.

Maybe it never WILL be. Screenplays are living, breathing documents that are constantly changing (as they say, the edit is the final rewrite). And your team will have notes.

Finally, after months of work, I was ready.

I sent my script off—hopeful that I’d be the rare exception, that my screenplay would be so perfect there’d be nothing to change.

Surprise, it wasn’t.

Of course, there were notes and more work to be done. In 96 hours, I ran the gamut of human emotions. And through this process, and chatting with other writer friends and mentors, I realized that this is phenomena all creatives experience.

It is something I deem:

The Emotional Lifecycle of Receiving Notes

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Let me walk you through it.

1. Birth

You did it. You dotted your I’s and crossed your T’s (and double-checked your scene headings). A handful of your valued readers said, “it’s great!” And you finally believe it. So, you skim through the pdf a final time and send it off. You’ve reached the summit baby and it’s euphoric. It’s a Friday afternoon (since you know your rep does all their reading over the weekend).

Now, you can celebrate and feel absolutely delusional all weekend. You’ve taken a major step to making your dreams come true. Anything can happen.

And you are a goddamn genius.

2. Panic

Monday afternoon rolls around. You’re crashing from indulging in too many victory martinis and moonlighting as F. Scott (as they say, martinis are like boobs: one is too little, three is too many, but two is just right). And you haven’t heard back.

You rationalize, it’s only Monday. They haven’t read it yet, they’re busy, they’ll read it next weekend… but that quickly gives way to the “what if’s”

What if they hate it; what if it’s terrible; what if I sent it too soon?!?

You reread the PDF and slip into the spiral of self-doubt: What was I thinking?! I am no genius.

One time, I panicked so hard that I told my girlfriend I wanted to run away and be a hair stylist in Tucson, she reminded me that I am scared of curling irons. Damnit. Writer it is.

The panic subsides, you remind yourself, it’s ok, it’s only Monday. And what if… What if it IS brilliant.

You return to your delusions.

3. Crash

At some point in the next two weeks, if you’re lucky like me it was the next day (my rep rocks)—your email dings.

“I read it, it’s great!” You quickly dismiss all the positives and compliments and skim to the bottom of the email to find the “but.”

There’s a few, small notes, but at this moment they feel gargantuan.

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4. Denial

What do you MEAN the response wasn’t, “it’s perfect! It’s sold! Here’s millions of dollars! Go make your movie!!!”

This is the angry teenager phase: I’m misunderstood, they don’t get me, this can’t be right. Cue the head banging music about how cruel and unfair the world is and you spinning out, you’re thinking about moving to Tucson again.

5. Acceptance

You sleep on it.

Wake up the next morning and realize… those notes… the ones you crashed out about twelve hours ago… are actually… totally right. Not just right…. they’re good and thoughtful and going to make that script that you thought was perfect… a hell of a lot better.

Your head clears and you look back at your notes from other readers who hinted at the same questions. You thought you addressed these notes, but turns out, you didn’t.

There’s more work to be done. It’s time to find that “note under the note.” What’s bumping? What’s unclear? What’s causing the friction?

6. Rebirth

You make a copy of your fdx, type in the new date, and start your next revision set.

There’s a bubble of excitement rippling within you. This is going to be fun; you get to dig in and make this project, that’s become part of your soul, even better.

You are a writer and your job is to write.

And your job, most definitely, is to take notes.

7. Mama Mia

Because here we go again.

Your producer gets an email from potential collaborator: “I loved it, I’m wiping away tears… but I have thoughts.”

And so it begins.

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Have you experienced this? Any phases that you’d like to add to the life cycle? Let me know in the comments.

Plus — I’ve started a paid subscriber tier and will be posting more personal essays + insights into my creative process and experiences financing my debut feature soon, please consider upgrading <3

xx, E

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Last week, I hosted a table read for the latest draft of my screenplay. As friends sat around the table, I flashed back to my first vivid memory of the practice — my Proustian madeleine:

I was fourteen years old on the Disney Lot, in a large conference room, behind a NAME/ROLE placard, with a hard-copied script, a far-too expensive water bottle and a whole lot of nerves. I’d booked a series regular on an ABC pilot. As we prepped for production, the table read served as a “presentation” for the director, writers, department heads, and most intimidatingly, studio executives. It was the first time I met my “TV family.”

As we read the script aloud, the writers — two dudes in baseball caps — were laser-focused. They marked every laugh (or lack thereof), groan, clunky line, inconsistency, etc. Their pencils were constantly moving. A few days later, we had a new script. The script evolved until picture wrap. It was a living, breathing document — dialogue was constantly punched up, trimmed, and rearranged. While the ABC pilot was never picked up to series, the memory of these writers always stuck with me.

Recently, I finished reworking one of my screenplays (I wrote about the process HERE). In the throes of rewriting, I found myself unsure of what worked and what didn’t. Instead of sending the screenplay off to ten talented friends and waiting for them to take a look… I decided to invite them over for a reading.

The table read killed two birds with one stone: I heard the screenplay out loud, which helped me understand my pacing, character development, plot clarity, and joke effectiveness while ensuring that my readers experienced the piece as intended — in one sitting, out loud, and in an audience — like in a movie theater.

It was an incredibly informative exercise and something that I plan to incorporate early and frequently in my process, long before casting and pre-production begin.

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As I reflected on the table read experience, this time from the writer’s side, I wanted to share what I learned:

1. If You Question the Logic, the Audience Will Too.

When I’m outlining (and writing), sometimes I’ll feel a painful twinge. My inner voice saying, “this is convoluted” or “doesn’t make sense” or “it’s a big leap.” Oftentimes — out of denial or impatience (most likely both) — I ignore this inner voice.

It’s like when I snuck in late as a teenager, I thought maybe my parents wouldn’t notice. Surprise, surprise… they always did. Similarly, my readers called out the logic holes that I knew were present but I hoped no one else would flag.

THE TAKEAWAY:

You’re not smarter than your audience. If you feel a flaw, your audience will feel it too. So however frustrating and unglamorous it is, take the extra “thinking” time to work it out before jumping to pages.

2. If It’s Working, You’ll Know

And it feels AMAZING.

When a scene, dialogue, character, whatever is doing what it’s supposed to do there will be an undeniable energy around the table. You’ll experience a synergy that is extremely challenging to feel on the page alone and is elevated by actors’ readings.

My screenplay is a mother-daughter story that lives and dies on the pivotal end of Act 2 Scene when the women finally confront each other. Something magical happened on those pages and the entire room felt it.

On the other hand, if it’s not working — you’ll know too (and your audience will tell you). But when it’s clear what works, you know what you’re chasing.

THE TAKEAWAY:

The table read separates the bad from the mediocre from the good and the great. People want more of the great; it’s your job as a writer to figure out how to bring that into your next draft.

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3. You’ll Understand Your Pacing

I have read this script COUNTLESS times. During the table read, I experienced the “flow” completely differently. It is so easy to miss timing when you’re reading alone. I think it’s why some writers swear by printing out their script, taping it to the wall, and re-examining it. It externalizes your film’s pacing — especially when 1 minute = 1 page.

When actors bring the script to life, you tangibly experience it. I knew if the emotion, turns, and changes felt earned or too easy. I sensed when shorter scenes needed to linger and when longer scenes needed to speed up. It was clear when people got bored, when they were reinvigorated, and when key transitions were missing.

THE TAKEAWAY:

Use your table read to interrogate the pacing of your film — especially if you sit back and try to experience it as an audience member.

4. You’ll Feel The Emotion

Especially if it’s earned (or unearned).

You cannot deny how something makes you feel. Getting the script on its feet is the quickest bullsh*t meter to see if the emotion is working. I treated it like a test screening. Every time people laughed, I circled the dialogue. Every time people groaned, or went “aww,” or sniffled in sadness, I marked it. The emotion was most important for the ending. I needed to sense the final feeling in the room, to try and understand how people will walk out of the theater.

THE TAKEAWAY:

When I’m writing, I am often (if not always) sitting alone in a room talking to myself. The table read is an opportunity to sit back and listen. To stop focusing on “the trees” and remind yourself of “the forest” that is your film. You’ll see what pieces are working, and what needs to be reworked, to achieve the feeling you’re chasing.

5. Provide Feedback Surveys

You are in control of the read and the resulting feedback. While it’s great to have open discussion, sometimes it can get unwieldy and steer off course. I believe in guided feedback, where you create a survey asking audiences your specific questions.

From a practical standpoint, it also makes it easier to treat feedback like a data set. If everyone answers the same questions, you have a sample size and can look at where people align or misalign.

THE TAKEAWAY:

Writers often say if you get a note once, you can forget it. If you get a note three times, you should take it. A feedback survey helps you see the audience’s gut reaction to what’s working and what isn’t.

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6. There Are No Shortcuts

Writing is rewriting. There is no getting around it.

Before my table read, I hoped the screenplay was PERFECT - so perfect that someone would JUMP up and say, “I’m going to write you a check for one million dollars to make this right now!”

That did not happen. Instead, I was humbly reminded that there are no shortcuts to a great script. At some point, I’ll have to let the script go to move closer to production — but for now, I’m comforted in the reminder that screenwriting takes discipline and greatness is a culmination of iteration.

THE TAKEAWAY:

Mentally prepare yourself for the good, the bad, and everything in between. The purpose of a “work-in-progress” table read is to gather information. If you can enter it with a growth mindset, it will be more invigorating instead of disappointing.

7. This should be part of the process.

I do not think it should wait until pre-production (and after casting). It’s an incredible tool, like beta-testing a product.

As a filmmaker, I want to be nimble enough to continuously rework my scripts until picture lock. This takes discipline and practice that can be honed with rewriting after table reads.

Sometimes circumstances — a lost location, cast conflicts, weather, etc. — will force me to rewrite on the spot. Other times, I’ll realize it’s just not working. I’m so inspired by Chloe Zhao’s story of changing Hamnet’s ending during production — guided by her (and Jessie Buckley’s) emotion. I want to be prepared to do the same.

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MY ULTIMATE TAKEAWAY:

Writing is a marathon, not a sprint, and it’s our job to find what works best for us. Personally, the table read really worked. So for now, I’m back in Final Draft working on my next iteration; I cannot wait to get on its feet.

If you have any lessons from your readings (or thoughts on these take aways) please share in the comments.

Happy writing,

E

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Like most writers, I have a hyper-specific routine that gets me “in the zone.” I choose one song per project and listen to it OVER and OVER and OVER again — often dancing to it, alone in my apartment — until I’m ready to write. It’s a Pavlovian trick that trains my brain to enter the right emotional headspace before opening Final Draft.

The ritual’s a reminder of how powerful music is in setting tone; one of the hardest things to communicate in a screenplay alone.

As I get ready to send out a feature screenplay, my brilliant producer Lisa Cossrow encouraged me to take this ritual one a step further and create a companion playlist to send alongside the script.

My project’s “mixtape” emotionally mirrors the story’s arc, while including vital diegetic needle drops written into the script. We think it will guide the reader through the story’s feel and sonically illustrate the twists-and-turns.

You can listen here.

(If anyone knows Cyndi Lauper’s ppl, HMU, I NEED True Colors).

While creating the playlist, I thought about the soundtracks from the 2000s that made me want to make movies — Juno, Almost Famous, and Garden State to name a few — and how those films used music to define themselves outside of the movie theater.

Now, full length soundtracks have evolved into instantly recognizable, clip-able, viral moments like Stranger Things’ “Running Up That Hill,” Saltburn’s “Murder on the Dance Floor,” and most recently, Heated Rivalry’s “All the Things She Said.”

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In both instances, music functions in the same way: it solidifies the project’s identity and lets audiences participate beyond the run-time. A great needle drop turns a film (or television episode) into an unforgettable cultural event. And for the business minded folks out there, it can generate more revenue for the asset.

While building my own movie soundtrack, I wanted to look back at the history of music in films to understand its cultural significance, adaptation to technology, and economic implications.

So without further ado, I present a brief (incomplete) history of music in movies and why I think early-career screenwriters should use companion playlists as a breakout strategy today.

First, some housekeeping.

WTF is a Movie Soundtrack:

A MOVIE SOUNDTRACK is a curated body of music associated with a film including licensed songs and original tracks that are used within the film. IT IS NOT ORIGINAL SCORE!1

WTF is a Needle Drop:

A NEEDLE DROP is the intentional placement of a song at a specific moment in a film to do emotional and/or narrative work. Think, "Don't You (Forget About Me)" at the end of The Breakfast Club.

Here are some great examples from 2025’s films.

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Now, the history lesson.

The Silent Era (1890s-1929)

Before recording and sound reproduction was possible in film, cinemas provide live musical accompaniment during screenings. Across different cities, pianists (or sometimes orchestras) pulled from a shared repertoire of well-known classical pieces, folk tunes, and contemporary popular songs. The musicians tailored the live music to match the emotional feel of films’ scenes.

In other words… Pianists were the OG music supervisors. They interpreted the film’s mood on screen and selected accompanying popular music in real-time.

The “Golden Age” - Talkies & The Studio Musical Era (1930s - early 1960s)

The advent of synchronized sound fundamentally changed music in film forever (obviously).

This era was dominated by studio-produced musicals where songs were written specifically for the film and integrated into the narrative. I.e. - characters breaking out into song on screen.

Studios typically owned the music publishing and recording rights, which allowed them to monetize songs across sheet music, radio play, and record sales. This is when the movie soundtrack became a profitable extension of the film itself.

In January 1938, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs became the first film to release a commercially issued soundtrack, establishing the concept that movie soundtracks were standalone products.

Snow White was followed by massively successful studio musicals like South Pacific, Gigi, and West Side Story — whose soundtrack spent over 54 weeks at #1 on the Billboard Charts in 1961, cementing the movie soundtrack as a dominant force in popular music and marking the peak of the studio-era soundtrack.

Meanwhile, the 1948 Paramount Decrees quietly dismantled the studio system and freed music publishers from restrictive long term contracts. (I wrote more about the Paramount Decrees here if you’re interested).

While the effects were gradual, studios’ centralized grip on film music loosened, paving the way for licensing, curation, and the needle-drop revolution of the late 1960s.

The Rise of the Needle Drop (mid-1960s-1980s)

A major shift in came in the late-1960s best exemplified by The Graduate and Easy Rider, two films made outside of the studio system that created the blueprint for the modern soundtrack model of licensing (or commissioning) popular music.

The Graduate (1967)

Mike Nichols changed film history forever when he decided to use previously released songs by Simon & Garfunkel for The Graduate. Nichols saw the songs’ pre-existing associations in popular culture as a positive asset instead of a negative one - and chose Simon and Garfunkel’s hit music over traditional orchestral score.2

Ultimately, Nichols was praised for capturing the alienation of a generation through using popular music that generation was already listening to… The original soundtrack rose to No.1 on the Billboard charts and spent almost as much time on there as The Beatles’ White Album, which released in the same year.

Licensing popular music was cheaper than commissioning an original score (at the time) and also provided an ancillary income opportunity through soundtrack sales.

Full track list here.

Easy Rider (1969)

While The Graduate relied on the songs from one popular music duo, Easy Rider created a compilation soundtrack of different popular artists. It was arguably the first film to use a curated, multi-artist playlist instead of orchestral score. The pre-existing song placement provided critical narrative value and “play-ability.” Music created meaning and, you guessed it, more money through soundtrack sales.3

Full track list here. (Born To Be Wild, I mean… c’mon!)

MTV & The Rise of the “Theme Song” (1980s-1990s)

By the early 1980s, MTV transformed the movie soundtrack into a marketing weapon. Flashdance (1983) became the first case study.

Irene Cara’s “Flashdance… What a Feeling,” music video premiered weeks before the film’s release. The video’s compromised almost entirely of footage from Flash Dance. Essentially, it was a movie trailer disguised as a pop hit and its popularity drove ticket sales. MTV built hype and a youthful audience before the film even hit theaters.

Flashdance’s success was followed by hits like Footloose (“Footloose” - Kenny Logins), Top Gun (“Danger Zone” - also Kenny Logins), and of course, Dirty Dancing (“(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” - Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes).

This model defined the era, where power-ballad theme songs dominated blockbuster soundtracks. And of course, the leap from vinyl records to cassettes and CDs allowed consumers to take soundtracks with them on-the-go, only broadening film soundtracks and theme songs’ cultural reach.

The Mixtape Era (2000s)

The 2000s ushered in a new era of individualized entertainment with the rise of MP3s, iPods, and Napster. Songs were separated from albums and emotional attachment shifted to compilation playlists. At the same time, the internet opened new pathways to discovery, allowing indie artists to reach audiences through social platforms (hello myspace).

The most memorable soundtracks of this era embraced the logic of a mixtape. Garden State (2004) featured carefully curated collection of relatively unknown artists whose music evoked the emotion of the film.4 The soundtrack niched down and focused on creating a mood piece instead of marketing music with mass appeal — which led to massive success. The Garden State soundtrack won a Grammy and became inseparable from the identity of the film.

Full track list here.

Honorable Mention - Juno - track list here.

Streaming Platforms & The Algorithm (2010s-Today)

You made it! We are back at basically the present.

I think we’re all savvy enough to know that music streaming platforms killed album sales and that the algorithm destroyed our attention spans.

Social media has replaced MTV as a destination for advertising and culture creation. Meanwhile fan-edits and recreations function as user-generated marketing. But what I find most interesting — and genuinely exciting — is what Charli XCX is doing with Wuthering Heights.5

In an interview Charli said:

I called Emerald [Fennell] and asked her what she was hoping for from my read of the script. She coyly suggested “a song?” and I suggested “an album?’” because why not?

In many ways, it’s a backwards version of The Graduate. Mike Nichols licensed pre-existing songs that fit the film’s emotional world by a duo that was considered “the voice of a generation.” In this case, Charli is that generational “voice” but is creating original music inspired directly by Fennell’s script.

And by choosing Charli of all artists, Fennell’s planted a flag — indicating to future-audiences the tone of her Wuthering Heights.

While Charli’s released two singles, the full album and movie release on the same date — February 13. Will Charli fans buy movie tickets to experience her new album in theaters? Will the album and film feed off each other to create two massive hits? We’ll find out soon enough.

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The Takeaway:

Film and music have always evolved together. They change in lockstep with technological advances and shifts in media consumption. And the film soundtrack has always been an artistic and economic tool; the best filmmakers know how to use it for both purposes.

Music is an extension of storytelling and you do NOT need to wait until post-production to utilize it. In fact, you should NOT wait! Filmmakers should use music from the very beginning stages of their projects; from the very first screenplay draft.

Curated needle drops and a companion playlist can define your screenplay’s tone. It shows you have a vision for your film, establishes your audience, brings readers into your mind, and most importantly — can speak for characters way more effectively than unnecessary dialogue.

You have the power to create the movie magic moments — the viral trend, the trailer clip, the re-created scene. And you can dream big, Richard Linklater begged Led Zeppelin to use “Immigrant Song” in School of Rock… and it worked!

Music’s role in film is ever-evolving and it’s up to us to crack what the next stage of the great film soundtrack. Personally, I’m sending out a playlist with my screenplay and wrote in two needle drops that are key to my character’s catharsis.

As a filmmaker, you get to say — You gotta hear this one song, it’ll change your life. I swear.

What songs are you using in your companion playlist? I’d love to hear; let me know in the comments.

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Cheers,

E

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We are in that rare, magical window - between the Holidays and Sundance - where the industry quiets down and it’s the best time to polish your script.

After a year of “send it to me when it’s done” generals, I’m almost ready to fire off a feature screenplay to production companies and producers.

In the throes of rewriting, I rounded up the best advice I received during my Sundance Fellowship & WGA x FilmNation Screenwriting Fellowship. These principles are guiding me through my latest draft and I hope they can guide you too.

Some of these principles may sound basic, but it’s amazing how easily fundamentals get lost in the writing process and how much further you can push yourself by returning to them.

Without further ado….

1. Make Your Protagonist as Active as Possible

Your main character needs to be willing to run through brick walls to get what they want… like seriously, they will do anything to achieve their goal.

It doesn’t matter if you’re writing an emotional indie dramedy, your protagonist still needs Liam Neeson in Taken-level commitment.

Things should never “just happen” to your protagonist. Instead, she should constantly be pursuing her want, while conflict arises from obstacles thrown in her path.

2. You Need an External Goal

Even in the quietest, most character-driven film, your protagonist needs an external goal. It must be something that the audience can see, like winning the game, getting the money, making it across the country, etc.

By the end of Act 2, your protagonist will either achieve or fail to achieve this goal.

“But my movie’s an intimate coming-of-age story…” | “It’s about a mother and daughter reconciling…” | “She wants to find her self-worth…”

Totally, I get it. You still need an external goal.

It doesn’t need to be big or even that important - it just needs to exist. The goal will make your protagonist active and give the audience a reason to care.

In Ladybird, Christine wants to go to college outside of Sacramento. Yes, she comes of age, heals her fractured relationship with her mother, and explores her sexuality… but those internal changes occur through the active pursuit of her external goal: getting the hell out of Sacramento.

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3. Keep it SIMPLE

This is the hardest one (at least for me).

“The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.”

― Michelangelo

That’s screenwriting. Chiseling away extra characters, subplots, ideas, and steps until only a clear narrative remains.

The simpler the story, the more room you have for character exploration, set-pieces, comedy and all the moments that make us love movies (think every great dance scene ever) .

There are 6 tentpole moments in a screenplay:

1. Inciting Incident

2. End of Act 1

3. Midpoint

4. End of Act 2

5. Climax

6. Resolution

Your job is to move between these as simply as possible.

In my rewrite, I am doing less.

Can I remove a character? Gone.

Can I cut a subplot? Bye.

Can I kill a scene? Axed

Simple. Simple. Simple.

4. THEREFORE Not “AND THEN”

You’ve probably seen seen the famous NYU-South Park lecture, but it’s always worth revisiting:

Every scene should happen because of what came before it. Causality builds momentum and momentum builds tension. It’s much easier to write intentional cause-and-effect if you’ve kept your narrative simple (Principle #3).

TLDR'; if you can say “and then” in between your story beats - you’re f*cked.

5. RAISE the STAKES

Your story needs to escalate after the midpoint.

The consequences of your protagonist failing to achieve their goal need to be bigger and badder than they were at the top of Act 2. This prevents a midpoint plateau and injects energy into the back-half of your script.

There’s plenty of ways to do this, like introducing global consequences, putting more at personal risk for your protagonist, and of course, adding a ticking clock. Anything that makes failure feel unbearable.

6. Condense the Timeline

If your film can unfold in one night, it should. A tighter timeline equals more tension, which almost always plays better onscreen.1

Most stories cannot unfold in 24-hours and that’s okay, but what you can do is try to tighten the passage of time and establish a clear endpoint in Act 1: a championship game, a return flight, a wedding, a final destination.2

Once your protagonist reaches that end point, your story should end too - which segues perfectly into the final principle…

7. Avoid Climax Bloat

There should be little to no dialogue in your climax; everything important should already be said. Your climax is the visual culmination of your character’s transformation.

It’s a moment for showing not telling.

And your resolution should come FAST after your climax… like as fast as possible. End while the audience is on an emotional high, not 10-20 minutes later.

Two of my favorite examples of this principle from 2025 are Hamnet and Heated Rivalry episode 5.

(SPOILER ALERT BELOW)

Hamnet climaxes when Agnes reaches out to hold Hamlet’s hand as he “dies” onstage. The audience joins her in a silent, cathartic expression of collective grief. The film ends just a few shots later.

The result? A weeping audience.

In Heated Rivalry Ep 5, Hunter kisses Kip during a live broadcast just after winning the championship. Rozanov calls Hollander and declares “I’m coming to the cottage.” Cut to black.

The result? My girlfriend and I SCREAMING on the couch while the episode broke the internet and Breaking Bad’s 12-year long record of being the highest rated television episode on IMDb.3

Efficient endings linger longer in audiences minds.4

And there you have it.

These 7 Principles are guiding me through my current rewrite and I hope they can guide you too. I’d love to hear your thoughts on these - and if there’s any principles you’d add to your own list.

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Happy writing & happy holidays,

E