Strong and Black

All the coffee propaganda doesn't really sway me. Something really bad would have to be associated with my favorite bean to make me give it up. The headline would have to read "Coffee goes on a hate crime killing spree then rapes itself to death at a local school." Pretty good chance I would switch to tea after that. Until then...

What a FOMO!

You know those people, always on their phone, checking Instagram and Facebook even while they're already out with all their friends. The ones that straggle at the party, afraid something awesome will happen the moment they leave. Or the peeps that won't RSVP to your Evite in case something better comes up. These are the FOMOs: Fearful Of Missing Out. Hey guy, don't be such a fomo.

Junk in the Trunk

A reader for Miramax passed on the script for Good Will Hunting. It just goes to show you, there's no accounting for taste. And there's always some idiot who wouldn't know cinematic gold if it sat on their face...

To be, damn it!

The life of an artist is filled with highs and lows, twists and turns. Somewhere along the way, we all trip over questions about what we are doing and why on Earth we are doing it. There are thousands of people competing for every role, however small, and "no" is the watchword. Workshops are expensive and filled with the unmistakable stench of desperation. Some of us are really only getting a creative fix in a class setting, which is also a hardship on the wallet and fulfilling to none. We try to glean more opportunities by self-submitting everywhere possible, but how many of these breakdowns say that pay is non-applicable or that they will be distributing on YouTube? Really?! But anything beats a cubicle and a dread of Mondays, at least most of the time.

So, how do you beat the doldrums, uncertainties and pitfalls into despair? The good news is, this is not an entirely unique position for artists. The average Joe will question where they are in their lives periodically, and others will struggle to ever find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Passion will dwindle, fires will cool. What is left at the end of the day? Even if the motivation changes, if the driving need for creative release exists, it must be honored. This is not about fame, but rather hard work, skill and conditioning to be camera-ready. There are countless talented people that never find their way through those important doors. We got agents, made it into the union and have resumes that no one cares about. How can we be in service to our art when the gatekeepers are so savvy at only allowing those in the clique to make it inside the room?

All the doubt piles on until a breaking point is reached and the world goes dark. It's like losing your first tooth. Part of you is dangling there, looking foreign and unwelcoming. The pain is excruciating with no end in sight. You don't want to touch it or look at it or deal with it. Until the tooth finally falls out and upon reflection, you realize that wasn't so bad after all. Even the strongest walls can only withstand so much pressure before they crumble. The silver lining is that new teeth grow in, pain subsides and happiness is always available whenever you are ready for it. My best advice: Turn into the skid and accelerate.

L.A. Examiner Articles

A link to my Examiner articles... A worthy read.

http://www.examiner.com/user-erinrae-miller

Fucket List

Somewhere along the dash to check off each item on a lengthy Bucket List, I realized that some things are better on paper. That is why I am starting my Fucket List. It's time to face the facts-- there are things worth abandoning.

Item Number One: PADI certification.

I'm completely certain that I will love scuba diving as a hobby or vacation activity, but the life and death nature of diving to great depths of the ocean as some sort of expert isn't for this girl. I don't want to take my mask off under water and get it back on without snorting sea water through my nose and panicking, rocketing back to the surface where the bends threaten my blood. I don't want my water supply to be secretly turned off. I am not going to remember the stupid hand signals for my buddy to give me his octopus (back-up air supply) so that I don't die. There is no way I can take my weight belt off under water and get it back on without cracking myself in the head, which is actually hard to do. Not to mention the fact that the oxygen tank weighs half of what I do, making it a nightmare to get into the water once I have the tank, the weight belt and the fins on. For all you jerks that thought I was certifiable, you were incorrect.

So to the Professional Association of Diving Instructors, to you I say FUCKET!!