Ambien or Aleph.

Sometimes, as I try to write a post, the silence in my brain is inexhaustible. The funny thing is, every once in a while, I think I’d like to get a PhD in Literature, and then I remember the dissertation, and I go back to thinking, “I enjoy NOT having to put up with THAT shit on a regular basis.” Plus, they would probably find my use of CAPITAL LETTERS, italics,  and strikethroughs a wee bit juvenile.

LAY ON McDUFF, MR DARCY WANTS HIS COPY OF HARRY POTTER BACK. They may also not appreciate my particular brand of humor. I know academics. They’d have me beheaded for mentioning HP with WS and JA. Personally, I think Jane Austen would have loved Snape.

The thing about it is that sometimes, as an actor, a less-torturous life inside of books seems all too appealing. Most of my work is about how best to handle rejection. Right now, I’m at a particularly fortunate bit of my career, but that leads to other, just as unsettling parts of my job.

Every actor has a process. The way an actor builds a character, mulling it around inside them, is truly as personal as how you brush your teeth, or how you shower, or how you entice your lover. It’s intimate. My process is less “enticing a lover” and more “this crazy bitch needs to be institutionalized, she hasn’t slept, and she is rocking in a corner.” I stay up nights. I toss and turn. I pace. I make batches and batches of protein balls. I read the scripts on my iphone on the elliptical, and listen to the lines as I run. Oh lawd do I run.

I find myself driven into the same amount of self-doubt and recrimination over my choice to become an actor, as I did over being morbidly obese. I realize that there is no reason for it, that I am no longer so massively overweight, but there it is. As much as I try to expunge my feelings of inadequacy, or even the memory my body holds of being 315 lbs, I simply cannot. I know I suffer for it. I know that to look at me, you can’t tell I was that person, but I feel like I am waiting for directors to notice that I am not their kick-ass heroine, but instead the woman who couldn’t get it together long enough to walk to the grocer to buy a plum, instead of driving to Wendy’s to buy a frosty.

That is essentially the reason why building a character for me takes twice as long, and is twice as arduous a process. Half of the time is spent building the character, and the other half of the time is spent convincing myself I am worthy to play it. I think that is why blogging is such a delicious respite for me. No one *really* has to know what a writer looks like. No one *really* needs to know what a cook looks like. It’s behind the scenes. Everyone sees the actor, and despite my greatest fears, my most depressing inner thoughts, I still love that. The center of attention, behind the wall of a character, yet still so exposed. How can I find one thing so terrifying, yet so delicious? We are all a dichotomy, it seems.

Baking, cooking, writing. A respite. Running? Revival. All of them? Thank G-d, it is my mind’s bliss. It also happens to be your tongue’s good fortune. My husband prefers me not to be your tongue’s good fortune, but he understands.

To keep my inner beasts at bay, I have to feed them healthy food. Cherries, my favorite of the delightful summer sundries, is a natural sleep aid, and when paired with something rich in Vitamin A, it is a potent natural ambien that won’t have you high as a kite and calling your lovers, and leaving naughty voice mails a la Tiger Woods. Unless you want to.

Today’s Recipe?

Pork, Cherry, and Goat Cheese Grilled Pizza.