Notes from The Women's March on Washington c/o Three Generations

The following post was written by my mom, Wendy Woolf, who participated in her first ever march in Washington on Jan 21st. I thought it would be interesting to post our three perspectives as grandmother, mother and child participating in the largest inaugural protest in history, and am grateful for my mom for sharing her perspective below. I love you, mom and I'm proud to be your daughter. 

 

When Rebecca called me the day after the Women’s March on Washington was announced to see if I wanted to go with her and Fable—3 generations marching—I said “Hell, yes!”   I felt exhilarated at the thought of doing something with other like-minded women to express my horror at the thought of this ugly white (orange?), misogynistic, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, anti-intellectual liar who would be our president, sworn in on my 61^st birthday. I think it was the first time that my stomach relaxed a little from the knots I was becoming familiar with every morning when I awoke. I immediately texted Rachel to see if she wanted to join us, and she, too, was 100% on board. “YES, YES, YES!”

Eight years earlier, on my 53^rd birthday, I sat in my PJ’s in front of the TV, watching the inauguration of Barack Obama, my face stained from tears of joy. I never thought in a million years that I would live to see the day that an African American would be president.  I didn’t think it was possible because of the deep seeded racism still seeping through the cracks in our democracy.  I wrote in my diary that day, “What an honor to be born on this day—a day of rebirth for our nation.  The first African American president!  Today, Obama begins his journey and with it, creates a NEW WORLD!”  I believed it with all my heart.  I was euphoric and proud and brimming with gratitude.  It was also on that day I decided to go back to my authentic self and let my hair go gray.  January 20^th, 2008 was a touchstone in my life. 

As wonderful as 2008’s birthday was, I knew that this January 20^th would be the antithesis.  The black cloud of his looming presidency would descend upon us like a thick miasma, oozing through our cities, our neighborhoods, our homes. Suddenly going to Washington felt like the only possible way for me to face the desperation I felt. I was beyond grateful for Rebecca’s invitation.

Soon, however, Doubt crept in.  And Fear—two long-time acquaintances of mine. By this time, local marches had been organized, and some family members suggested it might be better to stay at home and march here. “I’m afraid for your safety,” said one. “The city will be teaming with Trump supporters.  What if they have guns?  What if they attack the crowd?” another asked. “Isn’t it dangerous to take Fable? How will she stand all that time? What if she gets tired?  What if she has to go to the bathroom?” Friends on Facebook warned of possible arrests, tear gas, rubber bullets, water cannons, and tear gas.  I started to be afraid. I called Rebecca and asked her what she thought about marching at home instead, not admitting why I was asking her.  “It might be really powerful to be with our friends and family here,” I suggested.  She agreed that it might be, but immediately said, “No, I think we should still go to Washington.” 

I know I am an idealist and a person who has strong ethical and social convictions. I stand up for them verbally, sometimes too strongly, because I feel everything on such a deep level, but I have never marched. I am a non-partisan voter and not a member of any organized religion because I don’t want to be labeled or associated with any dogma of any kind.  That being said, I am extremely liberal and strongly spiritual.  But I also have fears that are sometimes overwhelming, which do not feel like they are authentic to whom I am.  And sometimes they can be debilitating.  All of my life I have thought about what I personally would have done if I had been born in Nazi occupied Europe during WWII. Would I have been brave enough to fight in the resistance, hide Jews, risk my family to fight fascism?  Or would I have hidden my own Jewish ancestry and closed my eyes to the Nazi horrors to save my family.  I have been troubled by the uncertainty of these hypothetical questions—aware of the fact that until we are confronted with a situation, we have no way of knowing.  And not knowing has been a lifetime burden.

This would be my first march ever, so I didn’t know what to expect and I would be lying if I told you that I was more and more excited as the day of our departure grew closer. I actually started to get more and more nervous, but I know that this often happens to me, even before I go on big vacations or even before my theater company puts on our plays.  So I hid those feelings and ignored the Facebook posts best I could and tried to calm myself down in the middle of the night when I woke up afraid, knowing that although I often am nervous before an event, I never actually am when it happens. I also ‘checked in’ to my intuition, which always guides me, and nothing told me we shouldn’t go.  

My friends and husband were all supportive, cheering me on and telling me they would be with me in spirit, and I realized I wanted to bring something physical with me so all of my loved ones would be with me. I decided to bring a handful of tiny pebbles I had collected the year before from a high-action beach in Northern California. On high-action beaches, the fine sand is dragged out to sea by the constant pounding of violent waves, and the larger, polished pebbles remain. There was something about these resilient pebbles that I fell in love with, each one a different color, individual and unique, and I kept them in my jacket pocket for months before putting them safely in a box.  

I decided they would be the perfect symbols of my friends and family to carry with me to D.C.

The night before we left, I barely slept. I thought about our plane and that it might be filled with Trump supporters—and that made me uneasy. Southwest Airlines sent me a weather alert, so I added that to my list of worries.  Rachel was joining us in Atlanta on our second flight.  What if we missed our connection?  But that morning, as Fable, Rebecca and I started on our journey, all of my fears disappeared. Fable’s excitement and calm resolve was infectious. And then there was Rebecca, who is always fearless.  Although it was raining, the storm hadn’t hit its peak yet and departure was on time.  All was well.

We were met at our gate by a sea of pink hats and only one red.  My heart leapt. Of course, this was LA.  I should have realized. Atlanta might be different, but at least we would start out on a good foot.  We met Rachel in Atlanta and the four of us approached our gate.  Even more pink hats! And not ONE RED HAT!  THE DAY BEFORE THE INAUGURATION!!! Everyone was smiling, full of anticipation, full of conviction and fire and fight—men and women from all over the United States.  We talked to teachers, to poets, secretaries and students. There were a few Trump supporters with garment bags, but 90% of the passengers were marchers. We were thrilled.

We were lucky to be able to stay with Larry’s cousins, Marilyn and Mike, in D.C. We got to their house around 7 pm and more cousins arrived for dinner.  Fable, who like us had been up since 5:15, was in high spirits and played happily with Marilyn and Mike’s grandchildren’s Legos while we all caught up and discussed the political events.  We still hadn’t figured out what we would do on my birthday. All we knew was that we wanted to be nowhere near the capital building and the inauguration.  Marilyn suggested we go to the National Portrait Gallery and the American Art Museum, which was on the other end of the mall.  We decided that art would be the perfect antidote to the depressing day, so after sleeping in and buying supplies to make our signs later on, we set off on a pink-hat filled metro to The Smithsonian. 

Our time at the Portrait gallery was amazing.  Fable wanted to see Alexander Hamilton, since she is obsessed with the music from the play.  

We then found all of the heroes of feminism and civil rights, and we swelled with inspiration and gratitude.  We read the inscription by each of their portrait, realizing we are once again in the midst of the same struggles of misogyny and racism that has plagued this country from its inception.   

That night, we made our signs for the march.  Inspired by my pebbles, Rebecca decided to write the names of her friends’ and reader’s names all over her body, so they, too, could be at the march. I finished my poster first and while the others finished theirs, I wrote over 200 names on her arms, chest, and back.  It was a powerful act and couldn’t have been a better way for us to prepare for the next day.  Fable was with us the entire time, working on her poster, and we all finally fell into bed at midnight.  In spite of the pall of the day, I was filled with gratitude for my family and excited for the march.

We left the house at 8:30, cheered on by Marilyn and Mike, clad with our clear backpacks, pussy hats, and signs.  I rubbed my stones gently and then zipped them in my pocket. The sidewalk was already filled with other marchers, filing towards the metro, and as we walked, more and more people stepped out of their houses, joining the mass.  

Cars honked in support as we waved our signs.  I cannot express the powerful feeling that started growing inside of me, and by the time we were in the metro station with thousands of others wearing pink hats and carrying signs, I knew that I would fearlessly meet anything that happened that day.  It took several trains before we were able to find one that had room for us, and since Rebecca gets claustrophobic, we decided to get off earlier than we had planned and walk the rest of the way. As we exited the station, we were met by thousands of marchers waving their signs, walking towards the meeting point.  I have never seen so many people, mostly women, in one place, all smiling, filled with both love and fire, and committed to all people, no matter their color, creed, nationality, or sexual preference. 

We unfortunately couldn’t get near where the speakers were, and it was too wet to sit down, but the hours flew by because of the excitement of the day and we talked to people who had flown in from all over the country. When we all started the march, the numbers had swelled and the crowd had grown thick. We chanted and cheered and waved our signs and marched, together with people from all over the US.  We chanted “My body, my choice” as the men responded, “Your body, your choice.”  We cried as a group of indigenous women, men and children walked past us singing, carrying signs with a simple request for clean water, something we shouldn’t have to fight for in a democratic society. 

We answered the question, “Tell me what democracy looks like,” with “THIS is what democracy looks like,” and every time I chanted those words, I felt more and more power more and more love for my country, a country where dissent is not only a patriotic act, it is imperative when a demagogue has come into power. Fable was our mascot, smiling and waving her sign, happy the entire time, never complaining, even when we were standing around for hours.  She never told us her feet hurt, or that she was cold, or that she was hungry.  She was our beacon of positive energy.

After the march, the subway was so crowded that we had to go the wrong direction to get on, but we finally made it back.  More cousins who had marched joined us for dinner, and we all buzzed with the energy of the day, fired up to continue the fight.  The next morning as we sat on our plane filled with marchers, ready to take off, the flight attendant thanked all of us on the loud speaker for marching and the plane exploded in cheers. It felt like the world was behind us and with us.  Once again, I reached my hand in my pocket and lovingly rubbed my stones.

Marching was life changing for me. We stood against a government that threatens to take away everything that we have accomplished in the last 40 years, peacefully and without incident—a women-led march so full of positive energy that even though we didn’t know until after the march how many people were marching worldwide, we knew we were at the epicenter of something big and important.  I truly understood for the first time the power of one…and one and one and one times 1,000,000.  One woman’s vision created the march and each person made an individual choice to show up.  This is why we vote.  This is why we show up to town halls, write letters, make phone calls, because when everyone does, it makes a difference.  Our voice makes a difference.   WE have the power. And although it feels like the bully in charge does, with every horrible appointment and abhorrent decision he has already made in his first few days of office, he really doesn’t.  We do.  We just need to join forces and work. The march was a call to ACTION by millions of Americans who wish to live in an ethical America, a place where we take care of our marginalized citizens, protect everyone’s rights and our environment, and work together. This march affected each of us, and we have gone home to fight at the local level. 

I still don’t know what I would have done had I been in Europe during the Nazi occupation, but I have a better insight into how good it feels to stand up against tyranny, and although I never was in any danger and we still live in a democracy, I felt a new fire after the march to fight.  I kept thinking, what if the women of Germany had held a march like this at the beginning of Hitler’s reign?  What if the women had stood up against hatred and fear?  I have a feeling if they had and I had lived then, I would have joined.  We can do this.  We just need to show up. 

THIS is what democracy looks like. 

why I march... with my 8-year-old.

When the Women's March on Washington was first announced, I knew I wanted to go. I called my mother first, whose birthday is Inauguration Day (sad! No, but like REALLY SAD) and proposed we go together. My sister was soon on board, and then I sat down with my oldest kids, Archer (11) and Fable (8), and asked if either of them wanted to attend. I explained to them what the Women's march on Washington was about, what it represented and why it was important to me. Archer was wholly supportive that we were all going but felt that it wasn't for him...  Fable was adamant and wholly certain that she wanted to go. 

OF COURSE she wanted to go. 

"I HAVE TO GO," she said....

On January 21st, in Washington DC, the four of us will march for the autonomy, freedom and equality of women. We will march in solidarity with survivors, in resistance to rape culture as well as misogyny, homophobia, racism, bigotry, Islamophobia, white supremacy and toxic masculinity. We will march as an act of resistance to an incoming administration that threatens the freedoms and livelihood of marginalized communities, and undermines female worth while simultaneously politicizing our bodies. We will march as an example to each other and ourselves that saying NO to what we disagree with is often the only way to say YES to WHO WE ARE. We will march because we BELIEVE in the power of women and girls -- that together we can and will rise. We will march because we LOVE our country fiercely and disagree WHOLEHEARTEDLY with everything the president-elect and his administration represents. We will march as grandmothers, and mothers, sisters and daughters who motivate each other to be brave, outspoken and unwavering in our dissent. We will march with LOVE and FIGHT, and FEMININITY, arms linked, indivisible and with great hope for a future that TRULY MEANS liberty and justice for all. - @rachelwoolf (28) @wendywoolf1 (60) @girlsgonechild (35) and Fable (age 8) #whywemarch #whyimarch #threegenerations #notmypresident #stillwithher #resist #normalizedissent #womensmarch #imarchfor @womensmarch

A photo posted by Rebecca Woolf (@girlsgonechild) on Dec 28, 2016 at 1:03pm PST

...I have received understandable criticism from friends and family about bringing a child  to a march -- specifically the one in Washington DC.  I imagine that criticism will continue as it did when we marched in LA's Pride Parade last year, hours after the horrific shooting at Pulse in Florida, and though many people warned against our marching, worried for our safety (most notably the safety of our children), we went anyway--for many reasons, one of them being that Hal and I felt that SHOWING UP was even more important than ever. As a family of non-marginalized privileged people, we felt that of all times to show up, THIS WAS IT...

...There have been several articles written about marching with children that are fantastic resources for those considering taking their kid(s) and you can find them here and here. There is also a Women's March youth initiative, which you can read about/sign up for notifications, here. 

In the meantime... I am overwhelmed with gratitude to feel such solidarity with the women in my life. I am grateful for all the amazing people who will be marching locally, nationally and ALL OVER THE WORLD. I am grateful for our ability to stand strong together. I am grateful that my daughter will be able to look back on this moment and say, "YES, I WAS THERE." 

"With my mother...

"And my grandmother.

And my aunt. 

And thousands (hundreds of thousands? millions?) of others..."

And she will know, in case it isn't already clear, that just as her age didn't stop her from wanting to participate, it also didn't stop me from including her. And she will know that my need to protect her will never come before my desire to support her. To empower her. To allow her to make her own decisions when it comes to her heart, her body, her FIGHT. 

And she will KNOW that no matter how dangerous the world may seem, that STANDING UP and SPEAKING OUT and UNITING WITH OTHERS in support of HUMAN DECENCY, EQUALITY AND LOVE will ALWAYS BE the right call. 

She will know that NO ONE is too young, too girl, to get out there and resist what feels WRONG with what feels RIGHT.  

I was cleaning out the backseat of my car, grabbing errant paper, dried out markers, balling up discarded pages that I assumed were discardable... I was cleaning so fast I didn't notice the crumpled page covered in stars. I shoved the "trash" in a plastic bag and just as I was closing the bin, caught eye of the words, "...hands girl." I retrieved the trash bag, opened the crumpled paper and there, staring back at me was a little girl holding the world, surrounded by stars. I burst into tears. How could I have crumpled up such a treasure? How was I *this* close to throwing it away!? When I asked Fable about the picture, she explained that she made it last week, while we were driving to my parents house for thanksgiving. "I made it for us as a reminder... I made it for all the girls." "I love it so much," I told her. "And I'm so sorry I almost threw it away." "Yeah, but mama," she smiled, "you didn't... See? You can still read the words. You can still see all the stars..." She was right, of course. The paper was crumpled but the words didn't change. The girl was still holding the world. Fable and I flattened the paper with our hands and taped it on the back of our front door. Because crumpled or not, we can still read the words. We can still see all the stars.

A photo posted by Rebecca Woolf (@girlsgonechild) on Dec 3, 2016 at 11:47am PST

She will know that her steps matter. That we cannot push the needle forward by standing still. That we have to push. We have to strain. We have to march. Not just on the 21st but CONSISTENTLY. We must march hand in hand, with clear eyes and open ears, fearless, hopeful, strong. We must march for a future that ensures everyone is given equal chance to find their power. 

And she will know that she's a part of that. She's part of THIS. She's part of EVERYTHING. 

We all are. 

You can read my post in its entirety on Mom.me, here. 

***

ED: when I picked Fable up from school today, I found this hanging in the hallway outsider her classroom: 

Not that I ever had doubts about bringing her, but whoa, am I glad she's coming. Fight forward, friends. March safe and big love to all. 

"...strong is what we make each other..." a repost in preparation for The Women's March

The following post is a repost from last year's International Women's Day which. It felt apropos to post today, the week before the Women's March. Photos individually credited, here. 

Jose CABEZAS/AFP/Getty Images

One of the first articles I clicked on this morning -- on this International Women's Day was this extraordinary collection of photos/stories of female protest worldwide, and as I scrolled through and read the stories of these women, all of whom REFUSED to accept status quo -- who continue to REFUSE... who fight EVERY DAY for their lives and livelihood,  I thought of another poem by the remarkable Marge Piercy... about strength in the face of weakness and the power of vulnerability, about what it means today to be a woman and what it has ALWAYS meant to be a girl, about solidarity and camaraderie and the harmony of female voices whose megaphones were pulled from the ribs of every Eve who ever dared refuse an Adam.... About the GLOBAL village and who is doing what to raise whom. 

Because in the same way it takes a village to raise a child, it also takes a village to embolden her -- to empower her and elevate her world. And so. Today, and every other day, I salute our international community of women and girls with love and gratitude -- for teaching and raising and risking, and pushing and powering on.  I salute you. 

For Strong Women

by: Marge Piercy

A strong woman is a woman who is straining

A strong woman is a woman standing

on tiptoe and lifting a barbell

while trying to sing “Boris Godunov.”

A strong woman is a woman at work

cleaning out the cesspool of the ages,

and while she shovels, she talks about

how she doesn’t mind crying, it opens

the ducts of the eyes, and throwing up

develops the stomach muscles, and

she goes on shoveling with tears in her nose.

A strong woman is a woman in whose head

a voice is repeating, I told you so,

ugly, bad girl, bitch, nag, shrill, witch,

ballbuster, nobody will ever love you back,

why aren’t you feminine, why aren’t

you soft, why aren’t you quiet, why aren’t you dead?

A strong woman is a woman determined

to do something others are determined

not be done. She is pushing up on the bottom

of a lead coffin lid. She is trying to raise

a manhole cover with her head, she is trying

to butt her way through a steel wall.

Her head hurts. People waiting for the hole

to be made say, hurry, you’re so strong.

A strong woman is a woman bleeding

inside. A strong woman is a woman making

herself strong every morning while her teeth

loosen and her back throbs. Every baby,

a tooth, midwives used to say, and now

every battle a scar.
A strong woman

is a mass of scar tissue that aches

when it rains and wounds that bleed

when you bump them and memories that get up

in the night and pace in boots to and fro.

A strong woman is a woman who craves love

like oxygen or she turns blue choking.

A strong woman is a woman who loves

strongly and weeps strongly and is strongly

terrified and has strong needs. A strong woman is strong

in words, in action, in connection, in feeling;

she is not strong as a stone but as a wolf

suckling her young. Strength is not in her, but she

enacts it as the wind fills a sail.

What comforts her is others loving

her equally for the strength and for the weakness

from which it issues, lightning from a cloud.

Lightning stuns. In rain, the clouds disperse.

Only water of connection remains,

flowing through us. Strong is what we make

each other. Until we are all strong together,

a strong woman is a woman strongly afraid.

Thank you.

First of all, thank you for your loving comments, support, personal notes and all around kindness these last few days. I have been working up the courage to post last week's post for... a while, but since the election felt tempered in my enthusiasm and began to question, more than usual, absolutely everything.

Raising money to make a movie suddenly felt petty considering everything that was going on – being an advocate for my project (and myself) felt inappropriate -- like setting up a lemonade stand in the middle of a funeral. I have never raised money for anything before, nor have I been this invested in a creative project, so putting it all out there knowing that the risks are as high as the rewards is somewhat (x 789789718923) petrifying.

I was CERTAIN that 2017 was going to be the year of the woman. That we would be celebrating our female power like never before. I was CERTAIN that, inspired by HRC and women like her, I would watch and learn -- and feel more empowered than ever before to FIGHT AND WIN. Because in 2017, that would be possible. I had this grandiose picture in my head that 2017 would be the female future we all rallied for. I thought that on November 8th, the glass ceiling would smash and we would all dance upon the pieces like YES. SHE DID IT! AND NOW WE CAN, TOO.

Instead, something else happened. And I spent many days and nights thinking about how that something was affecting me, my family, friends, our entire country...  Hillary's loss was personal for many of us but not as personal as her opponent's win... I have known men like him all my life. I have been afraid to stand up to them -- unable to say no... disgusted with my inability to fight back because "it won't be worth it," or worse...

The election triggered something in me that resonates with the core of what PANS is about -- a girl who reclaims her power after feeling like her community has stripped her of it -- not just the boy who assaulted her but the girls who stand by him, refusing to believe her side of the story. And while Pans is, of course, based loosely on Peter Pan, it is also a deeply personal story about finding and creating alliances with people who HEAR YOU while refusing relationships with people who would rather not. It's about the importance of SAYING NO and being UNAPOLOGETIC as advocates for our own bodies/minds/souls.

It's the movie I wished I had as a teenage girl.

It's also the movie I wish I had now.

Since November 9th, I have looked to myself and other women in my community to be my leaders. I have looked to my peers and a younger generation of outspoken young people who are unafraid and unapologetic in their dissent. Since the election, I have repeated ad nauseam to my children, to my family, to myself, that maybe it was never about one woman leading the free world but MILLIONS OF US leading ourselves and each other.

Maybe WE ARE THE ONES WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR.

Maybe there are thousands of other women who, like me,  have been working on projects for years about ALL OF THE THINGS we must fight against NOW. In trying to find a way to feel emboldened in this moment, I keep going back to that.

If it wasn't for November 8th, I don't know if I'd have an 8 year old daughter signing her journal every night, Your Future President... 

Sometimes it takes the rise of a villain for us all to become superheroes. And sometimes it takes writing fictional stories for us to realize our truths. If more women could tell the stories...if more women could cast more women, could hire more women, could explore more women’s stories, maybe we wouldn't have to fight so fucking hard to be heard.

My experience writing this script was parallel to that of my main character. It took writing this script for me to realize the depth of my own experience in the same way Wynne realizes how profoundly she has been affected by her assault. Perhaps this is why it's been so scary for me to write publicly about this project. My journey as a woman on this project parallels that of my heroine as she, too, finds HER power. Maybe that's always how it works but in my experience it has been revelatory.

Art heals. I don't think it knows how not to. 

So many things happened while working on PANS – reminders at every turn that making this movie is not only important for me and for so many other women,  but mostly for young girls who don’t have the opportunity to watch their stories on the big screen, specifically those about what it means to rise up, speak out against rape and resist the culture that supports it.

Hollywood prides itself on being a liberal mecca but pay attention and you'll see that toxic masculinity, whitewashing, racism, misogyny and chauvinism. (Showvanism?) are a Hollywood institution. Female directors STILL make up only 7% of the top 250 grossing films and to this day, the vast majority of films lack female representation behind the camera.

ED: In 2014, 85% of films had no female directors, 80% had no female writers, 33% had no female producers, 78% had no female editors and 92% had no female cinematographers, according to the Center for the Study of Women in Television and Film at San Diego State University.

On-set harassment, even rape, are not isolated instances. And while, sexism is CLEARLY a problem behind the scenes, on-screen storytelling ripples WORLDWIDE. Exhibit A: Think about the favorite films our generation grew up with. (WTF.) Meanwhile, articles like this are published without irony.

Consumers have always been in control. We don't have to eat what is put on our plate. We can (and I believe we should) demand better.

Anyway. Now that the floodgates have opened, I have so much I want to talk about... when it's an appropriate time to do so.

Later this week, I will be directing a short tease that we will use to launch our crowdfunding campaign, which goes live next month. As of now, we are scheduled to shoot PANS this May on location in my hometown of Encinitas. We have already done one preliminary scout which was amazing. I am going to need a ton of help to get the word out for this project and will post about that more later as well. If you would like to reach me or my production team with any questions and/or investor/sponsorship inquiries you can do so at pansfilm@gmail.com.

Thank you again for your kindness and support as I navigate this project. The next few weeks and months are going to be crucial, so it means everything to me to know you guys are behind me. THANK YOU. We are putting together a really beautiful crowdfunding campaign that I'm really excited to share with you. 

In the meantime, thank you from the bottom of my heart for empowering me to be better at empowering myself. I am, like my project, a work under constant construction, which is why I'm so beyond grateful and consistently overwhelmed by this community.

More soon + love and gratitude always. 

It's a girl. #pansfilm

Ten years ago I started a script. Or, wait…it wasn't a script at first. It was a novel, actually. Ten years ago I started a novel.

Archer was a toddler and I had just finished my second unpublished book and was determined three times would be the charm. I was a force of fiction-writing nature in those days, determined to write one novel a year, which I did, until I gave birth to my first child. I kept writing, of course, hundreds of thousands of words a year… but most of those words ended up here, on this website.

Still, I was determined to write fiction. I was still young and had an unflinching amount of chutzpah when it came to rejection. Each rejection was a branch, I told myself. And I couldn't get to the top of thee tree without branches. So I climbed. And I climbed. And I kept climbing.

The original title of my third novel was Wendy and the Lost—a modern take on Peter Pan but from Wendy's POV. The book was my first for a "YA audience," although I never saw it as such. Adults do not suddenly grow out of reading stories. Old readers need young heroines, too.

I had spent much of my childhood LOVING Peter and the lost boys while despising Wendy and Tinker Bell, who were depicted in the book, as well as the Disney adaptation, as overly protective/maternal-to-a-fault/wet blanket (Wendy) and jealous/vindictive/mean spirited/mean girl (Tinker Bell).

In Peter’s world, as well as in my learned experience, boys were curious adventure-seekers who slouched and got dirty and had all kinds of fun being irresponsible and boyish. They were allowed to do stupid shit a la boys will be boys. They were curfew-less mischief-makers, digging their tools into trees and their heels onto gas pedals. They crashed into each other with their bodies and everyone applauded.

Over the years I drew parallels between the story of Peter Pan and my own adolescence. I grew up, in the way Wendys do, and in doing so realized there was much more to this story—to MY story—but also to hers… that in so many ways, Peter Pan represented what was lacking in fairy tales and bedtime stories and ALL WORKS OF ART WRITTEN, DIRECTED AND CONCEIVED BY MEN. There was another story, here—about a girl—whose narrative was never included in the book.

I read Barrie's Peter Pan several times through the years, always looking for a Wendy I couldn’t find. It became clear to me that while Wendy was intended to be the heroine all along—the protagonist—she remained practically invisible. Ubiquitous, yes, but also unnecessary—a girl transported into a world of boys only to be used as a sort of tool for contrast. Wendy's practicality and realism gave Peter and the boys that much more appeal. As for Wendy, we never got a chance to see, or even realize, her magic.

I found myself in many situations where I realized I was the same. I was living my story within the pages of other people's manuscripts and taking care of people who never bothered to ask me about my day. I said YES instead of NO to appease the stories of others, at the risk of losing my own.

I came to this and about 787897 other realizations when outlining the book.  I began drawing more and more parallels between the story of Peter Pan and the stories of almost every woman I knew -- girls who wanted to get lost in Neverland, too.

After an early draft of Wendy and the Lost, it became clear to me that this wasn't a book—this was a movie. I was already feeling frustrated by the lack of female driven films and stories told realistically for young people when my first daughter, Fable, was born. Fable’s birth turned me in a completely different direction as a mother and woman, thrusting me full-on into a creative and political femaissance.

Fable became my muse.

My first draft of "Wendy and the Lost" (which was essentially about high schools kids and drug use) was atrocious and I hated every minute I spent writing it. I knew it sucked from page one, but for whatever reason, I kept on writing, kept on sucking, kept on despising everything about every word.

This is a first draft, I told myself. JUST. KEEP. WRITING. GO, GO GOGOGOGO!!!

So I did.

I wrote a second draft after that. And a third after that, polishing my piece of shit as best I could.

Then, after much hand-wringing and tears, I scrapped the entire draft (and months of work) and started from scratch. Same name. Same story. This time, though, "Wendy" wasn't just any high school student, she was THE KICKER ON THE SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM!

I spent months on this new version of my story. I stalked high school football playing girls on twitter—became obsessed with female athletes who competed against boys and men, and once again, wrote a very mediocre draft. I spent about a year with this version before once again scrapping and starting fresh— this time with a new title and a new (and also OLD) direction. This time, I would do what I had always done best: write a story inspired by MY experience.

And so, ten drafts and almost three years later, I started again.

New draft.

Page one.

Fade in...

Sometimes it takes a minute or an hour or a year or ten years to realize what you really, truly want to write about. It happens to me when I sit down to write a post. every. single. time. Most posts start out in completely different directions before I realize they are actually about something else. I've sat down to write about marriage only to end up writing about potty training. I've sat down to write about the politics of preschool etiquette only to realize halfway through I am actually writing about my own insecurity in large groups. Some posts take me months to finish. Hell, I have posts in drafts I started years ago.

Writing is a transportation vehicle, and sometimes when we least expect it, we end up in a field we could have only arrived at had we taken a Mack truck to get there.

This is what happened to me. I knew I had something important to say. I knew I had a personal story to tell. I knew Peter Pan was how I wanted to tell it. But it took many years and many failed drafts before I recognized what, when, why and how... 

When I met Linda, my now producer, mentor, guide and friend, Archer was in kindergarten. I was working on my newest draft of PANS, and over coffee mentioned it to her in passing. It was a mess, I explained, but it was getting somewhere...

I told her about Wendy's many incarnations and that in this new draft I was taking a far more daring approach to the character, basing her, instead, on me and my experience as a (gulp) teenage girl.

In short, I pitched her my movie. And in doing realized I had something. 

I've said this to Linda before, but I want to say it here, too. Sometimes we cannot see ourselves through our own mirrors—sometimes it takes meeting someone to say, "here, look this way..."

Linda heard me that afternoon and because of that, I was able to keep writing. And while it would take me another five years of rewrites to get PANS into its current state, Linda was there for all of it. She still is.  Her voice—Field of Dreams style—perpetually hums in my ear when I feel overwhelmed by the scope of what we're doing and what still needs to be done. "If you write this, we will make it. Just keep writing. Keep pitching. Keep meeting. Keep keeping."

“Do you want to direct this yourself?” she asked.

Without hesitation I said yes.

***

Two summers ago, on my 34th birthday, we had our first pre-pre-production meeting. The script was done (I’m laughing because it has been rewritten AT LEAST ten more times since then) and with it, my first glimpse of the light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel. Months later, I met with our now casting director, and by January of last year, we were casting. 

I took a picture that day of the empty chair before our first actor came to read for the starring role (Wynne/Wendy), and on the way home, I cried. I had never experienced anything like that before. One by one, INCREDIBLY talented teenage girls came into the casting room and became a character I had conceived. They dressed like her. They walked like her. They spoke her truth as if it were their own.

At first, I tried to cover my scared-shitlessness with a false sense of “I got this,” but over the course of the first round of auditions, it became clear that separating my professional self from my personal self was not an option. And so I just went with it. My voice cracked. My hands shook. My sweat… was everywhere.

I recognized my inexperience, fully acknowledging that these young women, some as young as 14, had far more experience than I did at castings.

And yet, I had 34 years of experience being myself and, in that moment, and every moment that has come next – in rooms where I have been a novice amongst old pros – that’s what has mattered.

And so I let myself cry when I felt moved to cry. I became emotionally involved with every aspect of every moment. I made it personal, got attached, hugged everyone, and realized my strength as a director was my strength as a mother—that in the same way I wrote PANS for my teenage past, I was directing as a mother, present—that this project, more than anything I had ever creatively done, allowed me to be both my THEN and NOW selves. The mother and the child.

Over the course of the next several months, I spent Friday mornings with my casting team, reading young women and young men for the parts we would eventually cast. I watched audition tapes from actors from all over the world. I fell in love with MANY performers and performances -- mainly teenage girls and young women who blew me away with their REAL. 

I have more respect for teenage girls and young women now than I ever did before—for young actors who get a bad rap, specifically young female actors who in my experience have been INCREDIBLE and brilliant and warm and REAL and collaborative —every. single. one. 

I am floored and in awe by the support of women in this business, as well as three incredible men who joined our team last year as producers, KNOWING and RESPECTING and HELPING me realize my goal of an inclusive, female-centric crew—turning Neverland on its ass in order to recreate a better, more lasting land that includes EVERyone. 

***

It feels strange and also scary to finally publish this post.  Outside of close friends and family, I have kept this project mostly to myself—folded up in my back pocket for the better part of a decade. Meanwhile, I have spent thousands of hours on this project. Hell, THOUSANDS OF DAYS. But I’m ready. I’m exited. And I’m proud of the work I have done. 

There are times – like this one right now – when you find yourself at the top of your tree with ten years of branches below you and realize, holy shit, I'm really getting somewhere... look at this view, man! LOOK AT THIS VIEW! Which is what I’m allowing myself to do – today – with this post.

Over the years, there have been many times when I’ve thought, “what the fuck am I even doing?” There have been times when people have asked me the same thing. There have been multiple occasions of people trying to talk me out of directing my own movie…

“Why don’t you just sell the script and work on something else?”

“You’re still working on the Peter Pan thing? Don’t you want to sell it and start something new?”

… But that was never an option. I had spent too many years raising this project not to see her into adulthood…

Pans was my fifth child.

Pans IS my fifth child. A child I have raised and loved and learned A THOUSAND THINGS from.

Which is why I’m writing this post – to introduce you, finally, to this project, which has lived with me for as long as I’ve kept this blog… I have honed characters, re-written plot lines, redesigned characters based on conversations I have had with you… and I’m so grateful for that. I’m so grateful to have a community of women who challenge and open me up – who make me feel safe, even fearless…

Thank you.

Thank you for helping me build a platform from which to share and speak and exist truthfully and explicitly, not just as a mother, but as a woman – ever-evolving, changing, fucking up, making it work, trying my best to fight forward, love deeply, speak my truth. Thank you for supporting me and each other; I am a better mother, a better writer, a better woman because of you.

And from here on out, I will be including you in this new mothering journey (and yes, it feels very much like a very long, very drawn out labor.) Because this project isn’t just for me -- it’s for my girls. It’s for my friends and family, sisters, strangers, you. It’s for every young woman who has ever been made to feel less than because of her Wendyness.  It's for survivors of sexual assault, most importantly teenaged survivors and those currently in the throes of adolescence. 

Pans is about strength and solidarity, vulnerability and dissent -- it's about speaking up and SAYING NO with ACTION and ART. It's about RESISTANCE and VOICE and what it means to stand with each other in solidarity. It's about young women who realize their power and raise themselves. It's about creating SISTERHOOD within the brotherhood.

It's about lost boys FOUND GIRLS. 

Will it be an uphill battle from here? Hell fucking yes. As I type this, we continue to climb what is now an enormous, branch-filled, treacherous-ass tree.

We still need a pretty massive sum of money to get us into production. (Yes, there will be crowdfunding campaign. Soon. Very soon. More on that in a few days.) And after that, there will be MANY MORE BRANCHES before we get to the top.

And yet…here we are...

First day of casting, January 2016

Here I am—exhausted, excited, scared shitless and, yes, I'm going to say it, REALLY fucking proud.

I'm making a movie. 

It's called PANS. And it's a girl.