I told my agent that I had a great idea for a feature and she told me to bring in the script. Again I went home to write it. But, you guys, features are really fucking long. Scripts are usually a minute per page, and when you think of writing a movie, which usually lasts 90–120 minutes . . . that’s a lot of pages. My agents can’t wait that long! I decided to just bring in the first three pages. I’d reel them in and then make them wait a little.
I brought the three pages in, read through it with them, and had my agents laughing their asses off. They wanted to see the rest. Great! Now all I had to do . . . was write it and not fuck it up. And get the structure right. And not spell anything wrong. And not be a fucking failure. And not come up with a pile of trash. I stared at my computer screen for three hours without writing a word. More doubt and fear was creeping into my head by the minute. I couldn’t write, why did I ever think I could? I was so disappointed in myself. I got a glass, poured myself a shot of vodka, and slammed it down.
Days passed, then weeks. The weight of this script was bearing down on me. I knew by now my agents had completely forgotten about it. There was no point in finishing it. Whatever. I wasn’t a writer, anyway.
These were all the things I told myself so I wouldn’t have to walk through my fear of failure. The voice in my head telling me to create and the voice in my head telling me I was a piece of shit were in an all-out battle.
I started to drink and use more, in an effort to drown out both of them. I wanted to be in a steady, unfeeling, neutral state! That’s healthy, right?
I kept up appearances at work for the most part, because I still took that job so seriously, but my lack of a creative outlet made me . . . a worse person. Especially to Brody. I became clingy. Failing to derive my life’s meaning from creating, I looked to Brody for meaning. You guys, no one should be searching for meaning in a guy named Brody. Unless you are a guy named Brody—then by all means, search within yourself.
My clinginess and neediness became all too much for Brody. He could tell that this wasn’t a good relationship and we weren’t right for each other. So he dumped me. And honestly, how DARE he?
“Just go, Laura. Just be independent,” he sighed to me from across the dining room table.
Excuse me?! I WAS independent. I had a job on a sitcom! I knew how to be on my own . . . I just didn’t want to be! It was MY choice to jump from one man to the next. Right?
Okay fine. Ugh, Brody was right—I was so afraid of being on my own. Even in the months that I was single, I had either Leo, Andre, or Colleen looking after me. I had never been independent before. I had no idea how to be.
Looking back, being dumped was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. I should call up Brody and thank that dude. And possibly apologize for what I did next.
Then-Laura did not share current-Laura’s grateful attitude. Then-Laura was filled with rage and pulled a Damon: I trashed his apartment. I threw everything off our (or . . . his, I guess) dining room table. I pulled a framed painting off the wall and smashed it on the ground. Glass shattered everywhere.
Brody watched me trash his house, quietly interjecting “Duuuude” and “Bro, stop it” a few times. But mostly he didn’t do anything. Finally I tired myself out and paused, breathing heavily.
“Just leave, Laura.”
I grabbed my stuff and left. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I thought I was incapable of being on my own.
It turns out, I wasn’t. I had enough money from the show to get my own place.
For the first time, I moved into an apartment by myself. You know what? Living alone is awesome! I went from wearing pants some of the time to wearing pants none of the time. We don’t need pants! (Unless it’s cold, or your couch is made of leather.)
I threw myself into decorating my place. I had a great job, and things were good. My life had always been chaotic. And now, suddenly, it was peaceful.
Thanks, Brody!
* * *
’Til Death, a total shitshow, but MY total shitshow, was not doing well. The ratings were low and though they didn’t express their doubt to us, executives had no idea how to fix it. So their solution was to fire everyone possible. They got rid of JB Smoove, all twenty-three writers, the showrunner, and me. They actually did this pretty often, both before and after my stint. The show had a ridiculously high turnover rate. Over the course of four seasons, ’Til Death had four different women play the daughter character, not including the girl who did the table read and got fired immediately. The script completely ignored this fact. First it was Krysten Ritter, then me, then Lindsey Broad, then Kate Micucci.
Honestly, I don’t know why they thought firing any of us would fix the show. These women are all amazing actresses and comediennes.
I could easily justify being fired. I mean, they fired everyone! It wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t done a bad job. We were all just dealt a poor hand. But in the back of my mind . . . the very, very farthest back corners of it . . . I couldn’t help but wonder if my addiction had anything to do with it. I hid it very well from everyone and never let it hinder my work, but I had the sneaking suspicion that people could tell I was an addict. I used to bring Brody to set sometimes, and he was not, by any means, hiding his drug use from the public. Brad Garrett wasn’t a huge fan of him. I remember showing up to work late once because I was so sick from drinking all night. When I walked in, I just had this horrible feeling that everyone knew. Brad asked with a smug smile, “Where’s skater boy?”
Brody was a good guy, but everyone could see that we were up to no good together.
I tried to brush off the doubt, but I wondered if I would have been one of the people asked to stay if I . . . wasn’t caught up in my addiction.
After I got fired from ’Til Death, my agents at APA fired me as well. When it rains, it pours! It was the same deal as when I got fired from Progressive Artists: I wasn’t making them enough money anymore, so I was useless to them. I was never a real person to them, I was a commodity. I never took my chance to write them that feature. I wondered if they might have kept me if I had finished it instead of drinking.
Desperate for more work, I reached out to all the agencies that previously wanted me. I called WILLIAM MORRIS. “Heyyyyy, remember when you guys said to reach out if I needed anything? Well if you’re still accepting new clients, I’d love to meet . . . Hello?”
They ghosted me. Pretty sure all those agencies started screening my calls.
WHAT THE HELL, PEOPLE?
I always had this unwavering faith that I was going to make it . . . but I was finally starting to see some cracks in that faith. Light was shining through puncture holes . . . and I was going to have to do something about them. I couldn’t ignore my addiction anymore.
CHAPTER 8
New Beginnings (But, like, for real)
Sometimes it’s hard to figure out when you have a problem. There’s a very thin line between doing something you find enjoyable and destroying your life. It’s thin, people!
For example: hoarding. Sometimes you just want to hold on to your childhood blankie AND the locket you got at your baptism AND all the empty yogurt containers that you’ve ever used. And then all of a sudden you need an intervention. It was the same with me. Sometimes I just wanted to get a little high and drink a little, then do some cocaine, except things got fuzzy and my life was destroyed. How was I supposed to know that it was a problem?