Last week after I posted about feeling overwhelmed in my writerly pursuits, I saw this amazing article in the New Yorker, all about therapy for screenwriters.
The "Letter From Los Angeles" segments, designed as if sent by a batty aunt*, sometimes make me skeptical, coming as they are from a New York POV.
The chosen topics often make Los Angeles sound like a bizarre and alien land consisting solely of entertainment professionals/possible cultists/fashionista yoga raw tofu-dies stuck perpetually on the freeway** ordering off the secret menu at In N Out while scheduling colonics, but I guess I really am a local now, because I didn't even think this article was strange. I was just nodding along like, "Well, of course. Yes. I wonder if this guy accepts new patients."
* Oh, frak. I just realized that for my niece Rose, I am that batty aunt
** That part might not be entirely inaccurate