30 Minutes Alone with Treva Etienne

The "30 Minutes Alone" interviews give inspiring insights into the real-life journeys of successful filmmakers, writers, actors, and other industry professionals from around the world.   

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A native of London, England, Treva Etienne has worked as an actor/writer/producer/director in the UK and Hollywood for thirty years, featuring in Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl, Black Hawk Down, Eyes Wide Shut, and Terminator Salvation and producing/directing the hit BBC comedy series, The Real McCoy. Currently, he stars as Dingaan Botha in the Steven Spielberg-produced hit TNT sci-fi television series Falling Skies. 

You’ve spent the last few years living and working in L.A. but you grew up in London. What was it like to grow up British?

I was always kind of a curious kid and I really didn’t know much about acting. I grew up in Notting Hill which was very colourful and vibrant. A lot of minorities from the Caribbean, Africa and India had moved in after World War II to rebuild England after Hitler destroyed huge parts of it. My family, originally from Dominica, was part of a second or third wave of immigrants. There was a tremendous amount of racism and minorities being murdered as the nation adjusted to the fact that all these black and Indian immigrants who had come to repair England were here to stay. And they were having kids, and their kids were having kids, at a time when England was going through a period of tremendous post-war grief for those who had died. It was quite a tragic and vicious time.

When did you get your first inkling that you might want to get into the entertainment business, and acting specifically?

In England, you only get two or three good months where you can go outside, and the rest of the time it’s raining. Plus, as I mentioned, it wasn’t particularly safe to let kids from minorities play outdoors so we tended to spend a lot of time indoors. I would draw and write and make up stories in my early years. I also watched a lot of cartoons, westerns, sitcoms, and gangster movies, all American. The gangster movies especially appealed to me with actors like James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart, because they spoke in a very fast, machine-gun way. I had a very severe stutter as a boy and started copying them unconsciously, walking around the house and driving everyone crazy talking like an American gangster, but it helped me overcome my stutter. I think I was about seven or eight when acting came into the picture.

What sparked your interest in acting?

We moved around a lot and at my fourth school, they were doing Sinbad the Sailor as a Christmas play. I played one of the king’s servants. It was the first time I’d ever been on stage. The following year I was in The Hobbit where I played the front end of the dragon Smaug opposite an Indian Bilbo Baggins. I didn’t do much acting for a good few years after that, but I was always thinking about it, always curious about how I could make that work. And that curiosity became more of a determination that, hey, I could do this.

When did things get serious?

When I went to high school, I took a theatre class and had a very encouraging teacher. I also joined several London youth theatres, including the Anna Scher Theatre School. She was a phenomenal teacher, an amazing lady. A lot of the kids who went to her school went on to become famous actors in television, stage, and film, working class kids from different backgrounds and cultures. I was with her for about two or three years, and in that time I also became more confident as a writer. In my time with her, I wrote eleven plays, two of which won a few awards. When TV or film productions were looking for child actors, they’d come to Anna’s school first. Her school is still running today. I love her, she’s definitely one of my heroes. 

Did your involvement in acting extend beyond school?
After that, I joined different youth theatres and my confidence continued to grow, my stutter slowly losing its edge on me. Then came opportunities to participate in fringe and pub theatre, as well as the Edinburgh International Theatre Festival and theatre tours in Amsterdam, which led to bit parts and then bigger roles in television and eventually my first agent. It kind of snowballed, really. I played Macbeth at the National Theatre and went to the US to join an American Shakespeare company where I did Measure for Measure. Then back in the UK, a fellow actor and I started a theatre company where we taught inner-city kids and wrote plays for them to perform. Kind of a spin-off from all the things I’d learned with Anna Scher. A lot of those kids went on to become successful actors as well. I was only 16 at the time, but it was a kind of giving back. It was also a chance to develop my craft as a writer, as an actor, as a producer and director, dipping my toes into those areas without any real training, but just giving myself permission to try. Meanwhile, the projects became more ambitious. It was a great learning experience.

It sounds like your theatre experiences have always contained a strong social element.

For about seven years, we had a theatre company called Afro-Sax. We were “Saxons” because we were English, but we put the “Afro” in front to show our cultural identity. We had a lot of success because it was a time when you could get substantial financial support from the British Arts Council, who were eager to get more arts events into the poorer areas of London. We were at the forefront of that movement, encouraging kids to stay off the streets, stay away from crime, and typical things that teenagers do. Give them an outlet where they could channel their creativity. And as with Anna Scher's school, those kids moved into television sitcoms, movies like Guy Richie’s Snatch, and may became successful musicians. I’d love to do a documentary one day about all the people who came through our door and how they each found their own success. 

You talk about the British Arts Council’s support for community-based theatre initiatives as happening in “those days”. I get the sense that ended at some point.

Everything changed in the early nineties. Margaret Thatcher had laid down a lot of new rules about how she wanted to spend money, and the arts were one of the first things to get chopped. Budgets were cut, money was focused on a few big theatre companies, and all the smaller companies which had been doing so much for their communities, slipped like dominoes into the abyss. Now there’s nowhere for the kids to go, few outlet to develop their talents, and they’re back out on the streets. Who knows how many great actors and directors never realized their potential for lack of a champion? It’s a very tragic thing.

Champions, I like that. Every young artist needs someone in their corner.

I was very fortunate to have people in my life who saw something in me that they wanted to support. Teachers, directors, fellow writers, people I’m in touch with still to this day. They believed I could go all that way, that if I just kept working hard, I could do it.

Do you remember any specific advice you were given?

I met an actor at a party once who was in a big soap opera at the time called Brookside. He said something really key to me, something I share with other actors whenever I talk to them. He told me, just remember, Treva, you may be the greatest actor of your generation and still die an unknown. He reminded me that there were many great actors in the days of Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Marlon Brando, some of whom were as good or better, but that there was only room for one. The media and studio system simply chose them instead of others. That really stuck with me. It humanized my entire journey as an actor, imbued it with a sense of gratitude. In our industry, especially at a certain level, actors get spoiled. So many things are done for you and given to you, it’s difficult to keep your heart centered because your ego is constantly telling you something else. False messages about yourself supported by false people for false reasons. So his advice was really important.   

What were your first big break-out roles?

I was 21 when I became a series regular on a hit show about firefighters called London’s Burning. I did that for three and a half years, then left and started my own production company, Crown Ten Productions, again focused on working with kids in schools. We also took part in producing panel discussions at the annual Edinburgh TV Festival among other things. At age 27, I became involved with BBC’s comedy series, The Real McCoy, which was essentially Britain’s answer to In Living Color. That was my first mainstream, nationally-televised work as a producer-director. I joined as associate producer, primarily because of the work I’d done with my production company in the years before, but eventually also wrote and directed comedy sketches. So within a relatively short time, I became a qualified BBC producer and trained director. I also had a chance to work with the great black actor Norman Beaton, who was like our James Earl Jones or Sidney Poitier, on two of episodes of his Channel 4 comedy show, Desmond’s. He was an amazing man. Bill Cosby later invited Norman to star in a couple episodes of The Cosby Show. At the same time, I found myself working alongside a lot of actors who had gone through the Afro-Sax companies.

That must have felt good.

Yeah, there was a lot of pride in that. 

What became of The Real McCoy?

In 1995, the BBC cancelled the show. They never really gave us a reason, they just said it was time for a change, which didn’t make a lot of sense given that the BBC was famous for carrying shows for years. And the show was a big hit. But still wanting to direct, I turned my attention to making two original short films through my new production company Keylight Films, Driving Miss Crazy (winner of an HBO Best Short Film Award) and A Woman Scorned.

Talk about your experience as an independent filmmaker.

Right after The Real McCoy, I got a lead role in a Swiss action film, but eleven days into shooting, the production ground to a halt. Shortly afterward, however, while I was attending a workshop at a conference in Strasbourg as a BBC panelist, the Swiss film's producer told me he still had a fridge full of 16MM film stock and would I like to have it? I already had the idea that I’d like to make a short film so I said I’d love to, and he Fed-Exed it to me. So all we had left to do was hire cameras and crew, and I knew I could ask people for favours and we could do it on a weekend and use my flat as our location. So I wrote Driving Miss Crazy and found the wonderful actress, Diane Parish, but on the day before we were supposed to shoot, my investor fell through. So I phoned Diane to break the news, and she said, I’ll give you a thousand pounds. Which was so wonderful of her, but I still needed twenty-five hundred to make the film. Then I remembered a story about Spike Lee making a list of everyone he knew back when he was getting ready to shoot She’s Gotta Have It. So I made my list and phoned everyone, told them what had happened, and promised to pay them all back if they fronted me the cash. I just kept calling, not stopping to count, and after two hours I had raised eight thousand pounds. I checked with the company insuring our equipment, found out we were covered for a month, and decided to do two films.

Besides now having more than enough money to make Driving Miss Crazy, what made you decide to make two movies instead of one?

I’d watched enough short films that I knew if you make one film, it labels you forever. But if you do two, especially that are very different, people see you have a creative range. And I thought, when am I going to get the opportunity again to make another one? Especially since I already had the equipment and all these rolls of film? So we made A Woman Scorned as well. And as a result of another acting job I got shortly afterward for the award-winning BBC show Holding On, I was able to repay everyone. Sadly, I couldn't afford the editing process and had to sit on both films for the next two years.

Sounds like the years between 1995 and 1998 were a bit dry as far as acting went. Apart from making your two shorts, how else did you keep the creative juices flowing?

A friend asked me to direct a talk show pilot which was truly a great experience. Then I was given an opportunity to sit on the UK Film Council, set up by Tony Blair to explore how the British film industry could be made more international in its appeal and sell the best of what Britain had to offer. I suggested you couldn’t really do that unless you included the minorities that had made Britain. Indian, African, Caribbean, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Jewish, Mediterranean - the country was full of minorities who should be able to participate as well. So I wrote a paper called “Diversity in British Film”, which emphasized the role of minorities in the development of British cinema from the 1930s forward. Individuals like Alexander Korda, a Hungarian Jew who had fled Nazi persecution, started a prominent production company called London Films, and brought home the nation’s first Oscar for The Private Life of Henry the 8th, starring Charles Laughton. Meanwhile, I came out of the acting abyss with a stint as a series regular on a sci-fi show called The Last Train. Those were crazy days. I’d be on set all day then go back to my hotel to research documents for my government report. Then after The Last Train ended, I fell back into the abyss and drove an olive delivery van for two years.

Whatever happened to Driving Miss Crazy and A Woman Scorned?

We eventually finished them and they both aired on UK network television, first on Channel 4, then on the BBC. After that, I was invited to show Driving Miss Crazy at a film festival in Acapulco, where it won the award for Best Film. The prize was an opportunity to work at HBO as a trainee director, which was all very exciting because it felt like real recognition. I even got a letter from Chris Smith, former British Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, congratulating me for it. I thought this was it, this was my chance to finally move into feature film work, and in America where there appeared to be more opportunities for black actors and directors. Unfortunately the HBO opportunity never materialized. 

And now, after working for the BBC, writing reports for the British government, and being promised a directing gig at HBO, you find yourself behind the wheel of an olive truck. 

Yes, it was all a bit surreal, really. To keep my spirits up, I just took it all as a cosmic joke. And then out of the blue, my agent called me and told me I had gotten a part I’d auditioned for several months earlier in a film Ridley Scott was making called Black Hawk Down.

You must have been elated to get a chance to work with the director of Alien and Gladiator.

Yes, but when I showed up in Morocco, one of the producers told me I wasn’t the guy they wanted. Someone had made a mistake and mixed up the actors’ photographs.

Another cosmic joke?

When he told me, I just sat back and laughed. It’s all I could do. Because I’d come through so many ups and down at that point. It had to be another cosmic joke! But he was so impressed with how I took it that he and Ridley figured out a way to put me in the movie anyway. He said, you don’t take life too seriously, do you? And I said, no, my life is a sitcom. (Actually, it had been a sitcom ever since I took speech lessons from James Cagney movies back in the day.) And he liked that energy and I got the part. And that later led to a meeting with Jerry Bruckheimer, which in turn led to parts in Pirates of the Caribbean and Bad Boys 2. 

Who could have predicted that?
It’s been a very crazy, interesting journey.

So you’ve had to stay open to whatever life throws you.

I've come to view every meeting I have with someone - wherever it is, whatever the circumstances - as an opportunity, a turning point. I keep myself open to the luck of the moment. That’s my relationship with the universe as it throws me one cosmic joke after another. That’s how life happens, that's how we meet the people we end up marrying, the people who become our friends. Chance encounters, serendipity, whatever you want to call it. I call them cosmic jokes because they elevate my sense of humour above any feelings of despair. If I’m wearing a suit on the way to an audition and a car drives by and splashes me, I think “cosmic joke!” I was supposed to go to this audition wet. And it keeps me from getting depressed by the expectation that I was supposed to show up dry. I decided early on that I wasn't going to get depressed, just occasionally frustrated. Maybe that came out of my stuttering as a boy. But I just decided I wasn’t going to judge or get mad, not see things as his fault or her fault, but rather as cosmic. Then it's just a matter of figuring out how to adapt while expressing gratitude for whatever comes.

And now you’re in North America, playing Dingaan Botha in TNT’s Falling Skies. What has that part of the journey been like?

Arriving in America with ninety pounds in your pocket is an extreme way to start a Hollywood career, leaving my daughter in England, telling her I’ll be back in two weeks if it doesn’t work. But I just trusted my instincts. It’s the only way I know how. If I want something enough, I go after it, that’s it. I try to honour what’s inside me. Most people move or don’t move out of fear. Few people make choices out of blissful joy. But that’s the way I’ve always tried to act, from my early days with Anna Scher to today, as “tumor-free” as possible. Look, the only real freedom we have is within ourselves. If ego is in the driver’s seat, and fear is giving directions to the ego, you’re going to hit a brick wall. I mean, we all need a bit of ego to step out there and do what we do and present a certain part of ourselves, but if we can balance the ego with humility, then we can be a source of generosity and inspiration. We can be brave and act bravely and honour what’s inside us.   

If you could give aspiring actors one piece of advice, what would it be?

Don’t give up on your dream. Listen to yourself first. And trust cosmic jokes. Trust life, because it always knows better. Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, life throws you another cosmic joke. So take it as it comes. Always remember, acting isn’t our real work, life is. So there’s no shame if you’re a big actor, and you have to take a step back and drive an olive truck to feed your child before you can move forward again. Learn to love patience. See her as an angel saying, “Don’t worry, it will happen - just not yet.”

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30 Minutes Alone with Michael Baser

The "30 Minutes Alone" interviews give inspiring insights into the real-life journeys of successful filmmakers, writers, actors, and other industry professionals from around the world.   

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Michael Baser has worked as writer/producer/showrunner on hit primetime television shows including One Day At A Time, Good Times, The Jeffersons, Three's Company, and Full House. He is currently Head of Writing for Film & Television at Vancouver Film School. 

At what age did you know you were going to be a writer?
It wasn’t writing that got me started, it was comedy. I remember in the third grade, I couldn’t have been any more than nine or ten years old, I was allowed before the morning prayer to get up and do five minutes of jokes. And that became my thing. I had seen a lot of stand-up comedians as a kid on Ed Sullivan – Jack E. Leonard, Shecky Greene, the Borscht Belt comics of that generation – and I just aspired to be a funny person. I think class clown fits the description for most of the guys who do what I do, because you don’t get beat up by the class bullies so much if you can make people laugh. So I think it starts out as more of a survival instinct. But I was always sort of driven towards comedy.  

Where did things go from there?

I had a partner early on, a kid named Charlie that I met in the first grade. We had this comedy idea that we developed later on when we were 14 and 15 and 16. It was this musical-comedy act that did small clubs in New York, then bigger clubs in New York. Steve Martin meets the Marx Brothers, post-Vaudevillian jug-band kind of thing. We opened up for some bigger acts and did the college coffee house circuit in those days, back in the sixties. So we were part of that world, which was kind of fun and exciting and heady. But I was never thinking of being a writer, I was just thinking of making people laugh somehow. And then my partner died when he was 19 and that put me in a whole new, what-the-fuck-do I-do-now place in my life.

How old were you when you lost your partner, Charlie?

19, same age as him. I was in college and living with a girl at the time up in Westport, Connecticut, and her parents were show business people, Broadway people, great people. They had a friend, Bob Weiskopf, who was a very well-known comedy writer from radio and I Love Lucy. He had a son named Kim, who was a few years older than me and an aspiring writer who was working on the periphery of the business, including The Zero Hour for Rod Serling and game shows for Monty Hall, but who hadn’t sold any TV shows yet. My girlfriend’s father said maybe you should team up with Kim and we did and became really good friends. So after I graduated college, I drove to L.A. where Kim lived at the time. Prior to that, I had written a spec script for a TV pilot and sent it to Kim who got it in the hands of an actor who made the mistake of saying, “If you ever come to L.A., look me up.” So I was in my car the next day driving to the West Coast. By the time I arrived, I discovered the actor couldn’t do much for us, but it got me out there. Kim and I formalized our partnership and we started writing a bunch of spec scripts. And eventually someone invited us in to talk.

So heading west was a leap of faith, to say the least.

Sure, but back in those days, writing wasn’t a destination job. People weren’t clamoring to become TV writers like they are now, it wasn’t as competitive. Most industry writers were misfits, they couldn’t do anything else, they were a little twisted.  So it didn’t really feel like a leap. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be successful, it was just never an option. I just had this kind of blind, idiot faith. I think everyone who goes into this business and succeeds has to have that. “I know it doesn’t happen, but it’s going to happen,” that kind of thing. You just kind of believe that and that’s what sustains you. I don’t know what else I would have done, you know? My friends in the business and I talk about this all time and we all say the same thing, that there’s nothing else we could be doing. We just had to write. Running the writing department at Vancouver Film School is really the only job I’ve ever held in my life.

Why did you go to college?

Oh, who knows why I went to college. You mean what did I study? I think I had a loose journalism major. But I never used it. I suspect I didn’t go to class very much. After my friend Charlie died, I was in a bit of a fog for a few years. I must have gone to class, I must have taken tests, but I have no memory of going to school. It was an odd time.

So now you’re in L.A. and you’re writing with Kim.

Kim had his foot in the door a little bit, and of course his father was a very well-known comedy writer. His father didn’t do anything to help us, but his friends did. Bob didn’t want his son in the business. He was a wonderfully funny curmudgeon, I liked Bob a lot. But I don’t think he felt anything we wrote was any good, you know? He was that guy, and frankly, I think he was embarrassed by the fact that we were in the business! But Bob’s friends, old Jack Benny Show writers who were now writing All In The Family and Good Times, had known Kim since he was a child. And so when Kim and I wrote something that wasn’t half-bad, it wasn’t just “Come in a we’ll give you a job”, but they were happy to bring us in to talk.

How did your parents feel about your chosen profession? Were they supportive?

Well, yes and no. My father was in the clothing business back east. He came from immigrant parents and my mom came from immigrant parents, and so I don’t think they understood the idea. Their generation’s aspiration was that their children become doctors and lawyers. But I was always that kid who wanted to do comedy. I don’t think they got it, but they supported me enough by at least not trying to stop me. They might have said things like, “Are you insane? Why do you think you’re going to make it? What makes you think you can do it?” I’d been laying down tracks over the years with my act, but I think they saw that mostly as a weird thing. They didn’t really discourage or support me in the beginning, but as I got success, it was like, “Jesus!”, right?  Then I started getting more acceptance. And I was a bit estranged from my family as a kid anyway. I was the oddball, out of the house most of the time doing the music thing.

And what about your stint in third-grade stand-up? Did that put a little wind in your sails?

I think I got encouragement from my teacher, who saw me maybe as this kid who just needed attention.  As far as the kids went, I think some of them found it amusing while others probably thought, “Shut the fuck up, Baser!” It was a long time ago, but it was fun.

How did you eat back in those early L.A. days?

I had a few bucks saved up. I ended up selling my guitar and rented a room in some crazy lawyer’s mansion. He was nuts but he had five rooms and so I took one. And the house was, it was crazy. It would make a series in and of itself, trust me. I flipped burgers for a while at night, worked at a pastrami house across from the Roxy on Sunset Strip. We did some TV work under the table, making a few bucks writing questions for game shows. By hook or by crook, anyway to make some money. But we kept on writing specs. It took about a year and a half and then a guy a named Allan Manings, who was working on a show called One Day At A Time for Norman Lear’s company, bought an idea of ours. This would have been around 1974. Then I went on staff and never stopped working.

Did you ever think about attending a film school?

There were no writing programs to speak of. I mean, there were film schools, yes, but no one was teaching writing. I think the neat thing about film schools today, be it Vancouver Film School or someplace else, is that they provide the kind of apprenticeship we got from those old pros in an industry that, today, isn’t as kind and generous as it was for me.

Film school or not, though, you believe good writing is good writing.

Hey, it doesn’t matter if a person goes to any school. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t make it past kindergarten. It doesn’t matter if you can’t keep food in your mouth. The producers, the executives, the people who hire you as a writer only care about one thing: what’s on the page. If you can kick out a great script, then so long as you’re where the industry is - L.A., Toronto, wherever – and you put yourself in the way of success, no one cares if you have a degree.  Having said that, film schools are great because they provide a concentrated period of time to focus on building your skills and portfolio, a body of work that hopefully is going to open a door. If we, for example, can enable our students to leave VFS with a piece of material that makes someone sit up and say, “come in, let’s talk”, that’s fucking gold.

You said earlier that managing the writing department at VFS is the first real job you’ve ever had. But you were a TV showrunner for years. That sounds like a job to me.

Sure, but the difference between those jobs and this one. . . Look, let me put it this way, being a show runner is like being on a baseball team. It’s never a job where you feel like you’re going to be here for a while. You get traded. Nothing is permanent. There’s always ratings and other variables. It’s not for the faint of heart being in this business. I have friends who are civilians who don’t understand how you could do this and make a living. You need to have a strong stomach to live your life from show to show, as opposed to having a career. I mean, I had a career but it was always very tenuous. But it was a wonderful thing. Look, I’m the luckiest man in the world. And people who work in the industry, who have had jobs like I’ve had, are the luckiest people in the world. Because we get to do what we love, work with creative people, have a few laughs, and make a good piece of change.   

Tell me about some of the challenges you faced along the way that tempted you to turn back.

I was never tempted to turn back, honestly. It was that idiot blind faith. It was tough going sometimes, like, “oh man, I’m not going to be able to pay my rent”, but you figure out a way to make it work, right? We were young. I mean, it’s a young person’s game. When you’re young, you don’t need so much. You don’t have those relationships, you don’t have children. All you’ve got to do is put gas in your car and figure out a way to get places. You work at restaurants because you know at least you’re going to eat. You form relationships and friendships with like-minded people who are struggling like you and trying to get their foot in the door, and you support one other. That’s the way it works. Making a bunch of money is way on the back burner, that’s not the driving force. The driving force is the desire to write. A hugely successful director friend of mine said to me once, “The dirty little secret producers and executives don’t know is that we writers would do this for free.” And I’m not just talking about the love of writing. It’s more of a belief, really, a drive. It’s weird but we just have to do it. We’re like bumblebees, you know? On paper, a bumblebee shouldn’t be able to fly, but somehow they manage to do it. It’s that idiot faith, saying “I’m going to make it”, even though the odds are against it.  

How important to your success was having a writing partner? 

Oh, huge. I was a horrible student. I didn’t have any use for grammar or punctuation. Luckily I had a partner who knew how to do those things. He sat at the typewriter. I was less of a writer than a talker. Comedy in my generation was, for the most part, written in teams. I was partner with Kim for 16 years before we had a fight and broke up. It was like a marriage. And then I had another partner, Frank Dungan, for another 16 years. These relationship aren’t just like marriages, they are marriages! You spend time nurturing those relationships, arguing and fighting. I’ve been married to my wife now for 39 years, and she’s seen me through those marriages, and believe me, it is the other woman!  But she’s in the business, so she understands it. I tell my students it’s good to marry someone with a sense of humour because when it gets tough, it’s good to be with somebody who can laugh.

Is she one of the reasons you’re the luckiest man on earth?

Without a doubt. But that’s a whole different discussion. The fact that she even talks to me is a miracle.

In your opinion, how has the world of television writing changed over the years?

Well, writing hasn’t changed. Stories still need a beginning, middle, and end. The great thing is there’s more opportunity for writers now than ever before. Cable, streaming, Netflix - all these new outlets and buyers looking for original material. And once they figure out how to effectively monetize web series, that’ll explode, too. Seven years ago, AMC was just this funky little channel showing bad movies. Now it’s a huge player buying and showing stuff like Breaking Bad and The Walking Dead. There are more niches and more varied audiences than ever. Less broadcasting and more "narrow-casting" catered to specific audiences. And the shows are really fantastic, cutting-edge stuff, constantly pushing the envelope.

Do you think families no longer gathering around the TV has changed the landscape?

I don’t know if that’s true or not. I know that people’s habits have changed. PVRs and on-demand viewing and all that. I know in my family, when we’re all home for the holidays, we still sit around and watch particular shows. The television is still the campfire in most people's homes and it is still the most powerful and influential medium. People say TV is dead, but it’s not dead, it’s just changing. Your iPhone is your TV now. But for writers, this is the best time. And maybe it was the best time in the 6os. And maybe it was the best time in the 70s when I got started. But now, it’s the best time. It’s just different. And there’s more opportunity than ever. But anyone who aspires to be in this business needs a strong constitution. And you’ve got to want it. And it can’t be a secondary job. I remember Barry Kemp giving a eulogy years ago for a young writer who’d passed away. Barry described him as someone who never had a safety net and suggested that this was why he’d been successful. That’s the way it’s worked for most of the successful writers I know. No safety nets.

Burn the bridges behind you in pursuit of your dreams, that sort of thing?

That’s right. If you have a safety net, you’re going to fall back on it when things get scary. It’s human nature. My father told me to be safe, to get a job in the post office, to have something to fall back on. I looked at my father like he was a fucking madman. Dad, I don’t want to be a fucking delivery guy, I want to be a writer! I aspired a little higher. You have to or you’ll never make it.

What drew you to the writing department at Vancouver Film School?

It was 2008 and I was in my mid-fifties. I had broken up with my second writing partner and there’d just been a writers strike. I thought to myself, oh shit, do I really want to reinvent myself again? My agents were shifting me away from things I wanted to do to things they thought I should be doing at my age.  It’s a strange thing, they kind of move you out of the business. It’s true. My friends weren’t working anymore, it was getting harder and harder to get a gig, network executives wanted to work with young people. It’s a young person’s business, like I said. I’m not bitter about it, it’s just a fact. Then I got this job offer and I thought maybe this would be an interesting to do for a year or two. My kids had moved out or were in college and I didn’t like the idea of sitting around in L.A. with the other bitter writers of my generation being pissed. And I liked Vancouver. I knew it would give me a chance to be around young people and I knew that would be refreshing. I thought I had something to teach and say, and said to myself, “Why the fuck not?” I really only thought it would last a year or two. But it grew on me, you know?

You once said to me that you don’t have the “worry” gene, that you don’t let anything get you down too badly. How does that relate to your responsibilities at VFS? I mean, you must face constant challenges with departmental budgets, committees, red tape. . .

Oh, compared to Hollywood, this is a walk in the park. In L.A. you deal with a lot of difficult, dare I say aberrant personalities, and you learn how to navigate that world. This is a much kinder and gentler place. Any difficulties here are much more easily managed, trust me.

What advice would you give to an aspiring writer?
If you want to write, write! Don’t talk about it, do it! The only thing that differentiates a would-be writer from a writer is writing. The beauty of being a writer is that you can go into a room and come out two to six weeks later with a script in your hand and you have a commodity, something someone may want to make. If you’re an actor, you can do Othello in your bedroom, but at the end of the day, someone’s got to hire you to do that. But for a writer, it’s different. It starts out in the shower with an idea, playing the “what-if” game. Then jotting down a notion and fleshing it out. I always say, I have an idea in the shower and if I’m lucky, six months later, 200 people are working. There’s nothing more entrepreneurial than being a writer. Once you’ve got a script in someone’s hands, you’re the same as me or anyone else in the business. But first, you’ve got to sit down and write something.

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My Resolutions for 2014

Okay 2014, I'm ready for you! Here's what we're gonna get done this year:

1. Break bread with as many interesting, creative, effective, and real people as possible.

2. Inspire, encourage, and/or enrich the life of at least one person every day.

3. Resist all negativity, distractions, and apparent defeat like Teflon, living every day by the mantra, "Stay positive, stay focused, and do the work!"

4. Complete two feature film screenplays by the end of March. (Deadlines are my friends.)

5. Entertain all manner of story ideas, however wild, woolly, or improbable. Mold, shape, and polish to a well-constructed, universally-appealing, commercially-viable luster.

6. Record one album of original songs. (Riches and glory may come along for the ride if they wish, but I'm taking the trip regardless.)

7. Finish that children's book I started when I was 19 and send it to my publisher by the end of May.

8. Get a publisher. And an agent.

9. Make at least one film, however small, about something that moves me deeply.

10. End the year healthier, wealthier, wiser, and happier than I started it.

11. Recognize that resolutions and lists are totally meaningless unless carried out in full.

You hear me, 2014? I'm comin' after ya!!

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Scoring Films - Part 2: Ten Questions To Ask Your Director

I was 15 when I got my first job flipping patties for his royal highness, the Burger King. As anyone who has plied the fast food trade knows, the burger-making process is the essence of streamlined simplicity with a final product that is utterly predictable, every time.

If you've never had the privilege, trust me, it's a riot. Heel, ketchup, mustard, pickles, patty, cheese, crown, wrap, and down the chute. Over and over again. Oh, to relive those glory days all over again. I knew exactly what was expected and if I didn't do it right, my boss and I knew exactly why.

Composing a score for a movie is, as you might imagine, nothing like making burgers. The process is anything but simple, and nobody - not even you - has the slightest idea what will come out on the other side. Sure, you have a boss called the director who expects you to deliver something that will satisfy his customers. But as mentioned in part one of this series, directors often have no clear idea what they want, what their story needs, or even what they're talking about. They just want it done. It's your job to figure out what "it" is.

I have had the opportunity (though not always the pleasure) to work with directors ranging from the musically well-versed to the musically illiterate, from type A to type Z-z-z, from collaborative to downright despotic. Some did, in fact, know exactly what they wanted in terms of tone and pacing while others didn't have the foggiest. I'm fine with either. What matters to me is that they're willing to sit down together and build a plan.

For that to work, of course the composer needs to instill confidence in the director that he or she is up to the task. (We'll talk in Part 3 about some of the basic and necessary groundwork a person must do before they're qualified to start composing.) A productive composer-director relationship also requires that you clearly understand why a score exists, which is primarily to serve the needs of the film and satisfy the director's vision. But let's assume for now that you get all that, you've been approached to score a production, and you're good to go.

Rule #1: Before you take another step, meet with your director. (Not the writer, the producer, or the music-lovin' sound editor. The director.) Rule #2: Don't let them leave the room until you've had the following questions answered (or they need to use the washroom). Don't just let someone pass you a DVD with a rough cut of the film and wish you good luck, trusting that you'll just magically "know" what to do. If no one else has bothered to do it, call a meeting immediately.

Then, with pen and notepad at your side, ask the following 10 questions to help clarify your objectives and get you to the composer's chair as soon as possible:

1) What format/venue are we dealing with?
Is this a short film, feature film, TV show, web series, radio commercial, video game, audio book, corporate promo video, etc? While not radically different, each format or venue tends to have it's own unique flavour, function, and set of audience expectations.

2) Who’s your intended audience?
Not all productions are designed for general audiences. Who is the director hoping will watch this? Sometimes, a production is targeting a specific group of people. For example, a flashy promotional piece designed to wow buyers will probably seek to arouse a different set of emotions than would a documentary about mosaic tile artists. (And remember, manipulating people's feelings is what the music is all about!) Know who they are and be prepared to tailor your music accordingly.

3) What's the genre?
Is this going to be a comedy or a dramatic piece? Are we in horror territory or is it a spy thriller?

4) What's the tone?
Somewhat understandably, people sometimes confuse genre and tone. However, they're not the same thing. For instance, compare the equally excellent scores of The Ring and Drag Me To Hell. While both are horror movies in terms of their genre, tone-wise, Hans Zimmer's gentle and understated approach to the former is utterly unlike Christopher Young's intentionally bombastic, cliché-riddled take on the latter. Even within a franchise, tone can often shift as the story and characters evolve. Compare John Williams' relatively light and playful score for Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone with Alexandre Desplat's brooding requiem in The Deathly Hallows Part 2 and you'll know what I mean.

5) What’s the story?
As mentioned in my previous post, a good score is much more than background music: it's a critical part of telling the story and conveying key emotions at the right times. Which means you have to know what the story is. If a rough or final cut of the production is not available, get a hold of the script or have your director walk you through the story. Besides further clarifying the tone, this will help you determine what kinds of people your characters are, what's at stake, how and in what ways the action rises, where the conflict and tension should be, and how it all goes down in the end. It will also give you a bit of a head-start mapping out the timing of your tracks and big dramatic moments.

6) Who are the characters (especially the protagonist and antagonist) and what do they want?
Composers often assign themes or motifs to major characters, depending on their personalities, what they're chasing after, and what is motivating them to do so. John Williams' soundtrack for The Empire Strikes Back or Howard Shore's for The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring are classic examples. Williams' assigns unique melodies and even instruments to Luke, Leia, Yoda, and most famously, Darth Vader, while Shore gives not only characters but entire kingdoms their own anthems. While not absolutely necessary, these assigned themes and motifs can be powerful tools for a composer, especially when interwoven in scenes where characters either clash or come together.   

7) Can you think of a film, or films, that have a score similar to what you're going for?
Some might feel nervous asking this one. After all, you don't want to rip off another composer or sound derivative. It can also add unnecessary confusion to the process as the director racks his brain for answers that may not exist. And in the end, even if they can point at a particular film's score, it may be absolutely wrong for the film you're making. But I still think it's a good question to ask because if you do get a solid answer, it can save you a whole lot of time figuring out where the score should go. Feel free to make a few suggestions of your own, by the way. My approach is to get answers to the previous questions, then refer to film scores I think fit the project's story and mood. Not to copy, just to get in the ballpark.

8) How do you see the film's music and visual elements working together to tell the story?
Some productions are highly stylized, rely heavily on visual storytelling, or for other reasons require a closely choreographed relationship between sight and sound. Animation, kids' shows, and screwball comedy are also great examples. On the other hand, some films work best when the music and visuals are free to move in their own directions and yet still work together, kind of like jazz musicians. This includes knowing where not put music, so the audience's brain can take a rest or because the suspense of a scene is better-built in silence. In the beginning your director may not know or care, but it's still worth asking.

9) How soon will I get to see a rough cut and the final edit?
Even though I've listed this as my final question, it's always my first. If I have a copy of the film, I'm off to the races. I still meet with my director, but now the meeting is fast-tracked as we watch and map out the music together, answering every question along the way. Very important to ask about that final edit, by the way. If you've timed, scored, and locked everything to a rough cut, be prepared for some changes. The editor has invariably shortened, extended, and/or completely altered certain scenes for the final cut.

10) What are our deadlines and when am I getting paid?
In most cases, there will be a final deadline and several milestones attached to future meetings along the way, all determined by the size, scope and stakeholders involved. Rate of pay will be similarly determined by the amount of music you write, the size of the production's budget, your experience and standing in the industry, and other factors. Contract and payment may or may not have been sorted out already prior to your first meeting, but either way, it's wise to confirm here.

Other questions require attention, including post-production considerations such as the format in which your sound editor prefers to receive recorded tracks and "stems". But these should get you started.

Happy scoring!

NEXT POST: 7 Steps to Becoming a Film Composer
LAST POST: Where to Begin?

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Mandela to Me

I still remember the first time I bought a "Free Mandela" pin.

Sting concert, BC Place in Vancouver, 1987. Amnesty International had a table of assorted pamphlets and wares and I picked the button partly because it was the most colourful thing they had, but mostly because it was hip to display back then - even if, like me, you had no idea who Nelson Mandela was.

The pin did, however, get me thinking. Who was this person the world seemed to think had been treated unjustly, I wondered. So, as we did in those primordial pre-Wikipedia days, I went to my local library and spent an afternoon looking into the life of the man who, by then, had already spent over two decades in prison.

Quickly, words like "apartheid" and "keffer" and the grim reality of state-sanctioned racial segregation in the modern world were burned into my consciousness, sad reminders that we still had a long, long road to walk en route to Mr. Lennon's dream of a universal brotherhood of man.

That same year saw the release of Richard Attenborough's Cry Freedom, with Denzel Washington as Stephen Biko. Now it was on. I tore through the biographies and published writings of the real Stephen Biko, then Gandhi, then Bishop Desmond Tutu, then Martin Luther King. With each passing page, new light was shed on the historical, worldwide struggle for equality and human rights.

And yet South Africa as a nation, as a people, remained an unfathomable mystery to me. My girlfriend at the time (coincidentally a native of Pretoria) tried her best to bring me up to speed on how and in what ways racism had managed to sustain itself for so long as a part of the national fabric, but I still didn't get it. It merely convinced me that whatever else was true, Mandela was never, ever going to be set free.

And then, in 1990, he was. Finally, I could throw that old pin away. (I didn't.)

For a while, no one could believe it. I wondered secretly how long it would take before the government realized what it had done and throw him back in prison. But then he was meeting with every world leader on the planet regardless of political or philosophical stripe, from the Pope and Fidel Castro to Muammar Gaddafi and President George H.W. Bush. In 1993, he and South African president F.W. de Klerk jointly received the Nobel Peace Prize.

Then in 1994, the unthinkable happened: the people of South Africa elected him as their President. That same year, he published his autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom.

He was 76.

Then things got really scary. After all, in a country with a black-to-white ration of roughly 4:1, one could reasonably assume that payback was about to become, as I believe Plato put it, a "nastly, old bitch". It was then that Mandela ceased being just a profoundly important political figure to me and became my hero.

Determined to prevent a bloody civil war and help South Africa become a bona fide multicultural democracy, Mandela worked hard to rally black support for the reviled national rugby team, the Springboks, at the 1995 Rugby World Cup, then followed it up by forming the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, a body committed to investigating crimes committed by both the government and his own African National Congress during the apartheid years. Forgiveness and healing would come, but only after properly reckoning with the past. We're going to do this the hard way, he seemed to be saying, because that's the only path to a true and lasting peace.

The rest is history.

On December 5, 2013, he passed away at the age of 95. Earlier this evening, I attended a candlelight tribute in his honour. Though it's sad to know he's gone, it's hard to stay so for very long, given the life he lived and the powerful legacy he left behind.

Bottom line: Forget DC or Marvel; Mandela's life is real superhero stuff.

*                     *                    *

Catch Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom starring Idris Elba, in theatres now. 

You can also see Mandela's life portrayed in:

• Invictus (starring Morgan Freeman) 
• Mandela (starring Danny Glover)
• Mandela and de Klerk (starring Sidney Poitier and Michael Caine) 
• Goodbye Bafana (starring Dennis Haysbert)
• Mrs Mandela (BBC telefilm starring David Harewood)  

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Scoring Films - Part 1: Where To Begin?

Visit Paul's YouTube channel to hear his music in films 

Occasionally, over a glass of this or that, I get asked the question: "When you scored that last film, how did you know what music to put where? And how did you come up with that stuff in the first place?"

I wish the answer was simple. It would sure make me sound smarter at dinner parties. But as any songwriter knows, creating music always involves some strange dance of mathematical, mechanical, and mystical processes that leaves even us scratching our heads half the time.

Truth is, we know and we don't know where the music comes from. Dreams, memories, rational thought, random emotions, skill, impulse, self-flagellation, booze, and more than a little "borrowing" from our fellow artists and heroes, let's be honest. It all goes in the soup. And in the end we, too, are often surprised by how it tastes.

But it's not all muses and pixie dust. Composing, particularly for commercial entertainment purposes, is also a carefully applied science. Certain rules apply, even if those rules are subject to wild and woolly tinkering. And of course, there are expectations. From the director, occasionally from the producers, and always from the most important people of all: the audience.

A good score isn't just filler or background noise. Sure, it used to be back in the era of silent film and Max Winkler, but those days are long gone. For a long time now, movie soundtracks have performed a very specific function - namely, to give directors "superpowers" as they tell their stories. How so? By drawing the audience's attention to certain things happening on the screen and manipulating them to feel a certain way, often without them realizing it.

Sidney Lumet said it best: "Almost every picture is improved by a good musical score. To start with, music is a quick way to reach people emotionally. Over the years, movie music has developed so many cliches of its own that the audience immediately absorbs the intention of the moment: the music tells them, sometimes even in advance." (Making Movies)

I mean, just imagine the following scenes without the music: 

• A woman jumps into the ocean for a midnight swim when suddenly a shark's fin appears.
• The words "Star Wars" burst forth in neon yellow then fade into a starry background, followed by a slow, seemingly infinite crawl of story background details.
• A little girl dressed in red weaves in and out of a crowd in a Warsaw ghetto as Nazi soldiers round everyone up for extermination.
• William Wallace breathes hope and courage into his troops with a pre-battle speech that would make Bill Clinton jealous.  

That's right, composers play with audiences' emotions for a living. And, of course, the audience loves it!

Which brings us back to our original question: How do composers know what music to put where? Or more precisely, How do they know what music will create the desired emotional effect at any given point? 

I pause here to mention a little cheat I have. Some might even call it an "advantage". You see, I'm also a screenwriter, trained in the art of storytelling and more specifically, story structure. I understand approximately where a good story should start, where it should go, and how it should end - in terms of the audience's reaction, that is. Does this experience help me when it comes to scoring? Without question, just like it can help you. Therefore, while not absolutely necessary, I always recommend composers spend a little time studying the art of effective storytelling.

So, here it is - my process for scoring a film. Everyone is different, of course, but this is what works for me. Notice the recurring theme:

1. Sit down and talk with the director.
2. Do some basic research on the film and story.
3. Sit down and talk with the director.
4. Experiment with a few initial ideas and sounds.
5. Sit down and talk with the director.
6. Start building major themes, usually around key characters and events.
7. Sit down and talk with the director.
8. Watch the completed film (with the director) to nail down the big dramatic moments, the associated emotional ups and downs, and those parts of the film where silence is golden.
9. Sit down and talk with the director.
10. Draw up a "map" indicating exactly when music will start, stop or change direction based on #8 above.
11. Sit down and talk with the director.
12. Compose and record!
13. Sit down and talk with the director.
14. Change, fix, edit, revise, or modify until the director is happy.
15. Mix down the final product into the required stems/format (usually .WAV).
16. Forward files to sound editor (and the director).

By the way, when it comes to all those meetings with the director along the way, be aware that he/she may not always know (a) what he/she is talking about, (b) what he/she wants, or (c) what the film actually needs in terms of music. So take it for what it's worth. After all, you're the expert - that's why they hired you!

At the same time, this is their baby. So listen to their ideas and give them an honest try at the keyboard (or whatever default instrument you score with). Just don't be afraid to present them with something completely different that you think might work better.

Communication, balls, and teamwork are everything. Well, that plus a muse and some pixie dust!

NEXT POST: 10 Questions to ask your director when preparing to score a film

Visit Paul's YouTube channel to hear his music in films

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Living That Dream: It's Never Too Late To Get Started!

 Though admittedly unconventional and definitely unpaid, my first writing gig took place at age 5. For reasons I can't recall exactly, I felt that L. Frank Baum could have done better with The Wizard of Oz. So I rewrote it. The whole thing. Then performed it live in my grandparent's living room for any neighbour willing to pay the low, low price of twenty-five cents.

Four people showed up. In my mind, it was a smash hit (after all, a dollar could buy two chocolate bars back then) and my young, brilliantly naive mind raced with visions of future glory as a writer.

For the next decade and a half, I pumped out short stories, essays, radio plays, and comic books with a zest and vigor that would make Stephen King look like a bum. I wrote for the sheer delight of it, for the excitement of creating whole new worlds, making people say and do what I would never dare to do in real life, and seeing where the muse would take me next.

I enlisted friends to play the parts in the plays we recorded. Wrote and produced my first film at age ten. Had stories published in mainstream creative writing journals at age 12. Earned a spot as arts and entertainment editor with Simon Fraser University's student paper, The Peak at 19. Began writing and illustrating my first children's book at 20. There was absolutely no question where my life was headed and I could hardly wait for the book tours to begin!


Flash forward twenty years. I'll spare you the gory details, let's just say life intervened. Financial realities, career detours, marriage, kids, divorce, new financial realities, new detours, etc. If you once had big dreams, then watched time throw up wall after wall between those dreams and you, you know what I'm talking about. I continued to write during those years, as a journalist, blogger, and sometimes creative writer, but it was all very much "on the side" and "in my spare time".

Hopes of becoming a writer professionally, one of those special few who get to do it for a living, receded more fully into the horizon with each passing day. I came to accept that it just wasn't meant to be. That there was nothing wrong with being a really, really good corporate HR specialist in the oil and gas industry. And that somehow, I would find a way to die happy, despite knowing I had never accomplished my life's passion and soul's purpose.

And then I woke up, handed in my recruiter's cap, and went to film school. I was 41.

It's never too late.

Hey, I wasn't stupid about it. I assessed the risks, counted the costs, sought advice, deliberated, and agonized. I even cried a little. I knew there were no guarantees I'd pop out the other end of Vancouver Film School's writing program into an executive's chair at NBC. But I didn't care, because it was quite simply time. Time to finally do what I'd always wanted to do.

As you get older, the choice becomes relatively straightforward: Either you go after what you love or you find a way not to love it anymore. It's the only way to silence those crazy, incessant voices inside your head. When you're twenty, you still have the luxury of time, of weighing options, of apparently infinite trial runs, of thinking your opportunities are always and forever ahead of you. When you're twice that age, desperation moves in and becomes a more or less permanent roommate, quiet and respectful at first, then gradually leaving socks everywhere and constantly cranking the stereo to ten.

Sometimes, desperation is a good thing. It was for me. It drove me to finally become a paid, professional writer.

I'm not making millions (yet), I'm not even doing it full-time (working at it), but for the first time in years, I'm doing what I was born to do. More than that, I've proven to myself that all the excuses I use to dole out about how my dreams had moved beyond reach were simply the things good people tell themselves to try and feel better about allowing their dreams to slip away. (P.S. If you're a parent, prone to spouting off about how important it is for your kids to follow their dreams, be prepared for them to serve you your own words for lunch one day if you don't eventually follow yours!)

Crazy voices abound, particularly the aforementioned ones in your own brain. Once you make the decision to chase after your dreams, the voice that shouts "It's too late!" is replaced by the one that screams "You're gonna fail!" Just voices, that's all. And because they're in your head, don't forget you are at liberty to tell them to shut the hell up.

Still think it's too late? That you're too old? That opportunity has passed you by?

Check it out:

Andrea Bocelli waited till age 34 to trade in his lawyer's briefcase for life as a world-class singer.

Julia Child enrolled in cooking school at 36.

Phyllis Diller began her stand-up comedy career at 37.

John Mahoney, Kelsey Grammer's father on Frasier, got into acting at 37.

Stan Lee was 43 when he began crafting superheros, and Fantastic Four partner Jack Kirby was 44.

Charles Darwin was 50 when he finally converted his life's work into On The Origin of Species.

Laura Ingalls Wilder started as a newspaper columnist in her 40's and didn't get down to business with Little House on the Prairie until her 60's!

Colonel Sanders was 65 when he began selling chicken with eleven herbs and spices.

Frank McCourt was 66 when his breakthrough novel, Angela's Ashes became an international hit. His next two books were written at ages 69 and 74.

Grandma Moses took up painting later in life when arthritis ended her embroidering career. She was 80 when her first solo exhibit won rave national reviews. At her death (she was 101), she had over 1,600 paintings under her belt.

It's never too late!

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In Memory of My Incessant Cheerleader, Auntie Barb

I was eight years old when I decided I wanted to be just like my Auntie Barb. At the time, she was the lead singer of the Vancouver band, Broadway. (My dad was the guitar player.) I remember because I had painstakingly learned all the words to Bonnie Tyler's "It's A Heartache" and was invited by my aunt at the last minute to get up and sing it at Vancouver's Kejack's nightclub where Broadway was playing that evening.

It was the Spring of 1979 and totally normal for an eight year-old to be sitting at a bar at ten o'clock on a Friday night, so long as he was related to a member of the band.

I had never felt such an intoxicating mixture of electric superstar excitement and run-for-the-hills terror. But with her unquestionable faith in my ability to knock it out of the park, and her knack for working a crowd, I took control of my bladder, jumped down from my stool, and made my way to the stage.

When I was done, I received a standing ovation and a bowl of spumone ice cream on the house.

My life changed that night. In ways I couldn't have foreseen at the time, music would now somehow be a part of my life forever. All because she had faith in me when I didn't have it in myself. Because she saw a golden opportunity where my limited imagination was only able to detect failure and embarrassment.

Every eight year-old should be so lucky.

For the next thirty-five years, Barb stood behind every single creative endeavour I pursued without the faintest whiff of doubt that I would succeed. Every band I played in, every song I wrote, every novel or script idea I came up with, every film I scored music for. Not oblivious to the fact that every aunt believes her nephew was delivered directly from the gods, I also sought the unbiased feedback of professionals to my creative work, just in case. Meanwhile, she continued to listen, to stand in awe and smile, to assure me with a zealot's belief that I could do anything - absolutely anything - I put my mind to.

A faith that extended beyond my art to my relationships, my parenting, my work life, and. . .well, pretty much everything else.

Don't get me wrong, she was no Pollyanna. She wasn't afraid to tell me when she thought I was spinning my wheels, wasting my time, squandering my opportunities, or generally full of shit. But in all things and at all times, she was my tireless cheerleader. The sun in my life that simply never, ever went down.

Until October 12, 2013 when at age 60, she ended her battle with cancer and sank into a sweet sleep.

It's funny how life smacks us in the head sometimes and gets us back in the driver's seat. For the past year, I've drifted in and out of what I'm assuming is the mid-life crisis I was certain I had avoided when I turned 40. A period of intense introspection, anxiety, and self-doubt my older friends keep telling me is "perfectly natural" (though, I might add, "completely unwelcome") when you suddenly realize you've got as many years behind you as you do ahead. What am I doing with my life, what difference will I have made, and all that stuff. I've got to admit, it's left me more than a little unhinged at times.

But as I looked into my auntie's face for the last time in the dimly-lit silence of her hospice room, I suddenly remembered that night in 1979. I remembered her stepping down from the stage in the middle of her set and taking my trembling, eight year-old hand. I remembered her prepping the audience, assuring them that this next number was going to blow their minds. I remembered her smiling from ear to ear when it was all over, clapping and cheering wildly.

And as I stood to leave her room for the last time, I blew my cheerleader a final kiss and made her a promise: I would never let fear stop me from doing anything. Ever. Till the day I died.

Love you, Auntie Barb.

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