Rowley's Word

Before I venture off into a great beer and barbecue abyss on this lovely 4th of July, I’m going to come right and say something that I haven’t felt compelled to express since I became an American citizen a good 14 years ago.  I feel profoundly blessed to be in this country, to have all of my dreams still in front of me, and to be inspired by countless thinkers, creators, and good samaritans, who motivate me to continue seeking the truth.  The soldier of change is in the air, and he’s become my newest dance partner. 

I have made a number of mistakes professionally and personally over the years, but I haven’t lost my edge. It’s razor sharp, and it’s gleaming stronger than ever.  When I left the madness of Manhattan for a second time 4 years ago and landed in Los Angeles, I took a high dive into the entertainment industry.  As all of my fellow entertainment producers and journalists know, covering the latest breaking news and events in Hollywood appears much more glamorous than it actually is.  But it is easy to get caught up in the pretty-packaged gift-bagged couture chaos of it all…and it’s pretty damn fun.

In under a year, my career began to revolve around what famous celebrity was doing what, dating whom, dancing on tables where, drinking himself/herself into oblivion when, or doing something decadent or disasterous on the red carpet or up in the hills, and how often. I was starting to feel like I sold my soul to the devil, and if I didn’t get out of Hollyweird soon the gossip ghouls of the industry would swallow me whole. 

Then one day I met a high roller, a big wig in the industry, up close and personal.  We hit if off.  We held hands and made plans.  We shared the same passion, the same sweet pain, and the same stubborn strengths.  To say our first meeting was as heated as Mount Kilauea would have been an understatement.   At that time in my life, he possessed all the qualities I found unbearably sexy in a man.  He was brilliant, sensitive, tragically romantic, powerful, self-destructive and dangerous.  We were a match made in heaven.  

After our fifth or sixth date, as we sat on the kitchen floor talking until 6:00 AM, he told me I’d “saved” him.  If that’s not romance on crack I don’t know what is.  So I thought that maybe,  just maybe, this thing we’d conjured up, this cataclysmic ball of flying fire was real.  No matter what happened, I knew we’d always be in each others lives.  After all, I used to watch him make magic on the silver screen when I was a little girl.  I was meant to meet this man. 

 A few months later, an incident occurred that put his name all over the headlines.  When I went to work the next day, I was asked to do a write-up about what was to become of him.  I couldn’t do it.  The line that so impudently ran right down the middle of me began to grow thicker, and it soon covered me whole.  I’d always wanted to be an active participant in the genre of journalism I’d entered.  But after I’d faced the consequences of being involved with someone whom the whole world wanted a percentage of, I quickly understood what the proverbial saying “careful what you wish for” meant.  For the first time, I got a real behind the scenes look at what someone of his stature deals with on an hourly basis – very little peace and even less room to trust people.

A day before the mishap occurred, we’d had an argument about the apparent conflict that existed between our two careers.  His publicist and friends told him he was sleeping with the enemy.  After media coverage of him took off with a vengeance, I knew he was gone.  Avril Lavigne’s voice wouldn’t stop ringing in my ears: “All this time you were pretending, so much for my happy ending. Oh, Oh Ohoh.” 

And there I was.  Lost.  Disillusioned.  Confused.  Embarrassed and saddened by the argument he and I had, and frustrated with the half-heartedness I felt about working in the “news.”  Less than disenchanted with the film business and with my job, I had forsaken all the reasons I wanted to be a writer in the first place.  I couldn’t stop feeling sorry for myself.  I even chopped off all my hair and painted love on my left forearm to prove it.  After all my years of wanting to be a successful broadcast journalist, and wanting to be in love with a true artist, a real Renaissance man who “got me,” I was nowhere near being the kind of calm cool professional or mature woman I should have been.  The man I’d had a crush on since I was eight years old was forever gone, and  I was reminded of it every time I turned on the TV, got online, or walked into Blockbuster.  

He’s doing quite well now.  And I’m doing better than ever, balancing my time between the wondrous whims of Hollywood and the foggy mist of San Francisco.  I love LA.  I will always love LA with all my heart, and I will be back.  But getting away to gain some perspective, is healing me in ways I didn’t think possible.  I feel young and innocent again, and I’ve been around enough to know the most special moments in our lives are fleeting.   I realize now more than ever how blessed I am to have been where I’ve been, and I know it is nothing compared to where I’m headed. 

How lucky are we that we live in a world filled with second chances?  I’m not talking about second chances to seek approval from others.  Screw that.  I’m referring to the second chances we have the liberty to give ourselves – in work, in play, in spirit, in cause and in love.  

I still get chills when I get to interview a prolific Academy Award winning director.  I’m still awestruck when I stand in the greatness of any brilliant musician or actor, who creates masterpieces for us all to absorb.  And I’m still inspired by the industry that I fell away from for awhile.  It’s not the media’s fault that I wore my heart on my sleeve.  

These days, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for the beautiful change makers, activists, philanthropists, and new colleagues I’ve met through my recent lunge into “cause reporting.”  They humble me and make me feel honored to be an all-American journalist seeking the truth.  I guess what I’m really trying to say on this grand national holiday that takes me back to my innocence in all its glory, is that for the first time in a very long time, I’m not only proud of my country, I’m proud of myself.