Last week, I convinced my husband, Jason, that we needed to replace all of the furniture in our living room. The week before, I took out every book on our floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and dusted it. Last month, I emptied out my office and donated half of everything to Goodwill. I believe this is what people call "nesting."
Editor's note: Due to an outpouring of requests in the past month to keep Jessica Runck as a columnist, she's back! Her Homegrown Hollywood columns will be published the final Friday of each month in The Forum's Life section. Hello, again. It's nice to be back. After my last column ran in the paper, so many of you reached out to Forum Communications — and to me — expressing your disappointment in the decision to cancel my column that I was asked to return.
I've never been good at goodbyes. When I sold my car a few years ago, I spent our last day together taking photos and sitting in the driver's seat crying while "reliving the memories." So you can understand how hard it is for me to say goodbye now. This will be my last column. Forum News Service is making room for different content. Specifically, as they told me, they plan to focus on the "main content of the section by using more pre-designed USA Today content and less contributor content."
I've always had a lot of faith in Western medicine. My grandma was a nurse as are two of my aunts, so growing up in rural North Dakota I was raised with a healthy mix of scientifically proven medicine and a "walk off that sprained ankle" pioneer spirit. Which is why I was so surprised when I found myself lying on a table in the middle of Beverly Hills doing something I never thought I would: acupuncture.
Last week I had a panic attack in my dream. It ended with me hyperventilating, first while asleep and then after my husband, Jason, shook me awake. I didn't think that kind of thing was possible in a dream, but look at me, blazing trails on new ways experience crippling anxiety. My parents would be so proud. So what am I stressed about these days? Is it my job? Or maybe my impending fertility procedures? No. It's house hunting in Los Angeles.
I don't know what to say. No, really. I'm stuck. I've been sitting here for two hours staring at a blank cursor. My heart rate is through the roof, my hands are sweaty and still, I'm frozen. When I was younger and imagined being a writer, this is not what I had in mind. I thought I'd sip coffee in cafés, take long walks at sunset to mull over new ideas and wear a lot of cozy sweaters. The ideas would flow freely, and I would be a vessel to something bigger than myself. Turns out, it's not like that at all.
Last month I wrote my first script for a television show. I had a week to complete it, and I spent the first two days staring at a blank screen, frozen in terror. Most of the scripts I'd written up to now were tucked away safely in a file on my computer. Or, at best, read by Studio Executives who called my agents and said, "We loved it, but can it be more murder-y?"
I've always had an active imagination. As a kid, I believed in all the classics: mermaids, fairies, unicorns, elves. I was even convinced trees could talk. Raised on a small farm outside of a small town, my imagination knew no limits. It was free to unfurl through the wheat fields and shelterbelts, happily leading me on epic adventures of my own creation. One summer, at the height of my imaginings, my cousin, Grant, and I decided to plant a rock garden. (These are the kind of things we did for fun back in rural North Dakota, before cable television or poop emojis.)
Last week I got a tattoo. Wait, Grandma, don't stop reading! I'm still your sweet granddaughter — the same girl you once hugged and whispered in her ear, "I love you just as much as all my other grandchildren." Special words spoken by a true (always fair) Midwest grandma. I hope you'll still love me a fair amount. If not, I'll have to start divulging secrets about my cousins, and I know you don't want to hear that one of them lived with their husband before they got married. Wait. That was also me.
I've always loved the Fourth of July. Growing up in my small town, the Fourth meant three-legged races, watching the parade on Main Street and covering my ears during fireworks. Eating corn on the cob in my flag shirt with butter dripping down my face, I remember feeling so grateful I lived in that exact part of the country that celebrated in that exact way. It was the only America I knew — with rolling wheat fields, pink-sky sunsets, lots of hotdish and wide-open spaces.