When I was a kid, someone intended to hurt my feelings, and succeeded, by asking, “Can you talk about anything besides movies and TV?”

Uh, well, I can talk about books. Or I can talk about video games. Or trips I’ve taken. And I can talk about life experiences— mine I’ve had and ones others have shared.

They all mean the same thing— story. Story is the thing I go to whenever I’m feeling…  anything.

Whether joy and bliss or pain and fear, I’ve always connected to the world through story.

I didn’t know it back then though. Not consciously. The question hurt my feelings because someone perceived my movies and TV obsession as different. Different was a four-letter word for me as a kid. I wanted desperately to fit in with all of you, so if you thought talking about movies and TV was weird, I stopped talking about them.

But I’d secretly sneak off to the movies. I was the kid in the back, sitting by himself and munching popcorn while taking in the fifty foot images before me. The movie theatre was one of my houses of worship. We all have different ones— actual temples, mosques, synagogues, and churches, football stadiums, lakes, ski resorts, your kids’ recitals, your favorite armchair. They’re the places we get quiet and look inward while reaching outward. 

I don’t believe I chose my houses of worship. They chose me. The movie theatre had stories on a grand scale, and stories are how I discovered myself.

 

So what the heck does James Ellroy have to do with any of this?

I’m lucky— when I miss something, life has a tendency to spoon-feed it back a second, third, twenty-ninth time. That’s good because me don’t learn so good all the times. So James Ellroy and I circled around a few times…

First time: Sarasota, Florida. I’m there for graduate school. Were you down there with me? If you were, there’s a 89.8% chance we saw L.A. Confidential together. That kind of movie hadn’t been on my radar. I can’t remember what made me check it out— probably a review comparing it to classic noir, which I only had a vague notion of back then. When I went (yes, by myself), the style, the performances, and the story engrossed me. I maniacally talked about that film and if you made the tragic error of saying you hadn’t seen it, I dragged you to it the next night. I saw that flick eleven times in the theatre. This fell just shy of my long-standing personal record: at fifteen years old, twelve viewings of Back to the Future.

There was a lesson to be learned here. The lesson was… something.

I didn’t catch it. Had I been in tune, I would have seen my intuition and creativity wanted me to pay attention to crime fiction. When you resonate with a thing so deeply— (going to a movie eleven times is a big sign.) it’s an opportunity to listen. Had I paid attention, I would have focused my reading, viewing, acting and writing towards crime fiction. I loved L.A. Confidential like nothing else. And it’s only now I’m writing crime fiction stories.

Fortunately the universe knows I’m often a dummy and will circle back around. And this time, story and crime fiction had a more important role in my life…

 

Six months after my brother’s murder, the universe brought James Ellroy back. I caught him on a television interview. He’s promoting The Cold Six Thousand.

Hey, I think, that’s the guy who wrote my second-most-viewed movie of all-time, L.A. Confidential. I should read the book. And this Cold Six Thousand. I pick them up.

Here’s what some reviewers said about The Cold Six Thousand…

• Fast paced, brutal, and uncompromising. Reading passages of James Ellroy's novel can seem like a slap in the face.
• Like most of Ellroy's works, it is graphic in its description of violence and should be reserved for a mature audience.
• What emerges is a violent, sexually squalid, nightmare version of America in the '60s

 

Perfect for a recent homicide victim’s sibling, right?

Well, my therapist didn’t think so. She was aghast. 

“Do you think that’s the best thing for you right now? Reading that?” she asked.

“Cold Six Thousand? Yeah,” I said, “the book’s pretty awesome. It’s historical fiction. He portrays Jack Kennedy—”

“I mean for your brother’s situation. Going through the grief. Do you think this is appropriate?”

 

I didn’t answer. But I obsessed on the idea. It hung me up. I felt deranged (remember? that four-letter word DIFFERENT?) and I thought I was messing up my healing. I wondered if I was delaying my grief or shutting it off all together.

 

And yet I couldn’t help myself. I derived a lot of comfort from reading Ellroy’s books— and I had discovered a great deal about James Ellroy since all those eleven trips to the film version of L.A. Confidential. Ellroy had been like me— a kid alone in the movie theatre. Turns out it was one of his houses of worship too.

Ellroy’s mother had been raped and murdered when he was ten. The case remains unsolved. He’d transferred his feelings to another murder victim— Elizabeth Short— and wrote The Black Dahlia.

See, on some level, I felt a bond with James Ellroy. I liked knowing others like he had been through the shit and come out the other side. And here was someone that turned their pain into…

 

Story.

 

Here was story again. And now it wasn’t comforting me or entertaining me. It was saving my life.

 

I couldn’t give a satisfactory answer to my therapist back when, but today I think I’d say it’s all appropriate. And none of it’s appropriate. There’s no linear way to go through grief and shock. Sorry, Kubler Ross, but I think your linear graph is horseshit. No one knows what the fuck they’re doing.

As I said, story connects me to the world and along the way, I’ve consumed, experienced, and created tons. I could handle some and others I couldn’t. Here’s some triggers and non-triggers I’ve had over the years:

• For years, my friend Steve was like my personal MPAA: this film’s rated S, Brendan, May Contain Some Stabbing Material. Not recommended.
• Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective: this is a deductive board game my nephew Joe and I play. But he had to stop the Jack the Ripper cases. They contained true-to-life detailed violence and descriptions. It made him nauseous, and I breezed through them like an unfeeling robot.
• YouTube videos of soldiers coming home and surprising their kids. CANNOT. HANDLE. THESE.
• Murder mysteries of all types. Love, love, love these and no matter how graphic, they don’t trigger me.
• A little Irish flick called Sing Street. At its heart, the film’s lead character has hero worship for his older brother. It culminates— well, I won’t spoil it, but will tell you, I cried for weeks over this movie. Can’t say why.
• Homicide Hunter, Murder Chose Me, and all the Investigation Discovery shows. Love these. No problem here.
• Listening to my brother’s favorite bands. Nope. Can’t do them.
• Dylan’s melancholy albums. Can’t get enough.
• Tried writing a semi-fictitious account of my brother’s murder. Wasn’t ready.

 

I share all these because they make zero sense. If you’ve gone through, or are going through, grief and loss, I don’t think yours will make sense, either. Your reality’s rocked. There’s a glitch in your Matrix.

So what are we to do? Well, I found joyful surrender in ACCEPTANCE. Here’s something from Alcoholics Anonymous’s Big Book. Don’t worry, you don’t have to be sober for this quote. You can still have your martini and enjoy this:

Acceptance is the answer to ALL of my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation- some fact of my life- unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.

 

 

I love this. If I can accept things as they are, everything is appropriate. And nothing is appropriate. It all JUST IS. A major loss, depression, or grief, however, can take years to get there. At least that’s the way it was for me. If Now Me could have talked to Then Me, I would have said, “Hey, listen. You’re a hamster running the treadmill. I know. But just embrace everything that doesn’t do you harm and screw whether it fits into Kubler Ross’s tightrope path.”

Working through it, I had compulsively exercised, watched hours and hours of TV, missed creative opportunities, and went through phases and hobbies since faded. Read an equal number of self-help and comic books, had a couple career false starts, stopped acting, rekindled my writing, let friendships fall away and reconciled others...

 

…I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment…

 

Can I can even accept the violent death of my brother? I think so. I don’t wish it on anyone, but if I can help one, ten, or ten thousand people walk through similar experiences, then I can accept being an example. I’m someone who’s a little further down the path. Someone who continues to walks through it. I’ve seen my dark nights of the soul. They haven’t been neat and pretty, and they’re not done with me yet, but I’ll tell you mine if you want to tell me yours.

 

Acceptance. Yes, friends and family think it’s weird I watch the Investigation Discovery channel. Yours may think getting that fourth cat is insane. Or you’re moving… again? Or you’re going back for your doctorate. Or you bought a house months after your mom died. It’s all okay. Just let’s not do ourselves harm and we’ll get through it.

 

James Ellroy came back a third time. Again, life loves to hit my head with a mallet until the gong sounds.

 

Six months ago, I’m at the Noir City Film Festival at the Egyptian Theatre. I’m there to see L.A. Confidential for a twelfth time, tying Back to the Future. (Sorry, Marty.)

The Noir City Film Festival’s a blast. Everyone dresses up in theme. So, in my mid-forties and no longer scared of being DIFFERENT, I don my three piece suit and fedora, straight out of the 1940s. I bring my friend Justin. He’s never seen the film and therefore a perfect excuse to hit my dozenth viewing.

We walk over to the Egyptian. There’s three things in the courtyard: there: the Dean Mora Trio playing jazz, a 1940s vintage cop car with appropriately dressed beat cops, and…

 

James Ellroy.

 

I wait for Ellroy to finish a conversation to say something to him. I never used to go for this type of thing, but f’ it. If not now, when? 

He turns towards me.

 

—Me: James, I just want to say, your books helped me through a severe depression during my brother’s murder. My therapist thought I was nuts, but I can’t thank you enough. They saved me, brother.

—Ellroy: I’m sorry for your loss. When was this?

—Me: 2001.

—Ellroy: Where?

—Me: New Hampshire.

—Ellroy: What was the motive?

—Me: Fifty bucks of coke money. [I’ll give you guys more detail on this in another post]

—Ellroy: Did they catch the guy?

—Me: They did. The U.S. Marshalls caught him out here in Southern California.

Ellroy: I’m so glad. I hope you got closure. You know, my mother was murdered. They never caught the guy.

 

Stories are how I discover myself and here’s what the triple Ellroy encounter story showed me: 

Back when I needed them, I was meant to read those graphic crime novels. It wasn’t right or wrong. They guided me through the darkness. I never imagined I’d hold a membership card to such a horrible club, but here I was standing with Ellroy. Brothers in life’s cruelty. 

Ellroy’s work had comforted me. I got to pay him back for that with an in-person thank you. I hope it helped him hear his work makes a difference. I hope someday mine does the same for someone. We never know how we affect one another.

 

Can I talk about anything besides movies and TV? Probably. But why the hell should I?

 

Embrace the things that comfort you. Don’t do yourself harm. Share them with those around you to help them and help yourself. I for one would love to hear them.

 

Hey, here’s a perfect opportunity— click that Comment button below. ;)