The End of an Era

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When I was younger I worried I’d never work in the television industry because I couldn’t live in LA. I had no reason to believe this other than the fact that I’m pale and it’s sunny all the time in SoCal. So I quietly folded that dream into a paper football and flicked it into the far recesses of my brain. I focused on my other dream—becoming a political speechwriter. I went to college in D.C. and I loved it and then… I took screenwriting classes.

I told myself it was just for fun. And those classes were fun. They absolutely helped me become a better writer even though the scripts I wrote for class were terrible. I learned how to critique and how to share my work and to be humble. Then I graduated with my degree in political communication and started working at a law firm and that was that.

For the most part, I hated working in the law firm. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have. The hours were great, the job wasn’t demanding, and I had great benefits. But I was 23 and it was my first full time job and I knew that I wasn’t going to stay. I signed on to work for two years, knowing that after that time I would go to grad school, and that’s what I did.

I used the two years I worked there to save money, and write, and decide what I wanted to study. It felt like all of my friends got their Master’s in Public Health and I’d seriously considered getting a M.A. in Library Sciences but… it wasn’t exciting. I didn’t think my passion for books would be enough to get me through the curriculum. But I thought of something that would.

Sometimes I wonder if getting an M.A. in Television-Radio-Film was a terrible, self-indulgent idea, but I know it wasn’t. It did what a lot of artistic post-grad programs do, they give you time to create. The short films I made were Not Good, but I learned so, so much. The program gave me time to brainstorm, and take honest criticism, and write creatively with deadlines. And it gave me the push I needed to finally move to LA.

For two years there have been a few drafts in my folder with titles like “Moving to LA” and “Finding a Job” which, while not creative, I thought would be helpful. A series of posts about the weird, unexpected parts of moving out West, like how a lot of apartments don’t come with fridges and the beach is gray and overcast every June. But I never did and now it feels too late.

When I got to LA I knew how incredibly difficult it would be to set up in a new city. Or, I thought I did. I had done it for college and again for grad school, but I was wrong and that’s hard to admit for someone who loves to be right. It wasn’t any one thing that made the transition hard, it was a series. Individually, I conquered them. Collectively, however, they got to me. It was hard to find a job, to mesh with my roommates, to commute 45min each way while working 11 hours a day. It was discouraging to go weeks, or months, between jobs or to have a job that demoralized and tired me out. It was trying when, one by one, my few friends in the city moved away. It was difficult to come to terms with my mental illness and then to do something about it.

But I did all of those things! I got the job, and then the next one. I moved to a new, better apartment in a more central location with a roommate I liked and got along with. I went to therapy and tried my hardest to take care of myself. Through all of this I was writing. Or trying to write. And that whole ‘tortured artist’ thing is crap. I have never hurt more than when I tried to force myself to work long days and then go home and write, to hit deadlines, to do work that I was proud of. The more time went on, the more drained I became.

Giving notice that I was leaving my current job was one of the hardest, scariest things I’ve ever done. It hurt because, for the first time, I’m leaving a job I truly love. I wish 16-year-old-Molly could see me now. In therapy. On antidepressants. With a strong group of friends that I love with my whole heart and finally feel loved and understood and free to be Most Moll. Working in the TV industry.

The same day I gave my notice I was on a conference call with one of my favorite writer / television creators of all time. I wrote a little note to myself that says, “You’re quitting your favorite job today. That’s hard. It’s probably going to suck. But remember the love you got today. Remember that you got to be on a conference call with [redacted]. He was cool and had great opinions and was supportive of his writers. It put a giant  smile on your face. Treasure that.”

So after two years in LA I’m packing up and moving back east. Not to my parents house, or my hometown, but hopefully somewhere that finally feels like home. Somewhere that it rains, and is near friends, and gives me time to write. I’m taking my antidepressants with me.

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The Other Kind of Writing

I’ve been thinking a lot about the different kinds of writing that I want to do. Not just in my career (although that, too), but day-to-day. Mostly, I’m trying to decide if I want to get back into journaling. I say ‘get back into’ like I was ever dedicated or consistent. My journal never looked like the ones you see on Instagram, pretty and adorned, full of perfect lettering, bursting with color, and filled with pictures both pasted and drawn. My journal was just a hardbound book filled with flowing black ink and imperfect cursive and I’m kind of terrified to open it again.

I have three old journals, actually. Two of them scare the crap out of me. One, my favorite, is a hokey little book that was gifted to me by a friend of my mom’s and I covered it with an old book cover—the elastic kind you begged your parents to buy for your textbooks so you didn’t have to cover them with brown paper bags—and it looks silly. It’s filled with dreams. Not aspirations, but actual things that I dreamed at night. It stretches back to 2007 and has hundreds of dated entries. Once, I even made an index. That book hasn’t been updated recently, but I do have an ongoing note on my phone filled with dreams so I’m sure one day I’ll sit down and add to it even if it will never be complete.

The other two journals, they’re the real ones. They’re what you think of when you hear the word journal. Books of thoughts and feelings. Mine are from 2009-2015, roughly my college years and spanning into grad school. As much as I want to revisit my past self, to see what I was doing, what I was thinking, what I felt needed documenting, I don’t know if I ever will. I have no clue of the specifics, but I know they’ll be full of the pain, and confusion, and depression. They’ll be full of sentences like “I’m sad but I don’t know why” and I don’t know that I’m ready to face that.

Because I’m moving soon, I’m parting ways with my therapist. Recently, I’ve noticed that I don’t really know what to say when I go into our appointments. I’ll prattle on about my life, but I can no longer see the Big Issues that I need to address. There is no doubt in my mind that I still have those Big Issues, they’re just not as obvious to me as they were a year ago when I started therapy. I have more tools under my belt, and a fancy name for my depression (dysthymia—basically instead of going through bouts of Major Depression, I am low-key depressed all the time. To be diagnosed you have to have the symptoms basically daily for two years. Once I had a name for it and knew the symptoms more intimately, I realized I’d been dealing with this since I was 16). So all of those years of journals, those are from the time that I was depressed but didn’t know it for what it was and I don’t know if I’m ready to see just how much it affected my life.

I wonder if I’ll miss anything by not opening the journals again. Are there happy moments I’ve otherwise forgotten that would be nice to revisit? But I don’t think that’s the case. I only ever remember opening them up and pouring my soul into them like I was Ginny Weasley baring herself to Tom Riddle, when all of the feelings rumbling about inside of me were going to erupt and I needed a way to let them out that wasn’t (just) crying into my pillow or on the phone to my mom (or both. Usually both).

Those journals were my therapy before I was willing to go out and find an actual therapist.

Maybe I won’t open them, after all, I’ll just continue to tote them around every time I move, like the rest of the baggage I carry around with me every day. But they aren’t just baggage—they’re evidence of my perseverance and my growth. No matter what, I don’t think I’m ready to throw them out .

Pitch Wars Retrospective

I feel like this is a long time coming, but also it’s difficult to write because I still haven’t left Pitch Wars behind. Actually, I’m not sure I ever will. The revision period was slated between September-November, but here it is, April of the following year, and I’m still revising.

If you’re reading this as you try to decide whether or not you should enter Pitch Wars (or Author Mentor Match, or Teen Pit, etc.), my advice, for whatever it’s worth, is to go for it.

I entered Pitch Wars with no expectations. I submitted a YA contemporary manuscript that was near and dear to my heart, but that I knew was riddled with problems. But the moment had come: no matter how much I stared at the document, knowing there were some things that really needed fixing, I couldn’t figure out what those things were. I knew going in that the biggest win in even entering Pitch Wars was the community, and I wasn’t disappointed.

When I got requests from mentors I was pleased, but shocked. I walked around telling myself, “This doesn’t mean anything, the mentors each got 100+ submissions, don’t get ahead of yourself.” But already I was glad I had entered, because it meant that even though my manuscript was far from done, I was on the right track.

[Note: This isn’t to say if you don’t get requests you’re on the wrong track. Contests like these are difficult because mentors choose projects based on what they’re drawn to and what they know they can help fix. Some entries are already in great shape! Some need more help than the time frame allows for. And some weren’t picked just because a mentor could only choose one project. This is a game of chance, friends. Keep trying.]

When mentor picks were finally announced, I was visiting my parents. I refreshed the page while sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch. I saw my name in a neat little box and promptly flipped out. My heart raced, I couldn’t stop smiling, and when my mom and I got to the grocery store, I found myself frantically pacing up and down the milk aisle, trying not to scream or dance. Twitter flooded with notifications of who else had been chosen and it was so easy to be happy for all of my mentee class but I felt for those that hadn’t been picked. I spent the rest of my visit home excited and ready to work.

Then I got my edit letter and had to go back to my day job, where I was working from 8:30am – 8:30pm. My commute was terrible. I had no free time to myself and on the weekends I was mentally and physically exhausted. There were other things at play, too–my living situation, my mental health–and I didn’t know how to cope. My mentor had sent me a wonderful, thoughtful, encouraging edit letter and I froze.

I tried to write and revise. I made a gameplan and figured out how much I needed to revise by day to stay on track. I deleted and re-wrote and outlined and even when I sent the revisions to my mentor I knew they weren’t enough. We talked through the changes that still needed to be made and I agreed with all of them but all of the other aspects of my life were catching up to me; suddenly there were too many balls in the air and I never learned how to juggle.

I was adamant that I would participate in the agent round. I swore I would have my revisions done by the time my month-long extension was up. And then the agent round went live and… I didn’t get any requests. It was a little disheartening, but I also felt relief.

Suddenly, there wasn’t a time constraint on my shoulders. I could focus on the billion ways I needed to get my personal life together, and enjoy the Christmas vacation I’d be taking from work. I left the job that was making me miserable and let myself breathe and found the joy in revising without the pendulum of deadlines swinging overhead, inching ever closer.

Feedback from beta readers in the 2017 mentee class just hit my inbox. They’re brilliant, insightful notes that I’m incorporating. While waiting for feedback I happily drafed a new project. The waiting was good; it forced me to slow down, get perspective, and collect my thoughts. It gave me time to update my agent spreadsheet, and work on my query. It gave me time to breathe.

Throughout the Pitch Wars process I found the writing community I’d been searching for. They are such a wonderful, creative, supportive group and I’m lucky to be among the 2017 mentees.

I don’t have any regrets about entering Pitch Wars. I wish my personal life had been a bit more cooperative and that I’d had a better support system in place outside of the PW community. I’m not sure I really anticipated (or could have) just how beneficial that would be.

But with time and perspective, I’ve gotten a better understanding of my writing process, of revisions, of craft. I better understand what works and what doesn’t. I can see more clearly what my flaws are (what do you mean I can’t just rely on plot and character, I need actual conflict?) and as I draft, I can see how my writing’s grown.

All of the roadblocks and challenges that cropped up in my personal life also helped give me perspective on what I’ll have to work around when there are actual, contracted publishing deadlines looming overhead. I’ve gotten better at predicting how long I need for certain parts of the revision process, at anticipating my needs.

Pitch Wars was challenging in ways I never expected, but so was my life. I’ve come out the other side stronger–as a person, yes, but especially as a writer. I know better what I need, how I operate, and I understand how much having a support system, an entire community, at my back can help. I’m constantly in awe of how talented my peers are, and grateful for their support.

Maybe my Pitch Wars manuscript won’t be the one that gets me an agent, or lands me my first book deal. But I’ll always love it for showing me I’m on the right path.

I’ll Be Your Girl

The Decemberists came into my life when I was at my most emotional self: my freshman year of high school. Everything was new and shiny and I felt everything so deeply. I still have a vivid memory of getting into my mom’s car after school and putting in the CD of Castaways & Cutouts, that I’d undoubtedly checked out of the public library, and hearing Leslie Anne Levine. It’s been over a decade and I can’t think of another song that makes me so immediately melancholic. While some songs and artists from that year have been tainted because they were introduced to me by my first boyfriend (freshman year was full of milestones and big feelings), for some reason The Decemberists escaped that shadow. Maybe because I already loved them more deeply than I would ever feel for my then-boyfriend.

On this, the day of The Decemberists’ new album, I took the opportunity to reflect on their new songs, their new sound, and how they make me feel:

1) Once In My Life: Starts strong with some Castaways vibes. Wait, no, more like Crane Wife. If you haven’t listened to their single Everything I Try To Do, Nothing Seems To Turn Out Right this is like that but more mainstream. I love the lyrics even though they’re simple. I can already picture myself jamming out to this driving down the coast or crying on any highway. I never really need chorus / background vocals, that’s just not the music I skew toward, and we could cut that out and make the song about half as long. It’s still going on my driving playlist though.

2) Cutting Stone: I was not ready for the tonal shift between songs. This could fit on Her Majesty except oh, with synth. So far I’m declaring this album Crane Wife’s Synth Sister.

Two thoughts between tracks: these lyrics seem more simplistic than in the past; I want to read the longest essay that’s like a vein diagram of Daniel Ortberg and The Decemberists and their imagery/storytelling. 

3) Severed: Starts with me thinking I’m about to enter like Tron or some 16 bit game. There’s a lot of cognitive dissonance between these tracks, it’s like someone bumped the knob that tuned the synth and accidentally put to much techno in it. I do enjoy the way the synth lulls me into thinking the song isn’t nearly as dark as it truly is. Also, I’ve had enough exposure therapy to this that I think it’s finally growing on me.

4) Starwatcher: I’m imagining this song playing out in like 16th c England for no reason but I could make a short film about it. It would have like Month Python aesthetic but be about like Galileo. He mentioned a laundromat so yes exactly like Month Python, just an anachronistic short film that mixes ancient and modern times.

5) Tripping Along: Strong acoustic opening. I’m already falling deeply in love with this. This is some Classic Decemberists; the tone is making me cry. It’s fine. I’m fine. A single tear rolled down my face when he sang “what messes are we” I’m just so glad this band is still in my life 13 years after I first heard them they are tied so tightly to my emotions. Just abandon me here.

6) Your Ghost: Another aggressive tone shift. I wasn’t prepared but I’m also into this song now that I’m over the shock. And not just because I’m a ghost. I’m getting like v subtle Beatles vibes. (Again, I don’t need the female chorus.) This reminds me of the haunted boardwalk level of Mario Kart 64. Or like Bowser’s Castle. I enjoy this as a Decemberists song and part of the album but I don’t think it’s one I would single out to listen to a lot unless it was  Halloween or I was in a particular mood/need it for a playlist.

7) Everything Is Awful: Is this going to be 2018’s anthem? It’s such a joyous calling out of how shitty our collective lives are. I can only listen to this super sparingly but I’m glad it exists. The cognitive dissonance of the major key with the lyrics is perfect, I’m pleased with this. “Kindly keep it down, I’m just trying to get some sleep.”

8) Sucker’s Prayer: Very classic rock intro. This is a solid jam. In the middle of the song I screamed, “OH MY GOD HE’S GONNA EDNA PONTELLIER!!!!” This song is depressing but perfect. This song is Good. Excellent guitar solo, we rarely get that from The Decemberists. Colin’s really hitting close to home with this one.

9) We All Die Young: The intro sounds like the Black Keys. [There are SO MANY tonal shifts in this album. I feel like the transitions could’ve been better.] Too much reverb/distortion for me. Oh this doesn’t fit them at all. They sound like they’re trying to be someone else. Shut it down. The discord is rough and my ears done like the scratchiness. I really want to skip this song and somehow there’s still 2 minutes left. They combined two of my least favorite things: children and background vocal choruses. And a sax solo?! Are they trying to lose all of my goodwill? Make this stop. I’m in pain. Drag my body into the sea I hate this. This is the opposite of ASMR; I’m so uncomfortable. 

10) Rusalka, Rusalka / Wild Rushes: The piano intro gives me some Kid A era Radiohead vibes so obviously I’m in. This is like California One/The Youth and Beauty Brigade + The Island. It’s gorgeous, I want to sink into it. I don’t know what to say about this except I feel like I really needed it and I’m glad I have it. Really transports me back to their older stuff.

11) I’ll Be Your Girl: Yes. Yes yes yes. Fuck. Goddddddd. I don’t even dislike the xylophone break this song is magical. It’s healing my soul.

Favorite songs:
1) Tripping Along 
2) I’ll Be Your Girl
3) Rusalka, Rusalka / Wild Rushes 
Honorable Mention: Sucker’s Prayer

MY ALBUM RANKING:

  1. Castaways and Cutouts – first Decemberists album I ever heard and will never not make me an emotional wreck and nostalgic in the best ways for all of the emotions I used to be able to access
  2. Picaresque – so many classic jams
  3. The Crane Wife – the first album I ever bought – same day as The Killers’ Sam’s Town
  4. What A Terrible World, What a Wonderful World – Honestly surprised it ranked this high?
  5. The King is Dead – I really hate Rocks in the Box which I think is hurting it here, but overall none of the songs were that memorable to me?
  6. Her Majesty, The Decemberists – nostalgia really gets me, okay?
  7. The Hazards of Love – artistically beautiful but I really value just being able to listen to a whole story in one song. I don’t have the patience/attention span for this
  8. I’ll Be Your Girl – there are songs here I’ll really grow to love but a) it’s too new, and b) the rest of the album sucks

Listen to the entire album here: https://open.spotify.com/track/2MiX5yjl5t1W4HgM6zTbDC

 

Pitch Wars 2017: #pimpmybio

I’m in the middle of a ton of different writing projects, so what better time to enter my first Pitch Wars? I’m submitting a story I’ve written about here a lot (remember when What’s Up, Wednesday? posts were a thing?) and always affectionately referred to as That Golf Story. Now it’s shiny and polished and actually has a title: No Matter How It Starts.

It’s a YA Contemporary about Carter, a 17-year-old with aspirations of playing golf in college. Everything’s going according to plan until her moms decide to move before her senior year and her new school doesn’t have a girls’ golf team. Instead of giving up or throwing a fit, Carter tries out for the boy’s team. It’s a fun story that’s got everything: the enemies-to-lovers trope, pranks, secret make-outs, a garage band, a diverse cast, and a lot of golf.

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Like my main character, I also played golf on my school’s varsity golf team, the only difference is that I got to play with the girls all four years. I still play whenever I have the chance but haven’t found anyone nearly as fun as Carter’s new teammates to share the course with.

For potential mentors: I have a BA in Political Communication and an MA in Televison-Radio-Film (okay, so maybe I watched too much of The West Wing when I was growing up). Which is to say that I’m used to thinking creatively but also practically. I have a pretty good sense of pitch and marketing, but definitely need the help to polish and present my work. Having written multiple screenplays, I’m used to getting constructive criticism and I’m not afraid to take my mentor’s advice to heart and work hard to make my writing the best it can be.

Aside from studying and working in tv, I also write about it on occasion. I currently contribute to The Televixen. Previously, I wrote recaps at Off Color TV (covering Parks & Rec, The Newsroom, The Mindy Project, and Teen Wolf). I grew up in both Alabama and Ohio but my favorite place to live is Washington, DC. Aside from YA books, I love college football, black coffee, Captain America, and oxford commas.

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Me, hitting a shot I thought landed in a bunker but actually stuck the green.

The Hitchhiker’s Hail

In the last seven years, I’ve had eight nine different addresses (I almost forgot England). Those seven years have seen me moving out of my parent’s house for the first time, living in six different dorm rooms, moving to England, moving back to the States, getting my first real apartment, and then moving to grad school. I consider myself to be decent at moving, good at packing, and great at upacking. I have moved into and out of my parents’ house so many times that I’m not sure I’ll ever feel like I’ve permanently left.

When I first traveled from Cleveland, Ohio to Washington, DC for college, my dad had a pick-up truck and we used every square inch of the truck bed despite the fact that I was moving into a shared dorm room. I’d like to say I’ve really learned to pare down my belongings, but in reality all I’ve done is leave more and more items behind.

My proudest move is probably the first one I made completely alone, when I got on a plane to England to study abroad for a semester. Against all odds, I packed my life into one suitcase and travelled across the Atlantic. My plan had been to fly into Gatwick and take a train to Brighton, but that was ruined pretty immediately. A broken plane and Amazing Race-style sprint through O’Hare later, I ended up flying into Heathrow, taking a bus to Gatwick (panicked that I would not be able to figure out how to get to Brighton without my carefully laid out plan or a cell phone), and then taking the train to Brighton. Look, in the end I managed, but that’s not the point. My point, I guess, is that it was the first time I’d really had to navigate traveling alone.

I moved again last month, and the move was probably more daunting than my first trans-Atlantic flight, customs, and finding my dorm room at the University of Sussex. The one thing that made this move seem do-able, however, was that my dad was my co-pilot. We packed up my Honda Element as full as we could (leaving behind, among other things: all of my furniture, 95% of my books and DVDs, and my favorite pair of earrings) and hit the road.

For five days we drove cross-country so that I could move to Los Angeles.

I never wanted to live in LA. Despite my deep, abiding love for television and the quiet, burning part of myself that wanted to work on television shows, I never really considered making the move. LA has sunshine, and earthquakes, and it’s in the Pacific Time Zone. All of those things are anathema to me. But as I finished an undergraduate degree that I didn’t really know how to use, and worked in my first adult job, and went to grad school, the thought of working in television never left. It became louder and louder until I couldn’t ignore that, out of everything, that’s what I wanted the most. More than living in the same apartment building as my friends, and being in the same time-zone as my parents, I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied until I gave it a chance.

So my parents, my wonderful, supportive parents helped me pack up the car and my dad drove across the country with me. We took our time, stopping so that we could play in Arches National Park and visit the Grand Canyon. I think both of us had been a little apprehensive about spending so much time alone with one another, no buffer of any kind between us, but it only brought us closer. We shared beers at breweries in the mid-west, and had a pillow fight in Arizona. We took pictures and watched shitty movies in the hotel room, and forced each other to eat salads. At the end of the trip, he even agreed that my choice of superpower (which he’d mocked mercilessly months ago) to be able to stop shedding was pretty worthwhile after all.

There were parts of the trip that were trying, sure. Like trying not to hit that elk as we left the Grand Canyon. Or the moment that I almost ran out of gas in the middle of Kansas because I was too absorbed by an episode of Keepin’ It 1600. Our musical choices are at odds, so striking the compromise of his jazz in the morning, my alt. rock in the afternoon was necessary early on. After so long in the car, our backs and knees hurt, we were probably always at least a little bit dehydrated, but we made it.

I wouldn’t give it up for anything. In fact, I want more road trips. A few summers ago my mom and I packed up and drove around Michigan for a few days, which had been a great bonding experience, despite the near-constant rain. This move was stressful, but certainly less than I had anticipated, because I had my dad by my side. I hope that next year my brother comes to visit and we can go on a trip of our own, maybe to Yosemite.

I hope my future is filled with road trips. I want them with my friends, hours of fighting over music and putting up with each other’s podcasts. I want nights camped out on the roof of my car looking at the stars with my loved ones as I try not to cry from the beauty of the moment. I want to get lost in a foreign country and not care for the awe of the landscape. I think spending hours alone in a car, while risky, is ultimately good for relationships.

The post script of this post, if anything, is that I live in LA now. But what was really important was the journey.

Television Tuesdays: Preacher

Overview

Based on a graphic novel, Preacher is about a West Texas preacher who gains a celestial power, then goes on a quest for God. It’s about more than that, of course. It’s about faith, and relationships, and how brutal humanity can be. It’s about redemption, and betrayal. It’s an interesting portrait of the lengths people will go to in order to believe in a higher power, the faith they put in a man of god, and how that belief can be swayed.

Of course, that’s all putting things way too simply. The show is violent, and takes glee in enacting that violence (at one point, a character’s arm is cut off by a chainsaw, and then the chainsaw drags the dismembered arm down the aisle of a church). I would argue, though, that it’s done well. That the imagination and cleverness that goes into those acts of aggression make it something more than senseless. The audience doesn’t always know why it’s happening, but it feels appropriate. Despite the show taking almost until the end of the first season (which just ended) to get to the real thesis of the show, it’s well worth the wild ride.

It was my favorite show this summer, hitting all of the check boxes that turn shows into my favorite: attractive men (Dominic Cooper wearing all black with a Southern accent 🔥🔥🔥) , mythology, violence, kick-ass women, and interesting conflict. The show also has some of the best cinematography I’ve seen in either movies or television. It’s absolutely stunning. I’m not entirely sure how to write about Preacher without spoiling everything or doing it a disservice. There’s no way I’ll manage to tell you everything about it, but I hope this is enough to encourage you to give it a try.

Characters

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Jesse Custer (Dominic Cooper) is the titular preacher. He inherited his small church from his late father and feels compelled to act as a shepherd of god because, as a child, he witnessed his father’s murder and it was his father’s last wish that Jesse “be good.” Based on flashbacks and allusions, we can gather that Jesse hasn’t always been a good person. Hell, he isn’t for most of the show. Instead, he’s conflicted, and power-mad, and wanting. When Jesse gains the power of Genesis, which allows him to command any living thing to follow his will, he abuses it. He plays god and people get hurt, some vindictively. He relishes the power and refuses to relinquish it, not until his sins are erased and he has spoken to God. When he tries, things don’t quite go according to plan.

Tulip O’Hare (Ruth Negga) is Jesse’s ex-girlfriend who’s on a quest for revenge. She bursts back into town in attempts to win Jesse back and have him join her as she sets out to ruin the man who wronged them both. Sharp and violent, Tulip refuses to put up with anyone’s shit. She’s proud, commanding, and unapologetic. Like Jesse, she’s not a good person, but that underlying frisson of danger keeps her getting out of bed in the morning. She’s captivating.

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Cassidy (Joseph Gilgun) is an Irish vampire. Yup, cue the absurdist. However, unless he is actively pursuing some vampiric behavior (such as using a broken champagne bottle as a tap to turn a man into a blood dispenser), it’s easy to forget that particular trait of his. It’s much easier, in fact, to remember his disdain for The Big Lebowski. He is Jesse’s best friend and a wonderful foil – Cassidy, more than anyone else, is the one to challenge Jesse’s humanity and the rationale behind his actions.

Mythology

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Aside from Cassidy’s vampirism, the show delves close to Supernatural territory with some of its mythology. Genesis, the aforementioned power that inhabits Jesse, is a power created by the coupling of an angel and a demon. It’s storied to be a power that rivals only that of God. Early in the show, we see Genesis try and inhabit bodies other than Jesse’s but they can’t handle it. We don’t know why Jesse is an appropriate vessel for Genesis yet, but I’m excited to find out.

Jesse is not supposed to have Genesis’ power, so missionaries from Heaven, the guardians of Genesis, seek it out so that they may return it safely to its vessel. The vessel isn’t anything exciting, only an old coffee can, and its lured out of Jesse with song. I’m still not entirely clear as to why.

The two men pictured above, Fiore and DeBlanc, are Heaven’s missionaries. They seek Jesse out and do everything in their power to return Genesis to its rightful vessel. Their antagonist is a soccer mom-looking woman, a seraphim (powerful angel) whose job is to return the two angels from their unauthorized visit Earth-side. There’s a lot to unpack, and at points in the show it’s unclear exactly what’s going on, but it’s a hell of a ride.