Heather Donahue - Growgirl: Once Upon a Time She Made The Blair Witch Project. Then She Went to Pot. Literally.

growgirl

HOW MY LIFE AFTER
THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT
WENT TO POT

Heather Donahue

G O T H A M B O O K S

GOTHAM BOOKS

Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Published by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First printing, January 2012

Copyright 2012 by Prosody & Trope, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Growgirl illustration by Heather Donahue

Gotham Books and the skyscraper logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Donahue, Heather, 1973

Growgirl : how my life after The Blair Witch project, went to pot / Heather Donahue.

p. cm.

EISBN: 9781101554227

1. Donahue, Heather, 1973- 2. ActorsUnited StatesBiography. I. Title.

PN2287.D49A3 2012

792.028092dc23

[B] 2011032920

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the authors alone.

btb_ppg_c0_r1

For my parents, Jim and Joan Donahue,
for remaking the past into love

Authors Note

I have sort of composited characters, somewhat altered time lines, mudged the odd fact, basically changed all proper nouns that dont belong to me and Vito, reimagined dialogue to the point of invention, and other-wise did my best to ensure the readers enjoyment and the impossibility of this document ever being admissible in court.

But of course nobody portrayed in this book did anything illegal. Everybody portrayed in this book was, as much as one could be in the gray area of legally growing pot, compliant with all state and local laws, including, but not limited to, the Compassionate Care Act and California SB 420, in perpetuity and throughout the universe, amen.

Heather Donahue

S AN F RANCISCO , J ULY 4, 2011

I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light.

Maggie Nelson, Bluets

Fail again. Fail better.

Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho

Where are the men? the little prince asked, politely.

The flower had once seen a caravan passing.

Men? she echoed. I think there are six or seven of them in existence. I saw them, several years ago. But one never knows where to find them. The wind blows them away. They have no roots and that makes their life very difficult.

Antoine de Saint-Exupry, The Little Prince

LEAP DAY

THE LEAP

T ODAY IS THE LAST DAY OF A SAME THAT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN . At least thats what Im hoping.

Today is leap day. I am moving. Or my stuff is, via some Ukrainians with excellent biceps. If there ever was a day that deserved a fat spank of carpe diem its this one. February 29a day that wont repeat for four more years. Thank God. I dont think I could handle such leaps annually. But for now, for this minute, this moment, Im smack dab in the middle of an empty apartment in the middle of the basin, the Hollywood flats. Not quite obscured by power lines and palms is the iconic Paramount water tower. The ocean lost in smog is technically to my right, though I cant prove it. Its not a clear day. A staunch wall of mountains is allegedly behind me. The air is a color most familiar to dentists.

Today I am a city girl. I was also a city girl yesterday and the 12,478 days before that. Palm trees line the street formerly known as my street. Theyre so stunning in their towering uniformity that they make you look up. I like anything that helps a person remember to look up. On windy days they sway like drunk sentinels. They bend but dont break. When the wind dies down, they stand tall again. Good for them. That was the thing that sold me on the place, those neat tall guards lined up so straight and long they diminished to specks as the street dead-ended at the 101. I thought they beckoned, saying, Follow, follow, youre on the path. I believe in the preternatural wisdom of trees, though I also shave my armpits.

Tomorrow I will be a country girl, with chickens and a dog and a garden full of organic veggies (and medical marijuana). I have never been a country girl before, though I once went on a hayride as a child. Still, I have a very vivid picture of what it will be like: I will wear rubber boots and possibly overalls, and there may or may not be a piece of straw hanging out of my mouth when you least expect it. I will be small and serene among the cannabis and pines that blanket the hills of Nuggettownthey too will sway but sometimes they will break and I will find them more relatable. I will grow my own food (and pot), raise chickens (and pot), and maybe a dog (and pot).

THE CITY OF ANGELS

W HEN MY EX WACAW AND I MOVED HERE IN 1998, THIS APARTMENT WAS in an undesirable yet affordable location, gunshots be damned. It was also rent-controlled. It is now in a desirable yet unaffordable location, gunshots be damned. Wacaw said, I dont know. I have a feeling like something bad happened here. Two years later we found out the previous tenant had been robbed then stabbed after inviting a homeless guy up for a beer. I was told he died in the hospital, which was supposed to make it better. There was blood everywhere, the tenant who eventually told me said. Everything in there needed to be replaced. Rugs, drywallwhyd you think it was so nice and big for so cheap? I didnt think. I was a twenty-four-year-old aspiring actress fresh from New York with not so much as a temp job in these parts, and it was close to the freeway. Last year my friend Mr. Kim, who ran the mini-mart on the corner and had a much-beloved Chihuahua named Pinky who sang his ringtone, was shot in the face about a hundred yards from where I was sitting on the red couch, which used to be next to where Im standing right now before the aforementioned Ukrainians put it in a truck for twice the estimate they gave me on the phone. I cried and got ten percent off the one hundred percent increase. I didnt cry on purpose to get the discount. I cried because its hard to let go of what you know even when its threadbare and moth-eaten and formerly bloodstained and generally very last century.

For the last decade Ive lived not only in Hollywood the neighborhood, I have also lived in Hollywood the industry/mythic land. I was an actress. I couldnt do anything else. If I had something to fall back on, I would. I stopped thinking about all the other things I might be, because then I might have trouble keeping the faith. If I could just as well be a botanist, psychologist, lawyer, or trucker, then I might not pound the pavement with the requisite verve. And lets face it, none of those options sounds as much fun as being an actress. I made the commitment and prepared the ritual sacrifice, which consisted mostly of headshots, rsums, and the absence of cheese.