For the last 15 years I’ve been Steve.
I kinda liked being Steve.
Being Steve was fun.
Fast.
Easy.
After all I like Steve Martin.
Loove Steve McQueen.
I respect Steve Jobs, while not in step with of all of his eccentricities.
Obviously.
Steves are instantly understood.
Steve carries near zero presuppositions.
Steve might be cool, he might be amazing, or he might be a goober.. but most likely he’s right in the middle.
Average.
And average is easy for people.
Easy to manage.
Easy to talk to, maybe easy to forget.
Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
For my purposes Steve is easy to spell.
I Started
being Steve when I moved to LA to become a screenwriter at age 36.
Thought.
Steve did not.
Steve never got misspelled. Mispronounced. Butchered.
Never once.
Alden?
At least a 50% butcher rate. 75% misspell rate.
Maybe 80%.
Looking back now I see I didn’t want to stand out all the time. I didn’t want to feel different - or maybe just not different enough so as to be presumptuous in a town full of so many already presumptuous.
Wait - am I saying I wanted to make it in Hollywood but didn’t want to stand out?
Yikes no wonder I didn’t sell my screenplay.
But that’s another story.
So Why
Be me again - why now? The short answer is- I don’t know.
ONSCREEN: Northern California, Late October 2025
The truck was idling as I left mom in the passenger seat, grabbing our breakfast items on the way to church, when the barister said the familiar “can I get a name for the order?”
"Um.." I answered hesistantly.
Then I flashed back on the last 15 years, the hundreds of coffee shops, the seven +/- addresses, the parties, the mixers, the sea of concrete that is Los Angeles, the cool places, the bland ones, and everything in between.
And of course my dad’s passing, the thing that really removed any semblance of roots - tenuous even before he died, all the more so since.
“Alden” I answered.
Confidently.
I took a deep breath and looked out the window. A beautiful autumn morning.
I saw my truck, I saw my 84 year old mom safe and cared for inside.
Fitting since she gave me the name in the first place.
She wrote it down on baby announcement cards, on school enrollment and report cards over the years, and yeah ok a few hospital bills.
She could’ve picked Steve.
? I even spelled it!
Nothings changed in service workers’ comprehension in 15 years I thought? Really?
I had to laugh at the predictableness of it all.
And then I wondered why I chose that morning, that interaction, after all these years - to answer honestly.
You probably know the answer if you’ve gotten this far.
I answered Alden because that’s my name.
I’m not Steve.
My name was never Steve.
Wait does that mean I didn’t want to be me for the last 15 years?
I didn’t really want my life?
Hmm that’s deep.
I may have to chew on that one.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I just didn’t want to embrace the kind of bravado or foolhardiness it took to move to Hollywood in middle age, swallowing pride, sleeping on couches and pursuing an odds-are-against-you dream.
That sounds like something an Alden would do.
And probably would again.
Welcome back A-man, you were missed.
No more running, no more deflecting.
Own your choices.
Own your life.
You got nothing to regret.
