Let The Universe Decide

I have been trying to be more relaxed in my day to day life. With two kids, two part time jobs, and a need to write, this can be difficult. I'm putting my trust in the universe. When I let things go and don't stress, I find that I get what I need and the rest is inconsequential. Yesterday is a perfect example.
I had a bad morning yesterday. It wasn't anything big or catastrophic, those are the things I handle best, but it was all little irritations and inconveniences. It all culminated with a trip to the grocery store in the pouring rain to buy cat litter. The kids were pretty good in the store, though we did almost get smashed into by someone pushing a cart full of bread way too fast around a corner. I got to the express checkout, and the old woman ahead of me had the belt piled high with groceries, and for each she had a specific bagging request. I normally don't mind these kinds of things. When I'm by myself I can wait for hours if necessary. I like people watching and the grocery store is great for that.
With kids it's a different story. My son started climbing out of the cart while his sister yelled at him and tried to pull him back in. This is not normal cart. It's a cart shaped like a car, which puts the kids in front of me and my huge bag of litter and out of reach in the narrow checkout aisle. My son started crying.
I've been in this position before, and usually the person in front of me will take notice and hurry along if possible. This woman looked at the kids, handed over a $100 bill and began to count out exact change in pennies. The cashier was looking stressed by this time, and I was about ready to explode. She slowly shuffled away while I paid for my litter. We caught up with her in the exit to the store. She was stopped, her cart blocking the entire exit, examining the advertisements in the narrow hall. She saw us standing behind her and continued reading.
When we finally got out of there, I jogged past her into the downpour and loaded my kids quickly back into their car seats. I say quickly, but it still took quite a while, and I was soaked by the time I got into the car. Two spaces over from me, parked almost diagonally across the handicapped parking space was a huge silver SUV, and the old woman was climbing behind the wheel. My irritation and stress vanished at that moment, and I laughed. It seemed like a sketch comedy act.
That is when the universe intervened. As I drove home, I was thinking about a new story I want to write. I've basically worked out the major plot points and characters, and I was ready to start writing. This is where I ran into trouble because I didn't know how to start it. I always struggle with starting a story. Once I have that first line or paragraph I'm fine, but until then it bothers me day and night, and I get very stressed about it. I started thinking about the old woman and how I should write that moment down, and that's when I found the perfect start to my new story.
It made my whole morning make more sense. I often wonder why things happen the way that they do, especially at times when everything is going wrong and life is irritating. This was my answer for yesterday morning. I had to experience the irritation and the anger to have that moment and find the beginning of my story.

Holiday Ramble

Thanksgiving is a holiday that I am conflicted about. I love the idea of taking time out of our busy schedules to think about what we have in our lives that we can truly be thankful for. I think people should do this more often - myself included. I am a lucky woman to have the life that I do, and I try to appreciate it whenever I am feeling down or stressed or irritated. It doesn't always work, but it does put things into perspective.
I like the big meal with family, too, but this is what I am conflicted about. I love seeing my family. This year my great grandfather had dinner with us - 5 generations in one room. It was spectacular. He's going to be 97 in December, and every chance he has to see my kids is special for everyone. The part about the meal that I feel conflicted about is the permission to gorge that we grant ourselves. Struggling constantly with my own food issues and weight battle has made me very conscious of the growing problem of obesity in America - alongside the hordes of people who are starving. As we enter into the Christmas season, we should think about giving back, sharing our food and our love. Being with loved ones should be enough. We shouldn't have to binge drink and eat to enjoy ourselves, and we should think about the people who don't have enough. There are more and more of them. This is what I am going to try to do.
My husband and I are starting a month of healthy living. We're going to eat right, exercise, try to be more positive in our thoughts and actions, and abstain from our vices. It seems like the most difficult time to do it with all of the holiday goodies that will soon abound. I think it will improve us physically and emotionally. Hopefully, our good vibes will spread to everyone around us, and make the holiday season that much brighter.

It's official

I uploaded my manuscript to the NaNoWriMo site today, and I am officially a winner. It was an amazing experience, and I am already thinking about the script frenzy competition they hold in April. It was so fun and a definite learning experience. Loved it and I'm pretty proud of myself. :)

The Emptiness

Ernest Hemingway wrote about the emptiness that comes when a project is finished, and I have been experiencing that for the last couple days. The NaNoWriMo novel was an amazing experience, but it put me in such a frenzy that now that it's done, I can't look at it. I don't want to read it right now. I'm hoping I will eventually. When I finished I felt completely spent creatively. That's the emptiness. The feeling of having nothing left to say, and the fear that nothing else will ever come, that you will stay forever empty.
In some ways I'm not a very rational person, and I do not handle this fear very well. My dream is to be a writer, and the idea of having nothing left to put down on paper is absolutely terrifying. Luckily, it didn't last long this time. I'm working on a short story idea. I also have two books that need more revising, but it is hard to stay focused on revising. I need to be constantly creating.
When I'm not creating, I read. I used to read constantly, but two young children have made it difficult. I've also found that reading while I am writing something tends to distract me and taint my writing with whatever style I happen to be reading at the time. The only book I can read when I am writing is Hemingway's A Movable Feast. That book changed my life. It's what inspired me to start writing again, and gave me insight into the creation of a story.
I wonder if the emptiness is what made him shoot himself. It seems plausible. To spend your entire life writing and find that there just isn't anything left. It must happen eventually. Of course, I think great writers are all pretty messed up, lots of drinking and drugs. I try not to be afraid of the emptiness. I have theatre to help fill me up and my family to support me. So far, I am having luck with my writing. I'm satisfied with that.

Fulfillment

For the last two nights my students have been performing The Wizard of Oz, and they were fabulous. It makes me think about how amazing it is to have a job that is completely fulfilling. Seeing how much the kids loved being in the show and just the amazing energy of the performance nights, make me realize how much I love my job. Middle school is no picnic, and it hasn't always been easy, but it's always worth it.
I finished my novel for NaNoWriMo, and I'm pretty proud of myself. It's a freeing experience to just write without judging yourself, and I got a story written that I've been working on in my head for over a year. I'm going to do another revision on my other book and possibly start querying a couple agents. I can't ever stop working, and I am determined to get at least one of my books published.
I guess I'm just feeling really fulfilled creatively and happy with my life in general. Life is good, and I'm excited for the next projects. I'm extremely lucky to have everything I have, and sometimes it's good to just acknowledge it.

Thoughts about age

I've been thinking about age lately. A lot of my friends are turning 30 or getting close to it, and they complain and worry about it constantly. I'll be 29 soon, but I don't have the same fear that my friends seem to have. To me, age is just a number and how you feel is much more important. When I was a teenager and into my early twenties, I felt old. I was tired and depressed and very pessimistic. Some days I feel like I wasted that time, but usually I am able to see it as a catalyst for the growth of my character. It had to be the way it was, or I wouldn't be where I am today.
These days, I feel young. I don't feel 29. I enjoy life more than I used to and I have a surplus of creative ideas. I feel great. I feel like my thirties are going to be great because I know who I am and what is important.
I've always loved the elderly. I love talking to them and hearing their stories. I think it must be amazing to have lived so long and have known so many people and done so many things. I'm not afraid of growing old. I know it won't always be pleasant, but it will be an adventure.

I Won't Mourn For You

A guy from my high school died the other day. No cause was listed. It just said he died in his residence in Maui. He was one of my best friends for the first couple years of school. Of course after that he was probably one of my least favorite people. I think it's strange how people expect you to mourn anyone who dies, no matter what your previous relationship to them was and no matter how long it had been since you last spoke. I haven't talked to the guy in 12 years, but when my grandmother called her voice was full of fake sympathy, and I felt like I should be sad. I'm not. Later, talking to my mom it was the same thing. Oh it's so sad, etc. etc.
I probably sound like a jerk, but I just don't mourn for people that I haven't spoken to, and honestly, don't even know anymore. I've changed so much since high school and I'm sure he had, too. I'm sorry for his family. It's terrible to lose a loved one, but I shouldn't be expected to go to pieces over it.
I feel like I think about death differently than most people. I'm not afraid of it. I believe in reincarnation, so it's not the end of everything as far as I'm concerned. It's a new beginning, and who wouldn't want that? I also think that some people enjoy mourning and will take any opportunity to make someone else's tragedy their own. That drives me nuts.
So, I won't mourn for this guy. I've been thinking about when we were friends and trying to avoid the memories of when we were not. I'm trying to send positive vibes out into the world. That's the best I can do.

flaws

Ahhh...finally a day with no responsibilities other than the ones to my kids. It's a nice feeling. I'm hoping to spend most of my free time today working on the novel for NaNoWriMo. I've had a couple of fairly productive days. This project is really great. I've had this idea brewing for a while but never wrote it because it was a different style from what I usually write, and I wasn't sure if it would work. This forces me to just write and not second guess myself. I am finding that I do that a lot when I write. I'm always worried about who will read it. I should really just write it and let whoever wants to read it, read it.
The story is really coming along well. I know it's not all great, but parts of it are, and I'm excited that even if I don't finish it by the end of November, I will have a novel that I can revise and try to market. It's kind of exciting to let myself write something without worrying about it. It's freeing.
Self-censorship is one of my biggest flaws. I'm always so worried about what people will think that I barely talk. I'm trying to be more outgoing, but it is difficult. When I do talk to people, I agonize about every word I said and what they might have thought, and I'm very negative about it. It's kind of ridiculous when I step back and look at it from a more rational state of mind.
You can't be afraid of what other people think when you're in theatre or writing. You're putting yourself out there every time you put on a show or give someone something you wrote. It's been good for me. Pride was a big thing when I was growing up, but I think it was taken too far. I was a huge jerk when I was younger and got knocked down pretty far. I still have my moment of ridiculous pride, but I'm learning balance. That's my constant project, finding the balance.

Gobbledygook

I woke up ridiculously early this morning after barely sleeping. What sleep I got last night was filled with dreams of writing and revising, weird writing stress dreams. I made good progress on the NaNoWriMo novel yesterday, just over 6,000 words. It's a start. It's fun project. I've been thinking about this book for a while, and it gives me an excuse to write it and not stop to worry about whether it's any good or not. It's a different style from what I usually write, and I'm hoping I can turn it into a novel. I think I can.
I just realized this morning that I have two weeks until Wizard of Oz goes up. I was a little stressed thinking about my double rehearsal Tuesdays and then got more stressed when I realized that there were only two and the show goes up really soon. I have a lot to do, but these things always pull together in the end. The after school program just had a week long break, so I am really hoping the kids are off book. They were starting to be before we took a week off, but I never know what to expect from the kids. Some are really into it and work really hard and others just blow it off but somehow pull through last minute. It's nerve wracking.
The holidays are fast approaching, and I have barely had any time to think about them. Thanksgiving is three weeks away and Christmas is about six. I'm so focused on shows and writing right now, that I'm not sure where we're going for Thanksgiving or if we're staying home. Part of me wants to just stay home and relax, but holidays have always been about family, and the kids should not miss out just because I'm tired. It was kind of crazy taking on two shows this fall/winter, but I think they're going to turn out well. Still, I'll be glad to have Jan-March to relax and just teach theatre games and scene writing twice a week. This week will be tough, next week will be tougher, then it will be slightly easier until we get into crunch time for Christmas Carol. My mind is so scattered right now.

NaNoWriMo

I just joined NaNoWriMo, a week late, which makes it even more challenging. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel by the end of November without worrying about editing or anything. It's all about output and quantity. I like the idea a lot. I don't know how well I'll do. I've joined a week late, and I have two shows going on right now - one goes up in a week, but I have to try it. If I don't get it done this year, I'll try again next year. I was just thinking about how I only have revision projects right now and nothing creative. This is the perfect thing to fill that need. There is no real pressure, though I would like to finish in the time limit. If I don't, I'll have the start of a new novel to work on. Such a cool thing.
Writing is a great answer to frustration, and I have quite a bit of that right now. It's better to channel it into something productive. This is perfect. I'm considering writing at night after everyone has gone to bed, but I'm always so exhausted by the end of the day. I should start dragging my butt out of bed at 5 again. That would give me a couple extra hours. I've taken on a major challenge. 50,000 words in 3 weeks is a little daunting, but I'll try my best. What else can I do?

I still like my musical :)

I re-read the first draft of my musical tonight, and I still like it. When I haven't been working on something I start to think that there must be something wrong with it, but it's fine. It needs a lot of work, but it is a good place to start. I'm looking forward to collaborating with Andy and Rob on it. They'll help me fill out the plot, make it funny, and add some good music. It's going to be spectacular. Really excited about it.

Short Story - The Nighttime Girl

Here's a short story I've been working on. I'm thinking about submitting it to a literary magazine. It actual came from a blog I wrote earlier. It started out as a poem, but the poem became more of a story, so I changed it. I'd love feedback.

The Nighttime Girl
By Em Frappier

Every night I stand at my window. The deep darkness has fallen, and it is the bewitching time between late night and early morning. The street is empty, save for her, the nighttime girl. She sits on the stoop across the street. I’ve seen her there often, almost every night. She’s an average girl, nothing all that special about her, except she cries. The intensity varies from night to night, but it always there. It’s part of who she is. I would never know her if we passed during the day. Without the pain, her face would be unremarkable.
Sometimes she speaks. Sometimes she screams at the sky, throwing her hands in the air and wailing. Other times her voice is low, and she wraps her arms around her legs, pulling her body into a tight ball on the step. No matter what I always hear her words. She knows I listen to her. Through her tears, she sees me, but we have never spoken. I listen and watch, and she cries.
Tonight she screams at the sky. Asking for a reason for her pain, but no answer comes. No answer ever comes. She rages and screams at the moon, then repents and begs forgiveness. The night is her lover, and their relationship is a tumultuous one. She’s afraid of being alone and simultaneously afraid of other people. She is mostly afraid of herself. Self-hatred pours from her lips. She screams into the night. It’s late, and I wonder where her parents are and why they do not come. She looks at me suddenly, and the screaming stops. She folds her hands calmly in her lap. The silence is heavy around us. Our eyes connect, and I cannot look away. She does not speak, but I hear her questions. She wants to express the darkness inside her and have someone understand. Her eyes accuse and never waver.
She wants me to help her, but I don’t. Part of me wants to hug her and tell her it will be alright, but I don’t know if it will be. I don’t want to lie to this girl. She would know. The desire to run is strong, but I have no where to go. So, I stay in my place at the window, and I do nothing. Every time, I do nothing.
The girl continues to look at me, challenging me to change and wondering why I will not help her. I don’t have an answer. Maybe I want her to stay the way she is. Perhaps I am afraid I will have to change if she does. Who am I without the nighttime girl? I don’t really want to know.
We stare at each other a while longer, unable to turn away. I do understand her. I have seen the world through her eyes, and I know her. The whole time she continues to cry. I marvel that she can have so many tears. I have always shed very few.
The girl looks away, and I am free. I quickly turn my back to her, unwilling to see anymore. Michael rolls over in bed. The moon is on my face, and I know he can see me. He doesn’t say anything as he slowly climbs out of bed and runs his hands over his face, fighting back the sleep his body craves. He stands behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. The girl has vanished into the darkness, and the street is quiet and empty. Michael turns me from the window and guides me back to bed. Once safely in his arms, I feel sleep come, but even as I begin to drift off I can hear the crying of the nighttime girl.

Writing Update

I stayed up until midnight last night writing. It was great. I haven't had any time to write the last couple of days, and I needed to have a few hours of quiet. I wrote a short story and started outlining a play. I've been working on my books for quite a while and need to create some drama again.
This weekend we are starting work on the musical, and I am excited about it. I've wanted to write a musical for a long time, and this idea has had several different forms over the years. I think the team working on it will make it great. We all bring something to the project, and it's going to be a lot of fun. We've been discussing the idea of filming it first as a musical movie, but making it very easy to adapt to the stage. It's going to be a really fun project.
I submitted two of my plays to Playscripts yesterday. They published my other script, so I'm hoping they might like one or both of these. I really like this company. They're easy to work with and the final product is really nice. They're also economical for directors, which is important these days.
I love starting new projects, but the time between is rough. I have a lot of ideas right now, and it is hard to focus on just one.
That's my writing update. I'm having a creative period and trying to enjoy every second of it!

Silence

I've been thinking about silence a lot lately. I used to be surrounded by silence. I've been a quiet person for a long time. I was a loud child and learned quickly that the people around me did not like it. So, I stopped talking. High school was rough. I went to a private school, and the people there were not like me. I was angry then, really angry. I didn't say much because when I did I was ridiculed. By the time I got to college, I was a master of silence. I hardly ever spoke. It helped that I had a roommate who talked constantly and probably wouldn't have let me get a word in even if I tried. There were very few people I trusted. I talked to them, but mostly they talked. I've always been drawn to people who love to talk. My silence made some people uncomfortable, but I was also a really good listener.

I don't regret the silence. It made me a good observer, which is key in both writing and theatre. I've started to talk more. Having kids makes it impossible to be silent, and I think it's been good for me. They shoved me out of my comfort zone. Silence is too easy. It made me feel invisible. I started to actually believe it for a while. No one notices you when you're silent. Having the kids made me realize that I am a person who deserves to be heard. I'm starting to feel the way I did as a child. Free to be myself and talk and laugh and be honest about my thoughts and feelings. It is difficult, but I'm finding freedom is far better than silence.

Now silence means something else to me. The rare moment of silence is a gift, a chance to relax and breathe deep. The change was apparent to me yesterday. I was in the denist's office, waiting for the nurse to get everything set up. I was alone, looking out the window at the river, and the only sound was soft music playing in the background. I took a deep breath and felt more relaxed than I have in a long time. I spend my days with my kids. I work with kids. There is no silence in my life except for the nights, when I'm not able to enjoy it because I'm trying to force myself to sleep. I couldn't help but smile at my enjoyment of that moment of silence at the dentist, but I'll take it where I can get it.

Life's Path

I sold another copy of my play yesterday to someone in Mississippi. This is the second copy that has sold to someone who doesn't know me. I am elated. It makes me feel like a real writer. I am so glad I chose the life I did. Living in a beautiful place with a wonderful family and writing is just about as ideal a life as I could imagine. My husband has been so supportive of this choice, and I don't think I would have even tried without his belief in me. I've always loved writing, but didn't have any support when I was younger. My family reads a lot, but writing was looked upon as something as silly as theatre. 'You can't make a living doing that.' It always seemed like you did well in school, got a job that paid well enough to live, and then just did it for the rest of your life until you retired or died. You weren't expected to like your job. In fact, you would hate it but do it anyway because that's how things are done.
I'm the black sheep of my family. I don't agree with them about a lot of things, and this was a big one. I knew that I loved writing and theatre and that I hate 9-5 jobs. I hate being told what to do, and I have to always be creating or I'm not happy. Choosing to go to school for theatre was (in my family's view) a stupid thing to do. Luckily, it was still the time when it was largely believed that if you went to college (no matter your major) you could get a better job, so I got to major in theatre. They thought I would change my major, but I didn't.
I'm not trying to be down on my family. I love them, and I know they love me. We just don't understand each other. It's almost like speaking a different language. They've been proud of me. I won an award for writing at my high school graduation and got an honors award for theatre in college. Those are things that are easy for them to be proud of, and they were. It's harder to understand my role in theatrical productions, though they tried. They've changed a lot since then. I think they are beginning to understand where I'm coming from.
I think that most of my family's hesitation about trying things comes from fear, fear of failure or of going against the norm. I understand it. Who doesn't have those fears? But, when it comes to writing and theatre, I don't have those fears. That's how I know I need to do these things. Because I believe I can succeed, and I am not afraid to try. They thought I was crazy to get 2 degrees in theatre, but now I teach middle school kids theatre. They thought I was crazy to start my own theatre company, but we're on our third show and doing well. They thought the writing was the most crazy of all, but now I have a published play that is selling and have completed 2 books. I don't know if they believe in me more now, but they can't argue with concrete accomplishments. To be fair to my family, they never said I was crazy for any of these things (except the major in theatre). It was never spoken, but it was plainly obvious. Their eyes would go blank when I started to talk about the things I wanted to try, and they would nod politely. It used to make me so angry and hurt, but now I see it as fear. I understand them a little, and I think they understand me a little.
I'm really glad I chose this path, and I cannot wait to see where it leads me. I truly believe that if you love something enough and work hard to succeed, you can find a way to make it happen. Life should be enjoyed.

The Nighttime Girl

Another night with almost no sleep. The sleep I did get was filled with weird dreams. I always dream about people chasing me and trying to hurt me in some way. They never do, but the entire dream is always the breathless terror of being pursued. If my dreams were made into horror movies I would be rich. I often wonder what it means. I used to be interested in dream interpretation, but I could never find anything that pertained to my dreams. Nighttime used to be my favorite time, but now it just makes me worry. I have to use visualization to occupy my mind until I fall asleep. If I don't, I will spend hours lying awake and worrying - about real things and imagined. I find it incredibly difficult to keep a positive outlook at night. There's a line from The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway that sums it up: It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.

I've always liked that line. Nighttime disturbs me. When I was a teenager I had bad bouts of insomnia. I hardly ever slept. When I think back, I am amazed that I was able to function, let alone do as well in school as I did. I wrote a lot then, too. Mostly poetry, dark moody teenager poetry, but it was a good outlet. I always need an outlet of some kind. I wrote my first play in high school, and my theatre teacher let me direct it my senior year. I wish I still had the script. It was pretty terrible, but it would be fun to see it again. I had no sense of how to write dialogue back then. That was a benefit of my theatre education. I learned a lot about dialogue and character development from my classes, and my writing has greatly improved because of it.

I didn't write the whole time I was in college - not creatively anyway. I didn't sleep either. I worked like crazy on every show I could, sometimes as many as 7 at once. I was crazy and angry and addicted to energy drinks. I didn't have an outlet, so I buried myself in work. I believed then that I would spend my life working like that. I'm glad I chose a different path. College seems so important and so difficult while you're there. Afterward, it seems like a picnic, though I would never want to go back.

The reason I didn't write in college was because I didn't have any confidence. I didn't dare to put my ideas down for others to read until after I had my daughter. Being a parent forces you to have some confidence. Little ones need you, and you have to believe that you are capable of helping them survive. I also started working with kids in theatre around the same time, and it opened up my writing ideas. Before I only wanted to write about eating disorders. I've had eating disorders since I was 13. I never got into drugs. I don't drink much, and I've never felt like I needed to. I chose food instead. It's taken me this long to understand that food can be an addiction. I struggle with it every single day, and I think I will for my entire life. It wasn't something I could write about back then. I was too close to the subject and couldn't put it into words. Now, I have a lot of other ideas, and I don't try to write about it anymore. The musical I'm going to be working on with my husband and our friend, Rob, is loosely based on eating disorders, but it is more about the dual messages of being thin and eating fattening processed food that the media shoves in our faces daily. But, it will be funny and not preachy.
These days, though eating is a struggle, I try to stay focused on being healthy and setting a good example for my kids. I think I'm doing pretty well. I lost 40pounds last year and have maintained it through the summer and fall. I've got my husband eating better and exercising, and my kids love being active and their favorite foods are fruits and veggies. I've made a lot of progress from the sleepless, sick girl I used to be, but sometimes, at night, she's still very much a part of me.

Cell Phones and Revisions

I got a cell phone. I've been against them for a long time. I don't really like talking on the phone, and I don't like the idea of always being able to be found. Lately, I've been more interested in having one. If nothing else, we have a phone number to give the babysitter. Now that I have it, I like it. I shouldn't be excited about it, but I am. More and more I find myself attached to electronics. The world is more connected but maybe also less so. It's the way the world is, and I'm trying to get by.
I'm between writing projects right now, which means revisions. I'm revising my first book for, hopefully, the last time. It's available through lulu.com, but I'm still fixing it up before I buy the ISBN. I love my book, but revisions drive me nuts. This is the 5th one for this book, and I think it will be the best it can be after this one.

The IUD Rollercoaster

I had an IUD put in a while ago, and while they did give me literature on it, they really didn't make it clear that it would turn me into a psychotic, emotional disaster. The newest side effect was intensely painful cramps which came on suddenly and made it impossible to stand or walk. As a mom of two incredibly active kids, this is not okay. It was really scary, but they did eventually pass. I'm starting to wonder if it is worth it and also what kind of things it is doing to my body. It all feels very unnatural.
It's starting to affect my daily life. Some days I cannot control my mood swings and I get bent out of shape by the smallest things. Not good for a mom or someone who works with middle schoolers. I didn't expect these kinds of side effects, and I'm hoping they will wear off after a while. I don't feel like myself. I feel like I'm pregnant only without the benefit of a baby. The whole point is to not get pregnant again, and I don't want to experience the pregnancy symptoms either.
This blog is supposed to be about my writing, but some things need to be purged from my soul. I can't write or do anything I normally would when I am curled up in a ball crying or freaking out because someone at work said I was stressed out. It makes me feel like I'm crazy, and I hate feeling that out of control. I really hope it is the IUD and not just my sanity diminishing.

Saying goodbye to fear

I find fear fascinating. Fear controls so much of who we are and what we do. I'm an extremely fearful person. I'm afraid of spiders, heights, interactions with people, people not liking me, etc. Writing and theatre are the two areas of my life where I refuse to be fearful. I think it's because I love doing both and want to do them for the rest of my life. Neither are things where you can be afraid of rejection. I'm learning to just say F-it and let people think what they will. You can't make everyone like you. This is something I have struggled with my entire life and am just barely starting to accept. I've spent a long time trying to make everyone like me and feeling like no does. I'm not doing that anymore. I am who I am. I do what I do. I write what I write.

the next phase

I've finished the second revision on my 2nd book. Today, I'm going to give it to a couple students I work with in theatre and have them read and critique it for me. I wrote it for a middle grade/young adult audience, so I am excited to hear their feedback. I think I'm going to have them fill out a questionaire after they finish reading it, but I'm not sure what to put on it.
While they're reading my book, I'm going to start on a draft of my query letter. I learned a lot from writing the last one, and I think I will end up with a better one this time around. The query letter is difficult because you only have one page to catch the agent's attention, summarize your book, and give all the other pertinent information. It seems simple, but it's hard to fit it all onto one page.
For anyone who doesn't know the process, a query letter is what you send to literary agents in the hope that they will be interested enough by it to request the full manuscript. If they like the manuscript and think it is something they can sell, they send you a contract. Most of them ask for the query letter and the first chapter. I think that the first chapter of THE LAST WITCH OF NORG HALLOW is pretty catchy, but I'd love another opinion about it. I'm going to include it in this post for anyone to read and comment on.
I'm looking forward to receiving feedback on this project. I'm putting my writing out a little more, and it is scary and exciting. I've also been working on a musical with my husband, and now our good friend is going to collaborate on it as well. It's a project I have wanted to do for a long time, and I think things are finally coming together. It's going to be a lot of fun, and hopefully, when we're done, we'll have something our theatre company can put on stage. It's going to be a whole new experience, and I'm excited to see what happens.

Thought of the Day:
I love this time of day. Early morning to me is the calm before the storm. The kids are asleep. The house is quiet except for the kitten playing with his toy mouse in the kitchen. I have a cup of tea and my laptop and a little silence. I don't need anything more.

THE LAST WITCH OF NORG HALLOW
Chapter 1
The house at 1558 Bellevale Road was a sprawling old Victorian, warped out of its once graceful shape by additions of indeterminate age and time period. It looked like a Gothic castle only somewhat successfully joined with something out of a science fiction novel. The house was enormous and sat upon fifteen acres of sprawling marsh and bog and a forest of gnarled, ancient trees. The final touch was the backyard, which boasted large, colorful gardens seemingly misplaced against the muted greens and grays of an enormous hedge maze.
The house itself was massive and ancient. The boards groaned underfoot, and there were hundreds of secret passageways and false walls. I always imagined the previous owner as a thin, little man with a large, round head that shone in the firelight. I saw him slipping away into dark, secret rooms and having hushed meetings with mysterious visitors in the night. Sometimes my daydreams wandered into the realm of ghosts and vampires, but it gave me nightmares, and I had to stop.
I had lived in the house with my great grandmother, Valencia Valdala, since I was five years old. Valencia was gloomy and strange, and she muttered to herself constantly. Her wiry body was strong, though she was ninety-four the summer of my sixteenth year. She liked to be alone and rarely spoke to me, though when she did she seem to like me well enough. She took me in when my mother and father died in a car accident. I was home with Valencia when it happened. I’ve tried to remember them, but the memories are fragmented and infrequent. I remember my mother’s face, but it is fuzzy and out of focus. My father is more a scent, a certain aftershave. I smelled in once in a store when I was ten, and it knocked me down. I came to in the employee lounge, with Valencia hovering above me, anxiously gripping my shoulder and yelling at the paramedics.
The locals think the house is haunted. It was owned briefly by a man who went crazy one night and cut up his wife. He kept her in a giant walk-in freezer, one of the uglier additions that jutted off the western corner of the house like a big, metal boil. Her ghost is said to haunt the addition and walks the halls every night at midnight. I’ve never seen her, but I avoid the freezer. There are many rooms in the house that Valencia has deemed off limits, usually to keep her many knick-knacks and antiques safe, but the freezer wasn’t one of them. She didn’t use it. It was only slightly cooler than the rest of the house. Valencia had filled it floor to ceiling with her stuffed animal collection. She had dogs, cats, monkeys, and jaguars. The largest was a massive grizzly bear with teeth that looked like long, glistening knives. Its claws were longer than my hand and looked razor sharp. It was terrifying.
I had seen it only once, the one time I visited the freezer. I had heard the kids at school talking about it and wanted to see if anything weird happened. Nothing happened. The room just seemed sad to me, filled with death and left to sit forgotten and gathering dust. The grizzly was the only thing that frightened me. I had dreams about it for months. It was alive again and hunting me. Wherever I went it was always just behind, and I would feel its hot breath on my neck before waking in a cold sweat with my heart pounding.
The kids at school kept away from me, as if the house had tainted me with its grisly past. In addition to the rumored haunting, Valencia was deemed a witch because she went about talking to herself and glaring at anyone who met her eye. She dressed in dark dresses and long, flowing skirts, and her hair was a halo of gray frizz. I tried asking her to tone down her erratic behaviors, but she only looked down at me and gave me a rare, beaming smile.
“Let ‘em talk, dear. It’s good for the imagination.”

I had started doing most of the errands in town myself to avoid more speculation, and I walked into town at least once a day. The house was located at the end of a mile long drive that twisted through the tall pine trees surrounding the house. The drive joined a dirt road that led into the town. At the corner sits the only house within four miles of ours, a large brick monstrosity, dotted with windows like sleepless eyes, staring back at you without blinking.
It stood empty until that summer. I had just turned sixteen, celebrating this milestone birthday with a small, store bought cake that I purchased myself. Valencia serenaded me with her crackly voice, and when I blew out the candles I made a wish. I had never done it before. The only wish I ever really had was for my parents to still be alive, and that wasn’t possible.
My sixteenth birthday was different. The end of tenth grade was approaching, and summer loomed before me. The other kids still avoided me. My name was something that could only be spoken in hushed tones amidst a tight group of bodies huddled against the lonely outsiders. During the entire last year, only four students had even said hello to me. One was Tiffany Brenwick, the bubbly blonde whose smile was like a flame, attracting others to her. There was a choreography to it. The jostling of bodies as they each tried to position themselves closest to her. She was nice to everyone, and she made a point of saying hello to those of us who could not be accepted into her sphere.
I was thinking about Tiffany, who had already been assured her place on the varsity cheerleading squad next year, as I trudged home, carrying two bags of groceries and my backpack. As I neared the drive, I noticed a large moving van parked outside the house on the corner. Two burly men in Rick’s Moving Company t-shirts and dirty jeans were hefting a sofa, while a tiny, beetle-like woman scuttled back and forth, nervously giving them directions.
There was a squeal from inside the house, and a teenage boy raced out of the house carrying his little sister on his shoulders. She had her arms flung up in the air and screamed with wild joy as he ran across the lawn toward the edge of the forest. The mother paused and shot a frightened look at her children before smiling and turning back to the two goliaths still grunting under the weight of her floral printed couch.
The boy swung his sister down to the grass, and she ran to embrace her mother. He looked at me, and I blushed and looked away. I’d grown used to being ignored, and I reacted with terror when someone actually looked me in the eye. His eyes were a startling light blue, ice blue is what it should be called.
I walked a little faster and kept my eyes on the road. My bags were heavy. I had planned to stop and rest at the house before continuing up the drive, and my shoulders were burning. The handles of the bags were cutting into my palms, and my fingers felt numb. There were footsteps behind me, going faster than mine, catching up to me. I looked up, and he was standing beside me. He smiled, a sliver of white in his tanned, handsome face. He brushed a strand of golden hair from his eyes and reached out to take my bags.
“Here, let me take those. They look heavy. My name’s Blade.”
“Blade?” I couldn’t suppress my surprise.
“My old man’s idea.” He sighed. “Long story.”
We walked along in silence. I knew I needed to speak, but I hadn’t spoken with anyone other than Valencia in years. I struggled for words, any words to end the silence. I started listening to the sound of our footsteps. We were walking in sync, our steps a simple choreography. He laughed out loud, and I jumped. The sound seemed so foreign surrounded by the heaviness of the trees.
“You’re a quiet one, huh? No problem. I can talk forever. I just hope you don’t mind me rattling on.” He flashed me another pearly white smile.
“I don’t mind,” I squeaked. “I’m Casey.”

That was my first encounter with Blade. He was handsome and mysterious. My heart raced, and I felt sick with anxiety. He walked me all the way to the house. At the door, he handed my bags back to me and bowed like someone out of a Jane Austen novel.
“Nice meeting you, Casey. I hope we’ll see each other soon.”
Another flash of smile, and he was off. His shoulders were broad under his gray t-shirt, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I watched until he rounded the curve in the drive and disappeared from view. I saw Valencia watching from the window above. The curtain fell back as I looked up, and I was certain at that moment that I would never see Blade again. He must have seen Valencia’s witch-like face hovering over us like impending doom. He would soon meet other kids in town and hear the stories of the house, and he would be relieved that he had survived the encounter.
I went back to my usual summer pursuits. I made a daily pilgrimage to town to buy things for Valencia. I don’t think she always needed these things, but she hoped that I would make friends if I kept going into town, as if I could be absorbed into their group just by walking past them enough times. She didn’t know the anguish it caused me, passing them day after day as they sprawled outside the doors of the grocery store, the boys flicking bottle caps and small stones toward the girls, and the girls screaming daintily.
As I approached their eyes would skid over me, stop for a brief moment, then return to where they had rested lazily before I disrupted their space. I was forgotten as soon as I passed and caused no reaction at all as I trudged out of the store minutes later, laden down with bags, my eyes on the ground. My feet could never move fast enough when I was leaving, though approaching always felt like I was walking under water.
I hadn’t seen any of the inhabitants of the brick house since that first day, but there were signs of those who dwelt inside, a bike left in a heap on the lawn, its pink and silver tassels raised into the air like a flag, a skateboard abandoned on the front steps, and bright pansies and marigolds lining the walk. Once I thought I saw a curtain on an upstairs window fall back into place as I passed, and I imagined Blade watching me through a small gap in the fabric.
After a week, I was sure that he was watching me. He had been a moment too slow, and I saw him standing in the second floor window, the one on the eastern end of the house, closest to the forest. His face, in the brief moment before the curtain obscured my view, was troubled. There was a look of sorrow that made me wonder if someone close to him had just died.
It was a quick glimpse, and I could not be sure what I had actually seen. I had to accept that it was probably my imagination. It was certainly a romantic notion, and I was in the habit of concocting wild tales about people based on the slightest interaction. Being ignored had turned me into a storyteller, and I enjoyed the romantic tales I wove in my head, spinning out love stories like webs to trap my loneliness.
I was very lonely and had hoped many times for companionship. There had been girls, new students who were nice to me at first, but dropped me without hesitation when they heard the stories or caught a glimpse of Valencia. There was one in particular, a girl named Kristy. A perky name for a perky girl. It seems like all popular girls have names that end in a perky exclamation, making it easy for their friends to squeal their name across a crowded room without sounding dumb. I had one of those names, but no one had ever squealed it before I met her. Kristy squealed everything she said. She was confident and did not fall prey to the common new student insecurities. She was certain that she would be accepted, and I was merely a bump in the road, a required irritation that would soon pass and be forgotten. She screamed in terror when she first saw Valencia.
Valencia came to meet me after school one day. I had made the mistake of mentioning Kristy the night before, so convinced I was then that she and I would become best friends, giggling over magazines and walking arm and arm down the hallway, a united front against the hostilities of high school.
I think Valencia was excited for me. In her youth, she had been surrounded by friends, adored by all who met her. The house was covered with framed photographs, snapshots of brief moments in her life, capturing her happiness, her laughter, her thorough enjoyment of everyone and everything around her. Valencia lead a peppy life, always the center of the group. My lack of popularity devastated her, though she had already outlived her multitude of friends. She had once had hundreds of them, collected over the years like porcelain figurines. The last one passed when I was ten. Valencia was eighty-eight but acted more like a sixty year old. Something happened when that last friend passed. Valencia seemed to shrink into a shell of her once boisterous self. She stayed inside the house, wobbled from room to room muttering to herself. It was monotonous, turning into a chant, a low guttural sound located deep in her throat. I couldn’t understand many of the words, but the few that did reach me were disturbing and disjointed.
That was when Valencia turned from eccentric to the kind of strange that people only spoke of in whispers, the kind that made the speaker pause with a theatrical raising of the eyebrows, which was met with a commiserating look and a tactful change of subject. She became obsessed with finding me friends, including setting up a few embarrassing and futile play dates. She eventually gave up, too exhausted by her efforts to continue. The woman who had always seemed at least twenty years younger than she was had grown old before my eyes. Loneliness ruined her. She didn’t have my ability to withstand it.
But, back to Kristy. Valencia was waiting outside the main entrance of the school. It was Kristy’s second day, and the depth of my unpopularity was becoming clear to her. She was starting to distance herself from me in her polite way, a slow process that I would willingly stretch as long as possible. Her look of horror when she saw Valencia, looking more witch-like than usual with a smear of red across her lips, is seared into my mind. The humiliation I felt as she turned from me to the haggard crone on the sidewalk and back again was painful. I have never hated Valencia as much as I did at that moment. I wanted to strike her wrinkled, grinning skull, barely covered in a thin layer of frizzled hair. Instead, I ran. I ran all the way to the house, threw myself onto the bed, and cried until Valencia returned home hours later.
Kristy was absorbed into the popular crowd immediately after. They helped her through the horrible trial she had endured in seeing Valencia, and by the next morning she was all smiles and new friendships. She was the last new student I tried to befriend. There had been others, it seemed as if there were always people moving into Crystal River, but I ignored their hesitant advances, let them flounder for a moment before they moved on to the next kid in line, a huge girl with round glasses too small for her large face and man sized hands. She had permanent sweat stains under her arms and a best friend named Marjorie, which ranked her slightly above me on the popularity ladder.
I was thinking about Kristy the second time I saw Blade. He was hunched over the flower beds, pulling weeds for his mom. I’d seen her a few times as I walked home. She was a small, fragile boned woman who wore a large man’s shirt and faded black capris when she gardened. She topped them off with gardening gloves and a large, floppy brimmed straw hat, which hid her expression in shadow whenever she raised a timid, glove covered hand in greeting as I slouched by with my bags. I would briefly raise my eyes to glance at the eastern, second floor window and glance over her small greeting before turning back to my flip flops.
Blade turned at the sound of my steps scuffing the dirt. He smiled and wiped his brow, leaving a brown smudge above his eyes that seemed to enhance his good looks rather than mar them. He dropped his pruning shears on the grass and walked toward me. I’ve replayed that walk a thousand times, slowing it down and savoring every second. Blade Connor was my first crush, and it started at that moment.
I stopped and waited for him to approach. He was an athletic six feet tall and seemed to be a year or two older than me. He hopped the fence, took my bags from me, and we continued up the drive. He flashed me another blinding smile.
“Miss me?”
I was too shocked by this whole encounter to form sentences and could barely manage a slight nod. I could feel my face getting hot. He was staring at me, oddly detached as if I was an exhibit in an art museum, and he was trying to understand the depths and complexities hidden beneath the surface.
“Man, you are a quiet one. That’s cool, though. I like a girl who’s serious.”
We walked on in silence. I didn’t know what to say, and he seemed content to just walk. I wondered if he had somehow managed to miss seeing Valencia the first time he came to the house. Only that could explain why he was still speaking to me. I didn’t have to wonder for long, for as we rounded a bend in the drive, Valencia came into view. She liked to walk the length of the drive three times a day, and one of them usually coincided with my return from town.
My spine stiffened, and I had an immediate urge to retreat. I felt Blade place his hand on my arm. I couldn’t tell from his face if he was afraid or disgusted. His brilliant smile never wavered as we approach the old crone.
Valencia’s reaction to us was even more surprising than Blade’s calm countenance. Her face started to stretch into her usual, hideous smile, but it faltered when her eyes landed on Blade. She hesitated, which was something I had never seen Valencia do. There was not a moment I could remember when she had not spoken her mind in her careless, brash manner, but she seemed to shrivel before Blade, showing all of her ninety-four years.
We stopped to greet her, and she extended a withered hand cautiously, as if touching Blade’s hand would cause her pain. Her voice was weak and husky, the words smoky and fleeting, barely understood before being whisked away by a soft breeze. I was horrified to have Blade meet her, and even more horrified when he bowed and kissed her hand. His smile never faltered as his lips touched the parched skin. Valencia gave a yelp and pulled her hand away.
My embarrassment and rage were about to boil over, so I quickly ended the awkward conversation and started back to the house. Blade followed. He turned and looked over his shoulder, and his smile grew larger. I turned. Valencia was where we had left her and stood staring at the ground muttering. I wanted to run into the house, lock myself in my room, and never leave again.
Then Blade laughed, and my anxiety disappeared. We laughed all the way to the house, where he stopped and handed me my bags. He smiled at me through several strands of golden hair.
“We should hang out some time, Casey. Daytime’s better for me. I’m free most of the time, just not from four to six.”
I didn’t know what to say. No boy had ever wanted to hang out with me. Usually, they hurled insults at me while I walked by pretending to contemplate my shoes. I thought my heart would pound out of my chest, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Everything got hazy around the edges, and I felt the world slip sideways.
Blade caught me as I fell, saving my head from the stone steps. He sat beside me and helped me sit up slowly. After a few moments, the world stopped spinning, and I felt a little better. I became aware of his arm lightly touching mine, and his minty breath on my cheek.
I stood shakily and went to the door. I couldn’t look at him. My cheeks burned with humiliation, absolutely certain that I was the only person in the world who had fainted because a boy asked me to hang out. I went inside and closed the door softly behind me. I pressed my back against the door and waited for my heartbeat to slow down. When I peeked out the window, Blade was already nearing the bend in the drive. I watched him disappear behind the trees, then went out to collect the groceries I had left on the steps.

who I am

I'm a writer. I've tried to be other things, but I always comes back to writing. I've just had my first play published. AN EMPRESS, A FAUN, AND...OLIVE LOAF? is available at www.playscripts.com and is a lot of fun for middle or high school students. I've self published my first novel through lulu.com, and I am currently revising my second novel.
I love fantasy and sci-fi and write primarily in that genre. I have a plan for success, and I am planning a major marketing plan for my first novel, AZENDALE, starting in February 2010. This blog is a record of my journey.
I'm also the Artistic Director of Mountain Road Productions, Inc., a theatre, music, and film production company in northern Vermont and a theatre director for middle school students. I need a lot of creative outlets and am constantly creating new projects. I am currently working on a musical with my husband that we hope to have ready for performance in the next couple years.
Life is good.