Writing Outside the Lines

Conviction and Insight: A Teenager Speaks

2010-10-07T12:43:00.001-07:00

Addiction. Cutting. Suicide.

Please visit Two Write Love on Her Arms and The Trevor Project for information on what you can do to help someone in crisis and to celebrate the hope offered in a single smile.

After my daughter came home from rehearsal last night, she posted this note on her FB account. Keep in mind she is 14 years old and a high school freshman:

How to Save a Life

Bullying. This is a word that everyone knows, and at some time or another we have probably all experienced. It ranges from the annoying but relatively harmless and cliché insults such as "four eyes" or "pizza face" (which I never fully understood) to the kind that is utterly unforgivable. The cyber bullies, the bullies that shove kids down stairs, the group of girls that has some snarky bitchy comment to say to the class nerd every day, the bullies that harass other kids about being gay, the bullies that purposely exclude people just to make them feel insignificant.

Something people don't realize is that the saying "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me" is BULLSHIT. Words are sometimes worse than bullets. Hell words often are the bullets that some poor kid has to deal with every single day. Words kill kids. They really do. So many kids today commit suicide because of bullies, and it’s often because of what the bullies said, not because they took the kids lunch money. I can give you a list of kids that I either go to school with now or used to that have attempted to kill themselves because of bullies and this has to stop.

An 18 year old boy posted a suicide note on facebook then jumped off bridge, killing himself because his roommate posted a video of him and his boyfriend having an "encounter"

A 13 year old boy killed himself after being bullied at school, why? He was gay.

A 13 year old girl named Hope killed herself, because of cyber bullies.

These kids shouldn't have died; these kids killed themselves because of other kids.

Some quick facts:
· Suicide is the second leading cause of death among college students
· Suicide is the third leading cause of death for 15-to-24-year-olds.
· Every hour and forty-five minutes another young person commits suicide.
· More than 13 of every 100,000 people aged 15 to 24 committed suicides in 1990. Experts estimate that each year nearly 5,000 teenagers commit suicide.
· Teen/youth suicide rates have tripled since 1970.

To any of you out there reading this that are the bullies or have ever been the bullies here is what I have to say to you:
In a few years from now, you're not going to remember the kid’s names, you won't remember what they looked like, and you probably won't remember half of what you said to them. THEY will remember you though, every word you said every time you shoved them, and every night they spent crying because of you. They will remember what you sounded like, what your face looked like, everything. If they kill themselves because of all the crap you put them through it’s your fault and you'll have their blood on your hands. Remember that.

Kids: I'm sick of hearing all these stories about kids our own age who are dead because of what other kids put them through. We need to stop this, and we all can. Smile at that kid who sits by herself at lunch, hell GO EAT WITH HER. Help the boy who dropped his books, don't laugh. Talk to the quiet kid. Say something nice to the kid you know is getting picked on. Something as simple as "I like your shirt!" or just smiling at someone really can make a difference.

Adults: Look, a lot of the time you're not too helpful. Saying things like "Oh they are just jealous" or "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me" tell us kids two things: one, you're a moron and two you've probably not been bullied very much. Kids need people they can get help from, someone they can talk to. We need you to say "They are such assholes sweetie." and stuff like that. We need someone to go in and help us. The thing is most kids don't have that; you adults need to step up to the plate.

At the beginning of this school year my teacher told my class to write 3 goals in our notebook or just write one big goal. I know what my big goal this year is.

It’s to show one kid that they are wanted and loved.

It’s to save a life.

Social Media: Getting Drunk and Vomiting

2010-06-22T11:03:00.000-07:00

Last week I read Sarah Glazer's post, Writing as Solitude and found this link to Alone, With Words by The New Republic's Jed Perl. From there I read Emily Gould's NY Times Magazine article.

Social media - the power lunch redux - is networking. Arguably this tool takes networking to the tenth power; however, the expansion of results are achieved through an amplification of consequences. When we power-lunched in the 80's we got drunk; when we overshare in the 2010's we vomit.

Early in my tweeting career, I followed a woman recommended by an acquaintance only to learn her tweets are limited to three areas: her breasts, getting drunk and how much she hates her job. She posts from work all day long. Tacky to be sure, but when I found out she's an elementary school teacher, I unfollowed and sighed. Surrounded by cheap-chirps and furious-facebooking, I am still hard pressed to find a colleague or friend smitten with twitter, facebook or blogging who will in any way speak ill of their new obsession. So protective...like I called their girl-friend a slut.

I'll admit I struggle with peering over the edge and into the abyss. I tweet. I blog. And I update. If I publicly share a piece of my life that hits fairly close to the bull's eye, I at least confer with the other parties involved. Emily Gould, though somewhat reformed, and many many others argue two-fold: "freedom of speech" and "it's the truth". Both positions may very well be the case, but neither is a defense against human decency nor accountability.

The idea of tell it all and tell it anywhere is quite frankly just bad manners. The online equivalent of the nose-picking, gum-smacking gossip you encounter at a networking event and break away from at the first possible moment. And yet, online, with its built in anonymity for both writers - and readers - we spend the night with mean-spirited and self-absorbed people with whom we would never be friends. Then again, they could already be a friend, or parent, or child.

Perhaps part of our collective challenge as writers in this age of immediate gratification is the absence of a cooling off period. We react, we type, we post. I found Jed Perl's words to be true at a most basic level. Some thoughts, feelings and beliefs are private. Some are meant for only a few. And some are shared among thousands. My responsibility as a writer, a friend and most importantly as a parent, is to pay attention. To drink responsibly. To remember that while I can burn the pages of a journal, I cannot burn what I put out into the cloud.

Objectivity Resuscitated

2010-06-18T13:37:00.000-07:00

Most of my writing experience is connected to playwriting. I just finished drafting my first novel.

For me, I work on character sketches and conflict in the beginning and gather a rough idea as to plot. Honestly, plot doesn't concern me. I want to know whose story it is, what she wants, and what she's willing to do to get it. I don't care if she's overthrowing the evil empire or navigating through lunch with her mother-in-law.

Once I start writing, I never look back. New characters show up, others are eliminated. Sometimes the conflict changes, and sometimes the storyteller changes. That's really fun!

I move forward even though I'm quite certain the story I began won't be the same one I will finish. Once I'm done the whole thing will sit on the bookshelf for several months while I regain some objectivity. Occasionally my rest and recover time frame is shortened to meet a deadline.

I can't imagine the stress of reading the early chapters 400 times. I would never get anywhere feeling tethered to those first 10,000 words - or first 10 script pages.

The first draft of my novel will percolate on the bookshelf until August 22nd. And no, I really won't open that file or pick up the manuscript ahead of time. Not even once.

Hearing the Who!: The Backdoor to Intention

2010-06-08T16:57:00.001-07:00

"My friends," cried the elephant. "Tell me! Do tell! Are you safe? Are you sound? Are you whole? Are you well?" -- Horton Hears a Who!

"What's in your medicine cabinet? Your refrigerator? And your wallet?" I ask my new characters when they show up on the page. "Have you experienced grief, envy and joy? What makes you snort, or sneeze, or sigh?"

Once I know what a character does/feels/thinks, I can create all kinds of reasons why they choose those patterns.

I write pages and pages for each character's profile. I love this part of the discovery process. More than once I have learned that a character didn't belong in the story in which she first appeared. This is a great way for me to identify a ghost too - a character I very much want to exist, but one who just won't come. I know then I'm forcing a solution - perhaps walking too closely to a deux ex machina. And twice now I've had characters deliver the mcguffin in a play. Those experiences were a total surprise and so much fun!

Writing characters who listen to each other, or refuse to listen, is important to me. I can't do that unless I hear what they have to tell me. I have to listen to their "Who!"

A Ridiculous Number of Journals

2010-06-07T16:49:00.000-07:00

I have eight active journals. Really. Among them are the personal processing journal, the family quotes journal, a reading journal and my five-year journal. I also keep a gratitude journal. This year's journal was made by Ashley Chassé from New York by way of Ottawa, Canada. Much more about Ashley's work in a post later this summer.

As we round second toward the last half of 2010 I thought I'd publish a few snippets from this journal. My journal can be both a list of the obvious and a measure of the quality of the problems.

Some days the best I can do is be grateful that it's nearly over. I'm sure you can relate. For example the entry for June 1st is a good-problem-glad-the-day-is-nearly-over kind of entry:

I am grateful for the gas in my car and the money in my bank account that provided me with the opportunity to be snubbed by five employees at Jerry's Artarama in Tempe, Arizona - to be specific.

The day before (May 31st) I wrote: I'm grateful for misunderstandings and the chance to set them right. For the courage to see the ending and the endurance to see it through. For the heartache and bruised ego wedged in between.

No major revelations; hopefully a little special in the yuck. We as a family are stuck in the yuck. Trudging to be sure, and we've a fair ways to go. Since I drive that train, we seem to share a bit more laughter and shed a few less tears when I pull out Miss Chassé's journal and scribble a couple of sentences. It helps, maybe just because I think it to be so, and that is good enough for me.

Letters to My Editor: Reprint

2010-05-27T20:26:00.000-07:00

This post was featured on The Outlet. It's wonderful. Please enjoy.

To The Editor,
Thank you in advance for your consideration of my enclosed fiction submission for publication in your magazine.

To The Editor,
Last week I submitted a story for publication in your magazine. A closer reading of your online submission guidelines has brought me to regret the tone of my initial email. You are not looking for stiff-necked writers who stand on formality nor do I fit that description. I write today to inform you that I am, in fact, too “out there” for two of my uncles who stopped coming to Thanksgiving years ago. They were boxed in by hegemonies, anyway. I know your magazine is looking for real writer’s writers who break molds and then make jello in ashtrays instead. I am your man. My story is titled Vacation from Hell.

To The Editor,
Today’s the day! It has been exactly two to three months since I submitted to your magazine. (I will probably get your response when the mail comes today.) In way of celebration, please find enclosed two important appendices to Vacation from Hell. The first is a picture of me for publication alongside my story. Please note my unorthodox attire considering I am pictured attending a bris. The second document is a companion reader to my story. Titled “Critical Essays on Judson Merrill’s Vacation from Hell” it offers a more complete examination of my fiction than your staff may have the time or expertise to provide. Please pay particular attention to the chapters “Giraffe Imagery” and “Autobiographical Influences.” I look forward to working with you.

To The Editor,
Thank you for your kind attention to the following apology for any letters I may have written to your magazine between midnight and 3 a.m. this morning. I was celebrating the newest draft of Vacation from Hell (enclosed). I imbibed too freely and, inadvertently, made a blood pact with a man named Woody that I would write hateful things to the person(s) who is most important to me. I assume I wrote to you. I have foggy memories of typing the phrases “Faulknerian idiot-man-child cum editor,” “long standing literary giraffe bias,” and “blood on your hands.” If any of this sounds familiar, I am most sorry.

To The Editor,
Last winter I submitted a story titled Vacation from Hell. Frankly, the length of time it has taken to reply to my submission is an insult. If I had gotten you pregnant back in January, instead of simply submitting a story, we would have already packed a bag for the hospital, mapped out our route, et. al. The big day would be upon us. So, if that’s all I am to you, a fake pregnancy you have no intention of pretending to deliver, than I need to know. And I need to know yesterday.

To The Editor,
I have hired a private detective to find out exactly what happened to my submission Vacation from Hell. Since my writing is my (potential) livelihood I need to keep careful track of it. My detective’s name is Gregor Freed and he is currently breaking into your office to retrieve any and all copies of my story from your offices and computers. Also, I have authorized him to leave fresh copies on the desks of all your editors, in the bathrooms, and in the pair of galoshes he found by the door.

To The Editor,
Thank you in advance for your kind attention to the tunnel I have excavated underneath your house. I have been living here for a week and enjoy your musical taste. I am writing to invite you to visit me any time to discuss my recent fiction submission, Vacation from Hell. I have previously been in contact with your staff and was under the impression my story was being considered. Nevertheless, I did some detective work on my own and discovered that at least five copies of my story were discarded before there was possibly time to read them. I knew you would want to know of this neglect which is why I am writing you personally. Again, my name is Judson Merrill and my story was titled Vacation from Hell (enclosed). I have recently placed copies in your coffee cup and Basquiat DVD case (that seemed to be the artiest movie you own). I also tucked a copy into your daughter’s sheets when she was at school today. I think she will appreciate its dark humor and, since she is family, I know she would be a trusted reader.

To The Publisher,
Thank you in advance for your consideration of my enclosed prison memoir, Giraffe Pen, for publication by your imprint. I believe you will find it haunting and visceral. I look forward to working with you.

- Judson Merrill lives and writes in Brooklyn. He’ll release an e-novella, The Pool, this summer. A few things can be found at judsonmerrill.com.

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Writers

Three Artists and Their Creative Influence on My Work

2010-05-19T12:47:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a brief hiatus. Just a few weeks to walk through graduations, and health matters, and the beginning of summer. In the meantime, I'm leaving you in the good hands of some remarkably talented artists each of whom has impacted by creativity first hand.

Tyson Crosbie is a Phoenix-based photographer. His work features urban abstract compositions. He's amazing, and I'm proud to say I own a copy of Phoenix 21 signed by the artist. You can follow his most unusual blog as he organizes his perspective on the work. See Phoenix 22 as exhibited in Phoenix this spring.

Chris Reilly and his wife Michelle Reilly are San Diego-based abstract painters. Their work is shown in major galleries across the U.S.. Their ethereal backgrounds support applied elements from nature in a rare encaustic wax technique. I own several pieces of their work and am grateful to call them my friends.

And finally, Erinn Cunningham, who resides in Ottawa, Canada, is the most recent addition to my growing circle of artists influencing my creative process. Erinn's work immediately presents narrative streams for me. He is in the process of creating one of a kind prints of three pieces for me: Isolation, Rural, and Laneway. When I saw each of these photographs, I immediately sketched a story in my mind. Aren't they cool? There are several other pieces, such as: At the Movies and Monochrome Flowers and Winterscape that I am also looking to add to my walls.

Spending time with their work brings me a sense of both peace and energy. They are lantern and flashlight; mountain and meadow.

I hope you find their work inspiring.

Scribbles

2010-05-12T21:29:00.000-07:00

Last night I saved the "NPD 051110.doc" file for the last time.

I finished the first draft.

Nobody was home.

I poured a cup of iced coffee, texted my two best friends, and threw a load of sheets in the washer.

And then I hit print.

Perfect.

Photo courtesy of "three little cupcakes".

Waiting for the Solution to Show Itself Again

2010-05-10T17:01:00.000-07:00

I spent 26 hours in San Diego over the weekend. I wish I’d stayed longer. On my drive back to Phoenix I think I solved the last bit of Sara’s journey. And then I forgot.

I woke up this morning and could only remember that it worked. Whatever I untangled behind the headlights of my car cutting through the desert is gone. My solution twirled back up like the plastic telephone cords we used to have – well some of us used to have – 35 years ago.

I was pretty bummed out about that this morning. I actually wondered if beating my head against the coffee shop wall would summon the process I found the night before. How did I wind text through the desert air to get to the final week of Sara’s story? Of getting to the knot at the end of the road where Sara is waiting at the bus stop. Where Sara is waiting to let go, waiting to embrace, and waiting to see if anyone will be with her in the end.

Then I realized I am tired. Worn out from the waiting, and the task of braiding new strands of waiting into some kind of macramé design in my own world. I know it’s part of life, and at times the breaks from waiting are shorter than at others…but damn.

So rather than compare myself to other writers, rather than chastise myself for not “pulling myself up by my bootstraps”, I went down to the warehouse to read. Rest, read and write in my journal. Today was a day for turtling. A good day to sit with Sara at the bus stop and wait. Wait for the words to come again.

Photo courtesy of Josh Sommers

But It Will Be Alright

2010-05-05T20:13:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is Thursday...

Poster by Andre Jordan

Raising the Stakes

2010-05-03T10:26:00.001-07:00

I recently had a conversation with another writer about what it means to "raise the stakes" for a character. In my novel, Sara has several relationships that break apart over the course of her story. I realized last week that a third relationship - one that she counted on forever - needed to implode. Perhaps forever? I needed this to happen to raise the stakes for her "choice" at the apex of the story arc. To further illuminate the resolution of the conflict.

The stakes in my own life have been raised over these last few weeks by the loss of a friendship. One that I counted on being around for a very long time. What I wrote for the novel preceded my own experience, but the proximity of these events is interesting to me. A foreshadowing of what my intuition was already becoming aware of in my friendship as well.

Waiting sucks. Loss sucks. And in art, as in life, the stakes are constantly being raised. I know how Sara's journey ends, although I'm not exactly sure how she gets there. In contrast I don't know how my story ends, and I definitely don't know how I get there. I hope life imitates art. I hope Sara teaches me about making good choices. I hope I pay attention.

Photo courtesy of Sausyn

Pull Up a Chair

2010-04-28T23:33:00.000-07:00

I have no word count for today.

Some waiting was more focused today. Some waiting became plans about how we're going to wait in the weeks to come. Planning for limbo. Interesting.

I have found in my short albeit epic life that the simple act of sitting with another person in whatever space they occupy at that moment is a gift of solidarity. Sometimes the most useful and undemanding show of support for another who suffers is to pull up a chair.

Having said that, I am not always accepting of the gift when given to me. I want to be... more... nicer... and yet, the more I need support the more prickly I become. Luckily my husband and my friends, Chuck and Maribeth, have me pegged. They let me squirm and push and shove, and just when I'm almost exhausted by the sheer effort of keeping them away, they pull up a chair. They have never failed me. Near or far. Not once.

I couldn't type today. My mind was unwilling to play hide-n-seek with my fears. That's okay. I called Maribeth. We met at Unlimited Coffee and sat by the soda cooler for a spell. We wreaked havoc and made each other laugh like we do, but mostly we just sat together, sipping coffee and tea, and looking at each other.

Tomorrow is Thursday.

Photo courtesy of Rustman

"I'm on the Road to Nowhere..."

2010-04-27T18:39:00.000-07:00

I drove 93 miles today. And I'm still waiting.

Waiting for the text to come or the phone to ring, waiting for a Yes or No, waiting for something.

I talked to a few friends on the phone - some new, some from quite a long time ago. I wrote 781 words today. I shared a bit of experience that I never thought would be useful to anyone. It seemed to help.

The sun is setting here, and I am tired. This is one of my favorite beach pictures of Connor. It brings me peace and seemed like a good fit tonight.

Tomorrow is Wednesday. :)

The Waiting Place

2010-04-25T22:58:00.000-07:00

"Oh, the Places You'll Go!" is my favorite Dr. Seuss book. I give a special gift set to everyone I know when they are going from and moving on toward.

"The Waiting Place... for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting."

I live in the "small town" of Phoenix, Arizona with three million other people. The neighboring "small town" that I am also tethered to is San Diego, California. You would not believe how small these two cities really are. Three degrees of separation and often less make it difficult for me to write about matters too close to the bull's eye.

Myself and many people I love in these two towns are "headed, I fear, toward a most useless place." Waiting for a date, an opinion, or a check. Waiting for medication, a friend, or a sign. Waiting for a text, a tweet or a status update. Mostly waiting for a Yes or No.

Here's the tricky part - I'm happy. In fact, in the face of this craziness and indeterminate waiting, this limbo, I am writing more than ever and finding joy in the crevices of my life. Paying attention to the details? Not so much - cuz the details right now suck pretty bad. I think It's more like opening up wide. Like Sound-of-Music-spinning-on-the-hill kind of wide. (Sorry if I just put that song in your head.) Less like demanding the precision of a flashlight and more like adjusting my eyes to the glow of a lantern.

Today we waited again, and again we heard nothing. None of us.

Tomorrow is Monday.

Farther Than Flagstaff

2010-04-23T08:37:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was eventful - some good, some not so good. Like every day I suppose, but yesterday felt like it had too much caffeine in the morning.

One high point was writing 1,988 words toward the first draft of the novel. Another high point was realizing I need to rewrite most of the story because it's not following the Google map I printed. A new character has completely thrown the narrative off of its course - and I'm really excited about that! So I'll pound out the next 10,000 words, and see where I can make a course correction. Who knows, I may have to start from a different place altogether. I love how it takes nearly 40,000 words to know where the story begins. Love that!

Another high point was talking with my Canadian-writer-friend, Sterling Lynch. He says he refers to me as just one of his writer-friends, without qualifying me as an American. I'm quite certain he's fibbing. I can't imagine him not using the opportunity to feel just a wee bit superior. Le sigh. :)

Also, Sterling is the publisher of Social Media Set the Stage. We co-wrote the story of our social media collaboration that culminated in a production of two our plays. The scripts are included! (See the graphic to the right.)

In any event, we are embarking on a couple of new projects together. Well, one new project together, and he's agreed to be the principle reader for one of my new projects, "Farther Than Flagstaff".

I wrote awhile back that I want to capture my the experience of living through the first ten years of my son's life. What it felt like to live beyond the numbers in his medical records. My son endured a life of -- well, you'll see, he endured. This project has been whirling around in my head for a few years. Only recently did the structure fall into place: letters. Writing letters to a new friend who doesn't know the story. Someone with whom I can share the narrative without the numbers - stories like "Farther Than Flagstaff." I feel a bit overwhelmed, but still curious to see what comes about on the page.

And finally, much to my relief, the Phoenix Suns beat the Portland Trailblazers and are up two games to one in the first round of the playoffs. Go planet orange!

Photo of Flagstaff courtesy of L. Brumm Photography

Finding Her Voice

2010-04-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

My 14 year-old daughter, Sophie, wrote this piece about a month ago. I wanted to print it right away, "Do you want to publish it? You can put it up on my blog if you'd like."

She looked pensive. "I don't know. What if it sucks?"

Now she sounded like a writer! "Do you like it?"

"Yeah. But..."

"If you want to wait or whatever, that's perfectly okay. Really. No pressure."

"Wait. If you publish it on your blog, I want attribution." Now she sounded like an author!

I Finally Found my Overalls

My mom told me about a week ago that if I cleaned out my closet she would take me to get new clothes. Seeing as I desperately wanted new shirts this didn’t seam to be a bad idea. Today was a half day at school so I picked today to go through my closet.

It’s always interesting what you find in a closet. There is always a lot of “Hey I didn’t know I had that.” or “So THAT’S where my English paper was!” And, every once in a while you might find something you didn’t bargin for. Like these overalls.

I wore these almost everyday in second grade. During the summer it was just me, my best friend Ry, and the overalls. Climbing trees, pretending to be super genius wizards who could make a poison out of everyday items; we saw the world in a different way. That thing in the backyard it wasn’t a tree to us, it was a look out post over our entire kingdom. *Pauses*

But people grow up, and apart. And one day, one summer, there were no more kingdoms, no more crazy concoctions, no more happy endings. The overalls started to see less and less day light and I saw less and less of my best friend.

Years passed, schools passed, summers passed. New friends were made, I discovered what cell phones, make-up, and boyfriends were. But I never let go of that little second grade me who loved castles, adventures, and tree climbing. The little second grade me who loved her best friend. I did, however, start to lose my overalls. I would do whatever people said was the “right thing” the “cool thing” I was just looking to find a new best friend.

Back to today. I was cleaning out my closet, and I made two piles on my bed: keep and give-a-way. As I got to the back of my closet I figured I could just throw all of what was left into the give-a-way pile. But then I found my overalls, and this time, I didn’t let them go.

-Sophie Biddle

Too Tired To Title :)

2010-04-21T06:16:00.000-07:00

I bet I woke up half a dozen times last night after falling asleep well after 1:00AM. Ugh. I can't complain too much because each time I awoke, a problem was worked out in the novel.

For example, I solved the question as to who gave the rabbit to Sara. I also learned the nickname Thomas gave Sara when they were little: "Skittles". I discovered when Sara's dad gave her the hat she's wearing at the bus stop in the story.

Am I becoming obsessed? I'm super tired this morning and not sure if I can type (although I probably will anyway) with any kind of sense-making skill. But that's what first drafts are made of - clumps of awakenings and discoveries and dreams.

I Learned So Much By Not Writing

2010-04-19T12:29:00.000-07:00

Sara has a tattoo. I don’t know what the words are or the image is yet. I learned that her favorite color is orange and fall is her favorite season. Or was. Barney is not a dog; he’s a rabbit. I don’t know who gave him to her yet. I might not ever know the answer to that open query. I’m okay with that.

I learned that she’s ditching the lab for tech class to take the bus to this appointment. I know it doesn’t matter what time the bus comes, or if the place is closed, because she already knows the answer.

Her oldest friend has red hair, blue eyes, and doesn’t wear glasses. And he smokes. But, he’s the annoying kind of smoker who can smoke when he’s with smokers and then not smoke for months. He's a wanderer at heart and can’t wait to leave this country.

And finally I learned that she’s getting tired of telling this story. She feels like she’s almost done and wants to wrap up this very long day and go to bed. She also wants to skip school tomorrow, but she can’t.

I learned all of that collaging for three and a half hours this morning. So cool. :)

Photo courtesy of wwarby

Today's Entry -

2010-04-18T21:28:00.001-07:00

Top Five Wishes for my birthday:

5. Breakfast in bed

4. The entire house all to myself for 48 hours.

3. NO laundry for one week (but it all gets done anyway)

2. A Tano purse of my choosing

and my number one wish for this birthday ---- *drum roll*

1. A Pretty Princess Easy Tear Out Coloring & Activity Book **

** If it doesn't have the activities section, I don't want it. :p

*** Btw, my birthday is the 29th. Of this month. It's a week from Thursday. ;-)

Image courtesy of Pink Cake Box

The View From Above & The Walk on the Ground

2010-04-17T09:23:00.000-07:00

I sat down yesterday afternoon to write what I loosely refer to as Chapter 19. I have a 500 word per day goal which has proven to be a stretch but attainable. In fact, generally once I hit 400 words I'm well on my way to 600 before I come up for air again.

Chapter 19 involves the only appearance of one particularly malignant character. He is both introduced here and left here. I worked on a collage to represent this man - to get my arms wrapped around his appearance and his interior workings. I propped this up in my workspace, put the MacBook on my lap, and opened Word. I tapped "Chapter 19" and wrote the first few lines:

"Spinning-sign-guy. Still staring at him. I don’t really care who he is. I’m staring at him because he reminds me of that nameless boy from Gracie’s party. My shameless act; a ha

ppy ending. And this makes me pull my phone out yet again. I keep checking, and there’s nothing. Not a single text. From anyone."

I intended for this chapter to be intense and dark, the big "reveal", and it was, it's just that it all happened in 227 words. Really? I tapped out three significant words, one important sentence, and my hands left the keyboard. I thought, is that it? That can't be it. But I think that's it, right? I reread those paragraphs and landed in the same spot every time. Except I did add one last sentence, and then I had the hook to the back-story for later. Or maybe not. Who knows.

The cool part about that experience yesterday was being surprised. Chapter 19, at least in this first draft, is only 227 words. I queued up another new window and started on Chapter 20, and that really surprised me. I can't wait to see what happens toda

y. I keep thinking I should reign this all in. Make it bob and weave with just the right rhythm and intrigue. Throw out enough rope to hook the reader and lull them into My Girl's world ever so quietly without really noticing how attached you're getting to her, so when the hammer falls, you, the reader, are devastated. I should make that all happen in a fairly cohesive way in my first draft.

Snort. Right. I think there are writers who make that work. Writers who actually shape their work to that degree of precision while progressing through their initial draft(s). I started down that road and wound up paralyzed. For me it was a wonderful exercise to sketch out the plot lines, since I have three, and lay the conflict across the top to give a look at my landscape. An aerial shot. But after that, I still have to hike the trail myself. I could extend this metaphor into its own entire post, I'm sure. I guess the point here is that I tend to come from the school of "both". Do we teach our kids to read using "phonics" or "whole language"? Both. And so on. I need the aerial shot, and I need to walk the good walk. When I'm lost and not sure what comes next, I can pull out the schematic and refer to the larger picture.

At the end of the day yesterday, I had drafted Chapters 19 & 20. I packed up my gear to head home and wondered, okay, now what? And then I had an idea. I pulled out my dozens of index cards with elements of the aerial view, laid them out and surveyed the arrangement. Aha! This! My Girl wants to talk about this and that makes total sense. Of course that's next.

So - To Sum Up...

2010-04-15T14:51:00.000-07:00

Well, this week I shaved three minutes off the time it takes me to hike up this puppy and tumble back down again. This is not all that impressive since I was nearly carried off the first climb on a stretcher a few weeks ago. Even today a woman in her 70’s totally kicked my ass up the first two hills, but I wasted her on the moguls. :)

Remember the “unfortunate laundry incident”? (That’s a great bit from one of our local sportscasters, Tom Leander. Originally he used the phrase “the unfortunate golf cart incident” when discussing an NBA player’s injury.) Well, that ridiculous little finger pull is now swollen fingers – plural – and hand pain. I’m so sure. And yet I am still expected to perform household tasks. Clearly these people do not understand the escalating nature of my injury.

The novel (working title: Name Period and Date) is progressing quite nicely. My warehouse space has a bug or two to get worked out, but I am already finding my way through the words in a whole new way. Today I had a hard time wrapping my arms around the nature of a new character. He makes a one-time appearance in the book, but he’s extremely important. All I had to do was walk over to my collage table and spend an hour piecing him together. I absolutely love the space.

It's good to stand back and take inventory. Look around at what has been accomplished and where we need to go now. This post shows part of my week. Another part of my week begged for a little more attention. Future attention. Some now. Some soon. I’m summing up today to set the stage for my future absences. For a bit I’ll be here less, and unfortunately I’ll be reading your blogs less. Life is a funny thing. It’s not too terribly concerned with convenience.

Anyway, talk amongst yourselves, and I’ll be back shortly.

Be well -

When You Tear the Cellophane Away

2010-04-14T17:57:00.000-07:00

Last night I caught the bug. The “I must read now” bug. I am of the one-day-click-order-from-Amazon school of lit-tra-ture. Imagine my surprise when I drove to the library. My memories of the library of my younger summer days were not wonderful. Mom had MS, and part of her maintenance therapy was to rest her legs every day for two hours. Lying down. I was eight; my brothers, five and three. We did not want to lie down for two hours every afternoon.

Mom dragged us (me) to the Yucca Branch of the Phoenix Public Library every single week. She made a haul of six or seven books, my brother John found three or four science fiction books, and Dave, the toddler, drooled on his picture books. I wandered. And sighed. And protested. “There’s nothing to R-E-A-D.” Moments later mom had pulled a random volume of Nancy Drew (in which the 15 year-old heroine wore gloves - gloves) from the shelf.

Last night I read Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea”. The last time I made contact with this material was as a freshman in high school. Funny how different a work feels and sounds after 30 years. (I wish I’d kept Miss Schner’s reading list from my senior year.) I fully intended to write about my lovely experience with this piece of miraculous prose, but a funny thing happened on the way to the typewriter.

I went to the library again.

Today, though, I noticed people were culling and perusing and flipping through books, and they were happy about it. I turned my attention to the books and really took them in. Mostly cool plastic wrapped hardcover books. Have you ever noticed that when you crack the spine of a library book it crackles like fire? Or do you think the pages of an old book smell like your grandma’s couch from when you were ten? Of if the book is newer, do you think the pages smell just like a fresh pack of three-ringed notebook paper at the exact minute you tear the cellophane away?

I slid my index finger across titles looking for just the right words. Those words that stop a strolling finger in its tracks: “Ash Wednesday” by Ethan Hawke. Ahh…. See, in my writing, I just made reference to an Ethan Hawke string of dialogue from “Reality Bites” and this was surely providence.

After my daughter’s rehearsal, after a late dinner, after my son hugs me three times, I will take my book and kiss my husband heading down the hall to our room. I will lie down and read my new book. For two hours. While I rest.

Social Media Sets the Stage: From Ottawa to Phoenix

2010-04-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

On February 11, 2010, Space 55 Theatre Ensemble, in Phoenix, Arizona, premiered an unlikely double feature: the U.S. premiere of "Tangelico" by Sterling Lynch and the world premiere of "A Cube With A View" by Mare Biddle. Barely a year before, the two playwrights had not yet known of each other’s existence. Thanks to social media, they met, shared their work, and became friends. Eventually, Mare introduced Tangelico to Space 55 and wrote A Cube With A View as a companion piece to it. As a result, Sterling and Mare’s unlikely double feature was born. This volume includes both plays and the playwrights’ reflections on social media and their international collaboration.

When you buy a book, please use the links below. It won’t affect the price you pay, and Sterling earns a commission!

If you want to order from Amazon.ca (Canada), please click on this link:

Social Media Set the Stage: Tangelico and a Cube with a View

If you want to order from Amazon.com (U.S.), please click on this link:

Social media set the stage: Tangelico and A Cube with a View

If you want to order from Amazon.co.uk (U.K.), please click on this link:

Social Media Set the Stage: Tangelico and a Cube with a View

Please spread the word. Social media got us this far. I’m sure it can take us even further.

Something Old

2010-04-12T09:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I folded about 27 loads of laundry. Seriously. Between friends, family and work I am that behind on the domestic front. I gathered up two hoodies and went to hang them in the front hall closet. As soon as I opened the door it became apparent that there was no way I could fit another jacket in there let alone two.

So began the organizing. That was going well, but I still wasn't creating space, just reshuffling what was already there. In the next instant I was calling my kids out of their rooms, mind you it's 9:00PM, and ordering them to participate in a fashion show of sorts. I even had them trading jackets, which turned out to be quite fun.

We finished piling their jackets onto the "keep" and "give away" stacks. Then it was my turn. The first jacket I tried on was a red & black nylon jacket. I paraded for my daughter, "um...you sort of look like a super hero, Mom." "That could be good though, right?" "Yeah. Not in this case." Dejected I threw the jacket in the "give away" pile. I slid hangers across the rail. And in the back. On the right side. Against the wall. Was my mother's blue corduroy barn jacket. My mother died in August of 2007. I inhaled and wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't even sure if I should touch it.

It eventually occurred to me to exhale, and I reached for the coat. It was soft; the brown suede collar worn and faded. I held it up to my nose and inhaled again. Oh. Even after two years, it really did smell like her. I slid the coat around my back, put my arms through the sleeves, stuck my hands in the pockets and pulled it tight. My right hand fingered something soft. A kleenex. I pulled the tissue out of the pocket and help it up. Her lipstick. A perfect imprint of her blotted mauve lipstick. Most likely three years old.

The coat didn't fit me, and I probably wouldn't have worn it anyway. I took it off and laid it carefully on the "give away" pile. And the kleenex. I moved it from hand to hand, tracing the outline of the lipstick. I let out a little whimper and put the tissue in the trash. I have to keep practicing the process of letting her go.

I turned back to the closet, exhaled hard, and slid the jackets across the rail again. I pulled down my old jean jacket and tried it on. I didn't much care for the cut and the sleeves never were exactly right. I shoved my hands in the pockets - well, because when we're trying on clothes, pocket-shoving is what we do in a last ditch effort to talk ourselves into keeping something we don't really like anyway.

In the right pocket, was a kleenex.

Photo courtesy of The Enabler

All Great Lessons Are Learned At America's Taco Shop

2010-04-10T22:01:00.001-07:00

Brad and I went to America's Taco Shop last night - the one on 7th Ave and Campbell - for carne asada tacos and the trio. Gorgeous weather for outside munching too. We had a lot of bases to cover regarding family and personal logistics. Always gotta get the business portion of the program out of the way first. Sometimes, too frequently, we only have time to run through the show and set to the top for the next night. But last night we lingered...

The patio was really crowded so we had to kind of lean into each other to talk. We talked about the class he's teaching at ASU's law school, some of our co-projects in the community, and my impending move into the warehouse. So exciting and so forth. We got up to go, tossed our trash, clasped hands and headed across the street. To where we were parked. Illegally.

And then I started talking about the novel. What this experience is like - Sara's story and how she tells it and where she seems to want to spend her energy. How interesting it is to sort of hear her telling it to me. Sometimes I get to a certain transition and think, "where was i?" and then I know to circle back to Sara and her mom at the bus stop. Current timeline. I think the story should be more focused on the old memories, but Sara really really really wants to talk about what's going on at school this year. She wants to talk about the systems and structures and that are stealing her air.

When we pulled into the driveway, I felt a little silly for going on about it. I thanked my husband and he said, "No, it was great. I'm glad you wanted to talk about it." I circled back to our conversation today. I wondered about Sara, and truly contemplated that idea of spending more time with this school year and how much sense that made to me.

I processed. I listened. I learned.

About Sara.

The Bull's Eye

2010-04-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

I am a relatively private person. For those of you who know me personally this is not surprising to you. I am rarely "public" in public. Anne Lamott talks about writing three or four rings out from the bull's eye. Where we live.

She spoke at a conference in San Diego several years ago and talked about the nightmare of giving a very long interview in which she thought she remembered discussing her mother. When the article was printed she was mortified to read the quote about her mother. Anne had been lulled to sleep, and made a reference to her mother that was "too close to the bull's eye."

Her words were a cautionary tale. My husband frequently reminds me to speak in short declarative sentences and to talk in sound bites during interviews. Ironically, the only television interview I gave wound up on the editing room floor because I wouldn't bite. The reporter chatted and massaged the other women and eventually got them to give her the crap she was after. And I was really okay with that because I wouldn't want to own those words.

Sometimes I think blogs, email, and all social media are the "lull". For me anyway, I forget that I'm attaching words - immortalized-in-the-cloud words - to real emotions, experiences & people and then putting all that out there for anyone to read. Stories about myself and my family. My friends. My colleagues.

Tonight I sat down to write and was going to post about a very personal experience between my daughter and me. Something very close to her bull's eye. And I wondered if I was willing to look into her baby blues and own those words. Later. Forever.

So I wrote about Anne Lamott instead, who by the way, is my favorite author. :)

In These Terms -

2010-04-08T09:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve wanted to write about my boy. My tween. My strength. He is sweet, smart and funny as hell. That’s the surface stuff. My son is insightful and contemplative. He is compassionate to the point of hurting when others hurt. This young man is a survivor. Literally.

The reason I haven’t ever written about him in any kind of public way is because I can’t imagine where to start. Or how much to reveal. Or how to put any of it into a meaningful context. We are all a product of our context, and for my son that is exponentially true.

This is the start. The beginning. The introduction of my son's life through my muscle memories.

I’m not sure how to tell you who he is without qualifying his life in these terms: he flat-lined while holding my hair when he was three years old. His heart stopped for the longest four and a half seconds of my life. His blue eyes locked on mine. Our faces were maybe ten inches apart.

My son routinely missed 50 days of school every year. And once a week, I inserted three needles into his belly for a gamma globulin infusion. When we went to the Cleveland Clinic in March of 2008, we shipped more than 1500 pages of medical records ahead of us to six different specialists.

His life is very different today. While the underlying conditions are all still real, his treatment protocol took a 180 degree turn, and now, this 12 year-old walking box of changing voice, leads a healthy and normal life. As normal as it can be given how he spent the first 10 years of his life.

Last night, one of my friends took her 4 year-old son to the ER at Phoenix Children’s Hospital (PCH) for stitches. She sent out a photo.

“Lemme know if you want company – or a sweatshirt.” I wrote.
“Yeah, it is cold in her. You spent waaay too much time here.”
“LOL. Text me the name of your attending, and say “hi” to Child Life for me.”

Conundrum

2010-04-07T09:25:00.001-07:00

I got nothin'. I had something, but then I lost it, and now I don't have anything. To write.

Do you ever have those days when you sit down to write and there is quite simply nothing to say? Or at least nothing that comes to mind to say?

I very much want to write a particular post, but the content seems so familiar to me that I'm afraid to put it out there. Perhaps I lived that life for so many years the writing of any part of it will always seem familiar. I suspect this quandary is blocking all other writing from coming into my consciousness. Either that or I'm just stuck.

Too there is the possibility that preparing tax returns for two family members along with our own has left me fried.

Whether I'm obsessed with writing this oddly familiar post, stuck in "writing no man's land", or baked by tax returns, I will leave you with these words today:

Have a great day! See you tomorrow! :)

Sticky Fingers

2010-04-06T09:11:00.000-07:00

I have been fortunate to have written and produced plays over the last decade. The process is very different from writing a novel. Most notably, collaboration over solitude. For the most part I enjoy the collaborative effort of writing for the stage - writing groups, early readings, staged readings, workshops and then production. Lots of feedback and the thrill of watching actors pick up the material for the first time.

Over the last three years, in subtle ways, I started to suffer from sticky fingers. Too many finger prints on the work, and pretty soon it didn't look anything like what I intended to write in the first place. I was too eager to please and consequently abandoned my characters and their stories. I have purposely stayed away from participating in any writers' groups with this novel. I may, and I may not, eventually find myself sidling up next to one.

For now, it's so exciting to pound out those 500 words every day. Even more so when I reach 630 or 1,326 in any given day. Listening to My Girl is thrilling. She has so much to tell me, and who knows, maybe the first 30,000 words were necessary to get to the heart of the story. Maybe I only think I know what her story looks like. As Anne Lamott says, "follow the guy behind the chain link fence". I did in fact meet a guy who showed up out of the blue. I suppose it could even wind up being his story. The cool thing is that I just feel like I'm along for the ride with this first draft. Sticky or clean, so far the only finger prints are mine.

A Space to Call My Own

2010-04-05T14:18:00.000-07:00

Busy morning.

Last friday I toured the Levine Machine Co. warehouse on the corner of 7th Street and Grant Street in the Phoenix warehouse district.

Mike Levine is a walking encyclopedia of Phoenix history. I mean way way way back. He's a fascinating man to talk with. Among his many interests and passions, Mike supports local arts and the development of local artists. The Levine website has some pictures of the warehouse at 605 E Grant Street (pictured here). There are incredible creative businesses housed on the larger west side of the warehouse.

The east side is smaller and where a performance artist, a digital artist, two painters and me have set up shop. He even planted two platforms for a stage in my space. It's really pretty amazing. I went down this morning to sign the lease and pick up my key. I feel so lucky to have come across this location.

Many thanks to Jim McPherson for working on several arts projects with me and keeping an eye open for space that might just meet my professional needs. Thanks so much, Jim.

Proclamation

2010-04-04T12:53:00.001-07:00

I've decided. As of noon today. Mountain standard time. I renounce all things fuchsia.

Happy Easter! :)

Because I'm British!

2010-04-03T10:12:00.000-07:00

You know the phrase, " At ______ (o'clock) anything is funny." For example, "At 3:00 in the morning anything is funny."

Last night was the opening of my kids' show at Creative Stages Youth Theatre. The play is titled "Funny at Birth" written and directed by the Artistic Director, Jim Gradillas. He is one of my favorite people. My daughter is the Asst Stage Manager, and my son is part of her crew for this show. The "after party" was a celebration of one of the cast member's birthday at IHOP. They spent two hours torturing waitresses and snorting eggs out of their noses. At least no one danced on the table. Not yet. Christmas future...

I picked them up just before midnight. When we pulled into the driveway, my son was asleep and my daughter was just getting started. She needs to decompress. Like her mom.

The boy kicked off his vans outside, peeled his shirt in the kitchen and walked out of his jeans in the doorway to his room. He crawled into bed, wrapped the comforter around himself, and rolled up into a ball. A size 11-wearing toddler.

The girl on the other hand needed. She needed. Attention. Many many minutes of attention. I love that about here. She regaled me with blow by blows from backstage. The kicking of asses, the pleading of tears, and the hugging of fears. As she processed she realized an hour later how much she loves stage managing. Once that realization began to gel, she needed to work through this major shift in self-perception. Relaying this brick and mortar inside her skin - inside her bones - and ultimately within her spirit NEEDED to happen right then. And so she labored and I supervised. My girl fascinates me.

Just before 1:30AM I suggested that she needed to sleep. She had rehearsal for one show tomorrow afternoon and was ASM for "Funny" that night as well. "But I n-e-v-e-r get to you have you all to myself for this long. Please! Please can we stay up longer?" I gave her 15 more minutes. I could have stayed up with her all night and some day in the not so distant future I'm sure I will.

Eventually I made my move toward the kitchen. She jumped up and blocked me from entering the hall. She had that look. Her eyebrow cocked, smiled crooked, and eyes narrowed.

"Come on Sweetie Pie, you've gotta go to bed."

"No I don't." But she said it with a british accent which I must say, at 1:30 in the morning, confused. me.

"C'mon Peanut, let's go."

"You Americans can't do anything right. You can't even sing a lullaby properly." Again with the accent. "We are so much better educated than you because we have wizardering schools..." followed by more random stuff and she concluded her speech by saying, "Because I'm British."

I thought I was going to pee in my pants right there.

I'm here to tell you that at 1:30 in the morning, after decompressing with a 14 year-old girl for an hour and a half, "Because I'm British." is not just funny. It's hilarious!

And then she knew she had me. So for another half an hour she speechified me and randomly added "Because I'm British." I finally walked her down to her room. She asked me if I would sing to her. After 14 years of this same song, you'd think that an Asst Stage Manager, who takes her job very seriously, would be eager to let go of our little bedtime ritual. But she's not. She crawled into bed, and I sang "You Are My Sunshine" to her like I do every night. She smiled and cooed like she was four and rolled over with the comforter pulled up to her chin. "Why do you still like me to sing to you?"

"Because I'm British."

In Your Face

2010-04-02T13:30:00.000-07:00

Facebook.

My husband broke the news to me while I was straightening my hair this morning, “The kids want Facebook accounts so they can stay in touch with their theatre friends.”

Huh. Now, see, I thought my husband and I were of the same opinion on this matter. We don’t use our kids’ names or put their photos on-line. We want them to have lives that are not forever documented on video for as long as possible.

Can you imagine? My god, I wouldn’t want more than 20% of my life before the age of 25 available on-line. And to be clear, that 20% would be me sleeping. In my own bed. Alone. In response to his bait, I said nothing.

Then I remembered my son telling me how Zander was taping rehearsals because this is the last show he can do with the youth company because he is now 18. (I use his name because he is 18, and because he readily uses his name all over the net.)

Facebook.

My son said on the way home from rehearsal this week that he kept running away from Zander because he didn’t want to wind up on Zander’s FB page. I felt like crap.

“No, buddy, that’s okay, you can be in his videos.”

“But mom, he’s going to upload them. You said—“

“Well. This is different.”

My son was silent. My daughter was silent. I could hear their telepathic victory dance, and I giggled. Crap. So it would follow that they would first approach their dad with what was surely going to get shot down by me out of the gate. My husband is the harbinger of all-things-bad-ideas.

In the car this afternoon, I asked. “So. Dad said you guys want Facebook pages. Is that true?”

Daughter, “Yes.”

Son, “Uh-huh.”

Long dangerous pause.

I love wielding so much power. Mwaa-ha-ha. “Here are the ground rules…” They nodded and made we-understand noises. They didn’t care if I said they both had to do the laundry until they moved out. Darn it, why didn’t I say that? “Okay, you guys we’ll set up the accounts.”

My son was silent. My daughter was silent. I could hear their telepathic victory dance, and I giggled. Crap. Here we go.

Facebook.

An Injury of Devastating Proportions

2010-04-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

Well, it was bound to happen. I mean I’ve been walking this high wire for more than 30 years and these sorts of – what – mishaps are predictable. To be expected really. I was seriously injured yesterday. My right hand nonetheless. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to show up at the keyboard this morning. Much to my relief I am pecking. Not really typing and certainly not floating across the keys as is usual for me. Not nearly.

No stitches were required. Ice and Ibuprofen got me through the night. I notified my dear friend as to my impending absence from his inbox. Of course, he was deeply troubled to be left out in the cold by not receiving the requisite 14 emails a day from me. Devastated really. He asked. I hesitated. I knew he’d be upset.

“Laundry,” I wrote. “I have a laundry injury.”

“Laundry injury!! Oh, no!!” As you can see, he was so beside himself he could barely muster an appropriately distressed response.

When my husband emerged from his cave (read: our home office), I regaled him with the details. “You can always file for workers’ comp, baby,” he said with a particular smugness to his tone. “See how that goes for you.” He smiled and walked to the kitchen for an iced coffee. He did not even offer to pour me one. What was happening here? He didn’t lead me to chair to help me carefully sit my clearly traumatized body.

“What did you do?” he said passing me in the hall.

“I told you. I was putting up the empty hangers on the really high bar, and I tripped and grabbed a hold of them and jerked my right hand enough to burst a blood vessel.” I displayed my injury. “Just there, see?”

“There?”

“Oh for god’s sake that’s my wrist. No there. My middle finger. In the joint. It’s already black and blue. And swollen.”

“Oh right. Sorry. Looks bad,” he smiled – there was that smugness again. “Looks like no more laundry for you today.”

Ah-ha! That’s what I was looking for all along. Disability leave. How many days I wondered? Best not to discuss. Best to just tip toe around the hamper.

I looked at my poor, swollen finger and decided it needed ice again. Over my shoulder I called, “I bet I can’t even type.”

He said something like, “oooh” or “Mmm” or “Aaah” – something vaguely sympathetic before closing the office door behind him. Did he just close the door on my pain? On my disability? On me for god’s sake?

Humph. I pulled the freezer door open to retrieve the small ice bag. Well that’s fine, I thought. When he needs underwear, we’ll just see who displays a hint of smugness in her smile?

Dear Friend - A Bench To Sit On

2010-03-31T09:34:00.000-07:00

The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky is my favorite book. Forever. An epistolary novel, it chronicles the life of Charlie throughout his freshman year in high school. He writes to “Dear Friend”, who is never identified in the novel, and at some point we as readers don’t care anymore. Charlie is clearly revealing his truest self – authentic thoughts and feelings to this person that even he doesn’t know very well.

I have a few friends to whom I write letters to on a regular basis. It doesn’t matter who they are to anyone but me. There are elements of these letters between us that ring truer than I could ever muster to put forth in person. Something about the false anonymity of written words makes this possible – even with, and perhaps especially with, friends (or family) with whom we cannot bear to share our dark or fanciful places face to face.

In light of this awareness, I will be printing excerpts from our letters and titling them “Dear Friend”. My hope is to bring pieces of truth about my life, and those around me, to this page – this place of our truest selves.

This first letter is written about my Aunt Betsy. I have written about this amazing woman in previous posts. "Aunty B" has literally saved me many times. She has carried all of my stories. I imagine she will again. My mom passed away two years ago, and I have carried such weight with me ever since. I wrote this letter on New Year's Dayof this year. The girl “Sara” that I refer to is the main character in my novel. Sara is stuck at a bus stop with her mother. The following excerpt is part of the lengthy letter I sent to a "Dear Friend".

Dear Friend ~

I've been jotting down notes here and there - only really pulling my thoughts together at the end of a long drive. This is important to me. As you have done on many occasions, I trust that you will treat it as such. :)

[…] New Year's Eve, Betsy and I spent the entire day together. Many heartfelt and hilarious conversations; many adventures. One errand over adventure was dealing with my filthy car. I opted for a ridiculously expensive mega wash that would take about three days. We waited inside with orange painted cement benches, two vending machines, and a pay phone to keep us company. And while we sat on one of the benches, waiting for my car to get washed, I finally told the only story left to be told. "I have so much guilt about mom." We talked about blame and regret. Resentment and fear. We talked about what forgiveness looks like.

I drove 160 miles to be with my aunt Betsy today (New Year's Day). The circumstances were very different, but once again, we wound up sitting on a concrete bench. This time, out in the sun and in front of a huge beautiful fountain, we laughed loudly and whispered carefully. And I bought "A Charlie Brown Christmas" in Blu-ray. (Actually, I had literally just picked it up when your text came thru. Sort of a nice touch.)

Driving back into the city, I considered the benches where Betsy and I talked and waited over the last two days. That orange bench - at the car wash - was important not only for my life story, but also, as a compass for Sara's narrative.

I thought about Sara, sitting on the bench at the bus stop, waiting for an hour, and telling the only story left to be told. I heard Sara's blame and regret. Resentment and fear. And I wondered what forgiveness might begin to look like. For her.

Mare

Photo courtesy of Just Chaos

Flash For Your Fiction

2010-03-30T14:08:00.000-07:00

A good writer friend of mine suggested some months ago that I post an entry every day for a month – or maybe three months – I can’t recall exactly. Anyway it was for some crazy amount of time. Like a week.

I always follow directions. Not really. However, this is my third post in as many days. I’m sure this will be the last of me.

Since I am here, and because I received my weekly installment of this author’s work, I want to share a bit about him with you. His name is Bruce Holland Rogers. Among his many accomplishments, he is the reigning rock star of Flash Fiction.

Flash, or Short-Short Stories, are generally works of no more than 2,500 words in length. As you can imagine given my fondness for the small canvas of the 10-min and one-act plays, I am enchanted with this restricted frame.

I have subscribed to his weekly shorts for over three years now and have never been disappointed. Not once. I remember many of his works long after reading them. These stories rang especially true for me: “A Poet to Watch” 4/09, “Lifeguard” 7/09, and “The Day That Bites” 9/09, “Stone Lions” 3/10.

Give yourself a nice treat. Take a break. Curl up with your screen and cup of tea. Bruce approaches the small canvas with a different palette every week.

You can follow Bruce on Facebook or through his website subscription (click on the paypal link).

Writing Forward Through the Rearview Mirror

2010-03-29T09:10:00.000-07:00

I follow a lot of blogs, not all of which are listed on my blog roll. Need to fix that. In any event, Valerie Storey is a writer I have come to follow very closely.

This weekend I culled through her blog and found this gem from January.

Generally I'm not a fan of the Le Grande Plan so I almost blew passed this one. But before I bounced away, a couple of words caught my eye: intention, loglines, adjectives and relationships. Hmm.... now I'm intrigued.

Coffee in hand, I settled in at my satellite office (read: closest coffee shop with free wi-fi while my kids were at rehearsal) and gave myself a few minutes to investigate further. Two hours later I'd written a sheet for each objective - 21 in total - and filled in most of the pages. I'm happy to report I learned a great deal about the work, and more importantly, about myself.

To be sure, Valerie's topics provide a structure for the business of this year's writing, but moreover, for me anyway, they gave me a place to focus my intentions - all of them - for the year. A cool way to look in my own rearview mirror while watching the road ahead.

Thanks so much, Valerie! I look forward to your next post.

(And it would have been great to load this really cool rearview mirror shot of a sunset from our car driving home from Disneyland, but, Blogger was cranky this Monday morning. Sigh.)

There's Chocolate On His Ear Again!

2010-03-27T17:48:00.000-07:00

My kids munched on chunks of chocolate at The Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland last Sunday night. My 12 year-old son has an incredible talent for getting chocolate on his ear. Of course my teenage daughter took a picture with her phone and threatened to text it to… He glared at her then wiped his face – and ear. At the next table a woman hauled off and slapped her already crying 3 year-old son’s face in front of about 20 people. Nobody moved.

The little boy with smudges of chocolate on his cheeks gulped big breaths and cried, “Mama!” She grabbed his shirt collar and wrestled him toward the door. Her right hand reached for the door –

Like the bullet in Anders’ brain, my mind reeled with a life before and after. Who will this little boy become? Will he be the kid who takes too long at the tetherball? There are thousands of kids who survive unthinkable atrocities every day in this world. I believe some – most – find a way to smile at the person behind the counter. And some of us who come from a supportive upbringing turn out to be complete assholes. It seems so random sometimes. And then I thought, what does my philosophy of “good manners and taking turns” look like in these circumstances? It’s easy for me to ask the bank teller how her day is going, or the waiter, or the nice husband and wife who own the dry cleaner – and their little schnauzer. But what about now? What was her life like? “Mama’s” life? How did she grow up? Did she take turns and hold the door? Did someone take her life away from her? Or has she always been a bully? Can I show kindness to such a woman who injured her child right in front of two-dozen people? Can I hold the door open for her? She reached for the door, struggling to keep a hold of her son’s shirt. He wriggled free then collapsed to the floor in the dead-weight move toddlers are famous for. This woman he calls Mama bent down, and my son stood up. The woman grabbed her son’s shirt, yanked him up to his feet, and reached for the door again. I quietly told my son to sit back down. He couldn’t do anything. None of us could do anything. Not really. Not really at all. My eyes returned to “Mama” as her right hand connected with the glass pane in the middle of the door. And I knew. I knew for sure that I should open the door for her. I naturally help the people I like, but I must show good manners to the people who create the hurt too. This turned my stomach when I thought of the rapist, the bully and the vicious girls in my life. How can I hold the door for them – for Mama? I blinked. Her hand pressed against the glass. Last chance I thought. Get up. Her son looks back our way. My daughter and son so upset. We need to talk. I look back toward the door. The woman had pushed the door ajar and was struggling to pull the little boy behind her. Just get up and go help her, I tell myself. It’s the right thing to do.

But I don’t.

And the worst part is that I don’t feel all that bad about it.

[Photo courtesy of Zen Cupcake]

...Is The Talk On A Cereal Box

2010-03-14T16:19:00.000-07:00

When I came across this picture on Palahniuk & Chocolate blog I immediately knew it was true. I printed it out and put it up on my wall above my desk. It's nicely positioned right next to my favorite quote by Von Allan: Suck Less.

A couple of weeks ago - and for several days afterward - I foolishly entertained conversations in philosophy. What I am - is of the Edie Brickell school of philosophy... "is the talk on a cereal box. Religion is the smile on a dog."

I don't like kicking around subtle differences between existentialism and absurdism. Or picking apart whether life is in service to or a journey toward. Or I hold a linear or circular view of the universe, or am outer-world or inner-world dependent. And finally do I live in self-dedication to the goal or self-liberation from the false "Me"?

Okay. What. Ever.

I believe in two philosophical tenants: good manners, and taking turns.

Holding the door open for someone. Saying please and thank you. Asking the person behind the counter how her day is going. When we can choose between snarky and supportive, why don't we always choose the latter? Why would I ever walk through a door and not look to see if someone was following right behind me? Why would I not ask the young man in the parking garage ticket booth how his day is going? Having said that, I fail at this every day. Even with my own family. And my friends. I forget. Or quite frankly just don't feel like it because I'm too self-absorbed in my self-loathing to be bothered with you. Which is exactly when I need to hand someone a napkin.

For me taking turns looks like tether ball on the playground. Remember tether ball? I used to be the neighborhood champion. Well, not really. Actually, my next door neighbor Kathy was the reigning queen for the years we had a pole in my backyard - but she was three years older than me and taller and... well, just better. In any event, remember at school when there was a line and the loser rotated out so the next kid could play the winner? And it was great because if you were winning you could play all recess, right?

But then there was that one kid. Remember that one kid who lost and said, "no wait, she carried the ball, so I want another turn." And again. And again. That one kid. Then the bell rang and everybody was a little bit angry. When it was time to share the glue with that kid, nobody wanted to, and we were less inclined to share with each other because what if there wasn't enough to go around? We'd run out of time for our turn on the playground, so what if the glue runs out and we don't have enough? Then at lunch, we took extra tater tots. We had to make sure we got our share, and who cares if the girl at the end of the line, who really did win at tether ball, got her tater tots?

The sense of paucity that seems to settle over our lives like ash from a tremendous fire is gray and thick and makes it hard to breathe. And when we can't breathe who wants to waste air on pleasantries? We might run out of air, or time, or money. Or patience. Have you ever watched people in line when someone starts to write a check for his purchase? You would have thought he pulled out coins. Have you seen the faces and heard the sighs in the people in that line? I have. I felt so sorry for the immigrant woman with her young child trying to make sense out of her U.S. dollars and coins that day in Target.

If you don't like my words: good manners and taking turns. Perhaps Von's words might be just the perfect fit for your life. Suck. Less.

Buttons

2010-03-04T10:30:00.001-08:00

I wrote this piece in May of 2008, and it never found a home. This morning I pulled a load of laundry out of the dryer and noticed a loose button on my daughter’s shorts. I thought, I better sew this back on before it gets lost. I set the shorts aside and suddenly remembered this bit of writing. It’s a conflation of memory and a chunk of one of the “firsts” after a loss. I think it’s true. But memory and grief and regret often weave their own distinct narrative. A wish for something different.

BUTTONS

Sewing all the buttons.

I’ve sewn dozens of buttons back onto shirtsleeves, sweaters, and even doll clothes. And of course there is the inevitable “Mom, the button fell off again!”

One such call to arms came from my daughter last night, “Mom, the button fell off my shorts.” So I said, “put them on my desk. I’ll get to it later.” Then the wailing started, “But Mooom, I want to wear them tomorrow. I’m going with so-and-so to such-and-such a place after school. Mom, I need these shorts. Please Mom… are you even listening to me, Mom?” For god’s sake, how could I not be listening?

So I sat down in my office to sew this button back onto my daughter’s favorite pair of shorts. I started to cry. The more I tried to control myself, the more tears rolled down my cheeks. I tried to wipe my face and of course smeared make-up on my daughter’s shorts. Great. Now I had to wash them too. I grabbed a Kleenex to wipe my nose and cheeks.

I thought, “What is your story?” I was so irritated with myself. I wanted to get this done quickly so I could get back to my writing, but I could not pull myself together. More tears. More make-up running down my face… and suddenly it occurred to me what was happening.

We have lived with my parents for the last eight years – ever since my daughter was four years old. She was born in San Diego. As she approached school age, and since most of my family was still in Phoenix, we decided to move back to the desert. I know what you’re thinking – visit… and suck up the school situation like the rest of us in the state of California! Yeah, we know.

There was another reason we wanted to come back to Phoenix. My mother had been suffering with Multiple Sclerosis for nearly 30 years, and we wanted to be closer to her. When the opportunity to live with them came along, we just couldn’t pass it up. So, here we are with no ocean, no marine layer, and no freeway system. But at least it hits nearly 120 degrees every year, so we have that to look forward to!

Last night, while I sat there holding the needle and thread, the tears started to make sense to me. Since we moved back, my mother did all the mending. Mom sewed all the buttons. I lost my mother nine months ago. Not from complications related to MS, but because she was consumed by cancer. Mom lived two weeks from diagnosis to death.

Sobbing, I realized that though I miss my mom every day, and I can still smell her perfume, and hear her laugh, I need to let her go. I needed to sew this button for my daughter, tears and all, and let my heart… and my mom… rest. Now it’s my turn… to sew all the buttons.

The Littlish Princess

2010-01-31T00:05:00.000-08:00

I haven’t posted to this blog in a number of weeks. People ask me about it, and the only thing I can think of is that I haven’t felt inspired. This week, I’ve had pieces of the same conversation with three friends, and now I'm ready to write. About The Littlish Princess.

She goes by many names, this teenage-toddler, more than a dozen come to mind. She is wise and whimsical; cranky and content. A mystery I once held in my two hands. Some years ago. Fourteen. Next week.

My close friend, Maribeth, and I have known each other since our two oldest children were in preschool together. Last Friday we ordered our morning drinks in the coffee shop where we meet every week. I told her that since Christmas – since I started filling out high school applications, setting up interviews, and letting my daughter stay up as late as she wants on the weekends – that I noticed something new in my girl. I see the push-pull between where she is and where she’s going. And I marvel at the beauty of this stage.

Then there's Chuck. We have carried many secrets and pails of water for each other. We've been friends for 38 years - since the first time I wore a tutu. All right. Knock it off. I was seven. Yes, he has pictures and refuses to turn them over. His oldest daughter is already a freshman. We talked about her social structure and the culture of her high school as opposed to other schools. How social systems can only be understood within the context of their culture. He was confused. I told him that it was so obvious – because my daughter had explained it all to me only weeks earlier.

On Thursday my girl was home sick. A fever brewing. Brad and our son were out that night, and I was attending a rehearsal of my show going up in two weeks. I worried. She was sick and alone. We texted. I wished I was with her. Some dumb stuff happened and then rehearsal was over. The show is a piece that my friend Sterling and I are putting up together. I commented to him later that night how hard it was to be away from her while she was sick.

Some weeks ago, in his blog, Sterling posted “Poem for My Son” written by his dear friend, Nadine Thornhill. The piece is beautiful, vibrant, and true. I remembered my kids as toddlers, but, it wasn’t until I considered the verse cast in the light of their teenage bodies and souls and minds that I cried. When I read the last line, I said out loud, “And he always will be.” I suspect that Nadine’s verse has permanently woven its way threw my maternal narrative. I am certain it lit a candle on my daughter’s birthday cake.

There is something so stunning about the last semester of 8^th grade. They are arms and legs and hair. They are questions and fears and dreams. They are adventurous and clingy and rebellious. They are.

I told Sterling last Friday morning about a great moment that I’d had with my daughter a few days earlier. I said it was “the best moment of the week. So far.” I've wandered around over the last few days thinking about the “Top 5” best moments with my daughter this week, and here they are:

1) Lying together in my bed, under the covers, for an hour talking all things girlie.

2) Driving to her rehearsal, singing to the cast album of “title of show”, and when I looked over at her, I suddenly saw her as a 24 year-old woman. Lovely and a little unnerving.

3) On the way home from rehearsal when my daughter showed me the bejeweled headband that her dearest friend and cast member had given her. A crown for the “Littlish Princess”.

4) “Look! A hummingbird!”

5) Curling up under my arm after midnight and asking if she could go to sleep right there – “like I used to”.

Sure. We break something in each other every day. We tear down and rebuild. We persevere. And no matter where she sleeps, she is my littlish princess.

Nadine’s poem captures my feelings so well:

“You were always you / And for too short a time / You were also / All mine.”

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night - Ottawa to Phoenix: Part Three

2010-01-30T18:12:00.000-08:00

The headline could have read: Tangelico and A Cube With A View take the world by storm! But Dave Charest had a different idea: “Let's call it, Mare may…or may…not make it through this interview!” he quipped during his interview with Sterling and me. We talked with him via Skype on Thursday, January 21st. Before we started taping I warned Dave that I might lose power during our conversation because Phoenix was in the middle of a violent storm. In fact two tornadoes touched down within the city limits. Crazy! Sterling and Dave had great fun with this notion. They assured me that in the event of any catastrophe, they would carry on without me even though I wouldn’t be able to defend myself – in my memory of course.

Sterling and I shared the story of how we came to work together by noting our early encounters on Twittter. Dave witnessed, what I refer to as “the sealing of our doom”. On no particular weekday morning, I posted the first two lines of Jumpin’ Jack Flash and within minutes, Sterling added the next two lines. Dave said, “I saw that and I thought, isn’t that cute?”

We talked with Dave about the amazing access Twitter, and all social media, affords artists and the opportunities for collaboration. Sterling remarked that maybe two, for sure five, years ago our production would have been categorically impossible. Because of social media, the historical production process is finally flattening and widening to include opportunities previously unreachable to artists all over the world.

We had a hilarious conversation. I give Dave a lot of credit - it's hard to wrangle Sterling and me. A bit like herding cats. Dave was a gracious and thoughtful host. Thanks so much, Dave! Give a listen on Fuzzbucket. Here are examples of the feedback I've heard already: "I learned a lot about Twitter. Now I get it." "It was fun hearing how you guys wrote the plays." "This is so cool! Is anyone else doing this?" You can follow the three of us on Twitter at: @DaveCharest, @MareBiddle, and @SterlingLynch.

For the record, Sterling is right about one thing: if we met at a cocktail party we would’ve had a big fight and never spoken again. It will be a hoot to meet in person for the first time at out premiere in Phoenix. Sterling will be in town for the closing performance on February 27th.

And finally, I'd like to say that in writing this post, and looking back over all of the ground we covered, I think my favorite part was when we talked about how brilliant I am. Nice.

Production photos courtesy of Michael Markowsky, Phoenix, AZ 2010

What Do Ottawa and Phoenix Have in Common: Just a Couple of Playwrights

2010-01-12T16:47:00.000-08:00

On occasion I have blogged about the working relationship Canadian playwright Sterling Lynch and I have forged. Social media rules! I found my way onto Twitter in March, 2009. I searched for theatres and artists to follow. Sterling was among the first playwrights. But he was in Canada, so would it even be worth it to follow him? I mean, we weren’t going to have anything in common, but I followed him anyway. Given my sharp wit, astute intellect, and promise as a successful playwright, he followed back. I’m sure Sterling would agree. As predicted, we have nothing in common. Oddly enough we seem to work together quite well.

After a few months, we waded through each others' work. When I came across Tangelico two lines of dialogue begged for attention. I immediately thought of Brandon Wiley at Space 55 Theatre Ensemble here in Phoenix. (I’ll share those lines in another post.) I sent Brandon a text. Then the script. Then I waited. Brandon took the project to the Space 55 artistic director, Shawna Franks.

Brandon called me a week later. “We need another one-act to put up with Tangelico to make a full evening. Can you find something?” I paused. “Nothing will make any sense. Wait let me think. Yep, I got nothing,” A. Very. Long. Pause. “Hey! Why don’t you write one?” He trumpeted. I asked Sterling to call me. It was our first phone call, and I was about to ask him if I could basically steal his play. Well, not really, but sort of. He of course razzed me incessantly. I’m sure Sterling would agree. So. With much trepidation. I wrote A Cube With A View. A true one-act companion play to Tangelico.

Working on a companion play is a unique writing experience. I wanted A Cube With A View to stand on its own, but also depend on the primary piece. As I embarked on this challenge, I was completely calm, serene even… I’m sure Sterling would agree.

How did my play come together? Stay tuned for the nuts and bolts of building a companion play…

If I Were King -

2009-12-25T21:08:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I posted about the very cool experience of writing with the residents of Huger Mercy Living Center nearly 10 years ago. I had so much fun over my two years with these beautiful people that I wanted to take the project into a school environment. I spoke with a high school drama teacher, and she put me in touch with a middle school language arts teacher.

So, I found myself carrying an even larger bag of supplies into Montecito Community School. For two years, I hung out with the 6^th graders. My first day in Ms. Bond’s room, I passed a table of five boys who were, in a word, spirited. I was assured they would be kept under control. No way… I wanted to play at their table!

The kids and I wrote on paper bags, paper plates, and construction paper. We played Exquisite Corpse. We wrote together and we wrote apart. She shared, and we withheld. I learned so much from them – and even though it’s ridiculously cliché – I know I took more away from that experience than they did.

After our first free writing exercise, I told the kids to wad up their colored paper and shoot it into the trashcan. I told them, “the only writing you waste is the writing you don’t do today.” – which you know, sounds pretty good. Funny how I forget about that all the time.

These 6^th graders wanted to be reckless and fearless, and once they trusted me, they opened the barn door. We had 8 English Language Learners in this class. They wrote in Spanish and their classmates translated. My favorite table of havoc wreakers was the most prolific group in the class.

I think of them often. What trust looked like in their eyes. The weight of their faith. And their stolen irreverent laughter. And one - one stayed with me long after I left.

If I Were King

If I were king I would rule the whole wide world.

If I were a god I would control everything. If I could fly,

I would meet the stars. If I could have one wish,

I would wish for a star to own.

If I could, I would soar into the future.

If I were an angel I would watch over my family.

If I were a different person,

I would so love your puzzles.

-- Isaac

When I Was Alone

When I was lost (under neath my belt)

my stomach was a stone.

Sinking…

was the way

I felt.

And hollow

And alone.

-- Josephine

Survive

There’s no way I’ll fail the test today. There’s no way

I’m going to quit. There’s no way I’m stopping.

There’s no way I’m going to die. There’s no way I’ll

forget. There’s

no way I’ll ever go dark.

There’s no

way I’ll die. I’m going to survive.

There’s no way I’ll be a loser.

I will always be a leader.

There’s no way they will win. There’s no way I’ll

be forgotten. There’s no way

I’m going to stop writing.

There’s no way I’ll ever ever quit.

I will live.

-- Anonymous.

Blank Verse

2009-11-21T13:21:00.000-08:00

Nine years ago I visited a rest home for patients living with Alzheimer's Disease in Stages III and IV. There are very few care facilities available to this population in the Phoenix area. I approached the activities director, and asked if I could come in once a week and lead them in creative writing. Lorraine sat down. I wanted to gather several members together in one of the cottage living rooms for a group writing session. Lorraine was surprised that I just showed up out of the blue. I had my reasons.

We talked about creative writing and how that might come together in an environment where inhibitions are low and free association and lyrical speech are readily accessible to them. She agreed and I came back the next week with pictures and prompts and an easel. Over the next several months, I asked questions and wrote down their reflections. We had a wonderful time.

Every now and again, I’m going to put up one of their poems for you all to enjoy. These writings were not compiled within the framework of any kind of poetic structure. I called them poetry because when I read the first one back to them, Nancy shouted, “A poem!” A poem indeed.

This is one of the earlier pieces. The line breaks are where thoughts ended or another individual started to speak. Fifteen residents participated in this session.

Others More Recent

Redwoods in Northern California the size of a dinning room

Reflections

Creations of God

Snow on mountain tops

Hiking for flowers during spring

It’s really good – that part of it

You can just look at it—

And that makes it almost…

Nebraska—Lincoln—the capitol where my father was born.

Eight of us picking pears along the Northern Coast

Old cactus country—Douglas, Arizona

Climbing trees all the time - when I wasn’t falling down that is (sly smile)

Swinging on ropes ascending too high, more than mama wanted.

I looked all around that place—

My most favorite thing was climbing those mountains.

Off to the woods…where we got into a lot of trouble was what we got (laugh)

My cousins and our gang, my brother and sister, and me—oh boy!

Then there was the time my father took me to see Harry Truman give a speech…now that was somethin’…

Places I’ve gone and mountains I’ve climbed, some long ago, others more recent.

What's so damn funny about that?

2009-11-13T12:15:00.000-08:00

I suddenly realized last week that the first decade of the 21^st century is coming to an end. Since then, I’ve been thinking about what the last ten years have looked like for my family and me. I wanted to wax poetic here, but that is best left to the poets in my life. So, to sum up, we have experienced love and loss, victory and defeat, renewed hope and bitter despair. Not much different from your lives, I’m sure.

What made these years, and every year, bearable and illuminated, has been our ridiculous and fairly inappropriate collective sense of humor. Our familial meta-humor if you will. We make each other laugh to the point of gasping for air, pulling stomach muscles and shedding tears.

Even when my brother and I are at total odds with each other – barely able to be in the same room together – he can pull just the right movie quote out of thin air and make me pee in my pants (which is not that hard since I’ve given birth to two children). Or how about the days when my daughter would rather drill under her finger nails than hear my voice one more time, she will sing out “I LOVE YOU, MOM!” which is meant to sound like the F-bomb curse. I always laugh and then she laughs.

But sometimes the feelings are just too big for humor right in the moment, and so we make a gesture in unsure and awkward ways to give each other space for a little while. And sometimes, maybe especially in those times, we need permission to laugh again.

My mother died in 2007. That first week, I cried, but mostly I withheld so many tears that I could barely swallow. A whole gaggle of family arrived at Sky Harbor International Airport that week in August. Twenty minutes later they crossed the threshold of our back door. My aunt Betsy marched into the house demanding, “Where is she? Where’s Mare?” She found me leaning against the kitchen counter. Betsy pulled me close and whispered the most inappropriate and off-color statement in my ear. I erupted in surprised hysterics. For the first time since my mom passed, I let go of a belly laugh, and I let go of clenched sobs on Betsy’s shoulder.

Ask any kid and they’ll tell you that inappropriate laughter is the best. Getting the giggles when you’re supposed to be quiet, or good, or polite is more contagious than a summer cold. Or how about when someone says the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time, and another someone starts snorting? Those are the moments that will unite any group of strangers.

Laughter is the call for emotional presence – for filling up with feelings of euphoria and of overwhelming fear. Laughing when I’m angry (because I’m really feeling sad) helps me come up for air, and eventually moves me into the solution. I said eventually. J Laughter is validation of my victory and my injury; permission to celebrate and to bleed; and the next step toward a dream and a revelation.

Sure it’s all hard and some days are just so unbelievably sucky that I'm just sure the suck can’t get any worse – like when my mom died. Even then, I craved the bridge between the suck and the hope. I needed that orchestra of laughter that I share with my family and friends: deafening howls, snorts, giggles, guffaws, hiccups, and honks. That is where I want to live. Where I want to rest my head. Where I want to feel it all.

the road to god knows...

2009-11-08T17:05:00.000-08:00

Generally speaking I don’t follow the graphic novel genre. Three months ago I couldn’t name one author – okay well, I could name one, but I definitely couldn’t name two. Von Allan changed that for me.

Von Allan lives in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. I met Von on Twitter (@VonAllan). We immediately talked “story” and found we had a great deal in common. When I saw the mock up of “the road to god knows…” I was easily taken with Von’s artwork and his beautiful ability to illustrate “silence” on the page. The cover art is actually my favorite frame in the book. The detail of the "Lost Cat" sign on the light post sets a perfect tone. The more intriguing part of this book, and what made me Von’s fan, is the story.

Marie is 13 years old and lives a very difficult life – one that must be told fearlessly and honestly in order to resonate with an audience. The first part of her story is that of an 8^th grade girl navigating the landscape of teachers and peers. It’s pretty daunting for our girl.

The second layer of complexity is Marie’s mother, Betty, who is just home from a stay in the hospital. Betty suffers from schizophrenia – an illness that not only comes with a clinical diagnosis but also a societal moral judgment. Marie struggles to make sense of her teenage world while trying to protect her mother from others and herself.

I know something about chronic illness. My mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis when I was eight years old. The medical community didn’t know much about MS in the 1970’s. My mother’s neurologist said there was a 90% chance she would be dead within 10 years. By the time I was 13 I was so resentful that I was almost absent from my mother’s life. After I started driving, I rarely saw my family.

MS doesn’t carry a stigma the way most mental illnesses unfortunately do. One symptomatic crossover is the lack of appearing sick – at least in the beginning. I had to field a lot of questions and deal with a lot of awkward silence.

When I read this book the first time, I immediately wondered how I would’ve felt about it when I was 13. Would I have pushed it away? Would I have exhaled warm air from my lungs in the kind of way that can change a teenager’s trajectory? Marie’s future is uncertain. Her giggles are stolen between day-to-night worries. Von leaves Marie’s story open so the reader can walk with her on – the road to god knows…

Where's the Great Pumpkin?

2009-10-30T11:24:00.000-07:00

Halloween 1997. It was 5:45pm when I walked through the front door after taking both kids, 2 years old and 3mos, to the doctor with ear infections. Brad was standing in the kitchen with pumpkin guts laying all over the table and a partially carved pumpkin. Before I could yell at him, I noticed that he was reading our pediatrician’s emergency handbook. Then I noticed that his left forearm was bleeding. So I said in the most, you know, casual way, “Hon…what are you doing, and um…why are you bleeding?”

“I’m researching what to do for a stab wound."

“A what? You’re researching a what? WTF? Let me see your arm!”

And there it was. He had a knife wound in his left arm. “WTF?” I repeated as if clarification of the previous “WTF?” was necessary.

“The knife slipped and went into my arm.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a cry for help?” Which made us both crack up. I still could not figure out what he was researching. “You need stitches.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

By this time it was 6:30pm and kids were ringing the doorbell. I sent Brad to the hospital while I passed out candy. My son had fallen asleep in his car-seat-baby-bucket-thing. My daughter was cranky with ear pain and hunger. I got her some food and sat her down in front of her favorite video: Winnie the Pooh.

Halloween 2009. This year my daughter is 13 and my son is 12. Driving home from school last week we passed one of a bazillian pumpkin “patches”, and I said, “We need to get you guys to the patch so you can pick out of few pumpkins.”

Silence. (Internal WTF?)

“When would you like to do that?” I asked casually.

“We don’t need a pumpkin this year. They’re kind of a pain.” My daughter said.

“Yeah.” chimed my son.

WTF? [I repeated in my head as if clarification of the previous WTF? was necessary.]

“Seriously? You guys! You don’t want a pumpkin?” I stumbled, “okay, that’s cool.”

I was momentarily elated. And then suddenly I was sad; lachrymose in fact. We have other decorations up: orange lights, a ghost and signs. We even “booed” our neighbors across the street. But no pumpkin? I wondered if there was a tab in the pediatrician’s emergency handbook for this.

So I’ll feed everyone and sit them down in front of a basketball game or the World Series. The grown ups will steal candy from our own bowl, and my brother will fall asleep in the big red chair. My daughter is helping a family with four kids go trick-or-treating, and my son bought a scary mask to wear while HE hands out candy.

I’m not a mom who laments every stage of maturity as a sign of lost youth and innocence. I love being with them every step of the way. I didn’t mind when we left the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa behind. I wasn’t sad the first time they didn’t want to watch Winnie the Pooh. I wasn’t crushed when they stopped watching every animated holiday special. But for some reason losing the pumpkin for a holiday that I don’t even particularly like made me cry. This year Linus will be all alone in the pumpkin patch, and for the first time, my kids and I won’t be there to watch him.

Holding On To A Thread

2009-10-25T19:17:00.000-07:00

I had lunch with my friend Kerry. We’ve known each other for nearly 30 years. We have wreaked havoc, loved and lost together. She is dear to me. We met for coffee at one of my favorite local coffee haunts, Copper Star Coffee. Two large lattes later, she asked me, “So, how are you?”

“Breathing. I’m practicing breathing right now.” Kerry scooped up her handbag (a lovely turquoise bag I might add) and produced her key chain. She unfastened a string doll hanging from her ring. Handing it to me she said, “You need Willow, that’s what she does, she helps you breathe.”

“What is it?” Kerry pulled out a single sheet of glossy paper well creased and worn, “She’s a string doll from this company. They’re kind of like personal voodoo dolls for good. Check ‘em out.” So I stuck the makeshift catalog in my bag, and we continued our conversation. I had to admit that I was taken with Willow. She’s cute and kind of a nice reminder to take a deep breath… and then have a meltdown.

The next day, my kids looked at the glossy flyer on the way to school. Seven hours later, at pick up, my now 12 year-old son asked for the flyer again. Halfway home, he announced, “These things are really cool. Monster Man is my favorite and Red Devil is my second favorite.” I was intrigued, “What would you do with them, buddy?”

“I’d put Monster Man in my swim bag because he ‘helps you see the beauty inside the not-so-beautiful.’ Sometimes after practice I don’t feel very good about myself. I’d put Red Devil on my desk since he ‘helps keep your temper in check during those extra trying times.’ You know how homework really gets to me sometimes? I thought he’d be good for that.” Wow. He had clearly given this a lot of thought. Then he added that he also liked E-Moe because that doll felt sad so you don’t have to.

Big feelings and big thoughts springing from just the idea of String Dolls that might help him get through the day. We got home, the kids unpacked, and got their snacks. I wandered back to my office and wondered about faith. My son has literally survived many trials in his life. For him, faith or religion or… whatever, is a waste of time. Pointless. Naïve. And yet, in less than 24 hours with just the idea of String Dolls, he’s ready to place his emotional care within the wrapping of just a single string. He talked about them again last night. “What do you like about them buddy?” “I don’t know,” he said, “I just do. I really want them.”

I have several tokens on my desk, in my purse, and in my pocket that remind me who I am and what I’m about. Like Willow. So I ordered Monster Man, Red Devil and E-Moe so he can find little reminders of himself in his life. I hope he sees the beauty within, the cool in his anger, and bravery in his sadness. Mostly I want him to find hope. Holding on. To a thread.

Gratitude Cool

2009-10-16T20:50:00.000-07:00

Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and 20 minutes after that, Christmas. Because it’s that time of year to really look gratitude in the face, I wanted to write about two gifts I received some years back. I don’t like “looking for the silver lining” or “counting my lucky stars”. I’m interested in gratitude that feels real to me – that is part of the world where I live. I look for the cool in the yuck.

Rather than “looking for the silver lining”, a woman I knew for a short time many years ago suggested that I be grateful for the rain cloud. In other words, I am grateful for the roof I get to put on my house, the apology I get to make to my brother, and the havoc I get to wreak in my checking account. I like turning the problem on its ear and forcing myself to reconcile the privilege with the pain. It’s so easy for me to forget that the keys on my keychain are important representations of privilege: house, car, work, storage unit, and my brother’s house. If I’m honest, I probably complain about one of those things every day. When I can remember to be grateful for the quality of those problems - the “get” within and not the “silver” without - I am in a much better place.

I look up in the night sky as much as the next person, but personally I’d like something more tangible to count than “my lucky stars” – if counting is what I’m doing. I heard about the ABC gratitude list from a new friend when I first moved to San Diego. To be honest, I thought it seemed ridiculous. Simple for the simple-minded. And then one day… as the story goes… I landed in the emergency room pregnant with my first child, in trouble, and alone. I lay in that room waiting for Brad, and my friend’s list came to mind: “Start with the letter ‘A’ and name something you’re grateful for that begins with ‘A’.” So for me it went: A:apple, B:Brad, C:cat, D:dad and so forth. I repeated the alphabet very quickly without thinking about or judging the associations I made. It was sweet and kind of funny. I was still scared and alone, but that was a little bit more okay.

These stories are not meant to be Pollyanna band aids and in no way an echo of “this too shall pass.” For me they’re just a way to mix it up – to challenge my current perspective even for a few minutes. Of course I’ll still be sad, scared and angry. I don’t believe that gratitude is the absence of common sense or survival instincts. Gratitude is a fleeting infusion of context and peace. And the only way I know how to find it is by looking for the cool in the yuck.

Apart From -

2009-10-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

My friend, Sterling, has written another illuminating blog post, which I am once again hijacking for my own purposes. Sterling discussed women’s fashion: who decides, who plays and who cares. I strung together a few ideas to post as a comment, but after typing two paragraphs I thought about something else…

I thought about Friday afternoon. I took my 12 year-old son to a Vans store for shoes. It’s been more than two weeks so he had yet again blown through his kicks. Honest to god I think his voice is changing too. I rarely restrict my kids’ clothing choices. My son’s situation is slightly different. Because he spent so many years away from school and school playgrounds, and the fact that he doesn’t understand his peers, I do intervene every now and again. “Are you sure?”

“Why do you care what everybody else thinks?” And then we had to go there…

“Buddy, the only reason I care is because you already feel apart from.” I told him that there’s a difference between doing his own thing and feeling rejected, ostracized and less than. Unfortunately, social acceptance is often determined, or at the very least influenced, by external presentation. I completely support his choice to wear whatever he wants, and if whatever grief he got wouldn’t crush him, I’d buy him any pair of shoes he wants. I told him that he needs to find an acceptable level of rejection and self-acceptance that allowed him to express himself.

Sterling was talking about women finding identity, power and acceptance as a matter of fashion; I was having the same conversation with my 6^th grade boy. My son wants to step on the playground before morning bell to smiles that say “cool” and not “idiot.” He wants to have the confidence that Lilly has with Her Purple Plastic Purse – to wear her proverbial “crazy sunglasses and red cowboy boots” not in defiance but in freedom. We all struggle to find just the right measure of self-expression and conformity. And I imagine that for some of us that still looks a lot like it did in middle school.

The Girl Next Door

2009-10-09T10:17:00.001-07:00

I wear shirts that say things like: “Support original theare: Dial S for Stripper.” Or, “phx fringe festival: go fringe yourself.” My dentist didn’t even know what to do with that shirt. It’s like when people found out that I smoke(d): “You smoke??!!” I seem to have this whole girl-next-door thing going on, and I’m just so, well, not. I don't fit into a category. Most of us, most of the women I know, are not one anything. I think we aspire to be more...and less...than is expected of us.

My friend Sterling and I were discussing one of his plays a few weeks ago. First you have to know that Sterling is brilliant, generous and hilarious. He is a good friend of mine. In our exchange, he commented that his experience has shown him that young women are possibly becoming the men that they were taught not to be. (Alright, everyone, take it easy… J) He was disturbed by this observation and open to my comments. Below is my response (in part) to his suggestion. I addressed him, and his cohort, directly. Tell me what you think:

You all are Gen X and as such the women in your generation totally got the shaft in terms of finding mentors and roll models. Agreed. I am the very last year of the Boomers. I worked in Corporate America – specifically in public accounting – for more than 10 years. The women who managed to scratch their way to the glass ceiling did so by using all of the women around them as ladders.

When my peers left Corporate America – and we did in droves in the mid-90’s – we justified our departure by having children. My kids were born in ’96 and ’97. And the fascinating thing about this “career” change was the birth of the Mommy Wars. More of the same competitiveness, and again, we had no roll models. And yes, pre-feminist male roles are the obvious fall back. Sadly.

However, women in their 20’s are being lazy. They do have a generation of women to look to – namely my peers. We may be making a mess of our own lives in the process, but we are positing alternatives for the next tribe. To that end, 20-somethings whining that they can only be pimps or sluts is bullshit. J Get a grip. (…)

And for the record, nobody can ever figure me out. I’m a designer purse whore, jewelry snob, and if I could afford it, I’d get a pedicure every week. I’m also devoted to all things Converse and denim, and I have no friggin idea what’s in style nor do I care. I have three pairs of cowboy boots and 3” platform sandals. I talk to my kids about everything from group-think to bigotry to date rape and the very real possibility of being prosecuted as a sex offender for sexting. My kids can use every cuss word properly in a sentence. Other mothers generally don’t like me. I don’t mind; I kind of like it. J

If those young women have to fall back on stereotypes at the close of this decade, then I have one thing to say - stay out of the next generation’s way. My daughter and her friends know who they are, where they want to go and who they want to become. They are ready to kick some ass. J

From House to House

2009-10-05T00:34:00.000-07:00

About once a week my teenage daughter and I lie on my bed for an hour…or two…while she unburdens herself of all that is her world. Most of the time I make sympathetic sounds and turn down the ceiling fan.

One of her best friends is jealous, another is chasing her first love, and still another – one of her guy friends – confides in her about all that is his world. Then there is the work: AEP classes, NJHS, and babysitting. The fun: theater auditions, swim team, and her gaggle of girls. And how to make it all work.

I’ve wondered about the similarities before – between her life and my own. Last night while she talked about her relationships with peers and all of the authority figures in her life my suspicion crystalized.

My problems are the same now as they were then. I am navigating relationships, struggling to meet deadlines, find time for fun, and trying to balance it all. Wow. Could this really be true?

My mom used to say, “Things don’t change from house to house except the names.”

The same seems to apply to each one of us across time. Brad weaves his way through those core issues: relationships, work/fun and balance, as does our tween son. Of course the older we get, and the greater our responsibilities to others, the bigger our struggle.

I don’t know. I think my struggle would be more manageable if I took half of the advice and counsel that I share with my kids: keep your side of the street clean, check your motives, and ask for help.

Away we go...

2009-09-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

So I've been blogging on my playwriting website (marebiddle.com) about all things in my theatrical world. I love being a playwright and am grateful for the opportunity to work with amazing theater artists from England to Canada to New York (NY is its own country for our discussion purposes). Recently I started blogging about my conversations with other artists and how they approach an element of craft. During these conversations we veer off into what they find embarrassing, nauseating, and infuriating. If I'm lucky, we wander into the private and the precious: their yucky-sweet. Such places where we keep our cavities and our most sincere pet rocks; torn cuticles and a gift from a child tutored seven years ago.

This theme keeps spilling over into the rest of my life both in simpler and more complicated ways. And so the part of me that is writer wants to stretch beyond the limitations of the four edges of the page. The people, places and playgrounds that I come across are fascinating to me. These experiences are past and present, real and imagined, one and many. Included in all of that mess is myself as person: of family and friends, and as project manager, accountant, and exterminator.

Here's what I'm talking about - Away We Go is far and away my favorite movie this year. First I loved the actors and the story. Then I went back brandishing a notebook and small light to time each scene and beat change. I knew the arc was perfect; I could almost touch it. Here's the great part of that experience. I saw a mid-week 4:30 show so the audience consisted of myself, a dozen or so women who seemed to be ditching the last hour of work, and sitting two rows ahead of me was an elderly couple. They shared popcorn and a medium soda. They smiled and chuckled together. He fetched extra napkins, and she thanked him sweetly.

I wondered if they were prepared for the kind of subject matter and language in the film, but either way, I had to give them props for their willingness to ride the rapids. Lights. Previews. Opening scene... Okay, I swear I can't remember exactly when this happened, but at some point the woman leaned over to her husband and whispered loudly, "What did she say?" Obliging his wife he leaned over and nearly shouted, "She said.... "

You might think this was annoying until you realize the language that was in store for them. Let me assure you, he did not hold anything back when repeating dialogue so his wife could hear it. As for the rest of us, well, I could feel our anticipation hanging in the air. Humidity. Every time I heard a really outrageous line, I looked over waiting to hear this lovely woman ask her husband for auditory help. They were fabulous.

I so loved his dedication to her, her trust in him and their unity in these interesting circumstances. Like Burt and Verona at the end of the movie.

Roll credits.