Conviction and Insight: A Teenager Speaks

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow is Thursday...

Poster by Andre Jordan

Raising the Stakes

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

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..."

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

"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

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

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 :)

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

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 -

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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. :)