30 day writing challenge: clothes schmothes.

I am eating cheese and cashews right now. Drinking La Croix coconut water. This is what my dinner consists of tonight: nuts, cheese, and fizzy coconut water. That's pretty healthy, right? Totally natural, except for the fizz in the water. Tomorrow morning, I'll have coffee and a protein bar. For lunch, I'll probably eat a peanut butter&jelly sandwich and a side of baked potato chips and an apple. For dinner, I'll have a baby spring lettuce salad with blue cheese crumbles/walnuts and balsamic vinaigrette, with some tuna salad on crackers. 

I have no time to eat these days, but when I do I eat like a 6 year old and/or someone at a cocktail party.

Have I ever told you I used to run 5 and 10K races? I mean, put " " around the word run, but I did. And I've run Atlanta's Peachtree Road Race 3 times - have all the shirts (somewhere) to prove it. But then I got pregnant, had a C-section, and my body was destroyed. Right after my career, my bank account, education reformers, insomnia, stress, the Tea Party, xenophobia, bad drivers, the weather, and people who leave angry, ridiculous and racist/chauvinistic comments under news articles on the Internet, for the last 7 years, my body has been my biggest complaint and the one thing - other than a pervasive inability to stay focused and get a single thing done - that's the most frustrating thing about me, to me.

I'd like to run again. I mean, put " " around run, but I would. Getting re-started has been a challenge, though. Timing is a factor, but not as big a factor as physical and mental motivation. I know I just need to (as Nike would tell me) Just Do It. But I'm a procrastinating excuse-maker. No joke - if there were a career for that, I'd be at the top of my field right now. I'd be traveling the world doing motivational speaking about the newest techniques in procrastinating excuse-making, and I'd have won a Nobel Peace Prize in it for all of my innovative research and techniques. (Oh, the humanity that this is not a real career.)  

Which leads me to today's writing challenge, which wasn't much of a challenge at all and this is good because I need to finish up the rest of this week's lesson plans since I've procrastinated doing them all weekend with a lot of excuses.

30 Day Writing Challenge #27: What I Wore Today.

Basically, if I could just go everywhere in pajamas or yoga pants, I would. Jeans are my next choice, but nothing beats comfy PJs and yoga pants. And long shirts. Anything to hide the havoc a child and my own procrastinate-y, excuse-making laziness has done to me. And if it weren't for the havoc bearing a child and my own sheer laze has inflicted upon me, I'd probably sleep naked and hang out naked when alone, because research says it's healthier. (I am NOT making that up to titillate or excite anybody - see HERE. Plus, if you could see what I see in the mirror every day, rest assured: nothing exciting to see there, move along.)

At any rate. To address today's writing "challenge." Today I wore jeans, a long grey/striped shirt that has holes in it because I've had it for going on 5 years now, and slip-on black shoes that are now getting holes in them because they're cheap. I buy all my clothes from either Target or Old Navy. If I find something I like, I literally wear it until it disintegrates. Sometimes I wear underpants, sometimes I don't, and I rarely wear socks. Today I wore neither of those things. And if I could get away with going barefoot all the time, I would. Socks, underpants, shoes - all clothes that are overrated. But not bras. Bras are good - ironically, I feel overexposed and under supported without one, so much so I sleep in them. I am odd and strange when it comes to clothes. I like them - I'm not someone you'll ever see signing up to go vacation at a nudist camp, because I feel uncomfortably exposed without clothes on. It's just...I just think certain kinds of clothes are less necessary than others. But clothes are good things. Unless they're skin colored tank tops and polyester biker shorts and you're seriously 500 lbs and you come to school to eat lunch with your child and then get all offended when the children start screaming because from behind you look completely naked. Then I think humongous cloaks like ancient Druids wore to conceal their identities are good things, and maybe also cloaks of invisibility, like in Harry Potter. (Get on that, Science!)

....Good god. I'm so sorry. Who put this on this list as something to write about? This is the most boring thing on the entire list. Apologies. Hope you weren't incredibly busy or anything. (Did you read the entire thing? God bless you.) 

I'm going to abruptly end this so I can go do some laundry. I've made a dozen excuses for why I could procrastinate doing it this weekend. 

Happy Sunday.

writing challenge: 5 fears.

I love Yoda. Yoda is Love.
Also, I am sorry Star Wars nerds, for tormenting you
about watching all the episodes in numerical order.
I'll use the Force for good, and honor George's wishes, and watch them
in the order He commanded us to.
...unless you're my brother. And then I'm going to watch them in
numerical order and force you to watch me do it.

I didn't go to sleep until 3 AM. I slept - hard - for about 3 hours. Now I'm awake again. I have brought home work to do this weekend. I need to clean. My little girl is with me. We have 2 big commitments this weekend to attend. One is on Sunday and my fingers are crossed really hard I don't have to stay at it with her, and can go get some stuff done.

Number 19 on the 30 Day Writing Challenge is to write about five fears. Fear is a thing with me. I'm trying really hard to grow a thick skin, to recognize things I really DO need to be afraid of (sharks eating me, asteroids crashing down on my head) and things I DON'T need to be afraid of (sharks eating me, asteroids crashing down on my head). The thing about Fear is this: none of this is real. My spiritual teachings and learnings tell me that none of this is real. We are beings of Light, and Love is the only real thing. There are beings who have lost connection with their Light, and have forgotten how Love works. Or they've twisted it. And those people scare me. But I also know they aren't real, because they've lost touch with what is real.

That's very coded and philosophical, so...let's do this. Let me just share my 5 basest fears. My truest, realest fears are that I will never be enough, I will never get my act together, and I will flounder forever and eventually end up 95 years old drooling on myself in a nursing home, having accomplished absolutely nothing beyond navel-gazing and no one will come visit me. Those are my core, deepest and darkest fears. Or that I'll end up living with a hundred cats and eating canned cat food, sitting in pools of my own filth. And that it'll all be recorded on a reality TV show. And Donald Trump will host.

But here are 5 fears that are easier to address:

1. Sharks. You know what I'd like to do to conquer this fear? Swim with dolphins AND sharks at the same time. Because one time I saw Jaws 4, and that's what happened. The dolphins protected the humans from the psycho Jaws shark. I'm pretty sure that's the only way you can survive a swim with sharks - make sure dolphins are around you, because sharks don't mess with dolphins. According to the film industry.

2. Being destitute and homeless. This is kinda sorta like the nursing home and/or hoarder cat lady scenarios, but in this fear I'm also living in my mom's basement and she's telling me what to do all day. The good thing about my mom is she's got a great sense of humor, so I can joke with her like this and she won't throw me out on the streets to fend for myself. Also, she makes really great spaghetti. 

3. Ghosts. Ghosts are REAL, reader(s). I want to talk to a paranormal expert (preferably Jason Hawes) so I can understand them. Because at some point, I may be one and so...I just like to have all the facts. Is all I'm saying.

4. Death by fiery plane crash. I'm a bad flier. I like airports. I like the process of flying. But being on the plane, 50,000 feet in the air hurtling through time and space? So so BAD at that. If you're on the plane with me, outwardly I look nonchalant and calm: I am reading, I am resting, I am doing whatever. But inwardly, I'm listening for every single weird sound and nervously watching the flight attendants for signs of fright. 

I want to travel overseas to visit all of Europe and the Australian continent one day. But I'll be honest: I'm going to need a lot of sleep drugs to get me over the Atlantic, and enough to kill a baby elephant to get across the Pacific. The worst things in the world for me are articles (WITH PICTURES) of what happens to people when they're tossed and smashed onto the ground from a plane 50,000 feet in the air death spiraling downward. 

5. Terrorists. Terrorism, I'm learning as I grow up, comes in many different forms. Terrorists can be the scary guys who abuse and misuse a religion to further their political agendas and blow up other people or ram planes into skyscrapers. Or they can be that neighbor across the street who stands in the middle of the road at 5 AM shooting at squirrels while laughing maniacally and muttering about his ex-wife. They can be a stranger driving in a car in the lane next to you, or someone you once loved a lot behaving in really scary, confusing ways. 

And, I'm learning as I grow up, the only way to drive out fear is through love. In my experience, true Love is gentle and kind. It doesn't try to control anyone. It doesn't make demands or use shaming or manipulation to get people to do what it wants; those are terrorism tactics. Love just is. 

I have a lot of love in my life - I have a mom who knows how to make great spaghetti, friends I can meet for dinner and coffee/wine dates who totally get me, a sister-in-law who's more sister than in-law, a brother who makes me laugh and laugh, a niece and nephew who make my heart ridiculously happy, a little girl who's growing up into a really lovely if-a-little-indignant person, and just...I know so many people who are full of support and love. I cannot tell you how quickly someone's support and love can relax your scariest scares. If you are not surrounded by people who are gentle, supportive, and understand how real Love works, please find you some. I would offer to be that person for you, but I'm on the need-to-receive end right now...I'll let you know when I'm back in the ready-to-give end. 

If it's really real, true love is gentle and kind and undemanding. And I'm pretty sure terrorists don't know how it works, which is why they're terrorists. I'm reading PETER PAN to my class right now, and Captain Hook is filling up my brain - there was a character who craved love but had no idea what it really was. But dolphins have an idea. And most moms understand it. And Jason Hawes gets it. Journalists publishing horrific plane crash pictures don't get it, but that's because Love doesn't sell magazines and newspapers.  Over the next several weeks and months, I'm going to really focus on ignoring scary pictures/news articles, terrorists, sharks, and staying away from reality TV shows unless they're about ghosts (and Jason Hawes is the host). 

30 Day Writing Challenge #1: weird traits.

Miss M is at her dad's for the week...I have laminating to cut out and grading to do, but I have just spent $100 on sparkly shit at Justice for a certain big girl's birthday present next week. Now I don't feel like doing any of that. 

Instead, I'm starting the Thirty Day Writing Challenge, wherein I pick a topic from this picture I stumbled upon on the Internet and write about it. I could go in order numbers 1-30, but that feels like following rules. And I don't follow rules. I make up my OWN constitutional by laws. I'm a renegade, a runaway rogue, a loose cannon rolling down a hill. Take your rules and stick 'em where the sun don't shine, Mr. Man. Rules are for fools, tools. (Okay. I'm done now.)

Here's what I'm writing about today: #25 - Four Weird Traits I Have.

I know. I KNOW!! Listen: it was reeeeealllly hard to narrow it down to JUST four. But I did it:

1. I talk to myself. Sometimes? I answer too. But as myself. Don't judge. I can sense you're judging me. I do not care. Because look - me and myself have some really great conversations, true heart to hearts. I am my own best pep talker, my very best psychotherapist. And I can be refreshingly honest and frank with myself when I'm in tough situations. And I'm always super super supportive of me when someone's been mean to me - that asshole! You're GREAT, Amy-self! They're totally jealous because they know they suck. And me and myself are just awesome excuse makers/partners in crime AND! We're hysterically funny comediennes - we make us laugh all the time. At really inappropriate things.

But sometimes, when I'm really sad, I'm really NOT the right person for myself to hang out with. Me and myself can really envision the entire planet in its soon-to-be apocalyptic state, zombies eating our face and everything, and we just want to crawl under the covers and stay there for 9 million weeks. That's when I turn on Damien Rice's song AMIE, and pretend he wrote it for me but accidentally misspelled my name. (I will forgive Damien Rice a billion things, just because he sings my name out loud.)

But when me and myself are in the car? We are THE best drivers on the road. And we make sure all the other drivers and themselves know it. 

2. I'm pretty much a walking dichotomy. Like, I'm a feminist...who likes to be dominated. And I don't do romance, but if you show up with one of my favorite kinds of flowers just because, my heart pretty much melts. And I'm not really much of a risk taker...but I crave adventure. And I can fall asleep so easy - I've literally fallen asleep on people...but I can't stay there; I wake up and can't go back to sleep. I have infinite patience for people who are 12 and younger, ZERO patience for people who are 13+. And I absolutely believe in magic...but yay Science. 

I'm all about the yin to my yang. (I think that's actually who's talking to each other every day: my yin and my yang.)

3. Long lines freak me the hell out, and I would rather turn right and then do a U turn than try to wait for the perfect opening to turn against traffic during rush hour. I will also travel 50 miles out of my way if it means not having to sit in a traffic jam; I am always looking for an escape route. (I think that last phrase is really paramount to #3: I AM ALWAYS LOOKING FOR AN ESCAPE ROUTE.) 

4. I live for the eccentric. The more eccentric the better. I like to talk to eccentric people and listen to their weird takes on life. I like being around people with 10,000 tattoos on them, because I know every single tattoo has a story to it, and I want to hear every single one of them. People with facial piercings fascinate me. People who live off the grid on purpose fascinate me. People who think they're real witches and vampires fascinate me. I once took a writing class with a man who swore he could talk to animals (no, really - like if he got in the ocean with whales, he knew whale song...he chirped at birds and oinked at pigs and stuff)...he was my absolute favorite in the whole class (until he revealed himself to be a raging chauvinist, but that's a different blog post). 

Anybody who doesn't live under the culture-at-large's social norms fascinate me. I think it's because I kinda sorta want to join them, but I'm too boringly normal (other than, you know, I guess having philosophical conversations with myself). So thank god for vicarious living, and quirky character traits.  

baby dickhead.

Kurt Vonnegut, you were smart. And kind.

I had a troll/mean person experience the other day. I'm not going to tell you where to find it (go digging--you will), but it's on a social media account. I made a joke--and I will admit to you: I'm (painfully) aware my humor is of the extremely irreverent variety, completely ironic, totally self-deprecating, and (to a certain level) very caustic...I probably spent a bit too much time absorbing Monty Python movies and Black Adder reruns in high school. And I am (painfully) aware that sometimes I crack jokes that make me laugh and LAUGH, while everyone around me goes: Huh? I am aware of these things. Know that going into this story, that I am (painfully) aware: so I made a joke the other day, and it was sort of at America's expense, because seriously, Internet, we Americans are ridiculous. Are we not? Since 1776. Can we all agree that Americans are fairly ridiculous? With our ginormous food portions, our gas guzzling cars, our obsession with firearms, and Rush Limbaugh in general? Totally. Ridiculous. 

But I forget sometimes, on the Internet, that not everyone understands or appreciates the ridiculous. And I forget sometimes, on the Internet, that some people don't agree with me that some things are ridiculous. And this can create havoc. I forget that not everyone is from America and familiar with our eccentricities. Sometimes that gets me into hot water with non-Americans. I forget that not all Americans are practically card-carrying Commie pinkos such as myself. And sometimes that gets me into hot water with Americans.

I also forget that, in America, we have this gargantuan problem with understanding irony and self-deprecation. And along with that, I forget that some human beings, no matter where they are from, simply don't think stuff is funny. Or the stuff they find funny (cross eyes and puppet shadows) is not what I find funny (colorful jokes about sex and poop). And if that's not enough, I forget some people are just way too sensitive and constantly on the lookout to fight whenever their sensitivities are offended which for some of them seems to be, like, every 29 seconds. Even when they can clearly see they're interacting wtih a ridiculous, silly person from Atlanta, Georgia who meant no harm.

So I got attacked. I was told I was embarrassing. Well, no shit, Sherlock. Why yes, goddamnit I am! But the context around being told how embarrassing I was just made me so sad for the person, because (ironically) I could tell she didn't get the joke at all. I don't think she'd been exposed to any of what the joke was about, and her lack of exposure and education was embarrassing...and so. In the end, I was embarrassed for her. 

So what do you do in situations like that? Do you call someone who's probably having a really hard life out on their rude behavior? Because I went to her account and looked through her life, out of schadenfreude-like curiosity...but also because I'm a researcher, you know. That's what I do--if you're going to leave a nasty comment to me AND a link for me to click? Be assured I'm clicking that link. I want to--HAVE to--know: Why? (But I also click links when you're nice to me, because: Why?)

Her life looked so happy. She has friends, and family who dearly love her. She loved food and parties and color and wine. This would be a person I might like, were we to actually meet and interact. But I could also see she's put on tremendous amounts of weight over the years. And as someone who constantly battles my love of fudge vs. my hatred of working out, I know how difficult this is to fight. But it made me wonder if maybe she's just generally unhappy about herself, and I wondered that because of a comment she left about her younger, thinner self under one of her pictures. (I have a degree in Armchair Psychiatry.)

So I couldn't do it. Privately, to friends, I called her all kinds of filthy names, and I've squashed her like a bug a million times, to vent my spleen. But publicly, I blessed her, and sent her love. Because that's just what I do. Kill with kindness. Go ahead--try to be mean to me. I will kill you. With kindness. (In my head, though, I'll actually be killing you. Literally. With like knives and shit.)

This is the peril of the Internet, Internet. You are such a useful tool. Until the pedophiles, pornographers, and humorless asswipes all boot up their devices and log online. What up with that? Can we get some filters for it? Who's in charge of the 'net these days?

Anywho. I keep going back to re-read the whole thing, hoping (just HOPING) she'll come back and respond with a butthead comment so I can have a real reason to take her down and then block her. But she never has--total hit and run asshole commenter. A keyboard cowgirl; didn't even have the courage of her convictions. And so last night when I read and reread her judgmental, weird comment, I used it to make my skin thicker--I printed it off and rubbed it all over my naked body to create calluses. (I'm joking--I didn't really do that.)

Mostly, though, I really feel like, if you get dickhead comments on the Internet, (a) you're doing SOMETHING right, and (b) it's a sign you've arrived. So if you'd like to leave me a dickhead comment down below, feel free! I will print it off and rub it all over my naked body later tonight, and send you blessings for helping grow my exoskeletal armor.

social media + storytelling connections.

Exactly, John Steinbeck. Exactly.

Let's talk about storytelling, social media, and connections. (And at the end, I have a Big and Important Announcement.) 

First, storytelling (as it relates to social media). I think I've been pretty vocal here about the effect I think social media is having on us as a society, both culturally and linguistically. But also artistically. We aren't relating to each other as well, and worse we're beginning 2 write words as numbers or syllables of words, which I really h8. In 1976, as a Kindergartner, this would have confused the holy crap out of me; I submit my final evaluations, later on, in Algebras I and II, along with scary ass Trigonometry as hard evidence. 

I worry about how much time I spend on it. I'll be honest: I think I'm on Twitter and Facebook way too much. I'm also on Pinterest and Instagram, but not as much because I don't get to interface with other users there like I do on Twitter and Facebook. (Narcissism, Ego. I'm saying this out loud to you: Twitter and Facebook are all about narcissism and ego...so is Instagram, but you have to know how to use it properly and I still don't have a clue how to do that.) I'm also on LinkedIn, but nobody wants to hire me, so I'm bored there already. And I'm on Google+ but...have you been there? I feel like I'm standing in an abandoned warehouse.

I'm worried about how much I'm on my phone or my laptop as opposed to, say, riding bikes with Miss M or gazing up into the night sky, pondering stars. I look around me and see other people doing this as well. I find it worrying, and yet, this is how the 21st century just seems to be turning out. And if you aren't doing 21st century things, you get left behind.

However! I see that social media really does has great intrinsic value in getting the word out, whatever your word may be. One of the reasons I started actively tweeting about a year ago was to build an audience for my writing (and to win friends and influence others, but none of that has happened at all...oh, wait, no! Except for the friends part. I am WAY up in my friends data....cause I'm a sweetheart). It's been slow going--mostly because I'm crap at Twitter and muck it up a lot. And also I'm worried about bugging people too much--famous and not famous. 

But live tweeting (or, actually, just hitting the star button a lot since I had no clue and everybody was going too too fast for me) DIG (on USA!) was an eye opener for me. I saw what a community Social Media can build. I met some new friends. I made some important connections. Jason Isaacs sat back and admired my geeky researcher issues. It taught me a lot. 

One thing it taught me was that this is how making Art will most likely work for now. If you are an actor, a writer, a director, a producer, a poet, a painter, a journalist, a musician, a storyteller of any kind? You HAVE to be on Twitter. You HAVE to tweet and interact with people consuming and potentially consuming your product, your Art. And also on Facebook to some extent, but what I see is most people heading toward Twitter. I think because it's short and it's quick, and also because a lot of famous and influential people are on it and people (cough ME cough) like to be able to announce to their friends: "Brad Pitt favorited my weird tweet yesterday!" (Brad Pitt isn't on Twitter.) (But he SHOULD be.) 

Millions and billions of people from all over the planet are on it. If you want people to see you, to be exposed to your story, you HAVE to do it. Well, wait. No. You don't HAVE to do anything...I'm not trying to be the boss of you. But if you don't do it, your story won't reach the mass number of people it could potentially. (But then, on the flip side, can I also just say that sometimes just regular word of mouth works, too? In my neighborhood, people leave books in Miniature Libraries people have placed in their yards; I still ask friends for good movie/tv show/book recommendations. To their faces. In person. Offline. It's a thing humans can still do.)

For television storytelling, because of the way it's gone--which is that nobody really has time to sit back and watch shows AS they're airing (the exception being you're a fan and a geek and so you make the time)--it's absolutely essential you have as many people involved with the show tweeting. And the more interactive, the better. Right now I'm watching a show on NBC called American Odyssey fight for renewal, and the reason it's in a fight and has a chance is because dedicated fans are fighting for it. And the reason they're dedicated is because they feel seen and heard by the storytellers making the show. Therein lies the power of social media. The artist in me wants to cry out, "But cannot Art just be ART?!" (Because I'm dramatic.) But the social media addict is going, "Yeah, man. This is how it WORKS." (Because I'm a complete dichotomy.)

In addition, it's a nice way to connect with your favorite storytellers in general. The other day, I watched STOCKHOLM, PENNSYLVANIA, which was written and directed by Nikole Beckwith (you MUST see this if you can--it is amazing; unexpectedly unsettling but also beautifully sad and thoughtful). I sent Nikole a tweet and told her how wonderful her story is. And she responded to me--so sweet and kind. I will love her forever now. 

Therein lies the power of social media: I'll watch anything and everything Nikole Beckwith is involved with now. (Actually, I would have anyway, because I think she's gifted and talented...but she's also lovely and nice, and so now I'm in her corner forever.)

Ditto that for novelists, poets, musicians, actors, etc etc and so forth. If you can connect to people who admire one bit of any work you've done, and if you can make them feel heard and appreciated? They will wrap you in gobs of love and light, and when some dickhead comes to you and says: YOUR ART SUCKS (as dickheads on social media are wont to do), these same people will gather up their pitch forks and their angry torches and they will go beat up those dickheads for you. I swear it, I swear it by all that is holy and good. They will. And then they will bring you those dickheads' dead dickhead bodies and lay them on the porch for you to find in the morning, just like cats do to show they love you.

Okay, that's done. Do you want to hear my Very Important and Big Announcement?

I got a writing job!! And I'm suuuuper excited about it. Here's how the power of social media works: I started tweeting (or, you know, trying to keep up) with DIG live tweets by Jason Isaacs back in March. Because of that, I met a new friend who is way, way better at live tweeting than me. We got to know each other pretty well. G thought my DIG research was amazing and brilliant and is delusional that I am talented. 

Then, G connected with a nice lady named Erin from a big Sci-Fi website called Three If By Space (which, if you are a big Sci-Fi fan and don't know about this website--WHAT?! Wake up! Go HERE and be amazed), and let me know they needed writers. And it just so happens I'm interested in a new show coming to the SyFy channel in December called THE EXPANSE, which looks like more good storytelling and amazing acting and also there's a conspiracy theory and you kind people know how much I loved that aspect of DIG...and! AND! there's zero gravity sex in this show. (Do you guys even know about zero gravity sex? Oh, wait until December...you will. Apparently, Isaac Newton may have thought about it some. I know for sure I would have, especially had I been one of the first people in Outer Space. How can you NOT ponder this? Not thinking about this aspect of Outer Space existence is like...like...eating pancakes without syrup. How can people DO that?! No. NO. Pancakes need syrup. Humans need sex. We are NOT arguing about this, it's just how it is, the end.) 

So that's my big announcement: I have a writing job (no pay, but I get to be legit published AND! more important, I get an editor, and god knows I so need one of those). My main writing job will be to write up stuff about SyFy's THE EXPANSE, sort of like I did for DIG (on USA!), but less archaeology and no red cows or Essenes (although I don't know. Maybe...maybe there are Essene-like aliens in Outer Space!). I can do more writing for them once I get the hang of it.

Just. Everybody pray I don't muck up Three if By Space's super nice website. If you go there and you see, like, misplaced vowels and off kilter stuff, that's me. I can't even figure out how to do Twitter cards on this frickin' blog, let alone get a web address without the "blogspot" in it. (I actually do know how to do get rid of the "blogspot" part of this site's address--I just haven't yet. Because procrastination.)

social media art publicity.

Art by Ian Bailey
Source:  The 7 Ways.

First, I have to mention DIG (on USA!). They've revealed more of the story and some of it got "Noooo!" out of me as I watched on Thursday. And also: "I KNEW that guy was going to end up dead! He knew too much." And: "Holy cow, that is SO effed up!" 

Second, never ever get into a cult. And I'm researching the Essenes. And somebody told me to also think about the Masons, for later. My grandfather and my dad were both Masons, in fact all the men on that side of my family for generations I think, so now I feel totally connected to the show. And also I wish my dad were still here, so I could ask him about the Masons...even though they're very secretive and he probably wouldn't tell me anything (we had a volume of Masonic encyclopedia-type books on our bookshelves when I grew up, and I would spend countless hours poring over many of these, trying to figure out (1) what the big deal was and (2) all their secrets) (the Masons are SO secretive, you can't even decode their secrets from their secret writings...I am certain they have underground lairs at both the North and South Poles, and they are completely responsible for this completely effed up weather we've been having in Georgia lately).

Third, I want to talk about artists having to do their own PR work. 

Jase (we're on nickname basis now--he can call me "Luv") and Anne, Alison, and Ori (we're all on first name basis now, but moving quickly to nickname basis...once I discover what their nicknames are) have to live tweet their show EVERY Thursday. For the next eight Thursdays. God bless them. The first time was exciting, the second time, too...but every Thursday?? Til MAY?? Lands. Well, I can't harass Jason and friends THAT much, so...I'm clearly going to have to pick my Thursdays. Or maybe just do an overall wrap up harassment tweet on Fridays. 

Maybe just Jason has been commanded to do this--he's actually very good at Twitter, and I'm sure Those In Charge are in love with that. So the other day, Jason asked, on Twitter, if his followers/DIG fans would like him to live tweet episode number two. I, being a total enabler and that one friend you can always count on to do all the stupid things with you, of course told him YES, YOU SILLY GOOSE. 

And then the next morning I woke up and saw that he was going to do it. And then I felt so guilty because I was one of the enablers. But also not guilty because he called us all bastards and I am NOT a bastard, simply kinda/sorta a floozy. Then later I saw where he told someone he has to do this, every Thursday, for the next 8 weeks. And then I didn't feel so bad or guilty, because obviously someone ELSE is the enabler and I can be happy in my slight harlotry, and feel fine with it.

...Quite frankly, I don't think this is about enabling at all; I think this is all about marketing. And if I could get Jason Isaacs and the DIG cast into a room, but particularly Jason because I sense on a certain level he--like I--doesn't necessarily agree with what social media is doing to us as a species and yet also sees, on another level, its alluringly intrinsic value in creating connections both locally and globally--if I could get Jason into a room alone, I would NOT ask him to take his shirt off as I notice about 28,000 of his female followers would ask him to do were they in a room alone with him--no. He and I would have a thoughtful conversation about how making Art has always been a tricky, hard thing to do, and now with the way world economics have gone and social media marketing, society is just totally fucking its artists all to hell in ways Mozart, Picasso, and Virginia Woolf never could have anticipated. (And THEN I would ask him to take his shirt off.) (KID! I kid Jason. I am far too composed offline to do something of that nature.) (Unless I've had 4 chocolate martinis and I think you like me.) (and if THAT was the case, I'd take my shirt off with you.)

Because one day, if/when I am published for real, I too will need to get on Twitter and market me and the Art I'm peddling. And I hate that. Most writers I've talked to or have read talking about this in interviews--we all hate this part. I think it's because...well, for example: I work with a lady who once got told she was going to be our school's reading specialist the next year and she was all kinds of in despair about it: "Amy, I'm a general practitioner," she told me, "I am NOT a specialist." 

But I am. I am a specialist. Which may be why I'm sorta kinda miserable in classroom teaching--I don't enjoy generalities.  If I could JUST teach writing, that'd be good for me. Or if I could JUST teach reading. Or if I could JUST teach math...ha! No, just messing with you. You don't want me teaching  your kid math--at least not beyond the basics. 

And so this making artists be their own PR people: it feels fucked up to me. Does it to you? I mean, people can do it. And, right now, both a traditionally pubbed and a self-pubbed writer are on Twitter mass tweeting their XXXXX number of followers for the 100th time this week to read their book. Later, they'll tweet their followers with an interesting piece of writing advice so it doesn't look like they're tweeting about their book, or a really smarmy thought or quote so it doesn't look like they just want you to read their book, or they'll respond to one of their fans so it doesn't look like they just want you to read their book. (I'm being very jaded and cynical there--I actually would thoroughly enjoy the interacting with fans bit because my inner narcissist would be in orgasmic spasms of joy.) 

Aren't there schools in which people are specifically taught the Public Relations arts? Once upon a time, if/when you were published, the publisher gave you a specialist to market your Art. You were the specialist in your Art--you'd written your Art, so you knew all about it. You could give the interviews and do the book talks. That was your job. Your marketer's job was to go find you the interviews and the book talk locations. Now, they want you to go do that, too. And I think that's lazy. And the reason I think that's lazy is because I AM lazy. So I know it when I see it--never try to bullshit a bullshitter.

And yet. Because of the phenomenon of social media, in which we are all quickly connected to our most favorite of everythings--songs, singers, tv shows, movies, actors, politicians (do people have favorites of those? i don't. and also i'm questioning if i should have even included them on a list of artists...but then again, politicking is an art form to a certain extent--the art of creating something out of manure and getting people to vote for it), novels, writers, painters, poets--the artists involved in whatever art they produce kind of HAVE to touch base with their audiences now. There's no excuse to not do it, given all the social media platforms that are being widely used now. And they definitely are under pressure to pull in more audience. Because for artists, it's about the story. But for people holding the money bags, it's all about ROI. Oh, they like the art produced. But mostly, they like the ROI.

Therein lies the conflict of our age. Humans have revealed themselves for what they are: desperate to be loved and heard. 

Furthermore and also, I find this is happening not just in Artistic circles, but everywhere else, too: how many jobs do you do at work? I do about 15 but only get paid for one. And I have to spread myself out over a variety of jobs I've never officially been trained how to do. When I talk to friends who work in corporations, they echo that this is happening to them, too.

It's that top 1% tier's fault. And the growing class chasm's fault. And social media. And smart phones and video games and e-readers and Dick Cheney. And Vladmir Putin. Who else can I point my angry, puritanical, Scarlet Letter, red finger at? 

We are a weird species. Have a happy Saturday.

sick artsy out loud thoughts from the 80s.

Edward Hopper, Solitary Figure in a Theatre
Source: Cave to Canvas.

Sick. I am sick. I have been sick for awhile. Today, I said screw it, I am sick, and I am staying home. Plus I have some more grades to enter and report cards are next week, and I would like a really good nap. And to write a bit. And so I have written a bit. And now I am here, writing a bit more. After this, I will do grades and go take my sick self to bed with a book and, later, a nap.

Today I'm thinking about....what draws someone to Art. Of any kind. I have a friend who acts and directs community theatre plays, other friends who write or do photography. I have a friend whose mom is just an amazingly gifted painter. I have a friend who's both a gifted writer and musician. Why those particular arts though? And I do think that people who are drawn to create are drawn to create in at least two different creative areas...writing/music, photography/writing, painting/music, acting/music; and sometimes more than two areas. I am drawn to storytelling via writing, but also film/tv storytelling, and music (though now I just like to listen more than create--though once upon a time, I created a lot of it). 

Maybe it's the process of creating that's the thing, more than what is created. For example, research--I almost love the part of researching whatever it is that I'm writing more than the writing itself. And I love the writing itself more than the finished product (and this is because the finished product is something I will pick at and pick at and pick at until bleeding scabs are all over it; letting go is hard for me). 

When I was 6, I discovered words. I remember being mystified at the decoding process of words. Sesame Street and The Electric Company taught me how to break them down. I remember when I realized some words have chunks of other words inside of them--oh my god! who thought to do that?! Such magic afoot, there. And I remember being on the playground before school one day, seeing my 1st grade teacher Mrs. Salmon walking into the school to get ready for the day, and running up to her to impress her with what I'd figure out: the word YOU. 

"Mrs. Salmon, Mrs. Salmon!" I said all excited, "I know how to spell YOU. It's SO easy: U. Just the letter U. Because it says that!" 

And Mrs. Salmon, kind and patient teacher Mrs. Salmon, gently smiled down at me and said, "Well, good thinking, Amy, but no. It's actually Y. O. U. YOU. Keep working!" 

And I remember not feeling deflated or defeated at all when she corrected me, because I loved Mrs. Salmon with all my little heart because she always let me read ahead in all the little readers and she was the sweetest, kindest teacher I knew. But also because: holy crap! REALLY?! I never would have guessed that! Amazing. Mystical. HOW. DO. WORDS. FRICKIN'. WORK?!

My mom will tell you that, when I was 7, my dad got a subscription to the Wall Street Journal. And every Saturday morning, they'd come downstairs to find me sitting with it on my lap, "reading" the Wall Street Journal. I wasn't actually reading it of course--had I, I might have been better at Math, become a CPA, and today I'd be making exactly $100,000 more a year doing the same amount of stressful work but in a much quieter office setting and with longer lunch breaks. No. I was "reading" the Wall Street Journal for all the words I did know...picking them out, studying them, picking them apart.

When I was in 3rd grade, we moved from Oklahoma to Kentucky. This was a really hard move for me; I'd made tons of friends in Oklahoma, and it was sort of traumatizing to leave them. I've always been an introvert, but that move turned me completely shy. I had a really hard time making friends in 3rd grade, I think now because I was grieving the ones I'd left behind. And also the school in Kentucky didn't know how deeply I loved words; it didn't know I'd always been allowed to skip ahead in all the little readers; it didn't know that Mrs. Tippy in 2nd grade picked MY story about the owl family to display on the bulletin board as Best Written Story of the Year. The school in Kentucky stuck me in the lowest reading class, and I was surrounded by children I knew were not into words, hated words, hated books. And listening to them painstakingly read aloud was equivalent to having someone pull every strand of hair out of my head, one by one, slowly and methodically. And I know (now, as a teacher and an adult) my 3rd grade Reading teacher knew I didn't belong there, and I know (now) she probably tried to have me moved, but the school wouldn't do it. Not until the official transcripts came in. 

And when they did, I was placed in the next-to-highest Reading class, not the highest. Because what the hell did Oklahoma know about reading? (Two things about this: 1, this is one of the times standardized testing works; it lets you know where kids are, what kids know...which is what it was invented for--NOT for rating schools and teachers and kids; and 2, as a teacher now, whenever I get a new kid, I make sure to get to know where they are in Math and Reading right away; I can't imagine anything worse than being stuck with a group of people you've got nothing in common with) (i.e., the grocery store--every time I go there and get stuck behind someone who can't make a choice between two brands of mustard, I think: I have absolutely nothing in common with about 90% of the people in this place...MAKE A CHOICE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.)

Third grade is when books and words and writing began to consume me. I always had a book on me. I liked fiction, but even more than that, I liked learning about the world and the people in it. At the school library, I read every single one of the biographies. When I ran out of those, I moved on to the Social Studies encyclopedias. When those were finished, I moved on Science books about topics that interested me. When those were done, I discovered plays. The school library had books of plays, written especially for kids my age, and I would take these and read them and then do monologues from them in my room on Saturday afternoons. 

In my neighborhood, I was part of a motley group of children that made absolutely no sense hanging out together. There was a beautiful girl named Kirstie; Kirstie had stunning blue eyes and curly light brown hair and we connected because we were only 2 years apart in age...and we couldn't stop analyzing the storylines behind the soap opera GENERAL HOSPITAL (what were a 9 and 11 year old DOING, watching adult daytime television?! Ah, the 80's). There were two brothers--I forget their names now, but I remember they lived with their single mother and grandparents who they called MeeMaw and PawPaw and their mother always looked sad and tired. There was a really rough little boy from up the street who'd one day be the reason my brother fell off some monkey bars and broke his arm. And there was my little brother, a gentle little Kindergarten boy, and then there was me, in my I-will-ONLY-wear-dresses! phase, book always on me somewhere. And what all of us liked to do most, together, was create plays. Dramas. 

Kirstie and I (being closest in age) came up with the script, the props, and did all the casting. We would practice our plays in the sinkhole of the empty lot in our neighborhood (what were a bunch of kids doing, playing in a SINKHOLE?! Ah, the 80's). Our plays were always incredibly elaborate and stunning yet confusing productions, because we stole many of our ideas from television shows we loved, mish-mashing them together in unsurprisingly bizarre ways, as only children, unaware of the complexities of the adult-themed stories they're re-creating, can do. 

We had script read-throughs with the actors (and these actors were always the same, by the way...and I've noticed this happens a lot in Hollywood, too: people work with the same people again and again. I think because they realize they have a good working relationship, and it's enjoyable...we worked with the same actors like this, too. But not because it was enjoyable--it was because they were all we had available): my brother, the rough little boy, and the two brothers who lived with their sad mother and MeeMaw and PawPaw. And Kirstie and I. We were always the female romantic leads and/or the femme fatales. Once, one of the little brothers wanted to be a femme fatale, and the rough little boy threatened to beat him up if he did that. We've advanced so far these days in LGBT rights and understandings. (Ah, the 80's.) 

We had rehearsals. Oh! We had rehearsals! Kirstie and I were ruthless as directors and stage managers--one afternoon, Kirstie told the rough little boy: don't even TRY to tell us you feel like hanging out in your bedroom with your Star Wars figurines--we will BURY you. You'll never play in this neighborhood again! Get your ass to rehearsal. NOW. 

(She actually didn't use the word ass; we watched a lot of inappropriate adult romance on daytime TV, but we actually did not know about the word ass.) (For instance, I also did not know what the word FUCK was until I was 12, and a neighborhood child whispered something about the bad four letter F word...I spent the whole afternoon combing through my repetoire of four letter F words--four, five, fork, fury, flip, fist, fine...none of those words were bad. I finally asked my mother what was the four letter F word I wasn't supposed to know, and she rolled her eyes and told me to stop playing with that one neighborhood kid. Later, I found it in one of my mother's smutty romance books. And now I can't stop saying it. If only she'd just told me! I mean, it was the 80's).

I remember one play we wrote was based on a combination of Battlestar Galactica, the Luke & Laura/Robert Scorpio love triangle on General Hospital, and it also incorporated elements from The Wizard of Oz (that was me--I had a total artist hissy fit meltdown by refusing to play Cassiopeia if I wasn't also allowed to bring in the yellow brick road and glittery red shoes to the story.) We cut out cardboard boxes and used them as spaceships. Our theatre, our stage, was the humongous back yard of the two brothers. The audience sat on the porch. Probably, from the audience's perspective--given there was poor lighting and no microphones to project sound--we just looked like a bunch of kids running around with towels as capes, in cardboard boxes, making weird spaceship battle sounds. On a poorly colored, cardboard yellow brick road. 

We made tickets, then walked the neighborhood, selling them for a dime each until the neighborhood mothers called our mothers complaining about price gauging and why did their child have to pay to see some kid play anyway. After that, we gave them away for free. 

This is why artists are always poor.

And then, two summers later, Kirstie moved away to New York. And the magic was broken. The rough little boy got bored with Star Wars figurines, grew rougher, and found other little rough boys to hang out with; the two brothers--always kind of weird--decided they only wanted to play with each other, and my brother started hanging out with a neighbor boy down the street closer to his age who also had an obsession with Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader. Suddenly, I was on my own.

So I read. I read and wrote and read all the time. I read fiction and non-fiction, and if I couldn't find a good book to read, I'd find a dictionary or an encyclopedia, just to be soothed by words. I did monologues from plays I'd checked out of the library or ones I'd written myself in my bedroom on Saturdays. I re-enacted scenes and dance numbers from Broadway shows I loved (Funny Girl, The Wizard of Oz, West Side Story, Annie, The Sound of Music) on Sundays. I played the violin and the flute and later the piano, but I wish I'd stuck with the violin. I actually think I should have headed for the cello, because I think those have a beautiful sound and you get to sit while you play them and not have to hurt your jawline with a violin stuck underneath.

I think I'm writing all of this today because I'm home, sick, and also working on stuff my heart's not really into right now. I'm 43, a mommy to a ridiculously wonderful little girl, and I have a mortgage and other responsibilities. But my heart wishes it could sit and read and write and re-enact Broadway musical numbers and maybe call up some actors and yell at them to get their asses to rehearsal, NOW. 

If you're a creative, drawn to Art, and you're stuck in a job that has become all about the opposite of being creative, that's a certain fresh kind of hell to be in. Isn't it? And so I'm just writing that here, typing it out loud. And maybe one day I shall do something about that. My life will not always look like this. (And if you are in the same position as I am, please repeat with me: Our lives will  not always look like this. Let's meet for coffee and strategize ways to make that reality.)

on writing about good and evil

Artwork by Ilka Lesonen.
Source: Haunted Florida

Before I begin, would you be interested in seeing one of the bizarre findings I occasionally find on my phone on the account of having a child who likes to just press buttons and crap when she has it in her possession? This is a potential blog post that might have posted from "me" had she been astute enough to actually know what the hell she was doing:

I like frozen in my head now and then 20 the same time 9th thrill k knhrghrjrhuwuyj3msnsbnfndnsmksehmekdkksnkshjhwhjjmnwknnsnjdehjrm.   Maybe some help hfj. The hotel. We 30 gggrhejsjekkmejwgrbhrnsjenwkrjjr

\=!!%!_£₩94₩69689₩€€&*,;,&***&¥*(¥$%&&&*$÷

Honestly. I think things like this are pretty good evidence of what the inner workings of a child's mind is like: weird, confusing, and scary. In addition to things like this, in past mishandlings of my phone, she's:

*Private Messaged a mad-faced devil from "me" to Patresa Hartman, who sweetly responded with: "Uh oh." and was very good-natured and understanding when I explained what was going on.

*Started a Words with Friends game with at least 3 adults who totally would've beat the pants off her had I allowed it to continue.

*Almost posted an Instagram comment from "me" under one of Jason Isaacs' pictures (watch DIG on USA--March 2015!). Very similar to the one above. Oh, he wouldn't have freaked out at all at that crazy message if he'd seen it, I'm sure. :-/ (....though, quite frankly, it would have served him right, because he posted a picture of himself this past summer with blood dripping down his face, which slightly freaked her out when she saw it {"Mommy! That boy has blood on his face! What happened to that boy on your pictures?!"}, thumbing through my Instagram account as she sometimes does. We had to have a talk about how actors pretend, that was just fake, that boy's name is Jason and he was just pretending; he's going to be just fine. Then, a few days later, he goes and puts up a picture of himself getting operated on in a hospital scene. So I had to do damage control, show it to her, and explain: he's still okay, still just acting. Then, about a month later, he goes and puts up a picture of himself with shrapnel coming out of his neck AND then follows that with one of him beat up and bloodied in some type of garbage heap. The garbage heap one she did see on her own, and wanted to make sure "What's WRONG with him?? Is he going to the hospital?" Quite frankly, I have no idea what's wrong with him, love--I mean, physically he's okay...but I suspect Jason Isaacs may have a slight issue with the macabre. Maybe? Though I bet this means he's had some kick ass Halloween costumes in the past.)

*Left a really bizarre picture with ensuing comment on my Instagram account which I didn't find until about 375 days after the fact. I left it up as evidence for what I have to deal with, day in...day out.

*Called several people at inappropriate times. Once left a bizarre voicemail. Possibly made a few calls overseas to complete strangers.

Okay, that's addressed. Now, let's move on to the writing process/novelist-in-training (aka NaNoWriMo 2014 project):

I love this process.

First of all, I'm ahead of the game. Thanks to a bottle of wine (Day 1, which was actually Day 2 of Nanowrimo), I made up for lost time. Then, thanks to Election Day (aka a day off work), I was able to get ahead of the game by about 10,000 words. This is unheard of for me. I am never (never!) ahead of the game, any game. And so this is going fairly well. 

The story is not going with the outline I set out to begin with. This is okay. I like it when stories veer off to the left, the right, and zigzag around several bends. I think this is how Life works anyway. 

I generally like my main character so far...I did some character development for her, but I don't really have a good feel for her yet. However, you know who I do have a good feel for? My antagonist. He's the coffee shop owner's son/Main Character's boss, and he's decided he's very psychic, and not in a good way. Sort of in a Rosemary's Baby kind of way--looks normal/nice on the outside, secret sadistic Satanist on the inside. And aren't THOSE people always such assholes. But god, when they're attractive, they're insanely hard to resist.

What I'm trying to communicate is: I would like to have unpure moments of wild abandon with this character. This character could take a nice girl and teach her to do very, very bad things at incredibly inappropriate moments in unseemly locations.

But you know what the most exciting part is, the part where I'm having the most fun? The research. 

So one of my characters (who I've not gotten to yet--he's coming, and I am So! Excited!) is a pirate. A dead pirate. The ghost of a pirate. And don't even look at me like that couldn't ever really happen because currently I'm reading WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT GOD, and it's teaching me all kinds of amazing, scientifcally-proven/Neil deGrasse Tyson-approved things about the utter mind-blowing, breathtaking magic of the Universe, atoms, energy, quantum energy, and the nature of all energy everywhere since the dawn of time before there was time. I say this all the time, but I'm pretty sure Science is one day going to back me on it when I'm long gone: GHOSTS ARE TOTALLY REAL, Y'ALL. 

I'm also researching pirates. Historical ones, not the dipshits who are out there going nuts on Captain Phillips and friends. Fascinating. I'm talking lesbian women pirates, pirate-hunters-turned-pirates, crazy ones, sane ones, greedy ones, courteous ones. All kinds of people sailing the Seven Seas once upon a time. And they had ridiculously awesome music, too, as if all that other stuff wasn't good enough. 

It's that part of the process that I think is making me too, too happy. Just the very act of researching builds onto the story in my brain. I'd like to find a pirate expert and talk to them. And now I also want to go on a ghost hunt with real paranormal experts. (Ask my friends who've been on ghost tours with me who are all laughing their ridiculous heads off right now why that's hysterically funny...I'm easy to scare the crap out of, is why--I almost pulled one friend's arm off the other night in the basement where The Shadow Man resides in the Sorrel-Weed House). 

But mostly I'm finding that research is also, in and of itself, sort of character building: lots of "what if?" questions pop up...what if this pirate had xxx? and what if there was also a girl pirate who xxxx? and what if my pirate really did xxx? 

I love that.

I just realized I wrote about God and quantum energy and pirates and ghosts and good and evil and my kid in one blog post. I also confessed to wanting to be lewd and inappropriate with someone who doesn't even exist. AND managed to stick in a Jason Isaacs/DIG (on USA!) mention on top of it all.  I am most proud of letting everyone know, publicly, that I'm willing to go bad places with fake men. I think it summarizes my purpose here on Earth pretty well, in terms of why I write. 

Go ahead and judge all you'd like...'cause God gets me and that's all that matters. Proof: the Milky Way Galaxy. (Read the book.)

technology dreams and hypnotherapy writing sessions.

You guys! November 2 is over in 14 hours here and I haven't written a single word for my NaNoWriMo novel. I have a huge stack of papers to grade and I need to write 3200 words before I go to bed. Because you have to write like 1600 words per day to be successful. NO EDITING.

In my defense (aka excuses, excuses), we had a busy week and weekend: Wednesday was getting M's hair done in honor of her birthday (omg, I love it when I'm not the one with the comb making her scream), Thursday was our nuclear family celebration at Dave & Buster's, Trick or Treating Friday, and then M had 3 little girlfriends over for a small birthday party yesterday. We're done with big production birthday parties for awhile. I'm all about small, laid back things at this point; my overflowing brain and blood pressure cannot handle Involved. For example, the party theme yesterday was Frozen, and I googled some Not Involved games with a Frozen theme we could play at her party. One was Toss Snowballs (or balled up white socks) into a Bucket. The other was Stick the Carrot Nose on Olaf. Except I forgot to get the bucket. And the white socks. And I never made a white posterboard Olaf. Or orange carrot noses. Because my brain had too much information in it on the account of I had a 2nd grade fire to put out on Friday afternoon and after that I had to emotionally decompress most of Friday evening before trick or treats, and when this happens I temporarily completely forget about my own child. This is my biggest complaint about public school teaching right now: Dear Parents...please raise your own children so we can focus on ours. Some of us do have our own children to raise, not just yours. Thanks, Mommy/Teachers Everywhere.

At any rate, it was fine. Turns out little kids don't give a rat's ass about games...they just want to play. Plus, they came up with their own game--yesterday's invention was a Dance Off competition. A very uncoordinated, LOUD dance off. And someone got her feelings hurt. And M started crying because she couldn't be first. And someone else ran off because SHE wanted to be first. Girls are exhausting. And loud. Did you know this? Girls are loud and exhausting. And they have too many emotions. And I can say that, because I am a girl. (Who is not loud, but CAN be emotionally exhausting.)

Speaking of socializing: Social Media thoughts...I've downloaded HootSuite. I hear it's THE way to go, in terms of managing your social media accounts and your time. I'm still teaching myself the HootSuite ins and outs, though, and this is a process.

(Related Side Story: When I was 13, my dad signed me up for a summer school computer class. This was back in 1985, when computers were the size of a table and you told them what to do in "string" format. I think about typing in these formulaic string codes, telling a computer the size of a table what to do. And then I think about how I bitterly cussed at HootSuite yesterday and got all annoyed with the process. When we were sitting at these gigantic machines typing string code, did we even KNOW we'd walk around with phones in our purses/pockets with more data in their microscopic computer chips than the entirety of all human knowledge since the dawn of time. I mean, you can stream a movie from the middle of the Sahara Desert if you can find a GPS cell tower connection. On Thursday, at Dave & Buster's, M and I paid 12 points off her swipe card to sit in a machine that made us feel like we were actually IN an animated movie. I can get on Skype and talk to someone on the other side of the world and a computer will translate the whole thing and beam it up to the alien nation of Alpha Centauri II for the love of all.

Still. Goddammit, HootSuite! Are you for real!? Why the hell can I not link my public writer Facebook page to you?! And damn you, I DO have a Google+ account under that email address what are you effing talking about, HootSuite?! expletive expletive expletive this is hard expletive.)

What I'm saying is: Jesus Christ. We need to manage our social media? I can't even manage my offline social life--make an app for THAT, Apple. ......Bet they have one, and I'm certain I'd swear bitterly at it, too.

Here is where Social Media does come in handy: yesterday I saw on Twitter where Jason Isaacs (watch DIG on USA starting March 2015!) tweeted to someone about how he uses YouTube hypnotherapy sessions to sleep. I read this and thought: what?! there are hypnotherapists on YouTube?! So I went over there and did some research. Sure as shit and Donald Trump is an egomaniac, there are! Y'all! There ARE hypnotherapists hypnotizing people about all kinds of things. On YouTube! Technology: it frustrates and amazes the brain.

Friends! The possibilities are endless! I'm going to try it on my class this week and see if I can make them be quiet. And then I'm going to try it to see if I can lose weight, actually want to run a 5K, get to sleep faster, be less stressed and more organized. And then I'm going to try to it to see if I can write more productively and win NaNoWriMo for the first time ever, and have one whole novel done. This is...this is just amazing. I'm just so happy I was exposed to this concept. I don't know if Jason Isaacs will ever know how drastically he just altered my life, but hopefully one day I'll run into him somewhere and can high five him for this knowledge share. He's proclaimed publicly he thinks social media is weird (so do I) and doesn't really get it (me neither) but apparently is doing it because it's what you're supposed to do if you're in the storytelling business these days (he's in my tribe!). Yet look at all the good he is doing on it, and he doesn't even know! He doesn't even know. Which is why he wins Best Human on Social Media for November.

(Related Side Story: Speaking of sleep hypnotherapy, I did try one of Jason's hypnotherapy YouTube videos and it does work. Which is why I really want to get on Twitter and leave Jason Isaacs and Jessica Chastain a whole series of tweets letting them know I dreamt about them both last night, thanks in part to a British lady's calming, hypnotic voice. I can see why Jason Isaacs wormed his way into my subconscious since I fell asleep on account of a video link he social media-shared, but I have no idea why or how Jessica Chastain got in there. At any rate, the plot of the dream was: Jason, Jessica, and I went to a theater. But not together--we went separately.

Jessica and I were sitting next to each other, and we were both behind Jason. When the play [or awards ceremony or movie or whatever we were doing] was finished, Jessica and I had a nice conversation and then I asked her to sign my file folder. My empty, letter-size, manila file folder. Because you'd totally bring that to a fancy theater with you. And I remember, in my dream, she asked me if I wanted a selfie with her, but I said no because I thought her hair looked more beautiful than mine. But then she was so interesting and friendly so it was really important she sign my file folder, and she did. She signed: "Love, Jessica Chastain." That was it.

I really wanted Jason Isaacs to sign my file folder, too, but I decided to just leave Jason Isaacs alone, because he seemed nice but I didn't want to bother him in case he was in a hurry. But then he stayed and talked to the person next to him and so I thought: why not. Maybe I'll ask him for a selfie. Maybe because my hair would look okay next to his? Brains are weird. So I did ask, and he was very kind and sweet and we took a selfie together. We actually took two, because he said the first selfie wasn't awesome enough to share on Facebook. And because he was concerned about making sure I had an awesome picture of me to share on social media, it made me brave. So I asked him to sign my file folder. And he did. And he wrote a 2 paragraph essay right next to Jessica's "Love, Jessica Chastain." On my file folder. And every time he wrote the letter "i" he made a heart on top instead of a dot.

However, I decided not to leave Jason Isaacs and Jessica Chastain a series of tweets about this that might show up in their Twitter @Mention feeds, because I didn't want to look crazy. You know how sometimes you'll have a dream about someone you know, and you'll tell them your dream, and they'll look at you like you're crazy and go: Um, Okay. And then that's it? You had this WHOLE involved dream about them, and their reaction is just: Whatever. 

?! What ?! No! If I dream about you, it's a compliment. Listen, I have a lot in my life going on, and a lot of other people my weird brain could be sticking into my dream pathways. If my brain pulls you out, it's a compliment. I always take it as a compliment when someone dreams about me. But I think other people don't, and when I tell them about the dream they were in I'm worried I'm creeping them out and they're thinking: Hey, tell your spooky brain to stop adding me to its dreams. 

Personally, I think when you dream about other people it means our souls may have connected interstellarly. But take that with a grain of salt, because I'm a double Pisces with a moon in Cancer and that's how we navigate this planet. Not everybody navigates it like this. Which is why I'm careful about telling people when they have a starring role in one of my dreams.

.....one time, I dreamt that Bradley Cooper and I went on a date together, and our date was gardening. We picked roses and weeded a garden. And a friend of mine said, "Oh, is THAT what you're calling it these days." And I said, "No. Seriously. We gardened. We weeded and picked roses. We GARDENED." Stop trying to sully up my chaste Bradley Cooper dreams, people. On an interstellar level, Bradley and I totally connected through flowers, and you're just jealous.

So anyway. I think this means that if I am ever anywhere that Jessica or Jason will be, I guess I need to bring an empty file folder with me so they can sign it. Or write a brief essay on it with heart-dotted i's. And if I ever run into Bradley Cooper and he brings up his love of rose gardens, I'll know my dream theory is correct and you atheists can all suck it. Meanwhile, Bradley and I will be bonding at the Botanical Gardens.)

So I'm off now. M's Big Halloween/Birthday Weekend: it's a wrap. And now I get to start my genre-less pirate/beach/ghost novel. A friend suggested I not worry about genre or how it sounds as I write; just write the damn thing and see what the hell happens. She didn't say that last part--I said that...she's very Southern and far too polite to say that. But seriously, she had a good point: just write it and see what happens. This was most astute, and incredibly impressive coming from someone who isn't doing NaNoWriMo. She wins Best Human on My Private Facebook Page for November. (Hi, G!)

In conclusion, I think the clue to getting much of anything creative done is to get some sleep, but also will yourself to stay off Social Media. I'm going to go to YouTube and see if they have a hypnotherapy session for that, too.

tragic post-halloween synopsis.

Today is November 1, and you know what that means, don't you? That's right: National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). This is the month where I challenge myself NOT to edit as I go. I think this could be a metaphor for my life, but I'll just focus on the writing aspect of it for now.

I have an idea. At the beach, I worked on the outline some more. I have done some character development. I have a synopsis. And herein lies the problem. Here it is:

Lara Lynne Ramsay is a barista by day, a ghost hunter by night. She's slunk back to seaside Mercy, Georgia after three miscarriages, one failed marriage, and a bankrupt restaurant she ventured into after throwing away a twenty year career. She's had to move in with her OCD-bipolar-control freak mother who is driving Lara crazy. To escape the memories that haunt her and the stark realities of the present, she hides out in the 250 year old dank basement of the Mercy Perks coffee shop, endlessley researching and writing down stories of her hometown's bloody, tragic history: rebellious colonists, brutal British soldiers, thieving pirates, and other dead citizens of long ago Mercy. Rather than fear them, Lara feels an affinity to her town's ghosts; they seem as lost as she feels.

So caught up in her historical research and ghost stories, Lara never realizes she is being watched with intensity by two different men--one long dead, one very alive--both of whom want to possess her for greatly different reasons. Little by little, Mercy begins experiencing a rash of unexplained paranormal activity, and Lara's ghost hunting business explodes, giving her hope that she may have finally found her dream job. But when Captain Nicholas Rye not only reveals himself but also his plans for Lara, she knows she'll have to make a choice between good and evil...or life and death.

The problem with this synopsis is that I think it sounds like the back of a paperback trashy romance novel from 1995. Or a summary of a bad soap opera. Also, I can't think of a good title for this novel or where to place it in terms of genre. Right now, the title is THE HORROR OF MERCY ISLAND and I've stuck it under Horror/Suspense. But it's not really a horror story as much as it's just a story about a chick who digs ghosts and is trying to figure herself the hell out. But it's not chick lit, because I don't want to write chick lit. It's not really women's fiction, but maybe it is--I don't know. It's in the I Don't Know category. Where's THAT genre section at Barnes & Nobel?

I am no Stephen King, by the way. Nobody's getting gored up in this, and it's not going to make you want to sleep with the lights on. 

Jesus God, I hate it when I have no idea what I'm doing...THIS is why I edit as I go, people. Exactly why.

At any rate, we had Halloween. I have taken all the Twix, peanut butter cups, and Snickers and put them somewhere only *I* know about. I just saw on Facebook where a friend said her mom used to do that to her Halloween stash and told her it was the annual Mom Tax. Brilliant!

At our house, we do the Switch Witch. I heard about this concept when M was 3, and I fell in love with it. It's a win-win, I think: they get to have fun trick or treating, then we let her pick out 10 pieces of must eat candy (and I take all the Twix, peanut butter cups, and Snickers for the Mom Tax), and the rest goes out to the front porch. The Switch Witch comes, takes it all, and leaves a present in return. We don't have to have 10 billion pounds of candy in the house (except for several Twix bars that are gone by 2 pm November 1) and M gets a cool gift. The Switch Witch: aka the Tooth Fairy's cousin. I told my class about her yesterday and they were utterly horrified. She is not popular like Santa Claus.

At any rate, it's 4:30 AM as I write this, and thank god! Because the Switch Witch fell asleep at 10 PM last night before she put out the present and took the candy, and that could have been tragic.

Tragic. Like my synopsis.