magic travel writer (with Javier Bardem)

In a perfect world, we could all just quit our jobs and walk right on in to our dream jobs. Or whatever we think, at that moment, are our dream jobs, because maybe once you're in your dream job you find it's not so dreamy after all and then you're off to search for the next dream job. And after you become disillusioned with that dream job, you'll be off to search for your next dream job. And maybe a good therapist, because it sounds like job satisfaction isn't really your problem as much as a healthy sense of self is.

Which is why years (and years!) of therapy have led me to be sure that my dream job would combine my passion (writing) and travel, which I have only done in fits and spurts and never outside the U.S. borders and I find that a complete travesty. I think I'd make a great traveler, and should be hired immediately as United States Official Travel Representative so I can reverse the damage done by all the douche bag American travelers who've given this great nation the global impression we're all a bunch of douche bags. We are not. We are not. (Maybe just the vast majority of Missississississississippi, because nobody can ever figure out how to spell that damn state and I'm certain that's why they're the fattest and 2nd-to-last least educated. Having to write one too many s's can just totally eff up your brain. I say. I mean, look at how hard it was just now for ME, and I have a master's degree.)

At any rate. Here's my travel writer idea:

One of my favorite books is Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Eye roll all you want and say what you will about the self-indulgery of it all, but her worldview is en pointe and her writing is much like her--likable, sweet, and relatable. If you aren't familiar with this book (and movie--please please please promise me you'll just read the book and completely avoid the movie, even though Javier Bardem is in it and is very very magical...oh okay, fine. Please promise me you'll read the book first THEN watch the movie, but only for the Javier Bardem parts).

Where was I? Oh, right: If you aren't familiar with this book, the premise is that Elizabeth Gilbert, a writer, has made a humongous life change in an effort to be more authentic and true to herself. She sucks at living her life, and yet somehow convinces her publisher to just...give...her enough money to live on so she can travel to 3 different countries for 4 months a piece for 1 entire year. She lives in Italy for 4 months and eats her way out of a deep, spirally depression. She lives in India for 4 months and rediscovers her spiritual core. She lives in Bali for 4 months and sleeps with Javier Bardem. No, ha! Just kidding--she meets her (now) husband, a lovely, sensuous Brazilian man (all Brazilians are sensuous, by the way: Americans are fat, stupid, terrible travelers and Brazilians are lovely and seductive--I plan to register a formal complaint with the Nationality Stereotyping Commission about this). And then she wrote a really funny, relatable, irreverent travel memoir about her experiences abroad, finding herself.

That's basically my premise/idea for my dream job--if I could walk off my job tomorrow, this is the job I'd walk right into:

*Travel to anywhere in the world, but just one country at a time.

*Live and travel in that one country for 1-2 months.

*Write an irreverent, relatable travel book/memoir about it. There would be none of this: go to this restaurant, stay in this hotel, do this activity, a la Fodor's and whatnot. Each book would simply be a compilation of my experiences and stories about people I get to meet and know (as a really super NICE and POLITE American traveler) in that particular country.

*And because I sense somebody, somewhere, out there may read this at one point and get all snarky and roll their eyes and go "Yeah, uh, guess what? Lonely Planet already did that, Amy. BORE-ing!", let me just pitch that as an added incentive to my plan, I'm also thinking of trying to convince Javier Bardem to accompany me on all my travels. Has Lonely Planet done THAT? No! They have NOT.

So the first country I have picked out for this endeavor is England. Just England. Not Scotland, Ireland, or Wales; those will have to be different travel books. And the reason I've picked England as my first destination is simply because I already have a title (and also because: Clive Owen. Thank you, England!). Before I tell you my first travel book's title, I have to give you background scaffolding to it:

Background Scaffolding Exhibit A:

THIS VIDEO 

People who can do that are magic. And really, really fun to have at parties, I bet.

Background Scaffolding Exhibit B:

Way back many moons ago, I met several UK ex-pats via a friend transplanted here via London, and I was introduced to the concept of what I like to call "accent magic (TM)." British people can tell not only which region someone is from in their country, but also socioeconomic level. It's a thing that's unique, apparently, to the English, and years after I met these UK ex-pats, I read an interview with one of my favorite British actors, Jason Isaacs, and he confirmed it. 

Here's what they do: I was wowed and amazed one afternoon several years ago at a meetup.com get together for UK ex-pats. All the English people were standing around, talking to one another (with one eavesdropping American listening in, drinking in their exotic accents) and they just seemed to know instantly where someone was from without them ever having to say it. They all spoke some sort of weird, Tolkien-like shorthand with one another and I felt completely left out. So I thought the English people just all knew each other from previous meetups, but no! Turns out, almost everyone was new to everyone else at that little shindig, and they just all magically "know" each others backgrounds, like some kind of psychic, instinctive thing, totally based on speech patterns. Which in and of itself is mind blowing, but we probably do that here in America to some extent--I can tell if someone's from the South vs. the North vs. the Midwest and so forth. But what rocked my whole world and confirmed, yet again, that we are simply not using enough of our entire brains as a species, is that they could tell you sort of the exact area they were from in that geographic region and the socioeconomic level. Friends, that is one cool party trick! I walked out of that party going, "OMG. The British are MAGIC!"

And that is what I plan to title my first travel book of irreverent personal essays: The British are Magic. 

Which is why I can only do England first. I don't know what I'll call Scotland's book (The Scottish Can Be Slightly Incoherent?). Or Ireland's (The Irish Are Often Irate I Hope They Don't Bomb Me For Saying That?) Or Wales (The Welsh Have a Weird Language?) (and nobody from Wales can get mad at me for that, because I can totally say that on account of being half Welsh).

 And! The beauty of this whole job idea? IT NEVER ENDS. It just goes on and on, my friends. Once I've traveled the globe, I can come back to America and start in on each of the 50 states plus Puerto Rico and Guam and the U.S. Virgin Islands. In case you're wondering: I'll start with the U.S. Virgin Islands first. Idaho will be last. I'm not sure what's in Idaho, but I think that's where all the Ted Nugent loving, KKK, American terrorist militia are from. (I may go into hiding after titling that book.) (If I make it out of Idaho alive.)

The thing about British people is that we judge people within two syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly, everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is very precisely attuned to it. - See more at: http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf

The thing about British people is that we judge people within two syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly, everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is very precisely attuned to it. - See more at: http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf

The thing about British people is that we judge people within two syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly, everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is very precisely attuned to it. - See more at: http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf

The thing about British people is that we judge people within two syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly, everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is very precisely attuned to it. - See more at: http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf

The thing about British people is that we judge people within two syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly, everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is very precisely attuned to it. - See more at: http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpu The thing about British people is we can judge people within two syllables

march comes in like a lion...

Life's a-changing 'round these parts. That's all I can share for now.

A friend and I are working on a television series idea we think is simply brilliant. Others may not agree, but I guarantee none of these others would be teachers or people who love and understand teachers. Teachers world-wide will high five us until their hands bleed. It's not a series we could market to NBC, ABC, CBS, etc. But we could maybe start a YouTube channel. Or see if Netflix or Hulu might be interested.

And that's all I can say about it, or I'd have to kill you.

My writing course was extended to April due to the Polar Vortex. I submitted one personal essay that was eviscerated (eviscerated!). After I'd licked my wounds and re-read it harshly and with no sympathy, I saw what they were saying. Great God, it sucks to realize you aren't, after all, as brilliant as you thought when you were typing at 2 o'clock in the morning. But it's helpful and good to have someone tell you that.

I'm starting to realize/recognize I suck at titles. Currently, I'm working on a short story about a boy named Nathan who wants to commit suicide and then meets someone and changes his mind...I have no idea what to call it. Right now, it's titled "Leaving Neverland," simply because at one point, Nathan remembers a 4th grade teacher reading PETER PAN to the class and loving the part when Peter says "To die would be an awfully big adventure..." But that's not really the essence of the piece. Where is the essence of the piece? This is hard for me. Essence is elusive.

 I have one week left until Spring Break. After that, six weeks until Summer Break. I am starting back on my running regimen again (to balance my increasing wine intake), and I plan to be a veritable writing fool between June 2014 and July 2014. I say this going into every summer (about being a writing fool), but it's different when you have someone else depending on you), and so I'm determined.

I shall not be climbing any fences between now and August. FYI.

storytelling matters.

Would it be okay if I write about something somewhat off the topic of writing/being a writer?

Teaching and Learning. They're on my brain. Because it's what I do to pay my bills, and also it's a Snow/Ice Day here and I have some time to catch my breath to think about it. Here is what I'd like to write about today:

I'm concerned. And because I'm concerned, I think you should be, too. Not about teaching or teachers, not about what's going on with public schools, not about teacher unions, not about teacher pay or merit pay, not about No Child Left Behind or Race To The Top, not about testing and if we're utilizing it too much or appropriately, not about the crumbling infrastructure of many of our schools or the social injustice of the entire set up of the system in general, or even about the disastrous effect poverty is having on our children and our schools and our society and our culture and the fact that nobody--NOBODY--is doing an effing fucking thing to address that, yet somehow more tests and putting all the responsibility/accountability on teachers will magically get rid of all our societal ills.

No. I'm actually just concerned about storytelling. Specifically, are we doing enough of it in our schools, and how can we use it to teach and learn better? Can I give you an example of it?

My students love stories. They particularly love stories that I just tell them--books are cool and all, but they love love love when I just tell them an oral, listen-to-what-happened-to-me-when-I-was-in-2nd-grade-five-hundred-years-ago story. In addition, my students love to TELL stories. I cannot tell you how many times I've begun, oh I don't know, a lesson on plural nouns, and suddenly some little hand shoots into the air (or, in my current class' case, someone just blurts whatever's in their brain) because hearing the word "foot" changed to the word "feet" suddenly reminded him of this one time he ran down the street barefoot right into a sea of broken windshield glass strewn across the road and his mom drove him all crazy to the emergency room, both feet bleeding profusely all over the backseat of the car. (True story.)

Stories matter. OUR stories matter. Stories make us who we are, define the world for us, help us decide who we want to be in that world and how we want to react (or not react) to the people we meet in it. From the time people were walking upright, we have been storytellers: Cave paintings, the Bible, folk songs, medieval poems, Shakespeare's plays, autobiographies. Human beings tell stories.It's what makes us human (aside from the well-developed frontal cortex and the ability to choose good or evil, of course). Dare I say stories are the ONLY things that really matter?

When I am done with this world, I will have accumulated many, many stories. I will have stories about myself, stories about people I love, stories about people I hate, and stories about people I've briefly encountered along the way who, for whatever reason, have made me stop and ponder. I see this in my students, I see this in my daughter. I see they each have their own stories, and they are all kind of desperate to tell them.

You know what makes me the saddest? There's simply no time. In 21st century American public education, there's just no time for storytelling. They have to pass tests. They have to reach a certain reading level by May. They have to reach full automaticity with fact families. They have to close read paragraphs so they can pass a test. They have to talk about how their brains are working and defend those brain workings. They have to be able to construct a viable paragraph to earn enough points to pass future writing tests, and these paragraphs and the way we have to teach them--because students are coming to us from families who don't read or talk or tell stories or let their children have their own voice--are always so perfunctory, so without soul. But they get you a passing grade, and that makes the schools look good. And in 21st century America, appearances appear to be the new, big Thing. It's really all we talk about, if you think about it.

The other night I was reading something about three great Greek teachers/writers/philosophers. Aristotle was a student of Plato, who was in turn a student of Socrates. Aristotle walked around as he taught. His students followed him, walking around and listening to him. He talked to his students about math and science, but also about music and art and the nature of the world. Aristotle's teacher, Plato, traveled a lot, talking about a lot of the same things, meeting students wherever he went. Plato's teacher, Socrates, never really answered questions--he just volleyed them right back. Questions were always more important than the answers. But no matter how they taught, they did it via Story. Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates were all storytellers.

My point is (and I do have one): you know what none of those guys ever did, at least not according the writer? Hand out a test. And if they did hand out tests, I am certain they never used them to measure what their students learned, or how to analyze how they were doing as a teacher. They didn't construct and de-construct paragraphs. Nothing was timed, because seriously--who cares? They weren't worried about the What; they were more interested in the How, the Why. And they taught through stories. Everybody loves a good story. Everybody.

Why do we not focus on this with our children? Why do we not allow our children to just play? To learn about the world and themselves via play and stories? Why do we not just sit with our children and talk to them about what they're thinking, how they're perceiving the world? Why can't we just sit and listen to them? I wonder how many children never, ever feel heard. Or validated. How many of those children grow up into adults who don't have time to listen to their own children? Who don't have a clue how to validate the human beings they've been gifted with, and are sending out into the world?

The worst feeling in the world for me as a teacher, a mom, a human being is when a kid has this really big story to tell me and I'm on a tight schedule: "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. But Ms. Samson has to do this lesson on reflexive pronouns right now--we have to take a quiz on Friday. Can you tell me your story at bus call? Just remind me." And then bus call arrives and I have to deal with Timmy and Jimmy, because Jimmy has anger issues and doesn't know to properly borrow an eraser. And there are 24 other kids who all need my attention about homework, about somebody who stuck their tongue out at them, about needing a band-aid or a drink of water or if they can be the line leader next week. (What were Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates' class size numbers capped at?) And the kids all get put on the bus and realize: oh, crap. I forgot to hear X's story. Poop. I hope X can remember the story tomorrow, and I hope I can remember to ask X to tell me the story tomorrow.

Because stories matter.

....I'm sorry, I'm just having snow day existentialism, and if you're still with me, I'm taking you along for a windy, existential ride. I hope that's okay. I'm disillusioned right now with numbers--I get it, I get it: Math matters, too. And Science and Technology and Engineering (though, personally, I think they just stuck the "Engineering" in the acronym to make it read better...STM just doesn't have the same ring as STEM). But for me, storytelling will be the thing that will save the world. Because I think you can control technology and engineering, and science and math, too, to a certain extent--how much do you want to bet somebody, somewhere, has engineered a way to totally eliminate the need for our outrageous fossil fuel consumption? And that somebody, somewhere, is suppressing that knowledge and information because somebody, somewhere, doesn't want it out there just yet. Knowledge = power.

But storytelling. Anybody can do it. And if somebody, somewhere, is telling you not to, then you can just do it secretly in your brain, when you're by yourself. It doesn't matter how many degrees you've got, what socioeconomic level you were born into, or how fast you can solve f (x) dx = F(b) - (a) (in addition, outside of NASA and MIT, does anybody really care what f(x)dx equals?). Anybody can tell a story, no textbooks required.

It matters more. And I think it matters that our current policy makers, the ones setting the agenda and national curriculum don't seem to think it matters. And I think it matters that our media, our watchdogs who are supposed to be driving the talk about what matters, don't appear to think it matters. And I think it matters that our families--particularly our poor families--don't have enough resources to have time to tell (and listen to) stories with their children. And that should concern all of us.

Stories define whole, entire generations. Stories teach us about who we once were, and they remind us who we never want to be again. Stories take us on adventures we could never possibly have, but can still dream about having anyway. Stories open up our potential. Stories give us the courage to be more than we ever thought we could be. Stories help us figure out who we are.

If your focus is solely on teaching your children to read technical manuals so they can be better workers later, will it matter to you when they aren't interested in reading stories to the children they will bring into the world, stories like Peter Pan or Wizard of Oz, which are about being brave and kind and true--to yourself and to others; which are about believing in who you are, and finding beauty in a very scary world? Will it concern you when the vast majority of our populace lose their sense of wonder and belief in the possibility of magic?

Are you worried about--or even aware of--the fact that teachers--who teach, every day, in microcosms of society, are standing on roofs of schools right now screaming about seeing the loss of this into the wind and are largely being ignored? Will you worry when reading becomes this skill, this task of reading, becomes just something you have to do because, well, it's a job. Will you be sad when Art and Music and Poetry and Books start to look more like functional cogs and gadgets to move forward technology and science instead of sharing confusing or uplifting or amazing pieces of somebody's soul? So you can be okay with or understand your own? Are you comfortable with and okay with living in a country, on a planet, where we've developed the technology to bomb a town without taking out any civilians...but have lost the curiosity and ability to question WHY we want to bomb anyone in the first place? Are you going to be cool when you're 99 years old, on your deathbed, and your adult children are sitting vigil next to you, saying good-bye, while multi-tasking/texting about a work project as you take your last breaths? Because you taught them that technology was more important than storytelling? And you modeled that for them?

I worry. I'm concerned. I love technology and the advancements it's brought us, I heart Science almost as much as real Scientists do--I like to understand how the world really works. But I also think there's a lot to be said for walking around as your students follow you, asking questions more than giving answers, and focusing on Art as much as Science. It's important to write on paper, as much as type. It's okay to use your fingers to count sometimes. It's not bad to sit and read a book made of paper and glue--they're easier to make notes on in the margins and highlight quotes that you'd like to memorize forever, til they're embedded parts of your soul.

And I like to teach through Story, but I increasingly find I don't have time to do this. I would like to walk around talking and asking--not answering--questions all day, but I don't have time. I would like to take my students to art galleries and science museums and the theater, but I don't have time...or money (budget cuts). I would like to talk to children about what they saw on our excursions, and tell each other stories about our experiences. It's what I do with my own child, and I see she is leagues above where some of my students currently are. And she's younger than them. And I worry about that. And I am sad.

This is a hard planet to live on. There are some pretty nasty characters running around it. There are people in it who seem very normal and nice but are actually quite the opposite. But there are also stories. And they help us find the good parts of the world and the people in it, and find ways to appreciate the beauty of our collective Yin Yang. They keep us in touch with what really matters and who we are.

I have no idea how to end this blog post. Maybe because there is no real end to it. Stories go on and on, because Life does. I think that matters, too. And I think we should have a really gentle and thoughtful national--international--discussion about it. In storytelling format, of course.

shia lebeouf as a creative outlet

I wrote a story at the end of my Winter Break. It's 31 pages and 7,600+ words. It's called "Jesus Watched." I don't know why I started writing it, what prompted me, or why it went down the road it eventually went down. It's about a drug-addicted prostitute/single mother who was molested as a child, and she does something horrific at the end to her own child, and yet maybe it wasn't that horrific after all (or maybe it was) (I like stories, and so I write stories, that don't have a nicely packaged and neatly tied up ending--I don't think Life is like that, and it feels more real.)

It has one completely reprehensible character in it (her pimp), and a lot (I mean, a LOT) of swears. What is the matter with me?? I look so sweet and nice on the surface! What is going ON???

Speaking of swears, crazy endings, and what is going ON?? kind of questions, I read online today (that's always a red flag, isn't it? The words "I read online today") about Shia LeBeouf. Have you heard about him? Before I get into him, please know: I try to only believe 20% of what I read online (I just pulled that number out of my butt; I actually don't know what the percentage of online stuff I believe is) (but it's not over 50%), particularly from cultural icons and bastions of responsible journalism like the New York Daily Post. Ditto for news shows (yes, all of them, but especially FOX News). And, sadly, even news magazines and newspapers. (O Journalism! Thou art in a death spiral of declining integrity!) I think to get at the heart of the real story now, you have to cull your information from a myriad of different sources, from all over the world. And who has that kind of time? Really: who has it?

At any rate, Shia (allegedly) pulled out his own tooth on one film set (method acting), dropped acid on another (extreme method acting), and he's plagiarized somebody I've never heard of but that doesn't matter anyway because plagiarizing is gross, really really gross. He does a lot of apologizing for his actions in sky writing, too. Which I actually kind of love, that he does that: sky written apologies. Except the consensus is that when he does these sky apologies, he's being very passive aggressive and sarcastic about it. (Which I also totally understand--he's clearly in my tribe. I get Shia LeBeouf. I just don't want to stand next to him too closely.)

My point with all of this is that I may have to write Shia into a story somewhere as a character (and he is a character, in and of himself, I'll note). I think in my blog entry about the parrot in the nail shop the other day, I did note that it's always a better idea to keep your crazy under wraps in public locations...lest you wind up in some unpubbed writer's story. I mean, don't worry--I'll change his name. No one will know! Unless he reads this and gets upset about being used as character fodder for some unknown writer chick's story. And if so, I'll just remind him about the perils of plagiarizing and all that, and I'll throw karma into our conversation as well. (That's my Plan A.) (I don't have a Plan B.)

Here's my other point (and the reason I'm writing this): I need to submit 8-10 pages by 5:00 pm Monday evening via email to my writing class classmates. I have a WHOLE story written, and could use it. I could whittle it down some, hone it, and send it out in two workshop pieces (Monday is Workshop Piece #1). But it's a very uncomfortable subject, raw kind of stuff and I feel deeply self conscious submitting it. These are not people who will judge me; these are kind, lovely souls who will understand, or at least try to. But I still feel really self conscious. I think if I had facial piercings, a neon blue mohawk, and a neck tattoo, I wouldn't even think twice about this (because, most likely, the story would be autobiographical and/or I'd already exist on the fringe of societal normalcy, and when you exist on the fringes of societal normalcy? Who flippin' cares?) (See: Shia LeBeouf's foibles.)

Or I can just write a whole brand new story, in two days. I just need to squeeze in some time, is all--but when? When? (she cried). One of my students is in the hospital (it's very, very sad--please don't ask me about it, or I'll cry) and tomorrow I've scheduled myself to take her some cards her class friends made (I read these, sitting on my classroom floor late this morning, and I was in tears--I have some big-hearted, kind souls in that room) as well as a few little presents from me. And then there's grocery shopping. And folding laundry (maybe--I've turned into a terribly reluctant laundry folderer). And other household/parenting stuff. Oh, that's right! Yes, I have a 5 year old. A busy, busy 5 year old who is really, really LOUD. And busy. And incapable of independent play, which is so weird for a person whose imagination is improbably wild.

I may just have to bite the bullet and submit the swears. *sigh*

Oh, never mind. I can just hear myself making excuse after pathetic excuse in those last 2 paragraphs. I'll figure it out.

....okay, so that's it. I'm done now. Never mind me. You don't have to stay here or anything. You can return to whatever far more important thing you were doing before you clicked over here to read my inane, pointless brain ramblings. Go! Get out of here! Go live your life, and be happy! I'll figure it out.

But first, I'm going to start following Shia's tweets for character development ideas.

nail shop parrots on winter break.

I am on Winter Break now (notice: I am writing again). I have 17 days to myself (mostly), with zero accountability for anybody else's brains or learning styles. This is what Freedom truly feels like.

Miss M is excited about Santa and opening presents in ways no words in any human language can accurately describe. On Monday, we are going to visit Santa Claus in person. She thinks he's an online amazon.com catalog: "Mommy, when I see Santa on Monday, I'm going to order a Frozen princess doll! And I'm also going to order a fake kitchen with some toys."

On Christmas Eve morning, we always decorate cookies with her cousins and some friends and make magic reindeer salad and oatmeal glitter for the reindeer. And then we watch a puppet show at my mom's (her Grammy's) Methodist church. (Off-topic side note: I have a deep-seated belief in Something Out There, but have serious issues with organized religion. For instance, I generally really dig Jesus but gaze with wary eyes on many of his followers. And I think there is more than one path to God and no one religion holds all the answers and it's arrogant to assume (a) you know which team God roots for the most, and (b) you know the mind of God in general. Still,  I'm a total sap for that moment we're all standing around with our fellowship-lit candles singing Silent Night and wishing Baby Jesus a big old Happy Birthday to You, Sir of Peace. In fact, I'm tearing up right now, just thinking of it.) And every year, we do Santa's Portable North Pole (PNP). Do you know about it? You should. Here's why: Santa's Message to Melissa. And no, I did NOT tell Santa he could go ahead and put little Miss M on his Nice List. If you'd been around little Miss M for much of 2013, you'd understand why. I mean, she'll make it...but by the skin of her teeth.

My Art of the Story class has concluded. I completely flaked and never wrote my 700 word story that I was supposed to for Assignment #5. However, I have one to write over the next 17 days for when we meet again. Because good news! About 6 of us in the class loved each other SO much, we've hired the instructor to continue the experience throughout January and February at a lovely local restaurant's private dining room. Food, drinks, storytelling, budding friendships, and merriment. Life simply doesn't get better than that, reader friends.

I'm in a quandry, though. Recently, I experienced some most awesome human interactions from which to craft stories: (1) the parrot lady in the nail shop, (2) the pregnant woman breaking up with her baby daddy during a football game, and (3) the crazy knitting lady at the craft store. Which one would you most like to read about?

That's what I thought. Let me tell you about the parrot lady in the nail shop:

When I went to get a manicure/pedicure two weeks ago, I sat down to wait for my chair to be ready, and some lady was speaking to some creature in an animal cage. Seriously. Speaking to it, encouraging it to cluck like a chicken. This lady is CRAZY, I thought, as most humans are wont to do when confronted with people who take avians into traditionally non-avian locations. After awhile, the lady took the animal from the cage. It was an African Grey parrot, and she sat in her spa chair nuzzling its neck and making grunting sounds at it--when not requesting it cluck like a chicken. Then, then.....they sat me next to her. This was most fortunate, because I happen to love being sat next to eccentric people with little regard for societal norms and standards.

So I'm to the right of the bird lady. On the other side of her is a pregnant lady texting on her phone. In front of us is a lady with her back to us, getting her fingernails done. The two nail shop workers are busy/deep in thought. Nobody--I mean NOBODY--appeared to be the slightest bit concerned or even casually aware that this lady HAD A PARROT ON HER KNEE.

Friends, it was too much. Too much. I mean, can we all just acknowledge that this lady in this nail shop had a parrot on her KNEE?? No. No, we couldn't; I was the only one willing to acknowledge and deal with. And I knew. I knew I could simply not just...sit there. I could not just sit there, get my nails done like no big deal, yeah a parrot in the nail shop, whatever. And then let the woman pack up her bird and leave, never once acknowledging: Hey Lady. Um, why'd you bring a bird into a nail shop?  Who in the world doesn't deal head-on with people who bring parrots into non-pet shops? 98% of the people at that nail shop two weeks ago, that's who.

Thankfully, my parents bought an African Grey parrot while I was in college. So I had a connection! I told the lady this, and let her know our African Grey had been called "Max." What was her African Grey's name? Miles, she responded. Mrs. Miles, actually.

And for the next 25 minutes she delivered a fascinating monologue about Mrs. Miles and the history of Mrs. Miles. For example:

*Mrs. Miles lays eggs every Spring. Laying eggs makes Mrs. Miles egg-constipated and hormonal, and this makes Mrs. Miles extremely vicious. Lynne (the parrot lady) had no less than 1,000 beak slash marks on her arms and hands.

*Mrs. Miles is toilet-trained. Yes, toilet-trained. And every morning when Lynne wakes her up, Mrs. Miles says, "I have to poop." Then she climbs out of her cage, over to the nearby bathroom, climbs up, and, well, poops. Isn't that magnificent? I think that's the most magnificent thing I've heard all of 2013.

*Lynne, her husband (god love him), and Mrs. Miles live with eight--EIGHT--cats. All eight cats are terrified of Mrs. Miles. Terrified. Mrs. Miles once tried to murder one of them, and she bit the tail off another. They all know what Mrs. Miles is capable of, and they furiously try never, ever to make eye contact with her. They give Mrs. Miles a wide, respectable berth when she's about.

But the most awesome part of the whole experience was when the lady with her back to us turned around and realized, "Oh my god! There's a BIRD! I heard some weird sounds; I thought someone was passing gas. I was trying to be polite and not say anything...but wow. There's a BIRD!" And then proceeded to tell us all how terrified she was of birds.

Then, the most awesome of awesome parts of the whole experience happened (and this is why I love other human beings so deeply and completely): the lady in front of us told Lynne she knew African Greys can go for 1,000s of dollars, and asked Lynne why she didn't sell Mrs. Miles and make some money? This was Lynne's very somber and quiet response:

"Oh, no. No, I wouldn't sell this girl here for $1,000,000. Mrs. Miles and I have been together a long, long time. I've seen her through a lot, she's seen me through a lot. We've been together through thick and thin, so she's worth much more to me than any money. I love Mrs. Miles and I'd be lost without her. I can't imagine the world without Mrs. Miles in it. She's my sweetest, best friend on Earth."

So. I walked in to that nail shop going: OMG! A crazy lady!! But by the time Lynne and Mrs. Miles walked out the door, I was begging for Lynne's phone number. I'd fallen deeply in love with both--just when I think the world is full of the nefarious and frightful, I meet a Lynne and her Mrs. Miles. People like Lynne and her Mrs. Miles remind me why this crazy little rock in the Milky Way is actually chock-full of sweetness and light, in spite of right wing talk radio and the Kardashians.

Which is why I probably will not write my 700 word story for workshopping about that. I will probably go with the pregnant lady breaking up with her baby daddy via phone during a football game for the story. Word to the wise, friends: if you don't want to end up in some budding, unpubbed writer's short story for a writers' workshop, do not--DO NOT--have your crazy on display in public. Don't do it! For the record: turns out, Lynne & Mrs. Miles weren't actually crazy after all; they were sweet and good and kind and lovely. The baby daddy thing, however, was pure de-Crazy.

However, I might still add Mrs. Miles to the story--I think baby daddies who abandon their babies at the very last minute via phone during a football game should totally be turned into eunuchs by hormonal African Grey parrots. It makes a satisfying ending. It may win me a Pulitzer. And I'm totally dedicating my first novel to Mrs. Miles.

art of story

I'm taking a writing class called Art of Story. It's good; I love the people in my class. What I love most about people I meet in Writers' Circles and writing classes is the great diversity. Most writers are kind of eccentric to begin with; it's an introspective, solitary activity, and if you don't get out of the house or away from your computer, I think you spend way too much time in your own head. I don't know about you, but when I spend way too much time in my own head I typically end up in a fetal position in some corner, mourning my life and questioning everything. Every. Thing.

Anyway, from writers' groups and classes, I've met all kinds of people: Goth people with exactly 100 facial piercings and bodies covered in meaningful tattoos, quiet grandmas who like to write children's stories about reindeer, and some people who've never written a thing in their lives--they just got a notion in their heads that they've been called to write a novel. I've met other people who are the next Alice Munro (and I hate them) (no! I'm kidding--I just want to leech myself onto their brains and steal their magnificence).

Specifically, I've been asked not to write about my classmates on this blog, so I will not. However, I would like to throw out there into the ethos that I love them all. Eight of us went for drinks after class last week, and I sat and listened a lot and just absorbed their awesomeness and great senses of humor. I embrace their eccentricities and individual talents, and am supremely glad to know I share the planet with each one of them. I hope we find a way to keep in touch forever when it's over.

Our teacher (who says I can write about her, specifically), is chock full of knowledge about writing, good storytelling, and publishing. I love to listen to her talk; she's professorial and literary. I like people who use big words but in a way that anyone listening can use context clues and figure out what they're talking about. I think it's a talent.

Two weeks ago, our assignment was to go out in the world and eavesdrop on a conversation, then write a scene with a conflict and character development via action. I love this, and do it all the time. However, two weeks ago was a bad time for that. I ended up at a sports bar, which are notoriously bad places to eavesdrop on conversations. And coffee shops? Who the heck has time for those (except at 7:30 a.m. when your brain doesn't work)?

So I went to YouTube, found an interesting interview with one of my favorite actors and catapulted. It's not perfect--for one, I think it reads like a trashy beach novel, and I do not want to write those. Second, it has some character/story inconsistencies and one too many adverbs. I knew this going in, and sure enough, those are what they all pointed out. (Can I just say, though, that I think maybe adverbs are my writing style? Ernest Hemingway wrote really short sentences about fishing and bull fighting. William Faulkner wrote a lot of stream-of-consciousness and inner brain thoughts of characters. Amy Samson shall write with a lot of adverbs, and do so unapologetically.)

Anyway, this has been a good thing for me. It gets me out of the house, thinking about writing and proper storytelling, and gives me a lot of good assignments that keep me accountable, and keeping me accountable is probably the only thing that keeps me together. Were I not accountable to anyone, I feel quite sure I'd be a panhandler sleeping in a cardboard box right now. Or waiting tables at Hooters. One of those.

Our next challenge: to write a 500-700 word short story that includes character development via action, exposition, rising action, conflict, falling action, and resolution. And avoid adverbs and inconsistencies, which I will take a very good shot at. There's a lot to think about when creating story, and I like that. But it also hurts my brain and I have no idea where to start. The writing prompt (if we need it) is: pick an object in our house with a lot of meaning to us and either build the story around it or incorporate into the story. I can't think of a single object in my house with a lot of meaning to me (yes, seriously).

I am currently trying to come up with as many "What if...?" scenarios as humanly possible and go from there because I think all good stories ultimately begin with a "what if?" question that needs answering.

What if...I bought a plane ticket to Fiji tomorrow and didn't show up for work on Monday? (I actually know the answer to this question, and it's less than pleasant.) (See? Accountability.)

self-defense for your soul (and write your own life).

I have two favorite movies that have shaped, influenced, and impacted my life in gigantic ways, and the writerly connection is that they are both based on great works of literature: The Wizard of Oz and Living Out Loud. 

When I first saw The Wizard of Oz, I was maybe six or seven. I wanted to meet Dorothy--no, better yet, I wanted to BE Dorothy. She was country girl cute yet pretty wily, she could sing, and she had a very limber boyfriend named Scarecrow. She was 1940's hip (because I'm an old soul). This was back in the 70's/early 80's, before the age of the VCR, so I had to wait once every year to watch it when it came on network television in March or April (because this was also before the age of satellite and cable). It was The Event of the Year for me, second only to Christmas, and sort of like I imagine the Emmys and Oscars are if you have a job in Hollywood. Which I do not. Though I think I should. Except my skin is too thin and I'd be eaten alive.

Side story: when I was seven, we moved to Muskogee, Oklahoma. Living in Oklahoma is where I realized: wow, that thing that takes Dorothy to Oz is a tornado. And here in Oklahoma, what are there a lot of? Tornadoes! That's right! Woo boy! We're goin' to OZ, baby! COOL!  So, every day in Oklahoma goes like this: Could there be a tornado today? Why, yes. Yes, there could be, because this is Okla-tornado-homa. Kids in Oklahoma grow up knowing: today could be your very last day on earth. Because Tornado Watch (a constant in that state) means Maybe, and Tornado Warning (always looming on the horizon) equals Kiss Everyone You Know Good-bye. It's just how people live down there 350 days out of the year. Ask anyone from Oklahoma. They'll tell you. Congress really ought to do something about it (but we all know they won't because some of them still believe Jesus had a pet dinosaur).

So every day, there'd be a tornado watch which would often switch to a tornado warning suddenly and without provocation. My mom would start running around like a chicken with the head cut off, gathering up pillows, small brother, wayward dog, photos, jewelry, birth certificates, fresh underpants, etc...and she'd shove us all into our Safe Room (aka the guest bathroom tub because it was the lowest room in the center of the house), and I'd be running back and forth from window to window screaming, "Is it here yet? Is it HERE yet?? Is it HERE???" absolutely, psychotically convinced we were all about to be taken up in the air in a tornado where we'd see magnificent things like flying cows, rednecks in boats, and an evil spinster schoolmarm who'd turn into an evil spinster cackling witch right before our very eyes. And then we'd kill her with our house, skip down the Yellow Brick Road, and sing and eat over-sized lollipops with the munchkins. Happily Ever After, The End. Seven year olds are very concrete thinkers.

So one day, after a particularly harrowing near-miss by a friendly, locally-grown tornado, my mom grabbed me and sat me down on the sofa. She asked, "Amy, why are you so excited about tornadoes? It sounds like you want a tornado to hit our house while we're in it. Do you want a tornado to hit our house?" So I outlined my big Trip to Oz travel itinerary, and as my mother listened, she grew very very somber. When I finished, she shook her head sadly. After a big sigh, she carefully stood and walked to our living room bookcase. She took down a gigantic tome called NATURAL DISASTERS OF AMERICA. She placed this tome on my skinny, innocent seven year old knees as if it were an ancient copy of the Bible and she said in a dark, ominous tone, "No, Amy. No. The Wizard of Oz is just a make believe story. Tornadoes are real. Tornadoes kill people, Amy. If a tornado hit our house, it wouldn't take us anywhere. It would smash us to smithereens and we'd all be dead. Do you understand what I'm telling you? Tornadoes are horrible, evil things. Oz doesn't exist but death by tornado does."

And then she opened up NATURAL DISASTERS OF AMERICA to page 1,965, a page splashed with pictures of house (and people) all smashed to smithereens.  I spent the next 6 hours of my young life perusing this book of NATURAL DISASTERS OF AMERICA, learning all about the different ways Mother Nature can, and will, kill you.

Epilogue to this sad childhood memory/side story: Talk therapy for childhood traumas can only take you so far, and so if the world is to be destroyed by a global wind-like disaster I would be the very last person you'd want on your Apocalypse Team. I will be cowering, in fetal position, under something like I do right now in my pantry beneath the corn cans. I'd be the kind of drowning person who'd hold onto the lifeguards trying to save her and end up drowning all of us; I'm sure lifeguards are warned never to attempt to save people like me. If there is ever a natural disaster, just leave me! Just leave me. Save yourselves.

But here's why I continue to love The Wizard of Oz in spite of my mother's maternal destruction of her innocent daughter's magical dreams: The Wizard of Oz has ingredients for an important life recipe. Every child should be exposed to it. Yes, every child! Even though, okay right, there are freakish flying monkeys and, of course. You're absolutely correct, cackling witches are NO laughing matter. Listen, whatever. Just do like I've done with 4 year old Miss M and tell your scaredy cat kid to just suck it up. When they grow up, they can get a good therapist and they'll be fine. Mostly. (But do save the natural disaster tomes for when they're emotionally mature enough to handle the disappointing realities of Mother Nature's dark side.)

The moral to the story/life recipe of The Wizard of Oz is that the access to all your dreams coming true is already inside of you. Whatever riches of treasures you think you'd like, they're in you already--you don't have to look very far at all. And I like that, even though my mother's actions one afternoon sent me reeling into years of panic attacks during windstorms (yes yes yes! Any kind of wind), I like that she did a really wonderful motherly thing that day even as she destroyed my childhood magic: she never pointed out to me that the story of Oz is actually about believing in and depending on yourself; she let me discover it in the movie myself. You had it in you all the time, silly little goose! And get away from that window--it's the most dangerous place you could possibly be in a tornado!

The other movie that has impacted my life in unimaginable ways is Living Out Loud. It's an obscure movie made way back in 1998/1999, starring Holly Hunter and Queen Latifah, and it was based on two short stories by Anton Chekov. Every time I find myself and/or my life in flux, I watch this movie, sometimes 400 times in one weekend. It's about living life on your terms, learning to say no to other people's bullshit, and a whole slew of other things I constantly forget even after having gone through a a whole butt load of bad life and romance experiences over the last 41 years which you'd think I'd learn finally, but no because that's simply not how I do things. So thank god for DVDs, and Richard Lagravenese, who made this movie. It is not lost on me at all that Richard Lagravenese is a man who made a really sensitive, thoughtful movie about a woman who learns to live out loud after living so silently for so long, which makes Richard Lagravenese a rare find. (For that matter, so was Anton Chekhov.)

At any rate, every young girl starting at age 16 should be exposed to this movie; I am certain my life would have taken a totally different course had I been exposed to this movie by age 16. (You can drag out the tome about natural disasters by age 16, too. By age 16 a person is big enough. Just don't show them page 1,112 which has a man stuck in an earthquake fault crack as if he's about to be swallowed alive by the planet. That's...just stay off of that page, okay? Be gentle with your fragile mind. Mother Nature is a nasty b-word.)

Mostly, I think I'm thinking about learning how to know yourself down to the very center of the very core of your very deepest abyss because I'm thinking about how the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and who we'd like to become and what we're truly capable of become our past, present, and future realities. We can constantly rearrange our passages and rewrite our endings, as well as a lot of our middles. But you know what I've realized over the years? This is a dirty endeavor, writing a story about yourself, for yourself--mostly because of the many, many people who want to either help you write long passages of it, or just flat out insist on writing it for you (helicopter writers).

So learning how to (a) find your story and then (b) write it is not for the weak of spirit. I mean, a lot of these helicopter writers who like to tell other people what their stories are don't even know the difference between there, their, and they're. Don't even get me started on the misuse of your and you're. It's a real struggle to find your dreams and live out loud when you're trying to write while following the rules of people who are completely inept at proper grammar mechanics.

Elizabeth Gilbert, one of my writing heroes, says she thinks all women, but especially young girls, should travel to foreign (and not so foreign) places and learn to feel through the loneliness of traveling alone. Isn't that a great metaphor for life? Learn how to travel, solo. Learn how to take your walks around a strange place in the world during the day, eat dinner, and then be okay with being by yourself from 7:30 until dawn the next day. Because when you can do that, you can find yourself. Which means hopefully you'll know yourself so well, you won't ever end up sharing any part of your soul or your life with a helicopter writer who wants to write your story, because, thanks but no thanks, you've got this. And when you find yourself, you don't even want other people who are really prolific writers who know how to spell and use contractions correctly to write your life, because you've learned that everything you really desire is already inside of you--it's been in you all along. Just like Dorothy does in The Wizard of Oz and Judith does in Living Out Loud. And Elizabeth Gilbert did, period.

I wish I could teach a class for young girls ages 14-18 about this (gentle, sensitive boys welcome as well). I would like to teach a class on self-defense for the soul: we would watch gentle, thoughtful movies like  The Wizard of Oz and Living Out Loud and write down our thoughtful thoughts about their gentle recipes. We would read books like Help Thanks Wow by Anne Lamott, and Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. We would take individual field trips to different European countries of our choice, walk around their cities alone, eat dinner alone, go to sleep alone, and then meet back at the classroom in two weeks to write our essays. As an extending, culminating activity, we'd go all Walt Whitman and spend two weeks in nature in silence and thought (which, by the way, I did this in high school, but surrounded by other high schoolers...who are notoriously BAD at taking people like Walt Whitman serious). At the end we'd write our final essays and share.

If this country and its Congress had its priorities on straight, there'd be a class like this in every high school. (Actually, if this country and its Congress had its priorities on straight, I'd be Secretary of Education and Arne Duncan would sharpen my pencils and Michelle Rhee would be my coffee girl. But I digress.)

Just thinking today. Out loud. Happy there are no tornado watches on the horizon.