“We should live everyday as if it were everyone else’s last.”

“We should live everyday as if it were everyone else’s last.” Courage of Fear

We became great friends fast, Robert and me. We met through mutual friends sometime after 9/11 (so, if you have read previous posts you understand my state of mind at the time.) He was a tall, lanky guy with hair down to his shoulder blades. His face aged and rutted; you could truly see the life he lived right there defined on his weathered face.

“Idaho Bob” he was called by many; a poet. I heard-tell he got that name because he was known for disappearing for months on end to Idaho to work on his next book. He would depart from Encinitas, California in his old VW sleeper van and disappear to the wilderness to connect with Mother Earth and write till he was done. Then he would return home. He had the most calming, welcoming smile than any man I have ever met. When you read Courage of Fear you will find him there in the acknowledgments. I grew to love my friend, Robert, very much.

We shared many common interests that bonded our relationship. First and foremost was our love for writing. We would sit for hours on end talking about our latest works or past works…kind of like how i do with you folks. Even though we would weave stories, there was always personal meaning to every detailed stitch of them. It wasn’t the words that bonded our friendship, no. It was the passion we shared for the expression of our souls that grew to be the cement. Many people can write, yet true artists have an understanding of and for the human condition that delves deep beneath the surface. Bob and I both knew, and shared, that this concept and/or understanding was what made a true artist more than a mere writer; it made them the Bard (if you don’t know the true definition of a Bard, I strongly suggest you google it.)

Most of the time we would meet at the Lumber Yard in Encinitas (it is not actually a lumber yard, it is an outdoor plaza; coffee shop, stores, food on Coast Highway. It got its name because it used to be an actual lumber yard.) Sometimes we would jump into the VW and head out to Palamar Mountain (under the Grandfather Cedar) or Borrego Desert just to see what nature had to offer us that day, or maybe to pick sage. Robert was very heavy into Native American culture, so we NEVER took anything from Mother Earth without first a thoughtful prayer of gratitude… almost a ritual really.

Like myself Robert loved music. Not for the beat or the lyrics, for its entirety. Like our own art, we would talk about song; maybe deciphering the lyrics or expressing how certain instruments would cause certain reactions. We could go for hours really without speaking just appreciating, maybe contemplating, or plum just getting lost in different artist’s work coming through the speakers at the time.

On different occasions friends would see us together. On many occasions different folks pulled me aside and warned me. Might be best to stay away from him. Things about him that could cause me troubles. We are just friends, I would say. They would smile at him and go about their days (california, i swear.)

It had been days and I had not heard from Robert. Non-returned voice mails, no phone calls, never see him at the usual places. Went on for over a few weeks, if I remember correctly. I sought out a mutual friend and asked, have you seen him? Ah, he was in bad shape the friend reported. Had been drinking hard for days (the Robert I knew didn’t drink) and our friend was concerned. So we loaded ourselves in his car and headed over to check on our friend Robert together.

Bad shape, my ass. Robert was in horrible shape; bad a true understatement. It was mid-morning and you could have lit Robert on fire a foot away just from the fumes alone. I made us all coffee. Robert shook so bad I had to hold his cup. My heart broke. My friend Robert. He told me he had to stop. He just couldn’t. His face bruised from face to the concrete falls. He wanted to quit. He refused to go to a facility. Okay then, we shall do it together.

Our friend help load Robert into my car. What are you going to do he questioned.

Well, sober him up. I responded. Don’t worry. It will be fine. I have done this before.

(WARNING do not ever try to do this on your own. Alcohol withdrawal is the only withdrawal a person can die from. Unless you have seen it done and done it yourself you will very likely kill someone.)

I swung by the liquor store and picked up a couple bottles of Vodka, threw them in my trunk, and then started to drive east. I needed to get us somewhere where there were no people. Just looking at someone in his shape someone was bound to desire to help… whether that be calling the police, helping him escape from me (cause of course once the process starts alcoholics will do or say just about anything to get their hands on the bottle and get away from whom ever is keeping it from them.) I thought and thought. Lets face it, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Everywhere there are people in San Diego, you blink and you’ve passed a dozen houses. Then it hit me.

Less than an hour into the trip the uncontrollable shaking and perfuse sweating began. It was time. I pulled over to the side of the rode, popped the trunk and grabbed a bottle. I held it tight when he grabbed on. Just a few sips I told him. That was all he would get. I struggled to pry it back from his lips. Back in the trunk it went. He was leveled a bit again.

All was going pretty good when we hit the dirt road to the Indian Reservation. . . Fitting I thought for such an occasion. It was a very hilly area with lots of twists and turns. I needed to find just the right location so in the event old Bob got the gump (highly unlikely) to bolt he would be totally lost. I found it. Nestled down in a valley like area. From that POV all one could see was hills and green… absolutely nothing else. It was perfect.

I helped my friend out of the car. He rolled to the rear tire wall and slid down to the ground. Again, the uncontrollable shaking and profuse sweating… I grabbed the bottle. This time he yanked it from my hands. I need more than a sip he reported.

Like hell, I snapped grabbing it back.

At this Robert became hostile. I don’t want to do this anymore. Take me back. Give me the vodka.

Look, I can give you this bottle and I will. However, if i do, you are on your own. I’m leaving your sorry-ass here.

Again, the few sips had leveled out his physiological symptoms. He looked around. Where are we, he asked.

Somewhere special. I responded.

How in the hell am I going to get out of here?

That’s the point, fool. So, the bottle?… or me and the ride?

For the first time in all the hours, there it was, not fully, but I saw a glimpse of it… that smile. You suck was his response.

I know. I put the bottle back in the trunk, turned on the stereo, and then slid next to Bob on the ground. We stayed there for a very long time, me, Robert and the bottle. Just us, nature and the music. It was a grand day.

Robert stayed sober until his death shortly thereafter. He was diagnosed with bone cancer and left us very quickly after his diagnosis. He was very peaceful about it. When many folks heard he was dying, they reached out to him… even the one’s that sent me their warnings. And me, Tai Pan or Wyoming as Robert called me in many of his poems?.. I wasn’t in California when he passed but we were together just the same.

Robert was merely one of many who crossed my path reminding me that this journey will one day end… abruptly for some… I do not want to be one of those people saying I wish I had or I wish I did because I cannot any longer.

We should treat everyone as if it were their last day. No regrets.

There you have it. That is the story behind today’s quote.

As always, have a grand day all.

Courage of Fear Quote: Physical Manifestation

“When we find that one person, that one love, we have found the physical manifestation of our Creator.” Barbara Boyer, Courage of Fear.

Good Morning all:

When first reading this philosophy of relationships I thought it sacrilege really. I mean it had always been my understanding that if I put anything between me and god I would surely lose it. Yet as I dug deeper, read more about this philosophy, something wonderful began to unfold for me.

It all happened when I lost “the one”, or whom I perceived to be the one. There I sat, balled-up, licking my wounds. . . trying to make sense of it all. Months past, time slipped by, and for the first time in my life I was unable to let go…me of all people? Unheard of… anyway like everything else in my life I HAD to make sense of it. I HAD to understand what happened. Not because of the loss of the relationship, more because of my inability to be able to let it go. So I did what I do. I read.

It was at this time I came across a book by Paramahansa Yoganada, “The Divine Romance.” It was totally by mishap. With every corner I took my spirit weakened. I would walk to clear my mind. Passing the Self-Realization Fellowship I heard a service going on so I thought what the hell and went in. It was wonderful. After, I hit the bookstore–and there it was calling out to me. After its purchase I went to my favorite outdoor french bistro, ordered brunch, and opened its pages… and there it was this philosophy of a human romance being the physical manifestation.

I thought. Blasphemy! I thought. Ridiculous! I thought. The lightening bolt was sure to hit soon for me partaking in such hockis-pockis. I thought. My past relationships with men were indeed similar to my past relationships with my creator. I thought. Over the years my relationship with God had changed, like any relationship does over time. I thought. And so had my relationships with others. I thought. Hockis-Pockis, my ass. This guy was on to something.

As I read on Yogananda told the story of two relationships. One that worked and the other that did not work. He gave examples of one of the partners leaving town.

In the relationship that didn’t work one could hardly wait for the other to leave. As the time grew closer so did that persons enthusiasm about their time apart. Then as the time grew closer for that person to return the anxiety grew stronger. Upon arrival the other was greeted with discourse.

Then there was the other couple. One was happy that the other was fulfilling their dreams, proud of their accomplishments. Although they would surely miss the other while apart, they were happy for their accomplishments and supportive of their journey. As the love and hugs were at their departure, so were they at their arrival… if i recall correctly it was as if they were greeting each other again for the first time.

So there I sat. Humbled in remembrance of my lost love over which i mourned so deeply–thinking of the time I was heading to Austin so his mom could come to visit; him excited about my departure–smiling, after a breakfast that was finally over.

Today may we see each other for the first time…or let go so someone else can.

So there you have it. That is how this quote in Courage of Fear came about in my life… you won’t find this little tid-bit in Courage, just the quote.

btw… if you all like my daily blog… please get your behinds over to amazon, barnesandnoble and pick up a copy of Courage of Fear… Support your daily contributor friend, me. . .  a girls got to eat and it is a good read! Tell all your friends too.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

Fear… lack of faith? Hogwash!

Fear can be a great motivator. But, when one lacks
courage to walk through the fear, the boogieman
eventually gains enough power to
paralyze its victims.
Courage of Fear, Barbara Boyer

Having been in the healing field for so many years, I cannot even begin to count the number of times I heard well-meaning folks say that shitty old expression, “fear is a lack of faith.” Shoot, that expression used to remind my of me dear old irish nana that used to tell me I was going to hell for speaking poorly or something or other. The comment in itself is a gotcha kind of expression. My idea of God is bigger than that. He is not a gotcha god.

I mean if God created us all in His own image, perfect (then the Fool (sorry Big Guy) separated the sexes and we haven’t recovered from that poor choice (again, sorry Big Guy) since… had a shit ton of fun, wonder and awe trying to reconnect… but that is another post for another blog all together). If we are all perfect just the way we are, why do so many of us want to make so many of us feel inadequate with all our god-given instincts? I am sorry. My God doesn’t roll that way. To me it limits Him and His creation.

Like I said a few days ago. In every lie there is a truth. I believe on the end of an extreme fear can be a lack of faith… yet folks throw it around out of context from the scripture’s message/lessons. I mean, shit, Christ experienced fear. Are those folks trying to tell me Christ (whether the real messiah or not) lacked Faith? I wish I could lack Faith like that guy. No. He took that fear and made it positive. He drew His circle in the sand. He prayed in the garden. He fought in the temples… the list is almost endless of what He did with his fear… how he turned it around… how He used it to guild Him… how fear was the vary fabric that bonded him and solidified and strengthened His relationship with the Father.

Fear is natural. Fear is a God-given instinct. Fear can be a positive thing. And like all things, I can use it to my advantage and own it or, as I wrote in Courage of Fear, I can let it be my handicap and own me. Like ALL things it is my choice. In my life fear is the built-in warning sign “danger Will Robertson, danger!”

Now maybe I am just full of crap and my nana was right. I am going to hell. I think not, but that’s okay if you think so. Maybe I feel this way because I am an artist and like most artist types I enjoy the exhilaration of the edge. Who knows?

What I do know is way too many humans automatically go to the negative in all things. I don’t know why this is. But it is. I just choose not to… or try to choose not to. For me it is kind of like that expression “either God is or He is not”… “He is Everything or He is Nothing.” There is not middle of the rode for me. If I want to say that fear is a bad/negative thing, in my mind I am saying maybe God is not, maybe He is nothing. Just doesn’t fly for me.

Fear is a way for me to be more.

It is just that simple.

So…

… when beginning my journey of writing I was indeed exhilarated with fear. Those wonderful, beautiful, little butterflies in my belly that come about due to the fear, was a sign I was on to something for me, and indeed, maybe for you too. They were sensual… sometimes they make me lose my breath (I think some folks see those as anxiety attacks–and of course folks want folks to see those as negative–yet to me those are events that says, hey this is important to me… they are a good thing… just breath and rejoice in the fear of truth)  Like Jenny, I am sure, with her new life adventures, we welcomed the fear and felt peace with its offering. We walked through it… made it to the next wonderful fearful new experience and began again.

The blog I wrote a few days ago, the decision to sit and write Courage of Fear began my life, without me knowing at the time, in a different direction. And one, I am fearful to admit, I am still a bit in flux with. As I have discussed in prior blogs I have been feeling for some time a strong sense of change. . . wanting a different life than the one I have had for so many years. In that blog a few days ago seeing that sentence, feeling those feelings about blending and wondering what that feels like, brought home some inner thoughts unknown to me.

Let’s see? As I have stated in past blogs I have had many many years of a life of service. I was the go-to gal. I was like Martha in many ways in Courage of Fear. It made things click for me for many years… I mean it gave meaning to my life… it made sense of the senseless youth. I was here for you… who ever you were.

Yet unknown to me just before writing Courage I began to see what a toll that was taking on my life. I mean really more than anything in the world I want to love unconditionally… and more importantly I do not want to be made to feel guilty or dirty for doing so. I guess it is what made me an effective counselor. It just seemed to be the Universe was crossing my path with more and more of folks who talked about wanting the same things… yet did they really? More and more relationships were appearing to be about “what’s in it for me?” “What does this look like to the outer world?”… and it was no ones fault but my own. It was who I was. Could I bring to myself the same things I gave to others for so many years?… just being?

For once, before I die, I would like to be one of those folks that can go unnoticed in the crowd. I would like to blend. Is that possible? I would like to know what that is like. I suppose, unknowing to me at the time, it is why I chose to be a screenwriter (someone behind the scenes). Was it that the Creator was preparing me for my future desires for myself?

As I have stated in past blogs I had recently made some drastic changes in my life. As a result, some old friends have left. Which I think is completely understandable. Yet others seem to want to keep trying to pull me back… although I try nicely to change the subject or divert, pull they do… thinking they know what is best for me… and maybe that is so…

…but the butterflies… oh those wonderful, beautiful butterflies, tell me I must continue to stand my ground, stay steadfast in my current direction of self-love and continue to try to trudge toward blending.

More on this tomorrow.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

Courage of Fear Quote: When you look at the color blue…

“When you look at the color blue do you see the same color as I do?” Courage of Fear, Barbara Boyer

I believe Jennifer was in tenth grade when she arrived home that day. She appeared disgruntled and antsy. “What’s up?” I asked. “What has you so on edge?”

It appeared that day in one of her classes they were discussing abortions. The teacher had asked the class to take their stance on pro-choice or pro-life. As usual certain youths were called on to present their case and argument to back it up. Jennifer argued pro-life.

After the class, one of her classmates cornered her in the restroom. She was very angry with Jennifer’s position. Jennifer explained to me all of the young lady’s opinions and normal debates on pro-choice. She was appalled Jennifer would try to set women back with her pro-life stance.

Good for her. I said to my daughter. She was, after all, entitled to her opinions and passions therefore.

That wasn’t the problem, according to Jennifer. What was the problem was that this girl was trying to force, through intimidation, her thought process on to Jennifer. . . to make her change her mind. . . to make her agree with her. That was what had Jennifer so upset.

Now, granted, this young lady probably had no idea that Jennifer was a result of a teen pregnancy; I thought to myself. She probably had no idea that my family thought and verbalized that I should have gotten an abortion. I had no right to have a child at my age, where I was at that time in my life. Never mind what Jennifer’s rights were at the time (and having been now almost grown and able to think for herself she now thought that it was very likely, had I followed the wishes of my family she wouldn’t be.) She probably had no idea, while she was yelling at Jennifer in the high school bathroom, that with each point she made she erased Jennifer’s existence just that much more (and maybe I think too much.) Even though all those thoughts raced through my head I simply responded:

“What color blue do you see?” pointing at the hanging blue towel.

What does that have to do with anything? She snapped.

Look at it. Do you see the same color as I do?

Well, ah, yeah. It is blue.

But do we see that color exactly the same?

I guess.

Are you sure?

Well…

Look, honey, we all see things based on the colors we see. There will never be a way to know we see things exactly the same. All that girl did was showed you how not to bully someone, to teach you not to make someone feel guilty because their colors don’t let them see things the same way as you.

Even though it was a difficult and traumatic event for her. I have since heard her ask me the exact question.
What color blue do you see?

“Love is not an act based on…” Courage of Fear

“Love is not an act based on conditions. Love is the condition all other acts are based on. Love for our Creator. Love for others. Love for ourselves.” Courage of Fear, Barbara Boyer

If I remember correctly it was early in the morning and I was just finishing up with the details of chapter three in Courage when the phone rang. On the other end was a woman I had been working with (I met this woman during a traumatic time in her life when her husband of eleven years had just left her and their beautiful five year old daughter for another woman… a woman he had been sleeping with during their marriage–(asshole)). She was hysterical. Her breathing short, sobbing.

“Breathe.” I said to her.

“Maybe it was because I was a terrible housekeeper. I bet her house is clean.” Her voice still shaky. “He always hated the fact that the house was cluttered. Maybe if I did a better job? Maybe then he would have stayed?”

“Wait a minute.” I said. “Where is all this coming from? Tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened!” She snapped at me. “After i got the baby off to school I started looking around and I started thinking maybe that was it. Maybe if I just kept things cleaner? Maybe then he would have stayed?” It was still difficult to make out the words through her shaky sobs.

“Take a few deep breaths.” I asked of her. “Let me see if I am hearing you right?”

“Okay.” She breathed.

“Your husband left you because you kept a cluttered house?”

“Yes. Maybe that is it.” She cried.

“And he stuck his thing in her bucket because she had a clean house?” I asked.

“Well, yeah.” She was beginning to calm. “She probably does everything better.” She began to excite again. “I was just looking around and everything is a mess.”

“Hold on a second.” I demanded. “She lives alone, does she not?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And his two kids, the ones that used to live with you and he, they are back with their mother, right?”

“Well, yeah. I told you that.”

“Just play along with me for a minute okay?”

She was steadying, “Okay.”

“And you have your daughter, she has no kids, Right?”

“But maybe if I did more. I mean, maybe if kept the house better… maybe if I was a better cook–I bet she is a good cook. Maybe, maybe he would have loved me more.”

“Wait a minute. Lets back up. Tell me how your day started?”

“Well I got, Jessie (totally fake name) off to school.”

“No before that… you woke up–wait, how well did you sleep last night?”

“Not good. My mind kept racing. I don’t think I got to sleep till about three.”

“And what time did you get up?”

“About 6.”

“And when you woke up what did you do?”

“I cried.”

“And what were you crying about? What was going on in your head?”

“I just kept thinking about him leaving me and jessie. How could he have done that? What did I do wrong?”

“And how long did that go on for?”

“I don’t know for about an hour. I kept telling myself I had to pull myself together so I could get jessie up, make her breakfast and get her ready for school–”

“And did you do that?”

“Well, I first laid with her for a bit. You know this has been hard on her. I like to wake her up slowly. So I laid with her talking her awake.”

“And were you crying?”

“No. Of course not. I was just talking with her.”

“And about how long was that.”

“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I made her breakfast and her lunch.”

“And then?…”

“I walked her to school.”

“And then?…”

“I started to work on some purses… but I just couldn’t stop thinking about things. I kept looking around me–”

“And the purses?… did you get your ebay account set up yesterday, so you could sell them?”

“Well you know…”

“Stay with me here.”

“Yes.”

“You are a very talented artist. Do you know that?”

“Well, I don’t feel that way.”

“Yes, well you are. And that beautiful baby of yours, she’s pretty special, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“And when your husband was off boinking someone else you were there not only starting your own business you were raising your daughter and his two kids too… isn’t that right?”

“You know he was working for the studios, he worked long hours–”

“Just stay with me here.”

“Yes.”

“Are you glad you were involved in his kids lives?”

“You know I am. Their mother just couldn’t take care of them. I was glad I was there for them. You know that.”

“So would you rather those kids be homeless and your purses never seeing the light of day or a tiddy house?”

“What?”

“Well, would you rather create things or clean them?.. cause lets face, there really isn’t any such thing as superwoman.”

She started to laugh. “Create things.”

“Look, that woman has no kids. She lives alone and has no desire to have children. She has no personal goals outside of getting up every morning and going to work… oh, and stealing other woman’s husbands. . . so she has no loyalties– Let’s face it, you or I would never go out with a married man. We just wouldn’t do that to another woman.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“And they are both bound to do it again. With other people and to themselves.”

“Very likely.”

“So no matter who you were or what you did it never would have been enough?”

“I suppose so.”

“Honey, love isn’t an act based on conditions. Love is the condition. You get that. Right?”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“So I guess when it all boils down; would you rather be a spiritual, inspirational, principled woman; be artistic and create all those beautiful things you bring to the world and raise and love those kids the way you do or have an immaculate house, wearing an apron making a better homes and garden dinner, sleeping with someone else’s husband?”

“Be a good mom and be creative and principled.”

“Now that’s my point!”

There you have it folks… it made it in the book… well, not like above, but it is in there all the same.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

This writer’s journey, part IV

From Big screen to Published Author

This is the property of Barbara Boyer. No portion herein can be copied, duplicated or used without the permission of the author.

I love artists. All types of artists. In general the imaginations and creativity of a group of artists can bring you to the speckle of a grain of sand or a vaporized airy blanket around the world, and one needn’t leave their seat to experience either and everything in between. Artists have a passionate energy that flows from them, whether it is pleasure or pain, that one cannot help but be one with. Their emotions, raw, deep, intense exposed to the very tips of their fingers, through the wisp of their lips. And that folks is the reason why I chose to be a screenwriter.

During the time I was doing my research on what I wanted to do with my newfound freedom known as my life, the reason I chose screen writing verses any other medium was because the thought of all the artists involved to complete a project, well, it was almost orgasmic to me. Through all the books I read and studied I found the screenwriter to be the mustard seed planter, the script merely the seed. In order to get it to flourish to the final cut it needed so much more creativity… more artists; the director, producer, actors, gaps, sound, edit, the list goes on. So for the same reason I loved artists I came to love the idea of being a screenwriter. I wanted to surround my life with that eclectic group in Oz and Wonderland.

On that lonely dark evening, when I sat in the movie house by myself, annoyed and distracted by the teens, and watched what I believed to be my movie played out before my eyes, all that mustard seed crap was flushed down the stool at the rest stop of this girl’s road trip. For several weeks, possibly months even, afterward I found my head in my hands asking, “Now what?” My heart burned with what felt like betrayal. Even though I was blessed to have my wish of seeing, what I thought to be, my movie on the big screen. I was left out of the process that attracted me to the profession to begin with, working with all the artists. Now granted, I could forgive the individual who I thought had my script rewritten to his liking and failing to put cash in my pocket. Yet could I truly forgive him for the other—raping me from the process? A question I still seek to resolve. And that folks is the reason why I chose to be a novelist.

My screenplay had parts that worked and parts that did not work. I was given the gift of an objective eye. I now needed to utilize that and make some changes. So what did I do you ask? I did what any long term single parent learned to do; plan b.

I went back to the libraries and bookstores. I read and read and read about how to write a good novel . . . all the while thinking about Angela, Jackson, Jimi, Culann, Bird, Sammy, Leo, Martha, and Lizzy (all the wonderful characters that were going to tell my story–make my point.) I swear, people around me must have believed me crazy because there were times walking or driving in my car I would be having mumbling conversations with my characters. My head and heart became consumed with their everyday lives… who these people were; what they did in their spare time; what type of music they listened to; where they lived and what they owned; who were their friends; where did they go grocery shopping; what bad habits did they have; if they watched tv and what they watched—many details that would never find their way into the book, yet they still found their way on the page. As a result of that compulsion, the characters began to speak to me again in this world they created within me. They actually began to retell me their story, yet this time, in detail.

After about six months of this kind of thinking and conversing I was ready. I left California for Georgia to write Courage of Fear, the novel. After about two weeks of working from 9am to 5pm, the beginning, middle, and end had been put to the pages. I literally lived in sweats and t-shirts. Like a good Sheryl Crow song, caffeine and nicotine were the fuel of my obsession. The story was down yet far from complete. I took a few weeks away from it. Back to the library, book stores I went. I read more on editing, character, description, plot, and conflict.  I read other greats, like Wolfe, Twain, London, and Hemingway. I read today’s best-sellers like Sparks, Roberts, Patterson. I didn’t read these authors for enjoyment. I read them to find their mistakes and their strengths as i had learned in the books. Unlike in screen writing a pen for detail was a must with novel writing and so therefore a precise discipline not to be taken lightly if i wanted to succeed. In screen writing your work has a director and actors who brings details to the table. A novelist is alone with their audience, so therefore has full responsibility for the story.

After a few weeks, out came the sweats, t-shirts, caffeine and nicotine, and back to the beginning I went… yet now with an eye of an editor. Ten months later (that includes the month I took fighting with Angela, my protagonist, about her fate—she won, btw) I believed the story was done, and with no time to spare. God, what a grueling insolated life the life of a writer. I forced myself to join a writer’s group to not only get solid feedback on my genius, yet also to integrate  my then antisocial ass back into society. Oh, I learned a lot from that group (Harriet Austin’s Writer’s Group in Athens GA). Most importantly I learned that the bloody edits were far from done (at one point Ms. Austin who so graciously agreed to work with me one-on-one asked, who is your favorite author. I said Virginia Wolfe. She said, well you are not her so stop trying to be her. Be yourself.) … yet I had to get back home, back to California.

After I had settled back in San Diego, back to the internet, libraries, and bookstores I went to research top notch editors.

During the next year and a half of correspondence and corrections with my editor I began to research publishing. I researched everything from agents, publishers, to self-publishing. I researched exactly what agents, publishers and self-publishing did and didn’t do for new writers. I researched and analyzed numbers that went along with being a new writer, from revenues to sales. How many copies does it take to be on a best seller list and which best seller list did what?

When the final edits for Courage of Fear were done I decided it was time to let the public give me their feedback. At that time the book was given to about 25 people requesting open honest comments returned to the author. Some of these people I knew and others I did not. The reactions were amazing.

The next step was the competitions. (During the time Courage of Fear was in the competitions I queried about 26 agents and publishers and received about six requests for reads, and one publisher requested to take on the project.) In the competitions I was again equally surprised how well Courage of Fear did. Courage made it through a few rounds in a Gather “First Chapters” competition with some wonderful feedback. It made it from over 7000 entrants in the Amazon “Breakthrough Novel” down to the last 100. All-on-all these processes took about another year and a half.

During all those releases I kept analyzing data so by the time the critics had their way with Courage of Fear I had decided on its destiny. As much as I had looked down (another lesson hard learned though humble pie) on fiction self-published authors, that was the route I chose for Courage of Fear. My reasoning for that was the amount of return on my investment and the amount of time getting the word out.

From what I could gather most new writers published through traditional publishers sell tops 100 books per year. Then because they are not making revenue for the publishers they are pulled from the shelves. This told me agents and publishers do little for new writers… and after all is said and done, the author going through traditional methods makes approximately 6% from book sales. If and when a new author went beyond those statistics it was because the new author took the initiative in marketing their book for themselves. If a new author went the traditional way through a publisher any and all marketing would also have to be approved by the publishing house.

To me, (the long time single parent always with a plan b and who beat the odds in the hardest possible area in life—raising a productive member of society) it just made good business sense to finish what I started. So, the girl with the big fat belly was to try to complete this task with as much commitment as she completes single-parenthood and everything that goes with it; and with as much enthusiasm, passion, and determination to boot. After all, I could sell my grandmother to a complete stranger, why not a book to a friend I had not met yet? It was decided, in order to gain as much capital as I could—to make up for the lost revenues of the nine years prior chasing this bloody dream, I would do the project myself, hence publish and market my own book. Outsourcing was never my thing and lack of control was never my problem. I had entrusted my screenplays to complete strangers and as a result went hungry and indeed homeless on more than one occasion. Yet I continued to stay determined. I continued to educate myself. I stayed on the path of the dream-chaser. It wasn’t like I had gone into this thing half-cocked and naïve.

If anyone thinks publishers and agents don’t make their money. Think again. Putting a book to print sounds easy enough, but I am here to tell you folks it is freaking difficult. All aspects of publishing a book falls on your lap and could mean your success or your failure, no matter how good your story. If the header is properly formatted, the italic title on one side, the author name on the other; the page numbers only beginning on page two of the actual read; the copyright properly competed; the rights properly obtained and paid for; every minute detail in the text properly corrected with a keen, fresh, meticulous eye; and ending just so on the page to be appealing to the eye and consistent; a proper format for the copyright page; even a well thought-out acknowledgement page (praying you don’t say to much to possibly make that persons life hell when the book sells like crazy, yet saying enough to let them know how much all of their support means to you during your times of isolation and struggles… cause lets face it folks, those folks on that page pay as heavy a price as the writer themselves), did you mention everyone—leave anyone out;  which page you begin writing, which page you place a title page; and the list goes on.

None of this is done without knowledge. No sir. More learning. More planning. More failures. More successes. During the few months passing while you get the copy-edits completed the bids return for the front cover art (not text folks, art). The bids you requested at 2 in the morning from your laptop. These bids run from $1000 to $2500. If you have any balls at all as a starving artist you pray for mercy and possibly pro bono. After all, you know of your own giving spirit you just know someone out there has to have compassion for what you are trying to accomplish, right? You even give up your pride and beg. When that fails you learn a new software program, another do-it-yourself er. Another few months pass and you believe the cover is professional (sorry to some of you guys who got that version of the cover—send me a note and I will send you the real one), only to pay some preview company hard earned starving artist money to tell you it looks like the flippin amateur that you are. So back to the drawing board you go with smiles of gratitude on their well-earned honesty.

All the while the publisher also has to incorporate its marketing plan. Again, you do not do this without knowledge so when you are finished with working the desk-top and cannot bear any longer that you cannot feel your ass anymore, you move to the laptop and begin to research marketing on the web from your bed till your eyes fail to cooperate. There are press releases, press kits, website design (again putting away your pride, begging; and when that fails learning a new software program—and trust me to do that right, there is a hell of a lot more to it then you would think), marketing avenues (all again that you must teach yourself the publisher) like myspace, facebook, other websites that will list you, the starving artist for free; gathering local rags and finding out who does what; strategizing what is the best way you can market yourself to get the press, get a buzz going; finding out who is who in reviews and getting and sometimes paying big bucks to possibly have them tell you how much your story or writing sucks (thank god, all the reviewers have loved my story and my story-telling, cause if they hadn’t we wouldn’t be talking about this here and now); gathering all the resources possible to get your books in the store or at least get people requesting them in the stores… and trust me folks, I won’t bore you with the many facets of marketing. It is a plethora of endless mind-boggling chaos and information. Let me just say the list goes on and on and on and on and on with more life than the pink bunny. And all of this and you haven’t even approved your book for distribution yet. Indeed, publishers and agents don’t get paid enough.

For every meal I have missed . . . for every night I spent in my car or in my tent . . . for all the things I have done without . . . for all the disappointments to myself and those that love me . . . for all the free hand-outs that were given and that I had to humbly accept . . . for all the money I have had to borrow . . . for all the debts I have had to pay down . . . for all the sacrifices I have had to make . . . for all the people I have disappointed and who thought me crazy. . .In addition my travels from coast to coast to give my daughter away to the most incredible man alive at her wedding; see her do the walk to get her law degree; cheered her husband through his thesis; witness the births of two incredible miraculous, beautiful grand babies; met new friends; healed old wounds; loved a man more than I thought was possible; reacquainted with past friends, and even mourned the loss of loved ones–If I were given a re-do, I would like to think I would do it exactly the same.

Folks, Courage of Fear is told with all the emotion of a starving artist and through a writer’s dream caught by the hopes, and the hoospa, of a starry-eyed story teller. Buy your copy today. Then the story that was so freely given to me, the one i worked so hard to bring to you, can also be shared with the story of the little runaway who thought she could. Much love and gratitude to all who share my vision and my determination . . . and if anyone knows Oprah, I am available.

Have a grand day. Peace

This writer’s journey, part III

Are you all set to begin today? K, then, lets go! Now keep in mind, this is not a story. It is all real…

Again, I did my research. I found just the right production company. In blue jeans and a t-shirt, careful to leave the Map Quest and research in the car, I walked on the lot like I had been there a million times before, found the right trailer as if Divinely lead there, and then completed the paperwork with little perspiration. During the interview they asked if I could sing or play an instrument. I replied “yes, however most people would pay me not to” (keep in mind, one of the few items that made the trip from OK to Hollywood was my 125th made Alvarez Guitar. When people used to come to my home they would inevitably ask, “Oh, who plays the guitar?” I would reply “Eric Clapton.”). I was assigned to work the next day on location for some Showtime flick about some guy named Tiger Woods (again, I pretended).

Arriving on location at some golf-course in God knows where remote location waiting with the herd I had to ask, “Okay, so the big question of the day is, who the hell is Tiger Woods?”

Everyone within ear shot broke into laughter. The gentleman next to me said, “You’re joking, right?”

“Well actually—”

“Next you’ll be asking who LaVar Burton is.”

“Okay. I’ll play. Who’s he and he’s important in my world why?”

“Jesus, you’re serious. What truck did you just fall off of?”

Like this guy could shake the world of the big fat liar. “The Oklahoman,” I said very matter of factly.

“LaVar’s our boss. You know, man, the director.”

“Okay.”

A sudden excitement had fallen over this guy, “He also was in the Next Generation, like, you know?… Star Trek series? The black dude with the cool shades?”

Jesus, I was expecting his reply with the likes of Elizabeth Taylor, Robert DiNiro or at least one of their lover’s or something. I got a bloody Treky. Not saying there was anything wrong with that, but really. “Okay. And Tiger Woods?”

“He’s like the first black man ever to be a pro golfer.”

“Well, there you have it.” Why would I know shit about golfing and Treking before now? It’s not like the fools in the trailer tell you anything. Learning. Getting my bearing straight. It was all good. I looked around scanning the faces of the many extras. One black guy in the whole lot of’em. This shouldn’t be difficult, shouldn’t be difficult at all.

Me and the lone black man, whom I came to nickname Sammy, cause he looked and acted just like Sammy Davis Jr., got to be really good friends during our weeks of shooting… and we were both up front and center in most of the scenes, usually goofing around and having one hell of a fun time.

LaVar and his assistant liked to tease me a lot. They called me the cigar lady. Fools were always walking around with what my eye saw as Cuban cigars. Now, I am no cigar connoisseur. I enjoy a good cigar every now and again. I am a Macanudo Red label girl, myself. Cuban’s were like being on the movie set. They were a totally new experience for me. I told LaVar one day that I thought it incredibly rude of him to be walking around toting on one of those bad boys from his lips and not share with those of us peons who were working and starving our asses off for him… hence, no cigar, but from that day forward I was known as the cigar lady, always followed by a chuckle. Every now and again I would hear that distinctive voice of LaVar’s over the megaphone (yes, they really do use those things) “Cigar lady? Cigar lady? Where are you? Get up here by me and stand here.” Fun times (I never have seen the movie, btw—starving artist’s don’t get Showtime, unless they are hijacking yours).

Outside of traipsing on the movie set for long hours, I worked as a script reader for my agent; simply for the experience mind you… I read and reviewed hundreds of really bad screenplays. The whole experience gave me a new appreciation for agents and production company folks.

In my spare time I went places where I thought artist would go. I met many artists from many mediums, painters, writers, poets, musicians, actors, sculptors, etc. I learned early not to tell people what I did right off. Everyone is working on the next big screenplay and they seem to come out of the woodworks wanting you to read their masterpieces; and many of them need lots of work (they were actually painful, I tell you). In response to me not calling myself a writer an artist friend of mine, who I got very close with, asked me what would need to happen to make me feel like a successful writer? I said, why seeing my movie on the big screen of course. I would learn, somewhat, to regret sending that out in the Universe.

A few weeks later the call came in. As much as Mr. S. liked me, my work didn’t do anything for him. He like the idea for my my work, yet they weren’t ready in his opinion. He advised me he would be glad to read anything I had in the future. He even advised me that he would continue to talk about me around Hollywood tables. Keep at it he said.

That is exactly what I did. He gave me exactly what I needed, no matter how discouraging. A few years passed where I was side tracked, mostly by a very handsome, young Irish man… whole other story for a whole other time. . . I like to call it research today.

Needless to say, life got a little dark. I needed to get back to my journey. I needed to start then or else. I did what all weepy women would do. I went to the movies.

I was a bit peeved because in that particular movie house, at that particular movie, there were teens running in and out of the theater. At times they would sit for a bit, talk on their cells, talk amongst themselves, etc. Like any good story, they merely added conflict.

As I watched the story I began to see a lot of similarities between my last script and this movie. Don’t misunderstand, there were some major differences. In my story the protagonist was a woman. In this guy’s movie the protagonist was a man. In my story there was Jimi Hendrix. In his story there was something else. My story took place in California and Massachusetts. His story took place in Chicago and some bohemian country.

The kids were pissing me off.

The movie was making me shift between anger and feeling flattered (let’s face it, there had to be some merits to my screenplay if someone would steal the concept, right?). I got to see what worked and what didn’t. I swore if the protagonist had done a certain thing at the end I was going to jump from my seat and strangle the little shit right there in front of God and everybody.

Someone complained about the teens, because they were escorted out. The story wasn’t working. It wasn’t that good.

My emotions topsy-turvy; popcorn wedged between my teeth, no amount of water moistened my dry throat.

Then it came, the ending. He didn’t have the one thing, the little SOB found one though. My heart raced, my fists clinched.

That was it. Thoughts of Smith and Wesson and internet tracking circled my mind. All the years, the work, so that already rich MF’er could get richer and exclude me and my sacrifices. Oh, he would pay alright.

As the theater emptied, I remained. What the hell? Ah, well, good thing it sucked. Now, don’t get me wrong. I considered myself a spiritual woman. I worked hard for years to cultivate that relationship… but there was a time in my life–.

In my mind this guy, who starred in many movies, had more money than a fraction of the world, very likely came across my script and saw the concept and covered his sorry-ass making changes to make it his own. I stayed in my seat and watched the credits roll. You can tell when someone had a concept because the movie would have several writers; I learned that from several of the books I had read. When one person cannot produce what someone else is looking for they hire someone else and so on and so on. I waited, counted, seven writers total.

Well maybe it was coincidence. Maybe there was no link at all between this movie and my screenplay. Maybe this was the Universe’s way of giving me my success as a writer– seeing my movie on the big screen.

There it was, my story on the big screen (did i cover that yet?). If it wasn’t my story it sure was enough like it that my friends were calling me asking me if I saw it. They picked up on the similarity. At first I wanted retribution. I remembered one of the perks when registering my script with the Writer’s Guild was if something like that happened, you got to use their attorneys.  I phoned the Writer’s Guild and they gave me the attorney’s number to phone. Their response? “I wish I had a nickel.” They asked me several questions; was any location the same? No. Where any characters the same? No. Were any of the names the same? No. I wish I had a nickel… great, me too.

Oh I had to spend lots of time in prayer and meditation over that one. Conclusion?

One afternoon I was having coffee with a musician friend of mine. We were talking about our respective mediums of art, sharing stories. I told him about the movie. Now keep in mind, this guy had known me for some time. He had also been through a similar experience with a prior band member who left the band and freely used the material he had written. He said, “God, Barbara, I cannot believe you haven’t found that son-of –bitch already and done something to him, at least called him out or went public. That just really pisses me off, how people can do that without any repercussions.”

I held my hands up like a balance scale and said. “Trust me. It wasn’t easy. I had to ask myself,” I weighted one hand. “Barbara’s wrath?” I weighted the other hand, “The Universe’s wrath? Like the attorney said, I don’t even know if it was my script for sure… but blank blank knows. Karma. If it was my script I am confident the Universe will take care of it.”

I do not know if this means anything, but that happened over five years ago. That actor has done Jack since… his flippin’ wedding got more press then any movie he had been in since.

Karma?

Stay tune for part IV, where we go from Big screen to Published Author.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

It’s all about me. A writer’s journey part II

K, busy day today, so as to not disappoint here is second part of this writers journey… Warning!.. this gets better as you read on…

Do you have your coffee? Lets go then…

From Oklahoma to Hollywood
Part II

THE PLAN: I called my day job’s florist and advised them of my intentions. I told them that in my spare time I wrote scripts. That my most recent script had been getting a lot of attention and that I was looking for a new agent, which is where they came in. I had an agent in mind and a plan plotted to get in to see him, yet I needed to know his favorite flower. Now, I said, I could either call his office and state I worked for the florist or they could call the agent’s office. They wanted to make the call.

I explained to them that if they took this mission it had to be held in the strictest confidence. No matter what happened, my name could not be given to anyone NO MATTER WHAT. My name had to be withheld at all cost for this plan to execute properly. They agreed and were quite excited. I advised that they needed to phone and find out what Mr. S’s favorite flower was. Once having been given this information they needed to send him that flower everyday at exactly the same time of day for three days. On the first day the card would read “I”. On the second day the card would read “need”. On the third day the card would read “you!” That was it. Just that simple and no matter what, they could not give out my name.

They phoned me back with the name of the flower, which to this day I cannot give you—only that it is shiny red thing that looks like a vagina with a penis sticking out of it.– And of course those are not cut flowers. They are potted flowers and very expensive to a starving artist living in Southern California. I said go ahead. They were to put the plan in motion the next day.

The next day I was more nervous than the time I was in the back of a cruiser for a DWI and the police had discovered I had slipped my cuffs off my wrists. I kept looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. Paranoid as all get-up that I would be discovered.

On day two I was worse. The florist phoned and reported she just had to get my permission to tell the management company who I was in fear of their threat to phone the police… luckily she phoned me before giving out my name. I pleaded no. Just two more days, one for what they had left to do and one for the final stage of the plan, and then Mr. S. would know. I promised I was not going to go psycho and if the agent’s office called after two days she could give them my name. She agreed.

Everywhere I went little suited men followed. I was sure I was going to end up in jail. I finally decided, well shit, if I had I was just going to call Oprah… what a story that would’ve been. Yet still, everywhere I went, it didn’t even matter if I was going pee… I just knew someone was going to come and get me for stalking one of the biggest agents in Hollywood, who fool-heartedly returned my script unopened weeks before.

Alas, day three and I was still a free woman. I jotted a note that said nothing about my script (as did the last one). It was just one paragraph about ‘how was I to explain to him in a note my enthusiasm for my writing when he wouldn’t’ be able to see the expression on my face as my hands waved about in the air or…” Yadda, yadda…Then, “Why should you represent me over the millions of others who solicit your attention daily? Because I NEED YOU”. I simply stated I would be in touch soon. Signed it, put a p.s. that stated ‘over the past few days he had experience a  scene from the movie “title”‘ The letter was sent overnight by FedEx to arrive around the same time as the flowers had the days before.

The next day on my cell phone was a message from the agent’s assistant asking me to call, that Mr. S was very interested in talking with me. I thought. Absolutely not! I had spent a few hundred dollars, not to mention three days in hell after his sorry, but successful, ass returned my script unopened… he can damn-well call me himself. He did the next day. We had a very nice conversation, full of humor, and as he put it, my celebrity ism.

I spent almost three hours in that agent’s office talking about my work and his. To have come from where I came from and to be sitting there, and him asking me to leave my work with him, for almost three hours was bigger than life itself. All things are possible if one only believes… An unexpected writer’s dream caught by the hopes, and the hoospa, of a starry-eyed story teller.

Sometimes life is so good, I could just wet my pants.

From Hollywood to the Big Screen
Part I

This article is owned by the author and cannot be used or duplicated without the author’s permission.

In From OK to Hollywood I covered pretty much from youth to getting in to see one of Hollywood’s biggest agents.

After getting in to see mega agent Mr. S. I pulled together my two screenplays, and a synopsis from another piece I was working on at the time. I dropped them by his office as promised.

I wanted to learn the aspects of screen writing that cannot be taught in the books or learned through the internet. What happens to the script after The End has been written and a producer signs off on a project? I needed to do what any big fat liar would do, become an actor and literally overnight. After all, I had been a model in the past. I rubbed elbows with famous musicians and movie producers. On many occasions in my life I faked it till I made it. Surely such a feat of acting couldn’t be much different or bigger than any of those. Really? How difficult could it be? It wasn’t that I expected to be Julia Roberts. I wanted to be a lingerer. Someone who stood in the shadows watching how things went, incognito I would mix unnoticed amongst the crowd watching and learning. Yeah, right.

Again, I did my research.

Stay tuned tomorrow for more.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

It’s all about me–A writer’s journey

First I want to thank you all for all your emails and friendships… new and new again from long ago. If I haven’t gotten back with you, sit tight. I get many many emails and I do return each and every one.

With that being said many times folks will ask me questions, questions that are actually answered on pages of my site that are not my blog… so to try to answer some of the emails through my blogs I have decided beginning today I will post in order my journey of becoming a novelist, pretty much from the beginning.

Many of the folks that have read what I am about to re-post here have sent me numerous emails about how much they thoroughly enjoyed this tale of mine… so grab your coffee, hang on to your seat and enjoy the ride… and hey, if you want to leave me comments about your journey all the better! You know how much I love hearing about your lives.

Are you ready? Lets go then…

From Oklahoma to Hollywood
Part one

All rights reserved. No form of this article may be used or copied without permission from the Author.

A brief, and if I say so myself, interesting bio of a girl chasing a dream.

First I must take you back to a little girl who grew up on the New England coast. The imagination of that spoiled little brat was her very best friend, which basically is a very colorful way of saying she was a liar… and not just a little bit, in a very strong, big, fat way. . . oh the stories she could weave.

Later in life, and a whole shit-load in-between, she became one of those tragic teens who found themselves a runaway and yes, pregnant. So now we have a big fat liar with a big fat belly. . .  and at sixteen, her mother taken by cancer much earlier, everyone thought the big fat liar should lose the big fat belly… save it for another time in life. Like many story-tellers, her determination only heightened.

Later in life, and a whole shit-load in-between, she had the baby; her name after a baby food commercial, Jennifer Rebecca. Jennifer became the main focus of the story teller’s life. After all, the story teller would only be 34 when the Minnie-me went off to college. With little education the shit jobs with long hours (and many drinks) were high on the priority list. After all, there were cloths, electricity, housing, food, involvements in plays, dedication to proving society wrong that single parents rear the worst stock; barby dolls, Nintendo games, stereos, fancy dresses, limo rentals for proms, automobiles, field trips (as simple as the zoo, later escalating to trips to Washington to explore how real journalism was done)… then came the time when the story teller was under the impression that motherhood was about over. Her baby almost ready for college (which of course there was no other choice for the story teller’s single parent child.), what would she do with her life?

It was at that point where I began to read anything and everything there was available about screen writing. I swear I read, even studied the good ones, any book written prior to 1993 on the subject. I would read in the library. I would read in my home. I would read in my car. I would read at the book store. And all the while I was writing that master script. I kept reading, writing and studying for almost a year; even took some classes at a local community college. My daughter went off to college. I closed shop on my business and took a counseling job in another state… all the while writing, rewriting, studying, planning for my future in California.

Then the day arrived, two years later, the script was done. It was a masterpiece. Hollywood would welcome me with open arms and praise.

I threw all my belongings into storage. A two bedroom house full of twenty-two years got locked away for my daughter’s taking. I gave her the keys to the storage, loaded my cougar with my dog, my cat, my guitar, my CD’s, my pillows, my computer, a few cloths and headed out to chase a dream long abandoned in a lost youth.

I took my time driving to California, enjoyed my new-found freedom and the bliss from the terror. Oh, we are truly blessed people, those of us that live in this country. It is so big and so incredibly beautiful; different parts like different kingdoms.

Once arriving in California I began to meet as many people as possible. I started to use every outlet imaginable to learn how to get my script seen. Again, the libraries and the bookstores were my best friend. I even took a job as a clerk in Barnes and Noble when my savings got low, just so I could read and be around readers. (I would like to share what a wonderful experience that was, but it sucked. When I was reprimanded for saying god-bless to someone I started hitting the pavement for an office job.) I spent many spare hours in LA meeting people. EVERYONE there was in the business, even when they were not in the business. Los Angeles and the surrounding towns (Hollywood, Santa Monica, etc) were eclectic Mecca’s… way different than anything I ever experienced in Kansas or Oklahoma.

My first day out, I found an agent. She took my script with much enthusiasm (translation; I did all the work.) I continued to read everything I could to educate myself. I researched production companies that did movies similar to my script. I researched reader’s names and contact information. I talked about my story and shared it with anyone that would give me the time. I sent out multiple copies, promising myself I would take my time to accept just the right offer when all the offers came back.

And then they came, rejection after rejection after rejection after rejection… and some, thank the good lord, with great words of wisdom and feedback. Two more years had passed. My law school student daughter and her husband secretly thinking me insane. I was not discouraged. The big fat liar, who once had the big fat belly, got big fat determined. I did what any writer would do, I wrote another script.

Now that script, a girly flick, started to get some attention. My agent was calling me asking questions. Where I was like, “ah, I don’t know. That’s why I have you.” Ron Howard’s partners wife’s assistant called asking me for more pages (they liked what they saw, but didn’t think I sent them an ending… of course I had, yet I claimed blonde) Many other companies called. My agent called with more questions. Time for a new agent I surmised.

I research the hell out of agents. I needed one who would know the ropes, yet have a charitable heart in the community. Someone I could trust. I found just the guy. He and his wife did major work with autism’s in the community, he had been around forever in the business, and represented the likes of some major players (now, don’t misinterpret that. I am not one of those people who goes ga ga over entertainment folks. Having been a model for a bit, that kind of thing didn’t and never has impressed me.) Yet this guy, in my opinion, was perfect for me and for my work. I sent him the screenplay with a letter summarizing the story, only to have it returned weeks later unopened with a nice generic letter talking about unsolicited material.

Well. I just couldn’t have that! I prayed. I asked for forgiveness ahead of time. I plotted. I planned. I prayed. I thought, thought, thought… how was I going to get in to see this guy? He WAS going to see me. He WAS going to read my work. IT was going to happen. And then, it hit me.

THE PLAN: . . .

Continued tomorrow…

Have a grand day all!

It is okay to love…

“…even though some of these things may not be easy to accept.
People do what they need to do to survive.
Knowing this makes it easier to see beyond one’s survival skills
to the true self. This allows us to still love the person
while not caring much for their behavior, and most importantly
being able to separate the one from the other.”
Courage of Fear, Barbara Boyer

Yesterday Evelyn (my grand daughter) and I had such a grand day. We packed a lunch, hit the road in the Fit to her chosen destination of the local creek and then parked our transport. Evey advised that even though the creek was just outside town, just north of the main street, she had never been there before. I thought how grand a new adventure for us both! We walked down the stone path to a bench, took out our lunches, opened them up and began to eat. Evey was too excited with her surroundings to focus on her food… after one bite she was off.

After biting down on my bologna and cheese I watched as Evey crossed an old wood planked bridge in a trollop. Her long hair blowing behind her, her arms extended out from her sides. She looked on the outside as she felt on the inside I thought. Her trot slowed as she investigated the creeks bank. I could see she was looking for some way to get to the creek’s bed from that side. Back and forth she went, all the while paying close attention to the ground beneath her feet. I watched as her eyes locked across the creek to a plausible entry to the water–still a bit steep for my liking.

Indeed another trot across the old planked bridge she went just as nama had finished up with her sandwich. Ah, and there she went west to examine her entry. I stood and looked east and west; slightly to our east was a nice sandy bank almost level to the creeks bed.

“Evey, honey, why don’t you look down there and see if that might be easier?”

“Okay, nama.” She zoomed passed my bench.

I took my shoes off and pulled my feet up off the ground, knees snug to my chest. I watched as she debated a request…

“Honey, why don’t you take your shoes off and roll up your pants so they don’t get wet and just put your feet in?”

“Okay, nama!” She pulled her cuffs to her thighs. “Nama? Can you come down here with me?”

“No honey, nama is going to watch from here. Just stay on the edge, K?”

“Okay, nama.” Evey said without looking up. “Hey nama? Did you know there are shells in the creek?” She pulled one out to show me.

“Hmmm, no, I didn’t know that. Very cool.”

I watched as she searched and searched beneath the water’s surface. I thought about how fast she is growing and what a fine young lady she truly is… how much she looked like her mommy did at that age… everything that was beautiful was at that moment surrounded within that child. It was obvious she had acquired more than my name; she had an incredible sense of curiosity, of adventure (really more like her daddy, I think–but hey, I like to take credit!) Another shell pulled from the bed. I watched as she placed it in a pile of shells collected on the river’s edge.

I had to ask myself, Why don’t I roll up me britches and join her? After all, this was our adventure. I rolled my jeans up to my knees and started for her. I placed our things on the bank and in I went investigating and pulling our gold speckles (that my attorney daughter later pointed out was not gold at all–where was the fun in that?) Several times when Evey would bend over and reach beneath the surface her bottom would hit the water. At one point she advised me her mother was going to be really mad at her for getting all wet.

I told her I highly doubted it. “Your mommy knows you are with me on an adventure that means she knows you could come back looking like the adventure if you are with Nama.”

Oh, back to her pile and then back in the water she went scooping up yet another shell.

A car honked from the busy elevated road to our south–some guy yelled out something. I kept my focus firmly on my and Evey’s moments; as did she but it provoked her thought, “Nama, people probably think we are crazy being in this creek.”

I said, “Honey,” I caught her gaze, looked her square in the eyes, “Do we really care what other people think? We are having fun, yes?”

“I am, nama. Are you?”

“Yepper. We are not hurting anyone.”

“Nope, nama, we are not.”

“So why would we care what other people think?”

“I guess we don’t, nama.” She continued to collect her shells.

Like my daughter before and still holds today; no matter what that little girl does I will always love my grand daughter Evelyn. No matter what she ever does, nothing will change that love. No matter where she is in the world, I will still love her. No matter what she grows up to become professionally, I will still love her. No matter what fixes she may find herself in, I will still love her. After all, I am her grandmother, I will always love her.

Each and every person we come in contact with has a mother, father, grand parent… and if you think about it, any one of a number of people we come in contact with each day, could be a distant relative; just because we do not partake in the upbringing of a youth doesn’t mean they didn’t have one. . . because we do not participate in their day-to-day life doesn’t mean they do not have reason for being the way they are, acting the way they do.

I wasn’t saying in the above quote from Courage of Fear that we should be doormats to the people around us. No. We should always protect ourselves from harm… I was saying we shouldn’t take others behavior personal. People deal with life and situations differently. They do what they feel they need to do to survive based on skills they have learned. And truly they know no better than that on most occasions. It makes them no more or less of a human being than you or I with all our faults and quirks. When we begin to see beyond one’s survival techniques, we see their innocence.

It is okay to love someone and not like their behavior.

Have a grand day all. Peace