"Just Be You" Trials of a Writer

Author’s Note:

I originally wrote this piece for a theater show back in Middletown, CT which featured one act plays by local playwrights. I have updated its content for today. It was originally called “To Be Me.” After the show, the playwrights stayed for a Q&A, and when it was time for me to speak about my show, I said that getting called sir was a common occurrence for me. “In fact,” I said, “it happened tonight in the restroom before the show started.” The audience laughed, getting the not-so-subtle irony. A man who dressed in female drag stood up and, through tears, thanked me for writing this piece, saying how necessary it was to get this message out. After the Q&A, I gave him a hug and thanked him for what he said, and we stayed in contact for many years after. That was one of the most positive experiences that has stuck with me through all the years.

Without further ado. . .

Just Be You

by Tara McMillen

Once upon a time, I hated to be called ma'am. “I’m not old enough to be a ma’am! I’m a miss!” Back then, getting called sir or mister was part of everyday life, and did not upset me. Now I’m happy if they say ‘ma’am' because it means they know I’m a woman, or at least have guessed right. When did this start to become a problem?

That is not a question I can answer right now, but it is connected to the issue I face as I (for real this time) pursue a fiction writing career. To be me or not to be me, that is the real question. Turn your back on your true identity, and what happens to your soul? To your self-esteem? That’s like saying “I hate myself.” But I love myself! I want to stand up to the world and say, “I’m a queer dyke and it has nothing to do with me being a writer.” However, if it were that easy, it wouldn’t be so hard for LGBTQ writers and actors to get recognition. We can’t all be Ellen DeGeneres and globally accepted as the leader of all lesbians!

I assume you, wonderful reader, are familiar with the term “anti-gay activist”. I guess in a world of Ying and Yang, if we have gay activists we must have anti-gay activists or risk a paradox and the world blowing up. This tug of war is not a new issue. Anti-gay activists have always fought to take our rights away. And sometimes they win. And it hurts. It’s hard to watch people who don’t know you fighting so hard to make sure you feel like a second-class citizen. But I don’t need to watch the news or keep up minute-to-minute monitoring of social media for the latest assault on my human rights. I know that as a queer lesbian and aspiring novelist, I have a choice straight people don’t have to think about. Do I start my career on the outside of the closet or hide inside it?

The problem is that if I start out loud and proud, I run the risk of getting pigeonholed. I want to be taken serious; to write whatever I want to write and be recognized on the merit of my writing … Not “Oh, it was good for a gay play,” as, in the past, I’ve heard people say. I know there are books, TV, and films that have LGBTQ characters. I’m even reading a book that broaches the subject of gender non-conforming, using they/them pronouns in a simple, inclusive way. We are definitely in a new hopeful era, however, there’s a man in the White House who not only encourages but rewards hate speech and hate crimes, which hastens the rolling back of our civil and human rights. For this reason, I still fear writing outside of that closet.

To give context to my fears, I’d like to share a few experiences. Getting called sir has been something I’ve had to deal with as far back as I can remember. Once when I was 8 years old, I had short hair. I was walking home from school along the same road I always took, when a man, working on the roof of his house, called out to me: “Hey little boy!” I think he wanted me to help him with something, but I don’t remember; all I heard was him mistaking me for a boy. I called back: “I’m not a boy, I’m a girl!” And kept walking. Probably a good thing too, because looking back on that, he could easily have been a pedophile looking for his next victim.

Later, in my twenties, I had hair down to my ass:

Okay, obviously that's not me in the photo, but you get the point. Long ass hair. One night, I went to the store before going out clubbing. I was decked out in femme form fitting jeans, spaghetti strap top, and femme boots. The young male clerk noticed me from the corner of his eye and called me sir. I said, “Really?” He looked me full in the face. His eyes opened wide and he stammered, “I mean ma’am.”

Then one day, about 11 years ago, after dreaming of it for years, I cut all that hair off to a “boy” short length. It was the most freeing experience. I’m so used to the short hair now, but back then, I wasn’t prepared to be cruised by gay boys—not for nothing, but I could do pretty damn good as a gay boy. I get mistaken as a man by others too. I remember a time when I was walking toward the exit of the women’s bathroom and an elderly woman came in, saw me, backed up, and looked at the symbol on the door to make sure she was in the right bathroom.

I’ve definitely forgotten more stories than I can remember, but each experience has imprinted itself in me, whether I remember it or not. I understand that getting called sir is not inherently life-threatening, but when you look like a sir but are not, there are those who won’t let their homophobia go. One night, many years ago, a friend was leaving a popular gay bar when several young men surrounded her. My friend was a large butch woman. You took one look at her and knew she was a dyke. These men started to harass her . . . she may have fought back. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. These men brutally beat her and left her with severe injuries. She was terrified to leave her home for months after the attack. All I could think was, “Where was I? Where were her other friends? How can this happen outside of a busy bar and no one intervenes?” The last time I saw her, she was a shell of the person she’d once been. This particular gay bashing took place over ten years ago, but this same type of gay bashing still happens today.

For these reasons (and many more), I have been scared of outing myself. But this isn’t a rant about ma’am vs. miss, or long hair vs. short. It’s not a rant about hate crimes, getting called sir, or being challenged in the ladies room. My point is that people take one look at me, and they know I’m gay. So am I fooling myself that people won’t stereotype me? I’ll simplify it for you; if you want to tear me down, do it if my writing sucks, but don’t deny me success because I date women. I want the same chance at success that everyone else gets. I want that chance for all gay, bi, lez, trans, binary/nonbinary, non-gender conforming/gender conforming, genderqueer, and anyone else who falls outside the accepted “norm”!

To be you or not to be you? With all the dangers of being yourself when you are different from the supposed majority, it can be easy to justify hiding; it’s called self-preservation. But, despite the dangers, there are excellent reasons to being out, loud, and proud.

1. It pisses off anti-gay activists.

2. Just being you fosters acceptance.

3. It shows people who are suffering from the same/similar problems that they are not alone.

4. People sense you are hiding something and since they can’t read minds, they don’t know WHAT you are hiding, and make up their own minds about what you are hiding, without ever asking you what you are hiding. This fosters suspicion, bad feelings, resentment, etc.

5. And it’s worth repeating, being yourself fosters acceptance, as well as your self-esteem.

I think the benefits far outweigh the negatives, so just be you.

"Kayla Sail" by Tara McMillen

He wants to steal your work, and take all the credit for himself, she thought, watching him spit water through his nose laughing at something Jake said.

Kayla held a finger in the air to check the wind direction.

She had worked on this project for three years, and Trion, her assistant, had been with her the entire time. She’d never suspected him before today, so why the fear now?

A light breeze came from a North/Northeast direction, from behind her right shoulder. This meant she’d have a nice light breeze helping “push” her across the gorge, and despite herself, she smiled.

But the idea of Trion stealing her hard-earned work creeped back into her thoughts. She tried to will it away; Trion had been as devoted to this project as Kayla, never swerving in his loyalty. Doubt swayed her convictions about his loyalty, however, and now that she had the thought, she couldn’t get rid of it.

Kayla knelt on the ground by the gorge, looking down into the dried-up Columbia River. Juniper bushes dotted the far side near the entrances to the two caves, which were cut into the side of the rock face from decades of erosion. Kayla had always thought the two caves looked like eyes, with the steep dividing rocky wall resembling the bridge of the cliff’s nose.

The cool breeze washed against her cheeks; what a perfect fall night. She allowed her gaze to run over the winding dirt river. The full moon cast a blue radiance over the valley, casting a bluish hue over the of rocks and boulders, giving them the appearance of varying shades of red and brown. She wished, as she had most nights since she was a young girl growing up after the SunCrisis, that she could see what it looked like in bright daylight. Kayla sighed, and breathed in the sweet crisp air instead.

Trion waited on the other side of the cliff, right between the two eyes. The upturned surface of the road prevented her from seeing him on that side of the river, and a bank of skeleton trees prevented her from seeing the road, but she knew he was there with their sponsor hopeful, Jake Pratt from Spencer’s Extreme Sports magazine, research division. Trion was an ambitious intern but he was young. Why would he exploit this opportunity when Kayla was on the Washington side of the Columbia, getting ready to risk her life for the good of mankind?

Then she remembered the wink. He had winked when she’d told Jake Pratt that they were close to a working prototype of the Kayla Sail, nicknamed Tiny Dancer, though this last part was a private joke between Kayla and Trion. She knew his wink was meant to be cute, but the lack of his smile had unsettled her, causing her gaze to linger on his face a moment longer, and that was when she’d seen his eyes narrow ever so briefly; so small as to be missed had she not lingered that extra moment. Then he’d broken into a big grin as if it had been there the whole time, and she wondered if she’d imagined it.

Again, she fruitlessly looked for him on the other side of the river. The distance from the Washington ledge of the gorge to the Oregon side was a quarter mile. The bank of bare trees that masked the upturned road had tree branches so numerous that they penciled small black triangles into the night air behind, completely obscuring scenery behind them. The distance would not lend itself to any facial detail anyway.

Perhaps her Mag Eyes could pick up minor artifacts missed by the naked eye. She turned the software on through her 20’s neural implant, but the extra magnification only showed her more intricately thick layers of branches. Maybe she should’ve upgraded to the premium version after all. Kayla cursed, switching off the Mag Eyes.

She pictured Trion leaning over to Jake, saying something that made both men laugh. What would they be laughing about? The ridiculous woman about to fly a glorified hover board across the Columbia River? An image of Trion swinging his hips from side to side as if in a dance suddenly popped into her mind. Trion was probably telling the sponsor all about their private joke. “Dancer” was a synonym for hovering, and Kayla loved Elton John’s music, especially his song “Tiny Dancer”. Since the Sail was so small, they’d started calling it ‘Tiny Dancer’.

Why would he tell, she thought? Before that wink, she wouldn’t have thought him possible of betraying her like that, but now, she didn’t know. Damn, why had she insisted on being at this end? Trion could have demonstrated the devise while Kayla explained the process to the sponsor. That made more sense since her Sail wasn’t easily understood, and she could explain it better than Trion. People tended to look confused after Trion explained something to them. She couldn’t afford for that to happen today. But they needed more money to finish the prototype. That was why the sponsor was there, to decide whether or not to fund their project, and Trion was better at schmoozing clients and sponsors; Kayla hated small talk, rendering conversations short and sometimes non-existent. The client, Jake Pratt this time, seemed to have a natural comradery with Trion. Kayla wasn’t sure how to compete with that, and so she had relinquished the explanations to Trion while she did the dirty work. Self-doubt had won again. Kayla cursed.

She could only hope that she’d dumbed down the language enough for Trion to not be confused. They were creating an invisible bridge between two land masses, only instead of a force field bridge, the device generated a small force field “step”. When the user stepped forward onto the “step”, it provided push-back to keep them airborne. Kayla had micro-sized the technology and harnessed enough energy to power the mini-computer, transforming bridge crossings into the new decade. Seemed simple enough, even for Trion.

She shook her head, paying attention to the wind direction. It had not changed. They were close to a working prototype, using technology adapted from a somatosensory scooter, but for now, they had to approximate the motion the Sail would give. Micro electromagnetic force field matrices, in theory, would hold a person’s average weight as they walked across the gorge, rematerializing beneath the walker’s feet as they shifted their weight between steps in a normal walking gait. They did not have a working model yet, but they did have the Prancer, a hover board which provided enough thrust to stay airborne at altitudes of two hundred feet above the ground. The river’s clearance at this high point where Kayla would take off was 215 feet. Kayla believed the Prancer safe enough to make the quarter-mile journey.

All the same, this test run was far from safe. Aside from the fact that Prancers were not endorsed for gorge crossings due to the lack of safety equipment, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of variables that could go wrong at any moment, meaning Kayla needed steady focus, no wandering attention. Ironically, the point of doing the test run with a devise that approximated the movement and necessary thrust was to show how it could be safe for a person to maneuver such a devise across the chasm, with proper safety features such as Kayla had installed in her Prancer, eliminating the need for bridges. Would the sponsor agree that an alternative for bridges was worth the cost? She quieted the negative voice in her head that insisted the demonstration she’d prepared was boring. Bridges cost money to build, money to maintain, and money to repair. The Kayla Sail would save the population millions in tax dollars, and put her in line for a Nobel prize. However, she would settle for being able to make rent and pay off her credit card debt. Putting food on the table couldn’t hurt either.

She looked again at the wall of spindly tree arms across the river. What were Trion and Jake talking about? Why was Trion not talking to her, asking her status, giving her a countdown, or even telling his corny jokes? Were they still on the other side? Maybe they’d gotten bored and decided to hit up the nearest bar while she stood out on this ledge in 50°F, shivering with the slight breeze. When was the last weather report? She could feel that the wind had not shifted, but were there predictions? Would it change to North-Northwest? She could be doing this for nothing!

Trion and she communicated through their neural implants, which helped, but, at times, like now, her doubts and reservations were louder. She almost wished she’d installed the spy cam in her 20, but her healthy conscience had gotten the better of her.

She ‘keyed’ the mic. “Hey, you boys ready over there?” Her voice sliced through the night air, cutting through the silence. She winced; she hadn’t intended to sound so severe.

"Yes, ma’am," Trion answered quickly. His voice was perky.

Had he been laughing? She didn’t doubt it. Probably telling Jake the one about the difference between a tire and 365 used condoms. She knelt beside Prancer, rolling her eyes. “One’s a Goodyear. The other’s a great year!” her inner Trion roared with laughter in her head. She ran one more check of the systems, making sure the solar fuel cells were full and the parachute was packed correctly and the controls were functioning. Then she checked the remote for battery and clearness of signal. She’d done these checks two times already, but it didn’t hurt to check them a third time. Kayla had no interest in nosediving to her death while Trion and Jake swapped dirty jokes.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she said. She activated her 20’s video camera, scanning the gorge before turning on selfie-mode. “My name is Kayla Teslar, aeronautical engineer for BeldingAir.com. This is test #1, the Columbia River gorge crossing. I’m using a modified Prancer, outfitted with future Kayla Sail technology. Now, let’s do this!”

She scanned the camera back to forward facing, and stepped onto the foot pads. With her thumb, she flicked on the power, feeling the earth drop away as she floated to a foot above the ground. It felt spongy, but stable. She began to walk in place, mimicking the intended movement of the Sail. The Prancer glided over the ground, easily clearing all the small rocks and shrubs as Trion relayed the wind and speed direction. Kayla made minor course corrections, but as the edge of the gorge loomed ever closer, Kayla’s heart skipped a beat and for one terrible moment she lost feeling in her legs.

Oh, shit, what am I doing? I can’t do this! Her breath caught in her throat and her palms sweat so bad that she almost dropped the remote. Her fingers slipped over the keys as she fumbled for the stop button. The remote squirted out of her grip, but she caught it, and brought the device close to her body. She took a deep breath, and, hugging the remote, managed to hit the stop button.

What the hell was wrong with her? Was she so uncertain of her own idea that she was throwing away all the preparation that had gone into this demonstration? She had practiced this over smaller altitudes and been fine. It wasn’t like this was the very first time doing this over a far distance, either. True, it was the farthest distance to date, but only by 200 feet. She remembered her breathing, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The persistent negative Nancy in her head reminded her, however, that 200 feet was all it took for a catastrophic accident.

“Damnit!” she said out loud, forgetting her mic was hot.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you losing power? Are the gauges stuck?” The fear in Trion’s voice cut through her terror, disrupting her destructive thought pattern, and allowing her to take a breath.

What was wrong? Fuel level read full, batteries read a 98% charge, and the green light on her parachute glowed bright. Nothing was wrong and it hit her; it didn’t matter if Trion was trying to steal her credit. What mattered was to prove that an altitude this high could be safely crossed on a device with a surface area of no more than twelve inches. The smallness of the device was key to keeping future prices of the Sail within reach of most blue-collar workers, while justifying the exorbitant price to those same workers.

Gradually, her breathing slowed and the sweating stopped. I can do this, she reminded herself. Silliness, she thought, how easily I can derail my own success. Then she berated herself for berating herself.

“I’m fine,” she answered, offering no further information. Silently thankful for the future editing she knew she could do with this video, Kayla powered the Prancer back up and the device glided smoothly over the edge. When the ground fell away, Prancer dropped a few inches, but that had been expected. The hover board was only rated for 200 feet, so the fact it had dropped only a few inches was impressive.

Kayla forced herself to look down in order to acclimate to the height. Her stomach dropped when she saw the dry river bed, its intricate cracked patterns visible even from this height. Her gaze held, though, and she slowly felt her body relax as the power beneath her feet thrummed with life, effortlessly gliding 214 ½ feet above the ground. The wind blew her hair back from her forehead, and the air smelled sweet. A couple miles to her right, she saw the Goddess Bridge, the steel truss cantilever bridge that was just over half a mile up the river from where Kayla had taken off. She could see the cars whizzing back and forth over its solid surface. Her Sail eliminated the need for cars. Purely solar-powered, the user could go anywhere at speeds up to 80 miles an hour over land. Kayla already had plans for adapting future models with force fields that kept out the wind, rain, and cold. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself, though; first get the money to build the thing!

She cast her eyes to the far side of the gorge. She hadn’t realized how long a quarter mile could feel. Her Sail would be able to maintain 40-50 miles an hour on air, but this Prancer was yesterday’s technology. It went 10 miles an hour, so this sojourn would take up to about two and half minutes. Two and a half minutes hadn’t seemed long when she’d been on solid ground, but now, seeing solid ground still so far away and nothing but a bed of rocks to cushion her fall should she lose her balance, self-doubt began to creep back in. She searched in vain for the road on the other side where Trion and Jake awaited her arrival. She reminded herself that she needed to be within 1/8 of a mile before she’d see the road, but she looked anyway.

Why was she doing this again? Surely there were easier ways to make money. She could be throwing pizzas or working a cashier at an office supplies store, something safe and grounded. Why had she thought this dumb idea would save her?

No ideas were stupid when you were in theory stage, she reminded herself. Safe on the ground, the beautiful Earth pushing back with an equal and opposite force, not like out here where the layers of air molecules offered no resistance to gravity. Suddenly, Kayla had a strong desire to look down again, but she resisted. The last thing she needed was for vertigo to topple her into the pricker bushes that lined the former river path below. The earth pulled at her, though, making her shoulders droop, trying to knock her off her balance. Before, looking down had helped calm her. Now, the earth pulsated up and on the down, breathed in a giant gulp of air, she felt the drag of gravity pulling her down with it. Then the Earth breathing out and she felt herself pushed up into the air. The cave eyes smiled gleefully as the Earth breathed in another gulp of air, pushing her back down. She clamped her eyes shut, but this only amplified the feeling.

She opened her eyes again and felt a familiar weakening sensation in her legs and then her knees wobbled. Oh good God, No! If she fainted up here, this stupid antique piece of crap wouldn’t notice or care or be able to do anything to pop the chute. She would plummet to her messy death while the stupid Prancer glided safely to the other side without her.

As the strength weaned from her thighs and her knees buckled, she remembered the flip-switch for the parachute. The parachute was her safe passage to the ground below should she fall. She held the remote, flipping up the safety cover for the switch, grateful the wind had dried the sweat on her hands.

“Winds 2 knots North Northeast becoming North after midnight; temperature 52°F, visibility 10 miles. Few clouds at 2500 feet,” Trion’s voice split her thoughts apart.

Kayla latched onto his voice. “Can you repeat that?” She’d heard him the first time, but her immediate irritation at Trion giving more information than was needed had given her a metaphorical slap in the face. He always gave more information than was needed. It was 9:30pm, and this ride would be done by 9:31pm so why did she need to know the wind would be coming from the North after midnight? But the fact that she was able to admonish him with her thoughts enshrouded her with a stabilizing force that filled her body with serenity.

He repeated the weather report, and Kayla saw all the long hours she’d put into modifying the Prancer, all the complicated math equations, formulas, and solutions that had brought her to the same safety standards again and again. The Prancer beneath her feet was as safe as her future Sail, and if she needed it, all she had to do was flip the switch and float to the ground.

The solid surface of the Prancer continued purring beneath her feet. She looked back up at the far side, ignoring the cave eyes beneath and nearly collapsed with relief to see the dirt road and two small figures beside a car.

She held up an arm and waved with as big a gesture as she dared. “What are you boys standing around for!” She called out. Even without the Mag Eyes, she saw both Trion and Jake waving back, jumping up and down.

“Yeah, girl!!!” Trion called back.

Kayla looked down again, and this time, the sight of the craggy surface awed her. She looked up at the sky and bellowed at the top of her lungs: “Woohoooooo!!!!!!” Suddenly her arms felt like wings and she wanted to dance. She did not, but did make a turn to the left, going in a full circle no bigger than a few feet in diameter. She lined back up with the other side of the gorge and sailed safely to solid ground, parking the Prancer in front of Trion and Jake.

“And that, boys, is how it’s done!” Kayla hopped off the Prancer, powering it down, and pocketing the remote.

Trion and Jake stared at her with jaws hanging open.

“Oh my God, Kay!!! You are such a bad ass!” Trion said.

Jake Pratt stepped forward, shaking her hand vehemently. “That was so awesome! You got your funding. This invention of yours is going to revolutionize river crossings!”

Kayla smiled. “Thank you so much!” She almost hugged the man, but resisted, and a moment later was glad she did so.

Jake turned to Trion, snapping off a salute. “My man! So give Chuck a call on Monday.”

“Monday!” Trion chirped back.

Kayla’s smile faltered. “What’s Monday?” She hated the taste of the question.

“Jake can get me an upper management job at Belding Air!” Trion nearly shouted with glee.

Kayla looked from Trion’s goofy smile to Jake’s sedate one. “Upper management? Since when are you administrative?” she directed the question at her assistant.

Trion shrugged. “This is just a job for me. It’s not like this is life or death!” He laughed.

Jake joined him. “Yeah, I had to throw the guy something for all the help he’s given you making this dream a reality. After all, it was his idea! Anyway, what a spectacle!” Jake shook her limp hand and walked back to his car.

This time when the strength left Kayla’s legs, she did not fight it.

Screw Self-Doubt

I am a subtle person. I’m not flashy, not perky. I’m soft-spoken and prefer listening to talking. I despise small talk and quickly run out of things to talk about in social settings. How much of this is because I am rattled with self-doubt? I can also be a walking contradiction; for example, I live in the PNW where coffee and seafood are a couple of main staples of life, yet I don’t like seafood, and only on rare occasions drink coffee. Where is the line between a person’s personality and the self-doubting lies that plague our everyday choices?

I am here to make a statement on doubt. I am not a straight arrow; my arrow weaves in and out, turning left, right, up, down, and around the current societal topics of popular interest. All of my blogs are about sharing a part of myself; this is why I share my writer’s diary. Once upon a time, I was victimized, so much so that the experience set me on a self-destructive path of low self-esteem, my future choices and reactions ruled by self-doubt. Being vulnerable in front of people terrifies me to my core, so even writing this statement is difficult.

This blog post is not designed to tell you how to get rid of self-doubt or how to know when you are suffering from it. Chances are, if you are alive, you have self-doubt, so there’s no need to wonder. And you don’t “get rid” of self-doubt, you learn how to live with it and to not let it dictate your daily choices. Therefore, this blog post is not about that; it is purely about my experience with it and I hope that by sharing my own trials and tribulations with the process, my story will resonate with someone, and then the healing process can begin. Recognizing this thing called doubt that we all have in common, is paramount to moving forward.

That in mind, I’m going to make a bold statement: women and female-bodied persons are raised to doubt, men and male-bodied persons are not. Gay men are sexually aggressive while women (gay or straight), will look but not approach. I’m not going to attempt to talk about the differences between binary and non-binary in this post; I mean only to include my own personal experience as a cis-gendered woman. I am also broadly generalizing, for point-making’s sake, but the standard of how boys are raised versus girls seems to prove true more often than not. It also goes a long way to show the differences between men and women, regardless of sexual orientation.

For example, last week, for Halloween, I drew a realistic beard on my face, planning to go out to Lesbian Karaoke. Before I went out, I thought it’d be a good idea to write a piece about the self-doubt I was experiencing about wearing the beard to karaoke.

The regular broken record had begun playing in my mind: Should I? Shouldn’t I? Should I? Shouldn’t I? I wound up running out of time, and so I ignored the broken record to the best of my ability, “painted” the beard on my face, and went out to karaoke. If you’ve seen my Facebook post, then you know what happened. For those who did not see it, in a nutshell, I was treated like a star. I got stared at by every gay man in the joint, until I sang and they realized I’m a woman; I got hit on relentlessly, and had people walking up to engage me in conversation. I’m a regular at this bar, and I have never been treated like this; for the first time, I was visible. It was a profound experience for me because of how invisible and forgettable I have felt for most of my life. It was a profound experience because I have never been visible in this bar, yet paint a beard on my face, pass as a man, and suddenly they couldn’t hit on me fast enough: even the gay women. I came home that night and HAD to write about it before I could sleep, proving to myself, for the millionth time, that I am a writer above all else.

How much of feeling invisible is locked arm in arm with self-doubt? Can I overcome my powers of invisibility by ignoring the self-doubt? As an over-thinker, doubt creeps in to make me wonder if I’ve said something wrong if a person takes “too long” to answer. Doubt makes me think I can't do something I've already done dozens of times. Doubt causes me to not talk to women I find attractive, thinking they won’t find me interesting. Or I wait too long to talk to them, and they leave or move on before I can make a move. I want to experiment with different clothes styles, but doubt makes me think that people will not accept me, and so I continue dressing the same way I always have, too scared to try something new. Ultimately, doubt keeps me from being who I really am.

For some contrast, let me share my experience from several years ago when I went as a man for Halloween. I painted my face, put on a suit and hat, and went out. I passed back then too, even making one acquaintance think I was his evil ex-boyfriend, until I spoke and my feminine voice dashed the illusion. I got cruised by gay men and straight women, but not to the level of aggressiveness that I did this most recent time. No one approached me or hit on me, or even challenged me in the women’s rest room.

The only difference between that time and this time is slightly better makeup and a dash of confidence that did not exist for me back then. Did I mention that I’ve been working on saying no, taking back my power, no longer freely giving it away to anyone who asks? I’ve been working on that and I have noticed differences in my own happiness. I feel like I’m taking care of myself. I feel strong. I feel. . . dare I say it. . .happy!

So, is it possible that when I went to karaoke as a man last week, that this little bit of confidence I have built as a woman was enough to propel me when dressed as a man to someone that everyone wanted to talk to? My conclusion, you don’t need a lot of confidence to be taken serious when you are a man or male-bodied person. Women and female-bodied persons need to be damn near invincible, grow bullet proof skin, and never give in if we want to be taken serious. Is it any wonder we are so accustomed to self-doubt that we don’t even recognize the self-hating, destructive thought patterns?

I hope I have not depressed anyone too much, because I understand what a difficult subject this is. For too long, I have blamed others for my own short-comings, but no one forced me to listen to the doubt that has played constantly in my mind. That’s all on me. That said, I do not believe the subject of doubt is a comfortable conversation for anyone. Personally, I refuse to submit to these negative thoughts any longer, and so I look deeper within myself to see what is going on with me. Sometimes this actually helps.

I will leave off here with a question for you: how has self-doubt affected your life, and what’s another way to experience those self-doubting moments?

#3 Tara's Writer Diary: Hitler Invades, Good People Doing Bad Things, and Carl Gets a Makeover

Monday, June 24, 2019

I realized yesterday that I had made the temperatures uniform in Campfyre, even though there are four different locations, one in PA, one in D.C., one in NYC, and one in Hartford. I have just finished going through what I’ve printed out so far and updated/altered the temperatures one to three degrees depending on time of night and where the scene takes place. The idea is that I will continue to make these alterations as I do this first read-thru.

The read-thru itself is going well. I had been wondering if I should make the edits I discover as I go along, or if I should wait until I’ve finished the read-thru and THEN make the edits. I have found some fairly big edit-needs, such as Carl’s character is flat, boring, and he doesn’t do much, nor are his motivations to do anything sufficient. Well, I was talking to a friend who, apparently, edits and loves editing science fiction! I asked what she thought of my conundrum, and she suggested it was better to do the read thru first in order to get the proper flow of the what I’d written so far. I might also find answers to my questions later in the script that if I stopped to edit as I go, I’d miss out on. So, problem solved!

On another note, I am nearing the ends of both V.W.’s diary and Vita’s “Saint Joan of Arc”. It is so inspiring, and awesome, filled with strong feelings to be reading two books, both of which the heroin dies at the end. Woolf kills herself a few days after her last entry. Meanwhile, Vita, Woolf’s girlfriend, writes of Joan of Arc who will meet the stake at the end of her book. I don’t know what this means for me, but I find it cool and it feels right to read both together. Also, V. is talking about Hitler in 1936 and all the political talk that is going on in her circle. She is hoping it will all blow over. I sigh and think that she died before getting to know that Hitler was eventually taken out, but not before he exterminated 6.6 million adults and children. I also didn’t realize, nor ever thought about the fact that, she lived during that time. So of course, it got into her diary, but here is a different perspective I have never seen. It is surprising, and quite interesting to see her opinion.

Thoughts on what’s happening with the children being separated from their parents and subsequently imprisoned:

Milgram’s experiments showed that people follow orders from authority when they can’t

explain why something is wrong. This is how the Holocaust was allowed to happen. . .the

dumbing down of America. . . . people did not like Milgram’s results and verbally attacked

him and his results. . . .the degradation of our school system. . . .class battles . .the same

education is NOT available to everyone. . .We are being dumbed down so that we can’t

explain why something is wrong, so we just listen to authority. I believe that is why

ordinarily decent human beings will choose to be ICE. The uneducated ones will just go

along with it. The educated ones got out of ICE once they saw what was happening and

they could not in good conscience carry out such abominable orders. I am left to believe

that any person who stays and carries out the inhuman orders of this administration does

not have higher education, but if they do, they are likely to be highly racist. This makes

them unreasonable (from a logic standpoint). How do you reason with the unreasonable?

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

I am steadily going through the first reread of Campfyre. In June, I wrote only 23.25 total hours, and that is deplorable. So, after a rough first few days of July, I got back on endeavoring to write 2 hours a day. Using the excel worksheet as my writing accountability is helpful in that I am able to look back over the month and see how well I did or didn’t do, just in my “butt in the seat” writing, not the quality of the writing.

As to the quality, I feel good about my progress through editing Campfyre. I’m still trying out that name, by the way, because I have known it as Vampyre for decades. As for the editing, I am finding the best way to do this is to keep reading, and making the adjustments in the script that are simple rewrites/edits on punctuation/spelling/grammar, etc. Anything that is complicated, even a little, is being held over until after the first reread. I’m also updating Questions for Reread so that the document can continue to be helpful, although there are now so many notes attached to many of the bullet items that I fear the document becoming confusing. So far, though, I feel it is not confusing. We shall see as I continue. My plan is to go through all of the notes in Questions for Reread AND Reread Notes, making the edits as noted. THEN, I can do a second reread.

Thursday, July 11, 2019

Doing good with consistently writing two hours a day. I feel like I can see the progress and that it might not take as long as I was afraid it would take to wrangle this beast into something coherent and good. I “thought” up this book and so many of its details long before I was ready to write it, and now I realize that I have been unpacking the details. The details were not “given” to me in a linear fashion, so unpacking has been slow, and I realize that this story cannot be contained in a single volume, so it is a three-book series.

I am up to 1938 in Virginia Woolf’s diary, and she went through hell to write The Years. It took so much out of her that she vowed never to write another novel again. I can relate. Writing a novel is an emotional journey, and worrying if it is all incoherent rubbish is the awful bat we beat ourselves over the head with. Will I go through all this struggle only to find that no one reads it or takes it serious? It is the gamble we take as writers. For me, I know that if I don’t write this book, see it through to the agonizing end, it will never stop harassing me.

I thought of this book when I was 18 years old. I worked on it back then, and got as far as I could, and then set it aside. I am now 46 years old and this book NEVER left my thoughts. It may have waited patiently in the back, quietly biding its time, but no matter how many short stories and plays and essays I wrote, this story waited. I finally picked it up again a couple years ago and have been struggling to first get an outline written, and then to write a first draft. Where I stand now is the first draft written with no climax, and a mountain of notes that need to be attended to: subplots to be weaved throughout the story, maps of the fictitious futuristic Earth, characters notes, form notes, etc. With the climax, I get to three or four chapters from the end and the notes get very thin and general. . .skeletal, if you will. Lots of bolded notes about what I’m trying to say and things I need to figure out, with no clue how to navigate my characters through the final pages.

Another note about V.’s diary in 1938. War is imminent and Hitler makes his way into her pages. She sounds scared, rightly so, about Hitler and his army and what war will mean to her. The biography she is writing about her artist friend who died, Roger Fry, is a wonderful distraction for her. “I’m thinking of Roger not of Hitler—how I bless Roger and wish I could tell him so, for giving me himself to think of—what a help he remains in this welter of unreality” (Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary, p. 292).

Monday, July 15, 2019

In this first reread, I have discovered that one of my antagonists has a boring role, so I am working on his character and what he does in this book. Here are some notes:

Carl is to be a likeable character, even though he has deplorable ethics. We need to be mad at him for much of the book, but not hate him.

Carl’s likeable attributes:

· He is respectful of women. . . sees them as they are, not as he thinks they should be. He

has had a strong female presence all his life, and surrounds himself with strong women.

· He is broken by the death of his sister, Tandy, whom he tried to save using science, and

failed.

· He is heartbroken by the murder of his first wife, Phoebe.

What can Carl do that makes him sympathetic to reader?

· In the first water cooler scene, he can stand up for an employee who is being picked on.

This would require a rewrite for that scene, but could make it stronger.

Saturday, July 20, 2019

Ugh, I open this after a week and find an important note on my Carl character that I had forgotten about because I couldn’t think of where to put it that it wouldn’t get buried under mountains of notes. I get left with that feeling where I remember doing it, but no idea where I left it. Now I don’t remember what I wanted to write in this diary.

I am a few chapters from the end of the book, and the end of this first reread. Still no clue how to write the climax. I suppose I need more details about the technology. Perhaps if I figure out HOW the technology works, i.e. the Grid and seals, then I can see how it goes wrong, and who plays what part in making it go wrong.

Sunday, July 28, 2019

I am in the midst of one of my irritating moods where I’m not happy with anything; makes it very difficult to get any writing done. Rather than do no work on Campfyre, I am doing cleanup on Questions for Reread notes, and then will begin to go through the notes I made and make the changes/rewrites in the script. Part of the problem is that I don’t know which is the best order to do all of the many things that need to be done for this book.

I have finished the first reread and, as expected, it was very light on details and the science. My goal was to get a skeleton of the story arc, and I believe I have accomplished that much as least. I flushed out the dull characters and though I’m not sure yet how to fix Carl’s dullness (I do have ideas (10/8/19 Update: I’m wondering what those ideas were. Didn’t write them down, or if I did, I lost them.)), I was “reminded” of Art’s intended character profile. While writing the first draft, I let Art become a lazy, unfocused, neurotic mess. I made one or two notes on his character and suddenly the skeletal arc I wrote has promise for Art’s character and direction for the Less Five rebels. Now I just have to make sure I don’t lose the notes, as I am wont to do.

Wednesday, July 31, 2019

I got two hours writing done today, good editing/writing plus maintenance stuff. I was six and a half hours short of my 50 hour writing goal for July. I had a good block of two hours a day, and 1.5 hour days, but then there were half hour days, no writing days, and one hour days. However, that means I had 18 days of serious writing to 13 days of not as much as I’d like. Only 4 of those days were no writing, 2 half-hour writing days, and the remaining 7 days were an hour writing each day. I’ll take an hour writing, because that is a good enough chunk of time to get some serious work done. So all in all, I think I did pretty good. In order to make an attainable goal, however, I am going to lower my writing goal for August to 40 hours. I’m going on vacation, so I assume I will not write every day.

As for what I’m working on, I realized why I am having so much confusion. There are many elements of this story that require some amount of research, character work, system work, map building, etc. I’ve been in a circular pattern: I think I need to work on the Civil War, but then I realize the Grid hasn’t been worked out yet, for instance. I realized that I need the Grid work in order to put together a logical sequence of events for the Civil War. So I need to go through all which needs to be written and/or researched, and figure out the best order it needs to be done in. For things that do not need anything written or researched to do them, then I just need to do them. I may be babbling right now, but I think I understand what I mean.

"The Lies They Choose to Believe" a flash fiction story by Tara McMillen

Find the chip, they’d said, as if the Grap would leave his security chip laying around. Alex must have had a death wish, though, because here he was in the man’s office. He went straight to Jay Grapper’s desk, and began rummaging through his drawers. Perfect rows of color coordinated thumb drives, cinched cables, chargers, disposable cameras, and a magnifying glass occupied the top drawer. Digitized files were in the bottom. Alex ignored these and went, instead, to Jay’s closet. If he was Jay Grapper, chief cyber security guru, he wouldn’t leave his security chip in such an easy to locate location. He could see the man keeping it in a safe, and most people kept their safes in their closets. Logic dictated, therefore, to go to the closet. The door was unlocked and Alex pulled the door open to reveal perfect rows of suits, jackets, and ties. On the ground were three tiers of black shoes, all polished to a shine, but no safe.

He reached out for the top shelf, marveling at the Grap’s OCD stacked shoe boxes, three tiers up and four across. He had pulled one down from the top of the stack when he heard the door open behind him. Alex froze, his hand on the shoe box; it was labelled “Wedding Photos”.

“Well, now my day is complete. Machin’s demon spawn come to raid my cookie jar,” the Grap’s voice was gravelly, its deep bass vibrating through the floor boards.

Alex slowly withdrew his hand, letting his arm hang limp at his side, and turned to face the man. “I know this looks bad, Jay. But. . .but I have an excellent reason for my being here.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” Jay Grapper stood an inch above Alex, his calm, cold eyes staring flatly into Alex’s. The Grap did not blink. His facial muscles were smooth even though his mouth turned down in a frown. The only part of him that tensed was his right hand, in which he held his Quick Alarm button. Alex knew, if Jay pressed that button, this game was all over.

“You can tell your father that I got spies of my own,” Jay said. “Right now, going through your bank files, so even if you gain my security codes, I got your accounts and pin numbers.”

Alex slowly maneuvered toward the door, but the Grap took one step to his left, his bulk completely blocking Alex’s only escape. He watched Alex, his mouth turned slightly upwards in a bemused smile.

“I’m not here to get anything on you, Jay. I promise. It was really. . .uh. . .” Alex laughed. His hands sweat and his throat closed up, but he forced sound through the tiny hole. “Okay, see here’s the thing. . .I was in your closet, because I was look-looking for . . . ” He looked into the closet, beseeching the suits and boxes for some story to tell Jay that he’d believe, but they were silent.

“Did you hear the story about the lab tech who broke into my office to borrow a charger?” The Grap’s voice graveled.

Alex could smell the cigar stench. “N-No.”

“That’s because I ripped his tongue out.”

His eyes fastened on the box he’d been about to take down. “Wedding Photos” seemed to stand out in bold highlighted letters. “I was looking for a picture of Sarah.” The lie burst out before he could stop himself.

The Grap tilted his head unexpectedly, and a smile broke out of on his lips. “Really? You?”

Alex nervous laughed. “Ha-ha, yeah, s-s-see I can’t help but have a crush on her.”

Grap continued smiling, his eyes tiny dots as he looked at Alex. “You was in the closet, looking for pictures of my little girl.”

“Y-yes,” Alex stammered. He tried a weak smile.

Grap laughed, a deep throaty laugh that rumbled so loudly that Alex felt the vibrations in the soles of his feet. “Ain’t you supposed to come out of the closet, not go back in?” The Grap laughed more, not caring that Alex’s own smile had vanished.

“Yeah, I guess I can see how you would think that’s funny.” Alex willed his legs to stay still, but they refused to listen; he fidgeted. He could taste the freedom, but Jay’s husky form created an impenetrable wall that made his lungs seize up. He forced himself to talk, even if it was gibberish. “I see Sarah’s beautiful auburn hair, glistening in the fluorescent lights. Her eyes so wide and curious, taking in everything around her, showing her intelligence, and her laugh, so infectious that I want to take her up in my arms.”

Jay went quiet. Alex’s legs went numb. When Jay went quiet and looked at a person, like he was now looking at Alex, it meant he was sizing up the person and determining their fate at the same time.

With Jay blocking Alex’s egress, he did not like his odds of getting out of this without at least a black eye. But then, the Grap relaxed and smiled a congenial smile. “What do I care? You’re not her type, so good luck with that.” He laughed a belly-laugh again and walked past Alex, leaving Alex’s escape path clear. He took it, though not before the Grap left him a parting gift: “Hey, Porter, I almost forgot. I know you’re full of shit and when I find out what you were really looking for, I’ll rip your intestines out by your asshole and hang you from the rafters with them. Got it?”

“Y-y-yes, s-sir,” Alex stammered, and tip-toe ran out of the Grap’s office, just barely escaping tripping over his own feet. He guessed they would have to come up with another plan, because there was no way he was doing that again.

Author's Note: I wrote this story from a prompt provided by "The 3 A.M. Epiphany" by Brian Kiteley. The characters are from the science fiction novel that I am currently working on. I thought it'd be fun and helpful to throw a couple of them into an unexpected situation and see what happened. This was the result.

#2 Tara's Writer Diary: Mayish 2019ish

In continuing to share my writer diary, here is May 2019. As I get more comfortable with sharing my story, I will share profiles on the characters and other details so that you, the reader, will have a better idea of what I am complaining. . . I mean writing about. In the meantime, let's keep going!

Wednesday, May 1, 2019

Let this diary be my accountability for working two hours a day on Vampyre. That said, I have a target writing goal of 2 hours a day. So far, I have written/edited for 1.5 hours. I am reading a full chapter, with all scenes, and then going over the Reread Questions to see if anything is relevant for what I just read. The work is slow but productive. I am finding notes that have been repeated in the Reread Questions, and am able to make notes of where else I found the same note, as well as what chapters I made additions to. Physical pain is an issue right now, so I’m going to leave my journal there for now.

It is now 6:23pm and I have done a half hour of map building Tesla. That makes 2 hours today!

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

How easy it is for days to go by without me recording in this journal. I’m not going to apologize; if there is something to report or record for posterity, then I shall. Otherwise, no one wants to hear about the boring minutia of my day, especially me, and I don’t want to record it.

As for Campfyre, I am putting into the script the changes I have made in the reread so far, which is through chapter 3: easy changes, that is. Some are things I have yet to do, per the Camp Continued list in Scrivener. Anything that I can do as I go through this reread, though, I will, which does include medium hard edits that only require me to write them now. It is slow going progress, but it is progress. I work 30 minutes at a time so that I never tire out and am always ready to keep working after a short or longer break. I’m going for consistency, not quantity.

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

I have given myself a quest to find out how to let my thoughts travel into a different medium and change shape and size but not change content, or rather, to have the same intent in the content even though it looks, hears, sees, smells, and feels different in this corporeal world than it did in the ether of my mind. Perhaps I do it enough already, perhaps not. What IS a single thought?

I have a concept for Vampyre, a concept that cannot be expressed in a single sentence, unless that sentence fills a whole page, punctuated with commas, semi-colons, and full colons.

Thursday, May 9, 2019

I fear that I may have to start video blogging. I see other writers doing this, and I know that helps readers connect with them. I still believe that if the writing isn’t good, it won’t matter how personable you are on a video blog or a regular blog. You can have the best website in the world, but if you’re writing sucks, you won’t be the next Virginia Woolf or Stephen King. Who am I kidding, though? This industry has turned into high school. Quality doesn’t matter anymore. It’s a popularity contest. How many successful authors do I attempt to read that have HORRIBLE writing styles? Their stories stink, yet they win awards? HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN? I don’t want to win a popularity contest. I want my writing to mean something, even if no one reads it. I guess I’m saying that I refuse to sacrifice my integrity. I’ll be the writing community’s best kept secret.

Saturday, May 11, 2019

I am editing. . .let me pause a moment to let the enormity of that statement sink in, and also the humor of feeling the need to say that considering I have been editing this book for literally decades. But, I am editing, going through the Reread Questions for the new Chapter 5, and I come upon a note for Ch. 9.3 in which I can’t remember Ed’s wife’s name. It goes like this: “[his wife’s name] happened to have taken a holiday without him.” I find this a humorous way of stating that you can’t remember someone’s name.

Sunday, May 12, 2019

I have gone back to the beginning of the script, going through and adding the parts that I highlighted. This means writing new scenes. Today’s writing is not as fluid as the past few days. Yes, it’s Mother’s Day, and try though I do to have it not affect me for the third year in a row, perhaps it is affecting me anyway. The important thing is that I have worked for an hour and a half on the script. An hour’s worth of writing a new scene with Sherrie going to a Revolutions meeting (Normal operations, in other words). A half-hour of working on the Tesla map. That was even slower going though, so I went back to writing, which, though slow, was productive.

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

I lost this journal for a bit! I was beginning to think it had disappeared into the ether as computer files are wont to do. But then I finally found it tucked away within the Vampyre file. On the bright side, I forgot that I had started another journal, just labeled Writer’s Journal or something, I can’t remember right now. I love what I was doing with it. I was writing fragments, weird and/or notable things that happened to me, six-word stories, poetry, and other “word experiments”. It is quite fun to read through, so maybe not a bad thing that I lost this diary for a time.

Anyway, the further into Virginia Woolf’s journal I get, the more scared I get, suicide-wise, which is a weird phrase: is suicide wise? Some would say no, but I suspect those are the ones left behind with questions and no answers. V.W. struggled with suicide for as long as she wrote a diary. I knew she had killed herself, but gave no thought as to how long these thoughts were with her. She gave us a unique insight, not only into her mind as a writer, but into her thought process and how it took her to very dark places. It shows us how she triumphed time and time again over those thoughts, but they still chased her until they finally caught her in 1941.

As for Vampyre, or “Campfyre”? Slowly but steadily. Work was cray cray busy for Memorial Day Weekend. I got as much writing done as I could, which did not amount to much. A half-hour here, an hour there. But that hell is done for now, so hopefully work goes back to its normal quicks and slow times. Currently, pushing through the re-read. I paused to fix a couple places in the script that required fixing before going on, and to update the Questions for Reread. I believe I am caught up, so started rereading the new chapter 7 yesterday.

Friday, May 31, 2019

Yesterday, when I reached two hours of writing for the second day in a row, I felt like I had worked hard. I got lazy for a week there and fell out of practice apparently. So, looking forward to getting back up to 2 hours a day and NOT “breaking a sweat.”

***

Excerpts from 2018 (my first attempt at a writer journal, and possibly . . . no definitely more interesting):

7/20/18

Today I’m going to add a copy of what I did for Vampyre. It’s work on the saboteur, and also realizing that I need to know EXACTLY what New America does and its own hierarchy of scumbag employees. Here’s the saboteur notes:

• The company that opted out -- CEO Jules Crenshaw of National Bank

• The underling turned informant -- Joseph Piles (48 at time of opting out), Technical Director for their computer systems (much more involved than that, but I’m tired, so good enough FOR NOW.)

• The son of the underling -- Scott Piles (18 at time of opting out)

• Sherrie encounters Joe Piles at one of the bars.

• Scott witnesses the killing, unbeknownst to the killer, and goes to trade school to be able to get a job at New America in the technical department.

I found this in Scrivener, BACKSTORY -- “How the 5 Came into Power”

• New America – Agricultural genetic engineering --> Subsidiary companies involved in human bio-engineering, nanotechnology, and artificial intelligence.

05/28/19

Six-word story:

“Country for sale. Must love Cheetos.”

-Tara McMillen

12:44am (PST) 9/6/19

#1 Tara's Writer Diary

Below is the diary I started writing in April of this year. I am using it to document my work on my work-in-progress novel, Campfyre, formerly known as Vampyre, as I navigate through this harrowing little thing called life. This week I am including posts from April, 2019.

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

“[This] hard knot in which my brain has been so tight spun” for me is Vampyre (Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary, p. 167) I am trying to undue that knot this CampNanoWriMo 2019. It’s a tough knot, but I am persistent!

I accidentally typed Campfyre above, and now I am stuck on this name for the book. It could actually be the metaphor I have been looking for!

Thursday, April 18, 2019

Slowly but surely I am making my way through my notes, leaving “breadcrumbs” for myself and notating where I need to sync up notes. I am now pulling out bolded notes on subplots, timelines, time-frames, character work, and hard questions, and making separate documents for each. I have already made a couple of documents, like Hard Questions and for the Climax.

I am tired, and my body is reacting from sitting at this computer all day. Oy. I want to write poems about my book. How do I go about doing that?

Monday, April 22, 2019

I'm starting to get sleepy when I'm working on Vampyre, I figure because I've been editing so relentlessly that I'm tired!

Thursday, April 25, 2019

I’m doing the questions that Shelli gave me for deciding if school is the right option. As I open up Seattle University tuition pricing, I have discovered that not only was the original price more than $40,000, but it was $45,700 and after all of the books and fees the grand total is $65,000. Now, granted I have gotten all these amazing scholarships and that doesn’t change the price tag that I originally knew that I would be owing, which after it is all said and done would be $24,000. What is important is the crushing weight bearing down on my chest as I go through this. And this led to me considering going to the east coast for school and the conversation that Shelli and I had about how difficult full-time school is for me. If I had to do it part-time away from Seattle, that is just not going work for me. I can’t drag this school thing out for years on end just to do it part-time. Let alone how much more that would cost me because I would not have any scholarships or financial aid to help me as a part-time student. So I guess what I’m saying is that my best option for myself is to stick with individual classes that are geared directly towards what I want to learn. I have been learning that I can take individual classes in astronomy. You can take individual classes on pretty much any subject and not have the enormous price tag of the university. I guess I feel bad because I have put a lot of the schools through some considerable time trying to complete my applications and the end result is going to be me turning it down even if I do get in. I feel like I’m having them do all this work for nothing; however, this is why people don’t accept the school’s offer of admission right away, because they are trying to figure out if it’s going to work for them.

Meanwhile, on the writing side, I am no longer exhausted as I work on “My Notes, My Notes, My Notes”, however, I feel the enormous weight of this complicated plot as I go through the document for the third time. It means I’m doing something right.

Graduated College, Now What?

I have graduated college with my associate's degree, and am trying to figure out what to do next. The answer is simple of course...write! Isn't that why I'm in school to begin with? To become a better writer? Yes, that is why I'm in school, and why I want/wanted (I waffle back and forth on this issue) to transfer to a four year university to complete my bachelor's in creative writing. What's the big deal, you may be asking? You went through two years of school and now are tired of the work and want to quit?

Here's the thing. I started my associates in 2013. I had no idea what was waiting for me when I started. The intense full-time schedule pushed me beyond my comfort levels, thrust me into the open mine field of all of my fears that I had thus far been able to avoid with my humble career in crap jobs. For starters, I had a debilitating fear of speaking in public. Big deal, lots of people do. However, it may not be a big deal for those who don't have the fear and easier for them to group us all into a statistic. But as someone who shakes so bad that I can't hold anything, including my legs keeping me standing, I look like a jackhammer, my heart pounding so hard I feel like a cartoon animal with its heart jumping out of it chest. It does not help that others suffer similar fates. That doesn't take away the shame and anxiety as people watch with pity, awkwardness, or humor in their faces. But why did I start talking about this? That is how much I obsessed over this fear. It comes from a real place, one that I won't cover here, but suffice it to say, I avoided speaking in public.. Long story short, I conquered the fear through repeated exposure, trial and error, and a few successes.

In 2013, 5 people I knew, including my aunt and a friend; both died suddenly. In 2016, a close friend was killed in a car crash, and my mother died from a surprise case of ALS. Surprise because she hid it from us until it could be hidden no longer, and four months later she was dead. I still can't talk about it. Several months later, a kind uncle, one of my mom's older brothers, died. I think that is everyone, but at this point, I can't be sure. Death came and refused to leave, and honestly, when my Mom was diagnosed and died four months later, I couldn't even think about school. So I took a couple years off. As I edit this post, I must add the death of my Mom's sweet kitty Deena, who I adopted after my Mom died. I cannot even remotely talk about that because it tore me apart inside and out; watching this poor, sweet, brave "smush face" (as I called her) slowly get sicker until her quality of life declined to the point it was time to put her out of her misery, broke my heart.

After my Mom died, though, when I was once more feeling like something resembling human, I got back into school. Before my time off, I had fallen back to part-time classes, and would do classes every other quarter, taking the summer off. But after so much loss and "life experience", I wanted to get school done. It happened to be summer quarter. Don't ask me what the year was. Since losing my mom, I can't keep track of time to save my life. I think my mind went into the clouds. The important thing is, I started in that summer, and took at least two classes every single quarter, sometimes full time, but mostly part-time, and did not stop until I was done. That would be winter quarter of this year. I just finished the hardest class of my college career, physics for non-science majors, because I needed one more science class. That was a few weeks ago (somehow pulled off a 4.0!), and now I am done!

As I write this, I can see why I'm questioning my former resolve to follow through to the end of a Bachelor's Degree. Never mind that universities and colleges are scrounging for students. Never mind that students graduate and STILL can't find jobs in their chosen fields. As a creative writer, my goal is to become a better writer, and if the schooling helps me to achieve that, then my goal will have been achieved. Nothing guarantees success in the writing field, so I figure I don't risk much in continuing my education. The ginormous cost does stay my restless mind, but I fear regretting not following through with this great task I set for myself so many years ago.

Here's Why Saying 'No' in This Rape-Culture Society Might be Harder Than You Think

I took my first self-defense class today (12/1/18) and was surprised by how much talking there was. Talking about our feelings, and about fear, and anger. Talking about a lot of stuff that has flown my mind’s coup, but suffice to say that it was a lot of talking for the first two hours. In this time, I realized/remembered my problems with saying no to people: friends, family, co-workers, strangers. Sadly enough, yes, I even have a hard time saying no to strangers. I do it, but the feelings that come up are that I feel bad for how my saying no will possibly hurt their feelings. I avoid the glaring reality that I am putting their needs and feelings above my own; I am disregarding my own right to say what goes on regarding me and my body. This was a huge A-HA moment, but also an eye-opening reminder that I had figured this out years ago, and promptly forgot. I decided that “saying no” is worth revisiting, unpacking, and strengthening, and thusly, my blog finally took shape. Confirming this fact for me happened in the workshop today. We did an exercise in which we asked a partner if we could touch their hand. The first time, the answer was supposed to be ‘no’. The second time was up to the partner. Then we swapped, and it was my turn to say ‘no’ first, and then decide yes or no for the second time asked. Without even thinking about it, I said “No” the first time. And then for the second time, I said “yes” even though I wanted to say no. I was worried about my partner’s feelings and the fact she had said no when I’d asked her, and so I wanted to add variety, and thusly said ‘yes.’ As I later shared my experience with the class, I realized several things. First, I said no because I had been told to. I didn’t even question it. Second, I was so concerned about hurting her feelings that the second time she asked if she could touch my hand, I said yes so that she wouldn’t think I was rejecting her. Thirdly, I was additionally so concerned about my perception of adding variety, that I did not consider that she might not want to touch my hand. After all, she had answered ‘no’ when I’d asked her.

I feel that “saying no” deserves a spotlight, and so I am creating this space to look into this subject, to give it air to breath, to give it the attention it deserves.

Stay Creative

How do you keep those creative juices flowing? Writing takes concentration but what about when stress hits, or prior commitments pop up? Our obligations to children, animals, and significant others beckons, taking us away from our stories and our access to creativity. Whether you're writing a fiction story, a nonfiction piece, painting, or any other creative endeavor, it's far too easy to get blocked. But all is not hopeless.

Here are 11 different techniques and ideas for keeping those creative juices flowing: ones I’ve learned through trial and error in my 30ish-ish years writing and others from my favorite Writer’s Digest and a Huffington Post article by Stacia Pierce.

1. KEEP WRITING

• Shut out the inner editor

• We all have that pesky critic in our brains insists we can’t write: criticizes our prose, guffaws at our dialogue, even second guesses our use of the comma. Tell that critic to shut up and wait. Misspelled a word that your word editor didn’t autocorrect? LEAVE IT! That’s what the red squiggly underline is for, so you can go back and easily find those spelling and grammar errors!

• Challenge yourself to write 100 word and 200 word stories and/or enjoy a writing prompt

• Both the prompts and the short-short stories force you to tighten up your writing with parameters. When you know you only have 100 words to say what you need to say, your brain considers the weight of each sentence, of each word. I always get a tighter, stronger story as a result.

• Freewrite

• Let your fingers take the reins, and see where they take you. Sometimes, you might even figure out a problem with your plot! Huffington Post’s Stacia Pierce also says: “Write uninhibited thoughts early in the morning when you first wake up to jump-start your creativity. Brilliant ideas, solutions, and reminders will come early in the morning.”

• Keep a journal

• I also keep a writing journal to mark my progress on current projects as well as my state of mind as a writer.

1. STAY CREATIVE

• If you’ve hit a wall, and are having trouble, try to do an activity that uses creative energy, preferably a creative endeavor that is not in your preferred artistic arsenal. As a writer, when I need to do a different imaginative activity, I’ll draw a picture. If, like me, you don’t know how to draw, do what I do. Get a book that teaches you how to draw or go on YouTube. I learned how to draw a horse, a dog, and an iris from watching instructive videos on YouTube. Write a poem, take pictures or videos with your phone or camcorder if you have one.

1. TAKE BREAKS

• Taking breaks are essential. They allow us to stand up, stretch, get a drink, use the bathroom, eat, whatever you do on a break. Sometimes my brain starts going faster than I can write, and I get stressed out as a result. I set a timer for 5 minutes, longer as needed, and a time out. When I sit back down to the computer, I can write.If I get stressed out because I feel rushed for time due to a deadline, I wind up getting less work done. I take a break.

1. BREATHE!!!

• There are many different forms of breathing exercises other than the typical breathing we do to survive.There are meditation exercises and even singing exercises that are quite similar to a lot of the meditation exercises that I’ve come across.If, when writing, I start to tense up, I take my hands off the keyboard and sit back. I take a deep breath then to the count of four and then I exhale to the count of four. As needed I will repeat and exhale for longer periods of time, like six seconds and eight seconds. Basically, focus on a long exhale. When we panic, our breath starts coming in going out very quickly and that’s what leads to hyperventilating and lightheadedness and all sorts of unhappy consequences. So when you feel yourself starting to panic or tense up, take a deep breath and breathe out really long and slowly. If you do this a few times you will begin

to notice your body naturally calming down. And then when you go back to your writing, you will be able to pick up where you left off in a nice calm creative manner.

1. INSPIRATION

• What inspires you? Is it a person, place, or thing? I hang pictures on the wall right in front of me. The pictures are ones that I personally find inspirational. I love astronomy, the stars and planets, constellations, nebulae, everything space has to offer. It has a calming effect on me as well. I also have little sayings that can be mantras to keep me going and keep me creative.

1. DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING

• “Think of it as ‘creative lollygagging,’” writer Cris Freese submits. Sit back, let your brain relax, the thoughts will flow through you and out of you. Breathe into it. Some call this meditation, and if that works for you, go for it. But basically, do nothing. Listen to that nothing. Listen to your body. Listen to the train whistle outside, or the cars rushing past, the garbage truck barreling down your street, or the leaf-blowers showing up at the most inopportune time. Finding peace of mind can be difficult in such a noisy environment. I’ve tried going someplace else like a library or a coffee shop, when my “nothing” time is interrupted by unexpected noise.

1. STAY MOBILE

• Don’t sit on the couch. Get out for a walk, a cup of coffee, paint the house, or go fly-fishing. Need more ideas? Go for a bike ride, or take a dance break. Turn up whatever music gets you dancing, and dance like no one’s watching. The point is, “it’s difficult to preoccupy a moving target.”I chose my favorite out the Huffington Post blog “21 Ways to Be and Stay Creative”.

1. ASK “WHAT IF?”

• Allow yourself to imagine and think freely about ideas that come to you. Focus to remove the barriers and consider how everything would turn out if...From me – “What ifs” are great for writing exercises. You can take a character in your book that perhaps you’re having trouble with or not. Maybe you just want to do it for fun. Give that character a what if that is may be very different situation than this character has ever been put in before and it tests your character’s three-dimensional quality. I will give an example.

1. KEEP AN IDEA JOURNAL WITH YOU

• Few things are as frustrating as the perfect line coming to me when I have nothing on which to record this brilliant idea. If you have a mind impervious to distractions, then you might not need this; however, for the rest of us, having some way to record the ideas, story notes, titles, and all the minutia that come up to us while otherwise engaged, is invaluable!

1. WRITE ON THE WALLS

• Use extra-large paper you can stick on the wall and write your ideas. It’ll bring out the kid in you and help you to create freely. From me - Or just write directly on the wall! Only do this if they are your own wall though. Don’t draw on your parents or friends’ walls. They might not appreciate it.It’s OK to experiment. Try something new with your project. Listen to your gut and go for what hasn’t been done before... your best work can spring up out of a hunch! Give it a whirl... you can always adjust later.

1. SURROUND YOURSELF WITH CREATIVE PEOPLE

• Creative types are all over the place, but a good place to look first is your immediate circle: friends, family, and acquaintances from work and/or school, etc. Other places to find creative people are in writing groups and other creative endeavors groups. I found a few writing groups that I absolutely loved on Meetup.com. Twitter is aflutter with writers of fiction and non-fiction, poetry, painters, musicians, etc. I have found #wssprint as a place where people join together to do writing sprints.

This list is hardly comprehensive, but hopefully gave you someplace to start adding to your writer’s toolbox to help you to stay creative. It’s also good to know when to take a break for the day, hang up your hat so to speak, let sleep take you, and wake up refreshed and ready to drum up some more creativity! Happy writing!

Welcome to my blog!

Welcome to my blog! Someone said to me recently that I should use my life experiences as subject matter for a blog.

At first I guffawed, but then I realized, hey, she's right. I've had one messed up life, but then, so haven't most people who aren't in the top 1% for keepers of all the wealth! Yes, I am opinionated, righteous at times, and outright angry at other times. At my core, though, is love and a strong desire to help people. I enjoy a good joke, and love a funny picture of a cat squeezing itself into a glass jar. I have a voracious creative appetite and an unending curiosity about our world and the life that lives on it.

I love quotes, like Albert Einstein's classic "Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former." I write books and plays, direct and produce theater, worked lights and sound for dozens of theater shows, got my Private pilot certificate, took ballet and acting lessons, performed in the Nutcracker from age 11-18, came out of the closet at 18 or 19 (the years grow foggy with time), and am a survivor of sexual abuse. Once upon a time, I spent a few weeks getting a bartender's certificate which amounted to nothing, rode my bike 250 miles from Boston to NYC in the first Aids Ride back in some year, have had over 35 jobs in my lifetime, lived in over [ten] places, moved to Seattle from Connecticut, then from Seattle back to CT. And then back to Seattle, and then back to CT, and then finally back to Seattle, where this time I swear, I will stay. Oh, yeah, and I want to perform drag king and I live with chronic pain.

So why should you read this blog? If you've made it this far, then chances are you like my writing style, my sense of humor, or something that sparked your interest. Well, keep reading, and I promise to do my best to keep the material engaging, relevant, entertaining, and maybe even educational. I will write about [topics I will explore]. Blogs will be bi-monthly, so should you choose to subscribe, I won't be flooding your inbox with emails.