The Unfair Prayer

I just wish you knew.
I wish you knew what was waiting.
I wish you knew who He was.
I wish the things that drive us to Him didn't hurt so much.
I'm praying that He'll meet you like I've never prayed before because I've never seen one who needed Him so much.
I know broken and I know frightened and I know the kind of pain that feels empty and numb. But I've only ever know those things while also knowing Him. How do you do it? How do you function? I don't ask out of judgement, I ask out of curiosity and fear. Sometimes I'm afraid for you. But, sometimes I'm afraid for me, too.
I also know whenever the rug gets ripped out from under me, I will fall into Him. Where will you fall? What will you hit when you get there?
In my mind I can see His hand catching you in mid air and peace covering your face. But when? How long will you be without it? Is it that you won't go to Him or that He has not shown Himself to you? God listens to the prayers of His people, but isn't everything done in His perfect timing? The knowledge that someday you might remember our conversation and think, "Perhaps I should give that a try," and you get saved then is not good enough this time.
But He is the God of Tonight.
You are my God. You are the God of the hurting. You are the God of the helpless. You are the God of the messed up. You are the God of peace. You are the God of hope which surpasses all understanding. You are God.
And I am Your servant.
And I have a prayer to pick with You.
Do it tonight.
Save tonight.
Reveal Yourself tonight.
Do. Not. Wait.
Because this, having You and watching other people suffer without,
this isn't fair.
And I don't want to do it anymore.

On my love of old German men.

     I have an affinity for older German men. Much older and pretty German. 

 

I mean...come on!

 It started with Inglorious Bastards. I, like all warmblooded beings who watched Inglorious Bastards, was mesmerized by Christoph Waltz's portrayal of Hans Landa. I had never seen anything like it before. I could try to describe why he's indescribably wonderful here, but I won't. The combination of Waltz and Tarantino leaves me speechless. Nothing else does, so enjoy this moment. Enjoy this moment specifically by finding a clip on YouTube of Hans Landa. Then, when you're speechless too, come back and read the rest of my post. You'll just be sitting there anyway.  

      I also love Professor Fritz Bhaer. He is a character in Little Women whom I talked about a bit here. I love him because he is the smartest, most open-minded guy in the room, but he's never condescending. He's the kind of guy you want to impress even though he's actually pretty sheepish. I tend to feel inferior around people older and smarter than me, like everything I say highlights my inexperience. But Fritz was the kind of older gentleman whose years only made him appreciate the young. Youth ought to be treasured, not sneered at. The point is, I love that German man. 

     My most recent Older German Love is less old than the others but till twelve years older than me, Michael Fassbender. I first saw him as Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre. If you're not familiar with the role, he plays an emotionally unavailable tease with a temper. And he is amazing in it. He was also stunning in X-Men: First Class and--oh! I guess I first saw him in Inglorious Bastards where he plays a guy who, ironically, fails to be convincingly German and gets everybody killed. That scene is incredible. Seriously, go watch Inglorious Bastards. I'll come watch it with you, it is worth watching at least once. Please, it's genius.

I lived with a cat named Mr. Rochester. He was a jerk, too.

      Ok, back to the men. I only have one more thing to say about Michael Fassbender and that is that he is a bad a** mother******. There's just no two ways about it.

      Victoria, why do you love old German men? Well, it could be because I am German and am, thus, genetically disposed to liking them. But I don't think it's that. I think, as we get older, we value different things in the opposite sex. I used to value a similar sense of humor to my own over just about everything else. I still value this very very very very highly, but I also value a man's ability to pay his bills. 

      I know very funny young men whom I have no interested in dating because they don't seem to have any vocational goals or aspirations. Where's the passion? Where's the ambition? What are you doing with your life? We're at the age, fellas, where we can no longer just say,  "My dream is to be a firefighter someday." That's awesome. Now get into the necessary classes, you two-year-old. Sorry, that was mean, I shouldn't have said that. 

     The point is, the Recession that made you drop out of school is now over. Time to move your life forward. Post Depression, young men didn't get to live in their parents furnished basement and become semi-pro BMX racers. They got to become homeowners. And they got awesome Post Depression era wives who I imagine were strong working mothers and pretty BA. (Bad Ass. I doubt any of them had a Bachelor in the Arts. I'll stop swearing now, I promise.) I find myself liking old German men because I also find myself liking:

Simmons and Brando. So much class. 

1. Men who have their stuff together. Not all of their stuff all the way together, but, ya know, getting there.

2. Men who know what they want. What do you want? Be decisive. Have an opinion. Otherwise what are we ever going to talk about?

3. Men who know what they want and make it happen. Again, ambition. Also, the capability of handling life. I do this in my own life by writing my book and this blog and being a research intern. What do you want to do and how are you obtaining it today?

4. Men who are classy. Be able to have a conversation with a stranger. How's your handshake? Nothing says, "I can't provide for a family," like a weak handshake. Walk women to their cars. Not just your date, women. In general. Why? Because you're a man and it's what classy men do when interacting with women they respect. 

     While I don't think I will actually marry an older German man, I know I won't date Preston, the career barista. Or Lucas, the AT&T employee, but that's not because he's not ambitions, it's because I have never heard worse work stories than those of AT&T employees. And by worse, I mean mind-numbingly boring, but the person telling it has no idea. I want better things for my life and for my children. 

Yes, I play pretend. Yes, I am 23. Yes, I am single.

     Sometimes I find a secluded place and make up scenes by acting them out. Sometimes means nearly everyday. Turns out this is a common tactic among writers, but I didn't know that until last year. I always thought I was just the only 22-year-old who still fully invested in a great game of make-believe, so this is the first time I've admitted it publicly. Hey, it's not lame if it's a marketable skill!
     This is where all of my awesome ideas have come from. This is where and how my book was born. This is the method to my madness. This is also why you might hear whispering if you place your ear to my bedroom door. There's no one in there, I'm just a weirdo. 
Here are a few of the scenes I have written via role play:

• You're chased through the jungle, beaten, and left for dead.
• Your friend who's seen the future tells you have to sacrifice yourself to save the lives of hundreds of thousands. Includes a touching speech about how you can't because your children need their mother. It's so sad. 
• Your ex shows up at a party and says the one thing no one should ever say to you. You tell him that he deserves to be slapped, but that will only make you look dramatic, so instead, you calmly extort all of his deep dark fears that you know about because he is your ex. You win, he gets therapy.  
• You find out you're pregnant and you're happy. 
• You find out you're pregnant and you're not happy.
• You wake up from a coma. Lots of things ensue.
• Rejecting a proposal. 
• Killing your kidnapper with whatever objects happen to be in the house. 
• Surviving an earthquake. 
• Accepting the responsibilities of caring for the children you've just inherited. 
• Telling people you can do it, even though you're a woman. 
• Telling people you can do it, even though you're crippled. 
• Telling people you can do it, even though you're blind. 
• Storming into your reporter friend's office and screaming at him that you were his only ally!
• Shooting the leg of the man you're interrogating to show him that you're not screwing around. 
• Sassily standing up to the hard-boiled Commander in the war zone you're reporting on.
• Screaming at God. 

What was the last scene I wrote this way? 
     Riding on the gurney to keep pressure on a guy's wound so he won't bleed out and convincing him to hold on just a little bit longer. I cried. 
     It's so sad, because it didn't start out that way. They're just friends. He is young and southern and she is trying to make jokes about everything when he says, in his southern drawl, "Do you think a girl like you would ever have taken a guy like me?"
     "Well, I am currently on top of you, so take from that what you will."
     "I want you to know...you are the smartest girl I ever met." 
     "It's the accent," she said casually, "Turns out the 'regionally non-specific' accent is specific to the region of north-west Washington." 
     "You can be serious, it's ok." His hand gave her foot a weak pat. 
     He was comforting her. She was watching red life seep up from his abdomen and through her fingers and he was comforting her. 
     "No," she whispered, "I really can't." 

Are you crying yet? 

A Guest Post for Veteran's Day

     I wanted to write something in honor of Veteran's Day. Since I haven't got any military service under my belt, I've opted to share with you a brilliant piece of satire written by my good friend, Daniel Leifer, a Marine who served two tours in Afganistan. It's a bit long and--ye be warned--contains language you wouldn't usually find on this blog, but it's worth it!

KABUL, AFGHANISTAN – Marines have been using the Rifle Combat Optic from Trijicon for years — giving them a much clearer view on the battlefield.
But despite the improvements, they’ve still run into problems with Rules of Engagement violations and civilian casualties.
“That all ends today,” said Lieutenant Colonel Todd Brogan in a press conference in Kabul.

Brogan briefed the media on a Marine Corps research project — working alongside Trijicon and Afghan President Hamid Karzai — to improve the current weapon sight.
The result: a laser engraving alongside the reticle with currently accepted rules of engagement, escalation of force procedures, and pre-fire checklists.
“We’re hoping that having the ROEs presented over the Marine’s field of view will allow us to ensure that every pull of the trigger is a righteous one,”  said Lt. Col Brogan.
The Rules of Engagement to be engraved were agreed upon by top officials at the Pentagon and Afghan President Hamid Karzai. The RCO, with its tritium illuminated chevron and stadia, will also feature key ROE procedures, helping Marines make the right call.
The new rules have been highly criticized by ground troops, who claim they take away their rights to defend themselves.
“These new ROEs they’re trying to push on us is horseshit,” said Cpl Stanley Alvarez. “ROE 4244 is fucking lame. I can’t fire back unless the target has verbally identified himself as Taliban, and only if he’s been enrolled into HIIDEs [biometric scanning] and popped with priors.”
Afghan President Karzai has stressed the importance of protecting the Afghan people.
“There are no Taliban in Afghanistan anymore. My country is friendly to foreigners. Any fire the Americans have encountered is obviously celebratory to welcome the soldiers,” said Karzai. “I question their motives by their reports of being shot at and feel the ISAF ground troops are showing signs of intense paranoia.”
Marines who have tested the new reticles have questioned the ability of troops on the ground to read and comprehend them during the heat of combat.
Staff Sergeant Rudy Harrington, of Quantico Weapons Testing, was reserved in his views.

Author Daniel Leifer. Active duty? More like active YOLO.

“I think it’s a great idea on paper, but the wording of the ROEs is pretty lengthy and blocks out a lot of the field of view.  The RCO already has a pretty crowded reticle, and with the addition of several paragraphs of ROEs it becomes somewhat hard to acquire [Positive Identification] targets. Some of my Marines have complained of headaches after extended periods on the firing line, and during testing debriefs it’s come up that the size of the font in the RCO as well as attempting to focus on the reticle and the ROEs as the same time may be the cause. They placed ROE 4242 quite close to the outside of the field of view in one prototype we tested, and we were noticing it gave false scope shadow.”
ROE 4242 is another of the “Karzai-Approved” ROEs and states that American forces can only return fire on individuals when they  “ … see the whites of the enemy’s eyes.” This revision is in response to stray bullets known to occasionally hit the walls of mud compounds requiring the valuable local nationals’ time to repair.
ROEs have also been revised to protect the pet dogs in Afghanistan, who have been among the highest casualties since the war began in late October 2001. ROE 4244-K9 states that forces can only fire upon dogs found to be carrying illegal weapons. Since the AK-47 is a legal weapon in Afghanistan, forces must identify such illegal weapons as RPKs, PKMs, or RPGs.
Karzai has also demanded that the US military conform to California State Gun Laws, saying that “the rest of America should take lessons from their friends in Hollywood, including the American military.”
Lt. Col Brogan responded to questions relating to Karzai’s “CA legal” demands by saying, “That seems pretty severe.  I would be surprised if our friends at the Pentagon decided to implement those.”
Other proposed reticle enhancements include blacking out the Bullet Drop Compensator (BDC) beyond 100 meters to discourage shots from being taken beyond the range that positive identification can be reliably established.

And his familia.

“In addition to engraving ROEs into the reticles of our new ‘Karzai Approved’ RCOs, we are removing any compatibility with Night Vision Devices to comply with Karzai’s demand of ceasing all military operations at sundown,” said Lt. Col. Brogan.  “We are also phasing out guard post at night at our FOBs at COPs as a show of good-will with the Afghan people.”
“We all want the same thing,” continued Brogan. “To mitigate any and all civilian deaths amongst the Afghan community.  US Forces are committed to proving to the Afghan People that we have no desire to harm anyone who hasn’t proven themselves to be an enemy of America.”
Headquarters Marine Corps has ordered 14,000 of the new “Karzai Approved RCOs,” and plans on issuing them within the next 3 months to Marines in the field.

Read more: http://www.duffelblog.com

What I want. What we all want.

     I didn't know what we wanted until I watched Little Women. 

Between he and Christoph Waltz, I may
have a thing for old German men.

     It is the assumption of the general public that I have read all the works of Jane Austen, seen and beloved a great many musicals, and know my way around high fantasy fiction. People assume this like they assume that I am comfortable at parties. In reality, I am neither well read, nor comfortable in large groups of people. I know a little bit about lots of things and my natural body language happens to say to others, "Totally comfortable at this party right now, don't even worry about it," so it's easy to assume that I am supremely confident. 
     Now that you know these two truths about me, let me tell you what I want, what we, all of us, want. 
     When I was, oh, twenty-one? Twenty-two? I watched Little Women for the first time. I have not read it. One of my best friends swore by it as she came from a family of girls who really are familiar with all the classics and supremely confident. I bought the movie for $5 at Target and watched it a few months later when no one else was home. I fell in love. I loved it more than I hated the awkward cry face of Claire Danes. I loved it because I felt just like Jo. Like Jo, I would never be attracted to Christian Bale--why is his mouth like that? She wins the heart of the foreign professor who's all salt and pepper and good with kids. When she got her manuscript back and discovered Professor Bhaer had gotten it published, I, in the midst of writing my first novel, cried instantly.
     The thing that got me in Little Women, the reason I love it so much, is that I feel like I am Jo and more than anyone else in that movie, Jo gets what we all want. Everyone, except poor, dead Danes gets a happy ending...actually, she kind of got what she wanted, too...but Jo is the one who gets what every one of us really deeply wants. It's when Professor Bhaer says, "Oh, Jo. Such a small name for such a person!" 
     In that moment, Jo has been understood. He looked at her and he saw everything she was and everything she wasn't and he loved her. 
     That is what we, all of us, want. To be seen. And known. And loved anyway. 

My Experience in Community Theater: Episode Four: The People You'll Find Here

     As a writer, I tend to see people as a collection of identifiers. Like everyone is a character with just enough back story to form an opinion about them. Here is the rest of the cast if they were boiled down to a few traits:

Erica 

A talented, dedicated actress in her thirties who's short career in the theater has been fruitful and allows her to call everybody Sweetie without ever sounding patronizing.

Will

His long running involvement in theater, seat on the theater board, and voice as deep and smooth as a pool full of pudding have convinced you that, though you may find him texting in the middle of his scene, when it's show time he will not let you down.

Kathryn 

Actress by night, organic pesticide maker and vendor by day. She is available at anytime to run lines or read your aura.

Tori(not me)

All hail the theater kids! She grew up in the theater, studied it at school, teaches it at Redmond Proficiency Academy, and is the kind of hard-working, well-rounded adult capable of making an actual career out of the theater.

Patricia 

The empty nester who's coming back into her own by acting and writing. She's sweet, motherly, and unfailingly positive. Also, she's a real classy broad and wears leopard print.

Justin

The ageless wonder. His grey hair looks blonde. He has nearly no wrinkles. His name is Justin. His voice is light and boyish. I may have thought he was a full 12 years younger than his actual age for the first week I knew him. Having all sisters has made him a peacemaker and a pillar of calm in a theater that can be a turbulent sea of 'artistry'.

Daniel. 

Daniel, all of 24, is so many things:

Husband 

Parent 

Veteran 

Engineer 

Writer

 Ballerina

      A few extra thoughts: 
      Erica plays mean like a pro, but she is genuinely kind in a way I am not. Will is a major nerd and when I talk to him I feel like I'm talking to my big brother. Kathryn is curious about the world around her and not afraid to take leaps of faith. Tori is ambitious and brave. Patricia is exactly where I want to be in a few years; happily married, kids well-raised and off on their own and me, acting and writing and pursuing life everyday. Justin is never afraid to ask a question. He values the answer more than his seeming smart--he must know this never makes him look dumb. And Daniel is my first choice for both Person I'd Most Like to Have a Youtube Channel With and Person I'd Most Like to Be in a Life Threatening Situation With. He would thrive in either of those settings.

      These are the incredible people you will find here in community theater. I'm thankful that I get another month with them.

THE END OF EPISODE FOUR

Closed Captioning provided by, The Games Afoot! or Holmes for the Holidays, premiering this Thursday at 7:30 at Cascade Theatrical Company! Performances Thursday-Sunday through Nov. 24th and again Dec. 5th-8th

My Experience in Community Theater: Episode Three

Any and all acting experience I have comes from either acting out stories in my room, or hosting live classes online for 3 ½ years. Yet, in all that time, I never acted with anyone else. My first experience of acting with another person came the second night of auditions.
 Having read for The Inspector the night before, I sat, as you may remember, nauseated in my seat. I read for a character named Aggie in a scene that required a lot of yelling and was, therefore, awesome. In that scene I played opposite a guy I remember simply as that nice guy. Two other girls who I’d made friends with that night were in that scene as well. I remember feeling like we were all just having fun on stage.

  The final scene I read for was between a husband and wife. Now, in auditions we mostly just stood there and read the lines. I, in particular, did not even try to follow stage directions because I read very slowly. But it was the end of the second night and this scene had been read by several people so the actors upped the performance each time.

    I delivered my first line of dialogue and looked over at the guy reading with me. His usually laughing face was covered with this guarded expression. I thought, Whoa, he’s intense and that makes this so much easier. And suddenly the scene clicked. I knew who I was and what I was doing. Everything came naturally.

Liam, the director, ended the night with a little speech about how difficult it was going to be to cast this play and how if one character had to play very strongly off of another, then it affected who would be cast. I smiled and nodded through the whole thing as though he were speaking only to me; telling me why, though I am a lovely person, I would not be chosen for this particular play.

While I was going to sleep that night, I only let myself indulge for a few moments in the thought of what could happen if I were cast. What if I got cast as Aggie and whoever That Guy was got cast as Simon and Nice Guy got cast as the main guy. I am frighteningly good with names.

The next morning I check my email. Nothing. I checked it a few more times, but by 11:00 accepted the fact that I was not going to be in the play.

Aw, well, that’s ok. I knew I wouldn’t get cast. It had been fun. It had been a growing experience. It was totally worth the nausea. And I really didn’t have time to be in a play anyway.

At 2:00 I got a call. It was the director. He’d misread my email address and was calling to ask if I would accept the role of Aggie and would I be able to make it to rehearsal that night. I was dumbfounded. I said yes. I may have cried a little bit, it was so completely unexpected. I couldn’t believe they thought I could act! (I still kind of can’t believe that, actually.)

When I showed up to rehearsal four hours later, who should I see but That Guy and Nice Guy! That Guy(whose human name is Daniel) plays Simon and Nice Guy(whose human name is Justin) is our leading man. It was one of the few times that things worked out in real life just as I'd hoped and I don't take that for granted. 

Especially now that I’m in the trenches. It turns out my role has a certain level of physicality to it and that demands trust between myself and Justin, and myself and Daniel. I could not have gotten two more trustworthy guys, they’re stupendous.

            And ridiculous. Yeah, they’re mostly ridiculous. Justin has impeccable timing for his subtle one liners and asks deep, thought provoking questions. Daniel is always happy to talk about his wife, whom he is madly in love with, and will physically pick you up if you’re not on your guard.

            More on them later…

END OF EPISODE THREE

Tune in for the next episode of My Experience in Community Theater: Episode Four: The People You’ll Find Here

My Experience in Community Theater: Episode Two

And then, as fate would have it, I, Saint Cupcake, was thrown a bone.

When I was 12, I was obsessed with Lord of the Rings. Like, an embarrassing amount. I would make up and act out stories about it in my room. But everything I said sounded so wrong for those characters in my regionally non-specific American accent that I started softening my R’s to sound more British. Over the past 11 years I have carved out a pretty authentic English accent. This enabled me to catch the bone fate had thrown.
     In this particular play, which takes place in Connecticut in 1936, there happens to be a character that is both female and English. She’s a large, frumpy, middle-aged woman mostly referred to as The Inspector. I had gotten pretty comfortable in my chair by this point, as I had not volunteered to read for anything, when the director asked a woman to read for The Inspector. She seemed to be a very capable actress, but didn’t do well with the accent. When she finished, the director asked if anyone else wanted to read for The Inspector and I raised my hand and said quickly, “Oh! I would!”

Just like that. Like I had been waiting in the back for inspiration to strike or for a character I really felt. But that isn’t true. I don’t know if you picked up on what had happened here, but the bone I caught was not that I love accents and happen to be pretty good at this particular one—it was that this woman had not been good and I knew I was better than she was.

I was the girl who could not drag herself on stage until she had proof that she was going to be better at it than someone else. Cowardice is dangerously easy to dress up.

I am not one to think very highly of myself, but I really didn’t think I was one to use another’s weakness as the ego boost required to do something I had volunteered for in the first place. I might be making a big deal of this because my reading a scene was not, in and of itself, a mean thing to do. But if I am known as anything, I want to be a cheerleader(figuratively). I want to be for everyone. I want to rally for the success of each individual I come into contact with.

This has given me a little insight into why actresses and actors are batsh*t crazy. It’s because they must compete for everything. And once you get it, you still haven’t won, you have to then prove that you deserved to get it, that you’re capable. You also spend a large amount of your time with other people who are crazy for all the same reasons as you. In community theater that means you become this little family unit. I currently have one cousin, two friends, one big sister, one aunt, one brother, and one twin.

Something I didn’t really expect was how much say you don’t have. I didn’t know until the first read through that kissing would be involved. I don’t really care, but it’s something to know you don’t get a say in the matter. The first dress I tried on had a much lower neckline than I’m used to, but it’s my costume, so there you go. (It deserves to be said that this dress is a floor-length ivory gown with sheer fabric over the chest. It’s no Jessica Rabbit.) The Inspector has one line that I really would not want to say. You just don’t get much choice. I was lucky in that I got a character who I am both comfortable with portraying and who is really super awesome. Fantastic bit of writing there.

END OF EPISODE 2

Will Tori get a role? Yes, you can tell that she did. Will she learn not to be a coward? Probably not. Will she save Timmy from the well? That is not a question that was posed here. Tune in next time for the exciting continuation of My Experience in Community Theater! 

My Experience in Community Theater: Episode One

I nearly threw up. Both nights of auditions I thought I was going to vomit; such was my terror. It’s not that I don’t like attention or wanted it so badly I could taste it.{Or rather the fish tacos from that afternoon} It’s that I hate being laughed at and I hate looking stupid. If I am not talented in a particular area, I want to be the first to know.
     As a freshman in high school I joined the beginners choir. It was the one you didn’t have to audition for. There were a few opportunities throughout the year to get solos. I tried out for most of them and even got one. {One Fine Day, first verse, yes, I am prepared to break this out should anyone ever break up with me.} There was a girl in my choir whose name I never learned. She was…something. Have you seen Rise of the Guardians? {Not the owl movie. If you haven’t, you must, best animated movie in a long, long time and the best animated villain in the past ten years.} Well, this girl looked like a blondish version of Cupcake: 

• Medium height
• Broad shoulders 
• Hair she may have cut herself 
• Unicorn shirts that were not ironic or well-fitted 
• Backpack in the shape of an animal

     Cupcake auditioned for every solo. She could not sing. 

     I say I can’t sing, but that’s just because I’m the least capable singer in my family—well, tied for least with my mother. Cupcake didn’t sing any discernible notes, she just warbled up and down. She had a sense of timing I didn’t know could exist until she was on the microphone between two separate pairs of cheerleaders so self-possessed and co-dependent that they were rendered incapable of both not auditioning and auditioning alone. I remember sitting in my chair in the second soprano section and trying to smile supportively as though that might drown out the snickering of the first soprano section. It did not. All I could think was, She doesn’t know. She honestly does not know what she sounds like. Everyone else knows. It was the second most painful moment of my life until then. {The first most painful had been when my mom and I accidentally hit that deer with our Dorango.}
     I did not audition for that solo. What if I don’t know either? What if I don’t know and everybody else does? Actually, I don’t remember, but I may not have auditioned for another solo for the rest of my choir career. What I did do was make a promise to myself. A vow, even, given the ferocity with which I have kept it. I vowed to never ever be Cupcake. I would always know. I would be the first to know and I would make sure that everyone knew that I knew when I was bad at something. That’s right, not only would I never be Cupcake, I would never be mistaken for her either. This, you can imagine, is quite a large responsibility to carry.
     So, when I showed up to auditions at Cascade Theatrical Company, a good ten years later, I nearly threw up. According to the voice in my head, I had just sentenced myself to the very fate I had staved off for the past decade. I was new back in town and wanted to meet people and be part of a team project. Like a lamb, I, Saint Cupcake, went silently and nauseated to the slaughter.
     I didn’t think I could act. I certainly didn’t know how to audition. I didn’t know the technical rules of being on stage. I didn’t know what I should sound like or act like or be like at all. I didn’t have any concept of what would be expected of me. I just knew that I was the least experienced and that everyone could tell. I didn’t think they’d laugh, just pity me in respectful silence; as one does with saintly martyrs.
    And then, as fate would have it, Saint Cupcake was thrown a bone.

END OF EPISODE ONE

Will Victoria get a role? Will she vomit on stage? Will she actually be martyred in a vat of boiling oil? Tune in next time to see the exciting conclusion of My Experience in Community Theater!

A Little Free Write to Get My Head Straight

In hopes of concentrating, I've written the meanderings of a very sad person. I don't know who she is, maybe I'll write her story sometime:

Rain fell that night. Not a particularly interesting fact, I suppose. Rain falls most nights in winter. But every time I think about him all I see's the rain. I hear it. And feel it in my hair. I don't smell it. You can't smell the rain here. It doesn't announce itself. Just comes and is, until it goes. Sometimes when I dream all I see is the rain and I know I've gone back there; to that night. When I wake up, my face is wet. Laura says it's because I've been crying. But I know. I know it's that damned rain.

Welcome to Bend, OR! Where everyone smiles and the traffic laws don't matter!

After living in the Portland/Vancouver area for five years, I've moved back to my hometown of Bend, OR. Bend, if you are not aware, is home to 80,995 people(except in the summer when the population jumps to 100,000. Tourists, right.) A number which is rivaled only by our brewpubs and roundabouts. If you're going to move to any city in Oregon besides Portland, there are plenty of arguments to be made for Bend.

1. Bend has over 300 days of sunshine each year.
2. Mt. Bachelor is in spitting distance for those of you who love both winter sports and spitting.
3. The Deschutes is floatable in the summer time, and unlike those pesky "cool" rivers that make you shiver, Dessie is all snow melt. After a good 10 minutes your body will stop hurting and just go numb.
4. SMILES! Everyone is nice to you. I heard that we were voted one of the most welcoming cities in the country, but all I could find was an award we got last year for being the Dog-friendliest city. The official title is DogTown USA. It's less impressive.
5. If you look us up on a map, we're right in the very middle of the whole dang state!
6. There's plenty of culture to mix in with your small town America. And by culture, I still mean Caucasian.

Of course, being back for about two weeks, I can tell you a thing or two that you will not find in Bend.

1. Efficient drivers. Move to a small town, they said. There won't be any traffic, they said. They were right, but whatever traffic there is is probably being caused by a woman in a minivan letting every person in because she's horrible at life. People are so nice here that they break traffic laws.
2. Burgerville. We'll go ahead and label this one a blessing and a curse.
3. Gourmet coffee. GOTCHA! This place is neigh overflowing with cafe's. I know because I just gave my resume to nearly all of them.
4. Reliable public transportation. This doesn't really matter to me as I'm pretty white collar when it comes to transpo.
5. The best Autumn in the state. That prize goes to PTown. Even the sex trafficking capital that is 82nd is magical when you're driving up Fremont in October.
6. Anything open after 10. Except McDonald's, but somehow they take longer at 10 than they do at 4.

These are the things I never noticed about Bend until I moved away and then came back. Still, Portland doesn't have my family and they were the 8 reasons that sealed the deal and brought me back home. Good to be here.
PTown, stay crazy. See you soon,
Victoria

Post Script: Bend never smells like pee, Portland never smells like rain. Bend gets this round.

Where do your ideas come from?
What a splendid, stress-inducing question!
I do love this question as it shows the person is genuinely interested in my work and makes me feel impressive. Then I open my mouth and think, "You're about to sound very unintelligent." I fumble through some nonsense about atmosphere, eternal truths, and organic thought. As the Question Asker's eyes de-glaze they say, "Well, I can't wait to read it!" and we end the conversation.

Oceans and...

Honestly, I've never really thought about where my ideas come from. I thought they just came. Sometimes I force myself to come up with whatever happens next because it's time to write that scene and ideas are no longer allowed to hide. Sometimes I'm writing a scene and someone new walks in, someone I've never met before, but there they are, waltzing in all living and breathing right in the middle of my story. Mostly I listen to music and dream it up. As lovely as these examples are, none of them actually answer the question, where do your ideas come from?
But the other night I had a realization of sorts. I went to a party in Brush Prairie, WA(read: soggy farm land). When I was leaving the party I walked onto the porch and felt the night.
The rain had relented. The deep night sky peaked starless through white clouds and a cluster of mammoth pine trees reached out to me with long, piney fingers.
I descended the porch steps to the field-like lawn and tried to find the stars. When I moved my head the clouds seemed to seep across the sky, but when my head was still they sat still as well. As I stood in the cold, wet air nodding my head at the clouds, I heard a playful sound in the trees to my right. When I looked to the trees I was struck by how frightening pine trees are at night. Peering into the deep black bows I imagined what monsters might have found their perfect hiding place in their branches as the oddly childlike tune of the trickling rain drops held my scariest thoughts at bay.

...xmas trees always give me ideas. Always. 

Just then, I heard someone coming out of the house so I quickly took it all in again. The melody, the dark hiding places, the red-light-green-light clouds, the inky sky, and the wet, wide field. I'm saving you for later, I thought.  And they all sighed with relief because they made it. I cared that they existed and I put them down here. They will each live forever in words written and read.
I've known since I was a teenager that I see the world slightly differently. Things like oceans and Christmas trees are significant and it is very important that I pay them the attention they deserve.
I used to think my ideas Rolodex consisted mostly of nature, but it turns out I notice and save everything. Things like selfishness, judgement, tent cities, brothers-in-law, tiny hands, and cups of coffee so warm and comforting '"it's like drinking a blanket."
Which reminds me, I steal almost everything from you. That last line was not written by me, but said by another writer I know. Sometimes I take your words(with permission, of course) and sometimes I take you and mix you with my favorite parts of books: kindly monk figure(Brent Stahl), strong and reserved young woman(Tess Stern), young knight fighting for justice(the serious House Church Leader version of Matt Solschied), unaffected chick who could easily kill you(Annalise soon-to-be Southwood)  happy-go-lucky, take-on-the-world, true-to-the-end best friend(Brett McLean).
And that's where my ideas come from. Everywhere. But only if I'm paying attention.

A Lark of Sorrow

Of the days when you're just sad and there's no way to fix it.

Away in the peace of a deep green wood

I heard a lark sing the song that he could

Of love newly lost and unfortunate things

Comprised the tale that the lark could sing

Away! I cried, Be gone or be still!

Alas, moaned the lark, I am not yours to quell.

How to be Alone: A Lesson from a Pro

About four years ago, in what was the beginning of the most hopelessly lonely years of my life, my mom prayed, "God, Tori went off to Bible College and is in the very middle of your will, can't she at least have fun on a Friday night?" He said, "Bo, I want so much more for her than a fun Friday night." And this is what He meant.

Alone.
If there's one thing I have under my belt, it's how to be alone.
I've been alone in the darkened theater.
I've been alone in the sun and alone on the rainy beach.
I've been alone.
I need alone, too.

I write alone.
I write alone because the second someone says, "You should add purple scarecrows," purple scarecrows are off limits because they weren't my idea.
I write alone because it's easier to be honest when no one sees you do it.

I sleep alone.
I try very hard to only cry when I'm alone.
I worry alone.
I dance alone.
I dream alone.
I hang out alone. "Ashley liked your status." "Jake retweeted your tweet." "Hannah commented on your photo: #instalife"
Those are the worst alones. They remind you that you are alone.

I pray alone.
I wait alone.
I grieve alone.
I sing alone. Loudly.
I clean alone.
I read alone.
I am the most myself alone.
I moved away from my family all on my own.

Still, I'm only lonely occasionally.
In those moments of lonesome, I call it what it is, smile, and move on.
That sounds like the sort of advice one would receive from someone who gives completely useless advice, but 90% of the battle is giving it a name.



Loneliness,
Fear,
Boredom,
Anger.
When I can't figure out what I'm feeling I say, "I'm in a Funk. It's just a Funk Day," and that usually does the trick.

True story.

All of this alone has taught me how to value loneliness.
It's highlighted my weakness and my strengths: Not great at building a bookshelf, super good at filling.
It's taught me to rely on my own spurring on of self confidence instead of the verbal or typed affirmation of others('cause I'm awesome, that's why).
It's taught me to value the church family I have now and the family that I will have someday.
Because let's be honest, we'd really rather not be alone.

In it's healthiest state, being alone hasn't taken me away from others so much as it has brought me to God.
God is always there.
He knows what I'm thinking and feeling even when I don't realize it, or won't admit it.
He dances and cries and even, on occasion, giggles like a little girl with me.

While I may be the most myself when I am alone, I am a better myself when I'm with Him.
I'm joyful, content, hopeful, compassionate, confident, and lighthearted.
And that is so much better than a fun Friday night.

6 Down 94 to Go: The many faces of Cowardice

Days Writing: 6

Goal: 6000 words

Words Written: 6042

Coward 

Writers, if you didn’t know, are notoriously neurotic. Our minds run wild and play very cruel games with us. My mind would be doing this to me no matter what my skill set were so it’s a good thing I got writing skillz so I have something to blame it on.
Writers have a particular and definable set of neurotic battles that play in our heads. This week I was hit full in the face with the battle of perfectionism.

     If I were going to pursue a career besides this one, I would be a psychologist so please excuse me as I get all deep and psychological, but I think we’ve mislabeled perfectionism. For the sake of clarity let’s at least get the names of the battles right.

 Coward    

  Perfectionism is when you can’t keep writing because your mind keeps screaming all of the fixing that needs to happen. You haven’t described the cook yet. Where is this sentence going? I thought that was happening in the second act. You’re spending too long on this scene. You’re going to fast through everything! One of my favorite quotes by author Anne Lamott happens to be about perfectionism, “Perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won’t have to die.” This is exactly what I thought. 
The level of completeness of my work had, in my mind, become directly tied to my survival. Also to my future.   I’m not in school, I have no degree, I’m not certain my Christian Humanities would have meant a whole lot anyway, this is it. I’ve decided I want to write and if I can’t do that, I’ve failed. But if my book is perfect now, if I plant clues and weave story lines and construct dialogue just right, each step of the way, then maybe I’m ok. Maybe I didn’t miss my chance.

Goose.

    This is ridiculous. I turned 22 this month, the idea that I could have missed my chance at living a successful and fulfilled life is preposterous and just a little arrogant. No, this is not perfectionism. This is cowardice. Market research gives me an excuse to read a lot of teen fantasy(knights, kings, dragons, and crap) and if there's one thing I've learned from those stories it's that you are no better than the thing that kills you. If you die brave and strong you will be remembered as brave and strong. If you die a coward, you were a coward. I can tell you right now, my momma didn't raise no cowards.  

     To hell with cowardice. Forward march! 

3 Down 97 to Go

Days Writing: 3

Goal: 3000 wds

Words Written: 3600

I don't have a lot to say about it today, except that these first few days have not been easy, but they are looking up. I'm finally figuring out what they mean when they say, "Don't take yourself too seriously." They mean(in a Jersey accent), "Who do you think you are, a god or something?! No. No one but a freakin' loon thinks they can sit down and write a masterpiece, ok? Honey, ya doin' fine, just get that crap out and we'll fix it latuh. And fuh the love of Guod, stay away from dialect."  

Roth the Cripple, a slimy fella.  

Thank you, experienced Jersey author in my head, that actually makes me feel a lot better. And it's true. The more I write, but more I'm realizing it doesn't really matter how much your first draft sucks, just get it on paper and you can fix it later. 

On a happy note, one of my favorite characters just showed up. His name is Roth, cause I'm basing him on a character played by Tim Roth. Obviously I'm real good at naming stuff. 

1 Down, 99 to Go

This is the roof that I slept on in Haiti  and that inspired the roof
 from which Elynna watches the stars. 

Well folks, we have survived the first melee. It's possible that choosing to write page 1 of the first chapter during my very first writing session was a bad idea.
     The first part of your book is just so dang important. It's where you introduce your character, the world they live in, the people they live with, what makes them special, what their deepest desires are, and what needs to change. That's quite a shopping list.
     As a reader, it's all about writing style and story style. The way an author starts their book is very, very important to me. If the they introduce me to their story in a way that's overly dramatic and/or too on the nose, I'm out. "Rebekah Alvarez didn't know she was a spy. Didn't know that is, until this afternoon when her life, and maybe the entire world, would change forever!" No thank you.
     I have such high standards for the opening chapter and such high respect for authors who do them well, that it was rather nerve wracking to write my own. Also, there's a lot to do. All of the things I listed up there have to be communicated because the first chapter is your spring board from which every other thing springs. With out a properly constructed spring board, your story is just gonna flop.

Elynna lives in Southern Settlement, a city I imagine looks something like
a dry, desert version of Carrefour, Haiti.

Nevertheless, that's where I started. I edited as I went and spent a little less than four hours and 1200 words introducing my girl, giving a taste of her personality, background, and current status quo(Frodo in the Shire) and finally, setting up her emotional and physical goals(i.e. Will Frodo destroy the ring?).  It all happens very quickly, and I'm certain I'll go back and add a whole slew of interactions to communicate what the country is like, but for now it works alright. I'd like to get her to the inciting incident(Frodo is given the ring which sets him on his quest) at the end of chapter 1, so I think I'm on track.

Yesterday I wrote my first thousand words! Here's the first bit:
    Elynna wouldn’t say that she was owned by Joss, she was just severely and irrevocably indebted to him. On really rough nights she would remind herself of her at least technical freedom to keep from sinking into a black hole of bitterness. Bitterness would only make her angrier at an unchanging truth: She was trapped. There was no getting away from it. How, you may ask, does a 17-year-old girl rack up an insurmountable amount of debt? By making it to year 9.

If she hadn’t, she’d be debt free. Dead, yes, but free. If she’d only stopped while she was ahead, she’d have no soul crushing reality that her life would never be more than Indentured Tavern Girl. But she had been younger then and overcoming the natural instinct to cling to life is difficult at any age; at nine it’s almost impossible. She hadn’t know what future awaited her and was still naive enough to think that it would be good and fair and livable. “Silly girl.”

So, what does this make you think about our leading lady? What do you think about her past? Her point of view? Her demeanor? 

0 Down, 100 to Go

     This blog used to be something else. It was called Today's Writing Is...and it may return to that 101 days from now, but for now it is tasked with both giving an account of, and keeping me accountable to, writing 1000 words each day and thus finishing my first draft in the next 100 days.

Tess Stern serves as the inspiration for my story's heroine, Elynna. Who wouldn't want to watch her save a kingdom?

     I cannot guarantee it will be interesting. I cannot guarantee the book won't suck. Also, I cannot guarantee your safety(I always wanted to say that). I have simply come to the place where I have planned all I can and just can't stall anymore.Yikes!
     Here's to diving into the deep end.

V.A. Stern

Today's Writing is: Christmas Carrots

Baby carrots? No, the most delicious carrots I've ever seen!

  I remember when I was little and the days seemed so much longer and shorter and brighter than these days do now. I remember flowers and clouds and vivid green grass. And I remember carrots.
    When I was very young my mom had a garden by the house in which she grew tomatoes. One summer she let my older sister and I pick what we wanted to grow and I picked carrots. I was little enough that the idea that I had grown them made perfect sense; though I am positive that I dug once in the dirt and never watered them. I was probably three.
     A few weeks ago, I helped my lil' 2's and 3's in the church Christmas program. Wearing giant paper snowflakes around their necks like those disgusting Victorian collars--and looking adorable--they sheepishly walked, shuffled, and nudged their way onto the stage with the help, prodding, and herding of myself and two other adults. They stood there rocking back and forth and twinkling their fingers until they were herded off stage to receive excessive and jubilant congratulations from their adoring public.
     Now, being about that age, they believed every word of praise. They were the best snowflakes ever. They had done a great job. And just like that: Christmas Carrots.

It's easier to be brave,or stupid, in groups. Groups in costume.

     I think it's important to believe with destructive naivete the encouragement you are given. Unlike those kids and three-year-old me, I have known people who could never, ever take a compliment well. A coworker of mine was once told by our boss that he enunciated well. He told me, "That's not a compliment. That just means he thought I was boring."
     Honestly, I'm not always great at this but I do try to quiet my inner critic enough to hear the legitimate praise others give me. It's very easy for self-doubt to masquerade as self-protection or the Whoa-There-Meter. Getting too big headed--Whoa There! Acting too rashly--Whoa There! Not believing yourself to be the utter failure that you really are--Whoa There! See? Sometimes the voice that tells you not to order that at-home massage from craigslist is also the voice the crushes your self-worth into itching powder. It may also crush you into not much of anything.
     If I told those kids that they were disorganized and boring, they would have never participated in another church program again. They would not want to try new things and, worst of all, they would believe failure to be a cardinal sin(also their parents would have stoned me). None of these things is healthy(particularly the stoning of young women). Few of these things are even true at all(hopefully the stoning of young women).
     I think that when trying new things or doing things you love, it is good to view yourself as a two-year-old. You grew those carrots all by yourself, you were the greatest snowflake ever, and everything you do wrong only makes you cuter. Personally, this kind of confidence helps me to step out, to not take myself too seriously, and to be more willing to be coached and corrected.
     Mostly I really like to think I'm awesome. That was a joke...kind of. I also think you're awesome. That's not a joke...kind of. I doubt the other people read my blog.
  

Today's Writing is: A Thank You Note in Disguise

"Illusions, Michael!" --Gob Bluth

When I sit down to write there are usually a few things I need. I used to think these things were as simple as coffee, iPod, pen and paper. But this is like when I thought Third Day was the best artist I'd ever heard and I just hadn't met Mumford and Sons yet. Recently, however, the fates have given me some well-timed little marvels. In fact, if coffee, iPod, and paper is like "Live out Loud,"  then these lil' guys are like "White Blank Page." Here they are:

     Marvel I) A red mug with a chalkboard speech bubble and two white chalk pieces. This mug was given to me by my pastors Pete and Tamar and it is perfection. Each morning I get up, fill it with coffee, and get ready. By the time I get in my car it's half empty and sitting snug in my cup holder; where it gets polished off by the time I get on camera. Then, at some point during or after the work day, Red and I go to a cafe where he's filled again with coffee and watches me write. Finally, we go home, get washed, and rest up for tomorrow morning. Red is now an essential part of my ability to quite myself enough to write. I see him as my own little VeggieTales friend who sits there supporting me adorably. 

Ya, that's cork board. Jealous? 

     Marvel II) A beautiful notebook designed and created just for me by my remarkable Aunt Cheryl. As it happens, I write all of my first drafts the old fashioned way, with pen and paper. I have just recently starting work on my first novel and having a place that is safe and clean and warm to put all of my precious characters, plots and tragedies is priceless. My secret hope is that the spirits of the muses that help Aunt Cheryl create such lovely cards may have taken up residence in these pages and will make my words equally lovely. A girl can hope.

     My highest accolades to Aunt Cher for making for me a notebook containing beauty, simplicity, functionality, inspiration, and class. Spot on. (Additional aunt accolades for delicious food, inviting me to Easter dinner every year, mothering my best friend and cousin, Taylor, and being fearlessly creative.)

     The thing I love most about these two gifts is that they come from my family and from my church family and it's just nice to have them close now that I'm doing something which requires bravery and the taking of risks.

     A giant thank you to Pete, Tamar, Aunt Cher, and Mom--who gave me the book for Christmas. I'll save you all a dedication somewhere in the future.:) 

Happy New Year, 

Miss Victoria Stern