Some December Reflections for Ye Olde Blogg

It's now the last month of 2018 and between the parties and trips to the movie theater (there are so many great films out right now!) I find myself reflecting on my first year of working as a freelancer.

Part of the reason I switched to freelancing was because I hoped it would be a way to push myself and to deepen my experience. While there have been ups and down, I can confidently say that I am exiting this year with far more knowledge than I entered it with. I've learned a tremendous amount about my field and I've also gotten to do research on a number of different topics and industries. I even took on projects outside my comfort zone. (Would you believe it if I told you I recorded voiceovers for one of my clients? I did! And it was kind of fun.)

Freelancing forces me to sell myself in a way I haven't always been comfortable doing. Sure, I know I'm a great writer, but telling people why and what I can do for them? That can make me feel a little squirmy. But, I'm improving!

Another unexpected result of this year has been my discovery of my comedic voice. Sure, I was always a bit of a smarty pants on Slack, typing jokes for the lols. But I never thought much about it. Then, at the beginning of the year, I learned about Medium, a platform for writers and readers to connect. Freelancers are often advised to try and build an audience on Medium, as it can amplify their voices and create opportunities.

So, I resolved to start an account.

What I didn't expect was that I'd end up writing satire. That was never my intent. I thought I'd write helpful articles about copywriting and freelancing, etc. Instead, what came out, and what my readers seemed drawn to, were my humorous pieces. It turns out, there's also a very active group of users dedicated to writing comedy on the site. Getting to know them on Medium and on Twitter has been way cooler than I could have imagined.

At the same time my follower count was growing, I wondered whether my satirical articles might hurt my freelancing career. I questioned whether to feature them on my portfolio, or even my website. Perhaps potential clients would be scared off by my excessive use of sarcasm and inclination to make up funny words? In truth, that hasn't been my experience. I've had clients tell me they read my articles on Medium and it was actually the content of those articles that sold them on me. I wouldn't have expected that! But it turns out way more people are weirdos than I could have imagined.

When you make the choice to freelance, a lot of people will tell you the key to making lots of cash is to specialize. I struggle with this advice because I find so many different things fascinating. Eventually I will need to narrow my offerings and choose the area in which I want to specialize. But, at the moment, I'm really enjoying exploring lots of different things. I'm still making dances and I even create designs for my clients and illustrations for my Redbubble shop.

I asked Mike if he were to find a common thread between all the projects I take on, what would that thread be? He thought about it for a moment, then came back with, "Whimsy gilded in darkness." I'm glad I married someone so articulate. And I like the idea of whimsy gilded in darkness. Sure, I can write in all kinds of different voices and I enjoy creating work on many different themes. But whimsy coated in darkness feels essential, like it gets to the root of who I am. So, we'll stick with that for now and see where it grows in 2019.

Thanks for reading and please have a wonderful holiday season.

Status Update

Hi there! A number of things have changed in my life recently, so this seems like a good place for a bit of a status update. (Also, a good way to prove that I do still blog from time to time.) 😜

A few months ago I left a job I'd been at for six years. It wasn't a bad job at all. I learned a lot while I was there, the people were funny and kind, and I had the opportunity to really hone my content creation skills.

So why did I quit my job?

I wanted to accelerate my learning. Freelancing allows me to work for a variety of different clients within a bunch of different industries, which means that I'm absorbing new information on a daily basis. I'm also forced to step up and promote myself in ways that are uncomfortable, but important for growth. Have I become smarter in the last few months? Am I able to offer more value? Without hesitation, my answer would be "yes".

Ultimately, I came to a point where I could step out on a limb and choose to build something really challenging and invigorating, or I could stay where I was comfortable. I'm going to try the challenging and invigorating thing for a little while. 😉

So, what have I been doing exactly? A number of different things. I'm helping clients grow their social media followings. I'm rewriting websites. I'm crafting articles. I'm helping create more SEO-friendly product descriptions and I'm designing infographics and business cards. All stuff that I'm really passionate about. If you'd like more info on my services and experience, check out my portfolio HERE!

I've also started writing on Medium HERE, which has been an awesome experience. It's become an outlet for my satirical tendencies and I'm honored to have had my work featured in some pretty cool publications. I try to write new content 2-4 times a week, so there's a lot to look at (warning, if you have an allergy to sarcasm or the occasional swear word, this might not be your thing).

Normally I do a blog post of my best movies of the year. I haven't gotten around to it yet, but it isn't because I'm lazy or because I've forgotten. I'm actually still catching up on films from 2017. The Lofgies will happen! I just need to make a few more trips to Scarecrow Video before I settle on which movies were my favorites.

If you made it this far in the entry, I'll go ahead and let you in on a secret. 😳

I haven't "officially" announced this yet, but I've started a RedBubble store. I always wanted a little store of my own where I could share my illustrations with the world, but it was one of those things I never got around to doing. Now I've done it! I'm still adding artwork and fussing around with the products, but, since you're a special blog reader, you can have a sneak peek here: OTTER GROTTO.

They're really just silly, fun little sketches, but if anything connects with you personally, it would mean a lot if you liked it on the site or even invited it into your home.

Thanks for reading!

You can't have it all… but maybe you can have more than you think

Shame is such a persistent element of this modern life. Perhaps it is because we have so much constant input coming in from every angle, a million how-to books, a million blog articles offering advice, with think pieces on productivity, maturity, parenting, spirituality, career choices, nutrition, social justice, politics, and more.

They may be well-intentioned, but it can create a lingering suspicion that we're always doing it wrong. Even if we correct our behavior or opinions in response to a convincing argument, there's an opposing viewpoint one week later. It's good that we're listening, it's good that we're evaluating and challenging our own beliefs, I think it's a sign of positive change, but it's also an awful lot of noise. With time, it can become an awful lot of weight.

Or, maybe that's just me. Perhaps I'm uniquely influenced by guilt. I kept taking piano lessons for years because I thought not playing piano would make me a bad person. I feared I'd end up regretting my choices.

Many times I don't even realize guilt is influencing my behavior.

All of this leads into a book review…

I recently read "The Renaissance Soul: Life Design for People with Too Many Passions to Pick Just One". The title says it all. This is a book for people who are always finding themselves pulled in a million different directions, by a million different interests.

Our culture preaches the importance of choosing. This is especially pervasive in the dance industry. How often have dancers heard variations of the idea, "Dance requires everything"? There's a lot of talk of sacrifice and focus. Dedicating yourself completely. Not doing so makes you less of a dancer. It means you don't love it as much as the next guy.

It isn't only true for dancers. The further you get in any career or field of study, the more focused you're expected to get. I believe it discourages a lot of people. It's easy to get depressed looking at a future of doing one thing forever if that isn't ingrained into your personality.

I've learned that love doesn't always requires exclusivity. Each time I crack open a history book, sit down at the piano (yes, I eventually went back to piano), create a unique design element, or take time out to work on my novel, it isn't making me less of a dancer.

Maybe that sounds obvious and silly to you, but it was a major illumination for me. I needed permission to love a lot of things, even if permission only came from a book. I needed someone to tell me that my art wouldn't suffer if I widened my scope a little. I wanted to be set free of the guilt I didn't even know I was bearing.

The author, Lobenstine, uses the example of Leonardo da Vinci, who followed his curiosity down many different paths. The guy is credited as a painter, sculptor, architect, musician, mathematician, engineer, inventor, anatomist, geologist, cartographer, botanist, and writer. Would anyone dare to criticize him, telling him to focus his interests and dedicate himself to one field? No, because he's frickin' Leonardo da Vinci. For all the paths he took, his Mona Lisa is still one of the most celebrated paintings of all time. I'd argue his diverse interests made him a better artist than he would have been if he limited himself to one field.

That isn't to say I'm anywhere near the level of Leonardo da Vinci, but I do think I have some similar wiring in the way that I approach art. Lobenstine does a great job outlining practical strategies and plans for those with a Renaissance Soul personality type. Though I didn't fill out all the worksheets, they got me thinking in a more productive way and enabled me to create a few of my own plans.

If you think you might be a Renaissance Soul, I can't recommend this book enough. The career plans are great, but the best part is finding permission to embrace your own curiosity.

One Second a Day (sort of)

I have a complicated relationship with the one second a day app. You've probably heard about it by now, but, in case you haven't, I'll outline the basic premise for you.

1.) Download app
2.) Take a video every single day
3.) Edit that video down to one second with the app
4.) Compile into longer videos that encompass a month/year/more

The idea is that by filming one second of footage every day you can create a comprehensive memory of your whole entire life.

Last year, about a year ago, I gave this a whirl. However, there's something about this little project that makes it different from the other photo/video apps out there. When you're posting stuff on instagram, it's easy to come and go, uploading only the images that represent the ideal life that you want everyone to see. It's a lot easier to pretend that you're perfect and amazing when you only post once a week. Or once a month. When you have to contribute one second of video every single day it can get a little.... mundane? Yes. Mundane. Because too many of my days look like this:

1.) Wake up and check out massive bed-head
2.) Stumble through morning routine in a half-awake daze
3.) Go to work
4.) Work
5.) Do laundry
6.) Make dinner
7.) Play Mario Kart
8.) Feel bad for not writing or dancing
9.) Sleep

Repeat.

This does not make for enthralling video. Even when I only need one second. And, though it's normal not to have firecrackers and cake every single day, when you're faced with finding something interesting.... it can get challenging. I can get a bit down.

But it isn't bad that every single day isn't amazing. As an introvert, I don't think I could handle it. Portions of those days are amazing, but it's all stuff inside my head, which doesn't translate well into video. Sometimes I need to be boring so there's room for the ideas to sprout.

Last time I just quietly stopped using the app. Because maybe it isn't for me.

But, now I'm doing it again. Because maybe I don't need this to be the instagram version of my life. Maybe this can be the actual version of my life. Warts and all. Laundry and all. I have enough idealized, glossy images that show me being amazing. I have the things that I create, which are filled with color and excitement. This time I can loosen up a bit. Show the truth. My experience. It isn't always exciting. And that's okay.

The Shape of Me

When did it start? I'm not really sure.

Maybe it started when I looked into the studio mirror and realized that my legs no longer went straight down, but pushed out a bit at the sides.

Maybe it started when I sat down in a pair of shorts and noticed that my skin dimpled where it met the chair.

Maybe it started when I learned, through watching and listening, that the greatest sin I could commit as a teenage girl was to be overweight.

When my body became communal property, something for men to size up, for women to comment on and the clearest factor indicating my worth.

Maybe it started earlier.

Whatever the origin, fear took root. The word "fat" hovered just out of sight, a three-letter threat that always waited for me.

The need for praise took root as well. I learned I could get as much praise for choreographing a dance as for losing ten pounds. Twenty pounds? There's no equivalent for that.

The funny, horrible part is that praise only serves to accentuate fear. Beneath the words I can hear, "Good work, you! You've gotten temporarily further from the scary thing!"

.

Look at any group of women. The skinniest is the one who has "won", right? I'm not the only one who has had these thoughts. As if the word "skinny" is some badge of honor we can wear to show that we are easily moved and will not take up more room in this world than we deserve.

Sometimes it feels like we're all in a race to disappear.

.

I ate nothing but celery, soup and water.

I stuffed my face.

I worked out every night.

I did nothing but watch cartoons and lick crumbs off my own tee shirt.

I kept my eyes glued to the mirror watching, not for technique, but for love handles.

I refused to look in the mirror.

I cried in secret. A lot.

I wore the same pair of pants over and over again, because they made me look microscopically less heavy than my other pants.

I lied in my food journal.

I hated every skinny person I met.

I hated every costume I had to wear, because they weren't carefully constructed to conceal all of my misshapen body parts.

.

I have so much regret. For five years of my life, 80% of the thoughts that went through my head were a version of food-related self-loathing. Those were years that were vital to my development, years when I could have been growing, maybe even having an impact. I'm an intelligent person with a hungry mind, a creative soul and a drive to succeed. There's a lot I could have done with that time. Instead, I waged a war against myself, allowing my heart to grow smaller and smaller. That's what I regret. Losing those years.

Letting myself believe that I am only a body.

.

What changed?

I got tired. Hating yourself is exhausting and I decided to stop. It really is that simple.

.

Except it isn't always that simple. I still check myself out every day, hoping I measure up. I still fight to keep the voices away. In moments of weakness, I can still hear them. "You're so ugly. Everyone thinks you're ugly. Everyone sees the cellulite."

I'm not the only one. I'm not the only woman who feels like she's eternally on an auctioning block with her value fluctuating based on the way her jeans fit. The size of her bra.

I'm not the only one who hates looking at herself in photographs, because maybe her smile won't overshadow the fat on her arms.

We can't live up to it. We'll never live up to it. And it pisses me off.

This has us in bondage. Women in this country are literally in bondage, because so many of us believe that the most valuable gift we can give the world is our youth and our beauty. Not what we say. Not what we do. Not how we treat others, how we fill movement with purpose, the stories we tell, the things we feel, the sacrifices we make, the art we contribute, the experiences we share, the ideas we generate, the people we love, the places we visit, the lessons we teach, the mistakes we make, the companies we build, the children we encourage, the jokes we make, the gifts we give, or the blog entries we post.

Just physical beauty - a constantly changing series of parameters defined by others, enforced by others and for the profit of others.

It's a lie.

We are so much better than beautiful.

I Am Batman

My husband thinks it's hilarious when I assert that I am Batman. After all, I'm just a girl. I'm just a writer and a dancer - someone who makes pretty things. I don't have awesome, flying fists of fury (or do it?).

Still, I'm Batman. I have to be.

Let's go back about... 13 years. (Man, I'm old). 13 years ago there was a young, idealistic dancer who believed that she was on her way to, not only a professional dance career, but possibly lots of money, fame and fortune. Sure, money, fame and fortune are not the normal rewards of a dance career, but this dancer truly believed that she was special. She was going to be the exception.

In her first year of university, this dancer got cast in multiple "high profile" dances. In her head, this only validated her awesomeness. All her friends were so impressed! It was going to be great!

But, the rehearsal process ended up being harder than anything she'd ever undergone. Every night her body screamed, aching and seizing up horribly. She was always a little behind the other dancers, who were more experienced than she was. She couldn't seem to get anything right. Every triumph was followed by ten struggles. Every day, more rehearsals were scheduled. Three quarters of the way through the process, she injured her back. It hurt all the time, but she kept going.

She kept going because, not only did she have the ingrown sense of masochism so many dancers possess, but because she really believed in the dances she was doing. She knew they were complex and meaningful - richer than anything she'd ever been a part of. They were beautiful, and she was willing to wreck her body in order to be a part of that beauty.

But, she wasn't Batman, yet.

Eventually, performance week arrived. The young dancer gave it everything she had. She danced to the best of her ability and beyond. She probably would have given a limb, or at least a finger, for those dances. She knew that all her experience and hard work had led her to that point.

And.... everyone loved her! Her friends and family were so impressed. Finally, she'd done it! She'd lived up to her potential!

The next week, she was sitting at lunch with a few people she didn't know well. Expecting more praise, she asked them what they'd though of the show. They said it was okay for the most part, but them they started trashing her dances. Her dances. She wasn't sure whether or not they were aware that she was in those particular dances, but their comments were brutal. They were mean. They were downright evil, but, if you squinted and looked at it from a different perspective, they might have been legitimate.

It hurt. It undermined all the work, all the pain, all the strain, and even the tears. How could they? How could they casually disregard all of her effort? All her years of work to get to that point? She'd bled for their pleasure, after all!

Why dance, if she wasn't going to be respected? Why perform, if people wouldn't understand? What if she was just a sideshow, or a diversion? Wasn't she worth more than that?

But, even though she didn't always know why, she kept dancing. She kept putting herself out there, even though she knew people wouldn't always get it. She'd look like a fool sometimes. Heck, she'd be a fool sometimes.

That was the beginning. That's when I started to be Batman.

Don't bleed so that people will love you. There's not enough blood and there will never be enough people. That's not to say that you shouldn't bleed - just be a little wiser in where you spend it. People will hate you. Even worse, they'll be indifferent. And it will hurt more every time. And sometimes the hardest thing in the world is to keep going. Keep fighting.

I'm still fighting.

That's why I'm Batman. For now.

That's why all writers who keep writing, despite the growing pile of rejections, are Batman. That's why bad reviews shouldn't matter, at least, not in the break-your-spirit kind of way. There will always, always be bad reviews - some eloquently stated, others unfair. That's the cost of doing what you love. That's why you gotta be Batman. Learn what you can and move on. Write. Dance. Grow. Take the punches. Maybe you win and maybe you lose. Doesn't matter. Be Batman.

Hiya Strangers!

You'll have to excuse the dust; I've been doing some updating on the blog and things are shifting rapidly. Hopefully my readers are okay with change and won't run away shrieking. (Actually, I kind of think it would be awesome if a blog redesign could inspire that kind of reaction). Why the change? Well, I just felt like going for something sparser, yet more personalized. There will be more changes to come.

I also went through and cleaned up the tags. Now you can actually use them for navigation, as opposed to before when their purpose was more ornamental/snarky.

Summer is a bit of a catch-up time for me. I'm still working during the day, but teaching eases off while the kids are out of school. Chimera, the company I direct, is also on hiatus for a couple of months in order to give me time to prepare for next year's show. Next year we'll be incorporating actors into our show and putting together an experimental theater piece with text and dancing. I've never done anything like this before, so it's a huge, scary undertaking. At the same time, I'm so thrilled by the idea of a new challenge. I don't think I'm happy unless I'm a little bit scared and I have so many ideas! It will be amazing. Or awful. Whatever it is, at least it won't be boring.

Hubby and I went to New York about a week ago and it was pretty amazing. This was my first trip to New York and it was an amazing, crazy, hot whirlwind. I've dreamt of visiting New York every since I was a kid and hooked on films like Fame and A Chorus Line. So glad that I've finally walked those streets. :)

While in New York we were fortunate enough to get to see The Book of Mormon, which was irreverent, sacrilegious and hilarious (as expected). What I didn't expect, was the amount of thought and care that went into the music, staging and actual plot of the musical. This wasn't just a show build around a few jokes. It was an honest-to-goodness theatrical experience with a wonderfully committed cast and creative production team.

We went to another show, as well. This one is a little harder to sum up, as it was one of the most unique and memorable theatrical experiences I've ever had. If you're a fan of Gossip Girl, you might have heard of it, since apparently it was featured on that show. It's a production by Punchdrunk called Sleep No More and it is outstanding. If you have the opportunity (and don't mind things that are a little traumatic/messed up) you should not miss the opportunity to experience this. I'll try to elaborate without spoiling too much, because this is the kind of show that should not be spoiled.

Basically, it's an interactive theatrical experience. The production took over three abandoned warehouses and used them to build the most elaborate set I've ever seen. Called the McKittrick Hotel, guests are invited to explore all six floors on their own, drifting through graveyards, shops, cabarets, sanatoriums, and more. The rooms are endlessly detailed and filled with clues. As the night wears on, a modernized version of Macbeth, with elements of Rebecca thrown in, starts to build all around the hotel. Action happens simultaneously on every floor, even in adjoining rooms. Putting the whole story together is next to impossible, but that adds to the appeal. Even though guests wear masks and are discouraged from speaking, they still play a part in what occurs, shadowing performers and sometimes stepping into the story itself. Here's a great, somewhat spoilery review: New York Times.

It was the most immersive show I've ever attended. Sleep No More felt like something I'd been hoping to experience my whole life, though I didn't know it until I was there.

What about you? Any big projects in the works, or summer trips planned? Seen any interesting shows lately? How are things? :)

Thank You, Mr. Ray Bradbury

I don't remember exactly how old I was the day I read my first Bradbury story. I know I'd already cut my teeth on Lord of the Rings, worked my way through the Babysitters Club and Nancy Drew and consumed almost everything Mark Twain ever wrote. Jane Eyre convinced me that I wasn't alone and Jane Austin convinced me that men would get better as I got older.

But it wasn't enough. I needed more. I needed to consume. The librarian's recommendations, though helpful, weren't filling that deep need for... I don't know... something different. Something transcendent. I was formulating my concept of what was possible with literature and I was desperate for books that would challenge me in unique ways.

Enter Bradbury.

His stories were recommended to me by a unprecedented source: my father. Close as we were, my father and I never talked books. Oh, my dad read now and then, still does, but not in the same hungry, all consuming way my mother, sister and I did. For us reading was an addiction. For him it was an occasionally pleasant way of passing time. So, when he handed me the Martian Chronicles, in my teenage, judgy way, I raised my eyebrows.

But Dad was serious about it. "Bradbury is so good," he said to me, "I loved him when I was a boy."

"Is this a boy book?" I wondered. After all, it had one of those old-fashioned, nerdy sci-fi covers I'd learned to avoid. It was about... aliens? And... spaceships? Really? I mean, I was down for fairies and unicorns, hobbits and dwarfs, but the colonization of a foreign planet was a bit much.

Don't judge me. I was still learning to embrace my inner nerd.

All of this to say - I read it. I read it and then I read it again. I read Fahrenheit 451, Something Wicked This Way Comes, The Illustrated Man, Dandelion Wine, and more. Bradbury's writing was some of the most vivid I had ever come across. You could almost sense him chuckling as he ran his fingers over the keys. His prose was never strained or tormented, but rushed through your brain with sweet inevitability. It was kind. It wanted to share new worlds with you, wanted to let you in on the joke. It found its inspiration in creativity and joy. Even when scary or twisted, there was still a joyfulness to being scared. There was no mistaking the fact that Ray Bradbury loved to write.

Since becoming a rough approximation of an adult, I've revisited Bradbury's work many times. I've read his essays on writing and learned a great deal from them. I've learned to be jealous of his marvelous brain and grateful for his dedication to craft. I've journeyed multiple times into the worlds he created, always finding something to celebrate, something to learn from and something to aspire to. Life is bigger, richer and stranger when you're reading one of his books. Bradbury is the ultimate definition of what I would love to be: a generous artist with the courage to charge on. Dad was right. Bradbury is good. He's really good.

And that's why I can't be too saddened by his death. Sure, I mourn the fact that there will be no more stories, no more quiet knowledge that somewhere in the world Ray Bradbury is thinking about something exciting. But death should never be considered a tragedy for someone who so thoroughly ruled at life. Someone whose influence will be felt far beyond our ability to comprehend.

Thank you, Dad, for handing me that book all those years ago and thank you, Mr. Bradbury, for including all of us in your dreams.

Vacation Photos

Okay, so you caught me. I wasn't actually SAVING MY CITY from the THREAT OF EVIL. I was actually futzing around the globe a bit more, taking photos and getting into trouble. I'm home now (oh the glories of a warm, dependable shower) and ready to press you into staring at the instagram version of my travels.

So sit, grab a drink and enjoy. :)

 These are agricultural ruins in the Sacred Valley, Moray Peru. We climbed down a series of precarious steps to get to the very bottom, where a group of hippies had taken over the ruins for a spring solstice ritual that involved laying in a circle and saying "shhhh" a lot. This is also where I ripped my first pair of pants.

This, as you might have guessed, is Machu Picchu. That llama was just hanging out there. I didn't have to pay him to pose or anything.

Iguazu Falls is one of the most spectacular sights in the world. If you ever have the chance, go! I promise, these falls make Niagara look like a leaky faucet. 

These are coatis. They look adorable, until you find out that they can carry rabies and attack humans. Still cute? Didn't think so.

Another waterfall pic, because... why not?

This photo was taken from the top of Corcovado mountain, the mountain where you can find the famous Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio. This is about the point where my husband ripped his pants.















Here's the big guy.



















Another shot of Rio from above. My hostel was a little to the right of this shot. Imagine me there. Sewing up my pants. Sewing up my husband's pants.















These are ancient aqueducts in the heart of the city.

After this point my husband and I flew up to Manaus, which is kind of the doorway to the Brazilian Amazon. We did an amazing tour of the Amazon that included animal spotting, jungle trekking, pirana fishing, and cayman (alligator) hunting. (If by hunting you mean tracking down, tickling their bellies and releasing). On the jungle trek I ripped my second pair of pants. This time the damage was irreparable.

The vacation closed out with a trip to Ilha Grande, which is a very creative name for an island if you consider the translation. Here we swam on a gorgeous beach under the sunshine for a couple of hours and spent the rest of the time hiding from the rain.

So, that was our trip!

Thanks for sticking around through all the photos. :) I've missing my blogging buddies and, in the interest of full disclosure, I haven't gotten much writing done lately. But, hopefully the amazing trip will help expand my brain and inspire new stories. :)

What about you guys? What trips are you planning and where would you like to go?

An Odyssey

This will be my last blog before I disappear for a while for extremely secret reasons. If you must know what I'm up to, imagine me in a bat cave somewhere up to my ears in utility belts and high-tech grappling hooks, working hard to SAVE MY CITY from the THREAT OF EVIL.

Ahem.

So, last week was the big dance showcase I've been neurotically tweeting about for the last few weeks. I get really nervous about these things, because there are eight million aspects that can go wrong and only a small handful of us to fix them.

Things do go wrong. It's the only thing I can count on. Every year I nurse the hope of a calm, stress-free experience. I organize and plan ahead like a maniac. I think that maybe, just maybe, this time everything will go right. Bwahahahahaha!

This year it was a small audio glitch. The cd player in our venue decided part-way through the evening (and in the middle of the performance) that it didn't like our cd. It expressed its displeasure by hiccuping at us every few minutes. Ugh. Sometimes there's nothing you can do to prevent this stuff. We ended up switching to ipod for sound and everyone lived happily ever after in a pool of contentment, but that hiccuping continues to haunt me.

I guess the important thing is to stay calm and not let the small stuff overshadow the fact that we had an excellent turn-out, lots of positive feedback and excited audience members, no injuries, and a very cleanly performed evening. Seriously, my dancers rocked it out. They were beautiful, committed and focused. I am an extremely fortunate choreographer to work with such professionals.

When I return to blogging, I'll try and remember to post a short video of the night.

I really am quite proud. :)

Are you a fan of live dance? What memorable shows have you seen and what makes them memorable to you?

What it is.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Ninety-five percent of it is in regards to this weird bruise I've had on my leg for the last month that won't stop hurting. That's unusual, right? Having the same bruise for a month? I don't even remember hitting myself or running into anything. Granted, I run into things all the time (dancers are clumsy), but I think I'd remember injuring myself to this extent. Wherefore art thou, bruise? A bruise by any other name would still smell as sweet... Ack. There goes my train of thought again.

Anyhoo, the other five percent of my brain that isn't currently obsessing over weird bruises is thinking about what it means to love something. I hear about people loving things a lot in my line of work. I can't tell you how many of my students have boldly and passionately declared their love of dance. They love it so much they can barely express it. They'll never love anything else as much. All they want to do, or think about doing, is dance.

The first time I heard the spiel, I got really excited. I expected great things from these students who so passionately expressed their love of dance. I expected them to have perfect attendance. I expected them to apply critiques and grow quickly. I expected them to stand first in line, to show up on time and to perform with emotion.

But, often I was disappointed. Not always, but a lot of the time. They were late to class, or didn't show up at all. They were more interested in gossip than learning new choreography. Sometimes they quit. And, I blamed myself. They loved dance so much, but I didn't make it exciting enough for them. I didn't encourage them, or give them enough attention or feedback. Clearly, it was my fault. I destroyed their love.

Except, there were other students. Students who showed up on time, who worked hard, who didn't quit, who were willing to try something over and over again until they got it right. They didn't talk a lot, but they paid close attention to everything I said. When the studios were empty, they snuck in and started practicing on their own. Year after year, they continued to show up, even when they had other, more exciting things they could have been doing.

And I realized. Love isn't words. Love isn't emotions, or passion, or excitement, or grand proclamation. Yes, sometimes it starts there, but in the end it is something much less romantic. Much less glamorous.

Love is work.

Love is showing up, even when it's hard. It's perseverance. It's working when you're exhausted and forcing yourself to give it just one more try. And one more try after that. It exists in the absence of glory, the absence of fireworks. The absence of praise. It's a series of actions, not an emotion. It's a choice.

You can be entranced by the idea of dance, but that isn't love. The idea of writing can capture your imagination, but that isn't love. Love is the toil and the grind. The steps that get us closer to our goal. It's sitting down in your chair and opening a word document. It's the most boring, common, beautiful, rare thing I've ever seen.

So, yeah. Sorry for the cheesiness, but it's what I needed to write today. Keep being awesome.

Scary Story

This happened during my freshman year at college. As it was my first time living on my own, I settled in by digging up every single ghost story or suspicious death that took place in my new home. The campus didn't disappoint. There was a ghost in the theater who tinkered around with the lights late at night. Someone in our dorm had committed suicide a few years earlier. No one ever saw the student's ghost, but everyone theorized that a ghost could exist and took preventative measures such as hiding and making up stories about it. (This is a great example of the analytical thought process put into effect by students all over America.) A particularly malicious ghost lived in an apartment on the far end of campus. He or she enjoyed banging closet doors and breaking glasses. Students moved in and out of that apartment constantly.

But, in the midst of all these events, my dorm room was an island of safety. Nothing crazy or supernatural could ever happen there. It was impossible, because it was my room. (This was the same reasoning I had as a child. My bed was safe, because it was my bed and I was in it. Everything else? Not safe. Had to pee? Held it.)

Until one night in late autumn.

For me, there was nothing special about that night. I went to bed and slept soundly. I had happy, freshman dreams.

But, for my roommate, the night was a little more stressful.

She woke in the middle of night, feeling hazy and confused, but absolutely, positively certain that there was someone in our room. Raising up onto her elbows, she looked across to where I was sleeping and saw him.

He was a man standing over the head of my bed and looking down at me.

"Hey!" my roommate called. "Sarah, wake up! Sarah! Sarah!"

Normally I jump up at the sound of my name being called, but on this night I slept through it. My roommate was too tired to feel afraid or fully process why there was a man standing in our room. Instead, she focused her weary brain on figuring out how he got in. She got up and tested the front door. Locked. Then, she tested the bathroom door. That one was open and it led into our suitemates' room. Someone could have entered from there. It still didn't explain why the man stood so silently and didn't respond to anything my roommate did. "Well," she thought, "I guess if he's just going to stand there, I'll go back to sleep." (Very loyal of her.)

Before doing so, she kicked her wallet under the bed so he wouldn't see it and be tempted to take it on his way out. Then, she crawled back under the covers and fell asleep.

The next morning she woke up with the incident fresh in her mind. Fully rested, she began to realize how strange it had been.

"Hey," she said to me, "I had the creepiest dream. I thought I saw a man standing at the head of your bed, looking down at you. It felt so real!"

I wondered whether someone could have actually come into our room. I had a stalker at the time and he'd done all sorts of creepy stuff, so it wasn't impossible to think that he might have snuck in and stared at me while I slept. But the more my roommate and I talked about it, the more we realized it must have been a dream. My desk was pressed up against the head of my bed and there wasn't room for anyone to stand there. We checked with our suitemates to see if they'd left their door unlocked, but they promised they hadn't. We lived on the third floor and no one could have climbed in the window.

"I guess that proves it," I said to my roommate. "You dreamt the whole thing."

But, instead of growing calmer, she got even more upset. "The more I think about it," she said, "The more real it feels. I must be going crazy. I saw him there! I really did!"

Knowing that my roommate tended to dramatize things, I didn't take her seriously. I tried to calm her down, then went about getting ready for the day. We moved on to other topics, boring things like lectures and tests. Then, on our way out the door, my roommate stopped.

"Wait," she said. "I can't find my wallet."

After turning our room inside out, she finally discovered it.

Under the bed.

Trying to keep my wits about me, I came up with explanations for why her wallet might be under the bed. Maybe she got up and kicked it in her sleep.

"But I never sleepwalk!"

Maybe she was playing a joke on me.

"I wouldn't do that!"

Maybe she accidently left it there the day before.

"I didn't!"

We left it unresolved. I stubbornly refused to believe that a ghost had entered our room, but, from that night onward, I slept with my head at the other side of the bed.

...

Happy Halloween!

It's an extrovert's world and I'm just living in it.

It's true, isn't it? Extroversion is so often seen as the desirable trait. Introverts have to learn how to overcome their introversion. Even writers are encouraged to overcome introverted tendencies because writing can be more about selling the product than creating the product. Writing! One of the most introverted of endeavors seems to favor those who are unafraid to approach strangers, network, self-promote, make friends easily, and cast aside any natural reticence. Yes, it's an extrovert's world and the rest of us have to scramble to keep up.

I've always viewed my introversion as a disability, something to be conquered or fixed.

Then my adorable hubby forwarded me this link. If you consider yourself an introvert, I urge you to take a look. The link provides some explanation as to why you might behave in certain ways. But, it also offers reassurance.

The part that particularly resonated with me was:

"Myth #10 - Introverts can fix themselves and become Extroverts.

A world without Introverts would be a world with few scientists, musicians, artists, poets, filmmakers, etc. That being said, there are still plenty of techniques an Extrovert can learn in order to interact with Introverts. (Yes, I reversed these two terms on purpose to show you how biased our society is.) Introverts cannot "fix themselves" and deserve respect for their natural temperament and contributions to the human race. In fact, one study (Silverman, 1986) showed that the percentage of introverts increases with IQ."

Not to say that we shouldn't strive to connect with our fellow humans, but isn't that just the most refreshing thing you've heard in ages? A simple acceptance and celebration of introverts. Yes, we're at a slight societal disadvantage, but there isn't anything wrong with us. It's just another way of being.

What about you? Are you introverted? If so, do you view it as an advantage or a disadvantage? What strategies have you developed to help deal with an increasingly extroverted world?

The First Time

What's the first story you remember writing? Somewhere around 4th grade I wrote a story about two girls discovering a life-sized sand castle on the beach, populated with evil sand people and a bunch of wacko prisoners. If you've seen the film Heavenly Creatures, the sand castle looked a lot like the one in the fantasy scenes. That story is still in my school file, which is probably why I remember it. Most of the stories I wrote as a kid involved either talking animals or kids walking through doorways to find themselves in secret lands. Kinda my theme. I also loved writing plays and forcing my friends to act them out. Yes, I was a bossy kid.

What about you? Did you enjoy writing as a kid? (I'm kind of assuming everyone here did). What were your favorite topics and themes? How far back can you remember the stories? Were there any writing assignments or projects that you particularly enjoyed?

You'll have to excuse my sporadic posting as of late. This time of year is crazy for all the dance teachers of America, as we spend most of our time in dark theaters crossing our fingers and holding our breath. A lot of my students graduated this year, which made recital especially emotional. I've taught some of these kids for eight years, if you can believe it. Crazy. I'm going to miss them all. They're a great group of dancers.

Also, I signed up for this awesome contest here and you should, too. Why? Because the prize is a critique by agent Victoria Marini. That's an amazing opportunity and, much as I loathe the thought of even more people signing up (competition! no!) you should do it. It'll be cool.

Reader's log:
46. The Graveyard Book -Neil Gaiman

The Big White Paper in the Studio

At the end of the school year we cover the studio mirrors with large sheets of white paper so the students can practice their dances without the benefit of their reflections. We also put a basket of crayons on the floor. You can probably imagine what comes next...

Two Harry Potters

Three Justin Beibers (one crossed out)

A slice of cheese (with cheese misspelled)

Eighty million kitty cats

Two Spongebobs

A herd of rainbow-colored puppies

A lot of bubble-faced smiling girls with bows on their heads

A zombie

An octopus (this is mine)

Way too many floating eyeballs (One proudly proclaims "I see you")

A piece of toast

A narwhale

etc.

By the time I left work last night, there wasn't much open space left over. The most notable thing about all of this is how excited the kids get when they enter the room and see all the drawings. They can't wait to make their mark, add their character to the vast sea of faces. Then, in classes to come, they proudly point out their drawing to anyone who will listen.

No grand conclusion. Just that it's really inspiring to see how excited they get over the mere act of creation. A crayon and some white paper. It doesn't matter if they're 5 or 18. Everyone goes immediately for the crayons. I think there's hope for us.

Reader's log:

45. Chime - Franny Billingsley

I Bring You Hope

This time of year can be rough. Eye twitching rough. As the school year wraps up it feels like emotions are high and people are on edge. Drivers are reckless. Everyone is whiny. The world is supposedly ending, but whoops, no, it isn't. Ha, ha. You want sun? Take some rain. Like the rain? Take some sun! Had your fill of rain? SUCK IT UP! Oh, and don't be surprised if the only road leading to your house is under construction.

Have you felt it? I'm positive this is worse than usual. It's been a weird year, full of ups and downs and strange events I can barely process. I got so pissed off at our government that I actually wrote a (pointless and ineffective) letter to the state. That's not something I normally do. I'm the calm one who doesn't get involved. Whatever is going on is going on within me. I am the crazy. We are the crazy.

I haven't gotten much writing done lately. Too many other things going on with my real job. Yes, if I wanted to I could find the time, but the focus and clarity haven't been there.

This is all leading somewhere.

This proves how desperately we need one thing.

Another muppet movie.

And there was joy throughout the land.

Reader's log:
42. The Other Side of the Island - Allegra Goodman

A Short(ish) Tale of Santiago, Chile

Hubby and I set out, tired and strong, to brave the city and crack open its covers. The sky is a blue so perfect we can barely believe in it; only a thin layer of smog makes it real. Up north we forget about cloudless days. Through the long winter we remember them only as fables.

But, we aren't up north. We're south, in a world where fans buzz through the night and windows crack open to admit the sounds and smells of the city. Our sneakers are dirty and all the clothes in our suitcases smell the same, like sunscreen, sweat, and lemons. It's morning and we're already sticky, but we don't mind.

We don't mind, because we have things to do! Places to see! A map covered in stars and a whole day to fill.

But, first, a fence. An iron slice between city and garden. Of course, we must explore. Was there ever any doubt? Three breaths and we're through the gate staring at what appears to be our own personal garden in the midst of the city. An ode to Japan where a koiless pond sits and a sign proclaims that there is no water.

A tiny man with a clipboard appears and demands that we sign his sheet. He's wearing a uniform, so we do, then watch as he wanders away. We continue.

The winding pathways are shadowed by trees, lined with stone walls, and dotted with the occasional terrace. Ivy covers everything, crawling through cracks and climbing up to meet the sun. We see no one, except for a couple vigorously making out on a stretch of lawn. We hurry on, giving them the privacy they obviously desire.

The garden is overgrown and crumbling. "This is so weird," we whisper and though neither of us verbalizes it, I know we're both half-waiting for a fawn or fairy to step out from the shadows. This can't be our world, the world of pavement, litter, and endless noise. Without even meaning to, we've entered the land we spent our whole childhoods trying to get to.

We keep circling, realizing that above us is a hill, with even more pathways. A few wrong turns and we find our way up. The path is never straight and sometimes it goes nowhere, meaing we have to turn back. A couple kisses on a bench carved out of a wall. Trees provide shade, but they also conceal what it is we're heading towards. Where are we going? We only know that we're going up. Whichever path leads upward, that's our way.

Up a row of stairs, onto a checkered landing and through a pair of stone pillars topped by lanterns and we find what we were looking for. A brick castle and a courtyard. Both are covered in ivy. Fountains spurt out water and venders sit in brightly colored booths waiting for tourists. Here are people at last, but still the world is hushed. Pairs wander, hand in hand.

We look around and see that the road hasn't ended.

The stones grow larger and odder, starting to fit together by accident instead of intention. Across a moat and we're at the final climb. But, the stairs are narrow and so deep. They wander all over the place, as though unsure of where they'd like to end. Wet spots are treacherous and I try not to think of what would happen if I, in my rubber flip flops, were to slip. Red flowers line the way. When I look up I can see archways, towers, and balustrades, all crumbling and all turning pink in the sunlight.

Then we're there, at the highest lookout. From every side the city is visible. We are in the middle of it all, staring out at a modern world from our ancient tower. We don't know what to say, because words are insufficient to describe the moment. Instead, we snap pictures, letting photographs stand in for statements, but looking through our camera viewfinders we know there is no way to capture it. Little snips, maybe, but this, the beauty, wonder and miracle of this moment, will only ever exist in our memories. I don't know what to think or feel, except joy. I hold my husband's hand and think, "This is why." Why what? Why everything.

And, that's how I spent my spring break.

Reader's log:

27. Sapphique - Catherine Fisher

28. Blue Bloods - Melissa De La Cruz

29. The Book Thief - Markus Zusak

30. Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman

31. If I Stay - Gayle Forman

Currently listening:

"Who You Are" - Jessie J

Old Houses

My great aunt and uncle had an extraordinary house. It was one of those mysterious, brick homes on a street lines with ancient trees that are more commonly found on the eastern part of the continent. The home had been in our family forever. We used to go visiting when we were in that part of the country. The house was wondrous enough to transform me from a hyperactive child who never shut up into an awestruck creature with enormous eyes. Walking through the front door was like walking into a book. The staircase was dark and narrow. We weren't allowed to climb it, because the upstairs had been converted into apartments and rented out.

My great aunt and uncle lived in the ground floor apartment to the left of the stairs. Our arrival was always greeted with the sharp, happy barks of Jacque, their little scottish terrier. My sister and I sat primly on the antique couch and looked up at portraits and paintings that were nothing like those in our friends' houses. When we used the bathroom we stepped gingerly over the puppy fence and stole glances of the ancient bedroom and kitchen. Everything smelled like linens, perfume, sunshine, and terrier.

I started having dreams about the house. In my mind the upper floors expanded to become an entire wonderland. My sister and I climbed up a little ladder in the bedroom and found ourselves running through room after room. There were secret passageways and seemingly no end to the parade of wonders. Like the downstairs apartment, the upstairs rooms with filled with curios from other eras, but without the dimming effect of time.

I loved those dreams, even when scary things chased me through the house. I loved to explore and push the limits of the dream to see exactly how large my imaginary world was. Every time I thought I'd come to the end of it, there was something new to discover. Another twist would lead me to a room I hadn't seen yet.

All of this to explain why I create. Curiosity. For me, the apartment below is my every day brain. The brain I don't have to work so hard to use. The one that has answers at the ready. The rest of the house is my creative brain and I'm determined to see exactly how far it stretches. Every time I make a dance or write a story I'm adding another room. Guess I'll keep going until I run out of space.

What about you? What were the things in your childhood that fascinated you? The places that seemed more like book worlds than reality? Do you think they spurred you on to a creative life?

Reader's log:

12. The Last Years of Nijinsky - Romola Nijinsky

The First Stories

They are the first stories we hear. Sometimes before we have the language to discern what is being said. They come at the end of a celebration or shared meal when everyone retires to comfortable chairs. Slowly at first, then more rapidly as one story sparks another. They're the same stories, year after year, but always told as though it is the first time.

The oral tradition is alive and well in many families.

What are the stories? Just moments with a little extra something. The highlights. The hooks. The slow build to a surprising finish. The occasional audacious choice or outburst. Pranks played or trouble diverted. Days that weren't like the others.

Even thought the stories are throughly modern, we are linked to the primitive in our means of conveying them. It doesn't matter that it is a coffee table and not a fire that we gather around. The shared experience of the telling brings us all to one point in time. A time when we are joined, we are truly a family, we see the same things, and battles are won on behalf of us all.

And that's how we learn to tell our own stories. The rhythms are established in us before we ever pick up a pencil.

What about you? Has your experience been the same? Do you carry your family's stories with you?

Reader's log:

8. The Blue Girl - Charles de Lint

7. The Road - Cormac McCarthy

6. What the Dickens - Gregory Maguire

Currently Listening:

Rolling in the Deep - Adele

Impossible Dreams

I can't be the only one who does this.

When I was about nine years old I got it into my head that I wanted to build a robot. Never mind the fact that science was never my strongest subject and I didn't know the first thing about robotics. I'd build a small radio for a school project (with lots of parental assistance) and I had been reading a book about a kid my age making a robot. So, if this fictional boy could do it, why not me?

I had a foolproof plan that involved collecting lots of mechanical-looking parts and reading my dad's collection of science books from the sixties. My robot was going to be awesome. He was going to talk and move around and have lots of different flashing lights. I read the book on electricity first, because it seemed like the best place to start. By the time I got to the book on biology, things started looking a little, well, impossible. I don't know exactly what I expected to find. Maybe a recipe for making a robot. Something as clear as a recipe for banana bread. Add this, and this, and this, bake for a while, and presto! Robot!

I gave up.

If you think I outgrew this particular quixotic tendency... you would be wrong. It happened over and over again. I was going to sew myself an entire wardrobe of highly fashionable clothing. I was going to learn to speak elvish. Meet and learn something about every single person on campus. Whatever the goal was, I threw myself into it with relentless enthusiasm.

Then came the inevitable backlash. The moment when I realized that whatever I was working toward was either a) too difficult for me, or b) probably not worth the effort. Months later someone would ask me how I was doing with my goal and I would mumble incoherently and walk away.

Those were the little goals. Bigger goals I tend to stubbornly stick with, but, as of yet, I'm still not sure if they fall into the category of "impossible." How do you know? How do you know if the thing you're trying to accomplish is truly impossible, or just really, really, really hard? I had one teacher who insisted that if we want something, then we can make it happen. It's just a matter of trying hard enough. I don't think I believe that. I believe that even if you want something with all your heart and work as hard as you can to achieve it, you still might not. Dreams die and hopes are crushed. The world is bigger than us and it does not always conform to our whims.

Sometimes at the studio we have to give a certain speech. A student will announce their desire to be a prima ballerina, or express a dream to make dance their career. We have to tell them how impractical this is. We have to explain exactly how difficult dance is - that it is probably the most difficult and impractical career they could choose. They probably won't make it. They'll wait tables through their twenties until they realize they have no money set aside for retirement and decide to do something profitable. Or, they might get injured right off the bat and find themselves with no college degree in a merciless economy. Even if they do get into a top tier company, money will always be tight. Relationships will always be hard. Most of the world will have no understanding of what you do. Anyone with an ounce of practicality should do something else. Anything else.

But, sometimes you can't. Sometimes you don't care. Sometimes you go for it anyways. And, you probably will fail. But, something makes you try. It is more than the complete and utter love for what you are trying to do. It is because there is a 0.000001 percent chance that you'll succeed, and you know that is enough.

Because you know no dream is impossible.

Thanks for reading!

Reader's log:

4. Graceling - Kristin Cashore

Currently listening:

Byzantium Underground - Jesse Cook