There is a saying that goes, “Never ask God for patience.” I would like to amend that to say, “Never ask God to help you become more humble.”
He will. He totally will.
There is absolutely nothing more humbling than cleaning a toilet.
No, wait.
There is absolutely nothing more humbling than cleaning a toilet that isn’t yours.
Hang on.
There is absolutely nothing more humbling than cleaning a toilet that isn’t yours in three separate locations. Six times. In one day.
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Last year, I was part of a four person team that created a new community theatre here in my hometown. (www.thetheatredownstream.com) I’ve written about the experience a few times, and how rewarding/enriching/tough it was, and has been. We even created a web series documenting our progress from first production meeting to final dress rehearsal. See the first episode here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KuAZg_ayNWE
If you view the series in its entirety, or especially those first few webisodes, you’ll notice how one of the problems that plagued us last summer was the lack of a corporate sponsor. A corporate sponsor, for those not in the know, gives you a large(ish) chunk of money up front to help you fund your show expenses. (Paying the musician, stage manager, prop or costume costs, printing costs, etc). This enables you to make more profit on ticket sales to be used to help fund future larger shows, such as musicals.
In return for their financial contribution, you shower them with perks such as their name on all advertising material, including the poster and program, complimentary tickets, a poster signed by the entire cast and crew presented opening night to a company representative, your unending, undying devotion and the right to name your first born.
Minor things like that. It’s a small price to pay to help a fledgling theatre get off the ground.
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It was a terrible day to begin work. I was numb with sleepiness. Literally, mind-numbingly numb. I thought I had gotten plenty of sleep the night before. I’m not one for napping, but my body was begging me to put it down. My maroon and cream Sherpa comforter and cream colored flannel sheets were like a siren on the rocks, calling to me, luring me to their cloud-like comfort. “It’s chilly in the house and the bed is a warm, soft, haven of happiness,” they cooed. “Just close your eyes for a minute. You won’t sleep long.”
Instead, I marched myself out of the bedroom and into my office, put Pandora on the “Mumford and Sons” station, selected five novels to use as a guide, fixed a giant cup of caffeinated Vanilla Caramel hot tea (with NO sweetener, lest I be lulled into a sugar coma) and spread out my printed manuscript.
The novels I chose were the novelization of a film and a fiction manuscript from our previous publisher, my mother’s self published novel, “One Life,” the book I’m currently reading, “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed, and my mascot novel, “The Help” by Kathryn Stockett.
I pulled up the file for the book on my computer, noting ruefully that it had last been edited on July 7, 2014. I consulted each book by opening it to the very first page. I had assumed the title page would be the first thing I’d see. Actually, it universally seemed to be the page consisting of reviews and snippets of praise for the book. No problem! We already had that, only ours was called ‘Endorsements.’ I carefully copied and pasted the endorsements we had gathered and put them ahead of the table of contents I had already listed in the book. First step, done!
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Now that we’ve fully accepted the rejection of our manuscript from the printer by eating our comfort food, venting our true feelings, and staring numbly into space, we need to move on.
Rachael and I exchanged a flurry of phone calls and text messages when the news broke, culminating in a two plus hour meeting going over the manuscript and discussing our options. There were several on the table, but only one that we both felt comfortable with.
Self-publishing.
Not that we don’t want to send off the manuscript to other publishers, or that we think it will get turned down. We do, and we don’t know. It might get turned down, it might not.
Mostly, it comes down to timing. If our last experience is any indication, if we sent the book off and got accepted by another publisher this very week, it could be a year to eighteen months before it is actually printed and released. This September, it will be the five year anniversary of the start of filming “No Lost Cause.”
When we penned the book, it had only been three. If things don’t happen soon, our cute little “Behind the Scenes” companion piece to the movie is going to be better categorized as a memoir.
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If you’ve ever wondered about the power of positive words, allow me to reintroduce Simon. For those of you who haven’t yet met him, look no further than the article entitled, “Simon Sees A Murder.” It’s two below this one. I’ll wait while you catch up.
………..
Great. Now that you know how he feels about bath time, let me tell you a little bit more about his origin story. When I would visit him at the Humane Society before adopting him, he would run to me, leap into my lap, flip over on his back and purr. I was assured that he had ‘chosen’ me for his owner, and it seemed that was true.
Love means exposing your belly and hanging upside down.
However, when I took him home, something strange happened. He got tiny bumps all over his little body, and whenever I would try to pet him, he would purr furiously and LOUDLY, but immediately begin to choke and run away. I took him to the vet, got some medicine, and his bumps cleared up, but not the purr/choke issue.
I finally figured out that when I tried to pet him, he became so overwhelmed with happiness, that his purr motor was ‘overheating’ and choking him, thus causing him to run away.
He was literally becoming allergic to love.
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As someone who seemingly has unceasing dreams and aspirations, I can honestly say I understand the drive, the passion and the insanity that a big dream, or even a calling, can inflict upon the poor soul who dared to have it in the first place.
In 2012, my mother, Rebekah, was inflicted by such a calling. She called me and told me she had an idea for a story, maybe even a novel. She outlined the whole thing for me and then laughed as she told me I should write it for her. To her shock and dismay, I turned her down. “That’s the thing about a dream, Mom. It has to be lived out by the person who has it. Nobody else can do it for you.”
“But I don’t know how!” she replied. I reminded her that my first film was made with little more knowledge than that. But I learned along the way, and there was one thing I was certain of. If I could do it, she could do it. While I knew it would be scary for her, I also knew that there was no replacement for the euphoria she would feel when she finished. Even if, as she said she feared, no one ever read it, it would be her own personal scaled mountain.
And the view would be glorious.
Once she realized I was serious when I said I wasn’t going to write it for her, she decided she would tackle that mountain. On December 27th, 2012, she began her story.
Now, December 27, 2014, exactly two years, and hundreds of hours of writing, researching, and rewriting later, not only does she have a completed book, but she has a SECOND book fully drafted. On November 1st of this year, she entered NaNoWriMo, which is short for “National Novel Writing Month.” The goal is to draft a 50k word novel in 30 days or less.
She finished in 21.
Back in July, I asked her to sit down and answer a few questions about the book. I told her I would publish them when the book became available. This is that interview.
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“If ever we are going to be made into wine, we will have to be crushed; you cannot drink grapes. Grapes become wine only when they have been squeezed.”– Oswald Chambers, My Utmost For His Highest.
Today’s weather has been a gift.
Four years ago, on October 2 and 3 of 2010, I was part of the production team shooting two scenes for my very first independent feature film, No Lost Cause. The weather was abysmal. Overcast skies tinted everything a pale blue-grey, and the air had moved beyond crisp and autumnal into the slicing cold of deepest winter.
The scene called for our actors to play basketball, while wearing shorts and sleeveless tops. The crew was in heavy overcoats and wrapped in layers and these two men were left with the acting job of their young lives: warm.
There were many shooting days, but these two stand out because they were the absolute worst weather we experienced, and October 3 is my Grandfather’s birthday. Which is why I notice the weather today and why I am particularly reveling in it’s balmy breeze. I’ve left the window open nearly all day, and I’ve made the time to sit on my front porch and read…soaking in the last possible heat before another rumored long and difficult winter begins.
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Today is my half-birthday. If you were born in the frozen tundra of late February like I was, you might understand why, while I don’t necessarily celebrate it, I do enjoy acknowledging the day. I spent it with some of the people I love, doing things I love.
It’s also begins the six month countdown to the middle of my thirties. The first five years (so far) have been full of unexpected adventure and some incredible sadness. I started working in film, co-authored a book, flew in a plane for the first time, traveled (a lot!) went back to acting on the stage after a very long hiatus, co-founded a theatre, and gained a surrogate niece. I also lost my two very best furry friends and my Grandmother.
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Back in May, I bought a bunch of flowers for my front porch. I don’t have a very green thumb, so I have to buy things that will grow despite me, not because of me. Most of my flowers have done really well…a few have withered, but most have flourished without incident.
Except for the little yellow flower in the white pot. I found a pretty wrought iron flower stand in the garage and a a pot that “just fit.” I selected just the right flower to put in the pot and landed on a pretty yellow one. It seemed happy, and something I’d like visitors to look at before they walked through the front door. A perfect little flower in a perfect little pot.
Had I but known.
“Success is walking from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.” ~Winston Churchill
Ashley Raymer-Brown 