The Character Arc of Covid

Who are we, and what do we stand for?

As a writer, this is an important question to answer about your characters before writing a single word—the “who” and “what” is the central basis of why our characters do anything. If you don’t know the answers–you’re going to have an uphill battle in the piece you’re writing.

This is a conversation I recently had with my twelve-year-old son. At school, he’s learning about “The Hero’s Journey,” which is, by far, the most epic of all plot journeys. But my child is unimpressed. He has no urge to watch Frodo and Sam hike across Middle Earth to Mount Doom. He has even less interest in knowing the story of Katniss Everdeen. His one passion and love are comic strips–and character arc is the enemy of a good comic strip. Can you imagine Garfield deciding it is time to treat John and Odie with love and respect? Or if he went on a diet and gave up lasagna? This would mark the end of Garfield’s antics and laughter because no one tunes in to see him change. They keep reading to watch him mess up. This deep love of comic strips or slapstick driven stories makes it difficult to explain what a character arc is and why it’s crucial to story craft. So I did what I know he’ll understand the best–and I made it about him.

As in writing, so is in life. While Garfield had better never changed, I know for sure, my son will. It’s a natural character arc. He will grow up and move out, etc. But that’s too far off, so I picked something much closer: the Covid pandemic and 2020 in general.

My son and I have witnessed much in the decade+ years of his life, but there has been nothing like Covid before now. This is true for all of humankind.

We’ve been hit with an event so large, we’re simultaneously being forced through the grinder of life. In short, we have to learn, adapt, and grow to archive and survive. Early this month, LA Magazine published an article stating that “According to 28 American and British historians surveyed by virtual therapy company Bloom, 2020 was one of the most stressful years in history. The historians ranked this year among the top ten most stressful both in U.S. and world history, just below years marred by tragedies such as the American Civil War, the Black Death, the Holocaust, and the sack of Rome.” After each of these events, came great change.

This extraordinary time has forced us to twist, bend, mold, and shove ourselves into new versions of our old lives. Our jobs have changedOur schools have gone online. How we socialize is entirely different, from staying connected with friends and family to meet that “special someone” it’s not like it used to be–even a little. At the same time, divorce is on the rise, “For some couples, pandemic friction has involved a few more fights about the laundry or the savings account. For others, the lockdown has exposed issues that run deeper and offered ample time for reflection, leaving them to wonder about their options for pursuing separation during the pandemic.” We’ve seen those we love get sick and die. We’ve seen chaos. We’ve been abandoned. We’ve been picked back up. It’s been a nonstop roller coaster for going on a year here in America–and the rest of the world.

So, of all the things we may never have in common–we have this. We have Covid-19, and we have how Covid-19 has changed us. We have grown as people. In great depths, we have learned if our relationships with ourselves, our partners, our friends, our families are the real deal. Will they last? Are the bonds we’ve cultivated strong enough to keep us together? And we have learned if it’s time to sever ties and move on.

I am barely scratching the surface with my examples. But no matter who you are, I’m certain you have had a major character arc in your life story. I can say this with certainty: We are not now, nor will we ever be who we were before 2020 and Covid-19. Even if you thought your life was fine how it was, you have grown, you have changed, and you are no You 2.0.

After speaking with my son, I asked this question on Facebook, “What has been your Covid-19 story arc?” and only received one reply–so I’ll accept that maybe we aren’t ready to divulge such a personal answer publicly. Or, maybe you haven’t thought about it, but I’m telling you, you should.

What is your arc? How have you changed? How has the Covid pandemic touched you? As I used this example with my son, I saw a light bulb flip on. From something as simple as, “I’m a foot taller than I was before Covid,” to something more emotional, “I’ve learned it’s hard to be so isolated,” we all have a story to tell.

If you’re a writer, self-examination is a fantastic way to learn who you are as a writer and who your characters are. Yes, you should read, read, read, and you should write, write, write–but taking a moment to be introspective about who you are, what your journey has been, how you have changed–and what emotions were involved will also help you grow in your craft.

If there is one positive thing you can take from 2020, Covid-19, and what it has done to us as a global society, it’s using this time to know who you are, what you want, and why you want it. These things can unite us and help us grow stronger, and if you nail a perfect Character Arc in the process, good job you.

And if you don’t want to–Garfield hasn’t changed much since 1978. It’s okay if you haven’t either.

Life. The Universe. And COVID-19.

Back in the ’90s, if you would have told me I’d live through a plague, I wouldn’t have believed you. I would have said, “You’re crazy!” shook my head, assumed you were trying to pull a fast one and sighed audibly at your attempt. A decade before that, somewhere in the ’80s, you would have received a better response if you told me the same. Growing up, I was a good catholic girl and had read about plenty of plagues. There were locusts and water that turned to blood, frogs fell from the sky, flies, boils, and hail, to name a few. So, if you said, “Aryn, one day, you’ll live through an honest to God plague!” I would have conjured an image of Moses or God or some other biblical entity and been like, “That’s totally awesome!”

Because even in the bible–plagues are sexy. 

Now, if you weren’t raised reading the Catholic Bible, or any religious books at all, you’re still not ignorant to plagues. You’ve heard of the Black Death. Also a sexy plague. Sexy because it didn’t happen to you. Sexy in a “Man, why were they so dumb? I’m smarter than that!” way. Then, you would think about the Spanish Flu.1918. End of World War I. Also sexy, in a “that’s crazy” kind of way. 

And now, in 2020, here we are in the middle of a plague–and you know what? It’s not sexy in any way at all. However, it may be sexist or racists, depending on who you are. But for everyone, it is mostly depressing.

Even with my love of history and a general understanding of how cyclical it is, I attached myself to the idea that something like a plague could never happen to me. Still, I’ll give myself, and all of you, a pass for not predicting the last, nearly ten months of pandemic bliss on planet earth.

But! And this is a big but, while I can give us all a collective pass on not anticipating a global pandemic of this magnitude in our lifetime, I’m having a hard time giving a pass for how humanity has dealt with it. 

Since March 13th, I have lost my job and been at home with minimal to no venturing outside. If you know me personally, you’ll have a general understanding of how hard this is for me. In the pre-COVID world, I planned my child’s life around his school breaks to include so many day trips, we’re out in the world more than we’re stuck in our apartment. As this plague pulls longer and longer, and the number of times I’ve had to explain to him that COVID-19 is not my personal doing and I’m not intentionally keeping him at home out of punishment for something he said/did is wearing on me, heart and soul. 

Since the beginning, I have spent my days playing schoolmarm, being a best friend, a play companion, a parent, and a cook to a twelve-year-old who ended fifth grade in quarantine and started middle school–at a new school–the same way. In between those moments, I squeezed in workouts, chatted up people on social media, joined a writing critique group, and worked on writing projects and pieces via google drive–because it’s easier to use a platform I can seamlessly jump from device to device. I’ve grown accustomed to drinking too much coffee during the day, too much alcohol at night, and then sleeping too little after that because, as it turns out–none of this is sexy. I have remained inside my apartment nearly all day, every day, for 289 days. When I do go out, I wear my mask, even when I’m jogging. If I’m at the grocery store, I wear latex gloves to be extra safe. 

Some days I’m so crabby I turn off all devices and do nothing but the mom bit. Other days I cuddle my dog and listen to music. The Gods created headphones for this very thing. 

To put it plainly, I am tired. Still, I remind myself I am fortunate. 

I’ve watched the rise of domestic violence in our country; the proof is in police blogs and daily newspapers listed as “murder-suicides.” (Rise in child abuse and abandonment as well.) I’ve monitored how the opioid crisis no one seems to talk about anymore is also taking more and more lives during this time of isolation. Then there is the massive hike in homelessness not only in Los Angeles but across the country as a whole, on top of suicide rates topping the charts. 

I know I am lucky, even if that luck does feel more like survivor’s guilt, the longer this plague continues. Antsy. Tired. Angry. I stay in quarantine to ensure the safety of my family and of those who can’t stay home because they’re essential workers.  

Then I see all the people who don’t stay at home. Those who go to parties and are traveling from one state to another. The people who are hosting picnics and barbeques for birthdays and graduation. And all those who refuse to wear their masks because they believe rantings on Facebook over scientific data. Then, I get angry. 

While I use the word lucky attached to my life, it hasn’t been easy. None of this is easy for any of us. The only difference is how we deal with it. That is the part I’m having issues forgiving. Out one side of everyone’s mouths, we cry for this pandemic to end, and then out the other side, we have that choice to do something about it: stay home or go out.

Back in the ’90s, if you’d known and told me about COVID-19, I wouldn’t have believed you. Right now, as I live through COVID-19 day in and out, I believe every word of it. I also think I’ve had the wrong picture of humanity wedged in my brain all of my life. I embraced the term, “Avoid it like the plague,” not realizing that people would say no when it happened. “I’ll be careful.” “It can’t touch me.” “But, it’s the holidays.” Through all of this, I have learned that we have come to sacrifice community wellness for individual comforts. This idea of embracing ourselves over society has happened for such a long time we can no longer see humankind as part of a global neighborhood. We no longer can accept that sometimes we should do what’s right for everyone–even if the immediate benefits isn’t our own. 

The next leg of this plague for me, I will be working through all this because I don’t want to live in a world where people pick the selfishness of a single moment over kindness for longevity. I’d rather be part of a world where we tip essential workers; we miss this holiday so we can be together at the next one; we believe scientists and doctors, so this pandemic ends. 

So, maybe I didn’t know what 2020 had in store for the world, but I have always believed it’s best to give humankind the benefit of the doubt. So, while I juggle with these emotions, please, be safe, wear a mask, stay home as much as you can. Know, you’re not alone in this. We’ve made it nine months; we can be strong a little longer. 

2 + 2 = Dizzy

It has been 9 months since I lost my job and have been home, every single day.

That’s 268 days of me trying to figure out how to use this “down time” to work on writing. Sad reality is… there is now “down time.”

Yet, here I am, 6432 hours into something that was supposed to last “three weeks.”

385,920 minutes of a situation so repetitive I feel I shouldn’t be moving forward–maybe I’m not moving forward–maybe I’m just spinning in circles. I’ve become a broken clock that twirls on a pin attacked to a cog that isn’t touching anything else.

Well, damn. I guess that’s a top. I am a top.

Yes, sirs and ma’ams, theys and thems — 23,155,200 seconds of me going round and round and round and round… no wonder I’m so damn dizzy.

The world is a blur that has lost its color, pigment drained from the thick black lines outlining what I’d come to perceive as my reality. I’ve found myself missing something I wasn’t sure I liked in the first place–but it’s is the something I knew, the something that was comfortable.

Spinning isn’t comfortable.

Especially without color.

Now, if you’re wondering what is the point of this post? I supposed it’s me sharing with you that I’m not okay. I’m just okay enough. I would say I’m fine but that’s a complete lie and I could say I’m terrible, but it’s not that bad. It’s just the spinning.

One day I hope to post about writing (because I’m still writing) or about books I’m reading (because I’m reading two at this moment — one by Nico Walker and the other by Joe Hill.) Words form in my head to describe them to me but not in my mouth to describe them to you.

Guess I’ll just keep on spinning and hope when I fall the couch is at my side, and I tip in the right direction. Until then, this is me saying, if you’re not okay, you welcome to be not okay with me–we can be not okay together. Until we’re all okay again.

Best,

AS

Never have I ever…

Never have I ever: thought I would see the world in such disarray. I never thought I’d live in a time where I watched my neighbors dance in the street in utter happiness as the last president was voted out. It reminds me of many a history video of a fallen regime and the citizens dancing with joy.

Never have I ever… but it happened.

Never have I ever cried so hard at all the nothing around me because my last nerve balanced my life on its tiny end. Points of pain became so numb I didn’t realize I was bruised and bleeding.

Never have I ever… but I was. I am.

I’ve spent most of the past week working through more emotions than I should have ever felt in the last four years — yet they all came at once. My workout sessions have transformed into mini-self-therapy modules where I jump, squat, bargain, cry, push up, lift, grow angry, and cry some more. And now, other emotions are wiggling their way out of the compartments I tucked them into.

Today, the death of a friend who passed in February hit me hard. Her face popped into my brain as I pressed weights above my head. There she was — right there — floating above me. At first, I talked to her in my head, and then it was a rapid unraveling. She died two weeks before quarantine began a month before her birthday.

And I thought — Never have I ever processed your death, dear friend — I just kept moving. Now, as I exhale for the first time in forever, here you are. I’m sorry.

I have so many plates spinning in the air. It’s my fault; I forgot to count how many I tossed up there and kept adding to them. Now my neck hurts from looking up.

Never have I ever been expected to keep going when it’s so obvious I need to stop. But I can’t stop. There is no stopping. Stopping is certain death, I’m sure of it.

Yet, I worry what the next feeling, memory, a moment will push its way free as I fumble around doing side-planks and whatever is on my HIIT routine that day. What else have I forgotten? I fear it’s so much that I’ll be trapped in 2020 well into 2021.

Never have I ever wanted to celebrate a new year as I do this year in the desert with the roadrunners and coyotes. That’s where perfection is — nature.

A scheduled transformation, sitting on my calendar, reminding me — life’s not all bad.

Never have I ever learned SO MUCH in such a short amount of time. As I process all the things I’ve tuck away, I know that I can process some more.

One burpee at a time. One cry at a time. One apology at a time. With knowing this, I can say:

Never have I ever wanted to be right where I am — at this exact moment. My hand was forced. It will continue to be pushed. With each new memory left to handle, I become a better version of myself.

Never have I ever wanted to play witness to a world on fire. For I would have happily remain in my make-believe land, prancing a joyful dance in long skirts as I hum along to Frederic Chopin’s waltz no.3 in A minor. But, someone struck a match, and left me no choice but to participate in the birth of tomorrow.

Never have I ever… but it burns, and it burns. I spin, and I spin. The world transforms — and no one can stop it.

Never have I ever thought I wanted any of this — until I was left with out a choice — then I did.

Never have I ever, until now.

Art in the time of Covid

This topic was presented to me the other day. If I’m honest, this topic has been tossed my way on more than one occasion since March of 2020. How do you create when the world feels as if it’s crumbling around you? So, I thought I’d write about it.


The real question is: How do you do anything outside of running the motions of day to day survival?


If you do a google search, myriad posts with resources, tips, and tricks to get you back at it, bullet points on what to write about, and on and on will pop up. But do they actually provide answers? I guess. They say something — I didn’t find any of them helpful. Mostly I found them to create more anxiety.
So I ignored them.


For me, these last eight months have been an emotional roller coaster in every aspect of my life. Like so many others, I lost my job. For the first time in all of my years of working, I applied for unemployment. My son no longer goes to school. His last year of fifth grade was meant to end in fanfare with a send-off celebration and a special yearbook (that he never received); instead, it ended in tears. My husband has been working from home. Gone are the days of teaching yoga. Gone are the days of writing at 5am Writers Clubs — because I can’t get out of bed. Gone are my morning/afternoons of writing, plotting, editing, researching — basically being a writer.


The life I had was lost.


Then all the internal changes began. Did I even want the life I had? Did that life make me happy? Was I running through the motions back then, or am I now — or am I running through the motions of my life in general?


It was a real-time Waking Life — Existential — I got drunk/high for the first time and saw god in the broken tail light of my best friends Buick — crisis; but now, I was having it as an adult, sober, while doing a YouTube HIIT class in the small space between the end of my bed and the wall.

Do I really miss the students who go above and beyond to correct me while I’m teaching? Nope. Do I miss being in traffic? Nope. Do I miss carving up my writing time to construct classes? Nope. Do I miss my seniors? Yes. Because they’re fun. 80-year-olds are fun. If you disagree, you need to talk to more 80-year-olds.


My exercise routine went from 2-3 times a week to 2-3 times a day. My best days are a solid 1.5-2 hours stretches. This is when I have my most significant “moments.” This is when I can think without interruptions.


This was when I had my “how to create art during a pandemic” moment. It went a little like this:


I’ve been writing for my whole life — but I have always found a reason not to write. Pre-child, it was because I was socializing too much. Post child it was because of the child — and I still was socializing too much. Then we moved to Los Angeles, and my first round of isolation began. 2011.


This was my first time genuinely dealing with isolation — the only human contact I had for more than a couple hours at the beginning and end of the day was my 3-year-old. This isolation lasted nearly three years until he started Kindergarten. Then, his isolation ended. Mine lingered.
Because after three years of living inside your own head — it’s really, really hard to get out. (I learned to hate myself on levels I didn’t know existed. I was never good enough. I was never smart enough. I was never skinny enough. Fun enough. Witty enough. Never watched the right shows/tv. Never read the right books/poems/essays. Never.)

Most of 2018 & 2019 were spent fixing all of those Nevers. Then Covid hit — but Now I knew better.


Those three+ years are what I reference as an emotional gauge during this time of Covid. I watched myself shrivel into prune of my old self the last time around — as I lost total confidence in who I was and what I wanted — I kept a journal (mental and physical) documenting this dive into the underworld of my brain. Now, I refer back to those moments so I don’t do that again. Now, I know there is another end of the tunnel — because I walked through it before.

These bits of knowledge have kept me from totally drowning this time around. Also, one thing that is majorly different during this period of isolation is, I know I’m not alone in it. It’s more challenging to accept isolation when others are so free and moving around. During Covid I know in my cells we’re all in this shit-show together.


I am not alone.
You are not alone.


But how does any of that help you create? It doesn’t.
Are there ways to help you create? I’ve found two:

1 – You must grieve. All of the steps. You need to cry. You need to get angry. You need to accept you can’t change things. You have to let go. You have to move on. Until you can move on – you need to repeat the steps. You need to GRIEVE. Completely. Totally. 100%. Cry. Cry until you can’t any more. Then cry again.

2 – You need to accept that without control — all you can do is be. Be in this moment. Think about the things you would normally not think about. How things piss you off. What things trigger you. When do you do your best creating?

There is no contest or competition. The only person you’re competing against is yourself. And, this is a big one, if you still can’t create — it doesn’t matter. You’re still an artist. You’re still a creator. You’re still you. We all have our own process at writing, creating, living, being — honor it. Embrace it.

So, back to the top: How do you do anything outside of running the motions of day to day survival? You breathe. You live in this moment, not one from last year, not one that might be in your future–you embrace the heck of RIGHT NOW. And if you end up writing — good job you!! And if you don’t — good job you! Because you’ve made it this far. You’ll make it farther. I promise. You’re not alone.

xo-AS

Show vs Tell

1973-cabaret

I watched this gem of a film last night and hate to say it, but it was my first time checking it out. A classic film and musical, directed by the late Bob Fosse, Cabaret was nominated (and won) many Academy Awards–losing Best Film to The Godfather. (Also a great film and amazing read.)

Unlike The Godfather, I haven’t read the original, short-story, novel version of Cabaret (yet). Goodbye to Berlin was written by Christopher Isherwood in the early 1930’s, as Germany morphed from a liberal, open, artistic city, into the breeding ground for the Third Reich.

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Now, if you go to IMDb and looked up Cabaret, the description reads, “A female girlie club entertainer in Weimar Republic era Berlin romances two men while the Nazi Party rises to power around them.”

And if you head over to GoodReads and check out Goodbye to Berlin, it reads, “In linked short stories, he says goodbye to Sally Bowles, to Fraulein Schroeder, to pranksters, perverts, political manipulators; to the very, very guilty and to the dwindling band of innocents. It is goodbye to a Berlin wild, wicked, breathtaking, decadent beyond belief and already – in the years between the wars – welcoming death in through the door, though more with a wink than a whimper.

GoodReads description is much more accurate than the Hollywood neutralization of the film. In 1972, the war had only been over for 27 years. The deep cut of what took place was still felt by many, in a way, only first hand survivors can relive. (Unlike now, where it’s all text books and films to remind us of the horrors of WW2.)

The amount of films that tackle this subject is long, to say the least. Each years since 1945, has produced film, after film, after film (book after book, television show, after television show, etc.)–attempting to capture the horrors of the war from one angle or another.

in 1931–as Isherwood lived in the slow absorption of nazism in Berlin–watching the wild and decadent city he loved so much, become the backdrop for hate and horrors. When the book was published in 1934–American talked about these sort of things in comments quickly forgotten as they dealt with more important, local, issues–like the great depression.

But, the great depression was everywhere–not just in America. Which is also seen in Cabaret. The divide between Rich and Poor.

Now, as a writer–Showing vs Telling comes up a LOT. Personally, I feel both are needed from time to time. Sometimes, we need to tell our audience things–so we can get onto our next great Showy part. This is a personal opinion, and–if you’ve ever submitted a query to any agent in all the literary land–you probably have learned that, “Opinions are subjective,” and very from agent to agent. So, while you may not agree with me on the combination of the two–that’s okay!

But, back to Cabaret. As I watched the film last night, the story unfolds about the relationship between Sally Bowles (Liza Minnelli) and Brian Roberts (Michael York.) Each pivotal moment being punctuated by a musical number at the Cabaret Miss Bowles works at. As you follow them along their complicated relationship, you watch the world around them transform: from the opening, mirrored credits, to the final mirrored ending.

Never once do they say: Sally is hungry. Instead, each time there is food, she pounces on it. They never say, Sally is poor, but she wears the same clothes over and over again.

They never SAY directly, what is happening in Berlin. But you see Nazi uniforms arrive, at first, getting kicked out of the Cabaret–later, in larger and larger numbers. The blood and violence grows in time with tension of Sally and Brian’s unconventional relationship–until it all comes to a head and pops.

Now, for a writer of short stories and books–I’m a rather visual person. I enjoy watching and seeing stories as much as I do reading them, which is why I’m suggesting Cabaret as a successful example of Showing a major transformation, rather than simply saying, “This happens and this and then a little more of this.” Is it possible to execute the same effect on the page? I really do think so. It’s hard to get away from Telling your stories, at first. But that’s what editing is for. Second, third, and fourth drafts are where the true magic happens–when you take a story you’ve told and mold it into a cacophony of sound, tastes, and textures. Overloading more senses than the eyes–adding depth to your words, your surroundings–and really capturing the essence of a story all the way into its bones.

I mean, that’s the real different between showing and telling, isn’t it? In one you’re saying–IT WAS JUST LIKE THIS. In the other, you’re hinting to what it’s like with thread barren shirt cuffs, unwashed sheets, the copper scent of blood; boots on pavement that rattle up your spin, laughter so thick its contagious, and more and more and more.

If you haven’t seen Cabaret–it’s free on Netflix (and most certainly available at your local library.) I recommend it on many levels–for Showing vs Telling, Character development, a world slipping in the background. It’s a real treat, and deserved all the awards it won back in 1973.

Now, go enjoy a good film while I start reading, Goodbye Berlin–which I hope to blog about soon. (Or now. Who knows. Only time will tell…)

 

Happy Reading!

Aryn

About last night…

Once upon a time… I’ve never actually started a story with those words, not outside the ones in my head. In the real world, the world living on a computer screen and scraps of paper in my car’s glove box, most of my stories start mid-action. “Here I am!” my character’s say. “THIS IS GONNA BE A FUN RIDE!”

Sometimes, that is the honest truth. Others, it’s a lie, lie, lie… But does it matter? No. For I have written and everything is right in the world–for that one moment.

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circa 1982-83

I started writing a long time a go. But not seriously. I refused to take myself seriously–because I knew (deep down) I wasn’t good enough. The little voices I’d allowed to crawl into my head ate at my confidence like a necrotizing fasciitis. And I believed them.

Until I didn’t.

Until I decided to ignore them and to keep trying anyway.

It took awhile to get there.

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circa 1997

 

And life kept happening around me.

I’d say, “One day, I’ll write.” or “One day, I’ll be a writer.”

The push kept pushing–but the fear was more than I could manage for a long time. With a million and one, distractions along the way…

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I “one day’d” myself to death….

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But then I took a chance and I stopped saying “one day.” Maybe I didn’t start with, Once upon a time, but I tapped out letter after letter, word after word–IGNORING–the acid voice in my brain that says things like, “Well, aren’t you trendy?” or “You know someone else tried that already. What makes you so special?”

I DID IT ANYWAY!

And I sent it out via the magically world of the internet–and someone said yes.

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Made in L.A. Writers at The Last Bookstore in DTLA

I don’t know what “making it” looks like to you–but last night was pretty spectacular. And, the voices were quiet.

The voices ARE quiet.

Because–

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It’s not always a fairy tale, but what’s so bad about that? Who wants a fairy tale when you can make new friends who lift you up as you try to lift them up, too? Not me.

“Once upon a time, there was a woman who always thought she couldn’t. But then, one day, she did.”

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circa last night

 

The End

(visit: Madeinlawriters.com for more information about Volumes 1 & 2 of the Made in L.A. Anthology.)

Made in L.A. – Chasing the Elusive Dream

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Cover design by Allison Rose

I’ve been sitting on this one for a while now but it’s time to share. I have a short story coming out in the soon to be released anthology, ‘Made in L.A.: Chasing the Elusive Dream.’

It’s a collection of stories written by thirteen local Los Angelenos and I’m honored to be sharing the pages of this anthology with them and will post more about them, the anthology, the L.A. Times Festival of Books (where the book will be launching from), and how you can buy a copy soon!

For more in depth information right this second go here and check out the Made in L.A. official website.

xxoo – A

Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

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Once upon a time, there was a woman, and she had dreams…

Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

She loved to soak herself in them like the warmest, most perfect bath, ever drawn.

Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

Wisps of them–the dreams–wafted off her much like morning dew on a warm summers morning. She loved every second of them. Every single moment of those dreams. They were her happiness.

Then, one day, she realized the world was changing around her. A society that once felt forever stagnate and motionless spun and turn like a possessed top. While she was still tethered to her dreams (dreams. dreams. dreams.) Their tails wrapped around the ball of life, a long, twisted bit of twine created a tangled ring of all her moments in time.

Of all those dreams…

Until she felt stuck.

The dreams that once felt as silky as honeysuckles on a humid night’s breeze transformed. Sweetness went sour. Silk became burlap.

You may think the spinning whipped and turned her around. The tether lassoed to her ankle, wrist, heart–pulled her from her origins, thrusting her into the world. They didn’t. She was a damsel tied to the railroad tracks–a locomotive barreling down on her.

She knew it was wrong. All of it, but she’d become too obsessed, confused, disoriented to begin to understand what was happening. Especially, now… without her:

Dreams.

Dreams.

Dreams.

But one day, a notion dawned upon her. A perfect ‘a-ha’ moment pushed her through the clouds of her mind. What she figured out was none of it is real.

The tether.

The spinning globe.

The disorientation.

They were all illusions conjured by the most wicked evil maker of them all–herself.

…dreams…dreams…dreams…

She’d become so concerned with the outside perception of her she’d neglected her truth. That neglect led to her forgetting who she was and accidentally distanced herself from those                                            dreams.

The moment expanded, growing like a bubble stuck to the tip of a child’s plastic wand. Rainbows and stripes of swirling color encased her. She was the nucleus. She was the yoke floating in the center of it all. And just outside the thin veil separating her from those awful thoughts and her truth–were those dreams.

(dreams. dreams. dreams.)

She knew, while she stared through the stained glass coloring her vision, life was what she decided it to be. She was the creator of her illusion and understood what she stared at the longest became her truth.

Her fingers uncoiled and the tethers released–completely.                                                      Her dreams. All of those…             Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

Caught in an upward current, floating high above.                                                                                                    Each dream holding every desire she’d ever harbored–bobbing reminders of who, and what, she was.

She was herself. Perfect and true.

She was the right amount of everything because she could never be her or her or even him. And her dreams… all of those dreams! (dreams. dreams. dreams.) kept her afloat and moving forward–high above everything trying to hold her back. High above herself.

The End

 

What, you may ask, is the moral of the story? Simple. You are never too old to dream. Your dreams are valid. Just because someone else doesn’t understand your dreams will never and can never diminish your dreams. And even if your first had your dream many years ago doesn’t mean it’s not the right dream because dreams don’t have expiration dates–they only fade if we give up on them.

You are perfect just as you are.

Life, the Universe, and 2018.

night-sky-1111702_1280

2018 has shown me life is a curveball wrapped in bubble wrap–or maybe it’s a glass ball filled with every breath I thought I’d lost. On impact, an explosion–pointy chards and oxygen…or a thud with three or four popped plastic bubbles…

2018

I sit here wrestling with the past 12 months–with myself in those moments. This was a year of great growth and change. Something ended, I’m not sure exactly when only that it did. With that ending, I changed.

I don’t like to over analyze life. What’s the point? I am not sitting here searching for greater meaning in the ups and downs I’ve had. I rather deal with life as it happens and move forward.

Forward. Back is the wrong way. I’ve been there. I’ve taken what I need. I’m here. Keep going.

In both the good and bad moments, I’ve learned. I love that part–even the shitty moments. I learned something. I sit, quietly, watching. The shadows are where the truth lives. When people shut off. When they are themselves: unfiltered. Perfect.

The biggest thing I’ve learned is I can be what I want to be. It’s no longer up for debate. I also know I won’t take no for an answer anymore. I want to change with every transformational moment. I want more. Bigger. Brighter. All of it moving me forward.

2018 rocked me with success, it squashed me with illness. It opened my eyes until the fodder fell away. It was a moment of pause, over and over and over again.

I normally celebrate new years on my birthday–this year I’ll make an exception. I’ll sit in the desert, stare at the sky, and make wishes. A thousand of them. And on January 1, 2019–the journey will continue.

The change will continue.

I’ll keep watching.

I’ll keep learning.

There is only one way to go from here and I’m excited to walk that path.

 

Happy 2018 to you all. I hope you found what you’ve been looking for and if you haven’t, I hope 2019 does.

-A