Shitty Shitty Bang Bang
Writing these words down here makes it official. I abuse alcohol. It abuses me. We're co-dependent and in love. My family and friends are aware of our relationship, though many were aware neither of the extent and length of time of our dependency nor of the destruction that was happening because of my inability to extricate myself from it.
When I was fifteen, I started drinking. I trained myself into it. The taste was awful, but the floating feeling of freedom and "I give no fucks" joy was powerful. I was loose and uninhibited. I was badass. Eventually, at a certain point, I was suicidal, violent, or overly brave. Wielding kitchen knives at parties while hysterically crying was a typical late Friday night for me. Picking up male hitchhikers on dark country roads was another. One night I was driving two of my friends back from a party and a car full of boys was following us. It was ominous; the details are sketchy. They were older and they followed us many towns over. I remember we were terrified. Then, my overly brave side kicked in and I pulled into a parking lot and told my friends I was going to confront them. They pleaded for me not to get out. They won. Instead, I drove to the local police department, but the boys pulled in as well. After that, all I know is they laughed and drove off.
My first job was in radio. I was sixteen and working as a DJ at the local station. It was one of the holidays, Labor day or Memorial Day. I don't recall. We carried the Pittsburgh Pirate games live. My shift was noon to 6 pm, so I was in charge of running the game on this day. The General Manager was throwing a BBQ at his house and we were all there, hanging out, playing frisbee, drinking...yeah, he didn't mind me imbibing. I was a cute young girl who worked for him and he was a predator. At 11:30, I left for my shift, drunk.
One of the things I loved about working at the station was reading the news headlines live. There was this large Associated Press machine, a teletype that wired headline summaries 20 minutes past the hour to read every half hour, and headlines 10 minutes to the hour to read at the top of the hour. You'd go in, tear off the paper, run into the studio, flip on the mic and begin reading whatever was typed. Sometimes you didn't have the chance to look at what was on the paper and ended up doing a cold read.* It was exhilarating.
I arrived at the radio station minutes before the noon hour. I was tipsy as well as dosed on speed to keep my appetite at bay. I ran into the newsroom and pulled off the headlines. I scanned the copy as I made my way to the studio and then I saw it: Pittsburgh Pirates trade Bill "Mad Dog" Madlock. I was livid. The Pirates had been trading off all my favorites, all the regulars, all the players who were the Pirates. Somebody save them if they trade Tony Peña, I thought.
I charged into the studio, flipped on the mic, and went into a diatribe on the owners of the Pirates for trading Madlock. I have no remembrance of what I said, of course, or how long I got to say my piece. I only remember Eddie, the DJ from the AM station studio next to mine, opening the door, reaching over and flipping off my mic, and turning on a song. I remember him looking at me, shaking his head, and closing the door.
My boss had the radio playing at the party and heard every drunken, angry word. He called Eddie and told him to come in and get me off the air. Especially since I was yelling at the Pirates, with whom we were contracted to broadcast their games. And the next one was in an hour and fifty minutes.
Between 2017 and 2019, I got into multiple car accidents. A couple accidents were days apart. I had a couple in the same month. I totaled someone's car. I crumpled my trunk. I flattened tires that I didn't notice until the next morning. One night I fell asleep in my car in a parking garage until 3 am and woke up to frantic voicemails from my husband.
I was assaulted last year.
I couldn't keep control anymore.
I was going to kill someone or be killed.
Yet, when I called Kaiser, it was to get therapy for depression. During my session they informed me that I had to go through alcohol treatment before therapy because they needed to know what was alcohol related and what was mental illness related. I couldn't do rehab or the day program because I needed to keep working, so I agreed to go to a group and meet with a counselor on a regular basis.
It soon became clear that I needed mental health care right away. I was diagnosed with Bipolar II and started a regimen of medications.
I had been misdiagnosed my entire life with major depression, which is not uncommon for women in their fifties. My abuse of alcohol, reckless behaviors, compulsions, and a variety of other behaviors are rooted in illness, genetics mostly (both diseases run in the family), environment, and trauma. Now that I understand, I can learn to identify triggers and utilize healthier coping skills.
This is the beginning of my recovery story.
*The first time I came across my future husband's radar was when he was listening to the station one night and I had one of these cold reads. I was seventeen at the time and had extreme difficulty pronouncing "revered." He found it adorable. I was appalled.
When I was fifteen, I started drinking. I trained myself into it. The taste was awful, but the floating feeling of freedom and "I give no fucks" joy was powerful. I was loose and uninhibited. I was badass. Eventually, at a certain point, I was suicidal, violent, or overly brave. Wielding kitchen knives at parties while hysterically crying was a typical late Friday night for me. Picking up male hitchhikers on dark country roads was another. One night I was driving two of my friends back from a party and a car full of boys was following us. It was ominous; the details are sketchy. They were older and they followed us many towns over. I remember we were terrified. Then, my overly brave side kicked in and I pulled into a parking lot and told my friends I was going to confront them. They pleaded for me not to get out. They won. Instead, I drove to the local police department, but the boys pulled in as well. After that, all I know is they laughed and drove off.
My first job was in radio. I was sixteen and working as a DJ at the local station. It was one of the holidays, Labor day or Memorial Day. I don't recall. We carried the Pittsburgh Pirate games live. My shift was noon to 6 pm, so I was in charge of running the game on this day. The General Manager was throwing a BBQ at his house and we were all there, hanging out, playing frisbee, drinking...yeah, he didn't mind me imbibing. I was a cute young girl who worked for him and he was a predator. At 11:30, I left for my shift, drunk.
One of the things I loved about working at the station was reading the news headlines live. There was this large Associated Press machine, a teletype that wired headline summaries 20 minutes past the hour to read every half hour, and headlines 10 minutes to the hour to read at the top of the hour. You'd go in, tear off the paper, run into the studio, flip on the mic and begin reading whatever was typed. Sometimes you didn't have the chance to look at what was on the paper and ended up doing a cold read.* It was exhilarating.
I arrived at the radio station minutes before the noon hour. I was tipsy as well as dosed on speed to keep my appetite at bay. I ran into the newsroom and pulled off the headlines. I scanned the copy as I made my way to the studio and then I saw it: Pittsburgh Pirates trade Bill "Mad Dog" Madlock. I was livid. The Pirates had been trading off all my favorites, all the regulars, all the players who were the Pirates. Somebody save them if they trade Tony Peña, I thought.
I charged into the studio, flipped on the mic, and went into a diatribe on the owners of the Pirates for trading Madlock. I have no remembrance of what I said, of course, or how long I got to say my piece. I only remember Eddie, the DJ from the AM station studio next to mine, opening the door, reaching over and flipping off my mic, and turning on a song. I remember him looking at me, shaking his head, and closing the door.
My boss had the radio playing at the party and heard every drunken, angry word. He called Eddie and told him to come in and get me off the air. Especially since I was yelling at the Pirates, with whom we were contracted to broadcast their games. And the next one was in an hour and fifty minutes.
Between 2017 and 2019, I got into multiple car accidents. A couple accidents were days apart. I had a couple in the same month. I totaled someone's car. I crumpled my trunk. I flattened tires that I didn't notice until the next morning. One night I fell asleep in my car in a parking garage until 3 am and woke up to frantic voicemails from my husband.
I was assaulted last year.
I couldn't keep control anymore.
I was going to kill someone or be killed.
Yet, when I called Kaiser, it was to get therapy for depression. During my session they informed me that I had to go through alcohol treatment before therapy because they needed to know what was alcohol related and what was mental illness related. I couldn't do rehab or the day program because I needed to keep working, so I agreed to go to a group and meet with a counselor on a regular basis.
It soon became clear that I needed mental health care right away. I was diagnosed with Bipolar II and started a regimen of medications.
I had been misdiagnosed my entire life with major depression, which is not uncommon for women in their fifties. My abuse of alcohol, reckless behaviors, compulsions, and a variety of other behaviors are rooted in illness, genetics mostly (both diseases run in the family), environment, and trauma. Now that I understand, I can learn to identify triggers and utilize healthier coping skills.
This is the beginning of my recovery story.
*The first time I came across my future husband's radar was when he was listening to the station one night and I had one of these cold reads. I was seventeen at the time and had extreme difficulty pronouncing "revered." He found it adorable. I was appalled.
Slow Water
I was out for a run. It was a hot summer day in Wisconsin, and I was staying on a farm-turned-artists’ residency. I opted for a tent set back away from the house, which afforded me privacy and the joy of occasional, terrifying owl screams as they defended their territories. I was at the residency to work on a project about food. I was also in the depths of a depressive episode.
I was finding it difficult to keep my spirits up enough to participate energetically and intellectually with my cohort. Coupled with my mental state came paranoia and guilt over my need for safe gluten-free food and kitchen space, which affected not only everyone else, but also the chef who catered food for them. No one seemed to mind, but in my brain, everyone wished I hadn’t been there and probably assumed my special needs were overkill.
So I went for a run.
I stopped on a narrow bridge and looked over the Pecatonica River. There had been rain and a tornado, so the water was moving quickly, which was ironic. The name Pecatonica was the Anglicization of the Algonquian Pekaa niba, “slow water.”
I could see my shadow in the water. My shadow self. For a moment I flashed back to college in Westerville, my first English class with Dr. Ashworth, learning about our shadows.
Please indulge me for a moment here. We all know something of the shadow, if not academically, then by intuition: the darkness inside of us we don’t want to admit having. In Jungian psychology, the “shadow” is the “id.”
One of my favorite writers, Flannery O’Connor, was brilliant at bringing out the shadow in her characters, but also spoke about her own shadow. O’Connor was Catholic. Her stories were gothic. Violent and disturbing. She spoke often that her writings were allegories for believers versus sinners, but she also worried that her own inner darkness was on the verge of rising.
The crescent is very beautiful and perhaps that is all one like I am should or could see; but what I am afraid of, dear God, is that my shadow self will grow so large that it blocks the whole moon, and that I will judge myself by the shadow.
O’Connor’s crescent is God. My crescent is life. My darkness will overwhelm the beauty of life and suddenly, the fast-moving muddy water is an invitation.
I recorded a few seconds of my shadow against the water, distorting and lengthening across the river; the sun was going down. My darkness stretched out before me.
“This way,” it summoned.
“I can’t see the bottom.”
“You don’t want to see, do you?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“But not...this. Not water.”
“Water is easy.”
“I haven’t researched it...I haven’t…”
“Listen to it. Close your eyes. Listen. Hear that?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve always loved the sound of water.”
“I’m afraid of water.”
“The sound of it calms you.”
“The sound, yes.”
“Being near it, smelling it.”
“It’s peaceful.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“We can give you that, Pecatonica and I.”
“I’m afraid of drowning.”
My inner dialogue was interrupted by the rumbling of a truck approaching the bridge. There’s no pedestrian space between the road and the bridge itself. I had to choose: jump now or get safely off the road. I made a third choice. I ran into the middle of the road and stopped.
Most of my writing, plays in particular, contain an element of or are stories about suicide or suicide ideation. I’m no Francis O’Connor, but I do attempt to write allegorically on the light and dark ethics of allowing someone in physical pain to choose the right to die while not affording the same to someone in mental pain.
The driver beeped, I ran to the other side of the road, and he passed without incident. My heart raced. I was exhilarated. I was exhilarated at the rush, at the risk-taking, not that I was alive. Seconds later, I was shaking and crying and sad and anguished and unsure how I was going to find relief from whatever was inside my body trying to get out, trying to...disappear.
Can one be nonexistent yet alive?
The moment on the bridge in Wisconsin in 2018 wasn’t my lowest, which was yet to come. It would take a few more episodes, a couple fuckups, alcohol dependency, escalating compulsive behavior, my share of car accidents, and finally, after many years of despair, a correct diagnosis: Bipolar II disorder. The diagnosis was a turning point. I know its name, now. And I’ve been training.
“If you don't hunt it down and kill it, it will hunt you down and kill you." - Flannery O’Connor
I was finding it difficult to keep my spirits up enough to participate energetically and intellectually with my cohort. Coupled with my mental state came paranoia and guilt over my need for safe gluten-free food and kitchen space, which affected not only everyone else, but also the chef who catered food for them. No one seemed to mind, but in my brain, everyone wished I hadn’t been there and probably assumed my special needs were overkill.
So I went for a run.
I stopped on a narrow bridge and looked over the Pecatonica River. There had been rain and a tornado, so the water was moving quickly, which was ironic. The name Pecatonica was the Anglicization of the Algonquian Pekaa niba, “slow water.”
I could see my shadow in the water. My shadow self. For a moment I flashed back to college in Westerville, my first English class with Dr. Ashworth, learning about our shadows.
Please indulge me for a moment here. We all know something of the shadow, if not academically, then by intuition: the darkness inside of us we don’t want to admit having. In Jungian psychology, the “shadow” is the “id.”
One of my favorite writers, Flannery O’Connor, was brilliant at bringing out the shadow in her characters, but also spoke about her own shadow. O’Connor was Catholic. Her stories were gothic. Violent and disturbing. She spoke often that her writings were allegories for believers versus sinners, but she also worried that her own inner darkness was on the verge of rising.
The crescent is very beautiful and perhaps that is all one like I am should or could see; but what I am afraid of, dear God, is that my shadow self will grow so large that it blocks the whole moon, and that I will judge myself by the shadow.
O’Connor’s crescent is God. My crescent is life. My darkness will overwhelm the beauty of life and suddenly, the fast-moving muddy water is an invitation.
I recorded a few seconds of my shadow against the water, distorting and lengthening across the river; the sun was going down. My darkness stretched out before me.
“This way,” it summoned.
“I can’t see the bottom.”
“You don’t want to see, do you?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“But not...this. Not water.”
“Water is easy.”
“I haven’t researched it...I haven’t…”
“Listen to it. Close your eyes. Listen. Hear that?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve always loved the sound of water.”
“I’m afraid of water.”
“The sound of it calms you.”
“The sound, yes.”
“Being near it, smelling it.”
“It’s peaceful.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“We can give you that, Pecatonica and I.”
“I’m afraid of drowning.”
My inner dialogue was interrupted by the rumbling of a truck approaching the bridge. There’s no pedestrian space between the road and the bridge itself. I had to choose: jump now or get safely off the road. I made a third choice. I ran into the middle of the road and stopped.
Most of my writing, plays in particular, contain an element of or are stories about suicide or suicide ideation. I’m no Francis O’Connor, but I do attempt to write allegorically on the light and dark ethics of allowing someone in physical pain to choose the right to die while not affording the same to someone in mental pain.
The driver beeped, I ran to the other side of the road, and he passed without incident. My heart raced. I was exhilarated. I was exhilarated at the rush, at the risk-taking, not that I was alive. Seconds later, I was shaking and crying and sad and anguished and unsure how I was going to find relief from whatever was inside my body trying to get out, trying to...disappear.
Can one be nonexistent yet alive?
The moment on the bridge in Wisconsin in 2018 wasn’t my lowest, which was yet to come. It would take a few more episodes, a couple fuckups, alcohol dependency, escalating compulsive behavior, my share of car accidents, and finally, after many years of despair, a correct diagnosis: Bipolar II disorder. The diagnosis was a turning point. I know its name, now. And I’ve been training.
“If you don't hunt it down and kill it, it will hunt you down and kill you." - Flannery O’Connor
The Pennsylvanian - 3Girls Theatre Salon Reading Series
3Girls Theatre is presenting The Pennsylvanian as part of their Salon Reading Series February 9, 2020 in San Francisco! I began writing this piece as a short monologue in 2009 while working on my MFA in Creative Writing at CCA. I worked on three theses projects: A memoir, a full length play (The Beekeeper, which went on to a full production in 2011 with Virago Theatre), and this monologue, which I presented at the senior reading.
Since then, I've revisited the village and the characters, listened to their stories and how they wanted to tell them, had a couple readings, put it back in a drawer, came up with more ideas, added original music, parted ways with a composer, put it back in a drawer, then...it clicked. The story came together.
A sister and brother reunite to stop their father from committing suicide, only to find it's their lives at stake.
When AJ Baker approached me to see what I wanted to work on this year as a 3Girls Associate Artist, I eagerly mentioned The Pennsylvanian. I was ready for it again. She approved. I placed an ad for a songwriter on Craigslist and after listening to demos, hired Clayton Hoffman to provide the right feel for these beloved characters.
The Pennsylvanian has had a long journey to this stop toward its next destination. I hope you can come through, enjoy some snacks, stay after and answer a few questions, and help me push on to production.
THE PENNSYLVANIAN
Directed by Zach Kopciak
Written by Jennifer Lynne Roberts
Music and lyrics by Clayton Hoffman
Actors - Sarah Brazier and Cameron La Brie
Dramaturg - Amanda Lee
TICKETS ARE FREE, but you must RESERVE IN ADVANCE HERE.
Since then, I've revisited the village and the characters, listened to their stories and how they wanted to tell them, had a couple readings, put it back in a drawer, came up with more ideas, added original music, parted ways with a composer, put it back in a drawer, then...it clicked. The story came together.
A sister and brother reunite to stop their father from committing suicide, only to find it's their lives at stake.
When AJ Baker approached me to see what I wanted to work on this year as a 3Girls Associate Artist, I eagerly mentioned The Pennsylvanian. I was ready for it again. She approved. I placed an ad for a songwriter on Craigslist and after listening to demos, hired Clayton Hoffman to provide the right feel for these beloved characters.
The Pennsylvanian has had a long journey to this stop toward its next destination. I hope you can come through, enjoy some snacks, stay after and answer a few questions, and help me push on to production.
THE PENNSYLVANIAN
Directed by Zach Kopciak
Written by Jennifer Lynne Roberts
Music and lyrics by Clayton Hoffman
Actors - Sarah Brazier and Cameron La Brie
Dramaturg - Amanda Lee
TICKETS ARE FREE, but you must RESERVE IN ADVANCE HERE.
Is It The Creative Process or Is It Just Bipolar II
I don’t know how to feel.
Often, I feel too much.
More often, too little.
I swing between eating disorders.
Restricting for months then binging.
I’m on a medication to curb my desire to drink myself into blissful oblivion.
And now. The DIAGNOSIS.
Bipolar II.
And it makes sense.
Looking back.
We even joked about it.
“You’re all or nothing.”
When I first considered running, I didn’t just take up jogging through the park. I trained for a marathon instead. In four months. After a few endurance runs, I stopped running. Completely.
“You must be in your manic stage.”
“Productive” me, as I call her, has big ideas and tends to implement them…usually, all at the same time. But, when my shadow finds out what I’ve signed us up for, I sink into overwhelming despair.
For years, however, I’d been able to maintain all the balls I was juggling even when couch-ridden.
Suddenly, that all changed.
I mean it was bound to, yes?
My business was failing; I was missing writing deadlines and theater obligations, putting my reputation at risk, a reputation I had worked hard at building with all those thousands of red, rubber balls.
I dropped a ball, then another, and as I scrambled across the stage to retrieve one, I’d knock another farther away. In front of an audience of friends and peers, I lost control.
Enter booze.
Alcohol has always been a presence in my life—this too, was something of a known joke, Jennifer and her love of red wine. And like my moods and my weight, my drinking cycled between binges and occasional, controlled social drinking.
But I’m 51. With an untreated mental illness that we can trace far, far back. Things untreated rarely get better.
I did not get better.
I won’t go into details about the classic bipolar symptoms I have (suicidal ideation, risky behaviors, disordered eating, poor alcohol management, anger, irritated moods, grandiose ideas, goal-driven, etc., etc.) but I checked boxes for days.
Now. The sticky thing about BPSD: loving that high. Hypomanic episodes are shorter than the sustained mania of someone who has bipolar I and are characterized by increased creativity, productivity, and sociability. HI! Hello! Like, who doesn’t want that? I cherish those moments when they come.
Those moments also make me feel like I’ve gotten “better.”
The sticky.
You think you’re better.
But you are not.
Bipolar reminds me of the Greek tragedy/comedy masks.
The creative process itself feels like bipolar cycling.
You get hyped up and excited about something you’ve created and are utterly convinced it’s the best thing ever created and no one has created anything else like it before, ever. Then in a day or two, you’ve donned the tragedy mask and suddenly you see that you’ve not only created the worst thing ever, but that you should stop creating altogether—you’ll never be good at it—and you should go into manufacturing.
My husband, who observes this of me, will say, “It’s your process. Every time, you go through the same cycle. In a couple days, you’ll think it’s great again.”
Since most of the creativeness is done in my hypomania state, I feel that I will lose it if I take medications to even out the mood swings.
My psychiatrist says she hears this all of the time. It’s a worry many of us have.
We love our highs.
I love my high.
But highs aren’t always productive. Oftentimes, they’re destructive.
So here I am.
Finally seeking help.
But I’m still me.
I didn’t say okay to any medication until I saw that there were unexpected benefits. Because let’s be clear. Even with all of the issues I’ve outlined here, the one that weighs (pun intended) on me most is body image. So when I learned that Lamotrigine is not only helpful with bipolar II, but helps with binge-eating and anorexia, and that Naltrexone curbs alcohol abuse, but also assists in weight loss, and that Effexor alleviates hot flashes in addition to being an anti-depressant, I finally agreed.
Folx.
I’m wary and scared and a few feeling notches below optimism.
But I’m looking forward to adding a new mask to my collection.
Did I mention excessive shopping/spending/collecting is also a symptom?
Often, I feel too much.
More often, too little.
I swing between eating disorders.
Restricting for months then binging.
I’m on a medication to curb my desire to drink myself into blissful oblivion.
And now. The DIAGNOSIS.
Bipolar II.
And it makes sense.
Looking back.
We even joked about it.
“You’re all or nothing.”
When I first considered running, I didn’t just take up jogging through the park. I trained for a marathon instead. In four months. After a few endurance runs, I stopped running. Completely.
“You must be in your manic stage.”
“Productive” me, as I call her, has big ideas and tends to implement them…usually, all at the same time. But, when my shadow finds out what I’ve signed us up for, I sink into overwhelming despair.
For years, however, I’d been able to maintain all the balls I was juggling even when couch-ridden.
Suddenly, that all changed.
I mean it was bound to, yes?
My business was failing; I was missing writing deadlines and theater obligations, putting my reputation at risk, a reputation I had worked hard at building with all those thousands of red, rubber balls.
I dropped a ball, then another, and as I scrambled across the stage to retrieve one, I’d knock another farther away. In front of an audience of friends and peers, I lost control.
Enter booze.
Alcohol has always been a presence in my life—this too, was something of a known joke, Jennifer and her love of red wine. And like my moods and my weight, my drinking cycled between binges and occasional, controlled social drinking.
But I’m 51. With an untreated mental illness that we can trace far, far back. Things untreated rarely get better.
I did not get better.
I won’t go into details about the classic bipolar symptoms I have (suicidal ideation, risky behaviors, disordered eating, poor alcohol management, anger, irritated moods, grandiose ideas, goal-driven, etc., etc.) but I checked boxes for days.
Now. The sticky thing about BPSD: loving that high. Hypomanic episodes are shorter than the sustained mania of someone who has bipolar I and are characterized by increased creativity, productivity, and sociability. HI! Hello! Like, who doesn’t want that? I cherish those moments when they come.
Those moments also make me feel like I’ve gotten “better.”
The sticky.
You think you’re better.
But you are not.
Bipolar reminds me of the Greek tragedy/comedy masks.
The creative process itself feels like bipolar cycling.
You get hyped up and excited about something you’ve created and are utterly convinced it’s the best thing ever created and no one has created anything else like it before, ever. Then in a day or two, you’ve donned the tragedy mask and suddenly you see that you’ve not only created the worst thing ever, but that you should stop creating altogether—you’ll never be good at it—and you should go into manufacturing.
My husband, who observes this of me, will say, “It’s your process. Every time, you go through the same cycle. In a couple days, you’ll think it’s great again.”
Since most of the creativeness is done in my hypomania state, I feel that I will lose it if I take medications to even out the mood swings.
My psychiatrist says she hears this all of the time. It’s a worry many of us have.
We love our highs.
I love my high.
But highs aren’t always productive. Oftentimes, they’re destructive.
So here I am.
Finally seeking help.
But I’m still me.
I didn’t say okay to any medication until I saw that there were unexpected benefits. Because let’s be clear. Even with all of the issues I’ve outlined here, the one that weighs (pun intended) on me most is body image. So when I learned that Lamotrigine is not only helpful with bipolar II, but helps with binge-eating and anorexia, and that Naltrexone curbs alcohol abuse, but also assists in weight loss, and that Effexor alleviates hot flashes in addition to being an anti-depressant, I finally agreed.
Folx.
I’m wary and scared and a few feeling notches below optimism.
But I’m looking forward to adding a new mask to my collection.
Did I mention excessive shopping/spending/collecting is also a symptom?
In Memoriam
I received news today that a professor of mine has died. I’ve spoken of her before and of the impact she had on me in a relatively short time.
Joanne Stichweh taught Art History at Otterbein University. It was through her that I discovered Käthe Kollwitz, a German Expressionist whose work highlighted the social injustice of the poor and oppressed. Kollwitz was also the first female elected member of the Prussian Academy of Arts. She served as head of the Master Studio for Graphic Arts until her forced resignation under Nazi rule.
Kollwitz was one of hundreds of women artists that Professor Stichweh introduced to us. She had us research and write the names of women artists throughout time to dispel the myth that there weren’t many of them and punctuate the fact that they’d been written out of history.
I remember meeting Joanne in her office near the end of the quarter. I had just returned from Washington, D.C. and a visit to the National Museum of Women in the Arts. We discussed the exhibits and spoke of the need women had to claim these spaces until they were equally represented in galleries and museums across the world.
I mentioned I’d be going to Berlin. I can’t recall if I had already discovered that there was a Käthe Kollwitz museum there or if Joanne had told me about it, but she knew how much I was drawn to Kollwitz’s work. She searched through her office until she found a book from Dover publications to loan me: Prints and Drawings of Käthe Kollwitz.
Joanne Stichweh taught Art History at Otterbein University. It was through her that I discovered Käthe Kollwitz, a German Expressionist whose work highlighted the social injustice of the poor and oppressed. Kollwitz was also the first female elected member of the Prussian Academy of Arts. She served as head of the Master Studio for Graphic Arts until her forced resignation under Nazi rule.
Kollwitz was one of hundreds of women artists that Professor Stichweh introduced to us. She had us research and write the names of women artists throughout time to dispel the myth that there weren’t many of them and punctuate the fact that they’d been written out of history.
I remember meeting Joanne in her office near the end of the quarter. I had just returned from Washington, D.C. and a visit to the National Museum of Women in the Arts. We discussed the exhibits and spoke of the need women had to claim these spaces until they were equally represented in galleries and museums across the world.
I mentioned I’d be going to Berlin. I can’t recall if I had already discovered that there was a Käthe Kollwitz museum there or if Joanne had told me about it, but she knew how much I was drawn to Kollwitz’s work. She searched through her office until she found a book from Dover publications to loan me: Prints and Drawings of Käthe Kollwitz.
When I returned from Germany, I tried to return the book to her. She told me to keep it.
Art has always played a role in my life, on the periphery and closer in my heart. I travel to see and write about art (informally) and have dabbled in more formal writings between my playwriting career and day job. I’ve finally been able to start collecting art, and a play I’ve written about artists has been getting attention.
Joanne’s class may have been only one quarter, but the impact she and it have had on me will last my lifetime.
Art has always played a role in my life, on the periphery and closer in my heart. I travel to see and write about art (informally) and have dabbled in more formal writings between my playwriting career and day job. I’ve finally been able to start collecting art, and a play I’ve written about artists has been getting attention.
Joanne’s class may have been only one quarter, but the impact she and it have had on me will last my lifetime.
Residency On The Farm
I’m going method for my writing residency. I have chosen not to sleep in the house with the other artists, and instead will be “concept camping.” They’re setting up a tent for me on the farm. It’ll have a cot, a desk, and...a bucket.
Photo credit - Rebecca Kruse
I’m working on a new play that’s been simmering for a couple years, Bliss Point, about women agricultural workers-farmers, food, war, and being forcibly fed (literally and metaphorically). It centers around the Woman’s Land Army during the War To End All Wars, and some of it takes place in the future when growing your own food is illegal.
The women who took over the farming during WWI lived in tents and followed rigorous protocols modeled after the military. In fact, the work they were doing was as important. “Food Will Win The War,” the slogan at the time, helped citizens to recognize how vital these women were to securing victory. They were indeed soldiers. Parades were held in their honor. And like women throughout most of history, they were written out and forgotten.
One exciting kismet of this residency is that nearby is a collective of women farmers, Soil Sisters. I hope to rent a car and visit some of these women and their farms.
I’ve created a Tumblr for Bliss Point where I put things that are inspiring the work. Please check it out.
The women who took over the farming during WWI lived in tents and followed rigorous protocols modeled after the military. In fact, the work they were doing was as important. “Food Will Win The War,” the slogan at the time, helped citizens to recognize how vital these women were to securing victory. They were indeed soldiers. Parades were held in their honor. And like women throughout most of history, they were written out and forgotten.
One exciting kismet of this residency is that nearby is a collective of women farmers, Soil Sisters. I hope to rent a car and visit some of these women and their farms.
I’ve created a Tumblr for Bliss Point where I put things that are inspiring the work. Please check it out.
The Challenges of Residencies - An Update
Last spring I wrote a blog post about the challenges of applying to residencies when you have celiac disease. Shortly after writing the post, I was accepted into a residency that was to start a few months later in August. There were numerous emails and phone calls between Kathryn, one of the women who created and runs the residency, and myself discussing my needs and how they could or could not safely accommodate me. It was incredible. Kathryn was kind and understanding (it helped that she had someone in her life who has celiac as well) and determined that we could make it work, somehow. I appreciated the extra care she and the caterer were taking with me. I appreciated the honesty about limitations and risks I'd have to take. I won't go into details, but the lengths to which they were willing to go were exceptional and moving and overwhelming. Unfortunately, I had to turn down the residency later in the year. I had launched a new coffee business to support my writing career and found that there was no way to take the time off. Ironic, eh?
Cut to 2018. I received an email from the residency inviting me to resubmit an application for this year. Which I did. I got the acceptance email a few weeks ago. Then last week, a familiar voice came over the phone. It was Kathryn. "We're so happy you can join us this year." We again discussed how to feed me safely (a change in caterers on their end, me packing Huel, a nutritionally complete food in powder form--just add water!, purchasing gluten free foods from gluten free restaurants, then freezing them for the week) and we began to formulate a plan. Kathryn and I will be in touch a few more times before my arrival at the end of June to finalize details.
Any trepidation I had in applying for residencies is gone, now. My experience with Kathryn has given me confidence to reach out for other opportunities. Residencies will either be able to work with you or not, but the lengths to which The Residency on The Farm has gone to in order to give me the space and time to write gives me hope that more will be in my future.
Cut to 2018. I received an email from the residency inviting me to resubmit an application for this year. Which I did. I got the acceptance email a few weeks ago. Then last week, a familiar voice came over the phone. It was Kathryn. "We're so happy you can join us this year." We again discussed how to feed me safely (a change in caterers on their end, me packing Huel, a nutritionally complete food in powder form--just add water!, purchasing gluten free foods from gluten free restaurants, then freezing them for the week) and we began to formulate a plan. Kathryn and I will be in touch a few more times before my arrival at the end of June to finalize details.
Any trepidation I had in applying for residencies is gone, now. My experience with Kathryn has given me confidence to reach out for other opportunities. Residencies will either be able to work with you or not, but the lengths to which The Residency on The Farm has gone to in order to give me the space and time to write gives me hope that more will be in my future.
31 Plays in 31 Days Challenge
I participated in 31 Plays in 31 Days back in the beginning when it started in 2012 and then again in 2013. I can attest to the project being a challenge, but it is also fruitful (that's a pun; you'll see). A few of my plays written during those August months have gone on to productions, publications, or recordings for podcast. Many of them were terrible, awful, never-want-to-see-again pieces of...well, they weren't good. That said, even those sad, sad plays contained a moment, an idea, or an image that could be and would be used in other work.
The point of the project isn't to create great, new work, it's to get you to create, to generate. Do the work. Put in the hours. There are times when you need the added incentive of deadlines to get shit done. That's what 31 Plays does. There are rules, but they're not overly limiting. There is a deadline, accountability, and support.
In the mode of beginning again, the theme of this blog, I signed up again this year after a four-year hiatus.
We are in day three.
Damn this is hard.
But I've begun.
June 24, 2103 - 31 Plays in 31 Days Podcast "Still Life With Fruit and Lemons" -- written August, 2012.
The point of the project isn't to create great, new work, it's to get you to create, to generate. Do the work. Put in the hours. There are times when you need the added incentive of deadlines to get shit done. That's what 31 Plays does. There are rules, but they're not overly limiting. There is a deadline, accountability, and support.
In the mode of beginning again, the theme of this blog, I signed up again this year after a four-year hiatus.
We are in day three.
Damn this is hard.
But I've begun.
June 24, 2103 - 31 Plays in 31 Days Podcast "Still Life With Fruit and Lemons" -- written August, 2012.
Leaping in the Dark
I’m finding myself more and more untethered emotionally as I’m tossed between highs and lows creatively and personally. I have much to celebrate this month. I also have much to worry about. Finding a way to balance it all, or at least better manage it, is becoming an increasingly important need.
As it’s been awhile since I’ve connected to my journey, and I knew I needed to begin the walk, again, I pulled three three books from my shelf that spoke directly to how I’ve been feeling: Pema Chödrön’s Comfortable with Uncertainty, Living Beautifully with Uncertainty and Change, and Osho’s Fear: Understanding and Accepting Insecurities of Life.
Chödrön opens her book with this quote from Agnes De Mille:
"Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark." -- Agnes De Mille
I sat with it for a while. As an artist, it rings true, and I welcome the leaps in the dark. As a human, it has me a bit undone. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. What am I supposed to do with this idea when I’m desperate to find grounding, to be sure, to know? I’m looking forward to setting out on my journey once more. I’m looking forward to finding peace with the uncertainty that is life, but recognizing uncertainty as what keeps us living? Well, that’s going to take a bit of convincing.
As it’s been awhile since I’ve connected to my journey, and I knew I needed to begin the walk, again, I pulled three three books from my shelf that spoke directly to how I’ve been feeling: Pema Chödrön’s Comfortable with Uncertainty, Living Beautifully with Uncertainty and Change, and Osho’s Fear: Understanding and Accepting Insecurities of Life.
Chödrön opens her book with this quote from Agnes De Mille:
"Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark." -- Agnes De Mille
I sat with it for a while. As an artist, it rings true, and I welcome the leaps in the dark. As a human, it has me a bit undone. The moment you know how, you begin to die a little. What am I supposed to do with this idea when I’m desperate to find grounding, to be sure, to know? I’m looking forward to setting out on my journey once more. I’m looking forward to finding peace with the uncertainty that is life, but recognizing uncertainty as what keeps us living? Well, that’s going to take a bit of convincing.
Thoughts on Feedback. Part One.
I’ve been thinking about feedback, lately. I’ve been thinking about feedback that's helpful and feedback that’s useless, or meant to stroke the ego of the person giving the feedback.
Recently, I had submitted to a couple of places that send evaluations of scripts along with acceptances or rejections. It’s a rare and terrific insight into an organization's process of evaluating scripts and what, exactly, set yours apart (for better or worse). However, I was confused by some of the comments that clearly reflected the reader's personal taste rather than whether the play worked or not.
In fact, I’ve been fielding feedback more and more often that speaks only to the evaluator’s preferences rather than an objective critique of plot, character, and structure. (My personal favorite: “I’ve seen this before.”) The good news is I’m able to parse the good feedback from the bad. This wasn’t always the case.
There was a time when I would rush off to rewrite my play to satisfy the critic who told me what they wished my play had been instead of honing what is was, what I wanted it to be. No more. If you tell me the stakes aren’t clear, you aren’t sure what the dramatic question is, or you were bogged down by exposition, I’ll respond. If you tell me you don’t like it, I’ll ignore you. You’re not helpful.
The solution is simple, but will take time to cultivate: surround yourself with other artists whom you trust, who will be honest (sometimes brutally), and who are skilled in the craft. These people will be your advisors, and you, theirs. I'm fortunate to have filled my network with wonderfully talented writers who meet these requirements. So when, on occasion, my play has been exposed to readers (or listeners) who aren't removing personal opinion and can't objectively critique the work in front of them, I can call and conference with them and get a reality check.
Recently, I had submitted to a couple of places that send evaluations of scripts along with acceptances or rejections. It’s a rare and terrific insight into an organization's process of evaluating scripts and what, exactly, set yours apart (for better or worse). However, I was confused by some of the comments that clearly reflected the reader's personal taste rather than whether the play worked or not.
In fact, I’ve been fielding feedback more and more often that speaks only to the evaluator’s preferences rather than an objective critique of plot, character, and structure. (My personal favorite: “I’ve seen this before.”) The good news is I’m able to parse the good feedback from the bad. This wasn’t always the case.
There was a time when I would rush off to rewrite my play to satisfy the critic who told me what they wished my play had been instead of honing what is was, what I wanted it to be. No more. If you tell me the stakes aren’t clear, you aren’t sure what the dramatic question is, or you were bogged down by exposition, I’ll respond. If you tell me you don’t like it, I’ll ignore you. You’re not helpful.
The solution is simple, but will take time to cultivate: surround yourself with other artists whom you trust, who will be honest (sometimes brutally), and who are skilled in the craft. These people will be your advisors, and you, theirs. I'm fortunate to have filled my network with wonderfully talented writers who meet these requirements. So when, on occasion, my play has been exposed to readers (or listeners) who aren't removing personal opinion and can't objectively critique the work in front of them, I can call and conference with them and get a reality check.
It's Not A Sentiment; It's Not Permitted: Changing a Playwright's Script Without Permission
No one (e.g. directors, actors, dramaturgs) can make changes, alterations, and/or omission to your script – including the text, title, and stage directions – without your consent. – Dramatists Guild Bill of Rights
Recently, during a discussion on Facebook about new plays often having text dictating “female characters be thin and/or beautiful without it really being necessary”--a whole can of worms I’d love to open and take on, as well--someone posted: “Honestly, I would just cut the language.”
To be fair, the poster also said if it were a significant change, she would ask the playwright. Gee, thank you. Now, if you would please apply the same respect to ANY of my language, I’d thank you very much.
While I wanted to applaud her honesty, though I’m not sure she realized she’d have protests, I was really bothered by how cavalier the statement was: “I would just cut it.” Like it was no big deal. Like the playwright was incidental to the text; insignificant. It’s disrespectful.
When I pointed out that no words should ever be cut or changed or added (or paraphrased, which is something that happens too often) without permission from the playwright, she thanked me for my sentiment.
But it’s not a sentiment. It’s not permitted.
And when it happens, it’s defilement. (Can I direct you all to a great post by Bitter Gertrude called “Directing Creative Freedom and Vandalism,” please?)
Keep in mind we are talking about new plays, where you have playwrights at your fingertips. Playwrights understand collaboration. Playwrights want collaboration. Playwrights are eager for collaboration. (By the way, if you’re a playwright and you don’t want to collaborate, I’d recommend writing fiction or poetry. Theater is collaborative.)
However, if we feel the cut or add you are asking us to make is not right for the play, then you have to be ready to hear “no,” just as we need to be ready to hear, “we can’t produce your play.”
Changing a script without permission is not a feeling, emotion, or attitude on my part (or the part of any playwright), but is a violation of a bonafide right as the creators of the work. Yet, the debate continues. (See this Facebook exchange on Playscripts.)
I used the Dramatists Guild’s Bill of Rights to back me up.
This triggered the expression of another frustrating myth: she said, “no director ever follows stage directions.” We can talk about this forever. Stage directions are vital to a play. They aren’t any more incidental to the play than the playwright is, IF they’ve been used properly. They, too, should not be ignored.
Because it would be a digression I'm not interested in taking on right now, I’ve linked you to a couple posts about why ignoring stage directions is not cool (thank goodness for teachers like Dr. Louis E. Catron, Professor of Theatre, College of William and Mary) and why playwrights need to do better with them so the myth that all actors and directors should ignore them can go away. Forever.
Along with anyone thinking it is ever okay to change even one punctuation mark in our scripts without permission.
Recently, during a discussion on Facebook about new plays often having text dictating “female characters be thin and/or beautiful without it really being necessary”--a whole can of worms I’d love to open and take on, as well--someone posted: “Honestly, I would just cut the language.”
To be fair, the poster also said if it were a significant change, she would ask the playwright. Gee, thank you. Now, if you would please apply the same respect to ANY of my language, I’d thank you very much.
While I wanted to applaud her honesty, though I’m not sure she realized she’d have protests, I was really bothered by how cavalier the statement was: “I would just cut it.” Like it was no big deal. Like the playwright was incidental to the text; insignificant. It’s disrespectful.
When I pointed out that no words should ever be cut or changed or added (or paraphrased, which is something that happens too often) without permission from the playwright, she thanked me for my sentiment.
But it’s not a sentiment. It’s not permitted.
And when it happens, it’s defilement. (Can I direct you all to a great post by Bitter Gertrude called “Directing Creative Freedom and Vandalism,” please?)
Keep in mind we are talking about new plays, where you have playwrights at your fingertips. Playwrights understand collaboration. Playwrights want collaboration. Playwrights are eager for collaboration. (By the way, if you’re a playwright and you don’t want to collaborate, I’d recommend writing fiction or poetry. Theater is collaborative.)
However, if we feel the cut or add you are asking us to make is not right for the play, then you have to be ready to hear “no,” just as we need to be ready to hear, “we can’t produce your play.”
Changing a script without permission is not a feeling, emotion, or attitude on my part (or the part of any playwright), but is a violation of a bonafide right as the creators of the work. Yet, the debate continues. (See this Facebook exchange on Playscripts.)
I used the Dramatists Guild’s Bill of Rights to back me up.
This triggered the expression of another frustrating myth: she said, “no director ever follows stage directions.” We can talk about this forever. Stage directions are vital to a play. They aren’t any more incidental to the play than the playwright is, IF they’ve been used properly. They, too, should not be ignored.
Because it would be a digression I'm not interested in taking on right now, I’ve linked you to a couple posts about why ignoring stage directions is not cool (thank goodness for teachers like Dr. Louis E. Catron, Professor of Theatre, College of William and Mary) and why playwrights need to do better with them so the myth that all actors and directors should ignore them can go away. Forever.
Along with anyone thinking it is ever okay to change even one punctuation mark in our scripts without permission.
The Challenge of Residencies
I'm applying for residencies. I've done them before, but only during my life of carefree gluten consumption. During residencies, food is typically provided for you, prepared for you in a shared kitchen. It is difficult to eat safely under those conditions. With celiac, you need to control your food, its source, and its preparation. That is not to say that most residencies won't ask you for dietary restrictions--they do--but the added pressure on them and the concern over cross-contamination gives me pause, and, I fear, will give them pause, too. I'm not sure if dietary restrictions will factor into one's application, but one can never be sure. So how do I approach the application? Do I ask for a shelf in the refrigerator and access to the kitchen to prepare my own food? What do I do about cutting boards, knives, pots, pans, and bakeware that would still harbor gluten, even though cleaned? Do I put a frying pan in my carry-on? Do I trust that the person preparing the food fully understands what's involved in maintaining a gluten-free space in the kitchen? How do I ask the questions I need to ask without intimidating them and therefore discouraging them from having me as part of their residency?
I'm new to this. Traveling while celiac. Last year, friends invited us to Tahoe for Christmas. We rented a house with a hot tub and fully stocked kitchen, which I couldn't use. I knew cookware typically found in rentals is not the highest quality (scratched nonstick) and not safe. So, I meal-planned and packed my own pots, pans, utensils, and ingredients. Lugging cookware on vacation is not fun. And not always practical.
Having safe equipment is one thing. Having a designated space where your food won't be contaminated with gluten is another. In Tahoe, we handled it by dividing the counter into two sections: everything to the left of the stove was used for gluten-containing foods, everything to the right was strictly gluten free foods. In theory, there'd be no intermingling of foods. In theory. But when you have multiple people sharing space, and not used to living with someone with food allergies (celiac is not an allergy, it's an autoimmune disorder, but "allergy" is a term most people will recognize and respond to) accidents happen.
I'm a writer. I'm a busy woman who needs space and time to write. Residencies provide these wonderful opportunities. They're competitive. I don't want my dietary restrictions to affect my application, and I need to figure out how I can fit residencies back into my life.
I'm new to this. Traveling while celiac. Last year, friends invited us to Tahoe for Christmas. We rented a house with a hot tub and fully stocked kitchen, which I couldn't use. I knew cookware typically found in rentals is not the highest quality (scratched nonstick) and not safe. So, I meal-planned and packed my own pots, pans, utensils, and ingredients. Lugging cookware on vacation is not fun. And not always practical.
Having safe equipment is one thing. Having a designated space where your food won't be contaminated with gluten is another. In Tahoe, we handled it by dividing the counter into two sections: everything to the left of the stove was used for gluten-containing foods, everything to the right was strictly gluten free foods. In theory, there'd be no intermingling of foods. In theory. But when you have multiple people sharing space, and not used to living with someone with food allergies (celiac is not an allergy, it's an autoimmune disorder, but "allergy" is a term most people will recognize and respond to) accidents happen.
I'm a writer. I'm a busy woman who needs space and time to write. Residencies provide these wonderful opportunities. They're competitive. I don't want my dietary restrictions to affect my application, and I need to figure out how I can fit residencies back into my life.
Begin, Again
Something happened recently. Well, a couple things, really. The first thing was losing all of my blog data since 2012 while attempting to download the content. Another thing was my diagnosis of celiac disease. Why are these two things related, and why am I bringing them both up here and now? Because with each seemingly disappointing event, I've had to begin again.
Tonight, I sit here writing my first post on my new blog. I'm starting over. Fresh. New content. No looking back. Okay, that's not 100% true, as I will be recreating much of the content from past productions and play readings, but musings and whatnot? Those will be lost to the inaccessible archives of distant memory. Yours (if you've read my previous blog) and mine.
In October 2015, I was *finally* given a diagnosis for the multitude of symptoms I'd been experiencing...for years: celiac disease. What is celiac, you ask?
"Celiac disease is a serious genetic autoimmune disorder where the ingestion of gluten leads to damage in the small intestine. It is estimated to affect 1 in 100 people worldwide. Two and one-half million Americans are undiagnosed and are at risk for long-term health complications.Celiac disease is also known as coeliac disease, celiac sprue, non-tropical sprue, and gluten sensitive enteropathy." -- Celiac Disease Foundation
I'll have many blog posts about celiac and the difficulties in navigating a world full of gluten, but for now I'll let you know that it has meant a whole new way of living and eating. And learning to cook. From scratch. I'm learning to eat all over again. I'm learning the value of whole foods and sustenance, nutrition and (oh geez, I can't believe I'm saying this) mindful living. I'm even going to start my first-ever garden. A GARDEN! For those who know me, this is HUGE. But if there's one thing I've learned (sadly, over and over) is that I need to control my own food. It's okay, though. It's fine. I'm fine, really. After the screaming and inevitable feeling that my life was over, I've reconciled that I must move forward. Again.
Other things have happened that have pushed other new beginnings. Some that I've created and some in which I had no say. Therefore, I am dedicating this blog to beginnings. And, my trials and tribulations with learning to cook, to handle disease, to be a productive writer, and to be a successful entrepreneur (another new beginning we'll have to talk about!).
When I find old content (assuming it's hanging somewhere in the cloud), I will post it here and respond: the new me answering, consoling, probably chiding, and letting old me know that we've made it this far and starting over may not be so bad.
Tonight, I sit here writing my first post on my new blog. I'm starting over. Fresh. New content. No looking back. Okay, that's not 100% true, as I will be recreating much of the content from past productions and play readings, but musings and whatnot? Those will be lost to the inaccessible archives of distant memory. Yours (if you've read my previous blog) and mine.
In October 2015, I was *finally* given a diagnosis for the multitude of symptoms I'd been experiencing...for years: celiac disease. What is celiac, you ask?
"Celiac disease is a serious genetic autoimmune disorder where the ingestion of gluten leads to damage in the small intestine. It is estimated to affect 1 in 100 people worldwide. Two and one-half million Americans are undiagnosed and are at risk for long-term health complications.Celiac disease is also known as coeliac disease, celiac sprue, non-tropical sprue, and gluten sensitive enteropathy." -- Celiac Disease Foundation
I'll have many blog posts about celiac and the difficulties in navigating a world full of gluten, but for now I'll let you know that it has meant a whole new way of living and eating. And learning to cook. From scratch. I'm learning to eat all over again. I'm learning the value of whole foods and sustenance, nutrition and (oh geez, I can't believe I'm saying this) mindful living. I'm even going to start my first-ever garden. A GARDEN! For those who know me, this is HUGE. But if there's one thing I've learned (sadly, over and over) is that I need to control my own food. It's okay, though. It's fine. I'm fine, really. After the screaming and inevitable feeling that my life was over, I've reconciled that I must move forward. Again.
Other things have happened that have pushed other new beginnings. Some that I've created and some in which I had no say. Therefore, I am dedicating this blog to beginnings. And, my trials and tribulations with learning to cook, to handle disease, to be a productive writer, and to be a successful entrepreneur (another new beginning we'll have to talk about!).
When I find old content (assuming it's hanging somewhere in the cloud), I will post it here and respond: the new me answering, consoling, probably chiding, and letting old me know that we've made it this far and starting over may not be so bad.