Memories of the Crandell Theatre

Palms sweating and heart pounding, I entered the Crandell Theatre.  I prayed garbage cans were within reach, as I was positive I’d be sick from fear.  I was 11 and on my very first date. 

The Crandell Theatre was built in 1926, as a vaudeville house in a little Upstate, New York country town.  Much of my childhood was spent sitting in the balcony watching the red velvet curtain part, to reveal the Marx Brothers, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Jaws, amongst others.  For years, the price of a film was $1.50 until it slowly rose to $5.00.  The best bargain in town.

What better place for a first date? 

Young Frankenstein, 1974.  Yes, I’m revealing my age with that admission, but the thrill of seeing the film alongside my boy crush was indescribable. 

That night, as I sat frozen in my chair with “him” mere inches away, I never noticed the beautiful architecture of the building.  The old lanterns, Spanish-arched designs, stucco walls, 26-foot wide stage and orchestra pit. Little did I know, there were still dressing rooms in the back from the vaudeville days.  Perhaps my date knew, but luckily, we were only 11 and not 18. 

Did he hold my hand?  I don’t remember, but I do remember the sexual innuendo between Gene Wilder and the gorgeous Teri Garr horrified me.  I was definitely too young to date… and too young for that film. 

This was to be my first of many dates at the Crandell.  Three years later, I went back with the same boy to see Star Wars.  This time it was Princess Leia flirting with Han Solo.  If only I were that graceful and experienced.  Even though I was older, not even a Jedi mind trick could calm my nerves.  I was convinced I was in love… though perhaps it was Luke Skywalker I loved, not my date.

The years past and my taste in movies and boys did too.   I saw everything from The Breakfast Club to the horror flick, Friday the 13^th.  For that, I do remember being clutched to a boy’s arm.  Horror films were the perfect rouse for boys to hold my hand.  I fell for it, hook, line and sinker.

The thrill of the Crandell wasn’t just in the charm of the architecture, it was the family who ran it.  I’d come to the counter to buy my R-rated film ticket, terrified the owner would turn me away for being under 17.   He would give a stern look, ask if my parents gave permission, I’d nod, then he’d smile and hand me my ticket.  No one dared lie to him, because he indeed knew all our parents.  Small town living. 

Time went on, but it never seemed to change the Crandell.  It was the town anchor of amusement and beauty.  Ten years ago, our community formed The Chatham Film Club, a lovely group of film fanatics who birthed the film festival, Film Columbia.  Our Crandell Theatre was the star.  I would buy a pass and sit in my chair, this time with my husband holding my hand.  We’d watch foreign films and a variety of independent features.  The seats were packed, and we lived on popcorn and Hot Tamales for four days.  By this time, the theatre had passed hands to the next generation, and every day of the festival, the owner and his wife were present.  Him smiling and greeting the locals, and her at the concession stand passing out Milk Duds. 

Sadly, the owner, Tony Quirino, unexpectedly passed, and the theatre closed.  The Film Club is raising money in hopes of purchasing it to preserve its beauty and charm for future generations, just as the Quirino family did. 

A part of our town’s charm passed away with Tony that sad day, as the lights went out on the marquise.  While we all miss him, we are grateful for the years of joy he and his family brought our lives and the memories forever embedded in our souls. 

The Crandell was more than a movie house; it was a treasure of celluloid, first loves, hand-holding memories and a magical red velvet curtain. 

*originally published in Making Me Magazine
*update: The Chatham Film Club now owns of the Crandell Theatre. Full story HERE


*NEW URGENT UPDATE* Our theatre desperately needs a new roof.  

Please help the Crandell Theatre win $25,000 in a community challenge.

 

Just click on this link and vote for the Crandell in the National Trust for Historic Preservation's "This Place Matters" contest.  It doesn't cost anything and you can opt out of receiving any further emails from them.  Please do this now.  You must vote BEFORE SEPTEMBER 15^th.

 

http://my.preservationnation.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=9486&security=2862&s_interest=3224

 

You can only vote once, but please take a few moments to pass this message along to your friends, neighbors, family and co-workers.  The Crandell needs your support and a new roof before winter!

 

Thank you so much for your time.

Writing as a Martial Art

“This is a last-laugh business: If you can survive as people are kicking you in the head, eventually their leg will get tired, and they’ll want to start kicking someone else.  If you’re still there, and can pull yourself up to your feet, you get the last laugh.”   

Billy Ray, professional screenwriter

When I heard the above quote, while watching TALES FROM THE SCRIPT, I realized how similar writing is to martial arts. 

Persistence, determination and belief in oneself are needed to finish any script or novel.   Coincidentally, those qualities are also found in a martial artist. 

Let’s compare the journeys:

1. Training:

MA: We train by repeating blocks, kicks and punches over and over until sweat drips from our bodies.  

Writer: The first draft is never good enough, so we write it over and over, until our brain and fingers throb.

2. Fighting under pressure:

MA: Once you’ve trained hard enough, the moves become “muscle memory”.  When under the pressure of fighting, we need our moves to occur without thought.  

Writer: When you’re under a deadline, you need your words to flow effortlessly.  That won’t happen if you spend your days procrastinating and not putting words down on paper (side note: the program Write or Die is fantastic at honing your writing-under-pressure skills).

3. Being tested by your Master: 

MA: The test day for your next belt arrives.  If you’ve practiced, your Master will know it and reward you.  But if you haven’t, he can see it with one look into your eyes.   There’s no way to fake being ready.

Writer: Every time you send out your work, you’re being tested.  Are you prepared? Did you do as many drafts necessary to make it your best?  Will your work be viewed as amateur or professional?  Do you have the stamina to wait for, and then deal with, the feedback?  It’s a test.  It’s always a test.  

4. Number one rule of fighting is to avoid a fight at all cost: 

MA: Never, ever fight if you don’t have to.  Only fight if it’s absolutely necessary, and even then, just inflict enough injury to your opponent to give yourself time to get away.  Instead of looking for a fight, be aware of your surroundings. 

Writer: Every new producer, agent or editor who reads your work is a new fight.   But, you can avoid the fight simply by being patient and make your work shine before you ever send it out.   If you send it too early, be ready to defend your work and choices.  Believe me, the blow from a premature submission can be just as bad as one dealt you by a black belt.

5. Humility:

MA: being humble in and out of the dojo is a must.  Simply put, its what earns you respect from your peers.  A Master or comrade might kick the crap out of you in the ring, but at the end of the fight, he’ll always shake your hand and bow.   It’s an honor to be in the ring with a warrior.  Take your lickings and learn from them. It’ll make you better, in and out of the ring.

Writer:  No one wants to hear a writer say how great her work is.  The work should speak for itself.  When you sit across the table from a producer or agent who has just ripped your work to shreds, be gracious and reach across the divide, shake their hand and thank them for their time and thoughts.   It is an honor to have gotten the chance to be in the ring with a professional.  Their criticism isn’t a personal attack; it’s a gift of perspective.  Feedback is THE most valuable asset a writer has.  Don’t run from it; embrace it. 

The seven years I trained before becoming a black belt, my master always said, “It is the journey that matters, not the belt color.”  As writers, we’re so focused on becoming published or getting produced that we forget to enjoy the journey.  Every piece of work we put to paper is a chance to learn, grow and challenge ourselves, not just the ones that reach celluloid or book shelves.  Appreciate those early, horrible pieces of writing that will never see the light of day… and thank the heavens they won’t!  They taught you.  You cut your teeth on them. 

Above all, don’t give up.  As writers, we need to be prepared to pull our half-broken and bleeding bodies off the floor and have the last laugh.  I know I intent to.

What have you learned from your other passions in life that have brought your writing to a different level? 

what if...

After posting Kicking Fear’s Ass, many people have approached me, fascinated I gave up fear for Lent.  They want answers.  How can I be fearless too?  Are you ever terrified?  What do you do when you can’t imagine facing your fear? 

I may have faced fear head on, but I still have moments of terror.  Everyone does.  We’re afraid for our children’s safety and health.  We’re afraid we won’t get a job or do well at the job we have.  We’re afraid we can’t pay our mortgage.  We’re afraid world peace will never come.  We’re afraid of growing old.  You name it, we’re afraid of it. 

At this point in my life, there’s only one fear that drives me: I'm afraid I'll arrive at my deathbed and utter the words, “What if…?”  What if I had worked harder?  What if I had pitched that script to one more producer?  What if I had taken that writing bootcamp?  What if I had spent more time with my kids?  What if I admitted I wanted to change my life years ago?  What if…?  

Missing out on living my life to the fullest scares me far more than failure or rejection. 

“What if?”  We all need to be reminded of what the greatest dangers truly are in life... not living it. 

What are you afraid of?  What will you do to face that fear?  


*this post is dedicated to Alie Flierl @2degreesofalie* 

a disease diagnosed... an author born

November 22, 2008 is the day my life changed forever. Only months ago, I was an innocent 10-year-old running around carefree.  Then Crohn’s disease forced me to become a prisoner in my house.  I wouldn’t dare try to walk in fear that my stomach would explode. Lying down on the couch, watching old reruns of “Full House,” I dreamed of a book with a child’s perspective of Crohn’s with the hope of finding a cure.  Google was the only option to search for my dream book, but all I found were medical versions only adults could understand.

As time progressed, and tons of medicine ingested, my life began to return to normal… almost. Even though I was feeling better, I always felt a pang of guilt, running around playing soccer when I knew other children were still very sick.  

Flashbacks of my dream of a children’s Crohn’s book pushed me to think if nobody else had the “guts” to write one, why couldn’t I?? For two months my fingers were sore from typing my special story about a girl who has Crohn’s disease, and through her determination, she finds a cure. Madison popcorn, snickers, and cashews were finally reunited!!

I believe, children with this serious illness will finally have something to look up to and something uplifting to read while they are feeling down.  Being 12 doesn’t mean that I can’t follow my dream.

~Grace Wilgucki

Our brave niece, Grace, is participating in the 2010 Take Steps for Crohn’s and Colitis Walkathon.  Please CLICK HERE to help her reach her $500 goal and help the effort in finding a cure.

If any children’s book publishers or agents are lurking out there, please contact me if you’d like to read Grace’s wonderful book.  Email: jeannevb2@gmail.com

Love the Invisible

How often do you reach out to another human?

On Good Friday, I was at Penn Station.  A homeless man politely approached me and asked for money.  His pitch was eloquent, heartfelt, and with wonderful eye contact.  I was marveled by his intelligence. 

Liquor seeped from his breath, and a cane supported his frail body, but I couldn’t help but wonder what his story was.  If he were a character in my script or novel, what would I learn from him?  What would his arc be?  But this man wasn’t fiction.  He was real, and he indeed needed help. 

Instead of handing him a ten dollar bill that would have most certainly been spent on more moonshine, I offered, "Let me buy you lunch."  I wanted to take him into the restaurant so he could choose what most appealed to him, but he explained the homeless weren't allowed.  

As I stood on line waiting for food, I glanced back at him, propped against the wall.  People were passing by, as if he didn’t exist.  He was invisible.  Totally invisible.  My heart broke. 

With a bag of warm nourishment, I returned and held out his hot lunch.  As he reached for it, I looked him in the eyes and said, "I love you."  He was astonished.  A tear rolled down his cheek, "I don't remember the last time someone said that to me.”  I simply repeated, “I love you.”  A sweet smile rose across his parched lips as he declared, “I love you too."  

I smiled and walked away, never to see him again.  But for that one day, that one moment, I hope he felt loved.  Those three words were more nourishing to him than any amount of food. 

Try spreading love and see what joy comes back to you.  

Write or Die

Today, I officially became a freelance writer, and I owe it to insanity.  
I was too insane to quit.

I was a hustler by day.  Sales.  Straight commission.  Even though I enjoyed my job, the economy was not conducive to selling anything.   While I wasn't making enough money, I was still afraid to leave the job for the unpredictable world of freelance.  I also recognized I’d never make it as a writer until I knew more about the industry.

So there I was, working the day job and writing whenever I could squeeze in some time.  Sometimes, the lines blurred.  Last spring, I was at a convention answering questions from potential customers as they passed by our booth.  I gazed at them as they strolled by, wondering who they were, what their wounds were, what kind of character they’d make in a story.  My mind was on anything but my “job.” 

Then, the “ah-ha” moment hit.

A woman approached, picked up our brochure and asked about our company.  I jumped into my sales pitch, “blah, blah, blahing” her the spin.  During our chat, I asked, “what is it you do now?”  She answers, “Oh, I’m a writer.”  My heart sank.  I wanted to yell, “I’m a writer too!”  But I couldn’t.  I stuffed it down and presented her with my card of my false life.  She was a writer.  I was a salesperson.   I vomited in my mouth. 

The next week, I met my writing partner for breakfast.   He noticed my distraction.  I shared my frustration of living a dual life.  Would I ever be free?  He reached across the table, looked straight into my teary eyes, “Jeanne, I am your biggest believer.  You are a writer.”  You’d think, coming from a Pulitzer Prize winner, I would believe him.  I wanted to believe him.  

I kept working the job, writing blog posts and connecting with writers.  I soaked up information anywhere I could find it.  I simply wouldn’t give up.  I was readying myself for the opportunity.   When that opportunity finally arrived, it was in the form of Jane Friedman, publisher of Writer’s Digest.

I met Jane on Twitter and pimped out her links and those of her colleagues.   She knew my day job was based in Cincinnati, so when Writer’s Digest had its 90^th Anniversary Party, she invited me.  I used my last airmile to get there.

It was a dream come true.  I had found nirvana in that crowded bar full of hippy writers.   I was the real me.   I was smiling so brightly, my face hurt.   Jane opened her arms, literally and figuratively and changed my life.  While drinking and chatting about Twitter, she nonchalantly said, “You should write an article for us on the value of Twitter.”  She was dead serious. 

Before my plane took off, I started writing.  I submitted a classic, conservative article along with a how-to list to tweeting.  Jane sweetly replied the article was “solid,” but she wanted a personal essay of my journey through Twitterverse in my own unique voice.  I rolled up my velour sleeves and gave her the pure, raw Twitter Pimp Angel that is Jeanne.

Today, I got an email from Writer’s Digest, making an offer to acquire my submission.   Within two hours, I had the contract signed, scanned and back. 

I still don’t know how I did it through the tears.  Yes, tears.  I was bawling.  I’m still crying.  I wish I had the words to describe the validation coursing through me.  It’s more than validation; it’s relief.  All the tension, anxiety, fear, and insanity that is being a writer is pouring out my eyes as the words fly out my fingertips. 

The irony is the editor probably has finalized offers with hundreds, maybe thousands of writers.  Today was just one more writer providing the article to fill the empty slot.  But for me, it was a day I will remember forever.  A gift.  A blessing.  A moment of hope.  I am a writer.  I am free.   Freelance.  Damn.  I did it!  

What Jane didn’t know was just hours before I walked into that party, I quit my day job.  It was time.  Write or die.  


I pray I never forget this feeling or ever take it for granted.

The Honest Scrap Award

I click a link and BAM – I discover I have been awarded the Honest Scrap Award by Brittany Landgrebe aka @lights_aurora.  I look closer. This must be a mistake.  Perhaps it reads “Honest Crap Award”… yeah, that would be more like it.

I have no idea what this award means, but it comes with rules.  I knew there was a catch.  Why couldn’t it come with unicorns, candy and sparklers?  I read closer. 

The rules? Simple. Reveal ten things you likely don’t know about me, then pass the award on to someone else I admire. They shall do the same, and it’s just a whole big pile of Honest Scrap!

She admires me!  She admires me!  I felt like Rudolph.

Once the happy dust settled, the rules sunk in.  I’m to unleash 10 sins to cyberspace and do the work for TMZ.   Afraid?  Hell, no.  I’m very competitive, therefore the thought of beating a reporter hiding in my shrubs and sifting through my garbage for an award-winning expose of my life has my sin-riddled skin tingling. 

I need to channel a reporter to get into character.  But who… or is it whom?  If I were Walter Cronkite, I’d know the answer.  He was my fraternity brother (see #7 below).  I even shook his hand while wearing a very ugly 1980s puffy dress.  I was in the dress, not Walter.  Just wanted to clarify, since I’m a top-notch reporter and all. 

Does that count as one of the ten?  Nah, I’ll give you that one for free.

1.  Jackasses make me laugh.  In the 60s, my parents decided to move to the country in pursuit of a simpler life.  Intellectual father.  Hippy mother.  They found an old run-down farmhouse on 150 acres where the animals roamed free… inside and out.  Flies.  Oh man, were there flies.  The sale came with a horse and a jackass.  I always giggled when my daddy said, “jackass”  *giggle*.  I was four when a scary man came and took them away.  They either became my school glue or my dog’s dinner.  I hate the smell of both.  

2. I didn’t like to play with the girls in kindergarten.  I wanted to play with the boy toys… oops, I mean boyS' toys.  My kindergarten teacher didn’t know what to do with me, since all the other girls were fighting over the only cute doll.  At first, she tried to conform me into a proper girl, but I always ended up on the sidelines starring at the boy’s fascinating toys that made noises and turned into buildings and magical structures.  These girls bored me.  One day, the teacher knelt by me, took my hand and said, “Go ahead.  Show me what you can do.”  She unleashed my creativity in that single moment.  I ran straight to the Legos and found a quiet, shy boy who became my best friend.  I remember building a duck with wheels for feet.  I still have some clay ducks we made together. I guess we liked ducks.  

3.  I have always been unlucky in love.  My Lego duck buddy came to class with cupcakes.  I was confused.  I knew it wasn’t his birthday, but was convinced he did it just for me.  He knew the way to my heart.   He liked ducks, after all.  As I joyously gobbled my chocolately goodness, he sadly announced he was moving away.  My heart was pounding so hard I thought I’d throw up… but I never let chocolate out once it was in.  I held back tears all day.  As we lay on the mats for our daily nap, I let the tears fall.  He crawled closer to me and held my hand.  I squeezed his back.  When it was time to say goodbye, he leaned in and gave me a kiss.  My first kiss.  Then he ran out the door and never looked back.  I don’t remember his name... but he loved me.  I didn’t play with Legos the rest of the school year.  I tried to conform… because playing with the boys hurt too much.

4.  I was obsessed with babies.  I cut baby pictures out of magazines and hid them in my room.  The Vietnam War was always on the news.  I’d watch people bringing home Vietnamese babies, praying my parents would adopt one for me.  Being the youngest of four, I wanted a little sister.   I cried when the war ended, and no one understood why.

5.  I am a murderer.  Back on the farm, we replaced all the farm animals with forty-five cats.  Yes, you read that right.  The previous owners would let their pigs in the house, but we changed that rule.  Our cats were never allowed inside unless one was about to give birth.   Grumph gave birth a lot.  She was a kitty slut.   I used to curl up with my kitten on the couch and fall asleep.  When I woke from my deep child-like slumber, I found her lifeless, fuzzy body and panicked.  I squashed her.  I ran to the fire and laid her on the warm hearth, hoping to bring her back to life.  I don’t remember anything other than being alone in the living room with the dead kitten and feeling empty.  I think I left her there and ran upstairs.  I wonder what my parents thought when they found her.  They might have thought I was the next Ted Bundy.  Yikes.  I should really ask.

I need a part two to #5 because now I’m depressed.  Let me share a really cool kitty story:  my siblings’ kittens were always healthy, but my kitties often fell victim to amputation.   No, I didn’t amputate them.  I just had bad kitty luck, remember?   I will never forget picking my injured kitten up from the vet only to be terrified to hold the now "broken" kitten.   The vet heartlessly shoved the kitten into my 6-year-old arms, with still-bleeding stump, and told me I was selfish for not loving her.  He was a mean prick.  I had no idea how to handle a three-legged cat.  I ignored her for weeks.  She hobbled around the house crying for me.  I hated her.  I missed what she was before… perfect.  Then one day, I was playing with my matchbox cars on the square-patterned rug, and she came bouncing over.  Without even thinking, I swept her up in my arms and kissed her.  A moment passed and I froze, holding this imperfect cat that I had hated.  An enormous smile swept my face, and I went running out of the room, kitty clutched into my chest, yelling, “Mommy, mommy… I DO love her!”  That kitten taught me great lessons in loving the imperfect.   I don’t remember her name… but she loved me and I loved her.

6. We never bought new clothes as kids.  Our “shopping sprees” were always at Salvation Army – $1 for a paper bag of clothes.  Sure, my dad had a great job, but my mom was a hippy and a Depression-Era kid.  I think she felt guilty buying new things.  Once, she drove in the yard in her hippy van, jumped out, and yelled for us.  She whipped open the back doors like The Price is Right curtain, revealing hundreds of jeans!  Fat jeans, skinny jeans, straight jeans, and bell-bottoms.  She paid $100 for the van load.  We were set for life.  I made purses, stuffed animals and my own bell-bottoms with flowered-patterned triangles.  Man, my mom was cool.  She picked up hitchhikers too.

7.  I never joined a sorority.  I went through the whole rushing process.  Even got a bid to the most popular sorority on campus.  But when it came time to accept, I felt like that little girl in kindergarten.  I just didn’t get it.  I didn’t want to fight over the pretty doll.  I became a little sister in a fraternity instead. 

8. I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and even fix the broken shelves.  I was 29 when I got married and managed a motel and restaurant.  I had all the girlie things I needed at that age, but I didn’t have tools.  For my wedding shower, I registered at True Value Hardware Store.  There was even a picture of me in the national True Value newsletter.  Before you assume I’m a complete tomboy, you should know I’m also a gourmet cook.   I would have dinner parties with five-course meals.  I once broke up with a guy because he wouldn’t eat Coquille St. Jacques.  I’m sorry, but if you were too scared to taste a scallop, you’d be boring as hell to live with.

9. I gave birth like a monkey.  When I was pregnant with my first child, I was a tad nervous about this whole birth thing.  I’m gonna push this kid out of there?  Really!?  Yikes.  As my belly grew, I searched for any answers I could find on how to make this hurt less.  I flipped to the Discovery Channel and found a show with two monkeys giving birth – one via cesarean and one natural.  Excellent.  All the research I needed.  The mama monkey who had the natural birth was amazing.  No humans helped her.  She delivered her baby all by herself in her little cage.  That monkey never made a peep.  Not one little groan, moan or complaint.  I was going to be that monkey.  And I was.  Three days of labor, and not a peep out of me.  I quietly pushed my baby girl out without even an aspirin. 

10. I got fired only once in my life.  After both my kids were in school full time, I decided I needed a new career.  A friend convinced me to try medical transcriptioning.  Being a competitive freak and all, I was top in my class.  I started working for a hospital in Massachusetts, getting all my files online.  Every few days, this one doctor would dictate with the most pompous voice, and he’d make up big words that didn’t exist.  Now, I went to Cornell.  I’m no moron, but I am a perfectionist and stickler for detail.  At first, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt and search for the words, but when I was finally satisfied they didn’t exist, I’d flag the report.  After several weeks, my boss told me I was pissing off Dr. Pompous.  In fact, the doctor’s words were, “Who does this glorified secretary think she is?”  I may have given birth like a monkey, but I wasn’t going to put my name to a report dictated by one.  He fired me.   I wish I could find him and thank him.  He was the person who finally gave me the confidence to write. 

There you have it.  Ten things about me you probably didn’t know.  Is your life better for knowing them?  I’m sure not.  But at least I beat TMZ to it. 

I now pass the Honest Scrap Award onto a person who I admire but don’t know enough about.  This was very difficult to choose.  There are many I admire, but today, I am choosing @slushpilehero.  Oh my God, I don’t even know her real name!  Actually, I don’t know the name of my dead kitten or the boy who gave me my first kiss.  This is perfect.    

save Karen... I beg you

When I started blogging, I made myself a simple promise to post every two weeks.   Doable, right?  Wrong.  Real life gets in the way.  Specifically, the current script we’re writing.   Oh, I’ve thought of at least half a dozen topics, but I can’t afford to miss this deadline.   Completed script or blog post?  The tipping scales have spoken. 

While lamenting my blog constipation to Karen Quah, Penny Ash and Carrie Brozovic tonight, we came up with a super-silly-crazy-nutty-psycho idea:  a blog to create a new bio for Karen.

Why does Karen need a new bio?  Because hers sucks.  Specifically, it just says “writer.”  That’s it.  Writer.  Man, I could have written that.  What Karen needs is a bio defining her true glorious skill set.  This woman is a goddess.  A writing phenomenon who is stalked regularly… by none other than herself.  

This is an official intervention to cure her bio boringness.  

You don’t know Karen?  Have no fear.  No suggestion you leave could possibly be more boring than “writer.”  You have nothing to lose.  But if you’d like to get to know her, read the great post she wrote on Tyler Weaver’s Multi-hypenate site.   You’ll have all the ammo you need to kick her boring bio to the curb.

So grab your tequila and give it a shot.  You truly can’t fail.

P.S. Wow, I even made a post about Karen's bio a pimp out for Tyler Weaver.  Maybe I'm the one who needs an intervention - #pimpaholic.

Forty Pounds

Holy heifer... I won!

Pauline Campos, our very own @aspiringmama, is running an essay contest on her Aspiring Mama site for mothers to share their stories of postpartum weight loss.  Gee, an opportunity to reveal how fat I got... how could I resist?

Apparently, I was either the best essay writer, or I gained more weight than any other entrant.  Regardless, check out my jiggle journey and read for yourself:

Baby F(Ph)at Winner #1: Forty Pounds

If you're a mom with a story to share, don't forget to enter her ongoing monthly contest.  Let the phat mama reign!

I will not read your f*cking script or manuscript... until June

By now, I’m confident most of you have heard about Josh Olsen’s blog in The Village Voice, “I Will Not Read Your F*cking Script”.  While I find his lack of tact or ability to give back distasteful, I’m going to join him in saying “no” to reading your f*cking script (or manuscript)... for the next six months.

I need your help in keeping that promise to myself.  I can’t do this without you.

Here’s the deal: I am a disease-to-please, insane giver.  I didn’t come upon the title of Twitter Pimp Angel by being selfish, you know.  It’s because I promote others, put fellow writers’ needs first, and give of myself until my pimp feet ache that I am in the position of spending hours a day reading and giving feedback to my posse of wonderful and talented writers. 

The reality is, I have a May deadline to submit the script Doug and I are writing to the Sundance Screenwriter’s Lab.  Our adaptation of Doug's Pulitzer-winning Slavery by Another Name has to be my number one priority.  At this juncture, it is essential to my well-being and professional goals to be selfish. 

Sure, being one of twelve scripts selected is a long shot, but if you know me at all, you know odds don’t scare me.  I believe in the impossible.  Danny Brown recently taught me that “IMpossible” should be interpreted as “I’M possible”.   In order for me to reach my goal, I can’t stand in my own way.

Therefore, Doug and I are going for the brass ring.  If we don’t get Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, it won’t be because we didn’t eat every chocolate bar in sight while writing our fingers to the bone.  Submitting a polished, moving script to Sundance is more important to me than a big, feathery pimp fedora.   If you have any doubt how committed I am, please know I have tears in my eyes as I write this.  Not being able to fully support my fellow writers is extremely difficult for me.

So if you love me; if you want to see your pimp succeed, please, I beg you, don’t ask me to read your f*cking script.  Hold on to it, and I promise I will consider reading as many as I can in June.  Above all, know that I do support you; I do love you; I do want you to be the best writer you can possibly be, but I can’t give any more of myself than I’m giving at this moment. 

My brutally honest, raw feedback will be here waiting for you… in June. 

It ain’t easy for a pimp to ask for help, but I’m asking.  Help me.


*I haven't completely gone on the selfish, self-obsessed train ride... I still want to read all of your blogs, so @ me on Twitter with your latest posts.  I'll read, comment, and pimp until my hat falls off.