Sarah Samudre

sarahsamudre: A Sad but Brilliant Win. Vasant and I have had a...

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 20:57:00 -0500

A Sad but Brilliant Win.

Vasant and I have had a real weekend.

We didn’t work Friday night, or anytime on Saturday, or anytime today. It feels like we won the lottery or something. To not work on ANY project, or go the extra mile for work, or even do construction, it feels like we’re on a five-star resort vacation.

This is both beautiful and VERY, VERY SAD.

You see, for those of you just tuning in, Vasant and I have never not worked hard.

Our first year of marriage we worked like dogs at thankless jobs and made our families and friends our second jobs. That was the most miserable year. The year we tried to make everyone happy but ourselves. The year we tried to please bosses at jobs that were beneath us. The year we bent over backwards to appease people in our personal lives who we knew had betrayed us, were currently trash-talking us, and would betray us again in the future. But we thought this was the way. Get married, work full-time at whatever job you can get, appease the people you’re stuck with.

Our second year of marriage was a revelation. We realized that no, this is NOT the way. We can go back to school, get our degrees, get jobs we like and surround ourselves with people who treat us well. We did not realize, however, how hard this would be to make a reality. We moved in with my parents, began building a place for us to live on my Dad’s property, went back to school, and began setting boundaries with people. This was the beginning of our seven day work week. This was the end of several friendships. This was the beginning of a whole new level of hostile activity from people who weren’t just mad at us for getting married, for changing our priorities, but a new level of hostility from people who mocked our living arrangements, the fact that we were married and in school, the fact that we had to take out loans to do so.

Our third year of marriage was more of the same, minus some relationships and adding on more drama. When we weren’t studying, we were building our apartment. When we weren’t doing those things, I was writing my novel and Vasant was still doing construction. He was never not doing construction when we weren’t studying. He and my Dad worked incredibly hard, not just on our apartment, but on the up keep of the property, the cars and the odd construction job my Dad dug up for them to do. One was hours away, during finals week. But that was the year we got from community college to the University of Washington. Our workload doubled, since we decided to pursue two degrees each. We did video gigs on the side and I doubled my efforts to finish my book. On top of all this, we were still recovering from all the relationships we’d lost in the first two years of our relationship.

Our fourth year of marriage was more of the same. Studying, apartment construction, novel, odd construction or video jobs on the side. We never took a weekend off. But things began to get traction that year. I realized I had to redo my book when I, at the gym, thought up an amazing character named Arnold Hitchens. I had to start from the beginning, but I knew it would be the last time. Arnold was what had been missing from my book. Vasant and my Dad finally finished our apartment. We moved in at the end of 2009, the day I turned 28. We still had no weekend, but we had our own roof that Vasant had built with his bare hands.

Our fifth year was our busiest yet. We had until the end of the year to finish our degrees, and again, we were working on two each. We were going to film in Rome in August of that year and we needed to, for our degrees and for the trip, get through six quarters of Italian in 8 months. We took intense language courses that crammed several quarters into one. I finished my book by August and edited it through the fall. We finished our degrees by December 21, 2010. We filmed a documentary in Rome. We did not have a single day off that year. It was, though, our most rewarding year of our marriage to that point. Whereas our first three years were all work, no tangible achievement, in 2009 and 2010, we were finally getting a few things. A place of our own. Our degrees. My book. A documentary shot in Rome. Some people in our lives still left, mocking the fact that our parents helped us out, sneering at the fact that we needed student loans to get to where we were. Those people, while idiotic, still hurt us when they left.

Our sixth year has been interesting. We were out of work, and yet scrambling to find it for the first five months of 2011. We had our own business, and we were working very hard to turn one project into others. I was pregnant in January and by March, had begun a miscarriage that would last until mid-May. But in May, Vasant was offered a job doing video work at Smartsheet. I got an internship blogging and doing social media strategy at Richard Hugo House in June. We worked harder than all previous years this summer, specifically Vasant. Smartsheet dangled a fulltime job in front of him for five months and Vasant put in about 90+ hours a week until they were confident that he was the right man for the job. He became salaried in October, but then we took a job working on a friend’s TV series. My grandma began dying. Life was all set to ease up, but then bam! We were back to cramming 8 days of work into a normal week.

Luckily, our producer unintentionally gave us this last week off. He had a baby in November and got us our notes on our most recent cuts this afternoon.

That’s how we got this entire weekend off.

We had massages. We slept. We had pancakes. We had adventures. We slept MORE. Seriously, I think I finally caught up on sleep from September.

We’re about to go see Gary Oldman introduce Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and then do an interview and audience Q & A. And then we’re going to go see Christmas lights downtown and then swing by our producer’s place, pick up another harddrive of footage, and then go home, watch last night’s Merlin and then go to bed. An actual complete weekend.

I know this seems weird, but this is a bigger deal then getting our own place to live, finishing my book, finishing our degrees or filming in Rome. Even with all of those things, we were still working seven days a week. But we’re not now. We had an actual weekend. And sure, it may not last. We will always be crazy hard workers. There is just so much we want to accomplish. But maybe, just maybe, weekends will become more common. That is sadly, and wonderfully, a thing to look forward to. Sure, some people still make fun of us, sneering at the fact that we didn’t go to school before we got married and don’t have a big house in the suburbs and kids and blah, blah, blah. No, we didn’t do things perfectly. But we had a great time having adventures before we met each other and I’m GLAD we didn’t spend our single years studying. We had adventures and traveled and met people and had extraordinaire experiences that we’re STILL telling each other about, in our sixth (technically seventh) year of marriage.

And there is so much more to accomplish. Paying off student loans. Saving up enough to take care of my parents in their old age. Finding a place to raise our kids. Writing more books, writing for a TV show and making films. More travel. More adventures. Having kids. Going to culinary school (Vasant’s goal for our fifties).

But for now, we need to master sleep and have occasional weekends. We’re working on that other stuff, but they’re long-term goals. This month, we’re having a weekend. In our sixth year of marriage, in 2011, we finally managed to keep our work week to five days and have a solid Friday through Sunday weekend.

It feels amazing. It feels, as funny as it sounds, like a major victory.

sarahsamudre: Lilo does not seem to get the “no whining”...

Wed, 30 Nov 2011 20:58:00 -0500

sarahsamudre:

Lilo does not seem to get the “no whining” policy.

I want to whine. It makes it harder when Lilo won’t stop squeaking at the door, crying for Vasant to come home. Whining is always easier to give into when you hear someone else doing it. It’s like seeing yourself cry in the mirror. You don’t want to look away.

Even though Lilo and I’s styles of whining are very different, hearing her whimper makes me want to give into my own personal version of whining.

But I don’t want to give into the temptation to whine. So I find myself telling the dog to “suck it up”.

Dogs have no concept of “suck it up” unless you’re referring to food spilled on the floor.

I have not spilled any food on the floor, so Lilo is nonplussed as to my meaning.

I know it is not good to force your own emotional parameters on a being as fluffy and simple as my puppy, Lilo. Telling her to stop whining so I won’t be tempted to think about my internal whining is selfish. She just wants to follow Vasant to Bellevue. She knows he is somewhere out there. He is not here. And this concerns her. She still refuses to acknowledge the five day work week.

I am still very tempted to whine. I literally fell on a sword today. I got dizzy and tripped and fell on my Elven sword, a reproduction of Arwen’s Hadhafang from The Fellowship of the Ring. That is the funniest bad thing that’s happened. Other things are not so funny and goodness, I really want to join Lilo in her very vocal whining.

But I am, honestly. If Lilo could blog, it would be this awesome, self-deprecating blog that would begin each day with “Why did Daddy leave? We were supposed to go play! Mom is nowhere near as fun. She does yoga and doesn’t let me play under the bridges she turns herself into.”

Her blog would end each day with “Life is the best, guys! Dad came home and we totally played and snuggled and I napped on Mom’s head and ate things and went outside and EVERYTHING.” And then she’d reblog some awesome gif sets.

I suppose just because I’m not also running around the house, doing laps around the kitchen island, whining at the top of my lungs, doesn’t mean I’m not also co-pouting with Lilo.

So, this is it:

I’m having a very bad reaction to medicine, and I’ve been immobile for two days.

When I’m immobile for one day, it’s bad, but I always battle depression on day two, when it lasts this long.

The medicines I’m having reactions to aren’t new medications. They aren’t for colds or the flu or whathaveyou. They’re for chronic conditions I have had for years and will have for the rest of my life and when I do something stupid that causes bad reactions, I think about how I should know better by now, and that makes me think about how I’ll need these pills for the rest of my life and that depresses me.

Our new bed came today and was the wrong size. It was a stupid mistake, but it will cost a lot of money to either get a new mattress or a bigger bedframe, and it will have to wait until January at least. This means we have to return it and spend another month or more of sleeping on the floor. This is partially okay, because it’s romantic. We put our Tempur-pedic mattress topper in front of the fire and sleep next to the couch, where Lilo sleeps, and she rolls on top of us around 6 am every morning. This isn’t okay because it’s a) very embarrassing b) inconvenient to my aging knees to get up from the floor instead of three feet above the floor c) not what I was expecting. I was very excited about a remodeled bedroom right before Christmas.

All in all, being so dizzy you can’t stand isn’t so bad. Even when you fall on your sword while trying to open a window. And having to return the bed that you measured for incorrectly isn’t the end of the world, especially when you have a romantic, albeit knee-murdering, alternative. I always feel weird complaining about the little things, but honestly, stating your problems makes them smaller, especially when you’re trying to do it humorously.

Lilo isn’t whining anymore, interestingly enough, as soon as I take the time to whine on my blog. Maybe she feels like I’m commiserating. Nothing calms you down like hearing that someone else is also having a bad day. If she did blog, her next post on her site would be, “I’m so proud of my Mom for getting over herself. Everyone has the right to whine a little”.

I'm Full of Nerves

Sat, 08 Oct 2011 20:56:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

I am panicking right now.

I am submitting my manuscript on Friday.

I tried to set a deadline of September 23rd, but I got caught up with work stuff. September 30 is the absolute latest I can submit my book, since the presses I’m submitting to have September and May reading periods.

Ugh. So not only do I have a lot of work to do on this, but I’m struggling with a lot of doubt in my abilities.

Last fall, after I’d gotten a request for my full manuscript from an agent I was very excited about, I figured I’d get a hold of my old creative writing teacher and let her see my manuscript. She is a published author whose first book was a national bestseller, but has been trying for the last four years to have her second book accepted by the publisher. It has been sent back multiple times. When I got a hold of her, she sounded very discouraged about it, but also, very excited to read my book.

So I sent it to her, at my expense. She asked me what kind of feedback I’d like and I was really looking forward to her comments.

On my birthday last year, I got them. She’s only read the first 60 pages of the book and some of what she offered was very apt criticisms, but a bulk of it was based off of not having read more (such as criticizing spending too much time meeting townspeople or wanting me to reveal what Arnold’s secret was in the beginning, not realizing that A) it’s a novel about community and B) if Chloe knew Arnold’s secret right away, she’d never would’ve gotten involved in the town). I was processing her advice, both the good and the ill-informed, but it was my birthday and we were leaving town for a day up in Leavenworth.

My birthday, by the way, is December 22nd. So I figured I’d wait until after Christmas to respond. However, I got an email from her on Boxing Day, four days later, assuming I was ticked off with her, telling me she only meant to compliment me and then writing:

“In my humble opinion, your novel is potentially publishable - the majority of what I read is not.”

I couldn’t respond to that. First off, she didn’t read my novel. She didn’t even read a quarter of it. Secondly, you can’t have a HUMBLE opinion and then issue an edict against something, especially if you’ve only published one book. That doesn’t make you an authority

I was so hurt by what she’d written. I was hurt that she stopped reading at page 60 after promising to read the entire book, I was hurt that she said it was, in its majority, not publishable. I was hurt that she took two months to get back to me and then didn’t even allow me four days at Christmas to process what she’d said before she accused me of taking offense.

I’ve told myself over and over that she was probably struggling with her own book and the last thing she may’ve wanted to do is go over someone else’s. But I’ve been dealing with “In my humble opinion, your novel is potentially publishable - the majority of what I read is not” for the last ten months.

A lot of you have read the book and have told me the opposite, and trust me, you’ve all healed my psyche in that respect. I don’t know why she said things as harshly as she did, although I can guess based off of her career hardships why, it’s still crushing when a mentor does that to you.

This is basically a Rory/Mitchum Huntsberger thing, only I didn’t convince Vasant to steal a yacht with me.

Anyway, as far as those of you who’ve read the book have carried me, I’m still struggling against those words. I’m scared over every little thing that might convince someone to turn off before hitting page 60.

Every time I hit a snag, her words haunt me. Every time one of you tells me you love the book, I am able to fight back a bit, but still. There may not be enough self-confidence in the world to shut my doubts up this week.

And that may be good. Doubts will keep me digging for the absolute best. I just need to be prepared for a mental and emotional shut down on Saturday.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you all know where I am this week. I may be extra quiet this week, especially compared with all the teacups and coffeemugs on Sunday. I promise to be back, ranting, writing and drawing this weekend. But until then, as I labor away at getting this manuscript ready, think good thoughts for me. I’m fighting a few bleak words off with the many I’ve received from my beta group, but oh, it’s hard to fight bleak words at all. Especially when they’re from someone you weren’t on guard against.

Anyway, I’m rambling. I’ve been editing for 14 hours and I should get some sleep. Goodnight, tumblrini.

sarahsamudre: Seven years ago yesterday, I started falling in...

Sat, 24 Sep 2011 20:59:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

Seven years ago yesterday, I started falling in love with my husband. He came to my rescue, when no one else would, after I was forced into an awkward set up with someone else. He skipped out on his plans and came to be there for me, even though we weren’t that close. That night, we talked about tattoos, travel and everyone at the table disappeared while we talked. We stood out in the freezing cold that night, once we finally left the restaurant, talking for an hour in the parking lot. When I finally drove away that night, I felt different. About everything in the world. About myself.

I started to cry, because deep down inside, I knew something had changed, something had begun in the star-sparked midnight outside our favorite dive cafe.

This was supposed to go up yesterday, but today will have to do. This is a post I wrote a couple years ago about that night.

Official “we became official/engaged/married” anniversaries are nice, but there’s something about being about to celebrate the moment that something began that I love. I love that I had the perspicacity (delicious word) to know that moment as it struck, and realize that nothing I’d even convinced myself to feel in the past came close to that life-changing moment.

A Mini Update!

Mon, 12 Sep 2011 20:44:00 -0400

I have two weeks to get my book submitted. There are no words for how tense that makes me.

I haven’t been on this site much lately. I’ve been spending the summer basically creating a new position at my workplace (I was hired as a blogging intern, and since then, I’ve established a full social media position at the House). I’ve also been working on my book, editing it further than it was before and having a lot of fun discussing it with a betagroup I formed on Tumblr. I’ve gotten amazing feedback to apply to the editing of the book and it’s helped more than I could’ve dreamed. However, I still don’t know that it’s ready to go to a publisher. It still needs more work before next Friday rolls around. Vasant is doing video work for a great software company in Bellevue and we’re still running our video production business on the side. Needless to say, this summer has been, like most years, a breathless race towards a perpetually out of reach finish line.

My job at Hugo House has been really exciting lately, however, and this week I have a thousand things to do for it. My official job at the House is in social media. However, on top of that, I’m blogging, doing graphic design and this week, combining all of those things together with our Fall fundraiser. I’m doing decorations, banners, souvenirs and running a social media campaign to get awareness of the event up.

We are really underfunded this year. We do a lot of great work in the community, offer amazing classes for writers, bookmakers and readers and if our doors are to stay open, then we need people to buy tickets for this event (hint, hint, reader… if you’re not doing anything this Thursday, come drink, watch celebrities and help them cheat. $25 tickets and it all goes to keeping our doors open.)

I will try to work on my book as much as possible this coming week, but between my regular job and the fundraiser prep, I don’t know how much time I’ll have to spend on it until this Friday. Not that I’m complaining. I love where I work. I love what I’m doing. I’m just starting to freak out with two upcoming deadlines that have nothing to do with each other, so there’s not chance of helping either project with overlap.

I’ll be taking the following week off of work and doing everything I can to get my manuscript ready. As such, I still won’t be on here as much as I’d like to be. But I’m on my Tumblr site daily. Feel free to follow me there, check in and wish me good thoughts either here or there. I’m looking forward to getting the book out of my hands, but I’m also incredibly nervous over what I might miss up until the moment I submit. It’s like a type of packing anxiety, I suppose.

It’ll be great. I just won’t sleep at all next week.

I’m not afraid.

And that twitching? That’s my new thing. A fancy dance of sorts…

sarahsamudre: This is just not true. I have an incredible love...

Thu, 04 Aug 2011 20:43:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

This is just not true.

I have an incredible love life. I have amazing friends. And I work very hard at what I do, and have a lengthy novel (of what I feel is quality stuff) before the age of 30.

Now, I will say this:

Since getting married, many of my friends dropped off. 85% of them, I’d guess. Since starting the book, even more dropped off. Some of them told me outright to my face that I was going to fail. Told Vasant and I that our dreams of creating art where folly and parted ways with us because we were just “too different”.

However…

I have incredibly close friends. My sisters, Emily, Mary and Claire. My friends, Danielle and Matt, Will, my friend since the age of two, Jen Bliss. I have Jules, who is now a real-life friend, as well as here on Tumblr, and Tumblr… I am loving some of you so much lately (I’m especially, but not exclusively, looking at you Erin and Jennifer). I can’t wait to meet some of you in real life, like I met Jules.

I have a bunch of friends whom I won’t list here, but who are still there for Vasant and I. One couple even moved down to Vancouver to live with my friend’s mother, because they were inspired by our “it’s never too late to go back to school and the price of education isn’t too high to live with family” ideal. They were our champions when others let us know they looked down on us for it, both directly and in a passive agressive “do you know so and so is talking about you” kind of way.

So I’d say I have 20% of the friends that I did before I got married and before I started writing. But I can tell you this: the friends I have now are better than the ones I lost, with the exception of one single person.

And I have to work hard at my marriage. I have to work hard at my book and my art. My life is not easy. I strive for the best in all these areas and so often, over the years, I feel like I fail miserably before I succeed. But the failures are part of what make the art great. Failures make a marriage more interesting, and most importantly of all…

Failures are how you tell who really loves you.

Writing a book, marrying who I married, moving back in with my parents so we could finish school… it rooted out a lot of people who were gossipy naysayers in my life. For a while, this was incredibly depressing. But now, as I find a home for my book in the world, as I look around at a smaller, but truer group of friends and *cough* tonight when Vasant comes home…. I know that it is possible with bullheaded idealism, perseverance and grace, to have all three.

So the poem is right and wrong. It does cost you to have something truly GREAT in your life, but it’s wrong to assume that the cost you pay means that you can’t have all three. You can. It will cost you heartache and tears and late nights. It may take your health for a time and you will lose friends who weren’t worth keeping. However, if you persevere and work hard at all three, you can have it.

And that’s a lesson it’s taken me six years to learn.

sarahsamudre: So I did some art for an event that Hugo House is...

Wed, 27 Jul 2011 20:41:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

So I did some art for an event that Hugo House is holding in August for a zine called Rad Dad. It’s been published as an anthology and we’re hosting the release party.

So for the Dad, I was inspired by Vasant (my husband, for you new followers). This was pretty emotional for me to draw, and honestly for me to share. The image we’re hosting at Hugo House is this:

It’s not just Vasant, but what I think our child will one day look like. For the image of just him, I took away the visible tattoos, although it is VERY IMPORTANT that you know that Vasant has tattoos. Tattoos are cool. They’re just not on his arms or neck. I took away the belt and the shirt, and of course, he’s wearing Smauglock, everyone’s favorite dragon of deduction.

Some of you may not know, but I went through a rough and lengthy miscarriage earlier this year. Just drawing this has thrown me for a loop. But it was good to draw. It feels like I brought one more bit of my heart back.

Oh, and also, here’s what Vasant looks like, just so you know. I’m pretty darn proud of how good it turned out.

Also: my husband is amazingly attractive. Also also: that’s him filming! In Rome!

So yes. That was last week’s art.

This week’s art project is Doctor Who related! It’s about Wilfred and his telescope!

Anyway. I love you Tumblroos. Thanks for giving me the courage to share this stuff.

Stories Save My Life: Pride & Prejudice

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 20:38:00 -0400

The sixth post in the series “Stories Save My Life” is written by Claire Salcedo, who is my youngest sister and great friend.

Claire is a singer/songwriter and an amazing upcoming talent. Listen to her music here on Bandcamp and PLEASE support her, if you like the music, by purchasing her incredibly affordable EP.

Follow her on Twitter and on Tumblr and make sure you add your comments below:

What character (from any media) made you feel more secure in who you were as a child?

- Sarah

“Familiar Friends: Returning to Pride and Prejudice”

Guest Poster: Claire Salcedo

I read Pride and Prejudice when I was eleven years old. I vividly remember sitting by the fireplace in my family’s apartment, reading Jane Austen’s words as the logs crackled and burned away. This memory, of exactly where and when I read a book, was the first of its kind. I can’t recall specific books I read before that moment, but I could point out any book on my shelves that I read after Pride and Prejudice, and tell you the date and place I first read it. Something new had happened.

I had already enjoyed reading when I was very young (at four years old, I used to sneak out of my room in the middle of the night to look at picture books in the bathroom). I had loved stories in general—whether being spun a new tale at bedtime (Sarah can attest that I am still, 13 years later, asking her to write down one of those stories) or dreaming one up just to pass a pleasant day.

Pride and Prejudice, however, was my first serious book, and it triggered a hunger in me to read like I had never known before. I began to really love literature after I read it, and I eagerly devoured any book that came my way.

For a long time, I was a quiet kid who struggled to find a voice and the courage to use it. I was an observer. Elizabeth was bold, witty, and while she watched others and their follies, she knew when to speak her mind. She was never afraid just to be herself—whether that was teasing her friends, supporting her family, or tearing into Mr. Darcy.

I liked the fact that she wasn’t perfect and was very aware of it. When you’re in the throes of growing up, and most things in your life seem to be tumbling around you, it’s nice to have such a forgiving standard.

The characters always draw me in deeply. In every one of them, I feel like I see the reflection of someone I know— a friend, acquaintance, or family member. I laugh and sigh with them, and never feel like they hang off in the distance, like some awkward acquaintance I have nothing in common with. I squirm at the antics of Mr. Collins, am horrified at Lydia and annoyed at the haughty Caroline Bingley. I’m always rooting alongside the elder Bennets and muttering insults when Willoughby tries once more to ingratiate himself with Elizabeth. They’re just as human, flawed and ridiculous as you and I.

Strangely enough, that’s one of the reasons why Elizabeth Bennet became one of my heroes. She was flawed and complex, and more than just a static character on a page. So when I looked up to her and admired her, it wasn’t as if I was looking at a character that felt unreal. Emulating her was never some unattainable standard.

The kindness of that forgiving standard is why I come back again and again. It’s comforting to know that in all my moments of chaos and uncertainty, I can wrap myself up in the comings and goings of these characters. Somehow, I believe they’re real—yes I do know they’re actually fictional—and so when their troubles sort themselves out, I breathe a sigh of relief for myself too. It gives me the hope that even people still stumbling a little under the weight of their own faults find happy endings. Not perfect ones (although there are a few who have extremely good luck), but good ones. Pride and Prejudice is just so hopeful in having wonderfully flawed people live on, that I just have to be hopeful as well.

I’ve reread it about every year since, and I have to say, I think I have a much better understanding of it now then I did when I was eleven. I’ve written essays on it for English classes and college applications, watched the BBC miniseries probably a dozen times, and poured through all of Austen’s other books. There was also a point at which I could quote the miniseries, in ten-minute segments. Even today, probably to the great annoyance of anyone unlucky enough to be watching it with me, I like to say the lines along with the characters. I remember I also had a phase where all I wanted to wear was clothing with empire waistlines. And in high school, one of the few nicknames I have ever received was Claire Austen. Yet no matter how many times I read it, write about it, or am teased for it, do I ever lose my love for it. The story just stays with me, time after time, no matter what’s happening in my life.

That’s why I love Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice and all of the moments I can recall related to it. It has given me so much. It began my love affair with literature, and even influenced my decision to major in literature. It called me to be bold when I wanted courage, and gave me a hero. From the moment I first cracked open that book, I’ve had a constant source of inspiration, distraction, and comfort. I don’t think I could even really say how grateful I am for just one book that opened me up to such a wonderful place as is the world of the written word.

sarahsamudre: Taking the entire day to go over suggestions from...

Fri, 08 Jul 2011 20:51:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

Taking the entire day to go over suggestions from all my lovely beta readers and begin making some serious changes to the book. Sections will be swapped. Things will be cut! All this is in preparation for the next round of manuscript submissions in September.

________________________________

This beta reading thing, btw, is still open. I’ve gained some lovely new followers in the last month and a half and if you want to help me out as I edit my novel, I’d love more readers. However, last time I opened this up, some people volunteered and then, once I sent them the book, never said another word to me. If you want to read it, then read it and let me know! Good or bad! Not letting me know if you ever got beyond the first page kind of shreds my poor heart to bits with worry. I have an overactive imagination (a bonus to a writer) and when I hear nothing, I imagine the absolute worst.

However, while some people finished it by the end of June, some people are still working their way through the book, and one is just as lovely as the other. So there’s definitely room for more readers since we have a lot of reading paces. All that matters is feedback. If I eventually get it by the third week of August, then I’m a happy camper.

_________________________________

Anyway… that being said, I’m off to the yard, thoroughly sunscreened-up with my big floppy hat, a cup of coffee and my manuscript.

sarahsamudre: hugohouse: “Writing Tools: Literary...

Fri, 08 Jul 2011 20:49:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

hugohouse:

“Writing Tools: Literary Scrapbooking”

by Sarah Salcedo Samudre

One of the trickiest things about writing anything of length is finding the time to commit to the piece at hand. Most of us have jobs, friends and families, all demanding time from us. So how do we give our all to art when we’re pulled in a myriad of directions? This is still an unanswered question, one that keeps any artist worth his or her salt striving for better. There are, however, tools and tricks we can use to help us manage our art in the midst of our busy lives.

Last year, I finished my first novel. It began in 2003 and was written and rewritten over the course of the next seven years. During that time, I went back to school, worked, got married, built a house and completing my novel was always on my mind. In the last three years of the work, I threw myself into it as hard as I could but it still wasn’t enough. I would be pulled away from my book and have a hard time jumping back into it on my next free day.

So I began using a journal. I would write a summary of what I hoped to accomplish that day, plot and character-wise, the time at which I began, the music I was listening to and so on. After writing for the day, I wrote down what had happened, problems I’d encountered, problems that needed to be solved the next time I wrote and where I wanted the story to head next time I wrote.

Keep reading about this technique and the amazing journaling software that took regular journaling into the realm of literary scrapbooking…

This article is about how Macjournal software kept me fully engaged in my art, despite leading a really busy life outside of my novel.

I’m really happy to share about it because I feel that writers have a bad rap for not being able to commit fully to their arts AND lead good personal lives, especially where relationships are concerned. I love defeating stereotypes though, and this technique has helped me to do it so far.

I'm Feeling GREAT!

Wed, 29 Jun 2011 20:48:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

So I came down with a bad stomach bug Sunday night and I’ve been feeling awful for days. Monday was just nauseous but Tuesday was nauseous and migraine-ridden. Today, however, I am feeling 100%.

So…

I’m editing my book.

Listening to a historical documentary for background noise.

Surfing Tumblr whenever I get distracted from my book.

But then I get this email. An email from my sister, Mary. And she says “I feel like you should design us “Dumbledore’s Army” t-shirts”.

So I am. I’m taking out my trusty Wacom Tablet and I’m going to do just that. I’ll use Cafe Press or some other site (any recommendations, Tumblr?)

I’ll let you know when it’s up. I’ve been wanting to do something like this for a couple weeks. Something with the gold coin, a wand, and the Room of Requirement incorporated into the design.

Anyway. I’ll post designs later in the day. Maybe you all can tell me which you like best before I pick one for the shirt.

So yeah! Today is going to be crazy productive.

Do you like to read? Do you like ME????

Sat, 18 Jun 2011 20:51:00 -0400

sarahsamudre:

So I’m revising my book, The Ashes. Again. I’m cutting things, and having a hard time.

I’m looking for more people to read my book and give me feedback. Some family and friends have read my book so far and I need their help as well.

I’m specifically looking for people who love to read good stories. People who don’t like fiction probably shouldn’t volunteer since, as the word “novel” implies, it is fiction.

And yes, I’ve had several people volunteer to read my book, who then tell me they don’t like novels, fiction, or plucky heroines. I don’t know why they want to read my book. Maybe I don’t say the word “novel” loudly enough.

Anyway. If you would like to read my book, I’d be really grateful. I need help, I need perspective, and if you’d like to help, just reply to this. I’ll message you, get your email and send you the PDF tonight.

THANKS!

What's Over and What's Coming

Mon, 16 May 2011 20:36:00 -0400

I wrote An Artist’s Guide for Goodbyes about two months ago. I had been miscarrying for about a month at that point and I felt I needed to write about what was going on and how art was helping make sense of it and other recent losses. I was writing about moving on, but honestly, it was incredibly difficult even after I made the step to share what I was going through. Don’t get me wrong. Writing that post was like breathing for the first time in a month. I gave words to my pain and opened up about it, and being brave in that way, in a painful way, began the healing process. However, I wasn’t done miscarrying. Every week I had to go back to the doctor, give blood and get the call a couple days later that it still wasn’t done.

In a way, part of me felt like posting meant it should’ve been the end of my grieving. It wasn’t. It just put me in touch with my grief in a more articulate way. I grew more despondent every week that I had to go back to the nurse, get patted on the shoulder by the sweet nurse who I came to know over the 2+ months who would always say “I hope this is the end for you” as I left the office. And every following week I’d show back up in her doorway, she’d smile sadly, show me to the chair, and repeat the same sad and comforting words as I left.

Vasant and I were struggling to not suppress, and yet not get swallowed by our grief. A few wonderful people emailed after my post. Fewer still followed up with us to see how we were getting along. I read in most of the pregnancy books that miscarriage is really difficult for people because you don’t understand it unless you’ve been through it. It’s a death, but people minimize it because the child was never out in the real world. And yet, this doesn’t really matter to the mother. The child was a promise of new life. Not just A new life, but new life for the parents. The grandparents. The prospective aunts and uncles. On top of a miscarriage being the death of promise, it’s also death within a woman. If someone dies outside of you, it’s hard enough. But if someone dies within you, and that death lingers over 10+ weeks, until all residue of what could’ve been your child cease to exist within you, it can be tortuous.

Not even the few people who grieve with you can understand. And even the few women who miscarry who had quick miscarriages have a hard time understanding. The loss of the child is trauma enough. But for the remainder of that loss to continue to exist within you, lacking definition and yet full of unsettling meaning. For me, my grief was transfigured into torture because of the waiting period.

So I didn’t write like my March post said I would. I got my website back up. I returned to revising the novel I’d finished last year, which is still seeking an agent. I read and returned to poetry. I made lists of agents and small presses. But I did not start my second novel, the one about the couple who loses a child, like I said I would. I just couldn’t. I felt haunted by the loss of my own. And yes, I could’ve channeled that into my work. But I tried that. I ended up weeping as I wrote so violently that I couldn’t type. It may make me weak, but I knew I wasn’t ready to enter into that art. I knew I couldn’t until I was past my miscarriage. There would still be enough grief and pain to draw upon once I’d finished that leg of the journey.

Two weeks ago, on May 4, Vasant and I went on a trip together, paid for by family who wanted us to get some healing. We needed to reconnect and be refreshed. On the first day of our trip, I received a call from my nurse. She told me that I was finally back to normal. My body was through with the process of miscarrying. I was my own again.

The trip, suddenly, was not just about healing. It was about celebrating being in a new phase. One season of loss and grief was over. We could focus on just each other and what our future held. And we did. It was a wonderful, restorative trip. We realized that we hadn’t laughed as hard or as heartily as we did on that trip in over 4 months. We wrote new stories, talked about our future, created art and I begun work on Reclamation. Finally. I didn’t feel overwhelmed. I didn’t cry. I wrote and it felt free and fierce and fiery.

So I’m back now.

Back from the trip.

Back from my sojourn through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

I’m back and I’m working on my second novel. Vasant and I feel amazing. We haven’t felt this refreshed in over a year. And while this time is still difficult, and we still need to finish the last stages of our grieving, we’re on firm ground again. We wouldn’t be there without each other, and it also needs to be said that we wouldn’t have gotten through this without my family, without Matt and Danielle Harris, without Will Conrardy. Many others blessed us during this time but these people carried us through, but emotionally and physically. They brought meals, provided late, late, LATE night support, called and texted constantly and without provocation, and overwhelmed us with their love.

Thank you. You really helped Vasant and I get through this. And thank you to everyone who replied to the last post, and to those who privately message me. Your thoughts and prayers meant a lot to us.

I wanted this post to update anyone who was interested that we’ve finally gotten closure. We’re on firm ground. And while this book hasn’t been closed quite yet, another one has officially begun being written. That’s a wonderful thing. Over the next couple months, I’ll begin writing about the new book, along with continuing the “Stories Save My Life” series. I want to thank those who’ve been reading for the good thoughts and prayers and comments. I also want to thank those who’ve commented on the Stories series and to those who’ve contributed. You make me feel less alone when you come here and talk about good stories. Whether you’re posting or commenting. Thank you Vasant, Jules, Kevin and Rae and thank you to those whose posts are coming. And if you have a post you want to contribute, let me know. I’m loving this series and I hope you love it too.

So there’s the update. Somethings are finished, somethings are beginning, and Vasant and I are grateful for those who’ve been there throughout, from the hardcore, middle of the night supporters to the people we meet and interact with online. Thanks to all.

Stories Save My Life: Meet the Teen Sleuths in My Life

Wed, 11 May 2011 20:34:00 -0400

The fifth post in the series “Stories Save My Life” is written by Rae Hanson, a Florida-based TV/media blogger. This is an amazing story of how love for a childhood story led to an adult career. This post excites me! I hope you’ll take time to read it and comment. It’s truly a unique story!

Rae is a witty writer and a great media savant. Follow her on Twitter and on Tumblr and check out her TV blog archives at www.RamblingsofaTVWhore.com.

Thanks!

-Sarah

Stories Save My Life: Meet the Teen Sleuths in My Life

Guest Poster: Rae Hanson

I’ve been struggling with what to write here. Not because I didn’t know what to say but because I’ve got so many stories to tell about the stories in my life. It seemed an impossible task to pick just one (and I didn’t). And, while it feels like a betrayal not to talk about how Buffy Summers and Joey Potter helped me through that first year of terrifying independence, I decided to focus on the teenage sleuths in my life.

They say you always remember your first but I don’t. I just know at some point I started reading those vintage hard cover Nancy Drew books and became Obsessed. Yes. With a capital O. I’m a sucker for a mystery and there was no one more capable of handling the mysterious than Nancy Drew. Oh, how I loved solving mysteries with Nancy Drew! (Always Nancy Drew, never just Nancy.) And, you know, it didn’t hurt that one of her best friend’s had a boy’s name, George. As a little girl who hated her own boy name, I was (still am!) all over stories with girls with boy names being cool.

It wasn’t long before I graduated from the hard cover books to the “newer” paperback versions, The Nancy Drew Files. I devoured those puppies. “Covet” doesn’t even begin describe my need to own ever book in the series. One small problem though… I lived in Germany. The Army bases probably have their own Barnes & Nobles these days but back then the base bookstore was about the size of an airport bookstore. I don’t remember any of them having more than four aisles, if that. As you can imagine, the Nancy Drew supply didn’t quite reach my demand. But every time we went to the PX (post exchange) or the grocery store, we’d stop in the bookstore so I could search through the stacks for the series I was missing. Finding one was so rare that I never minded when I’d get home and realize I had duplicated a book I already had. The high I’d get from the success of finding what I thought was a new book was too great. And, let’s face it, I didn’t mind solving that mystery again. Not if it meant spending more time with Nancy Drew.

Every summer, we’d return to the States for two weeks. Though we primarily spent those two weeks in Maine, occasionally we’d visit one of my sisters who lived elsewhere. I can remember going to visit my oldest sister when she lived in Ann Arbor. She took me to Book Heaven. To this day, I cannot tell you the name of the bookstore. I just remember that it was three stories and filled to the brim with books. The children’s section was on the third floor and I remember sprinting up those stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me, barely able to contain my glee. (True Story: To this day, that glee’s still there, knocking against my insides when I’m climb the stairs or ride the escalator at multi-level bookstores.)

Let’s all take a moment and imagine the wonder that must have passed over my face when I finally got to that top floor and got my first look at the shelves of Nancy Drew books. Yes, shelves. God only knows how many books I conned my family into buying that day. I’m sure I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the store without all the books I was missing from my collection. After all, it’d be at least another year before I’d have this kind of access to them again! Freaking kids these days, they have NO IDEA. Oh, the havoc I could have reeked if I had had Amazon back then!

I understand the reluctance people feel towards e-readers. I love my Kindle but looking at it doesn’t give me that same sense of calm and nostalgia looking at my Nancy Drew collection lined up on my shelf does. You didn’t think I’d gotten rid of them, did you? As if! I need to pass that legacy on! Who knows if I’ll ever have kids (seems more and more unlikely as the years pass) or they will even like reading (Can you imagine my horror if they don’t?! I might disown them.) but, if I do, I want these mythical kids of mine to have physical proof of just how much Nancy Drew meant to me. That I’d haul her books around with me through dozens of moves, from country to country, across oceans. Because you can’t just throw away the person who gave you so much joy and taught you that girls can solve mysteries too and that sometimes the most important things in life are good friends. She may just be a teenage sleuth on paper but, to me, she’s so much more.

“Wow, you suck at this Nancy Drew stuff. You should get a new hobby.”

CUT TO A “FEW” YEARS LATER

I didn’t like Veronica Mars at first. Shocking, I know. It took me about four episodes to come around. Never have I been so happy that I stuck with a TV show. I cannot imagine my world without Veronica. Surely I would have given in eventually, right? Because who can deny the awesomeness of this show. Nancy Drew clearly had an influence on my young life but Veronica Mars was a life raft. I was going through a rough patch when this show entered my life. I needed an escape, someone else’s world to get lost in for a bit. I was consuming a lot of books at the time but I needed something more. A story that wasn’t over so quickly, one in which I could truly immerse myself. The mystery of who killed Lilly Kane was just what I needed.

After Buffy (and Angel) ended I was adrift. There were plenty of shows I loved but none that sunk their hooks into me and wouldn’t let go. None that got my creative juices flowing quite the same way. Until Veronica. Not only was I actively trying to solve the mystery along with Veronica, I could not get enough of all the characters on the show. They were all so complicated and three-dimensional. For the first time ever, a show made me want more.

I generally have absolutely no interest in fan-fiction. I don’t begrudge anyone the need for it; I just prefer my stories to come from the canon. But with this show I was not only seeking it out, I was writing it!! I had these characters chattering in my head and it was the only to shut them up. Suddenly I understood the motivation behind fan-fiction. Good or bad, it’s one of the only outlets fans have when they find characters who speak to them.

More importantly, I had to talk about the show each week. My friends weren’t watching it so I wrote about it online. Which led me to other people who also needed to discuss each episode (in a sometimes disgusting amount of detail). It didn’t matter if something was just a throwaway prop; we analyzed everything to death (Lilly’s!). And I loved it. There it was, my escape route. The more I “talked” with other fans about the show, the less I stressed the cruddy chaos that was my career. It was no longer the focus of my life and that was a godsend. It happened gradually and took me much longer to see it but that was when I realized what had been missing from my life: Stories.

Oh sure, I was reading tons of books and watching a lot of TV and at the movie theater as often as possible. But that was just me unconsciously trying to plug the hole. I was shoving stories in left and right hoping they’d fill it. But there’s only a minimum amount of creativity needed for the consumption of stories. It keeps your imagination active but it’s not forcing you to stretch and really use those muscles.

I wish I could say I had some big epiphany about this. Alas, that wasn’t the case. I mostly just kept obsessing about a TV show online and got lucky. Timing is everything right? This was pre-social media but blogs were taking off in a big way and PR companies were paying attention. I still have no idea what led them to me but I got invited to a blogger set visit… to the set of Veronica Mars.

If I were famous, I’d have suspected I was beingPunk’d. But Ashton was nowhere to be found and the invite was legit. I have no research to back me up but I do believe it was the first ever set visit of that type (and if it wasn’t the first, it was definitely one of the first). I did, however, spend the whole trip pinching myself to convince myself it was real. I held on to my disbelief until we were actually standing in the courtyard for Neptune High.

My actual experience on the set is a story for another time but was it. This story with its characters who I had fallen in love with had led me to this moment in time. Where I got to watch the people behind the show bring it to life. And the seed was planted. Because I left that set with the memory of how much I loved creating stories myself. Reminded of what it was like to take an idea and create something wonderful with it. I didn’t really understand those feelings immediately. I just knew I was drawn to the energy on that set and that I wanted it in my life.

This story would be so great if I could now tell you how my whole life changed as a result of the set visit. But I can’t. Oh, it did change. The chaos is certainly gone. I’m not sure the calm that replaced it qualifies as a good thing but it’s not an entirely bad thing either. It was just the tip of the iceberg as far as blogger set visits. I now have a bunch of exciting experiences I wouldn’t give up for the world. And with each set visit, I’m once again reminded that it’s still out there. That elusive creative energy I want in my life is out there and I know I’ll eventually find it. Thanks to an annoying tiny blonde teenage sleuth who opened my eyes to the possibilities.

Stories Save My Life: Just Give Me a Straight Answer!

Wed, 04 May 2011 20:33:00 -0400

The fourth post in the series “Stories Save My Life” is written by Seattle indie director, Kevin Sabourin. You may’ve seen his work on the outstanding PBS series, The Artist Toolbox, and next year, if you love independent film, you’ll hear about Fetch, which is currently in post and set to debut sometime next year. Follow the film’s Facebook page to keep tabs on it!

I’ve known Kevin for years and one of the best things about him is how passionate he is for a good story. Naturally, his post is going to be centered on filmmaking and story. It’s perfect that his post, which discusses the impact of Star Wars on his life, falls on Star Wars Day, and no, it wasn’t planned.

I hope you enjoy the article and leave comments below talking about your favorite films and why you think they impacted you the way they have.

Thanks, and May the Fourth be with you.

-Sarah

Just Give Me a Straight Answer!

Guest Poster: Kevin Sabourin

Whenever you ask somebody what their favorite movie is, you can never get a straight answer. First comes the knee jerk response with something like “Star Wars” or “Lord of the Rings”… Then after a moment of silence comes a rattling list of four or five more absolute “favorite” movies. “I’d have to say Shawshank Redemption, orRebel Without a Cause… well no… that’s not my favorite but definitely in my top 5… no top 10!”

And on and on it goes.

But as much as I loathe indecisiveness, I find myself in the same predicament when the question is posed to me. And I think I’ve figured out why.

First we must start with the basics. What is story? Story is an account of a person’s experience, fictional or otherwise. Let’s go one layer deeper. Storytelling (specifically filmmaking) is an art. What is art? Expression. Art is a human being creatively expressing himself through a given medium. The reason we gravitate toward art is because when we hear others express themselves (and when we learn to express ourselves through our own art) we not only learn about our humanity, but we come to find we are not so alone in the universe.

And “Story” as an art form, being an oratorical experience, lends itself to the masses in a more obvious way than say “abstract painting.” Not to say one is more important than the other, but it is obvious to see why movies have a broader appeal than some of the finer arts where the thematic elements are a bit subtler.

On a side note, what’s interesting is that movies being the modern “storytellers” of our day, are actually communicating to us in a different way then the wise old sage around the fire telling stories. In film, we can SHOW YOU the story, not just tell you the story. Allowing our own intellect to piece everything together compounding the impact of the story’s revelation (i.e.: Chinatown). The movies that give you the pieces and allow you to assemble the solution are more impactful then the movie that bangs the answer over your head (i.e.: Star Wars ep1-3)… but I digress.

So if in fact we gravitate toward stories that relate closest with our own human experience… When you ask somebody what their favorite movie is, you are (in a way) asking them about their own life. The three films that have always been on top of my list are Star Wars: A New Hope, Rudy and 12 Angry Men.

What appeals to me about Star Wars is Luke Skywalker. Here you have a humble farm boy who feels deep down that he is destined for something more, yet his Uncle Owen has doomed him to mediocrity in the desert of Tatooine. The specific scene in which we see Luke’s plight is when he goes outside one evening after arguing with Uncle Owen and peers out into the double sunset. The music, the cinematography, the acting, the scenery… all come together in this tender moment to convey a sense of longing. Luke knows he’s destined for more than the hand he was dealt.

George Lucas then creates an event (Uncle Owen & Aunt Beru die) and we see Luke reach deep within himself to go fulfill his destiny (stop the empire). I saw this scene as a young dreamer while sitting on my living room carpet eating Butter O’s (Cheerios with melted butter because we couldn’t afford more milk) and Luke Skywalker became my champion. When he fled his homeland, trained to be a Jedi and defeated the evil empire… it was if it were me. It gave me hope that I too could escape and go on to do something greater. Though I was not conscious of this at the time, it was a process happening internally nonetheless.

It’s not hard to understand why Rudy also became a favorite of mine. To see Rudy (who came from a factory town where he was expected to follow his brothers into the trade) sitting on a bench reading his acceptance letter into Notre Dame, reminds me once again that this longing I have to achieve my goals is not being shared by myself alone. Somebody else out there looked around at their life and said I want more out of it and they got it.

12 Angry Men appeals to me for a different reason. I had a childhood which made “trusting” people difficult. Truth was paramount to me. Henry Fonda’s absolute dedication to find out the truth of the alleged murderer despite what his fellow jurors thought greatly inspired me.

Here is a man that is so secure in himself his first loyalty is to the truth, not acceptance. I watched this film in high school for the first time and it resonated with me like few others did.

Most people don’t go into deep analysis of why they enjoyed a movie. They just watch a movie likeAmerican History X or Gran Torino and say “What a great movie”, not realizing it’s speaking to the universal values of equality and the ability to change one’s life. But that’s ok. The point of story is not to walk away with three talking points of how it impacted you. The point is that the impact happened. You’re heart was softened. Seeds were sown that will no doubt be fertilized by other expressions of humanity (art) down the road. And most importantly, for a moment in the story (if it’s a good story) you looked at one of the characters and said, “There I am.”

One of the reasons why I believe movies have become our society’s primary means of storytelling (and one of the highest grossing art forms commercially) is because of their unique compounding nature. When you walk the streets of New York City and see the vast landscape of detailed architecture, it conveys a grand sense of majesty. A boy’s choir can sing a hymn with angelic phrasing communicating control and harmony. A model with the latest fashion sense can express innovation and rebellion. One photograph framed perfectly with the right lighting can be worth a thousand words! In a movie, you can have all of these art forms and more. Movies are the melting pot of the arts, brewing a delicious stew (separate but cohesive) of intellectual and emotional stimulation.

So why can’t I give you a straight answer? For the same reason a parent cannot tell you which child they love more. They all bring something different to the table. They all appeal to a different facet of our humanity that we cannot live without. The moment we show favoritism toward one we are immediately reminded of another because both have equally put there proverbial arm around us when we felt nobody understood. We’d hate to overlook that type of loyalty!

Story is important because it reminds us we’re not alone. Somebody else has braved this path before. Anybody who has the honor to be apart of this delicate and beautiful process should feel proud of the hope they are bringing to the world… even if it’s just to a young boy sitting on the living room carpet eating Butter O’s.

Stories Save My Life: A Look at My Favorite Literature

Wed, 27 Apr 2011 20:30:00 -0400

Here is the third post in the series, written by Julia Fishwick, a friend from Twitter, Tumblr and as of last fall, real life. She is an amazing friend, a lover of good books, good television and good people. Do yourself a big favor and check out her blog over at Tumblr.

Also: make sure you get in on the commenting. What books have inspired you and the person you want to be?

Thanks!

- Sarah

A Look at My Favorite Literature

Guest poster: Julia Fishwick (check her out on Tumblr!)

When Sarah asked me if I would like to contribute to her series, I was simultaneously intimidated and delighted. I had no idea where to begin! But …I also cannot resist talking about literature any chance I get.

The books I have read throughout my life have helped define who I am by clarifying who I want to be, as well as who I do not want to be. I grew up reading all the books I could get my hands on, and yet, I still feel tremendously inadequate as a reader, and every day my to-read list grows!

Part of the reason I have not read all of the books I would like to have read by now is my love of re-reading. When I fall in love with a story, I want it near me all the time. I want to be able to pick it up at a moment’s notice and fall back into the familiar tale. My favorite stories are at once a well-worn security blanket, comfort food, a favorite sweater I curl up with when I’m feeling unwell, a hug from a friend, and a reminder of who I am.

I have a list of comfort stories, which consists books as well as television and movies, filed somewhere in my mind. These are the stories that I turn to when I need cheering up, or when I need an emotional outlet.

I read a lot in my youth, as I said. When recommended a book to read, I always asked if it had a happy ending before I would commit to reading it, until I was able to understand what I wanted well enough to phrase my request a little more accurately and ask if it had a satisfying ending. What really mattered to me was that, if I fell in love with the characters, I wouldn’t be left wondering and worrying about what might or might not have happened to them. (This is still important to me. That unfinished feeling will nag at me for weeks, or longer… and while I don’t seek out books that will break my heart, a happy ending is not a requirement, but a conclusion that wraps things up effectively is definitely necessary in my reading material.)

I fell deeply in love with the L.M. Montgomery books (not just the Anne series, though I love it with all of my heart and have always lamented the shyness and predictability that made me feel I was more of a Diana Barry than an Anne Shirley), Girl of the Limberlost, and Jane Eyre. In early middle school, I became acquainted with science fiction, reading first the Tripod series by John Christopher, then the Hobbit, and Ray Bradbury’s Illustrated Man… followed by everything I could find by Bradbury. But more than anything, I loved Jane Austen’s stories.

I’d read most of the Austen books before I was 14, and I loved that there was a female character I could relate to in every story. It wasn’t always the main character, of course… as shy, insecure, and passive as I was, I wasn’t the type of personality that people would write stories about… and, much like with the Anne of Green Gables series, I often identified my more familiar traits in the character of a friend or sister rather than in the heroine. But that never matters in the Jane Austen books, because she pairs her characters with the people who suit them best, and they could not be happy any other way. Of course, not all of them were happy in the end, but I felt they couldn’t have been happier in any case. Through these stories, I found hope that I would be able to spend my life with the people who suit me best, as her characters did.

I found myself at a loss for what to write when contemplating this post, because I did not think I could put into words what stories have meant to me. There is still so much to say, and I am not convinced I have done justice to what I have tried to say here, but that’s okay.

I have long had a suspicion that reading so much has led me to feel insecure about my own writing, I have never been very competitive, and so instead of saying, “I could do that!” I often think I could never express myself as well as the authors I love have done. Even so, I wouldn’t trade for the world the experiences I have had through stories, or the comfort they have given me.

Stories are so subjective, their meanings and impact will change depending on what is going on for me when I’m reading them. I have never liked trying to summarize things for people when I tell them about a story I love. I know that the things I noticed about it, or the significance those things (or the story itself) held for me will not be the same for everyone, and I worry that telling my version will influence how they watch or read the story themselves and what they get out of it. This aversion to summarizing (or even filling in gaps) when someone misses part of a TV show, drives people crazy, unfortunately… so I have resigned myself to doing recaps when we can’t just rewind and let them see the story for themselves, but I tell them to read the book themselves so I don’t have to fill them in.

I still worry that they are missing out on things that would be meaningful for them if they watched it without my influence.

In any case, I hope I continue to re-read my favorite stories all of my life. They feel like coming home, but I instead of getting sick of them, I always notice something new, or experience things differently nearly every time I read a story.

From Arthur to Aragorn: The Evolution of My Favorite Character

Thu, 21 Apr 2011 20:24:00 -0400

Here is the second post in the series, written by my husband and filmmaking partner, Vasant Samudre. I hope, once you’re done reading the article, you’ll respond in the comment section about specific characters you’ve really gotten to over the years.

-Sarah

From Arthur to Aragorn: The Evolution of My Favorite Character

Guest poster: Vasant Samudre

When Sarah came up with the idea for this series, I knew that, when I wrote my post for it, I wouldn’t be able to write about just one story. I have always been extremely fascinated with stories, telling them, listening to them, watching them and playing them out. But for me, no one story caught my imagination, more than one particular character has: King Arthur. I discovered him as a child and I’ve found every story having to deal with him equally fascinating. Every Arthurian legend instantly hooks me and it’s not so much the type of story, but the hero at its heart that draws me in. As I grew older, Aragorn in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings fed became part of the fascination for this particular character.

My interest in Arthur actually started with an incredibly cheesy cartoon called King Arthur and the Knights of Justice that aired in the early ‘90’s. It was a short lived show, but at eight years old, I fell in love with the character of Arthur- everything he stood for, what he fought for, how he fought for what he believed in and above all, fought and ruled with selfless-justice for the people. The notion of fighting for a greater purpose is something that resounds within me on a deep level. I bought books that were meant for kids which synthesized Arthur myths into an easy to read format. I waged pretend battles with Arthur at the head of them. In my mid-twenties, I read T.H. White’s The Once and Future King and soon after Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Artur and found myself just as captivated with the king as I had been so many years ago. Within the last couple years, I’ve read Tennyson’s Idylls of King and read through the wilder myths surrounding the British King in The Welsh Triads. No matter how different the story, the image of the king battling for his people fanned into flame the sparks of my imagination.

It’s never mattered to me whether Arthur was a plastic figurine, a customized Lego character, watched on TV or read in a book. I’ve been drawn to all aspects of his character, to every story and every plot (which is unfortunate at times because a lot of Arthurian movies are awful).

I rediscovered Arthur long before I delved into the books surrounding him in my mid-twenties. I was introduced to Aragorn (a.k.a. Elessar, a.k.a. Strider) in The Lord of the Rings in 2001 (yes, I watched the movies before reading the books- I’m not ashamed to admit it). The added characteristic of a king who refuses to be a king because he is afraid of his own weaknesses hits me to the core still today.

Aragorn, to me, embodies all the complexities of character that are found in multiple Arthurian tales. He is as reluctant as T.H. White’s Arthur, as headstrong as the Welsh Arthur, as mighty as the Malory version, and as noble and chivalrous as Tennyson’s. Both receive swords that are destined to be wielded by them and only them, and with these swords they command great power. Both have encounters with goddess figures (The Lady of the Lake for Arthur and Arwen/Galadriel for Aragorn). Both return from exile to accept the roles that they were destined for.

Both heroes descend from an evil king. Arthur, in most tales, is the son of the ruthless Uther Pendragon and it was the fault of Aragorn’s forefather, Isildur, that the evil ring of Sauron had survived . His forefather’s corruption brought war upon to an entire world. The interesting thing is that Arthur’s lineage is almost always just a stated fact in most myths. It rarely comes into play in any plots or presents a problem for Arthur. Aragorn is haunted by his family failure.

Aragorn fears that he could be corrupted and fail his people, just as Isildur did. It’s this fear I admire in Aragorn the most. It keeps him humble, keeps him in line and focused on the greater good. But this fear isn’t something that Aragorn could hold onto. For the sake of Middle Earth, he had to “put aside the Ranger and become the man” he was meant to be. He had confront his fears, answers for his failings and rise up to the task of being the warrior king who would mend the world.

Arthur captured my imagination as a child because he embodied the strength and purity of heart that I wanted in my life. But as I grew older and dealt with my own darkness and father issues, I began to fear that I’d never be the man I wanted to be. Enter Aragorn, an Arthurian character who answered my fears by simply acknowledging them. He was broken down with guilt and self-doubt. He was honest with the weakness and fear within himself. The strange thing was that none of that compromised the purity of heart I’d grown up admiring in King Arthur. So, with this tale, a childhood character evolved in my head into one I could identify with as an adult.

Joseph Campbell writes in A Hero with a Thousand Faces of the universal hero’s journey (the hero found in every culture) has a three step phase: separation-initiation-return. It’s here, as Campbell explains, that the hero must journey on his own, find his accomplishment and return a changed man (or woman). As I’ve grown into my manhood, I’ve seen this cycle of separation-initiation-return something that is used in films. The main character must leave his current situation in order to grow, that is to learn and become something more by initiating the “there’s no going back now” moment. Once the point of victory is reached, the main character of the story must return, changed, to bring to the people a forgotten aspect of their humanity (freedom, love, peace, etc).

I think a good story is an adventure in itself. It gives you the same opportunity as the hero has. You get to retreat into it, exiled from the real world for a moment. The narrative initiates you: you experience things within the realm of the story that real life doesn’t give you the time or the right way to think about. Then you return. You turn off the TV. You close the book. You walk out of the theater. You grow too old for Lego battles (not there yet, I’ll let you know when that happens), but the story sticks with you, on some level. For me, Arthur and Aragorn have stuck with me on the deepest level, I love being able to return to their stories as an adventure of my own, hoping that I will, again, be changed for having gone through the stories with them.

Stories Save My Life: Anne of Green Gables

Wed, 13 Apr 2011 20:18:00 -0400

This is the first post in the Stories Save My Life series. I’m really excited about the guestposts we’re going to get and the comments they’ll hopefully generate on the impact stories have on our lives. Personally, I will probably write about many stories, from many mediums, while this series is running. I would be remiss, however, if I began it with anything else other than the stories which Anne Shirley inhabits, chief among them: Anne of Green Gables.

Backstory: I was an odd child. From an early age, I had an incredible vocabulary, a vast (and at times, overpowering) imagination and not many people knew how to take me. I was interested in things that other kids found boring. When I tried to talk with adults, they were put off by a child of ten who wanted to discuss philosophy, theology and politics with them. I made up stories and talked incessantly, cracking jokes, composing poems, talking about movies, stories and books. I was constantly getting into trouble, letting my mouth run off. I had such big ideas, and such a fire in my belly, that whenever I felt anything, I said everything.

I believe the word to politely describe me was precocious . I believe the words more commonly used were “weird”, “brat”, “know-it-all”, and “strange”. Everywhere I went I felt like an outcast.

All of this, combined with being a late-bloomer, meant that for me, childhood was painful. Sometimes still, I feel sick thinking back to showdowns on the blacktop, being pushed into walls, down school stairwells, hit with dodgeballs (outside of any game) and laughed at by peers. I remember adults scolding, teasing and laughing derisively. I remember wanting a way out of my life by the age of twelve, tempted by thoughts of suicide. My saving grace was my imagination and the stories I both fed it and created within it. It was necessary to retreat into my imagination to get away from being bullied by my peers and elders.

My dreamworld became a refuge and I built it with good music, good books and good movies. One character in particular, Anne Shirley, the heroine of many books by L.M. Montgomery, showed me how to build that retreat and promised that one day, eventually, I wouldn’t need to hide there.

I first read the Anne books when I was very young. I can’t even remember how early the books came, but I know that quotes from L.M. Montgomery’s works were working themselves into my conversations by 4th grade. I read through the series several times, but especially through the first three books: Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea and Anne of the Island. I rewatched the PBS mini-series over and over. Anne Shirley was a friend to me. She made me feel valid.

We were both bullied. She was rarely described as “precocious” by anyone except her readers. By the adults in her world, she was described cruelly. She was misunderstood by 98% of her peers. We were both teased for our freckles. Her hair was her most hated feature, as was mine (although her’s was for its color, and mine was for its sheer size- no matter what length I chopped it to, it was big enough to warrant its own zip code). That picture above… is not of Hermione Granger.

Anne relied on stories like she relied on air and used everything in her path to fuel her imagination. After a life that, when the reader meets her, consisted of being an orphan, being beat and used as a servant, she arrives on Prince Edward Island and experiences joy that the average adult can’t fathom. She and her new guardian, Matthew, drive down a blossom-filled avenue she dubs “The White Way of Delight”, past a pond she calls
“The Lake of Shining Waters” and she feels like she’s arrived in heaven itself. All of a sudden, to me, the brown hills that served as dreary walls for my hometown of Fremont, California, had changed. They were covered in velveteen gold, rolling away towards other valleys and opening up towards the north and south. The smog on the horizon disappeared, eaten up by the blue sky. The cracked sidewalks became canyons in my mind. Little green blades of grass became like cedars of Lebanon to me. I made the best of what I had. I reveled in what little “scope for the imagination”, as Anne called it, that my hometown afforded.

So try to conceive of the bliss that bowled me over when I moved up to the Pacific Northwest. My gigantic hair, vocabulary and imagination made things almost as difficult for me in my new state as it’d been in California. But here in the Northwest, I finally had the beauty that Anne had when she arrived in Prince Edward Island. Behind our house was a forest that descended into a valley, away from the housing developments. The forest there was dark and mossy. There were pines, cedars and maples. Down the winding trail, once you reached the valley floor, the tall trees retreated to a circle around a tiny meadow. It was as if they were guarding this secret place. A spring bubbled up in a cluster of birch trees on the southern end of the valley. Best of all, every August, the meadow filled up with Queen Anne’s lace, a flower I’d only, until that point, read about in the Anne books. It looked like a cloud had settled down on the valley floor for a quick nap before rejoining its brothers in the sky. I named it Anne’s Valley and escaped there whenever I could.

As silly as that may sound, it was the first dream of mine that had ever come true. After years of reading Anne books and wishing that I had more than cracked and dry surroundings, I finally had my version of P. E. Island. It reinforced my desire to hold onto the books as a beacon. Maybe, if both Anne and I had found a wilderness to escape into, and a town set amongst the blossoms and lakes of shining waters, then maybe other things would happen too. Maybe I’d grow into my features. Maybe one day, I’d write a book of my own and my wordiness would make my way in the world, rather than making me an object of ridicule.

And wouldn’t you know… all those things, after many awkward, character-building adventures, did come to pass. My hair became manageable around eighteen, darkening and reddening at the same time so that my hair was auburn, like Anne’s became. Instead of frizzy, it was silky. That may sound vain, to have worried about something like that, but trust me: my wild hair gave me more than one nickname over the course of my childhood and teen years. In 2001, I started writing on a blogging platform called LiveJournal and people started liking me, for the first time in my life, for the way I had with words. I started to seriously work on my fiction and poetry in my early twenties and just finished my first novel in 2010, at the age of 28.

When I was heading into the final chapters of my book, I had a morning when, as I sat down at my desk, I looked out of the window and into the forest. I saw the mist curling in through the woods, cutting amongst the trunks of trees and curtains of moss. I looked down into the flower beds and saw the purple, fuschia and yellows wildflowers rioting up from dark soil. I looked back down at my desk and saw my book, almost finished, open on a Word file. Tears filled my eyes. I had become who I wanted to be when I was little. Whatever else becomes of me, in that moment and since then, I am the adult that my childhood-self desperately wanted to be. I am loved by a man with dark hair and dark eyes. My hair is now one of my favorite features. I’ve learned to control my temper and wicked tongue. Many people actually appreciate the way I have with words and the way that my mind works. I’ve written a book and I have dozens more books, poems and screenplays burning a hole in my heart to get out onto the page.

I am so lucky that Montgomery’s Anne Shirley was there to promise this all for me. I knew that if someone had written this book, then that person knew what it was like to be me. That meant that I was not alone. As young as I was, I knew that if this book was popular almost a century after publication, that there were many who read it and loved it like I did: not as a distraction, but as a life preserver.

I would return to the series many times, in childhood, my teenage years and in my twenties. I suspect I will always return to it. When my idealism is threatened, when I feel alone, or when I need to be reminded that a few kindred spirits are better than a hundred fake friends, I’ll take up the series again. It may not be the best written series. I understand why some marginalize it. For me, it’s literary defects are outweighed by the world that it creates and the character at its center. Without her, I wouldn’t have had the strength to stick out two awkward decades in hopes that someday, I’d hit my stride. And I have. And that is why the story of Anne Shirley is the first story that saved my life.

***

As I said in the introduction to this series, if you have a story (from film, books, comics, short fiction or television) that impacted your life, let me know. Several people have already contacted me about posts and they’ll be posted here over the next couple weeks and months, but I still want more. Maybe you’ve never thought that a story defined you, or maybe you think the story that meant the most to you is too silly to write about. Trust me, there is no snobby cut-off for this series. If it’s a story and it’s influenced you, let’s get into it. This series will only be as good as the interaction we get on it.

On that note, I hope that all of you who are reading this will take the time to comment:

What are some stories that defined your childhood?

My most recent post was a very personal look my life’s...

Wed, 06 Apr 2011 20:15:00 -0400

My most recent post was a very personal look my life’s intersection with stories and how they’re helping get through my miscarriage. Several things I’d been watching and reading in 2010 helped me in this season of learning to let go. I also wrote about my next novel and how I believe it will help me get through my grief. As I finished the post, I was grateful to have had the chance to dwell on what I’ve always known to be true and defining for me: the sustaining importance of stories in my life. They’ve saved me, time and again. I’ve always sought them, told them, consumed them, fashioned what I see around me into a narrative, and spent all my time, even when I’m doing something else, dreaming of them. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for stories.

It reminded me of a blog series I’ve wanted to do for some time. I want to write about, discuss and read guest posts about the way stories save and sustain us. I want to celebrate stories with people who love them as much as I do. So here we go:

For my part, I write books and short stories, I want to make films and I want to get these things out into the world because I love stories. I’ve been telling stories since I was able to talk. But they are more than something I love to create. Stories have reached into my often-troubled mind and have saved my life, over and over. They inform me, guide me, inspire me and make me feel less alone. Whether in film, on the stage, on TV or written down, good stories have become a part of my life more than most people have. They’re there for me in the dead of night, they’re there for me in a split-second when I have to make a decision, and they’re there for me when I need to put life into perspective.

Maybe you’ve never thought about which stories have impacted you, or maybe you are constantly annotating your life and inner monologue with pop culture references. I’ve found that, even with people who swear they’re not big on reading or movies, almost everyone has a couple of favorite stories that they return to throughout their lives. It’s fascinating to think about why these tales are a person’s favorite. The stories you are drawn to say a lot about who you are and that’s because, whether you’re aware of it or not, stories play a huge role in our conscious and unconscious lives.

I’m going to start a series of posts about stories that have become part of my life and part of the lives of those I know (in real life or from Twitter, Tumblr, and the like). Hopefully, lots of good discussion will happen about tales we’ve loved all our lives or ones we’ve just come across and have knocked us off our feet. This blog is on an entirely new platform, so I’m not sure how well the comment features will work out, but what better way to find out then to dive into something like this?

So next Wednesday, my first post on stories that have saved my life will go up. If you’re interested in contributing, let me know in the comments below. Again, your story can be a favorite book, short fiction, TV show, film or stage play. The only requirement is that it absolutely needs to be is a story that’s stayed with you throughout the years, has meant something BIG to you and why it’s meant something big.

Even if you don’t contribute a post, please come back and comment. The more discussion we get, the better this will be. The best thing about being addicted to stories, other than creating/sharing in them, is to find others as into them as you are. And hopefully, through all of this, we’ll all find a couple new stories to dive into.

AN ARTIST’S GUIDE TO GOODBYES Lost. Toy Story...

Tue, 22 Mar 2011 20:07:00 -0400

AN ARTIST’S GUIDE TO GOODBYES

Lost.

Toy Story 3.

Inception.

Elegies for the Brokenhearted.

These four pieces of art have several things in common with each other: they all made me weep within the space of several months. They all deal with the act of choosing to say goodbye, specifically, coming to the realization that a goodbye is what’s necessary. That’s why they made me weep.

They all deal with letting go (which is not always the same thing as saying goodbye). That’s why they stuck with me. Over and over last year, I felt like I was being bludgeoned over the head with a similar message all year as I took these things in. No matter where I looked in 2010, something was saying to me:

Move on with your life.

Say goodbye and let go.

Start the next phase of your adventure.

These two movies, this episode of Lost, and this novel all preceded a season of personal grief in my own life. I didn’t know last summer how truly my life would imitate the art I was weeping over. When my dog of 14 years died that Fall, I didn’t realize how much the films, the show and the novel had prepared me for saying goodbye. When a friendship of nearly two decades ended a couple months later, I began to realize. And this year, after my first miscarriage, I get it.

Or at least… I now understand what I was unknowingly being prepared for: a season of grief and a season spent struggling to say goodbye to things.

This may not make sense to some people: how I make sense of my life through the media that I consume. It may, in fact, sound like an episode of Community, and I’m a slightly less autistic Abed (and there I go again with the pop culture tie-ins…)

But you see, throughout my life, and whether or not it makes sense to anyone but me, I’ve ordered my experiences into a narrative. I draw out the layers and analyze the subtext and express my longings and my darkness in poetry, my determination forms into hard prose, my joy and pain become songs that compose the score. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. And as much as I form my life into a narrative, looking for epic arcs, deeper meaning, and so on, I look at established narratives in film, TV and literature as more than just diversions. You may be scratching your head about what I’m writing or maybe you’re as familiar with C.G. Jung and Joseph Campbell and their works on archetypes and the unconscious as I am. But I believe good stories speak to what we all go through. Great stories make us feel less alone inside our heads. They address things we all deal with on conscious and unconscious levels.

Last year, the stories I watched and read all addressed one particular universal experience.

The act of letting go of what you loved may be the hardest part of being human. At least in Lost and Toy Story 3, there is even a crazy kind of joy, a euphoria, expressed in the faces of those letting go. Two scenes in particular break me every time I watch them. First scene is of Jack dying, smiling through a painful final breath, as he looks up at the plane fly over head. He lays down in the same spot where he woke up six years prior and there’s nothing but peace on his face. The other scene is the look on Andy’s face when he sees Woody wave goodbye. There is a blend between joy and heartbreak there that brings me to tears each time I see it. Both endings express a truth that angered me on an embarrassing gut level last year. I didn’t want to think about what bliss lay in the act of moving on. I appreciated what I saw on screen in an aesthetic way, but somewhere inside me was a pouting child, crossing her arms and shaking her head, refusing to acknowledge the wisdom of those scenes.

Maybe I felt what was coming. I don’t know, but as the Fall fell upon my husband and I, we began to talk about death and an unexplainable sense that we both had: that we’d experience it in early 2011.

We didn’t expect it to be our baby.

At the risk of sounding callous, we expected it’d be someone older. Someone nearer to death. Someone who’d had a nice full life. We weren’t even trying to get pregnant. I thought I’d had an incredibly long stomach flu until other symptoms began to clue me in on my condition.

Vasant and I were thrown by the news for maybe 12 hours. Despite our parenthood happening earlier than we’d planned, we embraced it. Within days, our hearts had opened up, rearranged themselves and lay in wait for the baby that would come. We’ve had the names picked out for years. We began to make plans and everything seemed bright and hopeful.

I began to bleed a couple weeks later, around my 8th week of pregnancy. I stayed up late combing internet forums every night, trying to assure myself. But there was little relief when the bleeding continued, increased, and the doctor began throwing words around like “miscarriage” and “possibly ectopic”. Soon I was put on bedrest and was told that, due to my hormone levels continuing to climb while bleeding, it looked like my baby may’ve been growing in my fallopian tube, and that I needed to go to the ER if I felt the slightest bit of discomfort. If I delayed, the tube could rupture and I could lose my uterus at least and at most, my life.

So I waited for the next two weeks. I laid on the couch and panicked at every twinge of discomfort. I knew that at best, my baby was dying within me and at worst, I was at risk too. People were saying things like, “It would be good news if it was a miscarriage” and while that upset me, I agreed. And I hated myself for agreeing. I hated myself for caring about whether or not I’d be okay.

Finally, weeks later, the doctor said my hormone levels were falling at an acceptable rate and that this could safely be called a miscarriage. Bedrest ended and, though the miscarriage hadn’t finished, I was at least in the clear. I felt relieved and grieved. I kept telling myself to wait to begin grieving until after the miscarriage is over.

I’m still telling myself that.

If I’m honest with myself, what I really mean is “Repress your grief until the miscarriage is over”. The grief has already begun. Every time I see a mother and child in the store I mist up. Watching TV and seeing a pregnant woman, I have to turn away. My husband and I were in a store the other day and we unexpectedly came upon some baby toys. I picked it up without thinking, smiled as I showed it to Vasant and then dropped it as if it had bit me. An image of a tiny baby’s hand holding the toy had flashed into my head. My eyes filled with tears and I walked, almost ran, out of the store. When I stopped, I saw that my husband was next to me, his eyes also full of tears. He grabbed my hand and mouthed “I know” and pulled me close to him.

I don’t even know, at this point, how to fully begin grieving. We began losing this baby almost a month ago and for me, at least physically, it’s not over yet. We’ve been experiencing overwhelming moments of grief and then we repress. We tell ourselves it’s not time to grieve yet. But we are. We are grieving, whether or not we let ourselves dwell in it or not.

When our dog died last fall while we were filming, we took time to grieve, but it was difficult to finish the process until we left Italy and came home and she wasn’t there to greet us. I’d been dreaming about her every night while in Rome, a sign that my brain was refusing to accept the reality until it wasn’t just a concept. I had to experience the lack of her to accept it. When a friendship that my husband and I had treasured ended a couple months later, it was honestly something we’d seen coming for a while. And for us, we’d been grieving for it before it definitively ended. An email confirming that this person had no interest in continuing a friendship with us was the closure that we needed. And the grief ended almost as soon as we received it. A month before that goodbye was given, I’d read the novel, Elegies for the Brokenhearted. In it, the character Mary Murphy narrates five beautiful elegies to five people who’ve gone by the time the goodbye is given. Every page into the book made me feel better about taking time to say goodbye.

But there’s something dangerous about grief that grows in strength when it’s kept alive in the mind by a lack of closure. As I was re-watching Inception a month ago, I thought about how Cobb kept his wife alive by revisiting his moments of guilt and grief concerning her. He had never been able to say goodbye, since she jumped while he was pleading with her to stay with him. And there was no physical closure for him, like there were at the endings of Lost and Toy Story 3. He had to continue to deal with this in the realm of the mind, saying goodbye and banishing his grief and guilt at the deepest level of his subconscious. And maybe that’s what I have to do.

And for me, there’ll be no email from my baby saying goodbye. There’ll be no returning home and realizing the house lacks her, since her tiny feet were never able to touch this earth, let alone the carpet of our home. And despite this, the loss is real, the force of it throbs and threatens to consume.

I’m not a repressive person. I enjoy psychoanalyzing all my problems, letting them work out as they come so I don’t end up as some passive aggressive who let’s her issues drive her actions. But this grief scares me. It hits me in waves when I least expect it and since I’ve never held her or talked to her, her loss is something I can’t wrap my mind around. Perhaps, like with Inception, this goodbye can only be something conceptualized and bid farewell to in the realm of the mind. Maybe my wait for grief to begin once my pregnancy hormone levels reach 0 is pointless. I’m searching for an external signifier to coincide with grief for the loss of a relationship that was never externalized.

I’m still figuring out all that this means. I live, and my husband lives, in a surreal suspension between what has happened, what would’ve happened and what will happen next.

There is a fifth piece of art that fits into this season. Last fall, I began work on a new book. It’s about a couple that loses their child, and how their lives recover. I bought books on grieving for the loss of a child and began an intense course on trauma and how it affects individuals and relationships. This happened months before I conceived. Months before I lost the child we’d conceived. Art brought me into the season. And maybe… art will lead me out.

Maybe that’s how I’ll conceptualize my goodbye. Through my fiction. Again, that’s still something I’m figuring out, but this post and the hope of picking my book up again within the oncoming months feels like a light dawning at the end of a tunnel.

This is what I love the most about art, specifically stories. They prepare me. They guide me. They give me more than an escape. They give me a launchpad for my thoughts on these issues. Watching these films and shows is like taking part in a national discourse on what grief is, what it means, and what it takes to get out of it. All these stories are just a part of our collective soul, manifested into a narrative. And maybe my recovery will add to this discourse. Or maybe these words here on this blog will be all that I ever share.

Knowing me, I’m betting on the former. But for now, this post will have to do.

And as I send this onto my site, I whisper, “Goodnight, dear void” and thank God for all the stories and all the storytellers out there that have helped me get by, will help me get by and hope one day that I’m good enough to help someone else get by with the stories welling up inside of me.

(And thank you, by the way, to whoever reads this massive post, for letting me share this story with you. It’s already helped.)