Ivy's Revenge: A 30-Day Tweeted Serial...(And Scene)

Her anger frightened her. Her fear frightened her more. It was done. Blood covered her hands. She could feel splatters on her face. She steadied herself on buckling knees. The sweetness of her revenge warmed into nausea. She retched.

The hot bile violated her throat. She heard the sloshing sound as it hit the floor, a yellow marriage of fear and adrenaline. She watched as the pooling blood mingled with her sick, her heart racing. Each inhale of breath brought with it a sting and a gasp.

The red pool continued to widen around the head of Katie's limp body. The remains of the icicle jutting from her throat now barely visible. Warm blood had done its job. Blaine smiled as she watched the perfect murder weapon disappearing right before her eyes.

As the blood oozed toward her feet, she let go of the kitchen island she’d been using for support and stepped out of its lazy yet engulfing path. Her knees held, barely. She watched with hypnotic fascination as the surrounding white tiles drowned willingly.

As her pulse began to normalize she became immediately aware of the ambient sounds that up until then had been muffled by her pounding heart. There was chocolate bubbling in a saucepan on the stove. Its gurgling and popping mixing with the strings of...what?

She listened. She recognized those strings. Too many garden parties in her youth. Vivaldi, “Summer,” Movement 3, if she wasn’t mistaken. Those violins pierced the air with electricity. They represented hail or flies. She couldn’t remember which. Did it matter?

“So much drama,” she playfully said aloud of that particular movement. “I couldn’t have chosen a better theme song if I’d tried.” Her fear had lightened to relief. She stepped to the stove and removed the pan of chocolate from the burner, turning it off after.

“We wouldn’t want to burn the house down, now would we, ‘Katie’?” She venomously spat out the name as she looked over her right shoulder at the body lying on the floor. Katie’s eyes were open. Somehow that was creepier than the fact that she was dead.

Blaine continued to stare at Katie’s eyes, skeptically. She was completely creeped out. An icicle to the neck? Sure. No problem. But the open eyes of a dead woman made the ugly butterflies start to flutter in her gut. The music changed abruptly. Vivaldi fini.

From the twangy sound of an accordion, she thought it was something French. She rolled her eyes. Then someone started to sing. Edith Piaf, perhaps. She wasn’t sure. Bougie. What she was sure of was that she had to wash the drying blood from her face and hands.

To get to the sink Blaine realized she’d have to avoid Katie’s legs, which were lying parallel on the floor between the sink and kitchen island. She hugged the counter, edging her way to the right. She turned the water to hot and waited for the steam to rise.

It scalded her hands but she needed the angry violent wetness to wash away the dried residue of her anger, her revenge. As she splashed it on her cheeks, the burning brought with it stimulated nerve endings and tears—from pain, from release. Her body throbbed.

The tears continued as she reached for the yellow dish towel lying on the counter to dry her face and hands. Her pent-up rage was waning, the emptiness it left behind filled by a sense of elation. But the fucking tears...they carried sadness in their stream.

She’d carried her anguish for years. It was deeply rooted. But tears and sadness were not an option. She hated the dead woman lying on the kitchen floor. “So you go by ‘Katie’ now? Cute,” she said sneeringly. “Well, I found you Bethany Wakehurst. I found you.”

“And guess what, Bethany? Oh,” she paused, “May I call you that again?” she asked mockingly. “Anyway, I changed my name too. To Blaine. But I can tell you, I’m Ivy Wakehurst, Revenging Angel.” She laughed at herself. “I know you thought I was dead. Surprise!”

“And now, it’s you who’s dead.” Ivy smiled. “You left me unconscious in a burning house. From one woman to another, that was a shitty thing to do. Me surviving though? Twist. Yet here I am, standing over your dead body, by my hand, in your own house. Wow.”

“It’s crazy, right? I mean, it sounds like something you would do...plan revenge on the person who ruined your life.” She edged back down the counter toward the stove. She picked up the pan of chocolate and inhaled deeply. “I love the smell of chocolate. You?”

She took the stirring spoon that was lying next to the stove and swirled it around in the cooling chocolate. As she lifted a still warm dollop to her mouth she noticed the spoon rest said Somerston, Rhode Island. “Of course,” she said as she rolled her eyes.

“Of course you would have something from your past hidden in plain sight.” She lifted the spoon to her mouth and gently touched the chocolate to her upper lip. Cool enough. “You know, we’re both women scorned, me by you and you by me.” She ate a kiss of chocolate.

She closed her eyes in indulgence. “This chocolate is amazing,” She turned to look directly into Bethany’s dead blue eyes. “Did you add vanilla and salt to this?” She was back to the pan when she heard a gurgle from the floor. She froze. Fear seized her body.

Her stomach clinched. She dropped the spoon and watched the chocolate partially absorb it. A cold sweat mottled her body. She thought she might be sick again. She gripped the counter to steady her once again weakened knees. “She’s dead,” she reminded herself.

“She’s dead,” Ivy repeated the words to herself like a mantra. “You know she’s dead.” She took a deep breath then whipped herself around to face Bethany, still lying on the ground. Blood bubbles were foaming from the hole in her neck left by the melted icicle.

That sound was like something from a horror movie. Ivy thought she might take it to her grave. She could never unhear it. She shivered and grimaced. As her body began to relax once again she said to no one who could hear, “Revenge has too many side effects.”

The voice she now definitely recognized as that of Edith Piaf continued to sing what sounded like a mournful tune. “I lived in fear of you for a long time. But fear is a dark place. And my anger was just the light I needed to see me out of that darkness.”

Ivy picked up the yellow dish towel and carried it with her as she walked around the kitchen island. She avoided the now motionless pool as she bent forward and placed it over Bethany’s face to cover her soulless dead blue eyes. “Did you feel this euphoric?”

“I didn’t know how I was going to feel,” she continued. “But I haven’t felt this much bliss since the day I first kissed Christopher.” She lost herself in the memory of that day. She might’ve swirled there forever had it not been for the ring of the doorbell.

“Shit!” she said as she looked around the room. The icicle had melted. She hadn't stepped in the blood so there were no shoe prints. She quickly ran around the kitchen island and pulled open a drawer next to the stove. Bingo. Luck was on her side. Dishtowels.

She quickly took one from the drawer and began wiping the counter’s edge where she’d steadied herself getting to the sink. She wiped the handle of the drawer she’d just opened. She wiped the kitchen island where she’d kept her buckling knees from buckling.

The doorbell rang again. A sounding cry to escape. She began moving quickly, “90 miles an hour” she remembered her mother saying when Ivy had been moving too fast. She looked around the room. She saw the pan of chocolate. “The spoon!” She whispered to herself.

She breezed around to the other side of the island, grabbed the visible portion of the spoon that sat frozen in the suffocating chocolate, and wrapped it in the dish towel. “Time for me to go, Bethany.” Covering the knob, Ivy quietly slipped out the back door.

The Heels Are Killer in the Best Way at the Brooklyn Museum

How else can I begin except by saying I was giddy with controlled exuberance. It was as if I was alone in a world all my own (Michael Through the Looking Glass) as I stared at the encased heels all around me. These weren't just any heels though. These were “Killer Heels,” as in the ones currently on display in Killer Heels: The Art of the High-Heeled Shoe at the Brooklyn Museum.

Have you ever taken the time to really look at a pair of high-heeled shoes? To look beyond the color, the height, and the price tag? Get that pair of your most fabulous, treasured heels out of your closet and look at them. Look at the design elements, the craftsmanship, the architectural lines, the artistry, the creativity. Okay, so maybe the heels you have in your closet are not that interesting. Maybe you see them as just simple and plain. That may be true, but let me tell you, there are shoes in this world that are pure art; as beautiful and expressive as any painting by Monet, van Gogh, or Pollock. There are even people who can and dare to wear this art. The shoes may not always be comfortable, but one can't deny they are daring, provocative, wearable art forms.

There was no denying the artistry and creativity of the gorgeous shoes I smiled at, conversed about, and kept myself from drooling over as I ambled my way through the "Killer Heels” exhibit. There were so many different eras represented. The evolution of shoes on display. The styles (platform, stiletto, boot, mule, futuristic, etc), materials (leather, cloth, wood, metal, plastic, nylon, etc) and adornments (flames, metal spikes, crystals, hair, etc) pushing the limits beyond the boundaries of what one thinks a shoe can be, should be. Who's to say what a shoe can (or can't) be, anyway? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then fashion, much like art, is subjective. 

I spoke animatedly with a young woman about the Prada Flame Wedge Sandal (Spring/Summer 2012, below). I can usually spot a Prada shoe before I see the label. They stand out in the crowd. Miuccia Prada (Prada, Miu Miu) is a designer with a unique sense of style that, for me, at least with her shoes, is instantly recognizable. I often find myself questioning where one might wear a Prada shoe (answer: anywhere one wants). But more often than not I am thrilled by their imaginative and fanciful design elements. 

Prada Wedge Sandal in Rosso, Bianco, and Nero Leather, Spring/Summer 2012

With an older lady, whom I encountered jotting down notes over a 1960 Christian Dior/Roger Vivier evening slipper for the House of Dior (below), I exchanged thoughts on the heel of said slipper. Specifically its curved design. This particular heel could be the petite grand-mère of the heel on the fall 2014 Louis Vuitton curved-heel bootie, the “shoe to covet” this fall according the September issue of Harper's Bazaar. Invention is prone to reinterpretation and everything old can be new again.

Christian Dior, Roger Vivier for House of Dior. Evening Slippers, 1960

Fashion design thrives on imagination, limit-pushing creativity, the ability to envision then actualize. It can even beg for the update of a successful design from the past as with the heel on the aforementioned Dior/Vivier slipper. The heels in “Killer Heels” are the epitome of limit-pushing creativity, vision, and artistic expression. Just look below at the Julian Hakes "Mojito," 2012.Of course they aren't going to be for everyone, but neither is every shoe at Bergdorf’s or even…Payless. 

Julian Hakes. "Mojito," 2012

I appreciate interesting shoes. Men’s shoe choices are positively bland compared to those of women’s. I try to shake things up. In my own closet there’s a pair of chocolate brown Frye boots, a pair of blue leather Chukka’s with suede at the ankle, a pair of tan leather and ivy green suede saddle Oxfords, a pair of gray Wingtips adorned with a buckle or two. Those are just a few examples. I realize we’ve come a long way in color choices from the days of black or brown, but men are still limited to more conservative shoe choices than women. In recent years, thankfully, men have been able to express themselves by choosing shoes with pops of color in the heel or by changing the color of the laces. With the later, one not only gets to let his personality shine through, he can dramatically alter the look of the shoe by blasting the tediousness with a dash of whimsy. 

(left) A SHOE CAN BE. "Heliotrope," 2013 (right) JANTAMINIAU. "Tarnished Beauty," 2012

I mentioned the word personality in connection with shoes above. Personality is a great word to describe most, if not all, of the shoes in the "Killer Heels" exhibit. The inanimate objects of my admiration had so much personality they could rival some people. Shoes can be the centerpiece of an outfit. They can be the only bit of outrageousness in a beautifully tailored, but otherwise dull ensemble. I know I’ve been known to build an outfit around a pair of shoes. Wouldn’t it be refreshing if we all felt the freedom to let our personality run wild on our feet? Choose the height, choose the color, choose the style and design. If it makes you happy own it, then make the sidewalk your runway.

Maybe you’re a worshiper at the house of Blahnik or Louboutin, a lover of fantastical shoes, have a shoe fetish. Or maybe you’re merely interested in seeing shoes that aren't readily available just anywhere. If any of that sounds like you, then get thee to the Brooklyn Museum. You've got until February 15, 2015. Trust me when I tell you you don’t have to be wearing them to be lifted to their heights. 

Roger Vivier. "Rose N' Roll," Fall 2012

A Blank Page...So Many Possibilities!

Dot: Are you working on something new?
George: No
Dot: That is not like you, George
George: I've nothing to say
Dot: You have many things
George: Well, nothing that's not been said
Dot: Said by you, though. George

This blank white page stares back at me as I stare at it. I have so many things that I want to write about and yet I won’t sit down in front of the computer and compose the story. I can’t seem to get the ideas and thoughts to flow from their murky bed of inception into the clear stream of clarity. Even now as I try to describe this situation, I erased the sentence five times and began again finally landing on the one you read.

I wrote in the summer about practicing and how I hate to do it. That is again my problem. There are seven blog entries about my life or experiences that have been started just sitting on my desktop waiting for me to complete them. There are two short stories of fiction that have been started and two that are still swirling in my brain. They call out to me daily and I ignore them. I feel an obligation to finish them yet I won’t do it. I can’t explain why. I want them to be finished. I want to feel the sense of excitement I feel every time I send a new piece I’ve written out into the cyber world that is blogger, twitter, and Facebook. I love seeing the numbers grow as people read what I’ve written. It’s exciting, and there’s nothing wrong with that. 

Part of my problem is that I don’t quiet my mind and focus on what I want to say. That quieting and focusing clears the path for the words to form at the end of my fingertips as they strike the keys on my computer.

There are times when I’m lying in bed at night and a thought will come to me. Usually it’s a thought about the fiction I’m working on. When I am in a relaxed state and those thoughts happen, I need only grab the notebook and pen that live beside my bed and beautiful descriptions of moments make their way to the page. I look at them the next day and feel a sense of pride in the fact that I wrote them. They may not be great sentences to everyone, but to me, if I’ve managed to describe the image or create the mood that was in my head then it’s a success.

I’ve plenty to say. I’ve even gotten better at saying it. I just don’t say it as often as I used to. I miss that, yet I still make no major effort to change it.

I hear my father’s voice in my head sometimes telling me as a child that I’m lazy. I don’t want to hear that voice because I don’t want him to be right, but somehow I think he is. If I apply that statement from my childhood (which irritated me then) to my current writing process I have to agree (and that irritates me now).

There is no fear in a blank white page. It is a blank canvas on which to create. I have such grand ideas in my head sometimes and I’m afraid I can’t write them the way I see them. Therefore I let the fear of failure-to-translate keep me from continuing my project. I’m a fool for doing that. I judge myself so harshly. I don’t give myself a chance to succeed because I’ve already deemed myself a failure without writing a word. Isn’t that amazing? Having written nothing I’ve already decided it’s not good enough.

Eureka! I think the above words clarify beautifully, and quite simply, the idea that I think I’m not good enough. Ouch! No murkiness there. Now we’re getting to the root of the problem. I don’t think I’m good enough and therefore nothing I do is going to be good enough. So I just brood on what might have been, or what could be, instead of living in the moment of what is...and writing. 

I published only 33 blog entries in 2012. That’s down from the 70 I published in 2009 when this blog was fresh and new and I was excited about it. Those numbers are a disappointment to me, and I’m the only one to blame.

Sometimes it only takes a moment to get what I’m thinking down on the page. This took less than half and hour.

There are no resolutions for the coming year, but there is a challenge to write more and fear less. There is a challenge to create and complete. I extend this challenge to myself. I hope to retire the hat of the fool, or at least stow it away in a dark corner to be brought out at times when I need of reminder of how far away from it I have gotten. 

George: White. A blank page of canvas. His favorite. So many possibilities...

(Dot and George are characters in the musical Sunday in the Park with George by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine. Dialogue reprinted without permission. No copyright infringement intended.)

A Spirit of Experimentation

MoMA - The Museum of Modern Art; I thought I'd been there before, but when I arrived I realized I was mistaken. I have been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Guggenheim Museum and the Museum of Sex. In my nearly 14 years in New York City I've now been to 4 of the more than 80 museums that exist within its five boroughs. One thing that annoys me most about myself is that I don't take enough advantage of the glorious things this City has to offer.

Art is subjective. What is beautiful to one person may be ugly to another. What one person finds profoundly meaningful may be meaningless to another. There were things - sketches, paintings, sculptures, nets, videos - that I couldn't believe were art. There were computer monitors mounted on the wall with keyboards mounted underneath on which a person could type. The letters jumped; this is art? Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I had to remind myself that it was modern art: traditions of the past have been thrown aside in a spirit of experimentation.

Just when I couldn't take another second of design and architectural art I found myself in front of a painting bursting with blue. I was drawn to it because of its color. It was then that I began to notice its composition. Being drawn to the color seemed to be my calling card when it came to abstract art. The colors speak to me and lure me in and then I look at the piece as a whole and search for its meaning. I didn't always find a love beyond the color. Sometimes however I found a beauty I didn't even know was there.

Pollock. I will admit that I don't understand the popularity of Pollock. When I look at his paintings I can't seem to get beyond the drips and splatters passing for art. Somebody loved it though and deemed it worthy enough for the public attention. I can officially say I'm glad they did. I expressed my thoughts freely and openly with Brandon and Anna, two painters/artists in their own right. I didn't feel ignorant in my lack of understanding the Why? factor. We stood in that gallery and looked and talked. Brandon had plenty of knowledge on Pollock to share. He was passionate about it; passionate the way I get when I talk about something I truly love. We made our way to another of his paintings, White Light, 1954. We three stood in front of it, view unobstructed by other onlookers. We were then joined by a man who had been eaves dropping on our earlier discussion. It was not intrusive. He instigated another Pollock conversation. He had been coming to MoMA since he was 6. He loved Pollock. Now in his 30's he'd had plenty of moments at the painting in front of which we stood. I didn't interject much during that conversation, but it was interesting to listen to Brandon and the man discuss. As I stood there and stared at this painting of drips and splatters and lines and swooshes and smears, an image began to emerge for me. I saw it as the chaos of New York City, specifically Times Square. I think I can honestly say the yellow of the painting had something to do with that. It reminded me of the many taxicabs that permeate our streets and avenues. There are also spots of gray where the black and white have been blended together that reminded me of streets. My chaos idea is completely informed by the fact that I live in New York City. There's no way to know what I might have seen if I still lived in Arlington, KY. Maybe I was trying to find something literal in all the abstractness. I don't know. That's just what I saw. Art is subjective.

Van Gogh. I didn't realize until more than a day later how amazing it was that I had actually stood close enough to touch Van Gogh's Starry Night, 1889. Of course touching it would probably have set off some alarm and gotten me tossed straight out onto the cold, gray street. That painting is one that has been in my memory for many years. I don't even remember when I first saw it on a postcard or in a book. This was no reproduction though. This was the real thing. I went back a second time to gaze upon it again, the significance still not really setting in. Anna was very excited to be in its presence. I may be mistaken, but I believe she said it was her favorite painting. I guess for her, standing in front of Starry Night would be like me sitting in a theatre listening to an orchestra play any Sondheim score for the first time. It's heart-pounding, tear-inducing excitement.

Seurat. Speaking of Sondheim he wrote a beautiful score for the musical Sunday in the Park with George about the life of Georges Seurat. Seurat invented pointillism defined from Wikipedia as "a technique of painting in which small, distinct dots of pure color are applied in patterns to form an image." In the musical, Seurat is painting one of his most famous paintings, the gorgeous A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. I have a copy of that painting hanging in my apartment. I've had it for years. It's a beautiful piece of art. I'm sure that its beauty is enhanced by my love of the musical that tells the story of the painter and the people in the painting. I'm not sure how long it would have been, if ever, until I discovered it if not for that musical. I have no memory of ever seeing another work by Seurat except maybe in an art book. Nothing stands out though. I now have three more images in my memory from this trip to MoMA. The one that stood out for me the most was Port-in-Bessin, Entrance to the Harbor, 1888. I know myself well enough to know that it was the blues depicting the water that drew me to the piece. I also know that the scene seemed so peaceful. It's amazing to me that dotting the canvas with multiple dots of color can create such an image. Day after day of dot after dot and then you end up with water and land and sail boats and sky. Oh to have the drive and motivation to create something that creates beauty and stirs emotion.

Critics to make fun of what Seurat was doing used the word pointillism. All these years later he is credited with creating a new style of painting. Art is subjective. Creating a new style could be said of Pollack; most certainly if you ask Brandon. Pollock dripped and poured his paint onto a canvas he laid on the floor instead of placing on an easel. His technique is now thought to be one of the origins of the term "action painting". Boldly creating something new without worrying about the naysayer is something to aspire to. I can't seem to release my hindrance of caring what people think. It holds me back. It helps me to live in fear. I'm sure these artists felt a puncture wound to their souls when their art was spoken of negatively, but they didn't stop creating in their style or with their vision.

Here's to obtaining the freedom to drip the music, swirl the words and dot the i's with confidence. "White. A blank page or canvas. So many possibilities..."

Dinner at Seven

If you're reading the fiction I'm writing, you may have noticed a trend in the posting. I tend to post them Wednesday morning or late Tuesday night. There is a reason. I meet with my friend Mandy on Tuesday night and we have a pseudo writer's night. For the past 12 weeks (at least) we have gotten together on Tuesday evening to read the new work that the other has written over the past 7 days. We generally meet at Cosmic Diner. We take the opportunity to catch up on each others week, eat a meal and then order coffee or tea and settle in to read the new pages. It's a very gratifying experience that I look forward to each week.

This past Tuesday night I asked Mandy if she would mind coming my apartment in Astoria after she got off work. As it happened, I worked on Monday of this week instead of Tuesday. That meant I didn't really have a reason to go into Manhattan on Tuesday except to meet Mandy. I had the brilliant idea of making dinner for the two of us at my apartment which would allow us to eat, read and watch Glee in comfort and style. The idea was not only agreeable with me, Mandy liked it as well. My next step was to plan our meal. I asked Mandy if she liked or disliked a few of the items I wanted to make. Her only restriction was guacamole. I wasn't making anything with guacamole so it was time to shop.

When I returned home from Trade Fair (my grocery store), the first thing I had to do was marinate the chicken breasts. I purchased a marinade that I'd never used before - Mrs. Dash Zesty Garlic Herb with a Touch of Orange. Sounded good to me. I used a chop stick to poke several holes in each chicken breast ensuring that the flavor of the marinade would soak in and through the breasts. When I poured the marinade over the chicken breasts I was shocked. I'm used to a marinade that has the consistency of Italian dressing. This was no Italian dressing. It was thick and opaque with a hint of orange that permeated the air. I wanted the chicken breasts sit in the garlicky orange bath for three hours.

Time for the tomato salad. I had purchased five large vine tomatoes. I washed them all and then cut them into large chunks. I sprinkled a bit of Goya Sazonador Total - a complete seasoning including garlic powder, onion powder, salt, parsley and cumin - on top of them, then coated them with Brianna's Champagne Caper Vinaigrette Dressing. Let the salivating begin. The early prep of the tomatoes was to give them ample time to soak in the vinaigrette.

The next step for me was peeling a cucumber. Mandy isn't a big wine drinker so I didn't pick up a bottle for dinner. Instead I wanted to make cucumber water. After peeling, I cut the cucumber into four long quarters, seeded them then placed them into a pitcher of water. Time to chill in the refrigerator. The chicken was marinating, the tomatoes were soaking and the cucumbers were permeating the water. I was off to a good start.

Go time. I put the brown rice on the stove around 5:45pm. Mandy got off work at 6pm, so I was trying to coincide cooking completion with her arrival which I guessed would be roughly 7pm.

The brown rice recipe I made this time was two cups of coconut milk, two cups of chicken broth, 1/2 tsp of garlic salt, 1 TBS of EVOO and 1 1/2 cups of brown rice. It takes the rice at least an hour to cook. The smell is amazing. The coconut milk gives off the best aroma and provides the rice with a lovely flavor. I'm not sure that the EVOO is necessary though. Next time I think I'll do without it as the coconut milk has oil in it already. It seemed like oil overkill.

Fifteen minutes into cooking the rice, the oven dinged to alert me that it had reached 400 degrees. I pulled the chicken breasts out of the refrigerator and out of the marinade. It clung to both of them. The were still completely covered when I put them in the oven. Salivating again.

With twenty minutes left on the timer, I took the brussel sprouts out of the freezer. I dumped them briefly into a hot water bath then put them in a mixing bowl. I sprinkled them with the Goya seasoning and garlic salt then coated them with EVOO. I used my hands to make sure each sprout was coated. Fifteen minutes left on the timer. I placed the brussel sprouts in the over with the chicken. My house was filling with all kinds of amazing smells.

Mandy arrived at my apartment with five minutes left on the timer. I had done a pretty good job in the timing department if I do say so myself. The only thing left was to taste the food.

After plating the brown rice, I spritzed it with lime juice. This was a suggestion from my friend Kim. It seemed like a good idea to me. After all, the rice had coconut milk in it and the chicken marinade had orange in it. The lime juice was a compliment to the tropical and citrus ingredients that were already present. I placed the chicken breast on top of the rice. Still sizzling from the over, I placed a healthy spoonful of brussel sprouts on the plates. Then the tomato salad. It smelled amazing and looked even better. The true test was the taste.

The chicken was juicy with a hint of orange hidden underneath the garlic. The rice was sweet and the lime juice offset the whole thing with a slight tangy punch. The brussel spouts were perfectly seasoned and there was enough oil to keep them from being dry. The tomato salad was, again, tangy, but a different tangy more like, zesty. I wanted to jump into the bottom of the tomato salad bowl and swim around in the vinaigrette goodness. I can honestly say it tasted as good as it looked, maybe better. This is no horn toot either. I was so proud.

It was just another opportunity to try something new. I've been challenging myself to write more than "this is what I did yesterday" blog entries. I've been writing fiction and about things that mean something to me. This was an extension of that challenge; making myself cook something other than what comes in a box. I have to test my strengths and limits.

There is one more thing I prepared for us that night - Dessert. It was kind of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of dessert. I knew I was going to have coconut milk left over so I was thinking about how I could use it. The first thing I thought of was mixing it with ice cream. As a person who limits his fat intake, I chose vanilla frozen yogurt instead. I also bought two fresh mangos. I had no intention of a theme when I was buying groceries, but with coconut, orange, lime and mango on the menu, it seemed kind of tropical without being tropical. Anyway, I threw many scoops of the frozen yogurt, the remaining coconut milk, some skim milk, a pour or two of Smirnoff Raspberry Vodka and several chunks of mango into my blender. At the last minute I decided to add a squeeze of Hershey's® syrup to the bottom of each glass. When the smoothie was completely blended, I poured it into the glasses. The force of the liquid hitting the chocolate brought of ribbon of chocolate to the top. I did not stir the chocolate into the smoothie; I just let it sit at the bottom of the glass. It was pretty and interesting. While drinking, it delivered just a hint of chocolate on the taste buds, intensifying as you got closer and closer to the bottom of the glass.

All in all, the evening was a win. The food was amazing, the conversation was wonderful, the words we had written were met with excitement and constructive criticism, the dessert was a pleasant surprise and Glee was funny, as usual.

A Summer of Discovery & Rediscovery

It's been a while since I've concentrated on writing about what I'm doing. It's been since August 19th to be exact. I've been doing things. Living life.

It's been a great summer. I hate to think of it as being over. Technically it isn't, but the kids have gone back to school.

This was my first summer as a resident of Astoria. I enjoyed the peace that my home brought into my life. I've had to remind myself that what I'm feeling these days is happiness. It's been a while since I felt truly happy.

One major thing that has been going on with me this summer is: I've been meeting with my friend Mandy on Tuesday nights to read. We're not reading books. We're reading what the other one is writing. It's been amazing. We meet for dinner and catch up on the goings on in each other's lives over the past week. We talk and laugh and eat. After the plates are taken away, we order coffee and pull out the pages for that night's reading. It has been so exciting and pleasurable to read what Mandy has been working on. It's a funny story and I can't wait to read the new pages each week. I look forward to finding out what new, ridiculous experience she puts her characters through. Sometimes it's just a paragraph or line that is the stand out. Other times it's the entire scene. I never fail to laugh though.

It's also been a confidence boost for me to have her read and critique my first foray into fiction writing. She sort of acts as an editor. She helps me clarify things that don't make sense. She doesn't necessarily know that I listen to her entire reaction though. There were things in my first story, Ocean Point, that I wrote because she mentioned that she couldn't wait to find out about such and such. They were things that I maybe wasn't even concerned with. However, writing those descriptions or explanations made the piece better. So thank you Mandy for just being you and wanting to know.

I have now moved on to another story - 327 Chesterfield Road. It's a different tale than the first. More challenging really. The first one was a challenge, don't get me wrong. When I'm writing about something that I did or experienced, I can give you every detail because it happened to me. I can describe it to the point where you feel like you're there. Writing something that is unfolding in my mind makes the details very difficult.

I think about where I want the piece to go. Then I concentrate on getting the words on the page. Then I concentrate on editing and clarifying and making sure that what it says conjures the image I have in my head. That's why I'm publishing one installment a week.

I'm constantly thinking about whatever piece I'm writing at the moment. The ideas swirl around in my head like water swirling down the drain of the sink after the plug has been pulled. And just like that stray piece of corn or that manages to cling to the sink, instead of going down the drain, I have kernels of ideas that stick. I have pulled out my BlackBerry® on the train more times than I can count and started to write about the people in these stories. Thank God for memo pad or I'd be screwed.

Anyway, it's been a great summer. My blog turned a year old. I went to Newport, RI. I went to Amagansett in East Hampton. I went to Boston - twice. I hung out in Central Park. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge - twice. I ate at new restaurants in Astoria and Brooklyn. I hung out with friends in Astoria. I smoked a hookah for the first time. I published my first piece of fiction. I watched a lot of True Blood, Mad Men and SYTYCD. I reconnected with a cousin and met his family. I started publishing my second piece of fiction. I tried new wines. I cooked new dishes. I read three books. I got new music. I got a couple of new pieces of furniture. I took lots of pictures. I found happy again.

Thanks to all of you who continue to keep up with my life. Keep reading. I'm going to keep writing about me and keep creating characters with interesting stories to tell.

Cheers!

Inspiration

Inspiration can come from anything, anywhere. A speck of color in a piece of trash on the sidewalk. An article in a magazine. A line of dialogue in a book. Fashion. Music. A bottle of wine. Art. Film. A flower in Central Park.

On a recent trip to Boston, I was reading a back issue of Vogue that had been lying around my apartment since October '09. The article I was reading was called "the ex files" written by Tad Friend. He was doing research for his memoir and decided to look up and ask ex girlfriends to recall what it was like being in a relationship with him. The following two quotes I found extremely interesting and vivid. "My greatest danger is the everydayness. If it descends in full force I'll simply get depressed and I'll ingrow like a toenail." Amazing! I know exactly how the woman, who wrote this line in a letter to the author, feels. To have nothing on my calendar and no plans means that the only thing happening is the boring, everydayness that can happen in life. I am acquainted with that depression. I know how alive I feel when there's something to do. Having somewhere to be so that I can see people and be seen is a life saver. I crave it. The second quote was from the author himself. "Sometimes remembered lightening was just a lightening bug." How true is that? Something that in the moment is amazing or mind blowing can be remembered for what it truly was when we get some distance between us and it. Sex, kisses, dates, a movie, a moment when hands touch for the first time, a nice bottle of Bordeaux. They can mean so much at that moment. But time fades the memory. Or clarifies it. That burst of love was really nothing more than your heart racing.

How many times have you been inspired by a movie? Speaking solely for me, that number is countless. More times than I can remember. Sometimes there is even a moment of inspiration to glean from an otherwise dismal film. It was not a bad film that inspired me two nights ago. "Up", the most recent animated release from Walt Disney Pictures and Pixar Animation Studios, filled me with inspiration. I learned that I am never too old to open my heart. I am never too old to learn something new about the world or myself. I am never too old to change. I am never to old to achieve my goals. And, I am never too old to dream. Dreams can come true. All I have to do is believe in myself, close my eyes, and take the leap. Hell, maybe I should try taking the leap with my eyes open.

Inspiration came today in the form of this quote from Brian Gallagher while I was watching yesterday's CBS Sunday Morning. "When you invest your time, your money, just your energy, into things beyond yourself, you will be more successful." I need to do that more. I need to be more charitable. I was told recently that maybe if I would give more to charity then I wouldn't worry so much about having money. The point being, it all comes back to you. Karma, blessings, whatever you choose to believe it is. It's like the golden rule of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. If I give for the right reasons, then it can only come back to bless me. How amazing is that? Kind of inspiring I think. The first thing I did was give more to Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS than I normally do at this time of year. I heard a woman on the street yesterday asking for 75 cents. Normally, I would ignore the request, as I always do, walk by, and try to block it out. Yesterday, I felt change in my pocket and whatdya know, three quarters. I gave it to the lady. It felt good. Those two giving moments happened before I even heard Brian Gallagher's thoughts on giving. I needed to hear them. Reinforcement!

The following quote was also from the CBS Sunday Morning program. I'm not sure who said it, but it immediately spoke to me. "If you're out there in the world, and you let the world in, it's almost impossible to not feel that there's some place where you can make things better."

I am inspired by many things in my life. What I want to be is a better person and an inspiration to others. That would be a beautiful achievement. I think it's time to open my heart, make a change, learn, live, and thus, inspire.

A Stone's Throw Away

Once upon a time, in 1990 to be exact, a boy of 19, took his love of soap operas to another level. He created one himself. That boy was me. That story was called "Glass Houses." (copyright)

I grew up without television. This was due to the church we attended. According to the pastor, television was a sin. We watched television at other people's houses though. Anytime we would visit my grandparents, for instance, we watched television. Specifically I remember "The Young and the Restless" on Grandmother's lunch hour. "Falcon Crest" and "Dallas" also come to mind. I don't know if that meant that my parents didn't find it a sin or they were just going with the flow. None of this really matters. It's all just back story. My parents eventually left that congregation and became members of another. Both were Baptist by denomination. The latter, however, had no problem with television. So in 1985 our living room got a new piece of furniture. A large television. We also got a VCR and subscribed to cable. It was a life changing moment. One of the first things I remember was my mom recording "Search for Tomorrow," "Days Of Our Lives," "Another World," and "Santa Barbara." I loved them. Soap operas. They were so taboo. Sex in the afternoon. I don't know how to explain the excitement I found tuning in each day to see how a storyline played out. Sometimes heartbreaking. Sometimes explosive. Always creative.

I went through periods where each of them was my favorite. I saw the cancellation of "Search for Tomorrow" give way to the creation of "Generations." That one was the first soap opera I got to start watching from the beginning and the first soap opera to have a Black family as a core family. For a while I only recorded "Generations" and "Santa Barbara." That gave way to "The Young and the Restless" and "Santa Barbara." Ask anyone who really knows me and they'll tell you that "Santa Barbara" was always my favorite. I was so sad the day it went off the air. I asked my sister to record the final week for me. I set the VCR at my parents' house to record the Monday episode. She forgot Tuesday and Wednesday. With a reminder from me via angry phone call, she recorded Thursday and Friday. I still have the VCR tape in a box in my apartment. Is that a treasure? Who knows.

I got so involved in the characters. I knew they weren't real, but I loved the escape and entertainment they provided. I loved the opening credits. I loved the theme music. The theme music for some of the shows, especially the prime time soap operas, are still very recognizable. It only takes the opening chords of "Dallas," "Dynasty," "Dark Shadows," "Days of our Lives," "Twin Peaks," or "The Young and the Restless," to name a few, and you instantly know what show is on. I loved that. Still do. I think it's very important that a theme song and opening montage of images set the tone for the piece. It's instant branding. The minute the "Dynasty" or "Falcon Crest" themes start, you know it's a grand, wealthy playing field. The swirling of the red wine in the crystal wine glasses dissolving into images of character and scenery on "Falcon Crest" is glorious.

So you get the picture. I love soap operas. In 1990, home from my first year of college, I sat in the living room of my friend Shanda's house and started the initial planning of my own soap opera. I wanted in set in a real place. I started looking at different States and Cities within those States with interesting names and locations. I narrowed my search down to a few and wrote to their respective Chambers of Commerce for information. The state I chose was Delaware. I wanted the setting to have history. Delaware was one of the thirteen colonies and is considered the first state. How much more history can you get? I ended up originally choosing Fenwick Island, Delaware, located in Sussex County, as the setting. Doesn't that name positively scream soap opera town? It had a lighthouse and was part of a beach resort area. The problem was it was too small. Population 357. As the years progressed, and I thought about it more, I wanted something bigger. More of a city than a town.

I started listing names. Interesting (read: soap opera) names. First and last names that were unlike the everyday, average names of real people. I tried to create names. I had lists of names. Choosing names first may sound like a backwards way of starting, but I needed to find names that I liked in order to connect them to a family so that I could then choose the type of people who made up my core families. Taking a page from "Generations," I wanted a core White family and a core Black family as well as other members of the community. I have the original pages, written in pencil, of character descriptions and possible names. I have pages of script printed on a Dot Matrix printer. I have my original logo and tag line for the show:

GLASS HOUSES
The Britian's, The Sullenger's: A struggle for power and acceptance.

Seems like all those years of watching the power hungry, greedy, wealthy had infiltrated my psyche and they were the one's I knew how to create. The one's I knew would be interesting.

Over the years I would pull my binder of information out of the drawer and revisit my creation. Each time I did this it would lead to changes and revisions. A tightening of family ties and relationships. The older I got, the more I realized that the most powerful story lines on any show dealt with family. I also knew that I needed to have people on the canvas of my soap opera town who were not related to the main families so that the story lines could branch out beyond the core. I'm smart enough to know that all the family intrigue in the world isn't going to keep one interested if there's no romance. I started watching soaps in the age of the super couple. Cruz and Eden, Bo and Hope. Hell, those couples had their own songs. It was an amazing time to be a soap fan in the 80's.

By the late 90's, "Glass Houses" had gotten more defined. The core families changed. The Brittan's (yes the spelling is different), the McAllistar's, the Sullenger's, and the Thomas' became the core. Two white families, a latino family, and a black family. The setting became the fictional town Milhaven. I kept it in Sussex County and located it on Delaware Bay. I decided that if I created the town then I could have more creative license to do with it as I pleased. Growing up in Bardwell, KY, we had a movie theatre on front street that always intrigued me. It was closed long before I was old enough to attend, but it's marquee was still there. It was called the Milwain. I decided, at some point, to have a wealthy man with the last name Milwain be the founder of the town. It was his haven. Thus the name of the town, Milhaven. It sounded just as natural as Pine Valley or Bay City or Somerset to me. The roots of my town were beginning to take hold in my brain. The small town's history was coming to me. How the area was discovered. Where the train was that brought Mr. Milwain there. Where Mr. Milwain built his large mansion overlooking the town. I was informed, of course, by things I read or saw in regards to soap operas. The Milwain Estate is very much like Collinwood, looming on the cliff overlooking Collinsport in "Dark Shadows" except in this case, it's the big mansion on the hill that can be seen from everywhere in town. It's not on a cliff and it's not haunted. It's intriguing. What kind of secrets and history does that place hold?

I further defined the family connections. Who was related. How did the core families know each other. How did they know the other people in Milhaven. Did everyone have to know each other? No. So who didn't know each other. The businesses were created. Who worked where, and for whom, was established. All of the basic information was in place. I knew who was married, divorced, having an affair, had had an affair. I knew who was single, who was gay, who was dating, who had dated, who didn't get along. I knew who was psycho and who had illegitimate children. I knew so much about these people that you would have thought they were real to hear me talk about them.

The next thing I did was to create the first story lines that would usher the show into the public's consciousness. I have an appreciation for the storytelling style of William J. Bell, creator of "The Young and the Restless." That man knew how to weave a story that affected few but connected many. Amazing, riveting, gotta-tune-in-every-day story lines. That is what I wanted. My first story lines included a flashback to college friends, now adults in their 50's, and the murder that did or didn't take place and how the outcome affects them all. A discovered lynching of one family's ancestor by a member of the town's founding family. Illegitimate children discovered. Gay relationships discovered. Affairs discovered. The opening of a fabulous, grand, old hotel, with secrets of it's own, started it all. I felt the best way to introduce everyone would be to have a party. Why not. So the hotel's renovation was complete and there was a party for the grand opening. Everyone is there. Everyone is introduced. At least two story lines kick off due to events at the party. And we're off. Everyone has secrets. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

The tag line changed also:

GLASS HOUSES
Set in Milhaven, DE, on Delaware Bay, GLASS HOUSES is the story of the Brittan's, the McAllistar's, the Sullenger's, and the Thomas'. Their lives. Their differences. Family is everything.

The next step for me was to know where everything was located in Milhaven. I knew the address of every house and business, but I needed to know where those addresses fell on the city map. So, I started looking at Google maps for images that struck me as interesting. I ended up choosing portions of Dover and Milford, DE, and Bardwell, KY. I cut and pasted, by hand, until I ended up with the layout of Milhaven, DE. I then named every road, avenue, interstate, and highway. I drew boxes to represent the location of each structure used as a residence or business. I then started looking for physical images that represented the homes of the core families that I had in my mind. Thanks to Google I found perfect representations of my imagination. Milhaven was now a living, breathing city, with inhabitants working, sleeping, deceiving, and generally living very exciting, non-ordinary lives.

So, I've been sitting on this idea for twenty years now. As many of you who read my blog can deduce, it's fear based. As long as I didn't show it to anyone, no one could tell me it was bad. Of course, that also meant that no one could tell me it was good either. Or how to improve it. I just let it marinate in my head where it was always fabulous.

Now with "Guiding Light" and the soon to "As The World Turns" joining "Search for Tomorrow," "Generations," "Santa Barbara," "Another World," "Port Charles," "Sunset Beach," and "Passions" in soap opera heaven, it seems very unlikely that anyone would launch a new soap opera. The genre's audience is deteriorating by the minute. Many of the soap opera generation's loyal watchers are dying. The younger generation doesn't care. All of this information made me wonder how to keep my creation alive. Let's face it, I have pages of information about these people I've created. I know their birthdays, their anniversaries, when their parents died. I know how they met each other. I know how they feel about their lives in the moment before you meet them.

The evolution of "Glass Houses" has now landed in the book arena. My thought was to write a series of novels. One where each family was the central focus and the reader could see how the other families and Milhaven inhabitants wove in and out of their lives. This would allow for the use of the major story lines that I created for the television version of this soap opera. Problem is, I didn't really want to write for the television version of "Glass Houses." I wanted to be the creator, story line consultant, and executive producer. I wanted to turn my characters over to writers who could see my vision and write for them accordingly. So how does that translate to me writing for these characters in book form? I don't know. I can say that I've started. I've written a small portion about the Brittan's and a small portion, already published here, about the Sullenger's. There is also a portion about Mr. Milwain discovering the undeveloped area of Delaware that would become Milhaven.

It seems time for me to shit or get off the pot. I need to do something with this idea. Maybe the confidence that continues to grow as I write this blog and get feedback from readers will posses me to actually write the story that's been in my head for twenty years.

I am now going to publish an excerpt from the story. This is narrated by Toren Brittan. He's a character based on me. Readers of this blog will probably recognize aspects of my life in this excerpt. Here it is world.

Chapter 1

Boredom seeped in like a cold draft seeping under the comforter disturbing the warmth created by my body. I don’t know what changed. It could be that it’s January and I don’t like the cold, but my desire to do more than climb out of bed and brew a cup of coffee in the French press is non-existent. I enjoy my work and my life. I enjoy being social, but lately all I want to do is spend time with the television or a good book. The company of fictional people is more desirable than that of my friends or family. I enjoy the quiet of the morning, a cup of coffee and yesterday’s episode of BRIGHT HORIZONS.

BRIGHT HORIZONS is a fabulous soap opera that my grandmother, Joyce, has been watching for 30 years. I’ve been watching it for 10 myself. It’s something the two of us share apart from the rest of the family or the family business. We actually call each other and discuss the goings on in Central City USA. It’s the one “bright’ spot in my currently unmotivated life.

The solitude that I crave is easy to achieve. My family lives in a very large mansion built during the gilded age by my great-great-grandfather. I have my own suite of rooms. Peace, quiet and privacy is something everyone if my family craves. At least the privacy. The mansion is now home to my grandmother, my mother, Cailyn, my sister, Tealle, and me. I’m Toren and we’re the Brittan's of Milhaven, Delaware.

There are three other people aside from my immediate family and our employees who spend quite a lot of time at our home. Most people in our family think of us as the sibling-cousins. There are five of us, me, my sister, and our cousins Garyn, Devin, and Kaden McAllistar. Garyn and Kaden are the children of my mother’s cousin Margaret Crafton McAllistar. Devin is the daughter of Margaret’s deceased sister, Nancy. Nancy died early in Devin’s life and Margaret and her husband Gary adopted Devin. She’s almost like Kaden’s fraternal twin in that they are the same age born a mere three months apart.

We spend so much time eating, drinking, fighting, and laughing that we should buy a house and live together. We are constantly speed dialing and conferencing each other in for good news, bad news, milestones, and setbacks. To the outsider we seem like a normal group of siblings, but to our families we tend to cause eye rolls and head shakes. (copyright)

The above excerpt isn't much. In fact, the previously published excerpt is better in my opinion. What it does though, in brief, is tell us how Toren is feeling and which relationships are most important to him. It also gives the reader an idea of how long the family has lived in Milhaven and a sense of their wealth.

I will continue to live with these characters. They are mine. What I need to do is introduce them to the world so that other people can discover the secrets that I already know.