I shoulda been a screenwriter

There are a few things in life that I know for sure:

9 to 5 jobs aren’t for me.
Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
The Beatles recorded the best songs in the history of popular music.
If there is a puddle anywhere in the vicinity of where we are, my children will find it.
Elvis is everywhere.
If I decide to sleep in one of my neighbors will mow their grass at 7 am.
Jesus loves me.
Thanks to my Mammaw Patsy’s recipe, I make the best sweet potato pie on the planet.
Children and Sharpie markers do not mix.
I will be the person the crazy person in the checkout line decides is their new BFF.
It’s okay to be yourself. Yourself is pretty cool.
Every scrap of paper and envelope with a phrase or poem I’ve written will be found one day and I will be the modern Emily Dickinson.

The last thought has stayed with me the last few days. Dickinson had fewer than a dozen out of 1,800 poems published in her lifetime and posthumously became one of our most celebrated American poets. While I’m not primarily a poet (save for my vicious haiku), I have had about as much success as a published writer as the Belle of Amherst, so far anyway.

As I’ve pondered this: my love/hate relationship with writing and the difficulty an undiscovered author has getting one of the publishing houses to look at a manuscript, let alone getting having an audience of readers (unless Oprah happens upon your book, then look out); I’ve come to a realization. I should have been a screenwriter.

Here’s a haiku for you.

Oprah, read my book

it’s a love story, kinda

it’s one girl’s story

Okay, so I’m thinking the one industry where you can garner an audience and have your name in front of millions is in film. Granted, people wouldn’t be reading my work, at least it would be out there. And if it was good enough for F. Scott Fitzgerald when went broke, then heck if it isn’t good enough for Kerry Branton Faler. Hell, I don’t even have anything to sell out to. Fitz was a brilliant author, I’m just a girl who can write a decent sentence every once in a while.

And besides that, you don’t have to be brilliant to be a screenwriter. What am I talking about — you don’t have to be mediocre these days. Have you seen what’s making it to screens near you? For the life of me, I can’t figure out how I can get published, and yet I see trailers for Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus. It’s a real for real movie. I’m not making this up. It stars Lorenzo Lamas and Deborah (Debbie) Gibson and some big ass sea creatures. Don’t believe me? Fine. Here’s the trailer.

Yeah.
That’s a movie. Someone named Jack Perez is the writer and director. That’s right, he wears two hats on this film. Two.

I’m going to self-publish something and I’ll direct the heck out of the movie, too. I’ll star in the movie! I have no acting experience, but neither did Debbie Gibson and she’s in the big ass shark vs ginormous freakin’ octopus movie! Maybe I should switch genres and write science fiction. I could write about aliens and monsters and stuff. As long as the aliens and monsters have inner dialogue and anxiety.

it’s not about you, it’s me. but not really

Dear Readers,

It's not that I don't love you, I do — really — I've written Mrs. Dear Reader in Sharpie on my Trapper Keeper a dozen times, it's Typepad's comment thingie that's preventing you from leaving comments. The truth is Readers, I've always loved you and I always will. You're like a cat, Readers.

Why a cat? Well, you see, I'm allergic to cats, but I love them. I am allergic to most everything, if you want to know the truth. When I was a little girl, I had just been given a tiny white kitten and on Easter Sunday my mom, sister, and I were waiting in the blue station wagon with wood paneling on the sides for my dad so we could leave for church. From the car I saw my dad open the front door, my kitten come out onto the porch and then — the worst moment of my childhood. My dad stepped on my kitten. I remember this all in slow motion. I was devestated and cried all the way to church.

We had dogs all through my childhood, but I wanted a cat. I didn't care that I was allergic to them, I wanted one. So, when I was almost 18 and my bff asked what I wanted for my birthday I asked for a cat. And my cat was the best cat ever. Sure, I was allergic to him, but we co-existed happily, I loved him, he loved me — great relationship — even with the issues, not unlike our relationship, Readers.

I've always wanted to write. I write for you. You come to the blog and attempt to leave a comment, but the comment thingie is not behaving and you can't leave a comment and that makes you mad. I understand. It would make me mad, too. It's a crazy Typepad thing and I can't do anything about it, much like my cat couldn't control being a walking, meowing allergen. And so Readers, we will have to live with Typepad being crazy and y'all emailing to tell me it won't let you leave a comment to say whatever it is you want to say. It's a love/hate relationship, we love each other and hate the issue, but love wins out in the end. And no allergy shots!

xxxooo,
Kerry

this should explain a lot

Although I've never been diagnosed with ADD (not the hyperactivity part for obvious reasons), I believe I have it and no one can convince me otherwise. I've had the hardest time trying to write a post for the past few days. Several times this week I have sat down with my laptop with an idea in my head (where I keep all my best ideas), write a title, start a sentence — maybe two, and something breaks my train of thought. Actually "train of thought" isn't such a great phrase for my thoughts. Maybe a "minivan of thoughts," maybe even a "caravan of thoughts," but I'm fairly certain I've never strung together enough thoughts to constitute a "train of thoughts."

Anyflaky, so I thought I'd walk you through the types of things that have happened while trying to blog over the past day or so.

I sit down to write about recording the commercial with my trusty laptop, cup of coffee, notepad, Sharpie pen, and phone. I get as far as the title when the phone rings.

Scott calls to say someone called him about a job in Angola (the country, not the prison). What is he thinking? I'm going to have a stroke. For real this time.
I Google "Angola" to make sure it's in Africa — yeah, it's still in Africa.
I sing the song "Africa" by Toto to myself
check the ScrapFest! email to see if we've received the MP3 of the commercial, nope
check Facebook and comment on stuff.
back to the blog
Andrew comes over for a snack. I tell him I'm not making blueberry muffins and no, he can't eat the baking powder. He finally accepts some Goldfish crackers. I have a cookie.
I decide to change my shirt, then end up putting on lipgloss, and look in one of my bags for my Pandora bracelet that is currently missing.
phone rings, it's my mother-in-law telling me to call my sister-in-law about the party this weekend
for some reason I give Andrew some Tootsie Rolls (this will haunt me later).
back to the blog, write exactly three words, hear Lucy bark and look outside
check email — no commercial
check Facebook, chat with a friend for a bit, check Kirtsy.com and look at a few popular stories (find a supercute outfit), check our bank account, check CNN
phone rings, it's Megan, Scott beeps in to say Angola's not that bad blah blah blah blah
check my email — ooooooo– Mignon Faget for Valentine's Day. Look at mignonfaget.com, decide they really should have made the bee earrings in silver to go with my pendant, but no one asked me. Think about making a Valentine's wish list, maybe earrings.
more coffee
read exactly half an article in Rolling Stone, Andrew wants to watch Thomas the train, so I put his DVD on, find that he has ground some Goldfish into the carpet, I vaccuum the Goldfish
back to the laptop, someone's trying to talk to me on Facebook, we chat, I watch Leslie Hall's "How We Go Out" video and laugh, check the weather for tomorrow, ponder what to wear to Andrew's speech eval, do some dishes, check SF email — no commercial, check my email — ooooooo — there's a perfect Olivetti Valentine typewriter on eBay. Now, that's a Valentine's gift! Think about Valentine's again. Think about Mardi Gras, should the kids and I go to S'port? Houston? Why the heck is school out for a week for Mardi Gras? Remind myself I live in south Louisiana.
phone rings, it's Scott saying he needs a table for his apartment. I try to blog while talking to him, can't — check out lolcats, FU Penguin,tell Scott to get a card table as we do not need another table, check out coolmompicks.com and email Molly about a funky kids clothing site.
back to the blog, check SF email — no commercial, call Megan and laugh about what music they could possibly put behind our voices on the ad. I was pulling for "Love Shack" or something else by the B-52's, the original southern party band, and Megan likes "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." I say we should have "Lowrider" and Megan agrees. As everyone knows, that is our original theme song for scrapbook trips. I put a few things in the dishwasher.
back to the blog, sing "Lowrider" and go to the iTunes store — I'm pretty sure they have subtly changed the interface, but I'm not positive. Ben Fold's "Bitch Went Nuts" comes on, I cringe when he says the C word. I'm not big on cursing, but not especially bothered by cursing, but the C word is just cringeworthy.
iTunes has a Paul McCartney EP, interesting. I hear Andrew say "uh-oh" and get up to see what he's doing — he has gotten himself stuck to the carpet. It looks like he had fallen asleep while eating the Tootsie Rolls and they are stuck to his cheek. Brilliant! I ponder how to remove my son from the carpet and decide a warm wet washcloth should do it. He cries while I go get the washcloth, cries while I apply the washcloth to his face, cries as he is freed, runs off to go upstairs and yells "thank Mom!" no, not "thanks," he says "thank." I clean up the carpet, wonder why we ever got carpet in the first place, decide that we should get wood in the living room and contemplate ripping up the carpet myself. Decide that's probably not a good idea.
back to the computer, completely forget what I was doing, never listen to the McCartney EP. Call Beth and tell her about the recording studio experience so she can have something to laugh at. My left eye starts watering — it's always my left eye — wassup with that? Stupid allergies. Chat with Mandy on Facebook about having lunch this week, I remind her to remind me to give her the clothes I have for Emily in a big Hefty bag that I've been driving around for almost a month.
pour myself another cup of coffee, losing track of how many cups that makes. Notice that it's kinda cold and think I should put on socks. I hate socks.
back to the blog, write exactly 0 words when the pop sound tells me someone's trying to say "what up?" on Facebook. I say "word." I notice I have a Friend Request and have no idea who the person is requesting my friendship. I email another friend to ask who this person is, as I have a memory like an encyclopedia of uselessness and can't place them. It dawns on me that I perhaps possibly may have gone to prom with this individual, then realize I went with another guy with the same first name. Whew.
look at the clock on the microwave and realize I never ate lunch. I do this everyday. Everyday, unless I'm having lunch with a friend. It seems as an adult I cannot remember to make a deadblame sandwich for myself as I make lunch for the kids. I feed the kids and usually get busy with other things and realize at 2:30 or so that I'm starving. This is a problem. Not life or death, but a problem, nonetheless. I wonder if there is some kind of service, like a wake-up call at a hotel, that would call and remind me to eat lunch — then I realize that is one of my dumber ideas. At 2:30 I don't know what to eat for lunch, it's not lunchtime, it's not dinner — what would Elvis do? I have cheese and crackers, like a grown-up Lunchable.
back to the blog, check our email — no commercial.
It's 3 o'clock and the girls are getting off the bus. I realize I have accomplished a big fat zero of nothing and try to think of a better answer to the question "what did you do today?" for when I talk to Scott later, because "some stuff" sounds stupid. I contemplate telling him I have ADD, but I know he would just shake his head and say "you've been on the computer all day, haven't you?" to which I would reply, "no, not really," which is the truth.

So, next time the blog isn't updated for a day or so, just know it's the ADD. Or mad cow, I'm not sure.

holiday pet peeves: edition 5

After spending half the morning looking for my glasses, now I can see to blog.

The Christmas Letter in lieu of a perfectly fine card is something that annoys me to no end. I have friends who send these and I mean no harm, really, it's just the idea of it. Since I received the first of many Christmas letters years ago, I have pretty much hated the thought of them.

Last year at MOPS Convention, author Julie Barnhill echoed my feelings and spoke about it. She encouraged us to write a "reality Christmas letter" and I printed mine in our MOPS newsletter. I rather enjoyed that exercise in honesty. But for a moment, indulge me in what the majority of Christmas letters sound like. Let me give you an example, totally made up, by me.

Dear Family and Friends,

Holiday greetings from the Perfect Family! We hope this letter finds you well and in the holiday spirit. So much has happened this year and we'd love to share how great the Lord has been to us in 2008.

Back in the spring, John was promoted to Chief Officer in Charge of Everything Important with his company. Of course this came with a hefty increase in salary and the best parking spot in company parking garage where he parks his new hybrid Hummer that runs on only electricity and good thoughts. In the fall, John headed up the church mission trip to Timbuktu where he baptized nearly all of the indigenous people of the area and started a school for blind children and their seeing eye monkeys. I'm just so proud of him and all the good he's done! He even asked that I make a donation to the Foundation for Seeing Eye Monkeys instead of getting him a Christmas gift this year. He only thinks of others!

In case you didn't hear, Mary was valedictorian of her graduating class in May and is attending Juliard on a violin scholarship. We could not be more pleased. Unfortunately, Mary will be unable to come home for Christmas, as she has been selected to perform at Carnegie hall with Yo Yo Ma for the big Christmas concert. The concert will be televised on PBS as part of the annual "Christmas with the Prodigies" program. It's so nice that she is being featured a second time!

John, Jr is no slouch himself! He's the only sophomore to letter in football, baseball, basketball, and synchronized swimming in the history of Our Lady of Perpetual Perfection School for the Gifted.

And me? Well, it's the same old same old with me. Once again I chaired the annual Locks of Love Hair Raising Ball and set a new record for the most hair cut. It was quite a success, but you know I'm not one to brag. Next spring I'll be going back to school to complete my third Masters, this time in Marine Biology. I was so inspired when we took our vacation to Atlantis and swam with the dolphins that I just had to learn more about our friends in the sea! Going back to school will leave little time for my little hobby, showing champion Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. I must admit, I will miss going to Westminster next year, but I think little Prince Kajagoogoo Pumpernickle will miss the show even more!

Well, that's it from our little family. We wish you the happiest of Christmases and a blessed and bountiful new year.
The Perfect Family

I don't know about you, but stuff like that makes me want to throw up. Here's what the Kerry Christmas Letter would sound like.

Dear Friends and Family,

I'm sorry I'm so late in getting this out, hopefull you will receive it by the New Year. Anyway, Merry Christmas!

We've been so busy this year I've hardly found time to get this letter together, but I know how much everyone looks forward to our holiday updates, so I'm writing in a hurry. Where to start? Well, Scott is hard at work looking for work and doing little "honey do" projects around the house. Last week he attended a meeting for his professional organization where he won a gift basket of beer from around the world! I'm just so proud.

Molly is doing well in her second year of first grade. She failed the school eye exam and had to get glasses, which she loves. This year her much loved cat, Tinkerbell, ran away after we put her outside for a little bit when she jumped out at the kids on the stairs and scared them to death. Molly asks if Tinkerbell will ever come back and I always tell her there is always a chance, but I'm almost positive she has been eaten by something.

Our high-spirited daughter Katie is quite something. She's loving Kindergarten and is very fond of the cafeteria. We're working with her on her irrational fear of bears and smoke detectors, hopefully she will not need therapy to get over her phobias. And we're happy she's down to three or four tantrums a day and only telling me to be nice or Santa will not put anything in my stocking once a day.

The baby, 3 year-old Andrew, is working on getting potty trained, hopefully that will happen before the landfills are full of Pull-Ups. He is still not talking as much as he should be and we're enrolling him in speech as soon as the speech people call me back, which at this point should be sometime before he's 12. Of course, he may not be potty trained by then, so no one may notice his speech. Andrew is also working hard at destroying our home by painting the living room carpet yellow, writing on walls, and pouring tea on the sofas. He is so talented at deconstruction, I'm sure he will be an artist one day.

And me? Well, it's the same old same old. I tried Nutrisystem in my endless search of diets that work and lost one size in three months! I gave up my position in MOPS to have more time for ScrapFest! and the family, and I'm trying my best no to volunteer for anything for a while. Ironically, since I've decreased responsibilities, my medication has increased. Funny how that works.

Well, that's it from our little family. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy new year!
The Faler Family

That's more like it. That's wonderfully ordinary and truthful and I love that. I'd rather get a picture-card of your dog dressed as Rudolph than most of the Christmas letters I've read. And I hate those picture-cards of dressed-up pets. You know your dog thinks you're a moron when you put antlers on him and an elf hat on the cat. It's a good thing pets can't talk because there would be a lot of upset pet owners at Christmas time. That's all my pet peeves for today. I'm off to track some packages online, seems Santa isn't as fast as he used to be. Be good, peeps.

Why write?

I read today article on Nola.com about a man who didn’t leave New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina, choosing to stay in a public housing complex instead. He kept a sort-of diary on the walls of the apartment in the two months that he stayed after the storm. You read that correctly, two months — no water, no electricity. Here’s the first few paragraphs:

Elton Mabry offers a guileless explanation as to why he picked up a black Sharpie pen and started writing on the walls: “I had run out of beer,” he says, “and I thought writing might relax me in a way.”

But this is only one of many reasons he offers for the diary he kept on the walls of an apartment in the B.W. Cooper public housing development after Katrina. Looking back nearly three years later, his explanations vary, depending on his state of mind, his train of thought and his ability to focus.

“I was feeling lonely,” he said on one occasion. “Expressing yourself is kind of like a breath of fresh air,” he said on another. It gave me something to kill the time,” he said on a third.

Chances are, there is truth in all these explanations — and many more. He was afraid, he was alone, he was hungry, he was worried, he was bored, he was uncertain, he was uncomfortable, he was unhappy. He was also evading the Housing Authority, dodging the National Guard and hiding out from a Trenton, N.J., police unit. And most important, he was trying to stay put in a place that somehow, in spite of the 2 feet of water inside and the utter silence outside, felt secure and comforting to him.

He got the urge to write when he ran out of beer. Isn’t that true of all great writers? Well, maybe Hemingway. Anyway, the guy ran out of beer and started writing a line or two on his walls everyday for two months. The article goes on to say he’s had run-ins with the law and spent time in prison, was an alcoholic, crack addict, and homeless before the storm. The apartment he was in was an elderly woman’s he was staying with. There are several pictures in the article and a well put together video featuring the Sharpie marked walls. I looked at all the photos. I paused the video to read the writings of Mabry. Sadly, many of the entries recall Mabry’s drinking and hangovers. It’s a mash-up of his writing about the heat, who he’d seen, and drinking.

Conservators from the Louisiana State Museum actually removed the paint from the walls of the apartment (before its demolition) to recreate in a permanant Katrina exhibit in Jackson Square.

I’m dumbfounded by this. I’m not a heartless person. I understand that there are circumstances that leave people homeless, but it should not turn into a lifestyle. Mabry is originally from Jackson, MS, where he learned to work with sheet metal at Hinds Community College. At one time he was in the working middle-class. The article talks about how Mabry shoplifted over the counter drugs and sold them on the street, but had to stop shoplifting because of foot and leg problems. He then started collecting cans and sold them for recycling. It goes on to say Mabry hasn’t had an income since 1984 when he lost his job and went on unemployment. 1984. Katrina hit in 2005. Mabry says he’s been sober for 8 or 9 months, but the article doesn’t say what he’s doing presently. He lives on $132 a month in food stamps. Okay, but it says he had backup plan (it actually says that): “So occasionally I try to pick three in the Powerball. On Wednesday and Saturday, I get my little lottery tickets. It’s a morale booster because you keep thinking today could be your day.”

Times-Picayune writer Elizabeth Mullener, now you’re just messing with me, right? No one else kept a diary during Katrina? In a culture-filled city of artists, no one kept a diary worth putting on display in Jackson Square? Maybe even a police officer or fire fighter? Nobody? Okay. Not one of the politicians in the area? They were all there. A city employee?

Certainly Mabry was lonely and needed an outlet, the walls. I sympathize with him. I just wonder how much the Louisiana State Museum is spending on this project. I only know about preservation from the History channel, but I know it’s not not cheap to preserve and restore things, so I wonder if it would have been better to help Mabry find a place to live and a job. Help him learn a skill so he can support himself. Get him off food stamps. Maybe I’m crazy.

We do need to remember Katrina, but we need to get the people of New Orleans back on their feet first. I live on the Northshore across the lake from New Orleans and the area my family lives had little damage from the storm, mostly tree damage. My husband’s grandparents lost the home in New Orleans where they had lived for 50 years; we know many other people who lost their homes as well. Like I said, I sympathize with Mabry, but Louisiana can do better than putting his walls on display. With this kind of thinking we’ll never do better than we were pre-Katrina.