I’m making cookies right now (snickerdoodles) and my body is freaking out. I’ve been exploring my vocal triggers so that I can undo the impacted trauma all through my throat and intercostal muscles. My lower back, oddly, also gets involved in the whole overexcited not-breathing rigidity.
Weird things set me off, too. Doing well, for example, makes my body freak out. I’ve been slowly acclimatizing myself to success. Exposure therapy!
I almost took the tray of cookies out a minute ago, but they were just this side of too gooey. I like my snickerdoodles a tiny bit undercooked so they cool down and get chewy, but they were looking sorta doughy. I’m aiming for chewy-almost-crunchy this time (my husband likes more of a crunch, so I’m looking for a happy medium).
Writing went well today.
Ooh, the first tray of cookies came out just right! Ha ha! One more tray and then I’ll turn the oven off. Hooray!
I’ve been thinking about this older group of women who came to a show I put on once. I wasn’t in the play; I directed and produced, and after the performance was over, a few of these older women came over and started telling us about how we needed to advertise more (because the play was, objectively, very good).
That happened a couple of times with early shows, random older people hanging about afterwards and telling one of my people, or me, that we needed to Do This Marketing Thing, or get sponsorships, yadda yadda. You know, smart things that you would do if you were prepared to launch a product.
We weren’t (I wasn’t) ready at the time to launch a product because I was tinkering with my process. You know, how do you motivate untrained actors and get them to gel believably with experienced performers, and then how do you build a powerful narrative arc with literally nothing but actors and ten dollars of props?
Which is a super fun challenge, and deeply satisfying.
I did get the process worked out in the end, and then we (I) started looking about at the community and said nope for many reasons, not the least of which was ultimate longevity. I didn’t want to be absorbed into the already-established production companies, and I only had two older directors nearby that I was interested in luring into my company (and both of them were embroiled in serious dysfunction and enmeshment).
Why am I telling you all of this?
Oh, right, because I’m making snickerdoodles right now, and I mentioned undoing core stressors on my vocal production, which ties into my overall ambition as an actor/producer.
And my writing went well today.
Also, the cat is locked up in time out right now for acting like a feral beast and pouncing at people. She’s mewling in an apologetic manner, so I’m thinking of giving her another chance.
Here’s a sketch of an animal from my current novel:
Here is some more Diana, for the road. : P
Diana was delighted to find, as she walked into the industrial shelving, that it seemed to dissolve around her. The shelves felt and looked like sharply defined clouds.
“This is so awesome!” James cried, following just behind Diana. She grinned back at him and saw him through a wispy, shifting barrier of a cardboard box.
“I bet it’s like this all the way to the house they’ve got for us,” Diana said, coming out on the other side of the shelf and walking straight into the next one.
“Yeah? So maybe a couple of miles of buildings all like this, see-through and turned to vapor?” James asked, touching his fingers against the boundary of the softened space.
“Hey, what was it like up there?” Diana asked. She heard no answer at all and turned over her shoulder to see the boy’s face.
James was frozen, as if someone had pressed pause. As Diana stared at him, a scroll of text unfurled over his chest.
Don’t ask about us. Only human matters, Diana Vassel. Last warning.
Diana’s heart sped up. She didn’t mind not asking about the aliens, but she wondered very much what would happen if she disobeyed.
“Got it. Thanks. I’ll stick to human stuff,” Diana said loudly.
James stuttered back into wakefulness, blinking heavily and shaking his head.
“Yeah, I bet it’s like this all the way. Are you in love with me yet?” Diana tossed over her shoulder, heading into the next set of shelves that lay along the glowing white path.
“What?” James asked with a laugh.
“We have to demonstrate home, and I need to figure out what kind of home we’ll make. You know, are you pining for me and we’ll think about getting married in fifteen years, or are we platonic roommates? That kind of thing. We could be brother and sister, too. Let’s do that, actually. We’ll be from a blended family and our parents each got divorced and married each other. You’re my brother,” Diana said, heading towards the far wall of the warehouse.
James hurried to catch up, his body flashing strangely as he passed through the softened shelves.
“How old are you, then? I’m sixteen,” James said, coming through the last wall of the building just behind Diana.
You’re reading Victor Poole, and all my snickerdoodles turned out really well. In my current novel, a pair of newlyweds are about to go home and confront violently disapproving family members.