The Write Woman Finally Said it All (D-day is here!)

Surprise! Surprise! My graduation is September 4, 2015, which also happens to be my 49th birthday. Do you have any idea what that means? It means I graduated with a bachelor's degree in less than half a century. Imagine I could get a PhD before I'm dead at this rate. Hmm, Full Sail University has expedited classes. But seriously, others have suggested I write a book about my ongoing attempts to graduate, despite the amnesia on my first attempt and the car accident on my second. What can I say? I refused to give up.

So now the real work begins -- finding a job I love. A job that will make the $75,000 in school debt worthwhile, so while driving around at all hours with a pizza sign tacked to the top of my car does sound like loads of fun, it isn't enough to produce the mental stimulation I desire. Yes, this also means I am off the list of people offering samples at Sam's Club and Costco. I could have taken my worth's weight in passing out burrito samples, for sure. YUM! Are they allowed to sample the food, insuring it has not turned? Kidding.

I'm back to substitute teaching, until I find that needle in the haystack which promises a place where I can use my newly acquired talents and skills to forge a better life for my kids and me. I'm looking for positions to utilize my skills in writing. The good news is that as a substitute teacher, I get direct calls a week in advance to take classes as a preferred instructor.

Meanwhile, back at the Bat Cave, the final project I ended up submitting for school today was Momma's Boy. Sure, it started off with one title and went to another before settling on the best, but I've taken a liking to the story. Others like it too. Who wouldn't like a story about a momma's boy kidnapping girls for his mother and her boyfriend to hold for ransom? But when he discovers the girls die before their release, at the hands of her sadistic boyfriend, he's already fallen for his latest prisoner and needs to do what he can to save her. But we're doing the first ten pages or so into a short.

Also, I'm working with another writer on a team effort project for a webseries that has a lot of proven
potential. Of course it's not proven yet, but if it were the idea wouldn't be worth much, would it? So I can't tell you what the idea is aside from "it'll make you laugh, it'll make you cry..." Okay, the show won't make you cry, but it will make you laugh and think-- just not at the same time. I don't believe that's even possible, is it?

Anyway, if you find your company needs a writer, or you're simply just the curious sort, feel free to check out the website of MJ Brewer the writer! Until then, know that an education was the right way to go -- now I just need to pay the $708/month to back it up. Wish me luck!

Hope you enjoyed watching me grow over the past year into a professional writer. Everyone should get an education in something they love.

What The Write Woman does with One Week of School (11 Days to Freedom!)

freedom and a reality check! My whole world is turning upside down, like losing a job I have to pay to work. All the friends I’ve made, even the ones who pretend to be my friends so that if I have to give them feedback, it will be nice. That usually doesn’t work though. I am unaware of what the disorder is called, but everything is black or white without the gray. It’s either right or wrong. Geez, I’d hate to be judged by me! No wonder I'm single!

So my computer was in the shop, and I was freaking out, because I was told I’d get my system back by Monday. This would mean one more week to complete two weeks of two high caliber classes. Not fun! Thank goodness I got most of the work done in advance, before the issues, and got the computer back on Friday. I’m not one to procrastinate. Usually companies like that in their employees, unless we're talking about government workers. 

When I worked for the prison, about ten years ago, I was told to slow down. My supervisor told me I would work myself right out of a job. I had ideas that would save the company time and effort, making it run so much easier (right after I located Gary Gilmore’s files that had been lost for over a decade). Needless to say, she was right. Six months later, the day after she left for vacation, I was escorted from the premises without a reason or explanation. In fact, of the six people in charge of my paperwork, not one had an answer other than I’d need to ask MaryAnn Redding. The worst part that killed me the most was her husband was having surgery, so I collected funds and set up a horse and carriage ride for them when she returned. But did I learn anything from the experience? Did I learn not to work too hard? Did I learn not to do things for people who don’t like me? The answer is no. However, I will not go out of my way to allow her passage, or assistance if the time comes later. I’m not stupid, but I learned people can be mean.

Speaking of stupid, what is the deal with parents? I made friends with this woman whose son plays on my son’s soccer team, and she tells me how they smuggle each other into the amusement park. The very next day she has her son text my son and invite him to the amusement park, telling him he doesn’t have to worry about paying. Hello? Not on my watch! My son can sit home with his sister and I and make fun of YouTube videos, leg wrestle on the living room floor, or paint each others toenails. The options are endless – and legal!

Everyone keeps asking me what I plan on doing after I graduate. I don’t know. I was sort of hoping to have Momma’s Boy all out there kicking up some curiosity. My guy Jason is working hard on filming it in Michigan right now. If we can get the trailer made for it, we’ll be able to put it on Kickstarter, IndieGoGo, etc. and have some backing. This is the time where we can’t let up or we’ll sink. One way or another, we're gonna float; either with passion or belly-up.

Oh, speaking of belly-up. I lost about 30 lbs, stressed out and gained over twenty back. I’m not happy with that, but I’ve got so many buns in the oven I can’t possibly keep track of the biggest set right now. When I start working, my stress will level out and I can concentrate on a real weightloss program. Then I can be hot again. Okay, not hot! I’m too worn for that, but I won’t have to shop at Big Barns. Those places checkout lines resemble cows going in for a milking. Ain't no one gonna milk me! I want to shine – like I used to. Little by little, I’m getting my life back. In one week, I’ll have one more obstacle down on rebuilding myself. Wish me luck! 

And by the way, I've lost my cap and gown! Since I'm unable to attend my graduation in Florida the way I wanted, I determined to use my photo on a green screen with the back drop of my school's photo to appear as if I had attended. I asked for help in searching for the cap and gown. No one thought it important -- until I held a $5 bill in my hand. My daughter disappeared, my son laughed, and before he finished she had returned with the box. Now I shall get to work! I need to have my graduation photo prepared for my final entry on The Write Woman.

The Write Woman Couldn't Hit the Ground if she Died Today! (18 Days Left!)

With a pressing schedule of final projects, I get to add in the esteemed position of a single mom, and looking for satisfactory employment. All said, I do what it takes to save time in my other daily tasks. My new method should have a meal from mind to mouth in less than 1/2 an hour!

For lunch, I decided to make our customary Friday night pizza as a time saver. I lined the mixing bowl for the dough with foil for easy cleanup. Poured the pineapple into a baggie so I could easily drain the juice, and got all the other ingredients lined up across the table.

When the dough was mixed, I removed the foil from the bowl, knocking the glass dish off the table. The dough peeled away from the oil-lined foil with ease, but the cleanup of a broken bowl, added on a bit of time. The sauce went on smoothly, as did the ham, but not so lucky with the pineapple.

I decided to drain the juice by drinking it from the baggie like a Bo-ta bag, leaving the fruit easily transferable to the pizza. Somehow the opening closed up when I tilted it to drain the sweet juice into my mouth. I tilted it higher. In a gush, all the juice came flooding out of the sack down my face, in my hair, all over my clothes, and all over the floor.

I cleaned up the floor with Clorox spray to remove the stickiness, and realized I was behind my half an hour schedule. I quickly moved to throw the paper towels away when my hand got caught in the lid of the garbage like a giant Cookie Monster recovering from a diet. The cheese needed to be sprinkled on still, and I was falling way behind! I almost forgot to wash my hands.

The soap pump at the side of the sink wasn't working. I picked it up by the nozzle to bring it closer, and the damn thing came off. The bottle missed me on its way to the floor, but spilled a beautiful blue gloss across the tiles. Perfect!

With clean hands, I put the pizza in the oven for 15 minutes and raced to the restroom for a quick shower.

I was dressing when the timer went off in the kitchen. The house was filled with smoke and my daughter, playing video games says, “Wow, what are you making? I don’t want any!”

Instead of setting the temperature for 375* I set it for 450*. What came out was not a pizza. Instead I wound up with an extra-crispy hubcap, without its three siblings. I tiptoed over the blue ocean coating the floor to throw the pizza away outside, and came back in to clean up the blue detergent.

It’s been an hour and I’m building up the courage to put this behind me. Wish me luck on my studies… screw the food!

* Update -- Apple is sending me a box to ship my computer back for repairs. It should take 3 - 5 days to get it back. OMG! Guess it's better to scrunch the work in than having to retake the classes and set my graduation back, huh? "Calgon, take me away, damn it!"

The Write Woman's Son Needs Balls (Hitting the 20's at 29 Days)

"I think you're a little too old mom," my daughter says when I exclaim 'I'm hitting my twenties.' When the point is that exercising speeds the body, thinking, metabolism, and energy expand when a person works out, I had quit. That's right. I didn't go to the gym for about three months, and the twenty pounds I had lost all came back with a vengeance, mostly in the form of innocent looking Mountain Dew and STRESS! The stress, which would've been somewhat alleviated by working out. So, upon discovering I had 116 pages I was to read for school today, I decided it was the perfect time to hit the gym in the morning and bring my book.

There isn't a crowd in the early hours, and the sound system occasionally has lyrics, but not too many to block out. I turned on the machine and set it for an hour with water towel and book in place. But then he came in. You know, the little guy with teeny tiny tank top and tinier trunks with so much body hair if it wasn't for the white piping on his clothes you might think he was naked? It was as if gravity has some affect on his hairline as the hair melts from the top of his head to spill across his shoulders and back. But that wasn't crossing the line, after all, there's no law against being disgustingly hairy, so much he may have been a Komondor in a previous life. I refocused on my book and read more -- until the living rug started singing "Bang, Bang!" by a trio of single vocalists. Somehow it lost its appeal when he sang it though.
I turned on the headset, plugged into the machine, and for the first time I was relieved to hear sweet static. I turned it up and sank deep into my studies.

Getting home my son showed me a video of a guy giving women advice. Just what I need, as if I'm going to listen to a guy tell me my approach to men is wrong. The guy went on to say there are times when a man wants a woman to need him. Just tiny things. Things I can do on my own, I'm supposed to act like I can't do them, or I'm incapable? Yes! It's part of the mating ritual, which some refer to as "the game." My son suggested I play. I don't know, I might. Afterward my son relays to me that he is in need of balls. I was about to tell him, "I'd say!" but my facial expression must have given it away because he reminded me that I'd told him yesterday I would purchase some smelly shoe decanters for his soccer shoes. I just don't know why he can't get his balls from his dad.  So how can he suggest I act more feminine and then come to me for balls? Men!

I need the exercise--every bit I can get. So I'm off to Walmart to move among the troves of cattle roaming through the market in search of balls. I'm too old for this!

The Write Woman Admits Sometimes it's Hard to be a Lady (32 Treacherous Days to Go)

Always be Prepared

Nothing ever exciting happens when you expect it to, but when you let your guard down, it's your own fault when things get out of control. Always be prepared for anything is my advice.

I took my computer in to get it fixed, and received a call yesterday that it was ready for pickup. I held my nine-year-old’s hand as we entered the store. The guy at Expercom pulled the computer out when I gave my name. With a smile I asked, “Did you figure it out?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” he said only cracking his face to speak. There were no other signs of emotion or greeting.

"You didn't fix it?" I was confused because when the girl previously accepted it, she appeared as if she had an idea as to what was wrong.

"There was nothing to fix." He printed a paper requesting my signature, but I’m not sure why. I didn’t even look at it.

I explained again that it randomly shuts down, displaying a paragraph of Chinese words when it reboots, shuts off again after, and then repopulates without sound. I must go through the reboot process again to gain full access, which doesn't mean the computer is fine. Every other time they've fixed it without a problem.

He looks at his screen. "You've never brought it here before."

"This is the only place I've brought it, and like the eighth time you guys have had it."

"No," he said, "Maybe you took it to another store."

"Okay, so what about this time? Is what I explained to you considered normal?" I asked, relieved he at least returned the computer to me.

"What was the date you supposedly brought it in last time?"

"I don't know. It was like a month or so ago. I don't remember the exact date."

He clicks a few keys on the keyboard.

"Can we just get back to this time?" I asked. The tension was quickly rising in the room. My daughter grabbed my hand. She'd seen me angry, but attempted to keep me calm.

 

The guy stepped back from the keyboard with his hands up in front in him. "Look, I'm trying to help you," he said, "If you're unwilling to answer a few questions, I won't be able to assist you properly. Now, will you please cooperate?"

"Cooperate with what?" I said. "I just want you to fix it. I've got school finals due and the work is on my system."

"You know what?" he said, his voice shaking and he became a taller version of Cujo. "I'm just going to distance myself for a minute, and I'll be back after I calm down."

Hurrying through the swinging door behind him, an outburst of profanities littered through the air. Crashing sounds echoed from the back.

“Who’s he talking to?” my daughter asked, her eyes wide open as she tugs on my hand.

“He’s letting us know it’s time to go,” I told her. I gave her hand a squeeze and a smile, trying to reassure her she was safe as we dashed for the door.

We hurried out to the car. I put her inside. My eyes coasted over the glove box as I closed her door and then they shifted to the store. I could see the asshole behind the counter, eyes narrow slits, and his hand popped up displaying one finger at the end of his arm.

Without being aware of what I was doing, entering a surreal world, I swung the front door of my car open, and popped the glove box. The gun, I had purchased for self-defense, practically jumped into my hand. I needed to preserve my mental wellness by ridding the world of this schmuck. One less idiot can’t hurt.

“You stay here and Mommy will be right back,” I said with a warm smile.

The door swung open with the annoying ding-ding, as if I needed an introduction. He knew I was coming, but he didn’t see my friend until I raised it in front of me, headed straight for him.

I was surprised to see him take a stand with a cocky attitude. He actually chuckled for the first time. “What? You’re going to shooo…”

BANG!

The first shot hit his throat. Blood gushed out as he instinctively clutched at it with his hands. The alarm on his face was priceless. I only wish I could have made that shot twice and seen an instant replay. What the heck, I’d give it the ol’ college try.

BANG!

Unfortunately, I missed. Oh, I didn’t miss him, just the same shot. The bullet shoved his right eye back into the depths of his head with an explosion on the wall behind him.

“You give me a headache,” I told him, as his body flew against the wall behind him, creating a work of art on the wall. Probably the only decent thing he’d accomplished all day. His body collapsed and shook on the floor in a puddle resembling thick maroon paint. “I’ll just call Apple and have them help me.” I tried to reassure him I could handle the situation myself. I was completely able, after all.

The computer guy’s lips moved open and closed like a beggar’s hand. I think he may have been trying to tell me to “Have a nice day,” but I’m not sure. I didn’t stick around to find out. So far talking to him was useless.

Okay, this didn’t really happen, at least not the last part. When the imbecile ranted about what a bitch I was, I grabbed my daughter and left. I never took the gun from my glove box, but I won’t say it didn’t cross my mind.

The Write Woman Checks Stinky Armpits (33 Days to Grow Up)

All about physical appearance

 Honing in on the honesty button, let’s cut the crap. Readers, you know I’m no new baby. I’m so dry behind the ears if I walk in front of a fan a dust storm follows. But that doesn’t mean it’s okay for my kids to be "Dirty Dans"—they’re far too young. Besides, my crumbling skin fragments have nothing to do with cleanliness, just plain old simple aging. And I’m even exaggerating when I describe that to you. Still, answer this for me: Why do teens, in the prime of opposite sex attraction, insist on faking their showers? I don’t get it, but let me explain and perhaps you can fill me in.

Yesterday, my 13-year-old’s hair pokes out in every direction, and without an attempt to replicate Johnny Depp’s Edward Scissorhands character. He wakes up like that and assumes it’s stylish, I guess. Of course I don’t want to consider pure laziness. “Cameron,” I say, “You’ve got to take a shower today for the love of mankind! If you don’t, you can’t go anywhere with me.” He shuffles into the bathroom, I hear the water run, the radio goes on, and this continues for about 45 minutes. (Remember that amount of time.)

Kinda' cute -- from a distance

When he exits, his hair has damp spots on it as if he dribbled water over certain spots. I hugged him and took a whiff. “We don’t have a dog,” I say, “But I can smell a wet dog in here somewhere. Did you really shower?”

“Yes, I showered!” Defensively, he pulls back with an expression of disbelief, and continues, “I’m not going with you when you’re acting like this.”

Wait a cotton-picking minute! What’s happening here? I go into the bathroom and one side of the tub is wet, but not the wall. The mirror is foggy, but the towel is dry. Dumbfounded, I go to the only source possible to gather necessary information in childrearing—Facebook. You can find answers to anything on there! I asked my friends what the dealio is and how to handle it. One said her son covers himself in cologne to mask the scent. (This explains the wafting aromas in Walmart.) Another says her brothers used to go to the extent of bringing dirt into the bathroom, via their pockets, emptying it into the tub and attempting to pass it off as dirt from their bodies. As if their bodies are clean after, right?

Sibling Imitation

This whole thought provocative moment puzzles me considerably. 45 minutes in the restroom pretending! I explain to my son calmly, while he continues to insist he’s showered, if he really wants to pull it off he needs to wet the walls and the towel. By the time he pulls this charade off successfully, he could have taken three showers and felt like a Fruit Roll-up from being so squeaky clean. When he offers his armpit to me for a test run, I sucker into sniffing, knowing full well I’m asking for it. But there it is—the canine rolled in a pigpen smell, with fragrant lime scent to top it off. (Thank you, Old Spice Aqua Reef, for that extra fresh fruity manure aroma.)

So someone please explain the thinking behind this, and tell me if I can look forward to this from my ten-year-old daughter, with periods added in. Calgon, take me away!

The Write Woman’s Plan B for a Type A Personality (42 days to go)

Real writers must thrive on rejection. Many people are curious as to all the parts coming together in the creation of a movie and where the writer fits in. I certainly don’t have time to get into all the credits, but I can tell you why the directors and producers gain most of the notoriety in creating the film over the writers. The basic concept of the film, after painstaking attempts to perfect it with numerous rewrites, resumes hashing by the aforementioned producers and directors when the writer finishes the creation. At this point, with the purchase complete, they can slice and dice the film however they see fit. While this concept stinks, and I’ll probably cry my eyes out after my first sale, that’s how the industry works. My goal consists of ensuring my vision takes over.

Speaking of visions taking over, I’ve been submitting to positions at such a ramped rate I haven’t even placed all of them in my spreadsheet. I get excited, I suppose. And the resume I submitted through school, after countless times of resubmitting over the course of over a month, has only had one hit. I went back and investigated the resume and found I have one semi-repetitive sentence, however I’ve come to discover my resume cannot be replaced without even more chatter to my less-than-cooperative liaison. This guy makes it a point to answer my emails just to talk down to me, I swear. Because of this waste of time I’ve already dedicated, in addition to searching on my own to no avail, I’ve decided to wad up the plans and start over. My phone number, I’ve tried like hell to keep private, has apparently gained submission onto several calling lists who continually call me offering sales positions; everything from posing as a food vendor at Costco to selling car wax at Sam’s Club. I’ve tried advertising agencies, but as soon as I walk in to see the young and hungry, working-out-for-my-lunch-break bodies, I understand I don’t belong. I’m a behind-the-scenes personality. So, until I can sell a screenplay, my future says I’ll continue substitute teaching. There are several reasons: I can still take grandma to her doctor’s appointments once a month; I can take the kids to their doctor/dental appointments without having to request time off; and the schedule suits me dedicating at least two hours a day to writing. This means I can work my ass off on Vermill!on Beach and submit it to various platforms. Of course I own the copyright, and will place it on my professional webpage when  I have an ample amount of samples perfected and placed, but here’s the logline:

After a century of cryonic sleep, a modern Joan of Arc finds herself leading a revolution against a tyrannical government—risking everything for future generations, if she can escape. 

Meanwhile, with tomorrow as my daughter’s ninth birthday, her option for a gift consists of an hour with a tortoise at the zoo. Go figure, but it’s her dream. Because her actual birthday isn’t until tomorrow, I’ve reserved a BR ice cream cake tomorrow night, and she’ll also receive a lovely pair of howling wolf earrings. Okay, they’re pretty inexpensive and purchased from eBay, but she’s a kid.

My son thrives as one of the star players on his soccer team, unhappy that his coach would prefer he be goalie because he wants to be out in the action. I told him if the rest of his team sucks, he’ll have plenty of action, right?

The Write Woman Distinguishes between a Job and a Career (64 days left)

Make a list of all you have to offer a company

Believe it or not, there are people who apply for employment and never consider turning any position down. They’re thrilled that someone would be willing to take them under their wing and pay them. Sounds sad, but I used to be one of those people, even when I had skills up the wazoo! The thing is, because I didn’t have a formal education, I never considered it worth mentioning because I assumed everyone else probably has the same skills. Untrue! Now I understand that even before my university education, I still knew more than most people about computers. I worked several years for a computer company named Packard Bell before they went under and became Compaq. This introduced me to the process of the motherboard, RAM, hard drives, ROM, etc. and the functions of them before I even owned a computer. Now consider I’ve worked in a daycare, as an exotic dancer, as a construction worker, dump truck and even over-the-road, all the while meeting and talking to different people. This isn’t even touching on teaching, giving presentations and writing, mind you, all learned as I made my way through life. I am a curious person. (Meaning I’m a dabbler in things, not necessarily I am weird.)

Yesterday I had a few job interviews, but with one of them, I was pretty proud of myself after. I drove an hour and a half to get there, dressed professionally and felt confident. The school was an academically acclaimed arts elementary and junior high with a focus on the theater, music, etc. in high school. Yeah! The perfect way to meet people in “the business,” right? Not to mention the possibility of casting my own creations with sets, etc.

The parking lot was huge. The inside had the appearance of a receiving room with a built-in desk and plastic chairs lining the walls, and curious scuffs across the walls and floor. I figured since school wasn’t in session, they were probably in the midst of cleaning. I met the

How many words in a lifetime can one type?

interviewer who led me through to her office. In passing all the rooms, I found them in the same dilapidated condition. This sort of confused me because summer is half over, but I followed her into a small room where a woman sat in front of her desk with her laptop propped up on it, typing away. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, matching the woman I’d followed, like daycare workers. I was informed they currently share an office.

The interviewer asked me what computer knowledge I have. I described a few basic programs such as MS Word and explained I have presentation skills if they ever come across a time where they may need them, as well as film experience. Both women laughed, and then she asked me if I understood data entry. “I can type about 55 wpm,” I said, “I’m a little rusty, but I’m sure it will come back to me. I’m used to writing whatever’s on my mind.” The expression of confusion and the tilt of her head made me think we were speaking different languages. Then I found out we were when she said, “Speed doesn’t really matter, as long as you know data entry. You know, when you look at a form and copy the words into the computer? You don’t need to be smart.” I sat for a moment, my furrowed brows were closing in on my cheeks as my eyes shifted. I could feel it. Her eyes burrowed into mine and she said, “I don’t really get computers and all that other stuff you’re talking about.”

“Yes,” I said, losing my affirmation of all the hopes and dreams I came into the building with just moments before, “I can type.” My mind was asking my feet why they weren’t creating a new 440 dash in high heels record, although there is an actual world record set for such a “feet.” Get it?

So people, don’t sell yourself short. Even if you don’t have the education you deserve yet, take the information you have and be proud enough of it not to sell yourself short. I drove the hour and a half home, sad I had wasted so much gasoline, but wondering if it had been wasted after all. This was the first time I’d laughed, climbing into my car, after an interview, because someone out there is still waiting for me to contact him/her with an alert to my availability and prowess. Now, I just need to keep the search on. You don’t deserve a job, you deserve a career.

As my hero Gru from Despicable Me says, “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout!”

The Write Woman Loves Spiders and Snakes (237 Days)

If you ask my kids what I’m afraid of, they’ll say I’m not afraid of anything. Not that I ever say that, just they’ve seen me get extraordinarily angry and never consider my reaction due to fear. Everyone reacts differently to fear, right?

         

Chilean Rose Tarantulas are relatively tame

   I never did have a snake, but entertained the thought for a minute or two and did have a tarantula named Pebbles. I remember writing my three biggest fears were an inability to have babies, homelessness, and amnesia. But look at me, I’ve overcome all of them. But now I can never go to haunted houses at Halloween. In my younger years I was dismissed for beating up the workers who startled me in a spook alley. I’m one of those who reacts first and pays later, regardless of who frightens me—if I get frightened at all. I no longer trust myself having a good time while I’m wetting my pants. I’m even more on edge now that I have kids. So that made me wonder what everyone is afraid of and why. Or is it simply the inability to see in the dark?

            As a writer it’s important to understand fear and what causes it. More importantly, what causes it in other people. No, I’m not planning on writing the next big blockbuster to compete with Saw. Besides with my outlook the scariest movie I could come up with is a single mother chasing bill collectors and beating them to death with a rolling pin. Sounds gruesome, right? Well, it was—I mean, it would be. But there are fears people must overcome we deal with easily on a daily basis. In my later thirties, I had a bout with agoraphobia. Try dealing with that one! I got to the point the only time I would leave my living room was to shower and use the restroom, unless I was quickly grabbing a bite and sprinting back from the kitchen. Explaining the concept of fear to others in a way they can understand takes amazing imagery capabilities. The beauty of art is relaying emotion, and the successful ones do it well.

            I heard on the radio Jennifer Anniston has a new role in a film entitled Cake She must have failed because before she knew what was happening, she was sitting on her tricycle at the bottom of the pool, refusing to let go. Eventually her brother pried her fingers off the handle bars and saved her. Now she says she cannot go anywhere near the water.

If everything were cake, wouldn't life be delightful? Not!

scene in a body of water. They had to do thirty takes to get the shot. Apparently when she was about four, she and her older brother were playing near the pool. Jennifer was on her tricycle. (Parents? Where are you?) Anyway, she did what any daredevil at the age of four would do and pretended to be Evel Knievel jumping the Snake River. She must have failed because before she knew what was happening, she was sitting on her tricycle at the bottom of the pool, refusing to let go. Eventually her brother pried her fingers off the handle bars and saved her. Now she says she cannot go anywhere near the water.

            What people should really fear is getting old. As we grow, our mentality changes as well as our physical bodies—at first for the better. Women get round breasts and men get those broad shoulders. But soon the breasts sag and the shoulders droop. Body parts switch functions without permission--my eyes are so dry they hurt while my nipples have an irreparable leak. All I can do is the curse the gods and ask why! Obviously my fears have changed.

            Will you do me, and all the other writers who read my blog, a favor by sharing your greatest fear and why. What are you afraid of?