Emily C.A. Snyder's Blog, page 4

Natasha, Weight Loss, and the Disney Princess of 1812

Before fourth grade, as far as I knew, I was beautiful.

A boy who'd lived in Germany was interested in me, and we held hands in Chuck E. Cheese's, and although I was far from the most popular girl in school - being far too brash and bookish to fit in - I was confident in my talents and in my person.

But then one day in early fourth grade, they paraded us all into the nurse's office where they gave us a chart on Body Mass Index (BMI) and weighed us publicly before each other.  I was told, before everyone, that I was fat.   Moreover, it was made known to me in no uncertain terms that this was not only undesirable but shameful, and clear evidence of moral failing on my part.

However, I was not fat.  I was nine.  I was growing.  I was actually quite slim.  I fit into leotards and didn't look ridiculous.  And what is even more: Who the hell cares.  My weight was not then and is not now my Self.

But try telling the stereotypes of the world that.

Because, as we all know, thin girls are pretty, and fat girls are weird.  Thin girls get to dress up and sing about wanting more than this provincial life.  Fat girls...are moms.  In the background.  Disapproving.  Thin girls are sopranos.  Fat chicks are altos.  Thin girls should be seen.  Fat chicks should be glad they're allowed in the picture at all.

Puberty hit and all my genetic predisposition towards storing away fat for those long Alpine nights in the freezing cold hit, and I did legitimately gain weight.  With that weight gain came an unexpected loss.  I went from being given leads on stage to being shoved into the chorus.  All my roles had the first name "Mrs." and then, increasingly, "Mr."  And then, switching over to Cyrano de Bergerac on the other side of the table as director, playwright, and producer, I even lost my own first name as I transitioned into "Miss Snyder" who didn't sing in public really at all.

Ever since moving to NYC five years ago, though, I've been working towards allowing myself to be seen, to be public, to be allowed to be a girl on stage and not just a disapproving set of heavy boobs with a booming voice.  That is: to move away from my own ideas of what the "fat girl" is allowed to do, and to simply embrace whomever I am.

It's a very. long. process.

Earlier this year, as many of you know, I had bariatric surgery which has helped me lose a considerable amount of weight.  And it's been utterly delightful to see my Disney Princess body emerge from under those layers of fat - accumulated through sitting on my tookus and having little interest in cooking, and exacerbated these past two years by a traumatic break-up.  It's been wonderful to see me emerging, and to revel in the new soft curves of my body, just where I always thought they were.

This past week as I was preparing Monthly Music for my Patreon page, I thought I'd tackle the ingenue Natasha's aria "No One Else" from Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812.  I've covered the sexy (alto) Helene's song, "Charming," which is a fairly easy song emotionally, as is the equally sexy Anatole's music from the same.  Because neither Helene nor Anatole ever show their vulnerability.  They are the seducers and remain in control.

I began talking myself out of covering "No One Else."  After all, I'd seen many a young lady on YouTube cover the song - all technically beautiful, some emotionally connected, every single one of them slim, young, perfectly long haired.  Who was I kidding?  I wasn't an ingenue.  I've never been an ingenue.  Ingenues were stupid anyway.  The song had enough people singing it, who cared for another fat, old, white chick covering the most covered new audition piece?  Besides, Natasha is so pure, so virginal, so...ingenue-ish...

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Basically: sour grapes because Emily's Not Allowed.

But something drove me on (mostly a friend saying something nice about me singing), and I decided to record the piece with a karaoke backing, freeing me up to simply let the song hit me as it would.  I tried it a few days ago, made a few mistakes with the timing of the accompanist (made a lyrical mistake on the video above, too, but the hell with it)...and though of scraping it again.

Yesterday, however, as the train didn't come and I had nothing else to do, I watched that first video back,, and became aware that I was still protecting myself emotionally while singing the song.  My smiles were forced and afterthoughts.  I was technically proficient, but the song felt layered on top of me rather than expressed from my soul.

"Ah!" I nodded sagely to myself.  "The song's no good for me.  That's because I can't be ditzy."

I watched the video a few more times.

"But," I amended.  "Maybe I'm being judgemental.  She needn't be ditzy.  In fact, I could try to be myself."

So I recorded again today (see above).  And decided to simply put myself to the task of taking Natasha's language at her word.  Of mining all the things that interest me in any soliloquy: humor, intensity...(gulp) vulnerability.  Honesty.  And to see what would come out.

Which is above.

And which is, I think, quite good.  And myself, stunningly beautiful.  And I have to whisper to myself (but not too loud, in case the universe is listening):

"Emily.  Emily.  What if your body and your voice and your ability do match up?  What if, in fact, you're allowed?"

Book Schedule Release & PRESUMPTION Sneak Peek

What is Emily writing now?   Here's a schedule of upcoming publications as well as a sneak peek of Chapter 3 of Presumption, a Maria Lucas/Col. Fitzwilliam spin-off from Pride and Prejudice!
Available Now: Nachtsturm Castle in e-book form for Kindle.
Available for Halloween/November: Nachtsturm Castle as an audiobook, read by Suzanne T. Fortin.  (Have a listen here.)
Available in December: Presumption in e-book form for Kindle.
Available in February: Letters of Love & Deception, Austenesque short stories re-released on Kindle.
For those of you awaiting the Cosi Mysteries, never fear!  I'll be writing the first novel of Agatha Christie meets Dr. Who for NaNoWriMo.  If you want to follow it, you can access the first chapter by becoming a member of Patreon!
And if you're interested in The Sable Valentine, that's still being worked on (phew!).  If you want to see a bit more behind the scenes or pictures or scenes from it, do let me know in the comments.

And now without further ado, the third chapter of Presumption: Chapter 3Wherein Maria is Acquainted with her Fate, and Proves a Most Stubbornly Practical HeroineMaria had not yet put the marmalade on her toast when Lady Lucas descended upon her.  The terms were clear: if Mary Bennet could be married by Christmas, it was not inconceivable that Maria Lucas could be engaged by Christmas Eve.Everything about the prospective beau was known, down to the last farthing, saving only his name.  He should be a gentleman; of this there was no doubt.  Of some substance: at least five to ten thousand pounds a year, to match with the eldest Bennet sisters.  Certainly no less than a thousand pounds at any rate, so long as he did business in London, but could not be said to own one.  (Which struck out the Welsh butcher’s boy in Meryton, much to Maria’s dismay.)  To continue: he may be of any profession he chose, so long as he could never be mistaken for anything but a man of leisure – and all of his “h’s” were properly in place, which is to say inopportunely and increasing in times of indignation.  He should be English, or if not English, then titled, and if not titled, then capable of taking a seat in Parliament, and if not capable of Parliament, then turned out of doors immediately.  He must not be in the military.  Unless he had purchased his commission, and at a cost.  All Captains were right out.  He must have at least one estate, although two would be better, and only one of those newly acquired.  His disposition and fidelity were naught, so long as he required little to nothing in the way of a dowry – Sir William’s finances not being everything one might have hoped for, and Maria’s two eldest brothers being in a fair way to spend the remainder biscuit.  As for his age, height, looks and other such trifles, in which Maria took as serious interest, Lady Lucas assured her daughter that they were of no real consequence.  “For looks, you know, fade in time.  And it is for this reason that many fashionable women have a separate bedroom.”Had Lady Lucas merely tyrannized a nation, our heroine may have had some hope of clemency; but the domestic tyrant is never swayed. Fortunately, far from greeting this news as soggily as Maria’s over-marmaladed toast, our heroine concluded the interview with an air of eagerness.  For no mention had been made of following in Charlotte’s footsteps and marrying a churchman.  And besides, Maria was just eighteen, still far from spinsterhood, and – so she thought as she examined her figure in the mirror – far prettier than Charlotte and therefore a more valuable commodity.  Moreover, the prospect of visiting Bath in the Little Season was truly exciting.  Especially since so many interesting people had retrenched there lately.  A word which, in these times of war, Maria completely misunderstood.But the difficulty remained: whom should Maria marry?  She was not so romantic as to be ignorant of her financial considerations.  Charlotte had chosen wisely, if rashly, and would have a comfortable future as a parson’s wife and eventual mistress of Longbourn, too.  Maria’s two eldest brothers might marry as they chuse: the first being heir to Sir William’s estate, the second being in possession of that natural charm which recommends itself to women of good fortune and poor taste.  Maria had neither money nor graces, yet she possessed her father’s name – and that might be something.  Moreover, and here she almost chid herself for the thought as soon as thinking it, were there any solace in choice, or if the course of true love could run smooth, our heroine hoped – secretly hoped – that in addition to her mother’s list of attributes, the gentleman whom Maria married might also be kind.  Might also, and Maria blushed at her own girlishness, might possiblybe someone she could like as well in the daylight as a dark room?  Might also, and the thought was nearly inconceivable, yet our heroine journeyed on – might…like her, too?But as for who?For Maria had no thought – as doubtless, dear reader, you have – of applying to Colonel Fitzwilliam immediately as perfect in every possible respect.  Were we at Lucas Lodge now, the letter to the Colonel should be writ and sent, his good will acquired, and our dilemma solved.  But we are not heroines, and any book of ours would be extremely slim.Still, you may ask, did the Colonel not even pass her mind?  To which I must report that, naturally, he did.  As did Captain Denny, and Mr Robert Ferrars, and even the Welsh butcher’s boy who tugged his forelock and blushed every time she passed by.  

 More practically as the weeks went by, Maria thought of applying to Kitty for advice, since her friend was always drawing the attention of every eligible bachelor who wandered through Meryton.  All the moreso now since Kitty Bennet had grown into such a great beauty in her own right, which beauty was only enhanced by three of her sisters marrying well.  Which meant that many a poor man courted Kitty in the hopes of touching her brothers-in-law’s fortune.  Mr Bennet, recognizing that his only remaining daughter was in danger of falling prey to a wicked man as his youngest had done, therefore had the foresight of sending Kitty to tend on Lizzy at Pemberley, where, he reasoned, Kitty would meet no eligible men of ill-fortune, and learn a great deal about trout fishing.  In which presumption, he was proved right.Yes, you may urge now, but what of the Colonel?  To which I can only reply: what of him?  For us, two chapters have passed; for Maria, two years.  At sixteen she had thought much of him, of his gallantry, of their conversation full of everything and nothing.  Somewhere she still possessed those pressed roses from that happy afternoon when she had been seen as a lady and not a little girl.  She was grateful to the Colonel, but far too practical to think that he should think anything of her.  Indeed, if she considered anyone, it was the butcher’s boy whom she had known since childhood and who, except that he was precisely the opposite of her mother’s prescriptions, had the great advantage of being present.There is much to be said on the nature of love, and many poems have been written about it, but they almost all neglect the virtue of proximity.Thus, when Maria next went into the heart of Meryton, wearing her gayest bonnet, festooned with yellow ribbons and silk rosettes, she passed by the butcher’s storefront several times, laughing merrily at no one, and looking quite the fool.  At last she went into the shop, only to discover from Mr Burke, the proprietor, that his apprentice had married a cartwright’s daughter the week prior and set up shop in Welham Green.Worse, when Maria commented that he could not have known the cartwright’s daughter for very long, Mr Burke assured her heartily that they had met several years ago and enjoyed an understanding for the past two.  Maria, to save face, bought an extra chop and returned home.She delivered the chops and retired to her bedroom, pacing the length and width and hypotenuse, feeling the full weight of all her very few years.  There was no hope for it.  She would be an old maid, like her sister.  Or married hopelessly, like her sister.  No, not married.  She had even missed the butcher’s boy, whose name—she realised with an embarrassed start—she had never positively known.  Not that she had wanted to marry the butcher’s boy, whomever he was, since he was so far beneath her station, but that he ought to have had the common decency to wait in agonies for her.Perhaps, Maria thought, the cartwright’s daughter had a brother.Fortunately, Providence is a better matchmaker than we, and had no butcher or baker or candlestick maker in store for our Maria.  What plans He made were all for Bath, where our heroine was bound.  Bound, that is, after a suitable eternity at the parsonage at Hunsford, very near the proximity of the flower gardens of Rosings Park…and the fickle turn of Fortune’s wheel.

Introducing Our Truly Spooky Narrator: Suzanne T. Fortin!

It's almost Halloween, and that means it's time to snuggle up with a spooky novel (or maybe not that spooky - just spooky enough - alright, not spooky at all), curl up under the covers and enjoy the dulcet tones of our narrator for Nachtstürm Castle , Suzanne T. Fortin.

Grab your pumpkin scone, and get ready for the Prelude, which Begins In A Truly Horrid Manner!

E-book available now.  Audiobook available in time for Halloween 2017!

Which Begins in the Manner of a Truly Horrid Novel

Just for you, dear Reader: the new prelude to Nachtstürm Castle.


A proper Gothic novel ought to begin with the dire pronouncement of some grand death: the fatal demise of some far-flung Count who has, despite his own earthly lavishness, still managed to leave a large inheritance behind; or – even better – the contested death of a terrible Marquis who scrawled his butler’s initials in blood upon a ghostly woman’s portrait, before thoughtfully arranging his own body to point towards an open and hitherto secretive door.

Alas, the best that I can assure you is that:
The cat was dead.
He died neither gruesomely, nor with any sort of mystery, belonged to no one of any note, happily sired half the tabbies of the congregation, and his last thought, so much as anyone can discern, appeared to have been: “I thought this wall was longer.”
He also, I’m afraid to say, will not figure into our futher adventures of this slim volume, belonging to none of the heroes or villains contained within.
But a proper Gothic novel ought to begin with at least one death, and so I may declare to you again with perfect confidence that:
The cat was assuredly dead. 
Just as Mr and Mrs Henry Tilney, whom we shall meet in a moment – if the Reader is not already acquainted with them through a far Superior Novel – are most decidedly alive.
For now.



PRE-ORDER THE NOVEL HERE.E-Book release: Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017Audio Book Release: October 2017

Nachtstürm Castle Available for Pre-Order!

Breaking NewsNachtstürm Castle: A Gothic Austen Novel is now available for pre-order through Amazon.com.
You can order the re-release of this Gothic parody, and have it delivered directly to your Kindle - featuring original artwork, a secret novel hidden within the novel, and...you guessed it...fewer typos!
So celebrate Emily's 40th Birthday (40th?  Impossible.), and pick up a copy of Nachtstürm Castle now for Sunday, September 10th.
Then keep an eye out for the audio book release as read by Suzanne T. Fortin, just in time for Halloween.

PRE-ORDER THE NOVEL HERE.

On Justice and Mercy

So, I've been thinking about events of recent days - as who hasn't been - about what the most effective response is. Since, once again, I am delighted to find my Facebook feed positively free of anyone remotely supporting Nazis or White Supremecists (Yay! Go you! I have friends! I definitely have friends!), but which only, in some ways, compounds the difficulty of sorting out how best to *act.*

Image courtesy of Rolling Stone Shall I do nothing, as no one around me appears in immediate danger of falling into the Nazis' trap? That seems like cowardice. Shall I preach to the choir, rather than the streets? That just seems redundant. Shall I wring my hands and say my usual mantra of: "Well, I'm not a politician, there's nothing I *can* do." But we saw how that worked out for Europe not quite a century ago. Or perhaps I join in with general "tsk-ing," which may *feel* good in the moment, but which only leads to rising hate - and we all know what Yoda says. Shall I merely mock the president? The Late Show with Stephen Colbert makes me laugh, and I'm grateful for that - but it leads me to complacency and a different sort of pride.

What, then, can I *do*?

Well, I'd like to take a moment to talk about the pedophilia priest scandal when it broke in Boston. And I also want to talk about the terrible, horrible ex-roommate who terrorized our little lives. And I want to talk about these GD Nazis.

Which is to say: I want to talk about Justice. And I want to talk about Mercy.

When the priest scandal broke in Boston, I had just started teaching sacraments to disaffected if not outright hostile teenagers. Naturally, on day one, they weren't interested in talking about baptism. "When do we get to talk about the effing priests?" I made them wait, and then I endeavored to give them open season on the subject.

9-11 was still fresh in all our minds, and many had siblings dying in Iraq. So when the scandal broke, we were all in a state of heightened tension anyway. To call that time a witch hunt is not much of an exaggeration (and besides, Salem runs deep within our blood). To say that we were all FINE with a witch hunt may be only mildly surprising. To admit that in those early days, I was fine with the witch hunt may surprise you more.

But here's the thing:

How did the priest scandal happen? What went wrong that the Church and her ministers, who *should* be held to as high a standard as they preach, that they should have allowed young boys and men to be systematically preyed upon?

It happened because Mercy was applied in the wrong place. It happened because Justice was not applied at all.

For years, when a priest - who is only human - had been discovered to be guilty of such a disgusting, immoral, and destructive wrong, he was not punished. He was given innumerably more chances, with perhaps only a little therapy, and he was transferred quietly with his good name still intact.

The Church thought it was doing right, applying mercy to those who dispense Mercy - but this was mercy gone amuck. This was not mercy, although it was in name: this was corruption, cowardice, and sin.

True mercy would have been to think of the children who had been abused, and to have removed the priest immediately from the society of young ones. To show mercy to the victim first. That would have been true mercy.

But justice towards the priest is a mercy, too. How was the sick priest's soul served, to be given no actual support, held unaccountable for his wrongs, and then thrown back into the situation that brought out his sickness to begin with? Had he - as happened much too late - been brought to justice immediately, both the people and the priest might have been spared.

Mercy and justice are the same coin.

So, too, with the rotten roommate (now gone - yippee!) who forced me to enact the law. She refused to be reasoned with. She refused to be reasonable. She actually tore up the legal documents and threw them on the floor, calling them fake. (Sound like someone in power that we know?)

My merciful teacher heart wanted to find a way to sit her down and explain what the consequences of her disregarding the law would be. The long-term ramifications. But as my friend pointed out (she who is better at justice side than I): That woman would not listen to me. Just like any student, the most *merciful* thing I could do for that roommate would be to let her fail. Just like how I've let students fail my class, rather than doing their homework for them, or rewarding them for shirking their responsibility, there is a mercy in justice. There is a mercy in letting consequences play out.

So, this is what we're decrying with Trump's outrageous speeches. We recognize inherently that this is not a case of many sides. Wrong is wrong; and the threat of wrong is wrong. And it is no mercy to anyone (of "any side") to allow destructive tendencies to persist. We're allowed to get angry at evil. For Heaven's sake! It's the only thing that we should truly hate!

BUT -

And there is a but here -

As Buffy knows, there is the teensy problem that all these Nazis, all these White Supremacists are *still human.* They may behave monstrously, but they are not monsters. They have a soul, and that soul - whether we like it or not - is still beloved by God. And still has worth.

So.

What are we to do?

If we hate them, we are in danger of merely inciting hate, which will fuel their prejudices, and we don't need WWIII.

If we show *false* love to them, though, we provide a path of widespread destruction for generations to come, as the Church made the mistake of paving the way for perverts. Let's learn from our mistakes.

What, then, are we to do?

We must demand justice, which is mercy. We must, in love, condemn these points of view - BUT ALSO PROVIDE A WAY OUT. We need to first remove the danger, and then go after the root of the problem in the offenders' souls.

Justice to reach mercy. Mercy, which is justice.

Beauty and Bariatric Surgery

(For those who don't know, in April 2017, Emily had bariatric surgery to assist her in losing weight.  This is taken from a Facebook entry.)

Hai, guys! I'm pretty!

Now: what you may not understand is that this beauty is a concept many of you have been working hard, like a cement drill to the cranium, to work into my head. Three years ago, one person finally broke through (thank you, person) - and broke through when I wasn't thin (thank you, even more significantly, for that, too).

Now, though, as I'm watching Myself appear, like Michaelangelo's carvings from the stone, it's been really gratifying to have a number of you come up and say: "You were always beautiful, but now you're happy." It's funny: those same words from separate mouths. It's the first part that sticks: words I couldn't hear (or you didn't say?); words that stick now like butterflies flocking to the soul. And I appreciate them. Thank you. 

I suppose, yes, I'm mostly happy now. I do not think I am disposed towards unhappiness in general. But perhaps it is more evident at present. (And truth to tell, the past three years were HARD. So if you've seen me in a constant state of stress or with my guard up to the ceiling since then, and have only known me briefly, that may be why the change of smile seems more significant.)

Regardless, folks: the relief to take a photo, and NOT hold the camera to the sky. The relief to see one's own reflection, or the shadow as you pass, and not wince but look and look in admiration. The sheer FUN of seeing this Renaissance body emerge, and maybe every decade will just be a new beginning, until that ultimate Beginning when we truly become who we were supposed to have been...

I'm grateful. And thank you for indulging this heady trip through the looking glass. Thanks for all the "Hey, skinny!" greetings. For the clothes and the encouragement. For celebrating this wacky ride with me. Let's all be young at heart and in love with each other forever, mmmmkay?

Fear Not Death

“Where our treasure is, there is our heart also. If we lived for God, then death is a liberation. Earth and its possessions are the cage which confines us, and death is the opening of its door, enabling our soul to wing its way to its Beloved for which alone it has lived, and for which it only waited to die.” Archbishop Fulton Sheen (Seven Capital Sins)

The last sentence of the Archbishop's quote especially struck me: "[the soul's] Beloved for which alone it has lived, and for which it only waited to die."

In the face of a possible looming threat, and living in a city that would almost certainly be targeted if blowhards are ever taken seriously, it would be irresponsible of me not to check in with Death and see how we are doing.

The thing is - and I've written this before - I simply do not, and cannot fear death. Oh, I'm not clamoring for it, and I'm not particularly looking forward to the aches of aging (which would be an honor, really), or the sudden "fire and fury" if it comes to that (which might at least be quick), or the drawn out pains of martyrdom should I be required (that possibility I dread more than others), but of the thing itself:

"Th'undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns"

No. No, I am not in the least afraid.

Now, should I be annihilated tomorrow, I would have WORDS with God, because I didn't get to finish the damn novel...! But fear? Of death? What in the world is there to fear?

If there is, as some believe (and it is belief - it is all belief) nothing after this, then I lose nothing. I owe no man money any more. My back no longer aches. I lived as best I could, failed more often than I succeeded, and am unconscious of the rest.

BUT(!) if there is, as others believe (and at least in my own experience glimpsed the times He's flit the veil) the fullness of Life after this shadow of Death *instead:* if there is the communion of saints - of those we've known and loved before; of those who have been rooting for us, unknown throughout our lives; of those whom we have never known - the long-dead shepherd from a disregarded town in France who has been loving you for centuries as well as all the heroes who have gone with jolly, boisterous song before the King of Kings - then what am I to fear?

If there is, in the final - or rather *first* moment when you pass from this echo of life to Life itself, a moment of inexpressible Truth: when you gaze into the corners of your soul, those places you hid buried, tamped down, loaded with old clothes in the bottom of your closet - when the worst that you have ever done, that one shameful thing you've stuffed without confession in the corner of your throat, is brought into the light...

You fear this now, don't you? It's what makes you hope there is no Life after this Shadowland, no eyes to see you as you truly are.

For what you truly fear, when you fear Death, is that in looking at yourself laid bare, you'll see what *you* have always seen: the monster, the corpse, the lurching demon sucking on your liver.

It is not so. My friend, it is not so.

For you are looking on yourself with someone lying in your ear. You are imagining the thing you've locked away as greater than it is - more specific to yourself, as though you were the only villain in this great stage of the world.

But it is not so.

For in that first and tender moment, when you gaze on your Creator, He will open up His wounded hand and beg you open yours. Clutch on to your imaginings of yourself: your idea that the Man before you hates you, and you may flee - and He will let you flee, although you break His Heart - back down to the abyss. Where all the torments that you suffer will be of your *own* creation.

But, for just a moment, imagine that He loves you.

For just a moment, imagine that you take all your fears and doubts that scream to run away, protect yourself with chains of your own devising - abandon that and, for the first time in all your sorry life, wake up. Look up. And open up - to Him. More naked than you've ever been. Simple, fearful, being as you are. No more than that.

Then, what do you see?

My friend, my dearest friend, you see as He has seen you.

And you see the worst thing you have ever done, as He pulls apart the strings that bound you to your hatred of yourself, and He shows you how you were wounded, or a child, or didn't understand; He gives you eyes of pity to look upon yourself, and how you acted out of ignorance or fear or desperation to cling on. And as He keeps unbinding you, those people whom you've loved, although you never knew them, come up to you and pat you on the back and laugh and pull apart the knotted tangle of your life with a hearty: "Oh, hey! I bore this, too!" So that, before you know it, you're laughing at yourself, and they with you, and He with you, and all of you together - and your life becomes a kind of jolly game. As you learn that you were not alone in villainy - the worst that you have ever done is common and not worth worrying about - and that, more, He does not condemn you.

There may be penance: a short eternity as you all pull apart the strings, like a tangled golden chain folded on itself. The opportunity for Him to wash the soiled parts, or teach you how to mend the links that you, through anger, fear or cruelty, have broken. And that will require humility, perhaps. But you are not alone, and there is joy in the work of mending - good, honest work that builds your sinews and makes you far more hale and whole and solid, so that it ceases to be work at all, and you can help another mend. It is that person whom you wronged, who holds out their hand to you and you now take it, and kiss their hand with tears, and they with yours. And He sends you for a walk, for a century or two, to remember how to love them and to mend those links together. There will be time for pardoning; you will hear the Words of pardon.

And then(!), my friend, you have forgotten that you've surrendered to the Truth. And there are beams of light that are shining out from in you. All the good that you have done, all the good that you're now doing; all the people whom you've touched (who are circling now about you, and hugging you, and holding you, and glad that you've come home), all the strangers who you smiled at and didn't know that day you saved their lives, all the beauty that you made, all the children's children's children who live because of you, all the moments that you stopped and laughed to see a sunset - all the little things that lie like jewels that you mistook for stones. These will be visible, too. You never saw them, silly, in your life. Well, how could you? They were the light that you saw BY. And you weren't ready until now to look full at the sun that is and has always burst forth from your heart.

This, THIS we mistakenly call "Death." This communion, this Love that you are aching for, this missing piece that you are chasing after and never quite can satisfy - this is what you fear? This is what you think quite sensible to disbelieve? Like the grumpy, aging man who says: "Well, I never wanted anyone to love me anyway. I don't believe in love. It's all a sham." When you know that he'd give anything to be standing beneath a streetlight, with his love held in his arms.

Oh, my friends. Why are you running around now, fearfully, at these two pathetic blowhards? This ancient world has known tyrants before, and all THOSE tyrants now are dust. (And who knows if they let themselves be seen in that First and Final Moment, or if they caved around their shame and ran off into darkness?)

Do you fear the moment itself? Do you mourn the world, or those who live to mourn yourself? That's sensible as it goes, but it has not happened yet. And you will be sad indeed if you wail and mourn about what may be when you could be celebrating what you have.

It is not easy. Joy is never easy. And it may be that you need to let the fear run through you for a time. But do not let it own you. You do not belong to fear. You were not made for fear. It is a lie.

So, I challenge you: if you are afraid today, pray for those who frighten you. If you cannot pray, then hope. If you cannot hope, then go radiate your soul with something truly beautiful, and just be - even for a moment - aware that there is nothing, NOTHING, that can diminish the true beauty you behold. (Although the enemy will try. Ignore him. He is a petty thief and jealous.) And if there is no beauty, make some. Compliment the stranger. Give food to those who need it. Dance, and dance badly but with complete abandon in the stairway of your office. Surrender to the beauty of the Spring, and make bouquets of daffodils. Tell someone you love them. Love someone who you hate. Love them *more.* Be the light when there is no light. See others' light when they cannot see their own. Show them. And do not fear the Light when He calls you home to Him.

It is only all you ever wanted, deep within your aching soul.

Coraggio, take heart. You are beloved. Let no one steal that from you.

Amen.

Walking on Water, Looking at Comets

I spent most of the day intermittently bursting into tears, having begun the day facing a substantial bill. The roommate fiasco is still having bankrupty repercussions. Several things hit simultaneously this morning - including various doors slamming in my face, and me left holding a crowbar in the metaphorical jam, wondering whether to let go while all my senses said it was more adult to hold on. (And cry.)

Most nights I go down to Starbucks for the last few hours to write. And being a mess at home, and needing the exercise, I went tonight - heart pounding as I pounded out mechanical and desperate Aves.

The passage about walking on water came to mind; it was today's Gospel. And the thought, every time I started balancing the books in my brain: "Emily, look up. Look at Me." It felt foolish. "It's safer in the boat," I complained. "It's ADULT with a JOB and a PLAN and You-damn SAVINGS in the boat. Besides:

...This spirit I have seen
May be the devil. And the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me...

 "I'll be adult," I thought. "I'll...balance books or do Something Money."

HIM. Get out of the boat, Emily. Do not look down at the waves. Dance across the water.
EMILY. I can't dance.
HIM. I'll teach you.

I got to Starbucks. Nearly deserted on a Wednesday night. I sat down. Opened up my laptop. Pulled up the stalled COMEDY OF HEIRORS.

Looked up. At Him. Danced. Wrote and danced through poetry and prose, and There was God. And there was Peace and Purpose. Wholeness; Serenity - and far more potty humor than you'd think for Divinity...but then, He made intestines, too. And He really *can* take the piss out of anything.
And now, I am home. On my couch. Laptop as ever at the ready. Writing Abby Wilde a soliloquy about imposter syndrome under the guise of a much-disguiséd twin...because we write what we know, right?

I listened to the finale of The Great Comet on the way home: "Where do I go now? Where can I go now?" I finished the last decade and was half-way through the Salve Regina when I literally stopped and gasped at the low and large full moon: perfect on the sudden horizon. "To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears."

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow I will fight to get back in that leaky vessel, because the waves are rough and my faith is small. I am writing this to remind myself that I am wrong. And if He is God, then HE IS GOD. And if He gave me gifts, then He is not a monster to demand that I don't use them. And if He is Lord of All, then who am I to deny Him, and wail and cling and claw against the doors that He has closed?

"Give us this day our daily bread," is not a metaphor. I purchased some food today, and found in my purse the exact eleven pennies that I needed to complete the order. He sent down manna each morning, and the Israelites could keep no more than what was needed for the day.

But still I clutch my hands around the sand and wish for more than what I've got. Why? Why? Because if I had more, I could rely, smugly, on myself. I wouldn't wake up each morning and go: "Alright, Lord. How are You going to solve today?" He is the Bridegroom who must keep His Bride in Holy Poverty - solely so she will speak to Him. Yet, like the proud and faith-less Bride I am, I hate it.

Love is exercise. Trust is exercise. Faith is exercise. And all He asks is that I stop grasping and instead open up my hands that He may nail them with a rosebud to His own.

The Great Comet and the Impossible Star

So, if you're one of the people who follows me on Twitter (@emilycasnyder) you've probably seen the hashtag: #PitchWars quite a lot on my feed. What is #PitchWars, you ask? (Or maybe you don't, but you're reading this anyway, so you might as well know.)

Essentially, it's a way of pairing writers with mentors who work on the completed manuscript (MS) with the author, and then assist them with pitching to agents. Many people are able to land book deals through this process. And the community of authors, agents, editors, etc. reaching out and encouraging each other on is vibrant and loads of gif-ly fun to follow.

I had originally thought of using PitchWars to spur me on to finish my novel, THE SABLE VALENTINE in time to submit - but as I worked on the MS, it quickly became apparent that this simply wasn't going to happen. Still, I participated in several first chapter swaps with other authorial hopefuls, receiving critique on my work and offering feedback on theirs.

HOWEVER(!), I found that after about 75% of these reviews, I was almost cripplingly disheartened by my own work. Even if the other author said nice things, the news frequently came back: "But how is this COMMERCIAL? What IS this? There are PICTURES, and a *lot* of worldbuilding, and is it a history? Mystery? Fantasy? Romance?" To which I wanted to whimperingly respond: "Yes? It's all?" Or again, I was generally lauded for my writing style, but with the caveat: "But your sentences are so LONG. Modern audiences can't read that. You know this." Then on their profile they'd go off about the latest classic novel they were reading. Which novel, I should like to point out, might have sentences lasting an entire *paragraph* long.

Those who were most adamant about "the rules," (e.g., You only have 10 pages to draw the agent in; you must use THIS phrasing in your query and no other; you must fit within the norm) were also, I noted, recent students. Which is to say, they were still living in a world of standards and grades.

Regardless, I am finding that in terms of this particular artistic baby, I am becoming more and more protective. Akin to the agony and the ecstasy of birthing CUPID AND PSYCHE. (Only this one is, in terms of pure word count, only going to come out by literary C-section.)

In the middle of this, I went and saw The Great Comet. And I think it was something of seeing a piece of art that Should Not Exist, that so gloriously, vibrantly, insanely DID exist: pounding, thrumming, dancing up beside me in all its baroque electronica that spoke something to my soul. The Great Comet is an opera. It is a novel. It is a play. It is an electro-pop rager. It doesn't rhyme. It sidelines one of its titular characters and then gives him the finale. It MAKES NO "COMMERCIAL" SENSE.

And it.is.Divine.


Lin-Manuel Miranda's HAMILTON has now so embedded itself within our collective consciousness that we almost forget how absurd its premise seemed to be. In their times, too, LES MISERABLES and PHANTOM OF THE OPERA were strange stand-outs, hearkening boldly back a musical century, while employing modern staging and orchestration. They were *sung through,* and PHANTOM was positively rococo in places. And of course, Sondheim has often paid for his sins of remaining true to whatever wacky vision he's composing now. I've listened a *lot* to MERRILY WE ROLL ALONG lately.

I think the reason why these critiques hit so hard is because I feel that *all* the art I do - whether in narrative form, or half the plays I'm writing - fall into this category of "What the HELL, Emily? No one wants THAT!" Which, when you're *literally* counting pennies to see if you can buy food, is a terrifying prospect.

But then I must remind myself, dear friends, that after I wrote my first draft of CUPID AND PSYCHE back in 2009, my dear professor asked me, quite benignly but pointedly: "Well, it was interesting, Emily. But do you think the world really wants new plays in blank verse?" I, being younger and more resilient in some ways, raised my chin and answered: "Yes."

Now, I almost forget to introduce myself as: "Oh, yes. I write plays in blank verse." Bless you all: you do it for me. Bless you all: you also write in blank verse and rhyming couplets and it turns out people are interested after all. And now - in, for example, working on A COMEDY OF HEIRORS - it's just as workaday as ever writing another farce for the folks in Massachusetts.

I write all this to encourage myself. Because there's this terrible Germanic fear that in working on any of these projects I am wasting my life away; I am being irresponsible with the time I have been given; I am chasing after smokestacks, mistaking them for clouds.

Which it to say, it may be time to listen once again to "The Impossible Dream" and weep the half mile home, whispering, "Yes," to Don Quixote whose madness makes the world more beautiful.

I want, dear friends, in my heart of hearts, I shall die happy if I can make a single thing of beauty and give it to the world. I honestly wish for nothing more. Well, that and maybe the ability to pay rent without hyperventilating every month.

"To strive when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star
"This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far

"And I know if I only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest

"And the world will be better for this:
That one man,
Scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star"