Megan Trennett's Blog, page 10

What being a successful, working author means to me

At the beginning of the month I had to go see a doctor about a small issue I was having. Everything was okay, but I was told I had to take it easy and cut back on a lot of the stuff I normally do for a few months. So stuff like, say, lugging my laptop down to the bus stop to make my way to a coffee shop for a good ol’ writing session was no longer possible. While most of those who knew of my plight were sympathetic, the one thing I heard that drove me nuts was this: At least you don’t work.

Wait, what? This wasn’t the first time this particular person has said this, but I guess after a hundred or so times you just can’t brush it off anymore. I don’t know about all the other writer’s out there, but I certainly don’t sit around, think of an idea, and then BOOM! a completed novel comes out. If it were that easy, there’d be a lot of books out there.

I’m not even sure if this person would be saying this stuff if I was part of the big 6, because to some people you are not a writer unless you are the next J.K. Rowling. And I can’t even try to explain how Fifty Shades of Grey was originally an eBook that blew up into this whole thing, because I still have to deal with the fact that there are paperbacks out there now. To some, it’s almost like the eBook never came beforehand. It’s the chicken or egg conundrum solved.

The process of how most authors get into the bookstores is also eluding to some. They don’t get that you need to get an agent, and then that agent tries to get a publisher, and even with all of the steps neatly followed it still doesn’t mean you’re going to have Stephanie Meyer’s money. That selling books at all is a huge, major, holy-crap-yay factor in even staying a “real” published author.

So why am I telling you all this? It’s simple, because I like to think that a successful, working author is someone who put in the time to finish a novel and shared with the world in some way or another. Be it they went Indie and they were a hit, did okay, did okay but want to go a different way, or (like me) you’ve sold very few copies of the book but, hey,  someone read it. Or, maybe you went the traditional way, got all the way to seeing your name on a shelf in a book store, but you didn’t sell enough books to stay there. It doesn’t matter. Writing is hard, editing is harder, and no matter how you hit the “submit” button, getting your work out there is the hardest and scariest part there is.

LOOK! LOOK!!!!!!!!

Ha ha, made you look. Which is good, because that means you’ve come to visit me. HI! Anyway, this is a writer challenger that is going around the blogs of some great writer/twitter friends. In this challenge, I post the first paragraph in my current work in progress with the word “look” in it.  It gives you a sneak peek into what I’m writing, and of course I get to see how far along in the piece I got before using the word. Which, let’s face it, probably isn’t all that far along.

So, I present you my paragraph with thanks to Stephanie who always tags me in the fun stuff. You should also see her “look” entry as it contains a paragraph from her soon to be released book.

And now, and excerpt from the currently in between titles prequel I’m editing:

I followed Dean John Hamm down the hall, weaving around the students that wandered aimlessly. They looked as lost as I did; at least I had a guide. “I think you’re going to like it here, Simon.” He said as we dodged an overly large young man who appeared more focused on the little portable game console in his hand than those around him. “You’ve got some flexibility with the course, the students are usually very tentative. Really, I think you’ll wish you could have come aboard sooner.”

So, there it is. It ended up being the very first paragraph. Go me.

I’m not going to tag anyone, because as usual, I don’t know who to tag. So, if you read, like, and wanna do, please link your post in the comments as I would love to have a look.

I have issues with Identity

Expect the look of my blog to change again soon. It seems that when I finish making changes I think it looks pretty nifty, but then give it a while and I don’t think it fits me so well anymore. I’d like to think it’s because I like change, and being creative and what not, but I think it’s really because I had yet to really determine my “brand.”

When I first started writing, it was fantasy stuff. When Heart Pulled to Pieces came along it was all new and I thought it would be a one off. Then An Altered Ending came along, and it goes from there. Suddenly I’m not sure what I’m writing (genre wise) and figured I’d leave it up to others to figure it out. What I’ve learned while self publishing my 3rd book is that “Contemporary Romance”, while is a fitting spot, is not really the best fit. I write Chick Lit.

Saying it reminds me of gum, and I know that when others hear the term the can think of fluffy guilty pleasures, but it is more than sugary goodness for the brain. Okay, well, maybe not my work, but there are a lot of great Chick Lit books out there and I think I sit nicely with them.

So, after coming to terms with the genre I write, it’s time to start looking like a Chick Lit writer… site wise anyway. It’s a good thing that there aren’t that many super thin writers of women’s fiction out there because I don’t see myself losing 40 pounds any time soon.

The Sunshine Award (Or, another way to get to know yours truly)

As usual, I have the lovely Stephanie Ingram (Who has a new book coming out this Fall) to thank for nominating me and forcing me to reveal more of my mysterious self. I’m kinda thankful, because I wanted to write something, but had no blog ideas.

So these are the rules I’m supposed to follow:

Thank the blogger who nominated you. {Check, but again, Thanks Stephanie }
Post the award icon  {Check}
Answer the questions below. {Not check at this point, but will be}
Nominate ten other bloggers. {This is something that will remain unchecked. Mostly because I never know who to nominate. So if you read this, blog, and want to do it, then post your site in the comments and I will check’er out}

And now, the Q & A:

What is your favorite Christmas/festive movie?

Now, my favorite Movie is The Santa Clause. I watch it every year, and have since I was 8 (I think that’s how old I was when it came out). But absolutely nothings says Christmas like The Peanuts. But, for those who know me, nothing says Halloween, Thanksgiving, Easter, etc. like The Peanuts. So, you know, Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and gang are holiday staples.
What is your favorite flower?

The Iris. I don’t know why, I know a lot of people think it’s ugly, but I love it.
What is your favorite non-alcoholic beverage?

I actually have too many to choose. But Black Tea (hot or iced), or Lattes (namely Vanilla, Pumpkin, or Eggnog) are my top two.
What is your passion?

The Arts. I love Writing, Reading, Music, Theatre (live, film, television), Art, Dance, pretty much anything that falls under the category. I can’t sing or play an instrument, but I applaud those who can. Dancing, well, I dance while doing chores but I was never professional, nor would I have had the chance. I used to be active in Drama in High School, but that’s as far as it went.
What is your favorite time of year?

From the first hint of fall to the 31st of December is my favorite time of year. I know I’m cheating because I’m including a lot of season and holiday, but that’s when I’m my happiest. I really hope I get to enjoy it this year.
What is your favorite time of day?

I have no idea. At all. I think it depends on how awake I am, and what actual day of the week it is. If it’s, say, Thursday, then my favorite time of day is from 8pm to 11pm when me and the hubby watch some good TV. If it’s Sunday, it might be morning when it’s yummy coffee and breakfast time.
What is your favorite physical activity?

Walking. I love the mind clearing benefits of walking in the fresh air with my Mp3 player (and even without).
What is your favorite vacation?

I’ve actually really have only been to one place on vacation: Disney World. I went with my parents and sister when I was 10, and then again on my honeymoon when I was 22. Every where else I’d been in my life I either lived or ended up living there.

And that’s it. That is all the questions. Again, if you want to do this, please link your site in the comments section. I’d love to read it.

What I’ve been doing (while not posting)

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything. I’ll admit that it is partly because I’ve been slacking, but mostly it’s because I’ve had some personal things going on (and still am) that’s been distracting me from my blog and writing. Okay, well, not entirely from my writing.  Inspiration is a big thing I’ve been lacking, but I also have a few first drafts kicking around that can be worked on before starting anything new.

So, here’s what I’ve been up to (other than sitting on my couch all day):

Have you ever had a story you knew had a lot of  potential, but no matter what you do you can’t seem to get it to work? That’s what it’s been like with my fourth writing effort, a story that originally took me three times as long to finish the first draft than normal. I’ve attempted to rewrite it after letting it sit for a year, and while I liked how it the rewrite was going, I still really couldn’t get into it. It drives me nuts. So I’ve let it go again for now, and jumped ahead to a read through of my fifth effort, a prequel to An Altered Ending. I’m hoping that I can have this set and ready to go by the holiday season.

I’ve also been thinking ahead to NaNoWriMo. If you think about it, it’s pretty much only two months away so if you’re participating it’s time to start getting excited/eager/anxious. I think I’ve got a good story line, or at least the very early sprout of a plot. I’m also still thinking of the possibility of writing an entire story to a single artist/band’s music. I will admit that it seems extremely ambitious (or stupid, whichever) to do this, and in trying to find someone to be my inspiration I’ve realized it may be impossible, but I still might just attempt it anyway.

That about sums up my writing life in the last couple of weeks. Not much, I know, but stuff happens. Hope everyone else is doing well, and making a lot more progress with their projects.

It’s release day!

After all the stuff going on in my personal life, it’s really nice to take some time and come back to my writing life. Yes, it is release day. Unscripted Transformations, the half sequel to Heart Pulled to Pieces, is available. I really hope you enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed writing it.

It’s been registered on Goodreads so you can easily add it to your shelves (And you should. Please. Pretty please.). You can also view the playlist right here on this site! It’s own page is listed under ebooks. As it makes its way to retails I will update the links, but since it’s available on Smashwords, you don’t have to worry about getting a certain format because they are all there.

So go on, read it. Get a sample. Buy the whole thing. Enjoy!

Character knows best, you should listen to them.

I’ve written before about re-writes and listening to what your characters are trying to tell you, and I promise you I’ve learned from it. But I’m revisiting this idea/topic today because Friday I started a rewrite on my least favorite story.

A bit of history on this: The story I’m talking about is my fourth effort in romantic comedy writing. It’s an original story with original characters (no cross overs). I started writing it in January of 2011, and didn’t finish until August. My normal time frame for writing a 100 000+ word novel is about two months. I haven’t touched the thing since, choosing to write and rewrite my fifth effort, and do a novella for NaNoWriMo. Whenever I considered working on number four, I just could bring myself to open the folder knowing that I just didn’t like what it became.

Which brings me to today, or more accurately, Friday. I know I have other things to work on, but suddenly this story popped in my head. I started to get this whole other (though similar) story line for these characters, and they started to become different people than the ones that were before. Better characters, ones that I liked more.

So what does this have to do with listening to your characters? Well, from what I can recall of last January when I started to project originally, I had an idea of what the characters could be, and refused to deviate. It made writing scenes with them very difficult, and it only became easier when I let the “growth” they went through show. In reality, I think that’s because they were the people they were always supposed to be. Too bad that this all didn’t happen until the end.

So I’m starting from scratch, keeping the characters and listening to what they want. For example, I originally though my main character, Lia, should have a dog. I didn’t give her one, and I have no idea why. This time, she has a dog. My main characters want to be nerdy, I’m letting them. And I’m happy to say that they’re being cooperative.

Who knows, maybe by 2013 this story will actually make it out into the world.

“The Next Big Thing” Challenge.

Okay, before I go give you the post, I want to say that I didn’t ignore this challenge. I was away from my laptop/any computer for non-writery reasons yesterday so I couldn’t post. So Stephanie, lovely lady and fellow writer who tagged me, I didn’t ignore you tag. Honest.

So what this challenge is all about is I answer 10 questions about my current work in progress, then tag five people. The problem with the tagging is, I know five people, but I can’t find blogs from them (go figure). Other writers I’ve still been too shy to talk to, and usually just stalk on twitter. So, I say this: if you read this, and want to do it, tag me on twitter (@megantrennett) and I will hope on over to read it, as well as retweet your blog link.

Now, without any further adieu, I give you, my 10 questions.

1. What is the title of your book/WIP?

Unscripted Transformations. I have the choice, so I”m going with this one because I haven’t decided which re-write I want to do next.

2. Where did the idea for the book come from?

It came after I finished writing Heart Pulled to Pieces. Though the original idea is so far out into left field compared to where this one is,  the basic concept of a story that makes you love the bad guy is still there.

3. What genre would your book fall under?

Chick-lit of the romantic-comedy variety.

4. Which actors would you choose your characters to play in a movie rendition?

Haha, I love this question. Isla I would probably cast Taylor Swift. Her hair is what sells me, but she’s not exactly how I pictured Isla. For Eddie, I would say Paul Rudd.

5. What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Oh fudge. Fun followed by a question of pure evil. Okay, let me try this.

Isla and Eddie met by accident, became friends, and now she has to figure out if she can make a leap of faith with him despite knowing his devious past.

6. Is your book published or represented?

Not yet.

7. How long did it take you to write?

It took me about three months. Then I let it sit for about two years before I cam back and did some more work on it. So I don’t know how long I should say it took me to write.

8. What other books in your genre would you compare it to?

I have no idea. I’ve read some books in my genre, and their either way more awesome than mine, or I feel like mine is better. So… umm, it’s not as good as Emily Giffin, but I’d like think I did a good job with it.

9. Which authors inspired you to write this book?

None. Or me, maybe. I don’t know.

10. Tell us anything else that might pique our interest in your book.

It’s all about change, second chances, perspective, and love (both romantic and family). There are a total of three characters, including Eddie, that come back from Heart, though the others are purely secondary. Hopefully you’ll get to read it in the fall.

“Unscripted Transformations” Chapter One

***I’m very excited to share with you the first chapter of my next novel which I hope will be released by this Fall. This happens to be my second favourite product of my imagination, second only to An Altered Ending.  Unscripted Transformations is a semi-sequel, taking place five years after Heart Pulled to Pieces. I hope you enjoy.***

 Chapter One

“I’m really sorry,” The guy who bumped into me says as he lightly grips my arms, keeping me from falling into the back of an empty chair behind me. All the dishes I was carrying toppled to the floor and shattered around my feet.  When the coffee house is this light on patrons, guys normally only do the ‘run-in’ to get a chance to ask one of us out. I think it’s supposed to be an icebreaker; ram into the waitress with a tray of mugs and plates, then ask if she wants to grab (of all things) a coffee. This guy, however, seems genuinely apologetic. His prismatic blue eyes are pleading for forgiveness, as if he’s pissed off far too many women in his lifetime and is afraid of the karmic consequences of doing it again.

“It’s okay,” I say, hands in the air, the round black tray I was carrying still in my left hand. He lets go of me and takes a step back. “I’m fine,” I kneel down, picking up the pieces of broken ceramic off the floor, setting the tray on the ground to load them on to. I’m surprised when the man, dressed in expensive looking brown dress pants, kneels down on the dirty floor and helps me gather the bits.

“I really hope this doesn’t come out of your paycheck.” He says, shaking his head, guilt in his voice.

“If it’ll make you feel better, it doesn’t.” I reply awkwardly. I work ‘for fun’ as my friends call it. I like my job, it makes me feel normal to work seven to eight hours a day on my feet.

I look up to reassure the poor guy, meet his eyes, and smile. He’s kind of cute, with black, wavy hair, a little on the longish side, a strong jaw line, and a beautiful smile (when it finally cracks through). He’s clean shaven; a businessman I’d guess by the way he’s dressed.

After the mess is cleaned I do something rare, especially at work. I set the tray of broken china on the table behind me, brush my hands on my brown apron, and introduce myself. “I’m Isla Milton.” I offer my hand for the man who slightly surpasses my five foot nine stature.

He takes my hand, squinting at me. “Isla Milton?” He repeats. ‘As in Milton’s Macchiato?’ he’d ask, as they all do. It’s the name of the tiny coffee shop chain my Grandfather opened, and my father franchised when he took over more than thirty years ago. My last name is not that common around here, and when said inside the first shop in the franchise, people tend to react as though I’m a celebrity.

“Yeah,” I nod, feeling little bashful.

He lets go of my hand, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “You have an audition today at three forty-five at the opera house for the Pike Kindred production, don’t you?” He smirks.

My jaw drops. That’s where he recognized my name from? This guy must be on the casting staff for the production I’m auditioning for. How bad is my head shot that he remembers my name? I know my blonde hair is frizzy a good ninety percent of the time, and it shows a bit in the black-and-white photograph that I handed in with my small acting and modeling resume, but is it that memorable? I pick up a lock of hair from my ponytail and begin to tug. “Yeah,” I reply dumbly.

“Great,” He beams, “I’ll see you then.” He waves and walks away, setting off the chime as he exits the café, disappearing into the crowd on the busy sidewalk.

I watch people walking by, leaning back against the chair behind me with both of my hands gripping the top, my right foot resting against the seat. I don’t know the guy’s name, don’t know how big a part he plays in my getting a part, but I’m glad that I wasn’t mean to him for bumping into me while talking on his cell phone.

“He. Was. Hot.” Gabrielle says as she approaches me, looking out aimlessly out the window. “I would even say he’s more gorgeous than Maxwell, and considering how much I hate you for getting him, that’s saying something.” She folds her arms, turning to face me.

Maxwell is my boyfriend of seven years. We met in our second year of college when Max attended a seminar my father was invited to speak at. Max stayed after the lecture to talk to my father, and I came by to see if he wanted some father daughter time. Max saw me and was instantly smitten, though I never knew why. It took me about six months to go on a date with him, and only after my father did some digging and found out the Max’s family owns a small Italian restaurant on the far North side of town, assuring me he wasn’t a gold digger.

I shrug, spin on my heel and get back to work. I pick up the tray with both hands and head behind the counter. “He was alright,” I lie as I make my way out back, stepping around boxes on my way to the back door. Gabby must be following me, because I can hear her cursing as I put my key in the alarm, and open the door with my hip. I flick the tray in a way that it sends all the broken pieces flying into the dumpster. They all go in.

Turning back to Gabby, I say, “He doesn’t seem like he’s a guy’s guy though.” I let the door slam shut as I step back in, pulling out my key and putting it back into my apron pocket. “He’d be a good guy for you, Gabs. Want me to get his name and number for you after my audition this afternoon?”

She laughs, making me smile. Gabby is the one out of the two of us who should be a model and actress. She’s Mediterranean and flawless, with full lips and curves that I wish my athletic build would let me have. Her eyes are olive, and with her bronze skin and long, silky black hair she looks exotic and alluring. The number of guys she dated is small a fraction of the ones who ask her out. In her mind, she’s chronically love challenged and has the worst luck with men. In truth, she just falls for the wrong ones. “I doubt that dream boat would want me.”

“Shut up,” I say as I use the hand washing sink, scrubbing off the dirt and coffee as she leans against the stainless steel back counter. “You know any guy would have you if he could.”

She purses her lips. “Maybe.”  Then to change the subject, “What’s the play you’re auditioning for?”

“It’s a story about girl who falls in love with her fiancé’s best friend.” I hit the paper towel dispenser a couple of times with my arm, tearing away the sheet and dry my hands. “I’m auditioning for the part of the girl’s friend.”

“Isla, why won’t you audition for the lead?” Gabby demands.

“Because I’ve never played one, nor anything close to one. I don’t have the experience to go for a part that big.” I reason as a customer comes up to the counter. Gabby turns, smiling a tiny, polite greeting as the guy rambles off his order without looking up.

I start making his drink, some extremely caffeinated concoction that can’t be good for his heart. I turn back to Gabby after he picks up his drink.

“If you don’t start going for the bigger parts, then you aren’t going to get them.” She says matter-of-factly. “I mean seriously. Just try, give it your best. If you really want to go in there and try for ‘the friend,’ then do it. Just don’t think you can’t do the lead because you’re not experienced enough. You’ve been performing for years, you’ve got that perfect blond hair, blue eye look, you can get it.”

“Thanks for the motivational speech.” I snort. The way she holds her posture tells me she’s trying to be serious, and I smile. “I have to get going, I have to get ready for the damn thing.” I say as I the door chimes and Kate, my replacement for the afternoon, walks in. I look back at Gabby and twitch my eyebrows before I take off my apron, moving to the staff room to hang it up, grab my stuff, and skip out the door. Auditions always make me giddy.

It’s a perfect June day, the mix of heat and clean air a pleasant change from the humidity the city usually has. My hair may actually survive the day without turning into a fuzz ball.

I get out my phone start to check my messages as I make my way down the street toward home. I’m not surprised when I don’t see anything from Maxwell. He’s not always (okay, never) supportive of what I want to do with my life. He’s not thrilled with my choosing not to join my father and brother at the head office.

The message I do have is from my only sibling.

Isslee, good luck today. If the weather changes, you’ll need it. No one wants to hire a frizz head, and we both know that there isn’t enough money in the world to fix your hair once it starts to turn. Love you, and see you tomorrow at Mom and Dad’s. – Greg

I laugh aloud as I put my phone away. I’ll have to think of some smart ass remark to respond with. Greg and I have always teased each other, and it became worse as we started texting and instant messaging. But it’s all out of love, a product of Greg and I being close. If anything ever happens to one of us, the other is equally devastated.

I cross through a couple of intersections and make my way to a small side street and across the tiny front parking lot into my building. I don’t have a doorman, the simple entryway makes people question how nice the units inside are, and the elevator makes a grinding noises as it moves up and down the shaft, but I don’t care. This is where my home is.

My home: I like to emphasis that point. I own my apartment, the one thing I bought with the money I was granted at twenty-one. It’s my sanctuary with white walls and light wood hardwood floors. My kitchen and living room are divided with a countertop used primarily as a place to eat. All the appliances and my furniture are black. I have photo-collage frames filled with pictures of my friends and family all over the apartment. My bedroom is huge with a private bathroom. It also has all black furniture, purple linens on my bed, and the pictures are snap shots of Irish, Scottish, Australian, and English landscapes. My guest room is a smaller version of mine that doubles as a craft room, and there’s a guest bathroom that can be accessed from the living room.

Max tried to get me to move in with him last year, and I refused. When he tried to move in with me I laughed. I wasn’t about to have him come in and mess with my sanctuary, despite how long we’ve been together. I gave him closet space to put some of his suits and work clothes in, and told him could stay over often, but this place was still mine.

I kicked off my shoes at the entry way, hearing them hit the back of the closet with a thud. It’s overly stuffy with the windows being closed all day. As I move through the living room to open my balcony doors, I notice I have a message on my answering machine. I like the novelty of having a house phone, and the only reason I have a digital answering machine is because my old cassette style one died. I hit play.

“Isla, it’s Mom. Just wanted to wish you good luck today. You know your father and I are proud of you regardless if you get it or not. And listen, don’t forget we’re getting together at the house for dinner tomorrow night in honor of your brother’s graduating…even if it is for the third time. Love you.”

I stand in the balcony doorway and smile. Hearing my mother’s voice is always calming, and I think that’s why she calls before every audition or photo-shoot.

I turn on my stereo and turn up the music before going in my bedroom, stripping off the white blouse and black pants of my uniform. Jumping into the shower, I dance around while washing my hair and singing badly along with the song.

After getting clean, I set about the daunting task of blow drying my hair. I use five different hair products to prep the strands before I go to town with a flat brush and a blow dryer. I carefully replicate the process my mother’s hairstylist taught me, taking me about an hour to get it the way it’s supposed to look: straight.

I pick out a loose fitting T-shirt and a pair of dark-blue jeans from my closet, and I dig around the bottom of it for my silver strappy high-heeled sandals and find them with a victorious cry.

I come out of my bedroom while awkwardly putting on my shoes, giving me an extra inch of height and a lot more instability. Feeling like a newborn giraffe, I find a pair of flip flops to change into after the audition is done in my coat closet. I grab my purse and stuff them into the bottom. I check the microwave clock, two fifty-five: time’s up. I take a deep breath and leave.

I walk down the street, concentrating on the sidewalk ahead and trying not to touch my hair. I want to put it into a pony tail. It’s too hot for it to be down, and I feel uncomfortable walking around feeling dressed up on a Tuesday afternoon.

I keep going, forcing myself to walk faster in the shoes I can barely stand in, but by the time I’m a couple blocks away from my place I want to cut my feet off. I reach into my purse and grab the white ‘after audition’ shoes and put them on. I smile at the people who walk past me, probably wondering why this crazy girl is changing her shoes in the middle of the sidewalk. After putting the fancy shoes in my purse, I search for an elastic. My fingers wrap around one, and I turn to face a storefront window beside me, my reflection casting against the glass. I make sure the top of my head is smooth as I pulled back my hair and tie it up, my chin length bangs hanging off to the side. I still look good, just not nearly as professional as I had before. But I’m more comfortable, and maybe that’ll score me points. I may get the part by going in feeling more like myself. Then again I may be laughed out of the audition for being under dressed.

The guy from the café pops in my head. He’s on the casting staff; he’s already seen me at my worse. I can picture him leaning in and saying to one of his partners, “You think this is bad? You should’ve saw her early.”

I stop in front of the theatre doors and take a deep breath before grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. I can hear a man’s voice echoing off the walls as I step inside. Moving to the theater, I can see the small dot on the stage where the guy is reading lines. I focus on him as I make my way down to where others are sitting.

Two rows from the back a woman jumps into the aisle and stops me. “Do you have an audition?” She asks quietly.

“Yes, Isla Milton.” I spell my name for her.

She looks down her list and smiles, handing me a small script from her clipboard. “Here you go; they’ll be ready for you in a few minutes. Just have a seat down there.” She replies, pointing to where I was heading anyway. I move quietly, taking a seat and place my purse in the empty chair beside me. I read over the script a few times, getting familiar with the lines in front of me while half watching those on the stage play off what the directors suggest.

“Okay Thank you,” Says the man on the right (who I think is from the café) as he waves a redhead off the stage. I turn my eyes up from the paper, watching with my head still lowered as the two men in the front row nod their heads with what seems like approval. It would appear that rusty boy got the part. “Isla Milton?” The one in the left calls out. As I stand, I notice the one on the right starts looking around. I don’t look at them as I make my way to the stage. I leap up the steps and walk into the middle where a semi bright spot light shines down. I glance into the rows of seats, but can barely see their faces. “Now you’re auditioning for the part of Sarah-Lynn, is that right?” asks the guy seated stage right.

“Yes, I am.” I reply with a short, quick nod.

“Okay, we’re going to get you to read the middle section on page two, please.” He says kindly.

I nod, clear my throat, turn to the page, and begin to read. “Beth, Bob is a great guy. He loves you, and he respects you. I know he hasn’t been around much but if you would give him another chance then maybe…”

“Stop,” The same man cries out. I look up, feeling the panic set in. Was I so bad that they want me to stop already? That’s enough, go home? I watch as the guy from the coffee shop leans in to his partner, pointing to a section of the script. The shot caller nods before saying, “Isla, change of plans. Can you please read Bethany’s speech, which comes immediately after Sarah-Lynn?”

I nod again and turn the page. I don’t dare clear my throat, fearing I’d hurl all over the stage. Then the audition would really be over. “I do love Bob, I think he’s amazing. But when I look at Andre I can’t help but feel the rush, the excitement, the possibilities. I don’t see myself married to Bob in five years, let alone a lifetime. He’s always so busy with his work, his art, that he sets me aside. I don’t see he and I wanting the same life. With Andre, it’s different. It’s like I finally understand why it didn’t work out with anyone else, we fit.” I hadn’t noticed how lost in the moment I was until the echo of my final word reverberated off the walls, and was taken aback by the sound of my voice.

I look down at the two men down front. They’re smiling. “Thank you,” says the shot caller. As I step out of the light, I get a better look at him. He has matted brown hair, shoulder length with random blond streaks. He has facial hair that looks better maintained than his mane. He doesn’t look like someone who would be in charge. “Miss Milton,” He calls, “can you please stick around until the end of auditions? They wrap up at four thirty.”

I nod, smiling weakly, and move back to my chair. I’ve never been asked to stick around after an audition before, and I wasn’t sure it was a good thing.

I try not to focus on anything, preferring to concentrate on keeping my legs crossed, not moving the foot off the ground in a tapping motion, or play with my hair.

I snap my head up as the two men stand, the auditions over. Somehow I killed half an hour of waiting by making sure my mind was preoccupied. I stand abruptly, grabbing my purse strap and throwing it on my shoulder. I grip it with white knuckles while I watch the guy from the cafe approach me with a big grin on his face, and a script in his hand. “Congratulations,” He says as he hands the bound pages to me. “You’re our Bethany.”

“Seriously?” I ask in disbelief. He nods, and I laugh with excitement. “Wow, that’s great. But, really, I auditioned for Sarah-Lynn, I’m sure you should put me in that role.”

“Trust me, I wrote the play and you’re most definitely our Bethany. You fit the part like I wrote it for you. Hell, I would’ve given it to you on spot if Pike wasn’t so insistent that we wait to see how the other two girls panned out.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I exclaim as I run my hand over the front page, reading the author name. It makes me do a double take. “Wait, you said you wrote this?” I look up at the man in front of me, guessing him to be no older than thirty.

“Yeah,” He says with a bashful smile, putting his hands in his front pockets, and rocking on the balls of his feet.

I look back down, double-checking the name on the cover. I’ve read his scripts in drama classes in high school, performed in one during my third year of University. My first professional acting job was a very minor role in the second run of one of his most famous plays.

“You’re Mund Sky?” I ask, not really sure I believe him. I always thought he’d be older.

Mund laughs. “Edmund Lansky,” he stops rocking back and forth. “Call me Eddie.”

The “Stylish Blogger” award.

First of, many thanks to the lovely Stephanie Ingram for nominating me. It’s always fun to learn something about your fellow writers that they may not share otherwise. I know I certainly wouldn’t.

And what am I sharing exactly? The last time I dressed up. Since reading Stephanie’s post, I’ve been considering this a lot. I mean, how do you define ‘dressed up’? To me, dressing up means putting on clothes you would not wear any other time, probably while wearing uncomfortable shoes, and busting out more than just your mascara from the make-up bag (except for my ‘goth’ days, but even then it was just eye liner and dark lipstick).

So, thinking to when this last happened, the first logical example would be my wedding day 4 years ago. But that doesn’t seem right to me. I wore a custom sun dress instead of a wedding gown. I wore flip-flops. I barely did my make-up. I think this is because by the time my wedding came around, I didn’t give a crap any more. (A post for another time, I’m sure). Therefore, I have to say the last time I  truly dressed up was my Senior Prom 8 years ago.

Wedding – 2008

Prom – 2004

What can I say? I like to look ‘nice’ but I don’t like to dress up.

Also: I’m supposed to nominate someone. So…. umm…. the lovely Claire McCarthy