E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 72
July 21, 2013
My Dream House--to those who were lost, but never forgotten...
This post was written at the end of "The Golden Sky" Blogfest back in 2011, when over a hundred bloggers came together and wrote about loved ones they've lost--and generously helped me kick off the release of my book "The Golden Sky."
When I close my eyes and see deep into myself, I find a house. It's old and fading; no one's taken care of it for so long. The paint is peeling. The cement steps are cracking and chipping from neglect. I notice all of this while walking closer, past the picket fence that should have been perfect, and the tree from my childhood.
Just walking closer makes my heart hurt. The screen door hangs slightly ajar. I open it slowly and walk inside. It's the house of my dreams, the future I longed for as a child, but everything's gone terribly wrong.
I walk up a flight of stairs which creak all the while. When I get to the farthest room upstairs, there it is, what I've come for. I stare at the rocking chair and sigh because sitting on the cushion is a huge book.
That book calls to me. It has a big leather binding and all of the words are written by hand. I sit in the rocking chair and breathe deeply. I'm about to do it again, read those words, some that haunt me, most that bring peace. But after opening the book, a searing pain goes up my arms. It burns, so hard to hold and go through again and again.
My eyes gaze out the window. Why am I doing this to myself? Why?
I read then, for hours. The words rip through me because the book has power over my soul. Everything in it is true--the good--the bad--written for me to always remember. It's bittersweet, just how truth is.
Then, when I finish reading the book, that isn't enough, and I push my hand into the cover. Every word seeps into my soul so I won't forget. They fill my mind with such a burden. I know it could help others, because once it helped me, but I've been through it too many times to bear. I carry the book, and notice my very hand print has been burned into the cover.
The book gets heavier as I carry it. I can't stop though, because those words bring my son back--the one I lost. I feel him walking in the damn house--the one that used to fill my dreams. We walk together. He's in a different realm, but I know we can feel each other as long as I have that book.
As we walk, the book gets so heavy, I can hardly carry it. Before long, I have to drag and push it along.
I know where to go though; my boy's spirit is calling me, motioning me out of the decrepit front door and to the base of the tree.
I think about giving up. I swear it's too hard pressing along. "But it's your destiny," a voice whispers in the wind. "You can't give up now. You can't."
"But this is too much! How many times do I have to relive it!"
I place a fist against the beating of my heart.
My hand's bleeding, the same one that's burned into the cover. And before I can run from the place and leave my son's memory behind, I feel a thousand people lifting me up. They remind me of angels, and their kindness gives me hope.
I pick myself up and the book isn't quite so heavy. My eyes scan ahead as I get closer, realizing the tree doesn't seem dead like before; its bark isn't frozen with pain.
My body nearly crumples, kneeling under the branches and digging my hands into the dirt. It's cold there--so cold. But I know I'm meant to be there since it's where my son was buried.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, and blood stains a bit of my cheek. Little things don't matter anymore as fate is guiding me. My son's memory--his love that will never leave me--is guiding me.
I take the book that hurts so bad, filled with pain and so much hope. My shaky hands take it and push it into the ground.
I pull a note from my pocket then, it's something I've carried for years even though I almost forgot it was there.
"Written for Zeke," the note says. "Because you'll never be forgotten."
"And to whoever comes to this house, looking for peace, looking for memories of a future that wasn't meant to be, please keep my book."
I nod after reading it. "Part of my soul rests here along with the soul of my son."
The note folds back nicely. I'm crying by that time, feeling so happy; my son's spirit is there and his joy pours through me.
The note remains, gently placed on the book. I stand and the crazy tree above me is green, filled with leaves and newly blooming growth.
A smile brightens my face when I look at my hand and realize the blood is gone. The house at my back, doesn't look neglected anymore; it's filled with my current life instead of what I'd always thought was meant to be. Four children laugh inside, their antics and pleasures beyond understanding. A new little boy and girl rock in the rocking chair. Their joy and faces shine through the window as they giggle with their older siblings.
Seeing it all seems surreal, like a blessing no one deserves, especially me.
I turn then. The book isn't forgotten in that moment, it never will be even if it's finally where it's meant to rest.
Happy to move on and accept my life, I walk toward the house again.
Before I completely make it though, a huge group of people catch my eyes in the distance. Some of them are grandfathers, grandmothers holding babies, some are children, young men or women, fathers, mothers--siblings. They're all smiling . . . all laughing as they shoot the bull.
They watch me after a moment, waiting to see what I'll do because they know I've heard their stories--through you . . . through your generosity. And at the very front of the group is Zeke, my boy. He's so proud of me--of all of you. He's about nine, healthy, waving and nodding because his purpose has finally been fulfilled in a way only he could hope. He's holding a copy of my book, hugging it tightly like it represents our love, and he'll never let it go.
He waves one last time and then all of them fade, walking away to their own destinies in the afterlife.
I'm too amazed to move. Seeing them happy. For one day their spirits united in a common cause--they're spirits came together just as ours did.
Tears of joy run down my face; it's so bittersweet, and a little overwhelming.
After a moment, I kiss my hand and pat the ground which is Zeke's grave. Then, my feet guide me back toward the house--the same one that suddenly looks like the one we live in now.
My husband and children hug me. "He got my last gift," I tell them. "He got it, they all did, and somehow I know they each remember that they'll never be forgotten."
My husband nods with understanding. He kisses me on the forehead. "Zeke's proud of you," he says, "and so am I."
Closure has come . . . peace at last. The days--years of effort were worth it all.
To those who were lost, but never forgotten, this is for you.
-Elisa
For additional info about my book, please visit this link:
"The Golden Sky"
When I close my eyes and see deep into myself, I find a house. It's old and fading; no one's taken care of it for so long. The paint is peeling. The cement steps are cracking and chipping from neglect. I notice all of this while walking closer, past the picket fence that should have been perfect, and the tree from my childhood.
Just walking closer makes my heart hurt. The screen door hangs slightly ajar. I open it slowly and walk inside. It's the house of my dreams, the future I longed for as a child, but everything's gone terribly wrong.
I walk up a flight of stairs which creak all the while. When I get to the farthest room upstairs, there it is, what I've come for. I stare at the rocking chair and sigh because sitting on the cushion is a huge book.
That book calls to me. It has a big leather binding and all of the words are written by hand. I sit in the rocking chair and breathe deeply. I'm about to do it again, read those words, some that haunt me, most that bring peace. But after opening the book, a searing pain goes up my arms. It burns, so hard to hold and go through again and again.
My eyes gaze out the window. Why am I doing this to myself? Why?
I read then, for hours. The words rip through me because the book has power over my soul. Everything in it is true--the good--the bad--written for me to always remember. It's bittersweet, just how truth is.
Then, when I finish reading the book, that isn't enough, and I push my hand into the cover. Every word seeps into my soul so I won't forget. They fill my mind with such a burden. I know it could help others, because once it helped me, but I've been through it too many times to bear. I carry the book, and notice my very hand print has been burned into the cover.
The book gets heavier as I carry it. I can't stop though, because those words bring my son back--the one I lost. I feel him walking in the damn house--the one that used to fill my dreams. We walk together. He's in a different realm, but I know we can feel each other as long as I have that book.
As we walk, the book gets so heavy, I can hardly carry it. Before long, I have to drag and push it along.
I know where to go though; my boy's spirit is calling me, motioning me out of the decrepit front door and to the base of the tree.
I think about giving up. I swear it's too hard pressing along. "But it's your destiny," a voice whispers in the wind. "You can't give up now. You can't."
"But this is too much! How many times do I have to relive it!"
I place a fist against the beating of my heart.
My hand's bleeding, the same one that's burned into the cover. And before I can run from the place and leave my son's memory behind, I feel a thousand people lifting me up. They remind me of angels, and their kindness gives me hope.
I pick myself up and the book isn't quite so heavy. My eyes scan ahead as I get closer, realizing the tree doesn't seem dead like before; its bark isn't frozen with pain.
My body nearly crumples, kneeling under the branches and digging my hands into the dirt. It's cold there--so cold. But I know I'm meant to be there since it's where my son was buried.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, and blood stains a bit of my cheek. Little things don't matter anymore as fate is guiding me. My son's memory--his love that will never leave me--is guiding me.
I take the book that hurts so bad, filled with pain and so much hope. My shaky hands take it and push it into the ground.
I pull a note from my pocket then, it's something I've carried for years even though I almost forgot it was there.
"Written for Zeke," the note says. "Because you'll never be forgotten."
"And to whoever comes to this house, looking for peace, looking for memories of a future that wasn't meant to be, please keep my book."
I nod after reading it. "Part of my soul rests here along with the soul of my son."
The note folds back nicely. I'm crying by that time, feeling so happy; my son's spirit is there and his joy pours through me.
The note remains, gently placed on the book. I stand and the crazy tree above me is green, filled with leaves and newly blooming growth.
A smile brightens my face when I look at my hand and realize the blood is gone. The house at my back, doesn't look neglected anymore; it's filled with my current life instead of what I'd always thought was meant to be. Four children laugh inside, their antics and pleasures beyond understanding. A new little boy and girl rock in the rocking chair. Their joy and faces shine through the window as they giggle with their older siblings.
Seeing it all seems surreal, like a blessing no one deserves, especially me.
I turn then. The book isn't forgotten in that moment, it never will be even if it's finally where it's meant to rest.
Happy to move on and accept my life, I walk toward the house again.
Before I completely make it though, a huge group of people catch my eyes in the distance. Some of them are grandfathers, grandmothers holding babies, some are children, young men or women, fathers, mothers--siblings. They're all smiling . . . all laughing as they shoot the bull.
They watch me after a moment, waiting to see what I'll do because they know I've heard their stories--through you . . . through your generosity. And at the very front of the group is Zeke, my boy. He's so proud of me--of all of you. He's about nine, healthy, waving and nodding because his purpose has finally been fulfilled in a way only he could hope. He's holding a copy of my book, hugging it tightly like it represents our love, and he'll never let it go.
He waves one last time and then all of them fade, walking away to their own destinies in the afterlife.
I'm too amazed to move. Seeing them happy. For one day their spirits united in a common cause--they're spirits came together just as ours did.
Tears of joy run down my face; it's so bittersweet, and a little overwhelming.
After a moment, I kiss my hand and pat the ground which is Zeke's grave. Then, my feet guide me back toward the house--the same one that suddenly looks like the one we live in now.
My husband and children hug me. "He got my last gift," I tell them. "He got it, they all did, and somehow I know they each remember that they'll never be forgotten."
My husband nods with understanding. He kisses me on the forehead. "Zeke's proud of you," he says, "and so am I."
Closure has come . . . peace at last. The days--years of effort were worth it all.
To those who were lost, but never forgotten, this is for you.
-Elisa
For additional info about my book, please visit this link:
"The Golden Sky"
July 20, 2013
Angel Watch Memorial Service
Since I'll be talking about Zeke on the TV interview this Tuesday (more HERE), I've decided to share a story I wrote in 2011.
Cade and me playing at an infant loss memorial service.
I went alone with The Scribe. It might have been a poor choice, but that's what we did.
As we drove toward the mountains, rain crashed over the car and lightning cracked beyond the hill. I couldn't see the road well, just a vague outline that reminded me of the road to Heaven. Many cars pulled off the road. They waited for the storm to pass, their headlights still on, and their brake lights shining.
I blinked back tears and told myself to keep driving. Maybe someday I'd go to Heaven, be good enough to see my boy, but that road wouldn't take me there yet. Things needed to be done. The moment would be good for me--for us--it had to be, I just had to get there. I glanced at my violin case in the back seat, and continued on.
Even more water ripped across the windshield after that. I turned into Heritage Park and the car crept up a steep hill. Mud cascaded under us and I engaged the emergency brake.
When we stopped, a wind rocked the van, and pulled at the last of my resolve. Part of me wanted to turn away--to run--but the greater part knew the day was etched into my destiny.
I squeezed The Scribe's nine-year-old hand. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes," she nodded. I know worry simmered beneath her eyes, but she'd never say it. She's far too tough, made of something stronger than most children ever dream of. That kid has seen death and risen above it.
My scribe wore a thin green coat over her beautiful taffeta dress. The hood framed her face, but a few curls peeked by her cheeks and blue eyes which shone unflinchingly.
I kissed her on the forehead. "I love you," I said. "You're so courageous. I'm glad you're healthy."
"Let's do this," she whispered back. "I'm not afraid . . . and I'm here for you, Mom."
Tears threatened my eyes. There I was worrying about her and all she thought about was me. My breath stilled, and we stepped from the van. I ran to The Scribe's side of the vehicle and held her close.
The wind practically combed through our clothes like the bristles of a brush.
There we stood, our bones turning to ice, wind tearing at our bodies and rain pelting everything. We held each other, right in front of the pioneers' cemetery.
We'd gone to a memorial where I was scheduled to play the violin. It could have been beautiful, lovely, but a storm scavenged the sky and distorted the thirty-two graves near us.
I held The Scribe tighter and whispered right next to her ear, "Everyone will be here soon. I won't get to play though. This rain would destroy my violin."
She nodded and leaned through the storm. "What is this place anyway? Why don't the headstones have names?"
We walked into the cemetery and hovered by the fence protecting the graves. As I squatted by her, the rain bent in the wind and hit our backs. "Over two decades ago, a construction crew accidentally dug up these graves downtown. Most of the coffins held babies. They didn't know their names or anything, other than that they'd been pioneers. They couldn't leave them where they'd been, so they brought the graves up here, on this hill."
I got a chill. The place held something magical, ancient like time.
"Were those two twins? Their graves are really close," she said.
"Maybe," I said. "And I think those two over there were a mother and child."
The storm continued, but a little softer. When we walked farther along, we noticed the men's choir I was supposed to play with. There they stood, practicing in the rain. The wind ate at them. They each held an umbrella, wore nice suits and dress clothes. They knew the storm was merciless, yet still their voices carried across the graves, comforting those who had passed--comforting me.
Their fortitude, their resolve blessed my heart! Even in the soaking rain, I thought of the pain and anguish they must have felt because each of those men had lost a child. It's hard losing a baby, but even harder to confront things, look beyond your own pain and help others. I gripped the cemetery's fence. The strength of those men stunned me. Their eyes glanced off the graves in front of them. Their voices resonated against the moistened ground--against my heart. They stood strong facing nature and defeat, but in that moment their immense love for their babies spoke far more than anything I've seen in a long time.
They sang, "My Angel Princess."
Here's that link: Charity's Song
"I don't think I can play," I said after they'd finished the song and I looked at the storm.
The leader nodded with understanding. He's a strong man, yet kind beyond anything. "We're scheduled in one hour. I just hope the storm will pass by then."
The storm was unyielding though; I knew it.
But I'd been wrong and as those fathers continued practicing, over three-hundred people showed up. Each person had lost an infant close to them. People drove from different cities--different states. Each person knew the pain of loss, but the peace healing can bring.
It was ten minutes until things would begin and a ray of light shot through the storm.
The rain stopped. A wonderful woman befriended The Scribe and stood by her. I grabbed my violin and waited with the men's choir.
The program began. We all listened as two amazing women spoke. A poem brought me closer to Heaven. Their words of encouragement struck a chord in my soul.
Then it was time for the closing song. The wind had stopped at that point. We'd all spoken into a microphone and said the name of our angel baby.
That's when I pulled my violin out for the final time. The song spoke more than words can say. It drifted sweet and clear. My eyes shut tightly and fate took hold of my bow as the winds rose up again. I played for my son who died. I played for each person who has lost a baby--for each soul who's experienced loss.
The fathers' voices rang clear as sheer power brought comfort to each heart there. The violin danced on the vocal melodies and the song poured from our souls. The wind picked up at the height of the song. It encircled us like a chariot of fire headed to the gates of eternity. That was the moment I knew our children heard us. I felt their joy in the wind.
I peered through the stormy air then, past the cemetery and to the other side of the fence where The Scribe stood. She smiled up at me, healthy--perfect, reminding me how beautiful life can be. Reminding me of everything God has let me keep.
When the music stopped, I peered up and realized that the sun shone brightly. The winds turned calm. Our hearts and hopes, our collective love had vanquished the storm.
People gazed around, nodding through their tears of understanding; they were each so special, so valliant, just like the babies they'd lost.
I nodded back because together as a group, we knew we had each other and we would make it through.
For more information on the history of that amazing cemetery, please click here: The Pioneers of Heritage Park
To find out about the amazing organization who made this moment possible, click here: Angel Watch Bereavement Program
To learn about my son and his story, please click here:
The Golden Sky (My Journal About Zeke)
A big thanks to Carolyn and Kay from Angel Watch. It's amazing how the right words can change someone's life forever! Thank you for making people stronger--better. I'll never forget your kindness and the positive mark you left on my life.
Cade and me playing at an infant loss memorial service.
I went alone with The Scribe. It might have been a poor choice, but that's what we did.
As we drove toward the mountains, rain crashed over the car and lightning cracked beyond the hill. I couldn't see the road well, just a vague outline that reminded me of the road to Heaven. Many cars pulled off the road. They waited for the storm to pass, their headlights still on, and their brake lights shining.
I blinked back tears and told myself to keep driving. Maybe someday I'd go to Heaven, be good enough to see my boy, but that road wouldn't take me there yet. Things needed to be done. The moment would be good for me--for us--it had to be, I just had to get there. I glanced at my violin case in the back seat, and continued on.
Even more water ripped across the windshield after that. I turned into Heritage Park and the car crept up a steep hill. Mud cascaded under us and I engaged the emergency brake.
When we stopped, a wind rocked the van, and pulled at the last of my resolve. Part of me wanted to turn away--to run--but the greater part knew the day was etched into my destiny.
I squeezed The Scribe's nine-year-old hand. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes," she nodded. I know worry simmered beneath her eyes, but she'd never say it. She's far too tough, made of something stronger than most children ever dream of. That kid has seen death and risen above it.
My scribe wore a thin green coat over her beautiful taffeta dress. The hood framed her face, but a few curls peeked by her cheeks and blue eyes which shone unflinchingly.
I kissed her on the forehead. "I love you," I said. "You're so courageous. I'm glad you're healthy."
"Let's do this," she whispered back. "I'm not afraid . . . and I'm here for you, Mom."
Tears threatened my eyes. There I was worrying about her and all she thought about was me. My breath stilled, and we stepped from the van. I ran to The Scribe's side of the vehicle and held her close.
The wind practically combed through our clothes like the bristles of a brush.
There we stood, our bones turning to ice, wind tearing at our bodies and rain pelting everything. We held each other, right in front of the pioneers' cemetery.
We'd gone to a memorial where I was scheduled to play the violin. It could have been beautiful, lovely, but a storm scavenged the sky and distorted the thirty-two graves near us.
I held The Scribe tighter and whispered right next to her ear, "Everyone will be here soon. I won't get to play though. This rain would destroy my violin."
She nodded and leaned through the storm. "What is this place anyway? Why don't the headstones have names?"
We walked into the cemetery and hovered by the fence protecting the graves. As I squatted by her, the rain bent in the wind and hit our backs. "Over two decades ago, a construction crew accidentally dug up these graves downtown. Most of the coffins held babies. They didn't know their names or anything, other than that they'd been pioneers. They couldn't leave them where they'd been, so they brought the graves up here, on this hill."
I got a chill. The place held something magical, ancient like time.
"Were those two twins? Their graves are really close," she said.
"Maybe," I said. "And I think those two over there were a mother and child."
The storm continued, but a little softer. When we walked farther along, we noticed the men's choir I was supposed to play with. There they stood, practicing in the rain. The wind ate at them. They each held an umbrella, wore nice suits and dress clothes. They knew the storm was merciless, yet still their voices carried across the graves, comforting those who had passed--comforting me.
Their fortitude, their resolve blessed my heart! Even in the soaking rain, I thought of the pain and anguish they must have felt because each of those men had lost a child. It's hard losing a baby, but even harder to confront things, look beyond your own pain and help others. I gripped the cemetery's fence. The strength of those men stunned me. Their eyes glanced off the graves in front of them. Their voices resonated against the moistened ground--against my heart. They stood strong facing nature and defeat, but in that moment their immense love for their babies spoke far more than anything I've seen in a long time.
They sang, "My Angel Princess."
Here's that link: Charity's Song
"I don't think I can play," I said after they'd finished the song and I looked at the storm.
The leader nodded with understanding. He's a strong man, yet kind beyond anything. "We're scheduled in one hour. I just hope the storm will pass by then."
The storm was unyielding though; I knew it.
But I'd been wrong and as those fathers continued practicing, over three-hundred people showed up. Each person had lost an infant close to them. People drove from different cities--different states. Each person knew the pain of loss, but the peace healing can bring.
It was ten minutes until things would begin and a ray of light shot through the storm.
The rain stopped. A wonderful woman befriended The Scribe and stood by her. I grabbed my violin and waited with the men's choir.
The program began. We all listened as two amazing women spoke. A poem brought me closer to Heaven. Their words of encouragement struck a chord in my soul.
Then it was time for the closing song. The wind had stopped at that point. We'd all spoken into a microphone and said the name of our angel baby.
That's when I pulled my violin out for the final time. The song spoke more than words can say. It drifted sweet and clear. My eyes shut tightly and fate took hold of my bow as the winds rose up again. I played for my son who died. I played for each person who has lost a baby--for each soul who's experienced loss.
The fathers' voices rang clear as sheer power brought comfort to each heart there. The violin danced on the vocal melodies and the song poured from our souls. The wind picked up at the height of the song. It encircled us like a chariot of fire headed to the gates of eternity. That was the moment I knew our children heard us. I felt their joy in the wind.
I peered through the stormy air then, past the cemetery and to the other side of the fence where The Scribe stood. She smiled up at me, healthy--perfect, reminding me how beautiful life can be. Reminding me of everything God has let me keep.
When the music stopped, I peered up and realized that the sun shone brightly. The winds turned calm. Our hearts and hopes, our collective love had vanquished the storm.
People gazed around, nodding through their tears of understanding; they were each so special, so valliant, just like the babies they'd lost.
I nodded back because together as a group, we knew we had each other and we would make it through.
For more information on the history of that amazing cemetery, please click here: The Pioneers of Heritage Park
To find out about the amazing organization who made this moment possible, click here: Angel Watch Bereavement Program
To learn about my son and his story, please click here:
The Golden Sky (My Journal About Zeke)
A big thanks to Carolyn and Kay from Angel Watch. It's amazing how the right words can change someone's life forever! Thank you for making people stronger--better. I'll never forget your kindness and the positive mark you left on my life.
July 19, 2013
How to do your makeup for a TV interview.
I went to a makeup artist and learned how to do makeup perfect for being on TV. Now I'm sharing her tips with you. :) I hope you'll enjoy the video.
It's crazy to watch the first few seconds of the beginning and end so you can see the before and after. It's pretty amazing how much makeup can change what people look like.
In closing, if you want to watch the interview, I'll be on channel 5--KSL (online HERE) for a few minutes in the middle of the show (around 11:30-ish MST).
It's crazy to watch the first few seconds of the beginning and end so you can see the before and after. It's pretty amazing how much makeup can change what people look like.
In closing, if you want to watch the interview, I'll be on channel 5--KSL (online HERE) for a few minutes in the middle of the show (around 11:30-ish MST).
July 17, 2013
How to dress for a TV interview.
How the journey began. . . .
Tips for how to dress for a TV interview are at the end of this "picture story." Just keep scrolling to the right. Click "VIEW FULL STORY" to see the whole thing.
Tomorrow I'll post makeup-for-TV-interview tips (shhhh it's a video I made--ahhhh).
Only a few more days until the TV interview on 7/23/13.
To read previous posts about this topic, please go HERE .
Tips for how to dress for a TV interview are at the end of this "picture story." Just keep scrolling to the right. Click "VIEW FULL STORY" to see the whole thing.
Tomorrow I'll post makeup-for-TV-interview tips (shhhh it's a video I made--ahhhh).
Only a few more days until the TV interview on 7/23/13.
To read previous posts about this topic, please go HERE .
July 16, 2013
How to answer interview questions.
How to Soar through an Interview
Disclaimer: I've only had a handful of radio interviews. I've also been known to struggle counting my change at the grocery store. Yet, if you'd still like to trust the following advice, do so at your own risk.
-EC
Point #1
Decide what kind of impression you're trying to make BEFORE the interview even begins.
Do you want to be funny, thoughtful, insanely provocative? All right, scratch the last one--wait, that sounds wrong. You know what I mean. What are you going for? For example, what could listeners/viewers learn from your answer to this question:
If you could fight any supervillian who would it be?
You wanna be funny like my brother?
Say, "The Booger."
You wanna be Miss America?
Say, "Hunger."
You wanna be me?
Say, "Vicini, from Princess Bride. Because I LOVE that guy!
Best. Conceivable. Villain. E-v-e-r."
But seriously...first impressions matter in interviews.
How would you like to come across?
Point #2
What is your end-goal?
This is your chance to make a difference. Your chance to shine. What do you want people to take from the interview?
Are you selling a product or trying to spread hope, maybe humor? Try to answer in such a way that your end-goal will be achieved. Don't come across as a sale's person or a zealot. But think about what you can share with the world and keep that in mind when answering questions.
For example:
What would you grab if your house were on fire in the middle of the night and you could only grab one item?
Think hard! What do you want the audience to remember about your answer--it can speak volumes.
P.S. It's okay to think before gushing with words.
Something like, "My underwear," tells us nothing memorable--except that you sleep naked.
Take a moment to compose yourself and say something that will accomplish your end-goal. For example, if my interview were about my book "Homeless in Hawaii," I'd try answering accordingly, saying, "I'd grab my violin because it reminds me of everything I went through as a homeless street musician. All of the things I learned, while living on the street, made me who I am today." That would bring the book up and give the listener something to remember in connection with the memoir.
If I were trying to promote Hoover Vacuums, I might answer with something about my great appliance. **But who really wants to lug a vacuum around during a fire! Maybe a Roomba , not a Hoover.** You get the point. Don't lie (of course) but answer with your end-goal in mind.
All this to say: don't answer with random topics that have no value and aren't relevant--or worse--interesting.
But honestly, if my house were on fire--and everybody was already outside--I probably would put on a shirt. Let's face it, I'd be saving the neighborhood from a fate worse than death.
How selfless am I!
Point #3
Long Interview = Long Answers
Short Interview = Short Answers
If you're only being interviewed for a few minutes, keep your answers short 10-20 seconds. If you're on for over 30 minutes, draw your answers out a bit--or the interviewer may kill you. They're taking time, scheduling you for a long show--make it worth their time by being prepared.
Point #4
Practice
Keep in mind that for many interviews, you'll be given a list (or asked to provide a list) of questions before the interview actually takes place. Practice answering the questions with a friend. Think of how you can answer according to the interview length. Also, remember points 1 and 2. What do you want to convey?
All right, you're all set. Get 'er done and make me proud!
If you'd like to listen to a sample of how I handled answering questions from my longest interview (and haven't already heard this broadcast) go HERE .
In closing,
why am I writing this?
Because my first LIVE TV Interview is next Tuesday.
Future Posts for this Week
Thursday: How to dress for a TV interview.
Friday: How to do your makeup for a TV interview.
And lastly, if you were being interviewed on TV, how would you answer the following:
Who would win a battle
between a ninja and a pirate? Why?
Disclaimer: I've only had a handful of radio interviews. I've also been known to struggle counting my change at the grocery store. Yet, if you'd still like to trust the following advice, do so at your own risk.
-EC
Point #1
Decide what kind of impression you're trying to make BEFORE the interview even begins.
Do you want to be funny, thoughtful, insanely provocative? All right, scratch the last one--wait, that sounds wrong. You know what I mean. What are you going for? For example, what could listeners/viewers learn from your answer to this question:
If you could fight any supervillian who would it be?
You wanna be funny like my brother?
Say, "The Booger."
You wanna be Miss America?
Say, "Hunger."
You wanna be me?
Say, "Vicini, from Princess Bride. Because I LOVE that guy!
Best. Conceivable. Villain. E-v-e-r."
But seriously...first impressions matter in interviews.
How would you like to come across?
Point #2
What is your end-goal?
This is your chance to make a difference. Your chance to shine. What do you want people to take from the interview?
Are you selling a product or trying to spread hope, maybe humor? Try to answer in such a way that your end-goal will be achieved. Don't come across as a sale's person or a zealot. But think about what you can share with the world and keep that in mind when answering questions.
For example:
What would you grab if your house were on fire in the middle of the night and you could only grab one item?
Think hard! What do you want the audience to remember about your answer--it can speak volumes.
P.S. It's okay to think before gushing with words.
Something like, "My underwear," tells us nothing memorable--except that you sleep naked.
Take a moment to compose yourself and say something that will accomplish your end-goal. For example, if my interview were about my book "Homeless in Hawaii," I'd try answering accordingly, saying, "I'd grab my violin because it reminds me of everything I went through as a homeless street musician. All of the things I learned, while living on the street, made me who I am today." That would bring the book up and give the listener something to remember in connection with the memoir.
If I were trying to promote Hoover Vacuums, I might answer with something about my great appliance. **But who really wants to lug a vacuum around during a fire! Maybe a Roomba , not a Hoover.** You get the point. Don't lie (of course) but answer with your end-goal in mind.
All this to say: don't answer with random topics that have no value and aren't relevant--or worse--interesting.
But honestly, if my house were on fire--and everybody was already outside--I probably would put on a shirt. Let's face it, I'd be saving the neighborhood from a fate worse than death.
How selfless am I!
Point #3
Long Interview = Long Answers
Short Interview = Short Answers
If you're only being interviewed for a few minutes, keep your answers short 10-20 seconds. If you're on for over 30 minutes, draw your answers out a bit--or the interviewer may kill you. They're taking time, scheduling you for a long show--make it worth their time by being prepared.
Point #4
Practice
Keep in mind that for many interviews, you'll be given a list (or asked to provide a list) of questions before the interview actually takes place. Practice answering the questions with a friend. Think of how you can answer according to the interview length. Also, remember points 1 and 2. What do you want to convey?
All right, you're all set. Get 'er done and make me proud!
If you'd like to listen to a sample of how I handled answering questions from my longest interview (and haven't already heard this broadcast) go HERE .
In closing,
why am I writing this?
Because my first LIVE TV Interview is next Tuesday.
Future Posts for this Week
Thursday: How to dress for a TV interview.
Friday: How to do your makeup for a TV interview.
And lastly, if you were being interviewed on TV, how would you answer the following:
Who would win a battle
between a ninja and a pirate? Why?
How to get a TV Interview!
Well, I'm in shock, but on 7/23/2013,
I'm going to be LIVE on TV.
(I can post the video here after the show airs.) THIS is the show I'll be on (channel 5--KSL) 11:00am-12:00 MST. I'll be on for a few minutes in the middle of the show (11:30-ish).
I've been trying to get a TV interview for three years, and now I think I finally found what works. Check out the advice below.
#1 Write a press release.
The key to writing a good press release is having something that is concise (400-600 words), timely, and--most of all--newsworthy. Don't send out a release about how your book/product is so amazing blah blah blah, unless you have a timely reason to send it out AND something that reporters/journalists know will interest their audience. I'm using PRWebs. But there are many other great ways to send out releases. Just do your research.
Timeliness
Has your book/product been out for a year? Did it just come out? Are you having a special event to promote your business/merchandise? Are some of the profits going to charity?
All of these are GREAT reasons to write a release.
Interest the Audience--Interest the Program Director!
Additionally, make sure the press release will hook the reader with an awesome headline and intro that SHOWS why it's newsworthy.
NOTE: I did this. And although it got me several radio interviews, it didn't land me that coveted TV interview.
Remember: keep trying, persevere
#2 Write a pitch.
This should be a short email (2-3 paragraphs), selling your interview idea. Think of the station. Do your research. Who's their main audience? Why would they be interested in what you have to say? Once you have those answers, put them into your pitch.
#3 Check out local stations & join HARO (stands for Help a Reporter Out)
Now that your general pitch is ready, let's hone it! Find out the program director's name. Make sure you include info from #2--why would this interest their specific audience? If you're responding to a HARO query, do research before sending a short pitch.
All right, that's my advice for today.
I'm soooo excited!
Now that we've talked about how to land a TV interview, I'll write later this week about how to prepare for the interview once you've gotten it. Pretty fun--since this is my first time being interviewed on TV and I'm just learning too! Ahhhhh.
P.S. Want to know what my timely/audience-appealing pitch was about? I'll be talking about Zeke and my new audiobook of The Golden Sky narrated by Alexandra Haag.
Purchase "The Golden Sky" Audiobook Version HERE
I hope it'll help someone else out there AND that Zeke will be honored through the whole thing. Do you think people can watch KSL in Heaven?
Future Posts for this Week
Tomorrow: How to answer interview questions.
Thursday: How to dress for a TV interview.
Friday: How to do your makeup for a TV interview.
I've been trying to get a TV interview for three years, and now I think I finally found what works. Check out the advice below.
#1 Write a press release.
The key to writing a good press release is having something that is concise (400-600 words), timely, and--most of all--newsworthy. Don't send out a release about how your book/product is so amazing blah blah blah, unless you have a timely reason to send it out AND something that reporters/journalists know will interest their audience. I'm using PRWebs. But there are many other great ways to send out releases. Just do your research.
Timeliness
Has your book/product been out for a year? Did it just come out? Are you having a special event to promote your business/merchandise? Are some of the profits going to charity?
All of these are GREAT reasons to write a release.
Interest the Audience--Interest the Program Director!
Additionally, make sure the press release will hook the reader with an awesome headline and intro that SHOWS why it's newsworthy.
NOTE: I did this. And although it got me several radio interviews, it didn't land me that coveted TV interview.
Remember: keep trying, persevere
#2 Write a pitch.
This should be a short email (2-3 paragraphs), selling your interview idea. Think of the station. Do your research. Who's their main audience? Why would they be interested in what you have to say? Once you have those answers, put them into your pitch.
#3 Check out local stations & join HARO (stands for Help a Reporter Out)
Now that your general pitch is ready, let's hone it! Find out the program director's name. Make sure you include info from #2--why would this interest their specific audience? If you're responding to a HARO query, do research before sending a short pitch.
All right, that's my advice for today.
I'm soooo excited!
Now that we've talked about how to land a TV interview, I'll write later this week about how to prepare for the interview once you've gotten it. Pretty fun--since this is my first time being interviewed on TV and I'm just learning too! Ahhhhh.
P.S. Want to know what my timely/audience-appealing pitch was about? I'll be talking about Zeke and my new audiobook of The Golden Sky narrated by Alexandra Haag.
Purchase "The Golden Sky" Audiobook Version HERE
I hope it'll help someone else out there AND that Zeke will be honored through the whole thing. Do you think people can watch KSL in Heaven?
Future Posts for this Week
Tomorrow: How to answer interview questions.
Thursday: How to dress for a TV interview.
Friday: How to do your makeup for a TV interview.
July 15, 2013
Why girls shouldn't vlog when they're drunk--minion & munchkin style!
Yep, this is soooo silly. You might as well see who you're "really" following.
I'm sleeping in tomorrow.
P.S. Can anyone reading this speak Munchkin too?
I'm sleeping in tomorrow.
P.S. Can anyone reading this speak Munchkin too?
A Meeting in a Cave: Monday Memory
Years ago, someone brought an old tree stump to the back of a long cave. It was a magical cave, so that’s where I liked to sit and play my violin while having a hard time as a teenager.
I barely knew Cade, but I'd brought him there. After motioning for him to sit by me on the stump, we talked, leaning back-to-back. My emotions swam around. I wanted to hold Cade’s hand, ask him to put his arm around me, but I didn’t; I hardly knew him. Some water fell on the lighter’s flame--our only light. After that, Cade and I talked in the darkness.
Our voices and the dripping water echoed around. I told him about my jobs at the library and the diner, and how I taught music lessons.
He said he’d just backpacked through Scotland and come back, even though the taste of Europe left him drunk, wanting more from life.
We didn’t really say anything extremely important, just subtle things. I even remember getting quiet for a few minutes. We molded into the darkness and simply listened to the cave and our own breathing.
When I dropped Cade off at his apartment later that day, I felt different. Maybe I wouldn’t run away after all. I just needed to get a grip. But something strange happened. Even though I had a phenomenal time with Cade, I didn’t give him my number and he didn’t ask for it. We waved to each other, sharing kind words before I drove away, and that was it.
Excerpt from Bible Girl & the Bad Boy
Click the picture for more about that.
Every Monday I'll be visiting places written about in my memoirs. Last week's location was the private lane I grew up on. Here's that post: Is this a sign . . . literally?
Today's memory is about Ledgemere Cave.
Cade and I videotaped our four kids there and told them the story of how we fell in love.
I barely knew Cade, but I'd brought him there. After motioning for him to sit by me on the stump, we talked, leaning back-to-back. My emotions swam around. I wanted to hold Cade’s hand, ask him to put his arm around me, but I didn’t; I hardly knew him. Some water fell on the lighter’s flame--our only light. After that, Cade and I talked in the darkness.
Our voices and the dripping water echoed around. I told him about my jobs at the library and the diner, and how I taught music lessons.
He said he’d just backpacked through Scotland and come back, even though the taste of Europe left him drunk, wanting more from life.
We didn’t really say anything extremely important, just subtle things. I even remember getting quiet for a few minutes. We molded into the darkness and simply listened to the cave and our own breathing.
When I dropped Cade off at his apartment later that day, I felt different. Maybe I wouldn’t run away after all. I just needed to get a grip. But something strange happened. Even though I had a phenomenal time with Cade, I didn’t give him my number and he didn’t ask for it. We waved to each other, sharing kind words before I drove away, and that was it.
Excerpt from Bible Girl & the Bad Boy
Click the picture for more about that.
Every Monday I'll be visiting places written about in my memoirs. Last week's location was the private lane I grew up on. Here's that post: Is this a sign . . . literally?
Today's memory is about Ledgemere Cave.
Cade and I videotaped our four kids there and told them the story of how we fell in love.
July 12, 2013
Amateur or Professional?
Because . . . even werewolves like the violin.
"I'd like to buy some new strings for my violin," I told a teenager who stood behind the counter at a tiny music store. I nearly coughed from all the dust clinging to the instruments around us. But I smiled nonetheless, trying to be extra nice.
The young clerk studied everything about me, chewed a huge wad of gum, then asked condescendingly, "Amateur or Professional strings?"
#1 WHY was she chewing gum? Who cared she had rhythm even as she chewed--THAT was unprofessional.
#2 Wasn't her question a bit offensive?
"Pro . . . fes . . . sional?" I drew out the word, doubting myself.
"Really," she scoffed. "Fine then, what brand?"
Was this twenty questions? I just wanted some stupid strings to play for a gig I'd been HIRED for.
"Adurrio?" I muttered, forgetting the name because I have post-pregnancy brain--always.
She laughed so hard she bent from the exertion. "Correction. D'addario. That's the kind my teacher uses." She turned and grabbed a pack while whispering, "Amateur."
I wanted to grab a dusty violin from the wall and show that CHILD a thing or two. I became a professional when she was still poo'n in diapers! I became a professional--who didn't have to worry about nice strings making me sound good. I know this might sound conceited, but playing the violin is one thing I'm good at. In high school I didn't feel worth much. I was usually self-conscious and nervous. But when I played my violin, people saw me differently. I made friends and guys asked me out. It was as if my soul finally came through the music and kids thought I had value--for once.
I blinked, staring at the girl who held out amateur strings for me to buy. I could have shown her up, and made her feel like crap, I really could have. But instead, I let her have her moment and I walked from the store.
When I got home, I strung my violin, went outside and played a haunting song in my backyard. The birds stopped singing and just listened. A tall farmer who lives behind me quit whistling. The world stirred and all the delicate things in nature danced within the music of those amateur strings. When I finished, the farmer clapped. He yelled from over the fence, "You're the best fiddler I've ever heard of. And to think, people wouldn't guess unless they knew."
"Thanks, Mike. That's the beauty of it though. It's my secret." His recognition felt nice. I wondered for a moment why I hadn't proven myself to that teenage clerk. The answer came almost as quickly as the question . . . because I'd finally found a bit of worth inside myself, and it hadn't come from people saying how great I am at the violin.
Here's a video my sweet cousin Farrah taped at one of our performances this spring.
July 11, 2013
Do I REALLY Look Like a Car Wash Girl?
Cade worked out of town for two weeks. What gall! Does he think he's trying to support a family or something? Anyway, after discovering that he'd be washing his truck to make it fancy right before coming home, I got all dolled up and drove over to the car wash to surprise him. I'd bought a cute outfit before we went to Mexico, and I somehow felt the short olive shorts and tight matching shirt would catch his attention. So, I pulled up to the side of the car wash. It's a pretty ritzy place. In the back, actual people clean the vehicles. But for manly men--like Cade--there's a spot for people to wash their own rides.
I parked our dilapidated mini van about twenty feet from Cade's truck. I told the kids, I'd just be sauntering over to their father to say hello. Then we'd all go home and they could tell him stories and hug him for hours, blah blah blah, etc.
I shut the van's door and the music suddenly blared. All four of my kids practically head-banged to the music and I swear the crappy van shook. The heater doesn't work. The back bumper is dented from the time I rammed our garbage can--it deserved it. The side door doesn't open, and I have to connect the battery before starting the car each time. But what the Hell, at least the radio can be cranked for pre-teen enjoyment!
I straightened my shorts, took my long blonde hair out of a bun and prepared to ambush Cade, when out of nowhere, a black car drove up and ambushed me.
"Where's the manager?" a man--who looked like Mr. Bean--asked me.
#1 If you look like Mr. Bean, you should NOT be allowed to ambush people.
#2 Who cared about the manager?
#3 Mr. Bean, freakin' seriously?
#4 MOST IMPORTANTLY Did I look like the supreme authority on managers and their hourly whereabouts?
"Ummm. I don't know." I wanted to add, Mr. Bean.
He sneered at me, looking up and down at my outfit like I was Cinderella just after midnight, holding one shoe and standing in rags. "You're one of the car wash girls. Of course you should know where your boss is."
"Excuse me?" Did Mr. Bean just call me a car wash girl?
Disclaimer: nothing against car wash girls, but the title does not sound intellectually flattering.
Had he called me a burgeoning genius--I would've gone for it. Or something like, "Hey, aren't you the muy inteligente librarian from down the street?" Or, "Aren't you that social worker who gave back to the community, by donating everything you own?" But no, of course I would get accused of having a job that takes no brains, and just the skills to press a sponge AND boobs against a windshield simultaneously.
Why me? Maybe 'cause I have more heart than anything? Honestly, I'm not the brightest bulb in the bucket. And the other day I did try using my car clicker to unlock the front door, but that doesn't make me a bimbo has-been who washes cars for a living! (By the way, it does sound like a great way to get a tan though.)
Mr. Bean yelled, pulling me from my thoughts, "You work here! But instead of cleaning, you're just standing by that van, adjusting your clothes."
"I AM NOT a car wash girl. I'm visiting my husband. Over THERE!" I pointed, to where Cade had FINALLY noticed me.
Mr. Bean eyed Cade, turned red and drove away. Before I could say another word, Cade dropped the hose and ran over to hug me.
"I'm so glad you're home," I buried my face in his shoulder. "I just wanted to see you, and then that man accused me of looking like a car wash girl who was lazy and more concerned with clothes than anything else!"
Cade chuckled, holding me at arm's length. "Because you do look like one of the girls working here."
He'd been back in town for two seconds--did he already want to cause a fight? So as he washed the truck for a second, I backed to the other side of the wash, just wanting to study these girls I looked like. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. All right. It was a Mercedes. And there were only five reindeer ummm girls. And they were all wearing the same set THAT I'D JUST BOUGHT TO WEAR TO MEXICO. I gasped, staring at my own clothes.
Why do I have such insane luck? Plus, one of the girls women looked kinda leathery and like she qualified for assisted care. Maybe that's the one they'd mistaken me for.
"Cade!" I screamed. "Cade. I'm wearing the same clothes as those girls."
"I know." He smiled. "Isn't it hilarious? The funniest things happen to you."
I stomped back to my vibrating van and the kids, waving to me and their father, instantly turned the music down. "Hey, Mom. We thought it was so funny, did you notice you're wearing the same clothes as the car wash girls?"
I grunted. Did everyone have to know?
"Isn't it hilarious?" my oldest daughter persisted.
"Darling," I turned to my scribe-like daughter. "Today I want you to learn something: Car washes suck! AND humor is in the eye of the beholder!"
I parked our dilapidated mini van about twenty feet from Cade's truck. I told the kids, I'd just be sauntering over to their father to say hello. Then we'd all go home and they could tell him stories and hug him for hours, blah blah blah, etc.
I shut the van's door and the music suddenly blared. All four of my kids practically head-banged to the music and I swear the crappy van shook. The heater doesn't work. The back bumper is dented from the time I rammed our garbage can--it deserved it. The side door doesn't open, and I have to connect the battery before starting the car each time. But what the Hell, at least the radio can be cranked for pre-teen enjoyment!
I straightened my shorts, took my long blonde hair out of a bun and prepared to ambush Cade, when out of nowhere, a black car drove up and ambushed me.
"Where's the manager?" a man--who looked like Mr. Bean--asked me.
#1 If you look like Mr. Bean, you should NOT be allowed to ambush people.
#2 Who cared about the manager?
#3 Mr. Bean, freakin' seriously?
#4 MOST IMPORTANTLY Did I look like the supreme authority on managers and their hourly whereabouts?
"Ummm. I don't know." I wanted to add, Mr. Bean.
He sneered at me, looking up and down at my outfit like I was Cinderella just after midnight, holding one shoe and standing in rags. "You're one of the car wash girls. Of course you should know where your boss is."
"Excuse me?" Did Mr. Bean just call me a car wash girl?
Disclaimer: nothing against car wash girls, but the title does not sound intellectually flattering.
Had he called me a burgeoning genius--I would've gone for it. Or something like, "Hey, aren't you the muy inteligente librarian from down the street?" Or, "Aren't you that social worker who gave back to the community, by donating everything you own?" But no, of course I would get accused of having a job that takes no brains, and just the skills to press a sponge AND boobs against a windshield simultaneously.
Why me? Maybe 'cause I have more heart than anything? Honestly, I'm not the brightest bulb in the bucket. And the other day I did try using my car clicker to unlock the front door, but that doesn't make me a bimbo has-been who washes cars for a living! (By the way, it does sound like a great way to get a tan though.)
Mr. Bean yelled, pulling me from my thoughts, "You work here! But instead of cleaning, you're just standing by that van, adjusting your clothes."
"I AM NOT a car wash girl. I'm visiting my husband. Over THERE!" I pointed, to where Cade had FINALLY noticed me.
Mr. Bean eyed Cade, turned red and drove away. Before I could say another word, Cade dropped the hose and ran over to hug me.
"I'm so glad you're home," I buried my face in his shoulder. "I just wanted to see you, and then that man accused me of looking like a car wash girl who was lazy and more concerned with clothes than anything else!"
Cade chuckled, holding me at arm's length. "Because you do look like one of the girls working here."
He'd been back in town for two seconds--did he already want to cause a fight? So as he washed the truck for a second, I backed to the other side of the wash, just wanting to study these girls I looked like. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. All right. It was a Mercedes. And there were only five reindeer ummm girls. And they were all wearing the same set THAT I'D JUST BOUGHT TO WEAR TO MEXICO. I gasped, staring at my own clothes.
Why do I have such insane luck? Plus, one of the girls women looked kinda leathery and like she qualified for assisted care. Maybe that's the one they'd mistaken me for.
"Cade!" I screamed. "Cade. I'm wearing the same clothes as those girls."
"I know." He smiled. "Isn't it hilarious? The funniest things happen to you."
I stomped back to my vibrating van and the kids, waving to me and their father, instantly turned the music down. "Hey, Mom. We thought it was so funny, did you notice you're wearing the same clothes as the car wash girls?"
I grunted. Did everyone have to know?
"Isn't it hilarious?" my oldest daughter persisted.
"Darling," I turned to my scribe-like daughter. "Today I want you to learn something: Car washes suck! AND humor is in the eye of the beholder!"
