Beth Overmyer's Blog: The Blog of Beth Overmyer, page 34
January 8, 2016
Breaking Radio Silence
Hello and happy New Year! I hope 2016 has been treating you well. If not, we only have 358-ish days left of it to endure.
As for me...Well, I'm here. And I'm not here. The truth is, running two blogs, writing, and social networking is le difficult. Oui. Ouchie.
Not to mention that fact that WordPress is oh so much shinier. (Can I say that here? I mean, I can. I did. But MAY I?)
Writing is...going on. Yup. I am a little off-schedule to meet my goal of 100,000 words by the end of the year, but I still have time ;)
Well, must dash. Lots of things to do before I hit the hay at 5:30 AM. Yes, I am ridiculously tired, but you digress. Lots to do. Like stare at Twitter until I think of something clever to say. Oy vey. Wish me luck, Chuck.
Keep your pen on the page,
Bethy
As for me...Well, I'm here. And I'm not here. The truth is, running two blogs, writing, and social networking is le difficult. Oui. Ouchie.
Not to mention that fact that WordPress is oh so much shinier. (Can I say that here? I mean, I can. I did. But MAY I?)
Writing is...going on. Yup. I am a little off-schedule to meet my goal of 100,000 words by the end of the year, but I still have time ;)
Well, must dash. Lots of things to do before I hit the hay at 5:30 AM. Yes, I am ridiculously tired, but you digress. Lots to do. Like stare at Twitter until I think of something clever to say. Oy vey. Wish me luck, Chuck.
Keep your pen on the page,
Bethy
September 9, 2015
July 5, 2015
What Up?
In case you've missed the memo (and I think everyone here probably has, considering I haven't been advertising it here): I have a new blog: The Blog of Beth Overmyer. Hope I don't get in trouble for linking that here...
Anyhoosie...
A quick catch-up on what's happening:
- Fourteen books read so far this year (I'm six away from goal--huzzah!)
- Twelve writing pieces out on submission (two things twice, so waiting to hear back about fourteen things)
- Camp NaNoWriMo is underway, and I've been a mess throughout most of it so far. My goal is 30,000 words. Not sure if I'll make it!
And that's about it. I posted a video last month, but I remembered that I had posted it elsewhere, and Blogger is very...jealous when it comes to sharing media with other sites. Yikes! Bikes! (Sorry for those who don't get the movie reference.)
So, that's all for now. I micro-blog a lot on Twitter, so feel free to follow me there! (@Bethyo)
Ciao Ciao for now!
Anyhoosie...
A quick catch-up on what's happening:
- Fourteen books read so far this year (I'm six away from goal--huzzah!)
- Twelve writing pieces out on submission (two things twice, so waiting to hear back about fourteen things)
- Camp NaNoWriMo is underway, and I've been a mess throughout most of it so far. My goal is 30,000 words. Not sure if I'll make it!
And that's about it. I posted a video last month, but I remembered that I had posted it elsewhere, and Blogger is very...jealous when it comes to sharing media with other sites. Yikes! Bikes! (Sorry for those who don't get the movie reference.)
So, that's all for now. I micro-blog a lot on Twitter, so feel free to follow me there! (@Bethyo)
Ciao Ciao for now!
June 7, 2015
Poetry Reading
In case you haven't seen yet, I've done a reading of some poetry that I wrote a few months back. Here it is for your enjoyment:
Whoa! Close-up much? Maybe I'll post the words another time, as my diction isn't the best ;)
Whoa! Close-up much? Maybe I'll post the words another time, as my diction isn't the best ;)
May 18, 2015
Memoir Monday: Skittles and Stage Lights
Taking a break from the bleakness that can be OCD coupled with depression...I'd like to share some of my favorite (and least favorite) theatre stories with you!
THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK (Sophomore year of high school)
I played...Peter van Daan. What? There weren't enough boys, and I was--well, I was a bit of a tom boy with really short hair, so it worked. I fooled quite a few people, including some I knew. The giveaway that I was, in fact, a girl? When I went to hit my father (Mr. van Daan), I tucked in my thumb. No one had ever taught me how to throw a punch.
THE MIRACLE WORKER (Senior year of high school)
I was the main role in this production (Annie Sullivan), bad Irish accent and all (though, I did fool some people.)
On opening night, the girl playing Helen Keller really beat me up good...and not in the "stage slap" sense.
- First she hit me in the face with a porcelain doll.
- Then she slapped me good and hard (I was so ticked at this point, that I for-real slapped her back.)
- And last, but definitely not least painful, she brained me with a pitcher right before the final scene, where Annie finally gets Helen to understand tactile-signing and speak.
The first two were in the script, the third was not, and gave me a nice lump. I put snow on it after the show and stayed up late, in case I had a concussion.
Did I mention that Helen's hands always smelled like Skittles when she was feeling my face to "see" what my expression was? The actress said she hated them and never ate them. The scent was from her lotion. Weird, right?
THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (Early twenties)
On my one night on stage, I forgot my lines at one point and had to think through everything I'd said so far in order to get to where I was in the dialogue then. Worst feeling EVER.
45 SECONDS FROM BROADWAY (Early twenties)
I was Megan Woods (the ingenue), fresh off a plane from Ohio (the director told me I had the role by teasing me about whether or not I could brush up on my Ohio accent.)
Yeah, one of my worst performances, since I was too similar to the character. The worst moment? I dropped a fork during a pound cake-eating scene...and I resumed eating with it without thinking. A few audience members actually went "EWWWW!" 45 seconds from Broadway rule? Please?
YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU (Early twenties)
I was the maid, Rheba. I got to act opposite a (very) distant cousin of mine. Not the first time I was opposite a relative...
Last but the very best:
SCAPINO! (Twenties)
I played the Italian waitress (whom I named Romilda.) The chick with attitude. Oh my word! I had so much fun with the entire cast. Such wonderful people, whom I still miss.
And I'm still sorry, Chris and Sean, for slapping you too hard. I never could manage a simple stage-slap (now I know how guilty the Helen Keller actress must've felt!)
The second best part (right after the cast), was getting to yell in fake Italian.
The worst was singing "Irish Eyes" with Scapino himself. I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, despite Donita's assistance. I am still so very sorry, Doug!
___
My theatre days are over...probably. But Memoir Mondays are not. Stay tuned for that nasty villain OCD and his henchman, Depression. Will I harness their evil powers for the good of mankind? Stay tuned!
THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK (Sophomore year of high school)
I played...Peter van Daan. What? There weren't enough boys, and I was--well, I was a bit of a tom boy with really short hair, so it worked. I fooled quite a few people, including some I knew. The giveaway that I was, in fact, a girl? When I went to hit my father (Mr. van Daan), I tucked in my thumb. No one had ever taught me how to throw a punch.
THE MIRACLE WORKER (Senior year of high school)
I was the main role in this production (Annie Sullivan), bad Irish accent and all (though, I did fool some people.)
On opening night, the girl playing Helen Keller really beat me up good...and not in the "stage slap" sense.
- First she hit me in the face with a porcelain doll.
- Then she slapped me good and hard (I was so ticked at this point, that I for-real slapped her back.)
- And last, but definitely not least painful, she brained me with a pitcher right before the final scene, where Annie finally gets Helen to understand tactile-signing and speak.
The first two were in the script, the third was not, and gave me a nice lump. I put snow on it after the show and stayed up late, in case I had a concussion.
Did I mention that Helen's hands always smelled like Skittles when she was feeling my face to "see" what my expression was? The actress said she hated them and never ate them. The scent was from her lotion. Weird, right?
THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (Early twenties)
On my one night on stage, I forgot my lines at one point and had to think through everything I'd said so far in order to get to where I was in the dialogue then. Worst feeling EVER.
45 SECONDS FROM BROADWAY (Early twenties)
I was Megan Woods (the ingenue), fresh off a plane from Ohio (the director told me I had the role by teasing me about whether or not I could brush up on my Ohio accent.)
Yeah, one of my worst performances, since I was too similar to the character. The worst moment? I dropped a fork during a pound cake-eating scene...and I resumed eating with it without thinking. A few audience members actually went "EWWWW!" 45 seconds from Broadway rule? Please?
YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU (Early twenties)
I was the maid, Rheba. I got to act opposite a (very) distant cousin of mine. Not the first time I was opposite a relative...
Last but the very best:
SCAPINO! (Twenties)
I played the Italian waitress (whom I named Romilda.) The chick with attitude. Oh my word! I had so much fun with the entire cast. Such wonderful people, whom I still miss.
And I'm still sorry, Chris and Sean, for slapping you too hard. I never could manage a simple stage-slap (now I know how guilty the Helen Keller actress must've felt!)
The second best part (right after the cast), was getting to yell in fake Italian.
The worst was singing "Irish Eyes" with Scapino himself. I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, despite Donita's assistance. I am still so very sorry, Doug!
___
My theatre days are over...probably. But Memoir Mondays are not. Stay tuned for that nasty villain OCD and his henchman, Depression. Will I harness their evil powers for the good of mankind? Stay tuned!
May 13, 2015
Happy Palindrome Week!
5/11/15 - 5/19/15. Each day is the same backward as it is forward. The name of this phenomenon? The palindrome. Works for sentences and words as well. For example:
"ABLE WAS I ERE I SAW ELBA."
^What Napoleon might've said ;)
DAD is a palindrome. MOM is a palindrome. BOB is a palindrome...which makes me think of Weird Al's song by the same name ("Bob") on his album Poodle Hat. Confession time: I thought Weird Al's song "Bob" was just a bunch of random words strung together to sound funny. Didn't realize they were all palindromes.
"WAS IT A CAR OR A CAT I SAW"
^By far the BEST palindrome in that song.
__
Can you think up a palindrome? In honor of this week, I will have dinner for breakfast and supper, and have lunch in between...and eat sandwiches, because if you make them right, they could just be a palindrome....
"ABLE WAS I ERE I SAW ELBA."
^What Napoleon might've said ;)
DAD is a palindrome. MOM is a palindrome. BOB is a palindrome...which makes me think of Weird Al's song by the same name ("Bob") on his album Poodle Hat. Confession time: I thought Weird Al's song "Bob" was just a bunch of random words strung together to sound funny. Didn't realize they were all palindromes.
"WAS IT A CAR OR A CAT I SAW"
^By far the BEST palindrome in that song.
__
Can you think up a palindrome? In honor of this week, I will have dinner for breakfast and supper, and have lunch in between...and eat sandwiches, because if you make them right, they could just be a palindrome....
May 11, 2015
When I Realized (Memoir Monday)
I first began suspecting I wasn't normal at around age nine. You see, for the life of me, I couldn't get myself to sit in the car without a barrier between me and the seat. I was terrified and I wasn't entirely sure why, but I knew if I sat down without my pillow, something bad would happen to me.
I remember a childhood acquaintance looking into the backseat of our beater, wondering why I was so weird--that's what his expression said. I remember trying to hide the pillow, but he saw it. That was clue one that I wasn't quite like other kids.
I grew out of that stage--for a while--but what came next was baffling to me: I had to do everything at least three times or more, but always in odds. Evens were bad (especially twos and fours, hence the poem I posted last week.) If I failed to do things in odds--such as passing a display at the store--it meant that I wished someone harm and I was a bad person.
After that came the thoughts. I was twelve when they started.
A word to someone who knows nothing about OCD: For some of us with this disorder, intrusive violent thoughts are "normal." We don't act on them. We're TERRIFIED of hurting people, as a rule.
The thoughts had been getting bad around the time of a youth retreat with my church. But during dinner the first night, a friend said something, and all at once the violent thoughts started pounding me. I was so overcome with fear of myself, that I ran outside, crying. A youth leader came out and asked me what was wrong. I told them. They told me it was just Satan wanting me to leave, because I was BEGGING her to take me home so I could be away from everyone. What if my thoughts weren't just thoughts? What if I actually followed through with them? (Remember: this was all before my diagnosis.)
A pause here. Satan was a part of the attack. He fed it. But there was and is something chemically imbalanced in my brain. So if any of this is sounding familiar to you, don't be deceived: you need medical help. From a professional. Don't let this go. I did, and it could've cost me a lot more than it did.
Depression hit me over the head at age thirteen. I was getting dark inside, emotionally. At age seventeen, I finally confided in an adult. He brushed it off: didn't want to hear it, didn't bother talking to my mom.
It wasn't until spring of 2002 that I told my mom that I needed help. But more on that another time.
On an ending note for this post, let me just say that I thankful for all of the helpful people God has put in my life: doctors and a loving mother and a few good friends. Without their help, I'd be--well, you wouldn't be reading this post.
__
Thanks for reading this edition of Memoir Monday. I am open to questions and will try to answer them honestly in a timely manner.
I remember a childhood acquaintance looking into the backseat of our beater, wondering why I was so weird--that's what his expression said. I remember trying to hide the pillow, but he saw it. That was clue one that I wasn't quite like other kids.
I grew out of that stage--for a while--but what came next was baffling to me: I had to do everything at least three times or more, but always in odds. Evens were bad (especially twos and fours, hence the poem I posted last week.) If I failed to do things in odds--such as passing a display at the store--it meant that I wished someone harm and I was a bad person.
After that came the thoughts. I was twelve when they started.
A word to someone who knows nothing about OCD: For some of us with this disorder, intrusive violent thoughts are "normal." We don't act on them. We're TERRIFIED of hurting people, as a rule.
The thoughts had been getting bad around the time of a youth retreat with my church. But during dinner the first night, a friend said something, and all at once the violent thoughts started pounding me. I was so overcome with fear of myself, that I ran outside, crying. A youth leader came out and asked me what was wrong. I told them. They told me it was just Satan wanting me to leave, because I was BEGGING her to take me home so I could be away from everyone. What if my thoughts weren't just thoughts? What if I actually followed through with them? (Remember: this was all before my diagnosis.)
A pause here. Satan was a part of the attack. He fed it. But there was and is something chemically imbalanced in my brain. So if any of this is sounding familiar to you, don't be deceived: you need medical help. From a professional. Don't let this go. I did, and it could've cost me a lot more than it did.
Depression hit me over the head at age thirteen. I was getting dark inside, emotionally. At age seventeen, I finally confided in an adult. He brushed it off: didn't want to hear it, didn't bother talking to my mom.
It wasn't until spring of 2002 that I told my mom that I needed help. But more on that another time.
On an ending note for this post, let me just say that I thankful for all of the helpful people God has put in my life: doctors and a loving mother and a few good friends. Without their help, I'd be--well, you wouldn't be reading this post.
__
Thanks for reading this edition of Memoir Monday. I am open to questions and will try to answer them honestly in a timely manner.
May 10, 2015
To All the Moms, Aunts, She-Cousins...and Aw, Heck...TO ALL WOMEN
Have a blessed day and feel celebrated, whether you have kids or not!
May 8, 2015
Getting to Know...Me
A CHARACTER SHEET
Name: Beth Overmyer
So, I've been getting rather personal on the blog lately, haven't I? Perhaps I've made a few of you uncomfortable. I know I've been uncomfortable, but some things shouldn't be allowed to grow in the dark. Some things need to be yanked into the light. To be exposed...to, well, the light, to warmth, to growth.
Memoir Mondays will probably continue, but please realize that they're focusing on just one facet of me. We all are three-dimensional beings. I am not all darkness and gloom. OCD and depression may have once ruled my life--and, granted, they still hog a lot of it--but that is not all of me, you know?
This post isn't meant to be defensive, because no one has attacked me or hurt my feelings. I don't expect them to. In fact, it's been quite the opposite. I've seen some very kind support from a couple of people I only know through the web.
What this post is meant to be is a warning. If I'm dragging you down with Memoir Mondays, and I've read and commented on your blog, don't feel like you need to reciprocate on Monday posts. (Don't feel like I'm ever pressuring you to do anything you don't want to do.) I understand that some things make people uncomfortable, and I respect that. Please, please, PLEASE: if these posts disturb you, don't read.
If I cross a line, I'm sorry. I will try to be sensitive.
On a lighter note, I'm rereading/editing some of my MG project, and I must say this: I actually like it again! So huzzah!
Beth
May 4, 2015
Memoir Monday: Exhibit A
I believe that May is a mental health awareness month. In that spirit, I'm posting some poetry I wrote when OCD and depression started wreaking major havoc in my teens and early twenties. Questions are welcome.
#I was wandering the vast garden of my mindwhen a lowly wren perched upon the ledge of a wall.“Do,” it said.So I did.Again and again I passed the wall, counting the stonesin pairs of threes, no fours and especially no twos.Yet this was not enough.“Do!” said the bird, its feathers ruffled.So I did.I stepped backwards, counting in threes and fives,until I thought I would lose my mind.I counted, I fretted, and again spoke the wren, now transformed into a jay:“Do!”Conditioned to do, I did.I picked every weed from the crags and the nooks,and picked and picked until my fingers bled.Yet this was still not enough.“Do!” said the bird, now a raven with stony eyes.I scrubbed each stone in threes and fives,No fours and especially no twos,in threes and fives,no fours and especially no twos.Waiting for the next command, I looked up at the eagle,It’s eyes as black as the depths of its soul.“Do!” it shrieked.Weary I fell,fell to the ground,and pulled out a stone from the cragged wall and threw it at the bird,now a vulture, and missed.It laughed and it crowed until I bledand lay there dead, dead in the soul,
in the vast garden of my mind next to the ledge of a wall.
#
What in this abyssBut water to choke on And pardon—Reckless passions withinMy marrow that ChristHas pardonedYet dull and jadeMe in the same,Wrenching the veryLife from my youngBreast,Drawing life in surplusStrings,Leaving ice shards in My chest,Which heaves andSinks with burningHeatOf this intensityWhich holds myMind in chainsThat bind and strokeThe last pieceOf my sanity,Which He forgave, This wretched piece, This anguished creatureTrapped in the walls of herOwn brain:the rat on the wheel,the bird in the cage,the flame ’neath the jar,the free man in chains,the firmness in madness,the hopeful in hopelessAnd dullness that ebbsAnd the corrosion that buildsAnd destroys as sanityAnd madness crumbleTogether in the womb—And I cannot.Break, break, break the poet Said,Tarnished songs ring Through my head,Break, break, break,And broken here I dwell:My mind in conflictWithin its two-foldsAnd empty and full desires,For I am confusedAnd, though pardoned,I loose myselfWhen I try to demonstrateThe same:I am of a simile,And not whole to a metaphorIn tunnel view. Who knows?
#I was wandering the vast garden of my mindwhen a lowly wren perched upon the ledge of a wall.“Do,” it said.So I did.Again and again I passed the wall, counting the stonesin pairs of threes, no fours and especially no twos.Yet this was not enough.“Do!” said the bird, its feathers ruffled.So I did.I stepped backwards, counting in threes and fives,until I thought I would lose my mind.I counted, I fretted, and again spoke the wren, now transformed into a jay:“Do!”Conditioned to do, I did.I picked every weed from the crags and the nooks,and picked and picked until my fingers bled.Yet this was still not enough.“Do!” said the bird, now a raven with stony eyes.I scrubbed each stone in threes and fives,No fours and especially no twos,in threes and fives,no fours and especially no twos.Waiting for the next command, I looked up at the eagle,It’s eyes as black as the depths of its soul.“Do!” it shrieked.Weary I fell,fell to the ground,and pulled out a stone from the cragged wall and threw it at the bird,now a vulture, and missed.It laughed and it crowed until I bledand lay there dead, dead in the soul,
in the vast garden of my mind next to the ledge of a wall.
#
What in this abyssBut water to choke on And pardon—Reckless passions withinMy marrow that ChristHas pardonedYet dull and jadeMe in the same,Wrenching the veryLife from my youngBreast,Drawing life in surplusStrings,Leaving ice shards in My chest,Which heaves andSinks with burningHeatOf this intensityWhich holds myMind in chainsThat bind and strokeThe last pieceOf my sanity,Which He forgave, This wretched piece, This anguished creatureTrapped in the walls of herOwn brain:the rat on the wheel,the bird in the cage,the flame ’neath the jar,the free man in chains,the firmness in madness,the hopeful in hopelessAnd dullness that ebbsAnd the corrosion that buildsAnd destroys as sanityAnd madness crumbleTogether in the womb—And I cannot.Break, break, break the poet Said,Tarnished songs ring Through my head,Break, break, break,And broken here I dwell:My mind in conflictWithin its two-foldsAnd empty and full desires,For I am confusedAnd, though pardoned,I loose myselfWhen I try to demonstrateThe same:I am of a simile,And not whole to a metaphorIn tunnel view. Who knows?
