Thursday, June 19, 2003
My name is Julie, and I’m a TV junkie.
Normally, this doesn’t pose a problem. As a matter of fact, I tend to refer to my habit as ‘research.’ How better to learn the intricate, subtle art of fine dialogue than to actually listen to it? Yet lately, TV has caused me more pain than happiness. I had to think on this awhile; what could I have done? Then I realized it wasn’t me who had changed. It was TV. It was like being betrayed by that friend who’s been around since kindergarten.
To be fair, I will admit that the sheer number of hours the television remains on in our household is probably enough to send some people into mild shock. But in my defense I can only say that often times I’m not even paying attention. Just ask my husband how many times he’s heard me say, “I’m sorry, what just happened?” *smirk* I’m a brilliant multi-tasker.
My television viewing falls into four distinct categories.
The first is commonly known as ‘appointment television.’ This means I will make a point of being in front of the TV for these shows. If real life circumstances dictate that I must absolutely be called away, I will set the VCR. Sadly, very few shows fall into this category these days. They are (in no particular order), Angel, Scrubs, Six Feet Under, Monk, Arli$$, Real Time with Bill Maher (in season), Lucky, The Simpsons, King of the Hill, Sex and the City, and for some inexplicable reason, Friends. I adore these shows, and it makes me incredibly happy to anticipate a new episode and then get lost in each and every one of them.
The next category is what I think of as ‘semi-casual viewing.’ These are shows that I will seek out if I’m in front of the TV, but are not essential to my viewing enjoyment. These include endless MASH reruns, Malcolm in the Middle, Everybody Loves Raymond, Without a Trace, Iron Chef, Inside the Actor’s Studio, any incarnation of Star Trek, random flicks and pay-per-view, Will & Grace, Smallville, Gilmore Girls and Law & Order. In some cases, there are shows in this category that show the promise of transcending into ‘appointment television,’ such as Keen Eddie.
The third category is simply ‘background television.’ In most cases, I’m probably in the living room, or kitchen and the TV is just on. I’ll flip around, and watch pretty much anything while I’m working on something else. My definition of mindless television. Ironically, the station I most often tune to during these occasions is CNN.
The last category is…you guessed it…Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Anytime, anyplace – if it’s on, I’ll watch it. Seven days a week TV offers me opportunities aplenty for a little Buffy goodness. Yes, the show is over. No, it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. I recently joked with my husband, who thankfully indulges my addiction, that we could each grab two characters during the opening credits and do the whole show ourselves. No matter how bad my day, no matter how foul my mood, the Scoobies never fail to Bobby McFerin me. My sanctuary. My Buffy.
And then last night, something terrible happened. If forced to be honest, I’ll admit that I should have seen this coming. I’ve been moaning about it softly, changing channels and hoping it will go away. And then last night…
I was innocently flipping channels when I happened upon a show called Paradise Hotel. My friends, we should all fall to our knees and pray to the gods of Joss Whedon, Aaron Spelling, Norman Lear and Carl Reiner. Chant if you can, but I don’t recommend fasting. Something must be done, if not in the offices of the network executives, then on some higher television plane. Reality shows cannot be the future. We are aching for the return of scripted television.
Paradise Hotel consists of eleven people staying at a resort hotel. Six girls, five guys. They couple up right away (by way of choosing a roommate…hello?), and the odd girl out has the remaining week to break up one of the couples or she goes home. Then (here’s the good part), when the odd (wo)man out is sent home, the remaining players choose a replacement from the home audience. WOO-HOO! Everyone gets a chance to be a tramp on national television!
And this from the same network that once admitted Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire might have been pushing the envelope.
*sigh*
Television is a powerful tool. I don’t know the exact statistics, but I’m willing to wager that the majority of households in the first world have a television set. Television is a part of our lives. It comes into our living rooms, our kitchens and our bedrooms with a startling ability to touch us, move us, incite us, anger us and make us laugh. The talent is out there – the writers, the show runners, the actors. We’ve seen them all before. And we’ve seen them shine. The possibilities are endless, the universe is immense – yet the television world seems so small.
We see it over and over. The same show with a different title. The same characters with new names. One reality show, a thousand reality shows. They’re all the same. And when something new comes along, something truly innovative that shocks us and tickles us, like Firefly, Greg the Bunny and Andy Richter Controls the Universe, what do the networks do? They cancel them.
Did you know that Still Standing is still on?
So is Good Morning, Miami.
What can be done? What can WE do? Well, my friends, it’s time to turn television from a passive activity to an active one. It’s time to engage. We saved Angel, so we know it can be done. The show was on the bubble, and despite numerous complications (some downright unbelievable, as fellow Bronzers will attest to), it pulled through. The president of the WB even said it would be unfair to the fans to put such an abrupt end to the Buffyverse. So we know we make a difference. We have a say.
So if you’re a writer, write a script. If you’re a producer, or a director, pitch an idea. If you’re an activist, start a campaign. If you’re a computer geek, put up a website. If you’re an everyday armchair viewer, write a letter. The web is a wonderful resource – the address for each network and cable station is out there for the finding. But whatever you do, do something.
I want my friend back.
Normally, this doesn’t pose a problem. As a matter of fact, I tend to refer to my habit as ‘research.’ How better to learn the intricate, subtle art of fine dialogue than to actually listen to it? Yet lately, TV has caused me more pain than happiness. I had to think on this awhile; what could I have done? Then I realized it wasn’t me who had changed. It was TV. It was like being betrayed by that friend who’s been around since kindergarten.
To be fair, I will admit that the sheer number of hours the television remains on in our household is probably enough to send some people into mild shock. But in my defense I can only say that often times I’m not even paying attention. Just ask my husband how many times he’s heard me say, “I’m sorry, what just happened?” *smirk* I’m a brilliant multi-tasker.
My television viewing falls into four distinct categories.
The first is commonly known as ‘appointment television.’ This means I will make a point of being in front of the TV for these shows. If real life circumstances dictate that I must absolutely be called away, I will set the VCR. Sadly, very few shows fall into this category these days. They are (in no particular order), Angel, Scrubs, Six Feet Under, Monk, Arli$$, Real Time with Bill Maher (in season), Lucky, The Simpsons, King of the Hill, Sex and the City, and for some inexplicable reason, Friends. I adore these shows, and it makes me incredibly happy to anticipate a new episode and then get lost in each and every one of them.
The next category is what I think of as ‘semi-casual viewing.’ These are shows that I will seek out if I’m in front of the TV, but are not essential to my viewing enjoyment. These include endless MASH reruns, Malcolm in the Middle, Everybody Loves Raymond, Without a Trace, Iron Chef, Inside the Actor’s Studio, any incarnation of Star Trek, random flicks and pay-per-view, Will & Grace, Smallville, Gilmore Girls and Law & Order. In some cases, there are shows in this category that show the promise of transcending into ‘appointment television,’ such as Keen Eddie.
The third category is simply ‘background television.’ In most cases, I’m probably in the living room, or kitchen and the TV is just on. I’ll flip around, and watch pretty much anything while I’m working on something else. My definition of mindless television. Ironically, the station I most often tune to during these occasions is CNN.
The last category is…you guessed it…Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Anytime, anyplace – if it’s on, I’ll watch it. Seven days a week TV offers me opportunities aplenty for a little Buffy goodness. Yes, the show is over. No, it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. I recently joked with my husband, who thankfully indulges my addiction, that we could each grab two characters during the opening credits and do the whole show ourselves. No matter how bad my day, no matter how foul my mood, the Scoobies never fail to Bobby McFerin me. My sanctuary. My Buffy.
And then last night, something terrible happened. If forced to be honest, I’ll admit that I should have seen this coming. I’ve been moaning about it softly, changing channels and hoping it will go away. And then last night…
I was innocently flipping channels when I happened upon a show called Paradise Hotel. My friends, we should all fall to our knees and pray to the gods of Joss Whedon, Aaron Spelling, Norman Lear and Carl Reiner. Chant if you can, but I don’t recommend fasting. Something must be done, if not in the offices of the network executives, then on some higher television plane. Reality shows cannot be the future. We are aching for the return of scripted television.
Paradise Hotel consists of eleven people staying at a resort hotel. Six girls, five guys. They couple up right away (by way of choosing a roommate…hello?), and the odd girl out has the remaining week to break up one of the couples or she goes home. Then (here’s the good part), when the odd (wo)man out is sent home, the remaining players choose a replacement from the home audience. WOO-HOO! Everyone gets a chance to be a tramp on national television!
And this from the same network that once admitted Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire might have been pushing the envelope.
*sigh*
Television is a powerful tool. I don’t know the exact statistics, but I’m willing to wager that the majority of households in the first world have a television set. Television is a part of our lives. It comes into our living rooms, our kitchens and our bedrooms with a startling ability to touch us, move us, incite us, anger us and make us laugh. The talent is out there – the writers, the show runners, the actors. We’ve seen them all before. And we’ve seen them shine. The possibilities are endless, the universe is immense – yet the television world seems so small.
We see it over and over. The same show with a different title. The same characters with new names. One reality show, a thousand reality shows. They’re all the same. And when something new comes along, something truly innovative that shocks us and tickles us, like Firefly, Greg the Bunny and Andy Richter Controls the Universe, what do the networks do? They cancel them.
Did you know that Still Standing is still on?
So is Good Morning, Miami.
What can be done? What can WE do? Well, my friends, it’s time to turn television from a passive activity to an active one. It’s time to engage. We saved Angel, so we know it can be done. The show was on the bubble, and despite numerous complications (some downright unbelievable, as fellow Bronzers will attest to), it pulled through. The president of the WB even said it would be unfair to the fans to put such an abrupt end to the Buffyverse. So we know we make a difference. We have a say.
So if you’re a writer, write a script. If you’re a producer, or a director, pitch an idea. If you’re an activist, start a campaign. If you’re a computer geek, put up a website. If you’re an everyday armchair viewer, write a letter. The web is a wonderful resource – the address for each network and cable station is out there for the finding. But whatever you do, do something.
I want my friend back.
Monday, June 16, 2003
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
-Virginia Woolf, 1928
The quote, of course, is from Virginia Woolf's work, A Room of One's Own, which is actually an amalgamation of two speeches she delivered in October of 1928. These words, uttered so many years ago, still hold true today. At least for me.
At first, I had intended to write a little essay about this brilliant piece of writing; test its validity in today's world, get into the whole feminist mindset – you know the deal. But as I started to write, I found myself heading in a different direction. I found myself relishing the simplicity, and honesty, in this one quote. So for now, there will be no analytical deconstruction, no examination of the use of metaphor, no commentary on feminist theory – just a simple, honest look at how this statement applies to me. The clever stuff will have to wait.
I have always loved writing, but it never occurred to me to be a writer. Then, in college, I took a film history class on a whim. We screened Singing in the rain, and I was hooked. Right then, I knew what I wanted to do.
I wanted to make people feel the way I felt when those end credits started to roll.
Fast-forward thirteen years. I still want to be a professional screenwriter, but I'm not. I now have a room of my own, and at times I’ve even enjoyed a little excess cash – but the two together? Like the ever-elusive dream, it’s always a little beyond my grasp.
I work as a freelance production coordinator for documentary and feature films. When I started (ahem...7 years ago), it seemed like a great idea; I'd learn about the medium for which I wanted to write, I'd make a pile of money and in my down time I could write script after script.
See my last post for my history with having a plan.
What really happened was this: I worked like a maniac for the first four years - never knowing if another job would come I took them all - and never had a minute off. Most of the money I made I lost to taxes and union dues, and the rest seemed to dwindle as my standard of living rose. I burned out quickly, and spent the next two years taking only as many contracts as I needed to survive. Naturally, I was so stressed out between jobs wondering if another would ever come along, that it was nearly impossible to write anything at all. I have to admit, though, that I did learn a lot about the industry. Just enough to make me sick of the whole damn thing.
And then something magical happened. My husband (then boyfriend) and I bought a house, and suddenly I had a room of my own. I can't say enough good things about my husband, so I'm not even going to start. Besides, this is about me. But I will say that he is incredibly supportive, and because of his gift to me I knew, for an absolute certainty, that I could realize my dreams.
As soon as we moved into the house, he gave me a year off. We have always enjoyed a perfect work balance - I worked full time while he consulted, and he worked full time when I freelanced. Yet here he was, working full time, and offering me the opportunity to take a year off to write.
Money-wise, we struggled. Not obscenely, though. Not in the least. Luckily, we were homebodies to begin with. So I set up my office, and I wrote. I finished a screenplay, had it covered, re-wrote it, had it read by industry peers and revised it again. Then, just for good measure, I gave it one more re-write. I worked on that damn thing for ten months and then I just had to put it aside. I had to walk away. I took a contract.
Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk, filling in yet another FedEx waybill, I wonder if I'll ever be able to write like that again. And then, here I am.
That year showed me that I could do it. And more importantly, that I love doing it. So I can't always write while I work. So I don't have the youthful energy to stay up until all hours scribbling to my heart's content. That doesn't mean the passion isn't there. It just means I'm easily distracted. And we’ve already established that.
So now, as I take a moment to examine my office, this room of my own, this is what I see:
I sit at a small, wooden desk that belonged to my father. I believe since his days of primary school, but I could be lying. To my right is a window that opens onto the courtyard, and a world of endless possibility. To my left, where there was once a closet, is a gaping hole in the wall filled with shelves lined with books. From my seat, I can see out the window and out the door. My back is to the wall. Perfect Feng Shui.
Across from me is my filing cabinet, wallpapered in rejection letters from agents in response to my screenplay. While that might seem depressing, it’s actually inspiring. I can’t wait until I have enough to cover the whole room. They'll be sorry one day.
On the wall before me hangs a Warner Brothers print depicting various characters including Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Sylvester, Tweety, and that big old rooster whose name I can never remember. They are standing as a group, just behind a spotlight that shines on an empty microphone stand. There is a single word printed in the top left-hand corner: Speechless. It is a tribute to Mel Blanc. One voice that touched so many lives. It’s a fitting tribute, and another source of inspiration.
Behind me hangs a signed Chaki print depicting his unique vision of Jerusalem. It is a constant reminder. It is the sun on my back. It tells me that I can always go home.
And in this space I’ve created for myself, this safe haven that almost spills over with all the words waiting to be released into the world, I can write. Not enough – but of course that’s where the cash comes in. But I’ll get there. I know the recipe. All I need is equal parts abundant free time, and a space in which to create.
Money and a room of one’s own.
-Virginia Woolf, 1928
The quote, of course, is from Virginia Woolf's work, A Room of One's Own, which is actually an amalgamation of two speeches she delivered in October of 1928. These words, uttered so many years ago, still hold true today. At least for me.
At first, I had intended to write a little essay about this brilliant piece of writing; test its validity in today's world, get into the whole feminist mindset – you know the deal. But as I started to write, I found myself heading in a different direction. I found myself relishing the simplicity, and honesty, in this one quote. So for now, there will be no analytical deconstruction, no examination of the use of metaphor, no commentary on feminist theory – just a simple, honest look at how this statement applies to me. The clever stuff will have to wait.
I have always loved writing, but it never occurred to me to be a writer. Then, in college, I took a film history class on a whim. We screened Singing in the rain, and I was hooked. Right then, I knew what I wanted to do.
I wanted to make people feel the way I felt when those end credits started to roll.
Fast-forward thirteen years. I still want to be a professional screenwriter, but I'm not. I now have a room of my own, and at times I’ve even enjoyed a little excess cash – but the two together? Like the ever-elusive dream, it’s always a little beyond my grasp.
I work as a freelance production coordinator for documentary and feature films. When I started (ahem...7 years ago), it seemed like a great idea; I'd learn about the medium for which I wanted to write, I'd make a pile of money and in my down time I could write script after script.
See my last post for my history with having a plan.
What really happened was this: I worked like a maniac for the first four years - never knowing if another job would come I took them all - and never had a minute off. Most of the money I made I lost to taxes and union dues, and the rest seemed to dwindle as my standard of living rose. I burned out quickly, and spent the next two years taking only as many contracts as I needed to survive. Naturally, I was so stressed out between jobs wondering if another would ever come along, that it was nearly impossible to write anything at all. I have to admit, though, that I did learn a lot about the industry. Just enough to make me sick of the whole damn thing.
And then something magical happened. My husband (then boyfriend) and I bought a house, and suddenly I had a room of my own. I can't say enough good things about my husband, so I'm not even going to start. Besides, this is about me. But I will say that he is incredibly supportive, and because of his gift to me I knew, for an absolute certainty, that I could realize my dreams.
As soon as we moved into the house, he gave me a year off. We have always enjoyed a perfect work balance - I worked full time while he consulted, and he worked full time when I freelanced. Yet here he was, working full time, and offering me the opportunity to take a year off to write.
Money-wise, we struggled. Not obscenely, though. Not in the least. Luckily, we were homebodies to begin with. So I set up my office, and I wrote. I finished a screenplay, had it covered, re-wrote it, had it read by industry peers and revised it again. Then, just for good measure, I gave it one more re-write. I worked on that damn thing for ten months and then I just had to put it aside. I had to walk away. I took a contract.
Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk, filling in yet another FedEx waybill, I wonder if I'll ever be able to write like that again. And then, here I am.
That year showed me that I could do it. And more importantly, that I love doing it. So I can't always write while I work. So I don't have the youthful energy to stay up until all hours scribbling to my heart's content. That doesn't mean the passion isn't there. It just means I'm easily distracted. And we’ve already established that.
So now, as I take a moment to examine my office, this room of my own, this is what I see:
I sit at a small, wooden desk that belonged to my father. I believe since his days of primary school, but I could be lying. To my right is a window that opens onto the courtyard, and a world of endless possibility. To my left, where there was once a closet, is a gaping hole in the wall filled with shelves lined with books. From my seat, I can see out the window and out the door. My back is to the wall. Perfect Feng Shui.
Across from me is my filing cabinet, wallpapered in rejection letters from agents in response to my screenplay. While that might seem depressing, it’s actually inspiring. I can’t wait until I have enough to cover the whole room. They'll be sorry one day.
On the wall before me hangs a Warner Brothers print depicting various characters including Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Sylvester, Tweety, and that big old rooster whose name I can never remember. They are standing as a group, just behind a spotlight that shines on an empty microphone stand. There is a single word printed in the top left-hand corner: Speechless. It is a tribute to Mel Blanc. One voice that touched so many lives. It’s a fitting tribute, and another source of inspiration.
Behind me hangs a signed Chaki print depicting his unique vision of Jerusalem. It is a constant reminder. It is the sun on my back. It tells me that I can always go home.
And in this space I’ve created for myself, this safe haven that almost spills over with all the words waiting to be released into the world, I can write. Not enough – but of course that’s where the cash comes in. But I’ll get there. I know the recipe. All I need is equal parts abundant free time, and a space in which to create.
Money and a room of one’s own.
Sunday, June 15, 2003
This is getting more and more frustrating.
I cannot post.
The essay is done and polished, and it wants to be read.
*sigh*
I'll keep trying.
I cannot post.
The essay is done and polished, and it wants to be read.
*sigh*
I'll keep trying.
Saturday, June 14, 2003
I seem to be having some technical diffulty posting the next entry.
Stick with me. I'll figure it out.
Stick with me. I'll figure it out.
Friday, June 06, 2003
A Plan of Action.
I never could pick a favourite colour. Blue, while flattering on me, never really made the cut. Yellow is entirely too shade-dependent. And to be honest, I never felt worthy of red. How could I choose a colour to represent me, when I didn’t even know who I was? I didn’t have a plan.
I have plenty of favourite numbers, which is funny because I don’t go in for that numerology/astrology stuff. I always gamble the same six numbers, and for as long as I can remember I have orchestrated my life around the number eleven. I wake up at 7:04, I was married on 08/08/2002 – add them up, you’ll see. It always comes back to eleven.
That’s not a plan.
So I needed to take control, and I did. This blog is the first step. Here are some others:
I have registered my screenplay on a website called InkTip.com. This is a search engine/database used by producers and the like to search for new material. While the site does not guarantee my script will be read, it does guarantee more exposure than I had previously. It costs $40.00 for six months. What was I waiting for?
I have enrolled in culinary school, starting in September. It’s a twelve-month course, five days a week. I opted for night school, to keep my days open for writing and other projects. As I move through the course, I will be keeping a separate blog to track my progress, dispense cooking tips and to share some food-related anecdotes. And there are many. Trust me.
I will also have a separate section on this site for some essays that stand apart from my writer’s journey. These will include some short fiction, but mainly it will consist of some well-thought out rants and commentaries on current events. Over the last year, I’ve discovered that I can be quite opinionated. The idea of an audience is simply delicious.
So for now, that’s the plan. It may not seem like much, but believe me when I say it’s a helluva lot better than the one I had before. Which was none.
Up Next: The Journey Continues
I never could pick a favourite colour. Blue, while flattering on me, never really made the cut. Yellow is entirely too shade-dependent. And to be honest, I never felt worthy of red. How could I choose a colour to represent me, when I didn’t even know who I was? I didn’t have a plan.
I have plenty of favourite numbers, which is funny because I don’t go in for that numerology/astrology stuff. I always gamble the same six numbers, and for as long as I can remember I have orchestrated my life around the number eleven. I wake up at 7:04, I was married on 08/08/2002 – add them up, you’ll see. It always comes back to eleven.
That’s not a plan.
So I needed to take control, and I did. This blog is the first step. Here are some others:
I have registered my screenplay on a website called InkTip.com. This is a search engine/database used by producers and the like to search for new material. While the site does not guarantee my script will be read, it does guarantee more exposure than I had previously. It costs $40.00 for six months. What was I waiting for?
I have enrolled in culinary school, starting in September. It’s a twelve-month course, five days a week. I opted for night school, to keep my days open for writing and other projects. As I move through the course, I will be keeping a separate blog to track my progress, dispense cooking tips and to share some food-related anecdotes. And there are many. Trust me.
I will also have a separate section on this site for some essays that stand apart from my writer’s journey. These will include some short fiction, but mainly it will consist of some well-thought out rants and commentaries on current events. Over the last year, I’ve discovered that I can be quite opinionated. The idea of an audience is simply delicious.
So for now, that’s the plan. It may not seem like much, but believe me when I say it’s a helluva lot better than the one I had before. Which was none.
Up Next: The Journey Continues
Sunday, June 01, 2003
Inventory of Being
My name is Julie.
I am thirty-one years old, married, and very much in love.
I am intelligent and passionate, but easily distracted.
Where was I?
I have two dogs, and watching them nap fills me with an inexplicable sense of inner peace.
I wear blue jeans, t-shirts, no make-up and I’m torn. I love the ease, the comfort and the lack of pretension, yet sometimes I feel my appearance holds me back from completing my journey into womanhood.
I have recently started carrying a purse.
Food is my universe. Whatever else may come up and temporarily capture my attention, I always return to my one true love.
I’m a TV junkie, and require an almost daily fix of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
I love to read, and settling in with a good book is one of my greatest pleasures. I love reading the same sentence over and over in my head, savouring the way the words come together. Words are the bricks I will use to build my dreams.
I have always wanted to write professionally, but have done remarkably little towards achieving that goal.
I have recently taken stock of my most prized possessions, and I discovered that I have the following: Talent, skill, an inner fire and limitless potential.
I have also taken stock of my liabilities: Fear, insecurity, and the curious inability to break out of my current routine.
My favourite meal used to be the combination plate at Schwartz’s: A medium rib steak with garlic and spices, a side of medium smoked meat, fries, coleslaw, half a grilled frank, half-sour pickle and a cherry coke. It’s not what it used to be, and the rack of lamb at Gibby’s is closing in fast. (See? It always comes back to food).
I’ve written two screenplays. I should have written two dozen.
I love snuggling up on the couch with a blanket – even in the dead of summer.
I draw my strength from my husband, from the life we’re building, and from a source deep within me that I’ve yet to discover. That source has a voice. It’s quiet now, but it wants to roar.
I’m pretty comfortable with my body. Lately, I’ve started to…expand in places that were, at one time, less…expansive. I’ll sort it out.
Sometimes, I can be slightly irrational. I overreact. I prefer to think of it as cute.
I know a lot of people. I have very few friends. I have good friends.
I have a never-ending appetite for approval. I love to be praised. It’s annoying. Even to me.
Introvert or extrovert. It depends on the day.
I love sunflower seeds with a thick chocolate milkshake. Some say ‘ewww.’ I say ‘ahhhh.’ Salty-sweet goodness.
I hate deceit. I’m easily taken, and I’m easily hurt. Yet nothing seems to impede upon my trusting nature.
I love music. I love to dance. When no one is watching.
I love adventure. I love seeing new things, tasting new things, and trying new things.
I’m afraid of almost everything. I look forward to conquering that fear.
I love it when I catch myself in a moment that I know will be life-altering, and I can enjoy it right then and there, soak it in so it stays with me forever. So many of those moments pass me by. I cherish the ones I recognize.
I love humour. I love wit. I love to laugh.
I also enjoy a good cry… if it’s well earned.
I love the word try.
This is me.
Up Next: A Plan of Action
