Riddle Changes!

Yes, again. I made a form so you don't have to email me. I know, I know, it's just so tedious to email! Oh, shush. Here's your form:

How a Musician is Perceived

I've been hearing a lot of complaints lately about how music is all about looks these days. That anyone who is popular is popular because they're good-looking and not because their music sucks. Great musicians who aren't good-looking are thrown under buses while not-so-great musicians who are good looking get thrown up on pedestals and treated like gods.

I completely disagree: Music isn't about music or looks. Instead, it's about the "persona" of the artist. The actual music an artist makes and the look he, she, or they has is only a part of the number one reason we like or dislike an artist: who we perceive them to be.

Let's take a look at Justin Bieber. Preteen girls love him. Moms love him. Girls in their late teens/early 20s hate him. But why? Justin Bieber's persona. He's been marketed as a sweet, cute, ideal boyfriend . . . for preteens. For moms? He's that sweet, cute, ideal boyfriend their daughter really likes. For teenagers? He's that annoying kid who thinks he's cool just because he's in Xth grade now and won't leave you alone. Maybe you even babysat him when he was younger, and now he thinks he's old enough to date you. Yeah, that kid.

Not everyone in each demographic agrees though, because not everyone agrees on who an "ideal" person is. The artists who are popular (besides luck and great marketing) are the ones who best fit into society's perceived idea of what "attractive" is, based on the persona (which includes image) that they convey.

Note that I say popular though, not successful. Popularity and success do not go hand and hand. Success requires good business, which is whole separate blog post entirely. Maybe I'll write about that later, when I actually have the right to talk about success.

Music is about who your fans perceive you as. Every lyric you write, every note you play, affects that. Every blog, Tweet, and picture you post affects that. As a musician, or any kind of public figure for that matter, everything you do that your potential fans can see is just as important as the music you make or how you dress. It is therefore your job to make yourself appear likable. The best musicians, I've found, are the ones who make their fans feel that by being a fan, they're part of a group of "cool" kids (even the dorky, "we're so uncool" kind of cool).

I could probably write an entire book (not that it'd be good) just on this, but I'll leave you with something my dad has told me over and over again my whole life:

"If you want friends, you have to be a friend."

Weekly Riddle Contest and Other News

Happy Monday! Coming this week:

Today, the brand new Weekly Riddle Contest "rules" (they're more like guidelines) are laid out below, and the new riddle is, of course, down there too. I'll be pointing out an artist or two during the week along with some other yet-to-be-determined posting, and Friday will be dedicated to the art of crashing classes, learnt either through success or failure. (I sure hope it's success!) Finally, it's the weekend, and I'll post up a freewrite along the lines of the Notes I used to post up on Facebook nearly daily awhile back on Saturday, and then I'll take all your votes into consideration and write up the next installment of the "Write with Me" series.

Onto updates:

1. I've taken up ukulele and guitar. I'm rocking at uke already, but my fingers are way too weak for much guitar playing right now. Soon!
2. I'm selling art now! Email me at ethraen [at] gmail [dot] com for more info.
3. I start college today. Crazy.

Weekly Riddle Contest Rules

1. Each Monday, a new riddle will be posted. If not, you are free to send many angry emoticons my way.
2. Riddle answers are now to be submitted via email to ethraen [at] gmail [dot] com, in order to allow everyone a chance to solve the riddle. 
3. The winner is the first to submit the correct answer. 
4. Wrong answers will receive a "wrong answer" reply as my time allows.
5. Each week, the prizes will vary, and not everything will be equal each week.
6. Not all prizes will be virtual, silly, or otherwise the sort of prize a starving artist would give, nor will the "big" prizes necessarily be for the hardest riddles. Just check back each week and give each riddle a shot.
7. All participants will be entered for a monthly prize drawing. Consistent participants, both in the Weekly Riddle Contest and the "Write with Me" storyline, will have higher chances of winning. 
8. All rules subject to change without your consent. My blog, my contest, my rules.
9. Best of luck!

And now, without further ado, this week's riddle!:

Stronger than steel, yet brushed away in the flick of the wrist.
Though you throw me out, I still hold onto your clenched fist.
At the sight of me, some might squirm or twist,
But I'm harder to see than haze in mist.
Who am I?

This week's prize is an unreleased (even to my closest friends and family) free-verse poem called "Step," hand-written, decorated, and signed on plain 8.5" by 11" paper. Remember you have to EMAIL your answer to me (ethraen [at] gmail [dot] com) to win. Good luck!

A Butterfly

Last week, you voted on what this person would see first. The votes are in, and the result? Something we perceive as beautiful!

The first thing this person, let us call him or her Person for now, saw was a butterfly. Bright, striking blue wings fluttering delicately through the air. A small, fragile butterfly. Innocent, beautiful. Once an ugly larva, now a majestic creature of beauty. At the sight, Person immediately froze.

The brilliant blue butterfly brushed Person's arm, and the first sound in this new world was made: a scream. Shrill, piercing, deafening, chilling. Person screamed as the wing of the butterfly touched his or her skin, and the butterfly fluttered away, unaware of the terror it has just caused. Person's heart raced, full of awe, wonder, uncertainty! With nothing to compare the butterfly to, no past experience or lessons passed down for generations, Person could not know what may come of contact with the bright, shimmering creature.

A mix of fear and curiosity now filled Person. A decision was to be made: to follow the butterfly and learn more, despite the danger sensed by the creature's sheer beauty and brilliance, or to turn in the opposite direction to the even more unknown. The realisation that he or she knew nothing, had no experience or knowledge by which to be guided, was a frightening one for a human. All Person could rely on was instinct, on heart. And so Person closed their eyes for a moment, out of instinct, and asked his or her heart for guidance.

Dear heart, what should Person do? You decide! Comment this blog or send an email to: ethraen [at] gmail [dot] com!

I Hate Blogging

I hate blogging. Today is supposed to be some kind of creative writing, but to hell with that. To hell with blogging. This is supposed to be making me a better writer?

"The Artist's Way" program says to write 3 pages every morning. Of anything. No matter how bad, nonsensical, incorrect, etc. I can't do it. I don't believe I even have writer's block. I can get over it on my own, thanks, Julia Cameron. I don't need anyone else's methods or tricks; I have my own: blogging.

Well, blogging daily is stupid. Some days (more like most days), I don't have anything interesting to say. My life isn't all that interesting; the only person who reads this is probably just my mom. Like I couldn't just drive over and talk to her in person.

But blogging daily isn't just about having readers. It's about becoming a better writer, reflecting on my own life and growth as a person, having a reason to make my life interesting, and actually following through with something. Every. Single. Day. I hate blogging because it's inconvenient and has no direct benefits. But every once in awhile, someone clicks and ad and I get a little closer to reaching the $100 of AdSense revenue I need to finally get my first paycheck from Google. Oh, the things I could buy with that first check. (Like this Melodica I'll probably end up buying after I get my scholarship money, even though I should be patient and just beg for it for Christmas.)

And, though I would rather not admit it in my current I-hate-blogging state, blogging daily pressures me into continuing to write and reflect and grow even when it gets gross and uncomfortable. A few minutes before starting this post, I flung myself on my kitchen floor and mourned my tragic life, (Caused, of course, by my car: the never ending stream of broken headlights, tail lights going out, check engine turning light on, gas vanishing, and no money to pay for any of it.) hoping I might just fall asleep right there and wake up to find things better. The thought of sleep was the happiest thought I had at the moment, and then it hit me: I needed to write up the blog post for Saturday morning. Crap.

I should be sleeping right now. Lying somewhere, crying myself to sleep over my actually pretty easy life. But instead, I'm smiling as I finish up a blog post I didn't want to write.

I hate blogging because it forces me to face reality: that my life is really great and I have no reason to complain. Why can't I have a miserable life so I can complain? Stupid blogging, making me think. Making me WRITE.

Watch out, NaNoWriMo, I'm going to be more than ready for you this year. I love blogging.

Bryce Avary: A Role Model

Happy Friday! I haven't learned a thing today, so I thought I'd talk about Bryce Avary.

Bryce Avary, also known as The Rocket Summer, is one of the two people who most inspired me to teach myself piano and finally get (back) into music at the rather chaotic age of sixteen. Bryce Avary (and Alison Sudol, also known as A Fine Frenzy) saved me.

Sixteen, for me, was the beginning of huge changes in my life. I went through a lot st sixteen. In early 2008, I fell in love with "My Typical Angel" as I lamented my oh-so-tragic "lost love". Soon, I was searching through CDs at Best Buy to find The Rocket Summer. Having fallen in love with both Bryce's piano-driven rock and Alison Sudol's much more ethereal piano music, I started teaching myself piano that same summer.

And then my entire world was turned upside down: a friend of mine, who had been like an brother to me while we were in school together, committed suicide, and whatever semblance of faith in God I had left was completely shattered. Piano, The Rocket Summer, and A Fine Frenzy were the only means I had to cope with and try to wrap my head around the death of a friend.

I clung to Bryce's music especially that summer. He had all the faith I didn't, all the faith I wished I could still have. But I knew I would never be the same; my faith was forever changed at sixteen: first utterly destroyed, and then slowly brought to life as a different kind of faith through Bryce's own faith.

And boy does Bryce Avary has faith. He questions God, questions life and meaning, and through it all, he continues to have faith. I hated God, hated Christianity and Christians for lying to me my whole life, but here was this Christian who I could not hate. I could not believe God, but I could believe in Bryce Avary. On my darkest days, Bryce Avary's never-ending faith could still somehow light my day.

Bryce Avary pushed me to believe in something greater than myself, to believe that I was important and owed it to the world to be the best I could be. I don't believe in a God who sits up on a throne in the clouds, playing puppeteer or even simply watching, but I do believe in something: humanity. That every person is capable of good, of being "saved" if only they can believe.

Music, and not just Bryce Avary, has completely changed my life. Because it is art, and art is the universal language, the language of our hearts. When I was 16, Bryce Avary showed me the kind of person I wished I could be. I grew weary of dark, fearful, faithless hate and longed to instead fearlessly light the world with love and faith.

Bryce Avary plays every single instrument in his music: guitars, piano, bass, drums, and vocals. He writes it all and makes it all happen. And he's been doing it since he was a teenager. Maybe one day I'll be able to do that too.

Bryce Avary, you are my hero. <3

Band Rehearsal

Hey! I'm in a band!
Really?
Really!
You're kidding.
Nope! Dead serious!

It fell out of the sky, like I mentioned in last Friday's post. (Shoot, tomorrow's Friday! I need to learn something!) Last night was my first ever band practice with the band, and it was QUITE exciting. I don't know how other bands function, but if every band is like this, what on earth have I been doing NOT being in bands?

Joe, the guitarist, had already written lyrics and a little guitar for one and a half songs, but it was just a sort of "rough sketch," so we started out with those two. Cutting to the chase, it was basically just a jam session. Our tireless drummer (He's a machine! Literally.) kept the beat going while Joe and Yves, the bassist, fiddled around on their guitars, and I worked out how the vocals should go. And played guitar in one song, actually. Simplest chords ever, but I couldn't have done anything more complicated; I was thinking about lyrics, inflection, notes, harmony, etc. just for my voice alone, and my fingers were not down to do any crazy fretting, having only touched guitars every once in awhile thus far in my life. (Funny thing about guitar, you kind of have to practice.)

I make it sound like singing is just sooo hard. It's really not, but I've come to realise how much actually goes into being a GOOD vocalist. Some people are just lucky enough to have incredible voices at birth (not me, heh), but I'm pretty sure they have a lot to consider when singing too. My background in theatre has already proven to be one of my greatest assets; the improvisation skills and willingness to step outside my comfort zone it's given me apply to just about everything, and singing is no exception. According to Joe, it's very rare a vocalist can "jam" with the band. If it's not scripted, they can't do it. Kind of blew my mind.

Anyway, Joe's songs started coming together as we jammed, and I came up with the missing verse for the half song while we improvised. Two rough songs down! On our way to enough for a show. So I pulled out my phone, grabbed lyrics I had written, and we started figuring it out too. Let me just say that it is SOOOOO different writing via jam session with others than just sitting on a piano bench trying to make something decent with my lack of ridiculously awesome piano abilities. And hearing YOUR song suddenly come to life with all these different sounds? It's incredible.

Three rough songs down! That's almost enough for a show! Hey maybe we'll play a show soon! Oh, wait, we probably need a live drummer for that though, don't we? Yeah, so if you know or are an incredible drummer, we're on the lookout for one; get in touch with me!

P.S. I finally bought a ukulele yesterday. I am in love.

Word to the Setting Daniel

Last night was awesome. If you didn't know, kick me and let me know that I have to invite you next time. No, actually, what I was going to say (write?) was that if you didn't know, Daniel Zlotorowicz, one of my best friends for years now, had a show last night with Setting Sunrise and Word to the Wise. Oh, and New York Taxi too. Backstory complete.

I thought the show was supposed to start at 8PM, but it ended up being more like 8.30PM. Oh well. First up was New York Taxi, a duet made up of guitarist/vocalist Ryan and keyboardist/vocalist Shannon. (Sorry, didn't think to take pictures until after they were done!) Their vibe, both musically, and from talking with Ryan, is a very laid back, "real" sort of thing. All of their music is entirely free. As Ryan put it, if people want their music, then they should be free to have it and to listen to it. He said he prefers doing house shows with no admission costs, a whole bunch of people, and just a donation pool.

A novel idea. Not the makings of a millionaire, but a novel idea nonetheless. If more people took a similar attitude in what they do, a complete willingness to freely give to others, than we'd probably all get along much better. Not that I'm about to give everything I have away for free right now though. I like to be able to eat.

Next up was Word to the Wise, which is guitarist/vocalist Sarah Meeks-Clark and vocalist Ari Cruz. I vaguely remember the very first time I saw these two perform at The Wire in Upland. It was long, long ago (at least a year ago maybe?). Daniel had a show the same night as them, which is how I managed to see them for the first time. I've been a fan ever since.

Ari and Sarah, Word to the Wise

And then it was Daniel's turn to perform! I've been listening to Daniel Zlotorowicz's music for four years now, and he always just gets better and better. I've seen him grow as a musician and as a performer, which is truly incredible. Last night, he had no set list and not a whole lot of preparation, but proved he doesn't necessarily need it to put on a good show. (But preparation is a good thing; don't skip it all the time!) Daniel knows how to improvise on the spot, even when he forgets the lyrics to his own music, and that's something any artist should know how to do. He connects with and engages the audience, and that's what performing is all about. Recording is when you follow scripts and make everything perfect.

Daniel Zlotorowicz

Last but certainly not least was Setting Sunrise, also known as Joey Biagas. He plays guitar and sings, like the other acts last night, but throws in pre-recorded beats off an iPod for some of his songs too. Joey definitely knows how to get the audience involved, and does so at every one of his shows, to the point of getting hugged by the audience mid-song last night. Despite a fever, he ended the show on a high note for everyone with his high-energy performance.

Joey Biagas, Setting Sunrise

I first heard Setting Sunrise, like Word to the Wise at another one of Daniel's shows, and the three groups (Daniel, Word to the Wise, and Setting Sunrise) have started playing shows together recently. As a fan of any one of them, I think it's great to get to know the other bands from repeated exposure to them, and as a performer, I'm sure it's a lot more fun to perform with other friends. Overall, what it ends up creating is a sense of community among fans of any of the three, as they end up becoming fans of all three. Music brings people together, and that deserves my first ever emoticon in this blog. :)

Have a happy Wednesday. See you tomorrow!

On Writing a Song

I am no song writing expert. In fact, I just barely pass for average. I have no incredible insight, no secret trick or anything. Don't expect to learn how to write a song from this.

I don't like following traditional song structure. The way I instinctively write, there is no refrain, unless it is an ever-shifting refrain. (should to would to could maybe?) I don't like to write in a verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus structure. Other artists can do it, but I can't.

Sometimes, I can get a traditional structure to come out, but I all too often end up with just a lot of pretty words. I am a storyteller. My song writing is like telling a story that rhymes, almost like Dr. Seuss, except not quite as famous.

As I discover my writing style, I'm learning to appreciate it rather than wish it were like everyone else's. It's hard to buck the expectations, but when you are suddenly pressed for time and in a hurry, you learn to forget expectations and just give it your all.

I hope my all beats expectations.

Mondays Are Nice

Monday. The beginning of a new week. Clean slate. Fresh start. A time both to reflect and to look forward. Mondays are nice.

This week is my last week of summer. A week from today, I will be frantically trying to deal with classes, running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Drop this class, add that one. Park here, pay for that. Write this down, file that. Memorise this, that, and these. Et cetera, et cetera. So I plan to enjoy my last week of summer.

This week, however, shall be just as frantic, if not more so, than next week. There's so much to do before summer ends, and only one last week to do it!

First, I have a script to finish. Last summer, no one expected anything but what you'd usually expect from a seventeen=year-old high school student trying to write a play. This year, the expectations are so much higher though. Everyone knows I'm capable of writing something great, even me!, but the pressure is making me panic. I'm horribly behind, and I have to send the script to press in one week. Activate NaNoWriMo mindset!

I'm going to Universal Studios today with my brother and my best friend. This is the sort of regular summer day that I haven't had much of all summer. Wake up early, run off to somewhere with people you love, have a blast, come home exhausted, and do it all over again!

And then Daniel Zlotorowicz has a show this week. (If you're anywhere near Pasadena, you should come! Contact me for details: ethraen [at] gmail [dot] com) It's totally different now though, because I'm in the music business too now. Once, a loyal fan. Now, a fellow musician. It feels so very different.

But most exciting for this week is getting to perform myself! I have a flash mob event (but it's a secret, shh!) on Saturday and rehearsals this week, and then I have my now-usual gig as an occasional street performer. It's pretty cool to just perform on the streets for total strangers. Being backstage is fun, and I really do enjoy it, but being the performer has a certain charm nothing can ever compare to.

Yeah, it's going to be an awesome week. Mondays are so great.

The Person

Hello and welcome to the first post of a new, reader-decided series! Here's how it'll work:

Each Sunday, I will post a new installment of the series, based on reader input received since the last post. Since this is entirely new, the way readers submit their input might change. For now, there will be a poll at the end for readers to vote in (more on voting below), and any reader is welcome to submit their ideas, plot twists, etc. to ethraen [at] gmail [dot] com.

Right now (and this may change in the future when I do some coding), voting can be done by either posting your vote in a comment or emailing your vote to ethraen [at] gmail [dot] com.

I hope that's enough explanation. Let's get onto the story! Enjoy!

This tale is about a place neither near nor far. It is about a person neither alike nor different. There is nothing strange about this tale except that it is very strange. The world in this tale was not unlike yours, but it was nothing like yours.

The world was dark. Pure darkness. Not a thing to be seen nor sound to hear. Existence didn't, well, exist. This is how things had always been, as far as anyone could remember, though there was no one around to remember.

And then, one night, or perhaps one day or afternoon or morning or maybe even during golden hour, things changed. Suddenly. Out of the nothingness, there came to be a somethingness. And in that somethingness was a person. A plain person, like unseasoned meat, and extraordinary, like an explosion of flavour in your mouth. The taste buds scream in boredom and elation.

And when this person came into existence, this person brought an entire world of somethingness along, raping and pillaging the nothing that once filled all of space and time. Pure darkness went out of existence, became extinct. Everywhere you looked, there was something.

The person slowly opened their eyes and looked at this new world.

Vote away! What does the person see first? (You can be more specific than the options given) Something we normally perceive as:
A. Beautiful
B. Scary
C. Boring
D. Other


Vote away and see you with an update tomorrow!

Christopher Allen Ryser

At last! My very first "creative writing" blog post. This was written in early 2009. Most of my Saturday postings will be new/unreleased, but I thought I'd start with a "classic" of my writing. Enjoy!

I fell asleep to the sound of him typing. Every night. I never asked him what he was writing. It was the Great American novel. Well, that's what he wished. Every night, he'd write and write and write. Type, type, type. Click, click, click. The sound of the keys, his sighs of defeat, gasps of inspiration, moans of desperation, all became part of me. I fell in love with the writer I barely knew.

His name was Christopher Allen Ryser. C.A.R. In my mind, he told me stories of his parents, both car-lovers, and how they gave him those initials. Other times, they did it on accident, and it was fate that made him a car-lover. Or ironic because he hated cars.

He had many stories. When he'd type at night, I imagined him telling me the things he wrote. They were fascinating stories. I sometimes wondered if his stories were anywhere near as good as the ones he told me in my imagination. I decided they were much better.

I did not know the colour of his eyes; I rarely saw him. He had short brown hair, a soft chin, and a tired face. My dreams were filled with him. He never stopped telling me stories. He whispered them into my ear as I laid in his arms. When he'd kiss me, his lips spoke to mine, telling them the most amazing things imaginable.

At times, the reality that he would never be mine, that he did not even know me, would consume me. It burned through me like swallowing hot wax. I moaned in pain when I thought these things. Christopher Allen Ryser, I whispered weakly. I wished my last name would be Ryser.
Was I wrong to love him? Perhaps, but it could not be helped.

He was a writer. He was a storyteller. He was a puppet master, and the world and I were his captivated audience. He was never published during his lifetime, though his niece managed to get some of his writings published after he passed away. She had been a beautiful little girl, always visiting her Uncle Chris and bringing him flowers. He told her stories. His voice was loving and strong and filled with a gentleness just for her. When he would speak to me, it was with a tired, weary voice, the weight of his writing heavy upon him.

He died young. Cancer. A week before he died, he did not write. Instead, he sat down at the foot of my bed and spoke to me in his tired, weary voice. This time, however, it was not his writing which ailed him; it was his own pending death.

"Look after her, please," he asked me. That was all he said, and then he wept. In my dreams, it was I who was in his arms, but this time, he was in mine. Neither of us said a word. He did not sob, but tears soaked his face and clothing.

After he died, his niece still visited. Now, it was I who gave flowers. I cared for her, just as her uncle had wished. As she grew older, she became a beautiful woman. She told me she was in love with me when she was 24 years old, so I married her and took her name. I knew I didn't love her the way I had loved her uncle, but I also knew I should never have loved a man.

She was a good wife, and I loved her as a sister. I wished I could have been a better husband, but she never complained. We had two children. Our son was named him Christopher Allen Ryser, Jr., after his great uncle whom he looked exactly like. Our daughter was named Lillian Alexandra Ryser, after her parents, Lillian and Alexander Ryser. She looked just like her mother. I loved our children just as I did their mother and great-uncle: with all of my heart.

In my dreams, I still heard him typing every night. He spoke to me. He told me stories. He cried in my arms, sometimes, and I told him how his niece and her children were doing. It seemed to make him happier. I never told him or anyone else, even in my dreams, that I had loved him. He knew.

Grabbed a Wild Beast by the Horns

Oh, the pressure is on now. Life lesson? Have I learned anything cool enough?

Um, ACTUALLY, I had a pretty awesome Thursday which was a very good learning experience: I auditioned to be the lead singer of a band.

Let me first say that I got in contact with this band over craigslist. Oh, craigslist, how you make me feel as if I'm covered in a very thin, mildly sticky, and definitely disconcerting film! But I won't deny that craigslist, despite some weirdos, creeps, and scammers, can be good. It's just matter of being careful. So yes, I am careful about who I meet on craigslist.

I saw an ad looking for a female lead singer of a band with a litany of influences. I skimmed the list, and, lo and behold, there were bands like New Order, U2, Joy Division, The Cure, The Smiths, Depeche Mode, etc. Combined with proper English and a very clear and professional-seeming ad (not professional spam; just thought-out), I gathered up the courage to send an email.

The email I got back came from a human being, hurrah! But it turned out the band was two guys: one who was 32, and one who described himself as "older" which could mean anything! They couldn't possibly want an 18-year-old college student, could they? I replied mentioned that I was only a college student, and could understand if they didn't want to work with someone so young, but assured them that I felt ready to handle being a band like an adult rather than a flaky teenager.

The guitarist (the "older" guy) and I arranged to meet at a nearby coffee shop Thursday. I was nervous, of course, but was soon talking with him almost as if I wasn't meeting some guy off craigslist. Very nice guy, and after awhile of talking I felt pretty sure that I really wanted to be part of the band, and he seemed pretty sure that, at least personality-wise, I would be a good fit. Except there was one major problem: he hadn't heard me sing yet. And I was endlessly nervous about singing.

Let me make this clear: I do not audition. Ever. Especially not singing. I probably haven't had an audition for anything since I was 11. And singing? HELL NO. I am a shower singer, a car singer, and only sometimes a choir singer. But I wanted this; I was not going to mess this up. I could do it, I assured myself.

We went to his house a few blocks away (I took my own car, of course, duh. Warning kids: don't go to strangers houses in their cars. BAD IDEA.) where I'd be able to sing with the rough tracks he had already laid out. Their old vocalist could hit notes, and I listened to the rough tracks with her singing a few times before trying to remember the words and sing myself. As I got ready to sing, I looked at my hands: shaking, of course. Heart? Racing. Palms? Sweating profusely. Boy was I nervous. Who was I kidding, trying to audition to be a lead singer when I couldn't sing? My scratchy voice against their old vocalist? No way.

And then I was singing. I was improvising stuff because I forgot the words. I was jamming vocally. I let my voice do what it felt like. And I could hear it back, amplified and echoing. Holy crap, was that my voice? Joe, the guitarist, had this look like, "Wow. We found our vocalist." My heart soared. I sang some more, he recorded it, and then I got to listen to my singing played back, guitars and drums included.

And then it hit me: I wasn't just passable, I was better than the old vocalist. My voice may not have been prettier, but my voice had something hers lacked: emotion. Mind you, hearing your own voice is always just a weird feeling, but in the matter of a few minutes, I went from sure I couldn't sing, to sure I couldn't NOT sing.

I looked my fear and self-doubt straight in the eyes, grabbed that irritating little voice in the back of my head which tells me I can't, and I said no. I took that fear and anxiety and, instead of letting it rule me, I ruled it. Like my acting coach once taught me, I channeled my energy. And I discovered once again that I wasn't giving myself enough credit.

So the lesson? To grab fear by the horns, and ride that wild beast until you are master. That's what I learned today.

Blog Changes

Happy Thursday, world!

Apparently, there was an issue with getting this blog up at 5AM. Whoops. Turns out I was right in my last post: just a lazy, unmotivated, irresponsible artist-slacker. Anyway, I have some "changes" planned that this blog will soon be undergoing. Input would be great!

I've been thinking about this for awhile, and I'd like to get the blog onto a better schedule than just "Hey, this is the totally random topic I decided to write about today!" sort of thing we've got going on right now. To fix this, I thought I'd make each day of the week have a specific "category" the posts would be under. Problem is, I don't really have any specific categories I can think of implementing, save for two days creative writing on the weekends. Yeah, creative writing.

Saturday mornings will be stand-alone, any kind of writing, short stories of my choosing. Sunday mornings though, will be an on-going story which readers will influence and vote upon. Like "Choose your ending" stories. Each week, they'll end with a choice, and readers will vote on what choice is made. You'll also be able to vote to change any other detail of the story, from characters to plot to setting to genre even. It's up to you, the readers.

But I don't know what to do for M-F. I think Mondays will end up being a sum up of the previous week and what's to come in the week to follow, at least as it relates to my arts and career endeavours. But the other days? Not really sure. Maybe review a book or play or music or some sort on Tuesdays, current event on Wednesdays, ? on Thursdays, and some sort of "I've learned that . . ." anecdote on Fridays? I suppose Thursdays could be another review. Tuesday through Thursday is what I'm most unsure about.

Well, I have a few more days to figure it out. But expect tomorrow to be a life lesson anecdote, Saturday to be a story, and Sunday to be the first of the reader-voted story! (And Monday to be a weekly update on my mildly interesting life.) Hopefully, I get better ideas before Tuesday's post.

Exceeds Expectations

Woah! Another morning post! Maybe I really am more than just a lazy, unmotivated, irresponsible artist-slacker! Just kidding. Everyone knows artists are the epitome of lazy. It's just FACT.

So as I sit here, trying to finish revisions on Where the Wild Berries Grow, I can't help but daydream. As summer speeds away to its demise, things like auditions, casting, rehearsals, and eventual performance are leaping closer and closer. And I can't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, this year will be way better than last year.

This script will require more from me as a director. It requires bigger, better lighting. It requires dance choreography, music direction, and fight choreography. It requires a set. It requires costumes and make-up. It requires flashback, costume changes, set changes, and more than just a 17-year-old tossing whatever she can find together.

This play requires better acting. The characters are much more real, much more subtle. The drama is intense. The comedy is often less blatant. Many scenes will require very specific blocking and choreography.

I wanted to push myself, I wanted to push the program, and I wanted to push the kids. Without Direction set expectations, and now the goal is to exceed every one of those. Bigger and better.

But it all starts with the script. As much as I'd like to just jump right into production, I have to use the final week and a half I have left to make the script as amazing as possible. Without a more-than-just-good script, we can't have a more-than-just-good production. And since I'm aiming for an absolutely incredible production, I guess I'm going to have to write an absolutely incredible script.

Goodbye, blog procrastination; hello, revision!

Prop Mosque

Let me first say that I hate political debates. People get angry and nothing happens. Seems like a big waste of time to me.

That said, I need to come out of the political closet: everyone knows me as a "liberal", but I know myself as "conservative." But the arts community is full of hatred for conservatives. It's ironic, really. For all the "tolerance" that "liberals" supposedly speak of, they are the people who I am most afraid to admit my own beliefs, my own self around for fear of their hatred.

But you know what? I'm tired of being afraid. Hey, liberal artists! I'm conservative and proud of my beliefs.

"But I thought--!" Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm all about "tolerance" so how can I be conservative? Newsflash, bigot and conservative are not synonyms, just as liberalism and tolerance are not synonyms. According to our great president Abraham Lincoln (who, by the way, was a Republican, despite calling for the abolition of slavery; I guess not all "Republicans" hate people who aren't white, Protestant, straight, males!), conservatism is "the adherence to the old and tried, against the new and untried." Weird, I see nothing about being a bigot in there.

The thing is, both "liberals" and "conservatives" are the victims of misunderstandings, prejudices, and stereotypes, just like everyone else. Just like I don't like identifying myself as "white", "18", "straight", or even as "artistic" because each puts me into a group I don't fit in 100% in, I don't like stating my political beliefs for fear of being put into a stereotype. I have liberal values and I have conservative values, but in the end, I stand behind our founders and our Constitution, not the whims of a particular era.

To call me white is to neglect that I was raised in part by family members who had been born in Honduras, a small, little-known country in Central America. To group me with all 18-year-olds is to put me with drug addicts and people with real jobs alike. To simplify sexuality to a yes or no (gay or straight) question is to deny others any middle ground. To label me artistic is to forget every other aspect of me.

I don't support Prop 8: not because I think gay marriage is unquestionably right, but because I believe our government has never been given the right to decide religious issues such as marriage. I don't oppose the "Ground Zero Mosque": not because I believe in the symbolic progress toward tolerance it represents, but because I see no way in which our government has reason to intervene. Prop 8 and the mosque are both issues that have exploded into huge ones because of what they represent, but they're simple for me: our government exists only to protect the minority from the oppression majority, so no matter the issue, it is simply a matter of protecting the inalienable rights of everyone, including the not-as-popular groups, like conservatives in the world of liberal arts.

So there you have it: a "conservative" who supports gay and Muslim rights. Because the Constitution tells me so.

Storyteller Disconnect? BAD.

I swear I'm going to start posting in the morning. Eventually.

So as I've been trying to revise my script today (Where the Wild Berries Grow, check out my community arts company's blog for more on that), and it's just been an incredibly slow process all summer. The biggest challenges I faced last year, sure, I know how to deal with now, but I just have new challenges this year. I have literally had almost no constructive feedback all summer, and have thus been totally alone in writing this time around.

So I've been disconnecting myself with the characters and the story so I can give myself unbiased feedback. This is a whole new problem though, as I've discovered. All writers, actors, storytellers, etc. beware: disconnecting from your characters and story is dangerous and definitely not advised. What happens is as follows:

1. I'm not motivated to develop the story and characters to learn more. By disconnecting, I don't feel the usual urge to know every detail about everyone and everything in the story.
2. And that means the story and characters come out flat.
3. Flat stories don't motivate me to learn more about the story.
4. Oh, look, it's a never ending cycle.

Take my word for it: don't try to create a story while disconnected to it. Connect! Being a writer (or any storyteller) requires you to become insane. You must live within the world that your character(s) live(s) in, or else you won't be able to tell the story the way it deserves to be told. People are much more interested in first-hand accounts than someone who heard from someone who heard from someone whose cousin heard from their neighbour who-- you get the picture.

So I started reconnecting with my characters today. Amazingly, I can suddenly write again. Sort of. I'm kind of trying to avoid insane-writer status, but I'm getting lost in their world again, and I doubt I'll be able to avoid insane-writer status for much longer. But two weeks of being an insane writer? I think I can manage to be insane for two weeks so I can get this script performance worthy.

Insanity, here I come.

England, Zubetube, and Other Spontaneity

And then, after I was so excited about Dance Hour, I didn't have time. Two days in a row. It's been a hectic two days in a row. Full of lots of not very much.

I jest, of course. I woke up Saturday with this strange urge to be important. I threw on the flashiest clothes I had (literally the flashiest; my shirt was covered in sequins. Yeeeaaah.), put on some make-up (hard to believe, I know), and topped it off with new shoes. Nose in the air, I walked to a yard sale near my house, looked at the items with disdain, and walked away, muttering about "Community Outreach." I'm sure everyone there was QUITE impressed with my apparent fame, fortune, and sheer importance. And British accent too, of course.

That, of course, was not enough. I grabbed my phone, called a few friends (they never answer their phones, bastards!), and eventually reached my friend Frank. "Okay, so I know this sounds weird, but I want to walk around and pretend to be famous." I was met with the expected amusement, but he agreed to fake importance with me, and we ended up wandering the outdoor mall/Old Town in our (not so) little Los Angeles suburb, British accents and everything.

Funniest. Day. Ever. We had full-on characters. I was quite the famous figure in England apparently, and Frank was apparently a rather uninformed underwear model. My publicist sent me to America and instructed me to act like a common person, the nerve! "The English have the right of way in America!" I exclaimed once, crossing the street and yelling about the terrible driving in this country.

And then we wandered into the music store. (Yeah, that one that's underground! It's awesome.) Frank the underwear model, apparently, knew nothing of music, and Elizabeth the super rich and famous knew everything and had done everything.

And then we found, wait for it . . . the ZUBETUBE!!! Coolest instrument EVER. "The ultimate cosmic sound machine." No kidding. After debating about totally how awesome it would be for our "space album" (more to come on that later!), we asked the price (under $15!), decided to split the cost, and bought the coolest instrument ever. I think I'll just have to do an entire post on the ZubeTube soon. It's amazing.

After that, I didn't get home until the AM, just running around, acting silly (boy do I have stories too!), and then I spent today doing all sorts of mundane things like copying CD after CD first onto the computer and then onto my phone. Check out the band Simply Red. Old 80s band; I just found their CD and decided I love them.

Even without Dance Hour, I managed to dance around a whole lot this weekend, from tap dancing to street musicians, to ridiculous dance offs, to jumping around the kitchen with my little brother.

Dance Hour

When I promised a whole HOUR of dancing a day, I thought to myself, "Backspace! Backspace! Backspace!!! That's crazy talk!" I was right. Dancing for a whole hour on a daily basis is crazy. But crazy is not synonymous with bad.

My first official "Dance Hour" (as I am henceforth referring to it as) was crazy. I turned on the TV, found the wonderful music channels (which I discovered when my family was running around in Italy or Germany or Spain or whatever cool place I couldn't go), turned up the volume, and set to work moving all the furniture out of my way. Couches, chairs, beanbags, tables, little brother's junk, etc. At last, I had a big open area to dance in. I grabbed my phone, started the stopwatch, and danced.

Within fifteen minutes, I was ready to be done. I was tired, out of breath, sweaty, and embarrassed by my own dancing. But I had promised an hour. So I kept dancing, looking like a very exhausted, stinky, untalented fool.

I don't know when it happened, but I stopped caring about the time. I was having way too much fun dancing and listening to all the music, and I was starting to like how sweaty I was getting. The hour was up, but I didn't bother to check my phone to see. I danced for more than just an hour, and when I finally had to move all the furniture back, I wished I could just keep dancing. It was crazy fun.

I woke up sore today. And not the ache-y back, cramped neck, body full of some serious tension sore. It was the worked hard, had some fun, body rejoicing sore. With some old aches and cramps mixed in, but not as prevalent. Less tension and restless sleep, more relaxation and comfortable sleep.

I love dancing.

P.S. I have some video clips, but my brother has the cord somewhere, and I've no idea where. If/when I find it, I'll put up some embarrassing video.

So You Think You Can Blog

This blogging daily thing won't be so hard if things like BEING ON THE SEASON SEVEN SEASON FINALE happen more often.

"You were on SYTYCD, say WHAT???" Yeah, I know. Okay, I'll explain. I am not a super mega awesome dancer, nor was I cool enough to be in the audience either. But I was on the show. For like two seconds. Yes, I leapt out of my seat (in this case, a rather comfy couch), tossed and/or hugged rather tightly the pillow I was clinging onto for the entirety of the episode, grabbed my brother, and excitedly pointed out my non-HD self. I rewound, replayed, and rewound again. I paused it and looked at myself on TV. It was exciting.

So how, you ask! Well, see, I partook in a wonderful thing called a flash mob on National Dance Day. We danced; it was exciting! National Dance Day was definitely one of the most enjoyable days I've had in quite some time, and I have enjoyable days nearly all the time. Video was sent to the wonderful people at SYTYCD, and they threw in a clip with me and other near me dancing in their "National Dance Day is cool" montage midway through the show.

Watch for me on Oprah next week. I'll be in a montage of bloggers who stare at their computers all day and develop extreme sensitivity to sunlight as a result. Yeeaaah.

But in all seriousness, the point of National Dance Day and the clips of regular people (like me!) dancing up on SYTYCD, along with Ellen DeGeneres, DANCE LEGEND, getting to dance on that incredible stage is that anyone can dance. In fact, anyone should dance. Whether you dance incredibly or incredibly bad doesn't matter; it's just about dancing for the sake of dancing.

Ah, dance, one of the many, many fields I want to get into more. I think I'll start dancing more often. (Because whilst driving isn't usually the best time.) Yeah, I know I've been saying that for nearly a year, but I mean! Look, just to prove my point, I am going to dance for at least 1 hour a day for the rest of summer vacation! HA! Take that, doubters!

I think I can blog, by the way.

One Hit Wonder

I should do this daily. Blog, that is.

I have this ridiculous fear that someone will figure out that I'm not actually as great as my 130 fans on Facebook seem to think I am (What?? 130??? When did THAT happen??). They'll tell someone else, and then it'll spread like wildfire that I'm just average and everyone will move on. Ever since I miraculously managed to write, direct, produce, and star in Without Direction, it's been about 100 times better and 100 times worse.

I accomplished something. I really did something! And no one can deny it, not even my self-depreciating, highly critical self. Without Direction is not something an average person could have done; it took someone incredible!

Somehow, the fear comes back, just as powerful as ever. It hits me with a profound, "So???" So Without Direction was cool, so what?. Is that all you've got? Peaked at seventeen? One hit wonder.

It's like a virus, mutating and adapting. Fear. It's everywhere. As I complete another script and begin production, I can feel the fear lurking in the back of my head, already mutating and adapting. It knows what I'm going to say. "See? I'm not just a one hit wonder! I did TWO plays!" It's spent months informing me that I'll never be able to come close to Without Direction, and, worse, that no number of plays at my old high school will make me anything more than a loser, a one hit wonder.

So I mutate and adapt. It's a never ending battle. Some days, it looks like I'm going to crush fear, and some days it looks like fear will crush me. I'm not sure I want to destroy fear though; for all the knocking down it does, fear, or overcoming fear, is what pushes me beyond my limits. Without fear, I'd probably just go take a nap.