The Greatest Gift

                When I was a little girl my dad would read books to each of us kids. I recall listening as he read the Wizard of Oz series to my sister, and not listening when he read whatever books my brother selected. When it was my turn it was usually one of two books I remember him reading: "The Wind in the Willows," and "Mrs. Frisby and the rats of N.I.M.B."   (I was fascinated by anthropomorphism.)  I loved curling up next to him and looking at the black and white sketches on a random page while the cadence of his voice rose and fell rhythmically. Every Christmas we gathered around his lap and shoulders as he read the book his mother had read to him, The Littlest Angel.  So strong are the memories of this book that I can hear his voice echoing in my mind as I read it to my own children each year. He was a good storyteller.

                The first book I remember reading on my own was "B is for Betsy" a book given to me by my mother. I was only about six, but I have some recollection of being on vacation somewhere with snow while I read that book. I know I was little but I can still vaguely recall the book, sort of an orange color with a little girl in cameo on the cover. I didn't recall much about the book except that it was about a spunky little girl. Later I read classics like the Ramona series, the All-of-a-kind Family series, Arabella's Ravin, A Windmill Summer,  (more spunky little girls.) In my later adolescence I became obsessed with the supernatural. I read books about girl's with ESP, séances,  and haunting specters.

                Reading has always had a major role in my life. I can remember my mother teaching me to read. She had made her own flash cards of letters, and there was a homemade game where I used a toy fishing pole to catch felt fish with magnetic strips out of a box and then combine the letter sounds to make words. There were others, things so far on the fringes of my memory that I know they are there, but I can't quite make them out. We would sit on the living room carpet and play as though these were "real" games and not educational-- she was tricky like that! I remember Little Golden Books and their endearing animation that drew me to look at pages even if I couldn't quiet read them. My favorite was about a little girl and her first day in Kindergarten. And I remember a set of encyclopedias with a world full of fascinating adventure and knowledge.

                I remember the tiny library at my elementary school. I think it was at one time a janitor's closet it was so small. It smelled like warm, old, paper and dust. I was obsessed with one book there and I would sit in the shadowy room leaned against the bookshelf and read it during my class' library time, even though I knew I was checking it out-- "Annie E. Lee and the Wooden Skates." It was the story of the youngest daughter of Robert E. Lee and at least a portion of the story revolved around a pair of wooden ice skates. Again, there are pictures in my head of a sketched little girl in her big Southern dress and furry hat and muff skating across the ice in the special gift from her father  at the end of the book.

                When my Mom had to go back to work we became what was called latch-key kids, except instead of returning to an empty house afterschool my siblings and I would walk three blocks from school to the public library where we would work on homework with all the other kids until our parents came to claim us. At least in theory. I made friends with the two college aged library aides. They were a girl and a boy who spent a lot of time sarcastically bickering in what I now realize was probably a flirtation. They would allow me to ride the book cart up and down the aisles in the Children's section as they shelved books and whispered snide comments to each other. Now that I think about it…she may really have disliked him.

                It was here that I mastered the Dewey decimal system and the card catalog and decided when I grew up, I wanted to be a librarian. It was in the Children's section I also found my new obsession, The Lonely Doll books. The stories were told with beautiful, vivid photos of the characters-- Father and Baby bear, two stuffed Teddy bears, and Edith (yes I had to look her up)the lonely little porcelain doll who they take into their loving family. When I got older I moved to the adult side of the library where I began reading the young adult literature. Books by Lois Duncan, Joan Lowery Nixon, and Torey Hayden. I didn't go for the books other preteen girls like my sister had started reading like those famous Judy Blume books. To this day I don't know why Margaret wanted to have a word with God or what was so Super about Fudge.

                In the fourth grade I read one of the most significant books of my youth, "I Trissy." Yes, she was a spunky girl, but more importantly she had divorced parents. I had divorced parents. I only had one other friend with divorced parents and she had moved away, (Hey Becky, you made it into one of my blogs!) I went to a Catholic school. No one's parents were divorced (or if they were none of us knew.) But Trissy's parents were divorced and I cried when I discovered what catharsis was--to see my feelings and thoughts splashed across the pages. I knew reading could be about adventure, and escape, but I didn't know it could be about identity and solidarity. I knew I could imagine myself in a characters adventure, I didn't know I could imagine a character in mine!

                I always read books but sometime around fifth grade it got harder. I didn't know it at the time but it turns out I was dyslexic. (Yes, my blog title makes sense now!) Because I was gifted it wasn't diagnosed until I was in college. Until then, I just thought I was stupid. All those years of hearing "doesn't work to her ability" were not explained until much later and I spend the next few years struggling. Reading was my addiction the way kids today play video games or watch TV. But teachers sucked my love of reading away. Making us read terrible, boring books. In Sixth grade, Scott O'Dell's "The Black Pearl" almost killed me. (Does Scott O'Dell give a kick back to schools for forcing kids to read his books?)

                 Textbooks, which were my downfall, were an illegible jumble of meaningless splotches. Later it was explained to me that my particular type of dyslexia made mechanical language hard to decipher. I could read a novel because my brain could make a movie out of the words, but a textbook was useless. I could photographically recall what each page looked like, where there was a picture, what information was written about, but only because I attached it to the auditory lesson that was taught in conjunction with that page. I could even see the shapes of the paragraphs in my head, like puzzle pieces, but the words, undecipherable, meaningless. The problem being, You THINK you can read. You think you know the words when you look at them. Your brain doesn't actually register that they have no significance. When you finish the paragraph, you can't quite recall anything you read, no matter how many times you read it.

                So, by the time I reached high school I was sort of burnt out on reading. I could have fallen by the wayside at that time, lost my passion for reading completely, if not for a dumb Christmas present. The Christmas I turned 14 my dad gave me a giant book for a present. It was bigger than the Bible! It was probably the first hard cover book I had owned. It sucked! Who buys a 14 year old girl a book for Christmas? The book was "It" by Stephen King and it not only renewed my passion for reading, and hooked me on Stephen King for life, it completely ruined my Winter break. At first I wasn't going to read it, but at the urging of my father to "just give it a try" I cracked open the cover. I was mesmerized. I had NEVER read anything like this. Horror. Graphic and frightening horror. A terrifying clown who eats children. Good God! I spent every waking moment with that book. I huddled in my bed night and day (with my closet doors closed tightly.) I made a sandwich with the book open on the counter. I dressed with the book laid open on my bed. I never attacked a book so veraciously as I did that book. And a whole new world was opened to me. Until that time books were pretty much about spunky little girls, and they all ended happily. I didn't realize there were other stories out there. After that I started reading again. Which was very lucky for me, because after that I read the second most important book of my life.

                When I was about 15 I read "The Outsiders." I'll admit, I was inspired by a movie full of hot boys, (perhaps my first memory of thinking…"hmmmm. Boys are kinda hot.") But that book touched me in a way the movie hadn't. The writing was perfect. The characters were the most authentic I had ever read. They talked like real teenagers. They thought like I did. They felt like I did. There was a ragged honesty in their story that fascinated me. They were genuine. They were not so much characters, they were friends. They were like people I might actually know. This was when I learned about Voice. These characters had voices. Real voices that spoke to me. Inspired me. That's when I discovered the most amazing thing, it was written by a sixteen year old girl. A girl like me had not only breathed life into these characters, she had published a novel (four in fact.) I was in awe.

                Later that year, my tenth grade English teacher Ms. Main asked us to write a character description. I described a boy who might have been found in this book because I was obsessed with it. When it was done I suddenly realized, I wanted to know this character's story. He had appeared in my head and he had started speaking to me. His voice, his story was in my head. I opened a spiral notebook and started writing what I was hearing-- what he was seeing and feeling. He quickly evolved into a secondary character when a spunky girl turned up in my story. I filled the first spiral notebook and I started another. I wrote and wrote.

                Eventually a friend (There you are again Becky!) asked me if she could read it. I handed over the first notebook and kept writing. She read and made editor's notes. She offered observations and questions (but never direction.) She became my first audience quickly followed by my poor father. I would sit near him while he repaired the car or made dinner and read from my "novel." Let me be honest, it was horrible. I still have it and it was tragically awful. But Becky kept reading it and Dad kept listening, or at least pretending to listen (I do not think I'm a good enough mother to have listened to that crap for that long.) As our group of friends saw Becky and I swapping the notebooks they started asking to read it  too. Multiple spiral notebooks circulated our group. Like a living soap opera my story grew, changed, rambled, and they read and discussed and encouraged me to write more. I had fans!

                I knew then that I wanted to be a writer. My whole life had been grooming me for it. Like all young people I believed I could do it. I believed there was an audience for my voice. But like all young people life happens and derails our best laid plans, for better and for worse. I took another path and after I quit school my first year at college I abandoned my writing the way I had abandoned reading so many years before. I became busy living my own story and I didn't have the time to write someone else's. Except, I didn't stop hearing the voices. Characters tromped through my brain constantly, telling me their stories, introducing me to their friends and begging me to solve their problems.

                 While I stopped putting pen to paper, I never really stopped creating. I would have dialogs with them while I did laundry, and washed dishes, and drove my car. When we finally got a home computer I sat down and tried to write one of these stories but I was discouraged by my incessant need to edit and re-edit sections rather than move forward, seeking perfection rather than doing what I had as a teenager, and just letting it pour out, to be fixed later.  By the time our computer finally gave up to the Blue Screen of death, and all my work was lost, I was so disheartened I couldn't start over.

                Still, I couldn't make my brain stop making up stories. Stories I never shared with anyone. Every once in a while I would jot down a sentence that popped into my head. All over my house are small memo pads with strange scribbling that mean nothing to anyone but me. An observation, a line of dialog, a description. Some I cannot even recall what they meant, or who's story they were a part of, but I kept them. I kept them for some reason I didn't understand. I almost forgot about being a writer. I may have completely forgotten, except for these scraps of paper.

                Then one day my children's school librarian quit and they couldn't find anyone to replace her. The PTA meeting I was at was discussing the option of possibly having a library run by parent volunteers. We were informed we couldn't do that, but if a parent wanted to go take the district test they could be hired by the school to be the librarian. Hmm. I could make a good librarian. Didn't I want to be a librarian when I was a kid? And I loved to read, even if all I ever had time for now were cheesy, "bodice ripper" romance novels. I volunteered to take the test which was only offered twice a year and signed up.

                By the time the test came around our school had hired a librarian, but I figured, what the hell, and scored so well I was placed in the top position on the hiring list. I was placed almost immediately in a school library near my home and had a wonderful ten years there. Many of the books I loved as a child found their way to my library in those years. So did comic books, and books about skateboarding and guitars and paintball. I took a library full of unopened "classics" and filled it with things kids wanted to read. I wanted to inspire at least one child to the love of reading I enjoyed. I wanted one child to find their escape, or their identity, or their passion in a book I had helped them discover. I loved being an accidental librarian. All those years I had allowed my life to take a detour, and yet, here I was in the first job I ever wanted, (other than being a mom.)

                Somewhere in those years I decided to write again. I had become a part of an online community, a message board of friends around the world. And some of these random strangers had made random remarks about my ability to share a vivid story in text. They encouraged me to start writing with more of a purpose. So I started over.  Sometimes I struggled over writing something bigger on my computer, many stories with many beginnings on paper, but endings in my head. Unfinished. I decided I should write something smaller, shorter, just so I could actually finish something. Something like I wrote on the message boards. I seemed to be able to write short non-fiction essays about my experiences. I wrote about a pie. Not just any pie, but the pie an overwhelmed woman desired to save her sanity in an uncontrolled life. My life. A true, but humorously embellished account inspired by a line I had written on one of those scrapes of paper stuffed in a drawer.  I edited and refined it and shared it with my community. The first intentional writing I had shared since my days in high school. It was received so well that I offered it to the community of people I knew in real life. I shopped it around to some online magazines, but having little understanding of the world of publishing, especially online, I gave up pretty early. But I challenged myself to write something else and about six months later I slow-churned a little piece about marriage and cars. Again, I gave up on doing anything with it, outside of sharing it with a few folks online.

                Then I got sick, and sicker. When I was at my lowest possible place: sick, weak and discouraged, the universe decided to throw me another curve ball. The day before Thanksgiving two years ago I received a letter from the school district laying me off, taking my job and my benefits. I was pissed. And then I was ready to move forward. One of the reasons I had stopped writing, the thing I used most to discourage myself, was that I couldn't possibly really become a writer, because I wasn't educated enough. Whenever I read a book I liked I would read the "about the author" blurb in the back. I always hoped that one, just one, would say "under-educated housewife"  but they never did. They were always people with Master's degrees. Sure Lana Turner could be discovered at a soda fountain, but writers seemed less lucky, and more educated. Apparently talent wasn't everything in the publishing world. They wanted credentials too.

                When I found myself suddenly without a job and on the mend I had an epiphany of sorts. I HAD read a book where those credentials didn't apply. I had fallen in love with a book written by a 16 year old girl. A book so well written that it was commonly assigned reading in schools today. A book that had been turned into a movie which launched the careers of some of Hollywood's biggest names today. I started reading books about writing books, and I realized I knew a lot of these things already. I decided to take a college class. I started with that first online class and then continued to more risky face to face classes. Where I once felt incompetent as a young adult I suddenly felt exceedingly capable. Sure, I still struggle with the cursed semicolon. I don't know that I will ever figure that sucker out; and I have a tendency to overuse commas in run-on sentences, but I suddenly found something that had been missing from my life-- A Voice.

                 Something clicked and I realized that I was meant to be writing. It didn't really matter what, as long as I kept writing. I had a talent. I can't carry a tune in a bucket. Music is chicken scratch to my dyslexic eyes. (someone remind me to tell the story of my first music recital one day. It’s a riot!) I can't paint or sculpt or draw a stick figure with proper proportions, but I finally discovered my talent. I don't know why it took me so long. It was there all along. Maybe I just wasn't ready to accept it until now, but all those experiences, when laid out in sequence seem to tell the story of a writer waiting to become.

                And here I am. A writer. Writing and being read. During this holiday season I decided to write a reflection on the greatest gift I ever received.  My greatest gift wasn't just a book, it was all of them. It was the gift of reading; from the first home-made games to the massive novel I got for Christmas. It was every book where I saw myself as a character. Every book where I shivered with fear, cried with heartbreak, laughed with empathy or soared with passion.  It was every book that added strength to my character and voice to my soul. So this Holiday season, when you are standing in a long line at Toys R Us or Target, make sure that somewhere in your cart is the greatest gift of all-- the gift of inspiration.

Chasing Firefly: Confessions of a Rabid Fan-Girl

Growing up in Los Angeles takes some of the novelty out of being a "fan." Maybe it's because you can't trip over your shoelace without falling into six people who work in the industry. Maybe it's because "star" sightings aren't that rare. Maybe it's because I know what Hollywood really looks like. Whatever the reason, some of the sheen is off the stars for me. This is not to say that I don't enjoy TV, movies, music, etc. I love all those things, but with a sense of reality (real reality not that TV stuff.) I was just never a fanatic-- fascinated by something so much that I stalked it with rabid inappropriate interest. All that changed nearly over-night when I spent a year as a crazy rabid fan-girl.

In the early part of the 2000's I was an avid enjoyer of the works of Joss Whedon. The highlights of my "must view" week were "Buffy" and "Angel." Most other TV just happened, but those were my "can't miss" programs. It was announced that a third program, Firefly, would be part of the new Fall season in 2002 and while I wasn't sure what it was about, I was willing to watch based on the creator's reputation. However, life had other plans and my ineptitude at programming a VCR timer, and my spouses unreliable memory caused me to see the first few episodes sporadically. (Thank goodness for the invention of the DVR!) This did not stop me from being hooked by the amazing writing. The show was smart, funny, scary and interesting.

One night a few weeks into regular viewing, after a particularly awesome episode, I announced, "This show is so good you know they're going to cancel it." I'm not bitter, it just seems that's always the fate of smart, interesting television. Out of curiosity I was compelled toward the internet to see what the buzz was for my new all-time favorite TV show. At this time I had enough tech savvy to clean the spam out of my unused email account every couple weeks, and to help my kids research stuff for school on the internet. Otherwise I was not computer friendly and I had not typed in over ten years. A cursory search led me to the "Official" Firefly website at Fox where I discovered my intuition was once again correct and the show was in danger of being chucked. I also discovered the official message boards, where a mass movement was being conducted to Save Firefly.

I'd like to take a moment here to point out I have never been a Sci-Fi person. My friends had parents who were Trekkies, I think I recall costumes being worn. I had seen Star Wars at seven, and while duly impressed, I wasn't overwhelmed with passion for it. My brother forced me to watch one too many Dr. Who episodes instead of Saturday morning Bugs Bunny as a kid and I was fairly dispassionate toward the Science Fiction genre ever since. I always objected to the fact that merely because Firefly took place in the future, and on a space ship, it qualified as a Sci-Fi show. For me this pigeon-holed its audience and was a less than all-encompassing definition. On the other hand, Science Fiction fans are the most motivated and inter-connected group around. Were they ever to agree on the issues and form a third political party, I believe we would have a Klingon speaking President with little opposition. This particular fan group was overwhelmingly organized and motivated. And I was swept up into the fervor.

More than just a passion for a TV show I loved, I discovered a community I loved. As an elementary school librarian my work was fairly isolating. While I was the mother of four kids between the ages of eight and thirteen, most of my friends were just starting their families. They were in "Mommy and Me" classes, I was driving the family taxi. My "me" time was spend in the grocery store. My social life primarily revolved around my family's activities. Suddenly I was around people with a similar interest. After the kids were in bed, my nights were spent online. I learned to type much faster. I made some amazing friendships. I was actively involved on a daily basis in their lives and they were in mine. We joked, talked politics and life, toasted the good times in a virtual saloon, supported each other in tough times, all the while mailing postcards (and the unfortunately misguided box of blue gloves) to the executives at Fox. A beautiful full page ad was purchased in Variety, entirely designed and funded by Browncoats, (fans of Firefly) promoting our wonderful show and it's cast and crew. This was an organized and inspired group. Money that was raised for the cause, in excess of the need, was donated to charity, and as such we became an unofficial charitable organization, raising funds, or other items during times of crisis for completely unrelated concerns. Unfortunately the decision was made and the show was officially canceled, to the heartbreaking disappointment of everyone involved.

But the Browncoats remained. The fandom continued. We still met there at the official site and discussed the show, campaigned for a DVD set, (which we got!) organized the donation of those DVDs to the libraries of US soldiers off at war, and to our local libraries, inducting new fans to a show which would never get another episode. Everyday new people showed up online, having discovered the show and looking for solace when they realized it was already gone. Most wanted to know what could be done; had there been an effort mounted to rescue it. Sometimes their enthusiasm was appreciated and sometimes it was painful, but the group continued to be proactive and vocal and eventually it helped lead to our one big concession--a feature film. And this is where my rabid fan-girl craze really took flight.

Members of the cast including Adam Baldwin and Nathan Fillion, Chris Buchanan of Mutant Enemy Productions, and even Whedon himself (with a lot of help) were active on that message board. News of the film was leaked to us almost a year before it was green-lit. It was an exciting time, knowing that we would finally get more of our little show. It quickly became known as "The Big Damn Movie" (based on a line of dialogue from the show) although it was eventually given an official title "Serenity." The fans at the website joked about crashing the set and being extras in the movie. Then the most amazing thing happened-- we were given the green-light to be extras! In May 2004, Chris Buchanan leaked the information of the casting company involved in selecting the extras and gave permission for us to submit, although no guarantees. We subsequently learned he had actually contacted the casting director and requested she accommodate as many of the fans as possible. Seriously how cool is that!?

Costume Department (Saxon)

Not knowing that the word had gone out to "hire" us, and lacking much in the way of confidence, I waited an entire week before finally submitting myself. After the first two fans were actually accepted I over-nighted a letter expressing my interest and a photo of my oldest daughter, my husband, and myself. Almost a month later I received the phone call that I was in The Big Damn Movie! Not only that, I was expected to be at a costume fitting the following day. I was so excited. I asked about my daughter and husband and was told my daughter, a minor, was too young, but that hubby could come along. I was as giddy as a school-girl at the costume fitting. While trying to act like a "normal" adult I made stealthy efforts to touch clothing that was to be worn by my favorite characters. I eavesdropped on conversations to see if I could pick up any super-secret plot points (I actually did glean one.) And I checked out the super-secret wall of cast photos, trying to figure out the plot of the movie based on these little tidbits. By the time I was done being fitted I was sure I would be escorted off the set of the movie for being such an idiot.

The Nine

Acid Dorothy and Post-Apocalyptic Ewok

A total of eleven fans lived locally enough (although two came all the way from Utah!) and were able to be available for extra work. It was a month later when my day of filming arrived. I had to be on-set for hair and make-up by 5:30am which ended any thoughts I had of pursuing a future career in entertainment. I am not a morning person. We arrived on the lot and wandered aimlessly trying to find where we belonged. I was grateful to have my hubby with me because not only do I not like new things and places, but he was experienced in the industry and had the confidence to wander instead of stand there and cry (which was my instinct.) Eventually we found where we belonged and got checked in. After getting made-up and into full costume and wig I looked like Dorothy gone wrong. Rather than heading off to OZ she has moved to China, dropped acid, swallowed the Fat Elvis, and was wearing the "cone of silence" on her head. I couldn't hear a thing between my echo-chamber of a hat and density of the wig. I had to lift my hair up when people talked to me. Still better than my poor hubby who looked like a post-apocalyptic Ewok in a heavy black jumpsuit, black boots, gloves and a furry hoodie. Together we joined the rest of the extras in the "corral" and began looking for our fellow Firefly fans. There were nine of us set to participate in that day's shoot. The other two had already filmed their scenes previously. This was my first time meeting any of these people in person. We eventually found each other and made a nice little group of weirdos. We definitely didn't fit in with the people who did this for a living.

The Corral

The Trailers (Saxon)

While cameras were technically forbidden we were able to discretely snap some pics of each other before security asked us to stop. My hubby was able to translate all the stuff the assistant director was telling us in movie lingo, so I knew I had a couple minutes to make a run to the bathroom (I don't know why peeing figures so often into my blogs) Of course the quarters were tight and my "cone of silence" got wedged between the stall door and the wall, trapping me. So embarrassing! I finally managed to wrestle my way free. Upon returning to the corral I walked passed Adam Baldwin, who I spoke with frequently online, but couldn't quite say "Hi" to in person. This was my first celebrity shell-shock.

I've had more than my fair share of literal run-ins with celebrities (and one almost run-over,) but the last autograph I sought was when I was seven (suffice to say Tennille without The Captain was still a class act.) For the most part I'm not in awe of them. They are just people. They do a job, some better than others. Some may be prettier or more talented than the Average Joe but I recognize the uselessness of their signature on paper and would rather just let them do whatever they were doing, unbothered by me. But in this case it was nothing so simple or noble. I was just completely intimidated. I didn't want to be intrusive, and I didn't want to get booted off the set before I even got to see it. However, once I tracked down my friend "Saxon" (another fan/mom,) we attempted to approach him together and tell him who we were. Unfortunately we were caught trying to escape and sent back to the corral where they issued us props and took us to the set.

Nathan & Jewel at lunch

Futuristic Flea Market

Saxon and I managed to get separated from the group (because that's how I roll) and wandered around the set until we finally found the rest of the extras. We spend the rest of the morning filming. I unfortunately chose a location where my back was to all the action, so I didn't get to see much for those hours. I also couldn't hear the director through my headgear so I was often confused as to what we are doing and when we were actually filming as opposed to just standing around. My "job" was to look like a shopper in a futuristic flea-market. My hubby was a vendor in a booth near me. I shopped my heart out, picking at mechanical equipment, pomegranates, and something we eventually surmised was smelly eel. The future was a strange place to shop. When we broke for lunch the cast came and ate in the same place with us. I respectfully and excitedly snapped a blurry pic from under the table of Nathan Fillion and Jewel Staite eating their lunch. I was now officially a rabid fan-girl.

Summer Glau: The Wonderful

Future Money

Emboldened by our first failure to make contact, I finally gather my courage and approach one of the cast, Summer Glau. I think I picked her because she was the youngest and newest to Hollywood and …well, basically the weakest member of the herd. I politely introduced myself and the group as fans and briefly explained our presence and how we got there. She was so kind and came over to the table to say Hi and take some pictures before we all had to go back to work. I spent a total of 12 hours in my pointy, gold, granny shoes and my feet were killing me but it was worth it. The finished piece totals less than a second of screen time. At least I didn't end up on the editing room floor. I can point us out if you pause the DVD! The highlight of the day came when it was all over though. We had become a little known by the staff and they gave us a private tour of Serenity, the famed space-ship the movie was named after. More than a tour though, they left us alone to wander and unofficially take photos. Naturally my camera battery died, but Saxon mailed me copies of her pics. Gina Torres drove by in her car as we were leaving. I was on cloud nine. I also "accidentally" acquired a little souvenir-- a futuristic piece of currency that was inside my prop purse.

Me on Serenity

Me in Serenity's Kitchen

Arts & Crafts in Hollyweird

One would think being an extra in the movie would be the end of my tale, but in fact, it's more the early-middle. Once I had become a rabid fan-girl there was no stopping me. And there were plenty of opportunities because I had the distinct pleasure of being one of the locals. In December of 2004 an industry piece announced that expected among the celebs at the red-carpet premiere of a different film were the cast members of Serenity. My friend Saxon, who lived out of town but was a bit more rabid than I, joined me on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, across the street from Grauman's Chinese Theater, along with our rabid-fan kids. The kids made posters to promote Serenity and we screamed and cheered and sang as our lesser known cast walked the carpet and did interviews. We also handed out fliers promoting the movie. Guerilla marketing had begun. We created quite a commotion. After the film began we took the kids into Hooters to grab a bite. Then we tried to sneak closer to the theater, once the red-carpet was rolled away, in hopes of catching our celebs on the way out. While security was good, we were better! And I got some great shots of the kids with the cast.

Nathan and my son

Alan and the girls.

About a week later, on my way out of a movie, I was handed a flier to see a screening of a new movie for marketing purposes. While they don't give the title, from the description it was obvious what movie it was. I would get the chance to go see a secret-screening, early-preview of Serenity. I called and got on the list, then I started calling the locals. We were super careful not to leak this information publicly, because we wanted to ensure our attendance, but early on the morning of the screening the news leaked on another website and the screening company was flooded with calls. Our "first come first serve" status was in grave jeopardy. I arrived at the theater around 3pm for a 7pm screening. We were about third in line. I spent the evening, the first of many, camped out on the sidewalk, like a rabid fan-girl. I met some more people from the internet. Made some more friends, even had a discussion with a teenager behind me who had just finished a part in a yet released movie. (I saw the movie a few years later and racked my brain trying to recall how I knew the kid.) In the end, the first ever super-secret screening of the unfinished cut of Serenity was packed with fans, some even sharing seats, all pretending to be uninformed random movie goers.

"Random" audience member

The experience was incredible-- exhilarating and over too soon. Afterward I sat in stunned shock and awe as a paper was passed around asking us to formulate conscious thought about what we saw. For the first, and possibly last time, I was speechless. My daughter and a couple of her friends got to be a part of the question answer time that followed. The hardest part was knowing what happened in the movie (and a lot happened) and not being able to tell a soul what we knew. Tough but we knew it was important to the fans to let everyone have a chance to experience it the way we did. If you're not sure the grassy knoll could have been a conspiracy with so many people staying silent about what they knew, I tell you it's possible!

Rabid Fan & Alan

A few months later a Browncoat Happy Hour get together was arranged. Adam Baldwin and Alan Tudyk were the special guests. I went to be with my friends, but the celebs didn't hurt and I got what I think is my only pic with any of them. We spilled some drinks, licked some shirts, (don't ask) made a hysterical scene, and had a good time together.

That summer word leaked of another pre-screening of the film. The studio was simultaneously showing the film in about 15 cities nationwide and a member of the cast was set to show up at many of them. This one was not local, it was almost 100 miles away, but at this point I didn't care. I was crazy now. We packed the whole family in the car because the younger kids were pissed that they had been left out of the early adventures. We drove for what seemed like forever (four hours) in 100 degree weather. After arriving at the theater and sending my family to stand in the growing line (300 plus people) I went to the box office to claim my pre-purchased tickets, only to discover, my credit card, required for ticket pick up, was gone. I was less concerned about what had happened to my card than I was about not getting in to see the movie. I hysterically searched my purse. Three total strangers, also fans, searched my purse. I called Fandango and my bank in an attempt to get the numbers. No luck. Finally the theater manager decided to escort my family into the theater anyway, if I would promise to call her in the morning with my credit card number. What a great lady. I'm sure the brimming tears had nothing to do with her decision.

A few press people showed up and the kids were interviewed on camera in their homemade fan-shirts and hyped up on snacks shared by all the Firefly fans. Our celebrity host for the evening was Joss Whedon himself. And it happened to be his birthday, so a giant poster was signed by everyone and a rousing round of Happy Birthday was sung upon his arrival. My oldest managed to get a hug. After the screening (still not finished but with some effects and credits now) those of us who were extras were interviewed by a film crew for a documentary.

Autographed Movie Poster

That August we were invited to come to Universal and participate in the filming of a promotional video. My two oldest and I along with some friends went to be interviewed. We had a great time and I somehow indicated, on film, that I was willing to give birth to Joss Whedon's children. (Yes I have a copy of it.) It was something I had joked about saying, but once it was out of my mouth I felt like such an idiot! I was a rabid fan-girl but maybe THAT was the line. Still it's uncomfortable to talk directly into a camera lens with all those hot, bright lights on you and a mic-pack stuffed down your already too-tight pants. Again, I rethought my career in entertainment. While we were waiting for the shuttle bus driver to take us back to the waiting area we saw a giant movie poster for Serenity. My oldest hopped off the shuttle, after much coaxing, and asked if she could have it. The guy told her no, but that she'd be top on the list if they decided to let it go. Yeah right. But at least she tried. We waited around the corral and eventually we're released. Once again, I needed to pee, so my group was held up waiting for me. I had actually hoped that if we were last to leave she could ask for the poster again, but it was gone when we got back to the shuttle. However, on our trip down the hill the shuttle had to stop for the staff members crossing the street-- one of them was the guy carrying the poster. While we waited my daughter told the shuttle driver the story about trying to get the poster. The driver threw open the door and told her to go ask again. The whole bus cheered as she leapt off and chased the guy across the parking lot and cheered more as she ran back with the poster. This is the same girl who talked a Universal Executive into sending her an Official Limited Edition Fruity Oaty Bar T-shirt!

Fruit Oaty Bar Girl

Red Carpet Premiere

Red Carpet Premiere

I attended a total of 13 screenings of the film, including the press screening, all before it was officially released, but the most important was the red-carpet premiere which all the extras were invited to in September of 2005. Even more importantly we attended the After-party! As an outsider to the Hollywood world, let me just say, Wow. Let's skip right by what an amazing event this was, and go straight to how cool the cast, crew and creators were for making all this stuff available to us nobodies! Seriously cool guys. Class acts every one. Adam Baldwin had seen the kids on his way in and invited them to find him for autographs after the screening. My oldest had brought the movie poster with her and discreetly managed to get it signed by all but one cast member (Gina Torres, if you ever read this she would love to complete the set!) My oldest son, 13 at the time, waiting patiently to say hello to Jewel Staite found himself happily sandwiched between her and Christina Hendricks. He was happy when I left him. Being phobic of crowds I just sat on the sidelines and watched it all, I never even made it to the chocolate fountain! I did manage to find Chris Buchanan and thank him for involving us in so many events. And my friend Rosie, making sure I met someone from the cast, drug me over to meet Morena Baccarin, who was incredibly tiny compared to her size on big screen. I thought I could break her if I shook her hand too hard. My kids got teased by Nathan Fillion and one got a hug. I was jealous.

My Baby & Adam

My Big Girl & Adam

That same weekend we attended a "Fanfest" at Universal with a Q & A, autograph line and some displays of film props etc. A few more photo ops happened there. I only have one child who never got a pic with any of the cast. Maybe one day. I wrapped the whole weekend up by attending my first ever midnight release of a film. Ron Glass was there seeing something else, unaware there was a midnight screening of Serenity and Quentin Tarantino was there, but I don't know what he saw.

Chris B, Adam, & Summer @ FanFest

Inara Costume

Walk the line

Once the film was released life went back to normal. I never made it beyond rabid fan-girl, because I could never afford to go to Comic-con, however I do own my first, and only, action figures and a complete mint condition set of the original printing of the Serenity comic book series (all covers.) I have made Firefly related Costumes for Halloween.  I even walked the picket line during the Hollywood Writer's Strike on Mutant Enemy Day.  But outside those items I have some incredibly fun memories with my family. I was able to share my bizarre rabid fan-girl period with them, and they got some really neat photos, videos and souvenirs to prove it. I still visit the website occasionally, mostly to discuss politics. Most of the Browncoats have moved on. But what I realized when I was reviewing the events to write this blog is that I started writing again because of Firefly. I had lost myself before Firefly happened. I had faded into the background of my own life. My Firefly years brought new people into my life. It brought me a forum where I freely expressed my opinions and ideas and talked about something other than my family. And each time I went to one of these events I wrote an elaborate report of the experience for those who could not be there. I essentially was blogging before I even knew what a blog was. I was writing, for others to read and I didn't even realize it. 

Since I found Serenity

 I will always have fond memories of the friends I made, the support they gave me through some tough times, and kind words of encouragement they offered me about my writing. It was suggested frequently that I should write more, and more publicly. It took awhile, but I have done that, and Firefly, it's amazing community of fans and professionals, is where it all began. Thanks for giving me something to say at a point in my life where I felt like I was disappearing. I will always be a rabid fan-girl with you. Keep Flyin'

On Blogging and My Tattoo

Today I will be getting my first (and only) tattoo. The tattoo, like this blog, and so many other things in my life has been a long time in development--at least ten years. The failure to achieve it sooner, is the story behind all of my other stories, because beginning is what I fail most successfully.

Over 20 years ago, I struggled to begin college. I wanted to go, I think, but I was too afraid to actually show up. I signed up for classes, and never attended. Twice I dropped out on medical leave before finally giving up. I had all kinds of excuses: My job interfered, My school was too big, I had trouble getting from class to class, I couldn't find parking, I was sick. The list goes on, but it just boils down to: I couldn't bring myself to begin.

In my 20's I decided I wanted a tattoo when I turned 30. At first it was just because I wanted something symbolic of my continued youthfulness. Later, I was inspired by the near loss of my husband, to design something meaningful that I was willing to mar my body with for life. I turned 40 last month. No tattoo. Lots of excuses.

Over the years I've allowed a hundred excuses to take the blame for my inability to start things I wanted to do. And for all those years, I have called myself a "writer." Although maybe "thinker" is more accurate. I write in my head. Long, involved and detailed stories, which I never commit to paper. It's all up there, but the inability to start prohibits me from sharing them. Perhaps that's not right though. It doesn't prohibit, it enables me. If I never start, there will never be a point where I discover I can't really do it. I can blissfully tell myself I "could" be a writer, rather than admitting, I might not be one at all.

I could probably continue on, deluded like this, for the rest of my life. It wouldn't be too hard. But I've always known I was lying to myself. I always knew something was missing, and none of my excuses could change that. But ultimately, it was a chain of events beyond my control which propelled me out of my delusion. I started 2008 with a slight case of Cancer, some major surgery, and a mystery illness which caused the degeneration of my muscle, tissue and bone. The year culminated in my daughter's diagnosis for a painful autoimmune disease, the loss of my job the day before Thanksgiving, and the loss of my entire family's medical care. All in all that year sucked pretty hard! But not enough to change my ways. 2009 came in with a bang, complete with firemen in my living room, and my husband in the ambulance and hospital. But finally a diagnoses and treatment for my disorder came around this time last year.

Once I finally started feeling better, I had to assess my life. I had spent a year primarily incapacitated. A whole year disappeared. As I thought about it, I realized how many other years had just slipped away. I don't know when it happened; when I checked out and stopped showing up for my life, but I didn't want to waste anymore of my time, waiting to begin.

Inspired by a friend who defied all my best excuses and returned to school, despite her two young children, to train in a difficult field she felt passionate about, I decided to enroll in a college class. Just one. Online. But I enrolled, and I showed up (as much as one can online) and I got an "A", with a lot of support from my friends. This semester I signed up for two classes, on two campuses. Moreover, both classes have involved me sharing my work with others. I started. I showed up, in person. I wrote it on paper. I committed it to reality. I let it be seen by someone else. I have found so much of myself in the vulnerability of these acts.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned my tattoo to a friend; the one with whom I shared my horrible High School writings a lifetime ago. She offered to pay for my tattoo, which outside of "I'm afraid it will hurt," was my last legitimate excuse for not getting one. I started to think about the tattoo I designed and what it meant, and I realized its meaning was deeper than I knew. It's a simple tattoo. A little bottle. A staff of music. Four rose buds. It's a symbolic tattoo. The music, which represents my husband, is from my wedding, "Time in a bottle." The bottle is my life, the time I have. The roses are my children; blooming and growing in my life. But what I had not realized was the tattoo itself was symbolic. It represents all the things I have put off, all the time I wasted.

I decided to commit it to reality. Today. It serves as a reminder that I only have a limited amount of time, but an unlimited amount of opportunity, to begin. And in honor of that, I have stepped up and begun the blog I have been saying I will start, but just haven't managed to get around to, as a symbol of my commitment to write, and do, and be something, every day. Although I promise less serious entries most of the time!

The universe is a funny place. When it wants you to go somewhere, it makes sure you get there, one way or another. And that is just what has happened to me. I didn't go willingly, but I'm glad I got here. I hope you will continue to join me on my journey, and share it with anyone you know who may be having trouble with a beginning of their own.