A month or so ago, I wrote a blog post that I meant to publish on Father’s Day. The post detailed the difficulties I’ve experienced with my father, Carl Nelson Drake. It was a sad and angry piece, and I guess I needed to write it. But I don’t need to post it.
I’m not a child anymore, and the peculiarities of my father are miles away and years ago. Instead, I choose to celebrate the amazing father who lives in my current world: Christopher Poole. (Warning: there is nudity)
Please sit down. This heart-to-heart is long overdue. We need to talk about sex.
In fiction, and especially romance, there’s a smorgasbord available for you, the reader. Like at a Chinese buffet, some of the selections are hotter than others, which is to say, they contain more explicit sexual content.
Just to review, here’s the rating system that’s widely used:
Level 1 – Sweet (kissing and petting)
Level 2 – Sensual (kissing and at least one sexual encounter)
Level 3- Spicy (one or more ramped-up sexual encounters)
Level 4 – Hot (lots of sex, language)
Level 5 – Scorching (kink, raunch, language)
So, the question is, what level of heat do I write? I can’t predict what my future self will publish, but for now, I write books that stay at level 1.
I do this for a couple of reasons. As a reader, I flip past the pages with the sex scenes. I’m sorry, but what intrigues me most, what keeps me reading until 2 in the morning, is the connection between the characters: the banter, the conflict, the silliness. Sex? Not so much. Also, and perhaps more importantly, my family members read my books, and frankly, I don’t want to publish a novel I would feel embarrassed for my Aunt Mary Rose of Rogers, Arkansas, to read.
Now, does this mean I look down on authors who write romance novels with a heat factor of 5? Absolutely not. Do I snub erotica authors? Nope. It’s just not what I write.
Folks who follow my blog know that every Sunday, I offer my website to other authors to talk about their writing journey and showcase one of their books. I don’t limit that website to any specific genre. I recently featured Sabrina York, who writes erotic romance and sells a lot of books. I congratulate her and wish her every success! It’s just not what I write.
So why has all of this come up, you ask? A few weeks ago in one of my blog posts, I mentioned that I used the word “vibrator” in a scene. I also confessed that I had to look it up because I didn’t know how to spell it. This comment has come back to haunt me. So, I offer to you the scene I was referring to.
Here’s the set-up: Caroline, our heroine, has just come home after attending a disastrous Valentine’s Day party to find her slutty neighbor, Kelly, aggressively courting Geno.
WARNING: THIS IS A LONG SCENE
“…Once upstairs, she saw Kelly pressed up against Geno against the kitchen cabinets. Kelly giggled, and seemed to be trying to kiss him, pressing her weight against him. He moved his head away from her, as though to avoid her kisses. He held her arms at the wrist, but she squirmed and got loose.
Caroline cleared her throat, and Geno looked up, startled. The expression on his face changed from surprise to pure relief.
“Hello. Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Caroline said.
“You’re not,” he said. His eyes shifted between the two women, and he frowned. “Kelly was just leaving actually.”
“Oh, Geno, you’re no fun,” she said, faking a pout. Her bright red lipstick reminded Caroline of a circus clown’s makeup. She narrowed her eyes and glared at Caroline. Kelly inspected her from head to toe. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Hello to you too, Kelly,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. She grabbed microwave popcorn out of one of the cabinets. “Excuse me,” she said, gesturing at the microwave behind the entwined pair.
“Oh, sure. I’ll just walk you out, Kelly,” he said, pulling himself out of her embrace and bolting to the front door.
“Did Caroline just get home?” Caroline heard Chris ask, and his dad told him she was.
Kelly sauntered over to Caroline and hissed, “You think you’re so smart, but I know men like Geno. You’re a little too vanilla for their taste.”
Caroline said nothing. She put the popcorn bag in the microwave and turned it on. Then she looked at Kelly and asked loudly, “How’s your boyfriend, Kelly? Miss him much?”
The younger woman smirked at Caroline. “Tom is gone, and I’m a firm believer that if you can’t be near the one you love, you love the one you’re near.”
“Oh, that’s so profound. Did you think that up all by yourself or did you read it in Cosmo Magazine? Can I get that embroidered on a pillow?”
“We’ll see what happens here,” Kelly said, sneering at Caroline.
“I know what’s going to happen here. You’re gonna take your size two ass out of this kitchen, and I’m going downstairs to be with my sons. Now good-night. Happy Valentine’s Day,” Caroline said sarcastically, waving good-bye with her fingers.
“Hi, Caroline,” Chris said, coming into the kitchen a few minutes later. The microwave dinged, and Caroline took out the hot buttery popcorn. She poured it into a large bowl, then offered it to Chris. Anthony surfaced as soon as the smell of the popcorn wafted down the hallway.
“Hey, guys. Happy Valentine’s Day. My boys are downstairs watching movies. Want to join us?”
“Sure,” Chris said. She handed the bowl to Chris and both he and Anthony disappeared downstairs.
She heard the front door close. Caroline grabbed an armful of plastic cups from the counter. Geno walked into the kitchen.
“Sorry to interrupt your… whatever,” she said, taking ice cubes out of the freezer.
He leaned up against the counter. “I don’t understand women. Tom has been gone less than two months, and she comes onto me like that.”
“Yeah, looked like you were really struggling. Must have been awful for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Caroline shrugged. “It’s none of my business. Do what you want. I just think you could be a little more discreet when your boys are home. And by the way, wear a condom. That’s the best example of ‘rode hard and put away wet’ I think I’ve ever met.”
He studied Caroline. She practically threw the ice cubes into the red plastic cups now.
“What’s wrong with you tonight? I couldn’t care less about Kelly, and you know that.”
“Really? Then why did I find the two of you in such a compromising position? Part of your anatomy cared about her.”
“No. Not really.”
Caroline set the ice cube tray down on the countertop. She turned to face him. She stepped close to him, half a foot away and placed her hands on either side of him. She looked up at him, her green eyes studying his face. She leaned forward and smelt his aftershave, but did not touch him. She lowered her voice to mimic Kelly’s whisper. “So you’re telling me that despite being entangled in her, you felt nothing. Not the slightest stir of desire? Is that the load of bullshit you’re trying to sell me?”
Geno looked down at her and grinned, then stepped closer to Caroline, the slightest contact of his jeans against the front of her. She stood up straight and stepped a foot back. He pursued her until she was backed up against the countertop. He leaned in and whispered back, “Men like to do the chasing, Caroline. And we like it even more if we have to work for it.”
From downstairs, Caroline heard a long “Mom, we need more popcorn…”
Geno jumped back. He looked guilty, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He leaned back on the opposing counter.
“Why do you care about Kelly? She doesn’t usually get this much of a reaction from you.”
“I don’t. Do whatever you want,” she said, looking away from him. She pulled another bag of popcorn out of the counter and plopped it in the microwave. She punched the buttons on the keyboard. The microwave turned on. “I went to this single parent potluck tonight. Yuck! The men I met there make Earl look good.”
“Really?”
“Well, not that good. It’s…” her words faltered, and she sighed. “Sometimes I miss being married. Valentine’s Day seems to bring home the fact that in a world of couples, I’m single. Do you ever miss being married?”
“I miss the sex.”
“Spoken like a true man.”
“Okay. Do I miss being married? Sometimes. I miss having someone to come home to talk to, to tell about my day. But towards the end, Cheryl-Anne and I didn’t talk much, just long periods of silence interrupted with screaming matches, followed by more silence.”
He was quiet for a minute, lost in his memories.
“And of course, my guys were always right there to see – the screaming, the door slamming, dishes breaking against the walls.”
“Really? You threw dishes?”
“Not me. Cheryl-Anne. She thought I was having an affair with someone at work.”
“Were you?”
“Are we still being honest? Because I wanted to, but I have to look at myself in the mirror every morning. I don’t think I could if I added adultery to my weekly confession. Plus, she and I worked together. It would have ended my career,” Geno said.
He looked at Caroline. “What about you? What’s your story?” he asked.
Caroline shrugged. “A bad relationship that got worse. I think we packed our problems in the boxes along with our dishes when we moved to Alaska. When he started working out of town, things got worse. Then he met Mindy. That’s all she wrote.”
“Do you hate her?”
“God no. I felt relieved it was finally over. Mindy is what Earl needs – a young, adoring woman. I was too at one time, but just so many disappointments over the years. During the last year of our marriage, we slept in separate bedrooms. I played the ‘nightlight game.’”
“The what?” he asked.
“When Earl was out of town, I’d sleep upstairs in the master bedroom, and I’d plug in a nightlight by that room so the boys could find me in the middle of the night. When he was home, I’d sleep downstairs in the guest room, and I’d plug the nightlight in the outlet at the bottom of the stairs so the boys would know to go downstairs to find me. Kind of pathetic, huh?”
“Maybe we’re both a little pathetic,” he said, smiling at her.
“Mom, are you coming? We’re starving,” Bobby yelled. The microwave dinged.
She tucked a two liter of soda under her arm and started to grab the stacked cups of ice. “Gotta go. I got a hot date downstairs.”
“Can I join you?”
“Sure. But just don’t let my landlord know. He gets nasty when I entertain male guests.”
“Sounds like a real asshole.”
“Oh, God yes. He is,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Here. Give me some of those cups,” he said, before taking them from her.
“By the way, how did you and Kelly wind up in the kitchen tonight?” Caroline asked.
“She came over here and asked me to change the battery in her…”
“Vibrator?”
“Smoke alarm, thank you. Why? Are you jealous?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“I think nauseated is a better adjective.”
“Ouch! That’s hurts. During your marriage, did Earl ever call you a shrew?”
“You know, suddenly, I feel the urge to throw something.”
“Good thing these are plastic cups,” he said. He opened the microwave door and grabbed the hot bag of popcorn. In the other hand, he picked up two cups of ice.
Together they headed downstairs where their four boys waited for them.
Hands and arms inside the cart. Next: redefining success one reader at a time.
Now that I’ve sent A Year with Geno to my editor, Les Dunseith, I can turn my attention to a few neglected projects that have been waiting for my attention. Specifically: correcting all of the typos in Bone Girl.
Yes, you faithful readers, I know you overlooked the misspelled words and the clumsy sentences, but I can’t any longer. So, this morning at oh-God-early, I sat down at this desk and began correcting them.
I published Bone Girl directly to three platforms: Smashwords, Kindle and Nook. So, I have to submit a corrected version of the manuscript to all three companies. I can check Smashwords off my to-do list; I finished that today. Tomorrow, I tackle Kindle and then Nook.
Here’s the thing: I know I am going to make mistakes. Big, fat ones that smell like rotten meat. That’s not the problem. The problem is forgiving myself, accurately assessing the damage done and then moving on. You know the saying, “To err is human, to forgive divine.” Well, I amend it a little and conclude with, “To forgive myself is not really my thing.”
But I have to. I have to acknowledge I am going to make mistakes during this journey. I’m going to take wrong turns and follow bad advice. That’s part of this indie author gig. Maybe I learn more from those…
Last month, I decided to leave the warm, safe home I had made at WordPress.com and move my website all the way across town to WordPress.org so that I could sell my books directly to readers. You’re probably thinking, why is that a big deal? Well, it’s a big deal because all of the ease and comfort that the IT gurus built into WordPress.com for beginners like me is now, uh, GONE! Me, with teensy bit of computer wisdom, am now required to do pretty much everything.
This morning, I couldn’t log onto my website. After trying far too many times and sending a nasty email to the support staff, I gave up and stomped off to my day job. Only later in the day, when the support people responded to that email did I realize, oh, Lord. I entered the name of my website incorrectly. No wonder I couldn’t log on. Is it too late to suck back that email? Why, yes. Yes, it is.
But one thing is for sure: I know how to log onto my website now. Yep. Cross that lesson off. And along the way, I also figured out how to download askimet, which blocks spam comments from my site. No more remarks about how great Viagra is.
Take a deep breath, I tell myself. Tomorrow is another day. Just imagine the caliber of mistakes I’ll make then, hopefully, learning from each and every one.
Hands and arms inside the cart: Next: redefining success one book at a time.
Time for a confession: I’m a procrastinator.
I’ve been this way my entire life. I remember writing a French paper in 1985 the night before it was due. I even taught this bad habit to my children – putting together more than one science fair project the night before the competition.
So, with the long road trip to Missouri to see my son graduate from high school and visit family, I thought, ah, heck, I’ll just postpone publication of A Year with Geno. Why not? Maybe I’ll publish it in July.
That was until I visited my brother, Kevin, and his delightful wife, Kathy. These two have been my biggest (dare I say only?) fans since my first book, Celebration House, debuted last August. They are my cheerleaders.
On Saturday, when I spent time with them, Kathy told me that reading Bone Girl made her cry, so she put it aside. My big brother is facing a serious illness that requires a series of difficult treatments, so when Kathy was reading Bone Girl during one of these sessions, she started crying because of an event in the book. Well, she didn’t want folks around her to see her cry and think she was upset about Kevin, so she stopped reading it.
I’m happy to report that A Year with Geno is a completely different book than Bone Girl. It’s a contemporary romance meant for adults. I even use the word “vibrator” in it. (Author’s note: I had to look it up in the dictionary to be sure I spelled it correctly). Unless you’re a true wimp like me, you won’t cry at all when you read it. But, you will (I hope) laugh out loud and think, “Oh, my God! I can’t believe she just said that.” That’s my goal.
So, for my dear sister-in-law Kathy, who takes such amazing care of my brother, A Year with Geno will be out in, let’s see, 24 days. On Kevin’s birthday no less.
Damn! I better get busy.
Hands and arms inside the cart: Making mistakes a long the whey. (Yeah, I know I posted this teaser last time. But, really, that’s the next blog topic).
My little boy, Jack, celebrated his seventh birthday last month. For his party, he wanted a “Real Steel” theme.
For those of you without a little boy in your home, “Real Steel” is a movie released in 2011 that tells the story of a down-on-his-luck fighter, Charlie, who reconnects with his biological son, Max. Together, they tour the country with their boxing robots and eventually, their sparring bot, Atom, takes on the world’s champion robot fighter. Leading up to this big fight, Atom conquers other robot boxes, including Metro, Twin Cities and the like. It’s kind of a rock’em, sock’em robot movie.
My son and I don’t share the same opinion of this film. Jack loves it. For me, the film is a waste of 90 minutes. My problem is the main character, Charlie, who literally hawks his son to buy a robot, Noisy Boy. Charlie is played by Hugh Jackman and is the only thing I like about this movie. For me, if Hugh can’t save a movie, it cannot be saved.
Hugh Jackman with Atom, the little sparring bot who could.
I rate “Real Steel” 1 out of 5 stars. My son, on the other hand, loves it. He gives it five stars. Six, if he had a spare.
Jack loves the robots, and I admit they’re kind of cool. At least the possibility of them. But I just find a father who sells his son to be an unredeemable character. Sorry, Charlie.
But my son overlooks this. For him, it’s all about the robots. In fact, he often asks me, “Mom, do you know how Twin Cities fights?” Twin Cities is a robot. I always say, “No. Show me.” And Jack does, jumping up and down, swinging his fists in the air and adding a “crunch” for sound effect. Then he whirls around and punches the air again. “Like that,” Jack says.
Apparently, I’m alone in my distaste. The film grossed $300 million and was nominated for an Oscar for best visual effects.
My son is what I call a Superfan. Jack, with his endless adoration of this movie, is a super fan of “Real Steel.” The day before his seventh birthday, we traipsed from one party-supply store to another in Spokane, asking if they carried any “Real Steel” merchandise, like paper plates or banners or any of that stuff. I don’t think anybody but Jack was surprised to learn that there were no “Real Steel”-inspired decorations available. Some of the store clerks didn’t even know what “Real Steel” was.
Mark Coker, the founder of Smashwords, tells authors to grow their own Superfans. In his book, The Secrets to E-book Publishing Success, he talked about the importance of these folks.
“A fan will review your book positively and purchase your other books, and will anxiously await your next books. A fan is also a potential evangelist for your books, and an evangelist will not only recommend your book to friends, they will command their friends to read it…. Fans create word of mouth, and word of mouth separates the poor-sellers from the bestsellers.”
Well, I don’t know if I’m there yet, but I do have a few Superfans. Some are my family – my Aunt Mary Rose, my brother, Kevin, and my mother-in-law, Edith. Others are friends and former co-workers in Alaska who buy my books and read my blog.
Then there’s the patients to whom I provide nursing care. One of them, Joyce, bought both of my books and posted Amazon reviews. Thank you, Joyce. Reviews on Amazon are vital to indie authors. Some book review sites won’t even consider promoting unless the author has at least eight reviews.
Another patient, Shirley, a wisp of a girl at age 86, fawns over the characters in Celebration House and eagerly awaits the sequel. She made me laugh a few days ago when she said to me, “And what the hell kind of name is Sunshine anyway?” referring to a naughty character in Celebration House. I don’t know why, but it makes me laugh to hear octogenarians cuss.
The husband of one of my patients told me, “Carrie needs to buy a generator,” referring to the main character in Celebration House and her struggles to keep the lights on. As they were leaving the clinic, his wife said, “He tells everybody about your book.” Superfan!
Thanks to Facebook, I’ve reconnected with high-school classmates. Recently, I posted a photo of the print version of Bone Girl. Teasingly, I asked “Who wants one?” To my surprise, my classmates do. One friend from long ago said she wanted to buy four copies. Four? What? Buy that many and I come to your house and read them.
I’m so grateful for these readers. Sure, there’s no paper plates or banners featuring the cover art from Bone Girl. Not yet.
Hands and arms inside the cart. Next: making mistakes a long the whey.
A few weeks ago, I came across a post from Joel Friedlander, a well-known author who writes articles on self-publishing. He encourages writers to think about who is going to buy their book before they even write it.
Well, I can’t do that. That’s not how my mind works. I just want to tell my stories. But his comment did get me thinking. What demographic would buy Bone Girl? If you are one of the 15 people or so who has bought and read my book, you know that the main character is an 11-year-old girl who yearns for her mother, a meth addict. Okay. Well, that demographic is a pretty narrow one.
What else is there about this book that would call out to readers? One of my beta readers, Aarene Storms, gave me the answer. She wrote to me and told me to let her know when a printed version would be available because she wants to buy one for her dad. He plays the trombone, just as the main character does.
Got it! That’s one of the groups of people I could market my book to – trombone players, especially women. Because believe it or not, gender bias does exist in the music world. Just like the main character’s mother, some folks think a woman shouldn’t play the trombone.
So, I went online and stumbled upon a trombone forum. No, I’m not kidding. There is a website dedicated to trombone players. Here’s the link: http://tromboneforum.org
I created an account and have been asking questions of these experts ever since.
One woman, Sarah, wrote to me and said she played the trombone because it’s the instrument her family could afford for her. This is just like my main character. Sarah also told me she would be delighted to buy a copy of my book, but only in printed form. She said she’s old school. Because of her comments and my Aunt Mary Rose’s prodding, I tackled the task of formatting Bone Girl for CreateSpace, the company who prints my book. The proof copies are on their way to me.
Musing through the posts on the trombone forum is fun for me. And that’s part of the joy of this journey.
For instance, yesterday, one of the members responded to my query about choosing music for the book trailer. Yes, with the help of my husband, Chris, we are making a book trailer. My husband will play his trombone for the background music. He and I were talking and I asked him, what music should he play? What would be haunting and melodic for this 20-second movie? Chris suggested the William Tell Overture. No, I said. How about Camptown Races? No. He was kidding, of course. I think…
I posted the same question on the trombone forum. I received a bevy of suggestions, along with information that the trombone has a few names I didn’t know: slushpump, sliphorns, sackbutts and posaunes.
And that contributor, known as SilverBone from Portland, Oregon, ended his post with this limerick, which I share now with you:
“The nastiest fellow I’ve known
Smashed his trombone and ruined its tone.
There’s a simple excuse
For his slushpump abuse;
He was born to be bad to the bone.”
Love it! Thank you.
Hands and arms inside the cart. Next: Superfans!
Thank you, Christine, for that generous introduction. Welcome to my blog!
“Write deep, write true, and have fun along the way.”
This advice must work for today’s featured author, Beth Camp. She’s made it to the second round of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. Congratulations, Beth. And best of luck with your entry, Years of Stone.
If you read this blog on a regular basis or perhaps know me personally, you know I struggle with insecurity. I think all writers do. We worry our stories don’t make sense or they’re boring and no one will read them. Last night, I was given a brief respite from my self-doubt.
I was sitting in the back of the room at my local writer’s guild monthly meeting when I received notice of a review that had posted to GoodReads. I’ll be honest, I was a teeny bit bored, so I opened the email. After I finished reading, it was all I could do to not openly sob, so I sniffled and snuffled and discreetly wiped away my tears. Here is what I read:
“I did a pre-publishing beta read of Annette Drake’s Bone Girl a few weeks before its recent launch March 1st. I was a little nervous about it since the book description and the age of the protagonist made me think of it as a book for middle school kids. It’s been years since I was in middle school. In fact, it’s been years since my kids were in middle school. Would I still be able to relate to it?
But I’d been happily reading a range of styles and genres since joining Goodreads. I’d enjoyed Ms Drake’s Celebration House despite not being a paranormal romance aficionada. (Quite frankly, I had no idea there was a genre called that before joining GR reading groups.) And so, I began Bone Girl with an open mind and was soon caught up in the story.
Josie was a very sympathetic and believable character and her father was a good-hearted long-suffering Atticus Finch type fellow who nearly broke my heart. Throughout the story, he quietly and stoically did what he thought was right without complaining or making a big deal out of it. (Can you guess he was my favorite character?) He reminded me of my own dad, and toward the end I wanted to shout for him to stop and let us help him. Let us hold some of that world that’s been weighing on your shoulders far too long.
And so, I liked the book despite my age. Maybe it’s because the story was a nice balance between real world challenges and a little hopeful idealism in which you just knew that somehow, some way, things had to turn out right. Or maybe it’s because Ms. Drake simply knows how to tell a good story. By the time I was done, I wanted to learn to play the trombone and be a bone girl too. I wanted to live on a horse farm.
Give Bone Girl a try, whether you’re in middle school or decades past it.”
All I can say is thank you, P.J. Thank you.
Last night, I crossed an item off my bucket list: I auditioned for a play.
Perhaps you wonder, why does Annette want to be in a play?
It’s all about the writing. I read an interview with Julian Fellowes, the creator of Downton Abbey. He said being involved in theater fine-tuned his writing. Seems like a great reason to me.
Our local community theater is putting on a production of Gypsy, the story of burlesque performer, Gypsy Rose Lee. My husband and I had been talking about auditioning for Gypsy for a long time. But talking is not actually planning because to be truthful, I wasn’t really sure I would do it. When we got home last night, my daughter asked me why I hadn’t told her I was going to audition. The simple truth: I wasn’t sure I would.
My husband and I arrived at the Spokane Civic Theater a little before 6:30 p.m. I clutched my sheet music of “Down By the Bay,” tightly in my fist. I imagined a cozy room with the director, a piano and accompanist, and me. This wasn’t what awaited us. Instead, we were directed to a small stage and there were at least 50 people there. Ugh…
The auditions began at 6:30 prompt. The first to perform was a strikingly pretty young woman who obviously was not new to theater. She sang beautifully and that’s when I realized that although the website said newcomers were welcome, ages 7 to 70, I was the only newcomer there.
One by one, I watched all of the other hopefuls audition. My husband, always at my side, whispered words of encouragement to me. I always carry a small notebook, so I wrote notes to him, such as “They don’t pay these people, do they?”
When the director said, “Is there anybody else here to audition?” I knew it was go time. Fish or cut bait. This. Was. It. Did I have the courage to stand up and join the ranks of wanna-be performers? Or should I hunker down in my chair instead? My heart raced. My palms sweat. I stood up. I stepped over the pianist, who I believe is the music director, and gave her my one solitary sheet of music. At the last minute, I had chosen a tune sung by children’s performer, Raffi.
Then I stepped onto the stage.
“Hello. My name is Annette Poole, and this is my first audition.” I was greeted with applause.
I said, “I didn’t realize I had to sing to be an usher. I’ll be performing “Down by the Bay” from Raffi’s Greatest Hits. Join in if you know the words.” (More applause and polite laughter).
The pianist played a few notes and looked at me. I looked back at her. She played the same note again and looked at me. I looked at her. Finally, mercifully, someone said, “That’s your cue.”
Oh.
I began to sing.
“Down by the bay, where the watermelons grow…”
And then it happened. I forgot the words. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard this song. I played that Raffi CD for my children over and over again. I knew the words to “Down by the Bay.” Except at that precise moment, I didn’t. But the pianist kept playing, and I kept standing there, and thankfully, she got to the part of the song I remembered, and I belted out… “Down by the Bay.”
A roar of applause. I think I forgot to bow or maybe I didn’t know to do so in the first place. My first audition was over.
Later, the director gave me a script to read for him. In this scene, Rose tells one of the young performers to “Go to bed.” I’ve been a mom since 1990. Trust me when I say, that is a phrase I can deliver. And I did. It was one of four lines I was given to recite. I told the other actor who played opposite me, “I’m hoping for a non-speaking part.” He’s probably never heard anyone say that.
The great thing about this whole experience was what a breath of fresh air it was to sit in that theater and watch as the written word came alive. What a change from my real life. If I apply the litmus test of asking myself if I would do it again, the answer is yes.
And I know you’re wondering: did I get a part? I don’t know yet. Callbacks are tomorrow night. But I think I did. Here’s my line: “Please allow me to show you to your seat.”
Hands and arms inside the cart: Next, the beauty of failure.
annettedrake.com 