I Am Over You

I feel grateful that Time magazine waited until last week to print the cover featuring Jamie Lynne Grumet breastfeeding her four year old son, with title of the enclosed article, “Are You Mom Enough?” looming along side. I’m not interested in becoming a subscriber and wasn’t able to read the article, but it caused such a Scheiße Sturm online that there were plenty of free written words to be found on the matter. This free commentary and the cover itself are what I'm concerned with in this post. To summarize what I've gathered from the interwebs, the article itself is purportedly a fairly level-headed discussion of Dr. Sears and his Attachment Parenting model in the U.S. today, though some have commented that the cover photo implies how this parenting model has bred extremist super moms, extending themselves well beyond what Sears himself recommends for a loving bond between mother and child. 

Months ago, you might have found me going to bat for Attachment Parenting as elements of what Dr. Sears suggests have worked for my family, but on this Mother’s Day, nearly nine months into my career as a mom, my initial reaction to this cover was saddened apathy: I am over you, Attachment Parenting. More specifically, I am over any model of parenting that prescribes a ‘model.’ I just want to parent in my own way. I don’t want to feel guilty about not doing it ‘right’ by another’s standards. I want to trust in love and the deep caring that my husband and I have for our baby. I want to trust my common sense and my thirty-nine years of experience as a human on the planet. I want to even put faith in my flaws, that they’ll teach me along the way as I learn from my mistakes. My renouncement may sound like sour grapes for not having all of my Attachment Parenting fantasies come true—Lennon hated being worn in a sling and we had to start supplementing my breast milk with formula after two months, to name a couple of broken dreams—but my sullenness stems mostly from the article’s title which asks me to measure my enough-ness against a specific mothering ideal, putting myself and many others on the defensive.

Even the writers whose pieces criticized the article, qualified their criticism with examples of their own parenting prowess or used their personal Attachment Parenting successes as support for their argument. Sabrina Parsons, a contributor to Forbes, wrote that she’s bothered by the article’s implication that you need to be a stay at home mother to practice Attachment Parenting—though Dr. Sears himself says the opposite—and explains how she, as a high-powered CEO, breastfed all three of her boys beyond eighteen months, co-slept, and often conducted business in the office with her babies in a sling, strapped to her body. Bonnie Fuller, in her column for Hollywoodlife.com, commented on the extremeness of mothers like Jamie Lynne Grumet—stating that while she herself was a breastfeeding mom of four who “happily” carried her breast pump to work, Ms. Grumet took things too far. As far as Attachment Parenting is concerned, I’ve done far less than Ms. Fuller, Ms. Parsons, or Ms. Grumet and I’ve probably done much more than some other mothers, but to me, the specifics they relate in their articles and those of my own experience are meaningless and I think can be damaging when presented as paradigms for comparison. You see, I think what Ms. Fuller, Ms. Parsons, and Ms. Grumet did for their children is wonderful, but I don’t think it’s any more wonderful than what I do for my child or what you do for your child. Why? Because this is what I believe to be true about mothers like you and I: What we do is so very enough because we’re doing the best we can.

For the past few weeks a family has been subletting the apartment across the hall. They have a son who looks to be around seven years old. I’ve only ever seen them in passing—the father helped me with Lennon’s stroller one day—but I can tell that their sweet boy is not well. This is made clear to me, however ignorant and misinformed my assessment may be, by how he moves—with much help from his mother—how he speaks, and how he interacts with others. I notice that they leave daily as a family and I’ve wondered if they go to see a doctor—a specialist that practices only in Berlin, maybe. Perhaps they’re subletting the apartment so their son can get specialized therapy that could truly help him. Tonight, as I was writing, I heard the family come in from their outing, their sweet baby boy screaming in agony as they walked through the hall. My heart shattered as I wept along with him.

Shame on you, Time.

Photo source found here.

Looks Like We Made It: Gifted Babies, A Pictorial

Handmade projects are a wonderful distraction from my PhD research! I really have no business taking time to do anything besides read theory and raise my child, but I can’t help myself. Unlike my PhD research, crafting provides a certain and finite process. It allows me to actually complete something. I won’t have that kind of sense of accomplishment with my PhD for three years, if all goes well. There is no sense of completion when raising a child, so it helps in that area also. I’m sure I don’t need a disclaimer for why I’m posting my craft projects on a blog that is primarily about more heady, hearty matters, but allow this introduction to serve as one. Maybe someday I’ll relegate all crafty things to another blog, sparing those readers who’ve no interest. Until then, please accept that I am a polymath. Or scattered.

There are lots of babies in my life and there is soon to be another! This quilt was made for a little bundle expected in July. There is a secret about this quilt that I am happy to reveal here, though I’m deviously hoping the mother of its recipient isn’t reading: the appliqués are covering up a small rust stain from my iron. It turned into a happy accident, really, as I think the wee birdies are rather nice on their perches.

The patterned fabric is by Amy Butler and was purchased as quilting squares from Etsy.com. The unbleached cotton is from my favorite market stall cotton vendor here in Berlin. The seam binding and batting is also from the market stalls. Gütermann brand thread always in effect on my trusty, borrowed Tchibo machine.

Quilt completed and I was onto making a dirndl for my niece, Stella, who just turned one year old. A dirndl refers to traditional costume for women most commonly associated with Bavarian Oktoberfest. The term is also used to refer to a type of skirt shape in dressmaking circles, clearly stemming from this traditional style.

I struggled to find a Bavarian Oktoberfest dirndl pattern for a toddler, but instead located this adorable vintage pattern from the 1970’s. With minor alteration and the right fabrics, a dirndl it became. The fabric for the skirt is vintage and gifted to me by my mother from her collection. The fabric for the blouse is unbleached market stall cotton. All other fabrics, trim, and bindings were found in the market as well. Gütermann thread, a new spool, got us through.

Simply, I divided the dress, using two separate fabrics, giving the illusion of a blouse and skirt combination as is traditional. To give the illusion of a cinched bodice, I added decorative buttons and rick rack to the full apron. At the very last, I made an elasticized scarf for the wee one’s head. The look is clearly not authentic, but rather inspired by the Oktoberfest Maid’s frocks, and the long sleeves will keep her warm during evenings at the Biergarten.

 These vintage labels for handmade items were found on Etsy.com.

After the quilt and dirndl were gifted, Lennon and I were invited to our friend, York’s first birthday party. York’s mother has shown me his baby bedroom and I thought a banner would be a lovely addition to the dreamy décor she had already included. I always like to be resourceful and found that my collection of materials was readily stocked to make this project.

The fabric for the banner is sturdy, leftover cotton curtain sheeting from Ikea. The letters are made from felt yardage thrifted last year during our trip to California. Incidentally, wool blend felt is one of my most favorite things. It’s stiff off the bolt, but once washed it takes on a bumpy, textured softness that is irresistible. The letters are trimmed with four different embroidery thread colors from my collection, many of which came from my Grandmother Connie. The binding that holds the banner flags together was purchased from the sale bin at Joann Fabrics this April in Central Florida. Luckily for me, I still have yards and yards of this sweet binding left. Thread by Gütermann, of course.

The blanket stitching on the outside of the letters was the most time consuming of the process, but a rather relaxing way to spend a bit of a Sunday.

Mess

This week has been trouble. We’re transitioning Lennon from our bed into his crib. The crux of his ‘sleep training’—a controversial practice, to be sure, and a term I use loosely here to describe adjusting his sleep habits—is to have Lennon learn how to soothe himself into a sleepy state without needing to be in bed with Mommy. This alone might result in a lot less sleep for me than usual since babies don’t often appreciate their routines being disrupted, but his crib sits just at the end of the bed in which he’s been evicted, making the situation all the more complicated. About every other hour throughout the night he cries, “I know you’re there. I can smell you.”

What’s more?

Lennon is teething. He has had two teeth break through in the past twelve days. The two ‘biggie’ teeth—named so by other moms I know for their trauma-drama factor—are the upper fronts and they are showing definitive signs of popping; bulging white just beneath the skin. Lennon is in pain and at night.

Also:

Lennon is about to start to crawl and spends every moment that he’s on a parallel surface flipping himself from his back to his chest and kicking his legs. Supposedly, when a baby goes through a motor milestone such as crawling, it’s not uncommon for them to wake up in the middle of the night and practice their new skill. When Lennon wakes with teething pain, generally cross for finding himself in his crib and not the family bed, I often discover him on his belly ready to crawl away.

Not to mention that:

We just returned from a trip to the U.S. last week and I truly believe we’re just now getting over our jet lag.

To say my sleepiness has made me feel defeated would be an understatement. I’m pretty sure no one is at their best when sleep deprived but my symptoms feel very acute. Compounding the chaos, Nicholas is out of town chaperoning a school trip to Prague. When Nicholas is away, it becomes glaringly clear how much I depend on him for emotional support—something I’m not ashamed to admit since our wedding vows talked about doing just that. In all fairness, it was my benevolent idea to transition Lennon to his crib this week so Nicholas wouldn’t be sleep deprived, as he needs to be up early each morning. I stand by this decision, but I’m missing his tender perspective this week.

While Lennon is getting enough sleep—in fits and starts—being bathed, eating healthily, exercising, and playing, his mother is a mess. I’ll be honest with you—I showered for the first time this week just yesterday. Gross. Food wise, I do okay with first two meals of the day, but by five o’clock, when my body screams in protest from lack of sleep, it’s all I can do to open a bottle of non-alcoholic wheat beer and a bar of Ritter Sport chocolate and call it dinner. We have been outside each day this week for lengthy walks, a testament to the fact that while I may have lost some sense of self-pride, I have my wits about me enough to rally so my son can get some daylight and fresh air. I haven’t had many face-to-face conversations with adults this week and when having lunch with a friend yesterday, I noticed that it took me a good half-hour to find any coherence in forming sentences. The academic term at Freie Universität began April 1^st and I’ve slowly started my research, but the idea of working on it this week makes me want to impale myself on my retractable highlighter.

Last night, after a supper of eight or so—maybe more—sandwich cookies, a bar of Choco-Cherry Ritter, and a nonalcoholic wheat beer, with Lennon asleep in his crib, I treated myself to the 1975 documentary, Grey Gardens. I’ve seen the film more than a dozen times and find that watching Mrs. Edith Beale in her East Hampton house makes me feel better about myself. Last night, it served as a cautionary tale—a potential destination should I remain on my present course: filth and liver pate and forgotten dreams and unbathed octogenarians and raccoons in the attic and resentful children.

I really need to learn how to self-soothe.

Luckily for my family and I, I’ve seen enough years to know not to make any rash decisions or judgments about myself when I haven’t had enough sleep. So as much as I wanted to call it quits on the whole lot of life’s ambitions and only do things that would allow me to never leave the house, I decided to sleep on it—even if for just an hour at a time. Before I did, I went to my blue bowl with the fifty curled papers of wisdom and pulled out this little token of the toughest love:

14. Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.

Photo source found here.

Vintage Thrifting in Central Florida, a Pictorial

As my husband explained to my Father-in-Law outside of the Ocala, Florida Goodwill Thrift Store, “This is Amy’s Fenway Park.”

As a little girl in the decadent 1980s, I resented that my mother bought so much of our goods at thrift stores. Nowadays, I’m simply grateful for having inherited her serious skills in the art of thrifting. I don’t like to boast, but I can find treasures in even the bleakest of second hand stores. Wasteland deserts of flea markets and yard sales turn to gilded gardens under my gaze. The trick is, of course, that I’m likely looking for things others could care less about. You can have your auction worthy antiques and collectibles. I’ll take diamonds in the rough, thank you very much. Lately, I have a passion for vintage fabric and crafting materials, stuff I can refashion into objects of considerable desire. Here is what I procured on our recent family vacation to Central Florida. Not all the items I found on this trip can be strictly categorized as vintage—some are best described merely as ‘used.’ However, I was picky and only took home those things that spoke to my soul. An intimate bounty, to be sure, but nonetheless charming.

On the way home from a lovely tour of the Gypsy Gold Horse Farm, we made a stop for Mexican food in the small town of Dunnellon, Florida, which happened to be dotted with thrift stores. Knowing I couldn’t convince my companions to visit every single one, I chose a shop that looked as if it had the widest variety of wares. Painted on the building was one word: Thrift. Good enough for me. Lucky me to have found these two bundles of vintage fabric—$2.50 for the orange flowered cotton and $1.00 for the brown.



And these yarn rope wooden dolls. I’m sure they have a proper name for their use, but I’d never seen such a thing before. My Mother-in-Law explained to me that one wraps yarn around the little nails, flips each loop over the other, and eventually, through the hole in the middle, a rope of yarn is formed. $1.35 each. Delightful!



A new day and the next stop was the Hospice Thrift Store in Ocala, Florida. Not wanting to take advantage of my Husband and Father-in-Law’s generosity in driving me around, it behooved me to hustle in and out of each store visited. There were two on the agenda that day and The Hospice Thrift Store was pocket sized, making shopping at a clip all the easier. Lucky for me, I came across this perfect little vintage hankie from Liberty of London for $2.00. Love at first site.



I also spied this unusual Victorian-esque framed butterfly in the fifty cent bin. Yes, please.



Later that day, at the Ocala Goodwill, I found this truly radical LL Bean anchor skirt, just a few seasons old, in my pre-pregnancy size for $4.50 and this Super-Country, baby-sized, homemade quilt for $2.00. They also had an amazing pair of new, old-stock Bass boat loafers, circa 1978 in size 9. While they were two sizes too large for my wear, I would have snatched them up right quick, were it not for the $12.50 price tag. Though I found them on the rack without a tag, the kicker was that when I requested the price, the manager took a good look at my husband and I, whispered something to the cashier, and then proceeded to quote an amount far above the other shoes available. City folk. She saw us coming a mile away.





Onto Lady Lake, Florida for the small consignment shop, New2U. Normally, I don’t care for the previously sorted, curated stock of consignment stores, but I came across something I couldn’t live without at this one. I have a collection of Vera brand scarves that started with a set of graphic psychedelic napkins purchased at this church thrift shop ten years ago. Since then I’ve acquired half a dozen or so scarves. I’ve gotten really good at spotting Vera prints with remarkable accuracy. This one was a classic at $2.00.



Next stop was by far my favorite of all Central Florida second hand stores: Ye Olde Thrift Shoppe. First of all, the name is truly kitsch-tacular. It is run as an auxiliary by volunteers—always the best kind of second hand shop, for my money. The store resides in a sweet, little house whose insides found me overwhelmed with heart-racing, gather-hungry fever. In an old upright trunk, I found the following pairs of gloves, my favorite is the long felted, mossy green pair for $1.00. The most expensive of the set was the long, pale pink pair selling for $2.00.







In the same trunk I found two coordinating Vera brand chiffon scarves for $1.00 each. Major win.



This super sweet kerchief with a repeating green pattern of village houses. Again, $1.00. Love.



And these lovely interchangeable purse bags missing their button-on wooden handle. Nevermind, the lining fabric is worth the $1.00 per.



Also was scored in the very messy and unorganized—and therefore wonderfully dreamy to rummage through—section of the Shoppe, these lovely boards of rick-rack, of which I have a particular fondness. Fifty cents a piece.



A thick and old spool of orange-red, stiff, burlap-like ribbon for $1.75.



A pack of 100% cotton pipe cleaners, perfect for crafting. Or cleaning your pipe. Thirty-five cents.



A gaggle of “Craft Circles” for fifty cents, perfect for making lovely little things like this.



And who can resist a vintage unicorn appliqué for ten pennies? “Not I,” said the fly.



Upstairs found me some darling, deep brown flowered table napkins—$1.50 for the set.



And a twin flat sheet of the prettiest pink flowers for just $2.00. So many things to be made from this beauty.



And just when I thought my thrifting was done in Florida, at an early morning yard sale in the retirement community of The Villages (we commuted around by golf cart!) I came across this impossible find: A Wilton cake decorating storage case teeming with cake decorating goodies—all for $2.00! That’s two dollars, Folks. No zeros missing. A special shout out to my friend Denise Delaney and her awesome blog, The Iced Queen, for inspiring this new interest—as if I needed another interest to occupy my time.



I would call this vacation a thrifting triumph. What made all of these rather disparate purchases seem like destiny was that they all fit nicely into the three suitcases we had budgeted for. What sent the whole scenario into the stuff of legend? The airline didn’t charge us the standard $60.00 for the third bag. Gorgeous.

Not Fat Enough

This weight loss scheme of mine has been working tremendously well—for my husband. He has lost all of the weight he gained during my pregnancy and has delighted in being able to wear all his slim fitting shirts again. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t working for me also, but I’ve become frustrated by how long it’s taking for me to lose the weight I want to lose. There are a couple of bits of denial I’d like to own here:

1. I did gain fifty-seven pounds during my pregnancy and no amount of earnest wishing is going to take them away overnight, though somehow I believed that’s how quickly it would happen.

2. I started out so diligent with counting and tracking my Weight Watchers points daily—a key element to success in the program, in my experience—but have of late allowed for some slacking in this area.

3. Walking to the park, the store, and the farmer’s market from the Bahn station probably doesn’t constitute a proper workout, something I’ve been wanting to believe since I moved to Berlin.

Probably the most shocking of all my lapses of reality lately was believing that I don’t look as large as my actual weight—which, if you’ve ever met me or any other woman, you’ll know never to ask me about the specifics of that number. I went to the theatre last week and found myself in the front row. The production included multimedia elements and during several moments, a live camera was focused on the audience. The feed was then played on several TV monitors on the stage, facing outward. When I located myself on the monitors I was horrified to discover that the actual width and roundness of my body was in great contrast to the cute, petite thing I was sure I had admired in the mirror just hours before. I realize the camera adds ten pounds or so, but this was well beyond lens fluffiness. What was particularly unnerving was that I was wearing the outfit I wore when I wanted to look trim and fit. I truly believed that in those garments, no one could tell that I was thirty pounds overweight. What I saw on that monitor, however, told such a dramatically different story that I went into a bit of a sweaty, panic. The camera was still on me (so clever of me to sit in the front row, eh?) and of course I had to continue to smile—my full, ballooning cheeks turning bright red. Thankfully and surprisingly, my stopgap here was to remind myself that I’d given birth a mere six months ago. Yes, some women lose all of their baby weight within the first couple months of breastfeeding, but I’d heard that there was this other lot who only ever lost weight after breastfeeding ceased. I suppose I am in that contingency, and seeing as I’m still breastfeeding, it’s no wonder the weight is still on! For all my kindness, though, I left the theatre feeling small—in self-esteem only.

But as I mentioned above, my weight loss scheme is working, even with breastfeeding. I have lost weight and continue to lose or maintain what I’ve lost each week. As of last Friday, I’ve lost nearly twelve pounds since early January. That’s not such a grand number for going on three months of dieting, but for nursing mothers (and casual walkers,) Weight Watchers will have you lose it slowly. So what’s my damage, you may ask? Here it is:

I really miss my pre-pregnancy body.

I’d worked really hard in the past few years, pre-pregnancy, to concoct a healthy eating plan that allowed me to maintain my weight. I’d also started running and had gotten into the best shape of my life—something that I really let slide during my pregnancy. In my pre-pregnancy body, I’d always claimed that I was ten pounds away from my ‘ideal’ weight, but truly, I was happy with myself. I miss the clothes that were worn on that body, now tucked away in suitcases under my bed and sullenly hanging in my closet next to dreary maternity-wear. I’m ready to put my ‘full-panel’ stretch jeans away and am saddened by the prospect that I’m not even close to doing so. It all makes me want to eat some chocolate. But of course, I cannot. Well, I can, actually, just not the self-medicating portion I would prefer.

Where to go from here: Let me assure you that I’ve been here before—on a diet, trying to lose weight—many a time. Perseverance is the only solution. This week, I’m attempting count and record every point of food I eat. As far as exercise is concerned, I’m using the start of spring to begin running again (by the way—it’s not spring yet, no matter what the temperatures say—spring starts when we get back from vacation mid-April, thank you very much!) Tonight I had just two pieces of dark chocolate instead of four, the self-medication equivalent of a Flintstone vitamin.

My husband is the biggest supporter of my efforts in every single way imaginable. He often makes dinner and weighs all of our food on the kitchen scale so I can calculate the points. Without even asking him, he portions out things like butter and oil in his cooking so it’s easier for me to keep track of what we’re eating. Probably the most valuable thing he does is let me know that there is someone that thinks I’m beautiful even if I have my serious doubts. He’s militant, in fact, about not letting me bemoan my proportions.

When I came home from the theatre last week with concerned questions about the figure flattering capabilities of my alleged ‘skinny’ outfit, I asked Nicholas a question most men would shudder to answer:

“Does this top make me look fat?”

With a loving smile and without hesitation, he turned to me and said,

“Not fat enough”








Photo: Me, River City Half Marathon, Sacramento, California, 2010, Pre-pregnancy.

Tantrum

When I come against an obstacle I find that there’s a pattern of steps I follow to find resolution. Shamefully, the most important of these seems to be one where I behave badly. I throw a fit. Once that phase is over, however, I accept my fate with aplomb and move forward. It’s necessary, however, for me to resist, like antibodies fighting a virus, in order to emerge stronger and healthier on the other side.

I performed an embarrassing, new mom tantrum a few weeks after Lennon was born. We were struggling with breastfeeding and he wasn’t gaining the recommended amount of weight. I was nursing for what seemed like every second of the day and yet it had little affect. The diagnosis was that my milk supply was low and I would need to start using a breast milk pump if breastfeeding was to continue. To increase my supply, I was meant to pump milk from my breasts several times a day for about ten minutes a session. This would provide extra milk for Lennon and fool my body into producing more milk to meet the increased, albeit manufactured, demand. I was already thoroughly exhausted and the idea of nursing this other, mechanical baby in addition to my newborn brought me to tears. This exhaustion was compounded by the new, overwhelming responsibility of trying to provide my baby with the healthiest and highest quality of everything. I was beholden to go forward with whatever it would take to make breastfeeding work even though every molecule of my sleep deprived self wanted to scream, “This is not what I signed up for! I want a refund!” I nearly said those exact words to my very patient midwife, asking her,

“Do nursing mothers just never leave the house? Do they never leave the couch? Do they live their lives as nursing machines? How in the hell do they do this?”

What I wanted and naively expected to hear from her were cushioned words allowing me to give up, saying that it wasn’t all that important to breast feed, and that no one would ever expect anyone to go through anything approaching such burdensome nonsense. Instead, she calmly answered, “We just do it.”

Right.

The next day, I rented a breast milk pump and began the process of increasing my supply and feeding my baby so he would gain the weight he needed. I really fought against the difficulty of it all, though. I fought until I didn’t recognize what I was fighting against. I fought until I looked foolish—until there was nothing left to do but the hard thing itself and be happy about it.

Last week I wrote about how I had buoyed myself up from having suffered the rejection of not being awarded the DAAD scholarship. Tragically, I failed to take my own advice. The next day I discovered that the wound was deeper than three days time and a pep talk could heal. I sat in the kitchen and explained to Nicholas all the reasons why not getting the DAAD scholarship meant that I should not pursue a PhD:

Firstly, I’m not a real academic. I attended a conference last May with other Performance Studies PhDs and discovered that I was way out of my league. They all seemed so well read in Performance theory where I’m primarily a practitioner, still learning how to slog through academic language. What business have I writing a dissertation? Twice now my project has not been awarded funding. Maybe this is a sign. Also, wouldn’t it just be so much easier, nice-n-tidy, and generally more leisurely to go back to the familiar ground of teaching theatre in a K-8th grade environment? I could leave behind the uncomfortable, knee-deep discussions of Performance theory and elevator-pitch explanations of my dissertation. Teaching grade school would also be a more Lennon-gentle route, being able to maintain clear, daytime hours with a family friendly vacation schedule. But the most penultimate reason to throw in the towel, I explained, was that I had tried to call my advisor that day and her secretary said she was very busy and would not be able to meet with me for a while. She’d be happy to send me some other funding opportunities via email, but a one-on-one would not be possible right now. I knew I was on my own with my research, that’s how PhDs are done in Germany, but at this moment I really needed my advisor—a woman of great importance in the Performance Studies world—to bolster my confidence. She hadn’t the time. Bad timing, woman of great importance. Having presented my case, I asked my husband how I could ever overcome such incredible odds? How could I continue with this PhD scheme and its difficult trajectory? The path of least resistance was surely a more sensible route. Certainly there are many who would agree with me that I just don’t have what it takes to be an academic. Nicholas listened and then said, “You can do it, Schatz.”

Fine.

I opened a book of performance theory, grabbed my highlighter, and began reading. I bought a ticket for a play by a company I’d wanted to investigate. I started to do it. Later that day, I visited the little bowl on my desk filled with fifty curled strips of paper. On each strip is one of Nancy Sathre-Vogel’s ‘50 Lessons I Wish I had Learned Earlier.’ If you’ve read more than one of my posts, you may have noted my passion for lists. About a month ago, I had printed out Ms. Sathre-Vogel’s list, cut each item from the page, and placed them in a bowl on my desk to pull from if I needed guidance. The Tao of My Desk, if you will. I glanced at the snow-white curls on top and decided to sink my hand deep to collect my fortune. The lesson I fished that day said:

47. If it were easy everyone would do it.

#1: You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.

There are two things that always bring the sad: Rejection and The Oscars. Rejection comes knocking any old time and often. Oscar night is mercifully only once a year. Imagine my dismay when they both came the same week.

Working in the theater over the years, I’ve made the disappointing discovery that I’m not a star. I’m not the most gifted person in the talent pool, but that’s not the reason I’m not a star. I could work harder at honing my chops. What makes me not a star is that I care more about the artistic vision than the artist. When you are a star, other people worry about the big picture so you can concentrate your efforts on character, a practice that left me wanting more as a performer. It was a troubling transition to make at first, having spent the first half of my life only being concerned with me on the stage. I had to quiet my ego a bit in order to make the work that was really important to me. Since then, the ‘why’ of what I do is so much clearer and the process more fulfilling.

However:

The Oscars always awakens that childhood voice that whispers with glitter and sparkle, “Be a star!” Nothing makes stardom look so good as award ceremonies, partly because you don’t have to see the behind the scenes work that got them to the Hollywood and Highland Center in the first place. When the awardees talk about how much they’ve sacrificed for their craft, the sentiment is a little dulled by the luster of their Lanvin. All I can see on Oscar night is the glory. No matter how I remind myself that such ends wouldn’t justify the means it’d take for me to get there, I’m still starry eyed—then flooded with ‘what-ifs’ and ‘if-onlys.’ Living in a different time zone, I read about the results after the fact. I watched Meryl’s and Octavia’s acceptance speeches online. I spent the whole day in a dull, aching funk: a precursory taste of what I had coming.

That Friday, I received an email stating that I was not awarded the Deutscher Akademischer Austausch Dienst (DAAD) Scholarship to pursue my PhD research. My PhD program in Germany is cost-free so the scholarship would only be used toward living expenses. I’m in the fortunate position of not needing to quit a job in order to pursue a PhD and the funds would instead be used for enhancing my academic pursuits in the way of books and travel and theatre tickets. Hence, I wasn’t so attached to receiving this money. The PhD can still happen elegantly without it. Also, my research topic has been rejected before and by the much more prestigious Fulbright Grant. Folks are just not terribly anxious to fund a project about German Expressionism and avant-garde theatre, opting instead to give their money to more obviously life altering research. I was prepared to not get this one.

However:

What I could only realize after I’d been rejected was that I’d silently viewed being awarded this scholarship as bonafide validation of my work. The DAAD scholarship is not quite the Performance Studies equivalent of an Oscar, but it would’ve made me feel like a star. My husband tried fruitlessly to cheer me by saying that I’d won the LACF Scholarship (Lennon August Cole Farrell,) making me yearn for a stiff drink. But each day is new and as ill timed as my husband’s attempt, thinking of it now warms me. As far as the Oscars are concerned, listening to Woody Guthrie over a deep pot of coffee reminded me that there is nobility in being scrappy. How full of grace to be a working class hero—a righteous and worthy path.

I don’t want to give the impression that these conundrums have been resolved here, but when I came across the list below, my wounds received some salve. It’s a list of guidelines for how to create appealing stories from Pixar story artist, Emma Coats and it did, in fact, show me how to make my own story appealing—to myself. If I can gaze upon my journey as one extended piece of poetry, disappointments begin to look more like catapults than walls. Of course life is messier than a manicured Pixar storyline and doesn’t always provide a sensible ending, but I never enjoyed spoon-fed, tidy drama anyway.

"Pixar Story Rules (one version)

Pixar story artist Emma Coats has tweeted a series of “story basics” over the past month and a half — guidelines that she learned from her more senior colleagues on how to create appealing stories:

#1: You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.

#2: You gotta keep in mind what’s interesting to you as an audience, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be v. different.

#3: Trying for theme is important, but you won’t see what the story is actually about till you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.

#4: Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.

#5: Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.

#6: What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?

#7: Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.

#8: Finish your story, let go even if it’s not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.

#9: When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.

#10: Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to recognize it before you can use it.

#11: Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone.

#12: Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.

#13: Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it’s poison to the audience.

#14: Why must you tell THIS story? What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.

#15: If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.

#16: What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don’t succeed? Stack the odds against.

#17: No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on - it’ll come back around to be useful later.

#18: You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.

#19: Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.

#20: Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How d’you rearrange them into what you DO like?

#21: You gotta identify with your situation/characters, can’t just write ‘cool’. What would make YOU act that way?

#22: What’s the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there."

Photo credit found here.
Emma Coats's list source found here.