The trailer is finally out! Go on, give it a look.
The trailer is finally out! Go on, give it a look.
Update! We just wrapped on shooting for the Awakening Spring trailer tonight! Shot by the talented Morgan Newton. (http://morganolivianewton.4ormat.com/) This woman managed to keep me wrangled in and we were able to get the teaser filmed in two days. I can’t wait for you guys to see it. For now enjoy these pics from behind the scenes with a couple thrown in from the shoot itself. (Talk about being motivated to write, now!)
So I wanted to share my experience overseas with everyone so I didn’t need to track everyone down who wanted to know how my trip went. Lookie here! A blog post for you!
Now, I feel I need to start by saying what I write here is just my experience over in the great U.K. and these are my opinions. I only had a week in the lovely country and I am in no way saying I am now an expert on how things work there. So don’t freak out on me….I mean it, stop yelling, you’re not my real dad. (Thank you Sonya)
Like a grandmother with an armload of slides and espresso filled veins, lets get this show on the road.
For our mutual birthdays, I decided to buy myself and one of my closest friends, Sonya, a trip to England. We had talked about going for so long, that I finally got sick of our constant “We should totally go over there, how awesome would it be to go to England?…blah blah blurg.” With one swift click, I had dropped 3100$ (and a little poo in my pants) and the trip was set in stone.
Let’s flash forward. The dreaded 15 hour travel time….most of you who read this will know how much I’m scared to fly. After two dramanine pills, let’s just say the flight from Seattle to London was a thankfully a boring and slipping in and out of conscious kind of affair. When we arrived, (jet lagged, with a touch of toddler like excitement) we had to wait to be let into the country. Sonya had warned my not to accidently say “work” in any way when being asked why I was there. I kept feeling like I would walk up to the guy (who looked bored and wanted to go home) and say in my loudest voice, “I don’t want to work in your country!” Instead, I ended up bouncing on my heels and telling the man I was excited just to get a stamp in my passport and that I couldn’t wait to see real history. To which he glanced up at me, smiled a small smile, then handed me my passport and shooed my on.
We had decided, to cut costs since we’d be there for a week, that we should rent a small studio like apartment for our stay. That way we could cook some meals at the room. We found Hyde Park Apartments. They were perfect. Cheap, and walking distance to Paddington Station. We booked our stay there and a few weeks before we were to leave, I read the tripadvisor reviews for the place. (I know, I know…should have read them sooner.) Here’s what other travelers had to say,
and I’m still no where near my New Year’s resolutions. Isn’t that just the ultimate cliche? Well, I know it’s been my own fault. Constantly coming up with excuses not to sit down and get work done.
Well, here’s to hoping that I can shut the little voice in my head off long enough to get what needs to be done–done.
Let me raise my glass to my procrastination, “You must not have power over me any longer.”
So I’m down in the south visiting my dad. We did an amazing day trip to Savannah and though it didn’t give me the goose bump creeps (in a great way) as New Orleans, it was beautiful all the same.
This was an antique store inside an antique home. I couldn’t help but be distracted by the house. I kept ignoring the old trunks, beds, and nick-nacks crammed sometimes all the way to the roof, to instead marvel at the beauty of the old home. I really wish San Diego would look more at these homes for inspiration when building those awful cookie cutter monstrosities that dot our city.
Sorry for the dark pic. But that house will be mine…oh yes, it will be mine.
I’m on this path myself.
I’ve talked extensively about self-publishing in this blog. Naturally, since I am one myself. But I feel that it is important that I discuss the reality of self-publishing, because I think there is a lot of misinformation out there, plus some authors choose this route not fully aware of what they are getting themselves into. Granted, neither did I when I went into this, so I want to share what I’ve learned in hopes that someone looking to self-publishing would really take in account what it is all about.
To put it simply: self-publishing is about you, yourself and no one else.
By that I do not mean it is a chance to be a millionaire, an overnight success with tons of fans worshiping you. Self-publishing means you alone are in charge of your enterprise. That means you alone are the author, editor, employer, businessperson, PR and advertising specialist, and…
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I’m currently in a writer’s slump. I understand this happens to all writers, but this has gone on long enough! I’ve been finding every excuse (and not good ones mind you, ie: lets watch that movie again, or I’ll just make a sandwich right quick, is that a pack of rabid squirrels in the back yard? Hurry, lets make a vine.) to not sit my ass down and just write.
Is it the fear of writing crap? No, because that is just the building blocks on which I can re-write.
Then why won’t I just let that happen? Do you, dear readers and fellow writers, find yourself editing even as you write the first draft? I can’t seem to stop myself. And as I continue doing so, I find that I lose some confidence in myself. I know, I know show me the world’s smallest violin.
So I wanted to post this here and ask, what inspires you? What gets your creative juices flowing?
(This might be a ploy to get mine going.)
He’s taking forever to get the blood off. If I were a betting woman, I would say there would be a female president before he would get that shit to come off his hands. Just like the now darkening brown stain that was steeped into the carpet. He was always taking too long to finish things—getting his car registered, throwing out expired food, getting the blood stains off his calloused hands. You know, the important things one doesn’t want to let fall to the wayside. Like his psyche, that carpet was never going to be the same.
“Are you going to just stand there?” His graveled voice, choked with years of smoking, was muffled by the sound of water splashing porcelain. Even though I had been around that voice for three years, it still had the ability to set my teeth on edge. How many times had I heard that condescending tone? How many orders had he barked at me? I snort. Well, he can’t act all high and mighty to me now—not after what he’d done.
I wander around what was once our clean tiny living room, sidestepping the broken coffee table, the rustic overturned chair I think we bought at some IKEA sale, and took extra special care avoiding the body at the foot of the now body fluid covered couch.
Damn. I turn up my nose. Yeah, that smell will probably be even harder to get rid of. I would have laughed at the entire situation if it hadn’t been such a bummer that it had happened at all. I really liked this small space. Being with him was the living nightmare, but I had managed to make a small oasis here and now that was all over.
Mr. Procrastination finally turned off the water. Steven, my amazing boyfriend, appeared from the bathroom. His dark hair that used to hang into his eyes in such a way I had thought it was charming, now stood up from blood splatter blow back in a sticky, tangled sort of crown around his pinched face. Sometime in the mortal struggle he found himself in the early afternoon, he had gotten his favorite Abercrombie and Fitch polo ripped, the tattered remnants flowing behind him like a sort of macabre streamer parade. I feel a sick sort of pride when I noticed I had been right about the blood staining his hands.
He’s wringing them together, his brown eyes lost behind over dilated pupils. He’s frantic—and it’s hilarious.
“Are you fucking deaf?” His voice cracks and I almost lose it. “Help me with the damn body.”
He’s so skittish, like a new puppy that had just pissed on the carpet and is waiting for the owner to appear with the rolled up newspaper. His eyes dart to the body, then the door, then the phone as though each were going to become something other than what they really were. At any moment the phone would ring with someone wondering where the poor soul on the floor had gone. A thunderous pounding at the door would surely be the police answering a strange call about weird noises coming from the home.
Steve’s dancing around the body, doing his best not to get the mess on his brand new vans. “Come on, man!”
He punches Brent, my awesomest boyfriend’s stupid older brother. Poor thing, he didn’t do this, but like anyone who was in Steve’s life, you do what he tells you or suffer the consequences. Brow slick with sweat, Brent looks ready to vomit as he attempts, for the third time, to get the body’s arm to stay inside the makeshift body bag he had made out of Glad kitchen bags. He hadn’t accounted for rigor mortis to have already set in—time management had never been Steve’s strong suit.
I’m struck with girlish giggles as Brent forces a limb too hard and the sound of a bone breaking sends his clownish feet stumbling backward. He upchucks on his Chucks, right there. Right next to the body.
I laugh more. Nice way to leave evidence, dumbass.
Steve isn’t any more impressed than I am. “Bro! You’re such a fucking moron!”
As far as I see it, there were two morons in the room.
“Stop being a pussy and help me tape this damn thing up.”
I get one last glance at the poor body, wrapped in a plastic blanket of Force-Flex kitchen accessories, knowing that her final destination was going to be a half assed burial at the bottom of the lake we all used to summer at as kids.
Blonde hair now stained a deep red, thanks to all that blood, (really, it’s surprising how much a body holds) a small, but shapely body—now chewed up by the serrated hunting knife wielded by a wanna-be tough guy. Her face that had been described as “cute” by many and was even asked to be painted by the professor at the art college, was now swollen with bruises and trapped gasses that I’ve heard try to escape a dead body after only one day. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? What I wouldn’t give to see Brent’s face if the body started moaning.
As Steve finally gets the bag closed, Brent finally gets his shit together, I’m suddenly very aware of the situation. They’re having a hell of a time getting their cargo out the front door.
My hands start to twitch. I find myself wanting to shout out to them, scream at them that they weren’t going to get away with what they had done.
But I know it will fall on deaf ears. They won’t be able to hear me. No one will ever be able to hear me again.
I’m stuck, standing there as they blunder down the rickety steps from our apartment. As I watch them load the body into the truck, I could only think that at least Steven could have done was make sure I was going too buried in my favorite dress.
What a total A-hole.