barbaraboyer's Blog

Fear can be a great motivator. But, when one lacks
courage to walk through the fear, the boogieman
eventually gains enough power to
paralyze its victims.

Having been in the healing field for so many years, I cannot even begin to count the number of times I heard well-meaning folks say that crappy old expression, “fear is a lack of faith.” Shoot, that expression used to remind my of me dear old irish nana that used to tell me I was going to He!! for speaking poorly or something or other. The comment in itself is a gotcha kind of expression. My idea of God is bigger than that. He is not a gotcha god.

I mean if God created us all in His own image, perfect (then the Fool (sorry Big Guy) separated the sexes and we haven’t recovered from that poor choice (again, sorry Big Guy) since… had a crap ton of fun, wonder and awe trying to reconnect… but that is another post for another blog all together). If we are all perfect just the way we are, why do so many of us want to make so many of us feel inadequate with all our god-given instincts? I am sorry. My God doesn’t roll that way. To me it limits Him and His creation.

Like I said a few days ago. In every lie there is a truth. I believe on the end of an extreme fear can be a lack of faith… yet folks throw it around out of context from the scripture’s message/lessons. I mean, Christ experienced fear. Are those folks trying to tell me Christ (whether the real messiah or not) lacked Faith? I wish I could lack Faith like that guy. No. He took that fear and made it positive. He drew His circle in the sand. He prayed in the garden. He fought in the temples… the list is almost endless of what He did with his fear… how he turned it around… how He used it to guild Him… how fear was the vary fabric that bonded him and solidified and strengthened His relationship with the Father.

Fear is natural. Fear is a God-given instinct. Fear can be a positive thing. And like all things, I can use it to my advantage and own it or, as I wrote in Courage of Fear, I can let it be my handicap and own me. Like ALL things it is my choice. In my life fear is the built-in warning sign “danger Will Robertson, danger!”

Now maybe I am just full of crap and my nana was right. I am going to Hades. I think not, but that’s okay if you think so. Maybe I feel this way because I am an artist and like most artist types I enjoy the exhilaration of the edge. Who knows?

What I do know is way too many humans automatically go to the negative in all things. I don’t know why this is. But it is. I just choose not to… or try to choose not to. For me it is kind of like that expression “either God is or He is not”… “He is Everything or He is Nothing.” There is not middle of the rode for me. If I want to say that fear is a bad/negative thing, in my mind I am saying maybe God is not, maybe He is nothing. Just doesn’t fly for me.

Fear is a way for me to be more.

It is just that simple.

So…

… when beginning my journey of writing I was indeed exhilarated with fear. Those wonderful, beautiful, little butterflies in my belly that come about due to the fear, was a sign I was on to something for me, and indeed, maybe for you too. They were sensual… sometimes they make me lose my breath (I think some folks see those as anxiety attacks–and of course folks want folks to see those as negative–yet to me those are events that says, hey this is important to me… they are a good thing… just breath and rejoice in the fear of truth) Like Jenny, I am sure, with her new life adventures, we welcomed the fear and felt peace with its offering. We walked through it… made it to the next wonderful fearful new experience and began again.

The blog I wrote a few days ago, the decision to sit and write Courage of Fear began my life, without me knowing at the time, in a different direction. And one, I am fearful to admit, I am still a bit in flux with. As I have discussed in prior blogs I have been feeling for some time a strong sense of change. . . wanting a different life than the one I have had for so many years. In that blog a few days ago seeing that sentence, feeling those feelings about blending and wondering what that feels like, brought home some inner thoughts unknown to me.

Let’s see? As I have stated in past blogs I have had many many years of a life of service. I was the go-to gal. I was like Martha in many ways in Courage of Fear. It made things click for me for many years… I mean it gave meaning to my life… it made sense of the senseless youth. I was here for you… who ever you were.

Yet unknown to me just before writing Courage I began to see what a toll that was taking on my life. I mean really more than anything in the world I want to love unconditionally… and more importantly I do not want to be made to feel guilty or dirty for doing so. I guess it is what made me an effective counselor. It just seemed to be the Universe was crossing my path with more and more of folks who talked about wanting the same things… yet did they really? More and more relationships were appearing to be about “what’s in it for me?” “What does this look like to the outer world?”… and it was no ones fault but my own. It was who I was. Could I bring to myself the same things I gave to others for so many years?… just being?

For once, before I die, I would like to be one of those folks that can go unnoticed in the crowd. I would like to blend. Is that possible? I would like to know what that is like. I suppose, unknowing to me at the time, it is why I chose to be a screenwriter (someone behind the scenes). Was it that the Creator was preparing me for my future desires for myself?

As I have stated in past blogs I had recently made some drastic changes in my life. As a result, some old friends have left. Which I think is completely understandable. Yet others seem to want to keep trying to pull me back… although I try nicely to change the subject or divert, pull they do… thinking they know what is best for me… and maybe that is so…

…but the butterflies… oh those wonderful, beautiful butterflies, tell me I must continue to stand my ground, stay steadfast in my current direction of self-love and continue to try to trudge toward blending.

More on this tomorrow.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

"When you look at the color blue do you see the same color as I do?" Courage of Fear, Barbara Boyer

I believe Jennifer was in tenth grade when she arrived home that day. She appeared disgruntled and antsy. "What's up?" I asked. "What has you so on edge?"

It appeared that day in one of her classes they were discussing abortions. The teacher had asked the class to take their stance on pro-choice or pro-life. As usual certain youths were called on to present their case and argument to back it up. Jennifer argued pro-life.

After the class, one of her classmates cornered her in the restroom. She was very angry with Jennifer's position. Jennifer explained to me all of the young lady's opinions and normal debates on pro-choice. She was appalled Jennifer would try to set women back with her pro-life stance.

Good for her. I said to my daughter. She was, after all, entitled to her opinions and passions therefore.

That wasn't the problem, according to Jennifer. What was the problem was that this girl was trying to force, through intimidation, her thought process on to Jennifer. . . to make her change her mind. . . to make her agree with her. That was what had Jennifer so upset.

Now, granted, this young lady probably had no idea that Jennifer was a result of a teen pregnancy; I thought to myself. She probably had no idea that my family thought and verbalized that I should have gotten an abortion. I had no right to have a child at my age, where I was at that time in my life. Never mind what Jennifer's rights were at the time (and having been now almost grown and able to think for herself she now thought that it was very likely, had I followed the wishes of my family she wouldn't be.) She probably had no idea, while she was yelling at Jennifer in the high school bathroom, that with each point she made she erased Jennifer's existence just that much more (and maybe I think too much.) Even though all those thoughts raced through my head I simply responded:

"What color blue do you see?" pointing at the hanging blue towel.

What does that have to do with anything? She snapped.

Look at it. Do you see the same color as I do?

Well, ah, yeah. It is blue.

But do we see that color exactly the same?

I guess.

Are you sure?

Well...

Look, honey, we all see things based on the colors we see. There will never be a way to know we see things exactly the same. All that girl did was showed you how not to bully someone, to teach you not to make someone feel guilty because their colors don't let them see things the same way as you.

Even though it was a difficult and traumatic event for her. I have since heard her ask me the exact question.
What color blue do you see?

From Big screen to Published Author

This is the property of Barbara Boyer. No portion herein can be copied, duplicated or used without the permission of the author.

I love artists. All types of artists. In general the imaginations and creativity of a group of artists can bring you to the speckle of a grain of sand or a vaporized airy blanket around the world, and one needn't leave their seat to experience either and everything in between. Artists have a passionate energy that flows from them, whether it is pleasure or pain, that one cannot help but be one with. Their emotions, raw, deep, intense exposed to the very tips of their fingers, through the wisp of their lips. And that folks is the reason why I chose to be a screenwriter.

During the time I was doing my research on what I wanted to do with my newfound freedom known as my life, the reason I chose screen writing verses any other medium was because the thought of all the artists involved to complete a project, well, it was almost orgasmic to me. Through all the books I read and studied I found the screenwriter to be the mustard seed planter, the script merely the seed. In order to get it to flourish to the final cut it needed so much more creativity… more artists; the director, producer, actors, gaps, sound, edit, the list goes on. So for the same reason I loved artists I came to love the idea of being a screenwriter. I wanted to surround my life with that eclectic group in Oz and Wonderland.

On that lonely dark evening, when I sat in the movie house by myself, annoyed and distracted by the teens, and watched what I believed to be my movie played out before my eyes, all that mustard seed crap was flushed down the stool at the rest stop of this girl's road trip. For several weeks, possibly months even, afterward I found my head in my hands asking, "Now what?" My heart burned with what felt like betrayal. Even though I was blessed to have my wish of seeing, what I thought to be, my movie on the big screen. I was left out of the process that attracted me to the profession to begin with, working with all the artists. Now granted, I could forgive the individual who I thought had my script rewritten to his liking and failing to put cash in my pocket. Yet could I truly forgive him for the other—raping me from the process? A question I still seek to resolve. And that folks is the reason why I chose to be a novelist.

My screenplay had parts that worked and parts that did not work. I was given the gift of an objective eye. I now needed to utilize that and make some changes. So what did I do you ask? I did what any long term single parent learned to do; plan b.

I went back to the libraries and bookstores. I read and read and read about how to write a good novel . . . all the while thinking about Angela, Jackson, Jimi, Culann, Bird, Sammy, Leo, Martha, and Lizzy (all the wonderful characters that were going to tell my story--make my point.) I swear, people around me must have believed me crazy because there were times walking or driving in my car I would be having mumbling conversations with my characters. My head and heart became consumed with their everyday lives… who these people were; what they did in their spare time; what type of music they listened to; where they lived and what they owned; who were their friends; where did they go grocery shopping; what bad habits did they have; if they watched tv and what they watched—many details that would never find their way into the book, yet they still found their way on the page. As a result of that compulsion, the characters began to speak to me again in this world they created within me. They actually began to retell me their story, yet this time, in detail.

After about six months of this kind of thinking and conversing I was ready. I left California for Georgia to write Courage of Fear, the novel. After about two weeks of working from 9am to 5pm, the beginning, middle, and end had been put to the pages. I literally lived in sweats and t-shirts. Like a good Sheryl Crow song, caffeine and nicotine were the fuel of my obsession. The story was down yet far from complete. I took a few weeks away from it. Back to the library, book stores I went. I read more on editing, character, description, plot, and conflict. I read other greats, like Wolfe, Twain, London, and Hemingway. I read today's best-sellers like Sparks, Roberts, Patterson. I didn't read these authors for enjoyment. I read them to find their mistakes and their strengths as i had learned in the books. Unlike in screen writing a pen for detail was a must with novel writing and so therefore a precise discipline not to be taken lightly if i wanted to succeed. In screen writing your work has a director and actors who brings details to the table. A novelist is alone with their audience, so therefore has full responsibility for the story.

After a few weeks, out came the sweats, t-shirts, caffeine and nicotine, and back to the beginning I went… yet now with an eye of an editor. Ten months later (that includes the month I took fighting with Angela, my protagonist, about her fate—she won, btw) I believed the story was done, and with no time to spare. God, what a grueling insolated life the life of a writer. I forced myself to join a writer's group to not only get solid feedback on my genius, yet also to integrate my then antisocial ass back into society. Oh, I learned a lot from that group (Harriet Austin's Writer's Group in Athens GA). Most importantly I learned that the bloody edits were far from done (at one point Ms. Austin who so graciously agreed to work with me one-on-one asked, who is your favorite author. I said Virginia Wolfe. She said, well you are not her so stop trying to be her. Be yourself.) … yet I had to get back home, back to California.

After I had settled back in San Diego, back to the internet, libraries, and bookstores I went to research top notch editors.

During the next year and a half of correspondence and corrections with my editor I began to research publishing. I researched everything from agents, publishers, to self-publishing. I researched exactly what agents, publishers and self-publishing did and didn't do for new writers. I researched and analyzed numbers that went along with being a new writer, from revenues to sales. How many copies does it take to be on a best seller list and which best seller list did what?

When the final edits for Courage of Fear were done I decided it was time to let the public give me their feedback. At that time the book was given to about 25 people requesting open honest comments returned to the author. Some of these people I knew and others I did not. The reactions were amazing.

The next step was the competitions. (During the time Courage of Fear was in the competitions I queried about 26 agents and publishers and received about six requests for reads, and one publisher requested to take on the project.) In the competitions I was again equally surprised how well Courage of Fear did. Courage made it through a few rounds in a Gather "First Chapters" competition with some wonderful feedback. It made it from over 7000 entrants in the Amazon "Breakthrough Novel" down to the last 100. All-on-all these processes took about another year and a half.

During all those releases I kept analyzing data so by the time the critics had their way with Courage of Fear I had decided on its destiny. As much as I had looked down (another lesson hard learned though humble pie) on fiction self-published authors, that was the route I chose for Courage of Fear. My reasoning for that was the amount of return on my investment and the amount of time getting the word out.

From what I could gather most new writers published through traditional publishers sell tops 100 books per year. Then because they are not making revenue for the publishers they are pulled from the shelves. This told me agents and publishers do little for new writers… and after all is said and done, the author going through traditional methods makes approximately 6% from book sales. If and when a new author went beyond those statistics it was because the new author took the initiative in marketing their book for themselves. If a new author went the traditional way through a publisher any and all marketing would also have to be approved by the publishing house.

To me, (the long time single parent always with a plan b and who beat the odds in the hardest possible area in life—raising a productive member of society) it just made good business sense to finish what I started. So, the girl with the big fat belly was to try to complete this task with as much commitment as she completes single-parenthood and everything that goes with it; and with as much enthusiasm, passion, and determination to boot. After all, I could sell my grandmother to a complete stranger, why not a book to a friend I had not met yet? It was decided, in order to gain as much capital as I could—to make up for the lost revenues of the nine years prior chasing this bloody dream, I would do the project myself, hence publish and market my own book. Outsourcing was never my thing and lack of control was never my problem. I had entrusted my screenplays to complete strangers and as a result went hungry and indeed homeless on more than one occasion. Yet I continued to stay determined. I continued to educate myself. I stayed on the path of the dream-chaser. It wasn't like I had gone into this thing half-cocked and naïve.

If anyone thinks publishers and agents don't make their money. Think again. Putting a book to print sounds easy enough, but I am here to tell you folks it is freaking difficult. All aspects of publishing a book falls on your lap and could mean your success or your failure, no matter how good your story. If the header is properly formatted, the italic title on one side, the author name on the other; the page numbers only beginning on page two of the actual read; the copyright properly competed; the rights properly obtained and paid for; every minute detail in the text properly corrected with a keen, fresh, meticulous eye; and ending just so on the page to be appealing to the eye and consistent; a proper format for the copyright page; even a well thought-out acknowledgement page (praying you don't say to much to possibly make that persons life hell when the book sells like crazy, yet saying enough to let them know how much all of their support means to you during your times of isolation and struggles… cause lets face it folks, those folks on that page pay as heavy a price as the writer themselves), did you mention everyone—leave anyone out; which page you begin writing, which page you place a title page; and the list goes on.

None of this is done without knowledge. No sir. More learning. More planning. More failures. More successes. During the few months passing while you get the copy-edits completed the bids return for the front cover art (not text folks, art). The bids you requested at 2 in the morning from your laptop. These bids run from $1000 to $2500. If you have any balls at all as a starving artist you pray for mercy and possibly pro bono. After all, you know of your own giving spirit you just know someone out there has to have compassion for what you are trying to accomplish, right? You even give up your pride and beg. When that fails you learn a new software program, another do-it-yourself er. Another few months pass and you believe the cover is professional (sorry to some of you guys who got that version of the cover—send me a note and I will send you the real one), only to pay some preview company hard earned starving artist money to tell you it looks like the flippin amateur that you are. So back to the drawing board you go with smiles of gratitude on their well-earned honesty.

All the while the publisher also has to incorporate its marketing plan. Again, you do not do this without knowledge so when you are finished with working the desk-top and cannot bear any longer that you cannot feel your ass anymore, you move to the laptop and begin to research marketing on the web from your bed till your eyes fail to cooperate. There are press releases, press kits, website design (again putting away your pride, begging; and when that fails learning a new software program—and trust me to do that right, there is a hell of a lot more to it then you would think), marketing avenues (all again that you must teach yourself the publisher) like myspace, facebook, other websites that will list you, the starving artist for free; gathering local rags and finding out who does what; strategizing what is the best way you can market yourself to get the press, get a buzz going; finding out who is who in reviews and getting and sometimes paying big bucks to possibly have them tell you how much your story or writing sucks (thank god, all the reviewers have loved my story and my story-telling, cause if they hadn't we wouldn't be talking about this here and now); gathering all the resources possible to get your books in the store or at least get people requesting them in the stores… and trust me folks, I won't bore you with the many facets of marketing. It is a plethora of endless mind-boggling chaos and information. Let me just say the list goes on and on and on and on and on with more life than the pink bunny. And all of this and you haven't even approved your book for distribution yet. Indeed, publishers and agents don't get paid enough.

For every meal I have missed . . . for every night I spent in my car or in my tent . . . for all the things I have done without . . . for all the disappointments to myself and those that love me . . . for all the free hand-outs that were given and that I had to humbly accept . . . for all the money I have had to borrow . . . for all the debts I have had to pay down . . . for all the sacrifices I have had to make . . . for all the people I have disappointed and who thought me crazy. . .In addition my travels from coast to coast to give my daughter away to the most incredible man alive at her wedding; see her do the walk to get her law degree; cheered her husband through his thesis; witness the births of two incredible miraculous, beautiful grand babies; met new friends; healed old wounds; loved a man more than I thought was possible; reacquainted with past friends, and even mourned the loss of loved ones--If I were given a re-do, I would like to think I would do it exactly the same.

Folks, Courage of Fear is told with all the emotion of a starving artist and through a writer's dream caught by the hopes, and the hoospa, of a starry-eyed story teller. Buy your copy today. Then the story that was so freely given to me, the one i worked so hard to bring to you, can also be shared with the story of the little runaway who thought she could. Much love and gratitude to all who share my vision and my determination . . . and if anyone knows Oprah, I am available.

Are you all set to begin today? K, then, lets go! Now keep in mind, this is not a story. It is all real...

Again, I did my research. I found just the right production company. In blue jeans and a t-shirt, careful to leave the Map Quest and research in the car, I walked on the lot like I had been there a million times before, found the right trailer as if Divinely lead there, and then completed the paperwork with little perspiration. During the interview they asked if I could sing or play an instrument. I replied "yes, however most people would pay me not to" (keep in mind, one of the few items that made the trip from OK to Hollywood was my 125th made Alvarez Guitar. When people used to come to my home they would inevitably ask, "Oh, who plays the guitar?" I would reply "Eric Clapton."). I was assigned to work the next day on location for some Showtime flick about some guy named Tiger Woods (again, I pretended).

Arriving on location at some golf-course in God knows where remote location waiting with the herd I had to ask, "Okay, so the big question of the day is, who the hill is Tiger Woods?"

Everyone within ear shot broke into laughter. The gentleman next to me said, "You're joking, right?"

"Well actually—"

"Next you'll be asking who LaVar Burton is."

"Okay. I'll play. Who's he and he's important in my world why?"

"Joseph, you're serious. What truck did you just fall off of?"

Like this guy could shake the world of the big fat liar. "The Oklahoman," I said very matter of factly.

"LaVar's our boss. You know, man, the director."

"Okay."

A sudden excitement had fallen over this guy, "He also was in the Next Generation, like, you know?... Star Trek series? The black dude with the cool shades?"

Jesus, I was expecting his reply with the likes of Elizabeth Taylor, Robert DiNiro or at least one of their lover's or something. I got a bloody Treky. Not saying there was anything wrong with that, but really. "Okay. And Tiger Woods?"

"He's like the first black man ever to be a pro golfer."

"Well, there you have it." Why would I know ship about golfing and Treking before now? It's not like the fools in the trailer tell you anything. Learning. Getting my bearing straight. It was all good. I looked around scanning the faces of the many extras. One black guy in the whole lot of'em. This shouldn't be difficult, shouldn't be difficult at all.

Me and the lone black man, whom I came to nickname Sammy, cause he looked and acted just like Sammy Davis Jr., got to be really good friends during our weeks of shooting… and we were both up front and center in most of the scenes, usually goofing around and having one hell of a fun time.

LaVar and his assistant liked to tease me a lot. They called me the cigar lady. Fools were always walking around with what my eye saw as Cuban cigars. Now, I am no cigar connoisseur. I enjoy a good cigar every now and again. I am a Macanudo Red label girl, myself. Cuban's were like being on the movie set. They were a totally new experience for me. I told LaVar one day that I thought it incredibly rude of him to be walking around toting on one of those bad boys from his lips and not share with those of us peons who were working and starving our asses off for him… hence, no cigar, but from that day forward I was known as the cigar lady, always followed by a chuckle. Every now and again I would hear that distinctive voice of LaVar's over the megaphone (yes, they really do use those things) "Cigar lady? Cigar lady? Where are you? Get up here by me and stand here." Fun times (I never have seen the movie, btw—starving artist's don't get Showtime, unless they are hijacking yours).

Outside of traipsing on the movie set for long hours, I worked as a script reader for my agent; simply for the experience mind you… I read and reviewed hundreds of really bad screenplays. The whole experience gave me a new appreciation for agents and production company folks.

In my spare time I went places where I thought artist would go. I met many artists from many mediums, painters, writers, poets, musicians, actors, sculptors, etc. I learned early not to tell people what I did right off. Everyone is working on the next big screenplay and they seem to come out of the woodwork wanting you to read their masterpieces; and many of them need lots of work (they were actually painful, I tell you). In response to me not calling myself a writer an artist friend of mine, who I got very close with, asked me what would need to happen to make me feel like a successful writer? I said, why seeing my movie on the big screen of course. I would learn, somewhat, to regret sending that out in the Universe.

A few weeks later the call came in. As much as Mr. S. liked me, my work didn't do anything for him. He like the idea for my my work, yet they weren't ready in his opinion. He advised me he would be glad to read anything I had in the future. He even advised me that he would continue to talk about me around Hollywood tables. Keep at it he said.

That is exactly what I did. He gave me exactly what I needed, no matter how discouraging. A few years passed where I was side tracked, mostly by a very handsome, young Irish man… whole other story for a whole other time. . . I like to call it research today.

Needless to say, life got a little dark. I needed to get back to my journey. I needed to start then or else. I did what all weepy women would do. I went to the movies.

I was a bit peeved because in that particular movie house, at that particular movie, there were teens running in and out of the theater. At times they would sit for a bit, talk on their cells, talk amongst themselves, etc. Like any good story, they merely added conflict.

As I watched the story I began to see a lot of similarities between my last script and this movie. Don't misunderstand, there were some major differences. In my story the protagonist was a woman. In this guy's movie the protagonist was a man. In my story there was Jimi Hendrix. In his story there was something else. My story took place in California and Massachusetts. His story took place in Chicago and some bohemian country.

The kids were ticking me off.

The movie was making me shift between anger and feeling flattered (let's face it, there had to be some merits to my screenplay if someone would steal the concept, right?). I got to see what worked and what didn't. I swore if the protagonist had done a certain thing at the end I was going to jump from my seat and strangle the little ship right there in front of God and everybody.

Someone complained about the teens, because they were escorted out. The story wasn't working. It wasn't that good.

My emotions topsy-turvy; popcorn wedged between my teeth, no amount of water moistened my dry throat.

Then it came, the ending. He didn't have the one thing, the little SOB found one though. My heart raced, my fists clinched.

That was it. Thoughts of Smith and Wesson and internet tracking circled my mind. All the years, the work, so that already rich MF'er could get richer and exclude me and my sacrifices. Oh, he would pay alright.

As the theater emptied, I remained. What the heck? Ah, well, good thing it stunk. Now, don't get me wrong. I considered myself a spiritual woman. I worked hard for years to cultivate that relationship… but there was a time in my life--.

In my mind this guy, who starred in many movies, had more money than a fraction of the world, very likely came across my script and saw the concept and covered his sorry-behind making changes to make it his own. I stayed in my seat and watched the credits roll. You can tell when someone had a concept because the movie would have several writers; I learned that from several of the books I had read. When one person cannot produce what someone else is looking for they hire someone else and so on and so on. I waited, counted, seven writers total.

Well maybe it was coincidence. Maybe there was no link at all between this movie and my screenplay. Maybe this was the Universe's way of giving me my success as a writer-- seeing my movie on the big screen.

There it was, my story on the big screen (did i cover that yet?). If it wasn't my story it sure was enough like it that my friends were calling me asking me if I saw it. They picked up on the similarity. At first I wanted retribution. I remembered one of the perks when registering my script with the Writer's Guild was if something like that happened, you got to use their attorneys. I phoned the Writer's Guild and they gave me the attorney's number to phone. Their response? "I wish I had a nickel." They asked me several questions; was any location the same? No. Where any characters the same? No. Were any of the names the same? No. I wish I had a nickel… great, me too.

Oh I had to spend lots of time in prayer and meditation over that one. Conclusion?

One afternoon I was having coffee with a musician friend of mine. We were talking about our respective mediums of art, sharing stories. I told him about the movie. Now keep in mind, this guy had known me for some time. He had also been through a similar experience with a prior band member who left the band and freely used the material he had written. He said, "God, Barbara, I cannot believe you haven't found that son-of –bitch already and done something to him, at least called him out or went public. That just really pisses me off, how people can do that without any repercussions."

I held my hands up like a balance scale and said. "Trust me. It wasn't easy. I had to ask myself," I weighted one hand. "Barbara's wrath?" I weighted the other hand, "The Universe's wrath? Like the attorney said, I don't even know if it was my script for sure… but blank blank knows. Karma. If it was my script I am confident the Universe will take care of it."

I do not know if this means anything, but that happened over five years ago. That actor has done Jack since… his flippin' wedding got more press then any movie he had been in since.

Karma?

Stay tune for part IV, where we go from Big screen to Published Author.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

K, busy day today, so as to not disappoint here is second part of this writers journey... Warning!.. this gets better as you read on...

Do you have your coffee? Lets go then...

From Oklahoma to Hollywood
Part II

THE PLAN: I called my day job's florist and advised them of my intentions. I told them that in my spare time I wrote scripts. That my most recent script had been getting a lot of attention and that I was looking for a new agent, which is where they came in. I had an agent in mind and a plan plotted to get in to see him, yet I needed to know his favorite flower. Now, I said, I could either call his office and state I worked for the florist or they could call the agent's office. They wanted to make the call.

I explained to them that if they took this mission it had to be held in the strictest confidence. No matter what happened, my name could not be given to anyone NO MATTER WHAT. My name had to be withheld at all cost for this plan to execute properly. They agreed and were quite excited. I advised that they needed to phone and find out what Mr. S's favorite flower was. Once having been given this information they needed to send him that flower everyday at exactly the same time of day for three days. On the first day the card would read "I". On the second day the card would read "need". On the third day the card would read "you!" That was it. Just that simple and no matter what, they could not give out my name.

They phoned me back with the name of the flower, which to this day I cannot give you—only that it is shiny red thing that looks like a vagina with a male organ sticking out of it.-- And of course those are not cut flowers. They are potted flowers and very expensive to a starving artist living in Southern California. I said go ahead. They were to put the plan in motion the next day.

The next day I was more nervous than the time I was in the back of a cruiser for a DWI and the police had discovered I had slipped my cuffs off my wrists. I kept looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. Paranoid as all get-up that I would be discovered.

On day two I was worse. The florist phoned and reported she just had to get my permission to tell the management company who I was in fear of their threat to phone the police… luckily she phoned me before giving out my name. I pleaded no. Just two more days, one for what they had left to do and one for the final stage of the plan, and then Mr. S. would know. I promised I was not going to go psycho and if the agent's office called after two days she could give them my name. She agreed.

Everywhere I went little suited men followed. I was sure I was going to end up in jail. I finally decided, well crap, if I had I was just going to call Oprah… what a story that would've been. Yet still, everywhere I went, it didn't even matter if I was going pee… I just knew someone was going to come and get me for stalking one of the biggest agents in Hollywood, who fool-heartedly returned my script unopened weeks before.

Alas, day three and I was still a free woman. I jotted a note that said nothing about my script (as did the last one). It was just one paragraph about 'how was I to explain to him in a note my enthusiasm for my writing when he wouldn't' be able to see the expression on my face as my hands waved about in the air or…" Yadda, yadda…Then, "Why should you represent me over the millions of others who solicit your attention daily? Because I NEED YOU". I simply stated I would be in touch soon. Signed it, put a p.s. that stated 'over the past few days he had experience a scene from the movie "title"' The letter was sent overnight by FedEx to arrive around the same time as the flowers had the days before.

The next day on my cell phone was a message from the agent's assistant asking me to call, that Mr. S was very interested in talking with me. I thought. Absolutely not! I had spent a few hundred dollars, not to mention three days in heck after his sorry, but successful, ass returned my script unopened… he can dang-well call me himself. He did the next day. We had a very nice conversation, full of humor, and as he put it, my celebrity ism.

I spent almost three hours in that agent's office talking about my work and his. To have come from where I came from and to be sitting there, and him asking me to leave my work with him, for almost three hours was bigger than life itself. All things are possible if one only believes... An unexpected writer's dream caught by the hopes, and the hoospa, of a starry-eyed story teller.

Sometimes life is so good, I could just wet my pants.

From Hollywood to the Big Screen
Part I

This article is owned by the author and cannot be used or duplicated without the author's permission.

In From OK to Hollywood I covered pretty much from youth to getting in to see one of Hollywood's biggest agents.

After getting in to see mega agent Mr. S. I pulled together my two screenplays, and a synopsis from another piece I was working on at the time. I dropped them by his office as promised.

I wanted to learn the aspects of screen writing that cannot be taught in the books or learned through the internet. What happens to the script after The End has been written and a producer signs off on a project? I needed to do what any big fat liar would do, become an actor and literally overnight. After all, I had been a model in the past. I rubbed elbows with famous musicians and movie producers. On many occasions in my life I faked it till I made it. Surely such a feat of acting couldn't be much different or bigger than any of those. Really? How difficult could it be? It wasn't that I expected to be Julia Roberts. I wanted to be a lingerer. Someone who stood in the shadows watching how things went, incognito I would mix unnoticed amongst the crowd watching and learning. Yeah, right.

Again, I did my research.

Stay tuned tomorrow for more.

Have a grand day all. Peace.

First I want to thank you all for all your emails and friendships… new and new again from long ago. If I haven’t gotten back with you, sit tight. I get many many emails and I do return each and every one.

With that being said many times folks will ask me questions, questions that are actually answered on pages of my site that are not my blog… so to try to answer some of the emails through my blogs I have decided beginning today I will post in order my journey of becoming a novelist, pretty much from the beginning.

Many of the folks that have read what I am about to re-post here have sent me numerous emails about how much they thoroughly enjoyed this tale of mine… so grab your coffee, hang on to your seat and enjoy the ride… and hey, if you want to leave me comments about your journey all the better! You know how much I love hearing about your lives.

Are you ready? Lets go then…

From Oklahoma to Hollywood
Part one

All rights reserved. No form of this article may be used or copied without permission from the Author.

A brief, and if I say so myself, interesting bio of a girl chasing a dream.

First I must take you back to a little girl who grew up on the New England coast. The imagination of that spoiled little brat was her very best friend, which basically is a very colorful way of saying she was a liar… and not just a little bit, in a very strong, big, fat way. . . oh the stories she could weave.

Later in life, and a whole poop-load in-between, she became one of those tragic teens who found themselves a runaway and yes, pregnant. So now we have a big fat liar with a big fat belly. . . and at sixteen, her mother taken by cancer much earlier, everyone thought the big fat liar should lose the big fat belly… save it for another time in life. Like many story-tellers, her determination only heightened.

Later in life, and a whole poop-load in-between, she had the baby; her name after a baby food commercial, Jennifer Rebecca. Jennifer became the main focus of the story teller’s life. After all, the story teller would only be 34 when the Minnie-me went off to college. With little education the crap jobs with long hours (and many drinks) were high on the priority list. After all, there were cloths, electricity, housing, food, involvements in plays, dedication to proving society wrong that single parents rear the worst stock; barby dolls, Nintendo games, stereos, fancy dresses, limo rentals for proms, automobiles, field trips (as simple as the zoo, later escalating to trips to Washington to explore how real journalism was done)… then came the time when the story teller was under the impression that motherhood was about over. Her baby almost ready for college (which of course there was no other choice for the story teller’s single parent child.), what would she do with her life?

It was at that point where I began to read anything and everything there was available about screen writing. I swear I read, even studied the good ones, any book written prior to 1993 on the subject. I would read in the library. I would read in my home. I would read in my car. I would read at the book store. And all the while I was writing that master script. I kept reading, writing and studying for almost a year; even took some classes at a local community college. My daughter went off to college. I closed shop on my business and took a counseling job in another state… all the while writing, rewriting, studying, planning for my future in California.

Then the day arrived, two years later, the script was done. It was a masterpiece. Hollywood would welcome me with open arms and praise.

I threw all my belongings into storage. A two bedroom house full of twenty-two years got locked away for my daughter’s taking. I gave her the keys to the storage, loaded my cougar with my dog, my cat, my guitar, my CD’s, my pillows, my computer, a few cloths and headed out to chase a dream long abandoned in a lost youth.

I took my time driving to California, enjoyed my new-found freedom and the bliss from the terror. Oh, we are truly blessed people, those of us that live in this country. It is so big and so incredibly beautiful; different parts like different kingdoms.

Once arriving in California I began to meet as many people as possible. I started to use every outlet imaginable to learn how to get my script seen. Again, the libraries and the bookstores were my best friend. I even took a job as a clerk in Barnes and Noble when my savings got low, just so I could read and be around readers. (I would like to share what a wonderful experience that was, but it stunk. When I was reprimanded for saying god-bless to someone I started hitting the pavement for an office job.) I spent many spare hours in LA meeting people. EVERYONE there was in the business, even when they were not in the business. Los Angeles and the surrounding towns (Hollywood, Santa Monica, etc) were eclectic Mecca’s… way different than anything I ever experienced in Kansas or Oklahoma.

My first day out, I found an agent. She took my script with much enthusiasm (translation; I did all the work.) I continued to read everything I could to educate myself. I researched production companies that did movies similar to my script. I researched reader’s names and contact information. I talked about my story and shared it with anyone that would give me the time. I sent out multiple copies, promising myself I would take my time to accept just the right offer when all the offers came back.

And then they came, rejection after rejection after rejection after rejection… and some, thank the good lord, with great words of wisdom and feedback. Two more years had passed. My law school student daughter and her husband secretly thinking me insane. I was not discouraged. The big fat liar, who once had the big fat belly, got big fat determined. I did what any writer would do, I wrote another script.

Now that script, a girly flick, started to get some attention. My agent was calling me asking questions. Where I was like, “ah, I don’t know. That’s why I have you.” Ron Howard’s partners wife’s assistant called asking me for more pages (they liked what they saw, but didn’t think I sent them an ending… of course I had, yet I claimed blonde) Many other companies called. My agent called with more questions. Time for a new agent I surmised.

I research the heck out of agents. I needed one who would know the ropes, yet have a charitable heart in the community. Someone I could trust. I found just the guy. He and his wife did major work with autism’s in the community, he had been around forever in the business, and represented the likes of some major players (now, don’t misinterpret that. I am not one of those people who goes ga ga over entertainment folks. Having been a model for a bit, that kind of thing didn’t and never has impressed me.) Yet this guy, in my opinion, was perfect for me and for my work. I sent him the screenplay with a letter summarizing the story, only to have it returned weeks later unopened with a nice generic letter talking about unsolicited material.

Well. I just couldn’t have that! I prayed. I asked for forgiveness ahead of time. I plotted. I planned. I prayed. I thought, thought, thought… how was I going to get in to see this guy? He WAS going to see me. He WAS going to read my work. IT was going to happen. And then, it hit me.

THE PLAN: . . .

Continued tomorrow…

Have a grand day all!

"Humility is a clear recognition of what and who we are followed by a sincere attempt to grow in the likeness of God. Humility is not humiliation." Courage of Fear

I am just a gal trudging through this life like everyone else. I put one foot in front of the other and continue. Sometimes I trip over my own feet. Sometimes I trip over your feet. At times a pebble might get under foot and annoy the hell out of me for several miles and/or several days till my brain kicks in and forces me to remove the damned thing from my agonizing clutches. Sometimes I step on my toes. Sometimes I step on your toes. Many times my brain will scream "hurry the hell up already I am waiting way up here!", because it had left my body behind days before. Regardless I trudge. Often times, even though I only have two feet, there is this disillusion that exists that places many more in every place imaginable till I feel tied up like a pretzel saying, very spiritually mind you, WTF.

Life can get complicated and the road map between my ears many times will exacerbate that complication fourscore and more. When this takes place, the complications, all of a sudden the negativity feeds on itself. Similar to Seymour in that play; goodness I cannot remember the name of the play yet the famous line is "feed me, Seymour, feed me." When that happens I grow irritable, frustrated, and more and more negative.

Inevitably, and yes eventually, the road will narrow and the horizon will widen. That small still voice inside me says "Hey, I am here. Don't forget about me. Knock, knock? You can quit stumbling now." It is in that second, which sometimes tends to drift to moments, sometimes to hours and then to days, I experience peace. I don't know what it is. I don't really care what it is. I just know I really really like it when "it" happens. Clarity sets in and yes sometimes even a good old chuckle at myself for one more time taking the path to resistance. It is there where I come to acceptance of my humanism. And because of my Jungian philosophy I begin to experience joy in my own fumbles and inadequacies. Don't get me wrong. Even though I have tried to practice this spiritual journey for some time I have yet to be able to release my hold from the invisible bat I carry, whose sole purpose is to be used to beat myself silly... one day maybe I will be able to release it from my grip, yet alas not yet.

Having been blessed to have worked with a bunch of folks I have learned I am not alone in my self-inflicted warrior trudge of humanism. No offense folks, but I find a tremendous amount of peace in that. On more than one occasion in my life something or someone or even some instance will lead me across the stories of the scriptures or the Buddha or the likes; where they too suffered from this daunting, sometimes dismal yet always fascinating realization of humanism. It is at those times when the path narrows and the horizon opens up where I can hear my Creator chuckle, and indeed possibly shake his head to my amazement, and inside I hear Popeye "I am what I am and that's all that I am. Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck." And having trudge this path for sometime now I am reminded of Aristotle philosophy which is similar to today's quote above... it is then I can say to myself "This is me. This is all of me. The good and the not so good of me which makes me me." I can then look up in gratitude and say "Thank you."

Too often than not I see folks beat up on themselves for mistakes. They see mistakes, or poor choices in life as bad things; many times nonspiritual things... HOGWASH I say! They are only negative when i choose not to see the positive in them... when i choose to stay stuck and deny myself my own imperfections, which make me uniquely myself and unique to my journey home. Mistakes happen to those that live life. Such lessons are a necessary part of growth and are vital to spiritual development. There is nothing to be ashamed of nor humiliated by. They are meant to be embraced and love for all that they give to us.

In my novel, Courage of Fear, one of the minor (very likable, tell it like it is east coast woman) characters, Martha (I really loved this character and miss her very much actually) tells a story of a Old Man Rivers and his carrot and rabbit. For those of you that have read Courage I am sure you will agree, Martha with all her wit and force tells a story there that depicts the full essence of humility. You just got to love Martha!

Today may we embrace and love the good and not so good about ourselves as part of the Whole.

Have a grand day all.

"...even though some of these things may not be easy to accept
People do what they need to do to survive.
Knowing this makes it easier to see beyond one's survival skills
to the true self. This allows us to still love the person
while not caring much for their behavior, and most importantly
being able to separate the one from the other."
Courage of Fear, Barbara Boyer

Yesterday Evelyn (my grand daughter) and I had such a grand day. We packed a lunch, hit the road in the Fit to her chosen destination of the local creek and then parked our transport. Evey advised that even though the creek was just outside town, just north of the main street, she had never been there before. I thought how grand a new adventure for us both! We walked down the stone path to a bench, took out our lunches, opened them up and began to eat. Evey was too excited with her surroundings to focus on her food... after one bite she was off.

After biting down my bologna and cheese I watched as Evey crossed an old wood planked bridge in a trollop. Her long hair blowing behind her, her arms extended out from her sides. She looked on the outside as she felt on the inside I thought. Her trot slowed as she investigated the creeks bank. I could see she was looking for some way to get to the creek's bed from that side. Back and forth she went, all the while paying close attention to the ground beneath her feet. I watched as her eyes locked across the creek to a plausible entry to the water--still a bit steep for my liking.

Indeed another trot across the old planked bridge she went just as nama had finished up with her sandwich. Ah, and there she went west to examine her entry. I stood and looked east and west; slightly to our east was a nice sandy bank almost level to the creeks bed.

"Evey, honey, why don't you look down there and see if that might be easier?"

"Okay, nama." She zoomed passed my bench.

I took my shoes off and pulled my feet up off the ground, knees snug to my chest. I watched as she debated a request...

"Honey, why don't you take your shoes off and roll up your pants so they don't get wet and just put your feet in?"

"Okay, nama!" She pulled her cuffs to her thighs. "Nama? Can you come down here with me?"

"No honey, nama is going to watch from here. Just stay on the edge, K?"

"Okay, nama." Evey said without looking up. "Hey nama? Did you know there are shells in the creek?" She pulled one out to show me.

"Hmmm, no, I didn't know that. Very cool."

I watched as she searched and searched beneath the water's surface. I thought about how fast she is growing and what a fine young lady she truly is... how much she looked like her mommy did at that age... everything that was beautiful was at that moment surrounded within that child. It was obvious she had acquired more than my name; she had an incredible sense of curiosity, of adventure (really more like her daddy, I think--but hey, I like to take credit!) Another shell pulled from the bed. I watched as she placed it in a pile of shells collected on the river's edge.

I had to ask myself, Why don't I roll up me britches and join her? After all, this was our adventure. I rolled my jeans up to my knees and started for her. I placed our things on the bank and in I went investigating and pulling our gold speckles (that my attorney daughter later pointed out was not gold at all--where was the fun in that?) Several times when Evey would bend over and reach beneath the surface her bottom would hit the water. At one point she advised me her mother was going to be really mad at her for getting all wet.

I told her I highly doubted it. "Your mommy knows you are with me on an adventure that means she knows you could come back looking like the adventure if you are with Nama."

Oh, back to her pile and then back in the water she went scooping up yet another shell.

A car honked from the busy elevated road to our south--some guy yelled out something. I kept my focus firmly on my and Evey's moments; as did she but it provoked her thought, "Nama, people probably think we are crazy being in this creek."

I said, "Honey," I caught her gaze, looked her square in the eyes, "Do we really care what other people think? We are having fun, yes?"

"I am, nama. Are you?"

"Yepper. We are not hurting anyone."

"Nope, nama, we are not."

"So why would we care what other people think?"

"I guess we don't, nama." She continued to collect her shells.

Like my daughter before and still holds today; no matter what that little girl does I will always love my grand daughter Evelyn. No matter what she ever does, nothing will change that love. No matter where she is in the world, I will still love her. No matter what she grows up to become professionally, I will still love her. No matter what fixes she may find herself in, I will still love her. After all, I am her grandmother, I will always love her.

Each and every person we come in contact with has a mother, father, grand parent... and if you think about it, any one of a number of people we come in contact with each day, could be a distant relative; just because we do not partake in the upbringing of a youth doesn't mean they didn't have one. . . because we do not participate in their day-to-day life doesn't mean they do not have reason for being the way they are, acting the way they do.

I wasn't saying in the above quote from Courage of Fear that we should be doormats to the people around us. No. We should always protect ourselves from harm... I was saying we shouldn't take others behavior personal. People deal with life and situations differently. They do what they feel they need to do to survive based on skills they have learned. And truly they know no better than that on most occasions. It makes them no more or less of a human being than you or I with all our faults and quirks. When we begin to see beyond one's survival techniques, we see their innocents.

It is okay to love someone and not like their behavior.

Have a grand day all. Peace

Good morning all. And what a lovely morning it is! Here in GA at 10AM (eastern) it is already 69 degrees with a long awaited by me anticipation of high 70's. Can we say it together? Praise Jesus! It is expected in the next few days to be in the 80's, which means, it will be warmer than what weather dot com says california will be. No ill-will to my friends back home but I couldn't be happier--oh how I love the outdoors, even if I am only pulling weeds. Just being out brings a certain calm yet also exuberance to my soul.

First and foremost I wish to thank all of you who emailed, left messages of good-health because of my lettuce food poisoning incident. As I stated in my blog, all was well after I visited the stool the second time. Sometimes I envision that my daughter's house was build on some kind of burial ground because when I am out here I get sick a lot--well, mostly sinus infections and flu like stuff... like the house is cursed with it... of course that is probably the dramatic writer in me, when really it is just that she has a child in Montessori School and another in first grade who have immune systems like Troy and nama smokes a pack a day scoffing at her own adult immune system and eating much of the deep south's fried food while blowing her nose! Anyway, thank you all for your well wishes just the same. They did not go un-noticed! And I felt blessed to have such caring followers.

I also want to take a moment and thank you all for your patience with me and my daily postings while I have been visiting my family here in GA. I realize I have been neglecting you all something terrible... yet please let it be understood that that does not go un-noticed be me either. I think about you folks a lot, many of you still converse with me via email, and soon the writing will be back up to daily and you will all be able to grow tired of me once again, yes?

Anyway... now that I have bored you to pieces, on to today's blog.

You know? One of the things that suck about not writing everyday is that the thoughts (indeed, vultures(in another blog)) build up to the extent that there are so many wanting their voice; they literally drive me mad with their strong desires to be heard... I wonder if that is just an artist thing (again in another blog) or if everyone has such ADD/bi-polor brain races?

Anyway the one thought that heads the procession, maybe because in my own life, the recent cold weather has forced me inside for so long (and please you folks up north, as has been said to me in the past, lets not talk about how the cold weather cannot keep you inside--I get it! This 50 year old CA girl is just not like you ND/Maine folks. If it is below 50 I am inside. Period.) is about "existing" life vs "living" life. Being such an warm weather outdoor girl, when locking myself inside due to cold weather, I feel like I am surviving life; like the bear (evading the deprivations of the cold winter) I gain a bunch of weight and hibernate to wait for the winter's passing. Don't get me wrong, I do this to be around my family--and the grandchildren keep me more than entertained, for sure; the trade off is worth it!.. yet my spirit begins to itch and twitch and indeed rejoice when the temps rise and the bliss of the outdoor activities become a reality for me.

In Courage of Fear I wrote:
"Many people spend a lifetime existing... Few seldom live."

When working in the field of service almost everyone who crossed paths with me were folks whom had been surviving for a very long time. Being a "survivor" myself (If you have been keeping up you will totally get that.) I identified. I knew, from personal experience how one life event could lead to another, and then another, and then another--where a person would begin to focus their life on one question and one question only; What is the (my) truth?

Being their counselor I felt the greatest gift I could share with these folks was to assist them to instill a passion for living. . . to assist them to realize we are not our or anyone else' mistakes. When we see those mistakes (again not just ours in our life, but also others in our life) as experiences of the past; even though we were present when they were happening, we can chose not to be imprisoned by them in today. . .

Today we can choose to live!

Indeed, the good Lord blessed us with survival, obvious by the fact we were sucking air... and if we could find nothing else positive from the situation/experience, we could indeed find that (and lets face it, that's huge!)... and in addition to that we could use those experiences as a measuring stick for what we did not want in our lives and make positive changes to all the things we did want... another words, those of us that are survivors are indeed blessed over those who are not, because of the experience(s) we could find a drive, a determination, a passion for change, indeed a powerful motivator towards happiness (a goal in and of itself that is unobtainable, but a hell of a lot of fun seeking.)

We do not have to be prisoners of our past.

We are not our pasts.

We are today.

We are this moment.

We choose this moment!

We choose!

Today may we realize the moment's life and LIVE it!

Have a grand day all. I am taking Evey my grand-daughter (who is on spring break) for an adventure in the outdoors! Peace.

"Each and everyone of us has a purpose for our existence here. Once that has been accomplished our journey is complete." Barbara Boyer, Courage of Fear

Friday I got a little time to myself while Jen and John took the kids to Athens for dinner and a movie. Of course they requested that I go, yet nama really just wanted some quiet time to herself--I know, horrible, yes? Anyway the night proved profitable for all.

I took myself for a local drive around town. Took in the sites of the local architect. After my return to my daughter's house I made the once often had, dinner for one... nothing special just mashed potatoes and Salisbury steaks. Turned on my favorite recorded (and only recorded) soap, General Hospital, then watched Sonny, Jason and Carly play out their drama as the potatoes first boiled and then were mashed.

I finished my meal and soap pretty early so I thought I would begin the week-end chores of all so maybe, just maybe, I would be rewarded by Johnny and Evey by them giving the pooches a bath (and spare me the hassle of fighting with Chief's (my daughter's family dog's) rather strong resistances.)

Laundry? Check!

Thorough kitchen cleaning? Check!

Kids clean sheets? Check!

Beds made? Check!

Vacuuming?... ugggh dog hair... check, check, check (I am a bit anal--I know, hard to believe, right? about the vacuuming, which I think drives everyone else crazy) Check!

When all was said and done, I was pleased and rested... just in time for the family's arrival home.

Evey was supposed to sleep with Nama that night, yet fell into a deep sleep while watching tv -- doesn't it suck when the grand kids get so big you have a difficult time lifting them?

Saturday went as normal around here, but the nama (me) did get to manipulate a trade off for the dog washes--yippie! They look beautiful!

John grilled us burgers and hot dogs on the bbq. Jen set out lettuce and tomatoes along with the normal fixings. I peeled the potatoes and Jen got out the olive oil for homemade french fries... mmm, dinner was delish!

We watched a movie before Evey crawled into bed with nama and we went fast into a deep sleep...

...Until...

...about 4am...

Nama woke up...

With the most horrible belly ache.

Oh, it was terrible.

The only way to make the pain bearable was to walk...

As I was walking it hit me...

A few days before Jen, my daughter, reported the same horrific pain in her belly...

I cursed the gods!

What? Must us mothers always feel the pain's of our children? I get it! I get it! I get it!

I tried to lay down on the couch in the play room... unbearable!

My daughter was in horrible pain! I get it!

I tried taking a bath. I tossed and turned in the tub trying to find the right position. My organs felt like they were being slowly and constantly ripped out by hand...

I shouldn't have taken Jen's pain so lightly!

I tried smoking a cig... oh my god the pain was awful! Never in all my life...

I am a terrible mother! I get it!

I ran to the bathroom and leaned over the stool... indeed, I did... but the pain still there just as fierce...

OKAY already! I get it. Now make it go away I screamed inside and preceded to give the Big Guy the finger!

I tried lying in bed... evey kept whacking me! No matter which way I tossed and turned ... oh, the pain.

Could it have been the Salisbury steaks?

Surely not, they were two nights ago.

Oh, jenny I am sorry!

I tried going upstairs and resting on John's lazy-boy. Feet firmly on the ground, I began to sweat--slight back decline to find just the right position...

... the dogs just wouldn't leave me alone...

Damn it!

I went back downstairs and met with my never fail friend Kool... again I run.

My body rejected it all!

I puked (yes I said it) and alas the pain was completely gone at 8:30 am.

The next morning when conversing with Jen she advised me it HAD to be the lettuce we purchased from Kroger's... it was the only thing we each had before our gut wrenching experience...

Me? I still believe it was the invisible umbilical cord between mother and child... and am very grateful that my body will reject that which will kill it!

k, probably not the inspiration you were expecting... but hey, you know me!

Have a grand day all. Peace.

Recently I have had a few folks come around in conversation to different things; whether they are trying to be an instrument in my life or unknowingly requesting that I be an instrument in their life... all of which leads me to think about the past blog I wrote on God's will. . . I am attaching that post with this one because I believe it is a very powerful blog that we can never hear enough.

As it states in the post below, many folks will present life difficulties as God's will... basically with the "I need to suck it up" approach or worse yet, "I must be doing it wrong" philosophy--what does that mean, anyway? I mean really? What is wrong? Is there any such thing? In Courage of Fear I wrote:

"Doing the best we can, given all the circumstances involved, is Perfection."

I believe that with all my heart and no... capitalizing perfection was no accident on my part. There is no wrong way of doing things when we are trying. I believe that. And how we try is the mystery that brings about our desire to continue to trudge each and every day. Also as I said in Courage, "enjoy the mystery." We must to prevail. Sometimes I think folks see the mystery as the wrong... somehow they lose their sense of adventure, their passion in the things that are tough... shoot, I have a tendency to do that as well. It is part of being human, is it not?

I remember hearing someone once say that God will never close one door without opening another... but boy, doesn't the hallway really suck?

Today, my blessing for us all is that we try to see the hallway for the mystery that it is and enjoy it... I mean really enjoy the mystery!

Here is the post, enjoy:

"God's will for us is to have peace, joy, fulfillment and love.
Whatever that is for us, that is what He wants for us.
Remember, He knows our hearts. Do we?" Courage of Fear

That's right folks, I am a Jungian. Maybe that is so because Freud was hooked on cocaine and penis'. Maybe because through practice it was my experience that success follows those who followed Jung's teachings and beliefs. Who knows? It was a sad day for Sigmund when Carl went his own way. But boy am I glad he did. If you read about Jung's upbringing many of his beliefs truly do unfold there, as true this happens with everyone. Anyway Jung believed that people needed to connect to a moral standard (a Higher Power) to overcome and achieve (that is me paraphrasing for the sake of simplicity.) Despite any wishy-washy game of chance (as I believe psychology to be), his philosophy works; plain and simple.

Now, whether folks want to see that Higher Power as a Higher Sense of Self, God, Creator, Christ, Buddha, whatever (I always tell folks, God doesn't care what you call Him--He's bigger than that. He just cares that you call Him). . . once they connect things begin to happen. Don't bother asking me why. I do not have an answer. I just know it to be true. I have just seen it happen over and over and over again. That is all the proof I need. It is like electricity. I do not NOT turn things on in my house (like lights, microwave, coffee pot, tv, etc) till I figure out how those two atoms (the negative and positive) unite together somewhere to finally get to that particular appliance before I turn the bloody thing on (I don't live in the dark, I just flip the switch.) No. I just turn it on. Hence the same is true with my connection to what Jung called this Higher Power.

As many of you already know I used to work as a counselor. I did so for many years. It wasn't really a job as a way of life. I didn't choose it. It chose me. Don't ask me why, because like the above I have no idea. As many of you also know I will be the first to shout out, don't follow me. However, I firmly believe, through my own experience and participating in the experience of others, that if you tap into this Jungian philosophy things begin to change... and change for the better. And, quite frankly, that is the only part of how this thing works this feel-good junkie needs as an answer.

Walking hand-in-hand with folks on their life's path, after they get a certain distance they begin to take on this belief that certain events are the Will of this Higher Power, or Greater Source. They will say things to me like, "I know this relationship is God's Will because that guy is in my life." or "I know it is what my Creator wants for me because I got this job." . . . all the while being slapped around by the guy or verbally abused at the office. This is when I just raise my eyebrows and smile.

"What?" they will generally ask from me.

I respond, "Sweetheart, God wants you to have peace, joy, fulfillment and love. Whatever that is for you. That is what God wants for you. That is God's will. God knows your heart. Do you?"

"What do you mean?" is generally what follows next.

"I believe God knew you before this phase of your physical life. He created you. Every aspect of you was built with this premise of your goals for yourself. Somewhere along the way, in this world, you have forgotten. Survival took over. Your Creator has not forgotten. He knows your heart. Now it is time for you to search that out... what is in your heart? And then you will know God's will for you.
When you are still and quiet you can question: does this bring me peace? Does this bring me love? Does this bring me joy? If your heart says yes it really does, then you have God's Will."

Then they generally respond with some half-assed comment like, "Are you telling me I should break up with the guy or quit my job?"

And I respond, "No, I am telling you to know your heart. Whatever that is for you."

Cause lets face it, my humanism says buy a gun... joking.

That's where this quote comes from in Courage of Fear. Enjoy.

As always, have a grand day folks! Peace.

ps... thank you all for being so patient with my posts as I visit my family! much love to you all today and always...b
www.beboyer.com

This week I have been on full time nama duty. Lex is on spring break. Nama has been very, very busy and indeed entertained.

When scanning the local online news this am I was shocked (well somewhat shocked) to hear that Corey Haim had past yesterday; indeed a tormented soul much too old for his years. May he have finally found the peace he so strongly and fiercely sought, yet never found, in this life. My heart to his friends and family during this time.

So today, in tribute to those left behind I am reposting the post below and am reminded of my Courage of Fear quote on feathers... "Many people will fly in and out of our lives. What glorious feathers they will share and leave behind!"

My deepest sympathy to Feldman; who was really the only one (outside haim's family) that stood the path side-by-side through the good and the difficult. Many prayers, friend.

"We should live everyday as if it were everyone else's last." Courage of Fear

We became great friends fast, Robert and me. We met through mutual friends sometime after 9/11 (so, if you have read previous posts you understand my state of mind at the time.) He was a tall, lanky guy with hair down to his shoulder blades. His face aged and rutted; you could truly see the life he lived right there defined on his weathered face.

"Idaho Bob" he was called by many; a poet. I heard-tell he got that name because he was known for disappearing for months on end to Idaho to work on his next book. He would depart from Encinitas, California in his old VW sleeper van and disappear to the wilderness to connect with Mother Earth and write till he was done. Then he would return home. He had the most calming, welcoming smile than any man I have ever met. When you read Courage of Fear you will find him there in the acknowledgments. I grew to love my friend, Robert, very much.

We shared many common interests that bonded our relationship. First and foremost was our love for writing. We would sit for hours on end talking about our latest works or past works...kind of like how i do with you folks. Even though we would weave stories, there was always personal meaning to every detailed stitch of them. It wasn't the words that bonded our friendship, no. It was the passion we shared for the expression of our souls that grew to be the cement. Many people can write, yet true artists have an understanding of and for the human condition that delves deep beneath the surface. Bob and I both knew, and shared, that this concept and/or understanding was what made a true artist more than a mere writer; it made them the Bard (if you don't know the true definition of a Bard, I strongly suggest you google it.)

Most of the time we would meet at the Lumber Yard in Encinitas (it is not actually a lumber yard, it is an outdoor plaza; coffee shop, stores, food on Coast Highway. It got its name because it used to be an actual lumber yard.) Sometimes we would jump into the VW and head out to Palamar Mountain (under the Grandfather Cedar) or Borrego Desert just to see what nature had to offer us that day, or maybe to pick sage. Robert was very heavy into Native American culture, so we NEVER took anything from Mother Earth without first a thoughtful prayer of gratitude... almost a ritual really.

Like myself Robert loved music. Not for the beat or the lyrics, for its entirety. Like our own art, we would talk about song; maybe deciphering the lyrics or expressing how certain instruments would cause certain reactions. We could go for hours really without speaking just appreciating, maybe contemplating, or plum just getting lost in different artist's work coming through the speakers at the time.

On different occasions friends would see us together. On many occasions different folks pulled me aside and warned me. Might be best to stay away from him. Things about him that could cause me troubles. We are just friends, I would say. They would smile at him and go about their days (california, i swear.)

It had been days and I had not heard from Robert. Non-returned voice mails, no phone calls, never see him at the usual places. Went on for over a few weeks, if I remember correctly. I sought out a mutual friend and asked, have you seen him? Ah, he was in bad shape the friend reported. Had been drinking hard for days (the Robert I knew didn't drink) and our friend was concerned. So we loaded ourselves in his car and headed over to check on our friend Robert together.

Bad shape, my ass. Robert was in horrible shape; bad a true understatement. It was midmorning and you could have lit Robert on fire a foot away just from the fumes alone. I made us all coffee. Robert shook so bad I had to hold his cup. My heart broke. My friend Robert. He told me he had to stop. He just couldn't. His face bruised from face to the concrete falls. He wanted to quit. He refused to go to a facility. Okay then, we shall do it together.

Our friend help load Robert into my car. What are you going to do he questioned.

Well, sober him up. I responded. Don't worry. It will be fine. I have done this before.

(WARNING do not ever try to do this on your own. Alcohol withdrawal is the only withdrawal a person can die from. Unless you have seen it done and done it yourself you will very likely kill someone.)

I swung by the liquor store and picked up a couple bottles of Vodka, threw them in my trunk, and then started to drive east. I needed to get us somewhere where there were no people. Just looking at someone in his shape someone was bound to desire to help... whether that be calling the police, helping him escape from me (cause of course once the process starts alcoholics will do or say just about anything to get their hands on the bottle and get away from whom ever is keeping it from them.) I thought and thought. Lets face it, I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Everywhere there are people in San Diego, you blink and you've passed a dozen houses. Then it hit me.

Less than an hour into the trip the uncontrollable shaking and perfuse sweating began. It was time. I pulled over to the side of the rode, popped the trunk and grabbed a bottle. I held it tight when he grabbed on. Just a few sips I told him. That was all he would get. I struggled to pry it back from his lips. Back in the trunk it went. He was leveled a bit again.

All was going pretty good when we hit the dirt road to the Indian Reservation. . . Fitting I thought for such an occasion. It was a very hilly area with lots of twists and turns. I needed to find just the right location so in the event old Bob got the gump (highly unlikely) to bolt he would be totally lost. I found it. Nestled down in a valley like area. From that POV all one could see was hills and green... absolutely nothing else. It was perfect.

I helped my friend out of the car. He rolled to the rear tire wall and slid down to the ground. Again, the uncontrollable shaking and profuse sweating... I grabbed the bottle. This time he yanked it from my hands. I need more than a sip he reported.

Like hell, I snapped grabbing it back.

At this Robert became hostile. I don't want to do this anymore. Take me back. Give me the vodka.

Look, I can give you this bottle and I will. However, if i do, you are on your own. I'm leaving your sorry-ass here.

Again, the few sips had leveled out his physiological symptoms. He looked around. Where are we, he asked.

Some where special. I responded.

How in the hell am I going to get out of here?

That's the point, fool. So, the bottle?... or me and the ride?

For the first time in all the hours, there it was, not fully, but I saw a glimpse of it... that smile. You suck was his response.

I know. I put the bottle back in the trunk, turned on the stereo, and then slid next to Bob on the ground. We stayed there for a very long time, me, Robert and the bottle. Just us, nature and the music. It was a grand day.

Robert stayed sober until his death shortly thereafter. He was diagnosed with bone cancer and left us very quickly after his diagnosis. He was very peaceful about it. When many folks heard he was dying, they reached out to him... even the one's that sent me their warnings. And me, Tai Pan or Wyoming as Robert called me in many of his poems?.. I wasn't in California when he passed but we were together just the same.

Robert was merely one of many who crossed my path reminding me that this journey will one day end... abruptly for some... I do not want to be one of those people saying I wish I had or I wish I did because I cannot any longer.

We should treat everyone as if it were their last day. No regrets.

There you have it. That is the story behind today's quote.

As always, have a grand day all.
www.beboyer.com

What have I been going through lately? Why is change so hard? Am I doing it "right"?

If you have read Courage of Fear and/or have been reading my blog you have probably gotten a hint that I believe all things happen for a reason, which btw, I do. In addition if you have read Angela's story in Courage of Fear and/or have been reading my blog you probably also surmise that I believe that God doesn't allow bad things to happen to good people; free will takes precedence over all things and as they say, Karma is a bit**... or at least can be. In turn, I also believe that the Creator (truly the best artist of all) will, at all times, no matter our choices, will always try to make the sweetest lemonade out of whatever lemons we throw at Him (and throw we do sometimes... shoot, sometimes we hurl, and with our staunch middle finger boldly in the air while so doing... or worse yet we dig our nails in firmly to whatever our evil, hang tight, leaving claw marks, as we holler, kick and scream "but I don't wanna! Even though bad, this feels sooooo good!"--and if you have been following my blog you probably have also surmised when it comes to being one of God's spoiled brat kids, I proudly lead the procession. Yepper.) In addition, if you have read my work, you probably also understand that I believe certain Universal laws were set into place at the beginning of time; probably to spare the Big Guy unnecessary work... I do good things, good things happen (not saying that is void of struggle or pain... just good things happen) ... I do not such good things, not such good things happen. It is all about choice... and the ability to face things verses run from them or avoid them.

Now where is she going with this? . . you are probably asking. Why is she telling us this? Well, I am glad you asked.

As I stated in the heart-wrenching blog "Dear Heavenly Father watch over this child" (if you haven't read that blog, I strongly suggest you do.) At the completion of writing Courage of Fear I made some huge changes in my life, which has kind of had me in a flux. Some fool friend had turned me on to the book Law of Attraction. Now, even though those principles were not foreign to me at the time, they did serve as a reminder to something I learned, however was incapable of even thinking about practicing at the time, when I first started on this spiritual journey almost 30 years ago. --if you think my claws are bad now, you should have seen them when I was in my 20's. holy cow is an understatement!-- Right around the same time another friend turned me on to these tapes by Jack Canfield on self-esteem.

Of course at the time I looked up saying "What? What is it? What do You want? What are You trying to tell me?" With no real answers thrown my way I then had the experience of rescuing Indie my pooch (again this wonderful story is in another blog "On this day I chose love.") Then on my return home from that trip, and as touched on in the blog, I once again found myself curled up in a ball, licking my wounds, questioning how wonderful all this free choice crap really is... knowing I wouldn't want to be without it, yet flipping my finger off to it and cursing the heavens above just the same. Angela's quote from Wrestling With the Demons that was in Courage of Fear (you will get that if you read Courage of Fear, if you haven't read Courage you will get that after you do.) quickly came to mind... as if God was messing with me once again...

"Human existence, or one's manifestation of it, is the greatest riddle of all. Many people will pursue this curiosity through insurmountable tragedies to get to the unanswerable other side."
--Courage of Fear--

Now of course, I could have been thinking about the life stuff my daughter and her family was going through or I could have been thinking about the stuff Pete (in the blog mentioned above) was going through... but really I was thinking about me... my part... my desire to control... and indeed the Laws of attraction.

It was then, while licking my wounds, and after multiple conversations with my Creator, where I made a solemn oath to change. .. to try to create a new and different life for myself before I died. After almost 30 years of a life full of service, I was hanging up my handcuffs. No more. If I truly was what I was attracting, I needed to let go... not only of Pete, my daughter, my friends, the multitude of folks that depended on my personal sage wisdom (and really, no matter what they said, they really didn't want it.) on all answers I thought I possessed. I needed to see what was on the other side of the coin. What other kind of life could manifest from such an action. Trust in the Power that Be that all would be well, one way or another, without my involvement... allow the people around me to be who they wanted and do what they wanted without my involvement.

Now I am not saying I stopped spending time with these folks. That didn't happen. What I am saying is I didn't try to fix anyone. I didn't try to change anyone. I didn't try to make things better--or at least what I thought to be better. In turn, I also tried to stay true to myself and my beliefs while continuing to try to do the right thing. Now don't get me wrong, this is still something that is very new to me. I am still practicing all the time... and despite my best efforts sometimes something will happen (again, dear heavenly father blog) that will throw me right back into the "fix-it" mode against my better judgment... yet try I do. Also, if I felt as though I was a negative in some one's life, I indeed removed myself from that dependence. . . what do I mean by that? Well, with the whole Pete, my daughter thing there were certain people I wore down with my grief... it wasn't easy for me to let go... and indeed, indirectly those folks let me know I was wearing them down; whether that be a tone of voice or non-returned phone calls, they let me know... And I don't blame them, by any means. I depended on them far too much and became the problem in their life... so they too I loved enough to let go... now if they called I spoke to them, yet if they didn't--and a few didn't--I didn't call them.

I was and am trying to practice a new way of doing things...

Letting go.

Allowing other people to be who and what they want to be.

Not being God in any one life, including my own.

Not taking on a person's guilt because I did let go.

And not without praying HARD that the good lord bring certain folks, including myself, to the light before the darkness overtakes them and they lose it all.

Life is hard. Many times, many of us will use different things to alleviate the pain... whether we are distracting ourselves from it or indeed running from it... as Martha (one of my favorite characters in Courage of Fear) said, sometimes that will come in the form of a new quilt we don't have the money for, the lottery, a drink, a pill, a cute handsome man... or in my case those in need... evil comes disguised in many forms (really, when you think about it just trying to convince us we are indeed omnipotent and all-powerful) and the more spiritual we are the better the disguises.

--Now granted, my mind may change tomorrow on this philosophy... and some days are better than others as I feel my way around it--

WE ARE OUR CHOICES. . . we are not someone else's choice. . . and we are no match for another person's power of choice.

Within each of us the Creator provided us with everything we need to function properly and prosper... and indeed within each of us we know that, we really KNOW that. Within each of us is an innate understanding of right and wrong... within each of us... and most importantly I do not need to get enmeshed in poor choices--yours or mine and I can love despite of them--whether we are walking hand-in-hand or had been separated... I can trust truth and that all will be made right... Right always prevails even if some lose their lives fighting against it, it will prevail.

... one way or another, it will prevail.

Have a grand day all. Peace. choices...

Good morning all!

I am rather excited about today. First and foremost I am feeling much better. Got my usual early start, with a bit more zip today then the past few days. Both Jenny and John are at the respective offices, the kids both at school. I have already cleared a bunch of insurance business off my plate, even concluded some chores around the house (and yes, Johnny, if you are reading today's post, I have even had my morning cayenne drink already.) Pulled out the many edits of my newest novel. Cleared a writing spot for myself... and am hoping to be able to spend the complete day in the life of my characters. How exciting, yes?

My daughter's home desk has a board behind the monitor with many many pics of her, her husband and the grandchildren at different stages of their lives... in addition children drawings and affirmative quotes.

For many of the snap-shots I was here with them... remember the time they were taken and what life was like in this household during those moments, hours, days surrounding those seconds of time. How Evelyn loves to ham it up for the camera... always been that way,that one... And Alexander? Like his personality he is just himself, more caught up or rather occupied in the second--true to their natures, Evey lets the camera control her and Lex controls the camera. Many are colored photos, some "professionally" done... yet two, that are my favorites are black and white. One is of lex as a baby and he has the best and biggest toothless laugh, looking intently at whoever caught his attention. The other is of Evey, wearing a little hippy dress nama bought her at a boutique shop in Encinitas, walking barefoot in the sand at seal beach in Lajolla. I think why I like both these photos is because they have both captured the actual spirits of each of the children. Few things rarely bother Lex and Evey is a deep thinker. There are no poses, just a soul captured through a lens.

There is an unmistakable history on this board for sure.

I have no pictures of when I was growing up; well, that is a lie. I have one. I was just a toddler. I even remember the day the picture was taken. I tried to stand on the bathroom tub to get a look at myself in the mirror wearing my pretty new dress before the photographer (yes, they used to come to your house back then) forced me to sit with my sister... outside of that, none. My parents told me that the camera broke just before i was born and that was the reason. Rather symbolic when you think about it (if you have been following along you will get that.)

I wonder if everyone fails to take and/or display pictures of the time when their lives are hard? Like it is a deep secret wished to be kept? A way to erase the memory of it? To escape the reality of it? Like hard = bad? If it isn't captured, it never existed?...

... when indeed those times are the ones that should be most treasured; they are real; they are life... and they are truly the most valuable.

Have a grand day all. Peace.
www.beboyer.com

I am here to tell you folks, I feel like dog doo-doo today. Evey, my grand daughter, picked up some sinus virus from school, shared it with my daughter and... you guessed it, I woke up yesterday feeling a bit under the weather and I woke up this am with my right eye almost swollen shut--like I had been in the ring with Tyson (okay maybe if in the ring with tyson it would be my right ear missing; but anyway to todays blog; stay with me.)

A few weekends ago John, my son-in-law, had to work (recession doing very well here) so I thought I would try to do something nice for him. I recalled him (or my daughter) sharing with me that the John Deere ride-on lawn mower was not functioning. So I thought I would give it a work over and get it running for Johnny. Indeed, it needed a battery and filter (it is still back-firing so if any of you folks know what causes that, I would be grateful for the share on how to fix it). And wallah!!!!.. turned the key and she started right up.

Yesterday it was in the high fifties and although I woke up feeling a bit crappy I thought maybe if I got outside and did some work I would feel better. So, I pulled the John Deere's key from the high hook, placed it in the ignition, filled her with gas, put the earphones in the ears, hopped on (Jenny, my daughter, knocked out on the couch from a NyQuil high), lit me-self a Kool, smiled and sang to "Crazy" by Gnarls and backed the John out of the garage... off I went, mowing away. I did the front yard. I did the back treed acre (bagging it all of course.) When Evey got home, she ran to me and rode the Deere with me (till she was bored. But Nama loved her company, however limited) Oh it looked superb. My sinuses felt a bit better. I felt a bit better. Did not care much for the grass in me underpants but all in all I felt pleased with my days work accomplished.

When John arrived home he was a bit peeved I didn't leave some of the leaves in the wooded area, but all and all he didn't scold me too badly. So it was a good day.

This morning I woke up and did my usual routine (I won't bore you with the face washing, teeth brushing and peeing and all.) I walked up the stairs where I was greeted by my pooch, Indie--yet no Chief (my daughter's family dog.) Indie was very excited to see me. . . I called for chief and thought well, sometimes when the kids let him out before school, he isn't the fastest to respond in getting back in... so maybe this was one of those mornings? I went to the back door to let Indie out and find Chief (family pooch) but Indie was like no F'in way, he stood in defiance at the kitchen entry, ears back as I cooed. I opened the door wondering, oh what could have Indie so determined to stand in the inner doorway?.. and low and behold SNOW... not just GA spit sleet kind of snow... like New England I am going to force you inside snow! (I would share a picture if I could figure out how to upload them.)... big, huge, heavy, wet flake snow!

My beautiful manicured lawn! Johnny was right. I should have left well-enough alone. I am going back to bed.

Have a grand day all. Peace.
www.beboyer.com/bog