The morning after you finish a project, this is what your brain vomits.

I'm not a good blogger. I forget this thing exists and I go months without writing anything on it, which is why I have four followers. Four people who are probably family members or friends who forgot they liked this page and have been too lazy to delete me from the list of things they follow.

I started to write a facebook post and realized, oh yeah, that's what a blog is for.

My college acting professor Mark Majarian told us that he was there to help us get out of our own way. That the only thing keeping us from being successful actors was our fear. He told me specifically it was his job to get me working. I think this is where my obsession or misguided belief that as an actor the goal is not to be famous, or make a butt load of money, the goal is to be working, and that as long as I am working, and growing then I am successful as an actor. It was this mentality that made Los Angeles a very strange place for me.

People always had advice for you, most of it misguided. I was advised to choose an actor whose career I wanted to have and then emulate that person's trajectory. I chose Tony Shalhoub. Ethnically ambiguous, not the typical standard of beauty, an honest performer, that is good if not great in everything he has ever done, including Thirteen Ghosts. I was met with disappointment when this same person said, "But, he's a dude." Apparently, women cannot emulate men and be successful. It was around this same time that someone asked me what my goal was and I said, "I just want to be working." The response was, "You don't want to be famous?" I flatly said no. Apparently, "No" was disappointing to this trusted confidant. "You do know that this is a tough industry? That if you aim to be famous, you will be working, but if you aim to work, you won't get anywhere. You have to aim higher than what you want."

I thought that was bullshit. So, I fired my agent.

Whatever happened to realistic, carefully planned goals? When did it become a poor decision to know what you want and then create and execute a road map to attaining a tangible goal? Notoriety does not equate to success or happiness. Feeling like you have accomplished something through your own merit is what creates lasting contentment. At least for me it does.

If there is an easy road and a hard road to travel, I will always take the hard road. It is a character flaw. I acknowledge that, but it is so much more interesting than feebly walking along the trail stamped out by reality tv stars and poorly written rants on youtube. I would rather be poor and psychologically fulfilled, than rich and wondering what the hell has become of my life.

These are the things that keep me up at night, and these are things that keep my fingers clicking against plastic, feebly trying to tell the stories that have been hidden away off the paved highway of popular fiction.

Oh, god that was pretentious.

I need to get back to writing my werewolf novel, or the one about the girl in the diner off route 41, or the Sci-fi adventure movie I'm outlining. Screw it, Kimberly's right I should start writing Flowers in the Attic, a Space Adventure.

Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge-"Dolls"

For those of you who don't know, Chuck is kind of brilliant and a big deal. His blog is excellent for those looking for honest writing advice, and occasionally he holds awesome contests. This week it's a flash fiction contest using a first line supplied by last week's contest winners and honorable mentions.

I chose the line: "When the last cherry blossom falls, so will my axe." by Delilah.

This spawned quite possibly the most Japanese thing I have ever written. Research may be required after reading, search for Butoh masks, Tatami mats, Hinamatsuri, and Fox Weddings, if you are unfamiliar with any of these terms or mythologies.

Thanks for reading,
Lauren

DOLLS

When the last cherry blossom falls, so will my axe.

Midori twirled in the fragrant flurries of pink and white blossoms. Her lithe figure clad in layers of fine silk pranced up and down the rows of cherry trees, a Hinamatsuri doll clutched in her hands. Our mother screamed from the house, “Where is the Emperor?”

Midori giggled back running into the forest, “He’s on an adventure.”

“Tetsuyo, get your sister! TETSUYO!”

“Yes, mother.” I called, disappearing into the forest.

Midori’s geta left clear impressions in the soft muddy spring ground. The snow melted two weeks ago, the canopy covered forest floor had not yet recovered from winter. If deer left tracks as obvious our family would eat like kings tonight.

Tiny equal signs ran through the trees, down to the spring our family gathered water from and fished in the summer. Midori sat on a rock beside the stream, the Emperor’s feet skimming the surface of the water. The sun shone on the pastoral beauty, tiny rings of water formed and dissipated in the stream, a million minnows searching for food. From the cloudless sky rain fell in sheets, soaking Midori’s silk kimono, the azure cornflowers turning a deep purple.

Drums sounded in the distance, the air filled with the metallic taste of rain and the scent of cherry blossoms, and wet dog.

Not wet dog, wet fox.

The drumming grew louder. Midori cheered, figures began to appear on the opposite bank, a royal wedding procession.

I ran to Midori, clutched her hand and dragged her from the bank. The emperor fell into the water. Midori screamed and broke from my grasp. Her white socks brown with mud, the geta pried from her feet stuck in the riverbank.

“Midori, we have to leave.”

“I want to watch the wedding.”

“No.”

I grabbed her hand and drug her to the tree line.

“My shoes?”

“Leave them.”

“The emperor?” Midori frowned.

“We have to go.”

I dragged her through the forest, her white socks torn, stained with mud and blood, as her tender feet cut on roots and rocks.

“Tetsuyo, up?”

Midori’s porcelain face marred with mud, the tears streaking the dirt away, reminded me of a Butoh mask I had seen in one of mother’s dance books. Her little body contorted, the binding of her kimono loosened as we fled. She looked so common. I threw her over my shoulder running from the forest, through the orchard, to our house.

Mother stood on the porch, refusing to let her soiled children ruin the Tatami mats that ran the entrance of the house. “And, where is the emperor?”

“Tetsuyo, made me leave him, and my shoes. Look what he did to my feet.”

My mother glared at me. The hard lines of her face, that perfected this stare, began to soften, a tear shaping at the corner of her right eye. On the wind came the sound of drumming and the stench of foxes, I knew it was too late.

Canadian Discoveries

Since posting my last blog, several months ago. I have moved to Canada. This is something that has happened to me, rather than a conscious decision to extricate myself from the United States.

I used to think I was a West Coast girl. Before that, I was a Cali-girl. And, before that a Long Beachian. Now I find myself in Montreal. Not just Canada Canada, but French Canada. The girl who took Spanish two at Long Beach City College her junior year, so she wouldn't screw up her high school gpa, now lives in Quebec. And, I still don't speak French. Granted it's only been two weeks, but still, this seems like a failure in planning. Although, when you only have ten days to rent out your house, get a new car, update the puppy vaccines, pack, and move across the country, learning French falls way down on the list of priorities.

It's almost 3pm, the mister is at work, the boys are passed out on the hotel bed, that was supposed to get fresh linens today, at some point, and I am here, at work, on my computer. Or, rather, I am here writing a blog and postponing work, on Travis's computer, that actually has an appropriate sized screen and keyboard, unlike my dying netbook. Yesterday was a bad day. I felt completely lost, and disconnected from everything I know, and suffering from a very annoying head cold. But, I digress. Today, I had a revelation: Food here is awesome.

I don't just mean snooty French cuisine or all the poutine a fat kid from Long Beach could ever dream of, but genuinely, the food here is really good, in ways we Americans take for granted. SODA is made from real things.

Orange Fanta, in the USA, tastes like Orange. Orange Fanta, in Canada, tastes like Oranges. This may seem like a subtle distinction, but when you crack open an aluminum can of Orange Fanta expecting it to taste like Orange flavoring and instead you get a mouth full of slightly sour carbonated refreshing confusion, you look at the can to see what the hell just happened. The label reads made with real oranges, and real sugar. I picked up a can of Coke and to my surprise found that it was also made with real sugar and manufactured in New York. I don't understand how a product can be made in the United States but not sold in the United States.

Which brings me to another startling discovery: Stork Chocolate Reises are delicious. And Werther's Original Caramel Chocolates are completely confusing and delectable.

Although, this move has been beyond stressful and I feel myself floundering trying, to find some footing, having twelve inches of snow drop down the day before spring starts does not aid in footing finding, I can't help but feel hopeful that everything will eventually work itself out and the boys and I will be fine.

Next week we will be out of this two-hundred-fifty-square-foot-bachelor-hotel-apartment and will be in our permanent rental where the boys will have a yard and momma will have an office. Things are looking brighter already, as long as I don't gain fifty pounds drinking real soda, sucking on real candy, and eating real poutine, before the wedding in June. Did I mention our wedding is in Seattle?