Author: sandybarker

Whidbey Island Retreat

sandybarker

The night was dark and stormy…

Saturday night I was snuggled in my little corner room of the Captain Whidbey Inn while a storm raged outside. A screen door on the ground floor kept slamming in the wind, waking me throughout the night. Fellow guests had talked about the two ghosts that haunt the inn while we ate dinner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But I wouldn’t have traded places with anyone – not even my boyfriend who was winging his way to sunny Australia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was on retreat, and what better place to lock yourself away for a weekend of writing than an old inn on the water, and backing onto the forest?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What an incredible weekend! I was part of a wonderful group of creative women, Anne, Thea, Lea, and Beverley and we had three incredible writing workshops with three diverse and exquisitely talented authors:

Stephanie Kallos

Bharti Kirchner

and Terry Persun

As well as my immediate group, I also met Megs, Kate and other gifted and passionate writers. I loved the collaboration, the camaraderie and the incredible amount that I learned. I have seen my own work with a renewed and critical eye, which means I can take another pass at it with particular attention to the following:

  • Differentiation of character (there are a lot of women in my book – are they all distinctive from each other, or do they bleed into one?)
  • Fleshing out the antagonists (‘bad guys’ have feelings too!)
  • P.O.V. shifts (oops – slap my hand)
  • Setting (the oft-neglected child)
  • Depth (short-shrifting the reader will only piss them off – thanks Stevie!)

Bharti made this great point that some authors get to the end of their book and realize that the characters never eat. Mine eat, but it is a detail that can evoke setting really effectively, so I need to ensure that I have given it the right amount of attention. Much of my action in part two takes place on a coach and I know that I can spend more time on developing the sense of claustrophobia that develops on a six-week trip. Stephanie told me that chapter one intrigued her, but that she was pissed off because I start after the crucial, catalytic moment. This is a great point! I am now working on a prologue to see if that addresses the issue. Of course, chapter one, which I am in love with by the way, will now need a major re-write. Terry’s workshop highlighted for me that one-note characters are boring. My villain in part two needs nuances and I have just the scene to bring his out.

I am so very excited to get to work. And I have a hell of a lot of it to do!

 

Retreating to move ahead

sandybarker

Today I will be retreating to Whidbey Island for their Writers’ Association “Lockdown” Retreat. I will be locking myself away (voluntarily) with other writers – authors and poets – for two-and-a-half days on my absolute favorite of Puget Sound’s many islands.

My aims:
•    To get some ‘objective’ feedback on my book (the people attending don’t know me, so can only react to what is on the page)
•    To engage in meaty conversations about writing, prose, poetry and all things literary
•    To spent the weekend wearing Ugg boots and big chunky sweaters, drinking tea and whiskey (not at the same time)
•    To write, write, write
•    To learn everything there is to know about everything
•    To be challenged to be more innovative, more creative and to stretch myself artistically
•    To learn more about the business of books
I am retreating to move forward. I can’t wait.

The world is watching

sandybarker

Four years ago I lived in Sydney, Australia. Four years ago I was part of the ‘watching world’ as we held our collective breaths waiting for election day in the United States. Like many of my peers, colleagues and family members, I was so pleased and so relieved, when Obama was elected in what we considered a landslide decision that I had tears in my eyes when I watched the news on television. In my mind America – and the world – needed a BIG change. And, although McCain seems like a truly good person, I agreed with the majority of Americans who decided that he was not what the country or the world needed. Obama was.

I would wager that many Americans would be surprised by how many people outside of the U.S. watch the presidential race with keen interest and investment. America – as it is also known around the world – is still a super power, despite, well too many things to name. The decisions made and the actions taken in America more-often-than-not affect everyone else in the world – either directly, or through an international trickle-down. For that reason, America please know that the world is watching very closely as we inch towards the upcoming election.

The running gag is that most Americans are unconcerned or uniformed about what happens overseas. Having lived in the U.S. for nearly four years I would argue that many Americans (now) know all about what is happening overseas. In this era of social media and streams of information feeding us non-stop and immediate updates, it is difficult to remain uninformed about the Arab Spring, for example. As an Aussie I still, however, get asked ‘dumb’ or weird questions about Australia, but many people in my immediate world know that our Prime Minister is Julia Gillard – or at least, that she is a woman.

To all my non-American readers, know this: Americans are not dumb. I know, I know, this contradicts the stereotype, but I will go all ‘Mama Bear’ on anyone who says otherwise. Half of my family are American, the man I love is American, many of my dearest friends are American – even my cat is American. And having lived here for twelve years of my life I can speak from a place of authority when I say that the stereotype may be perpetuated by terrible reality TV, but ask yourself, how many Aussies actually say, ‘Crikey’, and bounce about playing with deadly animals? About two – and one of them died in a tragic accident.

But I digress…

Last week was the first of the presidential debates. Romney kicked Obama’s ass, which he could have done simply by staying awake. Upon reflection and some research about his ‘facts’, it turns out that he spouted a barrage of non-truths. That said, who is to say that his economic plan will or will not be any more effective than the stuff that Obama has been trying for the past few years? Neither of them can predict the future and even economists can’t agree, so how will the American people decide?

Note to Mitt: Asserting something with all your might doesn’t make it true. Your guess is as good as anybody’s, but let’s call it what it is – a guess.

So, I along with other ex-pats and people around the world will be watching this election with great interest. The world is watching America, so please guess right.

Coming of Age

sandybarker

Last night I watched the film Liberal Arts, which is written and directed by and also starring Josh Radnor from How I met your mother. I am not a huge fan of the show, but it isn’t because I don’t like Radnor, and this film is about as far from the show as you can get. It is really good.

It is considered a coming of age film, which I particularly liked because the protagonist is 35. He returns to his alma mater to farewell his ‘second favorite professor’ who is reluctantly retiring after 37 years of higher education. There are many authentic and authentically awkward moments, which made me wonder how much was scripted and how much evolved organically through improvisation while the cameras were rolling. One of the characters – a Drama major – even notes that life is not scripted; it is just one long improvisation, which may be a clue. Regardless, the acting is lovely.

While studying my own Liberal Arts degree – double major of English Literature and Theater Arts, “just to make sure I was completely unemployable”, as Radnor’s Jessie says of his own education – I was never that good at improvisation. I always preferred scripted performance to the ‘be amazingly clever and witty on the spot’ school of acting. I watched in awe as many of my classmates took the stage time and time again, scriptless, and came up with improvisational gold.

Through the awe, the gnawing nerves ate away at my stomach while I waited my turn on the stage. With a script in hand I felt invincible. With a chair and an empty stage, I got stage fright. In the film, Radnor’s Jessie oscillates between distressed and uncomfortable when he is ‘off-book’. In his personal life he relies too heavily on snippets from the classics and professionally, his trite, seemingly scripted responses have no effect on the young minds he is trying to inspire. It is only when he throws the scripts away that he has any kind of real connection with people and in being authentic, he comes of age.

So, let’s get back to me, the wary improviser. How has that played out in my own life? Well, professionally I am typically a good improviser. I store a lot of information in my head, and my brain tends to know when it is connected to other stored information. If a meeting or a lesson plan or training session goes off on an unexpected tangent, I tend to excel. I can think on my feet and make quick decisions. Professionally, I have had many milestones that have been a ‘coming of age’ and I am looking ahead to the next one.

But what about my personal life? Last night, as I walked home through my neighborhood where I have lived for the past 4 years, I asked myself about my own coming of age. “When was it?” “Has it happened yet?” I have certainly experienced some significant transformations in the past 20 years of my adulthood.

In the film, an almost unrecognizable Zac Efron pontificates about the incredible feat that is a caterpillar turning itself into a butterfly. And he is right; that is amazing if you stop to think about it. At some point I did really think about it, because I have a butterfly tattoo and I chose it for its homage to the idea of transformation. As I watched the scene I reminded myself to remind myself of that fact more often. Transformation is very, very beautiful.
So, as I further ponder my own coming of age, I realize that there have been many moments that define some form of transformation, and that I want there to be many more. Those moments, those decisions, those risks that we take that shape us into a more real, more complete and more beautiful human being, those are the times when we ‘come of age’.

The very exquisite Richard Jenkins, who portrays the reluctant retiree, responds to Jessie’s question, “Do you think of this place as a prison?” with “Every place is a prison if you never leave.” That line resonated with me, because I have an internal kinetic-ness that makes me want to go, well, everywhere. In my life, many of my coming of age moments have been around departures to somewhere new. Moving to LA, moving to London, moving to Sydney, coming here to Seattle four years ago to live with Ben – all highly significant times in my life when I stretched myself, faced my fears and went for it.

These defining moments are different for everyone, however. For me, traveling and living in different places is innate to my contentment, but Jenkins’ line about every place being prison if you don’t leave is not true for everyone.

I know 8 couples who are currently expecting a baby (7 for the first time), and I cannot express how much I admire their selflessness and courage. My sister and brother-in-law became parents for the first time about 15 months ago and I am in awe of how brilliantly they parent my (clever and beautiful) nephew. Talk about a coming of age!

So, back to my questions, “When was my coming of age?” and “Has it happened yet?” The answers are, “Many, many times before,” and “Not yet.”

The night I didn’t meet Kevin Costner

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You know those lists that couples write where they name 5 famous people that they are allowed to sleep with – without any repercussions or recrimination? As if those 5 famous people would be so flattered by being on THE LIST that they would not only jump at the chance to sleep with the person, but also make themselves available to that person so that it could actually happen?

Yeah, me too. Although I have never actually handed Ben a piece of paper and said, these are my five. I have, on occasions, mentioned, ‘he’d probably be on my list,’ but have never taken that extra step of writing down the four others who would join ‘him’. I may have actually written lists in my younger days, but I didn’t keep them, and if I did they are in storage at my mum’s house along with my certificates and Duran Duran scrapbooks (don’t judge me).

So, if I cast my mind back to my mind, say circa 1989, who would be on the list that I probably wrote and possibly gave to my first real boyfriend ever, but likely didn’t keep?

  1. Sean Connery. Yes, old enough to be my grandfather, but I was a sophisticated 19-year-old, and he was People’s Sexiest Man Alive, people!
  2. Jimmy Smits. I was a mad LA Law fan and Victor Sifuentes was just yummy.
  3. Tom Cruise.  Did you see how good he looked in that suit in Rainman???
  4. Dave Gahan from Depeche Mode. Just sex on legs, really.
  5. Kevin Costner. No way out (sexiest sex scene in a limo ever). Bull Durham (sexiest sex scene in a bathtub ever). Field of Dreams (just a lovely film, really).

Flash forward 23 years. It is February and Ben and I are in NYC, celebrating us, and the fact that I have never been to New York before. We are seated in the Eugene O’Neill Theater about to watch The Book of Mormon. To say that I am excited is an understatement. The theater is packed, having been sold out for months, and there is little room to spare. My knees almost touch the seat in front of me, which is still empty even though it is only five minutes to curtain. Ben’s seat is on the aisle and I lean over to ask him if a tall man sits in front of me, will he switch seats so I can see?

“Of course, babe,” replies my lovely date. I sit back in my chair just as a very tall man, accompanied by two beautiful women arrives and pauses in the aisle right next to us. I glance up and hope like hell that of the three of them that the tall man will not sit in front of me. And then the tall man speaks. “Honey, do you want to go first and I will sit in the middle?” The middle would be right in front of me and one half of my brain sighs heavily, while the other half registers that I know that voice.

I take another look at the tall man and my eyes widen and I grip Ben’s leg as if to telegraph my realization to him without words.  The tall man is Kevin Costner. THE Kevin Costner. And he is so tall, and so handsome, and so there!

He and his gorgeous second daughter and his gorgeous second wife (who I should add is younger than me), get settled. He is sitting less than 24 inches from my face. I turn to Ben. “Do you know who that is?” I mouth silently. He smiles at me, nods and returns a silent, “Yes.”  “I LOVE him,” I mouth in reply.

Out loud Ben says, “Do you want to swap places, babe?” Nonchalantly, I reply, “No, I’m fine thanks.”

With Kevin Costner two feet away from my face, I start to watch the show. And it is brilliant. And Kevin thinks it is brilliant. I know this because for every minute I spend watching the show, I dedicate about one and a half minutes to watching Kevin Costner watch the show.

Intermission. I am desperate to use the bathroom and so is Ben. We are half-way up the aisle before the house lights come up – he goes left and I go right. I am fourth in line for the ladies’ loo and I am very impressed with their system. There is a switchback at the bottom of the stairs and a woman in a uniform directs women to stalls like a skilled NYC traffic cop. I am in and out in moments.

Back in my seat, Ben next to me, we are painfully aware that Kevin is now on his own and we silently communicate the following conversation:

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Shrug.

“He is one of your favorite actors.”

“I don’t want to be that person. You know, all, ‘so hey, I will nonchalantly ask if you are enjoying the show, just to say I talked to you, and you are all like, ‘I hate being a famous person’.’

Shake of head and sweet smile at pathetic girlfriend.

“Plus, he is here for Whitney’s funeral. I can’t.”

We then switch to audible dialogue, where I am witty and clever, comparing my life growing up Mormon with the play, secretly hoping that Kevin will find me so fascinating that he will interrupt and join in our conversation.

He does not. Instead his wife and daughter return from the bathroom to expound on the horrors of the bathroom line.

The play continues and is brilliant. At the end we stand with the others in the audience, delighted to reward the stunning cast, and Kevin is whisked away by someone in black wearing cans so he can meet the cast.

I am now the woman who was too scared to talk to Kevin Costner.

Back in the hotel room, I am typing away on my laptop when music suddenly blares and startles Ben. “Sorry,” I say as I fumble with the volume.

“What on earth is that?” asks Ben.

“Kevin Costner dot com,” I reply, feeling even more foolish. “He is only 57, you know.”

My lovely, tolerant, sweet boyfriend just hugs me and says, “Not old enough to be your father. You know if he’s on your list you totally should have talked to him. He clearly likes younger women.”

I know when I am being teased, so I close my laptop and pretend not to know what Ben is talking about. I found out later that one of the other guys ‘on my list’ was at the play that night, too. But I only like him because he reminds me of Ben.

sandybarker

A dear friend, whom I have known for 20 years, pontificates about what 40 means to a modern woman.

Reminiscences of an Olympic Volunteer

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12 years ago I was a volunteer at the Sydney Olympics. Don’t laugh, but I worked in security. I was based at the Sydney Convention and Exhibition Hall in Darling Harbour (I included the ‘u’ because that’s how we spell it in Australia.)

Two days before Day One, I showed up at an enormous warehouse just west of the city along with thousands of other volunteers and got my full uniform kit. It was the year 2000, and the uniform reminded me of something I would have thought was cool in 1986. We looked like this:

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Disclaimer: I am not in this photo

Fetching, yes?

On Day One I reported for duty along with about a hundred other people. We would work 10 hour shifts with a 30-minute meal break. We would have access to an unlimited supply of muesli (granola) bars, and I sensed that this detail was significant. If I was assigned to work at the other end of the venue (a 1/2 mile away) it could take most of the meal break to get to the cafeteria and back.

“Does anyone know how to work a walkie-talkie?” asked our leader. I thrust my hand in the air before I realized that I had never even seen one up close. My id apparently knew that this question was what would separate the next two weeks into ‘exciting and fun’ and ‘watching paint dry’. My id was right.

Along with the 8 others who raised their hands, I was taken to another room and kitted out with a roster, a clipboard and the aforementioned walkie-talkie. I was going to be a team leader. Not only a team leader, but “Gold Team Leader”. How could I not think to, “stay on target, stay on target…?”

I looked at the walkie-talkie, heavy in my hand. I sneaked some glances at my fellow team leaders while they turned theirs on and made adjustments. I did the same moves, a beat behind, and within about 90 seconds realized that pretty much anyone could have raised their hands when our boss asked the question. A piece of cake.

I met my team, we moved down to our part of the convention center – fencing that day – and I took them through their roles. Essentially, ‘security’ meant that we checked credentials at check points, which were posted between events and for anyone other than paying public to get into the venue.

I was relieved to discover that we would not have to actually enforce ‘security’, because the only move I had was to put my keys in between my fingers so as to rake them across an assailant’s face. And, I didn’t think that this was in keeping with the Olympic spirit. Besides, there was a team of paid security guards to assist the Gold Team with securing the venue.

I was disappointed, however, to see that as the days passed, fewer and fewer volunteers returned for their shifts. By the end of the 2 weeks, we were down to 1/3 of the original group. This meant longer shifts for those of us who showed up, and that many checkpoints within the venue and between events were left unattended.

Late into the games, came a highlight of my volunteer experience. I met Evander Holyfield. I was back-of-house at the Boxing, and he showed up with his entourage. They all had their Olympic credentials, but he didn’t; he had left it in the hotel. I wouldn’t let him in. To be clear, it was my job to not let him in. One of his minders asked if I knew who he was. I did not. After the 30-minutes it took one of his crew to go back to the hotel and get his credentials, I knew all about him.

His name meant very little to me, but when he said that Mike Tyson had bitten off part of his ear, I finally put two and two together. He was carrying an armful of stuffed toys (Olympic mascots), which he said were for his kids. I teased him, “Sure they are,” and he laughed a big laugh with his head thrown back. “It must look a little weird, huh?”

He was being very good-natured the hold-up preventing him from seeing the boxing. Finally his minder returned with his credentials, and he shook my hand and said it was a pleasure to talk to me. When I got back to where I was staying, I looked him up. He was a much bigger deal than I had thought.

I also met ‘Aussie Joe’ Bugner, the Australian boxer-turned-actor, who lost to Ali in 1975. He is a bit of a legend in Australia, so I knew who he was, and he came and hugged me at the conclusion of the boxing to thank me for my volunteer work during the games. Nice.

By the end of the games, I was working an average of 14 hours a day. I rarely got time to all the way to the cafeteria so the muesli bars were my main source of sustenance. I got to use my limited French a few times, but my very limited Spanish made a Spanish official laugh out loud. Apparently, instead of, “I don’t speak Spanish,” I told him that he didn’t.

As a volunteer I was given tickets to see Cathy Freeman’s victory at Olympic Stadium and to attend the Closing Ceremonies, not to mention all the bouts of boxing, wrestling, fencing, judo and weightlifting I saw. I met medalists, dignitaries, athletes and travelers from all over the world. It was brilliant.

At the London Olympics my good friend, Dawn Denton, is volunteering with the South African team. You can follow her adventures here. How privileged we are.

Paris Lite

sandybarker

Note to self: do not get the flu the day you are going to Paris.

I have been to Paris nine times. I realize that this is an obnoxious comment, but it is true.

A long time ago, in a galaxy that seems far, far away, I was a Tour Manager for a company who specialized in European tours for 18-35 year olds and we began each tour in Paris.

The most recent trip to Paris was going to be different. Mainly because I would not have 50 people following me around. And also because we would be staying at a hotel in the city, and not a campsite outside the Periphique.

Ben and I had planned a trip to Paris for four nights, five days, arriving on a Monday at Gare du Nord via the Eurostar. It was going to be grand.

As luck would have it, however, I came down with the flu the day before we arrived and it hit me full-force for the first three days of our trip. In my delirium I struggled to answer the question, “how do we salvage this?” Then I cried a little, out of frustration, and then I slept.

For the first two days, I stayed in bed, while my intrepid love traveled the depth and breadth of the city, seeing some of its most prestigious sites. In the afternoons, after at least a dozen hours of sleep, I made myself presentable and headed out to meet him.

The weather was glorious. 80F/27C and sunshine. Loads and loads of sunshine. How could I not feel better?

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Although Paris is a city to walk, much like NYC, we availed ourselves of other forms of transportation when the walking got too much for me. Quick hops on the Paris Metro allowed us to traverse the city and hit the highlights, and a Batobus ticket gave us unlimited passage up and down the Seine for one day.

We even participated in the sweet, but increasingly cliched practiced of affixing a lock with our names on it to a bridge.

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We had seen this before while walking the Cinque Terre in Italy, and this time we couldn’t resist joining in. We paid our four Euros to an enterprising young man on the bridge, carved our initials and wrote over them in permanent marker, and then locked our lock into place. We threw a key into the Seine and sealed the whole deal with a kiss. Cheesy? Maybe. Romantic? Definitely.

By day four, I was feeling well enough to venture out with Ben in the morning, and we headed to the southern part of the city to visit the catacombs. In all my previous trips to Paris, I had never been to the catacombs. There was a wait of about 90 minutes, but we passed it in good spirits and soon enough we were inside.

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The tour is an interesting mixture of geology, history and spirituality. There was something fascinating about the way the bones were stacked, but I concede that the tour would not be for everyone. I joked that they would have us exit through the gift-shop, until we emerged into the brightness only to find that directly across the street from the exit, was in fact, a gift shop. We bought fridge magnets. How could we not?

That afternoon we also visited Musee d’Orsay, which I would name as my favorite museum. Period. They have significantly changed the Impressionists’ wing, but it still holds some of the most exquisite paintings I have ever seen.

And I loved this:

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Another place I had never been to was the Rodin Museum, so we made an effort to get there on one of the sunny afternoons I met up with Ben. There are two admission prices, one for the museum (his former home) and garden, and it is only one Euro to access the garden only.

I imagine that if I lived close by, I would pay the one Euro quite frequently just to sit in the beautiful garden.

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I was taken with many of his pieces, especially this one:

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By the last evening I was starting to feel better, but as luck would have it again, Ben was struck with food poisoning. This curtailed our plans to go up the Eiffel Tower the next morning, but we remind ourselves that this was only our first trip to Paris together. There will surely be another.

And despite everything we managed to hit the highlights.

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Ah, Paris…’til next time.

French Women Don’t Get Fat (???)

sandybarker

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A few years ago I read a break-through book by Mireille Guliano, who purported that French women (typically) do not get fat, because – and this is especially true for Parisian women – they walk everywhere, and eat small portions of all foods. They do not subscribe to the notion that there are ‘good’ and ‘bad’ foods, and as they do not deprive themselves of a small taste of any food they like, they do not binge. And, they do not get fat.

I would like to offer forth an additional chapter to the book.

Chapter One: Take Up Smoking

I just spent a week in Paris – with the flu. I was particularly sensitive to cigarette smoke, being that my lungs were already on fire and I had great difficulty breathing. Cigarette smoke is pervasive in Paris.

The law must dictate only that one must be ‘al fresco’ to smoke. This can mean smoking in a doorway, a conservatory, a porch, a doorstep, a veranda and a patio are all acceptable. And this of course means that the affixed indoor venue fills with smoke.

Many, if not most, of the offenders I saw were women. Thin French women. ‘Nough said.

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Half-way there

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As I start writing this, Gwen Stefani is demanding to know ‘what I am waiting for’. Perhaps her bleats from the radio are rhetorical, but I can’t help asking myself the same thing. What am I waiting for? Anything in particular, or is it all good, right now? Good bloody question, Gwen!

In a few days I turn 43. Let’s say, all else going well, I live to enjoy 85 (I plan to live longer, and to be a spectacular octogenarian, but I am picking a good number to aim for). If 85 is my magic number, then I am now more than half way through my life.

There are many reason to be happy about 43. Firstly, I don’t feel it. I know, lucky me, but I don’t. I just feel like a much smarter, less-likely-to-take-any-crap, more financially-savvy version of my 28 year old self. Those are all other reasons to be happy about 43.

In my 20s I thought I knew it all, and in my 30s I realized that I didn’t. The first few years of my 40s has been about realizing that it’s okay that I don’t know it all.

This means I am less inclined to labor a point ’til my love ones want to stab me in the eye with a cheese knife (the one with the sharp little fork on the end).

It also means I can rely on others to know the stuff that I just don’t care to know about – like how to set up the router and how to make martini. It also makes me very grateful when someone else takes on these things that I don’t care to know about.

And, when Ben corrects my pronunciation of a word I have been saying wrong since I learned it from a book 20 years ago, I can just shrug and say, “Huh, how about that. All these years. Thanks, babe.”

The best thing about being 43, though, is that I laugh at myself a lot more than I ever did at 28, or 38 for that matter. I think at this rate I will find myself completely hilarious by the time I am 60, and bloody hysterical at 80. At 85, I will be that funny, laughing lady who still rides her motorcycle. Note to self: learn to ride a motorcycle.

But seriously…

As the lovely wishes of ‘happy birthday’ start to arrive – in person, online, on the phone and in the mail, I feel very blessed to have a beautiful person to share my life and laughter with, a wonderful family, and friends who have become family over the years.

And, Gwen, I am not really waiting for anything.