Category: Humor

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A Children’s Poetry Place

I started A Children’s Poetry Place a few months back, but haven’t been able to devote as much time to it as Where the Butterflies Go. Watch for more children’s poetry there in 2011. You can subscribe to the feed, or even follow the blog on Networked Blogs.

To end the year in style there, here are someĀ  Haiku.Ā  Don’t miss the delightful Murkles either. Thanks for reading!Ā  If you can, please let others know about this new blog, and of course, spend some time there with your children.

Thanks so much for visiting from all over the world, for your comments, and for your friendships. Let’s keep our love of poetry alive & well in 2011 and beyond.

Happy Holidays,

Heather

Santa, Please Stop Here!
'Santa, Please Stop Here' by Heather Grace Stewart
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The Fine Line: Emails from L.A.

“Your friend’s on T.V.”

“My friend?”

“Your friend whose name I can’t pronounce.”

“Ohhh! My FRIEND! Mr. Sitcom Actor!” I squealed, and ran from the kitchen, where hubby and I had been making dinner together, to the living room. It was three years after the Crazy Phone Call, and since that time, not one restraining order had been placed against me. Wait, that didn’t come out right. I have never had a restraining order placed against me. Seriously. Please, keep reading.

Mr. Sitcom Actor had, in fact, recently told me I should refer to him as my friend, “even though you’re in Montreal and I’m way over here in L.A.” It never surprised me when he responded to my emailsā€”he’s a dear-heart like thatā€”but I knew it was a rarity for a famous person in Hollywood to give a rat’s ass about someone who could do nothing for them. I enjoyed our rare yet lively e-conversations.

I caught the tail end of the ad that was on for his series, but it was enough to get me jumping up and down, clapping, as I always did when hubby told me my friend was on our TV screen. Our one-year-old was sitting in her high chair, and started clapping along with me.

“Dat? Dat dere?” she asked, big eyes blue and wondering.

“That’s my friend. Mr. Sitcom Actor. He sends me emails from L.A. Well, not really.
I email him, and he’s sweet enough to email back.”

“Nice haih, dat,” Monkeydoodle mumbled through her peas.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. He really does have great hair.”

I’m going to stop typing immediately and clarify something before I get deluged with excited emails from you, dear readers. This is a fun game to play, keeping you guessing about all the parties in my story, but no, I didn’t get emails from McDreamy in my in-box. Patrick Dempsey wouldn’t return to our TV screens, set my heart racing, and make me put extra mousse in my husband’s hair until a whole year later.

As I finally sat down on the sofa, dinner plate on lap–this has got to be one of Murphy’s Laws–our daughter’s face turned beet red, and she announced an event to us for which anyone with an operating olfactory nerve required no announcement:

“Poop!”

I laughed, and was reminded of an email Mr. Sitcom Actor had sent me a few weeks back. We’d been comparing diaper duty–he’s quite the hands-on Dad and had admitted he and his wife were “knee-deep-in-it” –and, having read some of my poems, he’d told me I should write a Mommy Rap about changing diapers. “That would be hilarious!”

I never did write that rap. Life gets in the way; or perhaps that’s just not how it was supposed to happen. If I’d started practicing my rapping when Mr. Sitcom Actor suggested it, maybe I’d have learned to sing on key and sound bad-ass enough. But then I wouldn’t have earned my “The girl can’t rap, but she sure can write” t-shirt sent to me by The Sex People, along with a delicious strawberry cheesecake, delivered to my door.

Who the hell are The Sex People? I’m sure that’s what the cheesecake delivery guy wanted to know, with every inch of his being, since I wasn’t expecting him, and had answered the door in leggings and the new black stilettos I’d been modeling for my girlfriend Artsy Mommy. He must have thought I was running a very different kind of home business.

Back to The Sex People. The simple answer is I met them online when Mr. Sitcom Actor joked with me tongue-in-cheek, “Yes, Heather, let’s be friends, officially,” when I’d asked him if that was really him on Facebookā€”as if you have to be on Facebook to make your friendship official. He soon posted a link to a discussion board led by Mr. Screenwriter, which I thought looked quite interesting, so I joined.

Before I knew it I was online every day with a bunch of friends I’d never met, chatting about the in’s and out’s of screenwriting, sex in the movies, baseball, and our messy, beautiful lives.

It was the stuff movies are made of.

Read how this story started:

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

1) a-The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

Read the NEXT CHAPTER: The Fine Line: I’m Afraid to Ask, but What Is Poking?

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The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

“You’re getting wrinkled.”

“It’s not that hot,” I coughed through the steam.

“You’re getting drunk.”

“It’s rosĆ©. I’m pretty sure you can only get tipsy on the pink stuff,” I laughed. Still, I decided he was right. It was time to get out of the bath. At 31 years old, this newlywed was already a little too wrinkled for her liking.

Hubby handed me a towel. Before he even got a word out–typical, really–I looked up at him and asked him one more time:

“Do you really think I should do it? I’m gonna do it. Should I do it?”

“Do what you want.” He smiled at me, then walked into the other room.

“What are you doing? Hey!” I hated when he did this. Leaving decisions up to me was a very bad idea. And yet, he did it all the time. His philosophy is, so long as no one gets hurt, I’m a grown woman, it’s really all up to me. Once, I e-mailed him from the 27-floor building where I worked, saying I hated all the bureaucracy, hated the tediousness of the work, and wanted to quit. Could we afford it?

He typed back: “Do what you want. Do what makes you happy. Do whatever doesn’t involve jumping out the window of a high-rise building.”

I finished getting dressed, wrapping the towel around my head like a turban. As I walked out of the bathroom, I found Bill standing at the kitchen counter, pouring me another glass of wine.

“Here you go,” he smirked, handing it to me.

“What’s this for?”

“Liquid courage.”

“See! I knew you knew I was gonna do it.”

“Of course you’re gonna do it. You’re showing off how good you are at finding phone numbers on the Internet. Show-off.”

“Do you think I’m crazy? I mean, it’s probably not even his phone number.”

“I’ve always thought you’re crazy. This just makes you crazier.”

I didn’t even stop to stick my tongue out at him. I took a quick swig of the wine, picked up the phone, and started dialing.

One ring. No one was going to answer. Come on. It was his home phone number in New York. How the hell did that end up on the Internet? Two rings. Did this mean I was a stalker? It just popped up on my screen! It’s not like I’d even been looking for it! Three rings. Someone was answering. Holy hell, someone was answering!

“Hello?”

“Um, Mr. Sitcom Actor?”

“Yes. This is Mr. Sitcom Actor.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m Heather. In Montreal.”

“Hello, Heather in Montreal.”

“I, er, um, I just wanted to call and tell you how much I’ve loved your work in movies and television. I’ve watched it all.”

“Hey, that’s really nice. I’m about to go to dinner with my girlfriend and my Mom…”

“No, no, I’m married, Mr. Sitcom Actor. He’s right here, actually. I’m just outgoing like this. I just felt like you might need a pick-me-up. I had this gut instinct that I should call. It must sound crazy.”

“No strings attached? Really? Wow, that’s really sweet. I’ll tell my Mom!”

“Cool. Have a good dinner.”

“I will, Heather in Montreal. Thanks so much for the call.”

I hung up the phone, turned to hubby, and performed a jiggly-jumping-up-and-down-quick-spin-around-“Oh Yeah! I did it! Oh Yeah!” ritual that I would come to refer to as my Heather Dance.

“Ha! He answered! And he was touched!”

“Or maybe you’re touched.”

I laughed and clicked my wine glass with his.

And that was how it all began.

So, as you can see, clearly, it’s all my husband’s fault.

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

Read the next chapter here:
The Fine Line: Emails from L.A.

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The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

Those of you who’ve been following this blog for a while now know that I write in a few different genres. I’ve written non-fiction books for youth on Canada’s Prime Ministers; I’m a published poet, and I’m a magazine features writer.

A little over a year ago, I started on the roller-coaster ride of my life: my journey into the world of screenwriting. I’d soon discover that writing the script wasn’t the hard part. Sure, I’ll tell you a bit about that process–but that’s not the story here. The true blood, sweat, and tears this past year have come from trying to get someone–anyone in the industry–to read it, comment on it, and give me a hand perfecting it and selling it. I’ve also been searching for an agent and working on another script so that I have a body of work to show someone when they finally agree to read my first script.

About six months into my efforts, I managed to get in touch with an agent who booked talent–mainly writers and actors–for Broadway productions. He told me that, while he had enjoyed reading my script and was very much willing to help me as best he could by offering advice, he didn’t really have any ‘in’s” in the Hollywood film industry. He was, however, one of the first people to engage in a dialogue with me about the industry and about what I was up against, and he was also incredibly helpful in getting my script into the hands of a well-known Canadian actor-director. This actor had his own American TV series some years ago and is now directing films–we’ll call him Mr. Canadian Actor. Mr. Canadian Actor scribbled some great input into the margins of my script–really incredible stuff including critique, questions, and suggestions for scene direction, which I incorporated into a new draft. He then accidentally left my script on a seat in Arrivals at the Vancouver airport. But that’s another tale, to be told at another time.

After a few friendly emails from–let’s call him Mr. Broadway–I had the instinct that he could probably give me some perspective on what should be my next move with a well-known screenwriter-producer I’d been interacting with online–we’ll call him Mr. Screenwriter. Mr. Screenwriter had offered to read my script and eventually sent my script to a big U.S. agency. Being the polite Canadian I am, I kept wondering if “thank you” was adequate. Some people had told me I should make some grand gesture. I’d already said thank-you enough times and in enough ways; I felt that I was starting to sound like a bit of an idiot. I didn’t feel doing any more would be appropriate–since when does thank-you not genuinely mean thank-you?

There are a few things I’m not willing to do in this journey, and one of them is ass-kiss, and the other is name-drop (hence the use of Mr. Names. I’d like to get to the Mrs. Names, but sadly, there are so very few Mrs. High-Up’s in the industry. That’s another whole chapter. I’ll get there). So I wrote Mr. Broadway and asked him if he thought sending a gift to Mr. Screenwriter was a good idea or very, very bad idea (my instinct).

He e-mailed back this note: “There’s a fine line between persistence and stalking.”

I burst out laughing. I was so loud, in fact, my five-year-old came running into my office, asking, “What, Mommy? What’s so funny?” It was then that I realized I had a story here. The story of little, 5’2″ me, just a girl from the Ottawa Valley, trying to break into Big Bad Hollywood as a writer.

This is that story. I’m not sure if it’s a book or a script or just a bunch of fun blog posts. Stay tuned to find out!

Chapter 1: The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

**So far, there are SIX posts in this series. Read them all here–in order, from the post at the bottom to the post at the top:

The Fine Line series by Heather Grace Stewart

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Beyond the Picket Fence: Special Three-Frame Strip