Experience #12 The Sugarland Concert

When I made my list of thirty-three experiences for the year, going to a live music concert for the first time was fairly high on that list. I’m sure at some point in the last thirty-three years, I could have decided to go to one. I considered it several times, but it always felt like one of those things that could be put off. And of course, because it could be put off, it was. That seems to be the basis for my list of experiences this year.

So when I added it to my list, I knew I didn’t want to just watch anyone. If I had put it off this long, I wanted the experience to be worth the wait. I thought of the artists that I like the most, and Sugarland made it to the very top of that list. At the beginning of the year when I researched all my experiences for the year, the band was only scheduled to perform two places, and Bayou Country Superfest was the closest.

The concert was well worth the wait. Watching Sugarland perform live was amazing, and I came home and downloaded even more of their music. I perform my own daily performances now. (Just kidding. Well, sort of.)

Listening to my favorite songs live was a spectacular experience, but it was a learning experience for future concerts as well. (Yes, I’m already planning to see Sugarland again.)

The first lesson learned was that I’m too attention deficit to sit in the back of the stadium with everything that happens at a concert. People go up and down the stands, and I find myself counting how many trips each person makes, wondering if they would prefer buying a ticket to the concession stand instead of the concert. Some people couldn’t figure out how to read their tickets, and people had to keep getting up out of someone else’s spot. The red shirts of the emergency staff ran up and down, and I would crane my neck to see where they were dashing off to. The people behind us got into an argument with the person on the side of them, and I thought we’d have to referee for a moment. I had no trouble focusing on Sugarland, but the other bands did not gain my attention as easily, or at all in some cases. Which brings me to the conclusion that either I need to be right up close to the stage or only go see bands I absolutely love.

The second lesson was not something that I did, but something I watched others do. While attending a concert all day in the sun, one should probably only have one or two drinks. Before Tim McGraw took the stage, there were 609 medical incidents, most alcohol related. The man in the seat next to us kept getting updated numbers from his contact on the emergency staff. If I’m going to pay to see a band, I actually want to see them, and I mean from my future seat near the stage and not from a stretcher.

And Lastly, concerts are like fashion shows. It’s all about what you are wearing. And FYI, dresses and cowboy boots must be in style, at least for a country concert. I was supposed to wear the cowboy boots, but I talked myself out of it because I thought it would be too hot. From now on, I will dress the part. (Of course, the fashion was another distraction as I had to critique the various outfits I watched milling around.)

Overall, watching my favorite musical group perform live was definitely an experience I want to repeat. After I strike a few more off my list of experiences, of course.

Two years later...

This week marked the second anniversary of the school shooting. Though, I can’t say that I think back on that day every minute of every day, it was on my mind this year as soon as we entered the month of May. In many ways, this year was more difficult than last year. The emotional numbness I’d subjected myself to was still firmly in place last year, but I’d decisively lifted that numbness last October when I’d decided I wanted to live again and feel all the emotions that came with living, even the pain and sadness that are bound to come.

In some ways I’d prepared myself for this day. I knew my feelings were stronger than they should be after two years since people always say that time heals everything. I knew I hadn’t healed completely yet. I can tell when I walk down the halls of school, and I see teachers who leave cracks in their doors because they automatically lock, and they become frustrated having to continually open them for students. The anger that runs through me is just a little too strong. I wish for their ignorance of bad things happening with open doors. I resent their feeling protected in the cocoon of their classroom. Instead, I’m constantly aware of my door. I open it and close it each time behind a student. I lose it occasionally on a student who attempts to leave it open so they can just come right back inside. I do not feel safe with open doors. That innocence was taken from me.

I realized the day before that it was all running a little too close to the surface, but time marches forth whether you are ready for it or not, and hard days arrive. One of my students brought it up in my class at the exact time that the student had walked into my room two years earlier, and for the rest of the day, my thoughts continued to return to it. I don’t know at what time of the day I realized that my son’s awards night would be held at the same school, but it took hold, and by the time I reached home that day my insides had begun to shake.

I’d have to walk through the doors of that gym, and though the shooting had happened in my classroom, it was the gym that caused me dread. I’d sat in the bleachers at the end of that day two years ago, having reassured myself that it was some random event, that it had not been personal. I’d sat in the bleachers of that gym as Sheriff Craig Webre had read my name from the student’s journal. In that moment when my name had slipped from his lips, what had happened had become real. I’d begun shaking that day, too. After remaining strong all day, it had hit me that my room had been a target, not chosen by chance. My denial had crumbled as I sat in those very same bleachers I’d have to watch my son receive an award from on the two year mark.

So I walked into the gym alone, on a day that no one speaks about anymore as if by not talking about it, it never occurred. (Sorry, there’s that anger again.) I made it to the top of the bleachers on shaky legs, but managed to keep my composure. It was a moment of sadness so weighty that my lips could not rise in a smile, though I greeted my children after not seeing them for several days.

The gym looked different. There were new posters. The school had hosted Challenge Day and remnants of messages remained on the walls. In big letters staring at me were the words BE THE CHANGE.

How fitting? Isn’t that what I had attempted to do since that day? Even in the numbness, I’d known that breaking down would do no one any good. If my students in the class that day were looking to me to see how to handle it, then I’d return the next day and show them how to do it with strength and compassion. If students ask about it today, I know that what I need to do is show them what they can do to make students never reach the point where they want to bring a gun to school. And maybe, I need to be the one to bring about change. Even if everyone pretends that it never happened, it doesn’t mean I ever will or ever could. I will continue to tell my story when it needs to be told because denial and ignorance only means that it will happen again. 

Experience #11 Riding a Motorcycle

Wind in your face and the freedom of the open road. All points brought up when riding a motorcycle is mentioned. For my next experience, I decided to check out the open highway and see if I was missing anything by keeping myself tightly cocooned in my car.

It isn’t actually too difficult to find someone in my family that owns a motorcycle. For years, I could have experienced this thrill, but I never had any inclination to try. I’d call it a personal preference to keep myself in one piece. Though my mom tells a story about riding a motorcycle at eight months pregnant with me, she wasn’t asking me at the time if I wanted to ride, so I don’t think it counts.

As a teenager, I had a terrifying experience on a four wheeler that led me to fear the falling off part. My cousin Scott, his girlfriend of the time, and I were riding on a four wheeler after a Mardi Gras parade in Gheens. He decided to let her drive, and as she jerked forward attempting to take off, I fell backwards off the back. Hanging on by the bars, I could feel my head grazing the blacktop road. It caused a great deal of alarm, but I was a teenager so we continued on our way not telling anyone what had happened to avoid getting into trouble. Avoiding trouble is always more of a priority to a teenager than safety, of course. (It’s a good thing our mothers don’t read this.)

So with my New Year’s resolution this year of trying the things that I fear, I decided to give it a try. I thought maybe I could get rid of the image in my head of having layers of my flesh scrapped off every time I sat on a motorcycle or four wheeler.

What I learned is that the image may be permanetly ingrained in my mind, ready to be recalled anytime my butt hits one of those uncomfortable seats. Scott and I rode through Lockport, and though I felt no fear as we zoomed down the highway, wind rushing at us like it hadwhen we were children riding in the back of the truck, I couldn’t help but think how messed up I’d be if we tilted too far or if we hit a rock the wrong way. I imagined scenerios of skidding across the road and pondered the possibilities of damages.

When did I go from thinking that nothing bad could happen to what are all the possible bad things that could happen? Did it happen after I left my teenage years behind or when I became a mother? I suppose it was gradual enough not be noticed.

Though it was exhilarating to have nothing between you and the outside world, speeding down the road, wind rushing at you, feeling unprotected, it was not a relaxing activity. If only I could get my imagination to quiet down of those graphic images it supplies as I watch the highway pass by, I may be able to completely enjoy the experience. Oh well, off to the next exeperience. I have many to go before the year ends.

Mother's Day

On July 12, 2002, I became a mother for the first time. I did it the same way I do everything else. I refused to go to Lamaze class or tour the hospital. I did a little reading in What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but then I decided I didn’t want to know.

I didn’t ask mothers how labor would be… I have issues with taking advice from anyone.  I figured my son would make an appearance, and I’d figure out what I had to do then. It wasn’t like he could stay in there forever.

And true to that thinking, in all of his impatience he came three weeks early. I lived through the contractions, did what the doctor said, and was handed my son. No use worrying beforehand.

My daughter of course in her attitude of someone will do all the work for me, chose to wait and I had to be induced. Still, I did not prepare any more or less. I’d done it once and figured if it were different this time around, I’d figure it out.

I’m a planner, but not a worrier. If I can’t plan it out, then I believe it will all work itself out. This attitude has kept me sane through temper tantrums and hysterics.

What I have noticed about being a mother though is all the judgment that comes along with it. As we celebrate mother’s day, I can’t help but notice that it’s the only day of the year that the pressure feels off.

Whether you are a working or stay at home mom or a single or married mom, there seems to be no shortage of people who think you are doing it wrong.

As a new mom, I stressed constantly about if I was going to screw up this little person’s life. I thought if I focused on not making the same mistakes of my parents, I’d be okay. Of course, that meant I made my own, completely new mistakes.

Somewhere in the last few years, I’ve decided there is no perfect way. I’ve seen enough children as a teacher to know that it’s sort of like a game of cards. You play your best hand, and it’s up to chance how the cards turn out. All we really ever do is the best we can.

I may not do it the way others would like, but I’m still happy with the mother I am. So if I seem to not be listening as someone tells me that my children will suffer for whatever they think I’m doing wrong that day, it’s because I’m not. I’m too busy being the mom I believe my children need..

Family Roots

As a child, my extended family spent a large amount of time together. We had Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house, we visited aunts and uncles every week, and we spent weeks at our great-grandparents’ house sharing beds and space. Because of all of this time together, I had cousins who were as close as sisters and brothers.

Of course, as I’m sure for most families, family squabbles and time drive you apart. One moment you are a kid with playing as your daily agenda, and the next moment you are an adult with a to-do list that has no time to visit with extended family.

But when you are an adult, and the people who were such a huge part of your childhood need you, would you be there for them, even after all the years that you weren’t?

Recently, I’ve had to answer that question for myself. Most people who know me or follow my stories, know my cousin Scott has been going through a rough time. (He posted a letter of apology on my blog March 5, 2011). I’ve noticed people look at me strangely when they realize that he is a cousin. I care deeply about what happens to Scott as he is like a brother to me. I’ve shown up at a hospital, a jail, and a treatment center where I have been asked who I am to him. I have been treated as if I don’t have a right to want to see him as a cousin. As I questioned the DEA agent, I was in return asked twice how I was related to Scott. It was apparent that my concern, as a cousin, was not readily accepted or understood.

Our story is much more complicated than the simple label of cousin. It’s not that he’s family or that quote about blood being thicker than water. I have family that I barely know or have seen in years, and I wouldn’t jump to help them out as much as I would Scott.

The fact is roots of childhood run deep, and I can’t remember my childhood without thinking of him. The thought of him not being there when I show up at his house hurts more than any uncomfortable place I will have to trek to see him until he gets his life straightened out.

I truly believe that family is more about how far your roots intermingle and fuse together than sharing parents or blood.

To me, Scott will forever be that boy who played Superman to my Wonder woman along with my superhero sister and two other cousins. We were the superheroes battling evil, not old enough to understand that sometimes the evil of the world are not bad guys. We’d huddle together, throw our hands into the center, and yell out as we ran around catching the imaginary bad guys. We didn’t understand then that the world was not so black and white, and that the bad things would not be so easy to chase away.

Scott is the kid that needed protecting when after the death of his brother, we learned how cruel children could be. I stood up for him then. Sometimes I was terrified as I yelled at older kids who’d upset him, but I never backed down. For I’d lost one cousin already, and I was not about to let them torment another. I didn’t want to see him sad; his tears broke my heart more than the fear of standing up to a bigger kid.

But the seal on that bond that made us more than just cousins and more brother and sister came as teenagers when we lived together. For four months, we did everything together. We were inseparable. But it was really those late night conversations when I’d be studying or reading and he’d throw himself across the bed, and we’d talk about girls on his end, guys on mine, what high school was like, and everything in between that brought us together and made him call me sis. He was the one constant in my life at the time, and though I know he looked up to me then, he was the one person who didn’t make me feel disconnected to the world.

And even though life attempts to sever those deep connections as you grow up, the roots run deep when they are intertwined together and who you are is a conglomeration of the memories you hold. Many acquaintances speak about brothers and sisters who have disappointed them and how they’ve given up on them. Some have said that they refuse to help loved ones anymore. But Scott’s wife pointed out at one point in her anger that we were doing everything to help Scott and nothing to help her, who she views as the victim.

Her roots do not grow with ours though. She was not there when the roots of our family were being watered and fertilized. He was, and the connections created run deep and will not be severed by the mistakes people undoubtedly will make.



Who else will remember where you’ve been so that where you stand now matters? Who will share your story about the broken arm on the Ken doll or the Easter snooping as our mother’s filled the Easter baskets? Who else has caught crickets with you or dyed Easter eggs?



Scott’s actions may be a cause for disappointment, but it was more of a disappointment that his self-destruction had gone unnoticed. We’d failed him by not noticing from the start. We will not give up on him or believe that he is hopelessly lost. His story is part of mine, and I will make sure the two continue to grow.



This picture was taken about thirteen years ago. This was the last time that the five cousin "superheroes" were all together as adults. Left to Right: Top: Cousin Christy, Sister Erica  Middle: Me, Cousin Stacy  Bottom Row: Scott



The Experience that Started the List

The incessant fire alarm cried for the third time. I came downstairs to find Andrew standing on the dining room chair, waving the pot holder at the ear piercing box to clear the smoke around it as he’d seen me do the first and second times only minutes earlier. A smoky haze filled the downstairs, so I opened the window and door once again. This has become a usual occurrence in our lives.

No, I haven’t burnt dinner (this time), but I do need to add cleaning my stove to the list of what one must take care of when living alone.

Until seven months ago, I had never lived on my own. I’d gone from my parents' house to living with my ex-husband and completely bypassed that learning experience. And it has been ummm…. interesting. Some have called me a bit of a princess (or worse) in my life because of what I’m willing to do or not do in terms of work around the house. All of that has had to change though.

Within the first couple of weeks of living on my own, I managed to lite two towels on fire at the stove. Luckily, I don’t panic… much, and I managed to throw them into the sink to put them out. I’ve set the fire alarm off so many times that the kids no longer panic as they did the first, second, or fifth time.

I’ve gone to work and left a candle lit all day. I once forgot to lock the door before I went to work. With no one to come behind me and remind me, I have realized my inattention to small details. My tendency to be impatient and always in a rush doesn’t help.

I’ve had to learn how to hang things on the wall, which means most things on my walls are far from straight. I’ve had to learn to be okay with that, and the perfectionist in me took a while with that one. I’ve had to unclog toilets when my daughter has stuffed them with paper, and unfortunately, no one cleans or picks up when I don’t have time due to all the running around I do.

Even with all I’ve done on my own, there are two things that I struggle with that I refused to do my entire life before now, and that would be to cut the grass or to wash the car.

When I was a teenager in high school, my father decided I was going to learn to cut grass. We entered into a battle of wills, and I won that battle hands down. I never even stepped foot onto the front porch to approach the lawn mower. Years later, I grew tired of waiting for the grass to be cut for a flower bed I was trying to design, so I attempted the lawn mower myself. Within five minutes someone took pity on my inaptness and finished the job. That was my only experience cutting grass.

I simply avoided this task by moving into an apartment. Maintenance does a wonderful job, and I’ve actually weighed buying a house with not cutting grass, and so far the not cutting grass part is winning.

The car on the other hand has proven a challenge. Not only do I have to worry about actually bringing it in to get its oil changed (I’m not touching that one), but it does need to be cleaned once in a while. I’m perfectly content driving through the car wash even with the extra cost, but my son, on the other hand, wishes to wash it. He does a great job, but unfortunately, it requires my help. So welcome to washing the car, willing or not.

Even with the high learning curve, I wouldn’t change any of it. It doesn’t feel like too long ago when I wondered if I could do it; live on my own and take care of everything that came up. I’ve proven to myself daily that I will find a solution to any problem that arises though, and I love every minute of it. Without this first step, I would never have created that list of thirty-three experiences, which it’s time I get back to.

Scary Movies not so Scary Anymore

I grew up watching horror movies from the time I could sit still. Psycho, Night of the Living Dead, Leprechaun, Poltergeist and all the others grouped in this time period were my childhood version of Disney movies. I clearly remember a slumber party that we stayed up watching Night of the Living Dead until the wee hours of the morning. We were still watching, when one of the sleeping girls woke screaming and ran through my house, and we all teased her about it for days (okay, so it was more like years). A good scare was exhilarating and highly entertaining then.

I don’t find that the case anymore. In fact, I haven’t watched a scary movie in over four years. My students always try to get me to watch this or that scary movie, but I’ve never once been tempted.

I’m not interested in adding to the ways my nightmares can wake me up with my heart pounding and leave me wide awake for the rest of the night. It didn’t use to be like this though.

After some random stranger high on drugs attempted to break into our house in the middle of the night, my anxiety of a repeat performance manifested itself into dreams straight out of the horror movies I’d watched my entire life. I no longer wanted to wake up to giant spiders hanging over my bed or form being chased by monsters with large blades, so I quit watching horror flicks. Of course with my list of experiences this year and my New Year’s goal to do the things that scare me, I couldn’t leave it be.

Scream 4 debuted recently, and I was a fan of the first three, so I figured, why not? I mean, I finally sleep through the night without waking from nightmares. Who needs sleep?

Having not watched one in so long, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was prepared to be scared and maybe have a bad dream or two, but I also wasn’t going sit through this one by myself. I haven’t reached that level of fearlessness yet. (I’m working on it though.)

I discovered, however, that scary movies are comical. Who writes this stuff? If I hear a noise upstairs, and I know a killer is terrorizing my town, I’m not going to run upstairs to see. If I’m being chased, I’m not going to go upstairs where there is no chance of escape. I’m definitely not going to go outside, alone, in the middle of the night practically begging to be sliced and diced by a mad man. No, I would not even worry about packing my bag before leaving for an unplanned vacation.

Why can’t they write intelligent horror? Scary does not have to equal lack of common sense. Needless to say, no bad dreams, but I also have no desire to see another scary movie any time soon. Not because it’s scary, but more because it’s annoying to watch people react so idiotically. So I’ll cross it off my list of things I fear and stick to the movies I actually like. I’ve already begun my count down to the last Harry Potter movie. It's supposed to be scary with the fight to the death, but that at least is my kind of scary.

Experience #10: The Vagina Monologues (A last minute addition)

Saturday night I attended The Vagina Monologues at Nicholls State University with my good friend Donna. I’d heard about them years ago, and I knew it was the perfect addition to my list of new experiences. (I find myself adding to this list constantly as new experiences come my way).

The play is not for anyone uncomfortable with vulgar language. At the beginning of the play, they warn the audience that some of the material may be offensive to some. I’m not easily offended. I’d like to believe I’m very open-minded. My family who listened to me tell them about it with raised eye brows today are somewhat wishing that I would be a little more close-minded these days. I will admit to being uncomfortable at times. I mean it’s not every day that you see a group of women demonstrate the different “moans” a woman makes during sex on stage, but most of my squirming came because I kept flashing back to a recent conversation with my daughter.

Just a few weeks ago, she was in the bath tub and began asking questions about her girl parts. (On a side note, she seems to always ask the hard to answer questions in the tub. She may have to start taking a shower.)

She asked me what the name of her girl parts were. In all her five-year-old superiority she told me that she knows it’s not her booty like we’ve been referring to that region.

I, the mother who did not blink to inform her son at three when he asked about his boy parts that he had a penis, just stared at her in that moment unable to say the word vagina. So I told her that she had girl parts and quickly changed the subject by making up a story with her favorite characters.

Quick save, but why couldn’t I say it? My mother and I have never once had a conversation about “girl parts” or sex. Even now, very distant from my teens, I still don’t mention the word sex in front of my mom. I have no past experience to draw from, but I told myself that I was brave enough to have that discussion with my daughter when the time came. Especially since I teach teenagers and understand that they experiment with sex with or without the communication.

So there I was watching brave college students demonstrate what an orgasm sounds like and explain what a vagina looks like, and what it would say if it could talk, and how it would dress if it dressed up, and I had never brought myself to say the words they used for vagina out loud. The words sound strange in my mouth, uncomfortable and awkward.

But for a moment, after listening to them I felt empowered enough to use the words, and you know what? They didn’t sound so strange after hearing them spoken aloud so many times. Donna and I laughed and repeated parts of the dialogue all the way home, nearly in tears as we laughed so hard. At one point, I told her I never thought I’d hear those words from her mouth, and probably never would have if we hadn’t watched the play together.

For one of my dream jobs, I’ve always wanted to write about oppressed women and make them feel empowered by telling their stories. I would have loved to travel the world and bring about social change. Yet, I couldn’t even say the word vagina to my daughter.

Maybe I just need to start with empowering myself, and in turn my daughter. So the next time my daughter asks, I will be ready. The Vagina Monologues provided a list of synonyms, but hey, I think I can start with the word Vagina. See it doesn’t sound strange at all to me anymore.

To read more, see http://mylife-in-stories.blogspot.com/2011/04/whispering-vagina-monologues.html#links

The Best Laid Plans

I’m a planner. I have detailed calendars with events neatly penciled in, and I plan out months in advance what I’m going to do. This slightly annoying characteristic has really helped out with those thirty-three experiences this year. (No, I did not have one of those experiences this weekend. Apparently, I need to plan better. Go figure.) I did have this wonderful weekend planned. Each day of my weekend was lined up and mapped out for me. Then, of course, it all fell apart and gave way to spontaneous, random events instead.

First, plans fell through on Friday night, so I spontaneously decided to go to the movies by myself instead of staying home and watching one. It was a horrible movie. The movie was missing my favorite part which would be an actual storyline, but I learned that I don’t really care anymore if I have to do something on my own. Hello independence.

Saturday morning when I awoke, I thought it was to attend the Madhatter’s event in Thibodaux until I got a call that morning to confirm my seat for Sunday. A rearrangement of plans had to be made for I’d already made plans for Sunday. The result was I was able to spend the entire afternoon with my cousin Scott. We sat on his mom’s front porch for hours, relaxing. Something I hadn’t done in so long that I can’t remember the last time that I had, relaxing that is. For the first time in a long time, I had that childlike feeling of being able to just be in the moment instead of rushing off to accomplish all the things on my crazy list.

Plans for Saturday night fell through again and made it possible for me to enjoy a glass of wine (or two) with a close friend and much needed friend time. There is nothing like spending time with a girlfriend and talking about everything going on in your world.

After my scheduling mistake, Sunday meant I had two things to do, so it began with the Madhatter’s. Even with my teenage obsession with fashion, I’d never attended a fashion show before. I enjoyed the experience and plan to attend with my daughter next year, for she would love to watch now that fashion has become her obsession.

The second event of Sunday was to learn how to edit digital media. My list of what I want to know how to do grows daily, and I plan to continue pursuing new learning experiences. But then unexpectedly, I had dinner with two great people and another great time during this spontaneous weekend.

By far, the best experiences of my weekend were those things that happened when plans were rearranged. So the lesson learned this weekend is that maybe I need to slow down, just a bit. This over planning my weekend is not necessarily leading to the best experiences. Maybe the impulsive side of my personality needs a little more leeway. Hmm… not so sure about that one, but at least maybe I should learn to enjoy the little moments.

Experience #9 Search for Inspiration

This Saturday I attended the eighth annual Jubilee Writer’s Conference. Though I’d wanted to attend from the first time I heard about it, there was always some reason or conflicting event that arose. I love listening to authors speak for I find their passion for writing and telling a story contagious, and it always inspires me to write something or finish something that I’m working on.

It was exactly what I needed this year, at this moment. In the last year, I’ve found myself unable to complete a project. I go back and forth between several projects I’m working on, and I’m unable to complete any of them with my indecisiveness. At first, I was still able to get excited about an idea, but in the last eight months I couldn’t even manage that.

So when I made the list out for the year, I added the writer’s conference to the list in search of that inspiration to get me out of the rut that I’d fallen into.

Of course, I also realized that the rut was due to emotional turmoil more than anything else. A story must have emotions, and you can’t create feelings when you yourself are numb. But in the last month or so I’ve realized that the numbness has left, for emotions, and not all the nice ones, have returned.

So I went in search of inspiration, and I found it. Authors like Deborah Leblanc and Lisa Jackson all spoke and encouraged attendees to consider ebook publishing, for that’s where the future of books would be headed.

I worked for a long time on my novel, Muddy Bayou, and after many submissions and rejections, it made it all the way to a publisher’s desk where I never heard from it again beyond a she was still interested email. Yet, I still want to tell this character’s story. I still want to entertain others with her sarcastic wit and her unending ability to get into trouble while putting herself in places she doesn’t belong. But what was the use of writing the second story in the series if no one would ever be able to read the first one? So I’d tried writing other stories, but my heart still wanted to tell Raleigh Cheramie’s story (Yes, I’m one of those crazy people who think of her characters as real people.).

So after listening to the authors all day, I thought that this would be the way to do it. For all I really want is to tell a story to an audience. And that’s exactly what I would be doing. So now I have a new goal: to create an ebook. I have no idea how to do it, but I’m sure it will be like everything else. I won’t stop until I figure it out, and when I do, I’ll be sure to tell everyone about it. I’ll be the one shouting excitedly that someone besides myself can read my story.