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Here’s another fine example of showing up being half the battle. I submitted the one and only spooky poem I’ve ever written, which was about my hat. My submission was supposed to go into a box with other submissions from members of my woman-identified film group. The writer of the randomly drawn submission would represent us at this event.
As soon as I got word that I’d won, I knew that I was the only one in the drawing.
I’ve had this scientifically proven to me years ago. I’d attended a workshop where there were 15 giveaways and 16 participants. I was the one who didn’t have her ticket drawn. Case closed.
Not only was this a Halloween event, but also another voting push.
I had already voted weeks ago prior to this event. In between the horror readings, the host kept encouraging everyone to vote if they haven’t already done so.
And yes, of course, this was yet another opportunity to dress in costume.
I’d originally decorated this hat to go along with the “Things Under the Bed” theme at The Austin Writers Roulette.
The sword wasn’t part of the original costume concept.
But let’s face it: what a badass additional accessory!
I bought my ticket to this fundraising drive-in event as if my life depended on it.
Since my mental health received a healthy boost of sanity, who’s to say it didn’t.
After all, once I decided to dress up as Anubis, Egyptian god of the underworld in honor of viewing “Pet Sematary,”
I had a fake existential crisis, “Wait, if I’m Anubis…aren’t I already dead? Or immortal?” Actually, none of the above. I dutifully put on a mask like someone who still had good sense.
Originally, I hadn’t planned to dress up.
Yet, since this event was co-sponsored by WIFT Austin, of which I’m the secretary, I rallied to the call for help. One of the event co-chairs asked if another board member could attend to help her.
Turns out, the volunteers from other organizations assisted her,
so I was there in all my costume glory for moral support, which suited me just fine. She made all the announcements for our organization. The only thing I did was give her two hints about my costume in order to get the audience, who were all sequestered in their cars, to guess who I was dressed as.
The first hint was that I wore jackal ears.
The second hint was that I wore a galabeya. I’d told her prior to our bit that I’d bought my galabeya in Egypt although people from other countries also wear them. So, she gave the crowd an additional hint, saying that Egyptians wore galabeyas.
One guy leaned his head out of his driver’s side window and yelled, “Anubis!”
We were so excited that someone knew who I was that my fellow board member said we’d gift him a free beer and skittles. Hilarious since those things were “free” with the cost of the ticket, but at least I’d save him the trouble of walking to the makeshift concession stand to deliver his prize.
Turns out, I received the real gift.
Once I approached the car, I saw that the winner was one of my former science students! And his girlfriend, who was sitting shotgun, was also my former science student.
Unfortunately I couldn’t hug them, but we were all overjoyed to see one another. He said he knew who I was dressed as the moment he saw me. She said that she knew who I was when I spoke on the mic.
Felt like I hadn’t seen them in years, but truthfully, it had been just a little over a year ago when I’d last seen her at a local film festival where she’d entered her short horror movie. At the time of the shutdown, she’d just wrapped up a shoot as a producer, so at least she was in post production.
I told them about my becoming a one-woman production company, dropping the name of my podcast, CBD & Poetry. He looked it up and confirmed it with me. Is it wrong that I got a little thrill that my former students will eventually listen to my podcast? Nah. It’s 2020.
And just to cement the idea I’ve been quarantined for seven months, I was far too excited that get home in time to STILL watch the newest episode of SNL. Baby steps.
I was so hyped to vote early in person that the experience inspired me to write a poem–something I hadn’t done during the quarantine months until now. Strangely enough, the poem came to me as what First Lady Melania Trump would do when her hubby lost the 2020 election.
You say you packing up early
'Cause you gotta find a private
School in New York for Baron
But isn't that all your shit in those suitcases?
I see you, Melania
Oh, you say you're talking
To the heads of schools
To see which one you like
But aren't those all divorce lawyers?
I see you, Melania
Oh now you're giving
Extensive notes to your
New personal assistant
But isn't she the tell-all ghost writer for famous people?
I see you, Melania
You said "Fuck Christmas"
Apparently you've given up on "Be Best"
Now say "Fuck white supremacy"
Oh, you're not going to touch that one?
I see you, Melania
A friend recently invited eight of us to attend a backyard, socially-distanced happy hour with plenty of wine, hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes. Plus, there was a mask requirement until seated. With all that precaution, only five of us RSVP’d.
I arrived first and had my pick of seats in this backyard oasis.
In addition to this loose ring of chairs, there was a trampoline, hammock, and a volleyball/badminton net. Since my friend was a mother of two, having outdoor activities was a must–not that we played any.
The whole evening, it was just the two of us,
which was wonderful since the last time we’d seen one another was at my Leap Day Party way back on the 29th of February of this year back in the old world.
Considering that this event was advertised essentially as a wino party where everything we touched had to be wiped down,
I took the liberty of picking up my own food before heading over. That was an excellent call except I should have ordered more food. Those sliders slid down faster than I imagined.
For a few hours, I could forget. I sipped wine–three different types in all–from my favorite special occasion silver chalice and forgot all about being in a pandemic. Despite the distance of our chairs and wiping down everything in the bathroom after using it. Just two friends catching up with one another.
Like a gamer getting more life for accomplishing a task, I left my friend’s house with additional sanity.
October 13th marked the first day of in-person early voting in Texas.
Even though the first and last days of early voting will be the busiest, I wanted to do my part on the first day. So, let the games begin! Actually, that’s a false signal since game-playing started months ago with the underfunding of the United States Postal Service (USPS). Then the governor decided that there could only be one place to turn in mail-in ballots for each county, regardless of population size, which prompted at least three lawsuits.
The president declared months ago that if voting was more accessible, then no Republican would ever be elected. With that rallying cry, Republicans have executed a number of strategies to suppress the vote, gerrymandering, invalidating mail-in ballots, blah, blah, blah…but wait, what’s this?
Now that the president has trailed in many polls after being hospitalized with what he touted as a hoax, many Republicans who are up for reelection are actually trying to distance themselves from him. It’s like a scene out of the Serengeti. Once the lion is too old to be of use, the lionesses no longer feed him.
The only difference: this King of the Jungle doesn’t realize his trusty minions, who’ve gaslit the general public for four years, have all but abandoned him now that his base has shrank. Yet as long as he can pack in hordes of mostly maskless crowds to cheer on his antics, he’s on top of the world–his own world, that is.
Nonetheless, after working, doing yoga, and eating lunch, I drove to my nearest early polling place, my neighborhood library, to help dethrone him.
At 2:35 I joined the line,
which was shorter than a line for a popular ride at an amusement park but moved faster. As a matter of fact, it moved faster than the socially distanced grocery store line back in March and April, which was a good thing since I’d forgotten my umbrella on that sunny day.
Although I had an ebook on my phone, which I had every intention of reading as I waited, I took in the ambience of being outside and socially distanced from the mixed demographics of races, ages, and physical abilities. Plus, I’d struck up a friendly conversation with the guy immediately in front of me, who was part of the health care community. The great thing about being six feet apart was that we could still talk to one another without yelling.
Nonetheless yelling occurred anyway because we were in a pandemic and it was 2020. A young white guy about four people ahead of me, told the older white woman behind him to put on her mask and stop standing so close to him. She transformed from a jovial conversationalist to belligerent bitch in a split second. The middle aged woman she’d been happily chatting with attempted to talk her down from her rage. She reminded the older woman that they’d been talking so nicely to one another previously, but the older woman just ranted about how the young man shouldn’t have addressed her in such a disrespectful tone. The older woman at least complied with his request, but also continued to rant about all the bullshit she’d had to put up with in her life.
She’d lowered her mask to drink water and forgot to replace it because she was talking to the woman behind her. So, this transformation was a shock.
Fortunately, the line continued its steady progression and I breathed a sigh of relief as the ranting woman quieted down as entered the building. The guy immediately in front of me, complimented the middle aged woman immediately in front of him about how her soothing tone helped defuse the conflict. She confessed to having an 11 year old.
Throughout the brief argument, I wished to make myself smaller, invisible even if I could’ve. All I could think of was, “Will you white people stop arguing before my black ass gets shot?!” One of my fears is that a stray bullet will somehow find me.
In the end, I waited 25 minutes in line and spent about 5 minutes voting. Voting would’ve been faster if the powers that be would’ve allowed choosing a straight party ticket. In a way it was entertaining to think, “You’re fired!” to each republican, starting with the president.
Before exiting the building, I grabbed my sticker, pulled off my disposable rubber gloves and smiled at the significance of exercising my right to vote.
Although the plague prevented me from having a destination 50th birthday getaway, I’ve still managed to have a wonderful, protracted celebration, thanks to family and friends.
Besides, going to dinner the Saturday before my birthday, then taking the day off for my actual birthday and a Zoom celebration with fellow Virgos, my mother and a nephew, I received a few delivered birthday gifts.
First up was a care package from one of my cousins.
First up was a care package from one of my cousins. In addition to lounge wear, and a $25 money order, she also included a $25 gift card to Longhorn Steakhouse. The gift card furthered my pursuit to try a different restaurant every week while in quarantine. I’d never dined at this restaurant prior to the plague, so it was truly a treat to pick up for Friday lunch.
Since I believe in leftovers, I only ate a small part of the steak the first day, but I polished off that lobster tail in one sitting. I enjoyed steak and eggs with fries for Saturday and Sunday brunch.
Next, a good friend who I’ve not seen in years sent an essential oil diffuser.
Years ago, I had a diffuser and when I moved, I donated it for lack of use. This time around, I’ve used the diffuser every day. Can’t go wrong using something that adds to self care while Rona’s here.
Then a delivery person came one day during the middle of my live-streamed yoga class.
I called to my roommate, who was on the phone in her room with the door closed, that her delivery had arrived and continued with class. I felt so bad when she received the package and told me that a friend had sent ME a box scones. What a lovely breakfast treat.
My sister had warned that her birthday card to me would be late.
I didn’t realize that she was making it herself. It arrived heavily taped up.
Once I opened the first envelope, there was another envelope inside the card, containing a crisp $20 bill.
Of all things! Against many warnings not to send money through the mail, her card defied the odds and had made it through the ever-worsening USPS.
Again, I got myself another Friday birthday treat. At that point, October had begun.
Nonetheless, it’s always wonderful to celebrate even if it’s a belated birthday or just the end of the week or beginning of a new month.
A truly unexpected gift arrived the day I bought my grapefruit vodka.
One of my Rouletters sent me a box filled with nostalgia and sentiment, mostly from my show. The T-shirt bore the last three words of one of my poems, describing myself, which he stated served as a reminder of who I am as I enter my sixth decade. The book, which wasn’t officially a birthday gift, was full of pictures of me dressed up while hosting the Roulette. He’d meant to give it to me at the last Roulette, but it arrived at his house afterwards.
Then there were the beads. Here’s the explanation he wrote about the beads:
“These beads go by many names. I first learned the name decades after I got them on my 5-year hitchhiking trip after I got out of the Navy. I was in a grocery store and a woman stopped me and asked me about my Job’s Tears necklace. After decades of wearing them that was the first time I ever heard “Job’s Tears.”
Once I got that, I researched them online. It’s binomial name, Coix lacryma-jobi, also known as “Adlay millet.” It is native to Southeast Asia, but is cultivated in warmer climates around the world , including Southern US. Job’s Tears has many uses, including jewelry, rosaries, rattles, teething toys and musical instruments.
It is the only bead created by Nature Herself. The way it grows the hole is natural. The nature color ranges from a deep brown to off white. The colors are all dyed, which takes some effort. I found them for sale in jewelry, but could not find them in bulk.
I finally found a woman in Soweto, South Africa that was selling by the quarter pound. I bought the 11 bags she had. I made this 300-bead necklace for your 50th birthday. Buddhists and Orthodox Christians both have 300-bead prayer ropes. In Tibet, they are called Vaijayanti Malas mostly used by monks or those on years’ long pilgrimages.”
All in all, these gifts helped in some form of self care: good food, relaxation, humor and prayer. Four things I wish to carry forward for the rest of my life, especially when the entire world is undergoing a shared trauma.
I’ve been thinking about drinking lately. Not while working my telecommuting customer service job, but during the down times while sitting on my fabulous red sofa with the TV on and working on some project with either my laptop or iPad. I’m no spring chicken and can’t handle alcohol like I used to. Same goes for copious amounts of sugar.
This increased desire to drink is a response to surviving the coronavirus pandemic for over six months with all the growing pains of rapidly transitioning into a new world that Rona built. She’s like an uninvited guest whose presence has caused me to bleach everything, wear masks more often outside of costuming, and spend far more time grinding my cerebral wheels by myself.
She’s truly overstayed her welcome. I’m so ready to kick her out of this world. But like past colonizers, she’s here to stay as if she has a right. About the only good thing to Rona’s presence is that she’s shined a light on societal inequities.
There’s always been bad shit and some people denouncing it, but now there are more witnesses. Some deny that one of the factors of the inequities is systemic racism because if they acknowledged that they may feel compelled to do something about it, starting with changing themselves.
But back to drinking. At the most, I’ll have two drinks, usually on the weekends. One with lunch and another with dinner. Occasionally, I’ll have an in-person happy hour with a friend at their place or mine. Nonetheless, my belief is if I pair drinking with a meal or socializing, I won’t slip down the lushy rabbit hole into a drinking problem. Awareness is the first step, right?
I’m working on a new angle. One I could have implemented prepandemic, but of course the hamster wheel had to stop spinning before I realized this: take joy in every day things. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I take a deep breath and reflect on what good the present activity brings me. Usually I can find something. Anything to ward off the flood of negative emotions.
Another thing that helps is thinking, “I’ve got all the time in the world.” As much as I like to flit from one project to the next, I’m making progress in due time. My new goal for everything in life is maintaining a satisfied mind.
That doesn’t depend on any form of government or politician. No form of religion nor interpretation of god. It’s free and I don’t have to order it from Amazon. Best of all, no drug, not even the drinkable drugs, satisfy my mind without adverse side effects like discovering positivity.
Now, I’m the pioneer of those treasures called “silver linings.” And it doesn’t matter if my discovery is actually a rediscovery because any bout of depression or anxiety feels brand new during this period where time is syrupy. Whenever negative emotions creep into the present, it’s time to go treasure-hunting. And fortunately for me, I’ve got all the time in the world.
A week prior to attending this virtual workshop, I dusted off my one and only script, which I’d edited over a year ago. I’d received a thorough critique with examples of how to improve it, but at the time, I didn’t have the motivation to implement them.
This workshop cured that apathy. With fresh eyes, I reread the suggestions. Nothing impossible with the right attitude. I took my time editing, then submitted the script to be read and discussed by one of the guest lecturers.
Her feedback: Although I had an original idea, she couldn’t follow the storyline because there seemed to be too many elements jumping out at her.
Then, I told her why I’d written Replenish: One of my male friends, who was in his 30s, lamented about how a growing number of young men had watched so much internet porn that they could no longer become aroused in the presence of a live nude woman.
While he wondered what the world was coming to, my first thought was, “Finally, a form of birth control men will actually use! Internet porn birth control.”
She loved that pitch, which was ironic given how two days later, I totally bombed the pitch. The guest lecturer on that day hadn’t read the script. Plus I’d been overconfident in my ability to wing a pitch. Even though I had the outline available to guide me through the major points, without the world building necessary to understand the story, she had to interrupt me to ask questions.
I got lost in the weeds after that. I’d started off well. Although she also agreed that I had an original idea since she’d never heard anyone pitch such an idea, she felt that I’d just grabbed at parts of the story without a clear idea of what I was talking about. Furthermore, since I’d indicated that the narrative was a comedy, she said that I should have described at least two funny moments in the movie.
Another thing I learned, I needed a writing partner. What one participant actually said was that I needed my “Coen brother.”
Since I’d bothered to edit that screenplay after a year, I emailed it to my writing group and another writer for feedback. I got a bite. When I told her the feedback I’d received so far on both the script and the pitch, she offered, “I’ll be your Coen sister!”
SCORE!
Of course, this was the same writer friend who had wanted me to direct several of her scripts, so I see a writing and directing collaboration in our future. Instead of being a one-woman production company, looks as if we’ll be a two-woman powerhouse.
Some people dread birthdays. Not me. Not even during a pandemic. After all, being blessed to spend five decades on this wondrous planet is truly the gift.
Last year, one of my sisters had the bright idea to celebrate the “milestone” Virgo birthdays in 2020 since her youngest child would be 20, I’d turn 50 and Mom would be 80–all within two weeks of one another. Fortunately, none of us had started researching any destination birthday plans since 2020 had ideas of its own.
Even though our birthdays were later in the year, the way The States handled the onset of the plague, cautioned us not to plan anything involving travel. As the weeks ticked by, we jumped on the ever-growing Zoom birthday celebration bandwagon.
Normally, my sister would have bugged me about brainstorming, researching, and planning out such an endeavor, but since I was one of the birthday celebrants, I got off the hook–for the most part. She called me a couple of times to ask technical questions about Power Point.
My only task was make a list of people who I wanted to invite and send an invitation.
In the past, for birthdays that ended in either a zero or five, I’d email an itinerary for at least a 3-day celebration, doing various activities.
That way, people chose which birthday activity they wanted to do. This whole pandemic thing made my milestone celebration MUCH easier to plan, mostly because my sister did the bulk of that heavy lifting.
And yet, I still wanted to celebrate my own individual birthday, especially since it fell on Labor Day like it had when I was born back in 1970 in Okinawa, Japan. My predicted birthday was the 17th instead of the 7th. Let’s just say that Mom ate and drank just like she wanted to since I’d already gestated nine months. On the one day Americans celebrate “labor,” Mom birthed me. Now there’s a Virgo mother for you!
Since the quarantine, I’ve ordered take out from a different restaurant every Saturday. For the Saturday before my birthday, I made reservations for my roommate and I at an upscale sushi restaurant. Even though we were technically still in a pandemic, I felt that people weren’t being as stupid as the months before when there was a rush to reopen without precautions in place.
Two things I hadn’t counted on leading up to my birthday: a trip to the chiropractor and another installment of the leasing office fucking with me.
My 49.9 year old spine had led an adventurous life and needed a little more than daily yoga, CBD and rest. I’d seen this chiropractor for nearly ten years, so the only thing that had kept me away had been the plague. As soon as he adjusted me, my spine smiled.
Another thing I’d done for nearly a decade was reside at my current apartment complex. In that time, the complex name had changed twice, the color scheme had changed more often than that, but even accounting for the pandemic and the revolving door of office employees, this latest iteration of “leasing agents” took the prize.
Out of nowhere, the corporate office emailed, stating that they’d recently audited my renter’s insurance on file. Under the “additional interested party” section, it stated “none,” but should’ve listed the corporate office address, which they provided.
Yet, the part that had me cursing as if I were possessed by demons was this:
“This will need to be updated and sent to us by 9/7/2020 to avoid a lapse fee of $50.00. Please let us know if you have any questions.”
Do I have any questions? On my ACTUAL fucking 50th birthday, I’m going to owe you motherfuckers a $50 fee if I don’t take care of this task, which has NEVER, in the 10 years I’ve lived at this property been required of me? Why the hell would the deadline be on a federal holiday? Did you know that in some cultures, people gift a newly 50 year old $50, not charge them some $50 bullshit fee?
I called the insurer to update the policy. The next day, I called the leasing office. Of course the least competent among them answered. I asked for the most competent, but he told me that she was already talking to someone else. When he gave me the option to wait on hold or discuss my issue with him, I repressed the urge to tell him that he was the reason I had to send a copy of the renter’s insurance policy the second time. I’ll be damned if he fucks this up.
Once on the phone with me, the most competent empathized with my situation. I pressed “send,” so she could open the email that contained my third effort of “sending a copy of my renter’s insurance” to the leasing office since July. She assured me I could enjoy my actual birthday on Monday without worrying about a fee.
“As long as ya’ll don’t turn off the water at the last minute,” I quipped. For some reason, there’s always an emergency water leak that can only be remedied by shutting off the water with very little notice. She agreed barring that, which was beyond her control, I should have a good day. So when, minutes after waking up on my birthday, the electricity blinked out for 30 seconds, I knew the universe had winked at me.
My birthday dinner went over without a hitch.
I only put on lip gloss for this picture, then wiped all of it off before putting on my mask once I parked at the restaurant.
I’m still not sure how to take pictures while wearing a mask.
I know it’s useless to smile, but at the same time, I don’t know how to smile with only my eyes, so I do this weird thing instead. Too much thinking. I should just smile as I normally do, which will reflect in my eyes.
Not that I did much better in this surprise picture my roommate took.
Trust me, by this point, I was still in the throes of a food-gasm. We’d ordered the six course tasting, but as a birthday gift, the chef threw in an extra course.
For dessert, we received what tasted like a luscious Heath candy bar with a dollop of vanilla ice cream rolled in crumbled chocolate along with a glass of champagne.
The last time I had an actual birthday cake was 20 years ago. Yet, my sister wanted me to have a cake with candles because it was part of her “Milestone Birthdays” program. She sent me a link to choose my cake. After looking at all the options, I chose the most beautiful chocolate cake available. When I texted her my choice, she told me that she should’ve set a price limit of $50.
Given the fact that I hadn’t wanted a birthday cake in the first place, this still felt shitty. Nonetheless, I chose a less attractive chocolate cake and kept the grumbling to myself.
Days later, the cake arrived.
My apartment complex had wisely installed a package hub in order to prevent theft. Since the deliverer jammed the package into a compartment that was barely taller than the box, I had to strong arm maneuver it out. Had the deliverer placed the box in the taller adjacent compartment to right, I wouldn’t have had any problem whatsoever. So there I was fighting to get a birthday cake that I hadn’t wanted in the first place, but then had to settle for the second choice and because it was packed in dry ice, appeared to be sweating as if it was doing a lot of work.
After all that, my sister had got me good.
Before I even laid eyes on the actual cake, I’d read the packing list: Red Rose Chocolate cake! I used gloves to place the dry ice into the kitchen sink, which created an eerie effect. Then I took the frozen cake out of its box. Following the instructions, I removed the plastic wrapping, replaced the cake in its box and allowed it to thaw out in the refrigerator for two days until the party.
I called my sister. I’d spoken to her a couple of times between choosing a cake and receiving it.
She was relieved the secret was out. Before ordering anything, she’d found a $15 off coupon. With the cheaper cake, she’d have to pay $35 for shipping, but shipping was free with the more expensive cake. The bottom line: my first choice was only $5 more than my second choice.
Another wonderful surprise: Mom wore a tiara during the Zoom celebration.
We had a pretty good Zoom turn out with around 40 participants although none of my nephew’s friends were on the call.
I properly dressed my cake for the occasion.
Since my nephew had gone to Virginia Beach with his older sisters,
he actually left his birthday cake at home and blew out a candle on a cupcake instead.
One of my candles destroyed itself before I had a chance to blew it out.
Good thing I’m not usually superstitious.
Mom, who’d opted for an ice cream cake, didn’t want to blow out candles,
so she just held hers up as everyone sang three different versions of “Happy Birthday” to us.
This cake was just as sweet and luscious as it looks.
As a child, I loved sweets. As much as I appreciated this cake, I now find it strange to celebrate a birthday with something that may lead to diabetes. Now that’s the half century talking!
One of the reactions to George Floyd being choked for 8 minutes and 46 seconds by a former police officer kneeling on his neck,
was a national call for submissions to The Breath Project. The organizers encouraged spoken word artists to record an 8 minute and 46 second performance to be used as a tool for education and activism purposes.
Normally, I would’ve jumped at writing and rehearsing a performance piece. Yet, these days, I’m far more interested in being behind the camera. Since my roommate constantly breaks out into original protest songs and political rants, I challenged her to perform for this project.
Once she was ready, I contacted the local participating theatre, Rude Mechs, which volunteered its space, The Crashbox, where we filmed her performance. A Rude Mechs staffer scheduled our shoot, set the lights and, using my smartphone, shot her performance while I directed.
The shoot only took about an hour. She ran through it several times while he shot it from two different camera angles.
Although we filmed on a Wednesday, I didn’t view the clips until Friday around midnight while lying in bed. I saved myself some grief by deleting unusable footage such as when she had the script in hand.
Then, I watched several YouTube videos about editing with iMovie. I normally wait until the weekend to venture into a new technology because I know the first day will be agonizing. This time around, I found a better approach. By watching a slew videos the night before, I woke up excited about diving into iMovie with a game plan–after yoga and lunch.
Of course, confident plans merely tempt the devil. Straight out of the gates, I clicked the wrong thing and imported many pictures from my photo album along with the video clips I wanted. Rookie mistake. No problem.
Once I got the clips I wanted, the easiest approach was to merge two of them, which wasn’t as straight forward as merging two audio clips with GarageBand, but I understood the process. Again, the devil found an opening.
Despite the confirmation that the merged file had been saved, the clip description showed “zero bytes.” Not believing what I read, I still clicked on it. Sure enough, nothing was there.
Back to Google, my favorite IT entity. I learned that zero bytes meant there wasn’t enough room to save a file. I’d greatly underestimated how much space a less than 10-minute clip consumed. So, I saved it to the infamous Cloud. Again, I got the message that the file had been successfully saved, but when I checked iCloud, it showed zero bytes.
At that point, I took a bathroom break. When I returned, the file actually had a much higher number than zero. A-ha! So, there’s a lag between the file being successfully saved and having it show up.
Then, I was on my happy editing way. I worked on a script page a day because after an hour, apathy creeped in. Once I finished the rough cut, I saved the file again without any devilish drama.
Yet, for all the effort, our video was around two minutes short of the required length. Stretching it was out of the question. Nor was I interested in returning to the theatre to record more.
As a matter of fact, with the exception of the time limit, her performance was solid and I liked the editing choices I’d made. All I needed to do was make some fine tune edits, learn how to create end credits, and how to upload to Vimeo.
And not a moment too soon. I’ve got a screenplay to revamp and a film festival to screen. Plus I need to plan out the second season of my podcast. Then there’s the seemingly never-ending illustrations that I need to finish for my third book.
Yet, all’s not lost. Once I uploaded the video to Vimeo, I shared it with several friends and family. Then, I took the extraordinary step of entering it into three film festivals.
