Bucket List (Circa Year 2000)

I think most of us these days have some sort of "bucket list." I'm not sure when the idea gained popularity, but in recent years, I hear more and more people promising to take a hot air balloon ride or go on a safari in Africa. Or maybe, I am just getting to that age...the time in a person's life when they start really thinking about death, and all the things they want to do before it's too late. I made my own bucket list for the first time in my early 20s. I remember rummaging through my craft box and finding different colored, square sheets of paper. They seemed perfect for listing each item that I wanted to accomplish in my lifetime. The following were written with my favorite markers, and taped to the back of my bedroom door so I could be reminded of them each morning...

1. Win an Oscar
2. Learn to play the guitar
3. Backpack throughout Europe
4. Drive cross country
5. Get something published
6. Finish a crossword puzzle all by myself
7. Learn to play the piano very well (I had already taught myself the basics)
8. Go skydiving
9. Go white water rafting
10. Go bungee jumping
11. Speak to my father

I am proud to say I have accomplished 6.5 out of the 11 items on my list. In recent years I have taught myself a couple chords on the guitar, but I don't think playing "A Horse with No Name" over and over again constitutes full completion of a task. Despite my lack of musical expertise, the percentage is good, given I've been working on them less for than a decade. However, one obvious number 11 even now glares at me from the computer screen as if it is asking, "Hey, when ya going to get to me? I'm pretty dang important!"

See, most people believe that having a list is productive, that it defines clear goals for oneself. What could be wrong with that? Ultimately though, holding yourself to such high expectations will indefinitely cause at least one moment of disappointment. Most the listed tasks require money and time. So at one point in my life, I took out extra student loans, loaded a bag full of my belongings, and boarded a flight across the Atlantic. I spent almost a month trekking, sweating, getting lost, finding directions, and getting lost again through 4 European countries. At another period in time, I bought a one way ticket to meet my best friend Amy in San Fransisco, just to marvel at America's diverse multitude of landscapes on the way home to New York. But the one thing that requires absolutely no income, or longer than 10 minutes of my time, is still sitting there... undone.

It has been more than 20 years since I have seen my real father and about 10 since I've even spoken to him. This is a long story, one that may possibly be shared with you at a later date. The point I am trying to make by bringing this all up is that today, I am doubting the worthiness of bucket lists. Recently I was just asked to do a 10 minute long stand up bit, as an opening act for a local comedian. My immediate thought was, hell no! I'm not funny when I try to be! The only time I make someone laugh is when I say something so randomly, so off topic, that it kinda stuns them and they have nothing to do but smile and let out a chuckle.

After giving it some more time to simmer, I recalled that "Become a stand-up comic" was never added to my initial bucket list. It wasn't something I ever desired to become, or wanted to attempt for the plain sake of trying. But for some reason, that's exactly why I want to do it now. It doesn't require any funding, nor should it take much time to prepare for. I never planned for it to happen, so even if I choose not to go through with it, I won't be disappointed. "Comedian" can't ever linger on a colored piece of construction paper as a representation of what I didn't do this year. It won't haunt me as a promise to myself yet to be fulfilled. It is a new experience - a surprise. Not an obligation. For that reason, I owe it to myself to jump right in.

Stay tuned for the details of my first live audience, joke-telling, unbucketlisted experience. It shall be a new one for sure...

"People always think something's all true"

The first time I read J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, I was in high school. I remembered it, among the many other books we were forced to read as an adolescent, but mainly because the "main guy thought everyone was a phony."

The second time I stumbled upon the book was on a movie set. I had recently moved to Wilmington, North Carolina, about a year after my graduation. "The Chester Story" was the first film I worked on as a bona fide Production Assistant. I was told specifically to take care of the star of our film, Teri Hatcher (post-Superman and pre-Desperate Housewives). This sometimes meant convincing the manager of a restaurant to please, pretty please, turn on the oven in the kitchen you have closed, and cook a dry, broiled, unseasoned piece of chicken for someone very important. Other days, I would entertain her daughter, Emerson, and when we had hours of downtime, Teri would challenge me to a game of Boggle on the back porch of a stranger's house. Despite the fact that these tasks seemed trivial and meaningless, especially in regards to the rest of the work that is done on a film set, I convinced myself that I was important. That fending off autograph hungry fans was absolutely necessary to the art of great film making.

One humid afternoon when we were shooting in a house on the edge of the Intercoastal Waterway, I wandered into one of the owner's many bedrooms to find a small bookcase by the doorway. While scanning the titles of the dusty mix of paperbacks and hardcovers, The Catcher in the Rye stood upright looking straight at me, almost asking me to pick it up. I glanced over my shoulder to see if any of the crew was watching me, because I so badly wanted to take it. It was a small and disheveled copy, so I delicately flipped through it's pages looking for Mr. Caulfield. I hope all of you have, at one point in your life, taken the time to smell the pages of an old book. The scent is so strong that it feels like it almost carried history along with it. I'd say that I'd wish they'd make it into a perfume, but honestly, I kind of like forgetting the smell and then being reminded of it when I browse through a used bookstore or garage sale.

Anyways, I lied to myself, and everyone else that asked about where I got my new book, by explaining that the Prop Master agreed I could have Salinger's masterpiece. This time when I read the words, I fell in love Holden Caulfield. Every opinion, every secret, every hate and desire he shared with me, made complete sense to a person having just left a sheltering hometown. I even found myself to hate phonies too, actually. Whatever I felt, was for this fictional character, a person that wasn't real in my life or anybody else's. Standing in the filtered light of a film set, I saw Holden and Mandy as one in the same.

Progressing through my early twenties, I read and reread Catcher a handful of times. The reason being, I was lost. There was so much I didn't understand, and plenty of reasons why I hated society like our hero did. Or, like I thought he did...

About 7 years later, I was assigned to read the book again, in one of my literature classes at Syracuse University. After almost a decade of relocating from place to place, city to city, I had made the decision to hunker down and get my degree. Ironically, I chose to come full circle, and finish it in my hometown. Since the last time I visited Holden, much had transpired and changed. I had my heart broken a couple of times, I had decided on a career, changed my mind, and decided again. I had lost friends, and gained new ones. I saw parts of Europe, and experienced different cultures. I went from hating myself, to liking who I was, and finally understanding the real Mandy Howard. In other words, I had grown up.

So when my professor sparked a debate in class about whether or not Caulfield was "depressed" or not, I was one of the only few that had his back. While this may have been the result of an obvious age gap between me and the rest of my classmates, I argued in his behalf so well that at the very least, I am sure I got at least one person to change their mind. I proposed that maybe our hero actually loved society. That he saw them in the most brightest of lights, that maybe only he, could really appreciate people- both good and bad aspects of them, because he listened and saw them more clearly than any of us do. I believe, like Holden, that we should expect the best from each other. And like this character, I am also hypersensitive to life, and easily disappointed by other people. Does this mean I am depressed? No. Rather, maybe it means that I feel everything, and see you all as vividly as I can smell the lingering scent of life on the pages of an old book.

During this class, I also found that since the first time I read The Catcher in the Rye, that I began to appreciate someone even more than the character I so desperately defended. J.D. Salinger, in the progression of life and time, had become an inspiration to me. As my eyes darted around the classroom, following each student that presented their opinion, I thought to myself, "Congrats Salinger, you have succeeded." After all is said and done, this is the sign of a good book. If a writer can entice people to think, to argue, to debate, and to think again, then he has pretty much done his job. Decades after he wrote it, people are still wondering aloud if Holden Caulfield should have gone to a psychiatric hospital or not.

For this reason, I thank you Mr. Salinger. Thank you for keeping us guessing, and forcing us to think. You have set an almost unreachable bar for writers everywhere. I can only hope that one day, a lost soul stumbles upon my book and finds some comforting answers on the pages I have written.

What a difference a day makes

I'm not gonna lie to you... I was f**king miserable yesterday. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, ready to punch the first person that said something ignorant. Do you ever have days like that? Days when you just hate people for being people? I'd like to consider myself someone who has faith in our human race, and I can tell you for sure I've never been labeled a cynic. But for whatever reason, yesterday I hated everything, humanity included.

Thankfully, I worked some of my rage out at the gym. It always feels great to beat your body into oblivion when you feel like you are going postal. I did squat thrusts, lunges, and hamstring curls until my anger subsided into aching pain. After a semi-productive day of errands, my day got ten times worse when I had to get ready for my stupid day job.

For your entertainment, I promise to post a blog I wrote recently about this stupid day job. But for those of you that have no idea where I work, note that I wait tables at Empire Brewing Company in downtown Syracuse, New York. To be completely honest, I love the people I work with. I don't even mind the work I do. Taking orders and putting them into a computer is fairly simple as jobs go. And since I've been working there off and on for almost 10 years, I can basically do the job with my eyes closed. I get to choose the days I want to work, and I actually believe in the product I sell, unlike those Gold's Gym packages I used to pawn off to random people in my early 20s.

But the part that I hate is having encounters with annoying, needy, snobby, particular, mean, idiotic people on a regular basis. In the server world, you can not escape humanity. You are forced to interact. It is your job to converse with these people. You can't say no, or tell them how you really feel about their indecisive personalities that prevent them from choosing lobster bisque or gumbo. Because that would mean no tip, and possibly, no job.

Hopefully now you see why on a day like the one I had yesterday, the last thing I wanted to do in the world is stand at a table with a fake smile on my face reciting a pan-seared swordfish special. What I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball in my bed, pollute my brain with reality television, and feel sorry for myself for being a 28 year old, college educated WAITRESS.

The worst part, is that I absolutely had to go to work, for no reason other then the fact that I need to pay my bills. The 40 dollars I walked out the door with was pathetically necessary. Sometimes I think that there is no sum of money that seems enough to get me through a shift. Even on a good paying night, I still have a sinking sense of disappointment when I drive home. My wallet is full of new bills, but I hate myself for it. All I did to earn the cash was impress a room full of drunks with my insane knowledge of craft brews and local food. I didn't create anything significant. For me, I was just playing another part. I doubt my role changed any one's life, including my own.

To heal my anguished waitress soul, I drank red wine and watched television shows on the Internet until I fell asleep, finally ending my crappy, "woe is me" themed day.

But then, this morning, I woke up to a brand new, different me. I remembered that I promised in this blog that I would start a screenplay. And yes folks, that's exactly what I did. Today, I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and even at 11 o'clock this night, I am still writing! I am more than half way done with my first script, EVER. Albeit a short film and not a feature (baby steps people), it is actually words on a page, with a format, and characters, and dialogue! And I can't wait to finish it and watch it come to life!

In addition to the hours I spent holed up in a chair towards the back of Panera Bread Company, I fielded a myriad of important phone calls, including one from an talent agency based out of Rochester. After speaking to the manager, I have scheduled an appointment with the company next week! Wish me luck! Who knows, maybe someday soon I will be able to throw out my ratty apron and call myself an actor/writer... Until then, I'm going to keep coming here and writing all about it. Forgive me ahead of time for my moments of despair and self pity. If there is anything I can promise you for sure, it is that I will have them. Waiting tables is NOT glamorous. And humanity is definitely flawed. Both these facts will ultimately make a normally content Mandy morph into a maniacal jumble of erratic thoughts and behaviors...

I miss the blinding lights

I stand in the dark between the stage's curtains. No matter how many times I had rehearsed this, my heart still throbs out of my chest while I wait for my cue. My palms are sweaty, in fact, every part of my body is coated with a thin layer of dampness. I feel my jaw trembling, and I am reminded to to focus on the breathing technique. As I slowly countdown from 10 and inhale slowly into my diaphragm, I recognize the lines spoken on stage and prepare for my entrance. The build up of anxiety is so intense, I almost want to run out there before my time so I can just get it over with. But I stay, for only moments longer between the curtains and painstakingly wait my turn.

Finally, I hear the desired bits of dialogue, and I step into the blinding lights and deliver my first line. The most comforting part of being on stage is the lights seem to shelter you from the critiquing audience. When I walk to my mark and look out to the seats that I only feel are filled, I cannot see individual faces or expressions. All I see is white, yellows, blues, and reds. The colors warm my body even further, and all the tension that was bound up in my shoulders and neck backstage melts away from my character. The lights remind me that I am Sibley Killian, or Cousin Ellen, or Meg. Whomever I am in that moment, Mandy is definitely not there. I left her in the dark. Someone new shines in the lights.

Oh, how I miss that feeling. A couple of nights ago, I went to see Grace Potter and the Nocturnals play at the Westcott Theater here in Syracuse. She is my inspiration for this post. When she took the stage, Grace demanded our attention. Standing front and center in the heat of her own lights, I was reminded of how it felt to be entertainment. To know that in front of you stands dozens of people, wanting you to make them smile, make them dance, make them think. It is a responsibility that I am sure Miss Potter loves, as do I.

For my readers that do not know that in addition to calling myself a writer, I will also always be an actor. Although it has been some time since I have last been on that stage, every day I imagine myself in a flood of lights. Thank you Grace for reminding me what they feel like.

Storytelling

I want to write a script. This task is one of the many that I have come up with to accomplish my "get rich and famous" project. I have been obsessively watching films since a teenager. Going to the movies started as a something to do on the weekends or a place to go on a first date, but gradually turned into a weekly event. Thankfully, the part-time job I had allowed me to get free passes. I went so often that sometimes I was there all by myself, sitting in an almost empty theater in the early afternoon. When I had early dismissal, I would go straight from school to the multiplex. Movies quickly became my escape. Watching them forced me to concentrate on the lives of people on the screen, and not my own. To this day, I still do this. When I get overwhelmed with my relationship, or become stressed about financially keeping my head above water, I stop at the good ole Red Box on the way home from work and rent a story.

For me, the story is the best part of a movie. I am enraptured by character development, by conflict and resolution, and the ultimate conclusion of events. Unlike life, films (usually) have a clear beginning and end. I like this. I like control. I love absolutes. I hate not knowing, anticipating, wondering.... what is going to happen. When I meet Penelope Cruz or Daniel Day Lewis on the big screen, I know, right away, that I will watch and discover what happens to them. So when the credits finally roll, I have a sense of satisfaction, and fulfillment. Yes, sometimes, the protagonist is killed by a hideous serial killer and last seen with a pool of blood spilling out of his head. But at least I know he is dead! I don't turn off the dvd player and wonder, hmmm... what will happen of that man? Will he find the lover he was searching for? Will he make amends with the family he alienated himself from? Nope! He won't! That guy is dead, THE END.

I am a storyteller. Even when I talk to my best friend Becky on the phone, which I do sometimes twice a day, I tell her a myriad of simple stories. She listens intently, waiting for me to reach my conclusion before she has a reaction. Sometimes when I have an extra juicy story to tell, after I hang up with Becky, I will call Amy, and then Robyn, and then Mark, my sister, my dad, etc, etc. This will continue even at work, me entertaining my fellow servers with a great new adventure.

Currently, I am stuck in the middle of a decision. What story do I write? And in what format? I've started research on my memoir, I have a handful of shorts that could be converted into full length books, and dozens of ideas for non-fiction pieces. But recently, the script is calling my name. The thing is, when I tell a story, I see it so visually. I can almost feel the weather of each scene on my skin and hear the voices of my characters. I can see a clear beginning and an end. There is no doubt that I can control a script unlike I will ever be able to control a story about my life.

I have downloaded a screenwriting software and promise to you, my readers, that I will attempt this task. Stay tuned...

Dear Mr. Thoreau, I want it all...

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.”


In the middle of 19th century American history, a time period that my English professor taught me was a "Renaissance of Literature," Henry David Thoreau entered the woods of Massachusetts to prove a point. He wanted to recount his experience in the hopes of educating others, and maybe more importantly, to muse about what he had learned for himself. The quote above was written by him. Mr. Thoreau is just one of the many people that have inspired me to take on this project. Like this classical writer, I am too looking to prove something. Maybe to my friends, that for years now have supported me, and today, find themselves running out of patience as I go back in forth in life like a ping pong ball. Also possible, that I am attempting to show my family that I can finally do what I've always promised I would.

The truth is, the person that this means the most to, is me. I am ready to finally prove to my stubborn self, that yes, you actually can finish what you start. I have been dreaming and chasing this fantastic goal of mine, in some way or another, since I have been a child. I, Mandy Howard, want to be "rich and famous." Yes, I know this seems quite broad, and I am sure you are wondering how I will accomplish such a huge feat. To be completely honest I have no freaking clue. I have dozens of ideas, but I cannot seem to stick to one long enough to find out if it is the right path for me. The main problem is, I have way too many passions. One day I am hell-bent on starting my own production company, and the next, I am downloading screenwriting software so I can start on my first script.

So I have decided that for now, I will come here to try and figure it all out. I am giving myself a deadline, because as you will come to learn, I am the world's worst procrastinator. There is a little more than a year and a half of time until I turn the dreaded 30. By my birthday on August 10th, 2011, I am promising myself, and I guess now all of you, that I will achieve my coveted fame and fortune. You can visit here to track my progress, to critique me when I get distracted, or to encourage when it looks like I want to give up.

But for now, I will start by writing, with the great hope of showing Thoreau that although the "truth" is great and admirable to seek, it is quite possible in my lifetime to obtain all such desires. Here's to wanting love that surprises me every day, money that allows me to travel this planet's amazing landscapes, fame that helps me touch people I have yet to meet, and the truth that will set me free...