Category Archives: creativity

“I See France,” a 10 minute play by Wendy Wallace

Ahem! Sharing time, everybody!

For your viewing pleasure, this is the staged reading of my play, “I See France,” from last August’s Island Theatre 10 Minute Play Festival (and winner: Best Adult Play will wonders never cease).

Bronsyn, Ruth and Marybeth play the main panties (Brava!!). Take 9 minutes and watch. I hope you enjoy it. 🙂

A Shameless Peep at Our Diorama

Warning: the following blog post is a shameless plug for our Peeps diorama currently on display at the Bainbridge Public Library, where you must can go immediately to read great books cast a vote for the Kid and Hubs’ diorama in the library’s Peeps diorama contest.

Yes, another creative project! This one totally optional, but suggested by yours truly who then honey-badgered nicely nudged the Kid and Hubs to make something cool.

It is true at one point the following was heard in the house: “But, Mom, when are you going to do something?! You haven’t done anything on the diorama!!”

I’m the idea person. I bought the Peeps…

And they did a great job, see? Notice the painted marshmallow peach trees with real fern leaves?
Have you read this book, Where the Mountain Meets the Moon? It’s great and made me cry. When’s the last time a kid’s book made you cry (in a good way)? Old Yeller?

And who is hiding back there? Minli and Dragon, of course.
Dragon was the Peeps de resistance. Ba-da-ching!
Sharp teeth, but friendly as only a Peeps dragon could be.

So, go to the library and check out Where the Mountain Meets the Moon. And while you’re there, vote for Where the Mountain Meets the Peeps!

Although to be honest, it is true that the kid is not actually holding her breath to win. Why? Well, we’re guessing that the library’s prize will be….a book. Something made of paper and ink and relating in no way to electronics. *yawn* (this is the Kid’s yawn, not mine!)

But I say she should get her paper cuts while she can, before everything is tapping and clicking and dragging, right?

Am I the only one reading books the old-fashioned way?

an old-fashion (long)house tour

The Hubs Kid had a project recently at school. They spent a unit learning about local Native American traditions, and students all took home paper to be cut and colored into a traditional longhouse.

Naturally, leaving it at paper was not going to happen in the Hubs’ universe in this house, especially since the Hubs is Alaskan and has seen actual longhouses and known actual people who lived in them.

In light of all the screaming and crying good, detailed work that went into it, it seems only fair to have a house tour….
Nice curb appeal, yes?
Side angle, with space for gardening. Must be dinner time… Notice the tiny hide?
This is the kind of attention to detail that makes the Hubs say, “Argh, I can barely sleep around the lousy paint job they did in this vacation rental,” while I say, “What paint?”
Every longhouse with a girl in it totally had one of these outside.
Like the smoke? After much debate about how to create a tiny smoke machine, I convinced him that perhaps a third grade teacher would be happier with air-brushed cotton.

All in all, a fabulous job, you guys!!

Although I’m a little nervous at what might get created here with the upcoming unit on the Sasquatch…

Flowers in a Class

I took another writing class even though Mother says I should be teaching them by now….

[I have finally realized that nothing is standardized and outside the world of real school, university, graduate programs well, maybe not certain graduate programs, the content and quality of any class is about 98% dependent on what direction the teacher goes. With another 1% due to who is in the class with you, and 1% on the ventilation system.]

We met in a small room, 6 students, and the idea I thought was discovering or developing your voice. Voice is a word agents and publishers like to toss around and slap you upside the head with, usually in terms of what is lacking in your work.

After a brief instruction on how we would give feedback on each other’s work, the teacher tossed out about a hundred writing prompts on separate pieces of paper. Nice to have options, sure, but giving writers that many prompts is basically like sending the Kid into the local candy store and telling her Pick One.

Let’s just say you could get your nails done waiting. Toes and Fingers. And do your sister-in-law’s. And that uncle’s.

Then, there’s Wendy. Perhaps I have spent too much time with tarot cards (did you know I have a woo woo side? you do, right?), but I just looked at the prompt that landed in front of me and went with it.

It being this: Soap Operas — why do we watch them?

I figured it was no accident (see? woo woo). After all, I watched As the World Turns from the age of 15 and mourned when it was cancelled.

So I wrote. And every one else did, too. Then the teacher asked who would like to read.


Maybe it was the tight quarters, or the smallness of the group, or my desire to convert the world to the hopeless task of loving soap operas now that most of them are gone…but whatever, I volunteered. I read. And then…


I’ll admit, the kooky, older lady next to me said she thought it was charming. But that was about it.

Then, the next two students read their pieces. Their pieces from prompts that they carefully chose were about the gut-wrenching moments of them leaving their spouses or being left by their spouses or their child’s scary illness or their own scary illness or all the above happening simultaneously, plus a train wreck and an overdue library book.

And then, I saw it. Two Kleenex boxes at either end of this little conference table. How did I miss those before? Just what kind of class was this supposed to be?

It was too late to make a run for it.

I felt I misread the invitation and came dressed as a goofy, tropical plant to a fancy garden party. Crap.

And when they read, they were serious. It felt bleak. And the woo woo side of me worried that their heavy, dark vibe would glom onto me and put me in a funk.

Not that I’m afraid of negative emotions. No, that red and purple, dripping, throbbing thing on my arm would be my heart. But at least through my 20’s I hoisted around a heavy armor to protect it. Now, I’m old and tired of carrying that beat-up shit around and dealing. But still.

Honestly, a huge draw to me in friends or significant others is their ability to smile or raise their eyebrows in a cheerful way. Superficial of me? Or…super deep? First-date men who never changed their facial expression as they talked, taking themselves or life uber-serious, buh-bye.

Now, there I was in class. No one smiling, no one lifting their eyebrows. Who are these people revealing…all their stuff??

And why was my chair getting so small, so uncomfortable, so…awkward?

But later, once I had a stiff drink the shock wore off, that little woo woo part of me softly chimed in (the woo woo is never loud but very smart) that perhaps, as an Alaskan friend once said, you wouldn’t want all the flowers in the world to be the same color. Maybe it was no accident that we, this hodgepodge of dark and light, were in class together.

Maybe their bold expression of their dark places would set a good example for me to hang out a bit more there, in myself.

And maybe they will learn to occasionally enjoy a soap opera.

Girly Cupcakes

Just so you know, the Hubs said I shouldn’t blog about this, so Hello! You’d think he’d have learned by now….

This post is brought to you by Facebook and its new anti-privacy rules, because it was a friend of a friend who I have never heard of who posted this photo and my friend, a guy I actually do know, “liked” it.

Which apparently means the whole world gets to see it now, in case you just got out of that coma don’t know Facebook is raping you daily, right now.

Hold onto your britches. Take a gander at the girly cupcakes:
Puts new meaning in the term variety pack, eh?

Okay, focus, readers. Are ya with me? I posted this because I want to ask if you think it was would be outrageoushorrendousdisgusting of me to show this photo to my eight-year-old daughter?

Purely, a hypothetical question, Mrs. Child Protective Services, for the purposes of discussion.

I mean, if I did, I wonder if my child would guess right away what she was looking at or needed a hint from me.

I wonder if she’d then drop her jaw first, and then with a twinkle in her eye, her own drawers to show me hers as comparison to the frosted ones.

I also wonder if young girls should possess a relaxed, secure knowledge of their amazing, delicious cupcakes body.

Purely hypothetical, ya’ll. Don’t go get your panties in a–oh, never mind.

What do you think? Would you show a daughter and not a son? Is age a factor?