Deanna Strasse
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11/29/2024

My Trip to the House of Commons and The Assisted Dying Bill

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First off, let me start by saying that I am decidedly NOT a journalist.  The following is simply my personal observations and opinions as I continue to learn more about life in the UK and how it all works. 

(AND...For the record, the official title of the bill is the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill.) 

A month or so ago it was brought to my attention that the UK government is considering a bill that would make assisted dying legal.  This struck me as incredibly odd simply because I never thought I’d live to see the day when something would be considered.  If Caitlin Doughty (and the wider Order of the Good Death community) has taught me anything, it’s that we as a society are terrified of death and – more importantly – talking about death.  I know that the UK is not as inherently Christian as the United States, but even still…this seemed like a huge leap to undertake and I incorrectly assumed that the bill would be dead on arrival (pun intended). 

In the consequent weeks since first hearing about it, I have learned that several other countries already have laws on asssited dying/assisted suicide/euthenasia (more on the issue of word choice later) including Switzerland, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, Spain and Austria.  Not to mention Oregon in the fricken United States!  (If it were to be anywhere, it would be Oregon.) 

I then found out that the second reading of the bill was to take place on November 29th and that one could attend the debate.  Given that I was going to be in the general direction of London, anyway, for a lovely Friends-Giving party, I figured I should go and check it out.  

On the morning of Friday, November 29th I awoke to find I had missed my alarm.  I’d wanted to get up early so I could be in line as soon as possible, assuming that the debate would be well-attended.  That and the fact that I had put in a rather poor night’s sleep, I considered not going.  But the thrill of adventure plus the fear of missing out got me up and out the door.

And I’m so glad that I went!  First and foremost, The Palace of Westminster is incredibly beautiful and (as the name suggests) a palace.  After going through security, you enter into this massive receiving hall that’s lined with stained glass windows and gorgeous paintings.  Immediately, you feel small and overtaken by the majesty and history.  

Furthermore, it was insanely interesting to A) be a part of a piece of history and B) to just be there in the room where it happens (Hamilton reference intended).  Getting to actually hear the back and forth discussion and see first hand how the government in this system works, especially compared to back home, was fascinating.  Because I was running late, I didn’t stop for breakfast so I really only stuck around for three of the five hours, but I grabbed lunch in the building and was onsite when the results of the vote was announced.

That being said, here are some of my key takeaways, questions, and observations from the experience.  Again: not a journalist.  I failed to get everyone’s name and failed to be totally objective.  Please don’t look at this and say, “I got my information from Deanna!”  I am not a reputable news source, just a young lady with a blog.  (I have some links below to actual news outlets so go check them out and support journalists!) 

The bill (in short)
  • A bill similar to this was raised back in 2015 but was ultimately rejected.  Since then, countries such as Canada and Austria have enacted similar bills into law.
  • It would allow adults (18 or older) who have been diagnosed with a terminal illness AND have a prognosis of less than six months to live to seek the legal aid of a doctor or medical practitioner (more on that later) who could give them access to life-ending drugs.
  • Said drugs would need to be administered by the patient themselves, not by a doctor, medical practitioner, or anyone else.  The patient must be the one to ultimately “do the deed”.  
  • Wording is incredibly important, similar to bills and laws having to do with abortion.  Those in favor will use terms such as “assisted dying” rather than “assisted suicide.” The opposition is quick to use the latter term as well as “kill”, etc. 
  • Members of Parliament (especially those in favor) are also keen not to call it euthanasia, but this has less to do with the connotation of that word and more to do with the simple fact that euthanasia occurs when a doctor administers the drug.  Because this specific bill does not allow for a doctor to administer the drug, this cannot be considered euthanasia.
  • Some countries do allow for euthanasia, and it should be noted that, generally speaking, every country’s (or state’s) laws are somewhat different.  
  • This is NOT a party issue as several MPs crossed party lines with their views.
  • “Chronic illness” is different from “terminal illness”.  The former means that there is likely no cure and the patient will die with it but they are not necessarily dying from it (i.e. diabetes, HIV/AIDS, multiple sclerosis, etc.) and the latter means that the patient is actively dying from the ailment (advanced cancer, end-stage renal disease, heart failure, etc.)

Observations/Learning about parliament/Misc.
  • Everyone is so polite (but is it politeness or just cordiality?)  The MPs are always thanking each other for interventions and “giving way”.
  • Do MPs already know which direction they’re going to vote?  Is this debate really for those who are on the fence (if there are any?) or for the constituents who voted for them.  Could we have just skipped the whole debate and gone right into voting?  How much of this is just pomp?
  • Danny Kruger headed up the opposition and had a great quote, “I’m not giving way, I’m afraid.”  So.  Very.  British. 
  • MPs will rise after someone is done speaking and this is to signal that they have something to add to the discussion.  However, they should have already signed up to speak and the Speaker will call on them when it’s their turn.  So…is the whole rising bit just more pomp?
  • The two main parties are Labour which tends to be more liberal leaning and the Unionist Party which tends to be more conservative.
  • Today’s bill was spearheaded by Kim Leadbeater who is a member of the Labour Party and has a fantastic Yorkshire dialect (just like Jodie Whittaker!) 
  • The Labour Party has a HUGE majority in the House of Commons. 
  • The party that holds the majority (in this case, the Labour Party) is called the “government” and everyone else is called the “opposition”. 
  • The government is seated to the right of the Speaker and the opposition is seated to the left (generally).
  • When looking down at the two sides, you can see that almost all the people from the opposition were dressed in navy blue or black while those from the government were dressed in brighter colors.  Is this because one side is in favor of the bill and thus wearing happy colors while the other is against the bill and thus more somber OR is this a reflection of the Labour party’s more diverse makeup and liberal leaning versus the Unionists more conservative leanings?  (Is the choice of wardrobe similar to how RBG would wear a certain collar to signify if she dissented?) 
  • The Speaker kept switching out and different people took their place.  At one point, someone was referred to the Deputy Speaker so I’m assuming that was this person’s title but then someone else came in. 
  • Maybe three dozen microphones hang down from the ceiling over the MPs and when you are called to speak, the one that’s closest to you gets turned on.  But it’s just the one mic so if you turn away from it, we can’t hear you.  A few times, The Speaker (or whoever was sitting in for The Speaker) had to remind MPs to face forward so that their mic would catch them.
  • People seated in the gallery are not allowed to show any support or opposition for what is being said.  You can nod or shake your head but anything verbal will get you excused from the proceedings, as happened with the woman sitting in front of me who started applauding after someone from the opposition gave a rousing speech. 

Let’s talk palliative care (taking care of someone who has a terminal illness or is dying)
  • This was a HUGE talking point for both sides, second only to talks on coercion.
  • The opposition argued that we don’t need this bill if we put more resources into palliative care, and the government argued that even with great palliative care, people can still suffer.
  • Regardless of how people feel about this particular bill, several people pointed out that because of the bill’s existence and its subsequent debates, there have been so many fantastic discussions on palliative care, an issue that’s needed attention for some time.

The following are pros and cons of issue of assisted death/assisted suicide (and, specifically looking at the issue now), not on the bill itself.

Cons (as stated by the opposition)
  • The line between terminal illness and disability is blurred and that can be dangerous.  Those who are differently abled will be affected by this more than anyone else.  
  • There are moral issues on who can “play God” and who gets to decide who lives and who dies.
  • The NHS is already overwhelmed and asking doctors to do more is not doable.  We should be focused on fixing the NHS rather than expecting more from them.
  • “Suicide” is contagious.
  • There is the HUGE issue of coercion (not just from outside forces but self-coercion and feelings that you are a burden and should just die).  
  • People who are in abusive relationships (whether romantically or even with their physician) will be manipulated into thinking that this is what they want.
  • Even with these drugs, a “dignified” and painless death are not guaranteed.  People have been known to vomit or have a negative reaction to the drug, causing even more pain. 
  • Medicine and diagnosis are not an exact science.  Doctors do the best they can with what they have, but we can never be 100% sure that someone will not recover or have a fulfilling life even with a terminal illness. 

Pros (as stated by the government)
  • This bill will allow for patients to choose how they die and (hopefully) die with dignity rather than suffering in pain.
  • Terminally ill patients and those who are suffering end their own lives all the time – whether parliament likes it or not.  This bill would allow them to do it in a safe and dignified manner.
  • Making it legal would also safeguard family members and friends who wish to help (protecting them from scrutiny or prosecution.)
  • There is no way we can stop all coercion and everything must be taken on a case-by-case basis.
  • The government argues that palliative care and assisted dying go hand-in-hand.  They are not in opposition to one another.  Assisted dying comes under the umbrella term of palliative care and can be an option for those suffering.  Assisted dying would not be the first choice presented to someone but, rather, a last resort if necessary and wanted.
  • We as a society do not want to talk about death.  This bill makes us talk about it and become more comfortable with discussions on how one wants to die.

Questions/parts of the bill
  • Is the bill ready?
  • Define “medical practitioner”.  The bill allows for a medical practitioner to aid a patient, and the government stated that term is a synonym for “doctor”, but the opposition argued that the wording was too vague.  “A dentist is a medical practitioner!  Can a dentist provide a patient with the drugs?”
  • Is there significance to the six month prognosis?  (See the final point in the Cons section.)
  • What safeguards are there for people who are nonverbal?
  • How does the bill compare to laws on this issue? (Oregon, Switzerland, etc.)
  • Several MPs stated that they were not against assisted dying/suicide but that they just didn’t like this bill.
  • In regards to that, one gentleman remarked that this is an important issue and even if it doesn’t get passed today, parliament cannot wait another 10 years to discuss it again. 

Quotes
  • “Death is not romantic.” – Kilt Malthouse (in favor)
  • “This is not easy. Let’s acknowledge that.” - Tonia Antoniazzi, a lovely Welsh lady (in favor)
  • “If this is a right that we should be proud to pass, then why are we denying it to children?” (didn’t catch name, opposition) 
  • “This bill is about despair, and I’m voting for hope.” (didn’t catch name, opposition)
  • “This is not life or death.  This is death or death.” – Peter Prinsley (in favor)
  • “The Second Reading is a point of principle, not a point of conclusion.” – Sir David Davis

Personal views/opinions
  • While going through security, they opened my bag, pulled out my Exit Stage Riley sweatshirt, and held it up.  As the gentleman read the words across the front and back, I smiled with an air of false coyness and said, “Oh, THAT?  That’s just from a play that I wrote!”  He looked me dead in the eyes and replied, “I just need to make sure you’re not bringing in anything in favor or against the bill.”  I immediately stopped smiling. DUH, Deanna.  He's not interested in your play.  
  • Several people had very personal and gut-wrenching stories (on both sides of the issue). Honestly, it eventually became pointless to bring these up.  It just further drives home the point that the issue is very personal and needs to be taken case by case.  
  • One MP claimed that taking too much morphine won’t kill you…which is not true.  His argument is that we don’t need this bill because we can just give patients morphine and that will solve the problem. 
  • After a while, it just felt like everyone (especially in opposition) were just saying the same thing over and over again, raising the same issues that had already been raised: coercion, overwhelming the NHS, those who are differently abled, gut-wrenching stories about someone who was given six months to live and then went on to live a long life, etc. 
  • There was a lot of discussion/questions on the point of a Second Reading.  Many of those in favor were quick to say that if there are things you don’t like about the bill but support the idea behind it, then you can vote in favor of it now and allow us to work out the kinks.  The final decision comes at the next reading.  The opposition kept saying (of course) that the bill was simply too awful to even proceed further.  There seemed to be some disconnect over whether the MPs were debating the bill itself or the issue of assisted dying as a whole.
  • In regards to this, Layla Moran had a great quote, “If there is no version of the bill that you could vote for, then be honest about that.”  How much of the opposition’s dislike of the bill is legitimate and how much of it is simply political (“We can’t let the other guy win!”  “I just don’t want to deal with this issue.”)  
  • I am not a historian or a medical practitioner (whatever that means :P ).  BUT I did just watch The National Theatre at Home’s streamed production of Nye (starring the beloved Michael Sheen) and I couldn’t help but notice how the opposition kept throwing out the excuses of, “This is just too much too soon!” and “This will change the doctor and patient relationship!  This will change the doctor and state relationship!”  Gee, that sounds awfully familiar…very similar to what parliament said about the NHS and how a change like that would destroy us all.  Obviously, the two issues are very different, but it bugs me to no end when the main argument any opposition can land on is just that, “This is too different!  I can’t deal with the change!”  
  • For the record, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about assisted suicide/assisted dying.  I suppose I’m looking at it the same way I look at abortion: I certainly don’t like abortion, but I can understand that there are times and places where it is necessary.  But where exactly are those times and places and how do we safeguard people on the fringes of society from being steamrolled and coerced?  Ultimately, I’m glad that the bill is moving on to the next stage because the members of parliament will have to dive more into the bill itself rather than the issue.  If the Unionists are going to continue to be against this bill, then they need to come back with hard facts and evidence that it is not a sufficient piece of legislation…OR they need to be do as Layla Moran said and just flipping admit that they don’t want anything like this passed.  Stop wasting our time with endless sad stories because that’s just an emotional response that freezes debate without genuinely talking about what’s really at stake here.  Like I said, I’m not entirely on one side or the other (though it does appear that I’m siding with the government), but, as someone who is on the fence, I feel underwhelmed by the arguments brought forward by the opposition.  Do more.  Come back fighting.  Win me. 

Links to actual articles, etc.

UK Parliament: Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill

BBC: Assisted dying bill: What is in proposed law? 

The Guardian: MPs back landmark bill to legalise assisted dying in England and Wales

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11/25/2024

UK Update 11/25

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Wow.  Okay.  So much to touch on.  Let’s begin!

  • We are getting to the end of the semester here so that means a lot of writing projects are due.  Because of this, I may be less and less available so if I take a long time to get back to you (longer than usual), it’s just because I’m friggin writing! 
  • I’ve got a short film screenplay in the works for Screenwriting, a short story (about cannibalism!) for Creative Writing Workshop, and a short play about hiraeth (which has no direct English translation from Welsh but essentially means a deep, longing, or sadness especially in regards to the impossibility of life. It’s my new favorite word.)
  • Back in September/October, I was listening to the amazing podcast Noble Blood by Dana Schwartz, and she told this gripping story about a woman named Lady Arbella Stuart.  As Ms. Schwartz spun the tale, I kept thinking to myself, “This is a play!  Someone should write a play about this woman!”  I told myself that it couldn’t be me because my style of writing is so contemporary and informal.  I wouldn’t even know how to begin writing something that was supposed to take place in the “ye olde times” (late 16th Century and early 17th Century).  Simultaneously, I found myself feeling rather bored in my Dramatic Structure class – given that this particular class is definitely geared more towards people who have never written a play before.  Because it’s a required class, I couldn’t drop it.  I just had to find a new way to challenge myself. So…why not write that Arbella Stuart play, Deanna?  
  • Very long story short, I am working on said play and it is set to be my Dissertation piece.
  • As part of my research (and because I’d never been) I visited the Tower of London during my last trip to London (because – spoiler alert! – Arbella eventually dies there). 
  • The way that the Tower is often portrayed is a place of torture and death…which, it was at times.  But it’s so much more interesting and nuanced than that.  And visiting it today is less like visiting a museum and more like getting to run around a castle for a whole day.  Here are some cool facts I learned (for the first time or just learned more about…)
    • There’s a legend that says if the ravens ever leave the grounds, then the crown will fall and Britian with it.  Because of this, the Tower houses at least six ravens on the grounds.  There is actually a position called Ravenmaster.  But they don’t let just anyone be the Ravenmaster. 
    • To get that gig, you’ve first got to be a member of Yeoman Warders (AKA the Beefeaters) who are the guards of the Tower.  I listened to a delightful chap who called himself Beefeater Barney (follow him on Instagram).  He explained that one has to have served at least twenty years in the British military and reach a certain rank before they can even apply to be a Yeoman.  It is an extremely elite group of individuals (there have been more people in space than have been a Tower guard)! 
    • While walking around the grounds, I saw a father (or father figure, at least) reading to a small child on a bench.  The book was on the history of The Tower, and the scene delighted me to no end.
    • Of course I saw the crown jewels.  You are not allowed to take pictures.  Honestly, the whole thing just felt like a lot of pomp.  When you reach the main room, there’s this little conveyer belt that you can ride.  It takes you past six or so glass boxes that house various crowns, scepters, etc.  The conveyor belt itself made me laugh because…I don’t know!  It seemed so gratuitous.  Maybe the crowds are usually bigger than they were when I went, but it all just screamed, “Move along, peasants!  You’re only allowed fifteen seconds to gaze upon these diamonds that we stole!”
    • I found the historical pieces of clothing far more interesting than the jewels or crowns.  (How tall was Charles I?  Going by his armor, he looks tiny!  I know that the armor isn’t meant to actually represent his height because it would have been worn over his clothes, but compared to other sets of full armor, his looked quite petite.) 
    • Also, there was this massive and gorgeous stole that was worn by Queen Elizabeth II on her coronation.  It had this beautiful embroidery on it and immediately I noticed a thistle within the pattern.  “Alright!” I said to myself, “The thistle represents Scotland and that rose represents England and that clover is for Ireland.  But where is Wales?  Why isn’t Wales represented here?  Where’s the daffodil?  Where’s the dragon?  Where’s the hunk of lamb?!”  (I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s because Wales is just generally considered to be part of England and not its own thing…which is bullshit.  But I digress.) 
    • The Tower once held a zoo and there are a variety of animal statues situated around the grounds.  The polar bear, though, is chained around the foot and that made me very sad.  (Yes, I felt sad for the polar bear statue.  Aren’t they dealing with enough in this day and age?!)
    • I purchased a book in one of the gift shops…solely because it contained about six pages on Arbella.  (The book as a whole seemed interesting, and actual facts on this woman are few and far between so I’ll take what I can get.)  Outside of this book, there really wasn’t any mention of Arbella in any of the displays; the Tower focuses more on Anne Bolyne, Lady Jane Gray, Mary Queen of Scots, etc. 
    • HOWEVER…after spending the day at the Tower (if you go, give yourself plenty of time!  I was there for about six hours and I still didn’t see everything) I wrote an email to the education department at the Historic Royal Palace site, asking a few questions about Arbella and what her time in the Tower would have been like.  Perhaps I’m just a pessimist when it comes to human interaction, but I assumed the email would go ignored.  To my great surprise, they got back to me within a day with answers to all my questions and a list of other resources I could look into.  
  • The main reason I was in London was for a theatre gig.  Very long story short (because even now I don’t have the energy to talk about it – wow, Deanna! Dramatic much?) a local theatre has these monthly showcases of new works.  It can be a company that wants to show off what they’re working on or a writer who wants to get something up on its feet and hopefully get some feedback.  I sent in a few pages of a new play I’m working on (not the Arbella piece) and it was chosen.  (Excellent!)  However, I was extremely disappointed by the performance of my piece.  Essentially, the director added action that was not included in the script and said action was extremely distracting to the actual important dialogue.  No one, myself included, was able to pay attention to the words I had written because they were too focused on this character (who was not in the scene) running around the stage playing the drums, making shadow puppets, slamming doors, etc.  This is very basic theatre stuff: don’t pull focus from the main action.  I ended up emailing both the director and the artistic director to express my dissatisfaction and to offer a suggestion: if your goal is aid playwrights in the development of their work, you need to focus on the actual work.  I walked away from the reading knowing basically nothing about what my show looks like when it’s (more or less) up on its feet.  I don’t know what works, what didn’t, what audiences enjoyed, etc. A staged reading is essentially a focus group, but audience members didn’t get an accurate representation of my work.
  • Ultimately, this all fell on deaf ears because they replied to the email with, “This is part of the development process: you hand your script off to someone else and they get to interpret it,” and (my personal favorite) “You say you didn’t get anything out of the reading, but you did!  You saw how you DIDN’T want your show to be directed.”  
  • (Deep breath) You are correct, artistic director.  I saw how I don’t want my show to be directed: by your company…ever again.  (I didn’t say that, but I thought it.)
  • THERE IS NO CHESTNUT PRALINE IN THE UNITED KINGDOM!  The Starbucks here doesn’t carry it!  First Ranch dressing and now this?!?  (Sips my Gingerbread latte and pouts.) 
  • In the realm of good news, I sat down for an interview with someone from The University of Essex’s Communications Department.  First off, I had to learn that the “Communications Department” is not a course of study as it is back in the States but rather the University’s team of journalists and social media correspondents.  I met with a gentleman named George who wanted to talk about my work as a writer and why I came to the UK.  We had a delightful time (and both ordered Americanos at the Greenhouse Cafe on campus).  I was particularly struck by something George offered when I asked what it’s like to study English history, simply because it’s so massive – especially compared to the US’s history.  George said that their history is much more intertwined with their everyday life.  One of his first schools was in the country and that very building once housed King Charles I for a time so it was easy to connect with history on a very personal level and see it every day.  I genuinely enjoyed my chat with George and can’t wait to share his story with you when it gets released.  
  • Also…Melody is going to be in a production at The Globe Theatre this coming March so y’all should come out and see her. 
  • Also…Melody and I are spending Christmas in Edinburgh. 
  • Also…I bought this Highland Cooooo plant holder at Tesco.  Her name is Honey. (If you know, you know…) I also have a cordyline named Miranda. 
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10/26/2024

Two anecdotes, a short story, and a poem

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In lieu of an actual blog (since things are kind of busy right now), I've decided to simply post some of the mini projects I've been working on here in grad school.  My classes this semester are Creative Writing Workshop, Dramatic Structure, Screenwriting, and Dissertation Preparation. 

I was more than a little nervous when I looked at my class schedule (especially when I compared it to Melody's incredibly hectic workload over at East 15), but my tutor assured me that I am taking enough classes (one of my worries) and that I will need the "free time" (not in class) for projects.  

Before we get to the works of fiction, let's give you some updates.  Story time!

If you read my last UK update, you'll remember that I was struggling to obtain my ADHD medication; the news my doctor had given me (about needing to be re-diagnosed AND finding a specialist AND waiting one-two years for said specialist) had really sent me into a tailspin.  Well, upon receiving my official letter of diagnosis from my US doctor (thanks, Paula!), I went BACK to my UK office (surgery) and ended up meeting with a different doctor who had a starkly different opinion on my predicament. 
When asked how long I'd been on Vyvanse and I told him it'd been over a year, he seemed far more optimistic about the time frame...especially since I had an actual letter from an actual doctor.  He said he'd discuss the issue with the medication stuff and hopefully get back to me by the end of the day what that time frame would look like.

I went into this appointment merely to get a better understanding of my options and hopefully to get the ball rolling on ONE DAY getting my medication through NHS.  I was planning on still reaching out to various private organizations (thanks, Amanda Shoe, for suggesting some!) and I asked Dr. Ahmad if he could recommend a specialist.  To my surprise, he advised me to hold off on finding a private doctor until he knew for sure what the medication staff would say.  I chalked that up to hopeful optimism and left still trying financially plan for this massive £500 bill that was in my future.

And then the next day I got a text message from my doctor's office saying that my medication had been sent to my pharmacy. 

I stared at the screen, unsure what to make of that. 

Surely that didn't mean that I could just go pick it up, right?  Surely that meant that the prescription had been sent over, but the pharmacy would reject it or come back with news that they were out of the stimulant (as the pharmacies always were).  I gave it a few days (still with several capsules of Vyvanse to get me through).  And then on Friday, I finally just called the pharmacy to ask if they, indeed, had my medication.

The very nice woman on the other end put me on hold to check, and that wait seemed like an eternity.  

When she came back, I had to verify my date of birth and then (ever so nonchalantly), she replied, "Yes, it's here and ready to be picked up."

I was silent for several moments, "It's...it's ready?  As in...I can just show up and pick up the medication?"

The pharmacy technician was clearly confused, "Yes.  You can come pick it up."

I searched my mind for any reason why this couldn't be true and fumbled a bit more.

"And, uh...it's Vyvanse, right?  I mean...its not called that in the UK...I'm from the US...and it's not called that here in the UK but it's Vyvanse, right?  The UK version of Vyvanse?"

I was beginning to spiral but in a good way.

"The medication I have here for you is Elvanse," she said plainly, her sober English tone bordering very close to annoyance.  I hardly blamed her.

"I'm on my way now!" 

"Alright, darling."

I practically ran to the pharmacy and even as I walked in, I couldn't believe it.  Even the technician handed me the little white and green bag, I couldn't believe it.  I definitely didn't believe it when the cost came to £9 for a 28-day supply (that comes out to a little over $9.  Back in the States, I paid $70 for the same medication.)  I kept thanking the pharmacy staff, which I'm sure only added to my newfound reputation as the flighty, over excitable American.  

I called my group chat with Melody, Lauren, and Allison and left a very long voice message that was mainly me just panting and rambling: panting because I was excited and because I was running.  

When talking about the incident later with Melody, she very wisely pointed out (I'm going to misquote her a bit here, but the general vibe is still there), "When dealing with anything medical, always get two people's opinions.  Honestly, though, that kinda works for anything in life.  Always ask at least two people.  Never take one person's view as the gospel truth."

(For the record, I do not hold any ill feelings towards the first doctor who gave me the grim news of a one-two year wait; I am sure that she was operating the best of her ability with the knowledge that she had at the time.  Doctors are amazing and can't be expected to be connoisseurs of every medical thing under the sun. I am glad that I went back and glad that I was proactive.  Executive dysfunction is sometimes very difficult for me, especially when it's things that you need to do.)

Second story (not as long as the first one!)

I am having a really amazing time, BUT it has occurred to me that I am often alone.  As I get older (and I partially blame the pandemic), it's become incredibly easy to just be a little introverted homebody.  Back in Milwaukee, if I wasn't at work or being pulled along to social events with Melody, I rarely went out.  Now that I'm not at Starbucks and don't live with Melody, I have to find my own forms of meeting people.  (YIKES!) 
Because of this, I'm trying to attend more events and push myself outside of my comfort zone.  One such event was this past Friday: an open mic for musicians at Lakeside Theatre on campus.  I am not a musician in ANY form, but I thought it would be a good way to get out of the apartment, support the arts, and maybe meet some people. 

I had spent the day writing, doing chores, talking with my sister, going to the gym, etc. and by the time 6pm rolled around, I was looking for any excuse not to go.  I don't want to put on makeup, it's too cold outside, it's too far of a walk from the bus station...on and on it went.  But I did end up going if for no other reason than to be able to say I tried.  

And I'm really glad that I went.  As stated above, I am not musically trained in anything so anyone who has that talent and that drive to practice is like a friggen superhero to me.  There were varying levels of talent and experience on the stage, but I still marveled at them all.  How do you play the piano and sing AT THE SAME TIME?!?  You're basically playing two instruments simultaneously and that's mind-boggling to me. 

I spied a poster advertising the next open mic event...spoken word poetry.  As I listened to the music, the idea entered my mind that maybe I should give that a try.  The actual event isn't until the end of November so that would give me plenty of time to pick something and practice.  Before I lost my nerve, I pulled out my phone and emailed the address listed on the poster, asking if I could join the spoken word open mic.  

The MC approached the mic at one point and announced that several spots were still open and if anyone wanted to perform anything, they could do that. 

"Anything," they said, "...you don't even have to sing or play an instrument!  Read some poetry, whatever."


A thought, spurred on by a glass of sauvignon blanc, entered my mind: Oh! I could do that!  

It was almost immediately followed by a second thought: No, you can't!  You could never do that! What would you even read? You need time to prepare!  You don't have makeup on!  You'll mess up and everyone here will remember you as that weird woman who read poetry at an event for musicians!  Sure, the MC said you could do it, but they probably didn't mean it.  Don't embarrass yourself in front of these people, Deanna!

I went back and forth and back and forth...

I got up and stared at the sign-up sheet and then lost my nerve and sat back down.  I got up again and stared at the sign-up sheet.  While the anxiety still banged its pots and pans, it couldn't drown out two overwhelming thoughts: 

1) I have been on campus for over a month now and I have never seen any these people before.  None of them are in any of my class.  If I mess up, then who cares?  I will probably never see any of them ever again.  
2) If I don't sign-up, I'm going to regret it.  This journey is supposed to be about doing the things you said you could never do, Deanna, so sign the fucking sheet and do it.


So with very little make-up on my face (found out after the fact I had a smear of lipstick across my teeth) and a poem I'd written seven years ago, I wrote my name down, got another glass of wine, and waited my turn.

I definitely messed up more than once and I know that I moved around too much (something my undergraduate theatre professions accused me of regularly.  Jay would be so disappointed.) But I did it.  And it was fun.  I haven't acted in anything (really) in over two years and that sweet rush of adrenaline felt good.  It felt good to be seen and to speak and have people looking at me.  Whether their applause was out of politeness or not, their feedback was not the end goal of the night.  The point of it all was just do it.  And I did it.  

People did applaud, and some even approached me afterwards to tell me how much they appreciated my poem (I'll include it below.)  I handed out a few business cards and got into a great small conversation with someone named Maria (we exchanged Instagram handles) about what it's like going back to school in your 30s and how smelly some 18-year-olds are.

Do the thing.  Just do the thing.


I'm done telling myself that I "can't do" that thing. 

Now, onto the works...

My Thirteen-Year-Old Self
A poem 

(This is the poem I read at the old mic event)

:::

I had a conversation with my thirteen-year-old self the other day
She smiled politely, but I could tell
She had questions
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“Okay,” I said, “What do you think?”
She was quiet for a moment and then,
“You’re very pretty”
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“No, really. What do you think?”
She was about to open her mouth when I added
“And you can tell me the truth
I don’t care too much for bullshit”
Her eyes widened
Thirteen-year-old me can’t believe I just said bullshit
“It’s just…”
She started
Not making eye contact
Wiggling too much
Uncomfortable in her own skin
“It’s just…you’re not…very…”
The words drip out of her like molasses
Slowly…so slowly…
“Thin”
She finally says
“You’re kind of…fat”
Twenty-seven-year-old me is a somewhat better liar than she is
That remark stings
But I don’t let her know
She continues to stumble on her words,
“I just thought. Maybe
MAYBE
By now you’d have figured the whole fat thing out”
I almost laughed
But I knew what a fragile doll she is
“What else?”
Thirteen-year-old me eyed my left hand
I  laughed
“Nope. Still fat. Still single.”
“Do you live on Broadway?” She asked
I shook my head
“Milwaukee”
“Oh! Do you work at the Milwaukee Repertory Theatre?”
I laughed again
“No
I’ve worked at some theatres
Had some plays produced
Directed a little”
I wanted to explain that the Rep gets their actors from New York
Or Chicago these days
But I didn’t think that will help the situation
“And you’re…how old are you again?”
“Twenty-seven”
I may as well have told her I was a hundred and two
She wanted to ask so badly
She wanted to ask the same question I’ve asked myself
Every day
Every night
The difference between twenty-four and twenty-five
Was day and night
One day I was a recent college graduate trying to figure it out
And then I was an adult with nothing figured out
She wanted to ask so badly
And finally she did
“So…what exactly have you done with your life?”
“Well…
Like I said…
I’ve worked at a couple theatres
Nothing too fancy
But I’m trying
I’m trying really hard”
Before I could say more, she began to cry
She’d held it in so long
She’d taken deep breaths and blinked
Trying to push back the feelings
But she couldn’t do that forever
And here they are
She began to cry
And just like that, the grief tuned to anger
At bone-crushing speed, she jumped from one to the other,
A telltale sign of a diagnosis
She won’t get for another five years
“What have you done with your life?!”
She demanded it now
The fury in her eyes comes from sorrow
Sorrow and fear
That we all end up the same way
Single
Fat
Not at the Milwaukee Repertory Theatre
Complacent
She goes home every day to complacency
It’s another member of the family
Who sits at the dinner table
And follows her to bed
Who goes out to restaurants with her
And orders the same thing over and over again
Always saying, “This time…something new”
But something new never comes
She wanted to know so badly that somewhere along the line
Complacency died
I knew this
I knew she was speaking in anger
But we’re so much alike
I couldn’t help but speak in anger, too
“Let’s get a few things straight here, little miss,”
I started,
“You don’t know anything
I don’t know anything, but you
You know even less
You are
Stupid"
And then
The two of us were crying
For even though time separates us
One facet of our beings has never changed:
The need to be self destructive
We were crying
Wheezing
On the verge of hyperventilating
We were so upset with ourselves
And then we took a breath
Age (and drugs)
Have helped me come up from the lows faster than she does
She was sobbing still when I finally said,
“This life is not that bad
This life is truthful
You wanted to walk out of high school
And marry a movie star
You walked out of high school
And got educated
You took a road trip
You threatened to leave
You did leave
You wrote terrible plays
That people will always remember
You wrote incredible plays
That people somehow forget
You stood at the bow of the catamaran
And chased whales across the Pacific
There’s a dog
And several men
And an angel
And everything in between
This is not the life you wanted
But it is a life”
I wanted to tell her to ask Dad more questions
I wanted to warn her about the car accidents
I wanted to suggest a thousand things
But the future is hers
And no one likes spoilers

Crunch
A short story

Dora had an appetite - no, not an appetite, a hankering…an all-consuming hankering.  It snuck up on her and dug its claws into her back, reaching through and clutching her stomach.  She had to be satisfied.  There could be no failure or alternatives.  She needed it: peanut butter. Creamy peanut butter.  

Smooth and thick.

Filling and salty.

Creamy peanut butter straight off the spoon.  And several scoops of it.  

Where once she had been a dedicated cog in this corporate machine, now she was rising from her desk and running - sprinting - out into the hall, straight into the elevator, across the street, and into the loving embrace of the bodega.

A few coworkers called out to her, clearly confused by this abrupt shift in her demeanor, but Dora wouldn’t be stopped.  

She was a wild, feral creature.

She wound her way through the narrow aisles of beer, magazines, dried fruit, hot dogs, and everything else until she found it…or at least found the lack of it. 

No.

No creamy.

Only crunchy.

There once had been creamy, but its spot sat empty now…a hollowed out cave where dreams went to die.

There was a battle waging inside her then: the hankering trying to come up with new solutions and her better judgment trying to find normalcy again.

There are other bodegas.  Maybe there’s some in the back; ask an employee here!.  Did you check the office kitchen?  

Was she really expected to keep walking down Water Street, searching every grocery store within a five mile radius?  The poor young man behind the counter up front already looked swamped; it would be rude for Dora to add to his distress.  And, of course, there wasn’t any peanut butter back at the office.  Perhaps someone had sunflower butter but that would not do.

Before she knew it, Dora was crying.  The hormones mixed with the parasite growing inside her only made the tears flow faster, the ego berate her more harshly, and the hankering dig its nails in deeper.  

In the midst of this internal battle, Dora was the only casualty.  

The Joy Club
A poem​

The magician’s muse, a firecracker
Call her what you will
Let’s talk about The Void and then
Tell me about Gary, Indiana 
It’s a secret only we know
It’s where cats are buried and 
Where we complain about people named Michael
(There are too many Michaels)
On the corner of Dixon and 76th
It’s a town we left behind 
It’s the universe that’s all ours
It's the joy we feel in the silence
The silence of doing nothing 
It's two joys holding hands
While people eye us and relatives ask,
"Is there something I should know?"
"Yes,"
I reply,
"You should know her.
Get to know her.
​You'll be glad you did."

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10/10/2024

UK Update 10/10

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PictureThis is not a drill! I met Pebbles!
  • Alright! I’m going to talk about the fun stuff before I talk about the heavy stuff. 
  • I started classes this week!  I was incredibly nervous, mostly because I imagined my professors would be something like JK Simmons’s character from Whiplash or Joel McHale’s character from The Bear, but they’re more like Mr. Feeny from Boy Meets World or that one episode of Doctor Who where 10 pretends to be a teacher.  “Right, physics! Physics, eh? Physics, physics, physics, physics, physics, physics.  Hope you're getting this all down.”
  • It’s quite beautiful to see how much I’ve grown as a person because I can clearly remember how I was back in high school (and some college classes, too): the shy girl in the corner who didn’t know anyone and didn’t want to be called on.  I was incredibly self-conscious in basically every setting that wasn’t Drama Club, but now I’m sitting towards the front, making jokes (whether anyone laughs at them is another story), eager to learn people’s names, and even have to remind myself to let others talk so I don’t dominate the discussion.  One would hope that they grow more confident since high school, but truthfully some people don’t.  I haven’t been in a classroom setting in a very long time and there was a lingering fear that I’d just retreat inside myself, but I’m happy to report that hasn’t been the case.
  • There was a fun little moment in my Creative Writing Workshop class where the professor brought up Iowa and tentatively said that it was located in the southwestern part of the United States.  She locked eyes with me (being the only American in the class) and raised her eyebrows, as if looking for verification.  I corrected her and said it was in the midwest, and everyone chuckled.  I enjoy the image of Des Moines in the middle of the Nevada desert.  
  • I’m especially excited about my Screenwriting class because I have so little experience in that field.  My professor worked in post production on The Phantom Menace and we enjoyed listening to him talk about the juxtaposition of being really excited about the prospect of a film only to finally watch it and realize that it’s garbage.  
  • I had a great phone conversation with Melody the other day where we compared class stories, and I was struck by how busy she is.  The acting students over at East 15 are basically working a full-time job (8ish hours, five days a week).  Compare that to me with one class on Monday, a full day of classes on Tuesday, and then dissertation prep on Wednesday.  And that’s it!  I reached out to my adviser, just to verify that I was, in fact, taking enough classes.  He told me that I’m actually taking too many classes this semester and should have saved one of them for the spring.  But as of right now, I’m feeling fine and keeping everything as it is.  
  • Along with classes, I’ve been busy trying to find a job and have sent out a number of applications.  Somewhere along the line, I stumbled onto the BBC website and found a section called BBC Upload where artists can share a sample of something they’ve created with the hope of it getting shared on the local channels.  Not knowing what to send in, I chose just to plug the upcoming production of The Cafe Mocha Murders and uploaded a sample of the script, plus information about The Network Theatre.  On Monday, I got an email from the head of BBC Upload, Rob, wondering if I’d be interested in chatting with him about the show and my creative process.  “Uh, heck yeah!  Sign me up!”  
  • So yesterday around 2:30 I had a virtual interview with Rob and I had such a fun time!  Rob is a huge supporter of the arts and an even bigger advocate for people to get involved in whatever capacity they can.  The interview should drop within the next two weeks or so.  I’ll keep you all posted when it does.  
  • Speaking of Melody and Doctor Who, we’re going to see David Tennant in Macbeth tomorrow!  (insert freak out here) Fourth row.  I hope there’s fake blood.  I hope we’re in the splash zone.  I hope he knows how much we love him.  Please adopt me.  I know you and Georgia already have so many kids, but you could definitely use another one.  And it’s me.  Braid my hair, make me a grilled cheese sandwich, and tell me I can grow up to be whatever I want to be.  Catherine Tate will be my godmother.  Michael Sheen will be my godfather.  
  • Alright…onto the not-so-fun stuff. 
  • I got my first real experience with the NHS yesterday.  I knew that I would have to find a doctor while over here (because, uh, I need one for my prescriptions and the school requires me to get one). Finding one and registering as a new patient was easy enough: fill out some paperwork, drop it off at the front desk, wait for the text message saying whether or not I’d been accepted (I was), and wham-bam you’re in, baby! 
  • (For the record, the term surgery has two definitions over here.  It can mean a procedure in which a doctor cuts open a patient OR it can be a generic term for a place to consult a doctor.  Needless to say, I was a little confused when the closest office to me was called a surgery.  I don’t THINK that kind of procedure will help with my anxiety…)
  • As soon as I got the text that I was a bonafide patient, I called the office in order to schedule an appointment.  The conversation went a little something like:
Office Manager: What is the reason for your appointment?
Me: You know, I’m a new patient.  I want to meet my doctor and establish care.  Talk about my prescriptions.
(A long pause) 
Office Manger: Is something wrong?  Is there a symptom you want to have looked at?
Me: No.  I just think I should see a doctor…you know, to establish care. 
The office manager didn’t really understand that and just recommended that I 
come in during their walk-in hours to meet with a doctor and refill my prescriptions.  
  • I took the bus to the office yesterday and waited in a short line outside…excuse me, a queue outside.  At the receptionist desk, I exclaimed that I wanted to meet with a doctor to refill my prescriptions and they directed me to a waiting room upstairs  
  • I had a sneaking suspicion that I would be waiting a while since my issue wasn’t an emergency at all, and I was right.  I got into the room around 8:15 and probably wasn’t taken back until 9:30, after watching a slew of people who definitely arrived after me get seen first.  Please don’t think, however, that I was upset about this.  Coming from a country where a meeting like this would easily cost $200, I was happy to wait for a free consultation. 
  • Once my name was called, I met with a very nice doctor who looked over my prescriptions.  My depression medication was easy enough to fill out as Zoloft (Sertraline) is prescribed both in the States and here.  And then she got to the Vyvanse. 
  • About a year ago, I was diagnosed with ADHD and, after trying several different medications, found something that helps me stay focused and energized: Vyvanse (lisdexamfetamine).  My prescribing doctor at the time informed me that getting any kind of stimulant can be incredibly tricky these days as there’s been an explosion of ADHD (and the like) diagnosis.  And she wasn’t kidding.  Being on Vyvanse is great, but the withdrawal symptoms are nasty, and because there’s almost always some kind of shortage, I almost always had to go a few days without my medication as the pharmacy scrambled to get more in.  Unlike other drugs, Vyvanse (and presumably any kind of stimulant) doesn’t build up in your system: it has to be taken every day to feel the full effect.  This means that even going one day without it leads to me feeling incredibly agitated, irritable, and depressed.  
  • While living with Melody, there were times I just had to be honest with her and say, “Hey, I’m out of Vyvanse for the next couple of days.  I’m not going to be myself and I may be really moody.” (And Melody, like the champ she is, was always there for me.)  (I did this often with my co-workers at Starbucks, too, so shout-out to Sam, Samaria, and Charlotte for always understanding my mental health struggles.) 
  • With this background information now, picture the scene: I’m sitting in the office of this UK doctor and she’s looking up my Vyvanse.  She turns to me and says, “Oh.  Right.  Alright.  We can’t prescribe this here.  You’ll need a specialist.”  I had kind of assumed this but hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  Upon asking the doctor if she could refer me to a specialist, she said she could BUT the wait times for a specialist of this nature are “monstrous”.  
  • “What do you mean by monstrous?” I ask.  “One to two years,” she replies.
  • My heart SANK.  I could potentially have to wait one to two YEARS to see a specialist who will hopefully diagnose me with something I already have and then hopefully prescribe a medication that I already know works and then have to wait for however long for said medication to come in?  I started to panic and said, “I…I need this medication to function.” 
    “I appreciate that,” she kept saying, “And I am sorry, but there have just been so many new diagnoses of this that the NHS simply can’t keep up.”
    My mind wandered back to a few months ago when I was filling in a different Starbucks and I overheard a partner saying to someone, “God, I need to get back on Vyvanse.  I lost so much weight when I was on that.”  My face burned with anger.  This is not about losing weight or trendy TikToks.  This is about my daily function. 
    I think the doctor could sense my panic and frustration so she gave me a few options.  First off, I had to get a formal letter from my doctor back in the States saying that I had been diagnosed with ADHD and that I had found a medication that worked.  I needed to do this as soon as possible.  Maybe they could file my case differently and get me to see a specialist sooner because I already have a history of this.  Even still, my doctor couldn’t guarantee that that would work.  Next, she highly recommended that I, for the time being at least, look into a private doctor.  I would have to pay to see them, but I’d hopefully get my medication sooner.  
  • Still feeling rather raw, I thanked the doctor profusely and left to catch my bus home.  I realized that then I hadn’t taken my Vyvanse yet for the day and decided that I wasn’t going to: I didn’t have class yesterday and it seems I was going to have to use it sparingly. 
  • Once home, I did a quick Google search, trying to find a private doctor who specializes in mental health and ADHD.  That led me to a couple of UK ADHD resources sites, one of which is an organization that only does ADHD diagnosis and medications.  I did a live chat with them and when I offered up that I already had the diagnosis and just needed someone to prescribe the medication, they informed me that they would have to formally diagnose me themselves.  And I could sign up for my first appointment for the low, low price of only £530!  
  • I am hoping and praying that there is an easier way…that someone will take the previous diagnosis and call it good enough.  At the end of the day, however, I have to do what needs to be done in order to get my medication  Some might argue that I lived without the Vyvanse before, I can certainly live without it now, and, yes, I probably can but A) I don’t want to and B) I’m terrified of what a drawn out withdrawal period will look like, especially now that I’m in grad school and need to focus.  
  • I did take my Vyvanse today and do currently have enough for another week at least.  I have gotten my formal letter from my US doctor and sent it over to my UK GP.  Today will be mostly researching private specialists and collecting information so I can schedule an appointment sooner rather than later.  
  • If there is a take-away from this, I’ll say it’s that ADHD is a very real issue and, while I would never dismiss someone’s journey or struggles, I just ask that when you’re faced with the question of whether or not you actually have it, please be honest.  There is a shortage of resources out there and some of us genuinely need it.  If you’re only taking Adderall, Vyvanse, or any other stimulants because it “helps you lose weight” (something that I personally haven’t experienced), do us all a favor and go fuck yourself.  

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9/30/2024

UK updates 30/9

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More rambles!
I know that I just did an update a few days ago, but a lot has happened...including me crying in the back of an Uber.  
Picture
  • Yesterday was not a good day.  Things have been getting progressively more difficult ever since last week Tuesday, and there’s a very good reason why.  I have not been sleeping well. It’s one of those things where in hindsight you think to yourself, “Well, yeah. Obviously.” But in the moment, your head is spinning, trying to sort out your emotions and this new overwhelming feeling of emptiness. 
  • I don’t like to use the word stupid so I’ll say unthinkingly…Unthinkingly, I assumed that, even though I am not longer getting up at Starbucks opener hours, I would still continue to be an early-to-bed-early-to-rise kind of person. I love the early morning hours when no one else is awake; even in the craziness of work, one of my favorite parts of the day were those wee hours when only a few customers were in the store, everything was chill, one could really talk to someone, and the sun hadn’t quite risen.  
  • Last Tuesday night, I was all set.  I had spent the day traipsing across London, I had only gotten about five hours of sleep the night before…I should have slept like a log.  But I didn’t.  I tossed and turned all night and felt strangely awake.  Sleep only really came for me around 3am, which is not like me at all.
  • Only it IS like me.  I fell asleep at 3am (UK time) which was 9pm (US time).  That’s normal for me.  This is where stupid, er, I mean unthinking…this should have been obvious but it took me another two days to realize just why I was struggling to sleep at night.  I didn’t like sleeping in until noon.  I wanted to be a morning person, darn it!  Was it the stress?  The excitement?  My body getting used to a new bed?  Possibly but mostly it was my circadian rhythm. 
  • To add to this, while I would love to live each day here like I’m on holiday, I do need to save money.  I’d like nothing more than to hop on a train into London or up to Edinburgh and live out all my tourist dreams, but I can’t.  Responsibility crept up on me and I decided that I should probably be using my funds to buy things like a bathroom rub (boring!) versus a Doctor Who walking tour (fun!).  
  • This all culminated yesterday 29/9 when I ended up on the outskirts of Colchester after misreading the bus schedule.  More on that later.
  • As far as public transportation goes, I have a lot to learn.  For basically all of my life, I have gotten around via car.  Buses and trains were reserved for vacations and served more as entertainment than actual means of getting from one point to another.  I LOVE that public transportation is so accessible in the UK, but there’s definitely things I don’t understand and am still figuring out. 
  • Thankfully, my friend Joanne Cunningham recommended this app (City Mapper) that has helped me immensely in figuring out which train or bus to take.  
  • (Again, so much of this will seem self-explanatory but, as someone who has rarely ever taken a bus or a train, it’s a whole new language and I’m doing my best to give myself some grace.)  For instance, the app says that I need to take Bus S1, but there are two different S1 routes: one going to Wivenhoe and one going to Highwoods.  Which one do you want to get on, Deanna?  Well, that depends on what your final destination is!  
  • There are usually two “get-on” locations for each stop, as well: one on either side of the street.  S1 Wivenhoe will stop at one (heading towards the university) and S1 Highwoods will stop at the other (heading towards the outskirts).  Which one do you want, Deanna?  How do you know which one you want?  (As lovely as the City Mapper app is, it doesn’t tell me which “get-on” location to wait at so, more than once, I’ve had to make a mad dash across the street when the bus I’m looking for suddenly appeared at the opposite location!) 
  • The answers have presented themselves now (there’s usually a sign outside the shelter, or even inside) that lets one know which bus is coming to this location and how long the wait can be.  Also, it helps to just ask people.  I should know by now that just asking a genuine human being will usually get me an answer faster than any app will.  (But I am still fighting off the anxiety of looking like a dumb tourist.  Again, I need to remind myself, I am (essentially) a tourist.  I am still figuring it out.  Give yourself a break, Deanna.) 
  • Also: what’s up with the “stop” buttons on buses?  People will hit these things and the driver will continue on for another half a mile before actually stopping!  But the people don’t seem upset by this.  Is this to ask the driver to stop at the next bus stop, regardless of if it's on their route or not?  I just assumed that “stop” buttons meant, “Stop the bus NOW! I want to get off!” but that doesn’t seem to be the case.  
  • Anyway, yesterday I got on the wrong S9 and rode it all the way to the eastern outskirts of town.  Realizing my mistake, I simply rode the bus back into Colchester City Center and jumped on an S1, but THAT was the wrong S1 and it took me to the northern outskirts of town!  By this point, I was so tired, I was practically in tears, but I told myself that I’d just do what I did before and ride the bus back into the city center.  If nothing else, I could walk from the city center to my apartment (a 20-ish minute walk).  The bus sat at a stop and I waited for a few minutes for it to take off again.  Suddenly, the driver flicked the lights and announced that this was the last stop on this route.
    “Oh,” I asked sheepishly, “You’re not going back into the city?”
    Nope.  I was stranded.
    I got off the bus and (of course) it started to rain.
    Holding back tears and tired beyond belief, I called an Uber…only the street I was standing on (apparently) wasn’t a street that my Uber driver could reach so the app suggested a nearby street for us to meet up on.  I agreed to it and then spent the next five minutes trying feverishly to find this mysterious road where my driver would be waiting. I ran across the street, dodged through traffic, and through an underpass, all the while messaging my driver with, “I’m trying to get to the meet up point! Please don’t leave! I’m on my way!”
    I eventually found him. 
    I cried the whole drive back to my apartment, and thankfully my driver didn’t say anything. I tipped him extra for leaving me in my misery. 
  • Once home, I took a Benadryl (this is no job for Melatonin!) and passed out.  I don’t even think I washed my makeup off my face.  
  • This morning I had a 9:20 appointment to finalize my registration with the school, and this was good for me.  It was something early (ish) in the morning that was going to force me up and about.  With the help of the Benadryl, I got 9+ hours of sleep and awoke somewhat refreshed before making myself some coffee.  I am truly hoping that this is the start of a more regular sleep cycle.  
  • Speaking of which, I am officially registered as an international student at University of Essex (see my cool lanyard).  Ever since accepting the university’s offer back in February, I have wanted some U of E merch, but they don’t really have a university website.  After registering, I took myself to the official store and got myself some swag.  (Er, I don’t think I’m the kind of person who says swag. It felt weird even just typing it.)  The woman working the store was extremely nice and she told me that she’s taking a trip to the US in October (going to Memphis and New Orleans).  I also asked about Pebbles the cat, half-wondering if he is real or just a myth but she assured me that he is real and she sees him nearly every day.  Pebbles and I are going to be best friends!  Just you wait and see!  (For those who don’t know, the Colchester campus has a “campus cat” named Pebbles.  He’s a stray who lives in the nearby woods (apparently) and wanders onto campus to beg for food and will even attend a lecture or two.) 
  • I don’t want to make it seem as though this past week has been completely awful.  I did get to see my lovely “wife” Melody last week Friday.  We went out to dinner at a lovely pub (where a drunk man tried to start a conversation with me and I ignored him).  But the coolest part of the day was visiting an indoor zoo that’s located directly across from the hotel where Melody was staying.  Melody got to hold a skunk!  (See all the pictures.  The “zoo” is more of an animal sanctuary where somewhat exotic animals (everything from alligators to rabbits) who were once pets can live out the remainder of their life in safety.  My favorite part was the bird section where I got to meet three blue and gold macaws (yay Jojo!  IYKYK.) 
  • Last Friday also had its fair share of public transportation woes. As I was coming home from Loughton, it was announced that someone had fallen on the tracks near Colchester and thus there were major delays.  My train to Hythe was cancelled at the last minute TWICE and I ended up just taking a different train to a different station and just Uber-ed the rest of the way home.  The biggest issue was that my phone was dying, and I was freezing.  
  • Melody has since moved into her housing and apparently has foxes living nearby.  
  • My classes don’t technically start until next week so I’m still just lingering at the moment which (as I learned last week) isn’t always great for my mental well-being.  I need to be doing something; as tiresome as work can be, it gave me a purpose and got me out of the house.  For this reason, I “gifted” myself the opportunity to go into London tonight and see a play at The National Theatre.  After so many years of watching only from their streaming service, I’m excited to be in the real venue. 
    Aside from that excursion, I will use my time to set up a UK bank account and apply for a part-time job.  Ideally, I’d like to work at a theatre so I can make some connections.  For everyone who asked if I’d just pick up where I left off and start working at Starbucks again, I have to tell you that Starbucks is not nearly as big of a deal over here as it is in the US.  Yes, there’s one on campus but Caffè Nero and Costa Coffee are definitely more prevalent than the Siren.  
  • Also, the vegetarian and vegan options over here are amazing.  I can get vegan (not just vegetarian but VEGAN) options at Burger King.  Do you know how amazing that is?  I had a Vegan Royale the other day and it was super cheap and super tasty.  11/10
  • Also, I love Tesco.  That’s all.  I just really like it. ​

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9/28/2024

UK update 28/9

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I'd like to do regular updates on what I've experienced, lessons I've learned, and just general rambles.  This will be less of a well-thought out blog post and more of a list of random-ness.  Unfiltered Deanna.  Proceed at your own risk.  :P
  • Woof.  Traveling.  I have never given birth, but I have a sneaking suspicion that traveling by plane is a lot like giving birth – in the sense that people who have given birth often say that as soon as they’re holding their baby, they tend to forget the pain they just experienced.  Sitting in a tiny seat for 7+ hours, praying that your Melatonin kicks in soon, and trying desperately to find a relatively comfortable position in which to fall asleep is not for the faint of heart.  
  • But, Deanna, didn’t you pay extra to be in the business class rather than economy?  Why were the seats so tiny?  Let me tell you a story!
  • There was some issue that came about, ending in Melody and I getting moved to the economy section.  Even now, I’m not entirely sure WHAT happened.  Melody and I were sitting next to each other but not in the same row; there was an aisle between us.  Apparently, the woman next to Melody (we’ll call her Betty) was complaining to her companion (a man in the window seat, we’ll call him Thomas) about something and then declared, “It’s not fair! I’m going to complain!” She then rose and stormed off to the front of the plane.  Meanwhile, Melody leaned over and asked Thomas if Betty was upset over something she had done, and he assured her that that wasn’t the case.  
Suddenly, a flight attendant showed up and told Melody that she’d have to move seats but wouldn’t say why.  They just kept insisting that she’d be in the emergency exit row, and thus would have more leg room.  Me, being me, was blissfully unaware of what was going on for the most part because I’d already stuck my headphones in my ears and was listening to ASMR (soft spoken, not chewing sounds).  It’s only when I heard Melody ask the attendant, “Can my friend come with me?” that I paid attention. 
Long story short (for reasons we don’t know) Melody was moved to economy and Betty got to have the seat next to her open.  Melody said I didn’t have to come with her, but I wasn’t going to not sit next to her on the plane so I followed.  We sat in the front row of the economy section, in the middle aisle.  Yes, there was extra leg room, but the seats themselves were definitely smaller.  We also had an empty seat between us, which was nice.  Every time we tried to ask someone why we had been moved, no one had an answer.  I was more than a little cranky by now and probably wasn’t a good sport about the whole thing, but it was extremely frustrating not to (at least) know WHY Melody was forced to move.  All the flight attendants just kept insisting that our new seats were an upgrade, given the extra leg room.  I’m sure that the issue involved Betty (who seemed extremely delightful *sarcasm* and the flight attendants were just trying to make the best out of a bad situation.  But overly tired Deanna just crossed her arms and was huffy about it.  In the end, we survived.  And we got our glass of wine (and they ended up giving us each an extra breakfast bag).  
  • Sunday 22/9 (← I have to get used to writing the date like that) was a tired, messy travel day.  I had no idea what to expect from the customs process so I gave us (in hindsight) WAY too much time.  I remember when I entered Dublin back in 2019, I had to wait in line for what seemed like a long time and had to present a variety of items (my passport, proof that I had booked an outgoing flight, etc.) so I simply assumed that coming into London on a Visa would require even more time and energy.  (Also, while the UK immigration website had told me that because I was a student, I didn’t need to pay customs, I was skeptical of that that sure that somewhere along the line, someone would magically pop out of nowhere, screaming at us for doing it all wrong.  In the end, the customs process involved me scanning my passport and having a quick picture of myself taken.  That was it.  Move along.  Welcome to the UK.
  • One of the big things I’d worried about when arriving was how I was going to transport all of my luggage from London to my housing in Colchester.  Taking various trains and buses is no big deal, but carting three 50 pound suitcases (plus my carry-on and backpack) across all that public transportation was daunting to say the least.  In the end, Melody and I decided to book a private van to pick us up from the airport and take us into Colchester.  And it was great.  I recommend Britway Airport Transfers…if you’re ever in need of a transfer.  So many places only operate within the London zones, but Birtway was up for the challenge.  There was a bit of a snafu trying to actually find our driver because I had told him to meet us at Terminal 1, only to discover that Terminal 1 was actually shut down.  Luckily, Melody showed me this amazing thing called WhatsApp and she was able to contact our driver (yeah Suresh!).  We met him in the car park and he effortlessly loaded our bags while Melody and I collapsed inside the van, exhausted.  I barely remember the ride from Heathrow to Colchester because I slept most of the way.
  • During so much of this journey, I find myself quoting the Richard Burbage character from Shakespeare in Love. “I don’t know!  It’s a mystery!”  There’s so much I don’t know and I can’t know until I get there.  It’s been a great exercise at thinking on my feet, asking strangers for directions, and being okay looking like a moronic tourist.  
  • When the van eventually made it to my apartment building, I was somehow even more tired.  I was under the impression that Suresh would just pull up in front of the building, dump our luggage on the sidewalk (excuse me, pavement) and drive off into the sunset, but he very patiently waited for me to run inside and check in.  I’m sure I looked a fright as I burst into the reception desk, with my raccoon eyes and overall defeated demeanor, and unceremoniously announced, “I’m here to check in!  Where do I check in?  Do I check in here?”  A very nice gentleman (named Matt) helped check me in and offered to bring a “trolley” (a grocery cart stolen from the local Tesco) down to where my bags were and help me move in. 
  • Melody’s housing wasn’t available just yet so we had agreed that she could just stay at my place, but truthfully, I was so tired and needed some time to myself (as did Melody) so we booked a hotel for her.  As Matt loaded up my bags, Melody and I gave each other one last hug and then we sleepily stumbled off in our respective directions. 
  • I knew that I should probably got to sleep right away, but a new wave of adrenaline whispered, “Set up your room!  Now!  Unpack!  Do it!”  And I followed orders.  This was great except for the fact that I got so worked up in getting my things sorted that I completely forgot that the main reception area closes at 6pm.  This was kind of a big deal because all of my mail comes through there and I can only collect it by checking in with one of the receptionists there.  I had Amazon-ed several packages to my Colchester address ahead of time and one of these packages included my bedding.  Thankfully, the building had provided me with a mattress protected at the very least, but my first real night in England consisted of me MacGyver-ing a pillow out of two sweatshirts and a blanket out of one of my dresses. 
  • Yes, I did just turn “Amazon” and “MacGyver” into verbs. 
  • Monday 23/9 was my first full day in England, and it was mainly made up of grocery shopping, finally picking up my bedding, and getting lost.  Now getting lost is not necessarily a bad thing.  One of my all time favorite things to do while in a new town is wandering.  When you have no particular place to be, it’s a fantastic way to waste some time and get to really know a city.  My initial intention was to find a pillow (as mine still hadn’t come in), but I ended up wandering all the way into the city center and traipsing across the Colchester Castle grounds.  I never actually found a pillow and spent another night curled up on my Dramatist Guild sweatshirt (thanks, Amanda; it does make a good place to rest your head when you’re in a pinch).  
  • Tuesday 24/9 was, of course, the London day.  As a tourist I have used the Underground and traveled by train, but that was two years ago and my anxiety of looking like a dumb tourist was hard to combat.  I simply tried to remind myself, “Well, you are a tourist.  You’re figuring it out.  Give yourself a break.”  I still spent the better part of the train rides sure that some kingsguard would randomly pop out from behind me screaming, “YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!  YOU DIDN’T PAY FOR THIS TICKET PROPERLY!  OFF TO JAIL!”  
  • Luckily, no one yelled at me and I didn’t end up in jail.  
  • In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a nerd for some things: Harry Potter, Star Wars, Doctor Who, BBC Sherlock (Sherlock Holmes in general, but especially Benadryl Cabbagepatch’s portrayal), etc. There are so many fantastic pieces of film, television, theatre, and prose that take place in London so the city is kind of a landmine of geekery.  I want to visit as many locations as possible, but I know it’s going to take time…luckily, unlike two years ago when I was only in London for one day, I have more time.  Tuesday was more-or-less my Good Omens day, visiting St James’s Park.  At the risk of sounding dramatic (who am I kidding, I love to be dramatic) visiting that park (and THE bench) was an extremely powerful experience, one that definitely elicited tears.  
  • Moving to the UK has been in the back of my head as a pipedream for decades.  As a lover of fairy tales, I think it was only natural for little Deanna to look at pictures of castles, misty moors, copplestone streets, etc. and dream of visiting some magical places.  Add in the aforementioned love of London-based pop culture and the UK’s excellent theatre scene.  I have wanted this for a long time, but it was always so impossible.  I don’t make enough money.  I could never figure out the Visa process.  I would probably end up living in a box on the streets, offering to write limericks for spare change.  The anxious thoughts and the excuses went on and on.  So, yeah, to walk through the gates at St. James’s Park and actually see the places that before had merely existed on the television screen…that was a huge deal.  I stood in the walkway and cried.  I had done it.  I had actually made it.  Perhaps I didn’t have this reaction when I landed or actually walked out of the airport because I was so tired and (ya know) most airports look alike  But this (the park, the bench) was irrefutably LONDON.  
  • I ran my fingers over the section of the bench where someone had written, “This place feels…loved” and, yes, I felt a rush of love: love from the Good Omens fandom, love from the world, love from God, love from myself.  
  • I think back to when I first started working at Starbucks.  My employment there has always been a little funny to me because for years I said, “If there’s one job I could never do, it’s a barista.”  I said the pace was too chaotic, the jargon too strange, and the people (demanding their coffee) too rude.  I took the job originally out of desperation because I needed some job; I honestly assumed I’d be fired within the first month, but if I was getting paid for the training, then at least I was making some kind of income.  As many of you know, I ended up staying at Starbucks for over nine years. 
  • The point of this all is that I mourn the lost opportunities.  I mourn every time I ever just automatically thought, “Oh, I could never do that!”  I look back on my life at all the times I cut myself off at the knees and just assumed that I wasn’t smart enough or pretty enough or brave enough or talented enough to do fill in the blank.  
  • I want to do as RENT taught me and live with no regrets so hopefully this be a lesson learned: don’t doubt yourself.  Hopefully you (yes, YOU, gentle reader) can learn from my story as well.  What’s the thing you want to do?  Go and do it!  It may take time and patience and a GoFundMe account, but you can do it.  It sounds so cheesy and trite, but it cannot be overstated: stop doubting yourself.  This coming from the girl who said she’d never be a barista and never live in the UK.  ​
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9/27/2024

Five hundred theatres said no (and then one said yes)

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What does an artist DO anyway?  

Obviously, they create art.

In my case, as a playwright, I write plays.

But any artist will tell you that creating the art (writing the plays) is only half the battle.  The next step is getting someone interested in looking at your art (producing your play).  

Everyone has an opinion on how to do that, and while there are some general guidelines and resources, there are no hard and fast rules to “getting noticed”.  The last decade has been a baptism by fire of me writing and then doing whatever had to be done to get the attention of prospective theatres.  (Within reason, of course, I love my art, but I’m quite fond of my soul and would rather not part with it.) 

About a year ago, I thought I had come up with a genius plan, and dove headfirst into setting it in motion.  

I was going to host a virtual pitch meeting for three of my plays and invite EVERY theatre company that I could think of to join.  And when I say every theatre company, I mean it. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that I sent out at five hundred emails, all with the same message: I’m a playwright, I’m going this reading of short scenes from three of my plays (The Cafe Mocha Murders, Leannán Sidhe, and Dancing With Hamlet), here’s a synopsis of them, here’s the Zoom link, join me on October 14th, okay bye! 

It became sort of a part time job for me to scour the internet looking for theatres that looked like they could potentially produce something of mine.  I looked up theatres in every US state and territory and even reached out to some UK and Australian companies.  The thought process was, “It’s a virtual reading so, theoretically, anyone can attend!” 

Even before the reading, I was running into some snags.  90 percent of people did not respond to my invitations…but just because they didn’t didn’t respond didn’t mean that they wouldn’t attend, right?  Those who did get back to me almost always declined the invite or outright told me, “This is not how we do business.  Please contact your agent and have them send your submissions through the proper channels.” (For the record, I don’t have an agent.) 

I cannot overstate how hard I worked at sending these emails and the hours that went into researching theatres.  

The day of the reading came!  My actors had their scripts, I had my Zoom subscription renewed, I opened the virtual door to let all the virtual people in and…three people attended.  Three people showed up to the reading, and they were all friends, no one who represents a theatre company.  (While I love my friends and cherish their support, they were not the target audience; the idea was to get theatre companies to attend…companies that could potentially produce my shows.)

I was pretty devastated and felt incredibly stupid. Obviously, this had not been the right route to take and I probably just came off as another loud-mouth playwright hocking my script onto someone.  

The talk-back session was more brainstorming WHY people didn’t attend rather than discussing the scripts or potential productions.  (Our biggest theories were that people are just sick of virtual events given the pandemic, that theatres would rather read a script than have to attend something, and that many companies don’t respond well to cold emails.  “Don’t call us.  We’ll call you” kind of mentality.) 

I licked my wounds, tried to take my friends’ suggestions to heart, and chalked it all up to experience.  I had tried and I had failed, but at least I had tried.

Several months passed with me trying to put some distance between myself that disconcerting night.  In January, though, I received an email from someone at the Network Theatre in London.  They had received my email about the reading back in October and while they had been unable to attend, they thoroughly enjoyed the sample I’d sent along of The Cafe Mocha Murders.  (They very politely said, “I hope the reading was well-attended!” Hah!) 

Furthermore, they wanted to purchase the full script.  I sold them a copy and before you knew it, they were asking about purchasing the rights to it. 

So it’s happening: this December, The Cafe Mocha Murders by yours truly at a genuine theatre in LONDON!  I have not seen a production of the show since its world premiere back in 2022 in California, and I am over the moon that I’ll get to see it this time around (did I mention it’s in LONDON!?)

I was dumbfounded: something good actually came out of this embarrassing night that had left me feeling like an idiot.  I don’t think I’ll be in any kind of rush to do another virtual staged reading, but I take this as a great reminder that you never know what will happen in life or what kind of connections you’ll make, even in the face of failure.  It sounds incredibly cheesy to write this,  but the truth of the matter is that this theatre probably would know who I am or any of my works had it not been for this dismal miscalculation.

You have to try and fail in order to figure things out.  No one is given the rulebook on how to make art or how to get your art out there.  Five-hundred (plus) theatres said no, but then one said yes.

And here we are.

Furthermore, it is my ultimate dream to see one of my shows produced at The National Theatre in London and The Network Theatre is located just down the road from them.  I’ve learned a lot about cold emails, but I think I may have to try just one more time and see if I can’t get someone from The National Theatre to come on over and see what my work is all about.  

Who knows?  Could be awful.  Could be great.  
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7/27/2024

We're About To Get Playfully Blasphemous Here (or...The Metaphorical Death and Resurrection of Me)

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2023 was the year I turned 33, and in case you didn’t know, many religious scholars cite that as the age Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead.  Now, within literature there’s a trope called the Christ-like figure in which a character sacrifices themself and from that death, something happens in order to advance the plot.  Usually that something is either the “dead” character rising from the ashes and obtaining new powers (think Gandalf the Grey battling the Balrog and then coming back as Gandalf the White) or the protagonist being so moved by the death of this secondary character that they are reborn in some way (think Red Badge of Courage’s Jim Conklin (JC…get it?) whose death changes Henry’s opinion on war.)

Because I’m a storyteller and have a dark sense of humor, I began to wonder if I would somehow have a Christ-like-figure-moment within my thirty-third year of life.  (Not long after my birthday, I told my mom that I just had to make it to 34 and then I would have “beaten” Jesus; being a good Lutheran woman, she did not appreciate this joke.)
Now, I may be reaching or forcing figurative imagery into the literal world (isn’t that what artists do?), but I think I did have a “death” and consequential “resurrection”.  

I’m at a strange place in my writing career in that I am not famous (by any means) but I’m also not considered emerging.  Recently, I was told by a theater that I should “sit this contest out” and give someone else a chance but at the same time my work has not been produced enough to catch an agent’s eye.  (It doesn’t help that theatre companies have an intense fixation on world premieres.  They want to be the first one to do the show, apparently assuming that as soon as a piece gets produced once, that means it’s finished.  But that’s a rant for another day.) 

Currently I live in Milwaukee and for a long time I thought (or at least hoped) that I could maybe just make it work here; it is technically a theater town.  Add to that the fact that my whole family lives in Wisconsin, my financial situation was not ideal, and my best friend (platonic soulmate) had made it fairly clear to me that she did not wish to move away from Milwaukee.  When I was honest with myself, I knew that I wanted to get out, but there were so many things holding me back from making the jump.  

As soon as the thought of moving away entered my head, Anxiety would perk up.  Always eager to be the backseat driver, it would shout things like, “Isn’t life here good enough for you?  You’ve got a roof over your head, a job that allows you to pursue your passion, and you’re perfectly healthy.  Be grateful for what you have and stop expecting something more!” 

I attended a workshop for other playwrights from the area and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I didn’t have a lot in common with many of them.  Discussions and questions whirled around about how we find time to write, where we get inspiration, and how we format a script properly.  Some of the writers present had never even finished a full script.  I certainly am not bringing this up in order to shame anyone, but it was an eye-opening experience for me.  Was I a proverbial big fish in a little pond?

My anxiety had an opinion for that, too.  

“Wow!  Way to be egotistical, D!  You think you’re so much better than everyone here?  Get over yourself!  You’re not special.  You’re just another ‘artist’ who thinks they’ve got something special to say!”

A few weeks later I was at my cousin’s wedding and after the ceremony, he approached me to offer congratulations for all the success I’ve had…only to then immediately cut me off guard with the question, “So when are you moving to New York?”  As the groom, he was quickly called away for photographs and I never really got to answer his question.  

If this moment had been in a play, the spotlight would have hit me right then and there and I would have begun some contemplative soliloquy where I openly pondered, “New York, eh?  Maybe I should go to New York!”

Obviously, as a theatre person, the idea of moving to New York had crossed my mind; it’s the theatre capital of the US for obvious reasons.  But, at the same time, New York just didn’t feel like me.  (I have a lot of opinions on NYC, especially when it comes to the outrageous ticket prices.  When it costs a small fortune to see a Broadway show, art becomes a luxury rather than a necessity.  But that’s a rant for another day.)  It certainly seemed daunting, and every good dream should be at least a little daunting.  But New York was daunting without being exciting.  It felt like something I should do…something that was expected of me.

LA didn’t do it for me, either.  Nor Seattle.  I considered many locations, but nothing really made me sit up and take notice.  I wasn’t about to dive headfirst into debt and throw away a good thing unless it was something that truly excited me…something that was enticing enough to spark a change.  

Again, Anxiety spoke up, “Calm the fuck down, D!  New York?  Even if that is what you wanted, they’d eat you alive there!  You’re a soft midwestern girl who can’t take criticism and cries at the drop of a hat!  You really think you could handle New York or LA?  Also, the cost of living in any of those places is way more than you will ever hope to make!  Stick with Submission Helper.  Stick with the contests and the festivals.  Go back to dreaming only as big as The Milwaukee Repertory Theatre.  Sit down and shut up!”

It may have gone on like this…if not for the summer of 2023.

Close your eyes and picture it: WGA strike, Barbenheimer, The Eras Tour, OceanGate, the Grimace Birthday shake…and in the midst of it all, I was having an epiphany.  

A favorite television show of mine dropped its latest season and I eagerly pulled out the Chardonnay and the popcorn to binge it all. 

The vast majority of the show takes place in London and features several actors whom I admire greatly.  Between the giggles, sobs, and various twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster that was Season 2, something all at once occurred to me.

This is what I want.  

That’s where I want to be.  

I want to move to the United Kingdom.

Was it daunting?  Hell yeah, it was daunting.  

And it was exciting.  

It was a dream that excited me.  

It burned inside me.  

It raged.

It burned so hot that I didn’t know what to do with it.  I paced around my tiny apartment, simply stunned by the prospect of it all.  

Anxiety was in the process of drinking a quad shot espresso con panna and promptly did a spit take upon hearing this new idea.  In a frenzied panic, it bellowed, “Are you nuts?  What the hell do you think you’re doing?  YOU can’t move to the UK!  It would be so difficult!  You’d need to apply for a Visa…or something like that!  Do you even know how to apply for a Visa!”  

“No,” I metaphorically replied, “but I could learn.”

“I bet it’s super difficult!” Anxiety shot back, trembling in fear, “I bet it’s expensive and complicated and you’ll never figure it out!  I bet your sense of humor wouldn’t translate!  I bet you’d end up broke and living under a bridge and crying because you threw away this good thing you had!”

For a split second, Anxiety almost won…but somehow, prompted by the promise of this new dream, I dared to ask, “But what if it worked out?  What if I could figure it out?  What if I somehow scraped up the money and did the research and filed the paperwork and just made it work?”

If it were a play, I would have been standing center stage, staring out into the audience like some kind of dramatic hero and whispering hopefully, “Yes…what if…?”  

It has been a long road to get here, but, despite what Anxiety likes to tell me, I did figure it out.  The process has been stressful enough to induce atypical Shingles and a few anxiety attacks, but it’s happening. 

It’s actually happening!

This October I’m going to grad school at the University of Essex where I’ll pursue my masters degree in Scriptwriting.  I’ll hone my skills as a playwright while learning the ins and out of writing for film, television, and radio.  I’ll take the train into London on the weekends and see every show I can at the National Theatre.  I’ll get new life experiences.  I’ll do my best to explore every inch of that beautiful island.  I’m going to do something new because it’s scary and, most importantly, it’s exciting.  

(To add to the awesomeness of this new adventure, my best friend (platonic soul mate) is moving with me and pursuing her own dreams of studying acting…also at the University of Essex.)

My “death” was not as dramatic or world-changing as Jesus’s, but it gave way to a new life for me.  The power of storytelling combined with a newfound confidence was enough to catapult me into something new, something different.    

And I know you’re wondering what show I was watching that prompted this sudden change; if you know anything about me, you’ve probably guessed it already.  

​Along with seeing as much theatre as I can on my visits to London, I also plan to have surreptitious meetings at The Bandstand, feed ducks some frozen peas at St. James’s Park, and maybe help avert an apocalypse (or two).  My birthday is in January and it just so happens that Season 3 is scheduled to begin filming around that time; perhaps on my winter holiday, I’ll put myself onto a train and take myself up to Edinburgh.  I have so many thoughts on what could possibly happen next to my favorite angel and demon…but that’s a rant for another day.

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Fun fact: I say this line at least once a week...if only to myself.

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6/22/2024

Five things this barista wants you to know...

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This June marked nine years of working for Starbucks.  As someone who didn’t think that they’d last a week there, I honestly consider this a massive achievement.  I have learned so much about myself since becoming a partner, especially in regards to what I’m capable of and how to handle conflicts.  This journey has had its ups and downs, but all in all, Starbucks has treated me very well.
As with any corporation, the biggest issues arise from people higher on the pay scale not understanding how things “at the bottom” work.  I like to picture some big corporate suit walking into one of our stores and asking a barista, “What can we, as a company, do to help you?”
The barista replies, “We need more people on the floor.  Can we hire more people and ​have more labor hours?”
Nodding and scratching their chin, the suit says, “What I’m hearing is you want us to update the sequencing of drinks so you now make three at a time rather than two and you want a free reusable cup.”  
The barista stares blankly at them and asserts, “That is not at all what I said.”  
But it’s too late; corporate has already thrown thousands of dollars at some lackey who is going to study the partners efficiency and see how they can make their employees do more with less.  The gifted cup will come with stickers!  Won’t that be fun?!
While my time with the siren is about to end, I have picked up a few tips along the way.  Not tips for the employees, mind you.  No, these are tips for you…the consumer.  
I would say that ninety percent of the people who have come into one of my stores have been lovely and friendly individuals, but – ooh-weee!! – that remaining ten percent (especially at drive-thru stores.  This is not to shame drive-thru stores or people to use them.  Drive-thru stores are amazing for people with small children, social anxiety, certain mobility needs, etc.  But there’s a certain kind of crazy that doesn’t want to get out of its car to get its coffee.  And it’s usually the kind of crazy that insults the employees or throws hot drinks at them.)
To help steer people away from joining that ten percent group, I’ve created this simple list of things everyone can do to help their baristas out and make the process go a little smoother.  Yes, this is taken from the standpoint of Starbucks, but many of these points apply to any coffee shop.  Let’s begin!

  1. Give yourself more time than you think you need.
The thing about any coffee shop is that the length of time it will take to get your order ready will always be a crapshoot.  You may be able to usually receive your order in a certain amount of time, but things come up: the blender might break down, a barista may have called out, maybe someone ahead of you placed a massive twenty-drink order.  Be prepared for the unexpected.  If you think you can get in and get your coffee in five minutes, you’re probably wrong.  At the very least, this isn’t going to happen every time, and it isn’t the barista’s fault.  That’s just life.  Things come up, and you might have to be flexible.  
Oh, and full disclosure: when you tell us that you’re “running late”, we don’t care.  We aren’t going to move your drink to the front of the line.  If you’re running late, don’t stop for coffee.  It’s as simple as that.

  1. Get off your phone. 
People generally dislike it when we mess up your order which is why we are trained to ask a lot of questions.  You come up to the register and order a latte?  Well, I’m going to ask what size, hot or iced, is two percent milk alright, is there anything else I can do for you, how are we paying for this today, do you want a receipt, and so on.  That’s a lot of questions, but we’d rather get all the info at the register rather than have to go back once the drink is made and start over again.
You can help us out by paying attention, and (hands down) the biggest distraction we see is the cellphone.  Contrary to popular belief, baristas are not telepathic.  If you want almond milk in that mocha, then you have to tell us.  If you didn’t want that banana bread warmed up, then you have to tell us.  We try our best to ask questions, but help us out…and more importantly, don’t get upset with us when we ask questions.  I’m not grilling you for information on how you like your frappuccino because I enjoy bothering you or because I’m trying to lower your defenses so you join my cult; I just need to know what you want so we can avoid wasting time.  
Please get off your phone and tell me clearly what you want.  If you don’t know, I am happy to answer questions and guide you towards what you’re looking for, but no matter how dexterous you think your mind is, you cannot simultaneously focus on the drama going on with your friend Becky and order an iced Tall quad shot shaken espresso, no classic syrup, sub five pumps hazelnut and two pumps sugar-free vanilla, light ice, chocolate cream cold foam, lightly sprinkled with cinnamon powder, in a Grande cup.  

  1. The barista is probably not flirting with you. 
    I’m not going to spend too much time on this one.  It should be self-explanatory.  
Just know that it’s our job to make you feel welcomed and comfortable, but that does not mean that we want to sleep with you.  I did not really experience sexual harassment until I became a barista and then suddenly I had a flock of men (usually old and white) talking about my “pretty little lips” or asking if I wanted to share a scone with them or reaching across the counter and grabbing my arm to tell me that my skin is very soft.  (Thankfully, my current boss is incredibly good at nipping any of that stuff in the bud and has a strict no tolerance policy for customers making partners feel unsafe or uncomfortable.  Thanks, Char!)
Stop.  I am not your toy.  I am just a person doing a job and trying to make a living.  Yes, I do enjoy welcoming you to this third space and even establishing friendly relationships with anyone who comes in, but customer service me is not the real me.  I am not trying to flirt with you, I don’t want you to flirt with me, and I will tell you when you cross a line.  

  1. I do not care if you mispronounce things.
I also do not care if you get the names of the sizes incorrect.  Let’s just admit that the sizing at Starbucks is awful.  The whole thing started because once upon a time, they only offered the sizes Short (8oz) or Tall (12oz) and while that’s easy to remember, Starbucks just kept adding sizes up because, ya know, America.  At one point in time, the Grande was considered extra large and then they added Venti before finally adding Trenta.  What we’re left with is a lot of people assuming that the biggest size we have is a Tall and then getting disappointed when they’re large frappuccino is so tiny.  (Honestly, I personally prefer it if you simply say small, medium, or large.  At least then I know that we’re speaking the same language.) 
So many of the terms used are Italian or at least Italian-derived and most Americans do not speak Italian.  If you call it a “grand mach-yee-otto”, I will understand what you mean.  As someone who spent years being afraid to order a sauvignon blanc because I knew that I wasn’t pronouncing it correctly, I get the instinct to try and “speak the language”, but just know that no one is going to laugh at you.  And if they do, then you tell their store manager.  
Furthermore, don’t be afraid to ask us questions.  We are here to help you figure out what exactly that one drink was…you know, the one your sister got for your last time (“I just remember that it was hot and it tasted like caramel.”  Hey, I can work with that!) I don’t mind people asking questions; what I do mind is when people complain about having to wait in line but then get up to the register and only then think about what they want to order.  Get your life together, Karen.  

  1. Read the room.
Picture it: you’re waiting for your drink.  You’ve been waiting maybe five minutes.  You think to yourself, “Why is this taking so long?”  And then you decide that you’re going to march up to the handoff plane or (God forbid) crane your neck over the glass partitions in front of the bar and demand to know why you don’t have your drinks yet.  
Stop.  Look around.  Are other people waiting?  Are the baristas running around crazily?  Is there a line of drinks on the counter?  How many people are at the bar?  During peak, there should be at least two (hopefully more if it’s very busy).  Is one person running the register and the oven?  Is there a pile of dishes laying off to the side?  Is an employee yelling something like, “I need peppermint syrup on the fly?!”  If you’re in a drive-thru, is there a line of cars behind you?
If you answered yes to any of the questions above, the store is probably very busy.  And, being very busy, there are going to be some longer wait times.  I have worked primarily in a cafe store (meaning no drive thru), and our general rule is that we want people to be waiting ten minutes at the absolute most.  Check your watch and ask yourself, “Have I been waiting longer than ten minutes?”  If it’s very busy and the answer is no, then take a seat and calm down.  (And, no, that ten minutes does not start when you walk in.  It starts when you finish paying and your order goes through.  See #1 if you have questions.)  
The amount of people who go into a rage because they had to (dramatic gasp) wait, is stifling.  Take a look around and have some pity on the people making your coffee. 
If you truly feel that something is unacceptable (be it wait times, a barista’s attitude, etc.), the best thing you can do is email or call the store manager or the district manager.  Stores should have business cards with contact information for both of these individuals.  Said cards are usually located at the hand-off plane but not necessarily.  Before you start yelling at the twenty-two-year-old who has been awake since 4am and is doing the best they can, contact someone higher up and complain to them.  I know that it isn’t as cathartic (you maniac) as screaming in the middle of a Starbucks and getting up on some proverbial soapbox about how “no one wants to work anymore”, but you’re going to get better results if you express your frustration to the people who actually have a say in things like labor hours.  

All in all, friends, assume the best in others and have patience.  If you can do both of these things, you’ll get your drink and us baristas won’t have to run to the backroom in tears.  At the end of the day, it’s just coffee.  Is this really the hill you want to die on?  I didn’t think so.  

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6/16/2024

Summers in Prague (a sample)

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​​© Copyright 2018 by Deanna Strasse
CAUTION: Professional and amateurs are hereby warned that
SUMMERS IN PRAGUE is subject to royalty.
All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, radio, television, public reading and the rights of translation into foreign language are strictly observed.
All questions with regard to licensing should be addressed to the author: Deanna Strasse [[email protected]]
No performance of any or all of the play may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of the author and paying the requisite fee.
:::
Characters
Mara, she/her/hers, American, thirty-five to forty
Václav, he/him/his, Czech, twenty-seven to thirty-one
Time and setting
A hotel room in Prague. Present day.
Summers in Prague was originally produced through Sidecar Theatre, in conjunction with Chameleon Theatre Circle for the 2018 Minnesota Fringe Festival. It opened on Friday, August 3rd in the Rarig Center Arena Theatre.
Crew:
Director………………..Kimberly Miller
Stage Manager…………Jessi Kadolph
Costume Coordinator…Kathleen Martin
Dialect Coach…………Corey Boe
Producers………………Megan West and Kimberly Miller
Cast:
Mara…………………..Samantha Papke
Václav…………………….Avi Aharoni
:::
It was further developed and produced through Windfall Theatre in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It opened on Friday, March 20th, 2020.
Crew:
Director……………….Deanna Strasse
Stage Manager………..Carol Zippel
Costume Coordinator…Amanda J. Hull
Intimacy Coordinator…Kara Penrose
Cast:
Mara………………….Melody Lopac
Václav…………………Cory Jefferson Hagen
:::
Part I
A hotel room in the city of Prague. It’s nearly nightfall and summer time. There’s a breeze blowing through the open window, pushing the curtains aside delicately. Everything has an air of gentleness and cleanliness. Everything is perfect. A large four-poster bed sits upstage. Suddenly, we hear a cell phone go off. It vibrates wildly. Mara, a woman in her thirties, enters from the bathroom, anxiously. She’s half put together — a nice cocktail dress (nothing too short) is on but her hair is a mess and possibly she only has one shoe on. She does not want to miss this call. Nervously, she picks up the phone.
MARA: Hello? Hi. This is she. Yes. Yes. Room 341. On the third floor. Correct. Correct. Yes. Thank you. I have the check ready and…oh? Oh? Of course! Yes! How silly of me! (She laughs nervously) Of course! That makes perfect sense! No! Not a problem at all! I have cash. Yes. Yes. Lots of cash. I mean…don’t go telling everyone that, but…(She’s embarrassed.) I…uh…not a problem…of course…thank you…oh! Uh…sir? I’m just…could you tell me the name of the gentleman who is coming tonight? Okay. Václav. Yes, that’s a nice name. Thank you. Yes.
(She hangs up, embarrassed. But she doesn’t have time to waste. Mara dashes into the bathroom once more. A beat. Mara exits the bathroom with both shoes on and busily throwing her hair together. She’s in a panic suddenly, pacing back and forth, unsure of what exactly she’s doing. And then there is a knock at the door. The sound makes Mara jump and squeal. She gets control of herself and takes a breath before doing one last sweep of the room. She turns off her phone. She pulls the curtains. She checks her makeup once more. There is another knock.)
MARA: (A little too excited) I’m coming! (She walks to the door, takes a breath and then opens it.)
(In the doorway stands Václav: tall, dark and very good looking. He smiles winningly at Mara and speaks very good English but not without a distinct Czech accent)
VÁCLAV: Ms. Wright?
MARA: That’s me.
VÁCLAV: (Holding out his hand) Václav. How very nice to meet you.
(Mara accepts his hand and Václav kisses it)
MARA: (Startled by this gesture, but enjoying it) Yes…um…please…come in.
(She moves out the way so Václav can enter.)
MARA: Can I take your coat?
VÁCLAV: Thank you. (He removes his suit jacket and hands it to her)
MARA: Oh…sorry…I…I wasn’t thinking…I thought…that’s what you say when people enter…I mean you ask them if you can take their coat but this is a suit jacket, which is typically something you wear…even inside…I thought it was a normal coat, but it’s not…I’m sorry. You can have this back. (She hands him the suit jacket)
VÁCLAV: (Laughing a bit) No. Please. I wanted to take it off. It was very polite of you to offer to take it. (He lays the jacket aside) I’ll just put it there. Is that alright?
MARA: That’s fine. That’s great.
VÁCLAV: Very good.
MARA: Would you like something to drink?
VÁCLAV: Are you going to drink?
MARA: I’ll probably just have water.
VÁCLAV: I will have the same.
MARA: Alright. Just a second. (She goes to the kitchen area and begins to run two glasses of tap water) I…uh…I talked to uh…to…uh…I have the money for you…
VÁCLAV: Would you like to get that out of the way?
MARA: Yes. It’s here. (She goes to the nightstand and pulls out her purse. She hands him an envelope with cash in it.) I just…I don’t want to you to think that I’d cheat you.
(He goes to his coat and puts the envelope in an inner pocket before turning back to Mara)
VÁCLAV: I know.
MARA: Okay. Sorry.
VÁCLAV: (He goes to Mara) You’re very nervous.
MARA: Yes.
VÁCLAV: (He’s very close to her) You don’t have to be.
MARA: Sorry…I’m just…
VÁCLAV: (Laughing) Don’t apologize.
MARA: Sorry…
(Mara stands there awkwardly with two glasses of water in her hands. She’s paralyzed by how close Václav is to her. Smiling, Václav helps himself to one of the glasses in Mara’s hands. He takes a sip and stares at Mara.)
VÁCLAV: Don’t be nervous.
MARA: Oh, I’m way past that.
VÁCLAV: You don’t seem to understand, Mara. You control what happens tonight. It’s my job to make you happy, and I look forward to it.
(Again Mara is paralyzed as she stares into Václav’s eyes)
VÁCLAV: Would you like to sit down?
MARA: On…on the bed?
VÁCLAV: Anywhere you like.
MARA: The bed is fine.
(She sits on the edge of the bed and Václav follows)
VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the cheek?
MARA: What?
VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the cheek?
MARA: Um…sure.
(He leans in and kisses her on the cheek)
VÁCLAV: There. How do you feel?
MARA: That was…that was nice…
VÁCLAV: We’ll just go from there. You’re American?
MARA: Yes. You’re Czech?
VÁCLAV: Yes.
MARA: You speak very good English.
VÁCLAV: So do you.
(Mara laughs)
VÁCLAV: What brings you to Prague?
MARA: Oh, you know…travelling.
VÁCLAV: Prague is one the finest cities in the world.
MARA: I’ve always wanted to go. And it’s just a train ride from Berlin. Everything is by train in Europe. I like it. It’s very…old fashioned.
VÁCLAV: What do you think of our fine city thus far?
MARA: Oh, it’s beautiful.
VÁCLAV: Have you seen the Charles Bridge yet?
MARA: I did that on my first day. I was nervous my first day. But…there are all those statues by the bridge you know. Well, of course you know. I’m Catholic and…I was raised Catholic at least…and just seeing all the saints…Saint Augustine was really good for me. I suppose that sounds silly.
VÁCLAV: Not at all.
MARA: I suppose even if it did sound silly, you wouldn’t say so. Sorry.
VÁCLAV: Don’t be.
MARA: (Suddenly rising) I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I don’t…I don’t usually do this. I’ve never done this. I don’t even know why I’m doing it now.
VÁCLAV: Mara, I know why you asked me here tonight.
MARA: Oh?
VÁCLAV: Because it’s a shame for a beautiful woman to be alone in such a beautiful city.
MARA: (Giggles a bit) Oh wow. You’re kind of ridiculous. (Stops) Sorry.
VÁCLAV: Don’t apologize. What kind of work to do you do?
MARA: It’s boring.
VÁCLAV: I’m sure it isn’t.
MARA: I teach…kind of. I teach English. The American School in Berlin. I’m a teacher.
VÁCLAV: That doesn’t sound boring at all.
MARA: Well…I don’t really…the majority of work that I do is just editing. Working with adults who already have a grasp of the language and writing essays and correcting it.
VÁCLAV: But you are American, yes?
MARA: Yes. I go home every once in a while. I went home for Christmas…uh…not this past Christmas but the one before it.
VÁCLAV: Do you have a significant other?
MARA: (Laughs) No. I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t be here if I did.
VÁCLAV: Understandable.
MARA: Though, I assume you get all kinds of people coming to see you.
VÁCLAV: I do. It’s nice to hear that there is still some nobility in the world. You must be very lonely. (He takes her hand and runs his fingers across it. He gently kisses it)
MARA: Huh? Oh…yeah…there are plenty of English speaking people…(Gesturing to him) Obviously. But…it’s still hard to…meet people. You speak very good English.
VÁCLAV: Thank you. Americans seem to look at learning another language as something…silly or unneeded. Most everyone else knows that one language is not enough.
MARA: Say something in Czech.
VÁCLAV: Co byste chtěl, abych řekl?
MARA: (She giggles) What did you say?
VÁCLAV: I said, “What would you like me to say?”
(Mara laughs)
VÁCLAV: Smím tě políbit na rty?
MARA: What did you say that time?
VÁCLAV: “May I kiss you on the lips?”
(Mara studies him for a second)
MARA: Okay.
(He leans in and kisses her gently on the lips)
VÁCLAV: There. Are you alright?
MARA: Yeah.
VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the neck?
MARA: Uh…sure.
(Václav leans in closely and begins to kiss her neck)
MARA: (Giggling a bit) Ahhhh!
VÁCLAV: What?
MARA: Sorry. That tickles. Go ahead. Try it again.
(Václav attempts to kiss her neck again)
MARA: (Standing and giggling) Ahhhh! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I’ve never been kissed like that and your…your…your…uh…hair face…
VÁCLAV: My…hair face?
MARA: Yeah…
VÁCLAV: My stubble?
MARA: Your stubble! It kind of tickles.
VÁCLAV: I can honestly say I’ve never gotten that kind of a reaction from one of my kisses before.
(Mara opens her mouth to speak)
VÁCLAV: And don’t apologize. In fact, you’re not allowed to apologize anymore tonight.
MARA: This is how S&M starts, isn’t it?
VÁCLAV: What?
MARA: Never mind…
VÁCLAV: Your neck tickles, eh? Perhaps I should kiss you somewhere else.
MARA: You can try.
:::
Want to read more? If you’re on New Play Exchange, check me out. PDFs of the script can be purchased by contacting me through [email protected]

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