Dragon Boating

Dragonboating

Dragon boating is a very popular water sport and there are festivals held all over the world. Many of those have special breast cancer survivor races, plus there are international breast cancer survivor only festivals.

I belong to a breast cancer survivor dragon boat race team. I have been to an international festival in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, one in Caloundra, Queensland, Australia, and one in Sarasota, Florida, USA. About one hundred teams gather from around the world at each of these events and it is amazing to see the thousands of women dressed in pink.

Each team has twenty paddlers in the boat, plus one drummer and one steersperson. The drummer, who sits at the front with a drum and baton, pounds the drum to keep us paddling in rhythm while the steersperson in the back keeps us on course. Both of them watch our paddling technique. The boat is narrow at both ends and bulges in the middle, making it a tight fit for the paddlers at the front and back. There are two paddlers per seat and the person beside you is your partner.

As paddlers we have one hand on the handle of the paddle and the other on the shaft near the blade. We raise the paddle and lean out over the side of the boat so that the paddle is vertical and both hands are over the water. We rotate our upper bodies which puts the blade of the paddle beside the hip of the person in front of us. This is our reach. We jab the blade into the water and pull it back until it is near our own thigh then lift it out. That is our stroke. All the twenty paddlers have to do this in unison, called timing, in order for the boat to go forward. The faster we stroke the faster the boat goes.

I find that Facebook is a wonderful tool for connecting with family and friends around the world. Each day there are many funny videos and thoughtful sayings shared on it. The following is a list of orders given to dragon boat paddlers by their steersperson or drummer that was shared on Facebook. I have heard them all either during practice or in a race. However, taken out of context they may be considered a little off colour. I have added a few to the list as well.

Do you mind stroking for us?

Do you have any wax for my shaft?

We'll do a wet start.

Give me two more inches.

Lower your hand on the shaft.

Pull out sooner, you're getting me wet.

It's really tight back here.

You're holding the shaft too tight, relax your grip.

Dig it deep and feel the glide.

Open up and show your partner your chest.

Don't bob your head.

We are a bit front heavy.

Give it to me.

Don't pull out too soon.

Give it all you got.

Close your eyes and feel the rhythm.

Pull it out at the same time as the person in front of you.

I have a blister on my butt.

Lift your butt cheek when you reach, it helps you thrust more.

You're pulling out too soon and it's splashing me.

Deeper, harder, stronger, faster.

Dig, dig.

Keep it long.

Long and strong.

Harder, harder.

Faster, faster.

Power finish now.

You have this, you have this.

 

http://bookswelove.net/authors/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

 http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/

http://www.facebook.com/writingsbyjoan

 https://www.amazon.com/author/joandonaldsonyarmey

 Gold Fever

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:

Illegally Dead

The Only Shadow In The House

Whistler's Murder

http://amzn.com/B00KF07FQM

Today We Danced

 In my real life I am a nursing attendant. I have looked after people with Alzheimer's Disease and this is a short story I wrote about the disease.

Today We Danced

 

       There is entertainment this afternoon. I punch in the code that unlocks the door and take you to the dining area of the other side of the facility. The tables have been pushed to the walls and the residents sit in their wheelchairs beside them. A man has brought in a portable organ and his wife a violin. They play the old songs, the songs we grew up to in the 1940s and 50s when I wore a flared skirt and bobby socks and you had a crew cut. You sway to the music. It is as if you recognize the tunes.
       When they play a waltz, you bow and hold out your left hand. With delight, I slip in my right one. You put your right arm around my waist. I place my left hand on your shoulder. You pull me close and we waltz to the music. Your eyes sparkle the way they always did when we danced. You smile down at me and my heart quickens. It is a smile I haven’t seem lately, the smile of my truelove.
       The music ends and we hold hands. We talk, remembering the first time we danced as sweethearts. For me it is one of the hundreds of memories I have of our life together. For you it is one of the few memories you have left.
       When the entertainment is over, I push the button that unlocks the door from this side. We step back into the locked section, your home now that I can’t look after you anymore. We walk along the hallway in the midst of your fellow residents. Most are about our age, some, unfortunately, are younger. Everyone is mobile but in varying degrees. A man, who is only in his sixties, spends his days hurrying up and down as if late for something. A woman shuffles, holding onto the rail. Another man stands with his coat on. He is adamant when he tells the nursing aides that he has to go home.
       As we stroll, you say. “I come from a family of eleven children and none of us robbed a bank.” You are full of surprise sayings like that. Many times you state. “I want to go home to the farm to see my mother.” Once, you said. “If I climb onto the roof, I can look down on the valley and the farm.”
       I ask if you have to go to the bathroom. You are incontinent but sometimes you will go on the toilet if asked. You say yes. I lead you to the room you share with another man. A woman is making and remaking your bed. Every day she is busy doing something like washing the tables or fixing the beds, or cleaning the sink and counter. I guess in her mind she is doing the housework as she has done for years.
       I take you into the bathroom and undo your pants. I remove the diaper, which is soaked and sit you down on the toilet. While you stay there, I unlock your closet beside the bed and remove a plastic bag for the diaper. The staff does not refer to them as such. They call them briefs or incontinent products. But it doesn’t matter how they try to disguise the name, they are still diapers, just like the ones put on babies.
       There is a foul odour when we go into the hallway. One woman is standing against the wall. Her pink pants are wet and have brown streaks on them. A nursing aide approaches her.
       “Come. We have to change you.”
      “I don’t need changing.”
      “Yes, you are dirty.” The nursing aide puts her hand on the woman’s arm.
      “Leave me alone!” She pushes her away. “I’m not dirty!”
      Another staff member comes to help. They each take one of woman’s arms. She yells at them as they pull her towards the shower room.
       “Stop it you damned bitches!” She twists her arms and kicks out at them. “Leave me alone! I’ll kill you!”
       One of them looks at us. “It’s not her,” she explains to me. “It’s the disease.”
       She fights and kicks all the way to the shower room and I still hear her yelling behind the door. Later, when she comes out washed and changed, she sits in a chair in your dining room and ignores everyone.
       It is suppertime. The food services people push the cart with the hot food on it through the opened door. I stay to help. The nursing aides have a hard time keeping everyone seated while waiting for their food. Some, if not served immediately, get up and wander away. I help pass out the bowls of soup and get one for you. With a little prompting you can feed yourself.
       The residents with teeth get a regular plate of food, the ones without get pureed food. Most of them can feed themselves, but some use their fingers instead of cutlery to scoop up the meat and mashed potatoes and gravy. One woman refuses to eat. She hasn’t eaten much in days. It is as if she doesn’t know what she is supposed to do with the food anymore. She won’t let anyone feed her and gets mad when they try. She has lost a lot of weight.
       Back at your room I get you ready for the night. I wash you and put on your pajamas. I remake your bed. When I kiss you goodnight, you say.
       “Don’t ever come to a place like this. It’s not pleasant to be here.”
       I have no answer to that. I leave
      We have both lost our lives. Your life has narrowed to your room and the hall. Mine is coming to visit you.
                                                 *   *   *   *   *
      The disease had crept up on you, on us. First there was the lack of concentration, then the memory lapses. You sometimes didn’t remember where the dishes went or where our bedroom was. The repetitive movements, like the constant smoothing of your hair with your hand, bothered the children and me, but we tried to hide what was happening. We laughed and made excuses.
       You began roaming the house at night. You were so restless, walking from room to room. I got scared when you started to go out into the yard during the day. I watched you as much as I could while doing my housework. Then you wandered away from home. The first couple of times I managed to find you on my own. I told the children and they installed a lock high up on the door where you couldn’t see it.
       You would get so mad when you were unable to open that door. You’d pound on it and kick at it. I would try to get you to play cards with me or watch the television but you couldn’t be distracted. Finally, I just had to let you be. One afternoon, somehow, you got out. I couldn’t find you and phoned the police. They asked all the bus drivers and taxi drivers to watch for you. A taxi driver found you late at night on the other side of the city. He took you to the nearest police station. They brought you home and you didn’t remember where you had been or how you got there.
       The children and I took you to the doctor the next day. After many tests, he said those two words that we all had been denying: Alzheimer’s Disease.

             *   *   *   *   *

       When I come today, I am told you were resistive during your morning wash and change. You yelled at the staff and tried to hit one. The disease is progressing.
       I find you sitting at a table rubbing your hands over the surface and saying. “Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is another day.”
       “What are you doing?” I ask.
       “What are you doing? What are you doing?” You begin repeating.
       You have done this before. Once, when the episode was over, I asked you if, at the time, you knew you were doing it. You said yes. I asked you if you could stop it. You said no.
       A fellow resident walks by saying. “Where are my clothes? I need my clothes.”
       You say. “I need my clothes. I need my clothes.”
       Your eyes are begging me, asking me for help. The look of fear and confusion in them makes me cry. I take you in my arms and hold you.
       One day, while you were still at home, you tried to make me promise to help you commit suicide before the disease robbed you of most of your mind. I was a coward then. I love you and I couldn’t promise.
      I am so sorry now.

Gold Fever

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

 

Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:

Illegally Dead

The Only Shadow In The House

Whistler's Murder

http://amzn.com/B00KF07FQM

http://bookswelove.net

http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/

http://www.facebook.com/writingsbyjoan

 

https://www.amazon.com/author/joandonaldsonyarmey

A Capital Offense

I wrote this short story many years ago. It has been published twice, once in a magazine in the US and once in a magazine here on Vancouver Island. The second time it won First Prize in the Flash Fiction Category. Last year I adapted it as a stage play and presented it in the Port Alberni Fringe.

 

 

A Capital Offense

I was dusting the living room one evening when Byron stomped down the hall, his housecoat flapping behind. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of beer and body odor as he neared.
     “I printed this off for you,” he yelled, throwing a piece of paper at me.
     I cringed. He never talked to me in a decent voice anymore. I hadn’t liked the changes in my husband while he’d struggled to become a published writer and I certainly didn’t like the person he’d become since getting his book contract.
     He’d quit his job because, “I have to finish my manuscript. I can’t continue to work and write, too.”
     I’d had to take a second, part time job to make ends meet.
     Byron had been using our kitchen table for his writing room but once the contract was signed he claimed the guest bedroom as his. “I need a room of my own where I can have some privacy,” he’d stated. “If I want to work into the night, I can lie down when I’m tired and not be disturbed.
     At first he seemed to be doing a lot of work but then one day I answered the phone and it was Mr. Higgins, Byron's agent. He wanted to speak with Bryon. I knocked on Byron's door and opened it. Byron immediately began yelling. "Would you quit interrupting me. Haven’t I told you not to bother me when I am working. I lose my train of thought."
     I handed him the phone. "Your agent wants to talk with you."

     Byron glared at me and grabbed the phone. He took a deep breath then said pleasantly. "Hello Mr. Higgins."

     He listened and I could see his face turning red. "Yes, Mr. Higgins. I know I am late with some chapters. I will get them to you by the end of the week."
     When Byron hung up he said to me. "From now on, when you have something to say to me, you write it on a piece of paper and slide it under the door. I don’t have time for interruptions." He threw the phone and me and slammed the door.
     Since then, there were many times I wished he’d never gotten that contract and, even some, when I wished I’d never married him.
     Now he glared at me as he said. “I want you to come into my office now and email your sister back.”
     I smoothed the paper and read. `Hi Sis. I thought we could go back to emailing. It’s quicker than a letter and I’m sure Byron won’t mind if we do it two or three times a week.’
     Rosemary lived across the country and we’d kept in touch by e-mail until The Contract when I was banned from Byron’s office. Neither one of us could afford the long distance charges so phoning was out of the question. I had to give up my cell phone so we tried writing letters but they were time consuming and not as immediate as email.
     Now in his office empty beer cans, plates with leftover food, and full ashtrays were everywhere and it smelled as bad as he did. On the floor I saw the many notes with messages from his agent that I’d pushed under the door. Obviously, he didn’t read them.
     “What do you want me to say?” I asked.
     “What do you think? Tell her not to send another email.”
     In my agitation, I hit the Caps Lock key, starting to type in capital letters.
     “Capital letters means you’re shouting, Dummy,” Byron laughed harshly.
     I finished and left the room in tears.
     I was tired and hungry and decided to make something quick and easy for supper. As I put the lid on the macaroni, Byron entered the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. “Is that all the beer?
     “I guess so.”
     “Is it too much to ask that there be beer in the fridge?” He grabbed a can and opened it.
     “I bought a dozen yesterday.”
     “Are you saying I drink too much?”
     Byron had claimed other writers like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler drank while writing and it made them more productive. From the number of phone calls from his agent about late chapters, I guessed it wasn’t working for him.
     “What’s for dinner?” He lifted the lid from the pot.
     “Macaroni and beans.” I answered.
     “Geeze.” He slammed down the lid. “Can’t you fix anything decent?”
     “I worked all day.”
     “Are you insinuating I didn’t?”
     I sighed and wished, again, that I’d never married him.
     The next evening I put oil on to heat for French fries then went to have a quick shower. It felt so good I spent more time than I’d intended. When I got out, I could smell smoke. I donned my housecoat and hurried to the kitchen. The oil had caught fire and it had spread to the cupboards and curtains. The living room and hallway were filling with smoke.
     I coughed as I warned Byron, then rushed next door to call the fire department. I returned but Byron was not in the yard. When the trucks arrived, I hurried over.
     “My husband’s still in there,” I cried.
     The firemen tried entering the house but were driven back by the heat and smoke.
     An hour later the fire was out and an ambulance had taken Byron’s body away.
     “I set the oil on the burner and went for a shower,” I explained to the police officer who was questioning me. “When I came out there was smoke everywhere.”
     “Then what did you do?” she asked.
     “I ran next door to call the fire department.” I dabbed my eyes.
     “Did you notify your husband?”
     “Oh, yes. I shouted at him,” I said, thinking of the word FIRE I’d printed three times in capital letters on a piece of paper and shoved under his door.

Facing Rejection by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

Rejection: the act of rejecting; the state of being rejected; a thing rejected.

Rejection slip: a note from a publisher rejecting the accompanying returned manuscript.

Like most writers I have received form rejection slips and form rejection emails telling me politely that the publishing house is unable to accept my manuscript. An example: Thank you for considering ECW. Unfortunately, Controling (sic) Her Death is not right for us. I wish you every success in finding a home for your book.

However, I have also received emails and letters giving me more details about the rejection and adding a few encouraging words about my manuscript.

 

Dear Joan,

Thanks for submitting Controlling Her Death: My Mother's Date With Suicide to Coach House Books. Our editors noted that there's both an immediacy and a poignancy to the prose that draws the reader in from the first page.

Sadly, however, we can't offer to take it on for Coach House. We can publish only a few novels each year, and we have a surfeit of exceptional manuscripts. This leaves us in the unfortunate position of being unable to house many of the fine manuscripts we receive. We’re sorry to say that we aren’t able to fit your work on our list.

We wish you all the very best in finding a good home for it.

Sincerely,

Coach House Books

 

Dear Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

Thank you for submitting your manuscript The Nursery to Ronsdale Press for possible publication. Our readers have now made their reports, and I am sorry to inform you that they have recommended against publication.

After reading your excerpt our principal editor noted, "This is well written and has a great opening, but I find that it moves too slowly and that her memories-at least at the beginning-are the sort of thing that has been often written about. There is little sense of excitement or the strange. The Stone Angel does something similar, but with more verve.

We wish you well in finding a publisher for your manuscript.

Yours sincerely

Cheyanne Turions

Publishing Assistant.

 

But a rejection, however nicely worded, is still a rejection and it is hard to accept. In the beginning of my writing career I went through a three day grieving process each time I received a rejection letter.

On the first day I would feel totally depressed. I would question why I was writing, who did I think I was trying to write a novel? I would decided that this would be the last day that I wrote anything. I would wallow in self-pity, shed a tear in frustration, and even kick a door.

Day two would bring anger. Anger at the publisher for rejecting my manuscript. Anger at the months it had taken me to write the seventy-five thousand words. Anger at myself for not having written a publishable novel. I would try to figure out how to change it to make it better.

Day three brought a realization that maybe a different publisher might like it. There is the saying: right idea, right publisher, right day. With a renewed enthusiasm I would send it out again and again. I would decide that no one could take away the fact that I had written a manuscript, that I had had the nerve to send it to a publisher.

We writers are supposed develop thick skins. We are supposed to detach ourselves from our work. We are supposed to realize that we are not being judged, that our intelligence, our sense of humour, our sex appeal, and our character are not on the line. What is being judged is just that one piece of writing we have done. But it is a piece of writing that we have written, that we have spent hours at producing. Sometimes, it is tough not to take a publisher's rejection personally.

But the point is to carry on. With multiple submissions being allowed if one publisher rejects my manuscript I have the two or three others to look forward to hearing from. Sometimes I can have two manuscripts and two or three short stories out in the 'please publish me' world at one time. And when I finish one novel, I start another so I am engrossed in it to spend much time worring about the previous one.

The difference between being a success or being a failure is quitting too soon. And we all know of famous writers whose works were rejected many times before being accepted and becoming best sellers. Here are a few of the rejections letters:

"We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias. They do not sell."

Stephen Kings first published novel, Carrie, was rejected so many times that King collected the letters on a spike in his bedroom. When finally published in 1974, 30,000 copies were printed. A year later the paperback version sold over a million copies in 12 months.

"You’re welcome to le Carré – he hasn’t got any future."

One publisher sent this to a colleague after turning down The Spy Who Came in From the Cold.

"For your own sake, do not publish this book."

A publisher wrote to DH Lawrence about his novel Lady Chatterley's Lover.

Maybe rejection letters make us better writers, maybe they make us better people, or maybe they just annoy us. Whatever our reaction we have to remember that, with publishers receiving thousands of manuscripts each year, being rejected is just one part of the whole writing process.
http://bookswelove.net/
http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/
http://www.facebook.com/writingsbyjoan
amazon.com/author/joandonaldsonyarmey

Gold Fever
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:
Illegally Dead
The Only Shadow In The House
Whistler's Murder
http://amzn.com/B00KF07FQM

 

Gold Fever--my newest mystery novel (not from the travelling detective series.)

I have written a new mystery and is available as a ebook now through Amazon Kindle.

Boni Baldwin is taken out of the city and thrust into an environment she dislikes-- camping. Her mother, Elsie Wiggins, is on a quest to find information on her father who disappeared fifty-five years ago in the mountains of southern British Columbia and Boni is the only one of her children who is able, but reluctant, to accompany her.

The first person they meet is Rick, a mountain man who has a claim on the Salmo River and is prospecting with his grandfather for gold. He offers to show Boni around the area hoping to convince her that being in the bush is not a terrible thing. They also meet Jerry, who is the one Elsie contacted about camping on his gold claim. Jerry offers to show Elsie how to pan for gold during her stay. Boni and Elsie are threatened by other prospectors along the river and told to leave. When they don't, their campsite is trashed, twice. This scares Boni but only makes Elsie mad. No Rambo wannabees are going to frighten her away. They do discover some new clues about Elsie's father after all these years, but all that comes to an end when the man they are scheduled to interview is murdered before they get to his house. As much as they hate to admit it, both Rick and Jerry are on their list of suspects for the trashing of their campsite and for the murder.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

Sayings

Sayings by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

Be Careful What You Wish For is an old saying with an ominous warning to it and Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining is also an old saying but it has an upbeat tone to it. Both of them apply to my story.

Be Careful What You Wish For
For years women who had had breast cancer surgery were told not to use their arms for any strenuous activity for fear of causing lymphedema, a build up of fluid in the arm. Don McKenzie, a Canadian sports medicine specialist at the University of British Columbia, opposed this idea. In 1996, he formed a dragon boat team composed of  24 women with a history of breast cancer in Vancouver, B.C. They called themselves Abreast in a Boat. And they proved that strenuous exercise was good for their arms and for their overall health.
A few years later, they entered in the Vancouver dragon boat festival and I saw them on the television news. I had never heard of dragon boating before and I said to my husband. "That looks like fun. I'd like to try dragon boating sometime."
In January of 2001, I was doing a breast self examination and found a small lump. My annual mammogram at the Breast Centre in Edmonton was scheduled for February but I called the centre and told them my news. They booked me an appointment in two days. Although no one said the C word, after the questions, the mammogram, and the ultrasound, I was pretty sure it was cancer. Then I was told that I needed a biopsy and that it could be scheduled for the next week. However, they added "We have an opening in the next hour and we can do it today." I knew for sure it was cancer.
At my pre-op session a woman came in to tell me about a group of women living with cancer or who had had breast cancer that met every month for coffee and to offer support. I asked her if she knew of a breast cancer survivor dragon boat team in the city. She found the contact information for Breast Friends for me and two weeks after my surgery I joined the team. I wasn't allowed to get in the boat until three months after my last radiation treatment so I didn't get to actually paddle until 2002. Each summer we attended dragon boat festivals in Alberta and British Columbia.
When I moved to Vancouver Island in the fall of 2004, I joined Angels Abreast in Nanaimo. We went to festivals up and down the island and in Vancouver.

Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

In 2006, an international breast cancer dragon boat festival was held in Vancouver to celebrate the ten year anniversary. Besides the Canadian teams, teams came from the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Poland, Italy, and Asia. It was great to walk through the paddler's village and meet fellow survivors from around the world.
In Sept. 2007, an international breast cancer festival was held in Caloundra, Queensland, Australia, and Angels Abreast went to that. What a wonderful time we had. The residents were friendly, the venue was excellent, and the hosts did a great job of organizing. The 100 teams of twenty-four paddlers, steersperson, and drummer paraded through the streets dressed in pink, and many people yelled "Canada" or honked their horns when they saw our Canadian flag hanging from our balconies. The festival lasted three days and again I met many special women. After the festival some of us toured around Queensland and New South Wales. Even with my fear of heights, I climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge. From there we flew to Fiji for a week.
A year and a half ago my team received a notice that the next international festival was going to be held in Sarasota, Florida, October 24, 25, 26, 2014, and we decided to attend. The other members were going to fly down, tour around some of the sites and head home. I wanted more than that, so my husband, Mike, and I decided to do a three month tour of the U.S. Since I needed to be in Sarasota by October 22 to practice with the team, we picked Sept. 18 (later changed to Sept. 23) as our leaving date and Dec. 16 as our return date. I applied for and was given three months off work.
Mike had had back surgery on Dec. 17, 2013, but we were assured that he should be healed in time to go. However, that has not been the case. His back hasn't healed properly and he is in constant pain. It took a lot of thought and discussion whether he should accompany me because he tired so quickly. But we decided he would be in pain if he stayed home or if he came with me so he finally decided to come. We found a motorhome and are now bringing our four cats. (my daughter suggested a title for my next book: The Crazy Cat Lady On Tour)
Since my diagnosis I have met so many strong, caring, fun-loving women plus I have visited some wonderful places. I am looking forward to doing the same this year and many years to come, a silver lining to my cloud.

http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/

http://www.facebook.com/writingsbyjoan

 

Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:
Illegally Dead
The Only Shadow In The House
Whistler's Murder

Writing, Directing and Producing a Stage Play

Writing, Directing, And Producing A Stage Play

By Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

Last winter I took my writing in a new direction. I attended a two day, play writing course. By the end of it I had adapted a short story of mine, which had won first place in a flash fiction contest in Ascent Aspirations Magazine, into a half hour stage play. In the spring I entered my play in the Fringe held here in Port Alberni, B.C. This summer I produced and directed my play on stage in front of an audience. In the process, I discovered this is not an easy thing to do.

     I needed a male and a female lead actor and I asked two people who had been in plays in our local theatre before. They agreed and I gave them each a copy of the play. We met and had a run through with us discussing how we each saw the characters. Their interpretation of their character's actions and attitude were sometimes different from mine, but, other than a few places where I felt a certain delivery was needed, I let them decide how to play the part. Through our many rehearsals with the props, which my husband, Mike, was in charge of, the characters evolved and took shape as we discovered better ways for them move, react, and relate.

     I also needed actors for a party scene and I approached people I knew and/or worked with in my quest. Even though I told them that they would only be on stage for less than five minutes, that all they had to do was listen to the male actor beak off about how good he was, and that they had no lines, many gave a flat no, explaining that they could never get up on stage in front of an audience. Some agreed so I gave them the times of our next two rehearsals. Most of them never showed up. I kept asking people: my cats' vet, the owner of a new store in town, the person who donated some props. But I only had the same two people show up for any of the rehearsals and it looked like Mike and I would be making our acting debut. I was beginning to worry. Maybe I would have to drag up some of the audience members.

     On the evening of the first presentation, two of the three who had attended rehearsals, two actors in another play and I made up the attendees of the party. For the Saturday matinee the partiers were, one of my three regulars along with two members of my dragon boat team, the two actors from the other play, a theatre volunteer, and myself.

     One thing I did learn was that for something like the Fringe where plays are being presented one after the other, having a lot of props is not a good idea. Because I was showing a story instead of telling a story, I had over forty props, some large ones being: fridge, stove, desk, computer, sewing machine, two chairs, table; smaller ones being: duster, broom, envelope, paper, boxes, material, pens, wine bottle and glasses, and many more. The play after me had only two tables, two chairs, a laundry basket and some beer bottles. Another play I watched had some tea cups and teddy bears.

     On the first evening there were going to be four separate plays, mine being the first. That was perfect because it gave us time to set up our scene. However, at the end, we had to get our props off stage so that the next play could set theirs up before their showing. Our actors became stage hands and things disappeared in a hurry. The same happened on Saturday afternoon.

     The important thing I learned was that while I had written the words, I was at the mercy of the actors to show up for the rehearsals, learn their lines, and speak those words on stage. My female lead was off book (I did get to know some of the lingo) quickly, but the male lead found it harder to remember his lines. He also missed some of the rehearsals.

     Putting on a stage play isn't like making a movie. You don't get to go back and redo a scene. When asked, the way I put it is, opening night did not go as rehearsed. To be honest, it wasn't even close. The male character kept forgetting his lines or changing them which threw the female character off, as well as the lighting guy and Mike who had to operate a smoke machine.

     The Saturday afternoon presentation went better. He still missed many of his lines but the audience laughed when they were supposed to and they understood, and laughed at, the twisted ending. I was elated and hearing that laughter made the whole process worthwhile. And I do believe I will try another play for next year, but I will keep the props to a minimum and have the actors tell the story instead of show the story.

     While there were many mishaps and problems getting my play to the stage, the most memorable is about our wine bottle. We needed a wine bottle for the opening scene, so I rinsed one out and filled it with water. We used it for our first on stage rehearsal and left it along with our other props for our full dress rehearsal the next evening. When I went to find it for that rehearsal, it was gone. We searched everywhere and couldn’t find it, so we used a beer bottle in its place. We laughed and hoped that the person hadn't decided to take it as a hostess gift to some fancy dinner. I found another wine bottle for our opening night. At the end of the evening I discovered our first bottle by the back door, empty. That person must have thought it was the weakest, worst tasting wine ever made.

 

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Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:

Illegally Dead

The Only Shadow In The House

Whistler's Murder