Well, it happened again, this time to my Cousin Nester who called us all up this morning to say that Jesus had appeared on the side of his garage - not in the flesh, or even in the vapor, but in a distorted image on wood apparently made from rust, sap, and an unidentifiable white substance most likely blamed on birds and the adjacent cherry tree. Nester didn’t believe in Jesus but was willing to bet his lottery ticket that this was in fact the Holy of Holies who had taken residence above his trash cans, staring down with a look of disdain at the collection of assorted hubcaps and the discarded recliner bearing the imprint of Nester’s butt. Nester took this sighting to mean two things: the recliner should stay, and here was the new business opportunity he’d been waiting for. And with more ambition than he had shown in his combined forty-five years, he notified the press, alerted the neighbors, slapped up a sign that said “$10 to see Jesus,” set up an EBay account, and put his son Dudley to work scraping pieces of wood off the side of the garage to sell to the highest bidders.
So if you walked past Nester’s house this morning, that’s why you saw all the cameras and the large gathering of curious faces cocked to the side in rapt attention, intent on getting their full ten dollar’s worth. It was the first time Jesus had been sighted in their town (outside the stained-glass and shrink-wrapped variety and excluding the time Granny Jean mixed up her medications) so it was not something to be taken lightly. People gave it the piety deserving of a savior, no matter where they fell on the scale of belief, for even the most critical unbeliever figured it prudent to be respectful, just in case. They were all eager to speak about the miracle to the TV cameras shoved in their faces, happy to be asked about something other than a tornado or beauty pageant queen gone bad.
It was Vyrnetta who first brought into question the authenticity of this spiritual sighting, pointing out that she saw in a magazine that he was just spotted yesterday in a grilled cheese sandwich in Idaho and this magazine should know, being as they were the first to show pictures of J’Lo’s babies. And Booker Diggs made a very good argument that while the image could be perceived as Jesus, it bore a more striking resemblance to Sonny Bono. And how come whenever images appeared like this, people immediately assumed it was Jesus? And if Jesus was coming back, why would he pick the side of the garage? Why would he pick that town for that matter? Good grief, they didn’t even have a McDonald’s. To which Mildred Jenkins pointed out that the first time he came it was as a carpenter born in a stable and nobody argued with Mildred who’d been teaching Sunday school since she was five.
Pastor Fern came over and dramatically announced that it couldn’t be the real thing because sightings of this nature only appeared to those who attended church, Sunday school, and served on at least two committees. He was followed by Father Jim the Priest, who wasn’t really a priest, but had started out to be one before he got a calling to go into country music, and he said that it couldn’t be considered real until somebody sprinkled some holy water on it. Bitsy offered up some of the special tonic she carried in her purse that despite her protests smelled an awful lot like moonshine. She said it was to help calm her nerves and that should count as holy because nothing could work a miracle like that stuff. Ernestine claimed that was downright blasphemy and didn’t it just figure, coming from a Presbyterian. This resulted in a verbal assault on the Baptists, which resulted in a hit on two Methodists, four Mormons, and one suspected heathen, which opened the door for the other denominations present until no one was left unscathed. Bucky said this was a sure sign that they were all going to hell and he started confessing a list of sins that, while entertaining, were probably better left private. The Tucker twins were singing and throwing their hands up in the air hoping to signal up a revival when things turned from the verbal to the physical as Buster punched Nester and both of them fell back against the garage. And in one fell swoop the Jesus image was gone – smeared like a child’s finger painting which now looked more like Courtney Love. They all froze, pondering the ramifications of having erased Jesus. This couldn’t be good. If his appearance was a sign – imagine what erasing him could mean. And they found themselves standing in a moment equivalent to that of a frat party when the keg’s run dry.
And so they went their separate ways, some giving this Jesus thing a little more thought and others quickly distracted by the yard sale two doors down. It was Mildred Jenkins who stood there a little longer than everyone else, staring at the side of the garage and shaking her head at the mystery – not the mystery of a face made out of rust – but the mystery that so many would go to such great lengths to find him, when he’s been right here all along.
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Who Hijacked My Fairy Tale
Who hijacked my fairy tale? How to hang on to humor when life doesn't go as planned.
Do you have a fairy tale that didn't go the way you planned? How were you able to hang on to your sense of humor? Send your stories to kelly@kellyswanson.net. Best stories win a free Kelly Swanson CD.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Staying on the funny side...of Spontaneity
Today I decided to have a moment of spontaneity with my toddler, which is unusual for me to engage in things I can’t spell. Usually I like my spontaneous moments to occur on weekends - not during those precious work hours when I could be sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring. But when Junior asked me for the 147th time if he could do bubbles, I stopped typing, looked up, and much to his surprise and mine said yes, and we ran outside before I could change my mind. No coats. No shoes. No sunscreen. We just ran out into the glorious sunshine and, despite that moment where I tripped down the stairs, it was like a scene right out of a movie. Until we started arguing over the bubbles – who was going to hold the jar – who was going to blow – who would get to eat the half-eaten candy bar we found on the ground. And what started as a sweet mommy-and-me project of love and togetherness that belonged on the cover of Good Mommy Magazine, quickly spiraled into a devil-mommy-spanks-kid-in-the-front-yard moment that belonged on the cover of Moms Who Shouldn’t Be Magazine. So much for my sweet-lady-next-door image which, according to my husband, disappeared a long time ago somewhere between the time I threw a pot roast at him as he ran to his car and the time I accidentally posted my labor pictures on MySpace.
And so our bubble blowing fiasco ended as quickly as it had begun when Junior spilled the entire bottle of bubble liquid on the ground which left us with nothing to do but just sit – at least that was my plan – to lounge under the oak tree while he lay his head on my lap and I read him excerpts from articles I had written. His plan was to sprint down the driveway and collide into the car in rapid succession (yeah, I’m thinking trade school), see which bricks on the side of the house were loose, dig for worms, and lick bark – all of which he found great delight in while my rear end lost feeling on the cold cement porch, my eyes itched, the wind kept blowing my hair into my lip gloss, I got a bug in my teeth, I was reminded of everything in the yard that needs to be done, and I swear I could hear the whisper of missed opportunities on the breeze. Then the rabid squirrel jumped out of a bush and sent both of us running into the house in a fit of hysterics. I probably shouldn’t have pushed Junior down on my way to the front porch.
We were both sticky with bubble juice and had to break routine and take a bath in the afternoon (no, not together, they won’t let me do that anymore) and I was so worn out that I crawled into bed with him at naptime - the rest of my work day ruined. No emails answered, no phone calls returned. And as he was curled up against me, his hair still wet from his bath, his arm thrown around my neck, he whispers, “That was fun Mommy” and fell asleep. And my heart great three sizes that day. And somehow I knew that even in my wrong way, I had done the right thing - that years down the road I wouldn’t remember the lost hours of work. I would remember him laughing and running in his bare feet. Before he stubbed his toe on that rock.
You probably don’t have a toddler. You probably don’t work from home. But I’d bet you, like me, miss some of the precious spontaneous opportunities to jump up and go blow some bubbles. Let’s don’t do that anymore. Okay?
(PS Who decided a thirty-seven piece, multi-faceted, battery-operated, monogrammed bubble set with retractable pieces and a matching keychain should be fifty-nine cents at Target – but toilet paper costs me four dollars? I guess the same people who decided to charge us for air at the gas station.)
And so our bubble blowing fiasco ended as quickly as it had begun when Junior spilled the entire bottle of bubble liquid on the ground which left us with nothing to do but just sit – at least that was my plan – to lounge under the oak tree while he lay his head on my lap and I read him excerpts from articles I had written. His plan was to sprint down the driveway and collide into the car in rapid succession (yeah, I’m thinking trade school), see which bricks on the side of the house were loose, dig for worms, and lick bark – all of which he found great delight in while my rear end lost feeling on the cold cement porch, my eyes itched, the wind kept blowing my hair into my lip gloss, I got a bug in my teeth, I was reminded of everything in the yard that needs to be done, and I swear I could hear the whisper of missed opportunities on the breeze. Then the rabid squirrel jumped out of a bush and sent both of us running into the house in a fit of hysterics. I probably shouldn’t have pushed Junior down on my way to the front porch.
We were both sticky with bubble juice and had to break routine and take a bath in the afternoon (no, not together, they won’t let me do that anymore) and I was so worn out that I crawled into bed with him at naptime - the rest of my work day ruined. No emails answered, no phone calls returned. And as he was curled up against me, his hair still wet from his bath, his arm thrown around my neck, he whispers, “That was fun Mommy” and fell asleep. And my heart great three sizes that day. And somehow I knew that even in my wrong way, I had done the right thing - that years down the road I wouldn’t remember the lost hours of work. I would remember him laughing and running in his bare feet. Before he stubbed his toe on that rock.
You probably don’t have a toddler. You probably don’t work from home. But I’d bet you, like me, miss some of the precious spontaneous opportunities to jump up and go blow some bubbles. Let’s don’t do that anymore. Okay?
(PS Who decided a thirty-seven piece, multi-faceted, battery-operated, monogrammed bubble set with retractable pieces and a matching keychain should be fifty-nine cents at Target – but toilet paper costs me four dollars? I guess the same people who decided to charge us for air at the gas station.)
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Staying on the funny side...of Weight Loss Secrets
Staying on the funny side…of Weight Loss Secrets
I would like to thank TiredOfYourWeight@WhosTheNextIdiot.com for the email you just sent reminding me that I’m overweight. How did you find me? Were you there when I used emergency money to buy girl scout cookies? When I dove between the sofa cushions because I thought I saw a French fry? When I ran past you in my bathing suit at the pool and took out three toddlers? How do you people know that I want to lose weight, need money transferred from Nigerian royalty, and have been looking everywhere for a fake Rolodex? Baffling.
So, Mister TiredOfYourWeight, I appreciate that you took time in the middle of the night to send me this urgent email to share your weight loss secret that is sure to revolutionize the world and to give me the opportunity to buy into it before anyone else. I am flattered that you spend so much time and energy caring about strangers. I wish you would spend the same amount of time learning to spell and removing the strands of gibberish in your heartfelt message which, until I speak in tongues, I am unable to translate. I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t need the revolutionary answer to instant weight loss. You see, I already know the answer, and have known it for years. In fact, it really hasn’t been much of a secret since 4th grade biology. Eat less than you are, exercise more than you are, and you will lose weight. Shocking I know. Knowing what to do isn’t the secret. It’s doing it.
You see, I would rather drink lumpy shakes made out of goat’s urine, strap thirty pounds of spandex to my body, and spend thousands on hairdos, clothes, and accessories guaranteed to make me look a size smaller. I would rather have my colon flushed and take diet pills that cause hair loss, fainting spells, and the unavoidable explosive diarrhea. But don’t make me eat vegetables – that’s just gross. I want those programs where you actually pay more to eat less. I would rather spend hours reading manuals from experts claiming it’s not the quantity but the combinations of foods– just don’t mix the brown Snickers with the tan French fries and you’re fine.
I want to sit around perplexed saying, “But I don’t eat that much” and convince myself that I must have some rare thyroid condition and that everybody’s order contains the word Supersize. I want to buy exercise tapes that I’m too lazy to open and fancy treadmills to hold my plants, rather than park at the back of the parking lot and take the stairs. I am not interested in the kind of exercise where I am involved. I don’t even want to get up to change the TV. I once watched a twenty-four hour Valerie Bertinelli marathon because I couldn’t find the remote. I would rather sit around with a group of other overweight people and have them tell me size doesn’t matter and look at skinny people in disgust and hope they’re miserable.
So I do know the secret to weight loss, Mr. TiredOfYourWeight. Perhaps if you could come up with a revolutionary way to do the things we don’t want to do. Now that I would read. So thanks but no thanks. I would, however, be interested in a way to earn a million in a week without ever having to get dressed or leave my house. Do you have a cousin who does that?
I would like to thank TiredOfYourWeight@WhosTheNextIdiot.com for the email you just sent reminding me that I’m overweight. How did you find me? Were you there when I used emergency money to buy girl scout cookies? When I dove between the sofa cushions because I thought I saw a French fry? When I ran past you in my bathing suit at the pool and took out three toddlers? How do you people know that I want to lose weight, need money transferred from Nigerian royalty, and have been looking everywhere for a fake Rolodex? Baffling.
So, Mister TiredOfYourWeight, I appreciate that you took time in the middle of the night to send me this urgent email to share your weight loss secret that is sure to revolutionize the world and to give me the opportunity to buy into it before anyone else. I am flattered that you spend so much time and energy caring about strangers. I wish you would spend the same amount of time learning to spell and removing the strands of gibberish in your heartfelt message which, until I speak in tongues, I am unable to translate. I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t need the revolutionary answer to instant weight loss. You see, I already know the answer, and have known it for years. In fact, it really hasn’t been much of a secret since 4th grade biology. Eat less than you are, exercise more than you are, and you will lose weight. Shocking I know. Knowing what to do isn’t the secret. It’s doing it.
You see, I would rather drink lumpy shakes made out of goat’s urine, strap thirty pounds of spandex to my body, and spend thousands on hairdos, clothes, and accessories guaranteed to make me look a size smaller. I would rather have my colon flushed and take diet pills that cause hair loss, fainting spells, and the unavoidable explosive diarrhea. But don’t make me eat vegetables – that’s just gross. I want those programs where you actually pay more to eat less. I would rather spend hours reading manuals from experts claiming it’s not the quantity but the combinations of foods– just don’t mix the brown Snickers with the tan French fries and you’re fine.
I want to sit around perplexed saying, “But I don’t eat that much” and convince myself that I must have some rare thyroid condition and that everybody’s order contains the word Supersize. I want to buy exercise tapes that I’m too lazy to open and fancy treadmills to hold my plants, rather than park at the back of the parking lot and take the stairs. I am not interested in the kind of exercise where I am involved. I don’t even want to get up to change the TV. I once watched a twenty-four hour Valerie Bertinelli marathon because I couldn’t find the remote. I would rather sit around with a group of other overweight people and have them tell me size doesn’t matter and look at skinny people in disgust and hope they’re miserable.
So I do know the secret to weight loss, Mr. TiredOfYourWeight. Perhaps if you could come up with a revolutionary way to do the things we don’t want to do. Now that I would read. So thanks but no thanks. I would, however, be interested in a way to earn a million in a week without ever having to get dressed or leave my house. Do you have a cousin who does that?
Thursday, March 6, 2008
How to lose a friend in ten days or less...
How to lose a friend in ten days or less…
We have enough articles and cute little coffee table books that sing the praises of friendship. But what about that friend we are dying to get rid of? You know the one - don’t deny it – the one who at the very mention of her name your eye starts to twitch. The very sight of her car pulling into your driveway actually has you considering faking your own death. The one who bugs you so bad you can’t stand her children just by association. Help is on the way. I have come up with some surefire ways to get rid of unwanted friends.
Ask her if she’s gained weight. Look closely at her hips and her rear end as if you are trying to solve a mysterious math equation. Tell her it’s okay, that we all let ourselves go when we get to that age. And would she consider botox?
Ask her to host a scrapbook party at her house – every time you see her. Then tell her exactly how you want it done and offer to clean her house for her, with a look that says you remember the last time you were there and your kid tripped on one of her dust bunnies. The key here is to look at her like she’s a dog with three legs.
Call her every day and leave really long messages on her answering machine that always start with, “Oops, the machine just caught me off, let me finish up. I’ll be really quick.” Then leave a new phone number at the very end of the message and say it real fast and mumble it so she can’t get it and has to listen to the entire message again.
Pop up in her bushes on Thursday morning when she comes out to get the paper. Tell her you were just hanging out.
Send her spam emails at least three times a day, with videos and pictures attached, with messages telling her to light a candle and pass this on to twenty-five other people in the next twenty-four hours. Accuse her of being the devil’s spawn if she doesn’t answer. Attaching a virus always helps.
Tell her you want to sit down and talk about where she stands spiritually. This one is particularly effective as it will not only get rid of her, chances are good it will get rid of everyone she knows too.
Loan her money or keep her children as a trade-off deal. You’ll never see her again.
Fake your own death. This can be tricky to pull off, but it’s a permanent solution.
Show her your childbirth video and pause on the placenta while you go answer the phone.
And last, but not least, give her a second chance. Take the love-your-neighbor thing seriously. It’s easy to love the lovable. But it says even more about your character if you’re able to love the unlovable. And, for the record, there’s nothing wrong with loving her from far away.
PS If you’re reading this, you are the good kind of friend - just ignore my picture in the obituary section.
We have enough articles and cute little coffee table books that sing the praises of friendship. But what about that friend we are dying to get rid of? You know the one - don’t deny it – the one who at the very mention of her name your eye starts to twitch. The very sight of her car pulling into your driveway actually has you considering faking your own death. The one who bugs you so bad you can’t stand her children just by association. Help is on the way. I have come up with some surefire ways to get rid of unwanted friends.
Ask her if she’s gained weight. Look closely at her hips and her rear end as if you are trying to solve a mysterious math equation. Tell her it’s okay, that we all let ourselves go when we get to that age. And would she consider botox?
Ask her to host a scrapbook party at her house – every time you see her. Then tell her exactly how you want it done and offer to clean her house for her, with a look that says you remember the last time you were there and your kid tripped on one of her dust bunnies. The key here is to look at her like she’s a dog with three legs.
Call her every day and leave really long messages on her answering machine that always start with, “Oops, the machine just caught me off, let me finish up. I’ll be really quick.” Then leave a new phone number at the very end of the message and say it real fast and mumble it so she can’t get it and has to listen to the entire message again.
Pop up in her bushes on Thursday morning when she comes out to get the paper. Tell her you were just hanging out.
Send her spam emails at least three times a day, with videos and pictures attached, with messages telling her to light a candle and pass this on to twenty-five other people in the next twenty-four hours. Accuse her of being the devil’s spawn if she doesn’t answer. Attaching a virus always helps.
Tell her you want to sit down and talk about where she stands spiritually. This one is particularly effective as it will not only get rid of her, chances are good it will get rid of everyone she knows too.
Loan her money or keep her children as a trade-off deal. You’ll never see her again.
Fake your own death. This can be tricky to pull off, but it’s a permanent solution.
Show her your childbirth video and pause on the placenta while you go answer the phone.
And last, but not least, give her a second chance. Take the love-your-neighbor thing seriously. It’s easy to love the lovable. But it says even more about your character if you’re able to love the unlovable. And, for the record, there’s nothing wrong with loving her from far away.
PS If you’re reading this, you are the good kind of friend - just ignore my picture in the obituary section.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
May I Have This Dance...Understanding the Relationship between Performer and Audience
May I Have This Dance?
Understanding the Relationship between Performer and Audience
By Kelly Swanson
June 2, 2007
Like most anything in life, timing is everything
It is true in love and business and any career involving you and an audience. No matter what brings you to the stage, timing can make you or break you. Unfortunately, timing can not be learned, as it falls into that mysterious realm beyond your control – either you have it or you don’t. I do believe, however, that timing can be improved – not just through a process or a series of steps, but through a state of mind. Aside from learning some basic tricks (like slowing down, counting, not stepping on your laughs, etc.) you can also learn to see your performance in new ways. Today, we are going to view it as a dance – a dance between you, the performer, and your partner, the audience.
You’re the lead
As a performer, you have spent years crafting your art – learning the steps to your dance. You are the lead. If your performance art is one like dancing or acting, your audience is on the outside looking in and there is no partnership. In this case I am referring to other art forms - like comedy, storytelling, improv, magic, and music, to name a few – where you are cultivating a relationship with your audience. You lead the dance, but you are taking the audience along on the journey. So how does an audience compare to a dancing partner?
No two dance partners are the same
Every audience you have will be different no matter what the variables. Even the same group of people will have a different mood at the end of the show as they did before it started. An audience is a unique being composed of different people with different assumptions and experiences and backgrounds combined with their shared experiences and setting. There is a definite mood to each audience. Quite often performers will warn each other of the temperament of the audience. I’ve heard performers warn me: “They’re in a bad mood today. They’ve been touring all day, the boats were late getting back, some missed dinner, and they want to go to bed.” Other times I will hear: “This is a good crowd. Little tipsy. Ready to laugh.” Or, “The last three performers were horrible they’re irritated and most of them want to leave.” Your dance partners change. Each one has its own rhythm, moods, likes and dislikes. An audience can collectively change moods based on what happens in the performance. Comedy clubs are a good example, especially in how the comedian handles a heckler. The audience will be on the side of the comedian until the comedian delivers a blow they consider unfair in which case the audience as a whole will turn on the comedian. It’s not something planned, it just happens.
You must be tuned in to your partner
If every audience is different, then you must be flexible enough to adapt to your audience. Sometimes you get information about your audience in advance. But most of what you will learn will happen while you are on the stage. As a performer you not only have the responsibility of engaging your audience, you must also read them – their expressions, their laughter, their body language, and even those subtle nuances that you just feel as a seasoned performer. There is no way that you can read your audience if you are too busy worrying about getting your lines right or forcing material on a group that obviously isn’t enjoying the journey. You must stay in the moment. You must be able to pick up on the attitude of the audience. If they are laughing, then your jokes are working. If they are looking at you with expressions of confusion, you aren’t hitting the mark. If they are sleeping or throwing tomatoes, you’d better resort to your backup plan. Be flexible enough to change depending on your partner. Remember that you’re not up there on stage to deliver every word of your show if it kills them. You’re up there to entertain the audience – to give them an enjoyable experience. That is your obligation, not theirs. You’re not dancing for them, you are dancing with them.
Sometimes your partner gets distracted and you have to bring them back in
It happens. A waiter drops a tray. A door slams. A cell phone goes off. You can’t eliminate distractions in your show. Don’t be afraid of them and don’t ignore them. Embrace the distractions. Address them. Let your partner know that you have it under control and everything is going to be okay. And then utilize whatever tricks you have to demand their attention again. For example, if you are coming up on a critical part of your story when a distraction occurs, then delay it until you have control again.
If you don’t learn the steps your partner will know it
You owe it to your audience to perfect your performance. The stage is not the place to work out the kinks. It is not the place to wing it. You owe each audience your best whether they’re paying you the big bucks or giving you chicken and iced tea. The best advice I have for marketing yourself as an artist is to be darned good at what you do. There is no room for mediocrity.
Sometimes it’s just the wrong partner – find another one - you’re not a good fit
You will never find an audience where one hundred percent of the people like what you do. Accept it. Aim for 80 percent. Understand that not every audience is right for you, and it takes time to figure out where you belong. Sometimes the process can be pretty painful. But there is room for everybody. So keep working and keep looking. Don’t force yourself where you don’t belong. And don’t assume that anybody in their right mind should be totally captivated by you.
Enjoy the dance
Remember why you do what you – because you love the dance. Yes, your heart may be racing. You may have just run from the worst performance of your life. Maybe the entire front row was asleep. So you were fighting a cold and a case of athlete’s foot. We all have days like that – when our passion feels more like work than fun. That’s part of it. That’s normal. The important thing is to find the balance. To stay in touch with the reason that you are doing this. To hang on to the part of you that is passionate. Don’t get so swept up in what you think you’re supposed to do that you forget what you want to do, or you’ll find that somewhere along the way you stopped enjoying the dance.
Understanding the Relationship between Performer and Audience
By Kelly Swanson
June 2, 2007
Like most anything in life, timing is everything
It is true in love and business and any career involving you and an audience. No matter what brings you to the stage, timing can make you or break you. Unfortunately, timing can not be learned, as it falls into that mysterious realm beyond your control – either you have it or you don’t. I do believe, however, that timing can be improved – not just through a process or a series of steps, but through a state of mind. Aside from learning some basic tricks (like slowing down, counting, not stepping on your laughs, etc.) you can also learn to see your performance in new ways. Today, we are going to view it as a dance – a dance between you, the performer, and your partner, the audience.
You’re the lead
As a performer, you have spent years crafting your art – learning the steps to your dance. You are the lead. If your performance art is one like dancing or acting, your audience is on the outside looking in and there is no partnership. In this case I am referring to other art forms - like comedy, storytelling, improv, magic, and music, to name a few – where you are cultivating a relationship with your audience. You lead the dance, but you are taking the audience along on the journey. So how does an audience compare to a dancing partner?
No two dance partners are the same
Every audience you have will be different no matter what the variables. Even the same group of people will have a different mood at the end of the show as they did before it started. An audience is a unique being composed of different people with different assumptions and experiences and backgrounds combined with their shared experiences and setting. There is a definite mood to each audience. Quite often performers will warn each other of the temperament of the audience. I’ve heard performers warn me: “They’re in a bad mood today. They’ve been touring all day, the boats were late getting back, some missed dinner, and they want to go to bed.” Other times I will hear: “This is a good crowd. Little tipsy. Ready to laugh.” Or, “The last three performers were horrible they’re irritated and most of them want to leave.” Your dance partners change. Each one has its own rhythm, moods, likes and dislikes. An audience can collectively change moods based on what happens in the performance. Comedy clubs are a good example, especially in how the comedian handles a heckler. The audience will be on the side of the comedian until the comedian delivers a blow they consider unfair in which case the audience as a whole will turn on the comedian. It’s not something planned, it just happens.
You must be tuned in to your partner
If every audience is different, then you must be flexible enough to adapt to your audience. Sometimes you get information about your audience in advance. But most of what you will learn will happen while you are on the stage. As a performer you not only have the responsibility of engaging your audience, you must also read them – their expressions, their laughter, their body language, and even those subtle nuances that you just feel as a seasoned performer. There is no way that you can read your audience if you are too busy worrying about getting your lines right or forcing material on a group that obviously isn’t enjoying the journey. You must stay in the moment. You must be able to pick up on the attitude of the audience. If they are laughing, then your jokes are working. If they are looking at you with expressions of confusion, you aren’t hitting the mark. If they are sleeping or throwing tomatoes, you’d better resort to your backup plan. Be flexible enough to change depending on your partner. Remember that you’re not up there on stage to deliver every word of your show if it kills them. You’re up there to entertain the audience – to give them an enjoyable experience. That is your obligation, not theirs. You’re not dancing for them, you are dancing with them.
Sometimes your partner gets distracted and you have to bring them back in
It happens. A waiter drops a tray. A door slams. A cell phone goes off. You can’t eliminate distractions in your show. Don’t be afraid of them and don’t ignore them. Embrace the distractions. Address them. Let your partner know that you have it under control and everything is going to be okay. And then utilize whatever tricks you have to demand their attention again. For example, if you are coming up on a critical part of your story when a distraction occurs, then delay it until you have control again.
If you don’t learn the steps your partner will know it
You owe it to your audience to perfect your performance. The stage is not the place to work out the kinks. It is not the place to wing it. You owe each audience your best whether they’re paying you the big bucks or giving you chicken and iced tea. The best advice I have for marketing yourself as an artist is to be darned good at what you do. There is no room for mediocrity.
Sometimes it’s just the wrong partner – find another one - you’re not a good fit
You will never find an audience where one hundred percent of the people like what you do. Accept it. Aim for 80 percent. Understand that not every audience is right for you, and it takes time to figure out where you belong. Sometimes the process can be pretty painful. But there is room for everybody. So keep working and keep looking. Don’t force yourself where you don’t belong. And don’t assume that anybody in their right mind should be totally captivated by you.
Enjoy the dance
Remember why you do what you – because you love the dance. Yes, your heart may be racing. You may have just run from the worst performance of your life. Maybe the entire front row was asleep. So you were fighting a cold and a case of athlete’s foot. We all have days like that – when our passion feels more like work than fun. That’s part of it. That’s normal. The important thing is to find the balance. To stay in touch with the reason that you are doing this. To hang on to the part of you that is passionate. Don’t get so swept up in what you think you’re supposed to do that you forget what you want to do, or you’ll find that somewhere along the way you stopped enjoying the dance.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Happily Ever Laughter
Ah, marriage. So many have done it, written about it, sung about it, longed to have it, made movies about it, bought dresses for it, went broke because of it, and cried in their beers over it. And still when it’s our turn, it’s both magical and mysterious. We’re filled with hope and awe and images of ourselves sitting on a front porch holding hands into the twilight of our lives. And one day, somewhere down the line, the honeymoon ends and real life sets in and you start to get a good idea of what forever is going to feel like. That part of the fairy tale they never show you – when the handsome prince grows a spare tire, the fairy princess develops anger issues, and the once-upon-a-time you dreamed about is littered with dirty laundry, unpaid bills, and images of killing him in his sleep.
Today I speak to you as one who has settled into the real life stage of marriage. As one who can help give you some advice to prepare you for the hills and valleys that lay ahead. You see, I married Mr. Right. I just didn’t realize his first name was Always. My friend found her Mr. Right too, but his first name is Can’t-Do-Anything. Even finding your Mister Right doesn’t guarantee a happy ending. So today I share with you some words of wisdom to help you on the road to a happy marriage. Tips to a happy marriage.
Today I speak to you as one who has settled into the real life stage of marriage. As one who can help give you some advice to prepare you for the hills and valleys that lay ahead. You see, I married Mr. Right. I just didn’t realize his first name was Always. My friend found her Mr. Right too, but his first name is Can’t-Do-Anything. Even finding your Mister Right doesn’t guarantee a happy ending. So today I share with you some words of wisdom to help you on the road to a happy marriage. Tips to a happy marriage.
Don’t do it
Okay, well will just skip over that one why don’t we?
Embrace Your Differences
Understand that you are different people. And it’s okay. My husband is the smart one. He lays awake at night pondering the mysteries of the universe. I lay awake wondering what happens to their tattoos when big people lose weight, or how veterinarians get their dogs to pee in a cup.
Do things to spice up your marriage
The other day my husband suggested we do something new in the bedroom. I suggested he pick up his socks. It’s good to make sure you always have a date night. We do. I have Tuesday, he has Thursday.
Take the good with the bad.
90% of the time you’ll look at him and say I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The other ten percent you’re looking for ways to fake your death. You’ll go from thinking it is the cutest thing how he drools when he sleeps to……Good grief if I hear him suck in his breath when he eats a sandwich one more time I’m going to tear my eyes out!
Find new levels of intimacy
One day you’ll go from standing in the doorway wearing that smoking hot little black dress to…….Hey honey! Come here!! You have got to see what is growing in between my toes! Fooling around may start as an all night affair. Now, it’s “Hurry up! We’ve got five minutes before Law and Order starts! You go from, “Honey, could you rub lotion on my shoulders” to “Hey babe! Can you come pluck this hair for me? I think it’s infected!”And by the way, don’t take sex advice from old people. To them, safe sex is not breaking a hip.
Don’t compare yourself to others
Don’t be intimidated by those sappy couples who are all gushy and sweet, like my friend who got her husband’s handprints put in cement and hung up on her wall so she could “always know what it feels like to have his hand in mine.” (Gagging motion) Shoot. I’ve got that without paying anything. Come over to my house and you can check out his butt print on the recliner.
Don’t be intimidated by those sappy couples who are all gushy and sweet, like my friend who got her husband’s handprints put in cement and hung up on her wall so she could “always know what it feels like to have his hand in mine.” (Gagging motion) Shoot. I’ve got that without paying anything. Come over to my house and you can check out his butt print on the recliner.
Keep the lines of communication open
For the record husbands, when she asks what’s on TV, don’t ever say dust. Appreciate the fact that now she’ll hang on every word you say. Ten years from now the only time she’ll listen to every word you say is when you’re talking in your sleep. I asked my husband why we haven’t spoken all day. He said he didn’t want to interrupt me. I told my husband he needs to get in touch with his feminine side. So he started listening, communicating, and asking if his butt looks big in these pants.
And there you have it. My tips to a happy marriage. Nurture them. Use them wisely. Refer to them often. And if I’m still married ten years from now. I’ll write another one.
Best wishes!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Another Crazy Mommy Moment
It was my first night out as a new mommy – as in no kids. My husband was taking me out to dinner to celebrate our first six months of successful parenting – or maybe the fact that the cable was out and he knew he couldn't watch the game. I didn't care. I was going out. Nothing was going to ruin this night for me.
I let Junior watch six hours of cartoons while I got ready. I took a bubble bath. I shaved. I bought a cute little black dress that no longer fell into the "little" category, but I didn't care. I even purchased a sexy little thong which rubbed a blister before I was even through applying my mascara. But I left it on. Nothing was going to ruin this night!
I even decided to tackle the overwhelming task of doing something to my breastfed boobs that now hung to my knees and had been attracting National Geographic reporters from all over the country. I bought these cool pasty things you stick in your bra that looked something like a raw chicken breast, but did in fact make my chest look perky and take attention off my rear end which had grown to the point that it now occupied another zip code and was at the moment making some pretty interesting bottom music due to the late afternoon snack of raw broccoli combined with the thong. It was as if I had invented a new rubber band instrument. I'm thinking of getting a patent.
I put on my highest heels. Took them off. Put them back on, and reminded myself that beauty is pain and waited for my husband to pick me up. I was so happy. I kissed Junior, kissed the babysitter, and ran out the door to meet my husband. Okay, walked fast. The heels were really high.
He didn't notice my heels. He didn't notice the dress. He didn't notice that I was now limping because I had a blister in between my butt cheeks that was starting to get infected. He was too busy trying to find a parking spot up front at Burger Bart's Buffet where all the food is displayed around the perimeter of the restaurant and who needs a waiter when you can get up and get it yourself?
I'm standing there trying to decide between macaroni and cheese or assisted suicide, crammed in between my husband who is scouting out the nearest TV and a sweet older gentleman who seemed to be staring a little too intently at my cleavage. Looking back, I understand why. Because the miraculous perky pseudo-breast I had tucked inside my dress was coming dislodged. Of course, I didn't know this, which is probably why it generated such a rapt audience at the salad bar. Especially when I sneezed and the breast popped out of my dress and landed in the cottage cheese.
I was mortified. Do I quickly pick it up and stuff it back in? Do I put it on my plate beside the cherry tomatoes? Do I leave it there and act like I had no idea I had lost a booby on the salad bar? Sometimes fate has a way of working things out. This wasn't one of those times.
I felt another sneeze coming on – apparently allergic to the new body splash I bought for this special occasion – and the magnitude of the sneeze caused something to snap. The thong. Apparently it simply couldn't hold up under the pressure. Personally, I don't blame it.
I'm not really sure if there's a scientific explanation for it, or if fate just couldn't pass this opportunity up, but the thong snapped, broke, and went flying through the air whereupon it slapped the kind old gentleman across the face and sort of hung there like a birthday party streamer. And that was the last sight I saw as I went running from the restaurant. Okay, walking fast - those heels were really high. My husband never noticed a thing.
I've never been back to Bart's Burger Buffet where they had to have the salad bar and the old man fumigated. The high heels are collecting dust in the top of my closet and I haven't worn a thong since because my rear end still has nightmares of the whole sordid experience. I have an anniversary coming up. Hubby wants to take me out to dinner. I'm thinking I'll go look for something sexy.
I let Junior watch six hours of cartoons while I got ready. I took a bubble bath. I shaved. I bought a cute little black dress that no longer fell into the "little" category, but I didn't care. I even purchased a sexy little thong which rubbed a blister before I was even through applying my mascara. But I left it on. Nothing was going to ruin this night!
I even decided to tackle the overwhelming task of doing something to my breastfed boobs that now hung to my knees and had been attracting National Geographic reporters from all over the country. I bought these cool pasty things you stick in your bra that looked something like a raw chicken breast, but did in fact make my chest look perky and take attention off my rear end which had grown to the point that it now occupied another zip code and was at the moment making some pretty interesting bottom music due to the late afternoon snack of raw broccoli combined with the thong. It was as if I had invented a new rubber band instrument. I'm thinking of getting a patent.
I put on my highest heels. Took them off. Put them back on, and reminded myself that beauty is pain and waited for my husband to pick me up. I was so happy. I kissed Junior, kissed the babysitter, and ran out the door to meet my husband. Okay, walked fast. The heels were really high.
He didn't notice my heels. He didn't notice the dress. He didn't notice that I was now limping because I had a blister in between my butt cheeks that was starting to get infected. He was too busy trying to find a parking spot up front at Burger Bart's Buffet where all the food is displayed around the perimeter of the restaurant and who needs a waiter when you can get up and get it yourself?
I'm standing there trying to decide between macaroni and cheese or assisted suicide, crammed in between my husband who is scouting out the nearest TV and a sweet older gentleman who seemed to be staring a little too intently at my cleavage. Looking back, I understand why. Because the miraculous perky pseudo-breast I had tucked inside my dress was coming dislodged. Of course, I didn't know this, which is probably why it generated such a rapt audience at the salad bar. Especially when I sneezed and the breast popped out of my dress and landed in the cottage cheese.
I was mortified. Do I quickly pick it up and stuff it back in? Do I put it on my plate beside the cherry tomatoes? Do I leave it there and act like I had no idea I had lost a booby on the salad bar? Sometimes fate has a way of working things out. This wasn't one of those times.
I felt another sneeze coming on – apparently allergic to the new body splash I bought for this special occasion – and the magnitude of the sneeze caused something to snap. The thong. Apparently it simply couldn't hold up under the pressure. Personally, I don't blame it.
I'm not really sure if there's a scientific explanation for it, or if fate just couldn't pass this opportunity up, but the thong snapped, broke, and went flying through the air whereupon it slapped the kind old gentleman across the face and sort of hung there like a birthday party streamer. And that was the last sight I saw as I went running from the restaurant. Okay, walking fast - those heels were really high. My husband never noticed a thing.
I've never been back to Bart's Burger Buffet where they had to have the salad bar and the old man fumigated. The high heels are collecting dust in the top of my closet and I haven't worn a thong since because my rear end still has nightmares of the whole sordid experience. I have an anniversary coming up. Hubby wants to take me out to dinner. I'm thinking I'll go look for something sexy.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Frazzled Mom Hiding Out in Bathroom
by Kelly Swanson
I have to talk quietly so he won’t hear me. If he hears me, he will find me, and I haven’t had a moment to myself all day. That’s why I’m sitting here in the bathroom sucking on a lollipop wishing it were a Marlboro, and clutching a bottle of cooking sherry. I just need a moment to vent. And I don’t have anybody. So you’re it.
No, it’s not about the gas bill again. I’m over that. Yes, I’m still counting points. Why do you think I’m in such a bad mood all the time? And, thank you, I’m no longer worried that my left elbow is bigger than my right. I’m just deformed. I’ll live with it. No, today I’m just tired.
That’s all there is to it. Tired. I don’t care anymore about winning the lottery, I don’t care about getting a new minivan. I don’t care about being swept away to a tropical paradise where I instantly turn into a size 0 and my breasts get perky again. I don’t care about anything but sleep.
You’re probably not going to feel sorry for me because my situation is not unique. I’m a mom. And to just one kid – a two-year-old boy– but just one kid all the same. “Oh shut up,” my Aunt Edna always says, “I had four kids in two years. You don’t even know tired.”
Please….just this one time…don’t tell me you have it worse…..don’t be like my cousin Shirley who constantly whines about how bad she’s got it. Waa, waa, waa. I’ve got three kids. We live in a trailer with my great Aunt Nadine who keeps losing her teeth while my no-good husband is in Nashville trying to make it as a country/western singer in between shifts at the nude car wash.
Maybe she does have it worse, but just for today. Take one minute out of your day to listen to a stranger. I won’t tell you the story of my life. I won’t even tell you the story of my week. Just let me tell you about my day. That’s all I ask.
He gets up at 5am. Which means I get up at five am and throw him another day-old cereal bar so he can watch cartoons while I get ready. Oh I know I know about that whole cartoon will rot his brain stuff. I was worried about it for about two weeks and then I got over that. I’ll trade rotted brain for some moments of quiet.
So I get one eyebrow done and I hear something that I know means trouble - silence. If you’re a mom and you hear silence, run.
In our house, junior’s silence usually means he’s either got the cat caught up in another death grip that he innocently refers to as playing – or he’s naked. In this case it’s the latter.
I follow the trail of pajamas and socks and diaper pieces (he can’t just take the thing off, he’s got to shred it in the process) and I get to where my beloved son is standing on top of his train play table playing my pee pee’s a water gun and firing on a helpless line of stuffed animals as well as anything else he deems worthy of death by pee pee – which now includes my bathrobe which is the price you pay when you startle an unsuspecting pee shooter. They’ll turn on you. That was just the beginning.
He refuses to get in his car seat because he thinks the dead leaf on the window is a bug, and he’s suddenly developed a terrifying phobia for anything smaller than a fly and lets out a terrifying shriek that can be heard all over the world – a shriek which he now finds to be quite fun and so continues shrieking without ceasing for a good twenty minutes – seeing how high up he can get in octave without breaking glass.
He sings Jesus Loves Me This I Know to the sweet foreign gentleman working at the gas station who apparently was not in a singing mood which did nothing to deter junior from singing it louder and louder with more urgency as if threatening to pull out his weapon and pee the poor man to death. I got a dirty look from this old lady beside me and I said, “What? We’re witnessing. Would you be interested in a pamphlet?” That shut her up.
I spend forever in the gym parking lot trying to find the ten-cent red rubber nose he found earlier in the week on the floor of the auto shop that had now rolled under the car. And he’s crying in jags stopping only to hold his breath and I’m under the car screaming, “I’ll give you something to cry about young man” and secretly hoping he doesn’t start holding his breath again – cause the gym nursery won’t take ‘em if they’re blue.
Oh, and get this. He chokes on a piece of gum at the grocery store – right in front of the feminine products, which is just Murphy’s Law. And I pounded him on the back a couple of times like we do to Uncle Willy when he eats steak without his teeth, and the gum finally shoots out. And it was really a crisis, ‘cause that was like my last piece.
And this little old lady gives me this sour look like it was my fault that Junior threw his sandal into her grocery cart and pulled over a display of oranges before I could catch him. And she’s all sour-faced and looking at me like I was something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe, and I’m like, “Look old woman, cut me some slack, he’s not even my kid. Check the milk carton in the back.”
He’s figured out how to roll down the window (used recycled Pintos don’t come with child window locks) and in the course of a four-minute conversation I had on my cell phone (telling my sister why I will never shop at the Wally Mart again) he manages to get his window down, work his way out of his clothes and throw them out, along with his diapers and his socks and his shoes, at intervals along highway 68. All of this in four minutes, while still strapped in and without making a peep. This from a kid who can’t keep the food on his fork from the plate to his mouth.
I could go on, but I’m not. Because I just don’t have the energy is why. And that’s why I’m here. Hiding in the bathroom. While he’s out there. Somewhere. Plotting. Scheming. Lurking. Help me! It’s only 10am. I’m tired.
I have to talk quietly so he won’t hear me. If he hears me, he will find me, and I haven’t had a moment to myself all day. That’s why I’m sitting here in the bathroom sucking on a lollipop wishing it were a Marlboro, and clutching a bottle of cooking sherry. I just need a moment to vent. And I don’t have anybody. So you’re it.
No, it’s not about the gas bill again. I’m over that. Yes, I’m still counting points. Why do you think I’m in such a bad mood all the time? And, thank you, I’m no longer worried that my left elbow is bigger than my right. I’m just deformed. I’ll live with it. No, today I’m just tired.
That’s all there is to it. Tired. I don’t care anymore about winning the lottery, I don’t care about getting a new minivan. I don’t care about being swept away to a tropical paradise where I instantly turn into a size 0 and my breasts get perky again. I don’t care about anything but sleep.
You’re probably not going to feel sorry for me because my situation is not unique. I’m a mom. And to just one kid – a two-year-old boy– but just one kid all the same. “Oh shut up,” my Aunt Edna always says, “I had four kids in two years. You don’t even know tired.”
Please….just this one time…don’t tell me you have it worse…..don’t be like my cousin Shirley who constantly whines about how bad she’s got it. Waa, waa, waa. I’ve got three kids. We live in a trailer with my great Aunt Nadine who keeps losing her teeth while my no-good husband is in Nashville trying to make it as a country/western singer in between shifts at the nude car wash.
Maybe she does have it worse, but just for today. Take one minute out of your day to listen to a stranger. I won’t tell you the story of my life. I won’t even tell you the story of my week. Just let me tell you about my day. That’s all I ask.
He gets up at 5am. Which means I get up at five am and throw him another day-old cereal bar so he can watch cartoons while I get ready. Oh I know I know about that whole cartoon will rot his brain stuff. I was worried about it for about two weeks and then I got over that. I’ll trade rotted brain for some moments of quiet.
So I get one eyebrow done and I hear something that I know means trouble - silence. If you’re a mom and you hear silence, run.
In our house, junior’s silence usually means he’s either got the cat caught up in another death grip that he innocently refers to as playing – or he’s naked. In this case it’s the latter.
I follow the trail of pajamas and socks and diaper pieces (he can’t just take the thing off, he’s got to shred it in the process) and I get to where my beloved son is standing on top of his train play table playing my pee pee’s a water gun and firing on a helpless line of stuffed animals as well as anything else he deems worthy of death by pee pee – which now includes my bathrobe which is the price you pay when you startle an unsuspecting pee shooter. They’ll turn on you. That was just the beginning.
He refuses to get in his car seat because he thinks the dead leaf on the window is a bug, and he’s suddenly developed a terrifying phobia for anything smaller than a fly and lets out a terrifying shriek that can be heard all over the world – a shriek which he now finds to be quite fun and so continues shrieking without ceasing for a good twenty minutes – seeing how high up he can get in octave without breaking glass.
He sings Jesus Loves Me This I Know to the sweet foreign gentleman working at the gas station who apparently was not in a singing mood which did nothing to deter junior from singing it louder and louder with more urgency as if threatening to pull out his weapon and pee the poor man to death. I got a dirty look from this old lady beside me and I said, “What? We’re witnessing. Would you be interested in a pamphlet?” That shut her up.
I spend forever in the gym parking lot trying to find the ten-cent red rubber nose he found earlier in the week on the floor of the auto shop that had now rolled under the car. And he’s crying in jags stopping only to hold his breath and I’m under the car screaming, “I’ll give you something to cry about young man” and secretly hoping he doesn’t start holding his breath again – cause the gym nursery won’t take ‘em if they’re blue.
Oh, and get this. He chokes on a piece of gum at the grocery store – right in front of the feminine products, which is just Murphy’s Law. And I pounded him on the back a couple of times like we do to Uncle Willy when he eats steak without his teeth, and the gum finally shoots out. And it was really a crisis, ‘cause that was like my last piece.
And this little old lady gives me this sour look like it was my fault that Junior threw his sandal into her grocery cart and pulled over a display of oranges before I could catch him. And she’s all sour-faced and looking at me like I was something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe, and I’m like, “Look old woman, cut me some slack, he’s not even my kid. Check the milk carton in the back.”
He’s figured out how to roll down the window (used recycled Pintos don’t come with child window locks) and in the course of a four-minute conversation I had on my cell phone (telling my sister why I will never shop at the Wally Mart again) he manages to get his window down, work his way out of his clothes and throw them out, along with his diapers and his socks and his shoes, at intervals along highway 68. All of this in four minutes, while still strapped in and without making a peep. This from a kid who can’t keep the food on his fork from the plate to his mouth.
I could go on, but I’m not. Because I just don’t have the energy is why. And that’s why I’m here. Hiding in the bathroom. While he’s out there. Somewhere. Plotting. Scheming. Lurking. Help me! It’s only 10am. I’m tired.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Queens of Comedy
QUEENS OF COMEDY...A STUDY OF FUNNY WOMEN
by Kelly Swanson
www.kellyswanson.net
Being a comedian and a professional speaker, I know a lot of funny women. Some of them get paid for their sense of humor, others use it as a tool to get through life. I just returned from a quarterly meeting of the NSA/Carolinas (www.nsacarolinas.org) where I had the joy of engaging in endless side-splitting conversations with some of North Carolina's funniest women. I place a high value on humor and the ability to stay on the funny side of life. So what makes these women the queens of comedy? I'm starting the list and a survey. Please let me know what you think is a trait funny women have in common.
WHAT DO YOU THINK FUNNY WOMEN HAVE IN COMMON? I'D LOVE TO KNOW. SEND ME YOUR ANSWERS.
Here are some of my favorite funny women:
www.kaliferguson.com
www.libfowler.com
www.jeannerobertson.com
www.evanovich.com
www.pamelacable.com
Cherie Nettles - www.columbiaafterdark.com
Brooklin Greene - look for her on Myspace.com
Laura Hamilton - find her on the www.nsacarolinas.org site
Here's to wishing you all a little more humor in your day.
Kelly Swanson
It's all fun and games 'til the hair gets messed up
www.kellyswanson.net
kelly@kellyswanson.net
by Kelly Swanson
www.kellyswanson.net
Being a comedian and a professional speaker, I know a lot of funny women. Some of them get paid for their sense of humor, others use it as a tool to get through life. I just returned from a quarterly meeting of the NSA/Carolinas (www.nsacarolinas.org) where I had the joy of engaging in endless side-splitting conversations with some of North Carolina's funniest women. I place a high value on humor and the ability to stay on the funny side of life. So what makes these women the queens of comedy? I'm starting the list and a survey. Please let me know what you think is a trait funny women have in common.
- They have the ability to laugh at themselves
- They know what they can control and what they can't
- They don't aim for perfection
- They know that happiness is a choice
- The find the funny in life instead of waiting for the funny to come to them
- They aren't afraid of looking silly
WHAT DO YOU THINK FUNNY WOMEN HAVE IN COMMON? I'D LOVE TO KNOW. SEND ME YOUR ANSWERS.
Here are some of my favorite funny women:
www.kaliferguson.com
www.libfowler.com
www.jeannerobertson.com
www.evanovich.com
www.pamelacable.com
Cherie Nettles - www.columbiaafterdark.com
Brooklin Greene - look for her on Myspace.com
Laura Hamilton - find her on the www.nsacarolinas.org site
Here's to wishing you all a little more humor in your day.
Kelly Swanson
It's all fun and games 'til the hair gets messed up
www.kellyswanson.net
kelly@kellyswanson.net
From the Page to the Stage
CREATION
A journey from the page to the stage
by Kelly Swanson
President, North Carolina Storytelling Guild www.ncstoryguild.org
August, 2006
I promised as President of the North Carolina Storytelling Guild, that I would do a monthly article on a topic of interest to storytellers. You can read the whole thing by going to my site. Otherwise, here are the bits and pieces.
A journey from the page to the stage
by Kelly Swanson
President, North Carolina Storytelling Guild www.ncstoryguild.org
August, 2006
I promised as President of the North Carolina Storytelling Guild, that I would do a monthly article on a topic of interest to storytellers. You can read the whole thing by going to my site. Otherwise, here are the bits and pieces.
YOUR STORY
Stop fanning yourself. This is not a religious discussion on creation. I mean creation in the artistic sense. We are artists. We create. We tell a story. Whether we dance, paint, sing, or play Beethoven’s Fifth on the jaw harp, we tell a story. A story about life. And when we tell this story we evoke an emotion from our audience. We take them to places in their own life or to distant lands where cultures are different but the emotions are the same. We are given our gifts for a reason. Our voices were meant to tell a story. And as artists, we spend our lives finding out what stories are in us to tell. It is important that you find YOUR story, YOUR message to the world, YOUR voice.
Note: A great book you should read on the kinds of stories you should tell: The Story Factor by Annette Simmons. Here's a link to her site: www.groupprocessconsulting.com
THE PROCESS STARTS INSIDE OF YOU
It starts with searching inside yourself (an ongoing process by the way) to find out what messages you have to share with the world. What stories your heart speaks.
WRITING WHAT YOU KNOW
WRITING WHAT YOU KNOW
Professional speakers are taught to speak about what they know, what life has taught them. I encourage you as artists to do the same. And to do so, we must at least wonder what our lives have taught us. What lessons have we learned? What sage wisdom have we stored up? What do we have to share with the world?
Note: Pamela King Cable is a southern writer who has really tapped into the heart of writing what you know. Here's her site: http://www.pamelacable.com/
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN MY LIFE
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN MY LIFE
If you’re like me, upon hearing this, you went “huh?” and wondered if maybe you should have filled out that Wal-Mart application after all. I went so far as to get out a piece of paper and write across the top, “Things I have learned in my life….” And I stared at it for like fifteen minutes and then went to get some chocolate and an aspirin for my brain cramp. But I came back to it and decided, oh what the heck, just start writing. And my list was started. I gave myself no rules, no limits, no boundaries. I told myself it could be serious, funny, religious, earth shattering or silly. The point was just to write and keep writing without thinking. To write about what my life has taught me. And I knew (I was right of course) that in this process some things would start to take birth. And I was right.
MAKE SURE THE LISTENER KNOWS YOUR MESSAGE
MAKE SURE THE LISTENER KNOWS YOUR MESSAGE
Make sure your listener knows the message. I am surprised at how often the teller isn’t even clear on the message, much less the audience. I know it sounds weird and maybe hard to understand. But nobody said creation was going to be easy. But you will be glad you went to the trouble because this is how you begin to find your voice, your attitude, the kinds of stories you want to tell. Shoot, you may even have the courage to start writing your own stories.
STARTING A LIFE JOURNAL
STARTING A LIFE JOURNAL
I want you to get a journal. Today. By journal, I mean a notebook with paper in it that can not be used for grocery lists or notes to yourself. Call it your life journal. This is not a diary. I repeat, this is not a diary. This is a place to start recording stuff. By stuff, I mean anything that gets your attention. I mean scenes that touch your heart, descriptions of people on the subway, funny ways to describe a drooling dog with three legs, what it feels like to get older, rants about voice mail and customer service, whatever you want to write. You don’t even have to write in complete sentences.
Keep the journal with you at all times. If you’re like me, you’ll have several in different places - your car, by your bed, in your purse. And I’m warning you to write this stuff down as soon as you think of it. You will not remember it tomorrow. What we’re doing here is recording the details in life so that when we sit down to write a story, we’re not trying to think of things off the top of our head. We can refer to our notebooks which over time will grow to be grand collections of material to use in our art.
Keep the journal with you at all times. If you’re like me, you’ll have several in different places - your car, by your bed, in your purse. And I’m warning you to write this stuff down as soon as you think of it. You will not remember it tomorrow. What we’re doing here is recording the details in life so that when we sit down to write a story, we’re not trying to think of things off the top of our head. We can refer to our notebooks which over time will grow to be grand collections of material to use in our art.
Here's a thought: why not create a blog and let your daily entries be your journal? I know. I'm a genius.
JOURNAL TOPICS
On some of the pages of the journal, give yourself a topic and write about it. Here are some of the topics I have used in mine:
· Funny names of people and towns (internet and phone book is a great place to look)
· Funny names of businesses
· Places I remember growing up
· My first love
· What it felt like to be a teenager
· If I had a week left to live
· Ways to describe a man with a long neck
· Things you don’t see in church
· The dinner table at a our family reunions
FINDING YOUR OWN VOICE
· Funny names of people and towns (internet and phone book is a great place to look)
· Funny names of businesses
· Places I remember growing up
· My first love
· What it felt like to be a teenager
· If I had a week left to live
· Ways to describe a man with a long neck
· Things you don’t see in church
· The dinner table at a our family reunions
FINDING YOUR OWN VOICE
IF YOU STILL DON'T GET IT
Email me (Kelly@kellyswanson.net) and I will be happy to respond. I suggest that you start your journal first, get used to it for a little while, and then if you still have questions let me know.
SHARING THE JOURNEY
I’m excited to walk along this journey with you - the journey to discover your unique voice. Trust me, you have a gift. You were given this gift for a reason. We need your voice. Until we meet again, happy creating!
Kelly Swanson
It's all fun and games 'til the hair gets messed up
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