Category: Writing

Writing

Post three years in the making: Car Accident.

Alexandra Diane

I have been wanting to write this for a while, but now that I have a chance to put all my feelings into words, nothing feels right. At the beginning of December, my lawsuit was finally complete. For three years, they have prevented me from writing about the car accident that changed my life. Though if you were to ask the opposing counsel, the witch of a woman, would have you trying to believe nothing happened to me. The car accident did far more than ruin my back. The mental toll had lasting effects that affected not only myself but my family.

So if I am going to start, I will start from the beginning. 

It was late July, the week before teachers were supposed to return to school. The kids and my husband were going to have pizza for dinner that night and I didn’t want to miss out. However, the only place that sold the gluten-free frozen pizza I wanted was Target on Northlake. Usually, this wasn’t a big deal. Going to Target was and still is my favorite mental escape. Only it had been pouring that day and I did not want to take the highway, so I took military instead. Everything was great. Traffic was following at a decent speed and life was good until it wasn’t.

There is always traffic near PGA Blvd and I took that into account. I wasn’t speeding, and I wasn’t tailgating. As I passed under the I95 overpass and saw the brake lights and knew PGA was backed up. I reached Garden Lakes DR and the dark SUV in front of me suddenly put on their brakes, causing me to brake as well. I had enough time from when I stopped in the rain to think thank god I didn’t hit them. But that’s where my luck ran out. I heard tires, and I clenched as a white van slammed into the back of my F150. 

Thankfully, the airbag wasn’t released. I have had that happen before and that is just awful. The burn of the airbag hitting your skin burns and the chalk makes it hard to breathe. 

In this accident, my seat belt locked and pulled me tight to my chair. My cell phone launched from the cupholder and onto the ground. Because my phone was Bluetooth-connected, I dialed 911 without handling my phone. I moved my truck one lane over to the turn lane, so I wasn’t blocking traffic anymore and waited for the police. When the police showed up they had me and the van move to the parking lot nearby. 

I gave the police all my information, then took pictures of my truck and the van. I am so glad I did because the only pictures shown during my legal case were the ones I took. Hell the witch didn’t even show the van during our mediation meeting, trying to show how “little damage” my truck received. When they asked me if I needed to go to the ER I shook them off. Looking back now I wish I would have just gone because I wouldn’t have had to listen to the nasty witch accuse me of not being in pain. Apparently she’s never heard of adrenaline. Because when that wore off when I was walking through Target my lower back and leg were feeling something fierce cutting my trip short. 

One of the weird things that I thought I imagined was the driver of the van asking me “Is the man okay?”

“What man?” I asked.

He looked back at my truck. “There wasn’t a man driving?”

I shook my head confused, “No, I was driving.”

It wasn’t until my lawyers and I talked about a year later did I see the police footage with that conversation. It still is so strange. 

I always joked that my guardian angel was too busy stopping my car and that he didn’t have time to stop the van from hitting my truck. 

The day before my accident, I had an MRI. I had completed months of physical therapy for my shoulder and occlusally my lower back during my cycle. The issue with my shoulder was over stretching the ligament with how I was sleeping. The reason I was always getting an MRI of my back was because my sciatic nerve was a pain in the ass during my cycle.

My need to find out why I was in pain was used against me. The witch took the doctor’s note and left out the parts about why I was having leg pain. I don’t know how many times I wanted to scream during mediation that what she was saying was incorrect. Instead she called me a liar, saying all my pain from the accident I had before. So many times I wanted to say “yes I had random pains that would leave. But now for the last three years I have not had my leg burn. That’s how I know it isn’t the same.” 

The witch’s purpose in life was to make sure the insurance company paid as little or nothing as possible. That meant dragging me through the mud, questioning all my life choices. During this process I learned lawyers aren’t there to discover or show the truth, they are there to cover you with dirt. She insisted I had no additional damage from the accident. Which I did. 

I was thankful I had a childhood friend as one of my lawyers. Before he could say anything, my head lawyer called out the witch for attacking me. She tried to pull the female card, saying, “I’ve been practicing law for blah blah years and no one has ever accused me of attacking someone.” 

While she was going on her tangent about disrespect, I was wracking my brain trying to remember where my Nero said my injury was. I had received multiple epidurals and was trying to set up an appointment for a nerve ablation. If I had pains before, why had none of my doctors ever done this for me? Before the accident, my spine was in excellent shape, deemed “beautiful.” Which it still was until you reached the bottom spine. That is where my Nero and all the radiologists saw my herniated disks, spinal stenosis, and that my L4/L5 was squishing the disk. The disk was pinching the nerve, sending the pain down my leg for the last three years. 

Pointing this out to my lawyers, they countered her smug response that her radiologists saw nothing wrong with my spine. Apparently, her radiologists were like most doctors I’ve dealt with. They probably saw my age and just half assed glanced at my scans. I am grateful for my lawyers. I have always had to defend myself so often with my medical history. It was amazing to have someone on my side, challenging the narrative, and exposing the witch was ripping and twisting reality. 

But I couldn’t bring something up during the whole legal process. The mental anguish that I went through. The reason I was told not to bring it up was for the reason above. If I brought my mental health into the case, then the witch would rip a part of everything that I had gone through in my past. I hated that. I didn’t need someone questioning anything more about me.  

It was painful to not be able to write about what was going on with me. Things that have changed about my body may seem minor to others, but for me, it has deeply impacted my life. I tend to avoid basic chores because bending for dishes or laundry will pinch the nerve and will set it into overdrive. But I can’t actually avoid them, so I have to suck it up and know that after chores, I will need to stretch. If I don’t move to get my nerves to calm down, I’ll be in pain for the rest of the day because 99% of the time, it is too early in the day to take a muscle relaxer. I have three kids. I can’t be a zombie or have my house be in shambles. So I make due as I always have in life. 

I have lived in pain for my whole life. Before finding out I had celiac disease, my joints would lock up, my digestive track was near shredded, and there’s a laundry list to go with everything else. Although this pain was new, I was not new to pain. There was no way I would allow myself to be a victim to pain. My perseverance is what kept me from falling apart these last three years. It’s about the only thing aside from my husband that kept me from spiraling into the dark abyss of depression when I could not do things I enjoyed. 

Adelyn started cheering about six months after my accident. That’s when I discovered how limited my range of motion had become. I have always been a hyper flexible person and when she started learning different moves, as basic as they were, my back would not allow me to bend. I could not show her how to do a simple backbend because my back just stopped. Also, I learned I could not hold the scorpion stunt. The moment I bent backwards to bring my foot to my head, my back seized. Instead of a scorpion’s tail, I became a jumbled mess of limbs. 

My physical therapist always joked about how bendy I am. Which is true, I am still bendy. But I can no longer go as deep into a Sirsa Padasana pose as I once was. The Sirsa Padasana is when you lie on your stomach and touch your toes to your head. I could wrap my toes to my chin. I can now barely reach my back. 

Limited flexibility was something I could live with. It wasn’t as if I was walking around like a contortionist in my spare time. However, what I could not live with and needed to remedy right away was the amount of pressure that my spine would be in after getting out of the pool. I have spent nearly all my life in the water. For 13 years of my life, I was a competitive swimmer and as I aged out of competing, swimming was a way to relax. I had never experienced pain before when pressing off out of a flip turn. That was supposed to be a point of power to keep me going while I was exhausted, instead, as I pushed off the wall, I would get jolting pain shooting up my leg and into my spine.

My legal battle ended over a month ago, and the pain hasn’t left. I’d love to send the witch a letter or a link to my blog. I know she’s seen it before. I watched her page hop through every single blog post that dealt with my health. I’ll never know if she was planning on using it against me. But if she had tried I would have asked her. I know every single pain in my body. I have documented it for the world to see. This one is new, now old, but new to the list of shit that has tried to destroy me my whole life. 

I don’t know how people can defend companies like they are human. It’s as if insurance companies suffer when paying the injured. I could call them fire drakes or other things that like to hoard wealth. But human, no. I’d like to think we all still have a sliver of decency that when people get hurt, we take care of them.  

Writing

All about Spookables

Alexandra Diane

By: Adelyn (Age 7)

***Adelyn was nervous about the hurricane. The power kept flickering as the evening went on. So I suggested that she and her brother should look for Spookables. (The monsters from Winnie the Pooh.) Quicky, she grabbed her and her baby brother a flashlight and they spent an hour going around the house looking for Spookables. By the time she was done, Adelyn asked if she could use one of my notebooks to write a story and I said, “Of course.” ***

Please enjoy the story she wrote to distract herself from the storm:

All Spookables live in the attic. Be careful because the moment you get in they will gobble you up. The zombies like brains. The vampires like your blood. The ghosts like to scare you. The ogres like your muscles to eat. The werewolves like our meat to eat. Now you know what Spookables eat. All Spookables like to workout. Ogres love to work out.

There is an unknown Spookable I just figured out who she was. She turns into a human! She’s the only Spookable that shapeshifts. She’s lonely. Now she’s my BFF. She’s was a big light. She was scared at first, but not anymore.

Writing

Passport please

Alexandra Diane

What countries do you want to visit?

If I had all the money in the world and an unlimited amount of PTO so I could take vacations throughout the year and come back to work, oh the places I would go.

Scotland in the fall to experience the stunning autumn highlands wrapped in luxurious sweaters without breaking a sweat. Portugal in the spring, to dine on delicious seafood and amazing wine. I would love to drink Ginjinha while walking down the streets weaving in and out of the stunning architecture. Eventually I would love to explore Germany, although I’m unsure about the ideal time of year would be. I’d steer clear of October, there will be far too many drunk than I care to interact with. Summers would be saved for Ireland, so when it’s raining, cold, and chilly, there’s at least a bit of warmth. While I have been to London, I want to explore all of England. I have read so much about the history that I feel like I have already explored most of the country in my head.

It would be a dream to venture off to Tortosa, Spain. During the second week of July, the town recreates its Renaissance history. Neighborhoods fly their respective banners and colors while the town folk dress in lavish period costumes. The streets and storefronts are decorated with flaming torches and banner. Over 3,000 people partake in the 16th century extravaganza. Even restaurants prepare period recipes. Street performers do their best to encourage everyone to participate in the party.

But once I’m done with Europe and exploring all the castles in history that I have read about throughout my lifetime, I think I want to stay State side.

Our country is rich with history. Each state feels like their own country with different people and different ways of living. Most states of their own unique stores and food that you wouldn’t find over state lines. I can drive across my state of Florida and end up in different towns that are nothing like my own. I used to crave leaving the United States, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to appreciate what’s around me.

So hand me a passport or just some magical job with freedom and an unlimited traveling budget.

Writing

Kevlar and Camo 

Alexandra Diane

Write about your first crush.

My first crush is the man that I still kiss goodnight. But our journey was not a simple path. The returns, twists and tricks of fate. They made us work for it. I spent years living in the what if. What if I had answered the question when I was 15? What if I would have reached out throughout college? But now my, what ifs are something different?

It’s something silly. But not silly haha. It’s a silly glimmer of hope. For one day, my husband would feel comfortable enough to share his stories with the world. Ones of sugar cookie soldiers and Pop-Tart attacks.

I should be grateful for everything that he has done. Being a survivor. Never becoming a statistic.

I say it’s by the grace of God he did not become one of those 22 a day. However, he argues I deserve credit for saving him from a potential bullet to the brain.

A large part of me believes that hearing from an E5 or an E6, someone who Hollywood hasn’t glorified. Their stories might help those who the media has jaded. Maybe a glimpse into the lives of those who were not officers. Those who lived through the war knocking on death’s front door.

My husband has demons he keeps inside. I think back, wondering how he survived.

The first picture that he sent me after a lifetime a part was something I was not prepared for haunted eyes. I missed the face that once held laughter and mischief. The man before me had lost his soul along the way. 

Next year, it’ll be a decade together. Now, in almost every picture, his eyes shine bright. I wish I could get my husband to write. To share what brought him through the darkness, but also what led him there.


His stories could bring more than laughter. They might let other soldiers know they are not alone.

Stories could open the eye of people who have become jaded. Everything that was served for the public to understand the wars of our brothers, who have become the wars of our sons, was drafted to cause fear. 

His stories could help those who fought know not everything was in vain. Our troops helped many and saved some who would only try to kill them later.

For those who remain, their stories should be told. But to get my soldier to put his pen to paper. He asks me would read stories of an everyday joe. The world craves glamour like the Seals, Green Beret, or Delta. He was just a soldier that lived day to day.

There have been days when he thinks he should tell his story. However, he dreads the notion that some will believe he seeks only glory. But the reality is he just aspires to be sure that his friends who didn’t come home have their story is heard.

Writing

Angelic Findings Summary

Alexandra Diane

For over the last decade, the Angelic Findings manuscript has undergone multiple revisions. At the core, the story has stayed the same. A deceitful angel with a sly smile tricks our female lead into believing she’s safe with him, however she’s anything but. It feels like it’s been a lifetime developing the characters into something more than weak and whiny characters needing to be saved. For the first time I am feeling content with the story and because of that I have been able to write a summary, knowing these key points will not change. So without further ado, the Angelic Findings summary!

Cassandra’s battle with anxiety and insomnia is amplified by a mysterious nighttime phantom and her cousin Molly’s chaotic lifestyle. Despite her own fears and family problems, Cassandra attends a gala where she meets a mysterious man named Anderson. After a tense conversation at the bar, Cassandra stumbles upon a burglar in a restricted room and manages to foil his escape. The Angelic Findings’ soldiers storm in without making any noise and apprehend the burglar. This encounter leaves Cassandra with a mix of emotions and questions about the mysterious events of the night. The founder, Anthony Glau, pursues her. As they engaged in conversation, Cassandra’s initial unease grows as she observed unusual traits in Anthony. 

Anthony discloses his role in orchestrating the incident at a gala. He reveals video evidence of her unique abilities, claiming to want to protect Cassandra. Cassandra reflects on her family struggles and confronts the man, who hands her a photo showing angel wings behind her at the gala. She is shocked and curious about her own abilities. Despite feeling invaded, she stays to learn more about herself.

Cassandra vanishes from her family for three days. Upon her unexpected return, she awakens after a week of being unconscious. Cassandra discovered she possesses unusual powers. Molly helps her deal with her new abilities and introduces her to a kitten. However, a terrifying creature that turns things to stone appears, shattering their peaceful time. With the help of Anthony, they narrowly escape the danger. 

Cassandra and her cousins, Molly and Jonathan, land in a dark room. Anthony reprimands Cassandra for using excessive energy. Tensions rise as Cassandra confronts Anthony for not preventing the danger. He reveals they were never alone when the kitten transforms into the angel Puriel. This is a surprise to everyone because Puriel is Molly’s late fiancé. 

Anthony explains the significance of Cassandra’s mixed blood and the looming threat from the dark angel Azrael. Puriel interrupts their private moment, covered with blood and a gaping wound.

Anthony’s village is under attack by demons led by Azrael, wreaking havoc and causing chaos. Jonathan, amidst the turmoil, is entrusted with caring for angelic infants. When he feels his sister is in trouble, Morse, a dark-haired angel, takes Jonathan to an armory. Morse tells him to be careful before rushing to help. But Jonathan is too late. Azrael captures Molly.

Cassandra nervously waits outside the infirmary as healers desperately try to save Jonathan, who has been impaled by a spear. Despite insisting on seeing him, Anthony stops her, warning that the healer’s power is too dangerous for her. Overwhelmed by the fear of losing Jonathan, she lashes out with her fiery abilities. After finally seeing Jonathan, she discovers that he has been given a chance at life, but at a great cost – he will transform into a spirit. As she struggles to make sense of the situation, Cassandra finds herself drawn to Anthony, despite her anger and confusion. Eventually, they find solace in a peaceful meadow. But Cassandra’s guilt and uncertainty about Anthony’s true intentions linger.

Cassandra and Anthony explore stunning landscapes, and Anthony teaches her about angelic education, baby angels, and power struggles among angels. When they reach a grand building, the attendants strip Cassandra, bathe her, and dress her in opulent attire. Led into a daunting hall of ArchAngels, she defies their commands and asserts her autonomy. The revelation that she is the daughter of a goddess and bound to Anthony as his soulmate leaves her fuming. Anthony is tasked with taking her away to navigate the impending conflict with Azrael.

Trapped in a gilded cage by Anthony, Cassandra is determined to take control of her destiny. Despite her fear and guilt, she resolves to save Molly from the monstrous angel Azrael. Discovering her latent powers, Cassandra experiments with fire and breaks free from the confinement. As she learns about her divine heritage and family history, she forms a bond with Puriel. Together, they embark on a daring escape from the palace, defying the oppressive forces that seek to control them. 

Struggling with physical pain and emotional turmoil, Cassandra receives an unexpected offer from Anthony, but she hesitates, feeling unready for the commitment. Amidst their playful interactions, the moment is shattered when Cassandra is dragged underwater. As she fights for her life, a sense of urgency and danger unfolds, leaving her in a perilous predicament.

Puriel, in falcon form, searches for Anthony and Cassandra. He finds them far from where he left them and notices a mysterious mark on Cassandra. Puriel and Anthony discuss her powers and determine she’s too powerful to bring along. Puriel shares news about Molly’s well-being and they plan to move Cassandra away from Azrael. Despite temptation, Puriel refrains from taking action. They agree to focus on getting Cassandra away from Azrael, dealing with her anger later.

Cassandra wakes up in a strange place next to Anthony. She questions him about his intention towards her. A disturbance at the door prompts Anthony to leave Cassandra alone, and she finds a small garden outside. There, she encounters a dragon-like creature that heals a mysterious mark on her leg. Anthony later reveals that she is being tracked and insists that she stays in the house. Despite his military duties, they eventually engage in intimate activities, leading Anthony to refer to her as his wife before she falls asleep.

Cassandra wakes up to the scent of cinnamon and finds Anthony at the foot of the bed, ready for breakfast. They banter and share pastries, which contain the angelic food ambrosia, suppressing hunger and providing sustenance. Anthony teases Cassandra, and they playfully struggle over the last bite of pastry. Later, she prepares herself for a formal dinner, and Anthony surprises her with a marriage proposal. Despite feeling betrayed, Cassandra faces a tense moment as she tries to resist her conflicting emotions for Anthony.

Cassandra awaits her fate as a wedding planner turned goddess, observing the lavish affair through a window. Her cousin Jonathan appears, bringing comfort and company. In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, she is trying to understand her feelings for her fiancé. Tensions rise, secrets unravel, and the crowd’s reaction is far from welcoming. Cassandra seeks familiar faces for support, only to find herself engulfed by the unsettling atmosphere of the grand event.

Cassandra is ushered towards a throne, feeding her doubts about Anthony’s true intentions. Molly, her cousin, appears and warns her about Anthony’s deception. As Cassandra ascends the throne. The throne proves to be alive and fuses with her, imbuing her with divine powers. After an intense ceremony, she is left weak and hungry, but surrounded by supporters. Amidst tension with her husband and a confrontation with her rival, she asserts her newfound authority with a defiant act.

Grappling with her new reality, Cassandra struggles to come to terms with her transformation and the responsibilities that come with it, Cassandra steps away briefly, she entrusts her friends with the task of observing the unfolding events, seeking potential treacherous guests amidst the celebrations.

Cassandra, seeking solitude, finds herself in a garden where she encounters Anderson. He reveals he was meant to be her guardian angel. Anderson cautions Cassandra about the risks of ambrosia and attempts to display its effects. This leads to a transformation in Cassandra, revealing her hidden abilities. This unexpected turn of events leaves Anderson in awe of Cassandra.

Cassandra finds herself in a confrontation with Anthony, questioning his secrecy and manipulation. She challenges his motives and expresses her frustration with his lies. Anthony reveals his need for her to rule as a Demi-god, but Cassandra resists, asserting her independence and refusing to be used. In a final showdown, Anthony attempts to control her, but Cassandra defiantly asserts her true self. The tense encounter concludes with Anthony ordering her confinement, suspecting a threat to the palace.

Cassandra, angered, is locked in a room by Anthony. She sets the room on fire before Gabriel appears. She questions the concept of soulmates and the motives behind the power struggle. Gabriel explains the potential consequences of binding her soul and the true nature of soulmates.  He explains a plot to control both worlds by obtaining Cassandra’s soul. He reassures her that she is not bound by love. Gabriel reveals the fallen state of angels and the limited intervention in the human world is revealed. She seeks to save her cousin Molly and embarks on a journey with the guidance of Gabriel. Along the way, Cassandra faces doubts and challenges, questioning the true nature of those around her. 

Writing

Do I vote?

Alexandra Diane

Do you vote in political elections?

Every November and even some random months, I can’t remember. I would go with my mom to the small Baptist Church at the corner of our neighborhood and we vote. When I was little, I asked her why we were doing this and she said it was to help pick the rules. When it came to voting on bills, she made her selections. But for the local officials I asked were they and she said judges and school board members and other people. And I asked again, “who are they?” Sometimes she would shrug and say I don’t know another time. However, if she knew who the person was, she wanted to vote for them. If she didn’t know, she would let me pick a name that I liked. Hopefully, I was good at picking names when I was a child. 

When I turned 18 years old, I had already registered to vote. My 18th year was a presidential election. Unfortunately, I could not vote. I remember looking at the calendar and cursing my birthday because election Tuesday fell 2 weeks before my birthday. I was so mad I couldn’t take part in the election.Some of my friends or classmates told me “you know your vote doesn’t matter right.” And I looked at them and I said “yeah it does.” They said, “Your vote doesn’t really matter when it comes to the president.” I was confused and asked, “What about local bills and laws? We’re voting for officials that go to DC and to Tallahassee. Voting involves more than just deciding who the president will be.”

I’m not sure how everybody was raised or what history they were taught when they were children. But my parents always instilled in me that it was our right to vote and that we need to take advantage of it. Because if you didn’t vote, you couldn’t complain. And another thing, women had just earned our right to vote. 

I was born in 1986, that’s only 60 years after women earned the right to vote. This generation that I teach seemed to be a little disconnected from the reality that we’ve only had the right to vote for the last hundred years. To them, 100 years seems so long ago. But when I was their age, there were women alive who remembered not having that right. And it’s not even just about the right to vote that we fought for, because it was a fight. It’s everything else that comes with it. I’ve heard stories about my friend’s Aunt, who, despite having a full-time job with better pay than her father, still needed him to co-sign for her house. That is one generation removed from the women who fought for our right to vote. 

I grew up reading books and watching documentaries about America’s history. Some books were fiction, and I thought their stories were exaggerated and what women dealt with. It was hard for me to believe that men would cast stones at women, drag them through the streets and lock them up because they wanted to vote. I thought surely that was something that was only hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Not something that would have happened 66 years before my birth. But I watched the documentaries, listened to first-hand responses, saw the pictures. 

How could I not vote? 

Recently, and by recent I mean maybe only three years ago, my great aunt, who does a genealogy for our family, posted a picture of a woman on my Facebook feed. She wore a dark fitted dress with a high white collar, little buttons ran down the center, and a pocket watch chain hung at her hip. This is one of my relatives who would come over from Ireland in search of a better life. She worked as a maid for a rich family in New York City. All, while being a part of the suffragette movement, she fought for our right to vote, because she just left a country where women earned their right to vote in 1918.

So when I look at the prompt, and it asks, do I vote… The answer is unequivocally yes, it is quite literally in my blood. 

Teaching, Writing

My Career has never been one direction

Alexandra Diane

What is your career plan?

What’s my career plan?

Well, that’s a loaded question.

Twenty years ago, I would have told you I wanted to be a scriptwriter. I had all these wild dreams about heading out to Hollywood and writing movies. However, after spending a summer in Santa Monica, Venice Beach, and exploring California, I decided that it wasn’t the place for me. It wasn’t long before I gave up this dream. I never stopped writing, but scripts were no longer my focus. This was back in the early 2000s, the idea of working virtual wasn’t an option. So I changed directions. 

One direction was where I would live. I love the east coast. It’s the best coast. The people, the weather, and the speed of life  — something about it fuels my soul where the west coast sucked the life out of me. Now I had to add something else to my plan. Where I would live. I had always thought I could live anywhere. That wasn’t true. I need humidity to thrive and the sea breeze washed away my worries. So my living situation had become a key factor in my career search. Virginia, North Carolina, Savannah or even my home state of Florida were where I wanted to grow my professional life. 

My professional life needed to match what brought me joy. That’s being creative. I have had jobs in the past where I was stuck in a cubical filling out excel spreadsheets and staring at the wall daydreaming when I could leave. This meant applying for jobs out of state. Florida is great for hospitality but not so much for those who want to work in film, news or marketing. The rational part of my brain knew I might have to leave Florida. But because I was young and dumb, I received more than a few job offers I regret not accepting. 

Sometimes I want to shake that girl. Tell her to take the risk before starting a family. I traveled enough to know that I could leave. I could survive. However, I didn’t want to leave the person I was dating. Even when I knew it wasn’t a forever, end game type of relationship. All of this is laughable because in my late twenties I left a job in political news to move to a different country for my ex husband. 

That didn’t last. I felt lost for the months I lived there. I was supposed to focus on writing, but depression set in.I didn’t have something that was mine to keep me busy. Other things also fueled my negative experience. I wrote short stories and wrote the manuscript Angelic Findings. But none of that left me satisfied. I needed to know I was doing something worthwhile. 

When I returned from Brazil, they offered me my job back. But things weren’t the same. The election ended, and the company did a massive downsizing. I was one of the handful of  people cut. This sent me down a different path. For about six months, I was an editor and producer for a financial show. It was weird. Every edit was under a microscope to be sure it was in compliance. Eventually, I left that job and ended up working for a local news station. 

I liked it there. I love how busy and chaotic things were. Hurricane days and breaking news kept things busy. Only I was missing time with my family. Birthdays skipped, vacations missed, holidays put on hold until my shift was over or I woke up from a nap. I needed a change. But I couldn’t follow my dreams of accepting a job in Virginia. We couldn’t leave. My parents are here and they help with my kids. And my stepson’s mom lives here as well.  I wanted to leave. I still want to leave. But I couldn’t. I can’t. So I left the only thing I could. I left my career in news. 

`However, I didn’t leave the world completely.  I ended up teaching, and it’s been oddly enjoyable. 

I work with students, teaching them how to write scripts, create films and edit mini news packages. I’m able to do all the things I love everyday, without having a boss breathing down my throat for insane deadlines or people trying to undercut each other for a raise. However, the students do that to each other daily. I try to explain to them that A. We’re not saving lives, it’s not serious. And B… to just do the work their lives would be that much easier. 

Sometimes I stare at them and wonder what the future of our world will be. They do some dumb shit on the daily. It makes my brain hurt and I wonder if they eat lead paint chips as babies. But at the same time, most are incredibly sweet. They genuinely want to learn. I’m talking about my high school students. My middle school students had me wanting to jump off a bridge with cement feet. 

So this is my twisty turny career path, always something creative, never leaving Florida. One day I’ll escape. I’ll have a cottage in the woods, far away from people. But until then, my students will slowly drive me insane, wondering if their strange ideas doom or save humanity. 

Writing

Shower Thoughts: Favorite Director

Alexandra Diane

So this may be a little disjointed. These were shower thoughts.

I went through film school, never having an answer to who my favorite filmmaker was. That was I did not care who made the movie as long as it was a good story. And I wasn’t following any writers because I knew it didn’t matter what the writer wrote. The production house would change their story. But as I got older, I noticed a trend. With my limited free time, my husband and I have found ourselves watching a lot of Guy Richie movies. And I look back and most of the films from college and I thoroughly enjoyed his films.

 Although I couldn’t answer that, I now understand why I can answer it. I absolutely love how he is the writer and the director for most of the films he works on. I love his storytelling and his nuances. All the hidden clues he has throughout his films. 

Right now we’re watching the Gentleman series. I LOVED the movie. The show follows the same story line. However, I was surprised to find out that I could differentiate the episodes he directed from those directed by other people. 

I’ve never been one to follow someone’s body of work, especially with film. Which is odd since that’s what I choose to study in college. If anything, I follow authors. They have full control of the story released where filmmakers have far too many cooks in the kitchen that either things are forgotten, removed or someone adds way too much salt to the dish. 

I think this is also why I’ve stopped going to the theater. Movies and shows seem to be more organic on streaming services. I’m not sure how true that is, but they seem closer to the filmmakers’ vision compared to a big box office release. We don’t see many directors coming out with a director’s cut for their Netflix film. In my mind, it’s because they released the film they wanted audiences to see. 

When I was at FSPA last month, I was talking to a teacher from a rival school. Their students are notorious for creating well done films. One exercise they do with their students is to create a short emulating their favorite filmmaker. It got me to thinking, was there any party of a Guy Richie film I could show my students? Which then made me think of how heavily I would have to censor the dialogue or get parents to sign off on allowing their children to hear F bombs drop every other word. Which I don’t understand how that’s a problem since they do it anyway during class. 

But now I have plans for the summer. Watch movies and see if I can find pieces to show that won’t offend their fragile little minds. 

Writing

A Very Monday Monday

Alexandra Diane

There are days when I just want to work, not teach, but work. The last few days I have been compiling the 2-hour video premiere showcase thing that my school hosts at the end of the year. It represents the collective work of all the students. Not all but the best of the best. Some aren’t the best of the best but have great moments or highlight students that have put effort throughout the year. But I miss it. I miss just editing and fixing sound. In this case, I didn’t play with the color. I felt it was important that parents should see the color and the video that their kids created. Although I leveled the sound so eardrums didn’t burst and I made sure the audience could hear the words that were recorded. 

I started working on an after effects template that highlights pictures students sent me. I wanted the parents to see how much fun their kids are having and realize that their support has been worthwhile.

But I just miss focusing on working. 

I try to look at teaching as if I’m training the next set of creators. But somehow I have become a sounding board for my students. 90% of the time I do not mind it. I love listening to gossip and I no longer watch reality television or much TV anymore because the shit they say is highly entertaining. But at the same time, I wish I could just shake them. Tell them everything that they’re freaking out about is not that big of a deal. For the seniors that are graduating. All the drama that they’re facing right now goes away. They are moving on with life to an adult life where nobody cares. The campuses they’re about to enter are massive, so even if they have a former classmate at the same university, they might never see each other. 

I just miss working. I miss being creative without having to listen to my students bitch and moan about stuff that I’ve taught them repeatedly. I don’t understand why they can’t just get it through their thick skulls to write it down. I have them fight me tooth and nail to take notes. I look at my desk and it’s covered in sticky notes. I have notebooks filled with information and ways to help me, so I don’t forget things. But my students, dear God, you think I was asking them to run a marathon with a weight strap to their ankles. When I say hey, bring out your notebook and write this down, so when you forget, you don’t have to ask me 15 times. 

Today was exhausting. I woke up at 3:00 in the morning with a baby who is teething. He did not fall back asleep until 5:00. I slept through all of my alarms and somehow made it to work on time because of my husband. Thankfully, he took both children to where they needed to go this morning then drove 45 minutes south to work. 

I’m just tired. Only 16 school days remain and they will be packed with one exam after another. And I wish I could use those 16 days to show my students how to do something amazing. Instead, even if I tried to do that, the school district is picking up their laptops on Monday. So we will have two weeks of no computers. Which is great for a television production class. I wonder who makes these decisions and if they actually know the stress that they’ve just put on teachers. I doubt they care because most of the people that make these decisions were never in a classroom. 

Strangely enough, I looked at teaching as a way to earn my freedom back. Being an adult is so consuming. You work more than you see your family. You spend more time in an office or a cubicle with no windows. And if you’re a teacher, your windows must be covered. You cannot open them to see the sunshine in fear of somebody losing their shit and doing something violent.

But as I sit here in traffic, staring at the sign that tells me two miles to my exit, I am thankful that the universe stopped me. For an hour I stare at the sign, looking up from my book. After today, I needed to shut down. I needed to breathe after the chaos that was the last period of the day. I didn’t want it to be a turned over tractor trailer blocking my exit and I hope everyone involved is okay. But I am grateful for the reprieve. Because I had a chance to sit and think and I know the words that I want to use for the closing credits of our premier show. 

Tomorrow I get to go back to editing Angelic Findings. This has been a nice break, but I miss living in that world fleshing everything out. 

Writing

Do what terrifies you

Alexandra Diane
Bloganuary writing prompt
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
View all responses

I’ve taken bold steps like skydiving, leaving my old life behind to live in a foreign country where I didn’t speak the language, and transitioning my career from something I’ve done since I was fifteen years old – to teaching teenagers. However, I find nothing as terrifying as sharing my writing with the world. If skydiving takes a wrong turn, I’m dead. If living in a foreign country doesn’t work for me (which it really, really, really, didn’t) I could just return home. And my students will eventually graduate, leaving whatever memories of me to just that, memories. But when I bare my heart and soul into my work, I am leaving myself exposed to criticism from the world. I am allowing strangers a chance to read my work and comment on what I’ve shared. 

Growing up, I would write short stories and scripts. I didn’t know how to write in proper screenplay format, but that didn’t stop me. I would warn whoever read my work that I was still learning, and they were my friends. They didn’t know any better. But something happened when I reached college. I still wrote as an escape, especially from math class, but I stopped sharing my work with nearly everyone. I went from sharing my work with anyone who had an email address to just a very select group of people. I became terrified of two things: 

  1. People not liking my writing and telling me it was trash.
  2. I didn’t want anyone to know I had severe dyslexia. 

I was an awful speller and had atrocious grammar. Part of me feels that the public school system failed me. However, after working in the system, I know it did, but it wasn’t the teachers’ fault. So much red tape ties their hands that it is nearly impossible for them to actually teach. But that is a story for a different day. I didn’t become secure with my writing until I graduated from college. Even then, I had to break out of the technical academic writing and return to the creative style I love most. 

My biggest breakthrough was working with my writing life partner that I’ve tortured for nearly the last decade. We would spend hours going over my work in google docs. Watching him live, edit my writing, and explain what I’ve done wrong was better than any degree I could have achieved. He helped me understand the points that I missed in school. I’m sure they were taught at some point, but my young brain didn’t absorb the information. Another thing he did was tell me when my work was trash. But he didn’t just say, “Alex, this is shit.” He would say, “Alex, this is shit because….” and we would work on expanding and correcting the issues. Our edit sessions have whittled because of time as we have grown older. Kids have gotten in the way of my hobbies. He, apparently, has something called a life. However, he has not been released from his blood oath of helping me finish my work 🙂 

Time, care, and attention is what pushed me through my darkest moments as a writer. I’ve learned time and time again that the masses may not enjoy my work. However, I learned to appreciate those who like my work. Maybe one day I’ll be a famous author. Maybe I won’t. But I won’t let my fears trap me again.