__________________________________
Night Notes / Mountain Edition
By Stephanie Kemp
Night Notes / Mountain Edition
By Stephanie Kemp
Sometimes I wake up and don’t know where to begin.
This only happens in the mountains, when I am alone.
(It always starts with writing.)
When I am home with my husband and daughters, I always know where to begin. (It always starts with coffee with husband, then hot breakfast with daughters at the kitchen counter, diner style.)
I love both wake ups, even though I’m often angry at the first one. (What if I can’t start? What if I have nothing to say? What if I can’t read my illegible middle of the night scribbles and my genius thoughts are lost forever? What if no one gives a shit?) And I sometimes take for granted the second wake up, even though my daughters are the reason I write* and these coffees and breakfasts are often my favorite times of day.
But I digress……
(I am in the mountains.)
Time to start.
*I wonder if this is true?
Here are some Scribbled Notes from the Night:
_______
Helpers and High Priestesses
Dear Sug-ryl,
You are everywhere. This both fuels and flattens me. I can’t escape you, which infuriates me, except that once my fury subsides, I can’t shake your words, about:
Moms.
Grief.
Teenagers.
Swearing.
Trying.
Succeeding.
Failing.
Money.
No money.
Risking.
Rinsing.
Repeating.
All That We Pretend Not To Know, When We Know We Actually Do.
(Not to mention the outrage of unsolicited Photoshop! Fuck you,Vogue!)
So now what?
Am I supposed to thank you?
Most recently (just after binge watching your show, devouring your book and reading your monthly newsletter), I heard you say (something like) this to GlenAbbDa (I am the same sort of furious with them, even though and especially because they remind me that I Can Do Hard Things):
“I love my wine.
It’s my reward for the day.
I’m not an alcoholic, but I drink it almost everyday while I make dinner.
It’s become a bad habit.
I’m dulling my edges.
We need our edges!
I wake up with tiny hangovers.
I have to change my thinking.
I don’t want to give it up, but I am going to try to treat it like birthday cake…
…which I would never eat everyday.”
Genius!
It is so genius that I am writing this at 5:43 am, which is a miracle for me because it means that I slept straight through until morning.
This clearly only happened because I didn’t drink wine last night!
(I would never eat cake everyday, either.)
So, (for now), thank you. But when I remember that I am (supposed to be) French, we might have to revisit this whole wine thing.
I will undoubtedly see/read/hear you soon.
Maybe I won’t be so angry because I’m not drinking so much wine.
Sincerely,
Stéphanie
_______
Pop(ped) Culture
When I was growing up, my shows were:
The:
Brady Bunch
Waltons
Munsters
Flintsones
Jeffersons
Love Boat
(I have never seen The Simpsons…….shhhhhh)
Lost in Space
Happy Days
Three’s Company
Little House on the Prairie
Eight is Enough
Fantasy Island
Mork & Mindy
School House Rock
Land of the Lost
They shaped me and kept me company. I was a TV junky.
My dreams got about as dark as trying to steal Mork from Mindy or meeting Larry for a drink at the Regal Beagle, but mostly I was in a pool on a boat never getting sea sick while making up rhymes in my head about the brilliant structure of our constitution.
But what will our kids dream about?
I’m not saying saying I don’t love Handmaid’s Tale, Black Mirror, Breaking Bad and (the first 76 seasons of) The Walking Dead, but I do think about these things.
Especially as I try to figure out a way to keep my daughters from discovering (at least season one of) Fleabag a little while longer and keep them away from Euphoria (forever).
I am not kidding.
(And very glad that neither one of them seems to remember their dreams*, even though this sounds terrible.)
*just the pop culture based dreams…I hope they will remember (and hold on to) the rest of them.
_______
A (Writer’s) Knock Knock Joke*
Knock, Knock.
Who’s there?
I have no idea but you better write it down or it will just keep knocking.**
*It’s not supposed to be funny. (Unless it is.)
**Or worse……
_______
THE PITCH
To: Victoria
From: Stephanie
How dare those fuckers try to shut you down or out. (And I’m still really sorry we never called you back on Wild Wild West, but man did you show us!)
“Hot Flash & The Anger Ball(s).”
(This is not a joke.)
Badass menopausal superheroes move through the world making it safe and fun (not to mention spin), while mocking all of the idiots who don’t/can’t/won’t see what they do.
Not giving a shit (because they are so much wiser than everyone else), the superheroes never give up on the idiots, (not only because they might love some of them but) because they know that everyone can be an idiot sometimes, including themselves.
(And because they have each other to laugh and swap notes with.)
This is what it means to be human, and Hot Flash & The Anger Ball need to make sure every human (including the idiots) know this.
On Planet Earth…
In 2023 (and the years after that if we get any)…
The stakes couldn’t be higher.
_______
The Loan Out
The reason I feel so frantic arriving or leaving the mountains is because I always feel like I’m on loan out from my real life off the mountains.
Somewhere in my thought process I locked the idea that my writing can only exist in a shadow life.
I need/want to/can/will change this thinking.
I need/want to/can/will blur these edges.
You’ll see.
(And by you, I mean I.)
ps. To my daughters who think I like it better here in the mountains, I do. But I love it there with you more than anything in the whole world, including everything I like. Combined……Times infinity.
(I am obviously still working on the math, but I never want you to worry about me like I worried about my mom, so I am trying to stay tethered to who I was/will be without you needing me. It is coming fast.)
pps. To my husband who is rightfully grumpy on the days I come home from the mountains still dancing in the clouds, I get it. It is how I feel after I’ve been the lone man (am I allowed to say that?) on the ground for more (or less) than a couple of days. Especially when no one understands what happens to my brain up here, including me. (The same thing happens when you go to your version of the mountains, which might actually be a food tour and include a guitar, or three.)
pps. To anyone who is trying to figure out what the hell I am talking about: We all (still) want to do big shit and/or interesting things. And be able to trust and come back to our home base, which is different for everyone (if you are lucky) and always shapeshifting (if you are very lucky).
_______
ACOAnyone
Because it’s true.
We’re all fucked up and/or accountable.
We all need to be let off the hook,
And so do our parents.*
Plus, I can only make fun of the Cat Lady now because I learned so much at the meetings then. (But then I remember that I shouldn’t make fun of anyone, which I also learned at the meetings, so I stop and then start again.)
And everyone should know the Serenity Prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
ps/another good thing to know if you are the Adult Child of Anyone:
Keep coming back. It works if you work it.
*Unless they don’t. I can only speak for myself. I (also) learned this at the meetings.
_______
Dear Sugar,
It is four days later.
No wine.
Tons of writing, lots of it shitty (plus two paragraphs and three sentences I can’t wait to revisit).
Not a single face to face conversation.
Little talking (at all).
No music, no TV, no visitors.
It was awful/some.
I have been thinking about why I chose to address you you as “Sug-yrl” in my letter the other day…Not Sugar. Not Cheryl.
…Why I wouldn’t give Glennon, Abby and Amanda the respect or space of using their full names in that same letter.
…Why I wanted to smash everyone into a High Priestess ball of mush, instead of letting anyone help me or giving anyone’s name respect and space on a page.
It’s because sometimes I listen to too many people and lose ownership of my own thoughts. My own voice. My own confidence in both.
It’s because I still don’t give my own name respect and space on the page.
My name is Stephanie Kemp. (No accent.)
I am a writer.
A writer who at the top of the pandemic,
Right after my mom died,
Just as my (but mostly my daughters’) world was shutting down,
Needed to write because there was nothing else she could do.
I started Zooming and FaceTiming and talking with other writers.
Women.
Mentors.
Contemporaries.
Colleagues.
One to one, they helped me.
Collectively they started to smother me.
Obviously this was no one’s (and no one’s) fault.
So I wrote a writing rule on an index card every day* for two months to keep my bearings. To separate the chalk and cheese. To keep me going.
Despite appearances, I like rules. (Especially if I feel like they are my own.)
This week in the mountains by myself I found my rules in the sock drawer.
The Sock drawer!
Fuck that. I am pulling them out. They deserve, at the very least, to (at least!) be put in my Proof of Life box.
They helped me.
Maybe they can help someone else.
Even though (or especially because) they’re not shiny.
(I said I was a writer, not an author. No offense - except maybe a tiny bit, to go with the tiny bit of jealousy that goes with my only sometimes feelings about writers turned authors.)
Or maybe they’ll end up back in the drawer and my daughters (or their daughters) will find them once I kick and apply them to whatever it is they want to do/try/find/make/write/try again.
I hope they will.
I hope they give themselves the respect and space to do what they want (in their bones) to do.
I hope they are scared (but always safe!).
I hope they will thank the high priestesses for me, as some of my rules were gleaned from something they said, tried, sucked at, wrote down, laughed at, cried over,
Shared.
(Or maybe I’ll thank them myself. Especially if I got a good night’s sleep and/or can read my own writing.)
*Stephanie’s Writing Rules
This only happens in the mountains, when I am alone.
(It always starts with writing.)
When I am home with my husband and daughters, I always know where to begin. (It always starts with coffee with husband, then hot breakfast with daughters at the kitchen counter, diner style.)
I love both wake ups, even though I’m often angry at the first one. (What if I can’t start? What if I have nothing to say? What if I can’t read my illegible middle of the night scribbles and my genius thoughts are lost forever? What if no one gives a shit?) And I sometimes take for granted the second wake up, even though my daughters are the reason I write* and these coffees and breakfasts are often my favorite times of day.
But I digress……
(I am in the mountains.)
Time to start.
*I wonder if this is true?
Here are some Scribbled Notes from the Night:
_______
Helpers and High Priestesses
Dear Sug-ryl,
You are everywhere. This both fuels and flattens me. I can’t escape you, which infuriates me, except that once my fury subsides, I can’t shake your words, about:
Moms.
Grief.
Teenagers.
Swearing.
Trying.
Succeeding.
Failing.
Money.
No money.
Risking.
Rinsing.
Repeating.
All That We Pretend Not To Know, When We Know We Actually Do.
(Not to mention the outrage of unsolicited Photoshop! Fuck you,Vogue!)
So now what?
Am I supposed to thank you?
Most recently (just after binge watching your show, devouring your book and reading your monthly newsletter), I heard you say (something like) this to GlenAbbDa (I am the same sort of furious with them, even though and especially because they remind me that I Can Do Hard Things):
“I love my wine.
It’s my reward for the day.
I’m not an alcoholic, but I drink it almost everyday while I make dinner.
It’s become a bad habit.
I’m dulling my edges.
We need our edges!
I wake up with tiny hangovers.
I have to change my thinking.
I don’t want to give it up, but I am going to try to treat it like birthday cake…
…which I would never eat everyday.”
Genius!
It is so genius that I am writing this at 5:43 am, which is a miracle for me because it means that I slept straight through until morning.
This clearly only happened because I didn’t drink wine last night!
(I would never eat cake everyday, either.)
So, (for now), thank you. But when I remember that I am (supposed to be) French, we might have to revisit this whole wine thing.
I will undoubtedly see/read/hear you soon.
Maybe I won’t be so angry because I’m not drinking so much wine.
Sincerely,
Stéphanie
_______
Pop(ped) Culture
When I was growing up, my shows were:
The:
Brady Bunch
Waltons
Munsters
Flintsones
Jeffersons
Love Boat
(I have never seen The Simpsons…….shhhhhh)
Lost in Space
Happy Days
Three’s Company
Little House on the Prairie
Eight is Enough
Fantasy Island
Mork & Mindy
School House Rock
Land of the Lost
They shaped me and kept me company. I was a TV junky.
My dreams got about as dark as trying to steal Mork from Mindy or meeting Larry for a drink at the Regal Beagle, but mostly I was in a pool on a boat never getting sea sick while making up rhymes in my head about the brilliant structure of our constitution.
But what will our kids dream about?
I’m not saying saying I don’t love Handmaid’s Tale, Black Mirror, Breaking Bad and (the first 76 seasons of) The Walking Dead, but I do think about these things.
Especially as I try to figure out a way to keep my daughters from discovering (at least season one of) Fleabag a little while longer and keep them away from Euphoria (forever).
I am not kidding.
(And very glad that neither one of them seems to remember their dreams*, even though this sounds terrible.)
*just the pop culture based dreams…I hope they will remember (and hold on to) the rest of them.
_______
A (Writer’s) Knock Knock Joke*
Knock, Knock.
Who’s there?
I have no idea but you better write it down or it will just keep knocking.**
*It’s not supposed to be funny. (Unless it is.)
**Or worse……
_______
THE PITCH
To: Victoria
From: Stephanie
How dare those fuckers try to shut you down or out. (And I’m still really sorry we never called you back on Wild Wild West, but man did you show us!)
“Hot Flash & The Anger Ball(s).”
(This is not a joke.)
Badass menopausal superheroes move through the world making it safe and fun (not to mention spin), while mocking all of the idiots who don’t/can’t/won’t see what they do.
Not giving a shit (because they are so much wiser than everyone else), the superheroes never give up on the idiots, (not only because they might love some of them but) because they know that everyone can be an idiot sometimes, including themselves.
(And because they have each other to laugh and swap notes with.)
This is what it means to be human, and Hot Flash & The Anger Ball need to make sure every human (including the idiots) know this.
On Planet Earth…
In 2023 (and the years after that if we get any)…
The stakes couldn’t be higher.
_______
The Loan Out
The reason I feel so frantic arriving or leaving the mountains is because I always feel like I’m on loan out from my real life off the mountains.
Somewhere in my thought process I locked the idea that my writing can only exist in a shadow life.
I need/want to/can/will change this thinking.
I need/want to/can/will blur these edges.
You’ll see.
(And by you, I mean I.)
ps. To my daughters who think I like it better here in the mountains, I do. But I love it there with you more than anything in the whole world, including everything I like. Combined……Times infinity.
(I am obviously still working on the math, but I never want you to worry about me like I worried about my mom, so I am trying to stay tethered to who I was/will be without you needing me. It is coming fast.)
pps. To my husband who is rightfully grumpy on the days I come home from the mountains still dancing in the clouds, I get it. It is how I feel after I’ve been the lone man (am I allowed to say that?) on the ground for more (or less) than a couple of days. Especially when no one understands what happens to my brain up here, including me. (The same thing happens when you go to your version of the mountains, which might actually be a food tour and include a guitar, or three.)
pps. To anyone who is trying to figure out what the hell I am talking about: We all (still) want to do big shit and/or interesting things. And be able to trust and come back to our home base, which is different for everyone (if you are lucky) and always shapeshifting (if you are very lucky).
_______
ACOAnyone
Because it’s true.
We’re all fucked up and/or accountable.
We all need to be let off the hook,
And so do our parents.*
Plus, I can only make fun of the Cat Lady now because I learned so much at the meetings then. (But then I remember that I shouldn’t make fun of anyone, which I also learned at the meetings, so I stop and then start again.)
And everyone should know the Serenity Prayer:
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
ps/another good thing to know if you are the Adult Child of Anyone:
Keep coming back. It works if you work it.
*Unless they don’t. I can only speak for myself. I (also) learned this at the meetings.
_______
Dear Sugar,
It is four days later.
No wine.
Tons of writing, lots of it shitty (plus two paragraphs and three sentences I can’t wait to revisit).
Not a single face to face conversation.
Little talking (at all).
No music, no TV, no visitors.
It was awful/some.
I have been thinking about why I chose to address you you as “Sug-yrl” in my letter the other day…Not Sugar. Not Cheryl.
…Why I wouldn’t give Glennon, Abby and Amanda the respect or space of using their full names in that same letter.
…Why I wanted to smash everyone into a High Priestess ball of mush, instead of letting anyone help me or giving anyone’s name respect and space on a page.
It’s because sometimes I listen to too many people and lose ownership of my own thoughts. My own voice. My own confidence in both.
It’s because I still don’t give my own name respect and space on the page.
My name is Stephanie Kemp. (No accent.)
I am a writer.
A writer who at the top of the pandemic,
Right after my mom died,
Just as my (but mostly my daughters’) world was shutting down,
Needed to write because there was nothing else she could do.
I started Zooming and FaceTiming and talking with other writers.
Women.
Mentors.
Contemporaries.
Colleagues.
One to one, they helped me.
Collectively they started to smother me.
Obviously this was no one’s (and no one’s) fault.
So I wrote a writing rule on an index card every day* for two months to keep my bearings. To separate the chalk and cheese. To keep me going.
Despite appearances, I like rules. (Especially if I feel like they are my own.)
This week in the mountains by myself I found my rules in the sock drawer.
The Sock drawer!
Fuck that. I am pulling them out. They deserve, at the very least, to (at least!) be put in my Proof of Life box.
They helped me.
Maybe they can help someone else.
Even though (or especially because) they’re not shiny.
(I said I was a writer, not an author. No offense - except maybe a tiny bit, to go with the tiny bit of jealousy that goes with my only sometimes feelings about writers turned authors.)
Or maybe they’ll end up back in the drawer and my daughters (or their daughters) will find them once I kick and apply them to whatever it is they want to do/try/find/make/write/try again.
I hope they will.
I hope they give themselves the respect and space to do what they want (in their bones) to do.
I hope they are scared (but always safe!).
I hope they will thank the high priestesses for me, as some of my rules were gleaned from something they said, tried, sucked at, wrote down, laughed at, cried over,
Shared.
(Or maybe I’ll thank them myself. Especially if I got a good night’s sleep and/or can read my own writing.)
*Stephanie’s Writing Rules