He has a System that must be adhered to.

A System that involves lists.

He writes lists solely meant to direct him to other lists. The “Music I Own But Haven’t Listened To” list. The “Just Bought” list. The “Only Listened Once” list. He uses Random to navigate these lists. The System involves finding a title on a book, movie, or album cover. He randomly chooses a number, like 8, and counts eight letters down the title. Whatever letter he lands on now has to be translated into its own number. If he lands on “D,” his new number will be 4. He references back to his list and counts down four. What he lands on is what he will listen to.

There were clues from the beginning that a System was ruling Aaron’s less essential life choices. Sometimes I saw him tapping his fingers against surfaces, like a child does when learning to count. Or I’d spot him mouthing numbers to himself, reciting some mysterious formula in his head. Slowly, I figured out what was going on.

He was reticent to explain the gory details, but like a serial killer must confess his crimes, Aaron needed to confess his compulsions. For instance, how most of his System revolved around the number eight.

“Eight is the most random number there is,” he told me when I noticed he wasn’t just turning on the iPod in the car but first tapping against the steering wheel.

“So, wait,” I said. “You use ‘8’ every time?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not really . . . random, is it?”

But he won’t budge on the subject. Eight is the perfect random number, the number ruling Aaron’s life. Even after twenty-something years, I’m still stumbling upon new areas of Eightdom, and often tease him that Random is his religion.

Several years ago, something changed. As far as I could tell, Aaron wasn’t using his System anymore. I saw no finger tapping, no number-mouthing. I confronted him. Had he given up his System? Abandoned his precious number eight?

He didn’t want to show me, but couldn’t resist.

“I have found the ultimate Random,” he confided, eyes as feverish as the newly indoctrinated.

He opened his laptop and nodded toward the open window. It was a simple webpage, not much to it at all—just a few lines to create parameters for optimal number generation.

Aaron had found his mecca, his muse, a perfect device to scratch the itch.

He’d discovered “random.org.”

Enjoyed this dispatch from the church of random? This is On the Page: Home of my true stories (essays, short-form memoir, flash, the occasional unclassifiable) . . . some of which escape the page and end up told live onstage. Subscribe and you’ll get more where this came from, aka true stories, oddballs, oral storytelling and thoughts on producing a live storytelling show when you’re a person who’d really rather go cocoon in their hidey hole.(Subscribing costs $0, and Aaron would want you to know that zero is not a random number.)

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And if you’d like to hear MORE oral storytelling: I co-run In a Nutshell Storytelling in Sacramento, where curated true stories get told live on stage, some shared here on Substack. Come see one.

xoxo, Amy Bee, who thinks 3 is a waaaay better number.

I had no idea taking this little abstraction from a longer story would have the life it’s had. It has wings because, as someone whose live stories run around 15 minutes each, I was determined to write something that could be told in 5ish, and this is the one that’s worked the best so far. Will I even be able to put it back into the story from whence it came? I don’t think so! I think it’s its own thing now, and I’m okay with that.

Please enjoy and let me know what you think! And, so, if you may remember in Page to Stage, I confessed that the name “Brenda Parker” is that of a school friend, and I used it because it has nice strong consonants (and I can’t remember the name of the mean girl(s!) from the lunch line). I mentioned that I was pretty sure it wouldn’t matter because what were the chances that the real Brenda would catch wind? Well, it’s still a pretty darn slim chance, but just in case, just saying here again, Brenda was a rad girl and not a bully at all; she just has a great name to spit out in the middle of a story, ha ha!

Thanks, and we’ll talk soon—real soon! xoxo, Amy

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1

You’re an assistant manager working the graveyard shift. Every night, you organize the aisles, count the cigarettes, stock the cooler. They hired Gary to help you out, take care of customers and clean the store while you order inventory and reconcile the register—an assistant to the assistant.

Gary’s an old Harley guy who smiles when you ask him to brew the coffee but calls you a cunt as soon as you’ve turned your back. You thought he liked you, but he doesn’t, not really. He’s tolerating your high-pitched voice, your hysterical request to get the trash done in a timely manner, your bitchy fifth reminder that inventory is your job and could he please mop the floors before the morning rush—

You’ve learned that Gary is a man whose ego is easily bruised, which really means Gary is a man, so you do what all women learn to do and humor the man. He’d rather save you than take orders from you, so you are now perpetually distraught. Distraught by the mess in the bathroom? In swoops Gary. Overwhelmed by the floor-to-mop water ratio? Gary to the rescue. Frazzled and defeated by a string of customers? Gary will offer you a smoke break like he’s handing taffy to a six-year-old. You don’t know why men love a veneer of confidence with a nougaty center of helplessness, but you do know that if Gary’s thinking of you as a firecracker of a woman rather than a cunt, it’s safer, and you can get your shit done.

You’re in the middle of this delicate and humiliating dance when a neighbor calls the store to say she saw your Ex climbing through the window of your apartment. You cradle the phone with your shoulder, watching Gary’s face grow red as he takes apart the nacho cheese dispenser. Angry at doing women’s work, you suppose. His fingers leave cheese prints all over the steel counter, the nacho trays, the backroom sink. Like a little boy waging petty revenge against his mother.

You stifle a groan, thank your neighbor, and hang up. Your face is probably raging red now, too, thinking of your Ex sitting in your apartment, TV on, razzing your cat, smoking your pot. Waiting for you to find him, the fucker. If you leave now, you’re arming Gary with ammunition—he knows about your shitty Ex, you know he’s expressed concern about you to your boss—but what else can you do?

“Gary, I have to run to my apartment. There’s a situation,” you say, trying for apologetic, but your voice sounds clipped even to you. “You’re gonna have to do the rest of this yourself. Sorry.”

You drop your clipboard onto the counter, hurry through the glass doors, and make a mad dash toward your apartment across the street. The word cunt rings in your ears as the doors whoosh closed behind you.

2

How could you have fucked that guy, that asshole sitting right there on your couch. Watching your TV. Smoking your pot. Why did you ever let him move in with you? What were you thinking? Were things going too well, and so you had to throw a bomb into the mix? And he is a bomb, a dirty bomb ready to spray chunks of metal and hatred onto anyone standing in the path of his kamikaze suicide. And you—look at you. You chose to be the one standing in the blast range.

Half-eaten nachos splay on his lap. Nachos from your store, probably served up by your coworker. A greasy dribble of cheese hangs from an arrogant grin. He knows. He knows he’s pushed you too far, and he likes the feeling. He likes you down in the gutter with him. You reach for the tray on his lap; you want to spill that shit all over his weasel dick. But he’s faster than you, up and over the coffee table and shoving you against the wall before you can even begin your tirade. He’s been ready, waiting for this moment for who knows how long. Maybe forever.

You fight back at first. You push against him and bite his arm when he throws you to the carpet. He grinds your face so hard and deep into the beige shag that you can taste the pellets of cat litter stuck to your lips. You try to buck him off you, but he’s not just angry; he’s crying, wailing, waging war against demons much bigger, much older than your measly, nothing relationship.

You realize you’ve made a mistake; you’re not capable of handling a bomb. So you go as slack as you can. You wait him out. He flips you over and calls you a dyke and a bitch and a lesbo and a whore, and you stay as silent as can be. Long strings of snot and slobber fall on your face as he sobs, but you don’t move an inch. When his hands wrap around your throat, you don’t flinch, and you don’t look away. He’s holding on for dear life, repeating like a prayer I hope I gave you AIDS, I hope I gave you AIDS. And there you remain, in a frozen embrace, until the cops come banging on the door.

3

Only the drunks are put in holding cells. The rest of you are ushered into a room with the kind of plastic seats that plague DMV’s and other places where women and poor people are forced to sit and wait. A sort of purgatory where time is suspended, and you’re left with only your dark ruminations and your stupidity to keep you company. The walls are white; there are no clocks. There are no windows, and there are no friends. You wait, all of you. For your mug shots. For your fingerprints. For your cell and your onesies, the color of nacho cheese.

The cop who arrested you was apologetic. He wanted to save you, help you out of your situation, but the domestic violence laws in Colorado say you’re both culpable, he explained, miming his hands tied up by an invisible force.

When you realized he was going to arrest you even though you were the one who’d almost died on a shitty beige carpet, you hastily handed over the weed in your pocket, and he seemed to care about your predicament a little less. When you said you lived alone, paid your own rent, and that fucker over there broke in, he seemed to disapprove. When you admitted, yes, those were your teeth marks on that asshole’s arm—but you were defending yourself! —and pointed at the ring of faint bruises left like bath scum around your throat, his face grew stoic. Your tears pretty much turned him into a stone. Let’s let the system sort it out, he said, avoiding your eye, refusing to be manipulated by your apparent female helplessness.

It’s not your first time in this place. It’s not going to be your last. There’ll be many more times when you’ll undress in front of someone you’d rather not, when you’ll have to say yes, sir, rather than no. You’ll try to look tough, unaffected by your circumstances, and when they wear you down, you’ll just try to look like someone they’d rather harm than kill.

Listen: If you’re quiet and follow their direction, chances are good they won’t pick you out. Don’t bother with logic or question their motives. It’s safer to shuffle along; keep your wrists slack so the cuffs don’t bite. They’re unimpressed by your story or your history or any of the reasons that led you here. They’ve heard it all before, and honestly, they’d prefer not to hear you at all.

Chin up, honey, you’re not the first to mistake bemusement for affability or tolerance for equality, or to think it was respect when really, they were indulging you (until they weren’t). You’re not new or unique. You’re just another woman in jail.

You’re just another woman sharing spaces with men.

This flash memoir essay was shortlisted for a Memoir Magazine contest around 2020 and shared here in 2024. I’m resharing it now because I’ve been crafting it into a piece to tell onstage (short and long versions) and want to share those versions with you via Page to Stage (where my writing goes from the page to performed, messiness and fuck-ups included). Next month, I’ll show you the version I crafted specifically for ’s Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! (Have you gone? Oh, you should go! It’s here on Substack!) which is a lot shorter and rewritten in first person at Nan’s behest. So please enjoy this original version now, as I will be slicing, dicing, rewriting and upcycling every lil’ bit of it for the stage. It’s all for the stage, all of it! Muahahahaha! xoxo, Amy Bee

This is On the Page, aka true stories, some of which end up told onstage. Next month, this one does: I’ll show you what survived the cut and what didn’t. Subscribing is free, and the essays always will be.

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I WAS AT A HOTEL restaurant and asked the waitress—

Well, first off, we bonded because I was sweating and she asked, is the AC not working?

And I’m like, no, it’s just me, and I give her a look.

And she’s like, I understand completely.

And I’m like, girl?

And she’s like, girl!

And I’m like, why are we calling each other girl?

And she’s like, right?!

And I’m like, it just makes no sense.

And she’s like, we’re literally burning through the last of our girl cells and turning into dust.

And I’m like, word!

And she’s like, wow, I haven’t heard anyone use that phrase in a long time.

And I’m like, let’s bring ‘word’ back.

And she’s like, okay, I’m down.

And I’m like, the patriarchy is never gonna die if two fifty-year-old women are calling each other girl.

And she says, oh, we’re on that again, are we?

And I say, it’s just men call women girls until one day they call them ladies, you know? I mean, what the fuck? Check out THAT subtext.

And she’s like, you’re right, we shouldn’t perpetuate that.

And I say, I always liked the term ‘lady,’ but now women hate it because they know the dude saying it is actually saying you’re unfuckable.

And she says, yeah, you’re a lady, and I only fuck girls.

And I say, ha-ha, you’re hilarious.

And she says, dust bunnies.

And I’m like, what?

And she says, when we hit the hot flash stage, we should call ourselves dust bunnies.

And I’m like, oh, that’s cute; you’re fucking brilliant.

And she’s like, word?

And I’m like, not just word, word UP!

And she’s like, word to your mama, and then we laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh, and she says, so what can I get you to drink?

And I ask, do you have Pepsi?

And she frowns and says, unfortunately yes.

So I frown, and I’m like, usually places only have Coke.

And she’s like, I’ve had people turn down a Jack and soda when they find out it’s Pepsi.

And I’m like, I love Jack and Pepsi.

And she’s like, that’s disgusting.

And I’m like, oh, I see what this is.

And she’s like, fuck you, bitch.

And I say, Pepsi is way better than Coke, you hot-flashin’ ho.

So she says, get your Pepsi-drinking ass out of my restaurant.

So I say, gladly, little lady.

And she’s like, oh fuck off.

And I’m like, back at ya, and I flip her off, and I start to leave mad as hell but stop short at the door and yell, it’s a conspiracy!

And she’s like, what?

And I’m like, everywhere I go, everyone serves Coke, and it’s hard to find a Pepsi.

And she says, bullshit, it’s Pepsi that’s everywhere and Coke that’s hard to find, and then she trails off, and we look at each other, and I slowly go back to my table and sit down, and she’s like, how about a Cherry Pepsi?

And I’m like, that sounds perfect, thank you.

And she smiles and says, it does, it really does.

Enjoyed this dispatch from the dust bunny frontier? This is On the Page: Home of my true stories (essays, short-form memoir, flash, the occasional unclassifiable) . . . some of which escape the page and end up told live onstage. Subscribe and you’ll get more where this came from, aka true stories, oddballs, oral storytelling and thoughts on producing a live storytelling show when you’re a person who’d really rather go cocoon in their hidey hole.

Subscribe now

And if you’d like to hear MORE oral storytelling: I co-run In a Nutshell Storytelling in Sacramento, where curated true stories get told live on stage, some shared here on Substack. Come see one. xoxo, Amy Bee, who LOVES Pepsi

(Nov 16, 2025 Originally published by sneaker wave magazine)

I’M NOT SURE WHEN my escape plan first formed. In the spring of ’99, just after I turned twenty-three, I was living on the streets of Fort Collins, Colorado, with Jay, a singer-songwriter, thinking we’d eventually hitch our way to California, where he allegedly had family. But he suddenly broke it off with me, listing my perceived flaws for the end of our several-month relationship in a matter-of-fact tone, like I’d failed an internship.

“You’re too snobby for life on the road,” he said. “I saw your face when you took a sip of that warm can of Sprite. You grimaced like you were drinking cat piss.”

His guitar was propped on his knee, and he lightly plucked the strings, listening for any untrue notes while he prepared for his turn at the open mic. A weathered outback fedora perched solemnly on his head, contributing to an overall aura of a young man who’d been places, done things. He’d traveled all the way from Ohio, after all. Him and his hat and his guitar.

“You can’t be picky on the road, Amy. Who knows how many warm Sprites you’ll have to live off of.” Strum. Pluck. Strum. “You have to live on what you find, what people are willing to give you. Graciously accept what the road offers. I don’t think you have it in you.”

He stretched his long, rail-thin legs, thumped each dusty cowboy boot on the dirty bar carpet as if in agreement with his assessment, and stood up. Then he adjusted the collar on his thin brown leather jacket—the one he’d humbly worn for thousands of miles—before ambling up onto the stage where a lone stool and slanted mic waited for him to sing his beautiful Dylan and DiFranco-esque songs.

Robert Pollard from Guided By Voices was my high school science teacher, he liked to tell me and whoever else was whiling away the night at the open mic—like this fact alone gave some kind of credence to the brilliance of his own songwriting. I’d heard of Guided By Voices from Californian friends, and although I wasn’t a fan at the time, I was appropriately impressed. It was like he’d been born to be a traveling singer-songwriter. As far as I could tell, Jay’s life had been terribly messy and painful, and yet somehow, he’d managed to perfectly package it all into a beautiful persona. His dark skin and velvety-black eyes certainly helped sell the dream.

I watched him play through three gorgeous songs, two of them supposedly about me, but I should’ve known he was planning to move on without me. Just yesterday, when we’d been talking about how great California would be, his descriptions of Oakland began to take an ominous turn. You can’t walk by yourself around Oakland, and you better be careful what you say, he said and munched on a plate of french fries we’d begged the waiter to order for us on the sly. I don’t even know if my family will let you stay there, but if they do, you better stick by me the entire time.

Have you even been to Oakland? I asked and pulled my purple flannel over my freckled-white arms. I’d never been worried at the thought of moving through a city where mostly Black people lived, but Jay was making me doubt.

That’s not the point, he snapped. Just trust me. They don’t even fully like me. They’ll definitely have issues with you. So watch yourself if we go.

Jay had told me the first night we kissed that he wasn’t Black Black; he was descended from Egyptians, which made things different for him. When I said that I’d just gotten out of a relationship with an older man from Egypt, he frowned and pulled out his guitar, rolling into a long, Utah Phillips-style tale about how an avalanche had stopped him from leaving Fort Collins. I sat and listened, utterly enamored. I’ve always dated out of my league, usually musicians, but Jay struck me right then as the hottest. And in those faded, straight-from-Ohio Levi’s, the coolest.

Back at the open mic, the Oakland conversation now seemed like a lukewarm attempt at dissuading me from going to California with him. And his depictions of me made me feel anxious and perplexed. You could throw a lot of unsavory labels my way, but snobby wasn’t one that fit. It infuriated me. I’d grown up poor; I’d been in foster care for chrissakes. I’d been living without a real home since I was thirteen, and this guy was judging my resilience based on my reaction to a can of soda.

By the time he got off the stage, I was fuming. I remained silent while he packed up his guitar and spoke earnestly with a few admirers. I followed him out of the corner bar and into the frigid night. Up the street, frat boys poured out of a small sports bar, boisterously clapping each other on their backs and eyeing the frat girls hanging at the martini spot one building over. Down the street, the lesbian dive thumped. Nights in Fort Collins belonged to the college kids, and the binge drinking was just getting started.

We hurried in the opposite direction toward the seedy part of town, where a fleabag room with communal bathrooms could be procured for thirty bucks. Jay knew the kid working the desk, and he’d promised to let us stay the night for fifteen. Jay had busked all day, and I’d managed to get five bucks off an old guy who applauded my homelessness and dedication to fighting societal norms, saying he’d wished he’d taken more chances when he was younger. You must travel, he told me as he grasped my shoulder, whatever else happens, go see the world. It’s all that matters. I thanked him, flashed a crooked smile, and continued with my task at hand—digging for cigarette butts near the trash cans.

Once we were safely ensconced in a dingy room replete with forest green carpeting and dim lighting, Jay returned to his list of my flaws and why they were the reason to break things off.

“You’re too emotional,” he said plainly from the bed, like he was being forced to mete out judgment. The kitschy gold lamp on the nightstand buzzed on and off behind him. “You can’t control yourself. You lash out. And you probably need help.”

Well, of course, being told I was emotional flooded me with emotion, and I had to bite my lips and clench my hands behind my back. Duh, I needed help; so did he. We knew each other’s struggles, and I didn’t like my bipolarity being held against me this way. But I also knew what he was really saying: I had pushed him the other night, and now he would use it against me every chance he got. My eyes welled in pure frustration. It didn’t matter that I’d barely shoved him or that he’d consistently baited me into it; I’d been physical, and there was no topping that.

What’s worse, I was frightened I could be provoked so easily and that his verbal attacks that night had overwhelmed me so much that my hands had just shot out and shoved him. Yes, he was a skilled provocateur, but I ... well, was I now an abuser? Like my mom and stepdad, Doug? Was this how abusers felt? Unheard, misunderstood, overwhelmed? Like they had no other options?

I gritted my teeth as Jay went on and on and only halfheartedly tried to refute his litany of my wrongness, his reasons for why we needed to break things off, and why he needed to go to California without me. Honestly, it didn’t take much to start agreeing with him about all my wrongness. I just didn’t want to be left behind for it. I was willing to accept him and his bullshit; how about some reciprocation? I’d shoved him, but he was an asshole and said the worst shit. I could see he was more than his assholeness; couldn’t he do the same for me?

Instead, somehow, my weaknesses and illnesses were dealbreakers, and I couldn’t help feeling like he’d found a way to be the victim in all things between us. No matter what else transpired, I’d shoved him. I’d crossed a line, a line I just knew in my heart was arbitrary for him but concrete as hell for the rest of the world, me included. And since it also brought up such shame and guilt and fear in me, I couldn’t really fight off the assignation because ... what if? My mom beat me; maybe I was destined to beat other people, the people I loved. Jay’s use of my weakness was insincere, but the weakness was still exposed, and the crux of it was accurate: I was capable of physically hurting people, just like my mom.

I knew Jay was using these things about me to win an argument, to win all our arguments, and now, worse, to leave me. He would go to California without me; there was nothing I could do or say. And off he went, him and his hat and his guitar, to stay with who knew. I thought he’d spent what he’d made for us to stay here. But he left, and I was just another lost soul sitting in a seedy motel, almost twenty-three and no prospects. No shiny knight was coming for me. So I did what I always did when I felt shitty and low; I called my mom.

“Mom, he left me,” I said, and stared at myself in the grimy mirror by the bathroom. I didn’t look like anything special. Not like I’d just been dumped. My face was flushed red and slimy with snot and tears but essentially unaltered. Bad breakups should leave a mark, I thought, then grimaced at the unintended allusion to abuse. I didn’t want to look like I’d been fucked up, per se, but shouldn’t there be something in my eyes that showed what I’d just been through? Yet it was just the same old me looking back at me, judging me for calling my mother like a loser with no friends.

“That boy is a megalomaniac. I knew it the moment I saw him,” she said.

I mouthed the word to myself in the mirror. Meg-a-lo-man-i-ac. So many syllables.

“What is that?”

“He’s full of himself, filled with illusions of grandeur. Basically, a cult leader in training,” she said.

I watched as mirror-me’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded. “This is what you thought when you first met him? And you’re telling me now?” I was torn between feeling offended for Jay and attracted to such an easy way to encapsulate his behavior and treatment of me.

“Oh, like you would’ve listened to anything I had to say.”

“Mom, I listen to everything you say, probably too well.”

“If you say so.”

I twirled the phone cord between my pinky and thumb. Mirror-me looked on, barely hiding her contempt. What are you gonna do? I asked her. You can stay here tonight, but then what? You gonna beg for money all day? Without Jay’s songs? No one out there gives a fuck about you.

Mirror-me’s eyes said it all. You think your mom gives a fuck about you?

I suddenly felt very tired.

“Mom? Can I come stay with you? Just for a little bit?”

I could hear her puffing on a cigarette. Or maybe splitting a joint with Doug.

“How many more times are we gonna do this?” she asked.

I pulled the crumpled five-dollar bill from my jeans, thinking.

“This is the last time, I swear.”

I waved the fiver at mirror-me, who glowered back until I flinched. Megalomaniac, she mouthed, megalomaniac, megalomaniac.

California, I mouthed back.

My friend Hanna called me at my mom’s house in Lafayette two weeks later.

“You’ll never believe what Jay’s doing,” she said.

“I assume he’s left town by now.”

“Nope. He’s still here in Fort Collins... editing porn for some friend of his.”

“No way.”

“Yep. Kev says Jay’s spending like ten hours a day splicing gangbang footage together.”

“Oh my god. That sounds hideous. I thought he was all about getting out of town.”

“Kev says he’s like a totally different person. He’s not even playing open mics anymore. Did you even know he was that into porn?”

I thought about our brief time sharing an apartment before getting evicted because Jay and I refused to get a job to pay for rent. Jay had found my single porn video, and I’d hear him at all hours watching it in the living room. I’d sit in the bedroom on the blankets (no bed) and try to read, uncomfortable as hell, afraid to leave the room and interrupt.

“I guess there were clues,” I admitted.

Remembering the apartment fiasco tightened my chest, and I didn’t want to get into it. Not only had a lot of weird stuff gone down, but Hanna had paid the thousand-dollar deposit for us, and I’d probably never be able to repay her. Things were starting to feel a little strained between Hanna and me, which was why I was at my mom’s house and not hers.

“Okay, well. Anyway.” Our newfound awkwardness settled between us. “Still going?”

“Next week.”

“Come see me before you go?”

“Of course,” I said. I bit my lip. “It’s gonna be so weird without you.”

“We’ll talk all the time. You can’t get rid of me that easily, Amy. I’ll visit once you become a real Canadian, eh?”

I laughed and said bye, grateful Hanna was on my side in all things great and small. She’d been initially skeptical of my plan to hitch to California, find a job to raise money for a van, and then drive myself north to Canada, but warmed up to the idea once she found out I’d be staying with a friend in Santa Cruz, and our buddy Brian was going to drive me there. She was used to my manic cycles, but the last few months—with me destroying her attempts at helping me with a place of my own so that I could “follow synchronicity” and live on the streets with Jay—had strained our relationship to new levels. I’d been mooching off Hanna for years in one way or another; maybe she was accepting my latest venture because a part of her was happy to see me go.

I quickly pushed those thoughts aside. The important thing was that I was leaving; I was finally doing it, having an adventure, living by my rules rather than society’s. Everything would be understood and forgiven the day in the near future when Hanna opened up her mail to find a check for 1K from yours truly. I was embracing the universe, and in doing so, the universe would embrace me back.

There was no way I would let Jay be the only one living all synchronistically, I thought as I sat on my mom’s couch while she smoked joints and watched The Monkees marathon on TV. I’d read the Celestine Prophecy, just like him, and I’d learned shit, too. I didn’t need Jay to manifest the life I wanted. Where was he, anyway? On the road to Oakland? No! He was still in Fort Collins, whacking it nonstop to never-ending gangbang porn. What a fraud. What a sellout. At least I was fucking doing something. I was keeping our promise and going to California, trusting the universe, trusting myself.

I flipped through the Westword, eyes falling on a small ad for a folk festival happening the coming weekend in Estes Park.

“Hey, aren’t these your buddies?” I asked Mom, who glanced at the paper before going back to the TV Guide, black pen in hand. She liked to circle what she planned on watching for the week.

“Karen and her husband. They come up from Kansas to sell their tie-dyes. I wouldn’t call her my buddy, just a woman I met at the store.” She frowned at the guide. “Great. A Three Stooges marathon is happening at the same time as good TV night.” She tapped the paper. “Maybe I’ll record.”

I tossed the Westword on Mom’s mounting Sunday newspaper pile and then promptly snatched it back to read again. After months of deciphering the universe’s messages, often to find food or a place to sleep, I knew opportunity when I read it. Maybe this is what everything had been leading up to all along: I was supposed to go with these Kansas hippies and help them make tie-dyes. A true following of synchronicity, living off the beaten path, eschewing the norms society was constantly trying to foist upon me, upon all of us. I would give them my labor, and they would give me a skill and a place to stay. Finally, I’d be doing something different, something meaningful with my life. It was perfect.

Mom would be back to work in the store tomorrow. I told her my plan.

“Will you ask Karen if I can go back to Kansas with them?”

“I suppose I can,” she said, pipe in hand, TV Guide momentarily forgotten on her lap. She nodded her head faintly as if listening to music only she could hear. “What about California?”

“This is better. The universe put it right in front of me. I can’t ignore it.”

She nodded more but didn’t say anything.

“Plus, it’ll make a good story, something I can write about someday,” I added, thinking that mentioning writing would get her all the way on board. I couldn’t tell what she thought of any of it.

“Ah, that reminds me. I saw that boy Marc at the store. He gave me his newest short story. Have you read it? It’s sci-fi; great stuff.” She jumped up to rifle through her purse, looking for Marc’s story. “His tales are so intricate. So deep. Why aren’t you writing like this?” She thrust the papers at me. “Read it. You’ll love it.”

My breathing grew shallow, and my eyes burned. “Sorry I don’t write like Marc, Mom.”

She tsked, settling back into her seat, freshly filled pipe in hand. “Oh, come on. He’s a great writer, and you could be, too. That’s all.” She lit the bowl and took a hit. “I told him he had to submit somewhere. I bet Fantasy & Science Fiction would take it. Stephen King’s early stuff was published there, you know, and Marc ...”

She went on, but I stopped listening. I didn’t want to hear any more about the fantastic writer Marc and his amazing chances of publication. And I already knew that anything I wrote, anything I ever did at all, would never be good enough for her, anyway.

She could just go ahead and put all her enthusiasm on my friends, like always, nothing new there. Soon I wouldn’t be around for her backhanded compliments and poor comparisons. Soon I’d be grabbing life by the horns and making tie-dye, freer than Marc or my mom would ever be.

Karen expressed interest in my joining her commune tie-dye crew and invited us to come to the festival and talk about it more. If everything went cool, they were leaving for Kansas that night, and I could join them; there was room in the van for me.

Doug decided to come with us to Estes Park, and he and my mom got ready for the hour drive, making stony jokes with each other, their jovial mood rubbing abrasively against my darker one. Probably psyched to be getting rid of me, I thought, pacing aimlessly up and down the stairs. I didn’t have anything to pack, and I didn’t have anything to bring except myself.

The whole morning, I kept picturing what a commune in Kansas would be like. First off, everything was probably flat. So there’d be blue skies and golden fields in every direction. Gorgeous. And we’d be in ... what? A giant house made of firewood? Maybe like an old, abandoned horse ranch. And we’d be making tie-dyes in... what? Maybe an old metal washing vat. So I’d be sitting on a milking stool, scrunching fabric into a vat of colored water, then hanging it on an old hitching post-type clothesline with old wooden clothes pins? Maybe. If I focused, I could see myself there, suddenly a lot prettier, long hair whipping in my face, blue apron hugging my curves as I scrubbed and twisted and hung, sleeping in a hay loft with my similarly beautiful brothers and sisters, maybe eating ... what? Beans from a pot over a campfire?

Was that how I wanted to live? Kinda maybe? I shook my head and paced twice as hard. Mom called for us to leave, and I climbed into the back seat of the Subaru like it was a hearse. Mom and Doug were completely immune to my mood; they played classic rock and made jokes out of big words only they could understand. Considering how high they were, I didn’t even know if the words were real or just real to them. An errant memory came back to me of my then six-year-old brother coming up to me and saying that the difficulty of bad guys he was beating in his video game was a “harbinger of the bad guys to come,” and the boy pronounced it correctly, har-bin-jer, not har-bing-er, and my mom beamed and said, See he’s gonna be one of us, and I thought, you mean he’s gonna be one of you and how proud of him I felt, even as I recognized we were slipping away from each other, even then. They were the family unit; I was the misnomer, the mispronunciation.

Of course, Kansas would be better. Anywhere would be better, I decided, and my mood finally lifted. But when we got to the festival, I froze and couldn’t leave the car. The thought of getting into a van of strangers suddenly terrified me. I would be trapped in Kansas all alone.

They won’t be strangers once you go meet them, my mom said when I tried to tell her some of what I was feeling. She was right, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave. I was stuck right there, forever.

She gave up trying to coax me out and said, Well, since we’re here, lemme look around a little bit.

They were gone for about fifteen minutes while I sat in the backseat, paralyzed. Finally, they came back and once inside, asked me, So? Do you want to stay or go?

I said, Go.

“I’m still going to California, though,” I said through tears.

Neither of them said anything. They just nodded and cranked up the radio. I had expected a hard time from them, but none came. It almost felt like they respected my emotions or decisions, but I couldn’t be sure. Hadn’t they been super excited to see me leaving? Shouldn’t they be disappointed and angry with me, like usual? For not following through, as usual? I had no answers, and the inability to discern the truth of the matter, coupled with the aftereffects of my panic attack, had me woozy and suspicious of anyone and everything.

But I knew one thing for sure. In a parallel universe, a much braver Amy said yes to Kansas and yes to a life of adventure. But not here. Because the thing I knew for sure, deep in my gut, like a worm with a thousand tiny teeth, was that Jay had been right about me, after all.

This is On the Page: true stories that occasionally escape to Page to Stage. If this one got you, forwarding it to a person is the nicest thing you can do for me! xoxo, Amy Bee

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Well, hello, all you fantastic so-and-so’s! And how are we today? In the mood for a quick story? Here is mine; it won “Best in show” at Six Feet Apart Productions’ Story Slam last week. They sent me a mug that says winner and I get to feature at their next slam in August. I’m not used to winning anything, and the universe, in its ever-present pursuit of keeping my ego in check, did so, via host Claire, who told everyone several times that the “voting was super, SUPER close.” Ha, ha, okay, Claire (aka UNIVERSE), I get it! My story scraped by!

Self-deprecation aside, it was awesome to have people enjoy my story, and I’m looking forward to featuring at SFAP’s August show, theme: Vacation Vibes. I linked it because it is an open mic, so if you want to tell a story, you can. Check it out.

Watch the video first, then read below? If ya wanna, you don’t havta.

Maybe fun info about Fuck Means Intercourse:

• This story is an excerpt from a longer piece called Library Day. In Library Day, I use my mom telling me fuck means intercourse as an example of how she “never kept information from me.”

• It wasn’t until I started adapting it to onstage performance that I realized A. I might’ve had a contact high, and B. She mighta been fucking with me. So, adapting it has forever changed the story’s meaning for me. It’s no longer a treasured anecdote or a pat character summary of my mom/our relationship, which is a little sad. (This also means it has probably changed Library Day, we’ll see.)

• The whole reason Fuck Means Intercourse became a story is that I was trying to create something to tell at The Moth, and I had no five-minute stories; only twenty-minute stories. I still hope to tell it at The Moth, although I don’t think it will fit with their style too well. Too many fucks? Well, yes. Too. Many. Fucks. C’est la vie!

• “Brenda Parker” is actually the name of a high school friend. I used her name because it has great syncopation. I can’t remember the name of my childhood bully (bullies). I was momentarily concerned that the story would blow up if I shared it via social media and Brenda would see it and be like, “Hey, I never bullied you.” Luckily (?) I don’t think I need to worry about things like going viral, lololol.

• Some people have asked me, what happened next? What happened next was I spent years—YEARS—telling people to ‘intercourse off.’ I thought it was SOOOOOO FUNNY. And everyone—kids, adults, teachers, meanies—all of them reacted the same way: with puzzlement. No one ever got offended, mad, or felt dissed. No one realized I was being naughty or mean or subversive. Or funny, for that matter. Not a one. I was speaking to an audience of one, the biggest fan of my oh-so-clever wordplay: me. (Remember, this is the same time period where I was inordinately fond of telling adults “I’m an only child, aka a LONELY child” and then grew confused when they reacted with worry rather than laughter.)

• I think this performance ended up a little rushed, and I like the piece better when it has a bit more room to breathe. This is just a symptom of my being a beginner at creating short-ass stories (and performing), I’m sure.

And now, here is the written version (like . . . 4th draft, I think?) I used to create the performed version. It’s kinda interesting to see the written piece in lieu of the orated piece. The weirdest part, and I have no idea if it’s like this for anyone else, is that the piece goes from an abstract of writing that was written well enough to be published to oh, hell no, that can’t be published at all (but it can be performed!!!).

Fuck Means Intercourse

I’m lying in front of the fireplace with my face as close to the warmth as I can get. My mom brought home a special log from the grocery store, one that is supposed to make the flames change color, so I’m watching the log very intently, waiting for the flames to change color, but they don’t. It’s okay, I don’t mind because it’s evening, it’s cold outside, and cozy in here with all of us in the living room at the same time.

My mom and my Doug (my stepdad) are murmuring on the couch as they pass a joint back and forth, and I can’t really make out what they’re saying, I just hear the pleasant rise and fall of emotions, and as I’m watching the fire, I notice how the flames are almost dancing along with their conversation. It’s lulling me, putting me in a trance. I can feel my body and my brain kinda emptying out, and I get loose and languid and stretchy like taffy as I take turns aiming my face and then my toes toward the fire, kinda like I’m a marshmallow toasting myself.

Then slowly, slowly, slowly a shimmer of a trace of a thought bubbles up from somewhere deep inside of me, and as it courses up from my gut it forms into a question, and this question grows bigger and bigger as it rushes up to my brain, so big it’s overriding everything, the fire, the pleasant conversation . . . it consumes my entire being! Like, all six years of my life have been for this moment, to ask this question, to receive this answer! So I suddenly sit straight up, overcome with urgency, and I call out “Mom!” to cut through their cloud of pot smoke, and they instantly stop talking, like they know! They know we’re on the precipice of something momentous, and they’re part of its unfolding! So I say it again to make absolutely sure I have their full attention:

“Mom! Mom! What does fuck mean?”

My Doug starts spluttering and coughing and making a gulping sound like he’s laughing, but I brush his reaction off because, whatever, I knew he wasn’t up to the task, this moment of truth anyway.

But my mom fixes me with a cool gaze and, without a hint of hesitation, says, “Intercourse.”

Intercourse. Intercourse? And now my sense of the momentous is faltering because whatever I had been expecting, it wasn’t this cryptic, sterile, three-syllable word. I say, like I’m trying on for size, “Fuck means intercourse. What is intercourse?”

My mom hands the joint to my Doug, and without missing a beat, says, “Intercourse is the word for sex.”

Oh. Oops. I hadn’t intended for that word to come up on this toasty night in front of the fire, but I push forward. “Fuck means intercourse means sex?” The words slip around my brain like a logic puzzle. A short word for a long word for a short word? So confusing. But I’m trying to wrap my brain around it, so I say, “So when adults say fuck they mean sex.”

My mom snorts. “More like when they say sex, they mean intercourse, but yeah.”

“So . . . when Doug calls the mailman a fucker he’s really calling him an intercourser? When he told that guy in the car the other day to fuck off, he was saying intercourse off?” This strikes me as absolutely absurd; this can’t be what adults are saying to each other, but my mom confirms it, “You got it, kid. Pretty much.”

My mom has waves me off and they’re back in their own world, rolling another joint and laughing with each other. All I can really do is go back to my place by the fire to mull it over. I feel like my mom has told me something important, even though I’m not totally sure what it is, although I do know that there’s no way other kids my age know about this, and that strikes me as powerful, like I have a little bit of power.

The more I think about it, the more I realize my mom has just given me a little loophole to cuss. Because if fuck means intercourse, then intercourse means fuck! And I know exactly how to use that—and who to use it on! In fact, when I go to school tomorrow, I’m going to be a hero because I’m going to walk up to the meanest girl in school, Brenda Parker, and I’m gonna say, “Hey, you know what, Brenda? Why don’t you just intercourse off?”

And that’s exactly what I did.

All right, this was a lot of sharing, so I gotta go either take a fast walk or a short nap, then get back to producing some storytelling shows—you know, being brave anyway, and stuff. xoxo, Amy

(Page to Stage is an ongoing series where I unpack the craft of translating my written work into live, oral storytelling, and what that process teaches me about writing, performance, and courage. As always, I’d love to hear from you: like, comment, share, tell me what you’d like to know more about, and commiserate with your own storytelling adventures. I like knowing I’m not alone in this big, big world.)

A lot of you know I went to Spain to hike the Camino Frances. Some of you know I came back after completing 175 miles of it. And although I didn’t make it to Santiago due to my knees, I’m proud of what I did do, and, more importantly, of the headspace I found myself in to call it quits without punishing myself for it. I think this is called “being an adult”?

I dunno—don’t quote me on that!

I’d love to share with you some of the pictures I took and thoughts I had while hiking. Would that interest you? Let me know!

But I’m home, producer hat firmly back on my head, and slowly tiptoeing back into avoiding less what I always avoid too much: being brave anyway.

I mean specifically storytelling and stage-wise, of course. Speaking of the stage, here are some upcoming events where I’ll be telling stories. If you’re around, I’d love to see you at any of ‘em. And this first one anyone can attend because it’s right here on Substack!

June 20: Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! brings you KILL THE PATRIARCHY!

The almighty runs this virtual storytelling show with the sole purpose of spotlighting feminist writers and creators. Her tagline? “1 story. 4 minutes. Zero dicks. This ain’t no open mic.” Wanna find out what that means or learn more about this fabulous show?

Take me to Wham Bam!

Or buy a ticket for Saturday’s show! I’d love to have you there! Maybe you’ll wanna do the next one, eh? Oh! What’s MY story? I’m sharing part of an emotional tale called Spaces With Men. If you come, let me know what you think!

Tix to Kill the Patriarchy

July 26: The Monkey House in Berkeley brings you LOVE AND ROMANCE

This will be my first time at The Monkey House. Their Sunday show, What’s Your Story?, will feature stories about Love and Romance and include an open mic component. Details on my show aren’t up yet, but check out their website anyway. What a fantastically weird spot. Tickets are a sliding fee, and seats are reserved. The show starts at 2pm. MY story? Oh, just a little tale about drinking, driving, and falling madly in love, that’s all! (Fun Fact: Those who saw my notes gripe about a producer complaining that I used the word VAGINA in a story . . . this is that story!!!)💜

July 28: San Francisco Punchline brings you IN A NUTSHELL WITH KEITH LOWELL JENSEN!💜💜!

My dearest friend and story side-piece is taking our storytelling show to the Bay Area, and Holy McHell, I’m invited along to tell a story! If any of you have been to a Nutshell show, you know what a fantastic comedic storyteller Keith is, not to mention one helluva host. The lineup for this one is killer (Keith? Kiry Shibazz?? Beau Ryder Davis??? MEEEEEE????), so if you’re around the Bay Area, grab your tickets now, they’re gonna sell out.

I want them tix!

Oh, my story? MOI?? Well, ‘fraid I can’t divulge that information right now, but I can say this: it is Sir Mix-a-Lot approved!

Aug 12: Six Feet Apart’s open mic brings you VACATION VIBES

Since I had “best story of the night” this week at SFAP’s “Plot Twist” open mic, I get to be a featured teller at their next show. If you’re looking for a place to try your chops at telling a true, personal story, this virtual event might be perfect for you! Claire and Regina are accomplished storytellers building a wonderful community, and I know they’d be glad to have you on and talk you through any worries or unease. I’ve heard some awesome tales at this show, and I’d love to have you here to check out my featured story!

WHAT IS MY FEATURED STORY?? I’m not sure yet. Hiking the Camino? Hiking the John Muir Trail? Attending the Maroon Festival in Jamaica? Get your tix now and let’s figure out what we’re gonna tell together!

Aug 18: Corey Rosen’s Simply Said brings you INNOCENCE

This will be my first time featuring at Corey’s uber-popular open mic show in the North Bay. I’m very excited to be a part of it. My show info isn’t up yet, but you can bookmark the site and mark your calendar. There’s also an open mic component so why not shiny up a story of yours and get on stage with me?! The story I’m telling is really fun to listen to because, um, well, I rap a little bit in it???

Heck YEAH I want tix!

What’s that? You wanna know about MY story? Well, um, you saw the whole rapping thing, didn’t you? That’s not enough of a hook? 😂(Bonus: Good ol’ Keith Lowell Jensen will be featuring, too! Two Nutshells for the price of one? Deal!)

OTHER:

I’ll be officially co-hosting WILDCARD starting June 17 and from now on. We’re well on our way to making WC one heck of an event, and if you haven’t been yet, do come. WILDCARD is all about true stories told live by you! Participate in the audience or put your name in our NOT HAT, either way, it’s a ton of fun and full of heart.

TBD: I’ll be telling the full version of Spaces with Men sometime in the next few months at Placerville’s Word of Mouth. Stay tuned!

TBD: I’ll be telling an emotionally fraught story at Exposed Storytelling in September or October. Stay tuned!

And I’ll be on In a Nutshell’s October show, “Dark Hearts.” Stay tuned!

Okay! That’s all! I’m gonna do these shows! Are you gonna hold me accountable? Hopefully, just telling you is enough to get me there. Cuz I may be a scaredy-scaredy, but I also love telling stories and seeing all of you out in the real world. So please come. Please tell me your thoughts. And please tell your own stories! I wanna hear them!

xoxo, Amy

If you're local, I'd love to see your face at one of these shows. And if you're not local, come hang out with me online. Either way, hit reply and tell me what you've been up to while I was wandering around Spain pretending my knees were younger than they are.

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I’m staying at a fair number of albergues, dorm style, which means a lot of worries and a lot of bunk beds. First and foremost, small talk sounds horrendous in this situation. How many people are gonna wanna talk to me? For how long? Will I have to be nice for ten minutes? Twenty?? Nonstop??? What if no one wants to talk to me? What if only the weird one wants to talk to me (honestly, this is usually the case)? What if I’m the weird one and everyone's hoping I won’t talk to them? Will I have to poop while all these hordes of people are sitting on their bunks listening to me? When is the best, most private time to poop? What if I never get the chance to poop? Maybe I should bring a spade for cat holes? Honestly, that would be on brand for my bowels: only pooping when there's no bathroom. Is the number of times I've had to emergency shit outside disproportionate to other people my age?  What if there are no bushes or trees or rocks to shit behind? I'll probably have to make a plan to get up every night at 3am to have toilet privacy. How many other people are gonna have that SAME EXACT plan? So 3am probably doesn't work; too obvious. I need a completely random late night private bathroom poop time. Maybe 1:53am? No one else will be making that plan, right? Or maybe 4:12am, because then I’m getting a decent chunk of sleep. Of course there's no way my bowels will comply with any of this so yes yes yes I better bring a spade and a stack of tp squares. What if I'm on the top bunk? Can I climb a bunk ladder? I think so? Can I disembark one? At 4:12am? Without waking everyone up and causing a mad dash to the bathroom? How do I know a bunk bed will hold me? I don't. I could crush someone. Someone could crush me. What if I’m on the bottom bunk and I have to listen to the dude above me try to surreptitiously masturbate? Why do I assume it’s a dude? C’mon we all know it'll be a dude, they'll masturbate anytime and anywhere. And with anything. They could just masturbate in the shower tho. Like decent folk. What if I go in a shower stall after a dude and slip on a glob of cum? That could happen. I wont know if it's soap or cum. Soap or cum sounds like a game show. Would people think that's funny? Should I try that out on someone? I’m not sure how to weave it into a conversation. How many people will be speaking English, anyway? I shoulda learned a pinch of Spanish. I shoulda stopped saying stuff like "Que Donde? (That where)" to mean whats happening and "Escucha Me (listen to me)" to mean move over to Aaron because now I’m gonna say that to a Spainard and they're gonna be like, what's up with this crazy American? Who goes to another country without learning any of the language? Americans, apparently. I’m probably gonna get lost. I probably won’t make it out of the airport. I won’t make it to the train. I'll get on the wrong train and end up in Austria. I hope I get to see the Christmas markets in Austria someday. But not this trip. And not in April, duh. How will I know where to go? How will I find the right albergue? How did people survive without maps on their phones? What if I find the right albergue and they’re all eating family style? What if they make everyone get up and introduce themselves? I hate that. I never know what to say. Why do I have to say something interesting about me? Why do we have to meet each other? Why cant we just politely smile and furtively eat? What if all they feed me is fish? Will I eat it? Everyday? Will I eventually grow to like fish? Will I come home and be like, dude, Aaron, I eat fish now. Deal. What if my whole life changes because I eat fish now? Why do people like seafood so much? Why do they like watching a chef crack open a shell and scramble the insides with a fork and then they put it in front of you and say bon appetit?? We don’t eat other animals that way, like scramble up the insides and then scoop them out to eat from the pelvic area or the chest cavity. GROSS. I really should be a vegan. I really shoulda learned Spanish. I shoulda booked private rooms with private bathrooms instead of dorm style. I should bought more guidebooks and maps. I shoulda picked an easier hike, a shorter hike, one with less people, one I could just drive to myself, and hike with myself, and be all by myself. Why did I do this? Why did I plan this? Why do I keep putting myself in these situations? HOW DO I GET OUTTA THIS?!?

xoxo, Amy

Hi everyone! I'm testing out writing via phone and app in preparation for my attempt to document some of my travels on the Camino. (Expect way more typos as I have sausage fingers! Apologies in advance.)

A few of you know that I did actually have plans to try to hike the entire Pacific Crest Trail one more time, even though all my attempts had ended in failure of one sort or another. After my most devastating failed attempt in 2016, I did the dumbest thing possible. I decided to drown my sorrows in drink. No, it was even worse than that.

I decided to become a day drinker. Like, I manufactured an alcohol dependency; grew one up from a measly 2pm Coors Lite (!) to round after round of Crown Royal and/or Double IPAS.

I wasn’t even a drinker. I was a drug person; I barely enjoyed alcohol. I only drank alcohol in my youth to get sloshed quickly, and that was only if nothing else was available.

So it wasn’t until I was already 40 that I found out the secret the rest of the world already knew: alcohol helps dull anxiety. It hushes the worries and ruminations, it loosens the inner critic’s stranglehold; it makes you almost kinda sorta fun to be around.

(By you, I mean me.)

PSA: Don’t start drinking in your 40s. If you’re gonna do it, you gotta start young. Not that I’m advocating that; I’m just saying, without a proper foundation, without years of your body processing all those sugars, hops, and empty calories, your body will go to hell in months, not years or decades.

The gist is that I spent a few years wallowing, digging holes too deep to easily climb out of, and self-inflicting wounds (like I needed more of those), like some kind of dark and inebriated second adolescence (like I needed more of that) until eventually, I was like

I should try to hike the PCT again.

Now, don’t laugh, don’t scoff; stay with me. It made sense.

You see, the whole PCT obsession began from an idea that, maybe if I acted almost the direct opposite of what my family and my youth had taught me, maybe I could heal myself. Well, that hadn’t gone how I had hoped; I was still the same problematic me, only now I also had a semi-drinking dependency and multiple adventure failures under my belt.

The thing I couldn’t get past was that I had tried! I had gone against the well-rutted synapses of my brain and, as cheesy as it sounds, dared to dream. I’d put forth effort, believed in myself as best I could, actively thrown myself into the world, and yet failed! Not just failed, but F-A-I-L-E-D! That’s right! Capped letters and spelled out!

For a person who collects evidence the same way a squirrel collects nuts, it was a death blow. Where was my redemption? Where was my top-of-the-mountain, Instagram-worthy success story?

Where was my shiny, new me?

It wasn’t fair! And toddlers got nothing on me: I cried not fair into a bottomless tumbler of Jack until one day I realized years had passed and, and, and . . .

I missed hiking. I missed waking up without a searing headache. Yes, I still quite liked giggling with ease until the late-night pass-outs, but I missed how it had felt to plan an ambitious plan, how, for a while, life was more than the negative stuff that had happened to me, how empowering it had been to choose my suffering.

Did I miss hiking up a steep switchback, looking at all the much, much skinnier, healthier people, and in my own unique form of positive self-talk, tell myself,

“Ladypants, look at you! You’re doing the same thing they're doing, but you’re doing it with an extra 60, nay, 100 pounds! That makes you stronger than them! Not a single one of ‘em could handle this level of effort, of obvious sticking out. You’re a killer, Ladypants! You eat mountains for breakfast!”

Yes, for some crazy-ass reason. I did, indeed. And that’s when I had the moment.

Some people have A-HA! moments. I have “DUH!” moments.

Ooooooh-oh.

I had failed. But I had been happier. Because the trying IS the doing. Because in attempting this crazy, ballsy dream of mine, I had accumulated a decade of hiking, backpacking, exploring, and adventuring.

I had accumulated a life!

DUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHH.

So, I knew I had to try again, this time armed with the biggest DUH moment ever. I made the plans, stopped drinking, started hiking (Uh-oh. Bad knees. But let’s try anyway!), started assembling months' worth of food and resupply packages, and did all the things someone like me has to do to tackle something like the PCT.

In fact, that’s what I was doing one day in front of the TV. I don’t even know why I had the news on that day, as I was emptying boxes of instant mashed potatoes, dehydrated pinto beans, and one Taco Bell Mild sauce into plastic bags and vacuum-sealing them closed. My brain was so stuffed full of PCT mile markers and factoids and strategies on how to avoid having to hitchhike that I didn’t even hear the newscaster at first. But I saw the chryon. So I turned the TV up. A highly contagious infection was sweeping through China. Some airports were already closing down. In a matter of hours, infections were popping up on the East Coast and here on the West Coast. People were arguing online in the PCT community about whether or not the PCTA would revoke our permits.

And then the PCTA revoked our permits.

The age of COVID-19 had begun.

Thanks for reading! I’m preparing for the Camino, and so shit’s coming up! Feel free to comment and tell me ‘atta girl, or gurl, you cray, or really whatever you want. I like hearing from you.

xoxo, Amy

If you’re someone who’s tried, failed, tried again, or is currently avoiding trying altogether—I’m really glad you’re here.

You can subscribe if you want more of these “figured it out in real time” dispatches. Paid subscriptions mostly just help me keep writing (and occasionally fund questionable life decisions like producing a live storytelling show or walking across Spain). xoxo, Amy

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I wrote this illustrated essay a few years ago, but it’s been on my mind again as we prepare for this month’s In a Nutshell theme, “All You Can Eat.”

So I thought I’d share it again. This is part two. (You’ll probably have to click through to read it all. While you’re there, I’d love to hear what you think and if/how you relate.) xoxo, Amy PS Fifteen days until the Camino!

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Thanks for reading! xoxo, Amy

If this stirred something for you, tell me about it! And I’d love for you to stick around.

I write about lots of stuff like this (and sometimes tell it onstage, too). You can subscribe to follow along or support the work if it’s been meaningful to you.

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Miss part one?

Welcome to This Might Go Terribly; I am so glad you’re here. This is my little corner of the internet where I document what happens when a deeply anxious person decides to become a live storyteller, among other brave things. I’m pretty sure we’re already each other’s ride-or-die, right?

Yep, we’re besties; there’s no two ways about it, and my sudden deep and complete attachment to you is not creepy at all!

If you like the vibe already, you can subscribe here so you don’t miss future stories and experiments in bravery.

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Since you’re checking this post out, I’m guessing you may be a little like me in some way or another, like

• Maybe you’re a giant worry machine, or

• You can’t help but punish yourself for having the audacity to take up space and be alive, or

• Maybe you’re just waking up to find yourself smack dab in the thick of it, realizing that a lot of what you’ve told yourself about yourself is probably wrong, and what the heck do you do about it now, or

• Maybe you’re trying to rebuild your self-esteem, or, like me, you never really had one (thanks, Mom!), and you’re starting from scratch, or

• Maybe you’re just a looky-loo, and you like peeking in on how other people are faring, or

• You (pleasepleasepleaseplease) are already a fan of my writing!

• Extra credit: Maybe you’ve heard me tell a story? You HAVE?! YAY!!

These are all excellent reasons to be here, and I’m sure there are even better ones I haven’t thought to write down yet.

Guess What?

I tell true stories onstage, even though the idea of being looked at and listened to makes my stomach twist. That’s the really nice way of putting it. I could be rude and tell you about all the places I’ve taken an anxiety poop, but I won’t. Not here, anyway. Not THIS time.

This Might Go Terribly is about learning to do it anyway. It’s part field notes, part dispatch from behind the mic: how a late-blooming misfit like me wrestles with stage fright, self-doubt, how to (try to) make friends with the world, and the strange growths and setbacks I’ve experienced just from choosing to be seen.

The plan:

On the Page is where the essays live — true stories, short-form memoir, flash, the occasional unclassifiable. Some of these eventually get told out loud onstage, which brings us to . . .

Page to Stage, a kind of ‘process show-and-tell.’ I’ll share both the written story and the story as I told it (video/audio, live onstage/live from my hidey-hole), and what happens in between, even when my voice (hands, head, chest, knees . . . oh, man, don’t get me started on the flop sweat) shakes. I’ll probably talk to some other storytellers, too, because I know a LOT of hella talented people and maybe if I listen closely, I can learn something from them, or, *ahem*, steal something from them, and one day I’ll be THE BEEEEESSSSSTTTTT!

Backstage is the show behind the show, dispatches from producing In a Nutshell Storytelling and WILDCARD! as a late-blooming, over-anxious ruminator, other brave-anyway stuff, show dates?! Dog pics??? Shorter, looser, unreliable schedule.

This newsletter is all about sharing how I’m trying to stop hiding from the world and start embracing the life I have left in a way that will let me enjoy it a little more and (bonus!) torture myself a little less. Expect humor, hurt, darkness, cussing, comedy, therapy, honesty, anxiety, fixation, rumination, and hopefully, eventually, mercy and maybe even a tiny bit of grace.

Oh, and true stories told onstage, anyway. In spite of. Even tho.

And I hope you’ll join me. If you’ve ever felt like you were too scared, too old, or too “weird” to be a tryer and a doer, this one’s for you. We’re in this together. We really are. Tell me what you’re doing in your life and/or with your anxiety brain. Have you learned how to accept uncertainty, to choose it, even? Are you performing or showing up or trying to, at least? I want to know all your secrets, bestie!

And just as you’re here rooting for me as I search for ways to accept myself, I’m also rooting for you to grow where you need to grow and throw away what you need to throw away.

Thanks again for subscribing. Please keep in touch.

Sincerely, Amy Bee

Want to Support This Work?

Everything here is free, and the essays always will be.

Extra backstage goodies will eventually show up. Pledging now tells me you want it, and I will absolutely take that personally (in the good way, okay, also the crying way).

Paid subscribers get the deep satisfaction of knowing they are financially supporting a very anxious person’s artistic ambitions. Some of these stories eventually make their way to the stage, even!

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Also, get comfy, but . . .

This Might Go Terribly deals candidly with mental illness and tough issues, often relayed in a dark and humorous manner. You will most likely hear or read swear words.

Here are some fun links:

From On the Page:

From Page to Stage:

From Backstage:

I wrote this illustrated essay a few years ago, but it’s been on my mind again as we prepare for this month’s In a Nutshell theme, “All You Can Eat.”

So I thought I’d share it again. This is part one. (You’ll probably have to click through to read it all. While you’re there, I’d love to hear what you think and if/how you relate.) xoxo, Amy

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Thanks for reading!

PS: Stories about food are among the most revealing people tell onstage.
(You’ll hear a few at our upcoming In a Nutshell show.)

I’m taking off for the Camino in about 6 weeks, and I know it’s time to write a lil’ sumthin’ sumthin’ about it, but first, I want to talk about story, because, well, I have this story I’ve been working on. It was originally published at Ozy years ago with a truly terrible headline (so bad I won’t subject you to it).

The story revolves around an interaction I had with a teenager I was living with in a group home. I was only about twelve and new to foster care. She was older and cooler and meaner, but still somehow ended up being my Mr. Rogers ‘helper’ and kinda gave me a roadmap to survive the situation I’d found myself in—whether or not she intended to be my helper is one of those questions left to the listener to decide. But I like to think, in her own crude, crass, and bullying way, yes, she took brief pity on me and my overt dorkiness and threw me the best life float she could cobble together.

I think it’ll make a neat little oddball live story, but . . . it has lyrics. And I can’t sing. I mean, I CAN’T SING! I’m not saying that in a cutesy, humble-pie way. I mean it. I’m preparing you. I’m forewarning you. This is not a Napoleon Dynamite, plain-Jane-takes-off-glasses-to-reveal-unusual-hotness, quiet-person-has-the-voice-of-[insert voice you like] type thing. This is real shit, real truth, mofos! I can’t sing, I can’t dance, and I can’t impersonate people or accents.

I’m so bad at all of that stuff, it’s almost a talent! That’s right. It’s that bad, okay? OKAY??

(And you know what I mean by can’t, you healthy, well-adjusted, rose-colored optimists out there. You know. Don’t do that to me.)

Digression: One of my favorite Chelsea Handler moments is when Christina Aguilera was on Chelsea’s Netflix show, saying she could teach anyone to sing, and Chelsea’s like, "My voice is bad," and Christina refuses to believe her . . . until she hears Chelsea singing. It’s hilarious and vindicating, like, sheesh! Just believe us when we tell you we can’t sing! This clip cuts most of the interesting stuff (like, Christina is actually, truly put off and unsure what to do; in fact, if I remember correctly, she starts frantically backtracking, reeling in her assertion like a madwoman), but you can see a quick snap of Christina’s face, realizing, nope, she cannot teach anyone to sing:

Anyway.

I can’t sing (or dance or impersonate). But my story calls for it. What do I do?

So, there are actually two parts in question here. Part one is the need to perform rap lyrics. Part two is the need to sing a melody.

For the song lyrics part, I really don’t think I can do anything about it. My inability to keep a tune is too distracting from why I’m telling the audience the song lyrics I’m telling them. So right now, I’m just saying the song lyrics. It’s still a bit distracting because even just saying the lyrics, you can hear just how much I can’t sing! My other option, it seems, is to take the song lyrics out, which is what it might come to, but I’ll probably try to keep them in and see how it goes.

Wanna know the song lyrics? Here ya go. Name this album:

So ya, thought ya, might like to go to the show.

To feel the warm thrill of confusion, that space cadet glow.

Now, for the first part, the rap lyrics part, I think what it’s going to come down to is what I’m finding more and more (through talking/watching other storytellers and trying to be a storyteller myself) to be the underappreciated, underpracticed, and yet possibly most central part of live storytelling, and that’s delivery.

There is no way I can be cool and sing those rap lyrics. If I even try to do so—you know, like how some storytellers will break into song, and we all swoon at their beautiful voices and multiple talents (see: Diane Amos, Kimberlli Joy)—I will lose the audience. So I have to lean in, be my nerdy self, but intentionally.

AKA: delivery.

So I’m focusing on delivery, but I won’t really know how it’s working until I do it in front of people, which means I’m gonna have to be okay with embarrassing myself. My particular means of delivery for this story looks like it’s going to rely on timing, which again, I can only practice so much in my shower before it needs to go in front of an audience to really know.

I’m sure I’ll have more to say to you about delivery, friends. For sure, if you’re out there right now, thinking about doing live storytelling, by all means, the content is important. But do not underestimate the value of practicing your delivery, which means getting the hell outta your head and speaking aloud and into a microphone.

This much, I can already glean:

So many of my talented storytelling friends are putting the delivery part last on their list, when it really needs to be there, hand in hand with content, from the beginning.

(What? I’m not talking about YOU. YOU’re doing everything just right! 😁)

I think I’m gonna try to tell my story at WILDCARD this March (if we find a venue!). I’ll let you know how it goes.

Either way, just don’t give me that Christina Aguilera look because YOU WERE WARNED!

Love all of ya.

xoxo, Amy

Feel free to reply and commiserate.

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I want to tell you about performing last month, but do you mind if I tell you an origin story first?

I began hiking when I was around 30ish because I was a miserable wreck and couldn’t figure out how to save myself. The particulars of the mental illnesses I struggled with had me living in my head and afraid of the world. The lessons of my chaotic youth and dysfunctional relationship with my mother only reinforced these struggles.

I wanted out, and it seemed like the only way out was to take my own life. But every time I tried to put that theory into action, a strong visualization would stop me: the image and mental projection of what finding my dead body would do to my husband. Oh, I could convincingly tell myself and you all day long why his life—why everybody’s life—would be better without me in it, but I could not pretend that finding your wife’s body in a blood-soaked tub would be anything but a hideous, life-long wound forever changing the very makeup of your being.

And Aaron is a very sweet, very nice guy! Have you met him? You’d love him. (Digression: The man has never been in a fight! Never! I want so bad for him to make it all the way to the end with that claim intact.)

So if I wasn’t going to end it all, what was I gonna do? And that’s when I had my first inkling of how to save myself. I came up with a bright idea: they say doing the same thing over and over again is the definition of insanity*, so what if I did the opposite of what my life had taught me?

My family was a bunch of ruminating, underachieving, cerebral people who hated sports, detested society, refused help, thought they were simultaneously better than and more damaged than everyone else, and held suicide as a viable option (My mom dangled her hypothetical suicide over me my entire time with her). Even the fact that I wanted to be a writer (or did my mom want me to be a writer, eh? Eh?) seemed to be an assumption about myself designed to keep me trapped within the legacy of my family’s schisms. They lived in their heads, not the world. And it was getting them nowhere. And I was following suit, like a dumbass. So I knew what I had to do.

I had to stop living in my head and start living in my body. But how the fuck does someone do that?

A few hours later, after a dive down the rabbit hole of a still-novel internet (Insta-what?!), I had a solution. Hiking. I would become a hiker. And not just any hiker, a long-distance hiker. Had I ever gone hiking? Uh, no, not really. But this crazy thing called the internet had taught me all about it, that it was a real thing! People were out there doing stuff like walking from Mexico to Canada! What the hell?! Yes! Thousands of miles? Months at a time?? Yes, yes!! This seemed like the perfect way to live in my body! It checked all the boxes, and I was downright enamored with the whole thing, especially testing my theory out—that I had been repeating what was taught to me, and that was what was holding me back.

For probably the first time in my life, I had a thing I wanted. I had a goal. I had a dream. All I had to do was believe that, somehow or other, I would figure out how to do it. That I was allowed to be the exact opposite of what I thought I was, that, in spite of all the evidence built up to that point, I could change.

My very scientific experiment hung on the hypothesis that it would be the belief part that freed me from them.

Hell, it would free me from me.

Cut to now, twenty (gasp!) years later.

Still with me, besties? I know, it’s long. Trust me, I cut out a lot. Like, aren’t there only like two or three asides in there, for instance? Is that a record? Anyone keeping track?

So, what does this have to do with my performance at The Story Shuffle a few weeks back?

I dunno. I’m not the sharpest pencil in the pocket protector, people. Some of it is because there would be no standing on stage if there hadn’t been that young woman who, in a crazy, spur-of-the-moment flight of fancy, chose to take a chance on herself— “chance” being not the thru-hiking part (which, yes, a lot of you know I’ve failed epically at) but the believing part, which I can see now was so brave and audacious and brilliant of her, so fucking smart, so intuitive, so honest and earnest—even if none of it panned out the way she wanted it to.

Anyway, the show went well. The audience received me well. I was even listed as a headliner. The story I told (which relates to everything I’ve been saying, but don’t worry, I won’t go into it) is shaping up nicely; I’m learning more and more about delivery and how to listen to the audience. And I left the show feeling good . . . but off, like something had changed, and I couldn’t figure out what.

Well.

Except I performed alone.

Meaning, Aaron wasn’t in the audience. My buddy Keith wasn’t in the audience. I was on my own onstage for the first time with no built-in support. And you’d think since I talk so much about, well, all this shit I talk about, it’d be so obvious to me, but no, Aaron was the one to point out:

“Hey, dude, you did it anxious, and you did it alone. Congrats.”

And that’s when it hit.

I’d crossed some invisible threshold I didn’t know I was approaching. I’d claimed something without exactly realizing I was reaching for it.

Maybe that’s why that old, twenty-year-old origin story about hiking popped up again, not because I became a great hiker (lol) or will become a great storyteller (lolol), but because of the whole believing I could be different from what I’d been taught to be.

The belief is still here, after all. Flapping its tiny-ass wings, all tenacious and momentous and ordinary. Telling me that night, after the show, that I wasn’t just visiting this whole live storytelling world anymore.

It had, for better or worse, become mine.

Thanks for making it this far with me! It means more than you know. You’re a real friend and a stellar looky-loo!

xoxo,

Amy

*It’s also the definition for practice, which, I guess is fine unless you’re like me and you can’t help but add “be careful what you practice, because . . .”

If this felt familiar in any way, you’re very welcome here. You can reply and tell me about your own tiny, momentous shifts if you like. I’m always listening.

Leave a comment

Aside from my open mic show and another local open mic I adore and try to attend regularly, I have two upcoming shows this week where I’m a featured performer! YAY?!!?

In December, I had big plans to tackle a story I’ve written essays on, but haven’t so far been able to successfully translate to the stage. Next thing I knew, it was January, and although a ton of tasks for In a Nutshell Storytelling were taken care of (My name is Amy, and I am a productive procrastinator), none of my personal storytelling plans had come to fruition.

So now I’m working on a story that started as an essay and was told on stage once, about 6 months ago. Since then, it’s seen many iterations as I cobble and cut, scribble and scrawl, meander and digress into the mic with the record button on, trying to remember how to memorize without memorizing so much that it becomes stiff recitation . . .

My computer desktop is littered with so many copies of my story, y’all! I have to click open like 8-9 docs with cryptic names like “pp short-oral.doc” and “latest pp new minus bonus.doc.” The worst is this cluster of docs named “shorter,” “shortest,” “newest shortest,” “shorter than shortest,” and perplexingly, “new-short-long-no-pp.”

Past me is so inconsiderate of present me; you’d think present me would fix that for future me, but NOPE.

So here’s what’s happening:

There’s some common advice that I almost always gave writers when I was book editing, and I see the same issue now with live storytellers, too. This is advice I nearly never apply to my own writing (take my own advice? MOI??), but I am trying very hard to apply it to my live storytelling. The advice is this:

You can cut the intro.

As in, YOU, Amy, YOU can cut the intro.

Oh, I can?? But . . . the intro has this super funny line about peer pressuring neurodivergent friends and family mem—

Cut it.

If I cut it, they won’t understand meeeeeee!

They’ll understand you fine. Cut it!

But then I have to change ALL the peer pressure lines! And then I can’t end the story with how I’m always up for a good ol’ fashioned night of peer pres—

CUT IT!

WAHHH!!!!! But if I cut it, then I can’t tell the audience I was peer pressuring myself along, and that peer pres—

YOUR STORY ISN’T ABOUT PEER PRESSURE, AMY!

. . .fine.

And that’s when I take a break, walk around the block, harass the dog with unconditional love and kisses, grab the mic, start again without my super-swell intro, which forces me to refine several aspects throughout the piece, causing me to dig a little deeper into what the hell I’m actually talking about because I no longer have my super-swell peer pressure transitions, and by the time I fumble my way to the end . . .

Sigh.

No doubt about it. The piece is stronger. It didn’t need peer pressure. I just liked it. I was enamored with the device.

There’s nothing wrong with having a device, using a device, using artifice and enjoying it, btw. We’re all doing that, all the time, in all the ways. (Also, go ahead and make an entire story that’s nothing but pure intro! Do it! I dares ya, ya contrary mofo!💜)

But this piece is stronger without it. And I found that having to find new ways to connect the parts of the story made me come out of it feeling a little clearer about what the story is about.

Which made me wonder: how far can one strip the artifice? And does stripping it always equal “more true”? Like, am I discovering a central truth about my story I wasn’t aware of before, that I wouldn’t have discovered if I hadn’t been willing to strip?

Or . . .

Did I grow out of the peer pressure part of the story, and the parts of the story I’m emphasizing now, the parts that seem more truthy, only seem more truthy because my perception of the events within the story have changed?

Did I refine the story to find a deeper truth or did the story evolve with me?

Woah, dude. Woah.

If you’re around Placerville Jan 11: Word of Mouth Storytelling

If you’re around Novato Jan 17: The Shuffle

I’d love to see you and meet you and hear what you think of my story! Also, Sacramento peeps, there’s always Do Tell on the 13th and WILDCARD! on the 15th!

Talk again, my favorite friends and looky-loos!

xoxo, Amy

If you make things—stories, art, decisions, messes—I’d love to know:
how do you tell when something needs refining? Or is it really that you’ve changed?

You can reply here if you want. I read everything. xoxo, Amy

Amy Bee here, rhymin’ and stealin’. Okay, no, I’m not doing either of those things (that Beastie Boys doc was gooood, wasn’t it?). It’s more like I’m plannin’ and schemin’ and then hidin’ and feelin’ (generalized-and-non-specific-anxiety-because-those-neuro-ruts-run-deep-and-every-unanswered-email-warrants-a-metaphorical-boot-to-the-head—ooh, another fun song, but wait, what was I—?)

I didn’t finish that sentence, but let’s just let it unspool on its own.

Oh, yeah.

In April, I’m walking the Camino Francés in Spain. Or, more accurately, I’m attempting to walk it. This is important because bad knees, because poor track record, and because attempts are really more my speed than those more fantastical story arcs like triumph, overcoming, resilience . . .

or redemption.

(But I can hope, can’t I? For a teensy, tiny lil’ bit of redemption? For funsies? What if I put it in teeny-tiny font?)

If you’re new to, uh, well—me—a little context: I’ve failed to hike the Pacific Crest Trail three separate times. And I don’t mean “it didn’t turn out the way I hoped.” I mean, I trained, planned, spent money, packed, roped people in, started . . . and then quit. THREE TIMES. Each time for reasons that were very real and also very convoluted and tangled up in my brain. I’m still trying to untangle some of it.

I know more now than I did then. Some burdens have been lifted. Which is why I think I’ve got a decent shot this time.

But still, I carry that history with me. I’m not starting the trail as someone who trusts herself to finish things, much less big physical things. I’m starting as someone who’s decided, what the hell. It’s okay to try. Might as well.

Because through all my adult iterations, one single frickin’ thing has remained true:

I want to start at point A and, hundreds of miles later, arrive at point B. On foot.

Don’t ask me why. I dunno. I mean, I kinda know, and I’ll tell you some of it later if you want (looky-loo 💜). For now, what matters is this: I’m going to try. I’m going to let it be what it needs to be. And I’m going to celebrate the attempt.

(And yes, fine. A teeny, tiny redemption arc. Maybe.)

I’m tackling this hike the same way I tackle most “gotta be brave to do it” things: with a lot of thinking, a lot of rumination, a lot of doubt, and a deep suspicion of my own motivations. You’re soooooo totally seeing how this relates to me learning to perform stories live, right? Okay, good.

I’m not going to turn the Camino into a tidy, performative lesson factory. But I do want to share it with you.

Sometimes that’ll mean the icky interior stuff: fear, resistance, the part of me that wants to quit everything before breakfast. Other times, it’ll be lighter Camino notes: what I’m packing, where I’m heading, stray observations, maybe some photos. Artifacts.

If something feels true, I’ll share it. If all I have is tired feet and a bad attitude, that might be all you get. Silence may also make an appearance. That’s not me being mysterious; that’s just me being me (aka lost in my head).

I’m not promising daily updates. I’m not promising transformation. I’m not promising that I’ll finish, or that if I do finish, it will “mean” what people like these things to mean.

(I’ll take a smidge of redemption, tho. Pleasepleaseplease.)

If you prefer perfectly curated trail content or inspirational endurance mythology, this might not be your jam. That’s okay. Skip over it. I still have lots coming up about performing anyway. TWO SHOWS THIS MONTH. Let the nail-biting commence.

But if you’re here because you know what it’s like to try something without knowing how you’ll behave once it gets hard(although you have a suspicion. But you’re not gonna box yourself in the corner like that, no mo’, nossir. Nobody puts baby in the corner!) or you’re learning to make friends with failure, with trying anyway, with giving yourself a little grace and mercy, then you’re exactly who I want along for the ride.

I’ll see you on the road in April. Or off it. Or back here afterward, sorting through what happened.

Either way, thank you for walking alongside me in whatever form this adventure takes. (Oooh, shivers!)

xoxo,
Amy Bee

(PS—I was gonna post those Beastie Boys lyrics here for some much-needed B-Boy bravado, but um, no. Not a good idea. Don’t look ‘em up. Keep your nostalgia safe and intact.)(PPS-Next post is all about da stories, promise!)

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Oh, hello. This feels familiar,” and you want to validate my story writing AND your well-earned sense of generosity, you can become a paid subscriber.

Nothing dramatic happens when you do. You won’t unlock secret wisdom or bonus bravery. You’ll just be helping me keep on keeping on, trying to do hard stuff anyway, and showing up when it would be easier to just eat a breakfast burrito in bed.

If that feels good to you, thank you. If not, I’m still really glad you’re here. xoxo, Amy

You could stand to be a little kinder to yourself.

Ew. Yuck. I know. I don’t like it either. In fact, even now, even though I’ve been called out as “hard on myself” many times and in several ways the last few weeks, I still, still, STILL have to asterisk my reminder of yeah, okay, I could go a little easier on myself with

*but not too easy, Amy.

Because I want to give myself mercy and grace.

But I also MUST. REMAIN. VIGILANT.

If you do this to yourself, I’m sorry and wish you wouldn’t. But I also understand.

Let’s go take a nap!

Okay, better?

Anyway. I’d been throwing a helluva pity party for myself for the last few months because, well, I wasn’t doing the ANYWAY part of performing anyway. Even though I showed up to anything I’d been booked for, anything where I had to be my own engine, I sputtered out. And once I let myself get away with giving in to anxiety and/or choosing comfort over growth, it just got easier and easier to do so.

Why, exactly, doesn’t facing stage fright work the same way?? Like, shouldn’t it get easier? As far as I can tell, and according to some other worry machines I know who still brave the stage, it doesn’t get easier. The symptoms don’t go away. If you’re lucky, you get better at tolerating it. I hear Nick Kroll’s voice here, saying good at tolerating. Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, imaginary Nick Kroll. I’m trying.

Mostly.

So I was feeling sorry for myself and also like a complete failure, and also kinda sorta correctly recognizing where I was leading myself astray, but also not feeling up to the task of rectifying it, and so, so guilty for everything I was doing wrong and just completely forgetting something important:

How brave I’ve been this year.

Yeah, I’m saying it! I went from ZERO times performing on stage to like, what, TEN times??? Maybe more? That’s not nothing.

That’s something.

I also helped build two live event storytelling shows from nada and threw in a newsletter and a podcast for some good old-fashioned type 2 pain. I’ve never been this busy or in charge of so many things in my life.

PSST: Wondering if you’re a productive procrastinator? Here’s how you find out: Tell yourself you want to face your fear of letting yourself exist in the world by becoming a public speaker. Now, look around. Did a burgeoning live storytelling empire taking up all your time and energy (in the most pleasantly valid way) rise up around you? Congratulations! You’re a productive procrastinator!

Thanks to my buddy Keith for reminding me. And I don’t even think he was shittin’ me, I think he really was congratulating me on all I’ve done, what I have, EMPIRICALLY, faced. And it was nice, you know? Letting his kindness in so I could feel some of my own.

And maybe that’s the surest sign of growth I’ve got for myself. Because, even two years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to hear that maybe I’ve been doing okay, because all I could ever really let myself hear before was that I wasn’t perfect.

(Check out

for funsies).

So, yay.

Progress.

Maybe I finally have the emotional intelligence of an average adult??

I’ll agree to that. With an asterisk.

So, yes, I am putting on the Ladypants and accepting I’ve done a fantastic job and now it’s time to keep going.

And that’s what I’m gonna do!

Lots of brave, brave stuff for 2026, okay, besties? Maybe even *gulp* facing a giant fear replete with umpteen tons of emotional baggage?!? (STAY TUNED!) Let’s do it together, okay? Because you are a lot like me, and that means-

You deserve a little kindness! SMOOOOOCH!

xoxo,

Amy Bee

Dear co-creators, aka Mostus to My Hostus co-host and producer co-host ,

I’m so sorry I hardcore biffed the beginning of our interview with acclaimed storyteller and Pine-Sol Lady Diane Amos, paraphrased and re-enacted here for torture-level personal embarrassment and peak-level vicarious public enjoyment:

Amy: So, you ended your story at our live show with “Joy and Pain,” an excellent and apt song from WAZE . . .

Diane: MAZE.

Aaron: MAZE.

Keith: (rolling eyes)

Amy: Huh?

Aaron: The band is MAZE.

Keith: Not a live map app in direct competition with Google.

Amy: (laughing) Yeah, I know. I don’t know why I said that. “Joy and Pain” by MAZE featuring Frank Bent . . .

Diane: Frank Beverly.

Amy: Bentley?

Diane: Featuring Frank Beverly.

Amy: Um, Frank Bent . . . Bent . . .

Keith: Dude.

Aaron: It’s Beverely.

Amy: (spits it out) Beverly. Ah yeah. I’m so sorry. I do this sometimes. I mess up names . . .

Everyone: (not believing me)

Keith: (smirks and sips coffee)

Amy: (dies a little on the inside)

Diane: (patient as hell, but probably calling me a silly white lady a little on the inside)

THE END (except unfortunately it was the BEGINNING of an hour-long interview, egads.)

Note: Some of this has been dramatized because isn’t that what re-enactments are supposed to do? But also, the whole damn thing is EMOTIONALLY true, so please leave me to my sad blanket burrow now, please and thank you.

Note: Let’s also apologize for my hair in that photo above, and also those nails that need a cleanin’ and a filin’ and a new coat of paint. So sorry. I shouldn’t compulsively want to only share shitty photos of myself. To be fair to ME, tho, well, I don’t take good pictures and I can’t hide forever hoping someday I’ll be miraculously photogenic or, less miraculously, presentable.

NOTE: I had to look up the band and the singer to make sure I had the names right in order to write this.

SIGH.

It’s FRANKIE BEVERLY. MotherFU%#!&$#.

Anyway, dudes. So sorry I flubbed. But one of you is a world-renowned comedian, and the other is an accomplished podcaster—so whose fault is this, REALLY???

Oh. Still mine?

Fine.

xoxo,

Amy

If you’ve been rooting for me, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
You’ll be helping keep live storytelling, open mics, podcasts, and mild public humiliation alive in one very anxious body. If you like being part of a creative experiment that’s equal parts heart, humor, and mild panic, hit that Subscribe button.
I loves ya, I do.—AB

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(Page to Stage is an ongoing series where I unpack the craft of translating my written work into live, oral storytelling — and what that process teaches me about writing, performance, and courage. As always, I’d love to hear from you: like, comment, share, tell me what you’d like to know more about, and commiserate with your own storytelling adventures. I like knowing I’m not alone in this big, big world.)

Addenda:

🎙️ Listen: Cookie Season performed live at and Prompt: a podcast for people who love true, personal stories.Want the extended version? Hit reply or comment—I’ll send it your way.

In a Nutshell Storytelling

Prompt Ep 8: Amy Bee Tries to Sell Girl Scout Cookies

Our guest for Episode 8 of Prompt is me, Amy Bee! Keith and Aaron were gracious enough to let me tell a story—my first real time on a real stage—at our March Nutshell show. I told a story about being around ten years old and trying to fit in with my local Girl Scout troop, doing an okay job at it, until cookie season arrived and everything quickly fell apart. The tale is bittersweet and deals with that keen need we all have to belong somewhere—anywhere—and what lengths we’re willing to go to in order to do so…

Listen now

10 months ago · 1 like · Amy Bee

📖 Read the original essay: (this is the Substack version. The original is published at Salon.com (2017))

What I Thought Oral Storytelling Was

When I originally had an inkling of telling my stories out loud and onstage, I thought it went like this:

• You write a thing you like

• You read it on a stage

• Other humans finally get you, and you belong

• People shower you with unfaltering and vehement devotion

• PBS asks to do a biopic on you

• Radiohead writes a song about you

• Cheryl Strayed asks YOU to sign HER book

and so on.

(Seriously, this fantasy has no ending.)

Imagine my surprise when I found out that’s not oral storytelling at all. That’s reading, which is fine; there are many awesome places for reading (Sedaris, anyone?), but not what people are doing when they’re talking about telling stories onstage.

It shoulda been clear to me right away, because when I read my stories out loud, they sounded, well, written—and very much so. They didn’t sound anything like the handful of Moth stories I’d heard, or Birbiglia, for that matter (who does have a bit of a writerly affectation in his style arsenal, one could argue, but that’s a different topic). Honestly, I was a mite disappointed to find out I couldn’t just read my stories and call it a day because there was a lot of built-in security in those written words. It didn’t feel too scary to read something in an entertaining manner; there was room to hide myself safely within the perspective of the narration.

It felt entirely intimidating to tell something, though, especially because I’m not a great orator! Not only do I have pretty major anxiety and stage fright, but I don’t have those nifty stereotypes you hear over and over, like:

my entire family sat around the dinner table telling stories

my parents made us kids tell our own bedtime stories

I grew up______ (insert nationality of choice)

I also handicapped myself at a youngish age for very dumb reasons. Here are two dumb things I did to myself that old-brained Amy REALLY, REALLY resents and regrets:

1. I got so tired of having to reiterate when I was a kid because the words I used were “too big” for everyone around me, so I just stopped using big words and cut right to the watered-down versions. I now have a vast lexicon—that’s mostly passive.

2. I got so used to feeling like people weren’t listening or interested in what I had to say—that I was on some invisible timer—that I began to speak as quickly as possible, with as little detail as possible.

Gosh forbid anyone thought I was a big-brained asshole with something to say! I mean, a lot of my youth was about survival, so I understand, but sheesh, I wish I’d been more on my side.

Phew. ANYWAY.

When my Nutshell co-creators invited me to tell my first story onstage at our March show, I quickly realized Cookie Season, as written, was not going to work.

It was also the beginning of another “a-ha,” and that was: I knew I had a reading voice and a writing voice, and that there were rules and grammar and syntax for those voices, but I needed to learn/create/grow another voice, a telling voice, or, probably more accurately, a performance voice.

And when I say “voice,” I mean this in terms of story, not necessarily vocals or theatrics. So, it’s basically about narration. My written narrative voice (at least currently. Maybe this won’t always be true. Sedaris, anyone??) is very different than my telling/performance narrative voice. Here’s some stuff I’ve noticed (this is all for true, personal stories, btw)((told by me, btw! I think they could help you to ponder over, too, but what do I know?!?)):

• My writer’s voice is inclined and optimized to point out things my telling voice isn’t, and vice versa. This means details you can get away with dwelling upon in your writing aren’t going to work as well onstage.

• The stage is much friendlier toward anecdotes. Stories still need a beginning, middle, and end, which means a change or transformation needs to occur, but in general, you don’t need as much twinning of reflection with plot as you do with writing.

• First-person immediacy means something different, narrative-wise AND tense-wise, to my teller voice. It needs to be even more immediate, as far as I can tell. You want the audience right there with you, so you need to be right there, too (without opening any wounds. No need to bleed for ‘em!).

• In oral storytelling, the perspective comes from you. You are the main character. YOU ARE THE PROTAGONIST, even if you think you’re the villain. This is true for writing, too, of course, but it’s so much more evident with storytelling. There’s just more room to equivocate on the page. There’s more (not a lot, but more) room to hide or obfuscate or compensate or what if or—like for me, well . . . actually that’s a whole can of beans to open up and eat with a butterknife another day.

• This is a very writer-centric perspective, probably because that’s where I’m coming from, homie.

TLDR: A few things I learned taking Cookie Season from Page to Stage:

• My written and spoken voices serve different purposes — and both are valid.

• The stage rewards immediacy; the page rewards reflection.

• The only way to learn performance storytelling if you’re a scaredy is to do it ANYWAY.

If you’d like me to break down Cookie Season in more depth—what changed, what stayed, and what surprised me—reply or let me know in the comments. FYI: COOKIES WILL BE EATEN. DUCKTALES WILL BE WATCHED. FAVORITE PARTS OF ESSAYS WILL BE CUT FROM THE STORY. Otherwise, let’s end it here for now.

Listen to the audio for sure! Read the Substack version, if ya wanna. Form your own opinions and judgments and then shower me with them. I’m super curious. A lot of creating is spent in the dark, just kinda flailing around and tripping over things, so if you wanna lean your ultra-cool, solar-powered lantern my way, I say thankya. I knew we were besties!

xo,

Amy Bee

If you’ve been rooting for me, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
You’ll be helping keep live storytelling, open mics, podcasts, and mild public humiliation alive in one very anxious body. If you like being part of a creative experiment that’s equal parts heart, humor, and mild panic, hit that Subscribe button.
I loves ya, I do.—AB

Hiya besties! Wondering if I performed at WILDCARD? Well, I kinda made a mess of it. After writing to you all, I realized my grampa story (It’s called The Part That Wrote The Poem) was only half-memorized and would def NOT be ready to tell, so I switched it up to a short piece I’ve been working on, practiced that one all that day . . . and then chickened out at the last second. Oh yeah, I had totally valid reasons not to do it (not 100% prepared, lots of audience members anxious to tell their stories, one teller’s story was similar to mine, etc.), but—and I keep realizing this, so maybe I’m learning it?—afterward, I had that pit in my stomach telling me, you guessed it:

I SHOULDA DONE IT ANYWAY

Why doesn’t my stomach tell me this BEFORE I get all scaredy-cat, dangit? My buddy Keith even said to me, “You know you’re making excuses. You need to get your average up,” meaning he’s got my number AND he’s been reading Things Might Go Terribly (because I said recently that I think I’m performing at about 65% of events offered to me), so THAT friendship’s over.

Just kidding. My ego loves it. My frontal cortex did a happy dance. He knooows me! He knows me well enough to know I make excuuuuses. He caaaaaares. We’re best frieeeeends 4eveeeeeer.

And on and on.

This is why I often describe myself as an extrovert with social anxiety, because a part of me really wants the stage, wants to know and be known, but due to no-good-very-bad parenting and poor emotional intelligence (and a deep suspicion that a fully functioning Amy ego would not be good for this world) I’ve stuffed those inclinations down deep into the nethers and the fact that I’m recognizing AT ALL—even too late—that I shoulda done the brave thing ANYWAY is a win.

For now.

But if I want that awareness to STAY a win and not be just another excuse in a long line of excuses, I’m gonna have to move past patting myself on the back for knowing and start doing.

(And I have been doing, to be clear. 65%!!)

Other notes and advice gleaned from 10 months of putting on WILDCARD, my monthly open mic story swap:

• A good host makes all the difference.

• People aren’t always aware, craft-wise, of exactly what a story’s beginning, middle, and end are. Most will nail one and fuck up the others.

• If you’re going to hold the microphone, don’t forget to move the mic stand out of the way!

• The audience mostly wants you to succeed and will help get you there IF you give them clear cues.

• Just like in writing, sometimes what is simple and obvious should be stated and not treated like a treasure in your pocket to ‘surprise’ people with. That said, edit, edit, edit. Don’t drown people in details!

• A strong, clear, measured voice can make or break a story. Too soft, and they won’t hear/trust/believe you; too loud, and you look like an ass. The audience will forgive much from a solid delivery.

• The only way to get better at performing is to keep performing.

• NOTE TO SELF: Pestering people to put their names in the NOT HAT is cute one or two times. Chasing them to their seats, begging them to participate, and threatening to randomly call them on stage (all in a poor attempt to hide your own very acute stage fright)? Not so cute.

What did I miss? Berate me in the comments. But don’t be too mean because, as my husband once cried to his second-grade teacher, “I’m sensitive!”

xo,

Amy Bee