Shaky hands, storytelling, and church pulpits

About reading, peaking, and learning a new word

TLDR: I tell you about two events I’ve done recently +

there’s a word that describes what I’ve been doing, but no one told me

Morning everypony,

Last weekend, I read a speculative horror-esque crip fic piece at Sanctuary Hall, behind a pulpit, accompanied by a brilliant cellist, Julian Kosanovic.

Second Floor is a short story about a female wheelchair user trapped on the second floor of a mall. It’s kind of one of my worst nightmares, if I’m being honest.

On Saturday, I met a friend for morning words and tea. We were at a local cafe with old wooden floors and chairs that made me glad I bring my own cushions with me everywhere. Once we were settled, it was nice, lovely even. Until it became crowded. A little boy was stomping up and down the space, pretending to be a toy soldier.

The pain I felt made my eyes water. Lucky for me, my friend was able to ask if I wanted to leave. I’m not sure I could have found the words at first.

When I stood, I wobbled. My legs had turned weak and jelly-like, which happens more frequently than it used to. And I was told I’d be in a wheelchair by the time I was 35 at the latest.

I’m 35 now. So I’m lucky, to say the least. But every time I use my scooter because I can’t walk this distance or my legs don’t work, I remember there is a future with me in a chair. It’s hard to swallow some days, others it’s easier. I’ve been expecting it for over a decade, after all.

Now, back to my story.

Being in a push wheelchair many times has shown me the loss of autonomy is one of my greatest fears. But add to that the external inability to escape, and I cannot.

So, of course I wrote that. I wrote the fear, the stress, the pain.

Then in walks Julian.

They understood my piece in a way I couldn’t have expected. It wasn’t even that the words resonated, per se. It was the understanding of what crip fic means, the tension I needed to convey, the emotions that are an undercurrent to the fear the woman in the story is feeling. And they took all of that, and created music and sounds, and my piece breathed.

On Sunday, I read the piece live for the first time. Julian and I practiced, but I read differently each time. I stutter, I stumble, I change words or sentences, I miss beats or change them, I need a sip of water, I bite the inside of my cheek, a pain in my hip takes my concentration away, and that was all I could prepare them for.

We knew it would be something fluid, perhaps improv, if I veered off course.

It. Was. Beautiful.

I stuttered, I stumbled, I changed the words and sentences, I missed beats and changed them. I needed a sip of water. But we’d prepared for those things, so I didn’t lose them in my human-ness.

We moved together, with them swaying as things changed by accident.

By the end, I was breathless. I tried to read with the speed the words called for, adding voices or heavy breathing now and again. I hadn’t prepared much theatrics with it.

I thought I would, given my background. But to be honest, I was worried I couldn’t perform them on the day. I worried my body would hurt, and I’d forget to do a thing, so everything would go wonky.

Things just naturally got more animated.

Julian and I left the stage to clapping, I think. Maybe someone wooed. I assume there was some show of enjoyment, but it became a blur.

We were so buzzy. It didn’t feel like a reading. It felt bigger. Like a showcase or recital. They even allowed us to have a waiting space for us (the Minister’s Office). Julian and I sat on comfy couches and listened to the first two readers. The two after our performance we watched from the audience. They were all incredible.

Remy Nakamura, accompained by author Kate Ristau and sound effect master Matt Brislawn, read a piece that was atmospheric and delightful.

Katherine Quevedo, accompained by Katie Bennett, read raw, intense poetry that stunned me.

Sarah Walker, accompanied by Obadiah Baird, read the moodiest, visceral piece. Goosebumps, ya’ll.

Nathan Carson (the organizer and mastermind behind the whole event), accompanied by Erin Jane Laroue, read a unique piece grounded in Portland that had me wrapped up.

It’ll be hard to top this event—not that it’s a competition, mind you.

Still, my energy is depleted, so getting me to show up anywhere in the next few months will require very cool people or an orchestra.

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Mead and Read

Speaking of events, recently I was at Wyrd Leatherworks and Meadery and read a section of Another Elizabeth.

It was so much fun! Each author chose a mead to match our stories or vibes. I chose Forbidden Desire for its name. I asked about what was in it (I don’t drink, but I was willing to taste it if it was around). It’s the pomegranate mead.

If you’ve read Another Elizabeth, you know how delightful that is. Accidentally picking pomegranates. It was a clear sign I’d done the right thing.

Also, maybe, that I should redecorate my house with pomegranate things. No. You’re right. That’s too far.

My hands shook so much that I had to interrupt my own reading to swap hands as the book and the microphone were suddenly both tumbling down. Still, people clapped and bought the book and were excited because disability in horror is cool.

I was the only one in costume, but what a fucking costume it was: a crown made of sticks from my yard, my grandmother’s dress that I’ve worn for probably a dozen different costumes since I was seven or so, and a sliced neck.

It was a lovely evening, filled with faces I haven’t seen in ages, meeting new people, and good stories.

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Transmedia storytelling

I didn’t know this about myself, but apparently I’m a transmedia storyteller. That’s exciting, right?

Essentially, it means I share my stories across platforms to make them complete (i.e. they don’t just stay on the page). To me, that’s been a natural progression of my creativity and artistry—melding one thing into another.

I was a special effects makeup artist once upon a time, and I told stories on faces. Each bruise came with a visual, each bite came from a different zombie, each speck of paint or blood was my way of telling you something without words.

So when I became a writer, it made sense to make art about my stories. I didn’t share most of them. When I decided to start sharing the one-off projects, they were well-received.

Eventually, I moved to We Used to Be Different, which is filled with miniatures, some of them you can even buy right now!

To me, the idea of telling a story through books and movies and art and gaming only makes sense. No one form is superior to the other, making them unstoppable together.

What I guess I’m saying is that I need a game designer and a TV crew… the book I’m working on could get really, really big if I had help and capital.

Okay, but no, I guess I’m really just marveling that me wanting to go further into my stories and pull in more types of media will have a proper name that isn’t just this really cool thing I’m doing.

So now you, too, know the word and definition. As I talk about transmedia storytelling in this newsletter about writing, art, and life, you’ll know that I’m not just saying pretentious things, I’m trying to sum up this whole big thing in a nice succinct bow.

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So I’m currently existing, and I hope you are too.

I’ve been making rice hand warmers and heating packs like they are going out of style. Seriously, I think I’m up to fifteen? Someone stop me.

I have now moved hot chocolate to breakfast territory as well, telling myself that if I put less sugar in it, that makes it okay.

My favorite 3 books from October of last year until the end of September this year can be found here on Shepherd.

(Here is the page for all the favorites from all the contributing authors.)

*Note: all of my 2023 faves will be shared at the end of the year, and what a doozy of a list it’s become. In October, I read some that would have changed up that list. I can’t wait to see what the rest of the year holds. Any recs? Drop ‘em in the comments. I like to read all the things, so just try me.

🫀Elle M