On my hands and knees in the backyard, planting seeds in the earth, I realize I am not alone. There is a small cluster of idiosyncratic people with names like Cookie, Fritz, Fanny and Dio milling about the weedy grass, seemingly aware of the budding plants and my burgeoning skills, but mostly just in awe of each other.

The sexual tension is palpable. The sun glints off wet lips. Coy talk and throaty laughter ring in my ears as high heels slide in and out of the damp earth. A woman’s tongue tastes the tip of a lilac. Butterflies circle my head. I hear music. Soft and shimmering, and then louder.

I am unashamed of my backwoods fashion; the oversized, sweating shirt, fuzz-ball hair in the humid air, because I am frankly ahead of the game. This is my party. I know what these people are going to say before they say it. I know what they are thinking, what they wish for, and how they feel. These are my people.

Welcome to the life of a writer. A writer who became a filmmaker so she could bring her characters to life. I am never lonely in my backyard.

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FAN THE FLAMES

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