A Face and a Name

My new business cards from Moo.com are so much fun! Love how they and their lovely card holders (which come free with the cards) are sourced from paper from sustainable forests and recycled pulp. Even the four, red order reference cards aren’t wasted. Instead, they have fun sayings on them like “I like your shoes.” I passed one on to our daughter (“You’re delightful.” ) and will give the other three to readers who want them at my next book signing: Indigo Books, Pointe Claire, Quebec, Saturday, October 4th! I’ll also be the guest author reading & signing books at Pincourt Library, QC, on Tuesday, November 4th.

I’ve put a photo of myself on my business cards for the past two years and have noticed it’s made a big difference in people finding my web sites and buying my books. Some people forget names – so a biz card with just a name on it doesn’t always jog their memory about, “who the heck handed me this card again?”

Think about it for your business cards!

By the way, I love your shoes!

Heather 🙂

 

“You’re Not Being Punked.”

When I write, “until the day I found a way to speak with Mr. Screenwriter on the phone,” you must remember that I worked from home with a four-year-old tugging at my pant leg every ten minutes.

Therefore, if I wanted my impulsive plan to work (and by impulsive, I mean impulsive—I’d only come up with the idea a half hour before, when my clever four-year-old suggested in a matter-of-fact-tone, “If you want to speak to him, you should call him.”), it was imperative for the Flickering Babysitter to hold her clever attention for at least 10 minutes.

The fact that I also absent-mindedly poured her a bowl of Cheetos bigger than her little blond head while he and I were conversing is not one of my proudest parenting moments. But it did give Mr. Screenwriter and I something else to talk about.

“I just put on Rocky and Bullwinkle for my daughter, so I can get a quiet moment to speak with you. I don’t even know what Rocky and Bullwinkle’s about. Working from home doesn’t always work out for me,” I laughed.

“How old is she again?” he asked.

“Four.”

“She might be a little young, but try Pinky and the Brain,” he said, and he went on to explain why he and his daughter liked the show. We were having a regular conversation. I didn’t think I sounded like a stalker or a bimbo, but apparently I did sound Canadian, because he made a joke about my o’s. I laughed and relaxed a little, catching my breath so I could ask him my next question.

“So, I guess you’re really answering my emails?”

“Yes, Heather, you’re not being punked.”

That’s what it took for me to finally believe. Yes, Virgina, he really was Mr. Screenwriter! I could finally let go and start enjoying my time on his Mr. Screenwriter & The Facebook Movie discussion board. Maybe I’d even stretch my legs a little. Or a lot.  It was the best thing that could have happened.

Posting on a public discussion board for the first time helped me find my funny, and reading about his work (and how  much he seemed to love doing what he did) inspired me to try to write a screenplay of my own—something I’d never dreamed of trying until I happened upon that discussion board in December 2008.

I suppose my journalism training has made me overly suspicious of everything I read—especially items I read on the Internet—plus, I’ve probably watched Conspiracy Theory a few too many times. But if I weren’t an over-thinking-paranoid-yet-impulsive frosted flake, I wouldn’t have these great stories to share. There is a method to my madness.

I don’t regret much in my life, but I do regret deleting Mr. Screenwriter’s blog comment because, well, it was damn funny. And who doesn’t want to drive traffic to their blog? Who cares how it happens, as long as the readers get there?

Apparently, me. Apparently, I am the freak of nature who cares a little too much about pretty much everything. I wish I’d had Cher near my computer that day, smacking me silly, “Snap out of it, Blondie!” Why did I have to be so perfectly principled? It’s not like I’d posted photos of me pole dancing— “More of this at heathergracestewart.com!” (Besides, I couldn’t possibly have any photos like that, in case you’re wondering).

Luckily, my fits of over-thinking and panic have miraculously failed to scare Mr. Screenwriter out of my life, so I am still treated to his brand of funny from time to time.

Read how this story started:

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

1) a-The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

b-Emails from L.A.

c-“I”m Afraid To Ask, But What Is Poking?”

Read the NEXT chapter: “You Should Write A Movie”

The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

“You’re getting wrinkled.”

“It’s not that hot,” I coughed through the steam.

“You’re getting drunk.”

“It’s rosé. I’m pretty sure you can only get tipsy on the pink stuff,” I laughed. Still, I decided he was right. It was time to get out of the bath. At 31 years old, this newlywed was already a little too wrinkled for her liking.

Hubby handed me a towel. Before he even got a word out–typical, really–I looked up at him and asked him one more time:

“Do you really think I should do it? I’m gonna do it. Should I do it?”

“Do what you want.” He smiled at me, then walked into the other room.

“What are you doing? Hey!” I hated when he did this. Leaving decisions up to me was a very bad idea. And yet, he did it all the time. His philosophy is, so long as no one gets hurt, I’m a grown woman, it’s really all up to me. Once, I e-mailed him from the 27-floor building where I worked, saying I hated all the bureaucracy, hated the tediousness of the work, and wanted to quit. Could we afford it?

He typed back: “Do what you want. Do what makes you happy. Do whatever doesn’t involve jumping out the window of a high-rise building.”

I finished getting dressed, wrapping the towel around my head like a turban. As I walked out of the bathroom, I found Bill standing at the kitchen counter, pouring me another glass of wine.

“Here you go,” he smirked, handing it to me.

“What’s this for?”

“Liquid courage.”

“See! I knew you knew I was gonna do it.”

“Of course you’re gonna do it. You’re showing off how good you are at finding phone numbers on the Internet. Show-off.”

“Do you think I’m crazy? I mean, it’s probably not even his phone number.”

“I’ve always thought you’re crazy. This just makes you crazier.”

I didn’t even stop to stick my tongue out at him. I took a quick swig of the wine, picked up the phone, and started dialing.

One ring. No one was going to answer. Come on. It was his home phone number in New York. How the hell did that end up on the Internet? Two rings. Did this mean I was a stalker? It just popped up on my screen! It’s not like I’d even been looking for it! Three rings. Someone was answering. Holy hell, someone was answering!

“Hello?”

“Um, Mr. Sitcom Actor?”

“Yes. This is Mr. Sitcom Actor.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m Heather. In Montreal.”

“Hello, Heather in Montreal.”

“I, er, um, I just wanted to call and tell you how much I’ve loved your work in movies and television. I’ve watched it all.”

“Hey, that’s really nice. I’m about to go to dinner with my girlfriend and my Mom…”

“No, no, I’m married, Mr. Sitcom Actor. He’s right here, actually. I’m just outgoing like this. I just felt like you might need a pick-me-up. I had this gut instinct that I should call. It must sound crazy.”

“No strings attached? Really? Wow, that’s really sweet. I’ll tell my Mom!”

“Cool. Have a good dinner.”

“I will, Heather in Montreal. Thanks so much for the call.”

I hung up the phone, turned to hubby, and performed a jiggly-jumping-up-and-down-quick-spin-around-“Oh Yeah! I did it! Oh Yeah!” ritual that I would come to refer to as my Heather Dance.

“Ha! He answered! And he was touched!”

“Or maybe you’re touched.”

I laughed and clicked my wine glass with his.

And that was how it all began.

So, as you can see, clearly, it’s all my husband’s fault.

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

Read the next chapter here:
The Fine Line: Emails from L.A.