Hi everyone,

I wanted to clarify how the kickstarter payments are going to work. Mainly, your account will not be charged until the project is successfully completed. That will happen 17 days from now. So even if you pledged a month ago, that money has not left you. Yet.

I know that holiday season is coming up, and I didn't want anyone to get any nasty surprises when they suddenly have $50 less than they were expecting... :) If it's going to be a problem for anyone, you can adjust your pledge.

Thank you so much for supporting me though!

$580!!!

This is all so exciting! Thank you all soooo much for believing in this project and spreading the word.

But today's update is more about how the actual project is going, not just the fundraising. I've recently had some questions about the monologues themselves, from people interested in performing them, which is utterly fantastic. And they are quite eager to see the content, and have asked to see it ahead of publication.

So, I thought about it. I still have some fine-tuning to do to some of the monologues (it's an editor's curse - the fiddling is never done). My plan is to stick to the kickstarter schedule, and be completed with the content in November. So until then, I'm sorry, but the completed monologues will not be available.

However, for those folks trying to evaluate the project before they donate, I will send you a sampling. Write to me at cpcarey@gmail.com, and I'll send you a few monologues, just so you can get a better idea of what my writing is all about.

Thanks again everyone!!

Wow! We're up to $400!!! Thank you so much everyone. I hope you can all continue to spread the word and together we can make this project come true!

My big news for the week is that I got engaged! After a lot of thought, I've decided to change my last name (and he's going to add my last name as a middle name). So now I have a quandary. Do I publish "Risk Factors" under Colleen Carey, or Colleen Luther? I won't be married by the time I publish, but, it'll only be a few months later. Hmmm....

Last night I found out that I will be honored at the annual survivor's lunch for my local Susan G. Komen for the Cure affiliate (NENY). Awww! I'm not sure what I did exactly, to deserve such a thing. The other woman being honored is a local news personality who has been an honorary Race for the Cure chair for 15 years in a row. I just do the affiliate web site, lol. But I'm touched all the same!

Since this one has already been published, I figured it would serve as a good introductory piece to people who wanna know how I write. Without further ado:

My mom was ready to make a ruckus.

“Excuse me. I think you’re in our seats.” My grandmother, mother, and I peered at the little old ladies in row G of the high school auditorium. After a few moments of fruitless staring, I decided to be helpful and showed them my ticket. Grandma merely beamed in little old lady solidarity, plus Alzheimer’s. “Hello. My grandson is a police officer.”

I don’t think they actually expected us to call the police, but they moved, giving us dirty looks the whole time. Hmmph, their expressions said. We are old. We can’t see the stage unless we sit right here. How dare they ask us to move.

They made their way to their crappy seats. I couldn’t blame them for trying to upgrade, but their combined evil eye was intense, and started to make me mad. So, I whipped off my wig and yelled, “Having cancer trumps being old, so there!”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that, but I wanted to. I thought it would be funny.

Oh, my bald head, the source of much hilarity, and grief. Before the cancer, I had long, thick hair, untouched by perms or dye. It was unbroken, pure, and fucking gorgeous, if I do say so myself. I didn’t want to see it go, but since the alternative was, well, death, I decided to be a good sport about it.

I cut it off in stages. The first step was a shoulder-length haircut, with layers. “Are you going to style it?” the hairdresser asked anxiously. “Because I don’t think we should cut layers unless you plan on curling it. It’s too straight.” My hair fell from her scissors onto my chest, covering up my chemo port. “Sure,” I answered, knowing that in two weeks the whole thing would be moot.

The second step was bangs. I hadn’t had bangs since an unfortunate self-attempt in high school. But unless you wanted to spend a zillion dollars on a Hollywood-quality wig, spirit gum, and stage makeup, you ended up with bangs to hide the wig line. I didn’t have a zillion dollars, so I thought I should try and get used to it.

The third step was a mohawk. That was the plan anyway. I told my friend Cheryl all about it, gleeful and excited. She laughed and advised me to do it before my next treatment, because the chemo made me feel like crap and I wouldn’t be so cheerful. She was right, but I didn’t listen to her. The mohawk attempt concluded with odd chunks of my head shaved, the clippers thrown against the wall, and me throwing up and sobbing.

But, like I said, it was all moot soon enough. That Christmas I sat next to my consistently-shaven police officer brother for dinner, our heads matching and gleaming. Our sister found this very amusing, and giggled as she looked back and forth between the two of us. “Watch it,” I said. “You’re next if you keep that up.” But I laughed too. It was funny.

My bald head was actually useful to people. I visited Cheryl, and her roommate’s son wouldn’t brush his hair. She whispered, “Colleen wouldn’t brush her hair either. Do you know what happened then? Do you know what we did to her?” He shook his head, eyes wide, not expecting Cheryl to whip my wig off. He screamed. That was funny too.

Oh, my bald head, reducing me to laughing at old women and little boys. That was never the plan, but, sometimes you have to go with what life sets out for you.