I would like to put in writing, that I am sorry for thinking, even in the smallest increment, that I felt stupid for having had to call 911 and that I imagined they must have thought I was a dumb woman.

I could not have been more wrong.

Tonight, the men I met and ate with were the utmost gentlemen. They were kind and funny, generous with their time and energy and very friendly.

Not once, did I feel foolish.

It started because I wanted to say thank you to the men who showed up to put out the oven fire. I wanted them to know they are appreciated for what they do. It can’t be an easy job and probably goes often unacknowledged.

So I cooked. Food is love. It’s a language I understand and believe most people can comprehend. I made a simple lasagna, salad and cupcakes; nothing fancy, then took it over to the fire station.

I planned to just drop it off and say thank you and leave them to their supper – but then they invited me to stay and eat with them. I stalled out. Not sure what to do. Would it be crazy awkward? Uncomfortable to sit with them if I thought for just a minute that I was imposing on their dinner or what might be one of their only moments of quiet time?

But I was curious about them. What kind of men are they who take a job fighting fires and answering 911 calls for women who set steaks on fire?

So I stayed, nervous at first, afraid I’d be in the way. But they were quick to welcome me into their surrogate home and dish me a plate of food and jump right in to conversation.

And they were – charming. Oh god, so charming.

They were so much adorable, and lovely and hot and charismatic all rolled in to one that it was difficult to eat – I just wanted to stare. What rule says firefighters have to be good-looking? Did all the hotties end up at my fire station? If someone wants to do a calendar of sexy, charming and intelligent rescue workers – they could come to my neighborhood. No joke.

And while I’m sure my dad will be thrilled that I had dinner with three men (I know dad, I’m not getting any younger, no need to keep pointing it out) – my dad’s happiness was the last thing on my mind. Because, for the first time in years, yes, years, I had dinner with men who were marvelous dinner companions.

I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve sat across the table to eat with a guy who didn’t check his phone a dozen times, or just leave his phone up so he could text all through the entrée. I can’t remember sitting over a meal when I didn’t have to bear the sole responsibility of keeping the conversations rolling (I could barely keep up with the questions!) I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have to “entertain” over the table, or listen to some guy tell me all about his car/music collection/what he’s going to buy with his tax return/or all of his ex-girlfriends.

In short. These firefighters were such great dinner companions, such nice guys. I was totally off my game. So stalled out by sudden quality of company after years of wading through meals with… well, you get the point.

That all I did was push food around my plate and try to keep up.

And that’s not all. I was impressed by them, each one. By their sense of purpose.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with gorgeous men who know what the fuck they want, and how they plan to get it. I can’t even tell you what a breath of fresh air it was to know, the men sitting at the table were doing what they love to do. Wow.

How sexy is that? It makes all the difference in the world!

I really hope I didn’t stare too much.

And I knew then that when they’d come to my house and I thought they must think I am a stupid woman who can’t use an oven – IT WAS MY IMAGINATION. My insecurity of looking helpless induced me to infer meanings that simply were not there in any truth.

As I sat across the table, laughing and chatting I realized something unsettling, something dark about who I am that needs to change.

This chip on my shoulder about asking for help, the fear of appearing incapable or incompetent is not working toward my best interest. If anything, it’s keeping me further from the truth of who I am and what I want to accomplish with my life.

No one wants to look incompetent. Why should I imagine I’m special? But assuming everyone thinks I am – doesn’t give them the chance to reveal their marvelous personalities, nor does it give me a chance to see people as they are actually interacting with me because my mind is already assumed.

Not okay.

Tonight was a gift of perspective I’m not sure I would have been introduced to in any other way. I deeply appreciate the chance to meet three amazing, smart and funny men and I am forever grateful to the reminder of what it’s like to have a casual dinner with good folk.

And I am thrice blessed by them that they have helped me realize how silly my insecurity is, so I can take a deeper, harder look at it and perhaps let go of something that no longer serves my future. And for this awesome gift they offered in perspective – I might need to bake them a cake to show my tremendous appreciation…

Setting food afire is nothing new for me. Not being able to put it out – is. In fact, I burn things so frequently, Admiral Fubar put a fire extinguisher nearby, and I have a huge bag of baking soda always at the ready.

In our old apartment, I’d often have to take the smoke detectors down when broiling steak or cooking bacon and when Admiral Fubar would come home – he’d see the disassembled fire alarms on the counter and say, “So what were you cooking today?”

Then we moved into this charming duplex with high ceilings and antiquated appliances, leaky windows and no insulation. Despite the age and outdated functions – I dearly love the place.

So imagine my panic and surprise last night when…

I put to large, marbled steaks under the broiler and flipped the lock on the oven. I’ve discovered that the oven leaks heat if the lock isn’t set. I never worry about accidently engaging the self-cleaning function because there are five other steps that must happen for the oven to lock down and self-clean.

I set the timer and turned around to work on the salad.

Less than a minute before the timer would go off, I smelled smoke and turned back around to see the flames behind the glass and smoke pouring out of the vent.

Holy shit!

But I didn’t panic. I’ve set steak on fire before. Just grabbed the hand towels and baking soda and went to open the oven.

Here’s where things go all wrong.

The oven locked itself down. I tried to lever the lock, but the orange lights on the oven front started flickering and the lock refused to budge.

Now I panicked.

I leaned with all my body weight against the lever and it bent – but would not open.

In a frenzy of fear, I didn’t know what was causing the oven to lock down. Checked all the knobs – NOT on self-clean. All the vents poured smoke and the flames and sputter of grease were behind the glass.

For a moment, I thought about pulling up Google and checking on the safety features of the ancient oven. Was it a fire-sensing feature that locked everything down OR did the oven finally malfunction and the heat damaged the locking lever, sealing everything in.

But the time it would take me to search for the information could mean if it was actually a malfunction things could get out of hand before I’d have an answer.

I had a fire extinguisher and all the stuff to put the fire out – I just couldn’t get to it.

So I turned off all the power to the oven and called 911.

Got the wrong state and was routed to the right place where I blurted out, “I have a fire inside the over and it’s locked down – do you know how to override a safety lock so I can put the fire out?”

It should be mentioned that by now, I’m a mess. Hair askew from pacing and flapping and pounding on the lock. How long can grease fire burn, anyway?

An internal fan inside the oven that I didn’t even know was there, clicked on and whizzed.

The 911 operator was genuinely sweet and very calming.

“You need to get out of the house. The firefighters are on their way. Just get everyone out.”

“Wait, it’s not like the house it on fire yet, it’s just the oven and I can put it out if I can get to it.”

So I explained what happened while pacing in the kitchen with the fire extinguisher in one hand and the phone in the other. And eventually the flames went out while I was on the phone. Smoke was still everywhere, but the light inside the oven was out and then, there was an audible “click” and the latch popped.

“Wait! Wait! Call them back! The fire went out inside and the lock popped! It’s okay!” I said happily. I pulled the lock to the left.

The operator said sharply, “DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN!”

I paused. “But, it’s okay. I’d feel really stupid if the firefighters got here and there’s no fire.”

“It’s possible the fire went out because it burned up all the oxygen and if you open the door and feed oxygen…”

“Ohmigod. I didn’t even think of that.”

But I was torn. The likelihood of a backdraft was very small, and if the fire department arrived and saw that there was no longer a fire – I’d feel like a total ASS.

But in the unlikely event that I did cause a small backdraft and set the cabinetry on fire or part of the kitchen, I might not be able to control all that by myself.

I froze, paralyzed.

“What should I do to check for a backdraft?”

“You don’t do anything. You wait for the fire department.”

“But if it’s no big deal, I’ll feel awful that they had to come out.”

“Mam, it’s okay. Don’t apologize. These are your tax dollars at work to make sure you are safe – just let them do their job.”

So I thought about it. Best case scenario – they get here and I just look stupid. Worst case scenario, I cause another fire that threatens the house and my duplex neighbor’s safety. I don’t live in a building by myself. It’s not just my safety to consider.

I can handle standing in front of firefighters and admit to being a bad cook and panic.

But I couldn’t handle standing in front of my neighbor and his wife and kids if I put them in danger, and admit to carelessness.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

“If anything changes, get everyone out of the house.”

I opened the doors. Set out fans. Ran back and forth in the living room waving a blanket to drive smoke from the house. From the start of the phone call to the time the red flashing lights of the fire engine pulled up – was perhaps 5-7 minutes.

I met the lead firefighter on the porch and said, “I think it’s okay, but the guy told me not to open the oven.”

My neighbors were in the front yard, worried.

“Everything okay?” the neighbors asked.

“Yeah, I think so.” I shrugged. “Just an oven malfunction.”

The firefighters followed me to the kitchen, much less smoky and hot with the doors open. The main firefighter reached for the oven but I’d slid the lock back just to be safe.

“You might have set the self-clean by clicking the lock,” he reasoned.

I understand why he said it, but I couldn’t help the flash of irritation. I might be a moron at the moment but I know how to set the five components to create a self-cleaning cycle. The lock does not determine the self-clean alone and I’ve used the lock for a year in this house, cooking and baking several times a week without incident.

“You actually have to “set it to self-clean” for that to happen,” I replied.

He opened the oven.

Nothing happened.

“It looks like your dinner might still be edible,” he said surprised.

“No shit?!” I gasped. “Are you joking me?”

The hottie firefighter to right said, “It smells good! We should stay for dinner!”

“Sure!” I agreed. “Absolutely! But now ya’ll know what kind of cook I am.”

I did a double take at him, he was seriously beautiful man. But it didn’t register more than that because I was so off-balance. Surprised and relieved and scared all at the same time.

But then I saw all their faces, the false-alarm-stupid-woman-who-can’t-cook-or-work-her-oven, faces. I’d been expecting as much, I suppose.

They filed out and I said thank you several times, feeling like colossal moron. Better safe than sorry, sure. But that does little to console you when you’re standing on the porch in the front yard, waving to the men who came rushing out to help when – apparently I could have managed by myself.

There is not a feeling I hate worse than feeling like a damsel for even a minute – but I discovered that a far worse feeling is the false-alarm damsel. Whether it was my own way of feeling, or their faces and I heaped the self-condemnation on by myself.

Either way, I went back in the house and stood in front of the oven – pissed and depressed, embarrassed and scared.

After a few minutes I walked over the neighbors to let them know everything was okay. The wife answered the door and the very first thing she said was, “You don’t have the original oven on your side do you? The oven that was built with the house?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I think so.”

“Did the oven lock with a fire inside?” she asked.

“Yeah, how did you know that?”

“Well, right after we first moved in a few years ago, the same thing happened and it actually did start a fire in the kitchen. We were able to put it out but we were running around trying to flip the breakers to get the oven to unlock. There was some damage and I insisted that the landlord replace the oven immediately. He did but it was a mess. I can’t believe he didn’t replace your oven at the same time.”

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Their house is a duplicate of ours, joined by a center wall where their kitchen is my bedroom. If they had trouble with their ancient oven – it was likely we would have the same issue.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Athena – but you need to call the landlord right away and have him replace that appliance that’s as old as the house.”

I shuffled back across the yard feeling less stupid. They’d actually HAD a fire in their kitchen. I wondered then, if the oven hadn’t locked down until the flames went out – would it have caught the kitchen? Or could it have been a bigger issue BECAUSE the oven locked so I couldn’t get to the flames. 

I just don’t know.

Malfunction or safety-feature? The oven is almost 30 years old. I just don’t know.

But despite the embarrassment and self-recrimination, after I heard her story, I was grateful I erred on the side of caution and waited for the fire fighters. Just in case.

Besides, dinner was VERY WELL DONE, no color in the steak and blackened, just the way I like it. I got to meet a couple of good lookin’ firefighters. Things could have been much, much worse.

I’d say, all’s well that ends well.

But with the pending release of my first novel, I suspect there will be a great many questions on this particular topic, so I intend to post this as a fixed page and refer to it any time the question comes up.

Why do you only have one name?

It’s not a long story, or even complicated. Quite simply, it was a personal choice after my divorce to venture out into the world with just my first name. Not what I married into or inherited by lineage, but what was just me. Just Athena. I wanted to discover who I was/am from the most simple, fundamental elements.

From that five sentence explanation, I could write an entire book on the adverse reactions this decision has garnered. Some good. Most exasperating. A few downright bone-chilling.

In terms of social experiments, it has been a fascinating study on our social expectations, gender roles, naming conventions and personal individuality to run around without a surname. Despite how interesting it is, the curiosity is not why I did it.

Furthermore, it’s astonishing how fast people will fill in their own explanation for my very personal choice. Because there is not a social normalcy for female mononames (unless you count superstars Madonna and Cher) the average stranger will immediately fill in a “reasonable hypothesis” to my “unreasonable decision” and they are suddenly more at ease around me once they’ve concocted a label they can comprehend.

“Ooohhh, you’re a lesbian.”

“You must really hate your family.”

“I get it. You’re a feminist.”

“Oh, I totally understand, you want to make a statement to the world that you can’t be owned.”

“I bet you did it for publicity. Are you a singer?”

“So you have an “Artist mentality”.”

“So, I guess you hate men.”

“So, what you’re saying is that you’re a narcissist.”

“Do you also burn bras and sacrifice kittens?”

“Are you a witch?”

“Is it a religious thing?”

“I’m gay too.”

As it happens. I’m not gay. Nor am I a witch, a feminist, a man-hater or a religious individual. I don’t hate my family. My father was my first and most vocal supporter of the choice. I’m not a singer with aims at a life like Madonna or Cher. I don’t burn bras or sacrifice kittens.

I’m just a mononame.

I will, however, fess up to the “you must be a narcissist” comment being somewhat accurate – because yes, this choice was about my life and my self-discovery.

Generally, I don’t argue with folks anymore or try to express how their opinion or assumption of my meaning is distorted. They typically just don’t get it and I don’t have the energy to keep correcting them. In many cases, it’s nuance anyway. Important nuance, but lost in the static of many preconceived notions, so I just let it slide.

After six years of living in the world without a surname, I’ve learned that people will assume the conclusion that works best for their understanding of what is unusual.

That’s not to say that it isn’t sometimes scary or disheartening. Sometimes it’s tremendously unsettling what people have as their set-point of acceptable normalcy and what they will do to defend it. The most adverse reactions have gone like this so after the initial answer to why I’m a mononame. These are actual quotes….(and it should be noted, all these statements were made by those of the male gender)

“If you were in my country, you’d be stoned for dishonoring your family.”

“If you were my wife, I’d force you to take my name.”

“You’ve destroyed your father. You’re a terrible daughter.”

“You are immoral.”

“God will punish you for hurting your family.”

“If you die, no one will care because no one will find you in the system without a last name.”

“If you had children, I’d take them away from you.”

“If you ever visit my country, I’ll teach you a lesson.”

“Your father should disown you.”

“You must return to your maiden name, or I will not help you get your license. You are immoral.”

 For sure, there are some terrible and threatening things about stepping out of the groove of what’s recognizable and acceptable in the world. We live in a patrilineal society, generally inheriting the names of our fathers or accepting the names of our husbands or guardians.

Over the years on this blog I’ve told stories of men who confront me, a woman in her thirties in a modern world, and say things like, “Without a last name you don’t have anyone to protect you!” to which I replied, “I’m thirty. I don’t need to be protected.”

But what I really wanted to say was, “What protection?” Does having a last name protect me from abuse? No. Rape? No. Mistreatment? No. Abduction? Insults? Control? Judgment? Theft?

Absolutely not. In fact. Nearly all of the above still occurred even when I had a last name. To what “name protection” are these men referring?

Conversely, while this has been a frequent comment from the adult male population for the last six years – NOT ONCE has a similar comment ever been voiced by a woman, ever.  Interesting.

Furthermore, there is an implication in this statement, that if I were in serious trouble and had no last name to protect me, I’d be abandoned by my family, sisters, brothers and parents; which I know is absolutely not the truth.

So the point is, I fail to see the logic of this ever-repetitive argument. And it has failed to intimidate me or cause enough fear to return to a last name.

All intimidation aside, there are some practical points and difficulties in living as a mononame. Such as,

Most computer systems and registrations have last name fields which are mandatory.

Many employers or potential business partners assume I’m trying for “informality” or at worst, that I’m sloppy and forgot my last name on my application.

People don’t want the hassle of adapting to something different, (paperwork is cumbersome).

Religious folk with issues about gay rights, assume I am a lesbian based on my choice, or that I am an immoral individual bent on ruin. (This was only a problem when a former CEO of my company confronted me, red-faced and screaming about my affront to God and my immoral abuse of my father’s name.) It eventually cost me my job as I put my notice in the very next week. I didn’t want to work for such a person.

Certain computer systems and programs require a “key-stroke work around” to get my legal name in the database.

It’s tedious to explain, break it down, repeat, inform, justify or even find ways to make this choice work on a daily basis.

 While there are terrifying/tedious/repetitive/exasperating episodes related to living a mononame life, there are also funny days and laughable moments.

“I searched for you on the internet and got like, three trillion hits. Apparently, Athena is the name of a goddess or something.”

“You could just make up a last name, like, Athena Fuck-ya’ll-motherfuckers.”

“Have you considered selling your last name spot to a corporation to raise money? How about Athena Starbucks?”

Upon filing my request for student aid and being shuffled to the customer service hotline– “Wow, Athena as a mononame. That’s weird, we used to have a Finance Director in that area with Athena as a mononame too!” I replied, “Yeah, actually, that was me.”

Upon getting my cable modem installed and the tech sending a work order to HQ to work around my last name- guy at HQ who got my case was actually the boyfriend of a co-worker and he came home that night and told her, “Yeah, I had to fix an account for this chick with one name. Like, just Athena. Weird. Who does that?” She replied, “Actually, that’s the Athena I work with.”

As funny as it can be sometimes there are times when I do occasionally think about how much easier my life was when I had a last name. Fewer calls to customer service. Easier airline reservations. Easier job application process. MUCH LESS EXPLAINING.

And for it being a personal choice, there are a surprising number of people who behave as though my name is a burden to their daily existence. Customer service calls wherein the tech reeeeallly doesn’t want to have to discover a key-stroke work around and tells me to call back when I have a last name. Or people who behave as though I made this choice- only to upset them, cause more work, rock the boat, collapse the system, thumb my nose, cause irritation – somehow, my very personal choice has become “all about them”.

I won’t break it down too much by demographic but the highlights are thus:

People under 30 rarely even blink. Usually, they just shrug when they hear the mononame.

Men between 45-60 usually have the most emotional responses.

Women of any age bracket are most likely to either a) tilt their head and say, “huh, I didn’t know you could do that” b) roll their eyes c) “what did your dad say?” or d) “wow, I bet that’s a pain in the ass.”

With the pending release of Murder of Crows, I’ve decided not to take a penname. I realize this will make it difficult to be found via the internet. My teacher said, “As an indie author, you can’t afford to have people thinking you’re weird.” And a publicist said, “You might disappear in the slush”.

I accept those potential negative outcomes, just as I accept that I will probably be explaining myself and my name for years to come.

While I know I can always return to my maiden name, or choose a surname. The varied and vehement responses I’ve encountered over the last six years have solidified my interest in remaining, for the time being, independent of a last name convention.

It’s taught me a lot about the culture I live in, about the people I interact with and about the expectations that I am no longer required to uphold as well as the new expectations I’m required to shoulder.

And each of these experiences has strangely, unexpectedly, brought me closer to the reason I went mononame in the first place. To discover – What role I have in this world that is just mine? What journey is because it is named of me versus what I freely choose?

With these abundant experiences, I’m challenging my perceptions on a conscious and subconscious level about what and who I am, constantly. And each time, I pare it down to its base element, raw material, to see what’s left standing is usually just….

Athena.

And for now, that’s enough for me.

Creepy and oh, so much fun! Stay tuned for the new trailer!

I’ve added a couple of updates to the project information such as pictures of Fable’s journal and the feather bookmarks I’m making for pledge rewards. You can see them all here.  http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1643871596/murder-of-crows/posts

Today, the theme was very much about balance. This weekend we’re shooting the second trailer, which involves one actor and the need for good, natural light. The last of which is nearly impossible to predict in Portland, Ore.

We moved the filming to tomorrow because this morning it looked cloudy and like it might rain, but then at the last minute the sun came out, after I’d already told everyone to take the day and relax. So hopefully, tomorrow will still be sunny and if not, we’ll fake it with lighting. So everything that’s been piling up, or that I planned to get to tomorrow, needs to be squeezed in today.

What I hadn’t anticipated with the Indie Author Life is the amount of energy that oscillates drastically between frantic and still, harried and restful. The pattern isn’t readily apparent yet, and so I find myself tired, overworked and buried a lot, then wracked with guilt for sitting in the bathtub for an hour that I could be catching up on work.

While I know this learning and busy curve is short-term and that a stability and rhythm will emerge – it temporarily creates the dilemma of learning to do as much as I can, as fast as humanly possible, with as much quality as possible and maintain as much grace as I can muster.

Some days are a failure of grace.

Some days are a failure of rhythm.

Some days are just plain failures.

This morning I burnt my eggs and hash browns as I scrambled to get caught up on an avalanche of emails and work details – blackened tatters.  I also knew, I didn’t have time to fix a second breakfast, or make it to the grocery for at least a few hours. So I put butter on my burnt eggs and tatters and ate them anyway. Mmm. Crunchy.

The point is, most beginnings are rocky. Most beginnings are chaotic and nerve-wracking, stressful and evolutionary. But this stage is finite. It will get better. Some days are eating burnt tatters with butter and others are gourmet crepes.

There will be a day when I can balance a creative life, with a business life and a social circle. It will happen.

But for now, there aren’t enough hours in the day, or even a complete sense of being fully in control of the oscillation yet and you just have to learn to surf it.

Rest when you can rest. Work hard when you can work. Plan as much as possible but remain as flexible as necessary to accomplish everything that still needs to make it in to the slim 24 hour window.

Because even though some days are a failure of grace, or rhythm or productivity – there are some days that are a raging success.

Some days are a success of creativity.

Some days are a success of overcoming start-up fear.

Some days are just plain, marvelously successful.

And those days are worth holding out for… always.

Jedi Master Princess Buttercup

We are off and running. Not just running but racing.

For those of you who’ve been reading for a few years, you know how long and hard I’ve worked toward this goal –and the goal is within grabbing distance.

The possibility of success is finally so close – it’s actually casting a shadow of fear.

Fear of success. Fear of being so close I can finally touch it, but then my fingers just don’t reach. Fear of reaching the goal and finding that it doesn’t offer that sense of achievement of which the longing has driven me all these years.

You know, all the last minute paranoia because the project finally has the momentum behind it to move and now that it’s moving the possibility of losing control of the outcome is a distinct possibility.

And mixed with that knowledge is the sense for the first time since it started that I’ve passed the fulcrum point – and I can no longer back out.  I’m committed.

It’s now got enough weight and momentum that my only option is to hold on for dear life and hope I don’t land on my head.

Either way, what a ride, right?

So, whether you’ve been reading for five years or just stumbled upon the BlissQuest recently – Welcome to the ride!

Welcome aboard the Murder of Crows Express!

Destination unknown.

Outcome uncertain.

Adventure for all – a serious promise.

Here’s the link for Kickstart, Murder of Crows.

I have 49 days to raise the publication funds needed to push this novel into the world. Any and all help is welcome and much appreciated! If all goes well, this book should see a release by April 9^th, 2012!!!

This illustration was done by A.M. Sartor. You can find her work here.

Cover art by A.M. Sartor