My name is Yvette Marie. Most people just call me Yvette. I’m a mother, a wife, and that quirky friend... you know the one. I consider myself a Thought Wrangler... a thinking nomad wandering in search of understanding and hope... and a writer. Thankfully, there’s no strict qualification process for the “writer” bit.
To this day, I still can't explain how I got myself into some of the predicaments I’ve been in. Okay… maybe I can, but I refuse to admit to the full extent of my capacity for dumbfoundery.
Fortunately, most of those situations either taught me something valuable or were so absurd they now make me laugh until I cry. As I retell them (which, for some reason, I do more often as I get older), I feel that bittersweet melancholy—the kind that comes from knowing how distant it all is now. Would I relive it? Absolutely not. I barely survived the first time. I doubt I’ve gained enough skill or luck to survive a second round.
I do have some crazy stories to tell, though. Like the time I spilled a drink on a rock star, or the time I accidentally insulted the CEO of a very large company (his hair really did look like a toupee), or the time I hit an Elvis impersonator in the face with a flying screen door. Oh, and I’ve slipped on a banana peel. Twice. Same witness both times. A setup? Possibly.
Though I still share these stories from time to time, I’d rather weave them into my novels. With a little embellishment, the ridiculous things that happened to me actually seem more plausible.
These days, I’ve settled down. Mostly.
I have two wonderful grown children who don’t have time to listen to my stories and who work hard to keep me humble. An amazing, full-on nerd husband—nerds make great husbands if you can tolerate action figures, endless movie quotes, and math jokes. And great friends, some of whom were responsible for the aforementioned predicaments.
And, of course, a dog who knows all my secrets and doesn’t judge me. Okay, well… she does judge me, but she’s so cute when she does it.
Fortunately, most of those situations either taught me something valuable or were so absurd they now make me laugh until I cry. As I retell them (which, for some reason, I do more often as I get older), I feel that bittersweet melancholy—the kind that comes from knowing how distant it all is now. Would I relive it? Absolutely not. I barely survived the first time. I doubt I’ve gained enough skill or luck to survive a second round.
I do have some crazy stories to tell, though. Like the time I spilled a drink on a rock star, or the time I accidentally insulted the CEO of a very large company (his hair really did look like a toupee), or the time I hit an Elvis impersonator in the face with a flying screen door. Oh, and I’ve slipped on a banana peel. Twice. Same witness both times. A setup? Possibly.
Though I still share these stories from time to time, I’d rather weave them into my novels. With a little embellishment, the ridiculous things that happened to me actually seem more plausible.
These days, I’ve settled down. Mostly.
I have two wonderful grown children who don’t have time to listen to my stories and who work hard to keep me humble. An amazing, full-on nerd husband—nerds make great husbands if you can tolerate action figures, endless movie quotes, and math jokes. And great friends, some of whom were responsible for the aforementioned predicaments.
And, of course, a dog who knows all my secrets and doesn’t judge me. Okay, well… she does judge me, but she’s so cute when she does it.
When I’m not writing—probably because something shiny distracted me—I’m listening to ‘80s-‘90s punk, classic rock LPs, and alternative folk (a’la Suzanne Vega, Jewel, and Jack Johnson—yes, including the Curious George soundtrack, because it’s objectively delightful).
I’m also attempting to learn guitar, but my dyslexia makes reading music feel like staring into a vortex. Progress is slow. Painfully slow.
Same with Spanish and French. I try, I really do. But, like I said, shiny objects. (See my blog on Social Media Minimalism for further proof of my attention span in crisis.) C’est la vie.
Books? Of course. Magical realism, fictional realism, surrealism—or Sir Realism, if we’re being formal. My favorites? The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Steve Martin’s essay collection Pure Drivel, which contains one of the best essays on writing ever: Times Roman Font Announces Shortage of Periods. Highly recommend.
I help run a couple of writers' groups, mostly because I need accountability or I’ll never finish anything. Please don’t tell them I have no idea what I’m doing. Actually, never mind—they already know.
I take a lot of walks and have deep conversations with my dog. She’s indifferent, but I suspect she secretly agrees with most of my analysis. She’s highly accepting. I think I can trust her.
Unlike some of my Gen X peers, I genuinely love Gen Z. No, seriously. They’re a lot like us. Slow to mature. Enthusiastic about high-waisted pants. Fine with you doing you. They, too, question the validity of "The Man" (or "The Woman"). Whatever, man. You do you.
If something is funny, devastating, or downright perplexing, I’ll probably write about it—with the perspective of an optimist without reason or a rebel without a clue. I tend to get things wrong on the first try anyway, but at least I keep going. That’s what matters, right?
I’ll likely change my mind by the time anyone reads this, but hey—commitment is overrated.
Whatever. Nevermind.
I’m also attempting to learn guitar, but my dyslexia makes reading music feel like staring into a vortex. Progress is slow. Painfully slow.
Same with Spanish and French. I try, I really do. But, like I said, shiny objects. (See my blog on Social Media Minimalism for further proof of my attention span in crisis.) C’est la vie.
Books? Of course. Magical realism, fictional realism, surrealism—or Sir Realism, if we’re being formal. My favorites? The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Steve Martin’s essay collection Pure Drivel, which contains one of the best essays on writing ever: Times Roman Font Announces Shortage of Periods. Highly recommend.
I help run a couple of writers' groups, mostly because I need accountability or I’ll never finish anything. Please don’t tell them I have no idea what I’m doing. Actually, never mind—they already know.
I take a lot of walks and have deep conversations with my dog. She’s indifferent, but I suspect she secretly agrees with most of my analysis. She’s highly accepting. I think I can trust her.
Unlike some of my Gen X peers, I genuinely love Gen Z. No, seriously. They’re a lot like us. Slow to mature. Enthusiastic about high-waisted pants. Fine with you doing you. They, too, question the validity of "The Man" (or "The Woman"). Whatever, man. You do you.
If something is funny, devastating, or downright perplexing, I’ll probably write about it—with the perspective of an optimist without reason or a rebel without a clue. I tend to get things wrong on the first try anyway, but at least I keep going. That’s what matters, right?
I’ll likely change my mind by the time anyone reads this, but hey—commitment is overrated.
Whatever. Nevermind.