Sit. Wait.

So happy to report that I did some good writing on the show and that waiting (as previously posted) is proving more and more rewarding. Don’t be afraid of waiting when necessary. Delay is not denial!

– Fleur


The Waiting is the Hardest Part…And the Most Revealing

Well after a self-imposed hiatus which included my moving half way across the states this summer and relocating my life – I am back to the show. I was almost getting worried there for a second wondering what I’d done. But I am starting to find that breaks from the show have never really proven to be a bad thing. Because when the muse returns, she returns in a big way… usually right as I’m drifting off to sleep. Like last night.

I started thinking of this one song and started having (HAVING) to sing it to myself out loud at about 11:00pm, (sorry, Neighbors), so I could remind myself how to make the changes I want. Of course that led me to other bits and pieces and before I knew it I was out of bed and into my trusty red little notebook to get it all out of my brain and onto the page before it disappeared forever.

I am so happy to be feeling the inspiration again. I don’t think I could have finished it before now.

There are also interesting coincidences, if you believe in that, or I could say synchronicities, that are proving very helpful to the storyline of the show. These synchronicities appear in the form of boxes.

Life in a box.

Life in a box.

When you move back near family, not only do you unpack your own boxes but you become the recipient of all the unsolicited shit that everyone has been holding for you; holding way more than you knew you ever owned. So now I am delving into the past through pictures and childhood items; artwork, reviews, letter, and tutus. What am I gonna do with the tutu? I can’t throw it away! It’s been waiting inside a box for 20+  years for me. How would you feel to live in a box for 20+ years only to be freed into a dumpster?

Tutus aside, the biggest discoveries are the letters. Letters from sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers. Wonderful letters written in a time when people still put pen to paper and stamp to envelope. I am grateful to have been born before the public school system decided to stop teaching cursive writing to grade-schoolers.

My father wrote letters. I am being introduced in part to the man he was before he was the man I remembered. This is more valuable to me than gold or little red tutus. To be witness to his handwriting which bears resemblance to my own brings me into a silent reverence. To see his lyrical, cursive, flowing handwriting stops the outside world. He is alive again – for the moment.

For once I am grateful to my mother for never throwing anything away.

The letters are why it was necessary to wait. The letters. Patiently waiting to reveal their life within. Waiting. The waiting was good.

Thank God I waited. The letters knew. And so, now, will the writing.

So – what are you waiting for?

Revving Up

Hi Friends,

I have been away too long. But there’s been a lot of change going on. Movin’ yet groovin’. The last news of the show was that I had done my first few demos. You can hear them here on Sound Cloud or here if you are ReverbNation. Listen to Difficult and Where is Your Daddy.

Somewhere between worrying about the fact that I had not been writing on the show and moving across country I realized I needed to not write. Because the show is based on my life there’s an amount of self-realization that needs to happen to get where I want to go. The great news is that the creative juices are beginning to flow again and I’ve had some wonderful (tiny but big) ureka moments.

Stay tuned. Who’s My Girl is rounding third.

First Demos from Who’s My Girl

Here are the first demos from Who’s My Girl. It’s a work in progress and progress is happening. Thanks to Eric Stuart for a great day in the studio (and for letting me use your awesome shaker). These first two were recorded in Nashville. I’m on Guitar and Vocals. Had a great time doing it. More to come.

Music… Together

I am an actress, a writer, a songwriter, a singer. That is how I have defined what I do for thirty years.

About three years ago I began my life as Music Together teacher. You know, a complimentary occupation, since I was already great with kids, to my vocation in the arts. My director would call me an “Early Childhood Music Specialist”. I teach Basic Music Competence through the forms of playful rhythm and movement and song.

Or you could say, “To earn her keep she sings ditties all day long, playing with little red rhythm sticks. She hops a lot.”

Photo by Suzanne Fiore

Until recently, I might have jokingly agreed with you. It is true. If hopping were a crime I would have been sentenced to life in prison by now. I am … a hopper.

But then one day I hear the horrific news that a mother has lost her two little children in a senseless act of bloodshed right around the corner from where I sing with these cherubs and their families.

I go to class. I welcome the moms and dads and nannies and aunts and uncles and best friends who are all there for this little piece of joy they love so well. They are all ready to sing. But today is different. I don’t say anything about it. There’s no need. Everyone knows. Today I sing for the Mom and Dad and Grandparents who no longer have their children to lullaby to sleep. I can feel my families singing a little more sweetly on this day, too. I feel reassured. I feel un-alone. So do they.

Then a hurricane rips through New York and renders thousands homeless overnight.

I am unable to teach my classes because there’s no transportation. There’s no gas much less the heart to sing. No class Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…. Then Thursday arrives. There’s a chance to get as many classes as we can jammed into one day with the teachers who can find a way into the city. I am one of them.

By this time I have watched endless hours of disaster coverage on every possible news channel sickened by what I see, feeling helpless. A forty minute commute takes two hours. Thank you, Sandy.

The classes were packed. Moms, dads, friends, nannies, big sisters and big brothers, you name it. They were there burning with cabin fever. They wanted to sing. They needed to sing, to connect. They needed their community.

They kept coming all day. What else can one do in the face of such pain or the feeling of helplessness, the sense of hopelessness? I watch the kids’ grown-ups courageously opening their hearts for the sake of their children. For some of them singing does not come naturally. Others find it difficult to march to the beat of any song. The children effortlessly lead the way to all that is sound. (Pun whole-heartedly intended.)

After the shock settles the heart desires to open again and music holds the key. The children teach us how do this. They demand we remain present. They remind us how to play and remember what it is to come alive – with your community by your side. The sound of our voices fills the air with hope, with joy, with ease and for forty-five minutes that hopelessness is transformed by grace.

I have just finished my final classes for the fall session an after I had been given hugs, kisses, cranberry jam and cards that read “Thank you for making my Friday mornings magical…,” I can’t help but tear up from feeling loved and valued. I feel better after having been tackled by a running hug. My life has meaning.

Then a madman goes into an elementary school in a small rural town in Connecticut….

I used to be just an actress, writer, singer, songwriter.

I am a Music Together Teacher. I teach music…together. I teach how to put down the gun and pick up the guitar (tambourine, bongo drum, egg-shaker). I am taught love, passion, play, creativity, confidence, joy and, according to one grandmother, “magic” by the real experts, our children.

Take my hand, kick up your heels, find the beat, sing boldly, sweetly, or as badly you like.

But please, above all, sing.

Our lives depend on it.

In The Wake of The Storm: Create

Well this may be an unpopular thing to say but I am grateful to the hurricane because it’s giving me time to sleep, write, compose and record. I say this fully knowing of the victims currently being evacuated from their homes even as I write. I have not forgotten them. I was very very lucky to be on high ground in New York and away from trees, flooding and electrical hazards. So it would be inexcusable for me to loaf around when I spend a lot of time otherwise thinking about how much time I don’t have to sleep, write, compose and record. So I won’t allow this hurricane to come and go in vain. l will continue to create until I go back to work tomorrow. 


Work tomorrow? Singing and making music for the tiny tots and their loved ones who care for them. It’s gonna be a party. Because at that point most of us will have spent 3 days with nowhere to go all pent up indoors. The toddlers are gonna want to party. I’m bringing Halloween with me and we are going to rock it out to Monster Mash and the Witch Doctor. I am going to sing and make music for those who can’t right now.

Until then I will continue to sleep, write, compose and record. 

And pray for those who do not now have a bed, or a pen with which to write (not to mention a computer), an instrument (even if they never held one before), or a voice to record what’s in their heart right now.