Hello, world!

Hi, I’m Mary, the founder of MooShoe productions. We’re an independent production company producing our first short film, Hoffman Heights, this summer. 

Hoffman Heights is a story about Garvey, Remy, and Aaron, three friends who go on a camping trip only to discover that they can never go home. In the process, they grow closer as they deal with issues of heartbreak, friendship, and depression. 

It’s a really personal story, in parts based off of my experiences in my own life and with my friends and the psychological landscape of my own mind. It’s also inspired by the album Hoffman Manor by the indie band State Lines. 

Before we can make the film, we need help getting started, which is why we’ll be launching our Kickstarter campaign next month. Before we do that, though, we’re trying to gain a following, as well as more support. So reblog this post, follow our Tumblr, if you use the Facebook, like us on Facebook! 

If you have any talents or skills that could be used to help make a film, feel free to send us a message and we’ll get back to you! 

Writing is the best thing I can do for myself. Not writing like this - petty little blogs with no artistic construction. Real writing. There’s real magic in it. There’s real magic in creating something, especially creating something beautiful. When I write, I create something I’m proud of and I put a piece of myself into it. A piece I maybe didn’t understand or something. And, by writing, instead of losing that piece, I get it back. And I can share it. Writing pieces my soul back together. Little by little. It makes me happy. 

When I make a headband or record a song, I don’t get much out of that. The headband is mine. I can show people pictures, but who cares? Even though I made it with my hands and that’s awesome, I still didn’t really create anything like words enable me to create things. And songs? Yes, singing is lovely and it makes me happy, but unless I wrote the song, it doesn’t put my soul back. 

Writing is an art. The same way a sketch artist has to carefully and precisely outline a figure and shade them in to give them depth, so the writer has to carefully construct their sentences, using words to give meaning, and picking the specific words and modifiers to shade the meaning of the sentence - to give it depth. If you’re not an artistic writer, it might be hard to understand how much goes into each sentence. True, a lot of times we just write things and they come out sounding and meaning the way we want them. Because not only does the sentence have to have the precise meaning and depth and shade of meaning, but it also has to have the write sound. I call it punch in prose, but it’s more like a Pop in poetry. 

But for the most part, a lot of thought has to go into each sentence. Each one is reworked over and over, sometimes before even making it on paper. It’s all about writing concisely - get to the point in as few words as possible, artistically as possible, with as much detail, without overstating. And never spell out exactly what you’re trying to say - show it. It’s hard. It’s tough. But it’s so rewarding in the end. 

(Speaking of “not spelling things out,” I was watching CSI today and nearly died. I had never noticed how pathetically obvious everything was. Every single piece of evidence was not only seen, but explained. We see that the prints from the alligator wallet have voids. WE SEE THAT. You do not need the characters to spell it out for us. “Wait, so the alligator print has a void, but the one from the original crime scene doesn’t?” “No. I think this means someone was framed!” Like. AGRRGQRAdfj. It happened over and over and over and over again throughout the ½ of the episode I watched. And that used to be my favorite show. No wonder people like it. You don’t have to think to watch a show where every visual is further explained through dialogue, and at about a word a minute, too! Doctor Who might disappoint me sometimes, but at least you actually have to be on your toes to understand what’s going on.) 

Encounters, part one.

Worry about my skin. 
(It’s spotted and uneven. Will you notice?)
Worry about my hair.
(I tried to get it just right.)
Worry about my smile.
(Brushed and flossed.)
Worry about my clothes.
(Do these jeans fit me alright?)
(Are we still okay?)

Worry about my skin, my hair, my smile, my clothes. Us.
But all of that melts away when you walk in and smile.  


Sometimes, I don’t feel like a writer. Indeed, sometimes I don’t feel like anything. 

I guess it’s all part of the young adult experience. When you’re a kid, even though you change your mind about what you want to do all of the time, you own it and you believe yourself and you believe that you can do it. Everything sounds fun because you haven’t quite discovered hard work yet, or the crushing realities of some jobs. Everything sounds possible because you have your whole life in front of you. At 18, I suppose I still have my whole life in front of me, but I look back at my 18 years and think about how much more I could have accomplished, how much smarter I could have been. I was supposed to be a published author by now. When I was 10, that seemed possible. When I was 16, I knew it would be hard work, but I thought I could do it. Now, I’m 18 and the dream of driving to my first day of senior year in my dream car that I’d payed for with hard earned cash from being a writer, well, that’s never going to happen because I’m done with my senior year.

And now, still young and with my life in front of me, I don’t always feel like I can do it. I don’t always feel like it’s what I want to do. I don’t know what I want to do. And that’s impossible for me to deal with because how am I supposed to work towards an end when I don’t know what I want? I used to have it all so figured out. Everything seemed easy. Well, maybe not easy, but I knew the steps I would have to take to get where I wanted to go. 

The thing is, while I like to believe in God and an after-life, I still tend to think this is all we get. And I want to make the most of it. I refuse to settle down to some boring 9-5 that I hate just to make money. I want my life to be full of creativity and beauty and art and fun and adventure. I don’t mind doing the work to get there, but I don’t know where “there” is. I don’t know which career or lifestyle will bring me all of those things. 

I just have too much to think about these days. Relationships, school, transferring schools, traveling, what I want to do with my life, how to get there, who I want to be  there… and I don’t want to waste a second just going with the flow. Because that’s how you end up in the deep end, and it’s a long way back to shore. 

I had to write an essay for my Art Appreciation class about seeing something I’ve seen over and over again, but in a new light. This is what I came up with. I made it into a video as well, link in the title. I liked the way it sounded. 


It happens every year. The world outside becomes cruel and unforgiving. The big ball of fire in the sky ignites the earth, burning our skin, turning it ungodly hues of brown and red. Water seeps through our skin in the hopes of cooling us off, but it’s useless. We seek refuge indoors rather than enjoy what lays beyond. It is not a beautiful thing; it is an enemy, a unendurable trial, a thing to be feared. 

But then, just as quickly, everything changes. Planet shifting, turning, sending the mass of gaseous flame to another place, and we are given Autumn. Leaves brown; they fall and die. Winds chill our skin, but we can bundle up. Decaying foliage smells of new beginnings, new experiences - it smells of adventure. The world suddenly opens up and becomes a playground once more. Everything is beautiful - the trees, the sky, faces of friends and lovers. Clinging to the colors; coffee brown, burnt orange, blood red, before white swallows them up. 

A gnarled tree looks like a story, it’s leaves scattered around it’s trunk. Streets look like gateways to worlds yet unknown; paths to be followed. Old buildings are more like old friends, looming and groaning in the distance, welcoming.

The world becomes a picture that we’re somehow roaming through. It’s new and rich and exciting and beautiful and wonderful. How could we have ever forgotten what it’s like to step outside and never want to go back in? Outside, the world was once unforgiving, and now it welcomes us in open arms, like an old friend or relative, back for her yearly visit. It’s wonderful and beautiful and full of magic. The wind, now cool, caresses us, gently nudging us on, to move forward, find ourselves, find adventure, go places, see things, but not just see them, look

It happens every year. The world outside becomes a landscape for new dreams. 

Dreams. pt. 2

I had the strangest dream the other night. Little bits and pieces of it have been surfacing throughout the last couple days. I think it was generated by all of my musings about what variety of monsters live in a deserted bedroom. 

I don’t remember much. I do remember that it felt really real at the time. I don’t remember going to bed. I just remember getting off the computer and checking the other room. I remember fear and darkness.

Dreams are strange when you don’t remember them well. They just come back as blurry, nearly indescribable images and vague feelings.

I do remember in the dream that I was in the guest bedroom but it wasn’t the guest bedroom. The weird part is that, usually in dreams, you accept the fact that it’s whichever room your mind tells you it is. But in this dream, it was like I was aware that I had walked into the guest room, but when I entered the guest room and it wasn’t the guest room at all. I realized this in my dream and was terrified. 

I vaguely remember events that happened in the guest room that wasn’t the guest room, but I don’t want to try to explain them until I’ve remembered them clearly. 

But I woke the next morning, for the first time ever with that feeling of not knowing how I had made it to my bed in the first place. 

Dreams are very strange indeed.