“Crempie,” she said aloud, testing the word like a new flavor on her tongue. It was the title of the project she’d been circling for months—a dark, absurdist comedy-horror short film about a pastry chef whose signature dessert brings the dead back to life, but only for seven minutes, and only if they answer one truthful question about why they left. The script had arrived via a producer she’d met at a horror convention, where she’d signed glossy 8x10s next to a guy who played a zombie in The Walking Dead and a woman who’d been murdered in three different CSI episodes.
And Maitland herself? She kept acting. In adult films. In indie horrors. In a bizarre, one-woman show she wrote about growing up in a house where no one ever said the word “vagina.” She stopped waiting for permission. She stopped explaining herself. She became, against all odds, exactly who she wanted to be. maitland ward crempie
Maitland loved every second of it.
Maitland took a slow breath. Then she uncapped a silver Sharpie, signed the poster with a flourish, and wrote underneath: Be the crempie. “Crempie,” she said aloud, testing the word like