7 posts tagged “writing”
Today is the first of National Blog Posting Month.
Despite it being almost 45 minutes to midnight on Day 1 of the challenge, I'm still sticking to my pledge of posting every single fucking day in November.
Why would I make such a pledge, you ask?
For the past two years, I've read Eden Kennedy's blog, Fussy, who, I do believe, created this insane blog challenge. It's an online/less complicated version of National Novel Writing month, in which lots of people write really shitty novel in a month, or something like that
Personally, I feel that a novel will take me a bit more than a month, and I happen to think I'm pretty good at this whole blogging thing, so I'll stick to that for now.
Anyway, Mrs. Kennedy and other bloggers such as Maggie Mason have participated in this challenge, and I always miss the start date, or find myself to be *too busy* to blog for 30 days in a row.
But! This year I got the memo on time, and I've been having major Bloggers Guilt (kinda like Catholic Guilt but with more typing and less Haily Marys) about how desolate my beloved VOX blog has been...so I caved.
I mean, I've been blogging every single day for the past 2 years for work - so why not get back in the groove of blogging every day for pleasure?
I would love it if I could get up every morning, and even before I checked my email - or frantically check my Blackberry - I sat down to write about what's going on in my head. A funny story from the day before. I dream I had that night, or what prevented me from sleeping.
It may not always be exciting. It may not always be profound or make you laugh or even make you like me very much - but I miss blogging for the love of it.
Don't get me wrong. I do love blogging. It's what I do, and a huge part of who I am.
But blogging for me and about me is something I don't get to do every day, and as a writer, I feel that if I don't express myself here, online, for anyone who Googles my name or has this blog in their RSS feed to see and read...I get this strange sort of emotional, creative constipation that leads to sleepless nights and bottled up emotions.
(Don't even get me started on the expressive diarrhea.)
I hope that in pledging online to do this every day, for the next 29 days will help me find my bloggers groove.
I thought I would try a new approach to this whole, looking for freelance work thing. Sure, being angry and panicky and all fearing the fear of failure is really good for my mental health and my husband just loves being around me when I'm like that - but I thought maybe I'd go out on a crazy, bald, umbrella slinging whim and try a different way of thinking.
I've been trying to make a lot of changes, lately. When I got back from Tokyo I was all, "Fuck this! This is my life! My L-I-F-E! It's short! I gotta start doing shit! HARDCORE." And then like magic, the Universe was all, "Hah-hah, Grasshopper. You want change? You think you want to live your life, HARDCORE!? YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND, SUCKA." And, like magic, my job refused to stop paying my obscenely high, trillion figure salary which then resulted in me making the decision to peace out.
So, in the midst of panicking and worrying about money and breathing in bags of all shapes, sizes and colors - I'm trying to...redecorate and refurbish my life.
See, I love myself. A lot. But I feel like somewhere over the past two years I went from being a really cute shabby chic studio apartment to being a 2 bedroom,1 bath cottage that sort of resemble the shabby chic studio aparment, but wtih considerably more room in both the rear and middle section. The owner started to feel really bad about the house, but was too busy enjoying red wine and pizza and sleeping in late to like, mow the lawn, get new furniture or replace the peeling wallpaper.
So, my goal is to refurbish the house, inside and out, to being the spacious one bedroom studio apartment with funky furniture, colorful walls and a tiny yet bountiful garden in front.
So, to do that, I've here's what I've been doing:
* While I may not seem like the yoga type, I totally dig it. I've always to get ball bendy and stretchy and to be less homicidal and more zen, so I'm doing yoga once a week.
* I always look at cute girls with glasses and am filled with jealous rage, so I'm going to take my ass to Specsavers and get some cute glasses.
* I'm going to the gym! And working out! And lifting weights, and trying to, oh I don't know, fit into the hot jeans I used to wear when I first moved here. Imagine! JUST IMAGINE. If I could get my ass into US size 6s or 8s again, I would be SOOOO HAPPY!!!! (Fat and happy, I'm over it. I'm cool being thin and content. Or how about thinnish and not hating how her body looks every single fucking day of her life. My that sounds nice.)
* I've seriously been taking vitamins. Vitamins for my hair and skin, a multivitamin, and these nifty effervescent Vitamin C tablets. This really isn't that big of a deal, but I just wanted to type the word effervescent. It's my favorite new word.)
I'm trying to calm. I'm trying to center. I'm trying to get my shit together and move forward so I don't feel like a stagnant twat all the time. I just feel like I haven't DONE anything. It's horrible, and I defend myself all the time saying, "I'm not LUCKY! I had to WORK for all this!!!!!"
But I don't know if believe that anymore. Since picking up and moving here, I don't feel like I've been particularly brave or proactive about anything. Yes, I did a damn good at my job. Yes, I was asked to be on TV and in a magazine and to give some quotes here and there and was basically handed a writing job.
In my heart, I want to work my ass off. I want to be brave. I want to be tired and excited all of the time, and to take a massive risk, and then get to bask in the glow of my success.
But at the moment, I have to admit, I'm so scared of actually working that hard. I'm scared of taking a risk, because what if that glow doesn't come?
What if I'm the girl who moved here and then had some good shit happen to her...and then have that be it?
That can't be it.
I won't let it be it...but I have to admit I've been sitting here with a few tools and a shopping list of supplies I need to refurbish my "house"...and I feel like all I can do is sit and stare at my To-Do list through tearful eyes.
I can do this. I will do this.
It's just a shame getting started has to be this hard.
The past month has brought up a lot of generally shitty stuff in the Land O' Blogs.
The online attacks and threats against female bloggers Kathy Sierra and Devious Diva lead to the Blogging Code Of Conduct proposal by Tim O'Reilly, that either pissed a lot of people off, or had them nodding in agreement.
There's a division brewing in the so-called *blogosphere*, and I hate to say it, but even here on Vox.
In any community, there are fights, and lies, and snarky comments, and the fur will occasionally fly.
And obviously, everybody knows that on in social networking and in online communities, these are byproducts of having more than 3 people connected, and this shit will happen.
However, communities are not just formed of crazy outsiders, Others, or random folks. They're made of US. It's our own personal responsibility to TAKE responsibility and own up to what we say and do online. The emails we send. The comments we leave.
Some try to cop out and say,"Well, it's the Internet. Things happen so quickly and everything's so instant, it's hard to think fully about what we're saying before we post it." Sorry, but no one's holding a fucking water pistol to your head, forcing you to press 'Post' other than yourself. And because everything is so instant, maybe that should cause us to think even harder about what we're saying.
However, the truth of the matter is, our once small community is growing. Rapidly. We're all starting to deal with the "Check out my awesome band!!1!" messages and are learning that if you're going to post a bitch fest about one of your *haters*, chances are, somehow, some way, they will either read it or hear about it. It's the internet, not a fucking Hello Kitty diary you keep hidden under your mattress.
Just because you have the legal right to say whatever you want, doesn't always mean that you SHOULD.
I'm sure all of us have had to learn, at one point or another, to grow thicker skin, or learn to not take every bad thing someone says about us personally.
As O'Reilly said: "Never wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty, but the pig likes it."
Bottom line, we all need to take the efforts into making Vox and the entire blogosphere a FUN, inspiring, proactive, SAFE, respectful and a free place to express ourselves and share our lives online.
Not everyone is going to get along or agree, but as bloggers and writers, we need to own our words. We also need to OWN our blogs.
This is exactly what the Take Back The Blog! blogswarm is about.
It's about OWNING respect, and the freedom to express yourself online safely, without having to worry about extreme harassment and threats online.
It's about taking YOUR blog back. Back from all the dramatic melodrama bullshit, and getting your blog back to what YOU want it to be about.
Bruce from Crablaw has organized this kick as blogswarm, and is hosting Take Back The Blog!
Bruce says that Take Back the Blog is in support of:
"The rights of women to participate fully in all aspects of our society, including specifically online in the world of blogging but indeed everywhere and at all times, day and night, without fear of harassment, intimidation, sexual harassment, online stalking and slander, or predation or violence of any sort."
Can I get a fuck yes?
Take Back The Blog! is taking place this Saturday, April 28th.
If you're wondering what the fuck a "blogswarm" is, The Lazy Iguana has the best definition:
"A 'blogswarm' is when a bunch of people blog about the same crap ON PURPOSE! It is a premeditated thing, as opposed to the usual randomness that tends to rule the Internet. Order from chaos. Entropy. Call it whatever you want."
For full details, please read Bruce's post over at Crablaw.
This isn't even just about WOMEN and WOMEN'S RIGHTS. This is about all of us, and how we're going to shape the safety and the future of blogging.
I'd go all P.Diddy on you and threaten "Post or Die!" but that may be sort of defeating the purpose of this entire thing...
**UPDATE** I just came across this article today called: "Is your self-worth wrapped up in your blog", and I think it brings up an excellent point, and touches on some issues that I've read throughout Vox.
Without trying to be funny, or wise, or entertaining, I'm just going to write honestly.
Yesterday, a tiny, but calming miracle occurred in my life.
(I say miracle, because I'm so cynical, anything good happening to me I feel is a fucking miracle.)
The last year of for me has been a whirlwind. I cannot believe it's October. The mist on the river gets thicker with each morning, and it startled me when I saw the low today would be 9 degrees Celsius.
I think back to where I was a year ago:
Single. Finally coming out of my 20 year long "on and off" battle with a depression I wasn't truly aware of, or allowed myself to have. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of 2 years that I thought I would one day marry...Only to realize he was a complete, and utter, spineless bastard.
I woke up every morning while it was still dark, to make the world their non-fat, decaf, no foam, Lattes as a barista for Starbucks.
On my days off I would go to Target and Barnes and Noble, then go sit at Starbucks with my friends and drink tea and smoke.
It wasn't a bad life. I made good money. I had a roof over my head and black and white Chihuahua. My family loved me then as much as they do now.
It was a simple existence of ordinary substance, and it was never expected of me to do more.
Well, I expected more. A lot more.
I knew my place in this world was not behind an espresso machine and an apron. It was not behind the smile I was paid to wear. My life was not the Marlboro lights that eased the stress, or in a city that was never awake.
I needed to get out. But I hadn't the faintest clue where I was meant to be. But even worse, I didn't think I was brave enough to jump at the chance if it were to ever rear it's pretty head.
And, well, a year later....
In a story I will tell another day (that's stored in many different files on my laptop) I fell in love with a man across the world.
And just like the grossest fairy tales that I never believed in but always longed would happen to me...
I left behind my apron, the toilets I cleaned, the coffees I brewed, and the ones that loved me the most..
And went to live in Kingdom, with a man that took my breath away with laughter and love, and a perpetual understanding of who I was.
The funny part is, in fairy tales, everything ends once the Prince and Princess go off in their carriage (or a Bowing 747) together towards their new life.
But I doubt Cinderella ever had to apply for a Visa, or couldn't work legally for 6-9 months because of immigration laws.
Yesterday, once again, I was crying in Starbucks.
Only this time it wasn't because I wanted to kill my boss, it was because I was petrified that I wouldn't be able to schedule an appointment with the British Consulate in Los Angeles, and that then I wouldn't be able to get my Visa, and that I would have to be separated from Iain for a long time and get stuck making fucking Cappuccinos for the rest of my god forsaken life.
I've been so stressed out about going back home.
Not because I don't want to see my family, or because I'm not looking forward to being back in California with thousands of Taco Bells....
But because I'm really going back because my 6 months here is up, and I'm applying for my Fiancee Visa. It's nerve racking. It's tiring. It's fucking scary that I don't have control over my future, and that basically, it's up to a government official to say, "Yes, your life is going to kick ass" or "Sorry, you can't go back to the UK. Shall I escort you to the Mental Institution now, or later?".
I sat there sobbing to Iain (over a tall, soy, no-water, chai) about everything.
I went home, stared blankly at emails from friends, and episodes of Sex and the City while the rain came pouring down over London.
About 5:30pm, I checked the Consulate's website again to see if any appointments were available for the date I was planning on going down. (Considering I've been checking for 5 months straight, and NOTHING yet!)
Then, finally, October the 27th had opened up. I nearly screamed. I quickly filled out my information, and got the appointment!!!!! I felt the weight of a 1000 worries being lifted off my shoulders...
It's like when you get a job interview, all you need is the opportunity to talk to someone, and you just KNOW you'll get the job!
Now we can plan the rest of our trip, and not have to worry, and can BREATHE, because we know there's not a legitimate reason why my application will be denied.
And as I filled out the last bits of information, I looked out my window to see this.
I smiled, and knew it was a sign. I quickly got up to take a photo of it, and sat back down to submit my information.
By the time I got my confirmation of my appointment, and looked back out my window, and it was gone.
Just like my fears.
Once upon a time, I watched WAY too much television.
I was a big fan of Ms.Oprah Winfrey....Especially the "Real Life Horror!" shows, where some 15 year old girl gets kidnapped and lives to tell the story how she escaped.
I'd even write down the tips they'd give.
("Throw your kidnapper's car keys in a bush, then RUN!")
I've watched Rescue 911, America's Most Wanted, CSI, Law and Order: Criminal Intent and SVU. BoomTown, Alias, and The 6'clock News.
I read the "My Boyfriend Tried to Kill Me!" true life stories in Cosmopolitan and Glamor....
And when I'm walking in a dark parking lot, I even have my keys positioned in a prime stabbing position, just in case.
Self Defense? Check. Carry around Pepper Spray? Check. Saved and Forwarded "What Rapists Look For!" emails? CHECK! CHECK!
Seriously, I'm not a paranoid psychotic or anything. Just, very aware of my surroundings.
(aka: Making descriptions of everyone around me, just in case I end up being a key witness in a murder trial.)
I'm not ashamed of this because, well, I'm alive aren't I?
However, after today's events, I'm starting to think that I perhaps need to
A) Chill the fuck out.
B) Start drinking heavily. (er...CHECK!)
At Noon today someone buzzed the apartment,
"Hello?"
"Hiya...O'm from <Inaudible British Mumbo Jumbo that I couldn't understand>"
"What? Who?"
"O'm from ah <No idea what the hell he's saying>"
"WHO?"
"GAS METER!"
"Oh.."'
So I buzzed him up. The flat downstairs is for sale, I figured he had to fix something with their gas.
Then there's a knock at the door.
I panicked. I had no idea what he wanted. Who is he? What does he want? What is he here for? Why me?
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK....KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK....
"HELLO? Miss? HELLO?"
I froze. What if he was a serial killer? Murderer? Rapist? Assassin disguised as a Gas Meter Repair Man!
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK...KNOCK KNOCK
"HELLLLLO????...<Siigh>...HELLO!!!"
I didn't' know what to do? So I opened the door.
(No makeup. Bad hair. Bad breath...yeah, it's noon. What? I'm unemployed!)
"OH! Sorry. I, uh, I thought the knocking was for next door..."
"Right. I need to change the gas meter? You should have got a letter."
He's standing there in dirty, beat-up work clothes, but he has equipment with him.
Could still be a ploy...
"So you say. I didn't' get this letter supposed letter." I crossed my arms over my chest.
I can see right through you, you rapist!!!
"That's weird. You should have got a letter. .We're changing all the one's in this neighborhood. Safety issues."
He then shows me paper work, it looks legitimate, and then I notice the company's name: National Grid Reading.
The same company that sent us that UNOPENED letter that's sitting just barely of his line of sight.
"Oh. Right... Ok. Um. Come on in. I'll, uh, go look for that letter you sent...."
I rushed up the stairs trying to hide the letter, which I'm more than positive he saw.
He starts looking around the apartment for this apparent "gas meter" and I quickly slid my cell phone in my pocket (which I'm sure he saw as well.)
I watched him like a hawk. He swiftly walked past me to go into the kitchen.
You bastard. I have my eye on you. One false move and I'll fucking cut your throat. 'Gas Meter' my ass.
"Do you know if it's upstairs, or down in the basement?"
I spot a knife on the counter, and there's a frying pan on the stove still. Perfect!
"Erm, probably downstairs. I've never seen it, so I'm guessing it's down stairs."
"Okay, I'll go check it. Thanks."
Then he leaves, goes downstairs for about 10 minutes, comes back and says,
"Okay. All done. It was down in the basement. Thanks!"
And leaves.
No kidnapping, no rape, no murder.
Yeah sure I panicked and was a smidge more dramatic than I needed to..
But at least I didn't squish myself between the radiator and the couch like the cat did.
My nerves are shot though, looks like it's Vodka and Coke for lunch a bubble bath and positive thoughts for me!
Juuuuust wondering, but....
Why is it that a lot of women see getting married, or finding a husband as the end goal?
Or for that matter...Any type of GOAL?
We date, and date, and cry, then complain about how hard it is to find a man. We blog about it, we swear off men...And then we date, and date, and cry, and date, and then we meet someone and think we're happy! But then we end up crying, toss back a few thousand Cosmopolitans, and then date some more...With a vengeance.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
Get a clue. Stop LOOKING!
If you don't hit it off with a guy...GO HOME!
Don't sleep with him a couple hundred times trying to see if, "Something might happen."
If you don't like something about a guy's appearance...You're NEVER going to get over it!
Trust me. Waking up to that crooked tooth you can't stand EVERY. SINGLE. MORNING will grow very old. Very, very fast.
If the sex is bad...It will more than likely NEVER be good.
If you're constantly saying to yourself,
"This is just a rough patch, once he stops......
*Talking to his Ex
*Gets a job
*Gets that promotion
*Loses weight
*Moves out and gets his own place
*Stops shagging his coworker
THINGS WILL GET BETTER."
Ladies...THINGS WILL NEVER, EVER, EVER GET BETTER!
Sure, everyone has their ups and downs. Their bad days. The "bad fight". And sometimes the sex will be off.
But if you are in a constant state of "It'll get better after this..." run for the hills, cut your losses, get a therapist, and call it a fucking day.
I have so much to say on this topic that I would probably end up taking over all of VOX with this single blog...
But what sparked my rage was this blog*. The author (A 43 year old woman, who has a mother fucking MASTERS DEGREE) claims that she can help you set up a plan to find a husband in 12-18 months.
I'm sorry...
But, what the fuck?
I get this frightening image of women sitting around with their PDA's going,
"Well, if I start on this plan now, that means I'll have met my soul mate by about October 2007, so I should probably start talking to a wedding planner tonight, and see if I can book a venue ASAP! OMG! I have to call my MOM!!!!...[frightening, inaudible, wedding induced mumbled jibberish]"
Now we have to have a STRATEGY and a PLAN to meet someone.
Good call! Perfect sense!
I must have just been a fluke.
Christ, maybe I should trade my fiance in, and hope for the right one that should be coming my way in 12-18 months. Do they FedEx him to you?
And apparently I'm also supposed to be thin, not fat, pretty, not plain and tape this AFFIRMATION** to my refrigerator
"* I want more than anything to be in love with and married to a Good Man within twelve to eighteen months.
* I care more about love and marriage to a Good Man than I do about food.
to help me stay fit, and thin.
How have I ever functioned without this woman!
Excuse me, but I'm off to go "make [my] Good Man feel good as a man is by giving him full credit for all [my] orgasms, and do so sincerely and with enthusiasm" just like my new guru says.
....Serioulsy.
*Honestly,Read a few of her posts, you will cry from laughter...Or throw up all over the place.
**Positive Affirmations make me want to throw myself off a building. Just FYI
Observation.
If I started giving blow jobs to everyone I passed on the street, and quickly rushed home to write about it on my blog in graphic detail, then soon, I could become a published author...
Didn't you hear about this? It's true! Just head down to your local bookstore and take a peek. Or hell, look no further than your own Internet back yard...You'll see the phenomena undressing right before your blogged out little eyes.
There's a woman out there who (under a false name) blogged about all of her sexual cravings, fantasies, and escapades. (In heavy, heavy detail.)
She then went on to win a prestigious Bloggie, because apparently she had the best blog in all of the United Kingdom and Ireland.
Then publishers came a knockin' and she got a 6 figure advance on her book deal.
Then a certain newspaper realized who this chick was, and went "Hey London! Hey UK! Hey WORLD! Here's her real name! This is what she does for a living! Here's a picture!!"
Girl gets upset. How could they figure it out? Now I have paparazzi at my Mum's house! Now I'm being interview by all the newspapers in London and they're even writing FALSE stories about me!
Then she went on Sharon Osbourne's show and is most likely selling thousands of books as I write this.
Am I jealous?
Damn fucking right I am. You should be too.
But, it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. (I'm sorry, was that a pun? Yes. Yes it was.)
Of course it's always the, "No I never intended for it to turn out the way it did, it was so unexpected!" and as to why she posted pornographic (trust me, it's a porn blog -not to be confused with horn dog) descriptions of who she did that night online, versus her Hello Kitty diary?
Oh. She wanted to "express herself freely". -cough, gag-
I'm all for sexual freedom, and equality. But, for FUCK SAKE.
Is this what it's come to?
If you're horny, that's great.
If you have a very, erm, fulfilled sex life? AWESOME.
But seriously. Seriously? You're now famous for fucking a bunch of guys
(and girls), writing about it online, and having your pen name busted.
(And you're letting your vagina come up with all your blog ideas...Come on!)
At first I felt the same way about Diablo Cody who was a stripper for a year, and wrote a blog about it, which also got her a book deal.
However, I took the time to read her blog, and memoir and realized that she was a brilliant writer, and had such a following NOT because her blog helped people climax, but because she was entertaining, no matter WHAT she was writing about.
Ariel Levy's book Female Chauvinist Pigs explains this fucked up situation better than I ever could.
Read it and learn, children.
(And at this very moment, somewhere in California, Lindsey Lohan is setting up a Blogger account.....)
