You know those films that use a special technique to speed up time, so that the sun races across the sky and clouds throw themselves around, helter-skelter, and one second it's a beautiful day and the next it's a thunderstorm and the next all the flowers have died and the next a rainbow flashes and the next--and the next--and the next--
That's what it's like, living with this child.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Hangovers suck
And by hangovers, I'm referring to book hangovers. You know, when you get so caught up in a story that you can barely think about anything else, jump back into the pages the second you finish work/dinner/putting the kids to bed/whatever, and then feel adrift when you turn the last page.
If only I could so completely immerse myself in my own work. So that I could finish it.
If only I could so completely immerse myself in my own work. So that I could finish it.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Full Disclosure
So, I realized why this blog has been gathering cobwebs.
In a past life, I had a blog that I wrote in quite a lot. It was one of those lovely pseudonymous places, where I could write about just about anything, without worrying about stepping on toes or getting myself into hot water. And that had its advantages.
This new blog, though, has my identity attached to it. That's sort of necessary these days, it seems, if you're going to write and market yourself and yadda yadda yadda. So I figured I would talk about writing and editing and all the stuff that goes into being a full-time, freelance, self-employed word geek, but I would leave the personal stuff pretty much out of it. It would be professional, is what it would be. Which is great and all...
Except.
Turns out, most of the stuff that goes into the profession of writing is kind of...how do I put this?
Messy.
Every time something seemed worth writing down, every time it seemed like something someone might care about--something I might care about--I hesitated. Because connecting myself with it in such a transparent way seemed too uncomfortable. Too messy.
God, how we love to hide our messes.
Lately, though, I've been thinking that maybe this approach is flawed.
When I was a kid, a friend once told me that she preferred spending time at my house, where things tended to be a little out of place, a little rough around the edges, as compared to a third friend's house. "I feel like I'm in a museum over there," she explained. "I feel like I shouldn't touch anything. At your house, I feel like it's okay to just hang out and be myself."
I want people to marvel at my pristine house, everything in its place, my granite counter tops, my gleaming floors, the artsy family photos in precise geometric position on my Ralph Lauren walls. I want you to be astounded at my awesomeness, how I manage to keep it all together, get it done, juggle those swords, never break a sweat.
Can you think of anything more boring?
Here's a crazy thought. What if I was honest with you instead? What if this blog could be just what I wanted it to be: the things that make me want to write. The things that I write about. The awesomeness that is freelancing--and the crappiness of it. Less sugar coating, more gooey center. A good story.
Come on in, grab a cup of coffee, tell me how you've been. Don't mind the mess.
In a past life, I had a blog that I wrote in quite a lot. It was one of those lovely pseudonymous places, where I could write about just about anything, without worrying about stepping on toes or getting myself into hot water. And that had its advantages.
This new blog, though, has my identity attached to it. That's sort of necessary these days, it seems, if you're going to write and market yourself and yadda yadda yadda. So I figured I would talk about writing and editing and all the stuff that goes into being a full-time, freelance, self-employed word geek, but I would leave the personal stuff pretty much out of it. It would be professional, is what it would be. Which is great and all...
Except.
Turns out, most of the stuff that goes into the profession of writing is kind of...how do I put this?
Messy.
Every time something seemed worth writing down, every time it seemed like something someone might care about--something I might care about--I hesitated. Because connecting myself with it in such a transparent way seemed too uncomfortable. Too messy.
God, how we love to hide our messes.
Lately, though, I've been thinking that maybe this approach is flawed.
When I was a kid, a friend once told me that she preferred spending time at my house, where things tended to be a little out of place, a little rough around the edges, as compared to a third friend's house. "I feel like I'm in a museum over there," she explained. "I feel like I shouldn't touch anything. At your house, I feel like it's okay to just hang out and be myself."
I want people to marvel at my pristine house, everything in its place, my granite counter tops, my gleaming floors, the artsy family photos in precise geometric position on my Ralph Lauren walls. I want you to be astounded at my awesomeness, how I manage to keep it all together, get it done, juggle those swords, never break a sweat.
Can you think of anything more boring?
Here's a crazy thought. What if I was honest with you instead? What if this blog could be just what I wanted it to be: the things that make me want to write. The things that I write about. The awesomeness that is freelancing--and the crappiness of it. Less sugar coating, more gooey center. A good story.
Come on in, grab a cup of coffee, tell me how you've been. Don't mind the mess.
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