Branded

Back in the States, when I had finished my first two years of college, Ozarks Technical Community College was kind enough to present me with an Associate of Arts.  Two weeks after graduation I moved in with my parents, thinking I would get my Bachelor of Arts at Toledo University, live closer to my parents, and spend the rest of my days writing in Ohio.

Eight months later I realized why I had left Ohio to begin with, and moved back to my beloved Missouri to look into a Bachelor of Arts at what was then Southwest Missouri State University (and what is now Missouri State University).  When I was sitting in the advisor’s office I was presented with three courses of study:

• Bachelor of Arts in Literature
• Bachelor of Arts in Writing
• Bachelor of Science in Education

The second one was prep for journalism, creative writing, teaching at the adult level, or law.  The third one was prep for teaching at any level.  The first one, so far, has been a bit useless in the “real” world, from personal experience.  You can guess by now which one I picked.

Oh, I had my reasons.  I didn’t trust writing teachers at the beginning--I wanted to learn to write from the masters.  I was double-majoring in history and literature at first because they seemed to pair well, and both were a passion.  I knew a lot of literature from my Associate’s program and from independent study.  And that last option up there involved more psych courses than English courses.

Back then, if anyone would have had foresight, they would have added another:

• Bachelor of Science in Marketing

I probably would have turned that down, too.

*****

I have a pretty unhealthy addiction right now to the social networks due to the amount of marketing I’m “supposed” to do of my talents, writing or otherwise.  The newest trend displays an alarming blurring of the lines between “friendship” and “read my stuff, Friend/Follower 141.”  I have enough blogs and feeds on my Google Reader to choke a horse, and most days I read one of them.  (To be fair, I do read other blogs, but they don’t post every day.)  I don’t read daily one out of a sense of duty.  I read it because the writer is entertaining.

As I said, there are others that are entertaining, but they don’t blog every day.

I honestly couldn’t tell you if I’m an entertaining writer; I’m of the same belief as Murphy Jones in the movie “Murphy’s Romance” when it comes to my writing (“Sure I like myself.  I just don’t expect it to be contagious”) or Liz Gilbert from “Eat Pray Love” (“I’m not everyone’s cup of tea”).  I don’t get many comments, and even fewer compliments.  (Not fishing.  Just stating fact.)  All I know is this:  I write the kind of stuff I want to read.  If you write stuff that serves to impress the trend or to preach intellectual, you’re probably not going to have me for a reader very long.  If you write with no sense of humor, I won’t stick around, either.  I’m just here chronicling my journey.  I love it when others do too, and have fun with it.

But when it comes to selling--and here’s where I’ll sink--I stink.  When it comes to the captions for the blog on the social networks, I throw up a little in my mouth trying to “sell” my blog.  Do I realize, others say, that that revulsion will be my end?  Yes.  I’m constantly working on how to get around it.  I make my blog a character I talk to.  I’m glib about it.

But if I’m good at marketing, then why did I become a writer?  Marketing would pay better, and would apply to so much more than just writing.

Here’s the biggest point that I can’t get past--if everyone is clamoring to be “read” and to “sell” themselves, instead of writing authentically to connect, then don’t we all start sounding alike?  A million young voices, screamin’ out their words...maybe someday those words will be heard, sings John Mellencamp in “Check It Out.”  It strikes me that if I’m trying to be read, my goal is wrong.  I’m trying to connect.  I’m not going to connect with people who don’t read.  I’m not going to connect to people who don’t like my kind of writing.  I’m not going to connect with people who resent the hell out of having to read me because they know me, but wouldn’t read my writing otherwise.  That’s just the truth.  My objective isn’t to sell my voice to those who don’t want it.  My objective is to put the light on the basket for those who want it to find.

That’s the challenge.  Not the bending of my voice, but the finding of like voices.

*****

Ah, the social networks.  Everyone’s burnt out on them.  Moi, aussi.

If you were to look at me as a brand, a week ago, you would have seen City Girl, a tame Carrie Bradshaw without the shoe obsession.  It was my weapon against the folks who kept breaking my heart with how great their husband/wife/kids were, when I desperately wanted those things.  “But you have the City!” my sis-in-love told me, so I guess that defined me.  In the movie “Out of Africa” Isak Dinesen was speaking with her lover, Denys Finch-Hatten, about her inability to have children, she said, “The farm.  That’s what I am now.”

I had an apartment in San Francisco, at the foot of the seven hills.

Now, I don’t.  No petty impressions left.  Just a writer, living in North San Diego County.  I have no wonderful spouse or kids.  I have no Golden Gate Bridge.

My branding clock is up.  This brand is bland to eyes of social networking trends.  I wish I could mourn it.  But I’m either too helpless or too liberated by my own challenging situation to care.  Nothing, and I mean nothing sets the record straight on what’s important like being reduced to penniless.

Remarkably, three social networks haven’t worn out their welcome.  Meetup, through hundreds of people that I mentored and wrote with this year, brought me two writing partners (one in my old neighborhood and one in Leeds, England) who have restored my faith in communities of artists.  Google Reader brings me a daily mentor of baseball and botany.  And GoodReads introduces me to people who understand why I pick up the books that I do, even a chance to swap thoughts about those books (bless you, Meredith).  In small doses, I believe in connection.  I can’t help but believe in connection.

I’ll leave the trending “image” to the dancing hamsters and Old Spice men.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing and re-reading this post.

(P.S. - The photo comes from the “brand” I got from repeatedly tripping over the trailer hitch on the UHaul during the transition.  Some fools never learn.)

NaNoWriMo, or, the Disappearing Writer Trick

Just a quick program note, boys and girls:  Yours truly is going to attempt National Novel Writing Month (commonly known as NaNoWriMo to the inside crowd) this year.  

However, I have no intention of getting a novel done with this exercise.  Instead, the focus is to learn the long-term habit of working on a novel daily.  Some things, of course, will have to be compromised.  Beginning Tuesday, November 1st, I will be in a more limited or non-extistant capacity in one or more of the following while I devote myself to my "baby":

• Facebook
• Foursquare
• Twitter
• Meetup
• Blogger
• Rotten Tomatoes
• GoodReads
• Email
• Texting

I'm kidding on the last two...of COURSE I'll check those just as faithfully.  (#Maybe #JustKidding)

Think of it as my maternity leave while I hatch this evil plan to win readers.  Have a great Thanksgiving, all, and I'll catch you again in December.

Onward, dear reader.

One of Those Songs From Glee, or, Moving Forward

It's no secret.

I...HATE...FACEBOOK.

I wish I could love it. I wish I could use it to the best of my ability, like the manipulative love affair that I have with Twitter. But there's something about Facebook that spells the following to me:

• I'm a failure. No husband, no kids, no traditional employment (heck, no employment that involves the rich and famous).
• I'm unimportant. No comments = no one gives a crap that I exist.

Which is why I'm trying not to sign in to it. It hit me yesterday, thinking on it, that I'm fighting a few things here with Facebook:

• Very few of my friends are readers. Most just play games or post pictures.
• Very few of my friends have the same amount of friends that I have or fewer. I can't imagine how they keep with their friends, especially those at more than 100 friends. I have a feeling that in order to get their attention I would either have to shut down my FB account (tempting...) or threaten something rash (also tempting).

But I'm trying to move in another direction instead.

The new goal is to not check FB, and instead start working on other sites that focus more writing, like Gather and Twitter. I can post things remotely, but I don't need to check on it to see if anyone said hi. Most people don't say hi. And friends who enjoy me the way I am talk to me in e-mail, on Twitter, or via text.

Less posts, no visits, and no letting folks know about the new blog posts. The list won't read them anyway. The link will stay up. A diamond in the rough for the diehards, should they exist. My life in Facebook will show up by remote feed from other websites, that help me to rise up and celebrate life. Not this moronic, constant, popularity contest on-line.

(A remarkable coincidence, since Zuckerberg seemed to create this idea from being socially rejected. Maybe that's why I think it sucks...it spawned from pain and didn't nurture healing.)

Please, FB, let me quit you.

P.S. - This is where the title of this post of Life For Rent comes from. This is obviously not the Glee version, but I love this version and couldn't find a clip from Glee that wasn't just audio. Enjoy, and onward, dear reader.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Writing, Part 2

Ah yes, the portion of our show where I disclosed just what it is that I write, when I write. Here's what I have a tendency or desire to write, either by job search need or by creative goals:

• Three "morning pages," or writing that I do while I'm still bed and before I start my day. Mostly drivel just to get my juices flowing
• Blogs. Four total for the week: Examiner pieces on SF literary culture, a blog about my career opportunities, this series, and another blog detailing my resume and my take on current business trends in training and call centers
• Poems.
• Short stories.
• Miscellaneous journal pages. These are usually written three pages at a time and are usually of the same nature as the morning pages, but designed to put me back on track for the other projects
• Tweets. I try to hit at least five a day, and try not hit them needlessly
• Reviews. Books, movies, television

And from that list, here's my current list of successful items (by "successful" I mean I get at least a draft out):

• Morning pages. (Only missed one on the day after a writing marathon, when I was giving myself a day off from writing.)
• Blogs. (They need to be better, though. Practice makes perfect.)
• Miscellaneous journal pages. (Ah, spinning in circles, chasing own tail...)
• Tweets. (Mostly.)
• Reviews. (Oh, yeah, they make it, but they are incredibly brief and shallow. Looking for improvement here, too.)

Yes, I know "Poems" and "Short Stories" didn't make the second list. So far the only poems I can crank out are in the Stanford Theatre in Palo Alto (yeah, it's one of those freak happenings...can't explain it), and the short stories begin, and stop. Begin, and stop. I'm not giving up on trying to break that wall down.

In my next and final installment in this series, I'll talk about writing mentors.

Onward, dear reader.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Writing, Part 1

Recently this blog went to the reasons as to why I read, what I read, etc. Beginning this week, the blog goes to why I write, what I write, and why I started.

My focus in reading was in finding someone/something as a child that I could befriend without having to sell myself out, and reading gave me that. Sooner or later my brain got the idea that if I could read and find that kind of connection, then maybe I could write and find it, too. I felt this way despite the fact that I had no idea about social networking in the late seventies, not to mention no idea of how to publish anything.

I started out with a small, pink, Hello Kitty-decorated journal that was about the size of a deck of playing cards, and probably the most important thing that I wrote in that book was my reaction to the final episode of M*A*S*H, which I didn't get to see because I was too young. (I was also too young to see the series, but that didn't stop me from remarking on the passing of the show.) There weren't many pages filled--the binding wasn't extensive writing-friendly and I wasn't much of a Hello Kitty fan. A couple of years after that I sat down with plain paper and, with the help of an older cousin, came up with a book of poetry. They were very much humorous poems, and were more fun to write than to read, by my suspicions. But they broke open the flood gates. I wanted to write. I wrote all kinds of wild things from that point on--teachers gave me the assignment to write newspaper articles in grade school, and not only did I write them, but I drew them in the shape of a newspaper article cut out of an actual newspaper; I wrote an essay about a sandwich that staggered a sixth grade teacher; instead of writing just another paper about the Holocaust, I wrote a short story about woman in this country subjugated to the same thing, using all of the imagery from the non-fiction accounts from the Holocaust; I wrote reports so well that teachers demanded to know where I plagiarized them from; I spent my free periods split between the newspaper room and the band practice room; I wrote an editorial piece in the paper my senior year that got me in deep trouble with the principal.

I loved writing. The one thing I wanted to avoid, however, was going to college for writing. I was bound and determined that shouldn't happen, to the point that when I moved to Missouri I went to College of the Ozarks, but not to attend classes. I went to their library and read "literary" magazines, namely three: The New Yorker, The Atlantic, and Harper's (not Harper's Bazaar). I read, I wrote on what I read, I went home. I knew very little of the classic or academic writers--my mother raised us on stuff appropriate to kids, and rarely that stuff was appropriate to kids. I read amazing things in those magazines, particularly in their fiction selections, and I tried a novel of my own, written long-hand on legal pads and filling a Justin boot box. (And no, that novel no longer exists. No bribing with my old and bad writing of 19 years.)

Oddly enough, an employer who was taking classes recommended that I take a literature class from the instructor that she was attending, and, on a dare, I did. Hence, my college career. Please remember, I did not go to college for writing--my major was literature and my minor was history. Did I take writing classes? At the end, yes. At the end I didn't want to end my college years. At the end I didn't want an end--I planned to go on to get my Masters and teach literature while writing great short stories for The New Yorker.

Then life happened.

In the spring of 2001, shortly after gaining my BA and debating where to go for the next stage, I wrote a story, as I was prone to do in my condition of permanent pen in hand, about a daughter who's jealous of her father's dog, which he gets to take the place of his deceased wife. I thought the story was all ironic and literary, and filed it with the rest of the stories that I wrote as first drafts so that it could simmer while I cranked out other pieces. A friend of mine at the time from California was giving me a lot of tips at the time as a reader--I would make the mistake of writing an occasional romance, and, due to my lack of sexual experience (check that, embarrassingly NO sexual experience at that time) she felt the need to correct me. The story of the dog replacing the dead wife was a reactionary piece--this chick didn't know anything about deceased mothers--so THERE. (I didn't either, but that was a moot point--I was "writing to discover.")

Just as I was starting the next short story, two things happened:

• I had waited too long to decide on the next academic step, and the nice student loan people started wanting their money back, and
• My mother was diagnosed with cancer.

The first thing was expected--here I was, applying for the fall, and should have thought about it for the spring semester after graduation. The second thing stunned me--I never would have thought that my mother would get breast cancer (it wasn't in the family history) and, well, I wrote that story. My rationalization: that'll learn ya, Jo, you predicted your mother's death in a short story. That'll teach ya.

The next time I finished a short story was 2009. Do the math. I'll wait.

So what was I writing for eight years? Journaling. A lot of journaling. Then blogging. Then Tweeting. (I was Tweeting before I went back to writing short stories. That's deep-seated weight.) Between the "friend" who felt that I didn't know what I was talking about with sex (I found another way to get her back--I had some. I wish I could say it was worth the revenge, but to this day I would rather read about someone convincingly falling in love vs. someone having sex. For me, sex isn't worth the words) and the responsibility I felt for killing my mother off with a premature-written story, I was too scared to pick up a pen to make something up. I was more concerned with getting my crazy new existence in California down, in a frame of mind of "Jesus, you won't believe THIS" sort of way.

Sooner or later that got old, and I took a class with UC Berkeley dealing with turning life experience into fiction. (In this class I wrote a short story where the female character died and her brother came to take care of the funeral. I figured that if I were to kill family members I would start with me, so that everyone else stayed safe.) Shortly after I finished that class I came back from lunch one day at work and flipped onto my right hand in the dock of my workplace (wanna hear that story? Read here).

Square one.

*****

One thing leads to another, and before I fall into a quote from a John Lennon song we should probably just acknowledge that I not only have the use of my hand back, but that I have the use of my time back. Yes, I'm working on a short story. No, I haven't finished it yet, but I have a collection of stories that I did finish from my class, and that gives me encouragement. Friends give me encouragement. Readers give me encouragement. And I take the encouragement and add it to the pile of writing and reading that I do and realize that I was meant to do maybe two other things in my life. Time to stop fighting it.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S.--I can give you a vague memory of when I started reading. I feel that I have been writing, however, since I was born.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Reading, Part 2

Subject Matter

I've been asked before, on occasion, what it is that I read over the course of a day. (In fact, my favorite question to ask at book signings of authors is, "What are you reading?" even though I may never jump into their literary choices. It's kind of like glimpsing into someone's medicine cabinet.) In addition to books (I'll address how I select those in a moment) I have a variety of other sources for reading and therefore lots of material to respond to in my writing. Currently I'm at around 5% each of the two Kindle books that I read from daily, about 50 pages a day from a paperback I'm reading, and two articles a day from that week's New Yorker magazine. In terms of internet surfing, here's what I dip into on a daily basis:

• I check my Yahoo! e-mail--that's usually the source for my writing group information
• ProBlogger, which publishes a daily post on how to successfully blog
• Powell's Books, both their websites for book "Review-A-Day" and their Books Blog, which is supported creatively by a rotating roster of authors who guest-blog
• Twitter. Twitter gets a lot of crap for the same reasons that Facebook gets a lot of crap, but both are so intricate now that you can pretty much treat them like a salad bar--if you pick the right blend of feeds and notifications you get the best combination of news and entertainment. If you don't pick the right blend for you, you have what amounts to an informational compost heap. I find that I have to be flexible enough to constantly tweak my Twitter streams as well--if I don't, I get discouraged pretty easily.
• Google. For me, Google is like an iceberg--I'm sure I see only about a quarter of what I could be seeing or using. I usually check e-mail (best and safest e-mail in my opinion), Google Reader (which gives me a comprehensive one-page update of all of the blogs I'm following), and Google News. News gets a skimming on Google--I can usually (sadly) catch the same feed of stories on Facebook or may have already seen most of it on Twitter. The Reader is eclectic and is sort of like an unabridged version of Twitter; categories include: Bay Area, Books and Literary Adventures, Creating Good Habits, Language Adventures (I subscribe to Spanish, French, and Italian blogs), and Travel.
• NPR. Probably not the most objective place to get my news, but what is? I find it's the least assaultive place to get my news.
• Monster/CareerBuilder/LinkedIn--to keep the career opportunities fresh.
• Facebook. Ugh. I have made many comparisons in my hatred of Facebook, from comparing it to Walmart to comparing it to a high school clique or a college fraternity. Like Twitter, I've tweaked my feeds on Facebook: if a friend spends all of their status updates on how great their kids and husband are, I tend to turn off the feed and just check on them occasionally. I also hide stuff about any game or event on Facebook that has a title that ends in "-ville" or "Wars"--this kind of activity is roughly on par with watching paint dry. I do tune into feeds that keep it real--book/movie/music recommendations, marathons ran, dishes attempted and cooked or ruined, thoughts on the political climate. I tend not to care where people are, so location feeds only excite me if I've been there, too. A bonus for me on Facebook is that I'm nearly invisible--I don't have more than a hundred friends on Facebook and I don't generate a constant or large number of comments. That, and most of my friends have better things to do than to read me. (In contrast, I have 100 followers on Twitter, but that's a different crowd.)

In terms of choosing books to read once I've finished one, I have a particular method of selection. I think on my religion, or better, my spirituality. I know that God has more important things to do than to help me to choose what to read, just as President Obama has more important things to do than to talk to Oprah on the day his "long-form" birth certificate comes out. But I would like to think that God enjoys the task of helping me choose a book, and maybe that's why I feel like He's present when the next book selection happens. Perhaps it's not even Him--perhaps the spirit is some aspect of my mother instead--but I like to believe that God loves a good story. Why else the Bible? Why else the by-lines in the New Testament of the same event told in the voice of a variety of different people? "According to Matthew, this is what happened." "But according to Mark, THIS is what happened."

Oh, for heaven's sake.

So some visage of God comes along with me to bookstores, libraries, or to browse the shelves of what my roommate has in the living room. God sits on shoulders of firemen and soldiers, yes, so why not me? 'Tis a strange way to be guided, to be sure. (And before you lock me up, no, I don't believe I'm "chosen" for this. It's kind of like prayer--I believe anyone can do it. This happens to be the most effective way for me to pray.) Because I have such a black-and-white approach to the world I have tried many times to break this process down into a science, but it's not a science. Neither is it something happening because I've been "saved"--as a Unitarian I struggle with that salvation piece. (Trust me when I write this--you don't want to chase down this rabbit now.) Instead, it's akin to picking up an instrument and playing, or knowing how to shoot a gun or crochet a sweater; it presents itself as a repeated display of muscle memory.

In this light, I can give you pieces of what happens in a bookstore, library, or bookshelves. I often browse the entire store or library first, quickly, just to get a feel for the space. (For the San Francisco Library I just browse fiction for this trick.) Then I narrow my search to a particular letter of the alphabet or specialized section (like "New Arrivals" or "Staff Picks"), and begin opening volumes. I flip through, read jacket summaries, look deeply into typeface (can I live with Helvetica on cream linen for 400 pages?), and admire cover artwork. There's a courtship here. I put books back and go to new ones I've previously opened. And, when the time is right, I start working around with first chapters.

Those first chapters are the final step--God and I find my literary dance partner for the next 400 pages and we have a winner. Why, you may ask yourself or ask me, would this be so important? Why put so much emphasis on it? Not to be ungrateful, but I've had so much required reading in my life (former literature student) and so many bad recommendations in my life ("Oh, you like books? You should read THIS...") that this is my sacred pleasure. I'll ask others how they liked books, I'll raid reviews for bits and pieces of information, but at the end of the day this final selection process works. There are so many books and so little time that this method keeps me from wasting time with books I won't finish. I tweak the process at the selection or root cause, and this continual check and adjust with the aid of a Divine Spirit seems to give me the confidence I need to read a book I enjoy.

Onward, dear reader.

Post Script--You may wonder: Since Kindle books aren't in a store, what's the process for those?

SHEER IMPULSE BUY. NO TRICKS UP MY SLEEVE AT ALL FOR THOSE. On the flip side, I have so many Kindle books that I haven't read because of that. *Sigh*

Loaded Question, and First of the Eighty Answered

Sooner or later the question is going to pop up, for those who are curious or just hope to view a car wreck:

What have you been doing lately?

And this is how I will answer you, for now. I have been:

• Running every morning to the ocean, despite cold and on some days threat of rain
• Listening to podcasts from Fresh Air, literary groups, Latino music, gambling gurus, and Writer's Almanac
• Visiting the library
• Reading at a frustratingly slow and decadent pace
• Writing at the same
• Eating at the same
• Experiencing meditation instead of attempting it
• Relishing baseball

And you?

*****

Today on my Twitter feed there was a lovely link to a list of 80 Journal Writing Prompts that one could use to prime the pump, so to speak, and while I think they make great journal prompts I realize that having neglected my blog in some time they might be helpful for those suffering from insomnia to enjoy. So herein commences the first of the list...Name something that you lost or gave away that can never be replaced.

This is a tough one--for two reasons: a) there are two that stand out, and b) neither of them are material. The first one is my mother--I would say it was a combination of losing her and being so far away from her for the last ten years of her life (which could be construed to mean that I had, in some essence, given her away) that make her stand out as the first. No one can replace her--and several women have tried. (What I find most amusing is that people who have tried to replace her have been opinionated, and my mother was the least opinionated person on the face of the planet. Not quite sure of that need to fill the gap, but, there it is.) I appreciate the attempts--it's just not possible, ladies.

The second one is pretty unseemly, so skip the rest of the paragraph if this kind of thing makes you squirm, but it's my virginity. I both "lost it" according to the crass saying and it can never be replaced. I think I would be far more trusting if I hadn't lost it and didn't have the desire to replace it, for I was even more gullible than I am now before losing it. On the flip side, if I still had it and I was this age, the self-consciousness might be burning a hole in my brain.

Onward, dear reader, until the next prompt.

What I Have Been Doing Lately - Part II

It's been a while since I've posted, so I thought it best to review my resolutions and where I am with them:

• Try one new thing every day - Mostly circles around wine, but haven't done it much in the last week since it's been a full-time occupation to get to work and get well.
• Do not buy any new books - Still haven't broken this one, thanks to the San Francisco Public Library. At our last manager meeting I also received a gift card for $25, which I'm holding on to until I take a trip to one of my independent bookstores and someone else buys me $25 worth of books.
• Do not buy any new pens - Sadly, at my last manager meeting something else also occurred--a couple of managers took home half my pens from the cup at work. So I had to go buy new pens for the cup. Note to self--the cup doesn't come out at manager meetings anymore.
• Give up Facebook - Sorry, folks, BUT I'M LOVING THIS. All my good stuff shows up on Twitter, like walking poetry. My Facebook feed looks like a news ticker, since I can't see anyone else living a "better" life than me anymore.
• Tweet more - and having fun at it, whether I'm read or not. This is still the case.
• Blog more - Yep, this one and the first one are my opportunities.
• Give up sex for a year - Still strong here, and it's actually easier not only to turn men down, but to enjoy people for everything besides their "coolness."
• Not hoarding food - And another opportunity. Didn't get lunch yesterday and hoarded food last night.
• Want what I've got - a challenge this week, but I got back there
• Stop reacting - Opportunity as well

Now, those reading this and those following my Facebook changes may seeing an inconsistency. My Facebook profile lists me as "In A Relationship," and I am. But not with someone else--with me. I'm thoroughly enjoying being single. Keep in mind that this isn't sour grapes--I was propositioned three times the first week of February, and passed without explanation all three times. Men will have to get much better at their advances to get to me, and if that makes me frigid, well, I'd rather be frigid and healthily happy than following men around like a sheep. I have come to the realization that men are not stupid, nor are they necessarily flawed, but very few of them are a fit for me. Those that are a fit for me will begin because they want a conversation with me, those that are not will see me as a shortcut to pleasure.

And the resolution continues.

Onward.

Where I'm Headed and What I'm Looking Forward To

Yesterday I addressed what I loved about 2010, after being inspired to do so by writer Susan Orlean on Twitter. I also promised to provide a list of what I am looking forward to in 2011. I got this list from a combination of resolutions and processes that I'm working on right now. In no particular order:

• Maintaining breath, instead of holding it
• Trying one new thing every day, no matter how small or large
• Not buying any new books in 2011. I'm reading down the formidable stack in my room that I've already bought, reading some of my roommate's books that tempt me on the shelves in the living room, and rediscovering the San Francisco Public Library
• Not buying any new pens in 2011. For those who have seen some of my pens, you know this will be a challenge, but for those of you who have seen my pens, you know I have way too many
• Finding my peace with Facebook. I received some tips on how to make it better this past week from a friend (thanks much, Mike!) and I've put those in play and already feel better
• Being more entertaining on Twitter. I crack myself up
• Writing more of these blog entries. It's something I love to do and something I've sold myself out on
• Giving up sex for a year. Liz Gilbert seems healthier for it, and I could use an adult relationship
• Enjoying food again, instead of hoarding it in case I don't get to eat for the rest of the day
• Wanting what I've got
• Processing instead of reacting and resenting
• Dreaming
• Getting back on a saddle, literally
• Trying the trapeze again
• Opening Day at At&t Park
• Meditation
• Walking to the ocean more
• Meeting new people
• Learning a language so that I'm fluent

Not saying that they will all come true...I'm just saying that I'm looking forward to the effort.

Onward.

What I Loved And When I Loved It

Interesting thing I saw from writer Susan Orlean today on Twitter--she posted a series of tweets about what she loved best about 2010. In that inspirational spirit, here's my list, in no particular order:

• Being able to use my right hand again
• Finally getting a Mac
• Discovering Alt.Latino podcasts
• Meeting my boss
• Trying trapeze
• Living in my City, as always
• Rediscovering red wine
• My team, the one everyone thought was a joke, winning the World Series
• The Yankees not winning the playoffs
• The extra time that I got to spend with my brother in September because he was working up here
• My friends, virtual and live
• My Visconti pen
• Jon Stewart and "The Daily Show"'s impact on the news
• The books I read, particularly "The Lacuna"
• The movies that I saw, particularly "The King's Speech"
• Trying new things and failing, like cooking goose
• The orchid that I bought in August that still has one lone bloom on it
• The concerts I saw this year--Huey Lewis, Rufus Wainwright, etc
• Trying on a wedding dress, even if it was probably for the last time
• Falling in love with anejo tequila
• Learning new words in Italian and Spanish ("Attraversiamo," "Que milagro")
• Writing...one more year

Tomorrow--what I look forward to in 2011. Onward.

The Kids' Table

If you were raised in a large extended family you remember it--the kids' table, the sequestered plank where you were eye-balled to behave from afar and treated like clique or not to clique up close. I was never in the clique, regardless of the family side I attended, which is why I guess California fits me--there are no kids and there is no table. I sit here on the couch and watch birds fly across the rare-in-December-blue sky.

On-line, it's a bit different.

It's no secret that I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook--hmm, no, wait, that should probably be redefined. I have a habit/hate relationship with Facebook. I keep tuning in every day hoping I won't feel stupid and childish because the following:

• I'm single
• I'm in a job that I'm not effective in, and therefore...
• I'm in a job that I hate
• I love the City that I live in
• I love the music that I do
• I love movies
• I love books

Facebook, someone explained to me once, is to see the extended family and friends that you could never keep up with otherwise. No more e-mails! No more phone calls! No more letters! (A letter? People still write those? Happily for me, some still do.) Just post a status and everyone will know what you're up to! In fact, not only will everyone know what you're up to, but they will RESPOND, that is if they are truly cool or truly love you.

Sort of like a sick combination of the questionnaire that went around in study hall ("what do you think of Sarah?") and the kids table, where everyone else talks about the cool thing they got for Christmas while you got a dollhouse handmade from your dad but not really a COOL present in modern day society.

I keep trying though, to post interesting stuff--movie reviews, and, up until a few weeks back, my reading site was posting to Facebook. Now only Twitter takes all this stuff with a smile. Facebook seems to bleeding exclusivity, like the Yankees or Tiffany's, and it keeps me away. Twitter is thought in motion, a world of people free to read me, only one of which I've met and yet--they seem to accept me. I don't read Twitter hoping to have been read--I read Twitter in happy eagerness to the other people I can relate to.

Facebook? Strangely, Facebook seems like one big mirror with all of my imperfections magnified, like sitting at the kids' table, having knocked the table leg and spilled a little of everyone's water, and a dollhouse in my memory while the rest of the world had Walkmans.

Walk away from the habit. Onward.