got notes?

Who is that one person you trust to read your work? 

I don't know who yours is, but we all have one. Or should have one. And mine has rotated through the years. From a trusted college friend who kept me from flinging early plays over a freeway overpass... to my husband at the time who helped me understand I had a writing career because I was funny not just lucky. When we got divorced unfortunately the role of my writing buddy went with him. 

Those times between writing confidantes can be scary. Showing your massive insecurities scribbled on paper to a new person is arduous. Will they love you? Will they trash you? A writing teacher I had once said, "If somebody called you a bad driver... would you stop driving? Of course not. But when people don't like your writing you're willing to throw it away? Why does their opinion matter more than yours?"

Years ago while searching for the right writing confidante I asked a good good friend to read a script I was working on. When it came time to give me notes, he didn't give me notes... he SKEWERED me with notes. It was like a pencil through the heart. Nothing was worthy of his praise. Everything I did seemed shoddy. By the end I even questioned my comma placement. I was stunned. My sweet buddy turned into a literary Cujo in the time it took to read a script. Years later another friend told me he had asked this same friend to read something and he shredded him as well. The point being, he is who he is. He's a bad note giver. And now we know. And we will never ask him again. Never. Ever. But he remains one of my favorite dinner companions and that's enough.   

Now the arduous task of reading my first drafts and propping up my fragile ego lies with my fiance. A very smart compassionate man. He neither shreds me or lies to me, he's just honest. And it's hard for me to ask anybody to read anything. I'm wasting their time... I should know how to do this myself... My mind goes many places but "You are brilliant -- move on" isn't one of them.

The thing I've learned about my fiance is... he LOVES to give notes. He will give notes on an old movie we see on the couch together... like the director isn't dead and is longing to take another crack at the battlefield scene. At concerts he's been known to tell a soundboard guy that his levels are off. (and surprisingly they usually thank him) My favorite notes though were the notes given in Amsterdam. We went to a live sex show in the redlight district (oh, don't judge, it's like their Disneyland) and this girl was doing a... let's say "novelty act" with a lit cigar. And during this dubious act to rock music my fiance leaned over to me, irritated and said... "She's not puffing on the beat!" Thirty people in the room and I can guarantee no one was thinking about her rhythm but him. I was mostly hoping she was well-paid to do something that would kill her grandmother.

I practically had to restrain him from giving her notes on the way out where she was enjoying a hard-earned cigarette. From another, ah, orifice.

So for once I don't feel guilty asking someone to read what I've written. He always has, need I say... the notes. 

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why do I bother?

I saw an old tivo'd episode of "60 Minutes" last night. It had a segment about a big coal ash spill in Tennessee. It was disgusting to watch and sad to hear about all the lives it affected. It made a pristine land look like a tar pit overnight. The fish literally jumped out of the water rather than be in there with the black gooey coal ash. The water was poisoned, the land destroyed... but what do we expect? Byproducts from manufacturing will magically disappear? When the trash in my trashcans is hauled away I'm grateful. I don't know where it goes. I assume because I pay taxes they've paid someone to figure out the ethical and environmentally friendly way to get rid of my crap. Perhaps my assumption is unrealistic but I do not have a sanitation engineering degree and it would do no one any good to assume I could ever become an expert in this stuff and help. 

So we do what we can, right?

I bought recycled kitchen counter tops. Even though granite counter tops are the last thing I want to spend money on right now... my counter tops were faded yellow 50's tile that had bowed from water damage and looked like they harbored bacteria from the Eisenhower era. Every time I came home from a trip I'd think, "I'm so glad to be home!" Then I'd walk in the kitchen and think, "My god those counter tops are ugly!" I won't go into the gnarly grout or the big chunks missing from corners... let's just say I held my breath and finally wrote a check.

And buying granite counter tops isn't rocket science. Once you decide actual granite takes too much upkeep... your other choice is a man-made product like Caesarstone or Silestone. These man-made granites have no upkeep. Perfect for the cook whose most sophisticated cleaning implement is a sponge.

We chose a man-made granite that was "recycled." Now, not to toot my own horn but we could have chosen a regular one with less recycled materials but I felt good thinking I used someone's castoffs, they still look beautiful and I'm helping the environment.

Right?

Well, per "60 Minutes" this black mucky coal ash has a toxic component called fly ash (it's the dry coal byproduct)... which they don't know what to do with. So what they do is... put it in our stuff. Brilliant, huh? Disguise it as something good. So our recycled products like bowling balls and concrete and.... of course... kitchen counter tops... have coal fly ash.

Like mine. Or I'm assuming. It doesn't show up on the company's website. But the word "recycled" sounds better than "receptacle for toxic materials." My counter tops are even ash grey. There's some irony.

I immediately went from feeling good about myself to... will I poison my family now if I throw a lettuce leaf back in the bowl that fell on the kitchen counter? My son thinks they put sparkles in the granite to distract you from the toxins. Of course all the toxins are sealed into whatever-the-hell man made recycled granite actually is. So my fiance said it's probably just a problem for the working class guys who fabricate it. I wonder if they know.

We went to visit the fabrication facility to pick out our granite (or granite-lite which is what man made probably is)... and the workers were cutting slabs in a warehouse. The air was thick with granite dust... or in the case of the recycled stuff... fly ash... toxic fly ash. These workers were wearing little surgical masks but their hair and faces were thick with this dust. Every surface you touched or sample book you picked up was coated in it.

Would I have chosen it had I known? No. Can I do anything about it now? No.

So, I feel a little sad now when I look at my new kitchen counter tops. They still look beautiful but who knows what dangers lurk below. 

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letting go and clicking publish

I've decided I'm going to power through these blogs. Last week I spent a day each on my blogs. Yes, one day to write and rewrite ONE blog. Would someone with massive insecurity and OCD do it any other way? So as of today I'm going to... (as the multimillion dollar athletes tell us) "Just do it!" And let me add, they "just do it" because someone is also paying them millions of dollars. I, on the other hand, am paid in "personal accomplishment." All things being equal I'd rather live a shallow life on a Lakers salary. Or write a blog on a Lakers salary. (why not... when a bell rings an angel gets its wings, when someone blogs something must happen in the universe)

So from now on I will just write the damn thing. No more, "Honey, can you read this before I post it?" Not that I don't ADORE feedback (of the constructive uplifting kind of course) but all a perfectionist needs is another person giving them input. "You mean that made sense if I changed it, or you think it still makes sense if I don't change it?" So today when my fiance asked if he could read my blog I said, "Sure, but I already posted it." I think we were both surprised. And I added, "But no notes." Then I went to the kitchen and got myself some tea. After five minutes of no comment from his end I started to get the perfectionist jitters. "Did I nail it? Did I blow it? Is he stunned into silence by the content? Is he taking time to dab his eyes after laughing so hard he cried?" Finally he stepped out of my office and said tentatively "I know you don't want me to give you notes but do you want to know about the typos?"

Well, yes, of course I want to know about the typos. At least typos lead to constructive obsessing. I like to change those. As a writer I spend so much time looking at the typos they start to look normal. Finding typos is like a public service announcement. Nobody likes to hear them but everybody benefits. My favorite typo was "Cheetio." A cross between a Cheeto and a Cheerio. He asked if I meant to do that. I said no and changed it to Cheetos. Though I like "Cheetios" as a typo. It could be a new snack food for adulterers, "New from Kellogg's... Cheetios! A quick pick-me-up snack for cheaters! When you get the munchies between the cheap motel and home... think Cheetios!"

So, I fixed the typos and hit "publish post" again and let it go. It only took me an hour or so to do the whole blog. Not a day. And I typed in the code for underlining and I did a photo link ALL BY MYSELF.

I think I deserve a big bowl of Cheetios.

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blogicide

Yes, I almost committed blogicide. I almost pulled the cyberplug on this blog. The feeling of "the world has passed me by, everybody knows more about social media than I do, what's the point?" put up a big fat wall between me and the keyboard. It wasn't writer's block. It was writer's despair. Every time I don't know what to do I freeze. Then I figure I must be better at something else. Something must be more fluid and supply natural motivation. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly... I... have no idea what my medium is. I know it's words... somewhere.

Not that I'm naive enough to believe that everything in life should be fun or easy. But I particularly like things I'm good at. For exercise, a lot of my friends do spinning. Spinning is my idea of enduring a root canal while moving my legs. But rowing, on the otherhand, kicks my butt but I love it. I'm good at it, it feels natural and I don't feel like a big loser when I do it.

This weekend my son helped me redesign my blog. I'm not sure it's... the one, but I learned a lot. Like if I have to scroll through 307 pages of wallpaper for my blog I will not make it past page 30. My first attempt at design was alarming. It had dots and stripes and bold colors that jumped out at you like a clown with a sledgehammer. But it was nice to see things happen with the click of a mouse or by typing in a code. To me this process is like watching Science Fiction Theatre and to him it's like a dolphin playing in the water. He does it all at the speed of light. Like the joy I used to feel playing in the ocean -- my son gets designing websites. Then he shows me how to do the things he has just done and I cry. I do. I admit it right here. It is so frustrating. If he shows me and then I can't repeat the process I want to get a bag of Cheetos and find an "I Love Lucy" rerun and bathe in my "loserness." It's like being a grownup and learning how to ski. It's just easier to learn if you're a fearless toddler. My son is like a sleek elegant slalom racer, moving quickly, quietly, painlessly down the mountain. I am among the spectators in awe. 

Today I needed to put a classified ad on the internet. I needed to create a gmail account for email. And I did it. I created it by myself and I even forwarded it to my existing account. These are baby steps but it felt like I was finally going somewhere. 

I know I have to learn a certain amount of this information to exist in the future. But if I want to compete in the future I have to be as good or better. And even if I closed the door for the next six months and pretended I don't have a life that involves responsibilities I couldn't be as natural and fluid as my son. I am a writer. A technophobe writer. I need to write the words and try to find a place for the words in this strange new world. And this feels like a fulltime occupation. And it doesn't pay well. Okay, it doesn't pay at all. So instead of practicing at doing a blog... I either need to find a blog topic (yes, "a girl starting a blog" is a topic but it's pretty general) and write the hell out of it... or not.

I'm being honest when I say, I don't know what direction to head my boat currently. Will the internet take me anywhere? Or am I just looking for a smooth ride on uncharted waters?

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mission statement impossible

A mission statement... it sounds like something Father Junipero Serra signed before he was allowed to start mixing stucco for his string of missions. “I, Father Junipero Serra, will not harm or damage this property, and if the land owner deems there is sufficient damage done, my security deposit of 20 burros will not be returned to me.”

I don’t really know what a mission statement is. Every time I’m required to write one (for instance for this blog) I want to run out and hire a grownup to interpret what I’m trying to say.

Here is one off the top of my head: 

“I don’t know what my mission statement is. For godsake, if I knew what I wanted I would be a well-adjusted millionaire.”

Here is a mission statement a grownup would write (if I was one):

“My mission is to champion others with my unique perspective. To grow personally and professionally and enrich and enhance other’s perspectives using my humor and compassion to make the world a smaller place.”

Do you know what this means? I don't. But I did use a lot of grownup words.

Here is what I would write if I just came from therapy:

“I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what you want. But I think we’re more alike than we think we are. The more I know about you and the more you know about me… it makes us closer. And I will feel less alone in the world. And when we honk at each other in traffic I will be more tolerant and kind because I wrote a blog today and didn't explode for lack of a creative outlet and you are more understanding and calm because you read a funny blog.”

And here is what I would write if I was talking to myself:

“Just f**king write! Feel proud of yourself for a change! Stop writing to fill up microsoft word files on your computer that no one else sees! Get your work out there! Be heard! Stop being a baby!”

My inner voice is a bad ass.

A writing teacher once said, “Just write and you’ll find what you want to say.”

So I try to write everyday. And now I've found a forum. Though my mission statement is a little wonky I am standing on my cyber soapbox. It is a big step. Perhaps this blog will lead me to that one topic that is inevitable or obvious to everyone but me. So I’m throwing it all out there. I expect this blog to evolve from “a blog about a girl starting a blog” to “a blog about something I learned while writing a blog about a girl starting a blog.”

In college I used to see a lot of foreign films. Then I would read the review and think “So THAT’S what they were trying to say.” So as I write about future topics or try other formats or even rant just to vent… perhaps you will read them and think “So THAT’S what she’s trying to say.” And then I will read your comments and think, “So THAT'S what I’m trying to say.” And if we come up with an ironclad mission statement together, there might be 20 burros in it for you. 

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the perris hiltin nekkid conspiracy

So my joy at finally finding a blog name... Blogly Wogly was dashed when my fiance pointed out I should use Bloggly Woggly because its more fun... like Piggly Wiggly. And I agree. (though try typing it really fast) But I had registered my blog under Blogly Wogly. Easy fix, yes? I put Bloggly Woggly in the system to check availability and it came up... AVAILABILITY TAKEN. 

Huh? There's someone out there as obscure as I am?

So I checked out the existing Bloggly Woggly blog site and it took me to a page that was the cyberspace equivalent of a vacant lot. I looked closely and it was indeed a site. Amid the cold war green background there were pictures and some text. The blog itself wasn't titled "Bloggly Woggly" that was just his blog address.  The title of his blog was: "ANCIENT SECRITS REVEALED - PERRIS HILTIN NEKKID" (yes, I did type it correctly)

Now as a blog novice I'm in no position to judge but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the blog was about. There are pictures of X's on trees, random graffiti and I think a cannon. He describes "a vast kinspiricy" and goes on to mention "if you came to this site lookin for perris hiltin nekkid, you done wrong and you know it." I feel like I wandered on to a blog site for a Hatfield or a McCoy. There are five posts ranging from 14 Maart 2006 to 22 April 2006. (yes, Maart, perhaps he's a Scandinavian Hatfield)

My fiance thinks I should approach this (I'll call him a) man and ask if he'd mind using another blog address since he doesn't use Bloggy Woggly at all. (I wonder if Perris Hiltin Nekkid is taken) But I don't think I want to. First, he can't spell which means we have to talk phonetically. Secondly, he's a conspiracy person. What conspiracy? It's a big world, surely he could narrow it down. I have trouble believing in any conspiracy because I don't think people are as organized as they're given credit for. Believe it or not I'd like to think there are millions of people devious enough to overthrow the government. I can't find many who can parallel park. And if you are a conspiracist, why would you want our government or anybody else's? It's like my trashmen, I'm ever so grateful somebody else is doing that job. I think that's why it gets harder and harder to make a believable James Bond villain... who in their right mind would want to rule the world? If it was me, I'd just take over Hawaii and a couple of really beautiful islands in the Galapagos. Me with a thousand iguana and a Hawaiian plate lunch, that would be pretty nice. But certainly not worth taking over the world.

So, I googled: "What if my blog name is already taken?" They said you can contact the person directly but they will not get involved. They consider someone who posts everyday as important as someone who posts every three years.

Some say the world will end in 2012. Perhaps he's one of those conspiracists. On the bright side, his blog address will be available.

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if the blog follows me home can I name it?

Isn't that always the hardest part... the beginning? How in the world can you sum up who you are and what you have to say in a few pithy words? And then put it out there for the world to see? (or in my case a few carefully chosen friends, like the ones who have seen me drunk or know who my junior high teachers were)

Here are a few blog titles that didn't make the cut...

"Teresa's House of Blog" There was a blog I ran into called Trixie's House of Blog and I have severe blog title envy because I LOVE that title! Is it my fault I'm named Teresa? The dullest of dull names. But Trixie... it just sounds like you're going to have a good time in her blog. It all sounds slightly nasty and fun. Teresa's House of Blog sounds like I'm going to take your order and serve you lukewarm blog with a side of fries.

"As Seen on Teresa" Cause I was a TV writer in another life... see? Get it? A play on words. However... without knowing my background it sounds kind of porn-y. You could be expecting a series of photographs of me with someone on me. I like the anticipation aspect of this but when they get here and realize everybody is clothed and there are no links to girl-on-girl action there will be no RSS action for me (see, I'm learning). 

"International House of Toast" Why? Because I love toast! Who doesn't love toast? And I hate pancakes. They're all limp and doughy and redundant. It's my fantasy to start IHOT: International House of Toast. So why not use it as my ridiculous blog name like Monty Python's Flying Circus? But I went poking around the internet and found a shocking number of toast-obsessed blogs, websites and products. Who knew? Fifteen minutes ago I was unique. I dropped the idea since I wasn't planning to write exclusively about toast. Nobody wants to be a toast tease.

"Green Eggs and Blog" Well, this one just speaks for itself. Ridiculous and fun. And taken. Somebody has this blog. Bless um.

So here I am. Looking at that blank space where BLOG NAME should be. Then I remembered dinner last night at Dr. Hogly Wogly's Tyler Texas Bar-B-Cue. It's a hard name to shake.

And "Bloggly Woggly" is born. 

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