I've had this weight of "what have I done?" sitting on my chest the past few days. Only now, I kind of just slapped myself across the face and answered myself, "Exactly what you should be doing, dumbass."
So, let me back it up. I've been dealing with the "what am I doing? where am I going?" questions for, oh, I don't know, always, but have had more of a need to start answering those questions and have kind of felt backed into a corner. No one's keeping me there, I just couldn't move.
So, just like my best friend reminded me over drinks the other night, "If you're gonna get what you want, better make your move." And, I did.
I asked a former peer and friend if I could write for two local magazines she's now the editor of. I felt a little bit like I was going out on a limb, but definitely a sturdy one. I was excited by her response, which was excitement as well.
And, then, the assignment came. It wasn't the topic that put the lump of dread in my coffee that morning, it was the "oh, shit. I don't know how to be a reporter anymore. I hate doing interviews and ohmygod deadlines." That was the weight that took residence of my chest. Just total dread. I don't have time for this. I don't want to have to dig up sources. I don't know how to write like a reporter anymore. Where's my AP Stylebook? I probably need a new one because its as outdated as me. I can't. I don't. What have I done?
I did what I used to do. I spent the weekend partying with friends and avoiding any shred of responsibility that could possibly make its way into my line of vision and then Sunday got here.
I had made an appointment to interview the man in charge of the art exhibit I had been assigned to write about and I did possibly everything I could've done to put off making that call until it got right to the minute that it would look unprofessional to not dial those numbers.
And, y'all. Let me tell you. That reporter hat went on my head so fast I didn't know how it got there. It was an amazing conversation and I just felt that fire I had mentioned get warmer and warmer. I beelined for my computer as soon as I got off the phone with my little yellow legal pad and just poured it out. Already over the word count I had been given and was worried I wouldn't be able to fill it to begin with.
Turns out, this source was a former editor and senior writer for Southern Living magazine. Turns out the subject matter of this particular story is one that I used to be so passionate about. It brings all of my forgotten loves back into my life. Writing and history and art and people. Stories and life.
Are we onto something? Are we getting somewhere? No, really, what am I doing? Where am I going?
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
letters.
So, a couple of weeks ago (maybe? I seem to have no concept of time anymore and I could check, but I'm not) I wrote about personal information overload and questioned what it would be like if all we had for long distance communication was the actual mail that a person actually writes and then other people actually carry from one box to another at its final destination. And, I'm not just talking about bills, credit card offers and grocery store advertisements (because that's all I was starting to believe was allowed to be mailed.) I'm talking "here's what's going on in my life, now tell me yours" letters.
Well, my oldest friend. The one that knew me when I rode a bicycle for entertainment and lived down the street and carpooled to everything wrote me a letter to help me answer that very question, so I'm gonna share it with you: yes. It is a better, more meaningful way to really keep in touch with someone. (duh)
First of all, when I opened my mailbox that afternoon and saw an envelope with familiar handwriting written on it it was like finding a treasure. I plucked it from the pile of trash that usually ends up there and opened it as fast as I could.
I read it in her voice like they do in movies and for the first time in what felt like a really long time I felt connected to her. No distractions. I was totally focused in on her one sided conversation and I couldn't wait to start penning down mine.
Six pages later and a hand cramp, I felt like I was actually saying something. I put a lot of myself in that letter. I really thought about how I wanted to respond unlike a normal conversation where you just kind of blurt out the first thing that comes to mind to keep it alive because I knew she would really hear me, you know? If not for the fact that she can re-read it to actually absorb what I felt the need to write in six pages, but because the damn thing was six pages! I don't even remember what I said.
That brings me to the other reason I really loved it. I can't take those words back. They belong to her now. I said them and breathed life into them and they are now living a life en route to New Orleans I have no control over. I was fully aware of this when I sealed the envelope. I better be able to live with these words being out there and, the thing is, I can and I feel a little bit of freedom in that.
Which reminds me, a couple of months ago, a friend showed me a huge stack of letters he had tucked away in his room at his parents' house. There they were in my living room, all the letters girls had ever written him. Covered in bubble letters in colorful envelopes words girls felt they had to say to a boy they probably barely knew and here he was probably 10-15 years later sharing them with me. He doesn't really know these people anymore and probably never will. He did find the need to keep their words and was excited to rediscover them and, I would guess, have them join the stack of letters he may have living at his apartment now.
I mourned the fact that I felt the need to discard all of the ones that had been given to me. Professing things that were so sweet and powerful and loving because I felt like they were lies now. I had to rid myself of them. But, I remember them. I can still see some of them clearly. I wish they were in a forgotten shoebox buried under my bed, but I guess they very much are buried in my mind.
When I write something no matter if it's with my thumbs on a tiny little iPhone (like now) or all of my fingertips on a keyboard or with my entire hand around a pen, it means something. I'm taking something that exists only in my head and breathing life into it and making it something real in the universe.
So, you better fucking mean it because it may just live in a shoebox under someone's bed as a tangible time capsule of who you were in that very moment with words you felt so needed to be said that you wrote them, licked them for security and gave them to a stranger to give them to someone who is about to really see you.
So, what's your address?
Well, my oldest friend. The one that knew me when I rode a bicycle for entertainment and lived down the street and carpooled to everything wrote me a letter to help me answer that very question, so I'm gonna share it with you: yes. It is a better, more meaningful way to really keep in touch with someone. (duh)
First of all, when I opened my mailbox that afternoon and saw an envelope with familiar handwriting written on it it was like finding a treasure. I plucked it from the pile of trash that usually ends up there and opened it as fast as I could.
I read it in her voice like they do in movies and for the first time in what felt like a really long time I felt connected to her. No distractions. I was totally focused in on her one sided conversation and I couldn't wait to start penning down mine.
Six pages later and a hand cramp, I felt like I was actually saying something. I put a lot of myself in that letter. I really thought about how I wanted to respond unlike a normal conversation where you just kind of blurt out the first thing that comes to mind to keep it alive because I knew she would really hear me, you know? If not for the fact that she can re-read it to actually absorb what I felt the need to write in six pages, but because the damn thing was six pages! I don't even remember what I said.
That brings me to the other reason I really loved it. I can't take those words back. They belong to her now. I said them and breathed life into them and they are now living a life en route to New Orleans I have no control over. I was fully aware of this when I sealed the envelope. I better be able to live with these words being out there and, the thing is, I can and I feel a little bit of freedom in that.
Which reminds me, a couple of months ago, a friend showed me a huge stack of letters he had tucked away in his room at his parents' house. There they were in my living room, all the letters girls had ever written him. Covered in bubble letters in colorful envelopes words girls felt they had to say to a boy they probably barely knew and here he was probably 10-15 years later sharing them with me. He doesn't really know these people anymore and probably never will. He did find the need to keep their words and was excited to rediscover them and, I would guess, have them join the stack of letters he may have living at his apartment now.
I mourned the fact that I felt the need to discard all of the ones that had been given to me. Professing things that were so sweet and powerful and loving because I felt like they were lies now. I had to rid myself of them. But, I remember them. I can still see some of them clearly. I wish they were in a forgotten shoebox buried under my bed, but I guess they very much are buried in my mind.
When I write something no matter if it's with my thumbs on a tiny little iPhone (like now) or all of my fingertips on a keyboard or with my entire hand around a pen, it means something. I'm taking something that exists only in my head and breathing life into it and making it something real in the universe.
So, you better fucking mean it because it may just live in a shoebox under someone's bed as a tangible time capsule of who you were in that very moment with words you felt so needed to be said that you wrote them, licked them for security and gave them to a stranger to give them to someone who is about to really see you.
So, what's your address?
Thursday, August 9, 2012
matches.
I've been finding myself pondering the "what's nexts" quite often lately. Catapulted mainly by that "what the fuck am I doing?" moment I mentioned about a week ago.
I'm good at my job. That's the thing. That's what's kept me in it. Pushed me onward and upward. Why wouldn't I keep going? I've become a leader. The one people ask advice from. The one who delivers results. I take pride in that, but am I passionate about it? To a degree.
I don't know if I could pin point a "dream job" for myself and I often wonder if I could and if I got it, would I wake up every day on fire about doing it? Are there really people out there who can really say that without even a whisper in the back of their head saying, "well, kind of, almost every day." Although I do believe that some people can be blissfully happy almost all of the time, I don't think that's in me. Why? Because I do have that drive in me to be better and when I'm not the best I beat the hell out of myself about it. I create the struggle so I can taste the sweet victory eventually. Both the big, juicy ones and small, subtle ones. When I say I'm gonna do something and really, and I mean really, mean it, I pretty much always do. Eventually. So, I take comfort in the fact that my goal check list I've made for myself will continue to have things crossed out. Eventually.
So, should I switch gears and start from scratch or just keep going onward and upward with the tried and true? Would I be happier as a teacher? Or should I try to go back to journalism? Or maybe just get a job that's nothing more than a job? Something that I just show up to, complete tasks and go home at five on the dot every day? Could I? Should I? Sure. Maybe.
When I commit, I commit. That's the thing. That I know to be true. I've proven it with the things I've done, the relationships I've been in. I stay until there's nothing left. Nowhere left to go. Nothing left to burn (and, sometimes, I have set myself on fire).
I miss the fire. That passionate burning fire on so may levels. I feel like everything in my life is just kind of warm, getting colder by the minute. And I'm frustrated because I know exactly where the matches are, I just can't find a damn thing to strike them on.
But, I'll keep looking, don't you worry.
I'll start rubbing twigs together and blowing if I have to.
We're getting warmer.
I'm good at my job. That's the thing. That's what's kept me in it. Pushed me onward and upward. Why wouldn't I keep going? I've become a leader. The one people ask advice from. The one who delivers results. I take pride in that, but am I passionate about it? To a degree.
I don't know if I could pin point a "dream job" for myself and I often wonder if I could and if I got it, would I wake up every day on fire about doing it? Are there really people out there who can really say that without even a whisper in the back of their head saying, "well, kind of, almost every day." Although I do believe that some people can be blissfully happy almost all of the time, I don't think that's in me. Why? Because I do have that drive in me to be better and when I'm not the best I beat the hell out of myself about it. I create the struggle so I can taste the sweet victory eventually. Both the big, juicy ones and small, subtle ones. When I say I'm gonna do something and really, and I mean really, mean it, I pretty much always do. Eventually. So, I take comfort in the fact that my goal check list I've made for myself will continue to have things crossed out. Eventually.
So, should I switch gears and start from scratch or just keep going onward and upward with the tried and true? Would I be happier as a teacher? Or should I try to go back to journalism? Or maybe just get a job that's nothing more than a job? Something that I just show up to, complete tasks and go home at five on the dot every day? Could I? Should I? Sure. Maybe.
When I commit, I commit. That's the thing. That I know to be true. I've proven it with the things I've done, the relationships I've been in. I stay until there's nothing left. Nowhere left to go. Nothing left to burn (and, sometimes, I have set myself on fire).
I miss the fire. That passionate burning fire on so may levels. I feel like everything in my life is just kind of warm, getting colder by the minute. And I'm frustrated because I know exactly where the matches are, I just can't find a damn thing to strike them on.
But, I'll keep looking, don't you worry.
I'll start rubbing twigs together and blowing if I have to.
We're getting warmer.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
notifications.
As addicted as I am to my iPhone (made painfully clear after it was stolen and I realized it was like I was missing my right hand), I'm beginning to wonder if it's more like a thorn in my side I keep digging at.
By that I mean, I'm constantly checking all forms of social networks, emails, texts and googling any thing I possibly question so I can immediately have the answers. It's the only thing that shares my bed with me these days. It's the last thing I look at before I go to sleep and the first when I wake up.
I know what's going on in the lives of people I really shouldn't know about anymore. Sometimes it's a hysterical shit show, others like a train derailing. I wondered the other day if I didn't have such a living breathing connection to almost anyone I've ever known how would I hear about the scandals, gossip and other events. Would I get a letter in the mail saying, "I don't know if you want to know, but I heard ...." and would it be more eloquent? Easier to swallow? I wouldn't have the means to investigate, I'd just have their word for it, I wouldn't have to dive in to the pile of shit that's really none of my business anymore. If we were still relying on the mail, I'm sure we'd have much more important things to talk about than trashy hook ups anyway. I hope? (not to mention I may not be as unnerved about the destruction of the English language. I mean, doesn't it take more effort to spell things in such a bullshit way anyway?)
I could sit here and say, I don't want to know, so don't tell me. But I've developed such a destructive appetite for it now.
A few days ago, I friend was confiding in some of their not so proudest moments and I told them I wasn't judging because I've been there and done worse and realized, really, no one knows those things except for the people I shamefully shared those moments with. And, I wondered how I managed that then, but now, it somehow feels so natural for me to broadcast it? Granted, I still go quiet when I'm trying to stomach myself, but I've also been a lot more forthcoming with these tragic details.
But, then, what it really comes down to, is that I'm still invested in and part of people's lives I truly care about literally all over the world. I get to celebrate daily triumphs with them and know when they're hurting, too. I just have to narrow my sites in on that group of people that genuinely share that same care for me, too and stop rubbing my own nose in the matters of people who clearly don't give a shit about me anymore.
I've become more aware of that line lately. More accepting of the past being the past and knowing its time to move on and that person has made their exit from my life (or I've pushed them out, either way). Wouldn't I be happier when I stop stacking up my success (or lack of) to those who were never really on my playing field anyway? I think so.
So, I'm working on quitting you. Focusing on the things and people that are in my life for a good reason and looking the other way from the ones who aren't for better reasons.
By that I mean, I'm constantly checking all forms of social networks, emails, texts and googling any thing I possibly question so I can immediately have the answers. It's the only thing that shares my bed with me these days. It's the last thing I look at before I go to sleep and the first when I wake up.
I know what's going on in the lives of people I really shouldn't know about anymore. Sometimes it's a hysterical shit show, others like a train derailing. I wondered the other day if I didn't have such a living breathing connection to almost anyone I've ever known how would I hear about the scandals, gossip and other events. Would I get a letter in the mail saying, "I don't know if you want to know, but I heard ...." and would it be more eloquent? Easier to swallow? I wouldn't have the means to investigate, I'd just have their word for it, I wouldn't have to dive in to the pile of shit that's really none of my business anymore. If we were still relying on the mail, I'm sure we'd have much more important things to talk about than trashy hook ups anyway. I hope? (not to mention I may not be as unnerved about the destruction of the English language. I mean, doesn't it take more effort to spell things in such a bullshit way anyway?)
I could sit here and say, I don't want to know, so don't tell me. But I've developed such a destructive appetite for it now.
A few days ago, I friend was confiding in some of their not so proudest moments and I told them I wasn't judging because I've been there and done worse and realized, really, no one knows those things except for the people I shamefully shared those moments with. And, I wondered how I managed that then, but now, it somehow feels so natural for me to broadcast it? Granted, I still go quiet when I'm trying to stomach myself, but I've also been a lot more forthcoming with these tragic details.
But, then, what it really comes down to, is that I'm still invested in and part of people's lives I truly care about literally all over the world. I get to celebrate daily triumphs with them and know when they're hurting, too. I just have to narrow my sites in on that group of people that genuinely share that same care for me, too and stop rubbing my own nose in the matters of people who clearly don't give a shit about me anymore.
I've become more aware of that line lately. More accepting of the past being the past and knowing its time to move on and that person has made their exit from my life (or I've pushed them out, either way). Wouldn't I be happier when I stop stacking up my success (or lack of) to those who were never really on my playing field anyway? I think so.
So, I'm working on quitting you. Focusing on the things and people that are in my life for a good reason and looking the other way from the ones who aren't for better reasons.
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