Self-absorption or Self-preservation?

I’m not really into New Year’s resolutions, but I thought that this year it might be nice to have a goal.

And there’s something that I’ve been thinking about, and I’m not digging it at all. Are you ready? I think I’m self-absorbed.

Now, I have friends that have nodded, ‘Yes, yes. You are.’ And I’ve had friends that have argued that you need to be self-absorbed in order to survive in this world – as a writer, as a woman, as a mother, as the person on the other end of the relationship. ‘It’s really not self-absorption, they say, it’s self-preservation, self-esteem, maintaining your sense of self.’

And I see both sides. So, my resolution, then, is to study this, to watch it – to explore both sides. When is it self-absorption and when is it self-preservation? When should it be changed, when should it be clung to and treasured?

I like my self-imposed task because there’s no New Year’s resolution set-up. I can’t really get it wrong or fall off the wagon – like you can with a diet. But, hopefully, I’ll learn something, become more self-aware and find my self in the world just a little more, well, diggable.

Though, and here’s the kicker, in order to carry out this task? I kind of have to be a little self-absorbed. Hmmm….

What about you? Something you’re itching to explore? Work on? Change?

p.s. Oh, also – I’m going to start each day at my computer writing the short – (as in 10-15 minutes max) – story of how I want my day, month, year, life to go. As in, if you write it, it will come.

Image credit: debaird

Wind fall, Wind wall

Today, I get the blue ribbon, the gold star, the biggest trophy. Yes, sports fans, today I have garnered the honor of going for the worst rollerblade ever.

It all started when I heard the wind howling outside my window at 5:30am. I laughed in its face, it won’t be so bad, I thought. Since it was still pitch dark outside, I hopped on my yoga mat for a bit and then looked out the window again. It was still pretty dark, but I could see a hint of lightness out there…somewhere. So I headed out.

After I parked my car at the head of the bike path, I stood there for a minute, my head swinging back and forth: bike path or road? Slowness and debris or speed and dodging cars? What the hell! I thought. Shotgun season is over and it’s been a while since I did the bike path…

In retrospect, I should’ve waited until it was a little lighter, but 1) I’m impatient, 2) I was in a hurry to get to work this morning (lots of good stuff on tap!), and 3) I’m busy pretending it’s spring and the days are longer. I think I was all of 5 minutes in, when uuuuummmmmpppphhhhh and crunch. (FYI, those were the sounds of the wind getting knocked out of me and my knees colliding with the pavement – see picture above.)

Pants ripped, searing pain and a bit of shock. You know that moment, when you realize you’re on the ground, but can’t remember getting there? I had that moment. Here’s my best guess: I couldn’t see the trail clearly in the pre-dawn light, I hit a twig or a rock and boom, down I went.

I knew the pain would subside, so I sat there for a few seconds and getting my breath back, smacking my wrist-guarded palms on the ground chanting bad words as I waited. (Yes, I wear a helmet and wrist-guards, but not knee pads – because I don’t need my knees to make a living, just my head and my hands. Not sounding like the greatest logic at this moment, I know.)

And then I was up again, shaking it off, skating and watching the ground like a hawk. I hadn’t surveyed the damage, but I could feel the warm gooeyness of blood adhering my pants to both of knee caps – and I ignored it. Kept going.

Until, around mile 5. With 2 miles to go, I turned the last big corner on my loop and headed back towards my car. And into a pure, stalwart, unforgiving, NFL linebacker-sized wall of wind. Yes, I have been known to exaggerate in my life (I’m a Cancer and a writer and a woman – so go figure), but I checked with my favorite weather peeps just now and there is a wind advisory in effect with steady winds at 19mph and gusts up to 45 mph. The temperature is 25 degrees, the windchill is 13.

What should have taken me 12 minutes, took me about 30. And kinda sucked. There were times when I felt like I was in one of those cool swimming machines where a constant current has you just swim in place (I’ve always wanted one of those if you’re trying to think of a good Happy New Year present for me). And there were times when I felt like a 16 year old driving a stick shift for the first time as the wind moved haphazardly from 20 to 40 to 30 to 45 mph.

The solidness of the wall was the worst. It felt impassible. I could see my car and it looked nothing but far, far away. But I knew I was going to get through it. And the wind knew I was going to get through it. I mean, what was the alternative? To stop? Sit down? Cower? Wait until May?

As if.

Image credit: me and my Blackberry Storm – which usually takes crappy pics, but that one isn’t half bad. Too gross? Too much information? I told you all months ago, I’m into non-fiction.

Geek Girl Camp 2010!!!

It’s that time again, yes, indeedy. And, I’m so excited. After a fantastic inaugural year – in which Geek Girl took off like gangbusters (on Red Bull) – I can’t wait to see what this second season brings.

What? You don’t know about Geek Girl Camp? Or the Geek Girls? Where do I begin!

1. The fabulous, brilliant, selfless, kind and energetic fireball otherwise known as Leslie Fishlock, had an IDEA.
2. She was on a mission to make sure that every woman/girl/chiquita had the opportunity to learn about tech (computers, social media, apps, programs, you name it) in a safe, non-threatening, supportive way.
3. Boom. She assembled a world-class, top-notch team (cough, cough – yes, if I do say so myself) of Geek Girls to teach, share and spread the good word.
4. Two Geek Girl Camps (GGC) exploded on the scene last spring (on Cape Cod and in Boston) offering full day seminars with loads of workshops on every technology topic imaginable at an insanely affordable price ($140) – oh, and there was a party with a signature alcoholic beverage to boot.
5. I was honored to teach 10 workshops at GGC over 2 days about blogging (how to, abc’s, finding voice, using blogs to grow your business) and social media.
6. Geek Girl for Hire was created – sending out single or multi-womaned troops to companies and organizations everywhere teaching geek and tech.
7. Operation Laptop Donation for Women was put into full effect – taking discarded laptops, cleaning them up and giving them to women (going back to school or work) in need.

The first Geek Girl Camp for 2010 has been announced, and I can’t wait to lead my blogging workshops and be a part of this phenomenalness again! I hope to see you there. Tell everyone you know. Here’s the deal (and make sure you grab the discount code at the bottom, you only have until Jan. 1st!!!):

Burned to the ground.

I read the Harry Potter books (and watched Days of our Lives with my mom in the 80’s) so I’d heard the magic of the phoenix described, but it wasn’t until I saw Harry Potter on the big screen and watched Fawkes in action that I really got it.

Before our very eyes, he incinerated. Completely. I remember in that moment, watching him turn to ash and fall in a heap, thinking, Is that really necessary? Can’t he save at least one feather? I don’t know about him, but I wanted to hold onto something.

The answer, however, is no. I’ve found myself recently in a situation where a part of my life is incinerating. And the same questions are surfacing (with the tenacity of a piranha), Can’t I save at least one piece? Like I said, the answer is absolutely not.

Because when a path back remains, when even one of the bridges is left standing, when a light is still on in a distant window, you’ll be tempted to go back. Whether or not the way is passable, whether or not the doors are firmly locked when you get there, whether or not your legs will even agree to carry you where you think you want to go – there’s going to be a place in your heart that wants to try. Especially if it thinks there’s a way. You’ll walk over each one of these ‘ways’ and through every moment before the fire was lit and you’ll think of a million things you could have done differently – playing the most dangerous game of all, if only I had…

It’s a nearly impossible pill to swallow. It is an impossible game to win.

In fact, you did those things, the ones that led to the burning, because the fire had to come. Because that bird was cooked, it was done. And, I suppose, had to be destroyed.

My upset when I watched Fawkes disintegrate, was of course, quickly assuaged when he mythically reformed whole and perfect and new moments later. The phoenix doesn’t look back or have glaciers of regret or try to return or hold on. The phoenix is pure in its pursuit of rebirth – new blood, new purpose, new feathers. A truly awesome feat. I mean, really.

For this rebirth, something burns. And the pain of it is extraordinary, unimaginable and dire. Into my fire, I’m throwing in mistakes, regrets, apologies, words I’d give anything to take back, oceans upon oceans of tears. And I’m looking forward to stepping out of it with lessons learned, earned strength, striking hotness, a brightly shining light, and hopefully, a few red feathers…you know, for good measure.

Image credit: zackzen

The anti-Merry Christmas post…ish

I feel about New Year’s the same way I’ve always felt about prom. Really, about most every night that’s designated to be ‘the best night ever.’ Call me a cynic, but I think it’s a set up. There’s so much hype, I find it hard to live up to. Which gets me aggravated, ties my undergarments into knots. You?

And this year, for the first time, I feel that way about Christmas.

If you were to believe the culture of the Santa-fied holiday in this country and beyond, you would think that everyone woke up this morning surrounded by friends and family, glowing Christmas trees towering over red, green and gold packages and huge feasts of eggs, souffles, muffins, pancakes and mimosas. And, it does happen, of course. But not always.

For instance, this year in particular, I can’t tell you how many friends have talked about the spending freeze they’re on because of insufficient funds – making Christmas less than usual. And, then, there are people that are simply alone. For some reason or another, they aren’t surrounded by family, maybe not even by friends, or they are surrounded by people – but not the right ones, not today…or any day. But this is one of those days that the fact is screamed in our faces.

If this is you and you’re caught up in the fact that this day is supposed to be the grandest, love-filled day – and it’s killing you – then, do one thing for me. Find a calendar. If it shouts that today is Christmas, then black those words out with a Sharpie – the smelly kind that might give you a little buzz to boot. Now, look at what else that calendar says about today. Shocker, it says, ‘Friday’. Yes, it’s just another Friday in paradise. So celebrate that the weekend is coming, take a bath, go to the movies, eat good food, plan enticing things to do tomorrow, do nothing but relax, call a friend that isn’t doing anything either and say mean things about Santa and how he really should be ashamed of himself for being this overweight for so long.

In protest to this Day (see picture above), I couldn’t help but sneak away from Christmas, to this place that I have loved spending my time for the last two years (that would be this blog) – and tell you all (dear readers, fabulous commenters, those of you that don’t respond publicly but send me the most wonderful personal email responses to my posts and the folks who just show up as anonymous numbers in my stats as visitors and subscribers) - that you mean so much to me. When you’re loud, when you’re quiet, when you swell, when you disagree with me, when you tell me that what I’ve written has helped make your day or your writing or your life just a smidge better.

Whether today is happy for you or sad, just fine or lonelier than you ever imagined you’d be; whether you’re alone or with tons of people, filled with love or totally empty – I’m sending you some good vibes. I’m wishing you the very best. And I’m setting a new expectation for this Day of days for us writers: write down everything that’s good, no matter how small, and read it over and over. Stare at it. Believe it. And like a magic carpet (aka, computer screen or scrap of notebook paper), let it carry you steadily through this Day.

We, you and I, are blessed with the ability to write, with the power of words. Use this undeniable fact today. Write the best story you can. And then follow it. You know how to do this – you’ve done it before so many times with countless books. Get totally absorbed by your good story, lose yourself in it and watch it become real. The invitation is there – in your own delicious words.

Image credit: DanCentury

Under wild bangs, under every rock

As a woman who loves to ‘off-road’ it – either walking with or running with her dogs, and as a woman that – like many 20 somethings (and early 30′s in my case) – moved around a lot (refusing to settle or settle down), I will tell you that I found myself in this particular situation several times:

• I’d arrive in my new ‘hood and some nice local would point me in the direction of the woods, park, trail system, what have you,
• I’d go there and find myself completely lost – totally bewildered by the forks in the paths, the trees that all looked exactly the same, the trail markers which never quite seemed to match up or make sense,
• I’d have the feeling that this space was never going to feel familiar, that I’d always be lost;
• and then, a few weeks later, something would click. Trees, rocks, ponds would become so familiar, their markings read like nametags. I knew exactly where I was and I felt safe, part of the space, like I belonged. I’d wonder how this easy-to-navigate simple patch of land had once seemed so confusing.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about not being able to locate myself geographically. It was in response to a lot of things figuratively, but to my experience spending time in New York City literally. I couldn’t get my bearings.

This week I was back in the City…and like those clickable times in the woods, this week was Kaching and the City. I knew north, south, east and west. I recognized streets and stores and neighborhoods. People mentioned areas or avenues and I actually knew what they were talking about. As the subway passed certain stops, I could see in my mind exactly what the streets looked like above my head, above ground.

Why all of a sudden? What was different?

• Most notably, I was determined. Because I abhor weakness and the feeling of being lost and confused.
• I bought a map. An adorable little fold-up thing that I unabashedly studied.
• I laid down my crutches – which were in this case: A) cabs – expensive was one reason, but the other is that when you get into a cab, you just tell the cabbie the address and then you stop paying attention until he stops the car. B) I’ve been with friends that know the City like college students know their social security numbers – and with friends like that leading the way, who needs to have a clue about direction?
• Time and practice, of course. If you do something enough, you start to get the hang of it. So this is really about patience and hanging in there and knowing that even the most confusing, scary, displaced feelings, with time, will turn into confidence, direction and sure-footed movement forward.
• I harvested Outposts. In the midst of it all, over the course of the last 6 days, I saw 12 old, new and always good friends. They themselves were scattered around the City – inviting me to explore further, assuring me there was joy to be found under every rock.

*********************************************

Yesterday morning, I went for a run around the slushy streets of Brooklyn and through one of its small parks. This green space is a dog haven in the morning. I love the dogs of NYC, they’re so muttrified, they look poignantly like the rest of the City. As I crested the hill in Fort Greene by the monument, a particularly mutty, clumsy puppy came barreling towards me. He had little control over his fast growing legs and it didn’t look like he could see at all. His floppy hair hung in a mess over his face.

I leapt to the right avoiding his intended collision, but managed to reach a hand out and pat his little head, catching a glimpse of wildly hyper eyes under those heavy bangs. He slid past me happily thudding into a bank of snow. And I just kept going, moving forward with my steady stride, out of the park, heading east to my next destination.

Image credit: raybdbomb

Worried you aren’t a good writer? The answer lies without.

To be clear, this might be the most shallow post I’ve ever written.

Recently, I was asked to look through some writing samples that had been submitted by a wide range of people hoping to get a gig. I was both appalled and thrilled as I sifted through them.

Appalled. Honestly, I can’t believe that there are people out there who are this bad at writing and still dare to call themselves writers. Seriously. If this is your idea of a good sentence, “Dogs and cats is friendly animals that kids like especially.” Then you have a serious problem. Also, this format: *intro with a thesis sentence that outlines 3 major points and conclusion that restates the same thesis sentence and the same 3 major points* hasn’t been cool since junior high.

Thrilled. Yes, I’m going to say it. This made me feel good about myself. I can write! I thought. I really do add value! I really am worth what I charge! And, yes, I used another person’s utter failure to lift my spirits.

So, when you go to elance and see that Edwin55 charges $5 per article and promises to get it done super fast or when a client returns a first draft with comments triple the word count of the article you wrote or the phone just doesn’t ring and the email doesn’t squawk at you or someone laughs at your proposal – you just call me. I’ll send you some crap that will boost your ego and make you feel so damn good about yourself and your writing ability that you’ll be back to thinking you’re golden in a heartbeat…or at least after a little gloating.

Image Credit: Marcaprice

Everyone should have one of these…

A MacBook? The perfect little black dress? A grilled cheese with sharp cheddar on thick, sourdough bread fried up in at least one stick of butter?

Well, yes…everyone should have those things. But, I was thinking of something else, or rather someone else. I think everyone should have someone like my Dad. I don’t care if this person is your dad or even related to you or even a man – we’re going for essence here, people.

God bless him, my Dad is known the world over as being the consummate realist. He’ll straighten his attorney tie – to choking – on your brilliant idea before you’ve even finished hatching the plan. It’s not that he’s a pessimist. He built himself and his successful career from meager bricks, so he believes that the unthinkable can be created, that palaces can be built out of sticks. He just likes to remind you constantly of how hard it will be, the challenges up ahead, the jagged edges that threaten your path.

It’s always pissed me off, and he knows it. Remember my sponge post? I like everyone around me on my bandwagon – it makes life easier when what I’m soaking up is good, good, good – and agreeable. Naysayers be damned. Why is it necessary to bring up dog shit when we’re talking about chocolate. That’s just wrong.

Yet, it’s also a little brilliant – his realism. When I’m able to slow down (and chillax) long enough to listen to him, I always learn something that my full-steam-ahead self hadn’t taken into account. Frequently, this saves me money, time, head- and heart- ache.

So, I was shocked the other day when he responded to one of my blog posts (he subscribes and his attention is indefatigable) with this email:

I have been thinking for some time that you should put your blogs in a book and have them published. They provide food for thought about a wide variety of life issues and are fascinating to read. All you need is a good and catchy title. I am hard pressed to believe that you would be turned down. More people need to read them. Love, Dad

After my first thought: Isn’t Writing Roads a ‘good and catchy title’? I thought, Damn Straight! And, then, my third thought was: WAIT! Where’s my Dad’s realism? I read that email over and over looking for it…but I couldn’t find it. Turns out, just like my Blackberry that I lose on a regular basis, the realism was sitting in my own pocket.

I read that email about 500 more times. And watched my own version of ‘reality’ (read morose self-talk) set in. I’ll bullet point it for you:

• Um, yeah, me and every other blogger on the planet.
• Apparently I need 100,000 unique visitors/month to get a book deal via my blog – and while I’m close I’m not quite there. cough, cough, cough…
• Of course you’re saying this – you’re my dad. It’s practically your job to say this.
• The book industry is dying.
• Do dreams like this really come true? For me?
• And do you think the advance will be substantial?

He is my Dad. So I can blame him for my realism upchuck; I did learn it from him. This apple didn’t fall far.

But this isn’t some psychobabble themed post about how badly our parents screwed us up. Quite the opposite.

The point is: How good is my life? Someone that’s known me for 36 years, 5 months and 3 days – for every second I’ve been here; someone that’s seen me through the good and the bad, the tattoos and the loser, high school drop-out boyfriends, the time I snuck out in the middle of the night and nearly gave him a heart attack, the hayride through the Himalayas that is a woman’s life in the 90′s and 00′s. That someone thinks I’m good, thinks the world would benefit from what I love to do and share, thinks it’s practically a gimme it’s so reasonable that this dream should come to fruition.

The answer is: My life is very good. And so is my Dad. And, “HEY PUBLISHERS! At least one person is going to buy my book!!!”

So…let’s get on it.

Image credit: tedkerwin

Pick up the phone – it’s you calling.

When I woke up, I found myself squatting by the side of the bed, holding the phone, staring at the caller ID screen.

It was 1:30 in the morning, and I was confused. I wasn’t home, but home was calling me. “Roads, Julie” my phone blinked at me. As I sat there with my heart pounding, I wondered, rather frantically, Why in the world I was calling myself. What was it that I needed to say? What was so important that it couldn’t wait until, say, 7am?

Eventually, I became alert enough to answer the phone, only to find that it wasn’t me. It was my family – sick and in need of support. But, the damage was done. I was all too curious about the late night booty call I’d envisioned.  Just me and me – the rest of the world quiet…and not listening.

What would I say? Would I be kind? Demanding? Funny? Full of insight?

And how would I respond? Would I tell myself to call back at a decent hour? Or listen closely?

I became so intrigued that I thought about this a lot over the next few days. And then I decided to write myself a letter – because I couldn’t really call myself and keep a straight face (and because I am a writer, after all). Too impatient for the postal service (and because I lost my ability to hand write anything longer than a grocery list about 4 years ago), I turned it into an email that was sent and delivered in all of 3 seconds. What can I say, I like instant gratification. Very much.

My letter was a lot of things: a call to arms; a big, wet sloppy kiss; a kick in the pants. It included an ambitious and happily insightful story about what I want to happen next. There were several private (and, yes, hilarious) jokes.

About this same time, Chris Brogan published My Business Wish List for 2010 which I loved because it wasn’t New-Years-Resolution-ish. There was no set-up to fail element to his list, nor – I realized quickly – to my letter. As a writer, though, it did give me the opportunity to take stock of what’s in my head – and to think it through as I transferred the info from brain to fingers to screen and then back into my brain again as I read my words. This is what I do everytime I write. It’s why I write.

It was good, my letter; I liked what I had to say when no one else was listening. I mean, you can’t lie to yourself  – well, you can – but you’ll see right through it. In the end, I was glad I ‘took the call’. And, I did listen to myself – I’m a very persuasive writer when I’m filled with passion.

I’m thinking about writing myself back, might suggest we get a drink, possibly even dinner…I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Image credit: Evil Erin

Be the sponge, absorb the grease, wipe it all over everyone

Being the sponge isn’t quite like being the change you want to see in the world…but kind of.

I’m like a sponge – not necessarily full of odd shaped holes, or smelly, or even brightly and unnaturally colored for that matter (maybe this wasn’t the best metaphor?) – but, I am porous. A critical characteristic for any writer.

While I’m a certified extrovert and can be quite loud with my opinions, I’m not above being under the sway of the influences around me. I am a Cancer, after all. All about water and the free flow of creativity and emotion.

Lately? Well…my influencers have been the boys from Entourage – at which point, this post gets divided into two camps: those of you who know about the show and those of you who don’t. And then, divided again: those of you who love Entourage and those of you who just lost all respect for me.

If you don’t know, Entourage is an HBO series (yes, that means bad words and lots of sex) about a bunch of childhood friends from Queens, one of whom has become a major movie star. The four of them stick together like pasties on fake L.A. bosoms as they make their way through the trials and tribulations of being accidental millionaires, young, dumb (and full of c*m) and residents of Hollywood. The cast is rounded out by a fierce female publicist that the boys astoundingly never mess with and the most obnoxious, aggressive and high-powered (but somehow loveable, to me anyway) agent.

The show is sexist, the content is slimy, the men are pigs, the women are eye candy and chattel. It’s so politically incorrect, it should be chased through town by pitchforks and burning bras. Disclaimer: yes supporting this type of thing isn’t great for society, but laughing is – and – no women are being physically harmed - neither are any animals. I draw the line there.

But, it’s hilarious. The writing is good and smart which speaks volumes to me. And somehow, before long, you start to care about the characters – even as they say things like, “I wouldn’t touch her if you paid me” in reference to a beautiful 20 year old woman who might be 2 inches shorter than was deemed acceptable that day.

And, there are other redeemable qualities, two in particular that have me hooked. 1) The friendship bond is impermeable. To have friends that have known you forever, know everything about you and love you fiercely as a result, is the greatest thing in the world. 2) This group of boys is eternally optimistic. Nothing really bothers them, or for very long. Even if they get ‘upset’ it really isn’t about anything that could cause actual soul or life destruction. Their motto is ‘everything will work out, it always does.’ And so far (that would be 5 imaginary seasons) it has proven true.

So, yes. I’m hooked. Despite, or maybe because of?, my Women’s Studies background. And I’m hoping that my sponge sops up gallons of this jubilant, rousing grease – and then? That I wipe it all over the page.

Image credit: blmurch