For instance, there’s the myth of Isis. You see, the Ancient Egyptians believed that when the Nile flooded every year, it was just from the annual crying episode of Isis – the Goddess of Motherhood, Magic and Fertility (and by the way, whoever tied those three things together for her was frickin’ brilliant, right?) – as she mourned her husband Osiris.

As crops and lives were destroyed, the Egyptians were ‘apparently’ able to handle the devastation with a smack to the forehead, “Oh!” They would exclaim. “It’s just Isis again…and no one messes with a heartbroken woman.” Or so some might simplify and suppose.

It doesn’t have to be Egypt, every culture has these myths and they serve one main purpose (besides entertainment and education): myths provide a logical explanation for something that is illogical, out of our control or just terribly hard to understand or deal with. For instance, why the Nile floods every year causing destruction and death or why mosquitoes buzz in people’s ears or why the sun appears every morning and the moon rises every night. Ultimately, myths provide comfort.

Rolling the dice…so to speak

Imagine a product – not an extraordinary thing, but one that a lot of people are making – like a slot machine. Realize that people (maybe not all of them, but a lot of them) are confused by this machine just like they’re confused about the cycle of the ocean tides. They accept it, but they’re still thinking why? why do I need this? how does it work? why would I want to play? and possibly, will it help my crops grow? (Um, yes, if you win and the slot machine spits money out at you). Their reaction to all of this ‘not knowing’ might be fear, it might be trepidation, it might be avoidance.

But, you run a casino, so you don’t want them to respond with fear, trepidation or avoidance. You want them to enjoy and seek out the slot machine. Which is where the copywriter comes in. Copywriters are the creator of your slot machine myth. We write the story that makes all of those consumer people relax and say, “Oh! Now I get it! The slot machine has a logical purpose – there’s nothing to fear! In fact, what I just read made me feel so good and calm and in tune with the slot machine, I want to go play with one.”

We explain, we provide answers, we bridge, we soothe. Our myth is your story and the place of connection from consumer to product, client to service…and sometimes even ancient Egyptian to the Gods…

Image credit: Valerie

But it wasn’t the only rare sound that I heard this morning. On my run, I circle around a knob of land that sticks right out into the ocean. The first part, on the west side, is quite open to the elements and the wind and surf are usually pounding me and the sand (respectively) with tenacity and total disregard.

The second part, however, as I come around the bend to the east side, sits in a harbor. It’s protected, in part because the space through which the greater ocean feeds it is relatively narrow. So, typically, no matter how crazy the wind is on the west side, the east side is seemingly always calm and serene.

But not today. Today it was the exact opposite. Somehow – for the first time since I’ve been running this loop – the wind and the waves were blowing at exactly the right angle, allowing them to puncture the inlet and pummel the harbor.

As I ran alongside the eastern shore with the wind threatening to push me over and the new sound of crashing surf in my ears, I thought about the fish and the plants and the whatever else is in this bowl-like slice of water. What it must feel like for them today to be shaken up? I projected that they were upset or alarmed or scared.

And then I noticed something else new. I saw the colors and the light. The sun had already risen for all intents and purposes, but the day was grayer than gray – the skies were soaked in heavy rain clouds. But where the water is usually gray or dark blue, today it was a light green…and vibrant. Like the color ’sea green’ in the Crayola box. A color I didn’t realize was missing from my eyes until I saw it.

I’m wrong, I thought. This safe little harbor isn’t disturbed by the tumult, it’s all lit up – from the inside.

This magical skill that I’ve developed is born from an inability to deal with anticipation, with not knowing. In other words: the suspense is killing me.

In reality, I only have one question that I need to have answered. If you look at all the story threads that I have in my life (work, writing, relationships, health, family, etc.) – I want to know one thing and one thing only: Will it turn out for better or for worse?

Like I said, the suspense is killing me. So, the brilliant thing to do is just kill the suspense, right? I mean, if you think about, it is completely in my power to make sure none of those things come true – and then I’ll have my answer: it will turn out for worse. I can stop writing, I can stop running and I can sit around all day doing nothing but eating hotdogs, using Twinkies as a bun. And, just like that, I don’t have to wonder if the fame, glory, health and dollar bills are headed my way. I’ve taken control of my future and satisfied my curiosity.

Yeah, not gonna happen.

I would never purposefully sabotage my life or my pursuits just to abate my anxiety. But, you’ve got to admit, there’s something really seductive about knowing that I could. That if I really needed my answer, I could get it. It’s like the ‘myth of control’ loophole.

I do want to see the future, how this will all play out, NOW. But, I understand…that’s not how it works. How it works is that we show up for it, we move in it, we talk through it, we write about it…and eventually we find out what’s behind those elusive curtains.

And you know what? I believe it’s all good stuff back there. Don’t you? If we didn’t, we’d be much more tempted to chuck it all in the trash…wouldn’t we?

Image credit: The Real Estreya

But not the guys at SportsCenter.

They love the game, the love the athletes, they have fun. And when there is drama – cough, cough ‘Tiger’ – they somehow still manage to stick to the facts and not so much the soap opera, focusing on what it will mean to the game of golf. I know, it’s mind-blowing.

This morning I was at the gym, and while I really abhor TV, the screens are inescapable. So I make sure that I’m stationed in front of SportsCenter – just in case my Eye of the Tiger concentration should get distracted. Which it did. And I found myself watching highlights from the Olympics  – where yesterday, Lindsey Vonn and two other U.S. dudes won gold medals. And then I was watching crazy basketball highlights where huge men were leaping gracefully into the sky at just the right moment, catching the ball and slamming it into the basket.

Makes me tingle

I got shivers. Everything I saw was so beautiful, so extraordinary. It made me work out harder, feeling my own strength and power. It also made me think about Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk. You know her, right? She wrote Eat, Pray, Love – a masterful memoir that is so authentically real it’s almost blog like. Almost.

In her talk, which I highly recommend that any human (but especially us creative types) watch (and I’ve posted below), she talks about creative genius. She talks about the fact that now that she’s ostensibly hit her ultimate peak with her last book, it is expected that she can only go downhill with her highly anticipated follow-up.

Ah…fear-based wisdom

Apparently, this is a typical phenomenon for anyone who has reached such heights. As she notes, she topped out at 40, so she has 40 more years (give or take) of never being quite that good again – according to this fear-based wisdom, that is.

Lindsey Vonn is 26. When she gets home in a few weeks, will she sink into a deep, dark depression and think that she’ll never be that good again? Will others assume that as well? Is this, then, as good as it gets?

I’m going to say NO. And I’m going to say it in a very loud and strong voice. Because ewwww. Who wants to live like that? I can tell you that I do not.

Waking up

When these professional basketball players woke up yesterday morning, they knew they were good athletes, they knew they were strong and agile. But did they know exactly how the ball would come to them during the game? Did the know exactly how they would jump and twist and grab and dunk? No and no.

Gilbert discusses the unrealistic expectations we place on geniuses to be genius…and it made me think about what’s coming next, what we can’t see – how maybe some thing, some accomplishment, some physical and creative feat is still out there, around the corner, barreling towards us.

Yesterday, I (and Writing Roads) had a really, really good day. When I woke up, all I had was me – my knowledge of who I am and what I want to do. The rest lay before me sight unseen. I had no reason to think the day would unfold like it did, but as I sat on the edge of my bed, ready to put my feet on the floor and get moving, I thought, Who the hell knows? Maybe today will be the day that things really come together. Maybe today will be my best day yet.

And it was. You know why? Because I’m with SportsCenter. I’m not in it for the fear. I’m in it for the love of the game and its players and my team. And because I really do think there’s always somewhere farther, longer, stronger, better and higher to go.

Image credit: jjaani

So, for those of you that don’t know, my four year-old daughter had surgery yesterday. Not a heart transplant, mind you, they just removed her adenoids and put tubes in her ears. But, she did have general anesthesia and a lovely anti-nausea and narcotics cocktail.

Things you see in hospitals

She did great. First, she was thrilled to have her moms to herself this morning. But, then we got to the hospital. I saw an elderly (to be honest, half-dead looking) woman being gurney-ed by and I tried to distract Sophie, but to no avail. She maneuvered and watched and absorbed…and I think that was the moment when she started to cling to me with all she had.

And then, a scary looking nurse who looked like she hadn’t eaten anything but Mary Kay products since 1984 took us into the changing room and poured her cold demeanor all around us like lighter fluid on an arson’s target. Soph started to cry shriek and wouldn’t let us undress her. Not even the kitties on her teeny, tiny scrubs could get her to budge. Promises of popsicles and ice cream finally did.

More TV references

The worst part for me was seeing Sophie’s fear and hearing her cry. I had weird Ally McBeal type visions of throwing my baby to the wolves. How could I voluntarily put her in a scary and painful situation? Oh, yeah. Because she was already in a painful situation and this would help. So, I mommed up and put on just about the sexiest moon suit you’ve ever seen so that I could go into the OR with Sophie until she was soundly drugged sleeping.

Mystical ChapStick

And then, the nurse did something so magically enthralling – my head is still spinning. Pay close attention because I can’t figure out what her trick was…so maybe you can: She showed Soph the little mask that she’d wear while she was getting gassed (What?! That’s essentially what was going to happen!) and then, wait for it, she took out a tube of cherry flavored ChapStick. She smeared red goo all over the inside of the clear mask and handed it to Sophie who instantly put it over her nose and mouth and delighted in sniffing fake cherry, talking to all of us through the mask and trying to look down at it with cross eyes.

I carried her into the OR, mask still voluntarily glued to her face. We met the nurses and I put her on the bed. Mind you, she’s still holding the mask securely on. The anesthesiologist attached the hose and suddenly she’s acknowledging that it might not smell quite as good now. Sophie keeps the mask on. Then he tells her that it might make her laugh, this new smell in the mask. So I start singing, “I love to laugh’ from Mary Poppins (because my plan when they told me that they were going to start and my baby was freaking out was to sing to her – like I was sung to 4 years and 3 months ago – the last time Sophie and I were in an operating room together).

But they hadn’t given me any warning. I was joining this program already in progress.

There was one moment when, I imagine, the room began to swirl around her that Sophie’s eyes widened and she pushed herself towards me (mask still firmly affixed by her own hand) and called out ‘Ma J!’(that would be my name according to my children) in a fairly concerned and scared voice. And I kept singing and stroking her hair and smiling into her eyes, until they closed.

And she’s out

At which point I burst into tears and begged the nurses to take care of my baby. They said they would – one remarking that they didn’t want the responsibility of hurting her in anyway. I think this was a joke, but it was a strange one. Right?

Forty minutes later, while we refused to think about anything but the Olympics on TV in the waiting room, they called us back in. We could hear her crying from the hall. She was PISSED. And confused and totally disoriented. She wanted my water, she wanted the IV out, she wanted to go home, she wanted – and this is an educated guess – to feel normal and not so damn uncomfortable.

Finally, the nurse narcotized her via the IV in what I can only imagine is akin to what they do to belligerent mental patients. Soph fell sound asleep for 45 minutes and woke up covering her ears because for the first time in about two years, her ears were no longer filled with fluid and she could hear. At that point, she sat up and told us – quite lucidly – that she had been very crabby before, but then had taken a big nap and now felt all better.

That resilience I was talking about

We threw her in the car and took off. By the time we got to the ferry, she seemed completely normal. By the time we got off the ferry she had consumed a bag of carrots, a bunch of fruit and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich…and she wanted more. By the time we got home she was jumping up and down with her brother and hugging her dogs and bossing everyone around. She had two huge plates of veggie stirfry and rice for dinner.

The hospital bracelet around her ankle was literally the only sign of her morning’s activity.

So, that’s the story, but what’re the lessons? What did we learn?

1. Well, cherry ChapStick has magical powers. I think we can all agree to that.

2. My kid kicks ass. (Come on, like you weren’t thinking that too?)

3. Resilience is awesome to watch. And it comes easily when one is full of gumption and surrounded by love.

4. But, the most important lesson was this: Practice Non-Hoopla. In other words, Don’t make a big deal out of things. Can you imagine if, when we went into the OR, they had told her what they were going to do, and said things like, ‘you might feel dizzy’ or ‘here it comes!’ or ‘we’re going to start now!’ Instead it was all very matter of fact, no frills, no alarms, no danger signs. It just sort of happened – no muss and no fuss. It was brilliant.

I’m thinking hard about how to apply this lesson to life, to my business as a copywriter, to my writing – and I’m going to break it down tomorrow…so stay tuned…

(Oh, and thanks to those of you that sent kind words and messages…your support was so, so appreciated!)

Depressing. As hell. I kid you not. I look at this little fish all alone in his little bowl with his fake plastic plant and I want to end it all right here and now. I mean, talk about a reminder of how fruitless it all is! She’s trapped, she has no options, no real future, no chance of making any friends or finding love or even just someone to fool around with. And she only gets to eat a few tiny pebbles of food a day, the same food every day.

Luckily, that’s only what I see about 3% of the time that I look at her. The rest of the time, I think she looks extraordinarily

Chillaxed. My fish is so mellow. She just floats around. Sometimes she’s very still, sometimes she swims up and down or in circles. But nothing seems to bother her, she never looks ruffled. She is totally safe in that bowl. It’s clean, there’s food, there are pretty rocks. She doesn’t have to work and she has no responsibilities. In short, she’s living a charmed life. Like Paris Hilton.

And – minus not having to work or shoulder any responsibilities – like me.

Image credit: ayelie

But, I shoved my lethargy and fear of the cold, winter wind that is likely to plague my island for at least 2 more months aside and headed out the door anyway. Because I know how good I feel when I walk back in. Triumphant. Accomplished.

By the time I reached the end of my road, something wonderful happened, so wonderful that it is, perhaps, the runner’s holy grail. My body lit up, it felt light, strong, powerful, fast. I felt good, and despite the running blahs I woke up with, my run was going to be good too.

Oh how the brain will chatter…

When I run, I think a lot – my mind is never quiet. I write, I analyze, I have long debates with myself, I replay old memories, I study things…it’s like the steady pounding of my feet is a morse code to my brain that says, ‘Let ‘er rip’. Sometimes I’m in there talking back, fully conscious…while other times, I drop down into my body and just listen to the conversation as it rolls up and down my brain and my life.

Reptiles

Today, I was in listening mode and I was fascinated to hear what I had to say. At first, my brain was ecstatic that I had so much energy, that my body felt so vibrant. But then – shockingly – my brain did a 180 and started sending out orders like it was fighting for its life. “SLOW DOWN!” It cried. “Conserve your energy! Don’t use it all up now or we’ll never make it home! We’ll be stranded, we’ll be cold, we’ll be hungry…WE’LL DIE!!!”

My most beloved yoga teacher, Tarika, and Seth Godin would call this the lizard brain – that segment of our brains that cares purely for our physical survival. In yoga, the reptilian brain needs to know how long a pose will be held, where the restrooms are, when the class will end. On my run, this snake needed to know that my burst of energy was enough to make it home. It was terrified that it wasn’t.

Conservation

This got me thinking about reserves. Are they necessary? And by dampening our performance today in order to save some for later, are we really getting any benefit? Or are we just missing opportunity, turning down our light, buying into the fear that we can’t possibly be that fantastic.

Does this happen to you when you write? Because it doesn’t happen to me. For some reason, when I start writing and it feels really good, I never, ever look back. I go with it and I go for it. And I watch it build on itself, this phenomenalness. The words just come faster, smoother, better the more of this beginning fuel I burn – it’s self-fulfilling, self-recharging, self-fueling.

Good influence

So, why would the run be any different? Why would any pursuit be any different? Physical, mental, emotional – I don’t think it makes a difference. Whether the good energy lasts or it doesn’t, it does affect some part of your trip and that influences next steps. Don’t save it. It doesn’t work that way. Savor it. Take advantage of the gift.

In the case of my run, I jumped right into the lizard brain’s face and bellowed: Seize the energy. RUN! If we glide like a puma gloriously for even one mile, it will be worth it. We can walk home. We can hitch a ride. We can run slower on the way back ’round. We will not die. And we might just fly through all six miles.

Ha! Look at that. I did…I flew the whole way.

Image credit: Nieve44

Hey y’all! Check out The Daily Norm – my interview blog – for a new and stunning interview with Artist & Painter – Traeger di Pietro…

My main gig was volunteering at a domestic violence agency where I researched and wrote the organization’s history, taught dating violence prevention in local schools and worked on the 24-hour crisis hotline. And in order to do this terrifying and terribly important hotline work, I went through an intense and long training program.

• I learned why women stay in abusive relationships when it seems so obvious to the rest of us that they should leave.
• I learned that violence is a vicious cycle.
• And, I learned a number of statistics.

Most of theses numbers have stuck in my brain like gnarly, nasty pieces of chewed gum stuck under the lunch table – ugly to look at, hard to touch, easy to pretend they aren’t there. One of the stats goes like this: The day with the highest rate of domestic violence in the U.S. is Super Bowl Sunday.

Colts vs. Saints

Two days ago, as I sat at my computer working and occasionally watching the Facebook and Twitter streams of Super Bowl brouhaha pass me by, I found it hard to ignore this stuck-in-my-head statistic. I felt rising panic at what was likely going on as the Colts looked good…and then really bad, as the alcohol was consumed, as the chips ran out, as the bets were lost.

So, I put up a tweet and a FB status update telling people about the stat and offering up the number for the National Domestic Violence Hotline. 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

What happened next utterly, totally and completely floored me.

Some women, women, came after me. They said the stat was bogus. One said, and I quote: “That is an unfounded myth propogated by the media and womens activist groups. Set the record straight.” (spelling/grammar errors are listed verbatim)

Can you imagine? Women-centric activist groups having the nerve to tell the world that on a day when alcohol, tension and the chance for losing large sums of money are high, there is a greater incidence of domestic violence? The horror. Don’t get me started on the idea that these groups have been lumped in with ‘the media’.

I’ve since learned there are many sides to the validity of the actual stat.

This comment also included the following quote, “On January 31, 1993, when Ken Ringle of The Washington Post questioned the information mentioned in the press release, other news media quickly retracted their articles covering the domestic violence story. The damage was done. The myth continues and Super Bowl Sunday is still sometimes referred to as Bloody Sunday, Abuse Bowl, a Day of Dread, and the Most Dangerous Day in America.”

The damage was done. Yes. Citizens of this country were once again made to look at the fact that women and children are beaten in their own homes every single day by the people who are supposed to love and cherish them. And how dare we disrupt Super Bowl Sunday with this blasphemy! Oh holy, holy day!

My question is, who cares about the validity of this stat? IS THIS WHAT WE SHOULD BE WASTING OUR BREATH ARGUING ABOUT? Domestic Violence is true, real, happening  - right now. And what made these women flare up against me and my status update about this? It confounds me!!! For heaven’s sake, use your breath to help someone, not squabble over what Snopes says!

And how can we believe that information from Ken Ringle up above. Hello? How many lies are we fed every day by industries with ulterior motives!?! I mean, do you really think Cheerios will save you from getting heart disease? PLEASE!!! The fight against the Super Bowl stat is based in the fact that it is a huge day for advertisers and TV: ‘Don’t fuck it up for us with your downer information, thank you’ is, I believe, their message.

My mom

My mother, bless her, has spent roughly 20 years of her life tirelessly working to bring awareness to and raise money for the ugly reality of domestic violence – and she isn’t done yet. Having retired from her role as Development Director, she’s now taking the training again so that she’s up to date and ready to again volunteer on the crisis hotline at Safe Connections in St. Louis.

In her training session this past Saturday (the day before the Big Game), someone (coincidentally) asked about the Super Bowl statistic. And the Director of the hotline said there’s a lot of discrepancy about the statistic. But that the organization personally tracks all of their calls, and every year, every year calls and DV reports spike on Super Bowl Sunday and the entire week that follows.

Statistic are hard to get. Especially when they surround an issue that people keep quiet, viciously undercover – so they don’t get arrested (the abuser) or so that they don’t get killed by their abuser (the abusee). Another stat: the chance an abused woman will be killed by her abuser if she tries to leave the situation increases roughly 75%.

What we do know is that an agency in downtown St. Louis, Missouri (middle America, right in the heartland) has their own stats. And they aren’t good.

If you or someone you know is being hurt, please reach out. Everyone deserves to be safe.

1-800-799-SAFE (7233), or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

Image credit: sinosplice

And then, there are the dreams. My dreams are long, intricate, heavily detailed and almost always remembered in the morning with startling focus. Also, many of these night visions are recurring. Not that I’m having the same exact dream over and over, but I’ve had three themes that have attached themselves to my subconscious for the last 3 decades.

1. Flying. I’m not a bird or anything, these dreams are usually more about airplane travel. Usually, I’m preparing for a trip, running around an airport, on an airplane that either looks like an actual plane or sometimes a big bus. These dreams are almost always stressful, dare I say frightening, chaotic and downright eerie.

2. Swimming. I’ve always been a swimmer, I’ve always loved it. These dreams involve me in water of all kinds – rough and calm, pools, rivers and oceans. In general, the stories are soothing, interesting, expansive. They are so real, these water dreams. I can feel the water, I can feel my body in the water.

[Yes, I know. Flying and water dreams are incredibly cliche. And I'm flogging my subconscious for being so mundane. But, don't close this window yet, my 3rd theme is just plain odd.]

3. Contacts. I started wearing glasses in the 4th grade and contacts in the 6th. Without either of these aids in real life, I am fully inoperable. And my recurring dream about my contacts is that I’m trying to put one of the lenses in my eye and it’s too big. Instead of being the size of a dime, it’s the size of a quarter or a half-dollar or the lid of a Campbell’s soup can. And I’m trying so hard to get it in my eye, but I can’t.

Let’s psycho-analyze, shall we:

• The flying/travel dreams are about fear of change and taking risks and moving forward. Even if I rush headily into change and transformation in my waking hours, I deal with the stress of it all when I sleep.

• The swimming dreams are about being held, being safe. There’s just no way around that analysis, I can feel it in my bones.

• The contacts dreams? I think it’s about vision. I think it addresses this deeply held belief that we need something to help us see, something to enable our vision, that we need ‘other’ to find fruition, success, sight. And in my dream, this crutch is useless. I can’t make it fit. I can’t make it help me. In the, I’m guessing, 50 dreams I’ve had about my contacts thus far, the story ends with me trying to get this big, sloppy, plastic saucer in my eye. I never get beyond that point.

I wrote this post because I’m tired and I want to sleep peacefully. And because, good or bad, every night or every other month, these dreams haunt me a bit. And because when I write, I get to look at the struggle from a different side – not all wild in my head, but down here – civilized – on the ‘paper’. I find order and sense and, most often, a path out of the maze. I think writing helps with things like this. It takes the floaty, overwhelming stress and pins it to the paper. Like a butterfly under glass.

So, maybe it’ll be tonight. Maybe tonight I’ll sleep really well. And when the contacts don’t fit, I’ll defiantly toss them aside, look up and realize that I can see regardless, that I can actually see better. And then, maybe, I’ll walk into an orderly airport, buy a cheap ticket and fly somewhere warm. I’ll go straight to the beach…and swim in the sweet embrace of the blue ocean until morning.

Image credit: Jason W. Stanley

She writes about sex and being single and dating in Manhattan (and occasionally some other boroughs). She writes specifically about her experiences with sex, being single and dating in Manhattan. Her experiences. Which means that her column is a tidy, often hilarious and always poignant take on what’s happened to her and around her. (Um, yes, I’m writing in the present tense, they are making the 2nd movie as we speak and talking about a 3rd, so she’s alive and well as far as I’m concerned.)

But the best part (and the intriguing part) is that she gets the last word via her column. Every time. Every single time. (To quote her in Season 4 – if you actually name the episode in the comments below, you will be rewarded somehow.)

Worrying about Tom, Dick, Harry or Jane

When I was writing about finding voice and speaking with authenticity the other day, it occurred to me that when you talk candidly, you might rub someone the wrong way – you could even hurt them. For instance, I offended people with small dogs. But Carrie never seems to let this cross her mind. You never once hear her say (over the course of 6 seasons and 1 movie), ‘maybe I shouldn’t write that because Tom, Dick, Harry or Jane might read this’. She’s unapologetic in her forthcomingness. And, I might add, she also happens to be an exceedingly nice person.

Yes. I (kind of) know it’s fiction. But I’m a writer and a dreamer, so I can’t help but think about those poor characters opening the paper and reading about their relationship failures or their small (well, you know) or how they tried to suck Charlotte’s face off or about how they broke up with Carrie on a post-it note.

Tying it up

This heroine seamlessly wraps it up, sticks a bow on the end and closes her laptop. How glorious is that?

It doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s no longer happy or pissed off or sad or mulling it over. Though I can only guess that having the last word helps with some of that. We, writers, know that writing it down – last word or not – is therapeutic and critical. But, as writers, as bloggers, as journalists…do we always get the last word? Or is that just the ’stuff’ of really good cable TV?

Image credit: Kill Pop