Butter versus Margarine

Ham versus SPAM (the ‘food’, not the unwanted emails). Cheddar versus Velveeta. Labradors versus Dachshunds. Mac versus Dell. (sorry, that one just slipped out)

Do you see where I’m going with this?

I just got an email from my good friend, Andi (who writes a great blog about French things and other awesome stuff). Long story short, she’d done something pretty amazing for me and I’d thanked her. And her response began with 4 words:

Friends help friends. Period.

It’s true. They do. But only the real ones. The ones that fall under the category of margarine, SPAM, Velveta and Dachshunds? Not so much. Those ‘friends’ flee in times of trouble. They’re not quite there for you. You can see them standing there, but it’s through a veil of fog. There’s something missing, there’s not much to hold on to.

So, how do you tell the difference?

It can be tricky. Because (besides the Lab/Dachshund example up there) looks can be deceiving. But once you get in there and get the feeling for what you’re holding in your hands, putting in your mouth or talking to, there’s really no contest. The real and the fake show themselves readily. It’s hard to hide the plasticy taste of Velveta. To tell the difference, you sense it. You see, hear, smell, taste and touch. And feel it in your gut.

I think our writing follows the same map.

As a writing coach, people talk to me a lot about trying to be genuine in their communications. Should they be serious or funny? Should they try to use words they would never say out loud in conversation? Should they follow the step by step ebook they found that says you should use ‘these 10 words in every post you write and it will make you millions’? (Um, eww)

My answer is this: how does it feel? When you’re writing? When you’re reading it back to yourself out loud? When you’re reading it to someone else? Does it fill you up or collapse in your mouth? Does it sound like you or does it sound like someone else? Are you proud of it? Is your very essence oozing out of it? Does it make you tingle?

Start with you. Ask yourself these questions – and answer honestly. If you do and you act on the answers, you will find your voice, you’ll hit your stride. Then think about your reader. Because, they’re asking these questions too. They’re looking for real writers, real messages, real connections.

I don’t know about you, but I spread my butter high and thick on my bread. I’m drawn to it like hotdogs to a BBQ. And when I see margarine on the page? Click. I close the tab.

Image credit: nanio

That feeling…when you just KNOW.

Last spring, just before my mom joined us to be SuperNana for the summer, she told me she was ready for a new dog. We’ve always been a big dog family, and it had been way too long since my parents had one messing up in their house.

So, like any good daughter, I dragged myself, kicking and screaming to visit a litter of 5 week-old chocolate and black lab puppies. I know, it was a hardship.

I picked out the most perfect little girl. My mom arrived, we got to have a puppy all summer and then they left, heading back to St. Louis…until a few weeks ago – when a much bigger puppy came back for a long visit. Knowing how mothers and daughters love each other so, my mom really wanted to take Annie (the pup) back to see Katie (her mom).

The first 20 minutes was mayhem. There were a few other dogs there and everyone was just running and playing and barking and being all dog like.

And then, it happened. Something clicked for Katie. She grabbed Annie by the back of the neck, rolled her down on the ground and proceeded to sniff every single thread of fur on her body. Annie, who – I swear to God never stops moving – remained motionless on the ground for the duration if this sniffestigation.

I’m with you Katie. When you know you know. It grabs hold of you. It’s the sweet spot on the tennis racket. It’s fresh baked sourdough bread with a inch-high gob of deep-yellow butter on top. It’s meeting someone that feels like home.

It’s how I feel when I’m writing something really good. It’s like the idea grabs my mind and my fingertips and pulls me down a pipeline of bliss. Heart pounding, mind thrumming, I literally can’t get the words out the door fast enough. But still, I manage to sniff every single one of them before I let them go.

Write it and it will come.

Rule #1: Always follow your instincts.

I knew when I added that p.s. the other day that I should have deleted it and made it its own post. But did I listen? No. But now I am! And I’m listening to the many of you that have responded favorably about my write it and it will come project. In case you missed it, I’ve decided to start every day at my computer by writing a short story about what I want to happen next – that day, week, month, year, lifetime. And, YES! I’d love for you to join me in this pursuit.

There are no rules – except that you may NOT under any circumstances edit yourself. Because that would be shooting yourself in the foot (and rather stupid). No one else will read this! So lay it all on the line (page, screen, whatever). If I hear that you started to write: I want a personal assistant that guesses exactly what I want from Starbucks each morning and brings it to me or I want Random House to call me tomorrow and beg to publish the manuscript that I’ve sent them 7 times in as many years and then ERASED it mumbling to yourself, that will NEVER happen – then you better believe I’m going to show up at your house and give you what for.

This exercise is not the time to play small.

And, I thought of another rule – though it’s really more of a request. Keep track of this – make a spreadsheet (if you’re so inclined) where you can enter all of the wants that actually come to you. I’d love it if you’d share them here. Unless they’re really private – in which case you could just use code.

One more rule (yes, I know this is an awful lot of rulage for something that has no rules): You can’t take too long with your story writing every morning. Set a reasonable time and stick to it – like 10 minutes. Some mornings you might only have a 30 second story. But, my point is: don’t let it interfere with you work because then it’ll become a drag and then you’ll be yelling at me for missing deadlines and…wait…unless it takes on a life of its own and becomes the next New York Times bestseller. (If that happens, please mention me and this blog on the book dedication page and during all of your press events – especially if you get to talk to Jon Stewart or Ellen. Thank you in advance.)

Okay…go. And have fun. This would be a good time to engage your suck, by the way.

Image credit: koalazymonkey

Compass Shmompass

I grew up in St. Louis – a city boundaried by the great Mississippi, the river that divides our country into east and west; a city with a monstrous steel arch marking the gateway to the west. As soon as I was conscious, I knew where the river was, I knew where the arch was, and so I knew where east and west were, north and south. It was a kind of knowing – this where I was in relation to space, where I stood on the compass – that was as natural and ingrained as knowing where my feet were – even with my eyes closed. I could feel it.

My next place was Vermont. Middlebury College stood in a valley with the Green Mountains to the east and the Adirondacks to the west. Finding my bearings here was almost too easy – I just had to look up and find the peaks. Et voila! I knew where I was. And I didn’t have to look for any alternative landmarks – you know, inside – to tell me where to go. The mountains did it for me, I didn’t have to. (And, I must say, my Julie ‘light’ was dull as all get out.)

Boston wasn’t quite as easy. Instead of the Mighty Mississip, I had the Atlantic Ocean. Though I couldn’t see it, I had a clue of where it was, but I started to lose that sense of always being able to locate my directions, my place without the physical guidepost. And, so, I started to tune into my own internal GPS. Slowly starting to trust my instincts to move in the right direction, simply because it felt, well, right.

Something about it felt good – terrifying – but good. And I stopped wearing a watch during this time- which seems somehow related. Do we eat because it’s noon or because we’re hungry? I mean, really. How freeing is that?

Fast forward to today. I live on a small island, one side of it is called South Beach. Two main roads that line the island are called South Road and North Road…everyone knows that we are a few miles out in the ocean east of the continental U.S. But, if you put me down anywhere on the island and told me to open my eyes and point north, I couldn’t do it. And I wouldn’t actually care. My internal mapping system muscles are stronger, and I don’t worry that I don’t know my directions. In fact, I’ve been known to my shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes at that fact.

Last week, I was in NYC and I started to think that this lost sense of ‘where the hell am I?’ now has little or nothing to do with the landmarks of where I actually am. A friend was giving me directions and said, ‘just head south two blocks.’ My eyes glazed over, my brain started to hum. South? I thought. Is she speaking Russian? Me no comprendo. I don’t capiche. Seriously, Manhattan is a grid, most of the streets are numbered – it couldn’t be easier to locate your own dot on its map.

I wonder if I’m now officially eschewing grids and lines and maps. I seem to be feeling my way around instead now all the time. The landmarks and guideposts have changed as I’ve gotten older – no, as I’ve become more myself. Instead of heading due ‘north’, I’m heading due ‘what feels right’. It influences my writing dramatically – instead of following a copywriting map, I’m following the things that turn me on. Bound for projects that inspire me, working with really wonderful people and, of course, creating my own way with my own words.

Still, though – sometimes I do get lost, turned around, confused. Unable to locate the place I want to go. Occasionally, I do need to know where north is. Those tangible points on the map in my hands become integral to the path I’m following on the intangible map in my head.

Thank god I don’t have a problem asking for directions. And then letting myself follow some kind stranger’s words…out of their mouth and off their pointed fingertip to the place I’m ready to go.

Image credit: Sarah G…’s

Go where you want to write.

The most critical piece of advice that I give to anyone who wants to write – whether I’m officially coaching them or not – is that they have to find their voice. And to do this, I highly recommend that they write like they’re talking to their best friend, mate, cohort – the person who makes them feel like their greatest self, the person who doesn’t judge, who wants the world for them, who loves and encourages their bright light to shine, shine, shine.

By the way, it’s not your mother or anyone that holds an emotionally charged lightening rod to you.

When you write like you’re writing to or talking to this person, your readers get a pure hit of the connection that sizzles between you. They feel like the circuit includes them as well, they find themselves on the inside. Because it oozes out of every word. And they are included because we’re really writing to all of our readers, yes? If you want to read more about my philosophy on this and fancy a shot of Clooney, go here.

But, today, I’m adding something to this manifesto. Location. I’ve come to realize that it’s not optimal to write when you don’t feel good about where you are. Unless you subscribe to the ‘tortured artist’ train of thought, of course. And I don’t. I think that the more magnificently your light shines, the better your writing results will be. And I mean ‘high beams’. No candles, no 40 watt bulbs.

Your writing will radiate brilliance. And your readers will want more, like crack. Or at least like a really good blog (or book or column) that they love reading and can’t get enough of.

In my mind, location is about place and so it includes physical location, but also:

• who’s in your space,
• what it smells like (I’m very big on the power of smells and ask you to kindly keep your garlic and patchouli far, far away from me),
• what you can see when your eyes look up from your computer or notebook,
• the charge that buzzes around in the air.

If you’ve been in a bad place, Starbucks in a new city may seem like heaven. If you feel drowned in the city, it may be that the woods do it for you. If you’ve been in prison, then I suppose the sky’s the limit.

And if it feels good – the place where you plant your chair – I just don’t think you can get this one wrong.

Image Credit: antecanis

Check out the latest interview on The Daily Norm: John Grogan, best-selling author of Marley & Me.

Just write it down, that’s all I’m sayin’…

Last week, when I mentioned ‘How-to Write’ books and how they all contain a specific bit of storytelling advice, it reminded me of something else they all tell us to do. Which is: to capture every thought, no matter how small in a notebook of some kind. To fill ‘em up.

I’m bad at writing in notebooks. But I’m not bad at writing in Wordpress, apparently. I noticed today that I have 113 (that’s one hundred and thirteen) drafts saved in the backend of this blog (and, yes, I do backup). By golly, that feels like quite a few. Quite a few nuggets waiting to become full posts or books or articles or digital hogwash in my trash bin.

Makes me feel a bit rich, to be honest. Like I have a full tank of gas in reserve, should this main nozzle run dry.

Are you saving your thoughts? Storing them away in case a long hard winter should happen to befall you? How? Where?

…or, for those of you cringing, shaking your head or possibly cursing, why not?

Image credit: Gwen’s River City Images

The color blue to you, the color blue to me

Granted, I live in a place that is considered to be a vacation paradise. And granted, I used to feel that way when I didn’t live here. And granted, I still do feel that way some days, but having lived here for a couple of years, many days it just feels like ‘home’ or ‘the place that I live’.

So, I was shocked today when, as I was on my way to do something as mundane as possible (in this case, getting gas), I saw a woman contorting her body in the weirdest way in the fire department parking lot. What in the world is she doing? I’m thinking to myself. And then it became clear. She was taking a picture of the fire truck’s license plate. Not even the big fire engine, mind you, but the fire truck, the one that looks like a big red pick-up truck with a decal on the door…because that’s exactly what it is.

Back in the 80’s, Dennis Miller put out a comedy record called The Off-White Album. And even at the ripe old age of 15, the raunchy, sarcastic wit on this album did not get past me. No, sir. In particular and in one segment, he made rabid fun of pot smokers and mused about a stoner pondering life’s big questions in the midst of his dazed high. In the voice of an uber-stoned Bill or Ted, he asked “How do I know that the color blue to you…is the same color blue to me.”

I remember really thinking about that and freaking myself out a wee, tiny, little bit.

And I think that we can all agree that the woman with the camera in the parking lot today proves that Dennis Miller and his stoner were really onto something. Because to that woman, the license truck was picture-worthy, exciting, something to write home about. To me – cantankerously and jaded, perhaps – it was a dented piece of metal, just a license plate.

Can any two people look at the same object or have the same experience and feel, see, hear, smell, taste and analyze it the same way? Is a rose just a rose?

I’m going with no. (And if you do some research, you’ll see that Gertrude Stein didn’t think it was either.) It’s part of what makes writing (and reading) (and blogging) (and practically everything) so exciting – there are as many interpretations as there are fingers, eyes, ears, noses, mouths and minds. The experiences may be similar, but not the same. Even without the pot.

Image credit: atomicshark

It’s true what they say about fear…

Next to causing massive amounts of trouble, my favorite thing to do at camp every summer was sail. Every single day for two months throughout five summers, I sailed. Little sunfish, 15 foot X-boats, even a 45 footer around Lake Superior (which to this midwesterner felt and looked like the ocean) for one glorious week when I was 13.

But, oddly enough, as I rushed down to the docks every day, I carried a little something extra with my life jacket. It was fear. The only days the fear wasn’t there were the days that the lake looked like a sheet of glass, devoid of any wind whatsoever.

The wind. The most essential part of the sailing experience aside from the boat – scared me to death. Huge gusts careening across the water hitting the boat suddenly, making it lunge to the side, threatening to dump us overboard. The steady force of it taking us unbearably fast and far away from the tangibility of the land. Jibing as we crossed behind the wind, the boom flying across the boat, the sail snapping violently as it filled once again with air.

The worst part, for me though, was the noise. Wind is only loud when it makes contact – with trees, with old rattly windows…and with sails. A moderately windy day becomes terrifying when the wind hits the sails straight on, sounding like 100 preschoolers smashing paper bags in your ears. The grating, nerve-splitting noise put me on high alert for severe and impending danger.

The fear was so real, but if you had asked me what I was actually afraid of, I couldn’t have answered. I don’t think I knew.

And the reason that I kept sailing, despite this fear, had everything to do with the way the counselors handled it.

1. They broke it down. Because when I looked at each piece, there was nothing to really be afraid of.

• I wasn’t afraid of the lake – had been swimming, waterskiing and paddling it forever.
• I wasn’t afraid of the boat – it was a very nice boat, no holes or anything.
• I trusted my friends and the counselors – these were my people, you know? (many of them still are)
• If it was actually too windy and there was danger afoot, we wouldn’t have gone out – no camp wants to get sued.

2. They walked us right into the fire. Part of the fear, for everyone, surrounded capsizing. The reason? It was unknown because it so rarely happened. Of course, it was the not knowing that go to us. Wasn’t there some famous President who waxed poetic about the only thing to fear or some such?

So in the first days of each summer, we capsized the boats – which ironically enough – was very difficult to do. That particular fear evaporated after we had the experience of falling out of the boat, seeing it rest sideways in the water, all swimming to the hull to climb on the centerboard and jack the boat back up – jumping off at the last second as it found its place again, the boom and the sail swinging wildly, unhinged in the wind as we climbed aboard again.

Still, my nagging fear lasted my entire sailing career (and I’m sure it would creep up today if you put me on a boat), but it wasn’t until recently that I looked at it in a whole new way. I read an article that said if an experience is really, really good, you’ll likely be 90% excited and 10% scared as you walk into it. Because 90% excited plus 10% scared equals 100% personal stretch, opportunity and, of course, delicious thrill.

Image credit: Olga

How’s your suck?

Disclaimer: I did not birth the term ’suck’. And, yes, I wish I had.

Yesterday, I went to a friend’s house to borrow a skirt, and she said, “We have to start with the shoes. What shoes are you going to be wearing? Do you have boots?” No, I don’t. And, so, she graciously handed me her black, soft, leather, knee high boots from Paris. I have to tell you, I fell in love as I zipped them up. Instantly, utterly, lustfully.

They fit like butter, they looked dangerously good, they made me feel divine. It felt like they possessed some sort of transformative super power that turned me into the 30 something fashonista I would be now if I hadn’t spent a good portion of my 20’s at a yoga ashram – finding my Warrior Pose instead of my Prada.

When I got home, full of this feeling and boots in hand, I had an epiphanic thought. Paris would be nice and so would $500 boots, but I have an internet connection and an Ebay account. And I’m gonna find my boots.

There was no effort involved. Just the flow of boot ‘juice’ from my self to my computer. And there they were, not exactly the same, possibly even a little bit hotter, in black and in brown – with a price tag of $40.00 for the pair of ‘em.

That, my friends, is good, strong suck.

Suck is about calling the things you want to yourself. And getting them. It comes in a few forms – some unwanted, some just plain glorious.

Weak Suck

You self-disparage. You second guess. You’re timid and you hide and doubt yourself. You never get what you want. Because really you don’t have any clue what it is that you want in the first place and/or you feel that you don’t deserve it.

Reverse Suck

You spend your time complaining about what you don’t want and being negative to the extent that you end up sucking the bad stuff right to your forehead. And though you will likely try, you have no one to blame but yourself (such a pisser).

Random Suck

Which is really to say that it’s uncontrolled and undisciplined. It’s high, it’s low; it turns on and then off on a whim. You get that ’something’ is at play, but you don’t know what or how. You’ve given up your suck to ‘fate’.

Good Suck

This is what we’re all shooting for. It’s precise, directed, vacuum packed. It brings the awesome things. It empowers you. Its momentum is self-fed. And it is feels so natural, so right-on that it doesn’t feel like work – it just feels GOOD.

…And it might just get you some kickin’ boots.

Image credit: FreekzOr

Cute is the new ‘F@#k You’

Do you have any words that you’d like obliterated? I’m all for axing ‘cute’.

Bunnies are cute. Puppies are cute. As Alisa from Project Happily Ever After says,

“I think it’s okay to use cute if you’re writing about vomit and diarrhea. Because it’s not what people would ever expect. (ie. I just vomited all over my husband. Doesn’t he look cute?) But you can’t call cute things cute, because… well, I don’t know.”

That’s right, Alisa. And what you ‘didn’t know’, or more aptly, what you couldn’t put into words at that moment (because you are a brilliant wordsmith), is that you can’t call cute things cute because it’s kind of boring, overdone, obvious and a little cruel. I mean, as if we need reminding. So, I’m calling you out and requesting that you get more creative.

I’m short, rather small, and for some reason this makes people want to call me ‘cute’. Maybe I am (though that has to be subjective) – but that’s exactly why it’s not okay to call me that. Sometimes people even call my writing ‘cute’. I can’t explain to you why these incidents disturb me, but they do. Oh yes, it’s because I’m not a bunny. Or a puppy. Neither is my writing. It isn’t even short.

Some other words that need to be banished: ‘nice’ and ‘fine’. ‘Pretty’ sucks, too. These words have no verve, man. No chutzpah.

I’m not into burning books, so I can’t really condone the burning of words, either…but maybe we could just throw these in the closet? They’ve overstayed their welcome and have become quite useless. It is my contention that they’ve become offensive and insulting. Annoyed with someone? Call ‘em cute. It really is the new f@#k you.

Would you like to add any words to the pile before I seal the closet door shut?

(And, yes, I blatantly avoided overtly swear on this here blog, using ‘@#’ for ‘uc’ because my dad reads my posts every day – apparently he reads old posts on days I don’t publish – and it would’ve really pissed him off. He might even have called me the ‘c’ word had I gone for it…)

Image credit: Treyevan