Anyone who’s read my newsletter, spent more than 10 minutes in semi-meaningful conversation with me or seen the shame that is my bookshelves knows I have a predilection for the self-help aisle.

I fought it for years, in no small part because I saw my mother devour book after best-selling book even as her alcohol intake crept slowly but steadily upward. Reading is no substitute for action. Buying and piling in artfully arranged stacks around the house, even less so. And while I’m a pretty productive motherfucker when all is said and done, I’ve got undeniable hard-wiring for procrastination on both sides of my genetic divide.

Dad was a frighteningly efficient accomplishment machine, but anyone who knows about “-aholic” tendencies knows that’s just the flip side of the same coin. He “did” out of fear; mom “didn’t”. And they both avoided the root issue until the days they died.

I, on the other hand, have made it my singular mission in life to act, and to act well. There’s nothing else for me to leave behind to make the world a better place—no genetic material I’ve given a better start to, no big pile of money to fund a groovy foundation. It’s just whatever ripples I can send out there now, and whatever additional ripples people whom I’ve (hopefully) helped or a book that I’ve (hopefully) written can send out later.

So when I get stuck—when there’s not only no forward motion, but no indication of what that forward motion should be—I get a little panicky. I don’t think, “Oh, good…a nice rest!” or “Great! Things are just marinating upstairs!”; I start sliding into the dark place on a greased chute with no handrails.

In times like these, I grab onto those books like a lifeline and use them to start hauling myself back up. The best ones (and you do know to only read the best ones, right?) offer some kind of clearly defined, actionable steps, and when you’re in a place where you can’t see clearly, a well-lit staircase with an “EXIT” sign at the top is your friend. It doesn’t matter which set you get on: it will get you out.

Sometimes, though, there is no time. Sometimes you find yourself in hella mess and the clock is ticking and there’s just no damned time for a whole book, much less careful digestion and implementation of its contents. That’s when you need this prescription-strength remedy:

Do One Thing Differently.

Yes, it’s a self-help book, too. I’ve never read it, though. I’ve only heard of it, and then fondled it briefly in my shrink’s office while waiting for her to come in and start our session:

“It looks like you could get everything you need from this book just by reading the title.”

“You can,” she said.

I’d thought about this exchange many, many times since we first had it, maybe six months ago. (Maybe a year—my memory ain’t what it used to be.) I’ve thought about it a lot because I’ve been dealing with my own existential crisis for the past eight or nine months. I actually capped off the year by doing one thing very differently: admitting out loud that things were broken, and that I was taking some time off to evaluate them—four months off, to be precise.

The gods love it when we make plans, don’t they? It’s like Season 4 of LOST to them—or, more likely, some really good, trainwreck-y reality TV. I’m guessing they’ve had me on TiVo and are praying I get renewed for another 13 episodes. My Finnish dark night of the soul has been appointment viewing up on Mt. Olympus.

It was getting old down here, though. So I’ve been One-Thing-Differently like mad, from my kitchen to my alarm-clock setting to my hairstyle. Desperate times call for desperate measures! A few of the myriad thangs I changed up include:

• enlisting the help of an accountability partner—a badass, take-no-prisoners type whose list of accomplishments makes me look like a piker
• replying over and over to generalist queries into my state of health and well-being with a frank admittance of my perilous suckitude (counts as once because the first 15 times were an out-of-body experience I gained nothing practical from)
• admitting I had fucked up
• walking three miles each morning, whether I wanted to or not
• billing for work done (feel free to laugh at me—the gods aren’t the only ones who know how ridiculous I am)

On Thursday night, I finally had a breakthrough of the major sort. Something popped, and it feels like I’m finally on track again. Thank god. Gods. Whatever. That’s an eight-month experience I don’t want to repeat anytime soon.

But from the other side, I feel it my duty to say that the One Thing thing works. It really does. Those One Things got me through a lot of rough patches and gave me the hope and the oomph to hit it for one more day.

And cumulatively? Holy crap, do they add up! Try it. Try folding in a few one things, and see if there’s not some kind of major, quantifiable effect at the end of six months. A kitchen you’re not afraid of entering. A scale you’re not afraid of stepping on. It works, folks: it really, really works.

The biggest irony in all this is that now I feel like I’ve got to read the book. Just to see if I did it “right” and if next time, I couldn’t do it better.

You, however, have no need of it. Just do it, like the ad said. One thing. Differently.

And if you’ve got some sweet, sweet self-helpage you know about and don’t leave it in the comments? You’re no friend of mine, Klein.

xxx
c

Image by greenapplegrenade via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: change, depression, productivity.

Some things are simple. Some things are easy. (And, it should go without saying to anyone living in the early part of the 21st Century, some things are neither.)

There are even rare times—those Kojak-parking, traffic-lights-synchronized, buy-a-lotto-ticket days when you’re really, really cooking with gas—that things are both simple and easy.

But the quickest route to heartache is confusing simple with easy. Because in the context of goals, they couldn’t be more different.

A (good) goal can be expressed in terms that are fairly simple: get married; lose 10 pounds; balance checkbook. Rarely, however, is that simple goal an easy one to accomplish. How do you go about finding someone you’d even want to marry, much less create a relationship that leads to marriage? If 10 pounds is so easy to lose, why are people constantly having to lose the same 10?

And don’t get me starting on the #%@^ checkbook.

I’ve found myself running up against this simple-is-not-easy maxim repeatedly lately, and to an extent that is pretty deeply humiliating. In fact, the sheer act of writing this piece is pretty deeply humiliating: what ordinarily flows easily is resisting with a stubbornness and tenacity the likes of which I’ve not experienced since I had to create bullshit “science” copy for a P.O.S. hand lotion. “Micro-particles absorbed quickly and easily, leaving no smooth, hydrated skin with no greasy film” my ass.

What’s triply frustrating (because it’s hot as a troll’s nasal cavity today, and that’s two) is that this is the first time in my life where not-easy is proving really…well, hard.

Working my way up the adhole chain in my 20s? Not particularly easy—there were long hours and mountains of shit to shovel—but nothing like this.

Becoming a working actor? Or dumping that to hang out my own shingle?

Leaving my marriage? Getting over the Crohn’s?

Hard, hard, hard & hard, to be sure.

At least, that’s what I thought, until I ran up against this.

And what, pray tell, is this “this” of which I speak?

Exactly.

It gets exponentially more difficult when you know what the goal is philosophically (”To be a joyful conduit of truth, beauty and love”) and even particularly (to help people find their Truth by sharing my own journey through writing and speaking) but there are no paths laid out. Or the paths take the shape of sweeping, Yoda-esque maxims (”the change, be”). This is a fucking poet’s life, for chrissakes; who signed me up for this?!

I did, of course, with each choice I made along the way. Start choosing truth and there’s no going back to the other. Take the red pill, and taking the blue pill is no longer an option. Some days I’m fine with it; most of the days, however, are really, really not-easy lately.

Friends help. Tribe members, especially a good mix of old and new. Those who’ve known you a while help show you that the excruciatingly incremental growth you’ve been experiencing is actually mildly impressive; those who are new to you accept the You you’ve grown into, and make Future You seem achievable.

Routines help. I’ve instituted a daily walk in the morning for a week now. For a non-morning person, this not only constitutes a huge achievement, but creates some (healthy) shape to my day.

Speaking of achievements, I can’t overstate the importance of folding relatively easy, short-term projects into the mix. Getting a sinkful of dishes or the kitchen floor washed . Burning through a to-do list or a time-delimited assignment. Saving up for something. Planning even a small party.

Writing a blog post.

I’m profoundly grateful for the small, hardy group of fellow travelers that have assembled here at communicatrix. The feedback I get in the comments and via email helps keep me going, both because it feeds me and keeps me on my toes. There is always something new to think about or puzzle out or grapple with.

I am glad we’re walking the goddamned path together. Even—or especially—when things get a little hard…

xxx
c

Image by emdot via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: change, life.

Between coming off a lollapalooza of a trip and the crapload of work staring me in the face upon my return, I’ve been kind of overwhelmed and under-motivated. Happens.

But in a twin stroke of magic from the Serendipity Fairy, I got an infusion of inspiration on a trip to Ojai visiting a lady-homey, and another jolt while trying to clean out the Fibber McGee’s closet that is the innards of communicatrix-dot-com™, official bloggity-blog of Colleen Wainwright and the communicatrix empire.

Specifically, at the tail end of my journey, I ended up talking about…tail: where one gets some and how to procure the quality version. (If you’re a lady-homey, you already know how to procure quantity: walk into a bar and flash any portion of your ladyparts.) And tonight, I came across this unpublished bit which had been languishing at the bottom of a pile.

So for those nice ladies I got caffeinated with at Ojai Coffee Roasting Co. the other day—and for any of the rest of you who might be on the prowl, romantically-speaking—I offer the following. Mostly still sound, mostly not too poorly written. Some updates in brackets [like so]. It’s more general than tactical, but I think it’s no less useful for it. Maybe you’ll confirm this; maybe you’ll tell me otherwise.

Me, I’m going to enjoy some of the fruits of my own online labor of many years ago and head over to The BF’s for some…um…weekend. Yeah. That’s it.

Have a lovely “weekend,” all y’all…

I’m not prone to giving advice—wait…yes, I am. Well, not unsolicited advice—shit, I do that, too.

Sigh…

Okay: I love giving advice. I’ve been addicted to advice columns since I found Dear Abby on the funnies page (her hipper twin, Ann Landers, was in the Sun-Times and we were a Trib household all the way).

I especially enjoy advice on matters of the heart since I find love fascinating, although as regular readers know, I spout off on pretty much anything within arm’s reach. I loved Em & Lo, the erstwhile Nerve gals who write so well about sex, and subscribed to Salon.com not so I could keep up with their excellent news coverage but because I got tired of reading the Daily Pass ad to get to my Cary Tennis. [Today, I'm an ardent (haha) fan of the magnificent Dan Savage, whose excellent sex/relationship advice column is widely syndicated in alternative papers and whose out-loud version of the column (a.k.a. The Savage Lovecast) is so true and funny it makes me snort things out my nose even as I pound the dashboard in assent with his uncanny insight.]

Ironically, though, ever since I actually have had some clue about How These Things Work, I have questioned my right to be an authority on (insert topic here). I’m definitely one of those women who suffers from Imposter Syndrome, as Jory Des Jardins describes it:

(Imposter Syndrome) is a fairly common condition that affects many women, particularly those who are achievement-oriented. It’s a belief that one’s accomplishments are not deserved, that one has somehow fooled the system and will inevitably be found out for the fake that she is.

As a well-under-30 pup selling ads to clients twice my age, I remember having frequent “When Will They Find Out We Are Frauds” discussions with my then-boss back in the go-go ’80s.

But, as usual, I digress.

I think that my youthful zeal for offering advice had more to do with my needing to be seen and valued than with any selfless desire to share the wealth. These days, I find it easier to resist offering unsolicited advice one-on-one. I figure if someone wants my goddam opinion, they can goddam well ask for it; if, on the other hand, they’re just jaw-flapping, as The Chief Atheist used to say, and I have an excuse to walk away and not waste my valuable time and energy.

As an avid reader of Craig’s List, however, I used to find my advice-giving buttons pushed pretty frequently, and the lure was strong. Fortunately, they make you jump through so many hoops to reply to a post that often, my ardor cooled in advance at the prospect. In fact, I’m always shocked at how many people will jump on a lame thread in the Rants & Raves section; they must have really, really boring jobs.

But every once in a while, a post would cry out to me. The poster seemed to genuinely want an answer to a problem that spoke to my experience, and I’d have an extra ten or so minutes to devote to the issue. I always considered it another way of giving back; lord knows enough people have helped me through the dark and murky times.

I won’t repost this guy’s entire plea for help since I don’t have his permission, but suffice it to say he was experiencing some bewilderment on the dating front and, having given up entirely on meeting people in real-life venues like bars, he had now come to the conclusion that even the people looking online weren’t really looking for a relationship. Worse, I could sense he was on the precipice overhanging The Dark Place; one stiff wind and we might lose him to the other side.

Here’s what I had to say:

You know what? You’re absolutely right…and you’re absolutely wrong.

I’m a fairly cool chick (or so I’ve been told by some fairly cool people who didn’t stand to gain anything by saying it) and I’ve met some pretty great guys online. And in bars. And through friends. And even, one unusual time, standing in front of a burning bus.

I’ve also met some equally heinous guys in each of those places. (Well, I only met the one guy in front of the burning bus.)

Point being, there are asshat chicks *and* cool chicks *everywhere*. If you’re really looking for a cool one, why close off any reasonable avenue? Two caveats, though. First, in my experience, you do better if you’re open but not Looking. Cool chicks can get a little turned off by guys too much on the prowl. (And nobody likes a needy person.)

And second, if you are burning out on any part of the process or developing any kind of an attitude about a particular avenue, stay away from it until you can jump back in with a better attitude. Don’t date angry!

Now, I know Em & Lo [or Dan Savage] would have been way funnier, and that Cary [or Dan Savage—can you tell I'm queer for the dude?] would have done a much more thoughtful job of dissecting the guy’s modus operandi and even analyzing his intent. But sometimes, the best “advice” you can give is a little reassurance that this, too, shall pass, and that maybe it’s a good idea to cool one’s heels until one can approach the “problem” with an open mind and a fresh perspective. Especially when you don’t really know the person asking the question. And as someone with extensive experience in online dating who had experienced burnout and the falling rate of return that accompanies it, I felt uniquely qualified—nay, compelled—to speak up. So I’m pretty sure I wasn’t talking out of my ass.

Hopefully, I wasn’t just flapping my jaw, either.

xxx
c

Image by anniejean via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: dating, love, online dating, relationships.

I had a nice kind of cheering, Stop-This-Stupid-Crap win today.

I was gearing up for a “duty connection”: extending myself to someone whom I really didn’t want to meet, much less extend myself to. Not necessarily a bad person, but almost certainly, from the context in which she presented herself, Not My Tribe.

And lo, as I was hitting “command-n” to create the email, I felt the vomitous pit of dread blurbling in my stomach, thought about actually meeting this person and how that would feel, realized that I was in no way obligated to reach out. . . and didn’t. Which, if you’ve been following along, is a major win.

It wasn’t always this easy, though—realizing I had choices, understanding what they were. I operated on my factory default settings for a looooooong time. Saying “yes” when I meant “maybe” or even “no.” Doing what I had always done because hey, it had gotten me as far as this in one piece. Not realizing that trying something else and perhaps failing at it was 10x better than not trying something else at all.

This is something I get now. Really. I may not get it 100% of the time, or as fast as I’d like (will I ever get anything as fast as I’d like, I wonder?) but I do get it. I’ve left careers that weren’t fulfilling, relationships that weren’t working, habits that were insalubrious. And sometimes, because I’m not where I’d like to be, or where I know I can be eventually, if I keep working on it, I forget that I may have useful advice for people who are currently encountering a particular bear I’ve already wrassled.

It happened in the comments section today. (I love the comments section. It’s my favorite part of my blog, because it’s not only a source of rich inspiration, community and connection, but it’s the one place where I don’t have to write everything.) Earl Kabong (not his real name, unless he’s really managed to fly under the Googledar) posted a really touching and interesting comment about the nature of his current stuckage.

Earl, you see, is a writer, and a good one, it seems: not only does he get paid to write—many people’s dreams—his pay comes exclusively from writing, something I’m pretty sure is my dream right now, or damned close to it. Moreover, he’s been a paid writer his whole working life. Which means, of course, that he’s smart enough to know that it can sound like 15 kinds of ungrateful to say he really doesn’t dig it, but that he doesn’t know what else he would do.

I get it. I do.

Back when I was an advertising copywriter, I regularly met with people who would have eaten a limb to do what I did. I was pretty good at it and worked pretty hard at it, but the truth is, I had my job because I had the native skills and the connections. In equal measure. My blessing, my curse.

It made extricating myself rather difficult. Because sure, I could quit—that’s the easy part. The hard part was dealing with all the rest of it. How do I pay my nut? What do I do that’s more fulfilling? How do I tell my father? What do I tell my father, and anyone else who asks?

And the biggest thing of all: how will I introduce myself at cocktail parties until I’m happily established in some TBD life pursuit? For me, it boiled down to two issues: money and identity. And the latter was much, much harder to deal with than the former. Poor, I could handle. Shiftless loser with no direction? Not so much.

So here are some things I’ve learned about the Full Stop/Reboot, along with some resources I found useful in making my transition:

1. Realize you’re in it for the long haul

This is a process, not a to-do item. I was unbelievably arrogant at the start of my switch, thinking I could just tackle this like any other project. It is a project, and that’s a good way to look at it. But it’s a long-term project, which means approaching it differently than the time-delimited ones I’d been used to up until then. Establish a desire. Muse. Reflect. Seek counsel. Research. Lather/rinse/repeat as often as necessary before moving on to action. Even if you’re loaded. Especially you’re loaded. But if not…

2. Get your financial ducks in a row

One thing that shocked me years later was going through tax receipts for the last full year I worked before I decided to make the change. I was appalled—physically sick—at the amount of money I’d spent on nothing. Dinners out. Trips. Stuff. And that’s what it is when you’re not fulfilled: things you’re stuffing down a hole to try to fill it.

Figure out what you’re spending and where. Figure out how much you can cut your expenses and still “pass” as a normal person in your socioeconomic station. Do it and sock the rest away. Figure out where your holes are and plug them. For me, it was learning how to cook. (That was a rough two years, and I will be forever grateful to the Chief Atheist for eating my mistakes.) Start learning that money is freedom, money is choices, and save accordingly.

And remember, unless you are part of an incredibly slender (and ever-decreasing) slice of the population, you were once happy with far less. Even if you were born to that top 5%, there was a time where you were as happy or happier playing with the box as you were the toy it encased. So we’re clear.

3. Consume and explore

Some possible good books to read: Po Bronson’s What Should I Do with My Life? and Julia Cameron’s Artist’s Way. Yes, even if you don’t want to do something artsy. It’s just a good internal excavation process.

I also heard of a good-sounding new book via Pam Slim (Escape From Cubicle Nation) called How’d You Score that Gig?. The author did a pretty hefty amount of intake interviews and research on personality types, and came up with not only stories of interesting jobs, but the types of people who’d do well in them and the actionable steps to take to acquire those jobs.

Observe. Start carrying a notebook, like you’re a reporter. When you feel a tug—at anything, however small—write it down. Hate something? Write it down. Feel a stirring of joy? Write it down. You’re looking for clues, and they come up everywhere.

4. Engage professional help

I would not be where I am were it not for my first shrink/astrologer and my current therapist (who has no nickname, but who should probably be called “The Saint”).

If you can find the right person, your “predicament” (in quotes b/c really, it’s just a stage you’re in) might be well addressed by the application of adroit personal coaching. It’s great for the goal-oriented, and brother, you’ve got a goal.

Friends are good, but in my case, the friends I had then weren’t equipped to help me make the transition. (Of course, the friends I have now are brilliant with it. What can I say—my life is an O. Henry story.) You may have a rogue uncle or old, old grammar school friend who’s living authentically and knows you and can both call you on your shit and do it in a nice way.

If not, pay someone. This does not mean you’re weak; it means you’re brave.

5. Give yourself time and patience and love

Please note: I was very bad at #5. Still struggling with it, although I’m getting better.

These big shifts? They don’t happen on your timetable. They require thought, digestion, exploration, more thought. They need room to breathe, your epiphanies. (Or room so you can notice them.)

Wander in bookstores with hours to spare. Walk on the beach. Take up yoga or meditation. Volunteer for a meaningful yet mindless and repetitive task. Knit. Whatever.

Create space for the new thing to make itself known. Yeah, it’s all woowoo and shit. You’re a reader of this blog, aren’t you? You were expecting maybe science?

The bottom line? Just because you can’t imagine it right now doesn’t mean there isn’t something out there for you that you’re equally as good, if not better, at, and that you will actually love.

I swear, this is true.

I was a pretty good copywriter. I was an okay actor. I made a decent living at both. I’m not where I need to be financially yet with The Communicatrix and may never be, but I’ve found the thing(s) I’m good at, that the world needs, and that I love to do. If, for some reason, the money does not follow in the numbers I need it to, I’m confident I can deal with it, either by reducing my standard of living or going back to a Stupid Day Job or both. But I will never again know that profound unhappiness that comes with feeling utterly adrift, mainly unfulfilled, and thinking that choice lies outside of me.

It doesn’t. Not in this part of the world, anyway—not yet. Maybe never. Maybe nowhere.

The one thing I do know about stopping the suck? Not knowing how to restart is not an excuse. The world needs you to find your passion and realize it as much as you do. Maybe more.

What one thing can you do today to start?

xxx
c

Image by Kruggg6 via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

TOPICS: 21 day salutes, change, Stop! Sucking!, work.

I have made this drawing for a lot of people recently:

Friends. Clients. People in kind of a blue funk right now, frustrated with what seems like zero forward motion for too, too long.

What’s funny is that I didn’t realize I’d been drawing it for myself, really, until tonight, while on a call with The Youngster. He’s known me for almost 10 years, and not only has he witnessed my seemingly unquenchable thirst for growth NOW, but has pretty much matched it, pang for pang. (There’s a reason The Youngster and I hit it off as well and long as we did, and age-appropriateness was not it.)

Change. It happens a millimeter at a time, until it happens all at once.

Of course, it doesn’t ever happen all at once; it’s always happening incrementally, which is the big, fat, hairy, hoary secret of change. It’s happening now. It was happening a second ago. It will be happening five seconds from now. It just seems like you look in the mirror one morning and aged 20 years overnight. (Or, in my case, pulled on your fat pants and gained 15 pounds overnight.)

You work and work and work and work and work and ONE DAY, you look up et voila! Your kitchen is remodeled!

Or you work and work and work and work and work and then ONE DAY, you can do the splits!

Or you work and work and work and work and work and then ONE DAY, you are making bank. Or have 10,000 readers. Or can answer a query for directions in a town you don’t call home, and in fluent Portugese!

For me, my work has consisted of a few very specific things these past several years. I’ve devoted crazy amounts of time to Nerdmasters, for example. To writing. To, believe it or not, farting around on the internet.

I’ve spent countless hours talking—with friends, with paid therapeutic professionals, with aforementioned Nerdmasters. I’ve worked extra hard on the communicating (only fitting, given my handle) and on the figuring-out of things. It’s made catching up with people I haven’t seen in 5 or 10 years both very easy (”So what have you been doing?”/”Nothing.”) and very hard (”So what have you been doing?”/”Nothing.”) I don’t have millions of dollars or thousands of square feet of real estate or even 1.2 kids to shove in front of anyone, some quantifiable proof of growth.

All the same, I know it’s there. Because the writing comes so easily now, and it didn’t always. (If you don’t believe me, read the archives.) Because answers, or ways to find answers, come so easily now, and they didn’t always. (If you don’t believe me, talk to my shrink, or my friends, or my colleagues or clients.)

Someday, I will write some of the stories of people I’ve known who looked up and realized their lives had slipped away while they had their metaphoric head in a figurative book. For now, I’ll just say, “hang on.”

If you’re on the path and it seems to be winding especially slowly, hang on.

If you’re moving forward—you swear to Christ you’re moving forward—and it seems like you’re on the George Jetson dogwalking treadmill, hang on.

If you’re climbing and it seems you’ve gained no ground…if you’re stretching and it feels like you’ll never reach…if you’re pulling on what feels like an endless rope…hang on, hang on, hang on.

Change happens incrementally until it happens all at once.

And once the “all at once” happens, you realize that’s just an increment, too. A more obvious increment, but an increment, all the same.

One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

Love. Taxes. Life.

One incremental step at a time…

xxx
c

Image a POS graph drawn quickly by yours truly in Photoshop. This post is dedicated to The Youngster, a slightly belated birthday gift. Thank you to him, and to all my wonderful peeps who have helped me with my incremental growth.

TOPICS: change.