Get your motor runnin': A 21-Day Saluteâ„¢

The blah-o-sphere is rife with earnest, can-do, decisive (if mildly hungover) good will and wishfulness today, and probably will be until at least tomorrow.

Here's the thing: If you really want to change a habit, you know what's involved. It's no mystery, and you're certainly not going to find the miracle solution in any book, blog post or bag the Wizard has handy.

To change a habit, you...

• do it in tiny pieces
• do it for the right (i.e. values-aligned) reasons
• do it with the aid of external accountability of some kind

Like I said, you doubtless know this already. But if you don't, if you're 12 or have been living under a rock through the Age of Self-Help or are just plain obtuse, please, trust the lady with 747 blog posts, 28 acting columns and a 1500-word monthly newsletter she's been publishing since May of 2007. It's not magic; it's one stupid goddamned motherfucking foot in front of the other. Period.

I have big, big plans for 2009. Crazy-big. I'm going to be a writing, speaking, teaching, consulting, marketing sumbitch over the next 12 months, and that's on top of the design work I'll probably be doing at least through the end of summer to keep the money flowing in sufficient amounts. (And yes, there will be more amusing songs. Yes, soon. No, you won't be able to share this one with your children, either, although thankfully, there's no butter involved like there was in the filthy, filthy previous one.)

Hence, the Salute. I've been doing these little (HA!) 21-Day Salutesâ„¢ since May of 2006, when The BF, generally the most patient and tolerant soul in my immediate sphere, told me I might want to consider cheering the hell up. I thought it over; I decided I did, in fact, want to Cheer the Hell Up, and that part of the reason I hadn't been cheery recently was because I'd plain and simply gotten out of the habit.

There are various schools of thought on how long it takes to change a habit. Their estimates range from 21 to 30 to 90 days, depending on personality type and exactly how bad that heroin habit of yours is, missy. I'm an optimist, also, wildly impatient, so I went with the low number. You could do the same and renegotiate at 21, if you trust yourself to do that.

This particular exercise is to get me in the habit of writing daily. I only committed to 5x/week on the blog, but I know myself: if I don't seed the habit with a kickstart, it's going to be really rough come Monday.

Another little hack I'm using to get a jump on my year-long resolutions is joining Leo Babauta's 10-minutes/30-days Power of Less project. You sign up, commit to whatever it is you're going to do for 10 minutes each day for 30 days. There are some nifty freebie support documents, if you like that sort of thing, and a big, fat forum (probably literally, in parts, given it's the start of a new year) to keep you honest, or at least to offer you the opportunity. I'm using it to stay on track with my 10 minutes per day of guitar playing. God help you all. And my neighbors.

So join me there! I'm "communicatrix", like I am pretty much everywhere these days.

There are also some non-sucky posts I've found that cover looking backward and forward (the only way to goal-set, believe me):

• Jared Goralnick, overachieving punk that he is, has an excellent one that points to some goodies, too
• I loved my other new-in-'08 friend Chris Guillebeau's post, too; it's thorough, with a very good how-to plan
• Not strictly a look back, but a great 2009 thoughtstarter for business blogger types is Mark Hayward's inaugural post on his new blog
• New-year-hater Seth Godin has a typically interesting take on things, too, of course
• And just because he's hilarious, a brilliant writer you should all be reading (check out his Amazon MP3 Advent Calendar series if you don't believe me) and, well, also because I love technology doo-dads that actually live up to their promises of making the world a happier, better place, I'm throwing in Andy Ihnatko's "Best of Tech" column from the Sun-Times

Now, SPILL IT, kids! What's your 2009 plan? How are you sticking to it? If you've made it public, say so and put in a link. If you haven't, consider it.

I'm not fool enough to expect everyone to play along with a Saluteâ„¢. But an effort...right?

Happy brand spankin' new 2009, everyone!

xxx
c

100 Things I Learned in 2008, Part II

I know! I know! You've been on pins and needles, those of you not on tenterhooks. (Go on, click. I didn't know what they were, either.)

Here's the second half of my Sweetly Grouchy Look Back at 2008. Which, to wrap it up in a sentence, wasn't bad, exactly, but felt an awful lot like having a baby elephant: a long time in coming, and at the end of it, you end up with...another elephant*. (Although, hey, I guess if you're the Mother Elephant, that's a good thing.)

All right! Enough of this jibber-jabber! Let's get on with the main event.

And hey, if I don't see you before then? Have yourself a merry little new year!

xxx c

1. Never schedule a haircut while your stylist is going through a divorce.
2. The new stuff of today is the #@%*! crap of tomorrow.
3. There's no place like home.
4. Especially when I'm the only one in it.
5. Although visitors of both the two- and four-legged variety are welcome.
6. Money is AWESOME.
7. When the action is "networking," the equal and opposite reaction is "cave time."
8. A multitude of puzzlements are made clear after spending a little quality time meditating on the size of the left half of the IQ curve.
9. Backup.
10. Backup.
11. Backup.
12. Just because something is the opportunity of a lifetime doesn't mean it's the opportunity for you.
13. Blogging is nice, but it's good to be in print.
14. Doing stuff is a lot harder than naming stuff.
15. Root canals are every bit as horrifying as you've been led to believe.
16. And twice as expensive.
17. And my previous dentist? IS AN ASSHOLE.
18. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but without it, your filing system might as well be on Jell-O.
19. White people love their fifteen minutes.
20. Having principles can be costly.
21. Because, like the old saw about divorce, they're worth it.
22. Once you let your freak flag fly, it's hard to put it back in mothballs.
23. Never underestimate the power of a good subject line.
24. If I'd gotten what I wanted at 22, I'd be dead by now.
25. Ditto 25, 28, 31, 35 and 40.
26. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I'm ready today.
27. In order to get anything meaningful out of your life, you have to be ruthless about what you let into it.
28. Don't try to manage anyone else's expectations until you've got a firm grip on your own.
29. Bread is the devil.
30. The lovely, lovely devil in white vinyl hot pants and a push-up bra.
31. There are two things you can never have too much of, and one of them is music.
32. Random acts of kindness happen far more often than you have your eyes open to see them.
33. Underwear stretches.
34. A lot.
35. Denuding your toiletries of their signage is a subversive delight.
36. Surprisingly, it also makes performing your ablutions more enjoyable.
37. Provided you have a good memory.
38. There are many reasons to own Photoshop, but making people laugh is numero uno.
39. When in doubt, engage in a little manual labor.
40. Preferably the kind that makes the world a better place.
41. "The world" being anything from your sock drawer to...well, the world.
42. I'm going to make a fantastic old lady.
43. Buy art.
44. Even if you're broke.
45. Especially if you're broke.
46. If you don't hang out with your betters, you'll get worse.
47. Fortunately, the opposite also holds true.
48. If you really figure out where you're really supposed to be, that you found it out late won't mean a damn.
49. For better or worse, 2009 can't possibly be anything but incredible.
50. I'm not nothing without you, but I'm sure as hell glad you're here!

Next 100 Things: December 2009! In the meantime, you can still enjoy the even more distant past:

2008

• 100 things, Part I

2007

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

2006

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

2005

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

2004

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

*None of which has to do with the fine photo illustrating this post, which is most clearly not of an elephant but rather that pachyderm beloved of French and non-French Absurdists alike, the rhinoceros. And because you may not click through (hey! you're busy!), I'll give you the title of the photo right here:

"Homesick," by Merlin Mann via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Someday, I really need to do a post on the use of illustrations in text. Or at least, of the way I use illustrations in text. It might be illuminating. Just like illustrations are supposed to be...

100 Things I Learned in 2008, Part I

I love lists.

Making them is soothing, stimulating and illuminating all at once. (Also, a hands-on lesson in the old saw that making something look easy is hard work.)

I'm not sure how good this year's list is; honestly, I think that having so much social media in my life has acted as kind of a steam valve for my one-offs, instead of serving as a record of the past year's minor frustrations, accomplishments and general oddities. But I gave it a go because dammit, that's the kind of gal I am.

So without further ado, I give you my year in a list, Part the First. Enjoy!

xxx c

1. When in doubt, throw shit out.
2. Always be reading.
3. It takes a (global, electronic) village to make a video.
4. The iPhone is like a unicorn that actually exists.
5. With magic ruby peonies woven into its mane.
6. And a double ice cream rainbow in the background lighting the way.
7. Facebook is still the AOL of social media platforms.
8. Sometime in the middle of this year, that became a good thing.
9. The shortest distance between you and regular exercise is a youngish dog.
10. She who makes fun of LOST is doomed to become addicted to it.
11. It sucks that making the logical, mature decision is considered a miracle.
12. But that does not diminish the awesomeness of it happening.
13. Working is easy; focusing is hard.
14. A good bra is like money in the bank.
15. Only it's not, because good bras are REALLY expensive.
16. And banks are, like, not so good with the money, as it turns out.
17. Have a plan, but make it a loose one.
18. Learn to say "no" or die buried under your crushing pile of well-intentioned "yes"-es.
19. The Wire may be the most clearheaded depiction of America since The Godfather.
20. When in doubt, just add water.
21. And coffee.
22. Lots and lots of coffee.
23. Change takes longer than you think it will, but is generally worth the wait.
24. The Change takes even longer and had goddamn well better be.
25. If you think COBRA is bad, wait until it runs out.
26. And you are over 40.
27. With a pre-existing condition.
28. Networking does not, in fact, have to suck.
29. Everybody farts.
30. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who think Wiis are stupid, and those who have played them.
31. I miss performing (NSFW).
32. And, apparently, starring in commercials.
33. And, finally, at long last and without reservations, my dad.
34. Setting a goal to have more sex is a great idea.
35. Telling the person you're going to be having the sex with about the goal to have more sex is not.
36. Life becomes exponentially more awesome for each person you add to your life who is cooler than you.
37. And a better citizen.
38. And more talented.
39. Astrology may be bullshit, but I'll be damned if I buy another piece of electronic equipment when Mercury is retrograde.
40. I am a starter, not a finisher.
41. I don't hate TV; I hate paying for it.
42. Also, sometime while I was watching Hulu, Bravo devolved into the Schadenfreude Channel.
43. If you want a real-time demonstration of the journey being the point, get yourself to Inbox Zero.
44. The world won't end if you hide your light under a bushel, but someone is sure to trip in the dark.
45. Legs' status as The Last Things to Go notwithstanding, there is an age after which one should not wear a miniskirt.
46. At least, in public.
47. Don't bother using Firefox with less than 4 gigs of RAM at your disposal.
48. A made bed and a clean sink won't solve everything, but they make it easier to deal with almost anything.
49. I would rather win one fan for life by telling the truth than a thousand for five minutes by fudging it.
50. (Did I mention that's a really great outfit you're wearing?)

Can't wait until the next installment? Why not learn from the past while you wait?

2007

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

2006

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

2005

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

2004

• 100 things, Part I
• 100 things, Part II

417 reasons to wake up NOW

Today was a bit of a wash.

Literally, for many people: we had thundamous rain here in L.A., which is quite the novelty and mayhem-maker in these parts, especially the hilly parts that have just been scorched by fire and deluged with toads. (Oh, wait, no toads. Yet. I'm pretty sure the Third Horseman brings those with him in his man-bag.)

I don't mind rain, myself, provided I'm dressed for it (if I'm going out) or have no need of venturing out into it in the first place. Sunshine can become as relentlessly monotonous and tiresome as any other condition, the hot kind being especially wearying. After a year like this one, where summer started in April and kicked our collective asses steadily until November, I am a-okay with the water.

Today, however, was one of those days where adding water royally screwed up the works, from the sodden morning walk with Arno J to the tire I blew on a rain-masked curb to the six hours and three hundred bucks I lost to a new set of front tires, realignment and other assorted forms of asshole tax I very rightfully was made to pay because of my stubborn, or perhaps cavalier, refusal to adapt to changing circumstances.

It was raining, you see, when I woke up, or rather, when Arno J dutifully woke me up as part of his daily contribution towards our special time together. Raining in L.A., where the hills are steep and the sidewalks shitty under the driest of circumstances. Add water and you have swirling surprise eddys of dank, cold mess at every turn, and on most of the straightaways.

Poor Arnie, who is part terrier, part A Whole Bunch of Other Stuff and zero parts labrador retriever, did his level best to get us once around the loop with minimal water damage, but it was impossible: by the time we got home, I was soaked in gritty water from toes to hips, the rest of me lightly misted over from Arnie's repeated attempts to "shake it off" en route.

Now, I had STUFF TO DO, so after getting Arnie dry and breakfasted, and The BF his first cuppa, I grabbed the only dry spares I had, shorts and thin, beachy sneakers, and hightailed it outta there. No breakfast. No...pants. An empty tummy and shorts, in wet, 50-degree weather, because WHAT COULD HAPPEN? I lived a mere five-point-two miles away, and all I had to do on the way home was to stop for gas.

I told you the part about the raging water and the hidden curb and the blowout, right? Did I tell you the part about knowing instantly what happened and cursing myself? How about the part where I got out of the car (in my shorts, in my thin, summery shoes, in the rain) and looked at it (YUP, IT'S FLAT, ASSHOLE) and cursed myself some more? No?

Did I tell you about the bit where I realized with bitter irony that I had done this in an actual gas station, one with no garage (and cursed myself, and modernization)? Or the part about where I realized that I, a 47-year-old woman with no idea of how to change a tire, wasn't sure whether to call AAA, The BF or find some other, more obvious course of action I was probably missing because I was cold and hungry and wet and dressed inappropriately?

No?

Well, how about if I tell you the part where I saw a tire place across the street, and cursed myself for being afraid they'd rip me off because I knew nothing about tires, or where I went in and asked the gas station cashier if they were any good, these tire people, and cursed myself for having to even ask? I did a helluva lot of cursing trying to find a pedestrian crosswalk to get me across the street (raging rivers! drivers not looking out for pedestrians! shorts! in December!), and more when the tire guy said he couldn't send a guy ACROSS THE STREET to help me because of insurance (stupid fucking insurance! stupid fucking entire corpomegalopoly, while we're at it!), and more when I had to cross the street/raging river again.

And there was the embarrassing call to AAA, and the embarrassing call for help to The BF, and the embarrassing call to my repair guys (how many times do I have to tell this embarrassing story...in SHORTS!? in THE RAIN?!).

All in all, an angry-making, mood-killing, sumbitch morning that would make anyone mad at the world.

Or, more specifically, that would make me mad at the world.

Here's the thing, though. I've done a little time, I have, thinking about all of this Anger stuff and this Woe Is Me stuff and this Goddammit, This Fucking Sucks stuff. Some thinking and a whole lot of processing. And I'm here to tell you, if you do the thinking and you do the processing and you stay awake and you don't resist...

...and you get some help...

...and, let's be honest, here, you get some luck...

...you can come out the other side of it wet, cold, disheveled, even humiliated, even a little bit angry, and still feel good. Where "good" is even-keeled. Where "good" is appreciative or (dare I say it?) happy.

I got a small glimpse of what it might be like on the other side of enlightenment, people, and I'm here to say, that is some goooooood shit.

Because while you are cold and wet and cursing yourself for the lack of foresight in having the appropriate clothes handy with which to greet changed circumstances, you are also noting yourself having learned this lesson, and figuring out how you will do it better next time.

While you are being pulled around the course by your wet, wet dog, one frozen claw of a hand clutching an umbrella, the other the lead, switching the bag of poop between them and hoping you do not all slip and fall into god-knows-what kind of dank, nasty mess of a slime-filled pothole, you are also noticing with great, great love in your heart how your poor, wet terrier-dog is walking so valiantly, is so unhappy with the cold and wet while at the same time so grateful to be out in it, and you are glad, too.

When you have Well and Truly Fucked Your Right Front Tire and your beloved calls back offering help, and good coffee from the Cubans, you are (in your shorts, in your flimsy shoes) bowled over by this humbling, crushing, all-encompassing gratitude for the love in your life. Hell, when the AAA guy shows up, happy, wet, changing your tire in the cold, you are blown away by how tremendous people are, how unexpected things can be, how lousy one minute and wondrous the next, or better, how simultaneously awesome-in-the-good-way and awesome-in-the-bad.

When you are on your way with your little donut and you are suddenly not doing anything suddenly, because you must pay attention, because you cannot ride the freeways on your donut, how grateful you are for attention, and for donuts, and for enough breathing room to see that sweet jesus, in all the commotion you didn't get gas and now you are bone dry and lo! another gas station. They're WONDERFUL, all these gas stations; cities are WONDERFUL and gasoline is wonderful and having the money with which to buy gasoline? Beyond wonderful.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Last night, at the most recent installment of a little gathering some lovely friends have been putting on regularly for some time, someone told the story of 417, of an acquaintance who has been seeing the number "417" in various ways and places for her entire life. The storyteller, having been told the story of 417, started seeing them, too, on license plates, signs, clocks. We discussed it amongst ourselves, destiny or pattern-seeking, Messages from Beyond vs. Yellow Volkswagen Syndrome.

I say, who cares? The point of all of this, these breakdowns, these slowdowns, these numbers, this examination, is to stay awake. To be in the moment. To Be Here, Now. If thinking of the number 417 helps you to Be Here Now, use it. If a tragedy, minor or major, helps you to Be Here Now, use it. If reading my silly, rambling story about a crazy, mixed-up, "useless" day helps you to Be Here Now, use it. (And if it inspires you to tell a story, please do tell it, and then tell me. Really.)

But let's do it, shall we? Let's Be Here Now, whenever and however we can. It goes so fast, and then it's gone. And there are no do-overs. There is only, as I recently heard it put in a lovely bit of writing, "the big dirt-nap."

Wake up now, before your nap.

Cold or wet or out of gas. Broke or flush or dumped or in love.

Wake the hell up, everyone. And if you see me dozing off, wake me the hell up, too, would you?

xxx
c

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

Patching vs. repairing (or, when to know when you're truly f*cked)

As with all Whiny-First-World-Whitey posts, I need to start this off with some disclaimers.

• Yes, things could be worse. A lot worse.
• Yes, they are, in fact a lot worse, in a lot of ways and a lot of places.
• Yes, some of those places are doubtless scant blocks from my home. (I live on the edge of three very different neighborhoods, socioeconomics-wise.)

Really, given the state of the world right now, financial chaos, environmental and infrastructural collapse, plus the ongoing persistent states of misogyny, racism, religious persecution and all other manner of Living Hells, a futzy little post about getting one's house in order could easily come off as some clueless-elitist prescription to pick yourself up by your bootstraps and hie thee to the cake store.

So...sorry about that, in advance. But that's what this post is gonna be about. About fixing things, really fixing things, where you get at the root of them, vs. fake-fixing things, where you just slap on a little metaphoric Shoe Goo and keep on keeping on.

That's what the landlords who own my apartment building has been doing since they bought it: Shoe Gooing the place. Leaky pipes, funky wiring, rotten caulking, you name it, they've Shoe Gooed it. My bathroom is a vertible museum of land-based jury-rigging techniques. Mildewed ceiling? Paint over 'it! The only real repairs they've done in the time I've lived here are the ones mandated by the State of California and City of Los Angeles. And those have generally been done on an overtime schedule, lest they get slapped with costly fines on top of costly repairs.

For years, I've run big swaths of my own life this way, and frankly, I've been lucky enough to get away with it. What finally convinced me that I needed to start addressing some things at the structural level (i.e., "repair") vs. the cosmetic (i.e. "patching", or "Shoe Goo", if you will) were two things.

The first was running a "real" business. I've been self-employed since 1992, but mainly as either a contract employee (freelance copywriting for big agencies) or a theatrical contract employee (actor-for-hire by producers making commercials). In between, I had a brief, utterly restful stint as a real, W-2 employee which I used to bridge the gap from one to another. All in all, a pretty cush 14 years.

All that came to a crashing halt when I hung out my design shingle in 2006. Only it didn't. Again, I took the Shoe Goo approach. Like my crap-ass landlords, I dolled up everything to look pretty. My cards? Sexy Pantone numbers on thick stock with a nice tooth. My website? Looked good, read well and loaded fast*. Every piece of correspondence that went out had my branding on it because hey, I have Photoshop and I know how to use it. And if cash flow was problematic, I just used my personal reserves to float the business. (Thank you, Chief Atheist and Mercenary Former Boss for teaching me the value of the "F*ck You" fund.)

But my invoices weren't tied to a money management program and I had no accounting system in place. My contact management was haphazard (at best), and my dreadful workflow habits scattered documents liberally across a variety of hard drives and peripheral devices, which would eventually lock up or fail because I'd done the computing equivalent of throwing sand and chewing gum in them. Finally, while my needs are relatively modest and my stockpiles relatively damned good, I'm no trust fund baby with an open checking account.

It was about this time last year that I started getting serious about getting some serious repair work done. I made some progress, especially in the area of financial upkeep: my bookkeeper gave me a gold star last visit, along with a warning that if I continued in this vein of making things so easy for her, she would have to move to a minimum charge for her visit; we are both THRILLED by this turn of events.

There are plenty of other areas, though, that I've let slip. Not because I've been slacking off, but because I made other things priorities as opportunities arose. Like the chance to speak at last year's Creative Freelancer Conference. Or to speak to actors about marketing. Or to start giving workshops, thanks to Dan and Lara of Biznik. Or to collaborate with another Swirling Ball of Energy, my new sometime-co-collaboratrix, Dyana Valentine.

Or, hell, to do any number of other cool things, from going to SXSW to making** art*** to heading up to Seattle for a month, just because.

And the second thing? (Remember there were two things?)

I want to do more of that good stuff. And not having a system that supports me is getting in the way of that.

How can I pick up and move for a month if I don't trust that all the files I need are on my computer, and that my computer will work when I turn it on? Or that there's enough money in my bank account to cover the trip, while we're at it?

How can I do more of this AWESOME speaking and consulting, which, you guys, I cannot tell you how much I love, if I can't turn around an invoice quickly and get paid, or put my hands on a client's homework from anywhere?

I'm committing to some big, scary overhaul-type stuff this coming year. "Committing" as in either finding accountability partners who really will keep me accountable, or paying people to help me analyze and repair these things the right way.

I will also be turning down more and more things to make room for the things I do want to do, or the things I need to do in the short term to accomplish what I want for myself in the long term. On the small, hopefully easier-to-implement side of things, this will mean not checking email as often and trimming more media fat from my life. On the bigger, harder side, this will mean turning down some jobs, being more selective about what I say "yes" to, socially, even radically overhauling my diet and exercise habits. Really not looking forward to that, but as I slide into menopause, my body needs a little optimization.

Please don't misinterpret this as a diatribe against patching. It's a perfectly fine method for dealing with a host of issues, just not all of them, and definitely not all of them indefinitely.

And Rome wasn't built, or rebuilt, rather, in a day. A watchword in this process is patience; I'm moving at half-speed through all of this.

Move through it, I will though, and I'll be sure to report back on what I'm learning from it...

xxx
c

*Thanks to my good friend and great developer, Michael Grosch, whom I am indebted to both in the abstract and the absolute, hold on, Michael; your new logo is coming!)

**My video for Southwest Airlines' totally rigged contest, totally safe for work.

***My Dirty Keywords Search Song, totally NOT safe for work.

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

Egg, meet face (or, "What the hell happened to my November and where the hell we're going in 2009")

This is the part where I look like an asshole.

That novel? Didn't happen. Not over Thanksgiving, not in 30 days, not not not. I don't see it happening in the near future, either, and not because it's hard to see what's coming down the pike through all this egg on my face.

I had a long talk about the novel during my last Seattle trip with my Hillbilly-Jewish Cousin. We talked about fear (did I have any around writing this book) and love (did I love the idea of writing this book).

Fear? No.

I'm not afraid of writing a book, and I'm certainly not afraid about being upfront with the gnarly details of living with Crohn's disease. I love the idea of a book that potentially adds to the greater good (and is hilarious) rather than a book (even if it is hilarious) that adds to the coffers of me and some publishing house and, down the road, if we're lucky, and the stars align, a movie studio.

Not that I have anything against money! (More, much, much more, on that later this month.) Money is awesome! It lets you do stuff. It gives you choices. At its best, it's magical, time-shifted energy: an ingenious, asynchronous exchange of me for you. And you know what? After many years of misanthropy and almost as many of self-loathing, I really like both of us: we're awesome, just like money! In fact, we are money, as the man said when he was still young, slim and unafflicted by the burden of too much energy-as-money and no good way to channel it into something meaningful.

But love? Ah. Love is a different story.

I have love in my heart for this fictional girl and her story, and for all real girls still in the process of writing their own real stories. Last week, I spent some more time with a group of women who totally get that: Keren Taylor and the amazing volunteers and mentors at WriteGirl, who work with girls from at-risk situations and turn them into fire-breathing powerhouses of take-no-prisoners fabulosity.

Well, actually, they use writing as a way to help the girls strengthen their voices and understand what it's like to feel empowered, as well as doing tangible stuff like getting them into print and into college. If you're looking for a great place to dump some of your extra time or money, you could do a lot worse than forking it over to Keren and WriteGirl. More on that and other great places to rid yourself of that pesky extra money (Vince Vaughan, are you listening?) later this month, as well.

What the hell was I doing, then, in this month off from writing publicly? A whole lot of thinking. And hashing out. And bouncing stuff off of various trusted resources. I laid out my fears and hopes and baby dreams, my ideas and tentative to-do list, my wildly burdensome sackful of unfulfilled obligations and bad karmic debts.

Here's what I found: I am only interested in what I am interested in. And I cannot be interested in spending one second of the 40-some-odd years I have left (if I'm lucky) doing something that compromises my own voice.

I get that for as many champions as I had at the publishing house for those first few sample chapters filled with poop and laughs, I had an equal amount of detractors, and I get why: it was filled with at least as much poop as it was laughs, and that is starkly terrifying for some people. The truth, and certainly my truth (which, in fairness to me, is what I'd been asked to share), but no less terrifying for being so.

It is scary to sign on for the truth; it can be imprudent. Risk is always, um, risky. That's why it's called "risk," right? Risk can seem especially risky in uncertain economic times. Unfortunately, there is no real living without risk. No growth, no change and certainly, no love.

So for now, I am going to be That Asshole who is not following up on the incredibly unusual, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to float a novel out there at the request of an Actual Publisher. I have a plan, though, for a lot of other cool, growth-oriented, change-promoting, fabulosity-increasing stuff. A BIG plan, which will start to unfold in posts on this very site over the course of December and through the next year.

• I'm going to start sharing more excellent resources here, like I do in my beloved (by me and a growing number of readers) newsletters.
• I'm going to lighten the fuck up a little, like I used to do, because sweet baby jesus on a bouncing kangaroo, if ever we needed more lightness, we need it now.
• I'm going to post more plain, old useful tutorials here, about communications tools and how to feel the opposite of useless and maybe even ways of attracting a little more plain, old-fashioned love into your life. Because the more of us who are making meaningful contact and changing the world with our unique gifts and yes, goddammit, getting laid, the better off we're going to be.

I'm also going to be dramatically shifting the direction of my work-for-hire life. And making it public, and maybe even soliciting your help in getting the word out. Because (say it with me) MONEY IS AWESOME! and while my now almost-year-long almost-sabbatical has been awesome in its own way, it's time to get down with the facts that: (a) I can't do everything for free forever; and (b) if I can support myself in a modest way that also allows for the flexibility of a great deal more travel, I can get out there in the real world like I did in October and November, and meet more of you in person, Southwest be damned!

In the meantime, since you're a loyal reader of the blog (or one of the few lost souls who has found his way here looking for something of an entirely different nature, and so you know, that last link is 100% not safe for work), I'm going to share with you a work-in-progress preview of my formal "Hire Colleen!" page:

Colleen's Super-Secret, Hire-the-Communicatrix Page

I will still be available for design work in 2009, but only for a select few projects and only after we've gone through an initial consulting thingamajiggy. I'm a fair-to-middling designer, good, even, when inspired. Thing is, I've been inspired less and less to use my design skills and more and more to do what I truly love: to help provide marketing focus to overwhelmed, go-getting, world-changing rockstars, particularly by showing you how to manage the increasingly complex (but brilliantly cheap and flexible) social media space.

Again, as with so much of this, more on that later. But really, for the first time in well over a year, I'm really clear on what I want to be doing, and thus really, REALLY excited about doing it.

With a vengeance.

With bells on.

With all the excitement and fervor and, let's face it, sense of urgency that starting a major phase of work life at age 47 entails.

I thank you for the amazing support I've received so far. I hope to take it less for granted moving forward, and to do more stuff that is more fun and more useful for you and the rest of the world (a.k.a. those people who don't know about us yet).

Finally, if you have any thoughts, ideas or questions, tutorials you'd like me to write, issues you'd like me to address, please do leave them in the comments, or if they're of a very personal nature, you can email them to me via the gmail.

I cannot WAIT for all of this to start. And fortunately, I don't have to. Because it just did...

xxx
c

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

What I'm giving myself for my fourth anniversary

Mary Ellen called it in the comments of the last post: I have my life set up, like it or not, around accountability.

I make appointments and agreements out loud and publicly to keep myself on track and actually producing, rather than just musing about it. It's why I started this blog four years ago today, to externalize my process, in the hope of getting clear on my own inner workings. And to (hopefully) be helpful by sharing some of this knowledge I gained so, so late in the goddamned game. (No prodigy, I.)

I also did it to become a better writer, by which I mean a writer who is particularly good at it in her own, particular way, and also a writer who actually writes. Because a writer who doesn't write is just another schmuck who ought to go do something of actual utility, like raising responsible citizens who engage in critical thinking, or scrubbing toilets at a 99-seat theater, or raising money for starving people in ravaged parts of the world.

I'm kind of stuck being a writer, or a communicator, or the communicatrix, rather, because I'm not that all-fire great at being anything else. I'm a decent designer and an okay actress, but the amount of energy I need to expend to do those things at any level of excellence makes them a lousy ROI for me and, I'm feeling more and more, the world. We've all of us got to figure out what we're the very, very best at, and what we're here to do to make the world a better place, and just do the hell out of that thing. Did I wish I was a genius designer? Oh, yes. Did I hope to change the world from a slightly raised proscenium? Damned straight.

Alas, those were not to be my platforms. They were great training grounds for picking up necessary skills, but they're not the Big Show.

This is the big show. This, this. For better or for worse, externalizing my process. And, with a little continued good fortune in the right direction, helping other people to discover and disseminate their own fabulosity*.

So in the same way that I use Arno J. to help me in my practice of morning reflection, my shrink to help me in my practice of emotional honesty and my marketing coach to help me in my practice of business, I have decided to engage a little external help to kickstart my writing practice. That's right, those of you who clicked that last link: I've joined the ranks of the NaNoWriMo-heads, and am going to slam out a shitty first draft of a novel I was asked to write over a year ago.

Asked to write. By a major publishing house. On a theme wildly dear to my heart. Over a year ago.

Sometimes, I have to pause to reflect on how truly asinine I can be. Because really, it's spectacular, albeit in a horrifying way.

I actually turned in sample chapters at the beginning of this year, which were, to my surprise and delight, much beloved by the editorial team. But the people who would actually have had to sell the book? Let's just say I got a big "yes" on the voice, and a not-so-much on the execution.

I've put it off long enough. Now I either do it or dump it off the "to-do" list for the foreseeable future, and move on. And, as Marketing Coach sez, that's asinine. No one gets asked to write a novel. No one who's never written a proven one, anyway.

So I will sign off for now, as I have a great deal of writing to do. I will not sign off for a month, though if I write less of substance here, perhaps you will be understanding and forgiving.

I will, of course, continue observing my current writing obligations, including the monthly newsletter (next issue out this Wednesday, subscribe here) and the monthly acting column.

Wish me luck. Stay in touch. Keep on living your life out loud.

xxx c

Image of a geranium, the fourth-anniversary flower, by Swami Stream via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

*That's also very much writing-related, but also involves moving increasingly into speaking and consulting. Which I'm doing, but which is not the particular focus of this piece. If you're interested in either of those things:

• me, coming to speak to your group about how to use marketing and social media to get your message to the Peoples or...
• me, working with you in a consulting-type fashion, to help you sort out what message you're trying to put out to the world and how to make sure it's elegant, accessible, "you" and focused like a motherfucking laser beam...

...you should email me. Seriously. All these crazy skillz I picked up during my travels through advertising, performing and graphic-designing are proving extraordinarily useful at helping people sort out their shit in a non-painful, actually-fun sort of way.

What do you do for an encore?

There's a terror in doing something for the first time, of course.

Will I do well? Will I do it "right"? Will I even make it through to the end in one piece? Will they like me?

What is more terrifying, by far, is to do the next thing. Even if you do well. Especially if you happen to do it well.

There are no expectations the first time around; if there are, they're served up with a healthy side of slack. Or an outright escape hatch. It was her first time; she didn't know what she was doing. What's your excuse the second time, though? Or the third, or the fourth?

Or do you just quit while you're ahead?

The technical term for it is sophomore slump: the almost-inevitable let-down of the follow-up. After all, you have your whole life to make your first album, and 12 months to make the next. God help you if you break world records out of the gate, because what next? Do you break your own record? Do you jump into a new game?

I go through a minor version of this every time I write a post that goes over fairly well; after a series that goes well, my performance anxiety becomes almost crippling. And this is me, writing for (at most) a thousand or so souls. What is it like to be Stephen King? Or even Anne Lamott? No wonder Heather Armstrong feels like pulling down the shades and crawling under the table sometimes.

The deeper I get into doing any kind of "real" writing, the more I understand the need for a daily practice for anyone passionate about his work. You've got to keep the gears oiled, yes, but it's also about not getting precious with your output. No, lightning may not strike twice in the same place, but were you doing it for that flash that lights up the sky and disappears just as quickly, or were you doing it because it was something in you that needed expressing, even better, was it something outside of you that needed to move through you to find expression in that moment, in that way.

My job, just like your job, just like everyone's job, is to keep myself oiled and ready, flexible and light on my feet, in the best possible shape to let the spirit (or whatever) move freely through me. I'm only human, and just like the next gal, I get hung up on stats and kudos and other public endorsements of my fabulosity (which really isn't mine at all). But that is frippery; it's not a job.

Buddhists sit every day not to achieve a state of enlightenment or bliss, but because it is good practice to sit every day. The learning comes through the sitting, but the learning is also the sitting itself: the sitting down to practice, the discipline of doing it daily, the humility of seeing a string of days, stretching out into infinity.

Well, your idea of infinity; we're all of us pretty damned finite, when you get down to it.

Before the nudges among you get all fired up, no, this does not mean I will be writing in here every day from now on. I am thinking, however, that it's time to get much more disciplined about writing every day from now on. Finite time, limited resources.

Some days, I will hit the bullseye. Most days, I will most likely truck along, holding my own, doing fine.

What I pray for, or would, if I was a prayin' woman, is the courage to fail gloriously.

Then? I'd know I was getting somewhere...

xxx c

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 21: Home, sweet home base

I do likes me a grand finale. Yes, I do.

For mine, I pulled off a 60-minute presentation with nothing but my bare hands and a stack of index cards. You shoulda been there. (Well, some of you were. Hi! It was kinda fun, huh? Just rolling with it?)

Somewhere along the line, I taught myself how to improvise. Some of it was intentional; some of it was...well...not. But it really is all good.

Every piece of goodness and weirdness and what-the-hell-is-this-ness can move forward with us to inform the next thing. Do your work. Prepare like a motherfucker. Then let the hell go.

Because as one who's planned a wedding and a career path and countless other Virgo-type Things with Outcomes, I'll tell you flat-out: you cannot control what will happen.

The restaurateur will use your carefully thought-out seating plan as a coaster and set up whatever two-, six- and 12-tops his people feel like. You will be waved onto the express lane for success and find the speeds make you carsick.

Thank god. The good stuff is what happens in the in-between spaces. The stuff you plan for, not the stuff you plan.

Three weeks of so much unexpected good stuff. Months (I hope) of unpacking ahead of me.

Thank you, Seattle. Thank you everyone along the way, and here and there, and everywhere, who came along for the ride.

Let's see what kind of trouble we can stir up on our respective home fronts, shall we?

xxx c

Staying Away in Seattle, Day 20: Home, sick

This is the mug that stares back at me every time I pick up my phone.

It never fails to cheer, but for the past few days, it's also filled me with homesick longing.

There's no question about it: Seattle is a great town. It feels about as warm and welcoming as a place could be. I've made scads of new acquaintances, reconnected with old ones and even run into a few random L.A. types also up here escaping the desert heat.

And this trip itself has been wildly invigorating and deeply gratifying. I'd come hoping for some perspective and was rewarded not only with that (and in spades), but absolute confirmation that direction I've come out of this year of wandering with is the right one.

No wonder this place has started to feel like home.

Today, though, for the first time, the pull to go home-home felt stronger than the desire to stay here. I don't doubt that The BF having to cancel his plans to fly up, hang out, and drive back has something to do with it. We've been apart for a month today, and that's too long for people who have some kind of choice in the matter.

I'm also fairly sure that actual sickness has something to do with it. I went to bed last night feeling not-great and woke up feeling even worse: a return of the exact same symptoms I had before starting this trip. That kind of symmetry I can do without.

When you're physically low, a little sick, a little tired, a little cold, a little hot, whatever small thing you might be going through seems magnified. And when you're a little homesick and a little sick into the mix? You miss your babies something fierce. Technically, I don't have to vacate the Fabulous (Temporary) Bachelorette Pad until Monday. But given the circumstances, I'm cutting it short by a couple of days and heading back Saturday.

Wave to me on the I-5.

Oh, and wish me luck on my last day at home before I go home...

xxx c

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 19: Putting it together

Sometimes, the only way you get stuff done is just to commit to it and make a leap of faith.

Like this presentation I'm giving on Friday.

Hell, like this entire trip, while we're at it.

You form an intention, you get as organized and prepared as you can, and then...

You jump.

It's what I'll be talking about on Friday, when I share what I've learned about connecting with people online with a bunch of people in the Actual Real World. Am I the king-god-be-all of Internet fabulosity? Please.

On the other hand, I went in with the vaguest of intentions, to develop my voice, to share what I knew, and made it work, so I figure that if these people have some clear objectives and can fold in the stuff I've learned? Soufflé time, baby.

Right now, the chef's gotta get back to the kitchen.

More soon...

xxx c

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 18: Into every life, a little rain must fall

I suppose it's a sign of how fantastically, beyond-my-wildest-dreams awesome this trip has been that the little bit of rain I got sprinkled with today so thoroughly dampened my spirits.

Truth be told, I didn't have too many dreams coming up here. Expectations, either. I suspected that this would be a trip that would give me some perspective, and it has. I suspected that it would force me out of the rut I'd gotten into, and it has: in a thousand tiny ways, I've been forced out of my comfort zone.

In a thousand other ways, though, I've felt myself slipping back in.

Witness the red* card in the picture above.

I've been here, in Seattle, for 18 days now. Hawk-eyed viewers will note there are 12 punches on the card; I turned it in today for my 13th cup, free. That's 13 cups of coffee at the same place 18 days.

Yes, I've sampled coffee in lots of other Seattle establishments. A couple of Portland ones, too. That's still 13** cups of coffee in one place, in a town that's lousy with exceptional coffee.

I've eaten at proportionally more places, but have still managed to eat the same (fantastic) Greek salad topped with gyros from the same neighborhood restaurant three times now***.

The forces of habit are, shall we say, exceptionally forceful. You can run from them, but you cannot hide; they run faster, and I'm pretty sure they all have GPS. So it was with a sick sense of recognition that I felt fury rise in me this afternoon when confronted with what is, in the face of all the horrific shit going down in the world today, a ridiculously small disappointment: The BF has to cancel his trip up here.

It means no BF until I get back, and very little of him before he heads to the Midwest for his selfless volunteer tour of duty as Driver-of-Early-Voters-to-the-Polls-in-a-Swing-State (plus seeing his kids who, let's face it, really need to see him much more than we need to see each other.)

It means the happy pictures I'd painted of us tromping around Seattle for a couple of days are melting away like so many (fairly elaborate, but still) chalk paintings on the sidewalk. It means being apart on his birthday. It means driving the 1,100 miles back home alone.

It means things changed, just like things change all the time. Just like things have changed moment to moment, day to day on my entire trip. Only instead of rolling with the changes like I've been doing so far, turning into them to see what new fabulosity lies around the corner, I have, for some reason, clung stubbornly to my vision of how things were supposed to be.

Supposed to be? Nothing on this trip so far has unfolded like it was supposed to: that is what's made it so fantastic.

The good news here (among much other good news received today, including the speedier-than-expected recovery of a dear friend from a serious surgery, while we're putting things into perspective) is that I was able to deploy my ninja skillz of bullshit-dispelling to great effect, with relative ease. I leaned into the disappointment hard, then took my sorry, self-pitying ass for a vigorous, uphill walk. By the time I'd reached the top of the hill and headed back, I had things back in their proper perspective. Well, pretty much.

I still don't know what will happen next, but I know I will not cling to what I believed might happen before.

It is harder to be in flow than you think.

It is easier to get back in than you give yourself credit for.

It's good to remember both of those things.

xxx c

*Which, shot as it was with the world's greatest handheld computational device, admittedly looks more orange than red. The iPhone makes a much better computational device than it does a camera.

**Maybe more. I had a several cups at this place before I discovered they had punch cards, and while I did ask for a few retroactive punches, I was too embarrassed to ask for all of them. Junkies get defensive and shit.

***And have the ill-fitting pants to prove it.

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 17: Other people's omelet pans

You know you have made yourself at home when...

...the coffee people start making your order as you walk in.

...people on the street ask you for directions.

...you finally coax a Los Angeles omelet from your friend's Seattle stovetop.

Two weeks down; one week to go.

Here.

And then?

The rest of my life, just like here.

"Here" being "wherever it takes me"...

xxx c

Staying Awake in Seattle, Days 16: PDX, PDQ, Part the second

The whole of the Pacific Northwest is pretty beautiful, and the bits around Seattle especially so, but there's something about Portland that says "home" to me.

It may be because of its size: Seattle is smaller than New York, Chicago or Los Angeles, but it still feels like a big city.

It's also a little fancier than its sister to the South. Okay, a lot fancier. It's not formal, by any stretch of the imagination, but it's a little more decked out, a little less grubby. Fancy.

Portland, on the other hand, reminds a great deal of Chicago, specifically, the tiny, homey Chicago of my childhood. 1960s Chicago, when we had three good restaurants and the Loop and a big, fat chip on our collective Big Shoulder because we weren't New York. Only Portland doesn't feel like it has a chip. It feels a little working class, a little crunchy, a little fanatical (hello, foodies! hello, bikers! I'm talkin' to you!) and okay with it. My pal, Robert, who's lived there for some time now, says it's really just a grimy old port town that got classed up. So is Seattle, for that matter, but I guess there's a lot more money up here, because there's a lot more visible class.

Anyway, if it felt incredibly wrong to blow by Portland on my way up the I-5, it felt truly thrilling to take a little side trip back down there in the middle of my stay up here.

First, there's the middling-longish drive there: three hours each way. Yeah, I'm a lousy citizen, burning extra dinosaur bones rather than hitting it on the way up or back, but I haven't found the thing yet that jogs stuff loose in my brain like a middling-longish drive.

And after a couple of weeks of doing new stuff here, believe it or not, I'd fallen into a groove. It felt good to jump out of it, and really good to jump back into PDX to change it up. I stayed in the same hotel, walked the same streets, went to the same restaurant (sweet baby jeebus, that place is good), shopped in the same bookstore. I did meet one new former imaginary Internet friend, but hung out with two old ones, including my first shrink/astrologer. I talked change with my shrink, who has known me over 20 years now; I talked shop with Havi, whom I've known for about 20 weeks, I think. (I talked about everything from sex to writing to money with Robert, but we are weird.)

More than anything, I'm realizing this an idea-collecting trip. Or maybe an idea-coalescing trip. Or maybe both. I needed this distance from my L.A. surroundings and routine to start seeing how all these pieces of things I've been toying with for the past 12 months fit together. I'll be heading back in about a week, but it will be a back that's forward.

New business plan. New project order. New excitement for life in general.

Backwards to go forwards. Or just stopping, so you can go, period.

Remind me of this when I'm home, would you?

xxx c

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 15: PDX, PDQ, Part the first

I'm an extreme creature of habit, part of the reason for my current Shake Things Up in '08 Tour. so when I decided to take a side trip to Portland, I pretty much resigned myself to staying where The BF and I stayed last year, the ultra-groovy Jupiter Hotel, with its Hipster Seal of Approvalâ„¢.

I say "resigned" because as a certified Cranky Old Lady, I had a few problems with the Jupiter the first time we stayed there. Like the room that was so small, I could touch the door and the window/wall from the bed by pointing my toes and stretching. Like the party vibe, college dorm fraternizing vibe and noise levels. To be fair, they warn that it's a "high energy" hotel, but until you have to be peeled off the ceiling at 3am by your boyfriend because a drunk, albeit friendly hipster with a 12-pack of PBRs who doesn't realize that the party is not, in fact, in your room or that his very loud knock mere millimeters from your head sounded like a home invasion, you have no idea. Really.

Still, in true Adult Child of an Alcoholic fashion, the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. Plus, I was going to be having dinner with my former shrink/astrologer at the awesome Le Pigeon (foie gras profiteroles! lamb heart flatbread!), right across the street. Plus, I knew how to get there from the freeway. Er, sort of.

So I logged onto their website and booked me an expensive, fancy motel room. And then, stung a bit by sticker shock (it was definitely cheaper when we booked last year, by a lot), I made the fatal mistake of searching for better rates on a few travel sites, and discovered one for NINE DOLLARS LESS!

I do not take these things lying down anymore, so I immediately dashed off a sweet plea to Whom It May Concern at Jupiter:

I just booked through your site and then saw on Kayak.com that I could have saved a whopping NINE BUCKS on the room. Which ain't the end of the world and you're nice and all, but really, these are hard times and nine bucks is nine bucks.

So do you think you could just throw in parking for that one night, and we'll call it even? (Happy to give you the extra buck.) Seems much easier than cancelling the reso and rebooking.

Thanks!

xxx c

P.S. Stayed here last year, if that gets me anything. Probably not, but what the hell.

Imagine my surprise when, just a few minutes later, I received this lovely, accommodating email from on Al Munguia, the Actual General Manager of the Joint!

you got it.. free parking.. and i'll throw in a bottle of voss water as well.

Figuring I might as well go for the Full Monty and leverage my incredible popularity as a Blogger of Creative Nonfiction, I fired off one more email:

Upgrade this old bag to a room that the drunk hipsters will steer clear of and there's a sweet blog post in it for you. (We had an, um, interesting 3am visitor last time. It was like getting the EMT paddles, boy howdy.)

Unfortunately, I did not hear back from my pal, Al, so I started girding my loins for the inevitable 3am visit from one of my Higher Energy fellow hotel guests, figuring that was that.

How delighted was I, then, upon my arrival to find that not only had my parking been comped, but that I'd been upgraded to a bigger room! This one had a desk, a closet area and a sleeping area all in different quadrants, and there was an actual walk from the bed to the door. SCORE!

I'd never had an issue with the taste level of the place or the niceness level of the employees. They are all super-great, and the place is about ninety times cooler than any home of mine will ever be. They have groovy amenities like free apples and coffee, if you are old and cranky, and the ultra-fab Doug Fir Lounge, host to many hipster musical acts, if you are not. The beds are extra-comfy with good mattresses and nice bedding: I slept like a log in my Bed that Was A Walk From the Door, although I took the preventive measure of (free) earplugs this time, too; you can see them, here, in the desk drawer, alongside the in-room copy of The Four Agreements, which I call the world's most genius hipster replacement for the Gideon bible.

For all I like to knock the noise, the Jupiter puts the same level of care and attention to detail into your experience as the Four Seasons does, albeit with funkier style and at a (much) lower price point. Eco-cool toiletries, great copy on everything from the website to the guest feedback card, Muppet-skin slipcover on the bolster.

So it's kind of baffling when they hand you your impeccably designed Windshield Parking Pass that they don't explain the tiny garage will most likely be full, and that you can park in an overflow lot across the street from it. (The nice girl explained that part to me when I checked out.) Or that, since there were no spots, you tell them, and you parked on the street, they offered to take the parking charge off your bill which had been comped when you checked in. (Huh?)

Or, for that matter, the lack of a TV remote. Looked up and down for that sucker; maybe hipsters like their TV old skool.

But I quibble. If you're 30 or under and aren't from the Bible Belt (on purpose, anyway), you'll probably love it. A young 30 to 40? Ditto.

40+? Well, The BF loved it. He is a young almost-46. I was an old 26, so I'm probably not the best judge.

I am, despite all signs that I might not be, a fan. Al, I'll be back.

Although next time, I really, really want one of those parking spaces...

xxx c

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 14: Seeing things clearly

After a morning's worth of work that was weak by any yardstick, I threw my hands in the air (like I just didn't care) and trundled myself down to yet another fabulous eatery* to meet Cuz, my benefactrix for this stay.

During said lunch (and an unplanned stop afterward for not-to-be-missed Honey-Lavender ice cream), the real work of the day began.

Surprise, surprise.

I will not knock hard work. Hard, focused work. Because without stretches of Hard, Focused Work, nothing of real importance gets made: books; buildings; the perfect recipe for Honey-Lavender ice cream.

Maybe, though, we could ease up on ourselves for the times when we're not working hard. (At least, those of us in the Overachiever Club.) (Of course, the rest of you don't read this blog.)

Cuz and I, as it turns out, work the same way. (Work-work, I mean, the kind where, at the end of a stretch of it, you can point to a bunch of stuff and say "I made this!", just like the boy at the end of the show.) Like hell on wheels, then barely at all.

Only as it turns out, during the not-Work time I'm still working. When I go for a long walk to give my brain a break and my body some exercise, I'm working, because I'm processing. When I spend time with people, old friends, new acquaintances, my shrink (ahem), I'm working, because I'm getting feedback, exchanging information. When I step back and muse, reviewing my past week or planning my next one, I'm working, because I'm giving myself better lenses through which to view, so I can make sure I'm working efficiently.

Part of what I'm beginning to get is my Whack Job Savant Freak Superpower is to see stuff. Where things are broken, where things could be clarified, where things can be tossed. I can see what needs to change so people can communicate their messages more clearly, well, really well, with other people; not quite as clearly with myself.

But I'm getting there. Day by "unproductive" day, week by not-as-planned week.

And soon, I hope, I'll be able to tell you how you can get there, too.

xxx c

*Seriously, do you Seattleites have any bad restaurants?

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 13: Driving rain

For a place that's been about 75% sunny and blue-skied since I've been here, people squawk an awful lot about rain.

I'm happy with it, and even happy going out in it, provided I've got the appropriate footwear and rain gear. Relentless sunshine ain't all it's cracked up to be, either. (Come on: you've never read Day of the Locust? You should, dammit.)

It was off-and-on sunny/cloudy/drizzly today, which as I understand it, is how things work most days here. It's cool. For some reason, I was unable to get my motor running today. Less cool, but yesterday was a big People Day, and while I love my People Days, they do wear me out.

So outside of what has become my daily pilgrimage to see Matt & Co. for my daily caffeine fix, I holed up and did a lot of puttery bidness. I'd have been happy to continue on into the evening in this fashion, just me, some Greek takeout and the cable. (Mmm...cable...)

But tonight, my Hostess with the Mostess, a.k.a. my local benefactrix, was flying in. And, well, when someone gives you use of her phat bachelorette pad for a month AND makes you hand-drawn maps, you must step up where needed, even if you're not asked to. Which, for the record, I was not. She's my cousin, though. By marriage, and in a wackadoo way, but it adds up.

Anyway, a long day of emailing and texting back and forth about routes and flights and plans would have made most people more ready, not less. I, however, am not most people. I am a neurotic nutjob who is really, really good at the thin slice of things she's good at (writing, performing, helping people get their shit together) and Olympic-level suck at everything else.

Driving inclusive. Driving in the rain at dusk with middle-age eyesight in a strange city? Fuggedaboutit.

I left plenty of time. I wrote out instructions. I printed out, by hand, as I've no printer locally, her instructions, mapped it on the Google two ways, and triangulated all three. I talked myself there, literally*.

I made it to the Cell Phone Waiting Area and cooled my heels there, obsessively playing Wurdle. For...a long time: I was early; her plane was late; her bag was really, really late.

There was a brief respite when Cuz finally got in the car. I still drove, but she was there riding shotgun to distract and direct me. We had some complex maneuvering having to do with picking up cars and dropping them off in various parts of the dark, wet city. The whole time, me clocking stuff, or trying to, so I could find my way back. Never mind that I was in a major U.S. city with the world's finest handheld navigational device: I am NOT a pioneer. If the West had been depending on me, it would still be scrub and desert. Anyone could drink my milkshake.

I found my way back to the apartment, simple, I suppose, just like Cuz had said.

A weird sort of glow started building when I recognized those last few turns, including the Super-Secret Batcave Entrance.

I parked in a space I now recognized, used a key that had become familiar to climb a flight of stairs I knew, and let myself back into the apartment that I have come to call home. And it felt like home: as much as any home I've lived in. With my three black sweaters and three pairs of jeans, my funky table that's my new office, my fresh pile of laundry, the second, since I've been here, ready to be put away.

Time and people and pushing my boundaries just a bit have made this place feel like the best kind of home I've ever known. Imperfectly perfect. Sanctuary.

And, like the commercials say: knowing that with enough time and effort, I can make anyplace feel like home?

Priceless...

xxx c

*Is it just me, or is everyone talking to themselves a lot more as we go careening downhill towards our collective doom. My god, the aisles at Target are getting to be like the stairwells threading through the tower of Babylon.

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 12: Hump day

Believe it or not (and I barely can), I'm halfway through my trip up north. In this much time again, I'll be back in the E-Z-Bake Oven, although I hope it's cooled off by then. With The BF. And the Little Boy in a Dog Suit.

I miss them both terribly; I was kind of unprepared for how much. I've missed Significant Others before, but this is my first long time away from a family dog, and while I always missed my Samela, you kind of knew a cat didn't give much of a rat's ass about you being there or not, provided he was provided for. At least, Sam didn't. (That's what happens to foster beings who are shunted from place to place: wherever they end up, they end up wary.)

On the other hand, I'm already a little wistful about heading back. On the downward slope, time rolls by faster. It's harder when you're acclimating; you note every awkward moment, every wrong turn, every minor bit of discomfort induced by newness.

I think I learn things more deeply when I'm challenged, as well. A bit out of my element, I notice more, perhaps. I take more care, I take less for granted. I wonder, will I learn as much or as truly in this next couple of weeks as I did during the first?

The good news is that I've done some amazing processing on this trip so far. I've shrugged off a goodly amount of old stuff I've been carrying for some time, and am starting to feel comfortable in my newly exposed skin. It feels crazy-wild, liberating and free. It feels awesome.

The bad news is...

Well, there's not much in the way of bad news. For me, personally, anyway. The world could use a little help right now, but it probably always did, and again, I'm only uncomfortable enough now to notice.

So if you would, please wish me luck going into the second half. I have a great deal of work to do, and not what I thought I'd have on my plate. It's all good; I just need to focus.

And while you're at it, maybe wish the world well, too. In whatever your chosen form: reaching out to a grumpy-pants, watering a flower, holding back from spewing venom-in-kind. It's easy to spew, no matter which side of the divide you're standing on. But it's bridge-building we need now.

We will all of us get over the hump. Let go and breathe. Be good to yourself and to the person sitting next to you. Slow down. Or speed up, depending.

Let's none of us flip out on this downward slope. Let's just keep ourselves just a little bit uncomfortable, and awake, and aware of the people around us.

I will if you will...

xxx
c

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 11: Coffee and crumpets

You take for granted that it will be sunny every day when you live in a place like Los Angeles.

You take as a given that you will never, ever build up the kind of network in a new town that you've built over 16 years in the same town.

And then...you come to Seattle.

Don't get me wrong: I appreciate living in L.A. As The BF says, one appreciates it even more when one is forced to spend a little time in a place like rural Indiana, or Orlando, Florida, or anywhere in Texas but Austin. It ain't that there ain't natural beauty in these places; it's achingly beautiful in Southern Indiana, and I'm fond of the scrubby terrain in Texas. (Orlando? Well. Two outta three ain't bad.)

I like being in places where people like me. Or at least, don't dislike me automatically because I'm a little weird or a little Jewish. Yeah, I can pass (kind of) for a normal lady or a Good Christian*, but it's like wearing a really gnarly bra or Spanx all day: at some point, you just wanna pop off the harness, unhitch the top button of your pants and let you be you be you.

So.

I come here, to a place that purports to freeze out newcomers and am greeted with nothing all around but the most warm and splendid of welcomes. So much so that I'm almost overwhelmed, and I'm certainly not getting as much writing done as I'd thought I would. Back in sunny L.A., I envisioned day after day of me, holed up in my writer's getaway. Sneaking moody, vaguely lonely glances out the window at an emerald city cloaked in wet gray. Taking an hour's break in the afternoon to trudge uphill through the mists for a good, strong cup of coffee to get me through the rest of the day.

I had no idea I'd end up with a busier social schedule than I ever have in my 16-year home base of L.A.

As one of my new-non-imaginary friends, Dave Hardwick** said today, "It probably wouldn't have happened, though, without the blog." And he's right: it's all this time online that has enriched my Actual Real Life these past 10 days. It's enriched my Actual Real Life for the past four years, putting me in touch with all kinds of like-minded souls who, for myriad reasons, would never have walked through any of the theater doors that introduced me to my older (and still excellent) tribe***. Not to mention The BF. (Getting us together is what I like to think of as the last great act of the now dubious Spring Street Networks.)

The weather thing? Well, that kind of blindsided me. You'd think that a gal who suffers constant sunshine would be able to pass it up. But just a few days of gray and I get why everyone here heads outside when it's not. This? Would be a tough thing to overcome.

I spent a good, long time talking to Dave because frankly, the time flew by. And then I spent a good, long time walking back to the Temporary Bachelorette Pad, longer than needed, for sure.

But I'm not especially worried. This is not a time for worry, not about this, anyway. Worry about the world, worry about all of us going to hell in a handbasket made in China that we can't begin to pay for, but never worry about spending time with people you really, really dig when the opportunity presents itself. It may not again, soon. (It may, but it may not.)

Besides, on your deathbed, you will never regret the time you spent with coffee and crumpets.

xxx c

*And I'll say right here that the most Christian-like person I've ever known was my sweet, sweet Gram. She loved everyone, to hell with color or creed. Especially babies. And the favorite slogan of this little Jewish lady born in Des Moines, Iowa at the turn of the previous century? "Mix it up! Black, white, Chinese, mix it up!" Wise woman.

**Dave is just a spectacular guy, the kind of guy I'm sure I'd put on my "Regular See" list if I lived here (as is Karrie, my doppelganger, oy, whadda week so far!) And, from hearing about his wife and her writerly exploits, on the short list of Regular Couples Hangs as well. Hell, I he had me at his blog. He's a tech dude who writes about The Way In, just like I do, from a different angle. All roads lead to Rome, baby.

***I'm so charged up about the Internet and social media, I'm going to give a little sermon of praise for it before I leave. Come by, if you're here. It'll be fun!

Staying Awake in Seattle, Day 10: The bu-u-u-u-us

It's full-on Seattle weather, finally.

I celebrated by wearing wool socks, an undershirt and taking the bus. Or, as The BF calls it, "the bu-u-u-u-us."

Yes, I have my car here, but I am not much for driving, even in L.A. So when I am in a place with public transit that kinda-sorta works, I roll with it. Tonight's ride was one straight shot, no transfers, and a chance to look out the window at the rain-soaked city.

Well, okay, to peek at the rain-soaked city in between glimpses at the GPS on my iPhone. It's fun to watch the little dot that is you move across the map that is your route.

I had an amazing dinner at an amazing place (to be Yelped, soon) with an amazing Also-Newly-Non-Imaginary friend.

The Internet is great, but without real life attached to it, it loses much of its value. Like most tools, the Internet can be used or abused. (And for those of you abusing it in a particular way, that's your bidness, but keep it to yourself, yeah?)

Tonight I used my iPhone to help me get to dinner, to meet a new friend I met on the Internet. (Who, to neatly tie things up with a ribbon, eschews cell phones).

Technology in the service of connection. Rain. Dinner with friends.

All as it should be...

xxx c