Counterbalance

There Will Be Time

As I am not fond of overly trite resolutions and the big commercial lead up to New Year's Eve (amateur night for those who never venture out), I will let Eliot speak for me on an eve when we are, no doubt, taking stock and deciding what hopes and dreams and fears and demons we want to wrestle with in the coming year:

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
                       ...
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I care?' and, 'Do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair
                       ...
Do I dare Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
                       ...
--T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I wish you all (my three dear readers) the time this year to do what you want to do, to do what you must do, to do what you absolutely love to do and to challenge the universe a bit.  If nothing else, rest assured there is time to decide and re-decide and revise and re-revise.  A lovely thing for a writer.

The Day After the Big Day

She went out into it – suited up, booted up, hunkered down and did it.  She was prepared for the worst.  Elbowing, pushing, shoving.  Possibly, even, name calling.  Crazy consumers stealing spots in line and feigning disinterest to throw others off kilter (are you looking at that? that is not something I would want. ever. who would buy that? look away, look away. ah-hah, tricked you. now its MINE.) as they lunge forward for passed-over ornaments and smashed up wire ribbon at fifty percent off.  The possibility for ugliness, the chance of seeing the dark side of Christmas, was high. 

In a sick sort of way, this is what she wanted.  This bizarre holiday madness that requires seemingly normal people to spend money they do not have on gifts for people they do not love…all for the lead up.  The big day. The 25^th. This particular brand of frenzied need had been on display all month.  Yet, she had avoided it all.  Had not stepped foot in a shop for months just to be sure. But today – today was different. It was 25 hours after the madness of the 25^th.  Those who sprinted toward the finish line selflessly buying for others were back, and they were ready to shop for themselves.

This, she decided, she had to see.  She didn’t need a thing.  Had nothing specific in mind. Just wanted to see the post-Christmas dance.  Up close and nutty.

She walked among the wide, empty streets in the pre-dawn mist.  The lights of the shops reflected on the wet windows, bounced off the slick sidewalks.  It was early. Too early.  There were barely signs of shoppers.  For a brief moment she thought she had gotten it wrong.  Maybe the stores are closed today.   But then she saw an open door to an empty shop.  And another and another.  There were sale signs in every window, in every carefully merchandised basket.  And yet -- no shoppers.  Just her.

It came to her slowly and then landed with delicious force – I am here alone in this store with these sales and it is just me.  Me and these things.  These things that I don’t need, but that are on sale.  Fifty percent off.  Plus 20.  I don’t have to fight to get them.  My elbows will remain unbruised.

The cool air still on her cheeks, pinking them up a bit while she remained bundled and warm in her winter coat, contented her -- made her just shy of festive. The rain and the coffee and the biscotti from a few moments before…slowly, collectively…became just too much for her to fight against.

She left with three soaps, a lovely candle, two leather-bound journals, a vintage-but-not coffee grinder and a new bowl for her bulldog.

Sometimes, she thought, a sale really is too good to pass up.  Especially when there's no chance of getting hurt.

Wiki Wants Me, That Much Is Clear

I've been exploring this fear of failure...in writing...and the need to press on regardless, because it is what I know I must do.  I have heard people say that writing is a disease you are lucky not to catch.  Whichever it is, I was reminded of a wonderful, quotable story about the fear of writing that had to do with someone saying writing is the only art in which the artist often avoids the thing it is they are supposed to be doing.  Take any art, or any non-traditional profession in which someone excels. Painters paint. Actors act. Tennis pros...play tennis.  You are only good at the thing because you do the thing...over and over again. But writers try so hard not to do the thing. It was more interesting than it sounds.  I'm not doing it justice. I liked it so much when I found it years ago that I wrote it out in longhand and actually framed it...had it up over my writing desk for years.  As soon as I made the connection, I busied myself to find it so I could post it.  Alas, in the pre-moving-boxes-everywhere craziness that has taken over our tiny apartment, it is nowhere to be found.

So where do I turn?  To a new Wiki toy.  Behold, my friends, WikiQuote.  Wiki clearly has a thing for me.  There's no other way to interpret its various offerings that are sent up into my line of sight like a flare off the bow of a sailboat -- off in the distance, but clear as day -- just when I need them most.  Who needs Bartlett's when you've got Wiki?  Giddy at the find of my new Wiki wonder (and flattered by Wiki's persistence), I searched for my long lost writers-who-don't-write quote.    WikiQuote has many things to offer.  My quote is not one of them.  But no matter.  I've found this instead:

"I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. "     --Joan Didion

And that, my dear readers, is Wiki for you.  I was flirting along, teasing quotes out of Wiki, knowing all the while that it might disappoint.  And just when I think I'm getting to the bad part of the date (when I realize Wiki will never change, no matter how much work I put in), Wiki tells it like it is.  I can't think of a more precise description of why I write.  I also can't think of a better way to state the unique whirlygig loopiness that is writing: you fear the writing, but you write to find what you fear and really, truly, the only way for a writer to work through the fear is, you guessed it, to write.

Thank you Joan.  Thank you Wiki.  Consider me humbled for the moment (if ever so briefly...) Pardon me while I slink off to actually do some writing.

Scaredy-Cat Writers Running for Cover

I'm doing it again.  I'm forgetting that I'm a writer and I'm pining for excellence at work.  I was inspired today, by a client.  We will call him...Client.  Client so clearly loves his work.  Client is a savvy business man, his company is poised for greatness.  Client is innovative, he embraces change, he is creative...but balances that with a need for profits.   Client's confidence and excitement and genuine joy for his work seeps out of every pore. I'm afraid it is contagious. 

On my long drive back from Orange County (a separate diatribe will be reserved for clients in Orange County...a certain blandness prevails), I found myself in rapid-fire how to improve my career mode.  The mental dialogue varies little, if at all.  Almost always, it goes something like this:

"I'm good at what I do.  Very good.  If I applied myself, I could be great.  I could open my own company.  I could make an impact, be well-known in the industry, be invited to speak. How do I leverage my current position at my company to eventually get to the top of my game? Maybe I should get my MBA after all.  That would really give me a leg up with all the experience I already have.  Maybe Client will hire me. Or maybe I should work for the competition? Hmmm, I wonder who is hiring.  I better research all the companies again, see what would be best for me, make some decisions.  Bigger office, even bigger expense account, more freedom, creative license, one day my own firm...I can see it all coming together..."

Yes.  All coming together.  If it weren't for that pesky writing career we are trying to have.

Before I even know what I've done, I've sent off resumes and spent hours researching financials of companies that might be "perfect" to launch my career into the next super-dynamo-wow-look-at-her-go phase.  Its only when I'm completing my third request for literature on yet another MBA program that it hits me.  Might, possibly....is there a chance.... this be a condition known as avoidance? Procrastination? Fear of not measuring up on the writing page so, hell, let's really measure up on some other page?

It would be fascinating if it weren't sad.  And unproductive.  And, well, common practice.  This happened to me last month.  And the one before.  What is it about writing that causes the writer to pursue ANY AND ALL alternative ways to expend energy to avoid the simple act of writing? And to up the ante (because we are trying to excel here, aren't we?), maybe it goes even further.  Perhaps the fear of failure at something that matters is so great, we'd really rather not stick around to be part of the failure.  Better to not try and not fail.  That would be far easier to stomach, than giving it everything you've got and finding that you come up short.  That your writing is lacking.  It's much less disappointing to be bad at something you don't care about anyway.  And if you excel at something you don't care about (read: me at my job), what then? It's still safer to excel at my job and possibly disappoint than to try to excel at writing and possibly disappoint.  Because I care about the writing too much.  Its the thing I care about the most. 

So hours later, I'm here with my empty pages, but with newly updated career insight under my belt. A few empty hours stretch before me and I've got the time to write.  But there is my book sitting unfinished...I only have two more chapters left to read. And there are all those blogs I didn't read today because I was gone.  And then comments I can post if I'm inspired.  And still the blank pages sit here.

What a scaredy-cat, indeed.

The Guts of Us

I’ve been thinking about our insides.  The health of them or the lack thereof. On the eve of my friend's surgery to check the state of the cysts on her only remaining ovary and after a weekend of watching the complete first season of House MD, I am struck by the degree to which our insides so rarely match up to our outsides.

My friend is in excellent shape, she eats very well and is always nagging the rest of us to eat better.  Not that we’re slouches – we all run, lift weights and eat our five a day.  Yet, she’s a drill sergeant when it comes to checking labels for partially hydrogenated oils, sucrose, fructose, lactose and all other toses that might, one day, give us something we’d rather not have.  So why her? Why is she the one who goes under the knife tomorrow? I’ve watched enough House MD to know it could be anything – or nothing -- she’s done.  And that is why I can’t stop thinking about our insides. The guts of us.

In a city that places so much value on how one looks, I see first hand every day what people do to measure up.  Nine times out of ten, what people do to look good on the outside – in the want it now, right now, 20 minutes or less world we live in -- is ruinous for the inside. I see women drinking Red Bull for breakfast and eating hot tamale candy for lunch (fat-free! few calories!).  They drink a diet coke, split a small salad with a friend for dinner and hit the gym. Healthy? No. Will it keep you thin? Yes.

There are more plastic surgeries performed here than anywhere else in the country.  I am surrounded by women who are modified, altered, rearranged.  They voluntarily go under the knife, get switched around and stitched back up. Feeling a little overweight and don’t want to wait the three months it would take to lose extra pounds the healthy way? Just cut them out.  Have a tummy tuck. Perhaps a little gastric bypass. Already thin but don’t have time to hit the gym to build muscle? No worries, get a few implants. Need to look good by next week? Never fear – do the seven day lemonade diet (wherein, yes, one is only allowed to drink lemonade) and you’ll drop 20 pounds in a week.

This would all be rather hilarious – outrageous even -- if it weren’t true. 

I can’t pretend I’ve sorted it all out, but I’ve gotten to this: there is no outer reward for inner health.  Men don’t check you out on the street because your arteries are looking good.  You don’t get compliments from co-workers when you’ve lowered your cholesterol or increased your iron count.  Yet if I slightly alter the shade of highlights in my hair, people notice.  If I lose five pounds or gain more definition in my arm muscle, I feel like I’m a prom queen.  The compliments are endless.  How backwards is that?  Yet in a city like LA, where such value is placed on appearances, its easy to see (or is it?) how people get caught up in the game. 

Of course, those who really are healthy inside, tend to look good on the outside.  But I’m not talking about those people.  I’m talking about the ones who harm their bodies in order to meet some arbitrary standard set by – who? Hollywood movie producers. Magazines. TV ads. I'm talking about those who want the results but don’t want to do the work. I could begin a long jag here about fast food being cheaper than healthy food, about couches and TV being more interesting than walking after dinner. But I won’t.

I would like to think there will be a day – for all of us – when the healthy living will pay off.  When our heart doctors shake their heads in confusion as our test results show – again – that while we may be 60, our heart still looks like its 40.

But here is where I get hung up. Whether you are healthy inside or not, there is no one there to know it when the truth comes out. Just you and your doctor.  Maybe close family and friends.

Those who spend so much time harming their bodies to look good may, after all, never have a thing wrong with them.  If they do, we will never know. And those - like my dear friend - who take such good care of the bodies they’ve been given, may have something wrong with them that can’t be fixed.

That just pisses me off.

Wiki Wisdom Humbles Me Again

I'm supposed to be writing.  Which is why I've commented on all your blogs and still am not ready to face the music of two short stories due in two weeks.  What kind of writer would I be if I did not drag out the Wiki drama until it was just about (not completely...but oh so close) dead on the tracks where I should have left it?  So, here's a little thing or two or three.  You'll need to brush up on Wiki posts to get the full...brunt. 

Observation #1: According to Wiki, "Wild ass may mean the wild donkey, or it may mean its wild relative the onager, also known as a "half ass" - animal of the horse family." Did you have any idea that a half-ass was an actual animal?  To be frank, we all half-ass things every day and I don't think we do so with an animal in mind.  I certainly don't, do you?  An alternative definition lists this (I did not make this up and I did not offer money as a bribe to post this, but my word this is delicious): A card game also known as "President." I've clearly underestimated the Wiki editors.

Observation #2: Wiki actually has an entry for "i told you so" which I pretended I would look up in jest after being a bit of a braggart about my wiki-worry-come-true. The details are many, so I'll leave it at this: Wiki says "There are no winners in the I told you so scenario, only losers."  This is where Wiki and I fall in love again.  Wiki, oh wiki, you speak truth to my soul...as long as I am not a loser in your edited-by-everyone-who-has-free-time book.

Observation #3 (and this is where it gets tricky, folks): Wiki has no entries for "self-indulgence" other than the mention of a punk band (nice, i grew up on punk) which is called, aptly, Mindless Self Indulgence.  As a woman (girl?) of my word, I searched dutifully on "self-indulgent writers" -- and guess what? Nothing.  So, deflated/elated, I ran a Wiki search on "writer" and what did I find? "Writers' output frequently contributes to the cultural content of a society, and that society may value its writerly corpus -- or literature -- as an art much like the visual arts."  This is where Wiki weighs in with the heavy stuff.  I'm trying to be cute and coy and Wiki delivers a punch.  Which, for me, adds pressure to the whole endeavor.

So I ask you, what do you consider to be writing that has contributed to the cultural content of society? What writing do you value? If you are a writer, does this notion challenge your view of what writing is about or does it fall in line with your thinking? 

And now, with a heavy heart and culturally aware mind, I return to the short stories that need fixing...cultural contribution or not.

Wiki Whoopsie

More evidence that the universe agrees with me universally (pardon the terrible pun). It seems that Wiki, dear Wiki, has gotten a little slap on the wrist. Okay -- a slap on the wrist is melodramatic.  Almost gossipy.  So call it what you will.  For 132 days, Wiki ran a post that falsely claimed John Seigenthaler Sr. had been suspected in the assassinations of the former Attorney General and his brother, President John F. Kennedy.  It turns out these "facts" are unfounded and the only reason attention has been drawn to the error is because Seigenthaler wrote an op-ed piece in USA Today pointing out his concern. 

Hmmmmm. I told you so seems trite at this point.  Juvenile.

What is Wiki doing to smooth things over? Instituting a registration required component before editors are allowed to post edits. Note that Seigenthaler's page now says it is protected from editing until disputes have been resolved.  Let me ask you this: when you are leaving a post on someone's blog, does it put you off what you intended to say because you are required to leave an email address, your web address, and enter a visually garbled secret security code word?  Do you make sure your comment is that much better, more accurate, more sincere, because you gave out your info? I didn't think so.

I love the Wiki.  I want it to work. And I know Seigenthaler's piece was rather one-sided...a bit heated.  But for me, Wiki is sort of like the friend you don't know that well but that you really like. It's all coffee and witty banter over wine and a few well-written emails. Then when you get to know them a bit more (spend time with them, introduce them to other friends, see them actually deal with the things life throws their way) you think "Hmmmm...you were far more enjoyable when I didn't know all this odd stuff about you. You're really a bit of an ass." 

I'm sure I can be persuaded to get over it.  Maybe.  I'll run some Wiki searches on "ass."  And "I told you so." And, to keep myself in check, "self-indulgent writers."

Counting the Words that Count

Given that events consipred against me to ensure that I would miss my company holiday party (or perhaps I was simply too fatigued after coming up with so many incorrect, uncreative ideas per my job description), I have spent the afternoon reflecting further on what really matters.  To me. To you. In life. In love. In death.  In the next moment and in the next ten years.  I've allowed Word Count to guide me and I'm happy to report that despite recent events to the contrary, the universe does seem to have things properly sorted.

Life (154) wins out over death (454).  Love (384) wins out over hate (3,107).  Quality (596) wins out over quantity (3,775).  And singing (3,330), dancing (3,638), jumping (3,428) and running (699) outweigh mediocrity (30,138) ten to one. 

What matters to you?  Use word count to find out how your words stack up.  Or (for the brave and unflinching) use query count to see how people are using word count.  Its high time the universe had a good sussing out.

The Quantity They Seek, the Quality I Desire

Might as well get it all out now.  Nanowrimo is over.  I choked.  I did not finish.  I did not come close.  I pretended I would, but it didn’t happen. Now -- it must be said that I learned a great deal about how to get many words on a page that don’t really correspond to one another.  I experienced the power of the deadline and have learned that I respond well to such a firm goal, racing towards it, all pistons firing, albeit in discordant directions.  I will do nanowrimo again.  I will be prepared and I will finish with the best of them.  After this month’s hokey-pokey chicken-dance, I realize what hung me up – I knew I could write the 50,000 words, but I didn’t want to string all those words together knowing it was headed south.  I didn’t want to just jump in, headlong, and write merely for the sake of writing.  Just to eke out the number of words required. I knew if I had done a bit more planning (and, you know, signed up before the actual contest began), I would have written something I loved.  An inspired thread that I could pick back up again on December 1^st and finish it – an actual novel with fully-formed characters, plot and mood.  Perhaps I’ve been in too many writing workshops and I see the pain of reworking a mess.  I didn’t want to create another mess.  I wanted to do a bit of dancing and singing on the page.

So that’s that.

And then, at work, there’s this.

Actual job descriptions have been created because we are doing annual reviews.  Here is what greeted me under the header Required Abilities for Marketing Director:

"Fluency of Ideas -- The ability to come up with a number of ideas about a topic (The number of ideas is important, not their quality, correctness or creativity.)"

!?!?!?!?!?!*###%!?!

I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  It seems the world is begging me for mediocrity. 

I will not comply.  I have too much singing and dancing (and jumping and running and cart wheeling) to do.  It seems an enormous waste of this wonderful life to spend it racking up points on a card that doesn’t offer any soul-satisfying rewards.