Hello universe,
I realized I haven't blogged here since my super emo WAAAAAAAAAAAAH post last week. I haven't really had much to say in that I haven't had anything really bad going on. But using ones blog to only piss and moan about trivial things is a bit more emo-tastic than I would like to embrace, so with that in mind, let's discuss some positive things, shall we?
First up, after my pitiful rant about never being accepted into the world of all things writer-y, I received an email from the editor of our local paper. A little history here: A few weeks ago, I had messaged her asking if the paper carried any bloggers, when she wrote back that indeed they did *not* I replied why I thought they might benefit from one, linked to other small local papers that utilized such tactics, and selfishly suggested myself for the position.
I didn't hear back from her which made me assume that perhaps she wasn't in the mood to have suggestions lobbed at her by some random chick and was peeved by the intrusion.
Until last week of course. I had just put the kidlets to bed and was talking to the Hubbin' when I checked my email and the editors reply popped up. I opened it expecting a slightly more polite version of, "Erm, fuck off, mmkay?" but instead she informed me that she had taken my suggestions to her publisher, they in fact *loved* them and now want to meet with me to discuss more of my ideas.
I was pretty damn speechless after reading it. Well, that and stupid with a touch of glee.
The prospect is *thrilling*. I might get to write, like actually write where people would read it on a professional level. I don't even care to be paid. I just want to have someone waiting for my words to arrive. To have a deadline and a published site. Of dear god, the readers. I could squeal thinking about having readers....
Plus, this would look stellar as all heck on a resume... It has been suggested the prospect of contacts in the publishing world, but we are a pretty small town that I wouldn't imagine there were many contacts to be made. Regardless, I am like, WOOHOO about the idea.
Even went out and bought muhself a pretty, new, respectable looking outfit. Well, after trolling around the store looking at all the clothes and hating being five feet tall and equally as wide...
I really want this to work out. I *need* it to. I need something that is just mine, something for me. Something that has actual ties to the real world.
Le optimistic sigh.
If you have the fingers to spare, I would appreciate any crossing of them you could send my way, dear invisible readers. It would be much appreciated on my end.
I hope you all are having a lovely week!
Until next time,
Peace, Love and Optimism....
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Emo Wannabe Writer is Emo...
Hello universe.
Man, I am *down* today. Oy. I was feeling pretty good this morning too. It is a gorgeous day outside, completely springy and warm and breezy. My pessimistic self hates warm weather because I can't cover my largeness with multiple layers as well as I do in the winter. Boo.
In fact, my large self should be working out right now but I feel so freaking blue I can't bring myself to do it. And, thanks to super UP IN YOU GRILLZ kidlets today, I haven't eaten. So I am blogging here whilst I wait for foods to cook. Yeah, that is totally better than hopping on a treadmill. Sitting on a couch blogging and stuffing ones face. Ugh.
You know how in everyones head there is a voice? A Jiminy Cricket for some. Mine is less Jiminy, and more Cruella De Vil... Truly, my voice is a huge bitch lately. She is mean and snarky. I assume that if she were a real being she would be tall, super thin, and wearing all the cool clothes in my closet that I am a good 50 pounds away from. Bitch needs to step away from muh shoe collection, yo.
Cruella likes to pick on my about writing a lot. She constantly reminds me that I can't call myself a writer because I have never been published. I am a wannabe. A stupid spectator drooling up at the ivory tower. She insists this to me so absolutely that the other day I actually argued with a New York Times best selling author about this. He insisted that if you write, you are a writer. That is fucking easy for him to say with his three book deal, yeah?
I get so down about writing. So effing down. I finally had one agent ask to see 30 whole pages. (Technically that is a good thing but holy shit does it feel lame.) Her associate agent had recently publicly humiliated me and my abysmal query skills on Twitter so it felt like a nice coup that mean agents boss had requested me. Yesterday she wrote back and turned me down. It sucks. The one little bite of interest in Isadora and it is gone now. I sat there staring at the email, reading it over and over thinking that maybe I was reading it wrong, that if I looked hard enough there would be a dash of hope in there.
No. No hope. Only a resolute NO in a form letter.
I follow a million agents and writers and editors and publishers on Twitter. I do this in part because you get nowhere without networking in publishing, and there isn't a lot to network in Indiana. The other reason is that part of the time it makes me feel like I am *home* when I watch them all talk with each other about books and publishing and writing. They are speaking words I understand, showing enthusiasm that I share, embracing ideas that I have embraced myself.
The underside to this is that it is an illusion. *They* are talking. I am spying. An unwelcome intruder most likely. Twitter is full of pathetic wannabes like myself who think that they will stumble onto a big break if they just beg hard enough. Maybe one of the agents will see our pathetic selves and take pity on us. Full of delusions of belonging in a world that has made it quite clear it wants less than nothing to do with us.
I ache when I see them all talking. I want to play! I want to talk books and stories and ideas!! I have them! I could fit in there. Which is a thrill of an idea as I have genuinely never fit in anywhere before. And yet, here is a world where I have the ability to hang, the natural ability to participate and be comfortable, but no matter how much I want it, no matter how hard I try, I will never be a part of.
Seeing this, I feel like I am *home*. That this is the place that has been waiting for me for thirty years. And I can't be there. I just watch it go by and cry myself to sleep listening to Cruella tell me that I am useless and a crap writer and I suck so hard that even with all the bizarre books being published every day, the world has deemed my crappy shit so poor that they don't even want to look at it before they turn it down. Yes, Cruella informs me, you are THAT pathetic. You are that bad. You are never going to be a part of anything special. YOU aren't special. You are going to spend your life wanting something that you will never deserve and when you finally die, your children will look back and say their mother did nothing with her life. They will be ashamed that their mother chased a stupid dream that she was fully unqualified for and failed miserably. That their mother was a failure.
Sometimes I wish I had never written anything. At least I wouldn't know what I was missing. It hurts more to see it all pass me by than it would to never know it was there. I am reminded of my days on the playground in elementary school, watching the kids play together happily, and when I would ask to play too they would laugh and list off all the reasons why I was a loser. Instead of playing, I would spend each recess sitting on the sidewalk waiting for the bell to ring, or even lamer, talking to the teachers on duty just to have the company.
I suppose that having been broken into this lifestyle so early on it shouldn't disappoint me now. I am always going to be sitting on that sidewalk, watching the cool kids saunter by.
The realization makes it very hard to breathe. The idea of having nothing in this world that is special and for me is sad. I don't want my children to pity me. But they will. Because I don't belong anywhere special.
Fuck you too, Cruella.
I hope you all are in better places than I am today.
Until next time,
Peace, Love and Jiminy's.
Man, I am *down* today. Oy. I was feeling pretty good this morning too. It is a gorgeous day outside, completely springy and warm and breezy. My pessimistic self hates warm weather because I can't cover my largeness with multiple layers as well as I do in the winter. Boo.
In fact, my large self should be working out right now but I feel so freaking blue I can't bring myself to do it. And, thanks to super UP IN YOU GRILLZ kidlets today, I haven't eaten. So I am blogging here whilst I wait for foods to cook. Yeah, that is totally better than hopping on a treadmill. Sitting on a couch blogging and stuffing ones face. Ugh.
You know how in everyones head there is a voice? A Jiminy Cricket for some. Mine is less Jiminy, and more Cruella De Vil... Truly, my voice is a huge bitch lately. She is mean and snarky. I assume that if she were a real being she would be tall, super thin, and wearing all the cool clothes in my closet that I am a good 50 pounds away from. Bitch needs to step away from muh shoe collection, yo.
Cruella likes to pick on my about writing a lot. She constantly reminds me that I can't call myself a writer because I have never been published. I am a wannabe. A stupid spectator drooling up at the ivory tower. She insists this to me so absolutely that the other day I actually argued with a New York Times best selling author about this. He insisted that if you write, you are a writer. That is fucking easy for him to say with his three book deal, yeah?
I get so down about writing. So effing down. I finally had one agent ask to see 30 whole pages. (Technically that is a good thing but holy shit does it feel lame.) Her associate agent had recently publicly humiliated me and my abysmal query skills on Twitter so it felt like a nice coup that mean agents boss had requested me. Yesterday she wrote back and turned me down. It sucks. The one little bite of interest in Isadora and it is gone now. I sat there staring at the email, reading it over and over thinking that maybe I was reading it wrong, that if I looked hard enough there would be a dash of hope in there.
No. No hope. Only a resolute NO in a form letter.
I follow a million agents and writers and editors and publishers on Twitter. I do this in part because you get nowhere without networking in publishing, and there isn't a lot to network in Indiana. The other reason is that part of the time it makes me feel like I am *home* when I watch them all talk with each other about books and publishing and writing. They are speaking words I understand, showing enthusiasm that I share, embracing ideas that I have embraced myself.
The underside to this is that it is an illusion. *They* are talking. I am spying. An unwelcome intruder most likely. Twitter is full of pathetic wannabes like myself who think that they will stumble onto a big break if they just beg hard enough. Maybe one of the agents will see our pathetic selves and take pity on us. Full of delusions of belonging in a world that has made it quite clear it wants less than nothing to do with us.
I ache when I see them all talking. I want to play! I want to talk books and stories and ideas!! I have them! I could fit in there. Which is a thrill of an idea as I have genuinely never fit in anywhere before. And yet, here is a world where I have the ability to hang, the natural ability to participate and be comfortable, but no matter how much I want it, no matter how hard I try, I will never be a part of.
Seeing this, I feel like I am *home*. That this is the place that has been waiting for me for thirty years. And I can't be there. I just watch it go by and cry myself to sleep listening to Cruella tell me that I am useless and a crap writer and I suck so hard that even with all the bizarre books being published every day, the world has deemed my crappy shit so poor that they don't even want to look at it before they turn it down. Yes, Cruella informs me, you are THAT pathetic. You are that bad. You are never going to be a part of anything special. YOU aren't special. You are going to spend your life wanting something that you will never deserve and when you finally die, your children will look back and say their mother did nothing with her life. They will be ashamed that their mother chased a stupid dream that she was fully unqualified for and failed miserably. That their mother was a failure.
Sometimes I wish I had never written anything. At least I wouldn't know what I was missing. It hurts more to see it all pass me by than it would to never know it was there. I am reminded of my days on the playground in elementary school, watching the kids play together happily, and when I would ask to play too they would laugh and list off all the reasons why I was a loser. Instead of playing, I would spend each recess sitting on the sidewalk waiting for the bell to ring, or even lamer, talking to the teachers on duty just to have the company.
I suppose that having been broken into this lifestyle so early on it shouldn't disappoint me now. I am always going to be sitting on that sidewalk, watching the cool kids saunter by.
The realization makes it very hard to breathe. The idea of having nothing in this world that is special and for me is sad. I don't want my children to pity me. But they will. Because I don't belong anywhere special.
Fuck you too, Cruella.
I hope you all are in better places than I am today.
Until next time,
Peace, Love and Jiminy's.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
And Away We Go!
Hello world.
A new day. A new doctor. A new blog.
This blog has been created as part of my "recovery process" and was suggested by my brand spanking new therapist. Not that the therapist spanks. This isn't 50 Shades of Therapy here...
Where to begin? Well, let's see. I am a thirty year old stay at home mother of 2, married to the Hubbin' for 8 years and several different varieties of loony. I have OCD, and not the "ZOMG I am like, *tewtally* OCD and shiz you guys, LULZ!!!!" kind of OCD but the like, go to docs and take meds for it kind. I have numerous little quirks that fall under this category, but for starters, I will share that one of my biggest is that I cannot stand to get my hands wet. No idea why, but I hate it and you can't make me do it. *pouts* Even watching other people wash their hands sends my blood pressure soaring and I start shoving things between my fingers to redirect the stress.
What else. Hmm. Well, I have run the gauntlet of diagnoses in my life. The OCD, severe depression, severe anxiety, post traumatic stress disorder, panic attacks, night terrors, and it has been rumored by one doctor that I am bi polar. I really put stock into that during a particularly bad year during which the diagnosis was delivered but since then, other doctors have digressed. Personally, I don't think I am. I think I was in and out of a lot of near breakdowns that were misjudged as manic episodes. We will see how that pans out, I suppose.
So as you can see, I am a veritable whose who of the psychiatric world. Holla at me, Freud! I have tried numerous therapists over the last fifteen years or so and lord save me, I have the worst luck with them. One, when I had detailed slipping back into the dangerous throws of an eating disorder decided to give me actual tips on how to vomit more efficiently. True story. Another, upon being informed of an event of sexual assault informed me that she had been raped and I spent the next 45 minutes counseling her. When I asked her about this at the end of our session, she explained she considered me a peer. Erm. Okay. Does that mean you have to pay me back the 75 bucks an hour??? No? Okay. Here's your check.
Today I met with my new therapist whom I sought out after finding myself terribly down as of late. Like, loooooooooooow. I enjoy Doc, as I shall call her for now. Not sure that she is technically a doctor, instead an actual therapist, but in my head, she is Doc and it's my blog, so *sticks out tongue*. I didn't have to counsel her on her 12 year stint as a prostitute in Vegas (Also true story from my last counselor...) nor did I have to cancel the appointment after she decided that she needed more time to prep for her book tour (Also happened.). Needless to say, while I am cautious about the idea of a successful therapist relationship, I am not going to lie, I think I may be onto something with this one.
And so, on her order, I have created this blog, Chasing Pineapple. As I like to write, and fancy myself a delightful pretend writer, she suggested using this happy place of mine as a therapeutic tool. I am actually jazzed about the idea, to be honest. Mostly because I will use any excuse to jabber on. And on. And, well. Uh. On...
I am not sure what things you will find to read here. Some may be funny, some may be sad. It is an interesting experiment on my part for sure. I am optimistic with it's usefulness!
I hope this blog finds you all well. All *none* of you that will read this as I am not advertising it anywhere, but in case someone has stumbled onto this little island of me, I will wish you a good day and pass you a smile for taking the time to read my ramblings.
Until next time,
Peace, Love, and Pineapples
A new day. A new doctor. A new blog.
This blog has been created as part of my "recovery process" and was suggested by my brand spanking new therapist. Not that the therapist spanks. This isn't 50 Shades of Therapy here...
Where to begin? Well, let's see. I am a thirty year old stay at home mother of 2, married to the Hubbin' for 8 years and several different varieties of loony. I have OCD, and not the "ZOMG I am like, *tewtally* OCD and shiz you guys, LULZ!!!!" kind of OCD but the like, go to docs and take meds for it kind. I have numerous little quirks that fall under this category, but for starters, I will share that one of my biggest is that I cannot stand to get my hands wet. No idea why, but I hate it and you can't make me do it. *pouts* Even watching other people wash their hands sends my blood pressure soaring and I start shoving things between my fingers to redirect the stress.
What else. Hmm. Well, I have run the gauntlet of diagnoses in my life. The OCD, severe depression, severe anxiety, post traumatic stress disorder, panic attacks, night terrors, and it has been rumored by one doctor that I am bi polar. I really put stock into that during a particularly bad year during which the diagnosis was delivered but since then, other doctors have digressed. Personally, I don't think I am. I think I was in and out of a lot of near breakdowns that were misjudged as manic episodes. We will see how that pans out, I suppose.
So as you can see, I am a veritable whose who of the psychiatric world. Holla at me, Freud! I have tried numerous therapists over the last fifteen years or so and lord save me, I have the worst luck with them. One, when I had detailed slipping back into the dangerous throws of an eating disorder decided to give me actual tips on how to vomit more efficiently. True story. Another, upon being informed of an event of sexual assault informed me that she had been raped and I spent the next 45 minutes counseling her. When I asked her about this at the end of our session, she explained she considered me a peer. Erm. Okay. Does that mean you have to pay me back the 75 bucks an hour??? No? Okay. Here's your check.
Today I met with my new therapist whom I sought out after finding myself terribly down as of late. Like, loooooooooooow. I enjoy Doc, as I shall call her for now. Not sure that she is technically a doctor, instead an actual therapist, but in my head, she is Doc and it's my blog, so *sticks out tongue*. I didn't have to counsel her on her 12 year stint as a prostitute in Vegas (Also true story from my last counselor...) nor did I have to cancel the appointment after she decided that she needed more time to prep for her book tour (Also happened.). Needless to say, while I am cautious about the idea of a successful therapist relationship, I am not going to lie, I think I may be onto something with this one.
And so, on her order, I have created this blog, Chasing Pineapple. As I like to write, and fancy myself a delightful pretend writer, she suggested using this happy place of mine as a therapeutic tool. I am actually jazzed about the idea, to be honest. Mostly because I will use any excuse to jabber on. And on. And, well. Uh. On...
I am not sure what things you will find to read here. Some may be funny, some may be sad. It is an interesting experiment on my part for sure. I am optimistic with it's usefulness!
I hope this blog finds you all well. All *none* of you that will read this as I am not advertising it anywhere, but in case someone has stumbled onto this little island of me, I will wish you a good day and pass you a smile for taking the time to read my ramblings.
Until next time,
Peace, Love, and Pineapples
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