All There Is To It

Hi. My Eyes (and What I Have to Offer) Are Up Here.

I love Seth Godin, and I pass his stuff along often. But I think this time, he's got his metaphors wrong.

True story: I had enormous feet by the age of 12. Of course, I was also a foot taller than everyone in my class, so my mom explained that I needed those big feet to keep from falling over. Besides, she said, people look at your face, not your feet, so greet 'em with a confident smile. I don't have to tell you how daunting those feet were to my already innately-shredded-by-adolescence self-esteem.

But I had no idea how much that period of my saga impacted me all the way into adulthood until the day a co-worker mentioned a client's shoes.

"Oh, come on, my mom always said nobody really pays attention to your feet anyway," I said dismissively in response to my colleague's critical remarks that linked her foster care client's shoes to the poor woman's attitude.

At that, the social worker turned her just-naturally-beautiful-like-Elizabeth-Montgomery-of-Bewitched face toward me as I sat munching tuna in the lunchroom and said, "Well, I do!"

Suddenly, I was a 12-year-old gawkster again, staring down at my own cheaply shod pods.

Gotta tell ya, after that I thought quite differently about Nedra, the Social Worker With a Heart Like a Scale.

So Seth, you are one of my heroes, for sure. But I'm here to testify that among the people we'll encounter in our lives' travels, some will, indeed and incredibly, recall what we wore and how our hair was done. They will -- truly, and I know it's unbelievable, but I've lived it -- judge you based not only on your ideas and talents and gifts, but on what they consider is even more important: your presentation of such. In fact, those folks often consider the initial presentation to be so representative of the whole that they don't even care to see deeper.

But on that note, I'll give it to you, Seth, that your final paragraph rings true. Wondering "about what we could do that might change everything" is where we often fall short.

Like overlooking the person's shoes long enough to hear what's really, truly inside the package. 

 

American Boys (and a few girls) Are Going To Hell. Pitchfork Rally, Anyone?

Just a drive-by rant... I know that I could spend hours researching this opinion I'm about to spill forth, but life's too good at the moment. So here's the quick and dirty (as some editor of mine used to say way too much) version of my opinion, for what it's worth.

Friday, I saw this: Prevalence of Autism Spectrum Disorders — Autism and Developmental Disabilities Monitoring Network, 14 Sites, United States, 2008 

... which is the statistical reporting basis of subsequent media pieces like this: Autism Prevalence: Study Shows 1 In 88 Kids Has The Condition

... which can sometimes (often) result in conversations that start like this:

"so what's the cause of this epidemic?" (That's from a friend's Facebook page.)

Now, the first thing I thought of when I saw the HuffPo piece and similar was this: Um. At a certain point in our own personal trajectories, shouldn't we be able to use hindsight a little more often to screen through, process, and integrate not only the information we see at present, but history, too?

Translate that to: Um. I'm pretty sure there will never be an end to the calls for alarm about the "increases" in this condition or that disease, so long as the richest corporations in the world are making money off of our reactions to those alarms.

Does that mean that I don't believe ANYthing that ANY media says about ANY condition or ANY treatment? Oh, hell no. I'm too old for that. Y'all should be, too. C'mon.

Don't make me list the historical preponderance of evidence for questionable motives toward alarming the public about myriad "health conditions" and "treatments." 

And here's my own twisted version of alarm: Rather than starting to simply swallow whole the spoutings from health and pharmaceutical researchers about how boys have This Condition and boys have That Disease more than girls, when are we going to start listening to people who can actually speak with authority to the historical unfolding of theories of normal human development and the confluence with culture? Not very sexy, I know. Is it possible that we've never quite understood what "normal" is, yet now, we're terribly gung ho to find the abnormal? Why do you think that is? Who has something to gain by our being fully apprised of pathology or atypicality without ever really knowing what constitutes a baseline of normal?

Let's get this guy, among others, in on the conversation: Professor David Skuse on "Distinguishing Autism from 'Normal' Behavior"

Read the "Description of System" section on the CDC's report. Always look at where the data's being drawn from. Even the HuffPo piece says clearly

"However, the researchers noted that the findings don't necessarily mean more children are developing autism. Rather, the increase might reflect increased diagnosis of the condition."

But then all that dry, we-don't-really-understand-any-of-this detail gets boiled down by one fanatic this way:

""Autism is a global public health crisis. The costs are staggering and will continue to rise as prevalence continues to increase," Bob Wright, co-founder of Autism Speaks, said in a statement."

Thanks for that, Bob. Not like you have your agenda or anything...

Speaking of agenda, here's how that works: With all this scary talk coming out right now, you might think that it's because This Is Big News We Just Found Out About & Need To Alert The Public Immediately. Nope. It's more related to this than that: April 2 is World Autism Awareness Day.

 
And I've said it before (likely I will forever, unless pharmas shut down): If something -- a condition, a behavior, a trait -- starts showing up in a whole lot more people, at what point is it time to stop thinking in alarming terms of abnormality and consider that maybe we never knew what normal was?

My other point, caustic as it seems, is really just this: Please, be careful when you read the media's interpretation of studies and statistical reports. My experience is that there are far fewer people than you think who are expert enough to do a good job of translating this information into meaningful terms. And that includes the researchers who write the original source pieces.

Often, this stuff is not only very unmeaningful, it can be very harmful. Witch hunts, anyone?

Speak With Conviction. Okay?

I've written (elsewhere, on Trailer Park Karma) that there's a strategy to my voice. Likely there is one to yours, too, even if you don't realize it. And if you don't realize how influential the way you sound can be, then you might be missing out. Start giving it some thought.

Of course, how I "sound" in writing is key to my work life. It may not be as important to your ability to get and keep jobs. Or is it?

The other day I attended a local simulcast of TEDxWomen. [If you're not already a fan, you'll hear nothing but praise from me on the whole TED bunch, so I encourage you to spend some time looking at their bazillion videos. Fair warning: Exploring TED is best done when you have a good chunk of leisure time on your hands.] One of the day's speakers, Rachel Simmons, has written books about girls and culture, and she's the co-founder of the Girls Leadership Institute. 

Rachel's TED talk was opened by a true story of rather typical friendship heartbreak, told by the junior high girl who lived through what most of us have. "Friendship is like kryptonite to girls," Simmons says.
Later in the 18-minute presentation, Simmons describes and demonstrates the pervasive way of speaking -- mostly by women in the U.S. -- that drives me insane. 

It's that flip of a question-mark in the voice at the end of even the most supposedly declarative sentences.

Try to read this with the inflection that Simmons used (or you can check out the video):

"It's not unusual to overhear an elite college graduate sitting in a job interview, talking like this? Posing her statements as questions? So that she doesn't take up too much space and act too aggressive?"

It's about the conflicting messages that society gives girls and women. "Yes, you be powerful, but you still be nice while doing it," Simmons says we're told.

Another example of this way of speaking came later that day. During breaks in the simulcast, local TEDxHouston volunteers kept the ball rolling by playing some of the best from last summer's event. 
Chris Seay, founder/pastor of Ecclesia Houston and author of several books with intriguing titles (like The Gospel According to Tony Soprano), talked about how we tend to focus on propositions and facts at the expense of understanding the story. He offers up that speaking with conviction is, well, uncool anymore. 

Seay drove the point home by reciting (and sometimes paraphrasing) Taylor Mali's poem, "Totally like whatever, you know?" It was my first time hearing it -- it's a great read, but hearing it read aloud is where you'll find your head nodding along in affirmation.

Then today, a blogpost came my way via tweet by Eric Tung, founder of Quantum Mass Media. The blogpost, "How False Humility Hurts Your Business" by Amber Naslund, is direct and clear. And it reminded me of the other day, when my Almost Teen son offered an apologetic disclaiming preamble before uttering that he's the best at something. In fact, my mind was so preoccupied with scurrying to replay my son's disclaimer that I missed what it is he's best at -- fortunately, someone else was there to hear. I dutifully assured him anyway that there was no need to apologize for being the best -- and saying so.

I should really dedicate this blogpost to my writer friends who continue to remind me that I should ask for what I'm worth more often, and not just whatever the market will bear. It's a tough balance. But at least I have a grip, most of the time, on how I sound when I'm asking.
Right?

Brains = Bingeing? From the Happy to Be Dull Dept

Okay -- so this is how my day sometimes goes: Wake up. Let dog out. Turn coffee on. Make bed. Turn on computer. Imbibe coffee while searching through emails for fires that need tending. Roomie reads aloud some pronouncement that combines marketing and science. I ask him to shoot me the link, which I then go on to use as an inflammatory catalyst inspiration for a blogpost.

Today's experience in watered-down complexities: "Smart people are more likely to binge drink." 

Wait, I said. What do they mean by "smart"? I go from the first post by Eric Barker to his source, Satoshi Kanazawa on Psychology Today where I'm introduced to his Hypothesis.  Kanazawa is an evolutionary psychologist. That's the kind of profession that makes me salivate, which is probably an evolutionarily based psychological reaction.

Getting back to my sticking point: what is "smart"? I headed for Kanazawa's post on "How Did General Intelligence Evolve?"
Now I get it. 

I have always had a problem with concepts of intelligence and, particularly, the measuring of it. I understand the reasons we try to define and quantify intelligence, I just don't think we're very good at it. And here's why: I don't have a lot of faith that even the "best and brightest" can get over, around, and through their own prisms of experience and emotion to clearly comprehend the notions they're making up and measuring. And I damned sure don't like how those ideas and "conclusions" get digested and presented by the media. That's when I have to stop what I'm doing, track down studies, and figure out just where the kernel of "truth" (such as it is) lies in the over-simplified pronouncements. (That whole "stop what I'm doing" thing gets under my skin a little, especially if I've already downed a cup of coffee or two.)

Funny. That's kinda where I see Kanazawa heading with his theory on the evolution of general intelligence. In short, the theory says that "more intelligent" folks only have an advantage when a problem is evolutionarily novel or when a solution involves evolutionarily novel entities. 

He winds up the explanation this way:

"I believe scientists and civilians alike may have grossly exaggerated the importance of general intelligence in everyday life.  Intelligence does not help you with really important problems in your life, such as maintaining a successful relationship, being a good friend, and raising children.  It merely helps you with solving unimportant, evolutionarily novel problems like getting formal education, making money in a capitalist economy, and flying an airplane."

Fine by me. I just wonder how many "smart" people are reading the pablum headlines and thinking that their binge drinking is not only justified but an activity to pursue if they haven't already.

Good thing for me I'm not that smart, I guess.
Now I can get back to putting out email fires.

Spreading Love Like Honey 2: An Older Version

Yes, it's been 10 whole months since I first said I'd share the enormous wealth of attention I get from the blogosphere (can't you just smell the BS in that wry?)... 

And I promise, it's not that I'm so unimpressed with every other blog out there. I'm not impressed with mine enough to be unimpressed with anyone else's (that's part of the beauty of this whole blogging thing, we're all just winging it out here, except for those Luckies who grabbed some corporate sponsorship along the way...)

No, it's not that I think my blog doesn't stink, it's that I go through weeks and, this time, months where I don't have time to read anyone else's blog.

But by gosh, retweet me and I feel obliged.

And that's how I landed on An Older Version.

 
Here's her About Me:

"Infertility to parenthood. Budgeting. Decorating. Pets. Marriage. Money. Food. Organizing. Relationships. Thrifting. Pondering. LIFE."

I know. Sigh. Another one. BUT... she's entertaining. And for my first 3 cups of coffee, that's what I like when I have time before commencing the daily grind.

Get past her post du jour -- it DOES have nifty belly pics and details like "My uterus actually moved over my pubic bone weeks before it is even supposed to be possible." -- and get down to where you learn that microwave cleanliness symbolizes deeper issues. Down again and you get some juicy bits on what the Wonder of Pregnancy can do to your corporal existence, the kind of stuff that you should all be telling your daughters instead of the Disney version about making babies.

Older Version's not new to the scene and her blog is hooked up and lauded. So I want you to know that I'm being big here by featuring her blog as if she needs my attention, thereby calling attention to the fact that my blog is none of that. Or something. I just like her style and wanted y'all to know.

And besides that, I have a PILE of review products that I need to be writing about, and now that The Move From The Sticks is accomplished and my heart has stopped racing in a rapid off-kilter way, I think it's high time I get to work.
 
And I'd rather just browse through An Older Version and stuff like that.

To All My Super Duper Charged-Up Friends

Dear Pharmaceutically- or Otherwise-Alternate-Substance-Super-Charged Friends:

If you know me and my history, you know that I teeter in the middle of a lot. If you think you know me and you don't know my history, you often think I'm way on left side of that middle, and you're sometimes shocked to find otherwise on occasion. So this is fair warning that one of the filters through which you'll perceive this piece is how well you really know me.

The topic at hand is one about which I tend toward the shocking middle. (That's right: I shock people because I'm in the middle. Must be the hair. Go figure.)

My 12-year-old's on drugs.

Now, let me just apologize right here to him for outing him. Actually, he doesn't seem to mind talking about it openly; sort of like he used to be about his "miracle foot" (a long story that a lot of you don't know) before the approval of his peers was tantamount to his pleasant existence. See, now those very peers are "cool with" his "issue" or "condition" or "diagnosis"... or maybe it's just drugs. So, sorry kiddo, for chatting online about you being on drugs, but you know me: I love you more than my own life.

So on to the story. About my kid on drugs. They're prescribed by his lifelong pediatrician for his new diagnosis of ADHD Inattentive type.

Those closest to me know the emotional struggles I went through to arrive at this point, that being a Mom With A Kid On Drugs. For those who were fortunate enough to not witness it, I'll cut to the chase and say it was one of the most wrenching brain-fucks I've ever put myself through, and this from a woman who's been BF'd an awful lot. 

So here we are. And after a month or so of drugs, the end result is that my kid -- who was beating himself up severely in his first year of public school ('what?!' you're saying. 'he's 12!' yeah: private school and homeschool after that) for being a slug at math (like his Mama) -- has achieved a final 6th grade report full of A's and B's. 

We're all ecstatic.
And of course, there was that little Middle Way voice in my head that said, 'There's always another side.'

In this case, in my opinion, and just trust me, it's an experienced one, the "other side" of this Happy Drugged Ending is this: the strong likelihood that my kid will derive Drugs = Success from this life episode.

Yes, you're wondering why I addressed my Super-Charged Friends at the top of this, aren't you?
I love you people, really, I do. And some of you know what I'm going to say. And lots of you really don't care. But it's my blog so I'll whine if I want to.

Every time I hear "adult" friends of mine chirp about how this chemical or that plant has made their life better in any way, I think of my kid. Every time. 

Every time I hear someone say that they purposefully ingested or otherwise took into their body something with the express intention of producing a particular sensation, frame of mind, or other experience, I think of my kid.

And in my opinion, so should you.
(This is me, wagging my finger.)While you *could* think of *my* kid, what I'm suggesting instead is that you think of either (a) your own kid/s or (b) yourself as a kid.

Remember all That Crap People Told You about how you can Be Anyone You Want and Do Anything You Want?
Is it really crap? Were they out to shut you up at the moment, make you feel hopeful in spite of the unreality, or did they sincerely see in you the seeds of any and every thing -- even if they had given up on nurturing those seeds in themselves?

Imagine sitting my kid down and telling him this instead:
You have abilities. You have propensities. You have challenges. You have within you some of what you need. And the rest, you can get by adding chemicals to your body.

G'head. Just visualize that for a minute.

"OH, but he's just a kid," you'll defend, "and we all know things are different when you're an adult."
Really? Like what? Now that you're a certain age, what: you don't get selfishly angry? Now that you're "adult," you don't want to cry over myriad insults from life?
What *is* this difference between one age and the next that makes us drop our belief in ourselves?

Why do we think that a "grown up" way of thinking includes the realization that, in fact, you cannot do whatever you want or be whomever you want and that, in fact, we're all just struggling to make do with what we've got and it's never enough so the best way to muddle through is by obscuring our true emotional paths with chemicals?

And at this point, I bet some of you are wondering if I'm talking directly to you, and some of you are conjecturing that you know who I'm talking to... and I'm telling you that you're all wrong. 

I have no problem with people who do drugs (including alcohol and prescribed medications) as long as they are clear with themselves about their motivation and they also do not assume that their motivations are necessarily the healthiest. One thing about being an Adult is true: you do have to answer your own karma, or consequences. And if you're one of the ones who does, that's cool with me.

But even for you responsible drug users, my heart sinks just a little bit, on behalf of my kid, when you tell me about your choices to steer your experience with Stuff From The Outside. Again -- if you know that's your motivation, and you understand every single inherent ramification, *and* most importantly, you're more than just willing to stand up and be held accountable, then bully for you. Truly.

But I'm telling you right now that part of that accountability is to the kids who, like mine, are watching you. They're watching you say, "Man, this week was shit. I'm gonna get plowed now and make it feel better!" They're listening to you say, "I know I'm gonna have a long night, so I took an extra one."
 
And they're watching the relief suspend around your face as your tense shoulders soften at hearing that you've found an answer -- and that answer is not from within, it's from outside of you. Hallelujah.

They're really smart kids.
Just like you used to be.

Do I use drugs? Yes, I am a caffeine fiend (within certain hours of the day) and I occasionally drink alcohol. Lately, that could be called 'rarely' actually. I also take allergy meds seasonally and aspirin/acetaminophen for headaches now and then. And daily thyroid meds. I'm one of those people who actually truly enjoys the taste of alcohol, and I use it whenever I know that I won't likely have to answer to duties that pop up. Hence, the 'rarely' label of late. I've been busy and slim in the pocketbook. During times like this, I tend toward meditation, yoga, and running to ease my mind. And ranting. /grin 

I've had numerous experiences since the 1970's that have shown me I can, indeed, bring about the feelings and thoughts I desire without external agents. I happen to think everyone can, if they want. And from here, we could get into complex debates on neuroscience. And I'd possibly already have explored your points.

Finally: The other day, a friend of mine in the oil business quipped this when I had no personal references to add to banter about that industry: "Just keep driving."

My version for the purpose of this blog topic: Thanks, on behalf of me and all the other marketing writers in the world, for believing what we tell you to think about yourself, your abilities, and what you "need" to add to your life so you can be better than you really are. You can get off the merry go'round any time you like. Until then, thanks for keeping corporations afloat.

You know that old saying about "just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get ya"?
Just because I'm old and crabby, doesn't mean I don't have a point.

On the Verge of TMI: Crunchy Mamas Need Their Juice, Too

As a Sorta Sociologist, I dig watching how people change over time -- individuals and groups. I like looking backwards with a little hindsight and I like how change unfolds in front of us, even if we're not seeing it. 

An example: the word "hippie" isn't necessarily synonymous with "dirty" any more. In fact, hippies used to live an "alternative" lifestyle. Now, it's not only cool to call yourself a hippie, but if you don't, there's a segment of society that's gonna assume that you must be a Fascist instead. What was outlandishly resurrected in the late 60's (and let's be honest -- none of it was introduced by "the hippies"; all they did was re-tread clothing from the Middle Ages and 1800's American West, plus a few other lifestyle and hygiene preferences) is now considered "Green," the Latest Way To Be.

Take intimate lubrication products, for example.

(Yes, it's an important issue, I know. That's why I get paid the big bucks, to talk about life-altering, civilization-changing events.) 

Okay, here's how this goes: I get sent product review pitches every day. 95 percent are of no interest to me. Many are steered toward the baby-making market, naturally. Well, I'm not into baby-making any more, personally, even though I write about it. In fact, I'm so old that if I were into baby-making right now, I'd be making local news. 

Recently, Aloe Cadabra® wrote me to suggest that men and women who are trying to conceive might need a little help now and then in the lubrication department. True enough, I wrote back, but what about those of us who are done procreating but not done with related activities, so to speak? 

SO, I wound up with a few bottles of the stuff. Three different scents, too: Natural Aloe, French Lavender, and Tahitian Vanilla.

Without going into nitty gritty -- or rather slippery smooth -- details, let's just say that I can vouch for these products.

They work.

But then so do a lot of other lube products. So what makes these worth the $10.00 for a 2.5 oz bottle? (Free shipping.)

Besides the fact that I find everything more visually appealing about their box and graphics than Brand X (which is what was already -- ahem -- on hand), and in spite of their clever name, and that their scents are pretty pleasant without being overwhelming... it's what's behind the cute moniker that makes Aloe Cadabra a superior product.

It's 95% organic aloe. In fact, as Someone Who Shall Remain Nameless said, virtually everything on Aloe Cadabra's ingredient list is plainly readable. Yes, you could eat this stuff. I wouldn't recommend it, but like the box says, only food grade ingredients go into the recipe, "so no worries if ingested." 

Okay, the edibility of a personal lubricant may not be a selling point for you, but I'll divulge one highlight that might be: the stuff absorbs into your skin. Not right away, because that wouldn't work so well. But if you've had any experience with mojo juice, you know that sometimes when you're done, well, it's not so good. Sticky and flaky later = bad. Soft and smooth later = good.

That brings me to another point Someone Else mentioned: the stuff won't last forever. Food grade preservatives, ya know. But the boxes I was sent have Sell-By dates two years down the road, which is good enough for me. And it is a little more encouraging to know that a product that's gettin' all in the middle of everything isn't super-amped with weird chemicals. Some of those other brands seem more appropriate to lube machinery than people parts.

Another bonus, also pointed out by Someone Else, was that the bottle's got an inverted shape. No jamming a near-empty bottle against your palm at an inopportune time. 

So does this really tie in to how this post began, about dirty hippies and how they've changed and how now it's all cool to be Green & Crunchy? 

Only if you stretch it pretty thin. But I really did owe these folks a post for all that great lube they sent. And I'm not really prude, but I'm definitely no Pamela Madsen when it comes to talking about sex in public. So there ya go.

(NOW you want my job, huh?)

Disclosure: Aloe Cadabra provided me with the information, including 
product sample/s, for this post. I was not required to write a 
positive review. Any expressed opinion is completely my own. View my official Disclosure 
Policy.

On Doing What We Gotta Do

A hint of our civilization's onward decline: I'm getting paid to write about the nutrition of meringue.

Further proof: The only reason I've been asked to write said piece is because of the number of requests for the information via search engines.

Don't shoot the messenger.

Now, before I get away from this fascinating rambling, let me just ask you to ponder this: 

Wouldn't you rather I be writing about something else?

Talk amongst yourselves.
And if any of you think my writing ability might possibly be better used -- not that meringue's nutrients aren't mighty important, especially to Pie Addicts -- feel free to wildly distribute all of my contact information and my badly in need of updating smidge of work samples.

(and i can take pictures, too)

Tracy Morris

713.306.5647

tracy@tracymorris.com

Going Down with Fingers Flailing

From the Dept of I Should Be Working, But...

Meager though the attempt and impact may be, I sometimes feel no choice but to rant and rave. A thought blossoms, a feeling arises, and I gotta spill it.

I'm a writer.
And today, I'm a pissed off writer.

Now, writers aren't the only fools who can't hoard their interiors well. All creative types are similarly cursed, whether their expression is visual, auditory, or written. And while I refer to the condition as a curse, the rest of the world looks on and thinks romantic thoughts about how glorious it must be.

I guess I do indeed feel very lucky to be a writer. How many people do you know who actually do what they wanted to do when they were a kid? I take care not to break hearts too hard with my first response to folks' queries:

Them: "Oh! You're a writer! What do you write?"

Me: "Nothing romantic or exciting."

It's funny. That response doesn't stop them. Their blinking eyes stare straight into mine, waiting for the punchline. There is no punchline.

When I think about the glorious-ness of being a writer, I remember my first author interview. I was calling up as pre-arranged to talk with a co-author of one of those early fertility treatment books. An author! Wow! I was excited. I felt unworthy. How could I, barely able to call myself a writer after having been published only in grants and press materials for social service agencies and in the early online communities for moms, possibly have credentials enough to interview an author?

She answered the phone while vacuuming. 
I felt better.

Today, I heard from a good friend who also gets consumed with the need to vent through her fingertips that her writings have been plagiarized. Not in the garden variety type of copycatting, like I experienced recently on Facebook as a different friend ran amok with Status Theft for grins. And not the kind of word-borrowing by uninformed non-profit consumer-helping groups who can't pay for bandwith, much less content -- that type of "theft" is often kindly ignored. No, this author friend of mine (I am far from the days of being starry-eyed about authors -- sorry, Ang, you shoulda knew me when...) is seeing whole sections of her published book being spread like sweet jelly on ether toast by a large, for-profit entity.

I told her to just say the word and I'm all about hollering. She hasn't, so I haven't. This doesn't count.

Then, same morning, I wander over to yet another "online magazine" to see if there's something I can do for them. Note: I do not write for altruistic reasons. I am no saint or even philosopher. I write not for your response, but for my own needs. I know that sounds really mean and selfish, but there you have it. Some folks shove stuff up their noses and into their veins. I trickle and gush all over the Internet. (I think I win in the Rather Benign Addictions category.) So when I tell you I'm checking out a venue where I might be welcomed to write, you should know that the first thing I do after glancing (and I mean a swiftly exacting blow) over their general appearance and tone is read their About Us. If so far, so good, I next head to their submissions information. That's where the reality lies.

I've watched the Internet go from being a friendly kumbaya kind of community, where we all wrote just to share our stuff with others, to a gradually more professional avenue where writers could actually earn a living. Then, of course, some writers earned a ton more than others, and then it all exploded. A few of us kept at it while the rest went to find income offline. Eventually, the notion of living off of your writing became real again. But the past two years have seen the same slump as any other industry in this country.

Now, apparently we're back to the point of websites thinking they're doing writers a favor by offering them a place to park their words.

Just on the heels of hearing from my friend about her creative work being used illegally and unethically, I peruse an e-zine's site and find these words:

"Live magazine! Stories published daily by writers and readers!"

Okay, that's bad enough, right? I mean, this is exciting enough for exclamation marks? Then I get to this:
"Submit your own stories or blogs free by logging in above!"

What?
They're giving me a chance to work for free?! Holy Slave Labor, sign me up!

I don't frankly have the words to express what this means to me. Yes, I feel speechless. No, I'm not actually, but I know that there are many others out there who've already said it better than I can. But here's my stab at it:

Folks, the words that come out of my head and through either my fingertips or mouth are as unique as any other part of me. If I hadn't uttered them, they wouldn't have been uttered. Sure, you can give me a load of garbage about how we're all influenced and infected by others, and so how our perspectives are filtered through prisms carved by our interactions, and so we're All One, and so we should/must share the beauty of our creations as if they belong to the Whole Interdependent Web...

You can exhale that mind-changing smoke now, kids.

If I painted a picture and sold it, would you hang it in your livingroom and tell visitors that it's your work?

At the potluck dinner, do you tell folks that you made the dish that gets eaten fastest, even if all you brought was the unopened bag of chips?

If you bring your neighbor's kid along with yours to the grocery store, do you pass him off as blood-kin when onlookers brag on their behavior?

Do you tell acquaintances that you live in the house next-door because it's in better shape than your own shack?

It's not like when someone glibly compliments your hair and then asks if you mind if they copy the style, or when someone comes right out and says "I like your shoes! Can I have them?" and means it.
At first even the most sharing version of us is taken aback, but we may concede. After all, it's only flattering, right?

My words are far more than my outward appearance. They have more value in the big picture of my life than anything else about me. My only other better and more important creation is and always will be my child. Just as my child is in some ways a walking embodiment of my interior, so are my words. You can't get anything more out of any human being than their thoughts and feelings, and I send mine out via words.

When you use my words, you are using me. If I agree to let you do so, then go for it. If you haven't asked yet, then do so (and I may decline you.) If you still choose to use my words without asking, then know in advance that you are choosing whatever consequences come your way.

In my author friend's case, the consequences may likely be legal. That's how it goes, folks. But what about those countless words by myriad writers who are growing like weeds all over the Internet? (I use the term 'weeds' very deliberately, because I'm the woman who lets whatever I want grow in my garden, whether I planted it or not. Weeds aren't inherently bad, to me.) And note that I refer to the writers as weeds, not the words. Am I implying that I'm a better writer than you? Nope. That's the point. I am the *only* writer who is me, just as you are the only you. Bloom where you are planted, but make your own damned flower.

My flowers come from the blood, sweat, and tears of my entire life's experiences. I won't steal your crop. Don't steal mine. And if you want me to bring a bouquet to grace your table, then offer something in return, unless I don't need to put food on my own or I'm just on an altruistic bender, in which case, I'll let you know.

There's already been tons of discussion at much higher levels than this about the Internet and its powerful impact on this existence of ours. What I'm talking about in this blogspot is a teeny blip on the screen, if that. But it's a blip that needs talking about today, because it got under my skin in a direct way. Again.

Because I'm a writer.

What are you?

Where I Stop Talking Long Enough to Spread Love Like Honey

The blogosphere is the Internet's potential in full bloom. Back in pre-blog days (are you sick of me writing about 'back in the day' yet?), it seemed like everyone was vying for Web real estate, as if there wasn't enough to go around. So there was all this talk about collaboration and joining hands to sing kumbaya around the cyber-world, but behind all that was some really ugly back-stabbing going on. Now, the way blogging platforms work, if you don't cross-pollinate, you're doomed.

I get it. I'm just not very good at it.
I like to think it's because I'm too busy. But when I read or hear about other bloggers' daily lives, and I see how in-touch they seem to stay with so many other blogs... hm. Maybe it's me. And maybe it's more than just having too many plates to spin at one time.

Take birthdays, for example. 

You know those (mostly) women who vigilantly maintain birthday calendars and then do something nice (and usually really unique and touching) for the Birthday Boy or Girl every single year? Even if they slip up and don't get the gifting done for a day or two, they do it, by golly.

I've never been that good of a friend.

My longest-time friends know that about me and are merciful. They shrug and laugh (and probably roll their eyes, but I don't know because I'm hardly ever around them physically) when I finally catch up weeks or months later with a feeble, "Sorry I forgot your birthday again!" I'm awful lucky to have such friends.

So it is with the whole blog-connecting thing for me. I may get on a roll now and then -- and I'm talking every few months, so make that a couple of times a year -- and find my eyeballs deluged with great blogs that strike chords with me. Here's how the rest of that occasional pattern goes: I feel an urge to share the blog with others, so my head starts racing around the various blogs where I write, trying to find the best fit for featuring this newly-found blog, while at the same time I'm checking out their blogrolls and thinking I should have one of those, and then I think about the time involved in creating a blogroll on top of writing a new post to introduce this great find on one of my blogs... and by then, I'm ready for a nap.

So, here's what I'm thinking (and it only took me til nearly 50 years old to figure this out): I talk too much. (Sorry, mom...)

One of the reasons that I value, and by that I mean crave, a devoted editor is because "wordy" is something I am and don't want to be. I'll never forget the time I spotted my supervisor's notes from her first interview with me, back when I was an over-zealous, over-educated, self-righteous college-student-social-worker-wanna-be: "verbose" was the word she used. Now that I'm a nap-inclined, under-educated, self-righteous middle-aged-writer, I really despise the sound of that word. More importantly, I now see the value in clamming up. Real value. I'm talking make-those-blog-wheels-spin-faster value.

From here on out, I'll be cross-linking more and spewing less. At least, that's my goal. It's worthy, right?

I think I'll try the same tactic with that whole Bad Friend problem of mine, too. Doesn't really matter if I have something to say -- so long as I just say hello.

First blog to get graced by my new aim to spread love like honey: Blue Jean Gourmet. 

Compelling thing that first caught my eye: Nishta Mehra's Twitter bio -- "first-generation Indian foodie raised in the South; un-snobby, enthusiastic cook"

The thing that makes her feature-worthy here: This post -- Cupcakes With No Name -- not so much because of the cupcakes, because I'm not a cupcake fan, but I like her take on the stories we tell ourselves. Reminded me of this post by my former editor: telling stories and microwave bacon peach potato with a side of peach tomato olive blue salad

So. What's with the whole 'spreading love' thing, aside from realizing I need to send more around of what I want to come around online? You'll have to read about that on Trailer Park Karma where I yammer incessantly about the way I want to be when I grow up.