Intermission

I am writing, I swear it!  Actually, I have also started a part time job as a postal worker in a tiny postal outpost inside a local bike shop.  More to come about that soon.  In the meantime, you can now access my blog on Bloglovin'.  Have a good Friday!


<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/8921871/?claim=qytsyx48wqq">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>

How to Become a Professional Writer

Now that I am what I hesitantly call "a writer," I have had to think about the fact that I am not just doing this for fun, and that doing something else is somehow cheating on writing. And I'm not even talking about overcoming my well-known tendency to procrastinate. I'm talking about real stuff like vacuuming, cooking, and making the girls' beds.  I have begun to look under every literary rock to see how the other writers do it, especially the successful ones (meaning the ones I've heard of) so I've  been reading a book edited by Mason Currey, called Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, which is exactly what it sounds like, a compilation of the daily habits of working artists, composers and writers.  Now, I'm a sucker for this kind of thing, and I am always ready to read something like the How I Write blog featured on the Books section of the Daily Beast. I'm also quite the stalker of the Brain Pickings site, because they often feature writers discussing the creative process and how they have harnessed it to suit their work. 



See, Jane Austen took breaks... from Jane Austen info page

The problem with reading about all of these routines is that none of them say anything really helpful, like "...and then, dressed and coiffed by ten a.m.,  Jane Austen arranged the day with the household staff before she went out and gathered flowers from the conservatory garden. When she came back into the manor house, her writing had neatly completed itself and was piled cleverly in chapters on her escritoire."  Or "Sartre and De Beauvoir sat sharing cafe au lait and croissants, discussing the existence of existentialism, while the typewriter clacked merrily away in a darkened  corner of their pied-a-terre. In the late afternoon, fortified by more pastries, they argued playfully and drank some wine while their writing checked itself for grammatical errors and philosophical inconsistencies."  

Lots of cafe time for Simone & Jean Paul here

Perhaps you sense the nature of what I am really hoping to find: some magical, mystical incantation to perform over my lap top so that I could get my housework done, read to the girls, then sit and read a novel over a scone and a latte, while my writing writes itself.  Apparently, there is no such thing.  Let's all hang our heads in disappointment for a moment, shall we, because then I have to take a deep breath and get to work.  My research about writers of the well known variety confirms this truly unfortunate state of affairs:  To work as a writer, you must actually work as a writer.  You have to get your butt in the chair and write.  Like, all the time. 

But here's something that may surprise you, if you've been to my house: when the house is a mess, I don't feel like writing. (If you know me, I know you have to be thinking "she must never feel like writing!")  More to the point, I don't feel like I should be writing. I feel like I should be cleaning. But I know that cleaning doesn't make me a writer, because we've just learned, apparently, only writing makes me a writer.

In fact, to a person, every single creative professional to offer advice about things such as writing and creating and making art, insists that one must actually show up, work hard and then work hard some more if the art is going to happen.  But first, even the productive writers have to get some things out of the way, like washing and grooming.  Many of them even mention getting kids off to school. So Currey's book and all of those other providers of details about how to get your butt in the chair, so to speak, have been helpful to me. This is because, in every case, the writers reveal that they do a couple of things, like brushing their teeth and getting caffeinated and even getting the kids to school, but it is all in the service of getting to their work.  No one mentioned housework.  No one mentioned cooking.  They give themselves permission to ignore those daily tasks and get to work.  Isabelle Allende put it well:

The notion that I do my work here, now, like this, even when I do not feel like it, and especially when I do not feel like it, is very important. Because lots and lots of people are creative when they feel like it, but you are only going to become a professional if you do it when you don’t feel like it. And that emotional waiver is why this is your work and not your hobby.

And even though I don't really need to cite anyone else, I have to mention that Cheryl Strayed, writing as Sugar, the sensible dispenser of sensibility at The Rumpus, gave this simple advice at the end of a long answer to a young writer who wanted help getting out of her own way so she could write:  "Write like a motherf@#!er." Now, despite years as an enthusiastic participant and proponent of both parts of that colorful compound epithet, I've never really embraced the word for personal use. But here, it makes sense to me.  When I think about what that means for me, I know it's about sitting down and writing, even when I feel I should be doing something else.  So that's what I'm going to try to do.  For those of you who come to my house in the next few months, don't mind the motherf@#!ing mess-- take it as a sign that I am taking myself seriously as a writer.

Indescribable Me

First, the good news-- well good for me, at least.  I submitted a piece from this blog to a cool online/soon-to-be-print magazine called The Equals Record and they not only accepted that piece to publish, they asked me to write another one, about books, so they could publish that too.  Pats on the back for me all around-- and don't think I'll be too shy to inform everyone when these will appear.  I'm positively giddy in my own quiet way. *



Yep-- we are the choices we make.  But is that all we are?

Of course, as we cynics often suspect, every silver lining has a cloud.  One appeared for me when the editor at Equals asked me to send a picture and a "short bio" to put on the site with my work.  Easy peasy, right?  Yeah, not so much for me.  I've written here on the blog about my issues with having pictures taken, and how I feel that none of them look like me.  Because they all look, you know, awful.  And there I was, having to not only send in a picture (which the editor graciously let me out of) but write about myself, and suddenly, I didn't know what to say, how to describe myself.  All that came into my head was a bunch of negatives, "I'm not this," "I haven't done that," etc... And this was when I was happy about having gotten something accepted to be published.  I should have been able to write something clever and, more to the point, positive and straightforward, about who I am and what I do.  The problem is, I'm not sure.  How to say who I am, that is. 

I don't think my self esteem is as low as this must make it sound.  In fact, I don't think my self esteem is the problem at all.  It's the esteem of others, especially others who might be meeting me for the first time, that I am concerned about-- way more than I like to think.  To myself, my husband, even my mom, sometimes, when pushed, I can boldly say things like "I own my choices.  I am responsible for where I am now."  I mean it.  I do think that.  Thanks to my firm belief that we can't control everything that happens to us, I can claim the choices I've made about the things I could control.  And I will honestly tell you when those choices were good and when I royally screwed the pooch on decision making.  But the editor asked me for a "short bio," not an exhaustive existential examination of my entire life.  My problem is how to cut to the chase without being allowed to explain how some things happened so that I can make sure that others understand and hold a fair opinion of me.  (Mental note to dig deeper into why I care so much what other people think...)

If I am the choices I've made-- or more to the point, the result of the choices I've made-- I should be able to describe who I am by listing what I've chosen to spend my time learning and being and doing.  So, mother and wife make the top of the list because these are the two most important things I am.  I'm writing, that's obvious, but am I a Writer?  I'm not sure.  Not yet, probably.  I make jewelry, but I'm not a jeweler.  I have a law degree, but I'm not a lawyer.  I have a philosophy degree (a degree and a half, if you count that completed, but languishing, Master's coursework) but I'm not a philosopher, either.  I'm currently unemployed, so do I call myself a job seeker?  None of this captures anything essential about me anymore than telling someone what town I live in, or where I was born, or what I had for lunch.

As I write this, it is getting clearer to me that the problem is not describing myself. It is trying to describe myself by what I do and what I have chosen.  Really, it is the force behind those things: my thoughts, my beliefs, my will, that make me who I am.  That essence, that "selfyness," (a made up word-- you heard it here first) is what I have trouble getting down on paper, because one essential part of who I am is someone who likes to get things like this exactly right. So round and round I go. 

I know I am over thinking all of this, but that's what I do.  Maybe I could write that down:   EBK Riley is a wife and mother who currently lives in Scottsdale where she thinks things to death  on a daily basis while providing her family with clean laundry and nutritious home cooked meals.  See, I know that a "short bio" is about where I'm from and what I do and maybe even what I had for lunch, but I also know that this doesn't really give anyone a clear picture of who I am. 

I am so much more than a burrito-eating blogger born in Los Angeles. 

How do I briefly capture my true self?  Maybe I don't. This is just a few sentences after all, so I just need to offer a quick overview.  And really, what I have to do is just be who I am, not question myself so much, and not worry about what other people think.  

Hey, throw in a "carpe diem," and rousing chorus of "if you want to love what you do, do what you love,"  and I just wrote a commencement speech.  I may not ever nail this "short bio" thing, but maybe I'll just keep writing and when my book comes out and Oprah can't be everywhere at once, those universities will come a'calling and I'll be ready.  I hope I won't have to have my picture taken...



*The book piece came out on 31 May, in case you haven't seen it yet. 


Choice image here.

Check Me Out

I want to let everyone I know and everyone I might ever meet that I have a post in a cool online magazine today.  Please go and look at The Equals Record and check out the piece they actually asked me to write about what I like to read.  A big thank you to Elisabeth at Equals for liking my work and making this all so easy and fun. 

And no, I don't think this gets me off the hook for a blog post this week.  Actually, I did think that, but then I realized that this is supposed to be an opportunity to do better, not to slack off, so, you know, I'm working on a post.  It will be up soon.  In the meantime, read this and let me know what you think.

The Big To Do

.Not that most people would have noticed, but I failed to post anything on the blog last week.  It was on my list, I swear, but somehow writing a post kept getting moved to the next day's list and before I knew it, the week was over.  This week, in accordance with my list, I started working on several ideas, planning to crank 'em out and make up for missing last week. But here it is, Friday morning, forty minutes before time to get ready for school, and even though I have been up for over an hour, I am only just starting to write.  What I have managed to do is check Facebook (hi, friends), read email (sale at Old Navy), pop into my Etsy shop (yep, all the stuff is still there), play a couple of rounds of computer Mah Jong  (tell me it's not oddly addictive) and scarf down a slice of cold pepperoni pizza with my first cup of coffee. Yes, it's been a mighty full morning, but none of that was on my list.  Actually, email probably is, because I usually pitch myself a few softballs to be sure that I will be able to cross something off by the end of the day.  "What good is the list then?" you may want to ask.  Well, to foolishly rip off a line (with sincere apologies to all involved, including Ben Kingsley) from an almost ancient movie, "The list is life."  That's the thing.  The to do lists that have filled the notebooks I have carried around and scribbled in for years have been the bones on which I have tried to flesh out a life. 

I know that sounds weird, and I want you to know that it is not some disordered sort of magical thinking.  I don't have to read the new DSM 5 to know that I don't qualify for OCD, because I lack the concentration and stamina this disorder clearly requires.*  I don't have the mental wherewithal to think obsessively about anything, so my worries about whether or not I locked my door and my concerns about the safety of our food supply would quickly be shooed out of my brain by "Oh look, something sparkly!"  or "Do I smell french fries?" And let's face it, I am simply too lackadaisical to act compulsively.  Even if I could muster the energy to repeatedly wash my hands or count street signs or clean kitchen surfaces, I would likely decide, sooner rather than later, to simply open my notebook, put it on my to do list, and move on.  

The genesis of the lists is my insomnia, which usually presents itself as me lying in bed at about three a.m. (duh) thinking about things that need to be done or things that should have already been done or things I want to do... My mind flits from item to item, as I picture myself cleaning something or making a phone call or running an errand.  I have some kind of aspirational insomnia, I guess, because I'm usually not thinking about the day that just happened, I'm thinking about the day to come. I'm a real Scarlett O'Hara, as far as that goes, because tomorrow (and usually the day after that) is always present to me, full of possibilities, yes, but mostly, full of responsibilities-- you know, things to do.  I used to actually get up and write things down to simply get them out of my head.  Once the duties were committed to paper, I could settle down and eventually sleep because I knew I wouldn't forget something.  Now, when getting up to get the notebook most surely means waking a small someone who will need a glass of water or want to chat about their amazing unicorn dream, I am often able to settle down just by telling myself what will go on the list in the morning.  See what I mean about why I could never make it as a compulsive?

So yes, I have notebooks full of years' worth of to do lists.  I didn't even realize this was the case until I went through the old notebooks and noticed that most of the pages were not scraps of writing or inspirational quotes or ideas for businesses or things to make, but actually just lists of shit I had to get done.  Mostly lists of not crossed off items.  Recently, I missed doing almost everything on the day's list while I looked back at years of lists to see what I did, what I failed to do, and what I finally made myself do after weeks of putting it off.  (Just a thought: what might be nearly compulsive is that I still have most of the notebooks I've used over the years. I made my last move across the country without many of my practical belongings, like say, a toaster, a sofa or a bathroom scale, but the crumpled box of notebooks got put on the truck early, tucked behind the front seat. That might be kinda crazy.) 


I'm sure it is full of to do lists...

As I mentioned earlier, I include easy tasks that I would do every day anyway, like "do dishes," or "get girls ready for school," to give myself something to cross off, so that the list doesn't seem so far-fetched.  I also have less specific things like WRITE and COOK, which I guess are meant to motivate me to creatively fill in the details.  Mostly though, I have lists of calls to make and chores to do and things to get at the store and stuff I have to do for family members. Every once in a while, I have fantasy items thrown in, just for chuckles, like NAP and PEDICURE.

Of course it's clear that I use the list as a way of making things seem manageable-- not that they are so unmanageable, but whatever helps you sleep and propels you through the day I think, must be okay.  On a good day, the list provides both a plan for the day and evidence that I got something done, not just those easy ones I put on there.  On the best day, the list is tangible proof that I know how to use my time wisely, because you know, your third grade teacher was right; just about everything in life really does come down to that. As an added bonus, the undone items always serve as seeds for the next day's list-- as if I didn't already have plenty of new things I think up when I can't fall asleep. 

Of course, the list is also also a handy way to avoid doing some stuff.  When the list includes something I don't want to do-- and the list always contains those items--  I can soothe myself for a little while by doing something I am less averse to, like cleaning a closet instead of cleaning a bathroom, or calling someone with a birthday wish instead of calling Sallie Mae to negotiate another loan deferment.  Clearly, I'm getting things done. There are crossed off items, not just the easy ones.  But I do notice that an item can make the list every day for a week (or longer) until it becomes the thing I can do to avoid something even less palatable.  See, it's a system.  A coping mechanism.  A way of life.

I'd like to write more, but really, I've got a whole list of things to do.


*To be clear, I am not making fun of anyone genuinely struggling with OCD-- I am using it to point out some of my own shortcomings. 

To do list image found here.

Give it a Rest

Find this lovely thought here.

I had a cold a couple of weekends ago, so maybe I was whining a bit as I talked to my mom, who, after inquiring about my symptoms and listening for a minute said, "I've noticed this past year that you're talking about these little health things more, like you need attention." If my throat hadn't hurt-- and it really did, I had swollen glands & everything-- I would have yelled because she was being so unjust. Instead, I quietly, but pretty emphatically, whimpered, "You know, I don't need attention, I just really need a break. I need to rest." She agreed and she talked a little while longer, then I hung up and did something utterly out of character:  I took a nap. 

What's the big deal about a nap?  Well, it was the middle of the day and the house was at sixes and sevens, a mess in every room just waiting for me to swoop in and rearrange it, put it right, make it neat. But Mike was home and he was going to take the girls out to ride their scooters.  So instead  of swooping and putting and making, I went to lie down, and because I was sick, I fell asleep.  For hours.  Did I say it was the middle of the day?

When I woke up, there was still an incredible mess. The girls' dresser had apparently exploded because every drawer was open, spewing clothing.  The living room was a minefield of Barbies and art supplies, and for some reason, every stuffed animal the girls own was lined up on the yoga mat which was laid out in the middle of the dining room like a runway. I still don't know why.  The kitchen counters were fully loaded with the debris of breakfast, lunch and snacks, nestled among every single glass we own, each containing an inch or less of an abandoned beverage.  Oblivious to the destruction, Mike and the girls were watching a movie, laughing at the antics of Jim Carrey, circa late 90's.  "Feeling better?" Mike asked hopefully. Yeah, I was... but after simply walking through the apartment, I was tired again and my throat still hurt and I was pretty stuffy, so I figured I could still use some rest.   I looked around, took note of the fact that the world was messy, but had not actually come to an end while I napped, and sat down with them to watch the rest of the movie.  And, get this, the world still didn't end!

That's right:  it turns out that life doesn't actually stop when I rest.  In fact, things keep happening, and that's okay.  (Except for the part where I still have to clean up.  But a nap is a nap, not the wave of a magic fairy wand.  There will always be stuff to clean up-- I have kids.)  So what is the problem with taking a break? 

My mom's comment (and my cranky reaction to it) reminded me that unless I'm sick, I don't feel like I deserve to rest. I mean really-- what kind of a wuss needs to rest?  What-- do I have the vapors or something, like some simpering Southern belle or consumptive romantic heroine?  Rest is for people who can't manage to get themselves through the day with a few cups of coffee and some sugary snacks grabbed on the go-- eh, I mean, with a balanced diet and plenty of hydration.  I am a strong woman with no need to rest.  Feel free to award my super special gold stars at any time. 

Cute baby found here.

Not only do I feel like resting is wimpy,  I have no patience for rest and I'm not the only one with rest-resistant tendencies. I think moms, especially, fall victim to the idea that rest is unproductive because it takes time away from things that have to be done. As soon as your children are born, you step onto a treadmill, and it is always set on an incline, because there is always something you could be doing. I thought it was just me, but an informal poll of women I know seems to bear this out. "I just have more to do when I get up," is the common refrain. I know that I usually ruin my own attempts to relax by spending rest time thinking about what I need to do when I stop resting. Like a kindergartner on a nap mat, I fidget until rest time is over and then I get back to the day, crankier than ever, because I feel like I was tricked into letting myself get behind.

Slate ran an article titled "It's OK to Nap" about hyper productive people (notice though, only men are mentioned) who relied on naps to increase productivity. While reading, it dawned on me that a big part of the problem is that many of us think that we can only rest in the service of doing more work. This article about resting, introduced by a quote from Ben Franklin, arguably one of the most productive and creative people in history, seems like a bridge from the instrumental idea of resting to a purer idea of rest for the sake of rest, but I still think we're in trouble when an article about the zen of concentrated rest is presented as a way of getting more done.

What I need is a way to give myself permission to really relax.  I have to get past the foot stomping, illness-related whining that is now the only way I allow myself to rest.  The real thing would be to rest when I feel fine and can actually enjoy the moment.  And it doesn't always have to be about sleep.  I would like to learn to enjoy the dreamy but observant rest where I pause to notice beauty around me and get recharged by letting my mind wander.  Or maybe just watch a whole movie without feeling like I should be doing something else. 

For now though, I can tell myself that rest helps me get more done.  So... I'll be taking a "creatively productive power break."  If you hear me snoring, you'll know I'm on the job. 

This Dove Flew the Coop: Reflections on Self Image

I do like this picture of me.  I think I was kinda cute.

Like many people, I have been fascinated recently by the Dove ad campaign that shows women who have two portraits sketched by a police artist who never actually sees them.   One sketch is based on self-description and the other on a description given by a person the woman has just met.   In each case, the sketch based on the other person's description is prettier, friendlier, better... while the pictures based on women's descriptions of themselves highlight their own perceptions of their flaws, rather then their beauty. I get it. Women are prisoners of poor self image.  My Facebook feed was filled with Dove re-posts, as women I knew were captivated by the videos.  Several of the blogs I regularly read, including this one on Inside Higher Education,  took up the discussion as well. 

First I have to say, "Go Dove creative team!"  Dove doesn't even have to spend money to place the ads because they are referenced everywhere in blogs, web forums, and television outlets. Not only did their targeted demographic, women like me, respond by posting and commenting on the videos, but discussions of the campaign and its merits have reached large national forums, such as David Brooks' column in the New York Times.  Parodies have appeared, lampooning the idea that men seem to think they are more attractive than they really are, making this a discussion about how gender informs self-image.  Wow-- from publicity to postmodern discourse with one ad campaign! The team deserves a bonus for all that buzz.

Since I was coincidentally writing something about how I hate to see pictures of myself, and how I therefore go to great lengths to avoid having them taken, and how this has gotten more difficult, now that everyone constantly carries a phone that is also a camera, I was especially interested in the Dove talk.   My real problem with having my picture taken, of course, is that I am always horrified by the results.  Mainly because I don't think they look like me.  That is, they look awful, and that can't be me, right?  I look like I have been the victim of some fun-house mirror filter, which grossly accentuates all the flaws I can usually forget about when I think about myself. 



This image found here

Clearly, something is wrong with me.  Do I actually walk around thinking I'm better looking than I really am?     Or, as the Dove people would have me believe, do I just judge my pictures harshly because I am a typically self-critical woman?  As with any choice that offers two possibilities, I actually think it's a little bit of both.  I don't have an accurate self-image, and apparently, though I am mentally kind to myself,  I am hyper-critical when I see myself in photographs.  Specifically, I am always surprised that my teeth look the way they do, and hey, what's with my hair, and I look so tired, and so fat, and so, you know, different than thought I looked.

And we don't take pictures to throw them away, do we?
I realize that my problem stems from my belief that my photos will persist in perpetuity.  So, yeah, not only are pictures worth a thousand words, but generations from now, they may be all that is left to record my existence and those thousand words will say that I look incredibly hideous.

We take pictures to keep, to remind us of a moment in time, to look back on, ponder, pore over and yes, critique.  Has anyone ever met a women, even a professional fashion model, who was able to look at a picture of herself without cringing at some element she saw?  And here is this difference between women and men. Some men are self-critical, but as a group, and I'm making a gigantic unsupported generalization here, men have less of their self-image hanging on what they look like.  They'd like to look good, they'd like to be captured for posterity in the best possible way, but they seem to allow for overarching conditions like age and weight and how long it's been since they've had their hair cut and how much they might have had to drink, whatever...  None of them want to look like idiots, but "hey, I look how I look," seems to be an acceptable male idea.  The Dove parodies may be onto something here, but I don't think it is going to help me, because it makes me feel even more ridiculous for caring about something like this in the first place.

This is clearly something I need to work on.

I don't think of myself as particularly concerned about my looks either-- I've never thought that was what I mainly had to offer-- I mean I'm not the Elephant Man or anything.  I'm average, but I've always figured that my sense of humor, my intellect, who I really am, counted more.  I grew up in the generation when kids were being told that what was inside counted most, and we were all beautiful inside.  (Yeah, it was the seventies.)   I know that I am not as unattractive as I think I look in pictures, and also, not exactly what I look like in my own mind either, where the notion of inner beauty apparently quiets my personal image anxiety. 

I have been horrified many times when someone has told me that a picture I found woefully unflattering "looked exactly like" me. Ouch! There are two, maybe three, pictures taken during my lifetime that I approved for viewing by a general audience. The best of them, shown above, was taken before my second birthday.   Another, from my wedding, was the one I finally deemed acceptable to use as my Facebook profile pic.  That's two good pictures in the space of about forty-five years.  There might be a decent one to come when I'm sixty or so.  And I remember feeling this way about my photographed image as early as junior high, when I looked at pictures of myself in my first yearbook. That I eventually worked on my high school yearbook staff was not completely uninfluenced by the chance it offered me to edit my own pictures.   (That, and the chance to roam the school "doing yearbook stuff.")

And this may get to the root of my discomfort. At my core, I am an editor. I write, but that is only to have something to edit, to polish, to perfect. I know that my first draft isn't quite right, that I could do better.  I don't know if this is a "feminine" trait, or just something about me.  In pictures, I always see where I could have improved.  I could stand up straighter, comb my hair, smile less oddly, and make a mental note to burn those jeans, or at least never appear in them publicly again.

This crazy self-editing actually coincides with one of the things I find interesting about the Dove discussion, which has gone beyond the talk of women and beauty and moved to talk of women and criticism, particularly self-criticism. David Brooks, at least, has brought up the idea that this might not be so bad. Let's just say it gals, we've gotten into a lot of trouble throughout history because men with some weight to throw around have thought they were better than they actually were. I think most wars really start that way, and this comes around to Brooks' thought that perhaps "feminine" self-criticism isn't an altogether bad thing in the world, because it cuts through some of the hubris that leads to all kinds of bad decisions based on over estimations of self-worth. Maybe one good thing about the specter of self-criticism is that it forces us to constantly assess whether we are giving our best. In life, and in pictures.  So we edit, we polish, we entertain alternatives, until we're more certain that we're really expressing the best of what we have to offer.  We try to stand up straighter. 

I know that inner beauty is what Dove was trying to get at, and I get it.  I just wish more of my inner beauty showed in photographs.  I can't wait to see the ad for the Dove product that makes that happen. That, I will definitely buy.