The Gurly Life

Slow as molasses on a cold winter's day

Actually, a better metaphor is a very large, very sticky bandaid being ripped veeery veeery slowly off the inside of your upper arm, you know, where the skin is all delicate.

I refer to the way I'm doing traffic school. A few weeks ago I got a ticket. It was a righteous ticket, and the officer was lovely, you can relax I was not oppressed. I decided to do traffic school. Online. From the comfort of my own home.

One giant drawback: you can log out and sign back in later. Ok, maybe not a drawback, it does make it easier to do this in pieces if you have a busy napping schedule. However, I have been doing it in pieces because I have been procrastinating (such as right now, for example). I started last weekend, and the thing isn't due until May 9.

So, the albatross around my neck, the ball and chain, the flesh-eating bacteria that is traffic school will most likely not be finished this weekend, either.

I haven't been this procrastinaty creative in months.

I don't care if you read this

Have you ever noticed how when you get really invested in something, it sometimes doesn't work out? For me, it's because I get significant about it and then I get all weird and try too hard, and then obviously blah.

So it is with this blog. For reasons that are too boring to go into here, I lost my mojo for a long time. Over a year, actually. Oh yes. It's true. No, no, it's true. I would get inspired every now and then, and then blah again. I thought, well, I guess I have nothing more to say. It's like reaching the end of the internet, or the Spanish Inquisition - no one actually expects it.

I considered for a while shutting down the blog. Maybe starting a new one, a totally anonymous one, so that if I write a post about my vagina, for example, I don't have to worry about my boss being embarrassed, being fired, or never hired by anyone again. Not that I write many posts about my vagina, I think I did that one time (this one doesn't count), but still! I want the artistic freedom, damnit, the Founders owe it to me.

Considering that I'm not sure which of my friends (I think there's a few who occasionally read a post, and a couple who read almost everything) and family (my mom and dad, and that's pretty much it) even read this anymore, and that it was intended to keep them updated on what I'm doing, I wasn't sure if I should continue.

Then I realized I wasn't just blogging for the fun of it anymore, but for readership. I was all, I wish I was a good enough or funny enough writer to have a wider audience. Moan, groan, blah blah vampire emergency blah (just checking to see if you're paying attention). So stressful to write a post and have 3 people read it.

To sum up: no readers, not fun to write. What's the point?

The point is that I like to write my stupid little posts. Sometimes I say something that reaches someone, and that's awesome. And often I don't, I just have mediocre thoughts that I express in a mildly amusing way. Occasionally I hit the jackpot and write a good post.

Occasionally, someone will tell me they read the blog and enjoy it, and then I'm chuffed for a month. Seriously, every reader, every comment, is like a little diamond in my mailbox.

So I continue with my little blog, for no reason at all other than it's fun for me. If no one reads, so be it -- it will just be fodder in the public domain to bring me down one day when I am feeling a smidge too arrogant. But if you do read it, know that you contribute to my creative expression. Thanks for that.

That's right - I don't fucking care if you like it

From this amazing post, I don't f*cking care if you like it!, by Emily Lackey. Emily, you're awesome. Tina Fey and Amy Poehler: carry on.

This I think clinches it:

You know that saying, when a man says "no" it's the end of the conversation, but when a woman says "no" it's the beginning of a compromise? I hate that saying. But I know firsthand how true that is, how forgiving women are, how easily we fall into the diminutive role of "maybe I misspoke" or "did that seem too vulgar?" or "maybe you're right" or "I shouldn't use the F-word so rampantly in this post because my family is reading this."

F*ck that.

I am vulgar. I make really inappropriate jokes about anal sex and vibrators. (Case in point: I am going back and forth about whether or not to remove "anal sex" from that last sentence because it seems too vulgar.) I am far too forthcoming about my personal life in public settings. And I don't f*cking care if you like it.

I think we can all agree that I am too forthcoming about my personal life in public places. Apparently, I'm not the only one. Oh, and this too, about the nerve-wracking aspect of having a blog about your life.

In related news, I think I have to get Tina Fey's book.

Where does the time go?

The last few weeks I have not blogged often. There are reasons that have stifled my creativity, but I won't really go into them in any detail. I know, shocking, right? I will say this: I'm stretching into bigger and more complicated stuff at work, and feel out of my depth most of the time. I feel like I'm going to screw up any minute, and it will be a huge screw up, and then it'll be really bad. I feel uncertain, and not entirely safe.

This uncertainty, in turn, affects my confidence that I have something to say that anyone will want to read. So I don't write. The less I write, the more I feel pressure to write something funny/wise/interesting. It's like when it's 1am and you have to get up at 5 and you have a big day ahead of you and need the sleep but can't get to sleep because you keep thinking and stressing about how you really need to go to sleep and can't. Ack. Like that.

I've been so uninspired that I haven't even had one single idea for a Pictorial Representation. Remember those? Yep. Nothing.

I will make a pledge right now: to write something every day from today until the end of the year. Anything. Long, short, silly, boring, whatever. Writing comes with writing.

Check in again tomorrow, when I will have something profound and life changing to say. Or not.

Where Grownup and Twelveyearold meet

As my regular readers, friends, colleagues, and pretty much anyone who's ever met me knows by now, I have been taking a creative nonfiction writing class. This has been a lot of work, and I assure you that I'm behind. It made me admire folks who go to law school part-time: not only do they work all day but then they have several hours of homework/class after work each day. Frankly, I don't know how they do it. I do one hour of homework at night and I'm dead to the world and feel like I've accomplished something if I shower and brush my teeth.

Anyway.

One of the assignments is a longer piece, 10 pages or so, which gets critiqued by as many other writers as get the opportunity to do so, and by the instructor in some detail.

My longer piece was in a very early draft form. I decided not to tinker with it too much before the next draft and to wait for the feedback before launching into the inevitable major rewrite.

So far, having my work critiqued has not been particularly traumatic, so when this went up I asked folks to be honest and tell me what they thought worked, but also what they thought didn't work. The comments were very helpful, and honest, and I enjoyed the feedback as much as I had enjoyed playing around with a longer piece. How grown-up of me, I thought.

Until I read the instructor's notes. Taking me at my word, she really gave me detailed notes about what didn't work, and some suggestions of things I could do in my next draft. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't mean or rough or anything. She gave me very useful, specific feedback. But there was not much in the way of atta girl, at least not according to 12 year old Elena.

Because that's when the 12 year old took over. I was all, hey, wait, I've seen her comments on other people's stuff, she was much nicer to them than she was to me. (In all fairness, most of the other pieces had already undergone several rewrites.) I mean, I know I said be honest, but COME ON! What the heck! This means she hated it, couldn't stand it, it's garbage, I'm garbage, I can't write, who was I kidding with this? I might as well just give up right now this is so embarrassing, how could I have turned in such a bad piece of writing? Well, I'll tell you: I'm a lousy writer, that's how. 

12 year old Elena has delusions of grandeur, or the typical teen fantasy of suddenly being discovered as the talent of our ages: to be recognized at last, at long last, as the shining beacon of something or other. Heck, if I can't be a beauty, I'll be a genius writer. Elizabeth Gilbert, shove over, this town ain't big enough for the two of us. But now, my childish fantasy has been dashed against the rocks of cold, hard reality. My dream is over, crushed like the delicate violet that it is, under the stomping feet of the people who don't get me, who don't understand me.

The grown-up piped up just long enough to ask, "What was this dream that has been crushed?"

12 year old Elena, whining: I just want to be good at something, anything, really good at one thing. Why can't I be really great at one thing? I wanna be the best in the world at one thing, just one, that's not asking too much, is it?

Grown-up Elena: Ok, but did you in fact have some specific goal, or dream as you say?

12 year old Elena: Yes, I was going to be the next NYT best-selling memoirist. And now I can't be because I suck. [stomps foot, crosses arms and pouts]

Grown-up Elena: Really? Because last time I checked, you were completely satisfied tinkering around on your blog, which maybe 30 people read, if that.

12 year old Elena: Yeah, but I wanted to take this writing class and be discovered as a natural talent and suddenly be catapulted into the stratosphere of writers. [ok, so a 12 year old might not use the words catapult and stratophere in the same sentence, but you get the drift]

Grown-up Elena: I hate to break it to you, but most writers who are any good have been writing diligently and honing their craft for years, probably decades. 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration, and all that.

12 year old and now grown-up Elena: Damn it.

I spent a few hours pouting and moping and saying things like "I might as well just give up now" to myself. "I'll just slink away quietly, and then if anyone asks, I'll say I got really busy at work and had trials and hearings and all kinds of city emergencies." In other words, if anyone calls me on it, I'll lie. In my defense, I have strong cowardly tendencies.

After a good night's sleep my delusions of grandeur took on their true form: delusions, period. Grown-up Elena had reasserted herself. She reminded me that the reason I took the class was not to win a Pulitzer but to be a marginally better writer, and that if I was a genius writer I would not be taking the class, I'd be teaching it. I got over myself and sent the instructor an email to ask if I can submit a new draft. I might have to switch to a grade, which would virtually guarantee me nothing higher than a C (trust me!), but I'd get more feedback. I call that a win-win.

Writing assignment no. 5

Tehran, Iran, first day of school. The American School, I think. About 9 years old, I don’t speak a word of English, and dad is trying to teach me a few phrases while we drive there, but I’ll have none of it.

 When we arrive at the school, dad tries to give me some helpful advice, but I shrug him away like the little know-it-all that I am. I am ready for my new challenge, and having my dad around to manage me will cramp my style. It’s hard to be independent when YOUR DAD is doing everything for you. Without having much choice, and probably relieved not to, he drops me off at the gate and leaves. I walk around until I find an adult and speak to them in Italian, the only language I can speak at this age. Someone eventually figures out I belong in an ESL class.

 I don’t have any memory of this being in any way traumatizing or scary. It’s just a memory, this is what happened, and I figured it out. But when I tell people this story, they nod and say, “Oh yes, that explains everything I need to know about you.” I only know that this day in my life is revealing because others tell me so.

 That night, I give my parents lessons in pronouncing words that I learned that day and that my dad has been speaking for a decade at least.  My parents are beaming – I had a good day at school, I’m making friends, and I’m taking to English like a fish to water. What a relief to know that they haven’t ruined my life by taking me out of Italy.

 On one of my first days I learn to spell the word “penmanship,” but don’t understand what it means. When I ask the teacher to explain it, he says “Just what it says.” But it says pen, it says man, and it says ship. The meaning is NOT just what it says, clearly. I insist. He eventually becomes exasperated, so I stop but feel like who I am is too much. And I’m not sure if I’m an idiot for not getting it or if I’m surrounded by idiots. Many years later, I was asked to leave religion class, due to a similar tendency to ask just a few too many questions.

 Within a few days, I’m happily taking the bus to and from school.

My writing class

Last night I spent an hour in a chat room with about 6 of my classmates, and the instructor. I don't think I've been in a chat room since the early days of AOL. I know, right?

When I signed in, I was just getting over the shock of getting my work critiqued by other writers. I'll take a moment here to say that there are some really, really good writers in this group. I'm definitely at the bottom of the pile, here, people. Oh yeah. On the plus side, the people in the class are wonderfully fun. We had a brief discussion about ducks. One writer said that she was finally getting all her ducks in a row, prompting me to confess that I had forgotten to bring my duck to the discussion, and then it just went downhill from there.

I was not particularly thrilled with my first two assignments. When the first comment on my second writing assignment said something to the effect that the emotion behind the piece was missing, I went to a crazy place: I was all, oh my god, I have no emotions, I'm a cold fish, I'm dead inside! No wonder I don't have a relationship, I am practically a robot, OHMYGOD I need therapy. In other words, I had an emotional breakdown. When I finally realized the irony (idiocy?), I burst out laughing. All by my myself, laughing, with Maliboo Kitty making worried chirpy noises. But then, she makes worried chirpy noises when I sneeze, sooo....

Then finally I realized that (a) one person's response does not make me a robotic dead fish, and (b) if I were a virtuoso writer, I would not be taking the class, I'd be teaching it. In fact, I hope all my pieces suck it, so I can see where I have room for improvement. I am so mature it's almost annoying.

Writing assignment no. 2

The assignment, with a 500 word limit, was as follows:

Choose a photograph that triggers a memory for you. Describe what we can’t see beyond the borders of the frame: your memories of that day, the people in it, and its significance to you. Try to remember as many details as you can, using the picture to remind you.

I have this photo, framed, on one of my bookcases. My parents, who are in the photo with me, have the same photo, also framed.  It’s my law school graduation, May 2003. I was almost 35. So many things began and ended and changed during law school, that it’s hard to say it all in 500 words, but I’ll try.

Law school was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and one of the best decisions I ever made. It left me full of debt, but I like to call it good debt because in return I got power and passion. I know, how many attorneys are passionate about what they do? Most will tell you it’s an awful life. To me, it’s empowering and fascinating and I wouldn’t trade it in for anything.

This moment is also important because I hadn’t seen my dad for 11 years. It’s not clear why, we hadn’t really had a falling out, but we had drifted apart. Mostly, I had decided he didn’t get me or we didn’t have the right kind of relationship or some such shit. At some point during law school, I let that go and accepted him just how he was. I thought, why is our relationship not the right kind of relationship? What does that even mean? Next thing I know, here he was, at my graduation. It was good that he got to see that law school was no picnic, but more importantly, the kind of world-changing work attorneys do every day. I wish more people could see that, actually.

My law degree was the start of a new phase of my life. I left the entertainment industry behind me, happily as it turns out. Admitting failure in that field was surprisingly easy and liberating. I also left a marriage behind. I didn’t want to, but a relationship with a man who had never loved me, only liked me, was too painful to bear. I needed the independence so I could let that go, too.

Writer's block

This morning I talked to Deirdre, one of my writer friends. I expressed frustration with how my second writing assignment is going, and she gave me some good advice: keep it simple, and focus on what you want to say and what you want the reader to get. Ok. That helps.

And now I scurry off to rewrite the assignment. Again.

PS Is there anything more boring that a post about how I'm having problems writing? Bleaaah!

Autobiography

Write your autobiography — an account of the story of your life thus far — in one paragraph (no more than 150 words) 

I’m an only, but not lonely, child. When I was little, my adventurous parents decided to travel the world. I didn’t know it then, but I had left Italy forever. The shop down the street in Teheran had the best chocolate ice cream I ever had.  Hong Kong was one culinary adventure after another – some not good. Nairobi was a young girl’s paradise: I had a horse. Tokyo was intense and freeing, and in some ways it was bizarro world. Almost as a lark, I came to college in the US, and stayed. Married twice, both times to the wrong man (sigh!), No children; not sure how I feel about that. I began in the entertainment industry, but left, disappointed and repulsed. Law school slingshot my brain forward, and now I do work that makes a difference. Family, friends and pets complete my life and make me happy. 

Next, write it in a sentence (no more than 30 words). 

City attorney
after having seen the world 
keep friends forever 

Finally, write it in a single word. 

Friendship