I realized today that I have a pandemic problem of sorts, I like to write in busy places, where eclectic people gather. Usually these places entail coffee, because coffee shops also have free wifi internet, which shockingly Al Gore did not invent. The problem is I don't want black coffee, I want the good stuff. I want candy coffee. It's delicious and, according to Wired Magazine, coffee has an ingredient that kills cavities. So besides being good, I now feel I have ample justification to say it is good for me as well.
I used to think that writing was pretty simply. My idea was that writing involved sitting in an apartment, usually in your underwear, watching TV until one felt inspired by something and then one would write about said inspiring something.
I wish this were the case, or at least I wish that my inspirational did not cost a cup of candy coffee. Really, it doesn't. I just say it does because it gives me an excuse to sit in a coffee shop and watch interesting people, someone right now is making out with someone else. The dude...I assume boyfriend or maybe secret mister (I assume secret mister is the male form of secret mistress), walks into coffee shop. The girl unassumingly sitting on a stool staring at her computer is intently staring, I mean this is not the typical, "I'm working stare", this is more like, "If Jesus comes back and people are screaming I would have no idea Armageddon was even happening because I'm so intent upon my work" type stare. She is oblivious to his arrival. He is behind her. Then he spots her and like a cougar, which attack from behind their victims according to Bear Grills, lunges at her, grabs her and promptly begins a 15 minute make out session. After which finishes, he packs up her computer and escorts her out of the coffee shop. I wink at him (really I did, but sadly did not get any response)...I know what happens next. Have a good night coffee porn couple.
My point is that when you follow something or do something you truly enjoy or even spend time with people you really enjoy spending time with, you never really know how it is all going to turn out. There's risk involved, there's cost involved. Often, when it comes to things, people, passions that you love it's worth the cost and risk.
I am thinking about this because I had a conversation with this kid from a bad background. He and I were talking about life and he stated that it wasn't worth the risk of really getting to know people because it seemed the reward was heartbreak. That's a really sucky way to live. I mean, honestly, I used to live like that. It was sad. Luckily I had really good friends that constantly pulled me away from that thinking. My friends Keith and Zach in Colorado, Brandon in Illinois, and Jerry in Iowa were some of those people. I would tell them I didn't want to be myself around them because I was afraid they wouldn't like me. They told me I was an idiot and to get over myself. I am still working on that. You can ask some of my close friends who really know me.
Seriously though, the reality is that over a quarter, that's 1 out of every 4, of students in college come from broken homes. This also means that a lot of us out of college also come from some sort of broken homes. Sometimes this means that we grow up without trust in relationships or others that seem instilled in people at an early age. However, I hold that most of that thinking and the actions that result as a consequence of such thinking are just copouts for an unwillingness to attempt something that potentially has risk. I told him that, "Monkeys can dress up and do what he does. Honestly, a monkey could go to class for him, get the same grades as him, and fail out like him." But if he really wanted to try and risk the failure then he was becoming the man he wanted to be. And even if he failed, he could get back up and try again. He left my office to go and actually study or maybe just grab a beer and think. It's funny because my own comments made me think too. I give good advice, but probably should be careful about calling students monkeys.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Back to the Writing
I'm still writing my book. It's hard, fun, emotionally draining, and all around awesome. I had a conversation with my brother. We talked about some of the experiences I'm writing about. They are deep, and hard.
In some ways it's strange because I'm fact checking my own life. I'm calling my brother to make sure this really happened or check to see if he remembers if I'm actually right in what I'm saying.
Sometimes its hard because the topic material is my own life. I'm putting myself out there. I'm putting all of the baggage out there for you to read. I'm telling my story and my families' story, the good and, sometimes, the bad; the real and authentic.
While, I refuse to use any names I know there are those reading who will wonder if I am talking about them and those who know I am talking about them. There are those who will want to meet these people, there are those who will have a cord struck and will want to talk about their experiences, struggles, hopes, and hardships. Then there are those, and this is my real fear, in my family who will be unhappy with what I've written.
Yet, I find with every chapter I am energized. I feel a sense of excitement in my soul that can only be explained as a cathartic realization that this is a story worth being told and worth being lived. With every day I find myself being pushed by my own writing to live out the story because ultimately I want to create what you read, not just read what others create. I want to live in such a way that inspires others to rise from the dust of their own messy lives, because we all have messy lives, and find something that makes them come alive. I want to help people not settle for anything less than a full life filled with experiences that are as real as the movies we watch and stories we read.
I think the ultimate result of writing this story is that I hope to inspire someone to say..."This isn't a fade to black ending. This isn't a dark and depressing story. This isn't a sad moment in our humanity. This is where we stand with our hands held high, fists clenched in victory, as we face our fears, face our demons, face our inadequacies, face our fill in the blanks, and say to hell with living the status quo that has sometimes been thrust upon us by those around us and make up our own ending. This is where we end on the crossroads of our past and our futures. This is not an ending. This is just another beginning."
In some ways it's strange because I'm fact checking my own life. I'm calling my brother to make sure this really happened or check to see if he remembers if I'm actually right in what I'm saying.
Sometimes its hard because the topic material is my own life. I'm putting myself out there. I'm putting all of the baggage out there for you to read. I'm telling my story and my families' story, the good and, sometimes, the bad; the real and authentic.
While, I refuse to use any names I know there are those reading who will wonder if I am talking about them and those who know I am talking about them. There are those who will want to meet these people, there are those who will have a cord struck and will want to talk about their experiences, struggles, hopes, and hardships. Then there are those, and this is my real fear, in my family who will be unhappy with what I've written.
Yet, I find with every chapter I am energized. I feel a sense of excitement in my soul that can only be explained as a cathartic realization that this is a story worth being told and worth being lived. With every day I find myself being pushed by my own writing to live out the story because ultimately I want to create what you read, not just read what others create. I want to live in such a way that inspires others to rise from the dust of their own messy lives, because we all have messy lives, and find something that makes them come alive. I want to help people not settle for anything less than a full life filled with experiences that are as real as the movies we watch and stories we read.
I think the ultimate result of writing this story is that I hope to inspire someone to say..."This isn't a fade to black ending. This isn't a dark and depressing story. This isn't a sad moment in our humanity. This is where we stand with our hands held high, fists clenched in victory, as we face our fears, face our demons, face our inadequacies, face our fill in the blanks, and say to hell with living the status quo that has sometimes been thrust upon us by those around us and make up our own ending. This is where we end on the crossroads of our past and our futures. This is not an ending. This is just another beginning."
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Self Proclaimed Imperfect Perfectionist
I missed a lay up today. The coach, the Vice Chancellor of the University and my former boss (I quit my job and am now in a new department, this is covered in a previous blog and hence i will leave this aside to get back to the drama occurring in this current blog. You should really catch up by reading the previous blog or the one before.) The coach, as I was saying, took me out of the game. It was not an easy lay up. It was one of those, I made a really nice move, was surrounded by giants measuring 6'2", maybe 6'3", when you are 5'5" they really seem like giants towering over you, almost like Ogres hungry for the ball which is their dinner.
I jumped. I was higher than them. (I can jump high, my dad told me so. For most people the encouragement my dad gave me would seem more out of duty, but my dad was honest when he said it. I know that he was honest because he and my mom one time agreed that I was a shrimp and told me so.) I hung in the air. I was so close. It was on my right side. I let it go with my right hand, I'm naturally left handed. The ball hit the backboard, the rim and came safely down with out going through the hoop. It was a missed lay up.
I jumped back up. I tipped the ball, the short giants didn't stop me. I hit the ball. It went up. It hit the backboard. It hit the rim. It came down without going through the net.
I missed a second lay up in a matter of 1 second, that's 00:00:01:00. The couch subbed me out. I rode the pine for the rest of the game. I have splinters on my butt.
For those of you wondering, I was playing in a faculty/staff vs. students basketball game to kick off Homecoming week at my university. As a point of note us, faculty/staff members, won in overtime.
I was really ticked off. I am a perfectionist. I hate missing even a single shot, let alone a lay up. I don't care how hard of a shot it is, if the ball hits rim I should have, could have made it go in.
Today, I finished an article for a magazine. I pitched an article about growing up in Foster Care. The magazine editors read some of my other material, including possibly this blog, and said, "Give us a 1000 words." I did. I wrote it. I finished it. I got so excited that I sent it to people to proofread, which is the right thing to do. I waited 25 minutes. I started to get anxious. What if it sucked? There's no way someone will publish my writing. I'm not that good. I'm a perfectionist it's probably not right and never will be. I proofread it one more time and sent it to the editor.
I got my first edit back from my people with red all over it. I had sent it to the editor too early. I knew it was too early. I know it was too early. I was so dissappointed. I thought I blew my chances because I got angry. What a stupid, stupid mistake! I'm a failure. After many revisions I sent an email to the editor, stating that I had read the article again and wanted to add/reword a couple things and that I would send an updated copy before the end of the week.
Not the impression I wanted to make. I hate when I make mistakes, especially simple ones. I hate when I miss lay ups. Yes, this is one of those blogs where I self-disclose some bit of information, but I must. You see the article was about growing up in foster care and I wrote this statement, "Those of us who come from these types of backgrounds are hard on ourselves. We do not need to be told what we are doing wrong. We have grown up believing that we were born wrong."
It's true. There are days that I go back to believing that I have one chance to fail or succeed. No matter how many times I prove this theory wrong it seems to haunt me like the ghost of some fish I caught. I've proved it wrong literally over and over again. I mean, I one time asked to be excused during the middle of an interview for my first professional job after graduate school because I had to use the rest room. I got up from the interview table, did my business and returned. I finished the interview and swore that I was done with that job possibility. I had failed. I had one chance and I failed. Needless to say, Twenty minutes later I got offered the second interview, three weeks later I got offered the job. I proved my theory wrong.
I know that my article is good, the one I've edited four plus times is better than the original I sent. But I am an imperfect perfectionist. I think that what I have will never be right and sometimes I hold so tightly to that thought that I cease to perform my best.
I think that there are many out there who hold so tightly to things, thinking that we only have one chance to fail or succeed. We only have one lay up, miss and sit, make and play. The reality of what I am relearning, because I never learned this as a child and many of us didn't, is that our failures, our misses don't make us failures. Its the way we get back up. Tomorrow I'll go play basketball and I'll make my lay ups. Today I'm editing my article and then sending it to the editor of a magazine, more confident than I was before. Who knows what will happen. But published or unpublished my success is in the effort of my learning, not in the consequences of a single mistake. That is something I can be proud of and with which I can stand having fully confidence that my past mistakes do not dictate my future successes. What we are to become remains solely up to us. I'm a good basketball player for a short guy one lay up will not persuade me otherwise.
I'm a self-proclaimed imperfect perfectionist. "Imperfect" being the key term that I'm most proud of.
I jumped. I was higher than them. (I can jump high, my dad told me so. For most people the encouragement my dad gave me would seem more out of duty, but my dad was honest when he said it. I know that he was honest because he and my mom one time agreed that I was a shrimp and told me so.) I hung in the air. I was so close. It was on my right side. I let it go with my right hand, I'm naturally left handed. The ball hit the backboard, the rim and came safely down with out going through the hoop. It was a missed lay up.
I jumped back up. I tipped the ball, the short giants didn't stop me. I hit the ball. It went up. It hit the backboard. It hit the rim. It came down without going through the net.
I missed a second lay up in a matter of 1 second, that's 00:00:01:00. The couch subbed me out. I rode the pine for the rest of the game. I have splinters on my butt.
For those of you wondering, I was playing in a faculty/staff vs. students basketball game to kick off Homecoming week at my university. As a point of note us, faculty/staff members, won in overtime.
I was really ticked off. I am a perfectionist. I hate missing even a single shot, let alone a lay up. I don't care how hard of a shot it is, if the ball hits rim I should have, could have made it go in.
Today, I finished an article for a magazine. I pitched an article about growing up in Foster Care. The magazine editors read some of my other material, including possibly this blog, and said, "Give us a 1000 words." I did. I wrote it. I finished it. I got so excited that I sent it to people to proofread, which is the right thing to do. I waited 25 minutes. I started to get anxious. What if it sucked? There's no way someone will publish my writing. I'm not that good. I'm a perfectionist it's probably not right and never will be. I proofread it one more time and sent it to the editor.
I got my first edit back from my people with red all over it. I had sent it to the editor too early. I knew it was too early. I know it was too early. I was so dissappointed. I thought I blew my chances because I got angry. What a stupid, stupid mistake! I'm a failure. After many revisions I sent an email to the editor, stating that I had read the article again and wanted to add/reword a couple things and that I would send an updated copy before the end of the week.
Not the impression I wanted to make. I hate when I make mistakes, especially simple ones. I hate when I miss lay ups. Yes, this is one of those blogs where I self-disclose some bit of information, but I must. You see the article was about growing up in foster care and I wrote this statement, "Those of us who come from these types of backgrounds are hard on ourselves. We do not need to be told what we are doing wrong. We have grown up believing that we were born wrong."
It's true. There are days that I go back to believing that I have one chance to fail or succeed. No matter how many times I prove this theory wrong it seems to haunt me like the ghost of some fish I caught. I've proved it wrong literally over and over again. I mean, I one time asked to be excused during the middle of an interview for my first professional job after graduate school because I had to use the rest room. I got up from the interview table, did my business and returned. I finished the interview and swore that I was done with that job possibility. I had failed. I had one chance and I failed. Needless to say, Twenty minutes later I got offered the second interview, three weeks later I got offered the job. I proved my theory wrong.
I know that my article is good, the one I've edited four plus times is better than the original I sent. But I am an imperfect perfectionist. I think that what I have will never be right and sometimes I hold so tightly to that thought that I cease to perform my best.
I think that there are many out there who hold so tightly to things, thinking that we only have one chance to fail or succeed. We only have one lay up, miss and sit, make and play. The reality of what I am relearning, because I never learned this as a child and many of us didn't, is that our failures, our misses don't make us failures. Its the way we get back up. Tomorrow I'll go play basketball and I'll make my lay ups. Today I'm editing my article and then sending it to the editor of a magazine, more confident than I was before. Who knows what will happen. But published or unpublished my success is in the effort of my learning, not in the consequences of a single mistake. That is something I can be proud of and with which I can stand having fully confidence that my past mistakes do not dictate my future successes. What we are to become remains solely up to us. I'm a good basketball player for a short guy one lay up will not persuade me otherwise.
I'm a self-proclaimed imperfect perfectionist. "Imperfect" being the key term that I'm most proud of.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I need to write, like advertisers need to put pants on their advertisments.
It is official. I have moved to the Dilworth area of Charlotte, NC. Dilworth is the community about a half mile to a mile and a half of the downtown Charlotte area. It's teeming with young professionals, cool looking older homes, good restaurants, bars, coffee shops. It's the city life I've been craving. I figured now that I should have more time, since I actually usually finish work at 5, I should probably look for a second job to pay for my habits. Those habits being coffee, cable tv, and traveling to South Africa for the World Cup. These are important habits to support, one stains your teeth, one rots your brain, and one potentially could kill you in a plethora of ways.
The reality is that I actually want to save money for these items. Hence, I figured I'd do something about it. I've always wanted to work in a coffee shop. This would be a very profitable endeavor as it would not only pay me, but support one of my habits, that being coffee for those of you wondering.
I have searched for barista positions. (Which I was slightly disturbed to realize that even males are baristas. I thought maybe as a male you would be a baristo. This is not the case.) Not being able to find any, I did what any self respecting 26 year old would do. Search Craiglist. I found a tab for both "writing gigs" and "writers wanted".
I thought to myself, "Self, this could be a great opportunity. Not only would it make you sit down and write, which would actually help me keep this blog updated because I am at times a slacker, but it would get you paid." I searched. There were a couple of ads that offered more than a little information to be desired such as "Looking for writers to write reviews. Please send cover letter and resume, along with writing samples for consideration." I decided to respond, but did not want any of my information out there in case it was a dismal attempt to steal my identity.
Here is the response (I have removed the reply back information):
Hi there,
Thanks for your interest in the website reviewer position. We are currently looking for honest people with a keen eye for detail to visit various adult sites online and write the things they like and dislike about each. We will require 12 reviews per week which are due by 2pm EST every Friday.
The starting wage for this post is $350 per week which rises after 6 months. No previous experience is required for this position. The only requirement we have is that you submit a 100-word review of the member’s area at a pre-selected site (www.exposedcelebrities.net). It's completely free to join so don't worry about any costs (be sure to cancel within 3 days or you will be billed).
Please submit this review to ... within 48 hours if you're still interested. This position can be taken from anywhere, it's going to be a home-based position. If this isn't for you we thank you for your time.
Thanks for your time
Yes. If I so chose I could have written reviews for dirty websites. Thank you craigslist. Naturally, I think this may be many other dudes dream jobs.
This is the conversation that went through my head.
"Hi Mom. Is dad there? Put him on the phone too."
"Mom, Dad, I have a paying writing gig."
"Yeah. I'm excited too. It pays $350 a week."
"No, it's not degrading at all. I review porn sites."
"Yes, I am an expert at that. I have a keen eye for detail."
"Is this weird for you all to hear?"
"Would you feel comfortable telling grandma that I made it as a writer."
"Thanks. I love you too. I'm glad you're so proud of me and helped me be the man I am today."
"The world will never be the same. Writing reviews is just the start."
It's not that I'm totally against writing porn reviews. It's just that I couldn't write any porn review with a straight face. Maybe, I'm not mature enough. Maybe, I'm just not the right guy for the job.
Insert joke where ever. I'm off to find a writing gig, or some other kind of gig that involves something where the people around me wear pants (which was originally a reference to the number of super bowl adds containing men without pants). Wish me luck. Hopefully I'll update this more and more as I continue to settle into my new life and schedule.
The reality is that I actually want to save money for these items. Hence, I figured I'd do something about it. I've always wanted to work in a coffee shop. This would be a very profitable endeavor as it would not only pay me, but support one of my habits, that being coffee for those of you wondering.
I have searched for barista positions. (Which I was slightly disturbed to realize that even males are baristas. I thought maybe as a male you would be a baristo. This is not the case.) Not being able to find any, I did what any self respecting 26 year old would do. Search Craiglist. I found a tab for both "writing gigs" and "writers wanted".
I thought to myself, "Self, this could be a great opportunity. Not only would it make you sit down and write, which would actually help me keep this blog updated because I am at times a slacker, but it would get you paid." I searched. There were a couple of ads that offered more than a little information to be desired such as "Looking for writers to write reviews. Please send cover letter and resume, along with writing samples for consideration." I decided to respond, but did not want any of my information out there in case it was a dismal attempt to steal my identity.
Here is the response (I have removed the reply back information):
Hi there,
Thanks for your interest in the website reviewer position. We are currently looking for honest people with a keen eye for detail to visit various adult sites online and write the things they like and dislike about each. We will require 12 reviews per week which are due by 2pm EST every Friday.
The starting wage for this post is $350 per week which rises after 6 months. No previous experience is required for this position. The only requirement we have is that you submit a 100-word review of the member’s area at a pre-selected site (www.exposedcelebrities.net). It's completely free to join so don't worry about any costs (be sure to cancel within 3 days or you will be billed).
Please submit this review to ... within 48 hours if you're still interested. This position can be taken from anywhere, it's going to be a home-based position. If this isn't for you we thank you for your time.
Thanks for your time
Yes. If I so chose I could have written reviews for dirty websites. Thank you craigslist. Naturally, I think this may be many other dudes dream jobs.
This is the conversation that went through my head.
"Hi Mom. Is dad there? Put him on the phone too."
"Mom, Dad, I have a paying writing gig."
"Yeah. I'm excited too. It pays $350 a week."
"No, it's not degrading at all. I review porn sites."
"Yes, I am an expert at that. I have a keen eye for detail."
"Is this weird for you all to hear?"
"Would you feel comfortable telling grandma that I made it as a writer."
"Thanks. I love you too. I'm glad you're so proud of me and helped me be the man I am today."
"The world will never be the same. Writing reviews is just the start."
It's not that I'm totally against writing porn reviews. It's just that I couldn't write any porn review with a straight face. Maybe, I'm not mature enough. Maybe, I'm just not the right guy for the job.
Insert joke where ever. I'm off to find a writing gig, or some other kind of gig that involves something where the people around me wear pants (which was originally a reference to the number of super bowl adds containing men without pants). Wish me luck. Hopefully I'll update this more and more as I continue to settle into my new life and schedule.
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