Hey jealousy

image: University of Wisconsin

image: University of Wisconsin

Growing up, I always hated the phrase “green-eyed monster.” Suffice it to say monsters are generally frowned upon by children, but moreover, I have green eyes — hazel, really, but mostly green — and the idea that I was a naturally jealous person because of my eye color just didn’t sit well with me when I was little. I think it was somewhere around third or fourth grade when I realized it was just a figure of speech.

Jealousy’s a funny thing. I used to assume some people were naturally predisposed to being jealous creatures while others just let the world spin past, unfazed by what everybody else was doing. I used to count myself among the latter set, but now, I can’t figure out what I was thinking. I’m jealous. I’m small. I can’t keep my eyes on my own plate. I’ve got all kinds of green eyes, and they tend to focus on stuff that shouldn’t even catch my attention, much less get under my skin.

I’m not talking about the don’t-look-at-my-man sort of jealousy — the clingy girlfriend kind, the Housewives of Such-and-Such-County type, the fly-off-the-handle-on-a-lark variety. In all honesty, I think that brand of insecurity lives mostly on TV; when I look around at the people in my life, at least, not one of them falls into the get-into-a-firefight-and-call-somebody-names category. I’m talking about the quiet, insidious kind of envy that creeps into the back of your head as you’re scrolling through the web each day — the kind that doesn’t have anything to do with real life in the first place. The kind that nobody suspects is there because nobody talks about it. The kind that presses down on our sternums, making it hard to breathe, telling us to stay put, lay low, get it perfect… measure up.

In my line of work, it’s my job to be online, scouting for information… inspiration… story ideas… trends. Here’s a trend that makes me ill: we’re so busy checking each other out that we’re forgetting who we are, or maybe even starting to turn into one another. At least, sometimes I feel like I am.

“Garbage in, garbage out,” the saying goes, and I know I’m caught red-handed. The more crap I take in, the more crap I spew out. And round and round it churns.

“What assholes,” I found myself fuming when I read about Foxygen’s freakout at ACL’s first weekend. I’d already decided upon my hatred for them weeks ago with one scant glance at their bio, in which they claimed to be “the raw, de-Wes Andersonization of the Rolling Stones, Kinks, Velvets, Bowie, etc that a whole mess of young people desperately need.” (Both members are 22 years old, incidentally, born the same year Color Me Badd’s “I Wanna Sex You Up” topped the charts.) And when I started skimming the back story of their previous meltdowns at SXSW and listening to a bit of their music, my irritation went from a simmer to a raging boil. I shot an email to someone I knew would have a laugh over the idiocy of it all, and then kept clicking through concert reviews and bits of gossip about the band’s apparent inability to show up to things. And then I realized: here I am, a grownup with pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted in life, spending a beautiful Sunday stewing over people I’ve never met and never will. Why? Because these two dudes, these kids who maybe fancy themselves as little rock gods and who probably need to lay off the pills, are getting paid to travel the world and do what they (ostensibly) love at a younger age than I, and okay, so maybe they’re not working very hard at it.

Oh, the outrage. Which member of Congress should I write?

What’s that? They’re not in the office today?

Oh.

Making a living as a writer sometimes feels like an endless uphill battle, and other times feels like swimming in a cool, calm lake on a crisp, clear day. On those in-a-groove days, I feel so much gratitude, it’s probably irritating to be around me. On those uphill days, though, it takes nothing — nothing — to spiral me into a hate-reading frenzy, pissed off to the high heavens that I haven’t finished a book yet, that I haven’t written for the Times yet, that I haven’t reached all (or even most of) my goals. A glaring typo in a usually-well-crafted magazine or a flippant, vapid remark from someone on Twitter makes me instantly irrational, questioning the balance of right and wrong in the world. Taking a break from doing actual work — i.e., being lazy — I find myself infuriated at musicians I’ve barely heard of over their… laziness. Off I go, worrying about other people’s business when we know it’s none of mine.

Or maybe it’s completely about mine.

“Why do kids in Haiti have to starve while this [beep] gets to sit around all day, snapping selfies and snarking about what people around her are wearing? Does she even have a job?” I’ll fume over a stranger’s vanity on a social network, but then I have to ask myself: How long has it been since I did something about kids in Haiti?

Ah, right. Yes. About that.

Sometimes I think there’s validity in the notion that the things we hate the most in other people are the things we hate about ourselves. Another angle, I think, makes just as much sense: the things that infuriate us the most about other people are the things we fear exist within us. I think the reason I can smell a narcissist a mile away and instinctively veer in the opposite direction is that I’m terrified of being one myself. (My finely-tuned sense of smell, by the way, was only developed through decades of trial-and-error involving several real-life Regina Georges. I wouldn’t recommend it.) People who don’t seem to work very hard drive me up a wall, and when I say out loud that I’m (still) working on my (first) novel, I hate the way it sounds.

So, I think I’m done — at least for a while — consuming junk media, clicking on link bait and paying attention to the ephemera out there just for the bruise-pressing pleasure it gives me to compare myself against other people and see how I stack up. I think the next time something trivial frustrates me about “the world,” I’ll stop and ask myself why I’m so hot and bothered, and then maybe back away from the screen a bit. Let in a little fresh air. Between hitting work deadlines and living real life, there’s a gap to be filled — spare time to be killed. I think I’ll stop killing little pieces of my soul along with it. I’ll maybe just feed it instead.

Envy, repulsion, boredom, lust… it’s all so entwined, isn’t it? I guess instead of wasting time feeling blue about not having done this or that, I’ll go do this and that and stop shuffling about.

I swept through my twitter feed this week and cut out a lot of the stuff I’ve been wasting my time on. There was nothing wrong with most of it, really — folks with great senses of wit, blogs with interesting articles from time to time — but if it didn’t help me grow or often made me sneer, it’s not on my feed any more. Talented writers, sharers of knowledge, kickass people who actually are doing something about kids in Haiti… they’re all still there. It’s the other stuff I had to let go of. The people I don’t know, whose lives I shouldn’t be peering into. The blogs and celebs and personalities I don’t even like, which I need to stop rubbernecking over. The brands selling me stuff I don’t need, which I need to quit thinking I do. The ones who don’t teach me anything (except PrinceTweets2U. HE STAYS.)

I’m saving me from myself. And to the folks I unfollowed, as if you even care: hey, listen.

It’s not you.

It’s me.

Just me and these green eyes of mine, trying to stay on my own plate.

- a.

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Meeting the maker

Image: Not on the High Street

Image: Not on the High Street

I almost died this week.  It’s not something I’d recommend.

The short version: I was scooting along the highway on Monday morning, heading to the kennel to pick up the pup after taking a redeye home from New York Sunday night. I was about to ease into the left-hand turn lane when a driver who was evidently a) speeding like mad and b) not paying attention to the road slammed into me with a force I can’t even quantify.  It shot my car into the wide grass median, completely out of control, moving at an angle that was quickly edging me headfirst toward oncoming traffic.

“I’m not going to make it out of this,” I thought, clear as a bell.

Realizing a second later that I had a chance to maybe, just maybe, stop the car by turning the wheel, I made a quick decision. “Don’t turn too far,” I told myself, having no idea if the steering or the brakes were even operational, since they seemed to be under the control of a force greater than they were. “Just a smidge. Maybe it’ll be enough.” Thankfully, it was.  My car came to an abrupt stop, slowed — I’m guessing — by the traction of the earth beneath it.  All I could do was sit there and shake, realizing over and over again with shock that I was still alive.

What happened next was a blur.  I remember a girl running toward my car, cell phone to her ear, and when I looked back, I saw a Range Rover parked at a crazy angle in the median some 50 yards back.  She’d seen me get hit, and I’d been heading straight toward her as my car was jettisoning across the grass.  If I hadn’t turned the wheel, we would have had a head-on collision, each of us going at least 50 mph.  Range Rover vs. Fiat.  I’ll leave the math up to you.

I think about death all the time.  All the time.  I had my first taste of it at 16 when my brother committed suicide, and then as each grandparent, one by one, died of old age.  My uncle, of an aneurysm.  My cousin, again of suicide.  My mother, of an embolism.  Others, in ways I refuse to talk about.  I grew up living under the daily fear of two cops showing up at my parents’ door, telling us another brother of mine was gone because of his addictions (which thank god he’s now actively winning the fight against).  I’m constantly walking around thinking I have some silent disease that’s killing me slowly, that I’m the next one to go.  It’s been that way since I was a kid.  I think it’s why I write.

I’ve been in at least ten car accidents, two of them severe but several involving being rear-ended while sitting still at a stoplight.  The last time that happened, right after I moved to Austin a few years ago, it left a dent in my car but I let the guy drive away without calling our insurance companies.

“Just promise me you’ll do something nice for somebody today,” I said.  He seemed stunned, but agreed.

Aside from my little car’s five-star safety rating and perhaps the grace of a guardian angel or two, I have no clue how I walked away on Monday.  I’ll find out today if Frank the Fiat is no more… it’s not looking good.  But that’s okay.  It’s been stopping me in my tracks all week to think about how a half-second’s worth of hesitation, or how misgauging the turn of the wheel by a millimeter or two, could have changed everything.

Add to that the shock of last week’s events, from which I was sitting just an hour away in a coffee shop in Greenwich, CT as it was happening, talking to a client about gearing a website more toward mothers who want to do good in the world, and let’s just say I’ve been really, really quiet this week.  No need for a lot of talking.  Just thinking.  Reflecting.  Kissing the boyfriend.  Hugging the dog.  Indulging in a weird sense of detached heartbreak for others, standing in stark contrast — or maybe harmony — with an overwhelming thankfulness for this second chance I’ve been given.  There’s probably some survivor’s guilt in there, too, having sidestepped so many awful things in life.  I suppose I’d better do something amazing before my number’s actually, legitimately up, which as we’ve all been reminded lately, could be any minute.

Step one: being thankful.  Step two: maybe caring less about being uncool or seeming clichéd.  Uncool and alive is a combination I can live with.

And I plan to.

a.

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Go take a leap

IT'S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME, B*TCHES

image: Junebug Photography

This Wednesday was my one-year anniversary of being a full-time freelance writer.

I’m still not entirely sure what that means. I’d love to craft a beautifully worded treatise on the joys and foibles of the past twelve months, but there’s no way to encapsulate it in a blog post. This little girl with misaligned socks is a pretty solid representation of what it feels like most of the time, which is why I chose her to accompany this week’s installment… but to write some sort of summary would be damn near impossible.  I really wish I’d written something that first day about taking the leap so I could look back on it now and laugh at what a dolt I was.  I think I was too busy to jot down any thoughts, though. Not too busy with clients (yet), mind you… just too busy freaking out, looking in nooks and crannies for rent money.  Too busy trying to find my footing.  Too busy wondering if I’d ever drink fancy coffee again.

Instead of blathering, I’d rather share a few of the notions, words and people that have inspired me from the start.  If I’ve done the math right (and I’m not proud of this, but that’s a big ‘if’), I’ve written more than 1,300 blog posts and articles totaling something like 396,000 words this past year, and that was just the dry run.  So today, I’m taking the day off to celebrate the fact that I’m able to pay the bills and feed the dog (at least this month, if not next) by doing what I love. I’ll let these pictures do the talking while I take a tiny break and figure out what’s next.  After I finish this here fancy coffee in my hand.

image sources: author's archive and Pinterest (click for origins)

image sources: author’s archive and Pinterest (click for origins)

For those of you who’ve made the leap yourselves, I salute you.  For those thinking about doing something scary that’s been tugging at you from the inside, I say, “Do it.”  If it’s how you truly want to spend your life, and if you’re willing to pay your dues, it will be worth the wait, the fear and the struggle.  The coolest part: when you get to your first benchmark, you’ll realize you never once looked back.  Because why would you?  That shit back there was awful.  This stuff right here is great, even when it isn’t.

Happy Friday, folks, and happy 2012. Thank you for coming here.  Thank you for believing in my work, whether you’ve checked out my portfolio or just enjoy reading these public diary entries.  I hope they make you smile, give you an idea every once in a while, or at least provide the distraction you’re looking for.

Most of all, thank you for your kindness, encouragement and time.  I appreciate it more than you know.

a.

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Pick a direction and go

Pen to Paper

image: The Nervous Breakdown

Most weeks, I attack this blog with an exact — or at least fairly specific — idea of what to write about.  Today, though, I’m back inside two old cycles: “don’t throw stones” and “it’s too silly to spend 800 words on.”  The way I see it, there are three modes in which I operate when it comes to spinning sentences: the day-to-day client stuff, most of which is topical, informative and not particularly inflammatory; the long-form, being-printed-inside-bound-books-someday stuff, which takes time and thought to percolate; and the stuff you see here each week — random musings from a curious human being trying to make it as a writer.  And today, it all just feels like fluff.

Believe me, I have Things to Write About… capitalization intended… but most of them won’t fit inside a blog post, nor do they really belong in one.  Although I’ve borne witness to things awful enough to beg plenty of in-depth conversation, it’s impossible to commit them to a page — or, in this case, a screen — without causing pain for those involved.  On the other hand, I can wax poetic for ages about the silliest and most mundane of things, but even though it’s sincere and I thoroughly enjoy reading the same sorts of things from other people, I worry that I come off sounding about as substantive as sea foam.  I’ve watched people around me deal with loss, illness, suicide, crime, infidelity, incarceration, poverty, addiction, depression, anxiety, and everything else that comes part and parcel.  And while I’ve certainly been affected by it, in some cases much more deeply than others, I’ve still somehow managed to escape it and live a life that, while imperfect, has ultimately been sort of charmed.  I’m nobody’s judge and jury, and it’s not my place to point fingers unless I want them pointed back at me; I’m also fully aware that, conversely, standing on a mountaintop and crowing about the fantastic, amazing, sublime perfection that is my life at any given moment is basically an open invitation for the fates to tear it down.  But I know I’ve been put here to tell some kind of story, and I need to figure out what it is.

Like anyone, I want to leave the world a better place than I found it.  I subscribe to Emerson’s version of what that means (oh, wait, hello; apparently it wasn’t Emerson!), but at the same time, it’s not quite enough.  I want to say something intelligent.  I want to change something somehow.  But the last thing I want to do is preach some kind of sermon, because what in the hell do I know?  Or any of us, really?

I guess I’m trying to say I’m working on striking a balance before I plant myself inside the literary world and attempt to convince people I can write things worth paying for.  There’s telling the truth, and there’s the amount of balls it takes not to run and hide once you’ve told it.  If you’re going to summon up the latter and, in doing so, accomplish the former, you’d better be damn well sure your “truth” is what you say it is, and you’d better tell it in a way that isn’t foolish.  I’m petrified to get it wrong.  I need to get it right.

I had a conversation with someone recently about the way we each experience a story and remember it later on.  We compared a few movies we’d seen together and talked about what we remembered from them, and the differences in our recollections were crazy.  More to the point, we came to the conclusion that I’m crazy… and maybe incapable of linear progression.  Here’s an odd bit of trivia about yours truly: I’ve seen Almost Famous — a film I list among my all-time favorites — countless times, and yet I truly can’t remember if Penny and Russell wind up together in the end.  Look, I can illustrate the grabbing-the-sunglasses-off-the-ticket-agent’s-counter shot frame by frame, and I can draw a picture-perfect outline in my mind of the layout of William’s house and where everyone’s standing when Russell shows up under false pretenses… but seriously, are there things after that?  Because I’m too busy knowing exactly who comes in on what note during the “Tiny Dancer” sequence and reflecting in awe at all the perfect glances between the two lead characters throughout the entire movie, and then, of course, there’s that score, which couldn’t be more brilliant.  I stare in wonder at the artistry of the whole thing, but I’m clueless on some of the 1-2-3’s even though they’re right in front of me.

I’m like that about a lot of things in life.  I get the deeper meaning, the basic message, and the underlying juju of it all, and I take in all the miniscule details on top as if my memory were photographic… but when it comes to the normal stuff most people pay attention to in the middle — major plot points, the bad guy’s motivation, where we last left character so-and-so — I’m blank.  I have a fear, I think, that this will eventually haunt me if or when I make an attempt at fiction, and maybe that’s a sign that I need to stay away from it.  Or, hell… maybe it’s a point on which I should start challenging myself.  Either way, I’m on a self-imposed timeline here, and at some point I’ll have to pick a direction and go.  I saw something earlier this week about the travesty of the fact that some of the world’s most incompetent people are the most self-assured and confident, while the wisest ones are pacing around, wringing our hands and second-guessing ourselves.  I thought back over people I’ve known throughout my life who fit into each group, and the consistency gave me an odd sense of comfort that I might be in the latter… until I caught a whiff of my own vanity and started second-guessing it.

Either way, I’m sure of one thing: I know I was put here to write, and I’ve got a firm grasp of my voice.  The question is: what do I want it to say?

a.

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