All Or Nothing

The Seven Year Itch

I get email on my phone now, and maybe that's the problem.  The easy access, the siren call of the flashing red light, the immediate notification - I was drawn in to the cycle without even realizing it.  I don't even have to get online anymore to check Facebook, that amazing time-suck of a social media site.  Yeah, that's right....my phone lets me know of any relevant changes or postings on there as well.  This burgundy piece of equipment is singlehandedly destroying my relationship with the World Wide Web.

Or is that just an excuse?  Is it easier for me to blame the demise of my long-term love affair with all things Internet on this sexy little newcomer in my life?  Or does it run deeper than that?  Perhaps it was inevitable - all good things must come to an end, or so they say.  I don't know if it's similar to the New Car Phenomenon, where you decide you MIGHT be in the market for a new vehicle and then suddenly you seem surrounded, INUNDATED, by new car ads, specials, promotions, enticements...but the few times I have gotten online lately and clicked through to some of my favorite blogs, I have been met with goodbye messages.  So it's not just me, I tell myself.  See, other people are having this issue as well. 

What is it with blogging lately?  I'm just not satisfied anymore.  I don't need you like I used to, blogging.  It's not you, it's me.  Or is it?

Maybe it's that many of the top bloggers out there, the ones I read all those years ago and made this whole endeavor seem so appealing, have turned "corporate" - they write for the money, whether that be product placement posts or merely for the increase in traffic that fuels their ad revenue.  And something about that just hits me as SO disingenuous.  Not that I am against the free market or capitalism or making money with your talents - because I'm all about it.  But mainly because what drew me into blogging in the first place was the rawness of the expression, the naked openness of saying "this is my story, and I want you to know it".  And that theme gets lost rather quickly in all the recipe contests and giveaways and corporate sponsorship of 3-year old birthday parties that I feel like I read about more than anything these days.  As such, I haven't even OPENED my feed reader in probably three weeks.  If I am online with an itch to read blogs, I click through my page to about 4 or 5 different sites, and (imagine this) NONE of them are sponsored by anyone or anything.  In fact, most of then net less than 10 comments per post and seem to be genuinely unconcerned by that fact.  It's refreshing.

So what to do?  I don't really want to stop writing.  I like writing; like the stringing of words together to create coherent thoughts and occasionally funny anecdotes that I would otherwise probably forget.  I enjoy the catharsis of putting swirling emotions in order and organizing them in written form on a page, and then hitting publish and feeling like the whole situation has been solved.  I'm not giving that up.  But what I AM giving up is the pressure to keep up with the Joneses, so to speak.  I'm not going to host recipe contests, or jump around seventeen different social media sites and seventeen HUNDRED blogs just trying to up my traffic or stats.  If I don't post for a week or a month, I'm not going to concern myself with what my readership is doing, or if they're going elsewhere for their fix.  Let's be honest, I obviously haven't concerned myself with that last issue much in the first place, since my last Project Runway recap has been up for over a month at this point.

And you know what?  It's not because I don't love having people who read my blog, and even less because I don't love the individual people who read my blog, because guess what?  I DO love you guys.  I know many of you in real life already, and I have gotten the chance to meet a couple of you that I otherwise knew exclusively online, and there are many of you who (and you know this) I am DYING to meet.  Much like my store, which gives me no end of grief on a regular basis, my favorite part of blogging has got to be the friends I have made through doing it.  And so there's another reason to continue, because I'll never believe that I've met all the amazing people there are to meet in this world. 

So what's my point, you ask?  Well, maybe there isn't one.  Maybe this is one of those cathartic posts, and now that I've expressed to blogging how I'm falling out of love with it, we can get back on track.  Or maybe blogging has changed, and we do need to break up.  But since I'm still writing, and you're still reading, it looks like we're still on.  Maybe all I wanted to say is that 2008 has been one of the weirdest years of my life; in some ways one of the best and in some ways one of the very worst.  And yet, even though this year has been absolutely packed full of experiences and changes, my blog reflects almost none of that.  I am tired of not getting to tell the stories I want to tell on here because I am constantly afraid of who I'll inadvertently offend with MY story, with MY life.  And maybe I'm not going to be afraid of that so much anymore. 

So maybe this isn't a breakup, blogging.  But I gotta tell you - things have got to change a bit for this to work out for us.  You have to be a little less commercialized and popularity-contesty, and I am going to be a little less scared of offending those few people out there with something I say that has nothing to do with them.  I mean let's be honest, they were going to be offended by SOMETHING, anyway.  Might as well be me :)

Also, Lydah wanted to say hello.  She says that if she doesn't care about laying in a dirty fire pit, then everyone can just get over...well, just about everything.  She also wants to add that her ears are just perfect, aren't they?  And also that she would very much like to go camping again, and if any of you can make that happen, please drop her a line at [email protected].  Yeah, she really is THAT conceited.

And The Abandonment Continues

I did actually write today, just not here.  I'm over at Aly's site today, as she's on vacation in PARIS.  And needed fill-in writers.

Don't you feel so sorry for her?

Anyway, check out the post!  It's an ode to Paris, of sorts :)

Oh Yeah, And Happy New Year. And Stuff.

Ok, here's a scenario:  Blogger A has a website, on which she writes regularly.  Blogger A is funny and has a great way with a turn of phrase.  Everyone thinks Blogger A is fabulous.  Blogger A has lots of readers.

Blogger B also has a website.  Blogger B is entertaining, but a little monotonous and maybe not so original.  Not nearly as good of a read as Blogger A, but still browse-worthy.  Blogger B has quite a few readers.

After a while, Blogger A posts pictures of herself.  Or, maybe, someone else posts pictures featuring Blogger A.  Blogger A's entire readership discovers that she is not especially good-looking.  Still funny, still has a fantastic way with words.  Just not supermodel material, right? 

Blogger B also posts a picture or two of herself.  She turns out to be gorgeously cute, great hair, great skin - the type you want to hate, but end up begging for makeup tips.

Do you think the blogger's respective readership would change after the picture posting?  Do you think you would find yourself more interested in or more respectful towards one of the two bloggers?  Do you think that, in a mode of communication dominated entirely by words, looks would have any bearing on the success or failure of a writer?

I know what I think.  Now tell me your thoughts.

P.S. Updates on the live-in-toddler coming soon.  I promise!

Several Poorly Executed Attempts At "Being Cool" About It

So!  I got a new job.  I am a writer for this site.

The site deals with clothing, style, trends, celebrity culture, decorating, and opinion articles on just about anything fashion related.

Now this new job is not to replace my old job, which is running a small clothing boutique.  Rather, I have now plunged headfirst into the realm of she REALLY has no life now.  Seriously y'all, she's like at the store or online ALL THE TIME.  Boring!

But!  Don't you think the two jobs compliment each other well?  I mean, I get to see all the trends a couple of seasons before they are in stores anyway; I might as well get to write about them at the same time.  Right?  And writing all those posts per month at the new site won't take THAT much time, right?  I'll still have some free time.  Right??  I mean, sleeping!  That should count as free time.  I totally think it's free time.

Right?

At least I get a new laptop.

Go visit StyleDash!

The Rich Get Richer But The Poor Don't Have To Pay For All That Extra Bandwidth

I know I have expressed this sentiment on my site in the past, but I feel like I may have not said what I really meant to say, you know?  So here we go, second round.

I am happy with my little place in the world of Internet Writing.  It is way too easy for me to look around, see all the amazing sites with incredible authors and get completely overwhelmed.  It is too easy for me to read someone's post, wonder if I will EVER be able to express myself quite so eloquently, and then see that wow - they have linked to at least 15 other authors I have never read, each of whom can express themselves equally well.  Then I go read their sites, and of course, they have another 10 "must-read" links and the cycle continues.  After a while, you recognize certain people's names as the bigshots, the most linked to; on comment boards, or on "contributors to" lists.  So what should a mid-range blogger like myself make of the standouts in this massive internet community?  Do I get jealous?  Should I be annoyed that these people have a remarkable ability to connect with readers and have made the "right" internet contacts?  Should I be sad for the writers with no comments; feel a loss for the exemplary writing I see on sites with almost no traffic at all?  It seems like it might be a waste of time, spending time that I could use for writing instead wondering why some people become blogging celebrities and some do not.

But you know what?  I don't care.  I am happy for this revolution, this writing phenomenon, this tool that gives voices to the masses who would otherwise sit pensively filling yet another journal's pages with thoughts and dreams and feeling overwhelmingly unfulfilled.  I am happy because we need a voice.  There are so many great writers out there - and the more I realize this, the more I see writing as a dualistic venture.  So few writers have anything published, and even fewer of those have actual paying readers and success with their projects.  Yet there are many more wonderful writers than there are wonderful books.  In the same way, sometimes I wonder (and I KNOW this is the token literature snob's point of view) if the blogging phenomenon is not lowering our standard of "good" writing.

I don't know.

Either way, I am happy to be a part of this thing - this voice en masse - shouting to anyone who will listen, telling jokes, remembering stories, sharing feelings.  I make no pretense that I am adding much to the collective standard of "good" writing, but I can live with that knowing that I link to some other writers who are most certainly bringing it up. 

I guess we're all balancing each other out. 

And I'm happy to be able to participate.

It's About That Time, Part Deux

Because I am working on something that might be big, because I am currently too nervous to type, and because I am working on something that might be a big fat bust, I am going to post an entry from my archives here for your reading pleasure. 

I have always really liked this post, but it's not funny.  I mean, maybe parts of it are funny like "yes, that was mildly amusing" but there is really nothing in there that is "haha!  So funny I have now fallen out of my chair!" funny.  And I know what you people want, you want funny!  All the time, with the funny.  Well, I'm sorry, today you will just have to look for humor in my post a little harder.  Or, you could laugh at my writing abilities.  That normally works for me.

I will update on this situation, the thing I am working on, the thing that has me currently in a state of wanting to curl up in a ball and pray and knock on wood and toss salt over my shoulder and not change socks and any perform any other superstitious act I can think up.  But if it turns into a big fat bust, people, I will be sad.  And I might not go into too much detail.  So say a little prayer for me, will ya?  Or, at the very least, toss some salt or something.

------------------------------------------------------------

My favorite necklace right now features the face of an old watch belonging to my late grandmother. She had tons of watches. Lots of big and bead-y necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, too. Tons of gold. By normal standards it's mostly total crap, until recently, when ALL of it has suddenly jumped back into style (Reference! Reference!).  You can thank me later for the links.

I can just picture my grandmother sitting in her art studio, going over her will, pondering what lucky soul would be the recipient of her massive costume jewelry collection. After much thought and prayer, she, in her infinite fashionista wisdom, must have decided that I would be the only person to really appreciate it, and penciled me in right below the line reading "Miscellaneous Items".

I remember the week after she died, helping my mom clean out her little apartment, and hearing the news that I was the Lucky Soul. Here's the jewelry closet, Elise, have at it! I tried parading around with a tiara and at least twelve necklaces in an attempt to convince myself of how awesome my newly inherited riches really were, but I think everyone else was relieved to not have to deal with it, and feigned jealousy to appease me.

I ended up throwing more than half of it away, spending vast amounts of time trying to untangle little pieces of tissue and old bobby pins entwined in long gold chains that looked better suited for tiny lion taming, or as reins for a miniature pony. I found buttons and pins proclaiming that my grandmother had, in fact, successfully finished Weight Watchers in 1973. And then again in 1978. And again in 1984. Pretty damn impressive, if you ask me. I found jewelry that she had made herself, globs of metal clumped together with tiny rhinestones sprinkled randomly throughout. Some of these globs were attached successfully to pins, and some of them were just kind of free-spiriting it through the jewelry cases. There were bags of fake sapphires, false rubies, faux diamonds, and even some tiny yawning hippos. Buttons from untold numbers of Chanel-knockoff suits, ribbons attached to Canadian leaf pins, roosters eating rhinestone worms, and enough bangles to make the 1988 Madonna jealous. I finally packed about four cases full for myself, threw the rest into large Hefty bags, and saluted the end of an era.

Anyway, I like my watch-necklace. I hadn't touched the boxes in several years, but in the past months I have really enjoyed going through the jewelry my grandmother decided to leave to me. I like finding pieces that I can combine to make something new. I think she was right about me.

I made my wedding jewelry out of two of her old necklaces. I wear at least once pendant, chain, or bracelet of hers every single day. I don't know why. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens. Long before she died, before I had any idea of the sheer mass of gold-plating I would someday own, I wore a little pendant of hers. The pendant was nothing but a little glass ball with a mustard seed inside, but for many reasons, it was always a favorite of mine. I always assumed that those reasons had little to nothing to do with my grandmother, but I am starting to think otherwise.

My mother and my grandmother didn't really get along. Nothing dramatic, just your average mother-daughter tension. They didn't understand each other, they were too different and yet too much the same, so on and so forth. A pattern that was repeated nearly exactly in my relationship with my own mother, and in the relationships of a thousand other daughters with a thousand other mothers. So I grew up hearing my mother's frustrations with her mother. She was too sporadic. Too inconsistent. Too free-spirited. Not grounded at all. She had no sense of reality. No concept of time. She was in her own little world. Pretty much the worst insult my mother could throw at me while in our clashing years was to directly compare me to her mother. Even in their last days together, my mom would try to get on the same page, and my grandmother would start a completely new book.

My grandmother and I were never close. I'm not sure why. It wasn't because I disliked her, or because I never saw her. Every normal family holiday she would be there, and as her health faded, she moved to my hometown and was around anytime we wanted to stop by and visit. I talked to her, but it was never about anything real, always just what I had been up to lately, or how to turn on the computer. She painted and drew, made clothing and jewelry, wrote poems, and kept on saying she was going to publish a children's book, one of these days. I really am sorry I didn't get to know her. Thinking back on it, there was probably a whole lot to know.

Anyway, this new necklace of mine, the one featuring a watch face, well, the watch doesn't even work. It's stuck on 10:12, and even though I finally figured out how to make it show the correct time, the winder is permanently broken. I suppose I could take it to a jeweler and get it fixed. My husband thinks this would be the natural step to take, and I don't know for sure, but I am willing to guess that my mother would feel the same way. A watch that doesn't tell time is a rather pointless item, I suppose. But I'm not getting it fixed. I moved the hands back to 10:12. I think it speaks volumes about my grandmother, and about me. And I don't think it's pointless.

I think my grandmother was right about me.

My favorite necklace right now features the face of an old watch belonging to my late grandmother. She had tons of watches. Lots of big and bead-y necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, too. Tons of gold. By normal standards it's mostly total crap, until recently, when ALL of it has suddenly jumped back into style (Reference! Reference!).  You can thank me later for the links.

I can just picture my grandmother sitting in her art studio, going over her will, pondering what lucky soul would be the recipient of her massive costume jewelry collection. After much thought and prayer, she, in her infinite fashionista wisdom, must have decided that I would be the only person to really appreciate it, and penciled me in right below the line reading "Miscellaneous Items".

I remember the week after she died, helping my mom clean out her little apartment, and hearing the news that I was the Lucky Soul. Here's the jewelry closet, Elise, have at it! I tried parading around with a tiara and at least twelve necklaces in an attempt to convince myself of how awesome my newly inherited riches really were, but I think everyone else was relieved to not have to deal with it, and feigned jealousy to appease me.

I ended up throwing more than half of it away, spending vast amounts of time trying to untangle little pieces of tissue and old bobby pins entwined in long gold chains that looked better suited for tiny lion taming, or as reins for a miniature pony. I found buttons and pins proclaiming that my grandmother had, in fact, successfully finished Weight Watchers in 1973. And then again in 1978. And again in 1984. Pretty damn impressive, if you ask me. I found jewelry that she had made herself, globs of metal clumped together with tiny rhinestones sprinkled randomly throughout. Some of these globs were attached successfully to pins, and some of them were just kind of free-spiriting it through the jewelry cases. There were bags of fake sapphires, false rubies, faux diamonds, and even some tiny yawning hippos. Buttons from untold numbers of Chanel-knockoff suits, ribbons attached to Canadian leaf pins, roosters eating rhinestone worms, and enough bangles to make the 1988 Madonna jealous. I finally packed about four cases full for myself, threw the rest into large Hefty bags, and saluted the end of an era.

Anyway, I like my watch-necklace. I hadn't touched the boxes in several years, but in the past months I have really enjoyed going through the jewelry my grandmother decided to leave to me. I like finding pieces that I can combine to make something new. I think she was right about me.

I made my wedding jewelry out of two of her old necklaces. I wear at least once pendant, chain, or bracelet of hers every single day. I don't know why. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens. Long before she died, before I had any idea of the sheer mass of gold-plating I would someday own, I wore a little pendant of hers. The pendant was nothing but a little glass ball with a mustard seed inside, but for many reasons, it was always a favorite of mine. I always assumed that those reasons had little to nothing to do with my grandmother, but I am starting to think otherwise.

My mother and my grandmother didn't really get along. Nothing dramatic, just your average mother-daughter tension. They didn't understand each other, they were too different and yet too much the same, so on and so forth. A pattern that was repeated nearly exactly in my relationship with my own mother, and in the relationships of a thousand other daughters with a thousand other mothers. So I grew up hearing my mother's frustrations with her mother. She was too sporadic. Too inconsistent. Too free-spirited. Not grounded at all. She had no sense of reality. No concept of time. She was in her own little world. Pretty much the worst insult my mother could throw at me while in our clashing years was to directly compare me to her mother. Even in their last days together, my mom would try to get on the same page, and my grandmother would start a completely new book.

My grandmother and I were never close. I'm not sure why. It wasn't because I disliked her, or because I never saw her. Every normal family holiday she would be there, and as her health faded, she moved to my hometown and was around anytime we wanted to stop by and visit. I talked to her, but it was never about anything real, always just what I had been up to lately, or how to turn on the computer. She painted and drew, made clothing and jewelry, wrote poems, and kept on saying she was going to publish a children's book, one of these days. I really am sorry I didn't get to know her. Thinking back on it, there was probably a whole lot to know.

Anyway, this new necklace of mine, the one featuring a watch face, well, the watch doesn't even work. It's stuck on 10:12, and even though I finally figured out how to make it show the correct time, the winder is permanently broken. I suppose I could take it to a jeweler and get it fixed. My husband thinks this would be the natural step to take, and I don't know for sure, but I am willing to guess that my mother would feel the same way. A watch that doesn't tell time is a rather pointless item, I suppose. But I'm not getting it fixed. I moved the hands back to 10:12. I think it speaks volumes about my grandmother, and about me. And I don't think it's pointless.

I think my grandmother was right about me.

Wherein I Become Increasingly Unrealistic

Here's the plan.  I am going to write a book.  I just got really bored with my pampered lifestyle of soap operas and Godiva chocolates and thought that surely I ought to find something more constructive to do with all my ample free time.  Plus, one of the Things I Want To Do Before I Die is write a novel. 

Now, I realize that saying things like I want to "get into freelancing" and "write a novel" (imagine me saying this in a high tone with a British, nasally accent) is not unlike writing home to Mom announcing that I am moving to LA because I'm gonna be a real-live movie star!  And I'm gonna make lots of money and be totally famous and stuff!

However, since I have never been one to be daunted by impossible goals and improbable dreams, I am going to write a book.  And I'm going to write it in one month's time.  And!  It's going to be at least 175 pages long.  Yes, I am participating in NaNoWriMo.  So you can stop considering me fit for the crazy house because I did not come up with the write-a-novel-in-a-month concept.  Nor the page number or word count guidelines.  But I think it's a great idea, and I am excited to try it.

So who's with me?

Anyone?  Anyone?  No?

Well, either way, I will let you know how it goes.  Or doesn't go, as people who brazenly walk into the aforementioned impossible goals and improbable dreams often find happens.