21 Things I Still Need to Remind Myself of... Even Past Thirty

Life is a learning process. Anyone who doesn't think this, who believes there's some magical age or point you reach where you know everything and have absorbed and retained all the knowledge you're capable of, is certifiable.
However, as you get older, you do tend to think there are certain aspects of life you should know about, that are ingrained in your being, and there are even ones you do know but seem to need reminders of on an annoyingly frequent basis.
These are some of mine...

1. You can just toast/eat half a bagel.

2. Few things will teach you as much about human nature than observing how others treat people in the service industry... and Shakespeare. That man knew people.

3. They stopped making your favorite journal five years ago. Accept it and stop hoarding other notebooks to fill that hole. WRITE. DOODLE. CREATE.

4. You are never going to regret having a pen or pencil with you -- unless it stains your clothes. So make sure you buy sturdy pens and handbags you love.

5. Making food for the week, writing, cleaning, yoga, and goal planning do not make a Lazy Sunday.

6. Lazy is not being present in your own life, and that of your loved ones.

7. Writers write. They also dance, cook, clean, sing, doodle, binge watch shows, play games, and sleep -- to avoid writing. And they live.

8. Unless it's crafted by scumbags or spreading hate/violence, never be ashamed of the music you love. If others judge you harshly on this, blast some goddamn Taylor Swift in their face and Shake It Off.

9. One day, your primary source of income will come from doing something you love. Until then, you do not have to hate your job. If you hate it and it's killing your soul -- quit. The universe will not let you become homeless.
Also, if your coworkers aren't foodies, leave. Leave now.

10. People who are angry often want you to be angry, too. Misery loves company. Avoid temptation, slap on a smile, and laugh when they get angrier that you haven't absorbed their vitriol.

11. Your favorite shows and movies will change over time. So when you get a new fav, immerse yourself in it. Memorize it. Cherish it. And don't be sad when it's time to move on.
This goes for friends, too.

12. Your sexuality and relationship history/goals are an important aspect of yourself. They are not your whole self. If you are being made to think they are, blast some Edith Piaf at those fuckers, drape yourself in a fabulous dressing gown, and float away.

13. Say "fuck." Go ahead. Do it. Did anyone die? Did you get slapped? If the answer to both questions is no, say "fuck" as much as you fucking want.

14. There is nothing better for your body and soul (or more rare), than a great fitting, comfortable pair of cute shoes. Don't be afraid to buy two pairs when you stumble on this miracle.

15. Read more. No matter what you read, or in what format, keep reading. It is never a waste of time. If you give something a chance and don't like it, grab something else. Just read.

16. If a trip to The Huntington won't cure it, a trip to Disneyland will (unless you're trying to cure the measles -- vaccinate, damnit).
A message brought to those of you considering a membership or pass to your favorite places. Just do it. Get one. And don't wait for the 'best time' to go. Just go. Go when you need to, and leave when you're done, and return as much as you can.

17. Keep learning. Cooking, art, music, history, religions, languages, people. Learning any of these doesn't have to cost anything, so find the time.

18. Dishes, laundry, and basic household cleaning are a part of life. Unless you're a billionaire. Employ whatever methods necessary to do these things -- and reward yourself for doing them for as long as you need to.

19. Yoga. Just fucking do it. Don't worry about fat-burning hot yoga, or if you'll ever be able to do inversions, or that you have to modify poses due to injuries. Just let go and practice the damn yoga.

Life Goal: to be Nina Dobrev

20. You made it this long not being someone entirely dependent on caffeine, or alcohol, or cigarettes, or drugs. Keep up that streak.

21. Step away from the screen. Computers, TV, phone, tablet -- whatever. Get up. Don't look at that temptress for at least 15 minutes. Walk around. Stretch. Snack. Make tea. Dance. Sing. Keep your eyes and mind on the tactile, the full body, the present. Breathe deep. Then return to the screen if you must, but always take breaks. Take breaks to live, work, play, cook, eat, drink, be merry, and dance.

A Change is Gonna Come...

OK, yesterday's pity party over. I just needed to get that out of my system. 
A short while ago, I was directed to this short post regarding committing the first 90 minutes of your 'work day' to your passion project, for 90 days (allowing time for it to become habit, rather than a challenge to be met).
I started earlier this week doing what I need to get more 'real job' ducks in their proverbial row. I made it two days before I wanted to give up and cry. Because as necessary as this process is, it's incredibly tiresome to repeat day in and day out. However, the alternative (having my soul die bit by bit every day I'm in this dead-end job) is worse. So while it may not be my passion project, I'm not going to have passion for anything if I don't change the manner in which I spend a 'work day.' And yet...
After three days of reassessing and editing resumes and cover letters, submitting to new sites, applying for 30+ positions, I need a day off to actually live up to the challenge and work on my passion project: writing. As disorganized as my job search efforts had become, my writing is in an even worse state. The chaos of life and other distractions has left me with more unfinished projects and rough idea outlines of projects-to-be than ever before. The act of just writing escapes me. Planning and scheduling have become a joke, not for lack of desire or commitment, but due to the overwhelming fear that to finish something may only tick off that work as 'done' on a checklist and never go any farther.
I've become afraid of the force of my own imagination. I've had my inner puppy kicked so many times it hides in the corner now any time I call its name. The true point of the 'challenge' is to work on your passions first, and the rest of the work later, and the truth is I've been afraid to do so. There has to be a balance for me, in making job searches a passion project of sorts to improve every aspect of my life, not just the creative ones. However, spending too much time focusing on everything that isn't writing is what put me in this depressed slump in the first place. Thus, writing needs to be given priority in this scenario. Now that my resumes are more in order and I've joined more job sites, I'm relegating the job searches to two days/week. The other days are for writing. Period.
It's been a tough week, but a productive one. If it's done anything, it's exposed how easily I can focus on projects if given the freedom and allowance to do it -- and how sometimes you have to give permission for that freedom to yourself because you're the one holding you back.

What Do You Mean No One Cares About My Problems?

Seriously. I'm awesome. At least I try to be. I work hard, especially doing the things I love. I even work hard doing things I don't love if they're necessary and/or I'm getting something useful from it. I may not work as hard, but my "getting by" with work is most people's excelling. That's not hyperbole, it's fact. If you look at my employment history, it's a clear cut distinction -- I work for you, I excel.
Except I can't seem to parlay that excellence into the fields that actually drive me. I keep excelling at doing stuff to just get by instead of excelling at what I know I'm meant to pursue.
But I forgot. No one cares. I'm one tiny speck of human dust among billions of other specks on this planet. Throwing pity parties for myself doesn't help me any more than it helps anyone else.
The issue is, as little as anyone else cares about my problems, they care the exact same amount about my abilities, talents, experience, knowledge, drive, passion, etc. How do you make your voice louder than others when no one cares what's being said? How do you stand out from the crowd when your number in the queue prevents you from being seen even when squinting into the distance? How do you go from excelling in a career that makes you hate yourself to excelling in a life calling?
Seriously, how?

Following Some Signs

I once wrote a post about there being no map for life, no real signposts that tell you where to go, what to do, how to adult, or why schools don't teach practical skills along with other 'necessary' knowledge. While I still hold to that, and the concept of needing to learn how to read and follow your own life because it will always differ from everyone else's life on the planet, I do acknowledge that sometimes the universe sends you tiny messages sprinkled across time to somehow encourage or discourage certain courses. The key is you have to be open to receiving those messages, and you have to be in a constant state of observation regarding yourself and your life -- a thing which is not easy to maintain.
However, sometimes those little messages don't bother with much subtlety. Sometimes the signs aren't a leaf blowing past you on a cool morning, making you think of times past and inspiring you to start a story you've been mulling over for months. Sometimes the signs are someone walking in the door and saying, "I had coffee with someone today who's looking to fill a position and you should write to them now. Right now." Sometimes you're contemplating your current structure and if it's working, and if your deadlines are realistic, and if you're too overwhelmed with projects, and then a string of online articles across various social media slaps you in the face with tips you didn't even know you wanted and you surmise, for a few brief moments, that The Universe is supporting you in a very small way.
And sometimes you're not in the mood to write a blog post because the list of ideas you have for posts just isn't speaking to you today, and then you become inspired anyway because of life's little road signs.
For this moment, right now, something in The Universe seems to be pushing me ahead down a path. Not sure what the path is exactly, or where it leads, or how long it'll take to reach a destination, but I'm open to pursuing it, and sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other and keeping an eye on the world around you is the best you can do.
Well, that and sending your resume off immediately when someone tells you to.

October is "Read More, Bitch" Month

...and update your blog more, too.

I need to read more. Again. My mind has once again become stagnant and dulled. It begs for life to be breathed into it and at best I've been able to manage a weak sigh.
So last night I sat down, took out a fake Sharpie and a piece of construction paper (because sometimes for important lists you have to be eight... that's just how it is), and wrote down a short-ish list of book to read for next month. Seeing as how it's going to be October, and I love all the fallishness (or what I remember of it, since southern California doesn't have seasons) and Halloween funtimes that go with it, it's a pretty Gothic-centric list.
However, to keep myself on task, I'm tacking on the added challenge of blogging a review of these once a week, hopefully on Tuesdays. That way I satisfy two goals in one, and help my poor story-starved brain recover from its lack of imaginative air.

If you want to peek in every week to check my progress, please do so -- and if you want to know what I might will be reading, here's the list:

Hell House - Richard Matheson (re-read)

Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen

The Vampyre  - John Polidori

Roald Dahl's Ghost Stories - Roald Dahl

Dracula (graphic novel) - Bram Stoker / Marvel Comics*

Bonus Book TBA

*The Dracula graphic novel review will actually show up over at The Comics Observer, likely on 10/29, but I'll post a lil' tidbit and lingage here on that date.

Read along with me... IF YOU DARE. MUAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!
(See. Halloween. Love it.)

There’s loads of boring stuff like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons.

From a little blog post I did on another site regarding this day:
Thursday is my least favorite day of the week. That’s right. Not Monday, when (if you’re cursed with a standard day job) you must return to the blinding fluorescent lights and windowless cubicle world for another five days of torture. Not Sunday when, just like as a child, you dread the upcoming return to the cubicle/classroom environment. No, it’s Thursday for the win. 
Thursday dangles the weekend before you yet stands as a constant reminder that you’re not done yet. People tend to be more testy, more easily riled, and more frustrated with the universe on Thursday (at least most of the people I know). Thursday reminds you that all those deadlines you set for the end of the week and haven’t achieved yet are imminent — and you’re probably not going to achieve them. Thursday afternoon is the most interminable three to four hours of the whole work week. Time actually does move backwards. 

There's been a lot happening in my little 'verse lately, and yet not so much that I feel as though a lot of progress has been made. I think it's a pitfall of spending so many years in theatre that I yearn for an immediate response to projects which are completed start to finish in a matter of months. Setting deadlines to complete a work that's been in progress for years... my patience just wears thin.
Still, I'm trying to avoid the pitfalls of wanting to move on to something else because damnit, this year I am going to finish something. More than one something if I can stick to the deadlines. 
I just have to work through the low days, including every wretched Thursday...

A Story a Day? More like a Pain in my Ass...

In a moment of blind enthusiasm for something that might bust me out of the writers’ funk I’ve had going on, my brain went, “A story a day for a month? Why the fuck not?!?” 
 Now, no matter how many times I give reasons for ‘why the fuck not,’ it keeps pushing back with ridiculous drivel about how I need to be committed and accountable for writing something and this provides it to me. 
Stupid brain.
 You make me want to go drink until I can’t feel feelings anymore. Feelings like unadulterated fear at the prospect of having to craft and finish not one but MANY stories in a single month.
Yet I’m going to do it… so the brain wins this round.

Also... new blogger layout is new. Not sure how I feel about this yet. I find change disquieting.

NaNoWriMo Year Five: The NSFPureMinds Version

Or: What in the name of all that is sacred or profane am I doing?

There's something participating in National Novel Writing Month does to you, year after year: makes you fear for your own sanity.
Much as I love it, and proudly wear my writing geekdom with pride, and encourage (faithfully and truly) other people to participate, I acknowledge the mind-shattering marathon that is attempting to write a novel in a month. It is a crazy idea.
It's also a fantastic one.
It's magical.

(Yeah, I got caught up in the leprechaun nonsense of GLEE last night. I'm a sucker for blue eyes, a cute brogue, and a stunning voice. No apologies for it.)

Every year within the first few days I experience the trauma of the OMGWTFs. It can paralyze a writer to start contemplating the 'what ifs' and the 'why the hell am I doing this-es' and the 'everything I write is crap so why bothers' of it all. It can paralyze you at any time. The added pressure of thinking you have to complete something as massive as an entire novel in one month can daunt you into a fear spiral so dark it causes the worst possible black hole: the 'I can't do it so why even bother' hole.

You know what?
Fuck that hole.
Take a giant phallus of words and plug that hole up good. Show that hole the plot it's been missing. Use that hole up with great big sentences inspired by writing prompt, plot bunnies, song lyrics, and everyday objects like carrots and long glass tubes and staplers.
Screw that hole good by showing it you know best.
Then walk away from that hole, satisfied in the knowledge that you fucked it so well it exploded into the brilliant light of inspiration.
Then keep writing. All month long.

And THAT is your pornographic NaNoWriMo analogy of the week.

It's also about 300 words. That's a powerful amount of foreplay for starting work on your novel today.

Just to complete the inspirational mental screwing, here's a picture of Arthur Pendragon, wet, in front of a waterfall.

Yeah, you KNOW you can write something about that.

L.A. Strangetown

Or: How I learned to start worrying and wonder whether or not this world has any idea who I am...

I'm in the midst of major writer's block. Trying to get the writing brain started after a period of editing is providing soul-crushing levels of difficulty. Part of it is not feeling like I have a good place to write (as in, a physical location conducive to writing). Part of it is exhaustion/my own stupidity. Part of it is having told the writer mind to shut up for so long that it decided to go on an extended vacation and leave me in the arid silence of a wordless desert.
Part of it is a lack of validation for my writing, critically and, to be blunt, financially. I hunt gig postings like a hound for something other than corporate babble, SEO BS, or 'copywriting' (read: do everything related to writing, editing, and publishing our newsletter/blog/magazine/paper without all the benefits and money that go along with it), and find nothing that makes me even want to put together a writing sample. I know my capabilities as a writer. I know I can crank out corporate crap ad nauseum if I'm getting paid for it... I just would really like, for once, to be able to write in my own voice and have people accept that enough to toss a bit of dough my way. And I know anyone who desires writing as a career has these feelings, as do actors, designers, crafters, etc. We all want to put our own little stamp on the world, in our own way. Instead, far too many of us find ourselves trapped in a cubicle, or off on writing assignments which bear no resemblance to our actual interests, or scraping together rent from a myriad of 'creative' gigs -- because we 'chose' this path.
(Note use of quotations. Anyone who accepts and embraces a life in a field which relates to the creative, cultural and/or literary arts should recognize the flaw in stating that those fields were ones we chose of utter free will. Art chooses you. Those of us who know this realize how simple, and painfully dull, life would be if we just settled for accounting...)

Thus, I hold this inward struggle to attempt writing without foreseeable profit. It's need which drives me, and right now the need is not enough because even that itching in my fingers, that throbbing in my head, cannot coerce me into actual creation of material.

Then, the universe comes along in all its mighty cock-uppery and says, "Hey, you need money from a creative endeavor? We can totally give that to you. As an 'actor.'"
What.The.Hell.
Granted, my ass is sore with getting itself kicked in the financial rear so much the past, well, always. Ergo, there's No.Way. I'm turning the opportunity (read: money) down. Yet is it so much to ask that I get a little cash for an endeavor I really care about? I have dozens of actor friends, many of whom would probably kick me for a) getting this opportunity and b) rail me for hours on how unfair this business is when they can't get work doing what they want, and I have the gall to be selected for something I only auditioned for to help out a friend. (Though I'd be willing to bet if they were thrown a desirable, for me, writing gig for this kind of money they'd take it.)

I'm happy about the gig. It'll be fun times with friends doing silly work for awesome money. I'd just feel like less of a tool if my writing garnered me similar work.

Kicking Brain Puppies

Editing is hard. Just getting that out there for any and all aspiring writers. Slashing words you've grown accustomed to, and in some cases even grown to like (possibly A LOT), does not lead to great joy until you get yourself in a headspace capable of knowing what you do is meant to make your work stronger. Once you wrap your mind around that and accept it, it can make you stronger, too. After a while you begin to feel that just by deleting passages and correcting spelling and grammar issues for clarity, you have done what is necessary to make your work better.
Oh no, sweets.
There's more.
It's called re-writing.
And it's a pain in the ass.

Your editing mind has finally come to terms with its existence and you have a symbiotic relationship. You cut things out, and change some structural issues, and feel better about yourself, the process of editing, and your work as a whole.
Then you must go back and look at the work as a writer again, to fix plot holes, clarify and/or strengthen characters and relationships, add layering details... and your writer brain hides in a corner like a punished child, neglected by time apart from it and weakened and afraid from having the editing mind push it away while Editing Mode trumped all other needs for the work.
It's malnourished, depressed, and confused as to why you're seeking it out again with such joyful energy when three weeks ago you banished it in favor of the bullying Editor Mind.
Editor Mind doesn't care. It's happy to hang around and wait until you need it again (because it knows you'll come crawling back soon enough). Writer Mind, however, looks at you with plaintive eyes and quiet whimpers of sadness. You coax, you bribe, you get down to face it on its level and ask oh so sweetly for it to come back to you. It's wary, though. You wounded it and it hasn't recovered yet. It remembers screaming to you, wanting to be released while you had it locked in a closet when working with Editor Mind, pleading and begging to rewrite passages. You didn't listen. You needed to edit. You didn't want to shut away the Writer Mind, but you exist in a world of deadlines which Writer Mind doesn't understand. Editor Mind does, though, so you needed its help. Editor Mind is damn good at telling Writer Mind to STFU and mind itself. So good that Writer Mind has just been likened to an abused puppy for an entire paragraph in hopes that giving it the treat of extended metaphor might coax it out of hiding.

*le sigh*

This is one of those times I know I need to be a writer. It drives me, feeds me, pulses within me. Without it I am utterly lost. That ain't to say it's easy, though. Easy right now would be to chuck it all aside and turn to something that is... like knitting, or playing piano, or becoming an expert marks-person. I can't do any of those. I have a puppy to coax out of a corner so I can finish my novel, start writing query letters, and then have myself and my puppy kicked an inestimable number of times until someone coaxes us out of a corner...

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

I'm a Writer!

Yeah... still coming to terms with that phrase. Despite encouragement from teachers over the years, including a college professor who once stated that everyone in our creative short fiction course WAS a writer already, just by being in the class. Despite all my in-progress works, years of blogging, completed projects of which I have evidence... saying I'm a writer with emphatic assurance makes me squirm inside.

Well, I have three weeks to get over that as yesterday I agreed to have a readable first draft of Novel the First done. Then I shall embark on the arduous journey of creating query letters for agents while allowing a privileged few friends take a gander at the book.
Nervous? Panicked? Freaked? Self-doubting? Wanting a time machine so I can return to yesterday and say, "NO! No way. That is way too soon, and I have life and stuff (do you know how much laundry I DESPERATELY need to do?)... and besides the book isn't perfect yet!!!"? Yep. All of those are happening right now.
Know what else is happening?
Excitement. Empowerment. Hope.
And a bit of fear-driven motivation... with a dash of screw you, Universe, I'm going to be a WRITER!

Deep breaths.

I.am.a.writer.

It's a new dawn...

It's a new day... it's a new mother-effing-August.

I could rattle off a litany of reasons why this month and I get along about as well as Severus Snape and Harry Potter in books one through six, but I'll just stick to the basics: August hates me, and in its (so far) ten year history of making my life hell, I have come to hate it.
It sucks a bit because two of my best friends were born in August, as were several members of my family. Still, this month more than any other (even March, which I have grudge matches with almost every year as well) seems to save up all the crap that could be hurled at me during the course of a year and dump it on me all at once. Like the manure truck that Biff drives into in Back to the Future. Only on a daily basis -- or at least that's how it typically feels.

Thus, like several other years, I look at the date on the calendar today and whilst pondering what horrible events might await me in the next thirty one days, I also start to ponder what I can do to cope with a life destined to be made of fail over that period of time. Unfortunately, due to recent spinal issues and a raging migraine, my mental capacity is sorely reduced right now.
I am open to any and all suggestions.

I’m just this girl…

Trying to live a life. Sometimes.
On occasion it works. Most of the time it doesn’t. This week has been a mix of both.



I’ve written more than I have in quite a while and I know this, like love, should lift me up where I belong. Yet as the week ‘ends,’ I’m miffed that everything I wrote was not my specialty. I wrote many a blog and tweet, but no fiction. However…

I began editing my first novel again. Only about twenty pages, but I see now where some of the major flaws lie and even have some ideas on how to fix them. While it’s about as intimidating as facing down an angry hippo, I still don’t hate the book and I count that as a bundle of points in favor of keeping it up.

I stepped way out of my comfort zone and went to a real Hollywood networking party. I could go on and on about the absurdity of these events, but to be succinct: I met a couple cool people, didn’t have to interact with anyone too douchey, and spent time with some awesome friends on top of the W hotel in Hollywood, for free.
So I won’t talk about the outside party downstairs with the disinterested swaying (because it can hardly be called dancing) bikini girls on red-light podiums.

I organized an Oscar party in about ten minutes. Granted the idea’s existed for a while, but the planning and execution have been in doubt for weeks. Not anymore.

There’s accomplishment of varying degrees in all of this, and yet I don’t feel as though ‘productive’ applies to this week at all.
I need a new dictionary.

Ye Olde Monthe of Fauxbruary

February always feels such the odd month to me. It’s shorter than every other month, and extremely short in comparison with the two it is sandwiched between. It’s the only month that fluctuates its number of days, ever. It sits in post-new-year-pre-shitstorm position on the calendar, never accomplishing much other than reminding us that another year is fully underway (and if you’re single you’ve got the first two full weeks of the month for all advertising, retail outlets, and sickening couples to make you feel like a leper). In short, February is the red-headed stepchild of months; everything about it seems to enhance the idea that this month is only a faux-month.
Except February precedes March -- March for me is, historically, the second shittiest month of the year, nearly tied with perennial first-place August. Still, is that enough to work in February’s favor and make it a worthwhile month? Probably not.

And yet… here’s my brand new thought on this month of Fauxbruary: use it, and use it well, like a really good hooker (not that I have experience with that). If this month doesn’t want to make something of itself then it’s up to us to make something of it -- even if that something equates to using this time to reexamine our goals for the new year and instead of burn ourselves out before even getting to the quarter mark, take some time to stop and smell the proverbial flowers. You know, those things buried under two feet of snow in two-thirds of the country right now.
Use this sculpted block of four weeks to take a deeper look at ourselves and life and really contemplate what we want out of it. January typically crashes in with fanfare and demands that a new year means new life and you’d better decide on all that you want RIGHT NOW. February, I now say, exists to take all those aspirations and crazy thoughts and cull them down to a manageable pile of to-be accomplishments AND should be a time where we give ourselves permission to try and fail at life a little bit. January is never perfect, and never will be. Instead of giving up for February, why not dive further in: explore and screw up and pull out unexpectedly to dive into something else. Pause in writing your novel and try writing a play. Cease counting every calorie and try eating one new food every week. Turn one run a week into a more leisurely walk or hike and enjoy the scenery you usually dash past. Treat Fauxbruary like the summer after high school when you get all crazy and wild because it’s your last chance to screw up whatever you want and party like a not-so-grown kid… minus the weekly house parties playing Russian Roulette with alcohol poisoning (not that I know anything about that either…).

So who’s with me?
Use Fauxbruary up like your favorite pair of Chuck’s. Run this month into the ground with use, all the while learning from it what you really want from the rest of this year.

Special Author Days and a Special Planner

In my attempt to organize life, and writing endeavors within that life, I invested in a planner for this year. You know, one of those compilations of paper with printed dates on each sheet and spaces between those dates to write important occurrences in one’s life, bound together in chronological order for the calendar year -- you write in it with a pen or pencil. It’s not electronic and you cannot schedule annoying dinging/vibrating reminders, but you have a physical record of what you are doing, should do, might do, and have done, should you choose to record any of those items.
I bought this planner, because well, I am that kind of ridiculous person who needs more than dates on a page to hold my interest when it comes to planners, and assaulting my eyes with deadlines for writing competitions, fellowships, etc. and helpful prompts and information might actually get my fingers typing something more interesting than a blog entry (not to say blogs don’t have merit, but it’d be nice to scribble out a poem or story one of these days).
Since I purchased the planner a few days into January as it was far cheaper, I didn’t start cataloging my life until last week. The planner includes birthday of what I at first thought were famous writers. I noticed as the planner goes on it becomes more the dates of birth of random famous people that the editors apparently think interesting enough to include (Eliza Dushku, I love you, but why are you in my writing planner?).
Still, last week I noted that two of me ‘hero authors’ had birthdays last week. I do not see this as coincidence, nor do I intend to indoctrinate their births as a time for me to emulate their skills. However, I just wanted to mention, for the record, these amazing authors whom I admire and can only hope to one day emulate: Edgar Allan Poe (1/19) and Anne Brontë (1/17).
Poe is, well, a master to put it simply. Not everything he wrote was great, but this is true of all authors, but what was great was nearly miraculous. To be a master of two (especially now) rather disparate genres and truly be responsible for their rise in popularity is nothing short of genius.
Anne,for me, will always be the most talented and sane of her family. Branwell was a mostly-talentless drunk. Emily and Charlotte were intelligent women with general ideas of strong women... but had a major soft-and-blind spot for Byronic men, who sound great in theory. In reality, Byronic men pretty much equate to the mopey, abusive, narcissistic, drunken lout of a cad named Arthur Huntingdon. Plus, Anne penned my favorite quote by any author regarding gender equality/standards in writing, which is why it’s the subtitle of my blog.