Aug 20 2012
31 Comments
Humorous

Notes I Took While Watching Your Date

I see and judge you.

Hi there,

You probably didn’t notice, but I was here yesterday while you were on your date. I was in the corner, staring directly at you.

I’d been here for about two hours when your date sat down, and about two hours and five minutes when you came along. As my attention span for work reached its upper limit, your conversation and interactions got more and more interesting. You were maybe seven feet away from me, the café was very quiet, and I could hear everything. I happened to take a few pages of notes on your rendezvous and I’m more than happy to share some of them with you.

First of all, your date chose a very awkward table. Most normal human beings prefer to sit next to a wall or a structure that shelters at least one side. This comes from an evolutionarily instilled desire to avoid predators. Walls provide a sense of security and allow the dining party to relax and enjoy their coffee and conversation. The fact your date willingly chose an exposed table means a number of things. She could be trying to kill you, but she could also trust your ability to fend off potential threats. At the worst, she might be a psychopath and a danger to herself and others.

Not only did she choose an awful table, she defended her decision when you asked about it, implying that she believed her poor table choice made her a quirky, unique girl, which it did not. Girls who think they are spontaneous and fun rarely are. They will tire you out with their foolhardy decisions and pretend to enjoy picnicking on highways. My recommendation: let her choose the table next time and see what she picks. If she fails again, go to the bathroom and crawl out the window. You don’t want to know what she’s capable of.

Some important developments occurred during her lengthy bathroom break, during which I looked up and saw you eating by yourself. When I looked up a few minutes later, I saw that not only were you still eating by yourself, you were sweating. It appears you welcomed the break from talking and leapt at the chance to eat your food without her watching, a move I applaud.

However, the sweat glistening on your brow indicated both to me and your date that you may have been enjoying your egg sandwich too vigorously–not an attractive quality. To be fair, she was gone for a hot second, which is not a great sign. If she really liked you, she would have held off anything major until after the date, unless it was an emergency that threatened to make itself uncomfortably present. If she was touching up make-up, she’s a diva, and if she was hanging out texting friends and reading articles on her smart phone, then I think you and I both know what that means.

At any rate, I’m glad that we could share your date together. I don’t particularly like her, but you seem like a nice, normal guy and I wish both you all the best.

Emily

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Aug 17 2012
46 Comments
Humorous, Three minute read, Writing

Sage Advice for Young Writers and Bloggers

Renee of Life in the Boomer Lane is a former hula hoop champion and a writer that keeps a hilarious blog, one of those blogs vampire blogs wish they could suck dry. Recently I asked her to write something for Snotting Black on the advice she would give to a 23-year-old wanting to be a writer or a blogger. She graciously agreed and sent me a really beautiful piece that I found touching, informative, and jealousy-inducing because of its depth and wittiness. May it invoke similarly complicated responses in all of you.

I’m not worthy.

Sage Advice for Young Writers and Bloggers

The first thing I did when Emily asked me to guest write a post for her blog was to be amazed that anyone would want to take such a risk.  The second was to look at the topic: what I would tell a 23-year-old who wanted to be a writer or a blogger.  I did a quick calculation and discovered that in the intervening decades between age 23 and where I am now, I have lost approximately  239 lbs and gained approximately 259. My hair has changed color and style 41 times, and my bra size has gone from 34B to 34D. My shoe size and hat size have remained constant, but my height has decreased by 1.5 inches.  Two husbands appeared, but not at the same time. Small beings in my immediate vicinity have appeared, gotten larger, and eventually disappeared. One has now produced two small beings of her own, thereby assuring me that in the distant future, after I am gone, someone will look at photos of me and wonder why people looked so funny back then.

Writingwise, the decades have contained fiction and non-fiction, some self-published, some published by others.  A couple contests were won. A short story was read on NPR.  Many rejections were collected. A blog was started a little over two years ago.  None of my writing has made me famous, and very little of it has made me any money at all.  All of it seemed of value when originally written, but not all of it withstood the test of time.

So, back to the topic: What would I tell a 23-year-old now, about wanting to be a writer and/or a blogger?

The good news is that you are coming of age at a time in which anyone has easy access to self-publishing.  The bad news is that you are coming of age at a time in which anyone has easy access to self-publishing.  Chances are overwhelming that the only way you will see your work in print will be because you put it there, not because you are discovered.  Chances are also overwhelming that you won’t get paid for what you write.  There are way too many writers out there, really good writers, happily giving their words away.

Most people who are currently successful in publishing are online.  Print magazine subscriptions are plummeting, while Huff/Post is thriving.  The Kindle has passed the vibrator as the #1 sex toy for women.  So throw out your dildos, and whatever you do, do it online.

Just because you have a passion to write doesn’t mean that the world is waiting for your words. They are too busy stockpiling water for the Armageddon or watching Bachelor Pad 2 or standing in line for the next iPhone.  Whether you have a publisher or not, the only person who will market your book is you. If you don’t create a demand for your book, there will be none.

The easiest way for a literary agent to assess the quality of your work is to ignore it.  Literary agencies throw unread manuscripts into large boxes and anyone who has time on their hands can take free reading home.  Few people do. If you want someone to actually read what you submit, you are going to have to be very creative and very diligent. In other words, you are going to have to do more than send out query letters.

Like book writing, people aren’t waiting for your blog posts, either. Building up a blog readership can be ridiculously time consuming, and, just when you are patting yourself on the back over having 1000 followers, you discover someone who has 10,000 or 100,000 followers and they aren’t famous, either.

Freshly Pressed is like a one night stand.  A hot one night stand, yes.  A one night stand that will make you shriek and rock you to your toes and back again. But it won’t last longer than that.  You won’t be able to take it home to introduce it to your parents.  It might ask you out again for more one night stands, but on subsequent romps, no matter how spectacular, some part of you will know the deal.  You will know that in the morning, you’ll be alone again, and Freshly Pressed will be gone, off to fondle another blogger.

The bottom line is that you won’t listen to any of this because you really, really believe in the depths of your soul that you have what it takes to be a writer.  You believe that what you write will be the next Big Thing.  You believe that the world will take a texting break in order to read what you have written.  And thank goodness for that.  Because after the marriage and the mortgage and the mayhem of child rearing, you might set the writing aside, in favor of more pedestrian pursuits.  And that would be a shame.  Because you might have been the one to beat the system.

P.S. from Snotting Black: Isn’t she great? Visit her blog! Give her a high-five!

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Aug 10 2012
51 Comments
Humorous, Three minute read

What My Birthday Means for You

There’s that sassy birthday girl!

We all know what my birthday means for me. In general, it means I’m better than you. But it also means I’m one year more awesome, one year funnier, more intelligent, and more beautiful, one year more likely to contract various kinds of diseases and arthritis, one year closer to retirement, and one year more likely to purchase a Buick and complain about kids these days.

But what does my birthday mean for you?

If you’re my triplet sisters, it means you need to call me and tell me happy birthday as we once again celebrate/lament the fact we share the same birthdate and have been doomed to splitting the potential stock of birthday presents by three for decades.

If you’re my parents, it means you need to remember to send me money. A call would also be accepted.

For relatives, see above minus the calling part. A card will do.

If you’re the 16-month-old that I babysit, it means that you’re going to be catering to my every whim and desire today, trying to calm me down when I throw tantrums, taking me to watch the dogs at the dog park and letting me touch every single one, especially the vicious-looking one, and catching the food I spit out in your hand.

If you’re a blog reader, it means you should either a. write a blog post naming 20 things you like about my blog or b. tell me how great I am and say happy birthday in the comments.

If you’re one of my East Coast friends, you need to remember the 3 hour time difference and try not to call me before 9 am (12 pm) because, as Solomon said, “A loud birthday call in the morning will be regarded by the neighbor’s as a curse.” Or something like that.

If you’re my friends on the West Coast and don’t live in the Bay Area, you should express your regrets that you couldn’t visit me on my big day in order to present your very large presents to me. These presents can be mailed, and you should probably rush them first class so I can open them sooner.

If you’re my boyfriend, things get a little tougher. Not only must you call, but you’re also required to present me with the birthday gift of my dreams, the thing I mentioned off-hand a couple of months ago when we were walking out of Dillard’s and I’m not sure if you heard me or not but that was really the only thing I wanted and if you didn’t get it for me I’m going to be really upset, but I’m not going to tell you I’m mad, I’ll just be kind of stand-offish for the next couple of weeks and repeatedly say I’m fine and nothing’s wrong. So…I look forward to receiving, cooking, and burying it. Hint.

And if you’re my friends in the Bay Area, go to the ATM right now and get some cash because you’re going to be buying me drinks tonight! It’s fun for everyone!

Thanks in advance for all the birthday wishes! It’s my day!

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Aug 09 2012
19 Comments
Humorous, Job hunting, Stories

Practicing Handshakefulness: What I Learned at a Geeky Networking Event

Don’t watch!

The other day I went to an event where most people had friends and I knew no one. I cleverly disguised this, however, because it’s hard to meet people when you start out by saying, “I came alone.” I immediately got in line for something, because lines are by far the best places to mingle. The guests are trapped, subject to any conversation topic you might bring up, just waiting to be entertained. It’s perfect.

After hanging around in lines, I ended up leaving the party and getting a drink with a group of new friends, failing to get all of their numbers with one exception, and resigning myself to the fact I’ll never see any of them again. It was a valuable experience, and I learned two things. One is that wearing a piece of crazy clothing makes it easier for people to remember you, especially if it’s a cape that allows you to blend in with walls and then scare them. And the other, more important thing I learned is that you shouldn’t look while you shake hands with someone, no matter how weird or uncomfortable it is.

Here’s what happened. As I and my group of new never-to-be-heard-from-again-techie friends were leaving, I went to give handshakes all around. I “put ‘er there” to a young man who is beginning his job at a well known Bay Area start-up that has revolutionized how we interact (hint), and as I gripped firmly I noticed that something had gone horribly wrong with the handshake. I felt pressure, but only on the outer rim of my palm. It was like his hand was hollow or weak muscled on the interior. Puzzled, I took a peek to find out what was happening.

This was weird. I had no idea that staring at handshakes is unusual until I was doing it, and it was weird. Immediately, the soft techie geek took notice and asked me what I was doing, to which I quickly replied, “Nothing.” And he said, “You were looking at the handshake,” an accusation I dodged by saying, “No I didn’t.” Seconds later, I walked away with two strange nerds and never saw any of them again, yet.

A fedora-wearing-boy who was possibly still in high school accompanied me back to the train station with a man who builds inflatable robots at work. I told the fedora I would text him about contra dancing and he seemed rightly skeptical.

As I got on the train heading home, I thought that maybe not getting any of their real information except for fedora’s was for the best. And after all, it is San Francisco, and I’ll probably find people just like them at the next nerdy event I attend. This is my ocean and I’m on the lookout for bigger fish to cling to and shake hands with properly.

*The term handshakefulness is not my own. It was created by the 30 Rock writing staff.

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Aug 08 2012
44 Comments
Humorous, Job hunting, Three minute read, Writing

“Spit in My Mouth and I’ll Tell You”

Try me. Just try me.

So I’m at a party, in line for the bathroom or staring out the window wondering what it would be like to be free and somehow I get talking to a stranger. We exchange pleasantries, place our palms together and grip firmly, and then as the banter inevitably dies down and we’re breathing out the tail end of our last haha, one of us reaches for the easiest conversation topic possible:

So…what do you do?

The “do” question is innocent, merely an attempt to understand the other person better, or maybe even form a connection, “Oh you do that? I do that too! Do you know her? I know her too! Wasn’t that one thing crazy!?” And so on and so forth.

But the question can be problematic. What if, for example, I currently spend most of my time making money doing something I hate? Should I put this forward as the best summary of my person, that I’m someone willing to subject themselves to mental torture day in and day out for a couple of bucks?

What if I’m unemployed, but doing everything from hiking the Sierra Nevada to creating a large-scale bronze sculpture Gumby, to compulsively poking people on facebook?

Or what if the things I do to make money are unrelated to how I define myself? What if they’re only a way to make money? What if, in theory, I make money by babysitting and working at a restaurant, but what I really want to do is write and be an incredibly successful author read and loved by the masses? What should my response be to the “what do you do?” question? I can’t tell the truth because the other person will have no idea what to do with me and try to leave and I’ll be forced to follow them. But if I say I’m a writer, I open up a whole other can of worms.

The first thing they ask is: what do you write?

I’ve been asked this God knows how many times and I still don’t have a good answer. My shortest response time is slightly over a minute. Somewhere, an Olympian just ran a quarter of a mile and I’m still fumbling around trying to explain what I write. I end up blabbing about the blog and humor writing and exploring different writing styles and it’s very boring for the other person and just plain stressful for me because then I’m like, “Oh my God. Am I even a writer? What are all those words I typed out yesterday? Why didn’t they fit into something I could describe to this guy without sounding like someone who might steal his wallet when he leans over to look at the event brochure on the coffee table?

So the next time someone asks me what I do, I’m going to assume they mean, “What would you do if you could do anything?” and I’m going to tell them I’m a writer, and then when they ask me what kind of writer I am, I’m going to ask them to spit in my mouth.

What, they’ll say.

Yeah, just go ahead and spit in my mouth and I’ll tell you what I write.

They won’t do it, I won’t have to figure out and then tell them what I write, and we’ll both leave the party with interesting stories. Win win.

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