Career Day

With the current fascination of “celebreality” at an all time high, I started to wonder how this culture craze might affect our educational institutions as they prepare the nation’s youth to look towards a career choice. What might a high school notice to parents look like…

A Message From The Guidance Office

            Don’t forget Lincoln High’s annual Career Day is coming up on April 14th! This is the day when we endeavor to help your children, with their bright impressionable minds, take their first step towards an exciting future.  As the head of Career Counseling, I can tell you quite a few of you parents have spoken to me about what you believe is our lack of adequate information and preparation for the graduating student in the new 21st Century  job market.  As a matter of fact, several of you have been so inflamed, so on fire, about making sure your offspring rise above the sea of competition that you’ve barged into…come into my office without making an appointment!  But does Fern Davis, Senior Guidance Counselor of Lincoln High mind? No, she doesn’t. No, I don’t.  Not at all. I’m just glad that you left the pitchforks and torches at home!

            But seriously folks, it was a pleasure to hear everyone’s animated, impassioned opinions.  And believe you me when I am faced with an angry mob—I mean, enthusiastic group of progenitors—crying out to me that “we don’t want to see anymore crappy paralegals and medical transcriptionists, where are the jobs with the real money?” Fern Davis hears you! Yes, she does. So with that in mind, I have been forced—I mean I am tickled pink—to present our new Lincoln High Career Day “Pathways to Success” Program.

            And boy, what a lineup of speakers we have! You clamored for icons of success and Fern Davis delivers! Our first guest, in the main auditorium at 2 p.m. is none other than Sharon “Shizzle” Carmichael. She will be sharing her secrets about building an exciting and fulfilling career in reality television. Sharon, or I should say, “The Shizzle,” enjoyed earnings of over thirty million dollars last year from, amongst other things, her top rated reality show Sizzle with the Shizzle! “The Shizzle” will be sharing her methods for gaining exposure, figuratively of course, tasteful acts of semi-lewdness, and how to maintain audience interest through public scenes and arrests (all charges being dropped of course!) As an added bonus, all of you fountainheads that are supposed to be providing a role model, aka parents, instead of selling out the next generation of America, will get an up close sneaky-peeky at the inner workings of the life of a reality star, as “The Shizzle” has brought her own camera crew with her so that this entire embarrassing travesty can be featured on next month’s Sizzle with the Shizzle marathon! As if this is not exciting enough, “The Shizzle” will have copies of her bestselling memoir No S**tzle!: The Life and Times of The Shizzle, on sale after her presentation. How about that, hunh?

            For those of you parents who demanded information on “marrying up,” the Shizzle has informed me that she will not be discussing relationships in this presentation as she said she won’t be “goin’ all Kardashian on everyone.”  She is, however, willing to answer any technical questions, in private, relating to “the hookup.” However, the incident reported in last week’s Simmer magazine involving “The Shizzle,” L’il Mo, and the unidentified “Jane Doe” cannot be discussed due to the court gag order.

            As a parting gift there will be a handout detailing “The Shizzle’s” net worth so that you can get a idea of your little nipper’s potential earning power and how well you will be provided for in your declining years.

            Now, for those parents who have enrolled their sons in our Fast Track Rap program, the orientation will be held at 3 p.m. in the gymnasium. Morris “Li’l Mo” Feldman will be here to give the kids some words of advice and instruction on rap stance, isolation moves, popping, the glide, and other rap tips such as content, flow and delivery. Although Li’I Mo” did not complete his junior or senior years here at Lincoln High, leaving us at the tender age of 16…we are so pleased that his entrepreneurship and… gusto  has propelled him to the tippy-top of the rap/film/television stratosphere! We are also very grateful to ‘Li’l Mo” for his generous donation towards a Library/Hip Hop Lounge/Play Station Game Center. We have devised the Fast Track Rap program to match ‘Li’l Mo’s” educational experience here, in order to give your little cherubs every opportunity to succeed. Your little Einsteins won’t have to worry about skipping class in order to pursue their music and dance, because instead of eight periods they will only have four, including lunch and gym class! A written component is not required for this program. Instead of Math, a brief half-semester class “How to Make Sure the MoFo’s don’t Cheat You” is being substituted.

            A few scheduling notes:  Make sure your children enter the raffle as they could win one of the 15 copies “Li’l Mo” is providing as a giveaway, of his #1 bestseller, No S**t!:  Born 2 Rap, The Life and Times of Morris “Li’l Mo” Feldman.

            Also, please note “Li’l Mo” and “The Shizzle” cannot and will not appear together on stage, but in separate venues, due to the court order.  Do not be alarmed at the presence of local law enforcement, it’s merely a precaution.

            All right then parents! I hope you’re happy with the arrangements this institution of higher learning has stooped to in order to satisfy your outrageous demands. Not that I, Fern Davis, Senior Guidance Counselor, mind, because I certainly do not. My motto: give the parents what they want; after all, you know best, even if you are destroying your children, selling out their souls for the all mighty dollar…and your comfy-womfy retirement. But does that bother Fern Davis? No it does not, and I explain why in my new book:  No S**t!!: Confessions of a Guidance Counselor Biatch. Copies are available in the auditorium.  I’ll be available for signings.

One final announcement:  If anyone is interested in the presentations by the paralegal and the medical transcriptionist, they will be in Rooms B121, and B122, that’s in the basement.

            Thank you.

 

 

Hello Again

Greetings friends, Romans, and countrymen! It’s been a while. I was reviewing the blog and even I can’t believe it’s been six months since my last post. Yikes! I went back to school last fall as a full time Masters degree student… that should explain everything. I decided to get reacquainted with Twitter and Facebook (they changed everything again, why do they do that?), and thought it would be good to do some blogging as well. Since I’m a writer, I should be… you know… writing.

It’s my goal to be a bit more consistent this time around. I’m shooting for weekly posts, if not bi-weekly. I’m not exactly known for my timeliness. I’m still hoping Bed Bath and Beyond will come out with an alarm clock that doesn’t use numbers. Instead it flashes “Maybe. Let’s see how it goes.”

So, I hope you’ll visit me from time to time and I promise to do my very best to be witty and entertaining. Glad to be back

 

 

   

 

There’s No Place Like Om

Meditation is good for you. Meditation helps clarify and clear the mind, bringing peace and relaxation when one takes a moment to stop – and focus. The stresses of this world melt away and the spirit feels rejuvenated and refreshed.

That sounds wonderful.

Wait a minute. Why don’t I meditate? As a matter of fact, why doesn’t everyone?

I would like it duly noted that I have, on several occasions, attempted meditation. If there’s some kind of points system, I think that’s worth at least a five. I’m just saying. I would also like it noted that my personal best is twenty minutes. I have focused on my breath, listened to the faux sounds of crashing waves from my “Oceans of Tranquility” CD (and no, it’s not really called that). I was gentle with myself, forgiving myself when my thoughts wandered, tenderly leading my mind with acceptance and self-love to refocus on my breath.

I have to tell you, a few days of meditating and I was a tad edgy, even tense. After a week, I developed an eye twitch. I don’t know if there’s a “right” way to meditate, but obviously I was getting it wrong.

It’s no secret that the concept of meditation does not exactly gel with the zeitgeist of the Western world. We are a people on the move, getting things done, places to go, people to see, dragons to slay. The idea of sitting still, being still, doing nothing, thinking nothing… this is anathema to our Roadrunner way of life. After all, where is the tangible benefit? What do I have to show for spending some quality alone time with… me? If I’m not moving, I’m not doing, and if I’m not doing… I’m not getting things done.

To be fair, it appears that meditation is a flexible art. They say (whoever they are) there is no set time for meditation. Morning or evening will do. Well it’s not going to be the a.m. I can tell you that. I am NOT a morning person. And evenings?… It’s the NBA finals… and the NHL Stanley Cup Finals… I wonder if there’s any rule about meditating during the intermissions…

To tell you the truth, I was hoping there might be some Wile E. Coyote ACME Meditation kit available. You know, learn to meditate in five easy steps. Once again, I missed a memo. Meditation is referred to as a “practice.” I have to practice keeping my mind still. This shouldn’t be a problem. I can watch a block of the “E” network’s fine reality show programming and believe me, my brainwaves will flatline, no problem. I guess that’s not the same thing.

Finally, I found what I was looking for. An article on the Internet touted how to meditate anytime, anywhere, for five minutes. It’s so easy, I can sit at my desk at work, pay attention to my breath and before I can say “Who’s your bodhisattva?” vive enlightenment. And I wouldn’t have to do any shuffling of my busy schedule.

In the end, meditation is not really made for multi-tasking. But I keep thinking, what is the fascination with meditation? Is it the meditation itself, or the idea that we should be looking for something, whatever that something is, that is deeper than the surface of activity and noise, apps and gadgets, something that we can only find in the silence. It was Mahatma Gandhi who said “I have so much to do today, I will need to meditate twice as long.” Clearly, five minutes, just isn’t going to cut it.

So I tried one more time. I got up early one morning before the alarm. I closed my eyes, surrounded by the sweet sound… of silence. I relaxed, looked inward, and found in the recesses of my mind… Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” looping in my head. I lovingly and gently guided my mind back to the sound of my breath… and Gaga was still there.

And then my alarm went off. So much for meditating.

There’s always tomorrow.

J.

Death of a Culture Vulture

Culture vulture (cul·ture vul·ture): n. a person who is very interested in and enthusiastic about the arts; a person who attends cultural events.

            It’s hard to pinpoint where it all starts to go wrong. One minute you’re a literature reading, classical music loving, well-read, well-rounded individual. The next minute you’re sitting zombie-like, eyes glued to the E! television network, watching an all day marathon of “Keeping up with the Kardashian’s” and “Khloe and Kim take New York.” Oh wait, that’s me I’m talking about. But I’m going too fast. In order for you to understand this, we have to go back a little.

            It’s no secret that today’s social media is akin to “The Six Million Dollar Man,” or more like “The Twelve Million Dollar Man” (adjusted for inflation). It’s better, stronger, faster. You not only know where everyone is and what they’re doing, you know in real time, at the very second it’s tweeted. You can keep up, not only with the Kardashians, but all celebrities. This includes regular people who are well known because they appear on television, whether we want them to or not.

            It starts with a tease, you know, that first taste. That’s how all addictions begin. You think: I can handle this. After all, it’s just E’s “Live From The Red Carpet” before the Oscars, “The Fashion Police” post show, a little dose of “Access Hollywood.” It’s not like I don’t have my own life, right? I can stop any time I want. Sure, that’s what they want you to think.

            For a writer the rationalizations are even more gratuitous. “It’s my job to observe life in all its forms.” Except reality television isn’t real life. It’s scripted non-reality. People filming themselves as they fight, make up, have intimate conversations with their significant other, get plastic surgery, go to the gynecologist. Still watching? Me too. Like a train wreck, I can’t look away.

            The age-old argument continues to rage: with all this hysteria, media circus, and contrived drama, is the media systematically dumbing down America? Is there truly nothing else to concern ourselves with besides Lindsay Lohan and Charlie Sheen? And why are we obsessed with celebrity to the point where ordinary people with no visible means of talent can make a career of being in the public eye? Is there nothing to read, discuss, or otherwise become engaged in, rather than remain a voyeur?

            Some will say, “Don’t be a party pooper Jill, we’re tired of worrying about the economy, the job losses, and the housing market. We want to relax, we want to unwind, we want to not think.” Point taken. However, one last surviving neuron in my cerebral cortex still twitches, wondering, if we as a collective society have gone on an extended brain drain, isn’t that bad? If Rome burned while Nero was playing his fiddle, don’t you wonder if our  preoccupation with “Dancing with the Stars,” “Jersey Shore,” “The Bachelor,”  Heidi, Speidi, and Snookie is the proverbial match? You know when the shit usually hits the fan? When no one is looking.

            And so I degenerated from a reasonably intelligent, inquisitive individual, into a mindless, vapid, empty shell of my former self.

Phase I: Chronic channel flipping during the 7 p.m. hour is clustered around channels 2, 4, and 51; namely, “The Insider,” “Extra,” and “E! News.” If I miss anything, I discreetly tune in to “Chelsea Lately” for a late night recap.

Phase II: References to various celebrities creep into my daily conversation. Flip phrases such as “Charlie’s kids were removed from his house,” “Lindsay has turned down the plea deal,” etc., are thrown around as if I know these people, which, I don’t. I haven’t read a book in weeks.

Phase III: Marital difficulties and infidelities can now be catalogued and referenced  by celebrity. If you have an affair while your wife is pregnant you’re pulling a David Boreanaz. Having multiple affairs just because you can is pulling a Tiger Woods. Having an affair with a stripper and ruining your wife’s shining career moment is pulling a Jesse James. I’ve lost interest in hobbies. I unwind before bed by cruising internet entertainment sites. People, Us Weekly, and Entertainment Weekly are all bookmarked in my internet favorites. 

Phase IV:  I can’t sleep at night. I’m having a crisis of identify. Who am I, if I can’t decide if I’m on team Aniston or Jolie-Pitt? I’m worried about Jen. Is she going to adopt a baby? Will she ever find love again? I need help. Must find a 12-step celebrity de-tox program.

Phase V: I have hit bottom. I plan my conversations around celebrity tidbits.  I don’t listen. I wait to talk, concerned that I mention the juicy morsel first, as if I know something that no one else has heard. I have my moment of clarity: I am a gossip whore.  I spend time talking about other people. I feel like shit.

            I have to make a decision.  Become a card carrying yenta, change my career path to entertainment reporting (my version of if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em), or sign up for a monastic retreat and get out of town. I do none of the above. I quit. Cold turkey. The first two days of withdrawal are terror filled agony. I hold the remote in my hand lovingly, stroking the buttons. It’s been two days of no news. Two days without a report from Mario Lopez or Billy Bush. I am sure I am running a fever.  I find myself thinking: what will I talk about? Oh, the shame.

            I soldier on. I turn off the television. I stay off the internet. I go to the library. I soak my brain in Austen, Chandler, and Tolstoy. Ironically, I also read works by Aldous Huxley and George Orwell, two gentlemen who knew more than a thing or two about alternate realities. I think, in a way, that’s what we have now, an alternate reality. Nothing is private anymore. Intimacy is for sale, for publicity. I think of  Madonna’s movie Truth or Dare back in 1991 and the moment she didn’t want to talk to her doctor off camera.  It was Warren Beatty who observed, “She doesn’t want to live off-camera, much less talk. There’s nothing to say off-camera. Why would you say something if it’s off-camera? What point is there existing?” That was 20 years ago.

            I focus on keeping up with current events now, what’s happening in the world nationally and internationally. There is a whole world out there beyond the “Jersey Shore.” I’m focusing on my writing. My many hobbies keep me busy. Still, the entertainment page of The Huffington Post gently sings its siren song to me. Do I ever peek? Yes I do. But I only read the headlines. That’s progress, isn’t it?

The Spider in the Shower

            There’s a spider in the shower. It takes me a while to figure this out as I’m blind as a bat without my glasses. But I feel something, like you feel something when someone is standing behind you.

            My eye is drawn to a blur on the shower curtain liner. I see a faint brownish haze. I think it’s moving. I lean in,  and then I see it. Wispy legs.  I let out a shriek. I do that when encountering insects. I don’t know why.

            I step back, cowering by the bar soap holder. I am a thousand, no, ten thousand times its size. No matter. An arachnid in the shower is a particularly hideous invasion of the human personal space. It brings uncomfortable, unseemly thoughts of what could happen. After all, I am naked, vulnerable, exposed. Just the thought of where the arachnid could crawl…

            I can’t shower now. I can’t cleanse properly with one eye on my washcloth and the other on the spider. I keep inching over, returning to the scene. He is moving, up and down, up and down. I can’t relax until he is gone, out of my bathing domain. I am fixated; he is now a phobia.          

            Webster’s Online Dictionary defines a phobia as “an exaggerated usually inexplicable and illogical fear of a particular object, class of objects, or situation.” I resent the use of the word illogical in the definition. You say phobia, I say “showing the proper amount of concern over a potentially disastrous situation.” Tomato, tomato.  I’m not really worried about the spider. I’m worried about what might happen due to the spider’s presence. What if I try to kill it and lose my footing? What if I lose my footing and fall down? What if I fall down and hit my head? What if I hit my head and have a concussion? What if I miss the spider and it springs at me and attaches itself to my face and I can’t get it off and…okay, maybe it is about the spider. I like to worry in advance. That way if the shit does hit the fan, I’m prepared.

            One phobia I do not have is ablutophobia, the fear of washing or bathing. I edge closer to the field of play. I have to do something. I squint. I discover the spider is not technically inside the shower. It is trapped between the outer curtain and the inner liner. It cannot hurt me, it cannot come near me. It would be illogical of me to worry about the spider. In my heart, I know this.

            And so I smack the liner against the outer curtain with a force and a fury until the brown blurry mass moves no more. Then I am struck by a jolting thought; Kafka’s Gregor Samsa, trapped in the body of an insect. Karmically speaking, this arachnid could have been my fellow man, killed by my illogical phobia.

            Oops.

            Hasta la vista Gregor, I think. Better luck next time.

            I return to showering, knowing I have learned a valuable lesson from this experience: next time, do a sweep of the shower with my glasses on before I get in.

This is Jeopardy! Today’s Category: Maintenance

The founding fathers wrote that “all men are created equal.” Fair enough. But what about women? Are all women created equal? I am sorry to say they are not. Some women have a special skill, a secret weapon in their arsenal that makes them the holy grail for men and the secret envy of women. I’ll tell you what that is: they are low maintenance.

Since before Harry met Sally and gave her the bad news: “You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance,” women have known that we are not all equal.

How do you identify a low maintenance woman? I’ll tell you. She is the one that goes camping and looks fresh before, during, and after the trip, even luminous. She is the one that spends a day traveling and when she deplanes not a hair is out of place…and she didn’t have to do anything.  She is the one that is ready to leave at a moment’s notice and her purse, if she has one, can hold, at the most, a tissue and a lipstick. Maybe.  She doesn’t need to carry a hair brush, hair spray, packs of tissues, eye drops, headache pills, hair clips, spare pantyhose, vitamins, extra contacts, extra sweater, an extra pair of glasses, bottle of water… should I go on? It’s not a matter of wanting these things, she doesn’t need them. She is fine without them, she is naturally easygoing and effortless. She is… low maintenance.

Every woman would like to think she is low maintenance. I would like to think I’m low maintenance, even as my left shoulder is two inches lower than the right from the weight of my purse.  And I carry my makeup bag separately; it won’t fit in my purse. I rarely need it; but I might need it, so I keep it handy. High Maintenance, Exhibit A.

Maybe that’s what separates the low maintenance women from the high maintenance women. Low maintenance women just figure whatever it is, they’ll just deal with it. High maintenance women can’t  do that.  We have to fix it, freshen it, or re-fluff it. 

So In honor of these exceptional women of minimalism, I would like to point out a brief history of Low Maintenance women as seen in film. This is by no means an exhaustive list and I’m sure you will have a few entries of your own.

I’ll take Low Maintenance for $200 Alex:

She always had Paris with Rick.

This of course, is an easy one. Casablanca’s Ilsa is a paragon of effortless low maintenance. She goes from war torn Paris to Casablanca, living in fear of imprisonment and death, a husband at her side she doesn’t love, and she does it all carrying a small purse and not a hair out of place.  Even crying on the tarmac  as the fumes and fog surround her does nothing to mar her foundation or her hairstyle.  Way to go, Ilsa.

I’ll take Low Maintenance for $400 Alex:

She learned how to Romance a Stone and be low maintenance in this popular 1980′s rom-com adventure.

Kathleen Turner did women a great service as Joan Wilder in Romancing The Stone. There we see the classic high maintenance woman, lugging her suitcase and her winter coat in the jungle while wearing unsensible shoes.  And really ladies, how much difference is there between that scenario and carrying a bag on our shoulder that ways upwards to ten pounds, while wearing three inch pumps? Suburbia can be just as much of a jungle as the outskirts of Columbia. I’m just saying. 

So we watched Joan turn from a high maintenance frump to low maintenance fabulous until there was nothing left; not a suitcase, not a satchel, not a sweater, not an unsensible shoe. And we loved her for that. Just thinking about it makes me want to clean out my purse.

I’ll take Low Maintenance for $800 Alex:

This woman partnered with the most famous archeologist of film to raid a lost ark.

Now we come to the pièce de résistance, the creme de la creme, the ultimate in low maintenance.  My hero, my Yoda: Marion Ravenwood.

Marion travels from Nepal to Cairo, is chased through a marketplace, gets stuck in an underground crypt, travels on a ship, is hijacked to an island in the Aegean sea, is put on a forced march, and is finally tied up to a pole as the winds of supernatural spirits whips about her and she does it all without a purse, without makeup, without a hairbrush, without deodorant, without a Kotex product. She has nothing, nada, nil, zippo. Not even a tissue. She doesn’t go to pieces, she gets angry, she gets tough, she pulls a butter knife in self defense. Okay she freaked out when the skeletons fell on her but hey, wouldn’t you?

I think there should be a section on Marion Ravenwood included in curriculums on women’s studies. We should strive for low maintenance, try to go with the flow, make adjustments, take things as they come. Better still, we should have a National “Low Maintenance” Day, when we carry nothing with us.  We should liberate ourselves, rid ourselves of these purses, these satchels, these sacks, these crutches that we carry and continuously fill with more and more crap we’re convinced we have to have with us.  

I think that’s a great idea. I just have to make sure I wear jeans on that day because I need the pockets… to carry some tissues…and a lipstick…

J.

On A Positive Note…

I hate this time of year, the “winter blues” time of year. It always sneaks up on me. I never feel it coming on until it dawns on me I’m coming home from work every day and going right to bed. After a full night’s sleep I wake up wishing I had another 12 hours to get a little more shuteye. If I’m not sleeping, I’m sitting in my chair, staring at the television with a glazed look, engrossed in mindless channel flipping. And yes, I own a big fuzzy robe with matching fuzzy slippers. In case you were wondering.

Something else happens this time of year. As the snow piles up, feelings of positivity and hopefulness take a nosedive. Everything is bleak, bad, even hopeless. Nothing matters and no amount of effort will come to any good. I begin to resemble Charlie Brown’s summer camp roommate, the kid who sat facing the wall, his only words, “Shut up and leave me alone.” I’m depressed just writing this.

I used to combat the winter blues by extensive eating. After all, since when doesn’t a heaping bowl of spaghetti drowning in butter sauce in the middle of January make it all better? But now that I’ve developed more healthy habits, I don’t even have comfort food to comfort me. Let’s face it, a plate of grilled vegetables may be hot, but it’s just not the same.

I have no doubt by April the sun will be shining and my mood will probably lift with the temperature. However, this whole experience has me thinking about positivity in general. For the past year or so I have been seeking out books, tapes, etc., from today’s popular speakers on the subject of positivity, attracting positivity, affirming positivity…you see where I’m going with this. I had been actively trying to cultivate a sunnier outlook on life…until now. However, I have a question: at some point, are we messing with nature trying to change who we are? Is it possible that some people are more naturally positive and for others it’s at best, a learned behavior? And consider this: if looking on the bleak side of life were not a viable way to live, comedians would be out of work.

I was never really a Suzy Sunshine. Whenever the possibility of something good happening appeared, I barely blinked before I was sucking my mental thumb in a panic, imagining all of the ways everything could go wrong before the “good thing” had a chance to happen. I became accustomed to living this way, even creating my own petite Jill Manifesto:

A pessimist expects the shit will hit the fan.

A fatalist is resigned the shit may hit the fan

An optimist won’t admit how much shit they’re really in

So I have a problem with positivity. As a result I have no doubt spent many a year with my chi out of whack, my karma off kilter. And yet I was trying to change…until now. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m reading “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People” by Stephen Covey, which is not strictly a book on positive thinking but it plays a part. So far it’s a really good book. I haven’t seen a massive change yet. I’m only on Habit #1. I have a ways to go.

Perhaps there is a secret, a magic potion, a formula for creating a positive, affirming state of mind that sees “yes” instead of “no,” that believes even if dreams have gone unfulfilled every day up until yesterday, today can be different.

Or maybe I should eat a big plate of spaghetti in butter sauce, take some Vitamin D, and sleep until spring.

Stay warm

 J.

New Year, Same Dust

This time of year calls to me. It’s more than the holidays, the impending New Year,  and the singing of Auld Lang Syne. This time of year heralds my yearly cleaning ritual. I like to think of it as my own personal winter solstice, a rebirth of sorts when I make my feeble attempt at cleaning out the clutter, sucking up the dust bunnies, clearing away the cob webs. I try, I really do.

I rationalize that my lack of housekeeping skills is not my fault. I’m a writer; I should be at my computer all the time. I take heart every time I’m on the internet and I read the laments of other writers;  the  messy houses, the uncooked meals . I stop weeping and gnashing my teeth.  I am not alone, there are others out there. And they’re just like me.

Still, I have often dreamed of living in a minimalist home. I imagine a clear, unfettered space where there isn’t something piled in front of every closet door, piles of paper are not arranged like upside down pyramids,  teetering on the edge of collapse. I often wonder if there’s something Freudian at work that I’ve designed my living space like a giant game of Jenga. I’ve read articles praising the benefits of a minimalist home: less stressful, more pleasant visually, easier to clean. Uh… yahh!

So I went to work. I spent hours, without stopping, without eating, without drinking, determined to clear every item off the floor, put everything in its place, ready to forge ahead into 2011 with an open, clear, work and living space. Maybe it’s the symbolism of the exercise. New Year, new start, nice clean house. Nice theory.

For all of those minimalist people out there,  I salute you. I don’t know how you do it. How do you live without… stuff. I have stuff. Lots of stuff. I need my stuff. It comforts me. Mostly paper stuff. And I swear that paper multiplies on its own and begets more paper. No matter how much I shred and recycle, every time I turn around, there’s more paper. It’s like the blob. Only it’s paper. And what about those papers that you need to keep but you don’t really have a spot for? They don’t fit in the filing system. They’re not for a household appliance, they have nothing to do with taxes. But they’re important. They are important pieces of paper that someday I might need. How can I throw them out? Why would anyone do that? But I digress…

While I did throw out some things, I moved most of the other things. That’s what I do; I organize,  I consolidate, I move items from one place to another. Sometime in February I will need those items and I’ll have no idea where I put them. I’ll console myself; at least I didn’t throw them out.  I spent six hours dusting, vacuuming, straightening, and sorting. When I was finally done, I had six bags of garbage. My apartment looked the same. What is that??

Perhaps I should make a resolution this year to stop observing the winter solstice cleaning ritual. Perhaps I should make a new resolution: to turn over a new leaf, adopt a new minimalist lifestyle that I will observe every day throughout the coming year.

That’s a bold resolution.

I’ll think about it. After all, even if I don’t do it this year, there’s always next year.  :)

I wish everyone a very happy and healthy new year!

The Creativity Fear Factor

I’m afraid of my watercolor brushes. Literally. Let me explain. Creatives, as we are sometimes called, usually create in more than one area. Our first chosen field may be writing, painting, music, dance, you name it, but there is usually another serious interest or hobby whispering in our ear. I am first, foremost, and forever, a writer and I am thankful that I have never experienced a fear of picking up the pencil and pad. But I am a wanna-be artist. I think about art, admire art, dream about making art, I could talk about art from now until next week. But for some reason, I can’t actually sit down to engage in the creative process of making art. To put my brush to the paper is to invite a panic attack of “what if it doesn’t come out right?” Just fingering the tubes of paint can bring on a stifling case of nerves. I don’t think Cobalt Blue is supposed to have such an effect on a person. You see my problem. 

There are days I will drive home from work thinking, “As soon as I get home I should sit down at my desk and spend some time painting.” I will be excited about this idea, gleeful, even ready to chortle with pleasure. And then the feelings will hit me like a boxer’s combination move; hesitation, anxiety, the unpleasant feeling of unrest. I can’t pick a subject, I lose my ability to make interpretive decisions about color, confusion is my companion. Sure enough, by the time I reach home, I can feel the creativity draining out of me and I decide to do something else. I would like it noted that I have no trouble purchasing books about learning to create art. I am a power shopper for art supplies. My collection of sketching pencils is impressive. I have a tub of watercolor paint tubes. Instructors have commented on the fine quality of brushes I own. I can copy pictures reasonably well. I have taken drawing lessons, watercolor lessons, life drawing lessons and yet I never quite get a handle on the basic concepts needed to create something of my own. I have to tell you: it’s a bitch.

I have been dealing with this for almost twenty years. Now I’m depressed just having typed that sentence. I console myself that I am not the only one out there with this issue. And how do I know this?

The  book Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils (And Rewards) of Creating Art,  explores this very dilemma. David Bayles and Ted Orland explained this multi-pronged problem perfectly and although it is easy in theory to understand what the problem is, that doesn’t make it any easier to conquer. To oversimplify and paraphrase, to think about art is to imagine all of the wonderful pictures I could create, rather than face picking up the brush and finding the actual result is so much less than what I’d hoped for. In short, to never draw or paint is to never fail.

I find this a curious phenomenon. I pick up a pencil and pad and write lousy sentences all the time. That’s a given with first drafts. You’re supposed to write badly. It’s part of the process. Ernest Hemingway said “The first draft of anything is shit.” Last semester, I taught Introduction to Writing the Novel. I exhorted my students: “You must write, even if you write badly, you must write.” And then I gave them an analogy that has haunted me ever since I said it. “You can’t be afraid to put words down on paper,” I told them, “You can’t worry if the words are good or bad.  You have to write badly before you can write well. Dancers have to stumble before they get smooth,  musicians have to squeak on their instruments before they play well, artists have to paint a lot of bad pictures before they paint good ones.”  Take your own advice much? I thought to myself.

What is it about creating art? It’s not as if the art police are waiting outside the door, ready to swoop in and “Book ‘em Danno” because my canvas isn’t a Picasso. I find making art to be a singular challenge. Words on a page can be erased and replaced, musicians can stop playing and begin again, dancers will pick themselves up and start over but a picture that is so clearly not what it was meant to be casts a harsh and damning glare. A picture that is not well done cannot be undone. Not even throwing it in the garbage can erase the experience.   

How many creatives, I wonder,  go through the same experience, struggling to find the joy that is supposed to be the focal point of the experience, the relaxed pursuit of self-expression through form, line, and color? How many creatives are blinded to the concept of art as interpretation, not re-creation of exactly what is seen? Between resistance to the notion that process is paramount and the nagging fear that if the piece is not good enough to be sold it has no value, creativity is all but lost.  

Bayles and Orland make an excellent point in their book when they write, “…there’s generally no good reason why others should care about most of any one artist’s work.” Point taken. Then why do it? Well, I look at it this way. There are countless reasons why writers write. Love of language, love of story, overactive imagionation, etc. Personally speaking, it is all of those things, but it is also about crafting a story that I would want to read. I desperately hope that the completed work will touch the reader and they will feel the same love for the story, the characters, as I do. If writer’s write for the love of creating story, musicians play for love of music, then why not draw and paint for the same reason?  

I think I wrote this not just for myself but for other creatives out there struggling with the same predicament. You are not alone. It is not New Year’s and I’m not much for resolutions. But perhaps the mid-point of the year is as good a time as any to adopt a new outlook as we head for the home stretch of 2010. No matter how much time has been lost in fear and doubt, there is always time to start anew. I think it’s time to approach making art with a new attitude of experimentation expecting to enjoy the creative process.

I’m ready to pick up my paintbrush. Who’s with me?

J.

The Incredible Shrinking Internet!

Okay, that title is misleading. I know that. But here is what I’ve been thinking about. For the past two years, I’ve been on the internet My Space’ing, Facebooking, and Twittering, reaching out to friends, Romans, and countrymen to talk about my books. I’ve spent hours trying to think up warm, wise, and witty things to post. I say hours because as soon as I decide to post, all warm, wise, and witty thoughts flee from my head. I have to tell you, the pressure is enormous. Anyway, after two years, these are the conclusions I’ve come to:

1. The internet is a fantastic, limitless resource for authors looking to get their work “out there” and connect with readers.

2. The internet is a giant black hole in which authors can get lost in the abyss of networking, commenting, posting, and linking and still no one knows they are “out there.”

As you can see, I’m conflicted. Anyway, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I am always like a kid in a candy shop to find new authors and new websites for all things literary. There are amazing authors out there and some great sites posting short stories, essays, and lists of books to explore. I enjoy sharing what I find so I thought it would be fun to start posting links both here and on my website. 

I think of it as my small contribution to raging against the machine – and making the internet a smaller place.

Oh, and if anyone wants to put a link to my website on their page – http://www.jillamyrosenblatt.com, please feel free!!

J.