I've been a bad blogger

I think I remember why my last blog crashed and burned. Maintaining it after the first blush of love becomes work. Not work you hate, mind you. Just work. Like house plants, pets and husbands, if you don't maintain them, they whither and die. Alas.

I'll be back tomorrow. Tonight, my play opens and I've become so single-minded about it that I'm officially boring even myself. Tomorrow, however, I'll be hungover and elated, both of which are fodder for ridiculous navelgazing hilarity in way that stress and the urge to face-punch everyone who breathes through their mouth is not.

Wish me a broken leg, darlings.

The eternal divide

If I were to do a mathematical summation that represented how much I love my job as a magazine writer--and that would have to include the mind-bending supposition that I understood mathematical equations--I would have to use an inverted parabola that represented, from left to right: the miserable first day; the increasing awareness that I might be good at the job and can learn to love working on a (big) Mac; the moment of writer/Mac oneness that approaches Nirvana; the opportunity to do all sorts of ridiculous, fun-filled, gratis fam tours where I actually get paid; networking with big, important, occasionally awesome people; to the sharp, steady decline where I start to realize that I will never, never change the ongoing and eternal battle between sales and editorial.

This is a battle that didn't start and will not end with me, the marketing team at work or any of the people who come after us. It's one of those industry-wide situations where, I'm learning, there is no middle ground, no compromise. As a writer, we want the people who read the articles to get the very best of us: a good story written by someone who loves to play with the words, make them dance and keep the reader turning the pages. We want to inform. We want to delve deeper in the human interest side of the story. We want to make readers think and question and laugh and cry. We want them to feel inspired and—this is kind of important—we want them to tell us and other people that they think we do a damn good job.

Woodward and Bernstein probably hated ad people, too

Ad marketing people, on the other hand, think the entire publication could be filled with either ipsum lorem (I'm not convinced they can read anyway) or asskissing fluff that flatters their clients. They wouldn't know a quality story if it came up, punched them in the face and took all the money that they earned by lying, making promises that compromise the writers' integrity and selling their grandmothers down the road. We are not writers; we are McJournalists—cheap, replaceable and prone to giving them stomach aches.

I am not bitter.

As human beings with actual lives outside of work, I assume that most of the ad marketing people are no worse than anyone else. I've seen family photos on their desks and bulletin boards, so unless they've cut them out of magazines, they are presumably marrying and raising families in a manner the suggests normality. Some of them are polysyllabic, so they're not all mouth-breathing troglodytes. A full 74 per cent of them walk upright! So there must be redeeming qualities. There should be a measure of commonality between us and them, no?

No.

Never the 'twain shall meet

We, as writers, want good quality writing. They, as sales people, want to lick the hindquarters of their clients, even if that means compromising on quality, value and ethical standings. They want their paycheques—who doesn't?—and will do anything they can to pad them. Including selling us down the river. And try to explain that excellent stories bring in the readers which is a number that is useful to show the clients, and they will blink at you uncomprehendingly and then tell you that they've promised an advertiser a three-page spread—complete with the right to proof the article and make any changes they see fit—on their company's new widget that was manufactured by five-year-old children in Haiti. We are sales' hos.

As a human being with some degree of compassion for others, it behooves me to look at their side and come to a degree of understanding. As a journalist, I am compelled to look at every side of the story and present it in an unbiased way. As a pissy Scorpio with an inflamed sense of self-righteousness, I may stay right here for a while, nursing my bitterness. Which, by the way, is another necessary trait in many McJournalists.

My bra is fire-engine red

The bra colour meme has come and gone and has created a firestorm throughout the Interwebs. For those few, sad people that don't do Facebook, this is the gist of the message that was in the inbox of assumably every female Facebook follower on the planet:

"Some fun is going on.... just write the color of your bra in your status. Just the color, nothing else. And send this on to ONLY girls no men .... It will be neat to see if this will spread the wings of cancer awareness. It will be fun to see how long it takes before the men will wonder why all the girls have a colour in their status... Haha!"


Right.


There are certainly some points contained within that missive that on the surface, make this seem like a meaningless gesture—that breast cancer only affects women; that posting one's bra colour actually does anything at all to raise awareness or funds for the fight against breast cancer; that sexualizing the discussion by creating coy, titillating messages has any impact on the fight. At least, that's the opinion of Jezebel and the lock-step commentors at the site.

But what good has it really done for breast cancer awareness? Does anyone on Facebook really not know about breast cancer to the point where someone posting "purple lace!" and eight dudes responding, "Ooh, hot, lol" is really doing to anything to really help the cause in any possible way? If anything, the constant sexualization of and cutesy-poo approach to breast cancer pushes people to take it less seriously. As Tracy Clark-Flory of Broadsheet notes: "This bra color movement seems a similarly desperate attempt to get guys to simply give a crap about breast cancer by making it sexy and flirtatious, which I find not only embarrassing to women but insulting to men." Mary Carmichael of Newsweek agrees, noting: "They're not saying a word about cancer. This isn't awareness or education; it's titillation." Jules at Feminazery also agrees, adding that the campaign is "about using a disease that has a devastating impact on the lives of hundreds of thousands of people as a spurious justification for discussing saucy undies."

To many, the gesture isn't just meaningless and ineffective—it's also offensive and ultimately degrading to women. (As a side note, remind me to come back to the humourless feminist stereotype sometime.)

I'll admit that when I got the first of many such messages in my inbox, I ignored them for many of the reasons above. I didn't care for the game of keeping men guessing, I didn't think breast cancer was suffering from a lack of awareness and I was fully cognizant that posting the colour of my bra wouldn't have any impact on the quest for a cure.

Yet, I noticed that among many of my friends who are themselves breast cancer survivors, there seemed to be elation, gratitude and unbridled joy. One in particular was thumbs-upping every woman in her contact list that had posted pink, purple or flesh-toned as the simple update. In this regard, is posting the colour of one's lacy underthings so very far removed from shaving one's head—albeit of shorter duration? Nothing was gained in the fight, but some of those who are on the front lines sure felt a bit of support from their friends.

And support, after all, is the purpose of both the meme and the multi-coloured, underwire and sport bras. And there's not one thing wrong with that.

Photo by aschaeffer at stock.xchng

They say that breaking up is hard to do

I've been with my bank for a long time—10 years. They've been with me through a lot: the beginnings of my theatre business, my single greatest contract job, the end of one marriage, the beginning of another. They have been intimately acquainted with that most private and vulnerable side of me—my credit rating—and let me know they respected me, even after a day of crying and sharing and delving into places few have been before. They've been my rock.

But they've changed. Or maybe I have. I admit, my needs have evolved in the last number of years. There are more demands on my time, so our lunchtime meetings no longer meet my schedule. Their early, laidback attitude started to grate on me as I became more business-minded. All the homey, personal touches that seemed so quaint and comfortable became irritatingly inconvenient as my life became more complicated.

It's not like we didn't try. We both did. Once ended in an embarrassingly public screaming match that amounted to nothing.

I was doing something else online—I swear—when I noticed an article on another, bigger bank. Their colours were soothing yet dynamic. Bold, even. I liked their confidence. I looked closer. I asked around. I drove by the branch. It was beautiful—strong, solid, modern but with a definite cultural and historical grounding. And you know, people seem to like it. Really, really like it. So I called. I arranged a meeting. And then another.

Little by little, I started moving some of my things over to the bank. I wasn't committed yet, but it seemed, you know, prudent to maybe have a bit here for emergencies. I thought I'd see how they did with an automated payment or two. And then I had them organize my finances. I began to look forward to logging in and seeing the beauty and simplicity and security they offered me. And finally, we were both ready—they jumped in with me on my car loan and mortgage.

Meanwhile, I hadn't said anything to my bank. Oh, I'm sure they noticed that the deposits were coming less and less frequently and then not at all. They're no dummies—surely the lack of complaints must have tipped them off. And hopeful letters offering me short-term loans or status updates kept coming. And I ignored them, hoping they'd just get the hint.

Today, finally, I made it official. I was kept waiting—typical—and was ready to go on a full blown rant about all the reasons they let me down. But in the end, there was really nothing to say. I let them know I was going in a different direction. They let me know that, once this tie was severed, I could never come back. But I was OK with that. I feel like that is a part of my life that is over.

I'll always remember them fondly, like all my youthful loves. But I'm happy where I am now. I feel like it's a more mature relationship and one that I'm ready for.

Define "everything"

Literal types may take issue with the title of the blog. That may be the point, really. Literal types make me stabby. Literally. Stabby.

No, more theoretically stabby, I suppose. But such a sad existence, to have been born missing the humour lobe in the brain.

What is it about literal people? (Note: not to be confused with literary people, who can be equally confusing, or literate people, who, you know, yay.) It does seem to me that it must be an absolutely exhausting existence to take every statement as verbatim, exact, unembellished and hyperbole-free. How do these people get through life without wanting to throw themselves under a bus after chewing out their own hippocampus in anxiety and frustration?

It is quite possible I'm thinking of a bible literalist or two I've run across. Hi, this is Post Number the Fifth, and I'm ready to alienate.

No, I'm ready to defer. But we'll come back to that, shall we?

Define "everything"

Easy. When I say that Madame Fabulous Knows Everything, what I mean essentially is that Tanya knows only that she realizes every day how little she does know. In fact, she doesn't even know how to talk about myself in the third or first person consistently within one sentence. But what I do know is this: while the amount I don't know grows every day, so does the amount that I do. I am always given lessons that I need to learn from the Universe, almost upon asking.

True story: My awesome boss and I are working on professional goals together. Six months ago, I said I wanted to learn more about time management. Almost in the next breath, I became so busy that I had to learn how to juggle all of my commitments, obligations and demands on my time with such efficiency that, if I can squeeze out just a few more weeks, I may hang a patent on my time-folding abilities. After that, I said I wanted to learn conflict management, and was suddenly face to face with more dukes-up assclowns than I would wish on my worst enemy. I've now asked my boss to help me manage my millions of dollars, because he is clearly some crazy genie who grants my every wish.

So the point is this: I know nothing in the grand scheme of things. And I'm willing to admit that flat out. But what I do know is that with an open heart and an open mind--and glue traps to keep the roaming assclowns at bay--I know more every day.

I know what I know. I know what I don't know. What I'm worried about is not knowing what I don't know. But I'm pretty sure that doesn't exist. Sort of like Swine Flu.

Back to the future

My fabulous friend, Tracy, she of I Hate My Message Board fame, was gracious enough to let me guest post a few times on her blog. She's created a nice list of what I've written in the past. Please to be checking them—and Tracy—out.

Do my hypocrisies make me look fat?

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. (I am large, I contain multitudes.) 

Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

 

Around the time I became aware that I wasn't actually a victim of circumstances and might actually have some control over the direction my life took, I became a proponent of the adage "Fake it until you make it." (Actually, I became a proponent of many adages, several of which I made up to suit me as the occasion demanded. I've actually engaged in an unofficial campaign to have one of my random rationalizations become one of those "You know what they say" words of wisdom.)

 

This strategy worked very well. I wanted at that time to be a professional actor—no small feat for someone living in a city with no professional theatre company and with no solid professional or educational background. (Professional. Professional. Professional. The word has lost all meaning for me.) I would define myself as an actor when people would ask me, "What do you do?"

 

Tangent: This is an interesting philosophical discussion. Why is it that, when you meet someone, one of the first questions is What Do You Do? This, by the way, is a question that all unsatisfied housewives or unemployed carpenters hate above all others. One of these days, instead of the standard Who Are You, What Are You, How Are You questions that are usually unsatisfying, I'm going to lead with When Are You? I'd like to see where it goes.

I digress.

After a few months of defining myself as an actor—and, of course, doing the work to make it so—I was successful. For two years, the bulk of my income was earned through acting, directing and producing. If it weren't for the fact that more effort was put into getting more work (and therefore money) than actually working, I might be doing it still.

 

Who are you? Who? Who?

The point is, I defined myself by what I wanted to be rather than what I was currently. And it worked. And I stand by the belief that if you want something, move toward it like it already exists and the universe will rise up to meet you.

And I was fully on board with this notion until I became a professional writer and suddenly met many, many people who would tell me that they, too, were writers. "Oh," I'd say, "Who do you write for?" 

"I blog," they'd say. Or they journalled. Or they had once written an 'A' paper in high school. And I'd sniff condescendingly. Because there are writers, and then there are writers. (Note: There are some damn good bloggers out there. And then there is the online equivalent of Bad Teenage Poetry that amounts to nothing more than badly-phrased navelgazing). And why was it that in order to become an electrician or a plumber or a court reporter, one had to go to school in order to have some sort of street cred, but anyone with a keyboard and the capacity to string words together, no matter how clumsily, could call themselves a writer?

I suppose it's because good writing is more subjective than good electricianing. Soon after the house has burned to the ground and the fire inspectors have come and gone, you can stand back and say, "I don't think that was a particularly good piece of wiring." But writing isn't so easily valued as good or bad. 

But, really, a lot of it is bad. Really awful. Borderline criminal. Plus, if the pen really is mightier than the sword, should such weaponry be placed in the hands of barely literate, keyboarding monkeys who can't tell their assonance from their ampersands?

Of course, writing isn't necessarily the most lucrative career choice one can make, JK Rowling aside. I describe myself as professionally poor, and I earn more than the junior writers at work. So if poor writers want to explore being even more poor, who am I to quibble with how they define themselves? Besides, being a writer gives smokers and hard drinkers an air of legitimacy. 

Also, starting tomorrow, I start defining myself as a surgeon. I am now taking bookings for random organ removal.