Tag Archives: writers

I’ll Tell Ya What We’re Not Gonna Talk About: 50 Shades Of Grey [Or How Long It’s Been Since My Last Blog]

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{This is a catch up post. And then, if there is even anyone still lingering around in the desert wasteland that has become this blog, you should probably brace yourself. I’m turning 30 on June 25 and I will be smattering this blog with a series of reflective posts laced with melancholic undertones to properly deal with those emotions. I shall be posting them in the upcoming weeks.}

So.

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I literally locked myself out of my own blog for forgetting the password. And then when I finally got in, I had 300 spam comments to delete and I then I thought, eh, this is a hassle. And I waited another week before I wrote something. #keepingitreal

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I’ve started getting Tweets like this:

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I’ve lost my sanity, regained it, and lost it again. And had bronchitis. Oh wait, I still do.

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that four…. FOUR of my closest friends have announced that they are prego.

It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that your mom hears it’s chilly outside and she goes and gets a bowl.

Wait, what?

So I’ve been up to quite a few things in my absence. Not that it excuses it. Of course, in a perfect world it would. And I can tell you for a fact that we are not living in a perfect world because if we were, I would not be living out of my car, I would owe the dentist $1000 and you wouldn’t be mad at me. Which you are, so, point proven.

In April, I spent almost every night working on a promotional video for a charity and I had no time for anything.

Except for, the return of Titanic in 3d. Heal yes. I’d like to say that I’m over my childhood crush of Leo, but that would be such a bold faced lie that my pants would catch on fire. I would say another moment of note in April was giving a collective “booya” to iPhone users everywhere for telling me that I would never be able to have the coolest app ever, Instagram. That being said, here are some of my very first Instagram photos, brought to you by my Droid:

OH, and now we can be Instagram buddies and stalk each other via pictures! @bluntdelivery

In May, my best friend Kenny and his wifey and ridiculously cute child visited from California. And I photographed my first wedding. And actually, Kenny officiated the wedding that I was photographing. It was a favor for a friend and yes, I tried to get out of it fifteen different ways. Turns out, nobody buys my lame excuses anymore except you guys.

And here, in case you need to see the evidence of the wedding photos. And I’m pretty sure I still have situational IBS as a result of that pre-wedding anxiety.

Yea, pretty sure I do.

And since food takes up about 80% of the pictures in my gallery, I feel like you’d be missing out on a lot if I didn’t post a few. I also went to the dentist for the first time in 6 years. Obviously, the toothache got to the point where I couldn’t handle it and then a filling fell out while I was chewing Spearmint. Welp, apparently I have 10 cavities to be filled/refilled. And so this just goes to prove that you shouldn’t avoid the dentist until something goes wrong. You should continue avoiding him forever.

Oh, then it was mother’s day and my mom’s birthday. Translation: I spent a lot of time at Pier 1 on a random Sunday. Other things going on have included: watching the Bachelorette and being simultaneously pissed off at Ryan and bewildered at Emily’s barbie-like face yet sweet personality, coughing incessantly and losing a lot of sleep, being cranky as a result of no sleep and incessant coughing, doing photo shoots every weekend, working full time, still plotting a blog redesign, silencing internal battles about the dangers of UV radiation, watching every episode of New Girl, wondering why everyone on the planet is recommending a poorly written, self published softcore porn novel (50 Shades of Grey) like it’s the most brilliant thing ever to grace the hands of readers everywhere. Is it just cus they opted out of the Fabio picture on the cover?

And freaking out about turning 30. Stay tuned for my thoughts on that.

I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!

Understanding Right-Brainers: The Curse Of The Creative

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Last night, I had a shocking revelation that I’m cursed.

This is even more serious than my nearly fatal, almost-heart-attack and 7 other legitimate, self-diagnosed diseases, except not really. Have I lost you already? Interesting. Maybe it’s because you’re cursed too. Although, I have fruit loops as my screen saver, so I would take my assessments with a grain of salt. But please, make it sea salt because the last thing I need to worry about is your skyrocketing blood pressure. And we all know that sea salt is God’s salt.

If you’re a creative person, then you get it. You could write this entire post for me. And actually, I wish you would because I’m really supposed to be working right now. If you’re not, but you’re dating one then this might help you understand us a little bit better. ‘Cus I feel for you, I really do, because if I was a normal person wearing a polo shirt and clocking out at five from a stable job that provided benefits and paid vacation, I would be confused by us too.

I love the fact that my right brain likes to run such a passionate and colorful show. But, my goodness, I just want to punch it sometimes. Then, I realize that I have a hole in my head and that would lead to my sudden death. Here’s why we’re cursed:

*Right-Brained Creatives are insatiable punks with undiagnosed ADHD.

This is, however, a necessary evil because without this trait we would fail. We can’t ever stop creating, evolving, improving, changing – and it’s not because we want to be the best  – it’s because our minds literally won’t let us stop. We are constantly flooded with ideas, to the point of insomnia. We’re restless. And when we finally do go to bed at 3 am, we’ll wake up and jot down ideas in the middle of the night. We have crazy schedules, our eyes are always bloodshot and we like it that way because you can’t force creativity and you certainly can’t stop when it’s flowing. I literally have a notebook with tabbed dividers to keep track of ideas. This is an instance where I really wish I still had that Lisa Frank trapper keeper. The notebook goes a little something like this: blog ideas, website ideas, conversations I had/overheard, DIY ideas, house ideas, photo tips, video ideas, typography, inventions that no one will ever make, marketing ideas for companies (as if this will EVER be useful) and there’s also an ongoing list of my Top Favorite 90s songs. Wouldn’t that just make anyone go nuts?

When I finally ditched the corporate world and became a writer, it was the best decision of my life. But in order to make money, I had to write about stupid stuff like reality TV and the economy. So, I had to find another creative outlet, which ended up being this blog and photography. But I couldn’t just leave it at that. Then I taught myself Photoshop and had to go and start an entire photography business. Recently, I’ve taken up furniture refinishing. Like I said, insatiable

*Right-Brained Creatives thrive on risk. But not those kind of risks.

I won’t even go to Great America for goodness sakes. We thrive on risk because we have to. A large majority of creatives are freelancers/self-employed -we never know where our next job will come from. This means that we usually marry a left-brainer because otherwise we’d be on the streets. We need to be challenged. We get inspired and run with it. For instance, I started an entire retail store in my local mall, on a whim, without any prior business or retail experience. Why? Because as  a child I always wanted to have my own store and when I lived in London I became inspired. Surprisingly, it was a very creative job because I controlled the entire design, store displays, marketing, etc. But, the retail world didn’t allow much room for other creative pursuits. So, naturally, it had to go.

*Right-Brained Creatives are workaholics, who are almost always underpaid and okay with that.

Vacation, what? I would be willing to bet that every creative person reading this would agree that they would rather scrape by for the rest of their life and do what they love than make six figures working in a corporate office. It’s sad, but we accept the fact that creative talent is extremely undervalued. Just as teachers accept that they will always be underpaid; but they keep doing it because it’s their passion.

It’s just how we’re built. And when we try to box ourselves into that lifestyle, we lose a bit of ourselves. We become unhappy. We feel unfulfilled. We are merely existing rather than living.

*Right Brained Creatives rotate hobbies like politicians rotate mistresses.

On top of our “main focus” whether it be graphic design, music, writing, photography – we have a million other hobbies. And we are constantly finding more. For instance, I’ll see something I like online and think, “Yea, I could totally make that.” Then, I’ll realize I don’t know how to sew, so I’ll spend a hundred hours on YouTube watching tutorials on how to sew. And when I’m finished crafting my masterpiece, I’ll contemplate opening up an Etsy shop for all of the new stuff I’m going to sew. For example, I picked up an extreme couponing habit at 2 am last week and the week before that I refinished my kitchen cabinets.

One thing I must say that has made my life worse/better is Pinterest. It’s like a collection of online corkboards where you can pin any picture you see on the internet and it automatically links it back to that post or tutorial. You can browse other people’s pins, follow your favorite boards and there is just an ENDLESS SUPPLY OF AWESOMENESS. This really has ruined my life and I don’t suggest it. 

* Creatives are perfectionists who can’t say no.

It’s bad enough that we often work for next to nothing. But, we even have a hard time saying no to free projects. There are two reasons for this: 1. the project could gain good exposure for our work 2. we love what we do and if it’s a really fun project, we want to do it. We are perfectionists to a fault because just as soon as we’re close to finishing something, we’ve already thought of how we could improve it.

It’s a vicious cycle. It’s a busy, messy life. It’s anything but boring. And I just wouldn’t have it any other way.

Wondering where I went? I have returned to blogging over at my whole foods blog Celery and the City, where we live so clean it’s like your insides took a bath.

Chances Are, I’m A Pervert

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Today, while at a routine stop at the Goodwill, I put these three items on the counter.  They were exactly what I was looking for. We don’t have the time nor resources to get into the logistics of exactly why I needed this combination of items, but one could assume that I’m a third degree pervert who is planning on using exhibits A & B to lure a small child into my presence in order to lock them inside of exhibit C.

Based on the death glare I got from the Cashier, that’s definitely my plan.  [as if she’s one to judge]

But that’s not why we’re here. Wait, why are we here?  No, really, I was hoping you’d have the answer cus….

Listen.  I know, I know. I don’t write a blog for, like, decades and all the sudden here I am with the one-two punch.  But see, that’s how it works around here.  This isn’t a “real” blog, this is more of an update.  Housekeeping, if you will.  I have been a bit MIA around the blogosphere lately, and it’s not because you’re getting on my every last nerve.  Although…

As some of you may know, I lost my job last fall. No, there’s no blog that I can refer you to so that you can read about this seemingly dreadful but actually wonderful experience; however, that is definitely something I’ll add to my list.  Cus Holy Crapballs, that was messed up.  If you’ve lost your job recently, and there’s a good chance that you have – especially if you live in my dumpster of a state  – you’ll understand what I’m about to say.

Losing your job can mean all sorts of things: a chance to reinvent yourself, an opportunity to do something you really love, a new start, or a spiraling depression that leaves you wallowing in self pity. For me, it meant all of the above.  This brings me to my point, and yes, I have one this time.  After I ate every morsel of hidden [but apparently not very well] holiday candy, watched every unfortunate chick flick that I owned – twice, and spent the better half of two months unshowered and locked away in darkness, I slowly managed to yank myself out impending doom and decided to pursue writing.  It is, after all, the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do – even though I tried almost every other option.  That process has been the most tragically-unfortunate-and-frightening-experience-turned-wonderful-surprise of my life.  And I’m determined to make it work.  Because well, if you have even the smallest chance of being able to do what you love – you should.  Enough with the fear.  Enough with the procrastination.  Enough with the negativity.  With that being said, go make yourself happy already – even though it might mean you’re broke for awhile about a year.  ***Also, in the midst of this pursuit, combined with an excess of time on my hands, I’ve also discovered another passion I’m quite siked about, but one thing at a time here.

So my point is.. crap.  Hold on.

I had to check my notes.  My point is…. that I’ve been busy lately working on “business stuff.”   And that would be a major understatement.  So, remember how I used to have that freelance writing website that was really super duper ghetto? Psssh.  Guess who ain’t ghetto no mo? That was just a temporary site [ come ON, a little credit please? ] and I’ve been slaving away on a dashing new web presence, among about fifty other pressing matters.

You can check it out on my freelance writing website, wordsbybrit.com.

 

 

You Big, Fat, Fake Smart Person

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Speaking of things I collect, I may have mentioned it briefly in the masterpiece entitled How To Live The Best Fake Life You Can Imagine, or several times thereafter, that I collect books.  I don’t read them, as much as I like to give the impression that I do, while underhandedly using them strictly for decorating props.  I understand this is a perplexing and tricky dichotomy considering I’m a writer. But you know how “Those who can’t do, teach?” Well, I also find that “Those who can’t write, read.” You’re welcome to leave me nasty comments in regards to that theory, but wouldn’t you rather go eat a Dilly Bar or something?  Go with the cherry. You’ll thank me.

But seriously, the books are starting to take over my life.

bookshelves

So when I’m selecting books, my focus is on the thickness and color of the cover and how well it will coordinate with the lamp, random flea market suitcase, or bookshelf that it will be sitting on or in the proximity of.  I don’t pay attention to minor details like the title or the content.  I had an epiphany recently that I should start trying to solve all my problems by dissecting different sections of my house and seeing what they reveal about me.  [Go here to see what my freezer had to say. It was shocking, to say the least.] So, we’re moving on to my books.

It’s only fitting that we start with my desk area. It’s where I am sitting right now, talking to you.  It is also where I spend almost all of my meager existence being a hermit, writing and editing with bloodshot eyes, and listening to my nineties playlist while eating very questionable leftovers. Because I can.

forbidden-love-relationships

Let’s zoom in on the middle cubby. When I actually started reading the titles, I discovered that these books must have been stalking me during the past couple of years.

1. Places to Stay the Night.  This eerily, but accurately describes my life from the time span of 2002-2006.  If I could make one minor adjustment it would be “Random Places To Stay The Night While Escaping Your Heroin-Addict British Boyfriend, Overly-Possessive Italian Boyfriend, Or When You Decide To Go To Mexico On A Whim Or When You’re Wandering Around A European City And Refuse To Leave Your Wasted Roommate With Those Inappropriate German Guys.”

2. The Ideal Bride. Oh yes.  I couldn’t think of a better way to describe myself.  On opposite day.

3. To Love Again. And again… and again… and effing again.

4. Five Days In Paris. Please change to “Five Days In Paris Accompanied By: A Hailstorm, A Robbery, The Stomach Flu, Ungodly Frizzy Hair, World’s Meanest People, Mystery Meats Cooked In Too Much Butter, And An Unwanted Proposal.”

5. Ten Poems To Set You Free. UGH. Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!

6. Forbidden Area. Much like a fine art painting or Greek Opera, I’m leaving this one open to interpretation.

Here’s where you’ll actually get to know me: my nightstand.  This is reserved for books that I might pick up once in a while.   I don’t think it should serve as any surprise to you that WIT would be at the top of the stack, comfortably parked next to 50 Boyfriends Worse Than Yours.

Dear Midwest, Without You I’d Be Famous

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You know your hair is too long when you have to start using conditioner meant for a horse.  Gees, people.  I’m just saying.  But on a side note, it works rather nicely.  So I’ve heard.

horse-shampoo

People always ask me, actually they harshly criticize and often yell at me, for the fact that I’ve never moved out of this God-forsaken craphole of a town. For those of you who don’t know, I live in a suburb outside of Chicago, where nearly everyone is a loser with zero motivation or aspirations in life.  So when I put it that way, I guess I can see their point.

Friend:  But you could be a big time writer in New York and travel the world.

Me: I’ve already traveled everywhere I want to go in the world.  And New York has too many rats.  And snobs.  And pricey food that comes on a giant platter but is the size of what I can only consider, a midget snack of sorts.


Friend:  But you could move to L.A. and write for tv shows and movies.

Me: I’m brunette, no one would take me seriously in L.A.  Besides, I can’t deal with the fakeness.  I would call everyone out and then they would hate me.  And then I’d run home to my lonely, roach-infested apartment, where I’d cry big, fat elephant tears and eat myself ugly. 

Friend: But you could move to the downtown and work for the Tribune.

Me:  I hate the news.  It’s depressing.  Plus, I probably wouldn’t get by with throwing in sarcastic comments when I was writing about the Korean missile crisis.  That job would blow chunks.  Give me a break, I’d never move to any of those places.  Seattle.  Now there’s a place I wouldn’t mind moving.

Friend:  You know that Grey’s Anatomy isn’t actually filmed in Seattle right?  So you wouldn’t be meeting McDreamy, or McSteamy, or any of the Mc’s?

So could all these people be partially right? Perhaps.  Is it true I want to continue my writing career on a larger scale? Mmm hmm.  Is it possible for me to accomplish all my dreams living here?  Heal no.  So what on earth could possibly keep me sandwiched here in the middle of the country, suffocating for air, slowly dying from lack of culture and white-trashy influences, you ask? 

Is it the ice-cold winters, which seem to get longer with every passing year, that make me contemplate roasting my own dog [or I guess my neighbor’s cus I don’t have one] over a rotisserie just so that I won’t have to leave my house for food?  Not exactly.  It’s much more complex than that.  But when isn’t it?

The other day, I was bronzing myself on the back porch, as the landscapers were mowing my yard.  I arose from my position to make sure I was decent as they were mowing right in front of me.  The last thing I need is a sweaty, landscaper-stalker.  But on a serious note, could they possibly point that grass blower thingy in another direction?   Then as I was gazing at all my patches of dead grass, a thunderbolt of realization occurred to me.  Um, why can I see those?  Where is the tangled pile of hose that has been laying in my backyard and covering the dead grass since I moved in?  Wait a minute. THESE PERVERTS STOLE MY HOSE! @#$!  And now they’re blowing grass at me.  What the?

As it turns out, my father had slithered outside at some point and drilled a bracket into the side of my house and wrapped the hose nicely around it.  BONUS: he was smart enough not to install one of those plastic roller pieces of crap that break after two seconds, which would result in a lifetime of frustration and ultimately, the death of more grass.  EXTRA BONUS:  He planted grass seed.

Folks, I’m sorry, but with quality service like this, the Midwest has a hold on me.