Two Years of Blogging: A Few Thoughts From the Writer

Greetings Friends,

On April 6, the Ink & Paint Creative Writing Services blog turned two years old. Most blogs fall by the wayside long before they hit this particular milestone; many others become such vainglorious sources of drivel that you'd sooner stick needles in your eyes rather than read what the scribe has to say; still more are just middling wastes of bandwidth. Which category does this one fall into? I'd like to think that those who read my "etchings" appreciate my candour, sense of humour, and interpretations of the subjects I choose to write about. If not, there's always the "Next Blog" key you can click on at the top of the page. The choice is yours. The words are mine.

Here are some thoughts about what I've learned from working as a freelance writer for the past two-and-a-half years. Be forewarned: some of it ain't too pretty.

It Is Possible to Hate Your Job: The writer who tells you they love their job 24/7 is as full of shit as those "you've won the British lottery" e-mails that clog your Spam file. Just because we get to make our own hours and dress in the"Freelance Writers' Union" uniform (the rattiest t-shirt and sweatpants you would never want to be seen wearing in public), doesn't mean we're happy and peppy and bursting with joy all the time. Sometimes, we become burned out; we want to smash our laptops against the wall; we want to stare mindlessly at the television watching hours of the "Real Housewives of New Jersey" until our brains turn into oatmeal.

I Miss the Luxury of Getting Regular Paycheques: You never realize how nice it is to get that paycheque every other week until you don't get it. Doing your own billing is tedious; having to hustle to do as much work as possible before the end of every month turns something you love to do into a giant albatross around your neck. Still, I'd rather do this than attempt to co-exist with an office full of inept sociopaths.

Yes, This Is a Real Job: Contrary to popular belief, being a freelance writer is a "real" job. Many people tend to think that unless you have a publishing deal that pays you six figure advances and allows you to doodle from your Eames chair in your well-appointed wood-paneled study, you don't actually work for a living. News flash, folks: this is as real a job as any I've ever had. If you don't believe me, read my blog.

The Internet is a Blessing and a Curse: If it weren't for the Internet, I would likely be working either as an English teacher wishing I could indulge in corporal punishment, or as a lackey in one of those aforementioned offices full of inept sociopaths. Alas, the Internet allows me to do what I do and get paid for it. The flip side, however, is that I have to endure  proving my worth to clients who believe that cut-rate Web site content written by computers located in the Philippines and India is much more cost-effective than my services. 

Google is My Rabbi: And, like any 12 year-old soon-to-be-Bar Mitzvah boy, I am subject to a thorough metaphorical ass-kicking at every possible turn.

Despite all of the above...

I Wouldn't Trade This for Anything: So what if I don't have J.K. Rowling or Stephen King bucks in the bank? I have skill, integrity, and heartburn that could bring down a rhino. It's all good.

Nava

Drowning in Ineptitude

Greetings Friends,

I couldn't decide whether to ape Andy Rooney or Gilda Radner for this post, so I chose both. You're getting the picture of Gilda as "Emily Litella," her Saturday Night Live character famous for her d'oh-brained commentary. You're also getting the curmudgeonly vitriol of Andy, because I'm just about ready to bust an artery or two over how much ineptitude I've been dealing with lately. Please, buckle your safety belt and keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times.

Have you ever noticed how some people manage to breeze effortlessly through life while their ineptitude manages to drive the rest of us borderline insane? They flit through their days wreaking havoc on those around them - blowing off their tasks, damaging property, exhibiting a degree of cluelessness that for most of us would have dire consequences - yet, they somehow get away with it. The rest of us ("us" is sadly becoming a smaller and smaller group) possess varying degrees of conscientiousness with which we go through our days, performing our jobs to the best of our abilities and ensuring that we stay as far under the radar as possible. We go home to our families, pay our bills, love our loved ones and try to stay on the straight and narrow as best we can. Sadly, it's always the "good" people who are victimized by the inept ones, even if we never grouse about it; mostly giving those individuals a well-intentioned pass, even if they are as daft as kitchen sponges. Why do we let them get away with it? I'll be totally honest with you: I have no idea.

For the past week or so, I've been wondering what would happen to all these daft, inept people if they were called on the carpet for their ineptitude and made to suffer the consequences. Right now, there are so many decent, qualified people out there across North America who have been victimized by tough economic times and are enduring considerable suffering. They lost jobs, pensions, homes, savings, their shirts; you name it, they've lost it over the past several years. Yet, there are millions of metaphorical feathers floating on a perpetual breeze, seemingly placed in our paths to drive us crazy. I'm not talking about the lackey at McDonalds who forgot to include the Big Mac in your drive-thru order, or the ditzoid college student who didn't give you that third squirt of vanilla syrup in your latte. I'm talking about people who have to use their brains a few hundred times a day, who outright refuse to. What's up with that? Again, I have no idea.

What I do know is that I've always been one of those people who busts her ass and tries to do the right thing - at least most of the time. I'm not perfect and I never try to be. One of my most glaring imperfections is that I let inept people get under my skin. It's not the only one, but it's one that is giving me the most agita right now. I could swallow a barrel of Tums and it wouldn't go away. Yet, the ones who are causing me this grief have no idea just how much it is getting to me. If they did, I'm sure they would giggle like idiots because they couldn't possibly fathom just how much I want to smash their empty heads against the sidewalk. Of course, decorum, and the law, prevent me from indulging in such violent behaviour.

While Andy Rooney and Gilda Radner both rest peacefully in the afterlife (I'm assuming), I will continue to grit my teeth and tread water in this sea of ineptitude I'm presently swimming in. I know I'm not the only one; but seriously folks, I'm about ready to go under.

Alas, tomorrow is another day. In the words of Gilda as Emily, "Nevermind."

Nava

New York City: Not Like I Pictured It

Greetings Friends,

First, I must give thanks to my friend Deb for this picture she took of the downtown New York City skyline while visiting last weekend. Deb's picture inspired this post because, as was commented when she posted it to her Facebook page, it looks very "21st century," as opposed to old New York. It got me thinking about just how much New York City has changed - not since I left Brooklyn in 1991 and moved to the suburban enclave of Massapequa (that's in Nassau County, on Long Island), but about how much it has changed since I left the area entirely in 2008. For the first time in almost 4 years, it dawned on me that I am no longer a quick car or train ride away from the city I grew up in. Why did it take so long? The only reasonable explanation I can come up with is that I wasn't careful what I wished for.

Everyone is (I hope) familiar with the saying, "Be careful what you wish for; you just might get it." Never has that been truer for me than when I hauled my cookies here to Toronto, to live in the city I've always been proud to call my second home. Two-and-a-half years later, I'm not entirely sorry I made the move, but let's just say that what I wished for and what actually happened haven't exactly been a dream-come-true. I'm not naive enough to believe in that perfect utopian state of being, but in hindsight, maybe I should have stuck around. Hindsight is, after all, 20/20.

I must admit that things aren't entirely crappy here in the Great White North. Toronto is the place where I realized my dream of actually getting paid to write. It is also home to the best bagels in North America (in my opinion), a Tim Hortons within walking distance from almost anywhere, and, let's not forget: Canada is the land of government-sponsored healthcare. Oh, and how about those Leafs? They're coming up on 45 years without having won a Stanley Cup, which last happened, coincidentally, two days before I was born. Food, healthcare and hockey aside, the biggest disappointment I've encountered, sadly, hits much closer to home. 

When I came here, I was desperately in need of some empathy and tender loving care from my family. You know how you have this idea in your head that blood is thicker than water and family will always support you no matter what? The toughest lesson I've learned since I got here is that that sentiment couldn't be farther from the truth. The reality is, the perfect family - you know, the ones you always see in the movies and on television - does not exist. No, the "perfect" family is more Dickensian than Brady. As long as we're talking fiction, the contemporary author who has most accurately nailed the concept of family has to be Jonathan Franzen. Anyone who has read The Corrections is likely to agree with me on that. Based on that harsh reality, I don't consider my move a geographic boo-boo, but rather a Freudian one; or maybe Jungian. Oh hell, pick a philosopher; their theories are all up for debate in the loony bin I was born into. The sad part is, it took me almost my entire life to realize just how loony they actually are. 

I know there are very few people who can honestly say their families are not loony in some way. "Normal" is a term that does not exist in my opinion; "crazy" is the one we should be examining, since, as Douglas Coupland wrote, All Families are Psychotic. Ain't it the truth. 

So what does this have to do with a picture of New York City? Growing up in Brooklyn, working in Manhattan, and living close to New York City was always "enveloping." Many people who find New York intimidating will likely believe that I'm the crazy one, but hear me out: being a New Yorker is something that is always with you. Whether it's your accent, your sensibilities, your overall demeanour - you never lose it no matter where you go. Somehow, the geography becomes intertwined with your DNA and becomes a part of you. Physiologically that's not possible, but psychologically, I'm convinced, because Toronto and New York are the two places I've spent my entire life in. Toronto is where I live, and where my family is, but right now, living here makes me feel isolated and displaced. New York, on the other hand, would welcome me back with open arms - I think. After all, I am supposed to be a tough Brooklyn chick. Only lesser people than me get chewed up and spit out by the big city. Or should I once again be careful what I wish for? If only I had a utopian crystal ball I could gaze into to obtain that answer.

Nava

Leap Already

Greetings Friends,

Call me Captain Obvious, but I feel the need to point out that today, February 29, is Leap Day, that pesky extra day of the month that rears its ugly head (kinda like those dinosaurs in the image) in a year when the number is divisible by four. Since it is 2012, it is indeed a Leap Year. Honestly, you can have it.

February is usually a month that passes quickly. March is one that seems to drag on interminably; unless you are a college basketball fan, which I am not. This February, however, has been particularly brutal; not from a meteorological perspective - it has been an exceptionally mild winter. No, this February has been a testament to how frustratingly unpredictable life can be.

Part of the charm of what I do for a living is that I never know where it will take me. This month, I've had some scraps with clients; one fairly new, the other not-so-new. Unfortunately, both of them have been relegated to what I referred to last week as "the black hole that is 'blocked-ness.'" It's unfortunate that I will no longer be able to count on these clients for financial support, but it is not so unfortunate because, really, they were um, not my cup of tea. I'm not suggesting that my clients are like Kleenex - another one doesn't always pop up to replace the one you just pulled out of the box. But, sometimes, for the sake of your own sanity, bidding adieu to someone or something that makes you contemplate taking a flying leap is not necessarily a bad thing.

The longer I live, the more I realize that getting along with people is becoming quite the challenge. I could give you a rather long list of reasons why, but for the sake of brevity, I'll try to keep it short and sweet:

With all the technological advancement and modern conveniences many of us enjoy, life has become exceedingly complicated because of them. What I do for a living is a perfect example. Writing comes easy for me; SEO does not. The more I think about it, the more I'm starting to believe that SEO is like a high-tech version of the board game "Monopoly". If Google doesn't allow you to pass "GO", you don't get to collect $200. Therefore, you are screwed from the starting line. That holds true for life itself these days, no matter what your occupation. You could be a desk-jockey, a factory worker or a stay-at-home parent, and be hard-pressed to find anyone who will tell you that life has gotten easier over the past decade or so. The added pressures of life in 2012 cause many people to look inward, rather than outward, giving them a wide variety of excuses for being unable to look beyond themselves. I'm not begrudging them that - I'm guilty of it too.  Are there solutions to these dilemmas? None that I'm particularly jazzed about; if you have any to offer, please leave them in comments.

In the meantime, I'll be glad when the clock strikes midnight and I'm able to flip the calendar over to March. I don't think I've ever been this welcoming of the month, but with the way February turned out, even college basketball sounds enticing. It's a good thing every year isn't a Leap Year.

Nava

Is Mine the Superior Intellect?

 Greetings Friends,

OK, it's been a slow month topic-wise, celebrity deaths notwithstanding. Sometimes, I have to find a nice ripe bee in my bonnet to motivate me to put metaphorical pen to paper. Today happens to be one of those days.

As an SEO writer, I spend more time Googling than your average Internet user. In the field of SEO (Search Engine Optimization for those not in the know), you have to always be one step ahead of the average Internet user, and as many steps as humanly possible ahead of the brainiacs at Google, whose mission in life is to make the lives of SEO geeks a living hell. Naturally, some SEO geeks are better at playing the game than others.

I've been pretty sore over the past couple of weeks about a job I did for a now former client of mine. The client and I had a profound disagreement over what constituted proper practice in the project I was asked to undertake. He thought he knew best, and I thought I knew better. Alas, we met at swords point and fought to the death. In a world where you can block people from your online life, I now consider him a resident of the black hole that is "blocked-ness". Thankfully, we never met in person, so there is no need to avoid certain geographic locations that might result in uncomfortable encounters.

I don't normally trash-talk my clients, but what lead me to indulge in a bit of bitching and moaning was the "Google Doodle" I was confronted with earlier. Today is the 155th anniversary of the birth of Henrich Rudolf Hertz, the German physicist whose electromagnetic wave research eventually paved the way for radio, television and radar. It seems almost trite to me that Google chose to honour an individual whose work is now literally being undone by the medium most of us now use instead of radio and television. Of course, I learned all about Herr Hertz back in my days as a Broadcast Management and Technology student, and his work is still relevant to many people. But, I can't help but think the folks at Google tend to flaunt what they probably feel is their superior intellect over all us Internet users, and SEO geeks in particular. Twenty years ago, an oscilloscope was an important piece of equipment; today, a lightning fast microprocessor and high-speed Internet connection are the tools of the trade. Or, do they have more in common with the "tools of ignorance", so coined by 1920s Washington Senators catcher, Herold "Muddy" Ruel? Sometimes, I have to wonder.

Of course, you can't write about "superior intellect" without paying homage to the Khan character from Star Trek. The original 1967 episode of the series was "Space Seed", and was later turned into the 1982 film, Star Trek II, The Wrath of Khan. The story of genetically and intellectually superior human beings is one some of us tend to fixate on, myself included, since in my line of work, there is always going to be someone, or something trying to outsmart me. When you earn your living by attempting to please an electronic entity, it's easy to be blindsided by its intelligence.

Nava

R.I.P. Gary Carter: Last week, the baseball world lost Gary Carter, the iconic catcher for the New York Mets, whose never-say-die attitude lead the team to victory over the Boston Red Sox in the 1986 World Series. Carter succumbed to inoperable brain cancer on February 16, at the age of 57. Fans of the Mets and the Montreal Expos remember Carter as "Kid", the man who donned the "tools of ignorance" with a smile on his face, and the fiercest competitive nature of any man who ever played the game. The team in baseball heaven just got a whole lot better.

Humanity on the Battlefield

Greetings Friends,

It's been a busy week, and I was at a loss for a suitable topic until I realized that this Sunday is the Super Bowl. Madonna, this year's half time spectacle (notice how I didn't bother to refer to her as an "act"), made an interesting comment on Anderson Cooper's talk show when she referred to the Super Bowl as "[the] holiest of holy in America." She's right about that. Even here in Canada, the world stops for this one big game. The same cannot be said of the CFL's Grey Cup; the only other event that comes close is the Stanley Cup finals. 

As many of you know, I am a sports fan. There are times when I enjoy it, and there are times when I despise it utterly. Growing up in New York and having a plethora of teams to cheer for has made sports fandom interesting to say the least, including the unintentional - and admittedly often times intentional - act of picking and choosing your relationships based upon team allegiances. When you fall down the sports rabbit hole as a child like I did, you can't help but judge other people on the basis of which teams they root for. It's shameful, I know, but even in my 40s, I still find myself doing it. Much as I like to think I've become more accepting of the teams I loathe, the bottom line is, I will continue to loathe them as long as I am able to draw breath into my lungs. 

A former friend of mine is a staunch New England Patriots fan. When the Giants beat the San Francisco 49ers two weeks ago to gain entry into this year's spectacle, I decided I would cheer for them; not because I am a Giants fan, but because I'd rather think of my former friend wallowing in the misery of a Patriots loss. It sounds cruel, I know, but that's how sports fans think. We know that the agony of defeat is exponentially more painful than the thrill of victory, especially when you only have one shot at it. Many people malign the playoff structure of other sports because there are multiple game "series" that must be won in order to be declared a champion. In football, you only get one shot. Squandering it is the most prolific misstep in professional sports; for the team on the losing side, there is no tomorrow. 

I was planning to write something snarky about the spectacle the Super Bowl has become: the two week media frenzy surrounding the big game, the ridiculous commercials (which cost an obscene $3 million for 30 seconds this year), the half time extravaganza; everything over-the-top that has become synonymous with the game, except for the game itself. Then I realized, what could I possibly say that hasn't already been said? It is what it is, and much as I hate to admit it, Madonna is right: Americans revere the game as a religious ritual; it is part of what makes America the land of the free and the home of the brave. I just wish it didn't have to be so cheesy. 

Last year, the conclusion of the Super Bowl was marred by a pending labour dispute. You know how I feel about millionaire professional athletes and their unions. I was hoping, as is my cynical way, that the NFL would give itself a black eye by tossing an entire season in the trash. Alas, they did not, and here we are 48 hours away from the big game. Not that it would have mattered in the long run; football fans are the most sheep-like in my opinion: as long as they're alive, there's an endless supply of wool to be shorn. 

All cynicism aside, I did read one interesting article on the NFL's Web site. It turns out, the Patriots' and Giants' owners, Robert Kraft and John Mara, were integral to bringing about an end to the league's labour unrest. I did not follow the negotiations closely, so this was a revelation to me. The NFL, the major U.S. television networks, countless advertisers, team employees, etc., all had vested interests in making sure a deal was stuck and the season was played. What tore at my heartstrings was the following quote from Kraft about losing his wife to cancer in the process:

"The team saved me. I never understood what the word heartbroken meant. It's hard for anyone to relate to it. My wife was 19 and I was 20 when she proposed to me. We had five kids right away. Then they left and we became best pals for 25 years. She was 98 pounds, read four books a week and was healthy. I thought she would outlive me for 30 years. This horrible cancer came and it's wrecked my life. Having this team has been a savior for me."

Sometimes, you have to swallow your abject cynicism and shed a few tears for someone. I don't know Robert Kraft, and I still won't root for his team, but I found a human angle to the spectacle in his words. That more than makes up for all the cheese.

Have a great weekend, and Go Giants!

Underneath It All

Greetings Friends,

Yes, that is Mario Lopez in his underwear. Why, you ask? Well...because. That's my answer and I'm sticking to it.

I originally intended for this post to be about underwear. I was perusing my favourite news source this morning (People.com) and came across a video of Mario dropping trou on the "Ellen" show. Of course he's promoting his line of men's underwear, "Rated M by Mario Lopez;" not that the guy is particularly shy to begin with. I can recall a vast number of occasions when I turned on the television and saw him in varying states of undress. If I were a guy and I had a body like that, I'd be showing it off, too. For me, it's a toss-up between him and David Beckham - I'd like to be the turkey breast in the middle of that sandwich. Maybe that should be a topic for another day.

Getting back to the underwear: Mario's "Rated M" line of skivvies is "For Manful Men and Their Very Special Guests." To that I must reply, come on! I'm not a girl who's ever been particularly impressed by a man's choice of undergarments, as long as they're clean and in good condition. I've never looked for a specific message on the waistband, and I sure as hell never want to see a pair of those smiley-faced Joe Boxer boxer shorts on a guy if he wants me to respect him in the morning. I prefer my underthings functional and basic. And just for the record, from a female perspective, that doesn't mean I'm into granny panties. If it's lacy and frilly, chances are it's uncomfortable and not worth the bother. Just so we're clear.

The more I thought about writing a post dedicated to underwear, the more I thought I would be wasting my time, literally and figuratively. What interests me more than "boxers or briefs" is what's underneath it all. What is underneath what we show to the world? Not so much the woman wearing the merry widow under her austere business attire, or the man with the cheeky boxers underneath his monkey suit; it became more about who we are underneath the facade we show the rest of the world. Maybe underwear does have something to do with it, and the fact that the pair I have on right now are red with little penguins all over them says something significant about me. If it does, you'll have to let me know. I don't indulge in that level of contemplation; at least not when it comes to undergarments.

How we adorn our bodies defines us as individuals. We all have a certain "style" and some of us take the concept of dressing much more seriously than others. I enjoy all that but I try not to take it too seriously. If I did, I'd be uncomfortable and bitchy as hell. You'll never find me teetering on a pair of six-inch platform stilettos, nor will I ever subject myself to wearing a pair of thong underwear. Thong sandals, on the other hand, are doable; as long as they're not flip flops. What I am interested in, however, is the person underneath it all - not the clothes, and certainly not the underwear. And even if those unfortunate smiley faced boxers were to make an appearance, I'd be willing to ignore them if the person underneath were possessed of a warm heart and a kind soul. I think that's what we're all hoping to find.

In the meantime, boxers or briefs? Despite my stance on underwear, the question still begs to be asked. 

Nava