Tag Archives: no point

To That Girl In The Coffee Shop On Her Computer, Writing

We begin our tale a while back as you teach yourself that the best big secret for the most effective creative process is this: write.

Write. Write furiously as if you’ve discovered it for the first time, because, in a way you have. Write without worrying about deadlines or opinions. Write some really dumb things- I mean, borderline terrible, but finish writing them anyway. Write with reckless abandon. Write like the words are your therapy- they’re not yet, but you’ll get there.

Write something that you can tell is just different. It sticks out from everything you’ve been writing. Maybe it’s shorter or funnier or has that one reference you’re really proud of making at the right time. Maybe the words rhyme. Maybe it’s just more “you” or maybe it’s way outside what your usual writing style was.

Share what you’ve written. Receive feedback. Let your chest and your ego swell at the thought that your words are the words of a “somebody” now. You’ve created a paragraph or two that sticks with someone else. Your story is gum on the bottom of their shoes, but they’re not even mad. In fact, they enjoy it and cherish it, and want to know where they can get more gum and how they can get tangled up in it all over again.

Call yourself a writer. You figure that you’re serious now, since you publish things every now and then. You let a few people read it and they might have shared it once or twice. So, you’re a writer. Buy that sweater that makes you look like you might do a book signing later- you know the one.

Write about comfortable subjects, receive praise. Write about tough subjects, get consolation. Write something funny, watch your comments soar.

Begin to realize your best ideas come when you’re inspired. Try to pinpoint how you’re inspired and when, as if it’s a math equation or a certain day of the week in a certain room with a certain record playing. Maybe you shouldn’t even write unless all the pieces are connected and correct.

Begin to write less. Tell yourself this is because you have a reputation to uphold and that’s why. After all, if you’re not funny all the time, you’ll never get that comedy writing job that you dream of. If you’re too sappy, you’ll be reduced to an over-share Facebook status.

Panic. Read your own words to calm down. Write a little, but then delete it.

Panic again. Read some other short stories or essay lists and realize that these make you mad because they’re better. When did you get so mad? You used to love to read. You used to praise your favorite writers.

Call it writer’s block. Call it stubbornness. Glorify the fact that with a new job, you are ‘busy’ and have important things to do, leaving no time for your words.

Tell yourself you were too personal anyway. Tell yourself you already wrote most of your opinions and stories. Tell yourself that the “dissatisfied 23 year-old suburban white girl” schtick has already been covered and dealt with.

Wish that you were anything else. Sniffle. Eat a bowl of ice cream. Feel guilty about the ice cream immediately after. Remind yourself that every famous writer usually had social issues and vices and was usually an alcoholic. Decide the ice cream isn’t that bad, and that thinking of famous writers is both a calming and terrifying thought.

Let your life happen. Participate, yes, but don’t feel like you have to give a major commentary. Feel like you are running out of stories. Feel like all you can write about is pop culture or your darkest thoughts. Feel like it’s all been done, it’s all been said, it’s all been written millions of times before.

Go to church, go to work, go home. Go for a drive to clear your head, even if you’re not sure what your head is full of.

You’re not really a writer anymore. You’re just a girl who writes, and that’s okay. After all, it’s been what – 3 months? Oh. I guess that’s longer than you thought.

Walk into a coffee shop a month later. Or is it two? It’s getting hard to keep track. Besides, you’ve had disappointment and personal failure and broken trust and relationships pushed to the brink and tragedy happen to you, so that adds something. We can’t all be on all the time. It’s harder to write when it doesn’t come easy, but you’re here, and this coffee shop has terrible wi-fi anyway, so you’re either going to write or sit, and we both know you’re a Type-A fidgeter.

Order a tea because you’ve had 5 cups of coffee today already. Immediately regret this decision, as the tea is not going to make your blood surge like you trained it to do before any major writing breakthrough.

Drink your tea anyway. Lie in the bed you’ve made. Coffee calls to you and you tell it that once you’ve written, you’ll reward yourself with a piping hot cup, one cream and a kiss of sugar. You’re okay with being both Pavlov and the dog in this experiment.

Listen to the people around you in the coffee shop and tell yourself that you could have written a better conversation than the one they’re having.

Sit down in the coffee shop with your computer and actually turn the wifi off so that you’re forced to do nothing but type. Type. Type. Type. It seems to go slower, like it’s a muscle you haven’t stretched in a while. Didn’t you used to be faster at this?

OH GEEZ everyone is staring at you in this coffee shop. I bet they’re all judging you. I’m sure they all think you’re self-absorbed. They all think you’re a hopeless writer, but maybe that isn’t the worst thought. Okay, let them think that. Let them read over your shoulder – you don’t care.

Typing is starting to feel laborious and you don’t like anything you’ve written. It’s all half-ideas and weirdly futuristic.

Good thing you brought your notebook. While reaching for it and your pen in your bag, realize there’s a joke happening right now with your notebook and pen versus your computer that you aren’t going to take the time to write down. Acknowledge this and move forward.

Write. Old-school, pen to paper, as your hand starts to cramp.

Wow, this is exhausting. You really have to pee but you don’t know anyone here at this coffee shop and you would feel uncomfortable making them watch your stuff.

Continue to write on paper. Remember how good it feels to see the pen form the letters and the imperfection of half-cursive half-print thoughts. Remember when it was a big deal that you had to learn cursive in 2nd grade and your teachers told you that you’d need it in the adult world? You wish you could laugh at this thought but it feels almost sad in a sense. Regardless, you’re still not pleased with your cursive on the letter r. It seems like you’ll always be cursed with that.

Write a few scraps and then one you like.

Photo Jan 15, 4 30 02 PM

Think it might be too emotional to share on the internet, but then think, what isn’t? Frequently photos of baby animals on the internet make you cry, so maybe there’s something to emotions. Maybe they’re inescapable. Maybe they’re infectious.

It’s late now, but you’ve still got an hour of editing and critiquing and cringing over what you just wrote. You’ve still got to post it and then delete it immediately and then work up the courage to share again.


But hey, would you look at that? Looks like despite all that talk and self-doubt, you wrote something after all.

See you again, same time next week.

Saturday Mornings

I’ve never been a morning person, not once in my life. I was always sleeping in and groaning and asking for five more minutes. I hated the energy of the morning and I hated the whole process of getting up and ready and positivity. I wrote about the ridiculousness of waking up with fervor.

But, I’ve got a secret. Saturday mornings are now my new favorites, and the earlier the better.


My internal clock is all sort of messed up from my work schedule, and it’s not novelty, but it still hurts. There are people all over the world who operate on strange schedules and don’t complain, but I’ve been sensitive lately, and more than I want to admit to. I’m so grateful to have this new job, but no matter what the seasons bring, rolling out of bed at 3 AM always means it is dark outside, and my body just about gives up trying to stay up past 9 PM these days. So I’m adjusting slowly, but there’s something still so off about it, no matter how many alarms I set or articles I read on REM cycles and adjustment techniques, it just seems so strange.

But Saturday mornings are my own, and selfishly so. No matter how far the week seems to have stretched me or how many unanswered text messages and emails I have ignored or not seen, those hours are perfect. I can’t sleep in like I used to, but even 8 AM feels like heaven. The sun spills in and it feels like a little bit of normalcy. I don’t have to be anywhere or anyone’s but my own and I can drown in leisurely reading or coffee sipped slowly instead of chugging it down in my car at a stoplight. I can be slow and old lady-ish and take my time. My anxiety of needing to see people and be the center of attention vanishes in alone time that is truly earned and a morning that doesn’t need to move fast. I’m forever an extrovert, and I firmly believe that a loud fun night with people can heal the soul, but the slowness and stillness is becoming as addictive in its own way.

Saturday morning when the sun just starts to creep in my windows is like a magic hour, and even though that sounds cheesy, I’ll take all the pixie dust I can find to believe in right now.

I can’t be your Friday night right now, but I can be your Saturday morning.  And in all the moments of doubt and nervousness that I still have about my life and where it will go, I can relax in those moments alone. All the feelings of missing best friends in other states who are just trying to figure this out too and a boy who moved across the country to chase a dream are soothed with some quiet time.

Yes, there is something to be said for fast-paced and keeping up with the hustle, but I urge you that sometimes there is something almost romantic about taking your time. It’s like taking yourself on a date and forgetting curfew while it’s still light outside.

I’m not trying to start a revolution (not yet, at least) but if I could offer one piece of advice to you, internet: if you can, wake up early on Saturdays, but wake up slow. Put on something comfy, sip on something delicious, talk to God or talk to your dog or talk to yourself, but just rest. Turn off your phone, close your computer and stop getting hung up on connecting. Be ridiculously good and gentle to yourself in those quiet hours, and I promise it’ll pay off.

And if all else fails, I made you a playlist to help.

Because if I can’t tell you to enjoy it, men and women with acoustic guitars and smooth voices should do the trick.

I Believe In Leopard Print

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that I first laid eyes on it, but when I did, my love for it took hold instantly. I couldn’t imagine life without it and I felt most comfortable when it was near me. I began to live in it, to feel better when it was around. Suddenly, I was an advocate for it and asked about it constantly. People started to associate me with it and my life became themed with it. It was present at important events, practically becoming the wallpaper to my room, and it appeared year after year in my surroundings. I was known for it, and even after living with it for quite some time, I was still falling in love with it and finding new ways to use it. I loved it then and I love it now, and after nearly 23 years together, I can’t imagine ever growing tired of it.

leopard party

I believe in leopard print.

I can’t confirm 100% that my life began with me being brought home from the hospital wrapped in a spotted blanket, but I can’t deny it, either. My mom, who was one of my fashion idols since I was a kid and still remains one of the most stylish women I know, was a fan and encouraged me to pick the clothing I liked, and I guess I was drawn to the animal side ingeniously. Hardly one to be subtle, from a young age I dressed in patterns and bright colors, but my signature was always cheetah and leopard print, in every way possible. Some people outgrow their childhood style, but I never have, and so the obsession continues in a maybe-embarassing-but-always-there way.

If you ask me what color I want something in, I will most assuredly say turquoise or yellow, but deep down I’m going to be wondering if there’s a way we can add a jungle cat print to it.

Am I persuaded into stores with leopard in their display windows? Always.

Do I spend far too much time at the leopard and cheetah cages at the zoo? Only sometimes.

When scoping out friends, I’m most certainly going to start up a conversation with the girl carrying the cheetah satchel.

Do I still want to be a member of Josie and The Pussycats for their outfits? Most certainly.

Is there a sale on something leopard printed? I’m most assuredly there.

Do I want to move into this house,
drive this car,
and rock this tattoo?

No comment.
(but yes, yes, and probably no, but I’m not ruling it out altogether.)

I have found that leopard is appropriate for every situation and for every item of clothing and beyond, and if leopard printed duct tape (which yes, exists) can’t fix it, then I truly believe nothing can.

Everyone has something that they feel their best in, and mine is leopard print.

Stylist Rachel Zoe has been quoted saying, “I think every woman should have leopard, but not every woman will wear leopard. You have to have courage to wear leopard.” Leopard is rebellious and yet safe to me. It’s comfortable and clashing at the same time, and can be both silly and serious, and for that, I doubt I’ll ever stop wearing it.

Life is too short to spend it in solids and blending in with the crowd, and if something small makes you happy, then you should cover your life in it, or, at the very least, buy it in every way possible.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some serious hunting to do.

And don’t worry, no real leopards were harmed in the writing of this blog post.

(Photo sources: me, 1, 2, 3).

It’s going to be a great day when.

It’s going to be a great day when you start your morning at the gas station, and a decent gentleman walks over, attempting to yell over your 444th play of Dan Croll’s “From Nowhere”, to alert you that you have a ‘small stick’ underneath your car, which, of course, added to the fact that you just replaced an alternator in the same car that sucked your 22 year old bank account somewhat dry and gave you 8 panic attacks, makes you somewhat nervous. However, it’s a “small stick”, right? I mean, how bad could that be? After all, April has already dealt you a pretty sucky hand of cards and there can’t possibly be any more dramatic events to take place, especially before 9 AM on a Monday, because that would just be cruel, right? I mean, seriously, whoever decided this month would bring such bizarre events and circumstances had to have been just putting together a mock script for the next season of GIRLS or at least really wanting to test the phrase, “laugh so you don’t cry”. And you don’t even remember running over a stick, except maybe that tree branch that fell during the storm the other night that you swerved out of the way to avoid, just like a defensive responsible woman of the open road. Besides, you like nature (sometimes) and it shouldn’t be intimidating and I’m sure you can toss that small stick and be on your way before your coffee in your cupholder gets cold, right?


Or- maybe April just wanted to teach you one more thing, and it’s to check your surroundings or always expect the unexpected or to laugh at everyday miracles or, I don’t know, maybe to look out for ENORMOUS STICKS UNDER YOUR RAV4.

But, I mean, hey, at least Ace has a new toy.

(*Also, you really earn points as a “go-getter” and “independent lady” with the guy selling newspapers at the gas station when you reach down at 8:45 AM in business casual dress to pull out half of a small tree from the undercarriage.)

Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate. Aack.

Today I came into work and there was a large bag of Ghiradelli Dark Chocolates on the fridge. Who brought these magic squares, I wondered. Who brought life and light in the form of single-serving chocolates into a usually stressful and 5-million-things-happening-at-once environment? I asked around, but no one knew where they came from and no one claimed to have eaten one, EVEN THOUGH there was clearly a half eaten one sitting atop the microwave. An office mystery? Was someone conducting a case study, wondering which one of my coworkers would break and take one first? Were they poisoned? Were they even real? Were they a chocolate mirage of torture, beckoning me to a false promise of sweet decadence? I stared at the bag from my desk all day, half desiring its contents and half questioning its existence in the first place, but around 3, drinking my afternoon coffee, I quit questioning. I accepted the fact that the chocolate was there, and whether it was there for a reason or not, I could use it to remind me to work towards the sweeter goals in life. I could look at it like a little guardian angel in the break room, made of cocoa and sugar.

I also realized for the sake of my own sanity that I should probably never skip lunch.*

*(And that I’m turning into Liz Lemon a little more every day.)

Miniature Marshmallows Included

I currently live in a house that is over 100 years old and in some passion of antique restoring or just getting tired of the same thing, my roommates and I decided to rearrange the furniture and clean the entire downstairs.

Did it teach me about history and classic architecture? Did I roll up my sleeves and learn the power of elbow grease, hard work, and perseverance? Did we bond in an unbreakable way as roommates through the dust flying? Did I get inspired to clean up the emotional cobwebs in my life much like I did the real ones in the top corner of the kitchen? Did I take the perspective of cleaning an old house with history, as a young 22-year old making her own history while caught between career and growing up, and turn that story into an award-winning screenplay starring Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling that revolutionized the lack of creative and heartfelt cinema written by young women currently in the industry?

Of course not.

But, in switching the pantry to the coat closet and vice versa, I discovered we have 7 whole boxes of hot chocolate mix, so, I guess life is pretty okay for now.

Olympic Sports I Would Actually Watch

Who Can Put Together A Cute Outfit Using Only Animal Print

Pie Baking

Which Puppy in this Group Of Puppies Can Fall Asleep Fastest

Speed Knitting

Miniature Pony Barrel Racing

Who Can Bedazzle This Jean Jacket The Cutest Way

One Big Worldwide Danceoff

Most “Honey Boo Boo” Quotes Spoken In One Minute

Team Fingernail Painting

Barista Latte-Foam-Art Finals

Dolly Parton Impersonator Face-off

Multiple-Language Karaoke

Making The Most Clever Tweet

Job Interview Relay Races

Speed Swiffer-Dusting

Team Grocery Shopping

80s Style Aerobics

Real-Time Playlist Building

Picking The Best Instagram Filter

Team M.A.S.H. & MadGabs

Who Can Make The Biggest Beehive Hairdo

Connect-Four Semi Finals

One-Handed Ikea Furniture-Assembling

Only Coverage of Ryan Lochte (#noshame)

If I Were A Boy

I would wear nothing but denim and pull it off

I would work on cars all day

I assume that I would crave steak and potatoes (more than I already do)

I would be sad that the world stereotypes me and tells me that I can’t have emotions or reactions to anything that’s not just grunting

I would make more fart jokes, let’s be honest

I might watch more sports, or I might just turn on golf and take a nap, because that’s what televised golf was created for

I would order tough sounding drinks even when I wanted the fruity margarita

I would worry about my hairline too much

I would eventually find a good cologne that works for me and smell amazing and not realize how much girls are attracted to smell, like seriously, that is a huge factor

I would complain about shaving and say I wish I didn’t have to, even if I actually hate my beard because it comes in red and patchy

I wouldn’t know exactly what I wanted in a relationship either, but would probably hate the double standard that I’m supposed to have it all figured out and take charge and “Be A Man” in the dating world

Maybe I would finally understand the appeal of Megan Fox?

I would try to be a Barney Stinson but would always end up being a Ted Mosby

I would feel overwhelming pressure to be the breadwinner in my family and that would frustrate me

I might, like a little bit, but for the most part, wouldn’t quite understand the complexity and anxiety that comes with picking the right hair salon, and maybe that’s okay

Even if I wasn’t a ‘fighter’ by nature, I would still defend my Mama’s good name and my favorite band, because some things are just sacred

I would listen to Beyonce’s “If I Were A Boy” and be like OH NVM, THIS ISN’T RELEVANT, BECAUSE I AM ONE

I would try to be a good son, a trustworthy father, a loving boyfriend and a man of honor

I would also try to have all the high scores in all of the video games

I probably wouldn’t use as many emoticons in my text messages, but hey, who knows

I would just be trying to get along in this world without being called a jerk, too masculine, too feminine, power-hungry, womanizing, overly-sensitive, a bad listener or simply “the wrong kind of guy” that I’m told about constantly from my peers, the media, and delusional women’s magazines

I would try to be James Brown, Han Solo, Mr. Rogers, Robert Plant, Frank Sinatra, Woody Allen, Ryan Gosling, Jim Henson, Indiana Jones, Lester Bangs, Jack White, James Dean, Albert Einstein, John Lennon, Stephen Colbert, J.D. Salinger, Bruce Springsteen, Marc Jacobs, The Old Spice Commercial Guy, Johnny Cash, Joss Whedon, Jimi Hendrix, Ron Swanson, Andy Warhol, Don Draper, Freddie Mercury, and Johnny Bravo all rolled into one.

And for better or worse, I’d probably still blog about all of it.

I Will Never Be Tan

There are battles I have fought for years in my life, but some were decided from the start.

It’s time that I face the cold, pale facts – I will never be tan.

White Girl Problems are my burden, literally.

My Grandmother is adopted so I tell everyone with certainty that I could really be any number of races, but I’m not fooling anyone with my exotic claims. In fact, I am pretty sure my ancestors quite possibly lived in caves most of their lives and/or underwater, because my skin is not suited for the open-air sun-shining outdoors. (Also, I sometimes think I might be a mermaid, but that’s another post altogether.)

I practically get a sunburn just from thinking about the sun. My skin is what you’d call “white with a tendency to turn red in 5 seconds” as a result of, but not limited to: sun exposure, excitement, nervousness, embarrassment, flattery, karaoke, allergic reactions to jewelry, allergic reactions to LIFE, etc. There is no middle ground – I’m red or white, always, like a delicious candy cane! (Okay, maybe not like a delicious candy cane, but I am all about seeing the bright side of things. Except, of course, the bright side of the sun, because I burn! Get it?!?!?!)

Now, I’m not the palest person you’d meet. I mean, I’m no Snow White (even though I do rock a red bow headband pretty fiercely). However, when the rest of my family can somehow achieve a little perfect summer bronze with no sweat, I stick out like a black sheep. Or rather, a very white sheep.

I was always the child at the neighborhood pool with my floaties on that attracted the attention of any mother within a 5-mile radius, including my own, making sure I was wearing sunblock. I’ve been lathered up more than once by strangers concerned for my epidermis’ well-being. Are you ever in the store by the sunscreen and see a ridiculous one marked with SPF 90 and wonder who is buying something with that much protection? Hint: it’s me, I am that crazy person.

Yep, I am the one who packs enormous sunglasses and a hat and an umbrella for a beach day and uses all three.

On a serious note, I completely believe that being tan is not at all worth the risks of skin cancer and sun damage to your precious complexions, so I’m not overly bummed out about this, but still, there’s that little twinge of jealously having grown up in one of the hottest and sunniest states in the free world and never matching everyone else’s obsession and achievement in being brown.

Self-tanner? I’ve flirted with it before.

Bronzer? I may own a few different shades.

Using my high-quality editing skills in MS Paint? I’ll let you be the judge.

oh that? it’s totally natural.

But really, I’m just ready for pale to come back in style. I know the world wishes they all could be California Girls, but let’s agree to let the cast-mates of Jersey Shore be a bad example of physical perfection and cheeto-colored skin. I mean, no one wants to turn into the lady that basically tried to tan her 5-year-old and whose face resembles a Cocoa Puff.

I am a young and carefree bohemian twentysomething who frequently wants to rebel against common practices and question authority, but sun protection and SPF is one of those things where I think responsibility isn’t so constricting to my creativity, and it keeps me looking (somewhat) more normal and healthy.

If you naturally tan, I’m not mad at you, just know your limit and don’t forget to at least pack some sunscreen, even if it’s a socially-acceptable coverage like SPF 15 or 30. Bask in your color, no matter the hue. (And if this post was a movie, “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper would play right now. You’re welcome.)

So, if you’re pale and you know it, don’t be afraid to show it!*

*(Just make sure you throw on some 30 before you go outside, especially in the next few months, because, we don’t want that time you went to Schlitterbahn with your middle school choir and hung out with the olive-skinned girls who used tanning oil and pretended that “oh yeah, I don’t even wear sunscreen, usually!” wasn’t a lie to make you seem cool and then you became a lobster to happen again.)

Photo Credit: 1

Some Nights.

Some nights, I :

  • online shop and order shirts with eagles on them, heart-shaped sunglasses and Holly-Golightly-inspired sleeping masks
  • eat a giant slice of chocolate cake (#noshame)
  • delete 100 people from my phone contacts
  • become reminiscent about the past and work myself into this little crawlspace of emotions
  • bookmark and pin a bunch of craft d-i-y projects that i know i will be too lazy and impatient to actually ever make or do-it-myself, but that look so cute and practical
  • watch The Princess Diaries and High Fidelity on a neverending loop
  • have 3 intense crippling moments thinking i will forever be alone
  • have 24 intense crippling moments thinking i will never make it in the working world and music industry
  • cry while reading my bible
  • send picture messages of: baby sloths, corgi puppies and kittens
  • laugh so hard at the dinner table with my parents about our fear of the slow checkout lady at hobby lobby that i start crying
  • actually remember to moisturize twice a day like every magazine has told me for years and feel like a total rockstar because of it
  • paint my nails with OPI’s “The One That Got Away” from the Katy Perry Nail Polish Collection and feel like a total rockstar because of it
  • play guitar and ukulele for the first time in two months and sing until i’m hoarse
  • spend 20 minutes trying to get my brother’s pug to love me, and fail
  • make obsessive and ocd-esque playlists on Spotify for hours on end
  • think about Coachella and assume that since I’m not there, it’s probably not very good, I mean like, Gotye and Beirut and Bon Iver and The Black Keys all in one place? I’m not jealous or needy for live music. Nope. Totally fine. (ish)
  • go out and am the quintessential twentysomething social butterfly with loud music and trendy beverages and dancing, only to be wishing for my bed and its 7 pillows, all comfortable
  • sit on my bed with its 7 pillows, all comfortable, and yet wish i was out on the town like a quintessential twentysomething social butterfly with loud music and trendy beverage and dancing
  • look forward to getting home just so i can put on my moccasins
  • watch the latest episode of Mad Men and discuss it in depth with my best friend via text message and consequently, become so thankful for stupid things like text messages and technology and writers of wonderful television episodes
  • miss my friends and college so much that it hurts inside my very soul. like, inside and out, my whole body just seems to say “i miss you, i miss you, i miss you all.”
  • try on my entire shoe collection and, really, applaud myself on my great taste
  • tell myself i should read more books and end up reading the internet for the next 3 hours
  • read The Frenemy and feel less alone
  • make long list blog posts that might borrow their format from The Frenemy a little bit
  • eventually sleep, but, at least tonight, not before I listen to Some Nights again. (see what I did there?!?!?)
  • (goodnight.)