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Stuff & Things 9/22



I wasn't sure I'd post anything today considering the heartbreaking state of emergency my city is currently in.

But I thought instead of compounding the heartbreak, I'd share a quick little moment I experienced yesterday.

While sitting outside in a business meeting at a local bakery, a young man, around 16, approached the table and asked if we'd mind taking a quick photo of him and the older gentleman that accompanied him.

Sure thing! 

I jumped up to get the best angle when the older gentleman patted the young man on the back and said proudly,

I just adopted the guy today.

In a world of ugly violence, hate and intolerance, I was momentarily reminded of love.


Stuff & Things 9/15

Once again, we spend Thursdays catching up with one another! Let's bring blogging back to connecting!


Going against my instincts


When I was in first grade, my dad agreed to come have lunch with me in the cafeteria one day. As we lined up in the classroom to make our way to the cafeteria, I had this overwhelming feeling of doubt and could say with near certainty that my dad wasn't actually coming.

It didn't matter, though, I spent the lunch period scanning the room and watching the door. I don't know why I know this, I said to my friend sitting across from me, but he's not coming because he fell off the ladder. She scoffed and told me he probably forgot. I knew better though.

Insecurity on display: I'm just the writer...


Today's post is coming at you from a place of total vulnerability, insecurity, and a fed-uppery. I'm in charge here so I get to make up words, okay?

I'm here because I've been in a funky place for weeks, and I finally figured out exactly what's got me all worked up.

Writing is a tough gig; I'm sure you're all well aware. I've been doing it in one capacity or another for so many years now that you'd think I'd be used to the rollercoaster it can take you on. I'm not.

I still suffer from daily insecurity. And it doesn't help that I have an anxious mind prone to over-analysis. But here's the deal...

I'm just the writer.
Not the editor.
Not the publisher.

A mere servent to the higher power.

The only thing I have control over when working on a story is doing the work and meeting my deadline. The problem here, though, is that I'm the face people see. I'm the one asking them questions, learning their story, doing my best to do them justice. They get to know me, trust me, rely on me. 

But once a piece is sent off from my computer into cyber-space, I no longer have an ounce of control over what happens to it. 

It goes like this:
Pitch.
Approval: green light, go ahead, move forward.
Set up interview.
Write story.
Submit.
And that's where it ends for me. 


I'm sharing this with you today because my heart is tangled up in a mess that I can't seem to reach the root of, and it's bothering more than I should admit. I hate when I can't provide answers to questions I'm being asked, thus in turn making it seem like I'm unprofessional or that I don't care.

I care.
A lot.

And I wish there was more I could do, but besides reaching out with no response, there isn't.

I'm hesitant to share this, but this is what the inside looks like for a writer. I won't even begin to express the amount of anxiety, insecurity, and pure panic that goes into submitting a piece in the first place. That's a post for another day, I guess.








I can't be the only one... {Stuff & Things}


Remember pen pals? You'd make this somewhat random connection, and there you'd go swapping life stories with a near stranger. You'd describe the random bits about your day that caught your attention, maybe even sharing some of your deepest thoughts because hell, why not, right?

That's how blogging used to be for me. It was more about the faces behind the screens reading the words my fingers so furiously typed out hoping someone, anyone out there got it. Got me. 

Does anyone else fall asleep with FRIENDS on or take off their nail polish the second it gets a chip, I'd wonder.

Or maybe is it just me or is anyone else scared they're going to fuck up 99.9% of the day.

I used to talk to you, all of you, whoever you are like you were already my dearest friends. I'd tell you that I burnt my mouth on the soup I made for dinner (tortellini soup, in case you're wondering), and that I've been having a series of bad days.

I can't quite put my finger on the reason for my foul mood, so naturally I'm blaming Mercury being in retrograde, not that I have any idea what that actually means. All I know is that it can alter your mood. So I'm going with that, okay?

Or maybe it's because I've been put into situations lately that are requiring me to find my backbone and use it, something I'm not generally compelled to do naturally. I like smooth sailing, avoiding confrontation. I was the girl that got screwed over constantly in high school by friends who'd take advantage because despite how much I talked (loudly, I might add), I couldn't ever find the right words to gracefully say no, or to stand up for myself.

I can't be alone in that.

But lately, it's been up to me and me alone to demand respect where respect is owed. I'm so not used to this, and it makes me ultra uncomfortable to call people out. I hate asking the questions that I think (read: fear) I already know the answers to and waiting impatiently for a reply. A girl full of anxiety is not meant for this kind of life. But somehow, I've trained my brain to shut up and not to dare invite my heart and throat to panic party I didn't authorize.

That's what's been up in my world as of late. If you're dying to know the recipe I used for that tortellini soup you're going to be sadly disappointed (or delightfully surprised? I can't be too sure). It's the easiest thing you'll ever make. 

1 box of chicken broth.
about 2 cups of tomato juice
frozen spinach
frozen tortellini

You can sub stewed tomatoes in for the tomato juice, but I prefer the juice. You only have to let it boil long enough for the tortellini to cook. Easiest & most delicious 10 minute meal ever. Not that you asked.

Until next time. 
xoxo



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