iThink iNeed an iPad

We're just going to pretend that I've posted semi-regularly since April, so let's start with what's plagued me the past two days (other than how in the hell J and I are going to retire comfortably by 40, which has also kept me up the last couple nights).

Should I buy an iPad?

First-world problems, for sure, but last Sunday J decided he needed an iPad "for work" (how convenient!) and so he somehow managed to steer me into the nearest Apple store after cheerfully baby clothes shopping with me at the adjacent Gap Kids. (I should have known something was up the way he picked out pink rompers and baby tights with such gusto.)

I've never liked Apple stores since they are as packed as the tight streets of Mumbai and usually smell like a mixture of sweaty palms, bad breath, and an un-showered Frenchman or two. But I reluctantly followed J in and tried to be all supportive and whatnot since he works hard and deserves a new toy every now and then, I suppose.

The problem was that as much as I didn't want to try out one of the display iPads, I did. Just like in those scientific temptation experiments when the children are left alone in a room full of marshmallows and told not to eat them. With my mouth full of marshmallows my fingers wandered across the greasy screen of the nearest display model and I began to believe I actually needed one. At first I fought the feeling with an air of superiority, smirking at the apps all these schmucks around me filled their little overpriced iPads with, but then the resonance of the apps began to sink in.

Though I'd tried out the iPads of friends and family, I always felt like they were wholly unnecessary if you already owned an iPhone (which I do) and a MacBook (which I do). The iPad, to me, was just another business tactic by Apple to have their fanbase by the cajones in a vice grip. How many conduits did one person need to send an email, watch cat videos on YouTube, or read about Lamar Odom's not so secret drug problem?

But all of that logic, all of that sense began to dissipate once I fiddled with the Living Earth app as J purchased his iPad from a sales associate. Once I tried it, I rationalized that I absolutely needed a satellite view of the globe in real time so I could check the weather reports and time in Buenos Aires and Dubai because, well, because I just did, okay?! And I needed this one fashion app so I could get blasted with the top 10 most popular shoes at any given time (because obviously I really need to find more streamlined ways to blow wads and wads of money). And on top of all else, I definitely needed this list-making app, you know, to keep track of all the shoes and clothes and extraneous things in my apps that I was about to spend our money on.

I left empty-handed, feeling bereft and lost. Only 15 minutes prior I'd been thoroughly convinced that iPads were for iDiots. And now here I was, pining after one like a fat kid looking for his last marshmallow. Who was the idiot now?

J reassured me that we'd get me one too if I really wanted one, and I did really want one. Especially once we got home and J pulled out his shiny new iPad and loaded it up with apps and pictures and basically everything cool that's ever been created and . . . well, here I was at the other end of the couch bitterly flipping through the news on my tired old iPhone 4, glaring at him out of the corner of my eye with a look of jealousy, resentment and disgust.

But then he passed the iPad over for me to try, and for some reason it wasn't as cool as it was in the store. Perhaps it was the grease of a thousand fingertips that had swiped that display model before mine, or perhaps it was that in-store aroma of sweat and unwashed computer programmers that clouded my mind like a hypnotic memory, but all of a sudden this iPad I was ready to drop 5 hunskies on didn't seem like the best financial decision. Yes, it's a pretty neat tool (I'll give you that), but is it 500 dollars worth of neat? Now I'm not so sure.

So I here I am, debating whether or not we should splurge and buy me one too. J reasons that it would be perfect to use on long plane flights when we jet to Europe and other distant lands, but I reminded him that the last time we flew to Europe was six years ago. Then he said it'd be perfect to throw in my handbag and use to write at coffeeshops. Which it would . . . if I was childless and back in my Carrie Bradshaw days when I could just prance on over to the nearest Starbucks, spend all day writing whatever I wanted, and my biggest concern was refilling my cafe au lait.

Let's be honest here. The iPad will mainly serve one of two functions. 1.) To entertain Ava with baby-friendly apps when she's on the precipice of a temper tantrum at Target, the grocery store, or any dining establishment that we are crazy enough to bring her to right now. And, 2.) Make it easier for me to read my celebrity gossip on the couch and/or toilet. Because, you know, holding the iPad versus balancing my MacBook on my lap (or God forbid, squinting at my iPhone screen) will allow for more optimum Brangelina reading.

I would attempt to use it for writing (with a mobile keyboard I'd also have to ante up the cash for), but my days of penning the next Great American Novel at Starbucks have fallen by the wayside these days. The precious hours I get to write (now edit, since I finished my book this summer), fall during whenever Ava decides to nap, and for those few hours where I get to be creative I would gladly write with quill and ink if I had to. An iPad would not increase my productivity.

The more I think about it, the more I don't need an iPad. I just want one. Because now J has one, so I must have one too, along with the better part of the Western world. Maybe it's a pack mentality thing. All the cool kids are doing it so why can't I?

Because I'm not cool anymore? I was once, but that was back when Freebird's wasn't yet a chain, everyone owned a clamshell cell phone and platform flip-flips were still in. Do I need an iPad to prove that I am still relevant? Probably. But for now I think I'll save that 500 dollars and read my Real Housewives news the old fashioned way: on my laptop.

Always late but worth the wait

Wow. Has it really been three months since I last blogged? This is both highly unacceptable and highly unbelievable. Where has the time gone? The last three months have gone by so fast, and so much has happened since my last post. . .

First off, I turned 30 in April (insert giddy exclamation marks here). Overall the experience was a little underwhelming. I guess I assumed that turning 30 meant undergoing some giant epiphany about life and the future and all those "adult" things you see in movies. But let's be honest, I pretty much have life figured out so there were no new lessons learned. All I found out is that Swiss fondue really is my favorite dinner food (nom nom) and I can't get enough of fresh fruit tarts (another double nom). My parents surprised me with a nice Canon Rebel camera as a birthday present since I've been wanting one to take more professional-quality pics once the bébé arrives, and J bought me a little gold feather "freebird" necklace from Nordstroms that I've wanted. I was a little worried (read: ready to punch him in the face) that J wouldn't be spending my birthday with me since he had a trial set that week and had been staying up late every night leading up to April preparing his case, but luckily the case settled the week before my 30th so all was copacetic in our household. Thirtieth birthdays, after all, only come once in a lifetime.

Know what else comes once in a lifetime? (Well, once if you're lucky?) Five-year wedding anniversaries. . . which is what J and I will be celebrating on July 20th!! I can't believe it's already been five years since we tied the knot, but I guess you know you're in love when five years feels like five days. We don't have anything planned at the moment (although let's face it, a trip to Italy would be divine -- and also completely unrealistic), but we'll probably spend it picnicking in Napa for the day, maybe eat at a nice restaurant that night. I really have no clue and for the first time that I can remember, it doesn't bother me. Who am I? It's funny: The older I get, all I care about is just spending quality time with him. We don't need to do anything extravagant for me to be happy. Some of my favorite times with J are holding hands in the car on our way somewhere, or lying on a blanket together in a park. Sometimes it all feels too perfect, like I'll wake up one day without him and find out it never happened. But then I wonder why can't some love stories be nearly perfect? For right now it is and it has been and I hope it stays that way till we're into our 90s. For now just looking over at him reading before we fall asleep is all it takes to make me smile:

Aside from home remodeling, the past few months I've been busy writing and am happy to report that I've just hit about 100 pages into my newest book idea. I don't know whether it's all these extra hormones flying off me or maybe bébé is my new muse, but I feel a rush of creativity and I suddenly have the daily motivation to do something about it. Strange, right? When I'm not writing I want to be drawing or painting or doing something creative. It's a wonderful feeling, and I'm so appreciative that I have the freedom to do as much or as little as I want of all of this on an everyday basis. No excuses.

In other news, bébé is set to arrive in five and a half weeks! My hunt for Peter Rabbit-themed decor has petered out like a deflated fart over the last few months, so I decided to go with a French Garden theme for the nursery and it's coming along well. We put her crib together a couple weeks ago and bought her a little bassinet to sleep in by our bed after she's born. J also hung a crystal chandelier for me in the center of the nursery, giving the room a very French feel, and he was hard at work yesterday stripping a cute little French cabinet I found at a consignment store recently. The cabinet is an ugly walnut color now (think Grandma furniture on steroids), but we plan to antique it and give it a very Restoration Hardware feel. It'll go perfectly next to her crib. :D Once I'm done with the nursery I'll post pics.

And finally, (in case you're wondering what I look now) here's my burgeoning bump: 

So far this pregnancy has been beyond smooth in the sailing department. I've had no sickness, I'm not that exhausted, I have yet to waddle and so far I've gained just under 20 pounds. Pregnancy, it seems, really agrees with me.

I am Bill Lumbergh

"Oh, oh, and I almost forgot. Ahh, I'm also gonna need you to go ahead and come in on Sunday, too..."

I had an epiphany the other day at work.

There I was, red coffee mug in hand as I sat at my desk scanning news online and developing story pitches. I'd just returned to my seat after making my usual rounds with reporters at their desks, checking in with them about their progress, questions, problems, and any new story/source leads they might have dug up since the last time I talked to them...about one hour prior.

And after returning to my desk, it hit me: One of the reasons I'm a good editor is that I have no qualms about continually bothering writers to ask what they're working on. I glanced down at my coffee mug, our publication's name printed in bold white letters on the side, and it suddenly all clicked.

I am Bill Lumbergh.

Now I hate micro-managing, but it seems like time-management skills are lacking in our generation's set. And can I blame them? Social media like Facebook and Twitter, breaking news, instant messenger, Gmail, viral YouTube videos of hippies crying over double rainbows... It's a feat in itself to shut out the digital noise and focus on the task at hand. All that Internet babel is entertaining, but it's like Kryptonite for writers whose ink-dipped quills are now computer keyboards -- the distractions suck all productivity and focus from any articles, books, columns, or blog posts.

At work I have the opposite problem. My writers don't seem to get too distracted by the online clutter; instead they get distracted by their prose...to the point of it being nearly debilitating. They agonize over each word, each interview question, and it severely limits how much they end up producing on a weekly average. I assure them that we'll work together to make their stories (nearly) perfect, that they just need to get the first draft written, because really, that's the hardest part. And I should know: This was my biggest problem when I began writing fiction. I never had a problem cranking out non-fiction, but with fiction simply getting words down on paper that first month was so stressful. Every word, every sentence, had to be perfect. Then gradually I realized that if I didn't let go of that perfectionist mentality I would never finish any books. I realized that I wasn't married to anything I wrote, that it was all malleable and fixing problems was what the editing stage was for -- to smooth out language, to reconfigure story structure, to cut and hack mercilessly with a red pen.

I don't think my writers get this, and I completely understand. It's hard when you're a perfectionist, when writing 1,200 words feels like pushing out a 10lb baby minus any epidurals. But there comes a point when you just need to let go. Especially if you have nearly a decade of journalism experience under your belt (which my writers have). Quality is key, but taking two to three days for a 1,000-word story is semi-ridiculous to me. Maybe it's because I've been on both sides of the spectrum and know how long it should take (as a reporter, and later in life, as a novelist) to punch out 600 above-par words. Perhaps I'm just too impatient, or my expectations are too high, but it is driving me batty how slowly my writers write.

And so I Bill-Lumbergh them.

Holding my coffee mug adorned with our company's logo, I meander over to my first reporter's desk and pop my head over her cubicle wall, leaning on it with my elbows, a tired look in my heavy-lidded eyes (because let's face it, I get no sleep now that I wake up at the buttcrack of dawn every day), as I drawl a "How's it goiiing...." in her general direction. "What are you working on?" I usually ask, or "Have you made your calls yet?" (Never: "Yeahhh....looks like we're gonna need you to come in on Saturday, too....." Okay, maybe once. But it wasn't my fault, the event just happened to fall on the weekend.)

This is usually followed with a typical response as to why they haven't gotten a hold of a source(s) yet, why they haven't started writing their story, why they haven't finished, etc. etc. (Just so I don't sound like a total Bill Lumbergh, this is after we've gone over what they'll be writing on for the week, who they should probably speak with, how they should frame their structure, what their angle is, and what other follow-up stories could be written concurrently. Normal editor/writer meet-ups, I don't just wander around micro-managing, I swear.)

Sometimes I can tell this me-with-coffee-mug-leaning-on-cubicle-wall thing is annoying them, but if I didn't feel like I had to come by so often, I wouldn't. I honestly don't care how what you're doing online or how much you obsess over the word "that" -- if you wrote more stories (I think a fair story count would be something like 2-3 per day) I wouldn't incessantly bother you. And saying, "There's nothing to write about" isn't really an answer in my book.

Not to say that we're not cool with each other. We have our inside jokes and some water-cooler chat (typically concerning certain Bravo TV shows), but I often wonder if they've made the Bill Lumbergh/Crystal connection yet. And if (when?) they ever do, I wonder how the parallel would haunt them, my head not only popping up over their cubicle walls, but in other odd places...behind doors...out of bathroom stalls...when they open the office microwave...in their car's rearview mirror on the way home...even in the reflection of their coffee in their mugs at work. I'd be there, everywhere and anywhere they go, hounding them with my "How's it going's" and requests for more work.

Maybe I should invest in an Initech mug at work and truly freak them out.

The perfect day job for a writer

Lately I've been thinking about what the perfect day job for a writer could be.

Obviously it can't be a black hole for creative energy. Trudging home after a tedious day at a soul-sucking job leaves you no chutzpah (along with no time to rock out "witch yo bad self," but that's another post entirely). The last thing I want after getting home from a crap commute is to shovel lukewarm Mac & Cheese down my gaping maw (because though we love cooking, cooking takes time and time is not something we have a lot of with a day job) and spend the handful of remaining hours at home sitting at a desk, trying to be CREATIVE Goddamnit because this bestseller isn't writing itself as it teases us with its blinking cursor and why am I still on page 57 and oh hell it's already way past bedtime and I've got exactly 5.5 hours to sleep before morning hits and I have to fling myself out of bed from a deep slumber wherein I'm dreaming about having cocktails with Cary Grant and one of my novel's main characters just so I can sit at a desk again that following morning to waste another day, ghostwriting for a CEO who takes all the public credit for my words and research while I get none. Nothing. No credit. No byline. Just free espresso, the occasional $500 Amazon giftcard and the perk of having my office chair be a Herman Miller original.

Ladies and gentleman, that was a short snippet of my life as an editor/writer with a certain, unnamed company. Nope, didn't really enjoy it.

I was lucky that aforementioned job I ended up leaving last year still fell in the "journalism" (financial journalism) category, and in the beginning it was fantastic. I got to edit the hell out of all the bad writing we'd receive and work with our reporters and freelancers to make them better journalists and I'd occasionally get to write a short column and it was great. Then everyone started getting laid off except for me (ironic, isn't it? the one person who wouldn't have really minded getting laid off was one of the Last Men Standing), until finally my job description morphed from me enjoying my job to me doing more marketing/PR than journalism while ghostwriting most of our investment articles and mutual fund reports for our CEO. Like 24/7.

It doesn't matter how soft and luxurious that damned $1,300 Herman Miller chair was or how much I got paid (it was more than I expected in such a position, says the girl who wanted to be laid off), I knew it was over when I began seeing my articles show up on national websites with my 29-year-old CEO's name in the byline as though HE'D written them. That was really the last straw. Especially when he was in talks to appear on Fox Business News (for what? funding a company who made him sound smart?) and was also "writing" an investment book (which, for the record, was written by some for-hire ghostwriter -- thank God I didn't have to work on that behemoth with no credit). But I digress: this isn't meant to be a rant on my last employer (again, my first year there was amazing) or a tirade against my loved to take credit for everyone's work while he's out wine tasting on the west coast and taking month long vacations in Europe CEO. No, this isn't that.

When I realized in that job, after about 5 years of being a journalist/writer/editor, that I had actual standards for my life and career (suddenly -- poof -- I was an adult), that was it. I had reached a point of what I wasn't willing to accept in my life. I quit shortly after seeing his smiling mug next to the titles of my articles made me want to take off one of my heels and smash it through my computer monitor. Life is just too short to not have creative ownership. If you don't have that, you've got nothing. (And yes, I get that ghostwriting might not sound that bad. Many people do it professionally, but it made me feel like a sellout and a whore, plain and simple.)

Now that J and I are back on the west coast and I'm outlining my third novel, I've decided that it's time I venture out into this whole day job thing again. With J studying for the Bar and about to start a short-term clerkship with a judge in SF this August, I want to contribute to our Buick Fund (what we've decided to call our "Hopes and Dreams" fund; don't worry, we're not really buying a Buick...but then again, that would be hilarious).

So what would be the perfect day job for someone like myself? I've decided it would have to include the following:

• Journalism and/or somehow publishing-related. It doesn't have to center around writing full-time -- in fact, I would actually prefer it didn't. In an ideal world I would preserve my writing juice for other, more personal projects -- like books. The occasional article/column/blog post (with byline) at work would make me happy.

• No full-time marketing or PR. I haven't yet had to convert to the Dark Side and I hope I never will.

• Something that's intellectually stimulating. I like a challenge. Part of the problem in my last job was that aside from my convert of a PR/ghostwriting-fueled position, it wasn't fast-paced enough. In those last, tedious months it lacked the je ne sais quoi that made me want to get into news in the first place. I wanted to be Ben Bradlee in All the President's Men; instead I was Kate Hudson from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, daydreaming about other options.

• Something that utilizes my degrees. This goes without saying. I worked hard for them and chose those fields (English Lit and Journalism) because I loved them, not because I wanted to play beer pong for four years of my life then figure out what I wanted to do in my 20s and beyond. I know the stereotype: Artists do things like wait tables to make ends meet, which is fine. But I don't want to wait tables with my resume.

• Editing. If there's one thing I love more than writing (ok, and dancing, but the latter isn't a viable career path at this point) it's editing. One of my goals was to become a managing editor before 30, which I did and loved being so in control of the content/content flow/publishing decisions/etc. It was never a dictatorship (hello? I don't run my newsrooms like Cuba), but I enjoyed improving the writing that came across my desk. To see what didn't work with news and feature stories made me a better writer, just like how reading hundreds of good books in a lifetime makes you a better scribe than one who reads nothing. As a writer I feel you learn by example and by tinkering with malleable pieces of content. I like it, find it challenging, and fit seamlessly into a newsroom environment.

Which brings me to an interview I had last week.

I got an email from a legit news outfit in SF that had been recommended my name from that one bay area publication I had to turn down last month due to the low salary offered. I was shocked at getting the email (seriously, how often does this happen??) and told them that of course I'd love to come in for an interview. Two days later I was in the office meeting with the Editor in Chief and Managing Editor -- both very polite, professional, experienced journalists (real journalists...yes, they still exist!).

The interview went well and I left wanting the job. Badly. Not only would I play a part in leading a prominent newsroom as a higher-up editor, but I'd be able to work one-on-one with budding reporters and -- get this -- work in the news niche I'd originally wanted to go into after grad school: Political and legal journalism. Is it the age of Aquarius? Have the stars aligned in their own, twisted way? I don't know, but after my horrible experience with El Company de Indecision and their three drawn-out interviews (the first of which I flew cross-country ON MY OWN DIME for) (clearly I am still very bitter about this), I figured maybe I should wait a while. See what opens up. Then this unbelievably amazing opportunity falls out of nowhere without me even having to fight to get my resume noticed out of hundreds of hopeful applicants. How do these things happen?

Anyway I got home from the interview feeling all rainbows and unicorns and found an email waiting in my inbox, thanking me for coming in and asking for references (two of which they called before Saturday). If I actually prayed, I would pray that this is a good sign. Not only is the job perfectly suited to what I'm looking for, but for a journalism position it (surprisingly!) pays bank ($60s, starting) and has lots of room for growth and creative input and chances to actually make a difference in this cray cray world we live in. I mean, they made a point to emphasize they look for quality over quantity in their news stories (what a novel idea!).

Read: This is not the kind of boring, unchallenging desk job that would lead to tired commutes home punctuated with lukewarm Mac and Cheese and sad reruns of The City that serve as (much-needed) escape from the daily grind. No, this job would be a breath of fresh air in a field most are being laid off in or leaving entirely for more lucrative options (*cough* marketing *cough*). It would engage me, it would inspire me, and best of all, it would even pay me. To quote Gollum, "We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious."

James Franco, literary prodigy

Laughing all the way to the bank.

So I'm not sure how I feel about James Franco's short story, "Just Before the Black", in Esquire. Annoyed is probably the right word. Why? Because I'm sure J-Dog queried it hundreds of times like every other writer has to do, before Esquire decided aloud one day:

"James Franco? Never heard of him, but let's give this kid a shot. He's got no real literary credits to his name besides an MFA from Columbia, just like countless others that we reject on a daily basis, but his story has spit-shined promise. I especially like this line: 'I poke the knife at him, at his fat stomach, lightly poking it with the tip, but he's wearing a puffy North Face jacket, so it doesn't stab him.' It's artsy and hip. Readers will love the prose of this relative unknown."

Now I don't want to be one of those angry faceless people behind this pitchfork-wielding Internet mob that's out for Franco's blood, but the whole thing kills me. Kills me. And here's why: Just because you're a well-known actor doesn't make you a writer worthy of being published in Esquire. Or being published, period. Based on that magazine's track record of rejections not even many good writers are worthy of being in Esquire (present company included -- we admit, we still have a lot to learn).

Perhaps my standards for Esquire are too high, but they reject tens of thousands of incredible short stories every year from gifted people that deserve an honest shot, and then Jamsie-poo, with his famous last name and movie about Pineapples, can waltz up to the front of the line and cut in front of Those More Talented just because he's got name cred and once played some dude in a Spider-Man movie. It reeks of self-importance and entitlement and I can't stand it when that sort of thing happens with line-cutters at the DMV, much less with a well-known publication. I know, I know: This is the way the world works, I should just suck it up and get used to it, which would be easier for me to do if his story was actually...well...good. I love being pleasantly surprised when someone can wear more than one hat well. But I would call this story a Fail, and I'm disappointed in Esquire for perpetuating Jamsie-poo's narcissism.

Sure, J-Loco is worth his weight as an actor (it can be argued that his portrayal of James Dean was incredible), but a writer he is not. Granted I'm no literary critic, but I've read a lot in my life and feel I'm entitled to an opinion. Reading over "Just Before the Black" and wanting to give it an honest shot wasn't enough to make me ever want to pick up anything Franco-penned again.

I think Sady Doyle over at Salon.com summed it up perfectly:

"... Although James Franco is Salon's Sexiest Man Living of 2009 for good reason, and one of our most valuable Bizarro Celebrities, no one should excuse Just Before the Black. ... The word "gap" is used so many times in this story – in relation to teeth, road barriers, windows. I don't know if it's an intentional motif, or if I just figured out where James Franco shops.

"It's true that, as these things go, James Franco is both interesting and crush-worthy. Unfortunately for him, he is also famous – which is the adult equivalent of being very handsome at a small liberal arts college, in that people will continually tell you that you are great whether or not it's true, and let you get away with far too much. They will, for example, publish your terrifying short story in Esquire. (Or in a book! James Franco will soon publish a book.)"

Yes, Jamestastic has a book deal.

It'd be one thing to accept it as kitschy gimmick -- Lauren Conrad's ghostwritten novel "LA Candy" is the first thing to come to mind. She wrote it "all by herself" within a "two-month span" and a month or so later it was already going to press. Most of us familiar with the publishing process can see through this and take "LA Candy" for what it is: Yet another piece of memorabilia to complement LC's burgeoning celebrity empire. As hard it is for me to admit there is a place for the "LA Candys" in our celebrity-obsessed world.

But the opposite is true with Jamsie-poo. Unlike other celebrity works, "Just Before the Black" is meant to be looked at with a critical eye, in a magazine that has historically produced quality prose and writers. J-Loco does deserve some credit -- he wrote it all on his own without employing the ubiquitous ghostwriter that lurks behind so many celebrity works -- but it still sucked and we as readers aren't supposed to think that. It's not meant to be laughed at as a joke, or cast-off with an eye-roll as a publicity stunt to add to his growing brand. It's supposed be taken seriously. The beginnings of a literary career. And how far it got, laid as ink on Esquire's precious real estate no less, is what is laughable. I think there's a line for just how much crap we can be spoon-fed. What's next? Lauren Conrad writing a piece for The New Yorker?

I hope I haven't spoken too soon...

One of the most amazing things this year...

...is happening today:


Mad Men Season 3 is coming out on DVD. Contain your excitement (!!!) because I can barely type this blog post without flinging my laptop across the room like a Nerf frisbee and dancing the Mad Hatter's Futterwacken jig right here next to this couch.

More existentialism. More Joan. More Roger Sterling ("You ever get three sheets to the wind and try this thing on?" he asks, pointing to suit of armor in the office). More Peggy and Pete. And the most important thing: More Don Draper. Throw in 13-episodes' worth of Kennedy-era misogyny, a John Deere tractor, a presidential assassination and the start of the Vietnam War, and you've got another brilliantly written season (that yours truly will re-watch and analyze at least three times initially, if we're counting commentary here). If there was one quote to sum up this season, it would be Joan telling Don:

"That's life. One minute you're on top of the world, next minute some secretary's running you over with a lawn mower."

Personally one of my favorite episodes was "The Souvenir," when Don took Betty to a Fellini-style Rome and we watched the spoiled girl that we'd come to know Betty as surprise us as a smart and savvy woman on foreign soil -- the kind of woman she probably was during her modeling career pre-Don:

My other favorite episode? "My Old Kentucky Home," which included this fantastic scene between secretary Joan and ex-secretary Jane, when roles shifted, and the superior and the inferior were reversed. The tension between the two was unnervingly palpable and so well acted (check out Jane's slight eye twitch at 0:18 in response to Joan's cigarette smoke being blown her way):

Anyway, I cannot stop gushing about this show. J likes to tease me about my Mad Men obsession, but I say there's only one way to be a fan of anything: You're either in it all the way or you're not into it at all. ("In it all the way" for me includes tacking the calendar on our kitchen wall, using the theme song as my ringtone, buying mid-century modern furniture, quoting episodes daily, and only drinking Gimlets and Old Fashioneds.)

I feel like I'm walking in tall cotton about this DVD release and I have to ask any viewers out there (without giving too much away): What were your favorite episodes or scenes from Season 3? Did any characters surprise or disappoint you? How did you react to Sal's...problem...at work? Did you cringe at Roger on stage at the country club? Better yet: What did you think of Betty's decision in the finale and what did you think of Don's confession? I'm dying to know...

My first Work in Progress: COMPLETED!

Let it be known that at 10:10 pm, January 30th, Crystal completed her first first manuscript, entitled "In the Hall of the Mountain King," a literary fiction novel about an ex-Nazi doctor who flees to Buenos Aires after WWII to start a new life as a cab driver under an assumed identity.

She can't come to the computer right now because she's overwhelmed with excitement and yes, she realizes it's annoying to talk about herself in the third person, but feels she's earned it now that's she's finished an entire. bloody. manuscript. (!!!) (Finishing said manuscript also entitles her to use such British dialect as "bloody" in lieu of something more crass and unrefined. She is a lady, after all.)

It's true that the clouds didn't part and God didn't speak to her in the psychedelic trip she expected upon typing that final word. But she's still frolicking about in the snow right now, basically pulling these moves in a parka on the sidewalk to share her elation with passing traffic:



J has no comment.

Of course, she realizes that the easy part is behind her. Now the REAL work begins. John Irving once said that half of his life was an act of revision. She says let the revisions begin!

Nanowrimo Update: Week 3

Well, I did it. 50,000 words in four three weeks. I guess the only way to sum up how I feel is ...

VICTORY IS MINE!!!!*

And now with that out of the way, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, kiddies. While I may have technically won Nanowrimo, I'm still not finished with the book. It'll probably end more between 70k to 75k words, so I still have a bit of a ways to go, but nothing I couldn't whip out in the next week or two.

What I learned in Week 3:

• Mark Twain once said, "Adverbs are the tool of the lazy writer." It's the truth. I don't think all adverbs are the devil's work -- a good adverb has its place like a guilty pleasure reality show on TLC ("Say Yes to the Dress", anyone?) -- but many are redundant and often weaken what you're trying to say.
  

• I'm not the kind of writer -- well, not yet -- that does well listening to just any music when I'm typing. I envy those that can listen to disco while composing. Anything with words (at least for now) distracts me because I start singing along, reminiscing about what memories the tune dredges up, etc. (So Uncle Rico of me.) But silence can get tedious, so I've found an in-between. Big band from the '30s and '40s. I know what you're thinking but it's not just for your grandparents. My favorite iTunes channel at the moment is KCEA, and when I'm not listening to big band, then I'm listening to Bossa Nova cocktail lounge music from the '60s. Swingin'! My favorite station is Illinois Street Lounge. It's like iTunes' version of a good stiff Tanqueray martini, to be enjoyed at any time of day.

• Coffee is still your friend, but sometimes a glass of red does wonders.
  

• The closer you get to the finish line (aka 50,000 words), the lazier you become. Which is bad. Especially when you're ahead and know you've got some extra time. Keep at it, Grasshopper. The truth is there is no finish line.
  

* - Though I use these photos in jest I have nothing against Tom Cruise, even when he was going through his ... phase. I adore him, especially when he: flies fighter jets, sleeps with prostitutes who steal his parents' glass egg, gets tied up in a corrupt law firm, is an arrogant sports agent, or becomes a samurai. Love him.

Nanowrimo Update: Week 2

Hilarious.

My clip this week for Nanowrimo has slowed a bit compared with Week 1, but I'm still ahead of schedule by about 9,600 words.

What I learned in Week 2:

• If you're going to write at a coffee shop, make sure said coffee shop does not play ear-piercing, annoying music that miraculously even masks (gasp) the continual grind of coffee beans behind the barista counter. If I wanted to experiment writing at the clurb I would have just lugged my laptop to the nearest Coco Bongo and ordered a red bull vodka, thankyouverymuch. If you're like me and cannot tune out The Noise easily, perhaps it's best to remain hunched Gollum-like over your solitary desk at home, sporadically talking to yourself to fill the silence.

• That being said, red bull vodka coffee is still your friend.

• No matter how appealing those Golden Girls reruns sound, no matter how tired/bored/uninspired/drunk/arthritic you are -- keep writing! Was Rome built in a day? No. Was it built in 30? Quite possibly, and procrastination was definitely not one of the building blocks. I'm continuously amazed this month at how much I'm capable of writing daily, even on the off days where I feel like pulling my hair out, hurtling my laptop across the room in frustration, or just "taking a break" for an entire weekend watching old movies on TCM. Taking breaks (within reason, i.e., an hour or two) is permissible; giving up is not. Understanding this will set you free.

• Aside from accomplishing stellar daily word counts, also amazing is how much time you actually have during the day once your writing is finished. Procrastination, as accommodating as it feels in the moment, does nothing in the long term. The sooner I finish my self-imposed daily word count, the sooner I can click my laptop closed and go enjoy a glass of red wine with J, stress-free. No word count hanging over my head.
  

Word count breakdown by day:

Nov. 6 (Friday): 2,533
Nov. 7 (Saturday): 1,994
Nov. 8 (Sunday): 2,648
Nov. 9 (Monday): 3,122
Nov. 10 (Tuesday): 2,205
Nov. 11 (Wednesday): 2,993
Nov. 12 (Thursday): 3,219
Nov. 13 (Friday): Currently in progress

Nanowrimo Update: Week 1

Just as I suspected. If Billy S. could write a classic in one fortnight, imagine
the possibilities in 30...

Week 1 was a success. Though I missed the first day of writing because I was in transit from NYC back to DC, I made up for it in the following days and have been a writing fool ever since. I'm currently at 12,529 words, or 25% of the way there.

What I've learned in Week 1 of Nanowrimo:

1.) 50,000 words in 30 days is surprisingly less painful than I thought it would be. According to the Nano Gods we're supposed to write 1,667 words per day to be on track. The idea of it seemed daunting, and I'll admit that I was quite intimidated in the final weeks of October in anticipation for the race to begin. I didn't know what to expect as this was my first time. Would I have time to blog at all? Bathe? Read? Keep up with the Kardashians? Usually I write at my own pace and I don't -- by any means -- crank out pages like a robot unless I've been hit by my muse (who, by the way, bears a striking resemblance to Olivia Newton John in Xanadu). But I knew that for the month of November I'd have to turn into a writing machine. I would eat words for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Why? Because I need to win. It's in my blood and I won't accept anything less. (A word of caution: You do not want to play dodgeball with me.)

2.) Ok, so 50,000 words will be as easy as cherry pie. (Watch, now I've jinxed myself.) Word count aside, the hardest part for me is going to be finishing my story, making sure it's got a beginning, middle and end by November 30th and not just a beginning and middle in 50k. I would still be dubbed a "winner" by the Nano folk, but to me that's not winning -- I would be left with a half-finished 1st draft. According to agents a 50,000 word manuscript isn't even a novel, it's more a novella and I've got a sneaking feeling that to wrap up my story it's going to take more than 50k word anyway. Hence why I'm writing as if my keyboard is a bed of hot coals. Must keep moving phalanges!

3.) Coffee is your friend.

4.) An outline is the golden ticket. I don't know how people finish a somewhat cohesive 50,000-word first draft in one month without having an outline. Though I'm past 200 pages on my first book, I can now see why it's been a lot more slow-going than my Nano manuscript. I didn't really outline that first book, and it's costing me. Not to say that it's crap, but it makes it harder to focus, stay on track and crank out pages when you're meandering through your storyline, feeling out which direction to go. With my Nano book I had a 10-page outline I'd worked on in October in anticipation of "staying focused." This outline is my Godsend. Could I write a Nano book without one? Yes, but it would be more scattered and all over the place and make it easier to take frequent breaks to catch up on Project Runway or bake cookies or churn my own butter or do anything other than work on my story.

Word count breakdown by day:

Nov. 1 (Sunday): 0
Nov. 2 (Monday): 3,778
Nov. 3 (Tuesday): 3,407
Nov. 4 (Wednesday): 2,473
Nov. 5 (Thursday): 2,871
Nov. 6 (Friday): Currently in progress

WIP Update

Update: I'm about 2/3 of the way finished with my book. *raises power fist in camaraderie-like gesture to fighter jet gliding by as I speed down tarmac on motorcycle with "Danger Zone" playing in background.* I'm temporarily calling it Untitled -- snazzy, no? -- as I've been unimpressed with the titles I've thought of so far (and probably will be till I'm completely finished and can study it as a whole). Nevertheless Untitled is going well.

When I talk to friends and family on the phone, they inevitably ask me how many pages I've written so far. An answer to that is as easy as cherry pie. Second inevitable question is "how long will it be?" I wish I knew. Projected word count eludes me like a George Clooney con Vespa sighting in Como. (Apparently he vacations there or some tripe like that, but whenever I'm there I see no such evidence. Sigh.)

I originally thought my book would be about 65k words. Once I started writing I realized that projection was ludicrously inadequate, so I upped it to 70k, then 75k, and now I'm projecting 85,000 words total ... but that'll likely go up to 95k to 100k. Which is fine. From what I've found an official novel is between 60,000 and 100,000 words.

I know that it's easy to get lost in word counts and page numbers and at this stage these things aren't so important, but for me it's the only way to track my progress and keep good pace. I find pacing is key. Here's why:

When I was forced to take freshman PE in high school, running track was my least favorite activity. (All I wanted was to stroll languidly with my girlfriends and discuss important issues like boys and what where we were going to sit for lunch. "Rachel saw Cody kissing Summer next to the art room lockers. Pass it on." Things of that nature.) I wasn't nor will I ever be a runner, but back then I was more of an idealist than I am today. This would result in me sprinting the first lap like a sprightly racehorse, then staggering through the last three laps as I hyperventilated and finally lurched toward that Godforsaken finish line. I didn't want that to happen as I worked on my book. Neither did I want to casually amble the track four times, absentmindedly eating CornNuts and showing my friends how to moonwalk on the gravel, clocking in a 25-minute mile in the end. (I earned no "A" for effort on those particular days.) Let's just say I've come to recognize that pacing is important.

Where I currently stand: 65,000 words written, about 200 pages complete. When I first began writing Untitled I thought something insanely groovy would happen when I finally hit page 200. Like maybe I'd defy the laws of quantum physics and be hurled into an alternate universe where God would speak to me without the use of any psychotropic substances ... orrrr that I would simply hit 200 pages. J teases me lately with "Has God spoken to you yet?" No, no he hasn't, but the farther I get along in my manuscript the more enlightened I become. Why? Because, as Hemingway once said, "The first draft of anything is shit." (FYI: Hemingway also said "Write drunk; edit sober." Something to consider...)

Writing is the easy part, it's in the editing when the real work begins. True enlightenment will come when I press print, get my red pen "Jorge" (pronounced "Hor-hay") ready and start blasting out whole sections, rewriting chapters and fleshing out the vague ... and then have those around me critique it all. I'm happy at how far I've come (I've written a lot in my life but never this many words in one consecutive project) and it feels good to have an actual workable manuscript nearing completion, but the yellow brick road that lays ahead is fraught with months of editing that I can't wait to undertake. John Irving once said that "Half my life is an act of revision." I think the saucy minx had a point.

Employed vs. unemployed (and everything in between)

Today my best friend was laid off from his tech writing job at a large company in Silicon Valley.

It's actually not as bad as it sounds. He was working under contract and had already been there a few months over his term, so he saw it coming. Plus his boss likes him and secretly warned him a month in advance that it would be happening.

I've recently spent some time with him on the phone, talking him through his current anxiety. Not about losing his job -- he's actually happy about that as it seems his work was the model for "Office Space" -- but that he really doesn't want to work for someone else anymore. He's single and in his 30s, so he's been in the workforce a while and has very little debts, but he's beginning to feel like there's got to be more to life then giving 40 hours of it every week to a job that really doesn't make a difference in the grand scheme of things, other than pay his rent.

Well he texted me yesterday with "I'm going to spend my unemployment checking out Mad Men!" Naturally I was excited, as I want him to become a devout follower, but something about the text made me pause...

Why did he refer to it as "spending his unemployment" doing something he's been looking forward to and has had time to do previously while employed? Then it dawned on me. Why do we measure our time in one of two ways: whether we're "employed" or "unemployed"? I love working hard just like the next person, but I like to think that there's more to my life than simply defining it by one of these two black and white statuses. Just because I was on salary not too long ago, for example, didn't mean I was any more content or fulfilled with anything. It just meant I whored myself out for The Man because it was socially expected.

Isn't there more to life than just one's career? Is this an American thing? Why don't other life categories, such as "happy", "depressed" or "healthy" hold as much clout as whether you're employed or unemployed?

When my friends and I talk about Europe, one of the things we love about many of the Western countries is that the people seem more at ease with their lives. They take the time to literally stop and smell the flowers, and aren't really measured by their jobs or careers. It's understood that there's more to them as human beings than what kind of car they drive, how big their house is or how much they earn every year.

I find this refreshing, and often wonder why can't it be more like that here? When I brought this up, my brother-in-law had a good explanation of why it can't: Maybe, he said, it's because most of Western Europe (like Italy) has already reached the heights of their societies ages ago, back when there were empires and renaissances. By comparison, the United States is relatively new and it's no secret that we're currently a force to be reckoned with on the world's stage. Our identities -- just like they were in the 1950s with white picket fences and finned Cadillacs parked in the driveway -- are more intertwined with our occupations and social standings.

Ok. I get it. Move over Roman Empire, the U.S. has stepped up to plate. It's our turn in history to shine. But in realizing that, we can still evaluate ourselves as individuals, and not just as Americans. So ...

Is your work just something you do, or is it who you are? Have you guys ever asked yourself this question? I suppose if you love what you do than of course your job is what you are, but many like my bff don't love what they do. Sure it's excellent money and blah blah blah, but we've all discussed to death the fact that money doesn't buy happiness. In his case, all he wants is time that belongs to him.

And maybe that's my bff's problem -- that even though he yearns to break free of the chains of 9-5, he's still subconsciously thinking about his life in terms of being "employed" or "unemployed", evidenced by his text yesterday. He's an awesome guy, and is defined by more than that to me. It's stunting his ability to truly figure out how to make "his kind" of employment work for him or take the time to find out what he loves to do, and not just go to work (again) for some giant global conglomerate, where he'll serve (again) as nothing but a cog in what Pink Floyd dubbed "the machine".

Which always brings me back to one of my key points: Figure out what you love to do, what you're passionate about, and don't settle. You won't be happy if you take that high-paying job just because the money is too good to pass up. There is more to your short life than being employed just for the sake of being employed.

So wrong, yet so right -- in 1959

Because I'm obsessed with all things retro (I really think I was born in the wrong decade), I came across these vintage ads a few days ago and thought I'd share:

This first one (above) is advertising "Chase & Sanborn Coffee", but it looks more like an ad about the consequences of having an affair with your gardener. Apparently if your husband ever found out that you weren't "store-testing" for fresher coffee on your weekly grocery trips back in the day...well, you'd better watch out! You may be relinquished to a firm slap on the bum just like your 4-year-old caught red-handed in the cookie jar.


This second ad is supposed to be a Mr. Leggs slacks ad, but looks like more like a living room rug advertisement with its photo and corresponding "It's Nice to Have a Girl Around the House" tagline. The faceless man with his foot on the woman's head? Seems to symbolize that the hunter has finally dominated and caught his trophy of a wife, just like the moosehead he no doubt has on the wall of his study. The smaller print is harder to read, but it says:

"Though she was a tiger lady, our hero didn't have to fire a shot to floor her. After one look at his Mr. Leggs slacks, she was ready to have him walk all over her. ... If you want your own 'doll-to-doll' carpeting, hunt up a pair of these Mr. Leggs slacks."

I laughed out loud when I first saw these, as they are hysterical caricatures of all that 1950s male chauvinism we poke fun at. But the ironic thing is that these weren't at all un-politically correct back then -- in fact, they perfectly epitomize the gender stereotypes in the 40s, 50s and early 60s. Crazy, huh? Now they're quite laughable and even shocking, but can you imagine living in a world where these kind of ads wouldn't even elicit a second glance? That they accurately represented everyday life for men and women, husbands and wives? It seems unfathomable to me now, but this was reality not that long ago.

Wonder if the Sterling Cooper team would approve of these ads? For some reason, part of me thinks yes, especially since they mocked up this sleek and savvy Playtex ad in 1962, asking us bra-wearers whether we're Jackies by day and Marilyns by night:


'Cause you know...there are only two categories we fit into as women. Me? I'm a Marilyn....no, actually more a Jackie. Wait, scratch that, I mean more Marilyn. But then somewhat of a Jackie. Oh you get the point. ;)

A New Way to Think About Creativity

When I first began writing my book, I often struggled with the creative process. Feeling pressure from all angles to prove myself in some way through my writing was eliciting results that I knew were sub-par for me. It was frustrating and I couldn't shake the feeling, and I knew I wasn't alone. No matter what career or hobby you pursue, there is pressure on all of us in today's world to come off as a genius or a bon vivant of whatever it is that you undertake, but that expectation can suffocate and stifle your creativity from pouring forth.

As I mused on this truth a few months ago, my friend Tami (a blogger/reporter by day, a fiction writer by night) over at Fete a Fete passed along a video of "Eat, Pray, Love" author Elizabeth Gilbert giving a talk on new ways to think about creativity.

I immediately loved Gilbert's lecture because she touches on so many truths about creativity that apply to whatever field of work you're in or whatever hobby you dabble in. The video is a bit long (2o min.), but if you've been feeling blah lately, prepare to be truly inspired:



After hearing her speech, I came to grips early on that I am not writing for other people. I'm not writing for success. The creative process of writing is what makes me feel successful. Now if that doesn't fall in line with what society deems "successful" than so be it. I've been writing for myself in these last few weeks and can already tell you the results are significantly better than before. I've now realized that the best thing I can do for my career and my creativity is to just "keep showing up". Every day. Same with you. Ole!