You know you're in Virginia when...

When I heard David Sedaris would be giving a book reading at the Borders a few miles from my apartment, I was ecstatic. Some people get their kicks taking body shots in dive bars on Friday nights; I pant at the thought of seeing a favorite writer in the flesh. And who better than Sedaris?

I had seen him once before in 2003 when I was in college and he stopped in Santa Barbara to give a reading and signing in the theater on our campus. The stories he chose made the audience roar with laughter, and though myriad signs were posted demanding there be "No Photography" in the darkened theater, I was "that girl" in the 8th row who forgot to turn the flash off when I snapped my picture. (Yes, I was a rebel in my heyday.)

After the reading I got in line to meet him. I'd been practicing in the bathroom mirror what I'd say when I was face-to-face with this literary master. I thought perhaps we'd briefly discuss the merits of the New Yorker, or his research tactics for his stories. Instead my mind went blank when I approached his table. "I'm, uh, like, your biggest fan," I managed to stutter, turning bright red at my idiotic statement. He laughed, though, and told me he'd be more than happy to sign my books. He asked my name, and after telling him "Crystal", he signed my first book with "Ha ha, You have a slutty name". I giggled like a school girl. The man can seriously do no wrong. Then he asked what I wanted to do with my life, and I told him I wanted to write books. So he signed my second book with "Crystal, I look forward to reading YOUR book. ~ Dave."

I know, it's kismet, right? There's a picture of me in the throes of ecstasy afterward outside of the theater, holding the two books and looking like I just won the lottery. Flash forward to last Friday, and you can see why I was so amped to see him again 5 years later, especially with where I was in my writing career. Love couldn't come as he needed to work on a project, so I went by myself, bringing my copy of his latest book to get signed. I was prepared for a thrilling night where much hilarity would ensue. Well, let's just say the night fell somewhat short of my expectations.

I showed up an hour early to try and get a seat, but by the time I arrived there were none left. I quickly found myself standing in a sea of mustached women with frizzy hair and names like "Mary-Kelly". Most of them, tired of standing for more than 5 minutes though they could have used the workout, sat cross-legged around me on the thin industrial carpeting, as if waiting to see the second-coming of Lilith Fair. One woman on the floor in front of me even had the audacity to wear these in public:
Oh she seemed quite proud of herself that she was sporting the latest in amphibious footwear while those around her still wore their faded Tevas.

Because the event took place on the second level of the Borders, it began getting hot and muggy in the crowd of at least 100, crammed between Yogi Berra coffeetable books and camping manuals. I began to grow irritated with the group I had chosen to spend my Friday night with. Not only did they smell like BO and dress like extras on Roseanne (I can forgive both these points), they had bad, loud attitudes. I could hear them snapping at one another about cutters in line and views being obstructed from their pow-wow on the floor. They nitpicked about this or that, only cordial with those they came with. I tried to make friendly conversation with a couple sitting near me but was treated like I had landed from another planet. Unnecessary hostility toward strangers never fails to make my blood boil. They were so different from the crowd I was a part of when I first saw Sedaris. The longer I stood there, the more annoyed I got. They reeked of everything I despised about Virginia but never fully realized until that night.

When I lived in California and used to imagine people from Virginia, I would think of Elizabeth Taylor in "Giant" -- all class and kindness, with an interest in social politics and penchant for horseback riding. That misconception quickly dissipated upon my arrival in the state with my various run-ins over parking spaces and spots in line at my local grocery store, and further eroded at the Sedaris reading last Friday. Prior to Sedaris' entrance, I was treated to a buffet of high-class manners, fashion and etiquette by Virginia's finest.

Then I began to wonder...what if it's not Virginia at all? What if these people are just his fanbase? That they're like this all across the country and it was a mere coincidence they happened to be different that night in 2003? Then a pang of fear shot through me. Was I just another one of them, convoluted in my notions that I was different? This last thought struck me after a girl/woman with thick glasses and offensive bushy eyebrows begging to be plucked kept turning around and sneering at me in capris made from what looked like floral motel curtains.

You know the saying "You are what you eat"? Well I also think you are what you read. But I came to the conclusion right then and there that though I'm a "Sedaris fan" (whatever that may be), I'm not a.) pretentious, b.) emo, c.) impolite, or d.) dowdy. In fact, I was so turned off I left right after the reading without getting my book signed.

Yes, I was sad about the whole affair until I started my car and put my foot to the pedal. Suddenly aware that I wasn't the one wearing the ridiculous "FiveFinger" footwear, I drove off, happy again.

Blog award!

The always-stylish Chelsa Bea over at Pencil Skirts & Pearls passed on the "Love Ya" award to me and a handful of other bloggers yesterday. I love Chelsa's blog for its simplicity and class, and always look forward to reading her musings on timeless fashion whenever they pop up in my reader. This award is slightly different than other blog awards that have been passed to me:


About the Award:

Apparently this award is bestowed on to blogs that are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this text into the body of their award.

I love it because my blog is about more than just me navigating my way through life -- it's a way to network with people across the country and around the globe. And I've "met" some fabulous people so far! I look forward to getting to know you all a lot more through your blogs and twitter. Unfortunately I can only pick eight bloggers, so don't feel left out if you're not on it as I love reading you all.

I pass this award on to:

Carrie ... On The Cheap
A Cat of Impossible Colour
She's Little and Lovely
Out of the Past ~ A Classic Film Blog
Retro Ways: Vintage Fashion and History
My Pretty Pennies
Boubou Teatime
Amber's Lust for Life

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!

A little love goes a long way

Lola at the Cherry Blossom Festival in DC.

When I first moved to Boston the summer after college, I didn't know a soul. I had gotten accepted to a handful of grad schools and decided I'd give Boston a whirl; I had spent some time there as a kid and remembered it as a swingin' city.

I love moving to new places and making new friends, so life couldn't have been more perfect when I arrived at Logan Airport that balmy July day with my suitcase in hand, ready to take on the world ... er, the sprawling New England city. A few months before, my parents and I had bought a tres chic two-bedroom apartment on Commonwealth Ave. for me to live in, so once I landed I hopped in a cab and headed "home". It was on the first floor of an older 4-story, red-brick building, complete with a real stoop. (In California we don't really have stoops -- the only one I was familiar with was Carrie Bradshaw's in Sex and the City.) Hardwood floors, bay windows in the living room overlooking the street below, a black and white-tiled kitchen just like out of the Clue boardgame. I felt like I had stepped onto the set of some 1940s post-WWII flick, and half-expected Gene Kelly to come tap-dancing through my front door, leering at me on his way in. Needless to say, I was delighted by all the old-world charm that evaded so much of the architecture in my home state.

I got to work painting my bedroom walls a warm shade of "Tuscan Sunlight", my living room walls two different shades of olive, picking out decor and reveling in the fact that I, yes I, now had an actual stoop. (This fact didn't settle in until a few months later. Even then I would sneak the occasional peek out my bay windows, make sure my trusty stoop was still there and smile.). Shortly after I arrived in Boston, I began meeting some pretty cool cats in my apartment building and at school, many of whom are still my good friends today.

All was peachy keen till things started getting ... well, let's put it this way: I don't do well by myself at night in large dwellings. Once-charming kitchens begin looking ominous by moonlight after I've watched The Sixth Sense, and turning out all the lights in a big, lonely apartment with nothing but the errant creak keeping me company (and freaking me out) as I lay frozen in bed doesn't bode well with someone who possesses such an overactive imagination. The problem was (and always will be) that not only am I a tad superstitious, but I also believe in ghosts. (Unfollow me now if you must, but bear with me otherwise!)

I know it's ridiculous and so juvenile, but I'm terrified of spirits, the paranormal, ghosts -- basically anything that has to do with the dead. Couple that with the fact that I love a good scary movie and/or book, and well, that's a cocktail I probably shouldn't mix but always end up sipping. Usually when I'm sitting alone at 1am with nothing to do. Call it masochistic, but sometimes it's just fun to freak yourself out ... right? This is much easier to do than you'd think in a building built in the 1940s. Sometimes my mind would get the best of me: Who lived in this apartment before me? And before them?? What if something horrible happened in this very foyer?! All of a sudden, that stoop wasn't so endearing anymore.

So went my first few weeks. I hadn't planned on getting a roommate since everyone I knew in Boston was already in a lease, then it hit me: Why don't I adopt a dog? Note: I didn't just adopt on a whim solely because I was petrified of being alone at night; I had grown up with a poodle in my family and had been planning on getting a dog sometime after college. But the night I had to muster all my courage to get a cup of water from the kitchen, hoping I wouldn't run into the creepy twins from The Shining asking me to come play with them, I knew I needed a dog. Stat.

During high school I volunteered at the SPCA, so it's always been important to me to adopt homeless dogs. Right away I found a solid organization who rescued dogs of all shapes and sizes from the putrid confines of (what should be illegal) puppy mills. There is much to be criticized about puppy mills if you aren't familiar, but I'll write about them soon, I promise. Anyway, I called the foundation, who told me they'd be rescuing a group of poodles soon among other breeds, and they asked what color/age/sex I wanted after they ran a background check on me. I told them I wanted a white female poodle and that I would take an older one (since the puppies always find homes more easily).

About two weeks later, I waited in the organization's driveway along with countless other families who were waiting to pick up their dogs. A large U-Haul pulled in shortly after -- it had driven through the night from North Carolina after sweeping up dozens of abused dogs from a puppy mill -- and once they opened the truck bed, displaying the many cages of confused animals, we all watched and waited anxiously.

When they handed me my Lola, she was a pitiful sight. First off, her name wasn't originally Lola, it was Ms. Say It Ain't So (basically a breeding name akin to nothing more). Naturally she did not respond to Ms. Say It Ain't So (would you?), and had been severely abused. She was a toy poodle who came to me completely shaved from her recent vet visit and was obviously malnourished, as her ribs showed through like two small washboards.

The foundation told me that she had lived her entire four years of life in a cage since birth, and had been used to produce litters in horrific, inhumane conditions. All she knew was crate wire below her paw pads. She had never been treated with love, was terrified of humans (especially men) and had obviously been hit -- probably by a man -- more than once. How anyone could hit a 10-lb. fluffy thing is beyond me. She had no clue how to walk on a leash, had never been house trained, never walked on grass, and never been in a car -- save for her 14-hour U-Haul ride. Everything was new to her and though it took me a good three weeks to begin building her trust, it was worth every second of my patience. I slowly taught her how to walk on a leash, quickly house-trained her, and even got her to love walking up and down that stoop as much as I did (milkbones helped -- with her, not me). I wasn't scared of my apartment at night anymore. Being with Lola and educating her in the ways of love, gourmet cooking and The Beatles miraculously took my mind off anything Stephen King-esque.

Flash forward to now, and Lola Belle Watkins is my partner in crime. She's quiet, well-behaved and sometimes a little too shy, but that's okay. Love often says I spoil her too much, but with all the bad stuff that's happened in her past, she deserves to be spoiled. She's going on nine years old this year, and she's become a definitive part of my family. After grad school, she and I moved back to California -- where my whole family fell in love with her -- and subsequently to DC, where sometimes (when he thinks I'm not watching) Love spoils her even more than I do. If that's possible.

Here are some of my favorite pictures of her:

Story time for the kiddies. Love recounting his day to Lola and Moneypenny, our recently adopted cat. They seem to approve.

Some (borrowed) advice for writers

Yes, I realize Don Draper has nothing to do with this post, but -- like me -- he's taking mental notes (and really, any excuse to allude to Mad Men is a good one).

One of the literary agents I follow on Twitter recently posted a link to an old 2006 blog post by Seth Godin, a bestselling author, entrepreneur and self-professed "agent of change." The agent on Twitter highlighted Godin's article as having the best advice for aspiring writers, so naturally I clicked over. Mind you, I've read many authoritative "this is what you need to do" lists on writing and getting published ... and most of them are BS, marketed toward getting me to buy some guide or book on the practice (God, I hate that, but such is the way in any industry I suppose). Godin's points, though, are completely valid and he hammers home the fact that getting published and getting printed are two very different things. One is a business and the other, well, anyone can do!

I just have to keep reminding myself of his most pertinent points:

1. Lower your expectations. The happiest authors are the ones that don't expect much.
2. The best time to start promoting your book is three years before it comes out. Three years to build a reputation, build a permission asset, build a blog, build a following, build credibility and build the connections you'll need later.
3. Pay for an eidtor editor. Not just to fix the typos, but to actually make your ramblings into something that people will choose to read.
4. Don't try to sell your book to everyone. First, consider this: " 58% of the US adult population never reads another book after high school." Then, consider the fact that among people even willing to buy a book, yours is just a tiny little needle in a very big haystack. Far better to obsess about a little subset of the market--that subset that you have permission to talk with, that subset where you have credibility, and most important, that subset where people just can't live without your book.
5. Resist with all your might the temptation to hire a publicist to get you on Oprah. First, you won't get on Oprah. Second, it's expensive.
6. Think really hard before you spend a year trying to please one person in New York to get your book published by a 'real' publisher. You give up a lot of time. You give up a lot of the upside. You give up control over what your book reads like and feels like and how it's promoted. Of course, a contract from Knopf and a seat on Jon Stewart's couch are great things, but so is being the Queen of England. That doesn't mean it's going to happen to you. Far more likely is that you discover how to efficiently publish (either electronically or using Print-On-Demand or a small-run press) a brilliant book that spreads like wildfire among a select group of people.
7. Your cover matters. Way more than you think. If it didn't, you wouldn't need a book... you could just email people the text.
8. If you've got the patience, bookstore signings and talking to book clubs by phone are the two lowest-paid but most guaranteed to work methods you have for promoting a really really good book. If you do it 200 times a year, it will pay.
9. Publishing a book is not the same as printing a book. Publishing is about marketing and sales and distribution and risk. If you don't want to be in that business, don't! Printing a book is trivially easy. Don't let anyone tell you it's not. You'll find plenty of printers who can match the look and feel of the bestselling book of your choice for just a few dollars a copy. That's not the hard part.
10. Bookstores, in general, are run by absolutely terrific people. Bookstores, in general, are really lousy businesses. They are often where books go to die. While some readers will discover your book in a store, it's way more likely they will discover the book before they get to the store, and the store is just there hoping to have the right book for the right person at the time she wants it. If the match isn't made, no sale.
11. Writing a book is a tremendous experience. It pays off intellectually. It clarifies your thinking. It builds credibility. It is a living engine of marketing and idea spreading, working every day to deliver your message with authority. You should write one.

Myth #1

"So, how is your life of leisure going?" -- recent comment left by a friend on Facebook.

Myth #1: That working from home is, in fact, a life of leisure.

Reality: Nope, not really.


So it seems that now that I'm an official "writer" I have rescinded myself to aimlessly toodling about the house a la Nathan Lane's character in The Birdcage ("When the schnecken beckons!"), writing every now and then as if it were a chore like vacuuming. Or that's what I gather from numerous comments I've heard from friends recently, like the one above. I just need to vent, but I don't like how people assume that just because I'm not going to an office every day I've somehow lapsed into an "early retirement". Yes, that was another comment. Lucky me, right? (I don't have kids, but I can't imagine how stay-at-home moms must feel when they hear these sort of comments and have the uber-hard, full-time job of raising little ones.)

I don't know how to explain this without sounding defensive (especially when it's said over the phone), but my time spent working in the last week or two has been some of the hardest work I've ever done. And it will be during the next months and years. I hold myself to a high standard (I think most do, right?) and like to feel like I'm producing something. It gives my life meaning. Waking up everyday, brewing a fresh pot of coffee and sitting down to write with Lola at my feet is incredible. It makes me happy to get out of bed. Sure the muse can't strike daily, but even on days when I don't feel like writing, I've forced myself to because it's my job. "Not going" to my job is not an option -- that would be failing. Luckily, too, I can work during whatever hours I feel like. Sometimes it works best for me to write in the middle of the night, long after everyone's gone to bed, so I'm happy that it's flexible.

It's mentally taxing and exhausting, yet stimulating and fulfilling all the same. There are no employee reviews or periodic paychecks. Nothing to tell me I'm doing a good job or advancing along nicely. That comes when I start sending out query letters to literary agents, which comes after I finish and edit my manuscript, which is all still a few months away.

For right now, all I have to go on in terms of a pat on the back to myself is how much I produce each day. The pressure is on, but it's a pressure I relish in! Now I know what people mean when they say they've "put in a good day at work." As opposed to before, I now actually care about my finished product and genuinely appreciate the process. It's my creativity, after all, personified on paper. What can be more gratifying than seeing that daily?

But wait, that's not possible for me to do because I've done so at home. Silly me ... ;)

A Week Out West

Me on my last night in Pacific Beach. Yes, I'm usually this weird.

I'm back from my week-long trip to San Diego, and I have to say it went by way too fast. At first I was reticent about the journey. I was born and raised in Santa Cruz, so I've always had beef with SoCal, especially LA and San Diego. (I think its an inherent NorCal/SoCal thing. So stupid.) I'm glad I took this trip, though, because I had an amazing time and I love San Diego! (LA, meanwhile, still eludes me.)

Some things I did:

• Watched my little sister, Sophia, graduate from college. Can't believe she's already 21 and out of school. I'm happy for her but now I feel, well, old. (I can't imagine how I'm going to feel when I actually have kids.)
• Got to hang out with my whole family again as everyone was down from Northern California celebrating Sophia's graduation for Memorial Day weekend.
  
• Ate fabulous food. Lunches at cozy Italian bistros, breakfasts at House House a Go-Go and beyond, and enough Mexican food to fuel a small army (I heart you Cotija's Taqueria). It was all delicious and high in calories, but I've been so good about my diet in the past few months that I thought "What the heck, you only live once". Right? Ed. Note: My figure, although gorged with excess calories last week, still seems svelte. No real damage done.
  
• Visited the beach more than once. For this beach-starved DCer, this was an absolute must. A special highlight: Checking out the tide pools at BirdRock beach in La Jolla.
  
• Embarked on debauchery with old friends while meeting new ones. Sophia introduced me to an incredible guy who she calls her "best friend". Why they aren't dating is beyond me. Perhaps its because he's going to Columbia University in the fall for his Masters? Pressing onward ...
• Enjoyed not being connected 24/7 to Blogger/Facebook/Twitter/email/etc. It was actually quite liberating and didn't bother me in the slightest. Not sure if that's a good thing for a Gen Yer to be saying in the 21st century.
  
• Decided that if I absolutely had to, I could live in San Diego for a while if Love ended up getting a job here out of Georgetown next year. This is big, people, because as I mentioned above I've always thought I hated San Diego. But, it turns out, I actually love it. Especially Pacific Beach. It reminded me of the years I spent living in Isla Vista while I was a student at UC Santa Barbara. Though I could live down there, I wouldn't want to make it my permanent home as I'm a Bay Area girl at heart. Still, it was 10 folds better than living out here so I'll take it.
  
• Finished my first short story. Oh it felt delightful plopping the ending on to my first piece of finished work. After having Love read it, he thought it needed some rewriting here and there (totally cool, it was a 1st draft after all), but that it was a good story overall. Since returning to the East Coast I've finished my second short story. It's a humorous piece that made me (and subsequently everyone else who's read it) laugh out loud, so I'll be submitting to various magazines sometime this summer.
  

All in all, it was an excellent trip. I wish Love could have stayed longer; he had to fly back on Memorial Day so he was only with me for three days. I wanted to stay longer, but I was happy to come home and spend time with him -- especially since I'm jetting off to Brazil and Argentina for the month of August sans him! Plane ticket purchased, now on the prowl for the perfect bikini.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life

Like the song says: "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose."

Well, chickadees the sun has set on the latest season of my life and the road is now calling my name to pound its freshly packed pavement. Today is my last day at work (*does a little dance in office chair*), and I have to say, I've never before felt that there was so much possibility on the horizon.

This feeling isn't only tethered to where my writing will take me, but is very much tied to the fact that my future is a wide, open canvas, beckoning me to paint on its clean, white surface and leave my mark in some way or another. The possiblities are endless and that alone is such a thrilling feeling. I feel free, I feel liberated. Taking a hold of my destiny has not only changed where I'm going in my career, it's also changed who I am as a person. I've never felt more at peace with myself. I have successfully blocked out my doubts and insecurities (which were sometimes the loudest voices), and have replaced them with a few stiff shots of strength and determination.

One of my favorite quotes of all time is: "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." (Thanks Janis Joplin.) In her drug-induced haze, I've always felt Janis had a point. It's quite an empowering feeling to know there really isn't anything left to lose. Maybe I feel this way because I basically have no debt. (Much thanks to my parents who paid for my college education.) No monthly car payments, or mortgages, or oppressive credit card bills under my belt, either. Although I have many wants (oh Burberry trench coat, how you elude me), I've learned to be happy living simply. This will make having fortunes in the future thatmuch better. For now though, I'm young and embracing the fact that I can take risks. And if you're thinking "Well, I'm not the spring chicken I once was, I'm old now", think again. It's never too late to change your path in life, no matter what age you are, if you know what you want. Life is not a dress rehearsal.

The muse has struck accordingly in the last few weeks, and I've been working on my writing as much as possible when I haven't been in the office or running errands. I've got a couple short stories nearly finished (one of which I really, really like), and I've been slowly and steadily working on my book. This blog's focus is quickly changing from being strictly personal finance-related, to one chronicling my journey and life. Money, of course, will inevitably rear its head as I traverse the unkept landscape, but (as I wrote in another blog post) I won't be focusing on it anymore.

Anyway, as I alluded to in the Byrds song earlier, there is not only a season to each of our lives, but also a purpose. I think everything happens for a reason, as cliche as that sounds. I don't look back on the last two years as a waste of time at all. They were what made me the person I am now: stronger and more focused and capable of doing things I would have only dreamed of doing when I was in sixth grade. I've learned to see the positive in everything (call it a recent form of enlightment), and there were many positives at my current job. For one, I made some fantastic friends here in DC that I will keep in touch with for the rest of my life. (Bob and Megan -- this is for you.) Two, I was able to support my husband through his first two years in law school.

It's of utmost importance to pull the positive from every situation. I know, I'm getting all Dalai Lama on you, but it's true. I'm reading Eat, Pray, Love right now and a passage I read today resonated with me. The author recollects a discussion she had with her friend, a psychologist who had volunteered to counsel a group of Cambodian refugees who had recently arrived in Philadelphia.

These Cambodians had suffered the worst of what humans can inflict on each other -- genocide, rape, torture, starvation, the murder of their relatives before their eyes, then long years in refugee camps and dangerous boat trips to the West where people died and corpses were fed to shares.

Surprisingly, though they had experienced such suffering, the only thing this group wanted to speak to the counselor about were situations that involved significant others who said they loved them, but that didn't act like it, or went off to marry someone else but still professed their love. What should they do? they asked the counselor.

The author's point is that is what we are like:

Collectively, as a species, this is our emotional landscape. ...There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history: "How much do you love me?" And "Who's in charge?" Everything else is manageable. But these two questions of love and control undo us all, trip us up and cause war, grief and suffering. When I sit in my silence and look at my mind, it is only the questions of longing and control that emerge to agitate me, and this agitation is what keeps me from evolving forward.

So, are you in charge, or do you feel repressed because someone or something else has taken control? Does this make you feel helpless? In my case it did, which why today is my last day. It's time to regain control. In the book, another favorite quote of mine comes from a Texan man the author befriends during her time in India. His advice to her when she won't stop dwelling and complaining about her sorry state? "Your problem is you've got a wishbone where your backbone should be." Classic line that speaks for itself.

With that I'll be packing up my giant diamond ring paperweight and lime-green and brown paisley coffee cup as I bid my office a final arrividerci. I wish I could make a grand departure, like Debra Winger did from her job at the end of An Officer and a Gentleman when Richard Gere swept her off her feet, but I'll take this departure, too. In a way, I'm sweeping myself off of my own feet. :)

I did it. I quit my job.

Just breathe. Everything is going to be okay.

I kept repeating this mantra as I made my way to my CEO's office on Monday to officially resign. I suppose the first thing you'd think I felt when I walked into his office was triumph and relief. Something akin to the French liberation during WWII, but on a much smaller scale, of course. There I was, after all, taking my destiny into my own hands and carpe diem-ing. But for a few fleeting minutes, I felt quite the opposite. I was terrified. I knew I was going to do it, there was no question of that, but I liken the whole experience to skydiving. When push comes to shove and you take the final jump off that airplane, there are a few moments (which I may relive during the next few months or years of my life) where you're terrified your parachute won't open and you'll land, splat, in a field of cow dung, with those around you muttering "told you so." Walking in and quitting yesterday was that jump off my plane.

And guess what? After shutting his door, taking a seat and telling him I was officially, well, out of there, I knew deep down that everything really was going to be okay. I just needed to push off that plane with the force I had mustered in the last few months and not look back. So I did, and the feeling of being so in control of my fate and future felt (and still feels) fabulous.

I was terrified of cutting loose the security and comfort that comes with having a salary but the reality of my situation -- of all of your situations, actually -- is that money comes and goes. It's like water through your fingers. Keep what you need in a canteen at your side, enough so that you'll never go thirsty, and then go forth and work hard at what you love. There will always be more water, and there will always be more money. And if you feel like it may take a while to get to that next stream to refill, than learn how to make your water -- or dollars -- stretch until you get there. Just don't let your fear or uncertainty be what extinguishes you ever taking risks in the first place. Don't get stuck setting up shop near that first river you come upon, failing to ever go forward and see what other, bigger rivers lie on the horizon. Believe me, that first river can be mighty comfortable, but I think sometimes it takes "uncomfort" to shape who you are and make you stronger, more resilient and ultimately, more happy.

Will times get tough at least through this next year? You bet. There will be days I'm sure will feel excruciating, days when I'll feel like I have no money at all, days I'll wonder what the hell I'm doing up and quitting my cush job in This Economy, days I might actually consider buying one-ply instead of two-ply bathroom tissue just to save money. But I will always remind myself of what the suffocating alternative is. I may not have a lot of money in the near future, but I'm going to have the freedom to pursue what I want to make happen, not what anybody else's vision or dream is. And that's important to remember. No one said taking risks was easy -- that's why they're risks, after all. If they were a piece of cake, then everyone would want a slice.

But don't think that it was easy walking away from my job, my paycheck, security, stability and all those other rooted tendrils that ensnared me for the last two years in a web of oblivious complacency.

All my life I've followed a conventional path: I graduated with good grades from high school, went to college, grad school and got a job that steadily allowed me to pay rent, bills, shop and save. All those fun "life" necessities. I know a few people who don't and/or didn't enjoy being college students. Well let me rephrase that: They enjoyed the parties and "good times", but didn't enjoy the studying and the classes. They feel disappointed in themselves for following the structure traditionally set up for them. For me, it wasn't structure that made me go to college or grad school. At the risk of sounding nerdy, I loved being a student and debating with professors, going to class, studying, and writing pages and pages of lit analysis.

But I don't love holding down a job just to have a job. That's where I whipped around and looked Structure straight in the face. "What if you're not for me? What if I'm confident that I can make a damn good living without you?" I asked it during the summer of last year. It laughed at my naivety, telling me to stick it out for another year at work. So I doubted myself, and followed its advice. And now, a year later, I've caught up to Structure and told it I don't want it leading me around anymore. I'd step off its track and venture out into the forest to forge my own, unknown way. My success and earnings will now rest solely on my shoulders and the effort I put forth. From here on out, I will not get paid to "just show up." That fact alone is one of the most empowering feelings I have ever experienced.

Talk about judgment. It's palpable on the faces of some of my friends and even family. I can see it. After all, it's cute and all that I want to an be author, but what am I going to do about my real job? At first facing judgment from those I cared about, even if they tried to hide it, both hurt and stung. I quickly got over it though, and I harbor no ill feelings or dislike for those that don't understand. Three years ago, I probably wouldn't have understood either. It's important to remember that people are always at different points in their lives. It's somewhat of a miracle when an individual can truly empathize with the perspective of an another, so I've accepted being judged as not a flaw in the judger, but as human nature, and I've refused to allow it to ding my confidence anymore. The only person who can make me happy is myself. People will always judge your actions, opinions and beliefs, but if you are happy with your decisions at the end of every day, I think that's all that matters. Life is too short to pacify the barrage of judgment around you.

That's not to say I'm an eternal optimist. If anything, I'm too much of a realist.

It would be naive to assume that every dream pays off, that every hope not reached in the end wouldn't be laden with some form of regret for what was given up. But I'm willing to accept the consequences. I firmly believe that each one of us is in charge of our own destiny. Fate alone only takes you so far.

A week feels like a year in blog years

My apologies for being missing in action during this last week. Actually, nix that. No apologies! I've been in the midst of a fabulous life change. I have been writing, though it's been on stories and not PF, and it feels good.

Don't get me wrong, I'm more coupon-obsessed than ever, and I'm not out charging my life away on my Nordstrom's credit card, but in this week of reevaluation of my life thus far, I am sick and tired of obsessing over money. I love my blog dearly (it's what got me through my second year of living in DC after I thought I'd have a nervous breakdown in the first), and I'll continue to be your faithful scribe on cheap fashion and intriguing finance stories that catch my eye, but as for money as a whole, I'm not going to let it rule my life anymore.

"But Crystal," you might point out, "it never seemed like money ruled your life that much in the first place. Wasn't it you, a PF blogger no less, who spent $400 on a Dooney handbag?" Yes, that was me. I realize this is a cardinal sin in PF-dom, but money (after you've put some aside, of course) is meant to be enjoyed. Wring all you can out of sales, coupons and clearances, make sure you have your bills paid off, some savings in place, and then...well, enjoy yourself. You want a steak for dinner? Eat it happily, and don't think about its cost. You earned it. Life is too short for constant, back-of-your-mind fretting. You'd be allowing your money to own you.

Which was the epiphany that hit me earlier this week, as I pummeled a punching bag in my kickboxing class. I'm always surprised at how clear my mind becomes and how easily the answers seem as I'm kickboxing, sweating to Britney's "Circus" remix blaring from speakers near the wall of windows. I got to thinking about how much I love coming to this class and how much weight I've lost in the last couple years (working a desk job after college took me from a sz. 4 up to a sz. 10, and now, I'm elated to report, back to a sz. 6 and dropping). Thing is though, the classes are expensive. Like, lots-of-money-upfront expensive. So what allows me to attend these (what I can even admit are) rip-off classes? My full-time job, of course. Which I might add I used to love, keywords being "used to." (That's another post to come.)

So why I have stayed? Well it funds my kickboxing habit, first off, but more than that it's a security thing. You'd be hard-pressed to find a person who doesn't like getting a steady paycheck every two weeks, especially if that person is married to a student and is covering all rent, food and other vital necessities solo until graduation. Don't get me wrong, I'm more than happy to do this. What I'm not happy about is going to work everyday, dreading my commute in. And dreading sitting behind a desk for eight hours a day doing inane tasks, asking myself (sometimes even out loud in the fifth-floor bathroom), what I'm doing there. I've even found myself standing to the right on the metro escalator, fervently delaying the inevitable time spent in the office by a scant few minutes as others push past me on the left, eager to clock in.

For the directionless who simply just want a job, this situation would be perfect. I make more money than I probably should, work under lax deadlines, and can generally buy whatever I want. For someone with a deep love for something else, though, it's all excruciatingly suffocating. So naturally your next suggestion would be to follow that love, but what if it lies in something that could not (at least for the foreseeable future) pay bills properly?

When I was young, I wanted to be a writer. (Well, first I actually wanted to be a smurf, but that was before I realized that "What do you want to be when you grow up" was not the same as "What do you want to be for Halloween".) I began reading voraciously before most of my classmates, was always bought a steady stream of books by my parents, and someday imagined myself penning a classic and maybe even winning a Pulitzer. (Hey, no one said youth was delusion-free.) Then high school rolled around and I realized, at least from what I was told, that it was virtually impossible to make a living as a writer. And when I say writer, I mean novelist. So I cast off my novelist dreams as childish and unsustainable, and decided to follow my second passion: journalism. I figured I could parlay my love for researching and telling stories into short-form, and I would even get paid regularly to do it (I was -- and still am -- willing to work for a pittance). I majored in English and went on to grad school and then ... journalism as a field collapsed. I worked as an editor for a while at a Bay Area newspaper, lived through what working for conglomerate MediaNews was like, and ended up in DC, where I am now. If you had told me back in high school that I would be where I am now, I would have laughed and mumbled something about selling out.

But here I am. A sell out. Slave to the secure paycheck. And all I really want to do is pull that comfortable ripcord and write books. Which brings me back to my kickboxing class. As I pummeled the bag, I got angrier with every jab and kick. "Who are you?" I thought. Punch. "When did you decide that money was worth more than giving up on what you love?" Kick. "You say life is short all the time, so why do you play it so safe?" Punch, punch, kick. "You're talented and you've got potential. That talent won't take you anywhere, that potential won't ever be reached, as long as you're working for someone else." Roundhouse kick to the bag's head.

And after class, as I toweled the warm, dripping sweat from my face, I resolved to not let money rule my life anymore. To not let security or my job rule my time. It's mine, after all, and it can't be bought. Sure I love this kickboxing class, but I love my creative freedom more. There's no question which one I'd give up. No one ever got anywhere by playing it safe, and I'm tired of walking that beaten path.