Where Do We Go From Here

I'm struggling a lot lately with what I want this blog to be.  When I began it, almost two (two?!) years ago, its purpose was mainly to make sure I was writing weekly and to help me work through a whole world of issues and anger and frustration following my terrible first marriage and subsequent divorce.  It was a place for me to be open and honest about what had happened, to talk about the many and various changes in my life, and to talk about the things that still infuriated me.  I wanted to help others by sharing my story, but I also wanted to help myself.

I don't have those problems anymore.

I mean, I do still get angry.  But it's not like before.  I've moved on as much as I think I'm able to.  I'll probably always be a little bit pissed off over what happened, but I think that's the way it should be.

But I got married again (almost three months ago).  We bought a house.  I'm a stepmother.  I'm (still) ridiculously in love with this man that I've known for fourteen years. I have great friends who (I hope) still love me even though I'm not around very much these days.  I have a wonderful job and am, generally, having a fantastic time.  I'm busy and tired and very much in need of introverting most of the time, but I can't think of very much I'd change.

So that leaves me at a bit of a loss as to what to blog about weekly, now that wedding stress has ended.  General happiness and/or being an introvert isn't that exciting, really.  I don't have a current life goal to keep tabs on (though I probably should).  I have Instagram and Facebook for my daily selfies (and general photo-and-meme sharing).  I don't travel (much).

So what do I do?

I read.

I collect vintage and novelty clothing/accessories (and take selfies).

I knit or crochet or cross-stitch.

I bake and cook (when I can).

I step-parent.

I'm a wannabe 60s housewife.

I'm super nerdy, introverted, and not shy about any of it.

And I know there are blogs about (literally) all of these things.  But it seems impossible to narrow this random little blog into one defined category.  It also seems impractical to blog about everything I enjoy or do.

So I'm at a bit of an impasse.  I don't want to stop blogging, even though each week finds me less and less inspired as to what to write about.  Two years might be the longest amount of time I've managed to actively maintain a blog, after all.  I don't want to break my streak now!  But something needs to change.  I just don't know what.

What would you like to see more of from me?  Less of?  What are you interested in reading about?  What topics and formats do you find most appealing?  I'm clearly at a loss here, so I'm very open to ideas and feedback as to how to keep this blog going and at least fairly interesting.

P.S. Please don't say less selfies.

Challenge Accepted... Kindof

So, back at the end of September, Mark found out about Drawlloween, a 31-day Halloween-themed drawing challenge that takes place during October.

Since I happen to think he's a good artist who just happens to be terribly out-of-practice (sounds like someone else I know), I encouraged him to go for it and said that I would do the same challenge, but with writing.

(Please keep in mind that the last time I did writing challenge was 6 years ago when I was still at least slightly in the habit of writing, and Mark hasn't done any regular art in probably as long or longer.)

So.  What could go wrong?

Well, I think it went exactly like you might expect.

We started out with good intentions.  Then the weekend would come and throw everything off completely (Mark would be with his daughter, I would be working).  Then we'd attempt to catch back up during the next week.  Rinse and repeat.  Several times.

Spoiler alert: we both ended up behind, one of us more than the other (hint: me).

But along the way, I actually really enjoyed it, regardless of how much I complained that I didn't know what I was going to write.  I liked sitting around with the love of my life, making art.  I liked the challenge of it, of being forced to be creative again, and I liked watching him be creative.  The other night, when we were making our last desperate attempt to finish, I told him that I liked watching him draw.

Mark: I'd say the same for you, but... it's really just not the same.  With you, it's lots of unintelligible scribbling... furious crossing out... writing really small off to the side, then pausing while you chew on your pen and stare off into the distance.

Me: ... That's an incredibly accurate description of me writing.

So no.  Writing isn't exactly a glamorous thing.  But I admit, it felt good to be writing regularly again.  And creatively.  To try to come up with a story or a poem in response to an often-very-visual prompt.  I did research to try to spark ideas.  Mostly, I tried to be unconventional.  I made an effort for whatever I was writing to not be quite what you would expect, or for there to be a "reveal" towards the end.  For the most part, I think I was successful.  Obviously, some days were less so.  But the important thing was I was writing.

I definitely fell off the bandwagon towards the end.  Between getting ready for Halloween, a busy work schedule, and other obligations, I got very behind.  I actually only completed up to Day 27.  But that's twenty-seven pieces of writing I didn't have before October.  That's twenty-seven works of effort and struggle and editing.  There are a few I really love, a few I hate, and most that I was fairly satisfied with.  Some I worked on all day, some came together in almost one shot, and others I threw together during my idle hour at work.  Which is, I suppose, what art and writing is all about.  Doing what you can, when you can, with what you have.

I'm pretty sure Mark is even harder on himself than I am.  Which is impressive.  But honestly, I loved seeing him create his art.  They were very rarely just a drawing that correlated to the prompt.  They were usually detailed enough to actually tell a story.  He had returning characters, mainly the Steampunk Ghostbusters, and I got to watch him experiment with different mediums and materials.

He might not be thrilled with his work, but the fact that he did most of them in just an hour or two is amazing to me, and I usually loved what he did.  And I really loved walking by the corner that houses his drawing table and seeing all his art taped up.  I'm lucky to be able to draw a proper stick figure, much less armed and dangerous blind mice.

If you're so inclined, you can find my writing (in reverse order) over at my A.C. Jones Facebook page (that's my pen name), and Mark's drawings are here!

I love that he is creating art again.  And I love that I proved to myself that I can do the same.  Just maybe not for 31 days in a row.

It's good to know one's limits.  As well as one's potential.

I tend to forget the latter all too frequently.

The Procrastination Game: A Step-By-Step Guide

What do you do when you don't want to blog (or preferred activity of avoidance)?

Step 1: Complain about it.  Be sure to mention the fact that you can't even write about all the things you would potentially write about (if you wanted to), such as your super-secret Halloween costume projecting/thrifting adventures.

Step 2: Check Facebook, in case someone posted a cool meme.

Step 3: List the reasons you probably shouldn't even bother.  Example: I'm really busy.  I don't feel good.  No one reads this blog anymore anyway.

Step 4: Recruit others to support your decision.  Be sure to point out all the aforementioned reasons to them so that they can clearly agree with your obviously rational thought process and reasoning.  Try to get this in writing if at all possible.  You'll need the supporting documentation to make your case properly.

Step 5: Revel in your moral high ground.  Feels good.

Step 6: Ignore the nagging guilt.  Check Facebook again.  Maybe try a few Snapchat filters.

My current favorite.

Step 7: Reassure yourself that you're doing the right thing.  Remind yourself that you are very busy and important, not to mention the fact that you've already been writing every day in October.  One missed blog is no big deal.

Step 8: Remember those excuses!

Step 9: Fuck it.  Write the damn blog (or do the damn thing).

Real talk: I don't feel good today.  I didn't get enough sleep last night and my stomach has been bothering me for a few days.  So yeah.  I don't want to write this.  I still have to write for my daily challenge today, I'm getting my hair done, and I'm working on my Halloween costume for Saturday.  Not to mention all the other projects I'm in the middle of, keeping up on life, working, and maintaining various relationships with friends and family.

But my excuses really aren't that great, regardless of how readily Mark agreed with me.  He's tired and not feeling well either, so our judgement isn't exactly the best.

Mainly, I need to remind myself that I'm not writing this blog for the popularity (or lack thereof).  I'm not writing it because it's fun and exciting and easy.  I'm writing it to be writing, to process what goes on in my life, and for the off chance that I have something to say that means something to someone who happens to read it.  I'm writing for the same reason that I'm (trying) to write every day for an October writing challenge: because I'm a writer, and because it's what I should be doing, even on the days when it's the last thing I want to do.

Especially on those days.

Oh, and I almost forgot.

Step 10: Post the blog.

My Best Friend's Wedding

I have a confession.  Maybe more of a disclaimer.

I've never actually seen My Best Friend's Wedding.

I started to watch it ages ago.  I was at some sleepover, possibly for Girl Scouts, and I can just vaguely remember the opening sequence.  But that's it.  I don't remember who gets the guy or who gets married or doesn't get married or anything.  My strongest memory from the night is dancing around with the other girls there and being told that I "spin too much" when I dance.  (Well, years later, my nickname in pole dance class was The Spin Queen, so take that, bitches.)

Obviously, this post is not going to be about that movie.  Or about spinning.

It is, however, kindof about pole dancing.

Or at least it's about one of my best friends, who I would never have known if it weren't for pole dancing.

I've known Jessica for around seven years now.  I've been friends with her and Sandi since I impulsively decided to take a pole dancing class after seeing Michelle Mynx perform at a burlesque show (which I also went to rather impulsively).  You can read more about pole dancing in this previous post.

We've traveled together, partied together, performed together, and supported each other like friends are supposed to do.

And, last Friday, Jessica got married.

I'm not going to lie, it was the best wedding I've ever been to.

This is not to say that all the other weddings I've been to have sucked.  They haven't.  But this one managed to surpass them all, in spite of the two reception venue changes and all the regularly scheduled wedding stress.

What made it so great?  Well, it wasn't just because I got to hear one of my poems actually read aloud to an actual audience (even though that was truly incredible and I didn't once tackle the officiant to read it myself).  And it wasn't just because I got to go on a tour of The Fox Theatre and be a complete theatre geek and fangirl about being allowed both onstage and backstage. 

And it wasn't just because the bride wore black and a lesbian burlesque performer married them in the lobby of The Fox (though that probably helped some).

Gorgeous photo courtesy of Carrie Meyer at Insomniac Studios.

It wasn't even because she had two photobooths at her reception (or that I ran one).

Instead, it might be because I've rarely seen two people so well-suited to each other.

And it might be because I'm finally coming more fully around again to the idea of love and marriage, particularly of love and marriage between two best friends.  And that's exactly what Chris and Jessica are.  They are best friends as well as lovers.  They cosplay together.  They're crazy cat people together.  They enjoy each other's company, while fully realizing that neither one of them is perfect.  They are geeks and nerds of the highest and most excellent level.  And they have the creepiest bathroom I've ever been in.

(And they let me come over and watch Game of Thrones.)

I may be cynical and judgmental about many things, but I can't be about Chris and Jessica.  They are one of the most genuine couples I know, and I'm so very glad that I got to be a part of their amazing day.

And that I got to be able to make a zombie wedding cross-stitch.  You know, priorities.

 

To be honest, it's been a long time since I've been able to actually enjoy other people's weddings.  Back when I was unhappily married, I always felt a strange sense of loss when my friends would get married.  I think I subconsciously knew that they were about to experience something I never had, and I was jealous of how happy they looked.  I didn't know how to be a part of that, even though, in theory, we were all part of the same "club."

But Friday?  Friday was different.  I'm not the cynical, unhappy person I once was.  Or, at the very least, not as cynical.  I'm not jealous anymore, not looking for anything missing.  It's a nice feeling, really, to be more fully part of someone else's happiness instead of envious of it.

Mark and I have decided that there's little point in anyone else ever getting married after Chris and Jessica.  There's no real way to top it, in my opinion.  Mark has declared that he's not even bothering to wear a suit for our wedding, just a T-shirt with a tux printed on the front.  (I think we all know that's not actually happening, but I can understand his sentiments.)

So, our wedding won't be like Chris and Jessica's.  And that's fine.  Because it's not a contest for me anymore.  And for that I'm so incredibly grateful.

Defining Myself

What defines us?

That's been a pretty big topic of conversation recently, at least around St. Louis, following a truly terrible St Louis Business Journal article/photo shoot supposedly celebrating local successful businesswomen by asking them what pair of shoes "best described them."

Overlooking the obvious sexist overtones of asking a group of highly successful women to describe themselves with a pair of shoes, I'm actually more offended by the fact that anyone could be asked to describe themselves with something so superficial as an item of clothing.  "Please sum up your success, interests, beliefs, and personality by showing us something you wear sometimes so we can adequately judge you."

Now, to be fair, I love shoes.  I have a lot of them.  I have flats, kitten heels, stilettos, platforms, and sneakers in all colors and styles.  They currently are spilling out of the closest I (unsuccessfully) try to keep them organized in.  But I would never say I'm defined by or described by my shoes.  Or by my equally overflowing wardrobe.

I realize this may sound a bit hypocritical, as I do call myself The Pretty Vintage Girl.  If that's not describing myself by my look, then I'm not sure what is.  But my look isn't what defines me, or even what "best describes" me.  It's a description, sure, but not, I hope, the be all and end all of my personality.  I would like to think that my clothes and my shoes only just scratch the surface of who I am.

My look is actually very much a uniform.  It's what I wear to feel confident, comfortable, and yes, most like myself.  I have an affinity towards modern looks across the board, after all, not just in clothing.  I'm drawn to the music, the furniture, the art, and of course, the fashion.

My clothes and my shoes might very well be an expression of who I am.  But that's not what describes me.  And it's certainly not what defines me.

So what does?

People are constantly defined by countless things, most of which are as superficial as a pair of shoes: our past, our jobs, our friends, our lovers.  We're defined by where we grew up, what high school we went to, or what socio-economic group we are a part of.  We're defined by our illnesses, by our accomplishments, and by our failures and regrets.  We're defined by our roles as parents, as children, as married or as single.  We're defined by our expectations for ourselves, or by someone else's expectations of us.  We're defined by how much we weigh, or what music we like, who we're attracted to, or what we believe in.

We let ourselves be defined by so much that it's hard to know what it is that actually defines us.  Who are we, beneath all the layers of judgement constantly heaped upon us?  Are we what others say we are?  Are we the names we have been called?  Do we fit in the cookie-cutter shapes (or shoes) that society tries to shoves us into?

Are we even allowed to define ourselves?

I say yes.

And I have to believe it's true.  I have to believe that I am the only one who can truly define who I am.

After all, haven't I been blogging for a year now about who I am?  I've been slowly reclaiming my voice and my self over the past two years.  I've been fighting back against what I thought defined me, and against those who tried to define me.  There's no pair of shoes on earth that can describe that process.

On Monday I took part in a photo shoot as part of a response to the St. Louis Business Journal shoot.  The project is called Undefined, it involved over 30 local women, and it had nothing at all to do with shoes.  We were welcome to bring a tool of our trade (or to remain undefined by either shoes or tools).  I brought a laptop as a nod to this little blog.  Because if there is a way I define myself, it's through my words.  I've always expressed myself best through writing, and never more so than since I started this blog.

The photo shoot wrapped up yesterday, and I can't wait to see the results.  But I love a group of women took the initiative and opportunity to show other women defining themselves by whatever means they chose.  I love that there are people out there who get it, who get that we aren't defined by our clothes or by our circumstances.

We define ourselves, in the end.  We have to, because there are countless people out there who will be only too glad to do it for us.

And that shoe definitely won't fit.

I'm No Expert, But...

Back in college, I once wrote an entire 20-page final paper on Jane Austen in three nights.  This was, not uncoincidentally, also the first time I ever drank coffee.

I was supposed to be working on the paper throughout the entire semester, turning in a section at a time for critique.  Well.  I turned in my first two sections, got miserable feedback, and promptly stopped turning in sections.  I continued reading the books, making notes, and doing research, but as for actual writing?  I didn't do it.

Suddenly, the deadline was looming and panic (naturally) set in.  So I and three other girls in my class spent three nights sitting at Starbucks till two and three in the morning, drinking coffee and writing our hearts out.

I finished the paper (just in time), turned it in, and waited with none-too-high hopes.

The professor, the regrettably late Dr. Lila Kurth, was always a hard grader.  She gave me my only C and often wrote "trite" in the margins of my papers.  But, when I went to go pick up my Jane Austen paper, she handed it to me and then told me she needed to give me a hug, because my paper was "beautiful."

I'll never forget that moment.

It was also the start of my realization that I truly do function best under a deadline.

This has not changed.  Most of my blog entries are finished just under the wire.  And months ago, my friend Jessica asked me to write something for her upcoming wedding.

Why she did this is mostly beyond me.  It seems unusual to ask the (more-than-slightly cynical) divorcee to write something about love for a wedding.  I didn't write anything for my own wedding, much less love poetry about my ex-husband.

And, to be honest, I didn't exactly write much for her wedding until very recently.

(Please, Jessica, don't think I didn't work on this over the intervening months since you asked me.  I did, honestly I did.  I have scraps of poems and ideas all over the place, from notebooks to my phone to the bathroom mirror.  But nothing solid and certainly nothing finished.)

But, thankfully, deadline panic strikes once again (with the help of my now long-time friend, coffee), and I have a not-quite-love poem ready for a not-quite-conventional wedding.

I do wonder if I could have written a love poem while I was still married.  My last marriage was where my writing went to die, after all.  When I did write, it was dark and lonesome words which I still uncover from time to time and which always remind me of how secretly miserable I was.

Divorce, as brutal as it was, gave me something I hadn't had in a long time: the freedom to have my own voice.  I know I talk about this a lot, but as a writer, it's still important to me.  Without my voice, what am I?  Certainly not a great writer.

Not that I'm that confident in what I am at the moment anyway.

The other week, Mark intercepted a text from Jessica asking me if I were a published author so she could put it in the wedding program.  If it were up to me, I would have hemmed and hawed about the answer.  I honestly don't feel that simply being published in my college magazine a few times and once in a local literary magazine really count as my being a "published author," but Mark disagreed and told her so.

And so the decision was made: I'm a published author.

Maybe they're right.  I might not feel that I'm a properly published author, or that I'm the best choice to turn to for a wedding poem, but I've always been my own worst critic.

So while I'm certainly no expert, I'm also no longer mute.

Give me a deadline, some coffee, and a blank page, and eventually?

I'll come up with something to say.

The Pretty Vintage Girl Anniversary Blog

I've hit two milestones in blog-dom, all in the same week!

First: last week's engagement blog was the most well-and-widely read to date, topping out at just shy of 420 views!  I am, quite frankly, a little flabbergasted.  And pretty convinced it will be hard to ever reach similar numbers.  It's not every day I get engaged, after all.  (So far, just twice, and I hope to keep it that way.)

Second: I've been blogging for a year! July 10th marked my one-year blog-iversary.  That baby of a blog was written as I was coming off celebrating a year since my ex-husband moved out and as I was still decidedly new at working full-time for Fish Eye Fun.  It was short and hesitant and I obviously had no idea what I was doing.  It was the literary equivalent of me sticking a toe in the water to see how cold it was.  I had no idea what this blog would be.

And really, I still don't.

Because I don't think I ever would have dreamed that I would write about what I have in this past year.  My original vision for my blog was something much more frivolous and superficial because I didn't think I could possibly talk about the truth.  Talking about shopping and clothes and books would be much easier, and surely more accessible.  After all, who would want to hear about my life week after week?  I'm not that exciting.  I'm a divorced introvert who still carries far too much baggage for her own liking.  I work all the time and spend the rest of the time with my boyfriend.  What's readable about that?

I never thought I'd be able to keep up with blogging every week (well, almost every week).  I definitely didn't think my boyfriend (fiancé, whatever) would be going around passing out my blog address to everyone on his route!  I didn't think people I knew in passing would comment or reach out to me after something I wrote.

So.  One year later.

What's changed?

Obviously, I'm engaged.

And obviously I've been gainfully employed for over a year.

But also, it's been two years since my ex moved out.

I've destroyed my wedding dress.

I got a new furnace, bought a washer and dryer, bought a mattress, and fixed my car.

I went to Mexico.

I turned 31.

I've been spending my free weekends playing step-mommy. And enjoying it more than I ever thought I would, to be honest.

I've eaten a lot of nachos.  I've read not-enough books.  I've gained new friends and lost some who were apparently never really friends to begin with.  I've traveled back and forth across the Midwest, both for work and for fun.  I've gone to a few shows, and tried to be as social as I can.  I've been unapologetic about my life and what I want to do or not do.

A lot happens in a year.  I'm not the person I was a year ago, in many ways.  I'm snarkier, happier, friendlier, and more honestly... me.  I'm less willing to put up with bullshit.  I like the person I am, and I like where this year has led.

Where things are going from here?  I have absolutely no idea.

As I said, I'm still not entirely certain where this blog is going.  I rarely know what I'm going to blog about from one week to the next, much less what I'll be talking about in another year.

As for me?  There are obviously a lot of changes on the horizon.  Right now I'm still getting used to this sharp, shiny ring on my finger and we're not even remotely discussing an actual date.  I have absolutely no idea what the next year will hold, but I know that I'm definitely looking forward to whatever it is!

I'll be sure to write about it, naturally.  And you're welcome to read along, if you like!

Do You Love Me?

Popularity in the social media age is a strange thing.  At least, it's strange to me.

Last night I had a Fish Eye Fun bride-to-be follow me on Instagram.  This is actually a first for me (at least that I've noticed).  My followers are mostly people I know as friends or at the very least people in the St. Louis wedding industry.

Does this make me popular?  I don't know.

I've been writing this blog for almost a year now.  I have over 40 posts, with almost 3000 views overall.  One post has over 200 views, which absolutely amazes me.  People (not just my boyfriend and best friends) are actually reading this, for better or for worse.  They don't just scroll by on their way through their Facebook feed.  

That's incredible to me.  Does it mean I'm somehow popular, that I have a social media "presence"?

And speaking of Facebook, there's the ubiquitous "likes" that my endless posts and selfies and shared memes receive.

Does that make me popular?  Do people like me?  Do they?  

Do you?

I'm all-too-guilty of reading into what it means when certain people "like" what I post on Facebook, by who likes my blog, by who comments about what.  Do we all do this?  Probably, at least to an extent.

Overall, though, I'm not great at self-promotion.  I never have been.  I don't want to seem needy or pushy or, worst of all, desperate.  I don't have thousands of Facebook friends.  In fact, I generally don't make friend requests and don't accept requests from anyone I don't actually know.  I don't have many strangers who know who I am (though that is changing, thanks to my job at Fish Eye Fun).  I'm not famous by a long shot.

I don't think I know how to be popular, really.  I still wonder at how many people genuinely want me to hang out with them.  Hell, I'm still in shock that my own boyfriend hasn't gotten sick of me yet.

So, the question is, am I writing this blog to be popular?  Do I post on Facebook to be popular, to get that little boost to my self-esteem?

I like to think not.  I can't lie and say that I'm not pleased every time someone likes my blog.  And I certainly can't say that I'm not vain.  But I don't write specifically for those likes, for the comments, or even for the blog views.  I write because I need to write, because I need the practice, because I need the weekly deadline, and because it helps.

It helps me, and I hope it helps others.

Fame and fortune and a weekly paid column wouldn't hurt, and I certainly wouldn't turn them down (hint, hint), but they're not what I'm doing this for.

I'm doing this for myself.  (And because Mark insists that I do it.)

I'm doing this because I think it's important to be honest about my life on the off-chance that someone needs to hear it.  When I was married, I didn't know anything narcissists, about gaslighting, or about emotional manipulation.  I didn't know that he had the ability to lie so smoothly that I questioned my own memories.  I didn't know that I didn't deserve to be treated like a servant, that I didn't deserve to be blamed for everything that was wrong with his life. 

I didn't know.

Now I do.  And I don't want to keep it a shameful secret anymore.  I want to talk about it, whether it makes me popular or unpopular, as the case may be.

So... do you love me now?

Daily Affirmations with the PVG

It's been a weird week.  Unexpected problems have thrown itself in the path of what I intended to accomplish, and my apartment is currently the home of the walking wounded.

Mark cut his hand on Sunday, glued himself back together, and is still bleeding every time he changes the bandage.  Then Thunder decided to be brave and try to chase a cat under the fence.  In the process, he cut his neck on the only goddamn pointy rock in the area.

Which leaves me as what? Ward nurse?  I don't seem to be a very good one.  I've handed Mark band-aids and attempted to take care of Thunder, which isn't easy because he's a giant asshole of a dog when he's hurt.  Mostly I've just tried to keep him from scratching at his neck and dropped him off this morning at the vet clinic.

And what did I intend to accomplish this week?

Oh, lots of things.  I wanted to finish putting away all my clothes and have the bedroom properly organized.  I wanted to clean and reorganize the kitchen.  I wanted to write.  I wanted to get back in the habit of doing yoga.

To be fair, the clothing/bedroom situation is far better than it has been in quite a while.  I started reorganizing the kitchen (to be even more fair, Mark started reorganizing it by moving the microwave and discovering a far more sensible use for the available counter space).

But there's an idealized version of myself in my head that's doing so much better than the real version.  The idealized version gets up when her first alarm goes off.  She does yoga every morning.  She is organized.  She's writing every day.  She's blogging every Wednesday.

The real version sets three alarms, because she knows she won't drag herself out of bed until absolutely necessary.  She hasn't done yoga in two weeks.  She's an unorganized mess who makes piles on every available flat surface.  She hasn't written this week.  She's a day late in blogging.  She's generally distracted.

So, there's obviously a pretty big gap between those two people.  I'm probably never going to be that idealized version of myself, and that's okay.  But I'd like to be a little better than the current version.

I'm also harder on myself than anyone else is.  I know this.  Mark gets after me when I spend my days off cleaning, because I should apparently be relaxing (whatever that is).  But then he's hard on himself when he "only" does x when he wanted to do x, y, and z.  And then I'm the one telling him that he shouldn't be so hard on himself.

So even though I feel like I'm turning into a bit of a hot mess lately, I'm probably really not that bad.  I can grudgingly admit I've made some small progress towards a more functional apartment.  I'm only one day late on blogging, instead of an entire week.  I've managed to put together whole outfits each day for quite a few weeks now, rather than running out of the house several times a week in leggings and a T-shirt.  I've kept Thunder mostly intact.

As I announced back in September, I'm not perfect, and I'm never going to be.  Maybe one day I'll come to terms with that.  Until then, I'm going to try not to be too hard on myself.  And I'm going to keep trying to figure out how to get my life together, if that's even possible.  More and more I'm starting to think that no one actually has their life together in the way they intended.  It's all either a grand illusion or my own false perception.  Or both.  I think the reality is we're all just sitting around wondering why we can't get our shit together the way we'd like.

In the meantime, it's important to remember the words of Stuart Smalley:

The Missing Minute Hand, and Other Little Things

My boyfriend told me today that life is what happens in the minutia.

He's right.  He usually is. (He'll disagree with me on that one, but don't listen to him.)

Life has many big moments, of course.  There is birth and death, marriage and divorce, hirings and firings.  There are magnificent highs and horrifying lows.

But, honestly, I've always been more fond of the little things.  I've talked before about the little things in relationships and how important they are.  But the little things aren't just reserved for love and friendship.  They're everywhere.

And even though I sometimes get hung up on the big moments, on the milestones and exciting news, I've actually always been a girl with an eye for details.  I notice things.  I notice people.  And I have way too many accessories for my own good.  I should know, I just reorganized half of them.

So it's fitting that this week has been almost exclusively about little things, about the seemingly unimportant things.

It's been about tearing up at the groom's speech at the Valentine's Day wedding I worked.  He was adorable and gushing and kept telling his bride that he would never take her for granted, which hit me harder than I expected.  I hope that his promise means that he will appreciate the minutia of married life and will take time to do the small, not-at-all unimportant things that end up meaning so much in the days and years to come.

It's been about trying to improve the little things.  Now that I've got overall happiness, working appliances, a healthy love and social life, it's time to fill in the details.  I don't just mean going to the gym and to pole class, but trying to get my life organized.  Trying to be functional both at home and at the office, and to make both a little more aesthetically pleasing.  All of which lead to an impromptu IKEA trip on Tuesday to buy a few little things to get started on making my work space more me, or to start "classing up the place," as Ben said.  (Naturally, and in the spirit of being the resident vintage girl at Fish Eye Fun, I'm going for as 1960s Mad Men as possible with my office space.)

This week has also been about buying a pocket calendar to keep track of the days I write.  Another little thing.  Mark has his own to keep track of the days he works on projects, and I fully admit that I stole the idea from him.  So far, I think it's helped me.  For one thing, I love a challenge.  For another, the thought of all the things we both want to do and accomplish is overwhelming if I don't do something to make it less daunting.

I keep saying that I want to "get back to writing," which is as overwhelmingly vague as it gets.  It's terrifying, really, to think about writing a book, or even a short story, or (sometimes) even a poem.  Or making a work of art, or a work bench.  None of this is going to happen in a day.  It's far better, far more digestible, to think about the individual pieces.  Write something.  Anything.  Even if I hate it and throw it away the next day.  Or even if it's this blog.  It's better than nothing.  It's the little things, again.  It's nailing on one board, writing one paragraph, drawing one rough sketch.  It's the only way progress can ever be made, and I forget that all too often amongst all the big tumultuous things that have happened recently.

Finally, this week has been about the minute hand on my living room clock repeatedly falling off.  That really doesn't mean a damn thing except that it needs to be fixed, but it does tie in nicely to the theme of the week.  I suppose I could make some poetic comparison about that missing minute hand being subtle reminder to pay attention to the minute things, but Lord, that's going a bit far, don't you think?

The Inherent Tragedy of a Finished Book

Books Bought
Angels and Insects: Two Novellas, by A.S. Byatt
Babel Tower, by A.S. Byatt
Zelda, by Nancy Milford
Wild: from Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, by Cheryl Strayed
The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

Books Read
Voracious: A Hungry Reader Cooks Her Way through Great Books, by Cara Nicoletti
Journey to the Center of the Earth, by Jules Verne (audiobook)
Ready Player One, by Ernest Cline
Here Be Monsters! by Alan Snow
Stuff I've Been Reading, by Nick Hornby
H is for Hawk, by Helen Macdonald (audiobook)
(most of) Angels and Insects, Two Novellas, by A.S. Byatt

It's the beginning of a new month, and I'm already exhausted.  It's been a full week of work (made fuller than usual with two weddings this past weekend and working from home on Monday). I've also been slightly more domestic than usual lately.  I blame the onset of fall.  Cooler weather not only brings out the leggings from my closet but also brings about a stronger desire to cook.  And snuggle under blankets.  There have been very few complaints about this from the peanut gallery.

It's also brought about an uptick in my reading.  I've been a bit more avid about burying myself in a book than in the past few months, and it shows in my accomplishments.  I really don't know where I find the time.  I think I've just given up on sleeping.

With the end of September comes a change in the way I do my reading lists on this blog, thanks to one of this month's books (a perfect gift from the lovely Anne when she came to visit last month).

Stuff I've Been Reading, by Nick Horby, is a wonderful collection of the essays Horby wrote as reflections on his monthly reading list and ruminations on his books bought list vs. his books read list, essays which, I must say, far outshine my past few "reading list" blogs.  So?  I'm going to rip off the format from Hornby... I mean borrow from.  Commandeer, if you will.  Nautical term.

Hey, writers snag ideas and inspiration all the time from other writers, so why can't I?  (Apparently I've decided since last week that I am, in fact, a writer. At least for now.)

Since there are far too many coincidences in my life to be coincidental, I wouldn't dare to say that it's a coincidence that I read Nicoletti's Voracious in the same month that I started cooking more.  I bought it one night after dinner with Mark at Pi, one of our favorite pizza places.  Left Bank Books is just a diagonal jaunt across the street, so it's hard to avoid "just looking."  It was the first of two "books about books" that I read this month.  I adored both, but Voracious, for some reason, thrilled me in a way that was surprising for how simple the book itself was.  I guess it's not that surprising.  It does, after all, combine two of my favorite things: books and the food in books, complete with truly delicious-looking recipes.  And no, I haven't made anything from the book yet, but it's only a matter of time before there's a cherry pie on the table.

Nicoletti's essay/cookbook mash-up is everything it promises to be.  She takes us through her whole lifetime of reading and food, starting with childhood and moving forward.  The essays are short, sweet, and heart-felt.  They are not long, drawn-out, soul-searching works, and that is fine, because they don't need to be epic works to show the deep-rooted love Nicoletti has for great food and great literature.  It's highly possible that I identify a little too strongly with her and am more than a little annoyed that I didn't keep up on my own blog about the food in books.  Such is life.

In the same vein, Stuff I've Been Reading is another book about books.  It's definitely more high-brow and sarcastic, which is fine by me.  I chuckled to myself throughout the whole book, constantly prompting my boyfriend to ask what on earth I was laughing about.  Needless to say, the list of books I want to read has sky-rocketed this month further and further into the unimaginably unachievable range.  But what else is new?

If there is a lesson I learned from both books, however, it is that I never, ever want to read Cormac McCarthy's The Road.  Ever.

Not all books can be winners.  Journey to the Center of the Earth was my least favorite book this month, which is almost unfair considering how excellent most of the books I read were.  Yes, it's a classic, blah blah blah.  But that doesn't mean I have to like it.  This view, I might add, is a more recent revelation to me.  Young, idealistic Ashley was of the firm view that classics were required reading and that if you didn't like them, you were missing something.  Older, lazier Ashley has learned that yes, you can and probably should read the classics, but you don't have to be their staunchest defender.  Some of them are boring and hard to pay attention to (particularly when read in Tim Curry's sonorous voice).  That's not to say they don't have merit.  But it is to say that I don't have to lie and say that I loved a book when I didn't.  So.  I didn't love it.  Moving on.

This brings me to a book I completely loved: Ready Player One.  Loving this book was a bit of a surprise to me.  It wasn't a book that was even on my radar, besides hearing that it was going to be a movie.  It sounded more like a gamer boy book, and I'm not a gamer in any sense of the word.  But I read this article about books "as enchanting" as Harry Potter, and it was listed on there, along with other favorites like The Night Circus and American Gods.  And while wandering around a bookstore with the boyfriend (Yes, we do a lot of that.), I picked up a copy of Ready Player One and mentioned the article I'd read.  Mark, having not-so-secret motives of wanting me to buy the book so he could read it, encouraged me to get it.  And since I never need much encouragement to buy another book, I did.

Cline's fantastic debut novel is one I would never have appreciated as much a few years ago as I did now.  Correction: it is not a book would have appreciated as much without the influence of my boyfriend.  Without him, I wouldn't know half the references I did.  I wouldn't know Oingo Boingo, or The Last Starfighter, or Explorers, or Heathers (to be fair, Alexis helped with that one too).  As someone born in the mid-80s, my 80s pop culture knowledge is middling at best.  It was only a few years ago that I actually saw all the Back to the Future movies all the way through.

Ready Player One is a love song to geeks, gamers, and all things 80s.  That being said, even if I didn't have my new-found 80s education, I still would have enjoyed the book immensely.  The trivia knowledge that you may or may not possess is a cherry on top of the ice cream sundae of a wonderfully-told adventure story, or like an Easter egg you weren't expecting to find.

Following up on the books that became movies theme (also the reason I bought Wild, hopefully to be read next month), I read Here Be Monsters!, which I honestly only picked up because I realized it was the basis for the adorable The Boxtrolls movie (another thing I can blame on the boyfriend: he "made me" watch the movie.  Terrible man.  Truly.)  However, if that's also your motivation for reading the book, I'd caution you to reconsider, or at least to forget that the movie was allegedly based on the book.  Because outside of the existence and inherent nature of boxtrolls and a few characters with the same name and plot lines involving cheese, there's really nothing to connect the two stories.  Once I got over that dismaying fact, I was able to enjoy the book.  It's a quirkily dark young adult novel (there are strange creatures like cabbageheads, rabbit women, and pirate rats that run a nautical laundry, for starters), the first in a series that I probably won't be reading more of because really, I don't have the time.

Helen Macdonald's is a sadly sweet, compelling memoir of Macdonald's struggle to get over her father's death through training a goshawk.  She winds in stories of T.H. White's life and his own book about training a goshawk, aptly titled The Goshawk.  Both authors are tormented souls, grasping at straws and falconry as a means to stay afloat in their grief and pain.  The audiobook is wonderfully read by the author, but I think her aching voice would carry through any text, read aloud or silently.

There is, as Mark put it, an inherent tragedy of a finished book, a strange binding up of satisfaction and dismay.  Though I'm currently in a "read all the books" mode and have been tearing through books as fast as I'm able with limited reading time, I have often felt the internal struggle of I-want-to-finish-this-book-but-don't-want-it-to-end.  After all, a truly wonderful book wraps you up and doesn't let you go when it's finished.  You don't want to pry yourself out and ease into the unfamiliar arms of a new story.  Ready Player One came closest this month to reprising that feeling.  I know Mark, who dropped A Feast for Crows without hesitation to read Ready Player One when I finished, definitely felt it.  I'm not sure he's done much reading at all since.  Of course, A Feast for Crows is a definite swamp of a book, so I can't say I blame him.

We've both become apostles of sorts for Cline, having both recommended Ready Player One to friends and strangers alike, only just stopping short of going door to door passing out stacks of paperbacks.  There are all-too-few books I feel that way about, and I certainly never expected to feel that way about a book I was ready to write off as a gamer boy book.  Great literary fiction?  Yes.  John Irving novels?  Yes.  Books about books?  Yes.

But it's books like Ready Player One that keep me reading, and reading everything.  Correction: it's books like Ready Player One and people like my nerdy boyfriend that keep me reading everything.  I've become far less of a book snob since knowing him, and I'm a better reader (and person) because of it.  Not only does he introduce me to 80s movies and music, but he gets me to read things I never would have on my own.  Without him, I would never have read Terry Pratchett, or the Odd Thomas series, or the Myth Adventure books, or several excellent steampunk novels.  I mentioned the young, earnest reader I used to be earlier?  She still tends to stick around and turn up her nose at things like science fiction, fantasy, and Dean Koontz as a whole.

But I've gotten better at beating her down, as you can see by this month's varied book list.  There are two non-fictions (one even being half a cookbook), a memoir, a YA novel, a classic, and a contemporary fiction.  And the majority of a typical high-brow Byatt novella pairing.  These days, I read just about anything someone gives me (eventually - I do have a very long reading list, after all), but I'm always pleasantly surprised when a book outshines any pretentious expectations I happen to put on it.

I guess that cliche about not judging a book by its cover sometimes holds true after all.

Writers Block and Other Excuses

It's been a week since I told you all that I'm not perfect.  I can only assume you're back this week in hopes of more of the sordid little details I let slip every now and again.  I can't blame you.  I would be too if I didn't already know them all.

If that's what you're here for, you might want to come back next week.  I can't promise any scandal or emotional stories this week, because it's been a week relatively free from emotional or physical trauma (then again, it is only Wednesday), but you never know.  I suppose you'll just have to keep reading to find out.

For those of you who have known me for a while, you know I used to be a writer.  Apparently, I even used to be pretty good at it.  I say "used to be," because I don't feel that I've qualified as much of a writer for quite some time.  Doesn't the saying go "a writer writes"?  Well, I haven't really written lately.  And by lately, I mean years.

Then again, that was one of the points of starting yet another blog.  To write.  To maybe find the voice that I lost somewhere along the way.  And, shockingly, I've written a total of 12 actual blog posts (this will be lucky 13).  True, I have spent the past several years stocking up on some excellent source material, but still.  It's something.

So, to be fair to myself (someone has to be), I guess I've been a writer for at least the past 10 weeks.  "Writer" here is a loosely used phrase, seeing as blogs are often considered to be the bane of the literary world, a dark mark on the highbrow sensibilities of the literarti.  I can't claim that I disagree.  This blog is probably only one step above the journals I kept when I was a teenager, with the major difference being I don't hide it under my bed and I no longer have an all-consuming crush on Ryan Beal.  If Facebook is to be believed, and it usually is, Ryan is currently a tattooed and pierced delinquent, whereas I am an obviously highly successful divorcee doing an astounding job of being an adult.

But we'll give this poor excuse for a public soapbox a break and say that yes, I am writing.  So long as we're being magnanimous, I've also written some recent love poems on the bathroom mirror.  It's not a conventional medium, and I don't expect wide publication, but I think they've been received well by their intended audience.

Honestly, it's a start (the blog and the poems).  I hope.  If you'll remember back to last week, you'll recall that I'm a renowned perfectionist.  This makes being an out-of-practice writer extraordinarily difficult.  Nothing is good enough, because nothing is as good as it used to be.  (Does this all sound familiar?  It does to me.)  I even respond with thoughts of "really?" when people tell me that they like my blog.  

But, like the rest of my life, I guess it's time to start trying.

And, like the rest of my life, it's not easy starting over.

Not to brag, but writing used to be easy for me.  The words were always there.  I wrote everywhere: at home, on the road, at work, at school, at church.  I wrote in notebooks.  I wrote on the computer.  I wrote on bulletins and scraps of paper.  I wrote in the margins of my class notebooks.  I, basically, wrote.

I had ideas.  I had images.  I had turns of phrase that delighted me.  I had titles and character names and backstories and plot twists.

These days, I'm lucky I can come up with a blog every week, much less a sappy note on the mirror.  To tell the truth, the only reason I'm writing about writing this week is that I didn't know what to write about.  Brilliant, I know.

It's not even that I have the quintessential "writer's block."  There's no block.  There's nothing to block.  It's more of a writer's wasteland.  The words are gone.  The ideas are gone.  The characters who used to spring into my mind, as fully-formed as Athena, are gone.

And I don't know where they went.  I don't even know what happened to make them leave.  It certainly wasn't just that I was unhappy.  I had written plenty when I was most deeply unhappy: great, angry, resentful, love-sick poems and pages upon pages of my meanderingly unfinished novel.

I think it was that I stopped feeling.  (Is that a hint of emotional over-sharing?  I think it might be!)  I stopped feeling deeply unhappy in favor of drinking and bad decisions and distracting myself from said unhappiness.  I'd like to note that I am exceptionally good at distracting myself from my own unhappiness and that numbness, for me, can be surprisingly easy to accomplish.  Just have a few drinks every night, pick up an exorbitant number of new hobbies, and forget that there must be more than this provincial life.  You, or at least I, can coast along on that for years at a time, provided the love of your life doesn't come along and completely wreck the illusion.

It's not surprising that the mass exodus of my creativity followed the forced numbing of any real emotions.  Emotional death is an obviously inhospitable climate for ideas.  There's nothing to latch onto, nothing to stimulate or grow.  The wasteland metaphor comes back into play here.  I willingly created a mental desert and wondered why I couldn't write.  

So what now?  I'm self-proclaimedly happy and free, feeling all the normal range of adult emotions again, starting my life over, etc, etc.  Where are the words?  Where is the ease of creativity?  I'm ready and waiting here!

No?  I have to work for it like nearly every other tortured writer on the planet?

That's hardly fair.

But hey, that's life.  It's not fair and it's not easy anymore.  "Suck it up, buttercup," as my boyfriend is so fond of telling me.  He's also rather fond of telling me I should write more.

I'm trying, alright?  I'm writing a blog.  I write the occasional poem.  I may even sometimes feel the stirrings of vague creative potential.  

It's not War and Peace, but I guess it's better than a blank page.