Projects!

In an effort to get my name out there as a thoughtful and capable editor of words, I put up a post on a message board for writers asking if anyone had manuscripts they'd like edited for free in exchange for use of their piece as an example in my editing portfolio.

Holy avalanche, Batman! I was not ready for the kind of response I got. Short stories! Non-fiction books! Novels! There are tons of people writing, and every one of them needs someone else to put eyes on their work.

Though it's tougher than I expected to find the time/energy to dive into editing after my regular full-time job, I'm really enjoying the experiment. I decided to do this trial run of free editing for a few reasons:

1. To get an idea of how long it takes me to edit a piece (pages per hour). This will aid me in setting up a pricing structure later on.
2. To get feedback from real, live authors about my editing style and what I could do to improve (Bonus: with the author's permission, I can use their feedback on my website!).
3. To gain experience and create a word-of-mouth reputation about the quality of my work.

So far, I've edited a few short stories and about 1/10th of a full-length non-fiction book, and I have loved every second of it. It doesn't even feel like work for me, at times. I love moving words around and watching them fall into place. It's like a puzzle, and the correct solution means finding a direct path to the idea using the fewest possible words. And, the feedback I've gotten so far has been great.

I will keep pressing onward and upward!

Stranger things

Normally, I shy away from conversation with strangers. It can be hard for an introvert like myself to navigate the crowds of people I encounter on my commute on a daily basis. But sometimes, talking to strangers yields unexpected rewards, and this Tuesday was one of those times.

A young man from South Africa struck up a conversation with me about the book I was reading. Then he told me he'd been travelling for three years, that he'd just completed a hike from Georgia to Harper's Ferry on the Appalachian Trail, and that he was planning on running in the Baltimore marathon... on a whim.

"Wow," I said. "That's quite a whim!"

"Yeah," he replied. "Most of my life is made up of spontaneous decisions."

Whaaat. I sometimes have a hard time deciding if I should start laundry or make coffee first. To live out of a backpack for years, complete a grueling hike and spontaneously decide to run a marathon... that's so far beyond me I can't even see it. (Of course, it doesn't help that the shape I'm in is "miscellaneous.")

I asked him what he does for a living, and he told me he's a motivational speaker.

"What do you speak about?" I asked.

His answer: "I haven't yet. I'll be giving my first speech in Connecticut in a few weeks."

One of my biggest difficulties in going after creative pursuits has been giving myself permission to view myself as an individual with worthwhile creative ideas. To call myself a "writer" or an "artist," or to consider it a remote possibility that one day I could possibly support myself with my creativity is something with which I struggle.

When he calls himself a motivational speaker, having given no speeches as of yet, I believe him. So why shouldn't I believe myself? To be creative, all I have to do is create. For some reason, this has been the most difficult lesson for me to learn, and he made it plain to me in a matter of seconds. Something tells me he's going to be great at motivating a crowd.

Sometimes, you have to break out of your comfort zone. You never know who you'll meet or what you'll discover.

Clear!

Let's bring this mother back to life!

I've spent months and months figuring out to do with myself as an adult human person. The expectations of childhood are that adulthood will bring with it a sense of certainty and purpose; you'll know what you're doing because you're a grown-up, of course. Adults solve problems. Adults know what's up.

As you have perhaps realized in the course of your own introspection, this expectation is farther off-base than Rush Limbaugh talking about women. Mere weeks from my 27th birthday, I now understand what escaped me for years: nobody knows what they are doing, and everybody is winging it.

It's not all bad. Facing a million different paths without a map is daunting, terrifying, but also liberating. I can be anything, do anything! But... how do I do that?

By starting, of course.

Since my last writing, I got a job in the "big city," moved out of my parents' house, and moved apartments twice. Yes, that's three, count 'em, three moves in the last year. Yes, I hate moving. No, I never want to move again.

Having carted enough boxes to last me a lifetime, I moved on to the considerably more arduous process of making a mental move. What do I want to do? Who do I want to be? How many self-help books can I add to my wish list on Amazon before they say "enough"?

And so, I set about combing the Craigslist of the mind to see what kind of gig I'd like to end up with. I bit the bullet and bought one of said self-help books to find out if it would advance my quest, or leave me with more questions. The book is I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was: How to Discover What You Really Want and How to Get It, by Barbara Sher and Barbara Smith.

After pondering sufficiently if they each refer to their writing partner as "The Other Barbara," I actually read the book. On vacation, no less. Nothing like a little soul-searching while one's off-brand sunscreen fails spectacularly, giving one the look and feel of a splotchy, painful tomato. ("Painful Tomato" would be a bitchin' band name.)

Having already given the matter considerable thought, some of the conclusions I drew upon finishing the book were not entirely surprising. I'm not happy where I am in my career. Fact. Obvious fact. I need to do something different. Again, obvious. But what is it?

Despite the title's claim, this was still not immediately clear by book's end. This isn't likely the fault of the text. I've always been a bit of a hobby-go-round. Formal education excepted (my passion for the English language knows no bounds), I tend to learn the gist of something: just enough to be able to understand it or obtain basic skills, and then I move on to uncharted waters.

But you can't specialize in everything, and not all hobbies can be successfully translated to full-time occupation, so it's necessary for me to be a bit more selective. I'll have to keep noodling away at it until the heat from the friction of my brain-gears grinding is enough to boil this idea soup down to its essential parts.

I'm proud of that metaphor, and I'm sticking to it.

In Search of a Substitute: Orville Redenbacher's Lime and Salt Popcorn

Somebody call Dr. Drew, because I have an addiction to Lime and Salt Popcorn. I've been hooked since my first bag, and then it disappeared and I was distraught and hoarded my remaining supply. A couple of weeks ago I was in the grocery store when a single shaft of light shone down from the heavens and I saw, to my ecstatic surprise, that it was BACK! AND I BOUGHT FOUR BOXES! OOPS!

Tasty, tasty poison.

According to Wikipedia, which we all know is the world's most reliable source of information, popcorn from the store-bought microwave bags is... how do you say... not so good for you.

In 2006, concerns were raised about the levels of perfluorooctanoic acid (PFOA, a chemical related to Teflon) in popcorn bags. The high temperatures used in popping popcorn may facilitate the transfer of the chemical, which is carcinogenic in lab animals, into the popcorn oil.DuPont has agreed to eliminate almost all use of the chemical by 2015.

Additionally, the artificial butter flavoring used in many brands of microwave popcorn has been linked with the obstructive lung diseasebronchiolitis obliterans, sometimes referred to as "popcorn lung", in factory workers and others exposed to large amounts of the substance. The chemical diacetyl, the cause of bronchiolitis obliterans, has been removed from some popcorn brands.

"POPCORN LUNG?" That ain't right, you guys. I have to figure out how to replicate this delicious flavor on my own, so that "popcorn" and "lung" may never again be in the same sentence, unless it is to say "I inhaled the delicious, non-toxic popcorn scent into my lungs before eating the entire bag by myself. The end."

I get that you can make plain popcorn kernels in plain paper bags in the microwave, and you can make them on the stovetop, and then you can add your own flavorings. It's up to me now to figure out what process and what ingredients will most closely resemble Mr. Redenbacher's wretchedly glorious creation. Perhaps items from this site could be of help. In the meantime, let's hope I don't crumble and die from eating the 4 boxes I already bought. Because I will do it.

UPDATE: I figured out how to do it myself!

Look at me trying to be socially acceptable!

I figured today was a good day to start a blog because I got an American Girl catalog in the mail. It felt like a good omen. I haven't owned or thought about American Girl dolls since I was 8 years old, and 17 years later, they are still carrying the flame for me. That's dedication, and it's inspiring. If a dead-eyed fake child staring at me from the glossy pages of a magazine can't get me motivated, what can?

I'm not sure what this is going to be about yet. I have other blogs on which I post little bits of nonsense and silly pictures and a great deal of swear words. I hope to make this a bit more substantial and accessible and useful.

I'm interested in frugality, self-improvement, and finding the simplest possible solution for every problem. I experiment a bit with all of these things just about all of the time, but I always feel like I could be doing more. I learn just as much from my (frequent) spectacular failures as I do from my (less frequent) modest successes.

My plan is to take you through each of these experiments and detail what has worked for me, what hasn't, and the resources I used to cobble everything together. I'll also share my goals, a few deep thoughts, and maybe a swear word here and there.