On the off-chance that my fanbase is larger than four

Well, fanbase of four, I know you all personally and so all of you presumably know why I haven't posted in over a week and why I'm not likely to post after this for another week. But in the infinitesimal chance that I've been wrong for the past few months and that people whom I don't know consistently read my blog and wonder what's going on, I'm about to leave the parental nest in Colorado to seek out new urban life and new urban civilizations; to pursue that jack-of-all-trades degree, a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing; to boldly go where no curly-headed 23 year-old former editorial assistant has gone before (to the best of my knowledge): Chicago.

That's right, in a mere four days, I'll be loading up and moving to Chicago (with the help of my parents and my parents' SUV, that is) , where I'll attend Columbia College and pursue the aforementioned degree. Since I think I have a legitimate reason for not posting, my rule about revealing tidbits about the depths of my psyche yada yada yada doesn't apply. So HA! I get to remain an enigma wrapped inside of a mystery. Or is that a mystery wrapped inside of an enigma? Oh well.

Watch for me in a week, give or take a few days.

On another note, some of you may wonder why I post what might be called "flights of fancy," such as my previous post, or this one, rather than amusing anecdotes about my life. The reason is very simple: my life is boring. Thus I'm forced to be creative. We can hope that things will improve in Chicago, but don't hold your breath: I anticipate many panic-ridden posts in which I bewail my lack of money, as I'll soon embody the double-whammy of starving student and starving artist.

Of course, you're always welcome to start up a Help Amanda, She Who Embodies the Starving Starving Student and Starving Artist Fund (HASWESSSAF). If you do, I'll start up another list in my sidebar called "HASWESSSAF Supporters" and post your name there, and if you give me your contact info (again assuming there are people in my fanbase whom I don't know) I'll send you your very own handmade "I'm a HASWESSSAF Supporter!" pin.* In the words of Captain Planet, "The power is yours!"

*Pin will be a piece of cardstock attached to safety pin. Cardstock will have a crude design on it that was supposed to look very fancy and professional but does not because I cannot draw, and so legend will start out in neat block letters, but get scrunched up toward the end as I begin to run out of room to write. Graphic will be a circle that is meant to be a face, with squiggles on the top that are meant to represent curly hair; a disembodied hand holding a pencil; and a voice bubble that says "I'm starving!" Part of the pin will be colored as I will have thought that color might save it from becoming a travesty, but I will quickly realize color only makes it worse and decide it's not going to get any better, and besides, I have that short story due, and I haven't vacuumed in over a month, and my eye has started twitching each time I think about my bank statement. But I will also personalize it on the back, and that makes all the difference.

Failed willful suspension of disbelief with commericals

I tend to overanalyze commericals. That's one of the reasons I love TiVo--since it's so easy to just zip right past them, I save myself the effort of pondering unrealistic pieces of advertising. But there are a few things I tend to watch live, and one of these is the news. Last night, one of the local news shows had a commecial for the morning news. It featured the entire morning news crew in a couple's home as the couple awakened and began their day: the weather forecaster said it was going to be a bright and sunny day; one of the news anchors offered the woman a toothbrush with pre-applied toothpaste; the sports announcer gave tickets to the man, etc.

Now, the couple took all this in stride--which, of course, was the point of the commercial: the news team was helping the couple prepare for their day and everyone is happy; of course that's how the news channel would want the couple to appear, blah blah blah. But during the entire commercial, I was thinking about how I would react if I were placed in the same situation.

My alarm goes off at 5:55. I groan, roll over, and hit the off button.

"Morning!" chirps Anchor 1 (female).

She and I scream in unison, but for entirely different reasons. "What're you doing in my room?" I croak, just as she says, "Good Lord, your hair looks like Krusty the Klown's!"

I pull my sheets up to my chin and my eye darts around the room, counting invaders. They're all here: of course there's Anchor 1; then there's Anchor 2 (male), Traffic Reporter (female), Sports Reporter (female), Weather Forecaster (male), and Replacement Anchor/Traveling Reporter (male).

"Granted," says Anchor 1 as she edges closer to peer at my bedhead, "his hair is blue, but you certainly have that tri-point thing of his." [Note: Of course the woman in the commerical was already wearing makeup, and her hair was a tangle-free, shiny curtain of black hair.]

"It's the result of sleeping for seven hours when you have curly hair that's long-ish but not long enough to tie back," I mutter. Then, louder, "What're you doing in my bedroom?"

"We're your Morning News Crew!" they chorus, and beam at me. I wish I had a baseball bat under the bed.

"Say hi to the camerama-- whoops, cameraperson!" says Anchor 1, and giggles. Cameraperson (androgynous) waves at me from my doorway.

"I repeat: what're you doing in my bedroom?"

"We're here to help you start your day," says Weather Forecaster. "Uh-oh! You better get out and walk your dog now, it looks like it's going to be another scorcher with record-breaking heat!" He grabs my arm and tries to pull me out of bed.

It occurs to me to scream "Sexual harassment!" but instead I yank back my arm and cower under the covers.

Traffic Reporter is at the window, having pulled back the shades, and looks at the street through a pair of binoculars. "Looks like the road to the lake is clear, very little traffic. One stoplight appears to be slow letting cars across the intersection--wait, there they go! We have no gridlock!" She turns to the east. "And it looks like the road to the gym is clear as well, but you better take your dog to the lake quick, because who knows what it'll be like in a half-hour!"

Now I realize that I have no bra, and my cheery Morning News Crew wants me to get out of bed and flop in front of the camera. [Note: The woman in the commercial was not well-endowed enough to flop, and she probably got to wear a bra anyway.]

Now Replacement Anchor/Traveling Reporter holds up a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. "Your clothes." He smiles at me as if I'm supposed to thank him for rummaging through my closet. [Note: The man in the commercial did.] And from behind his shoulder, I can see into my closet. The bra that I wish I was wearing hangs right next to my robe, in plain view. I groan and cover my face.

"Come on, you haven't got all day," says RA/TR. He shakes my clothes in my face.

"Well then, get out so I can change," I snarl at all of them. [The commercial skipped over the part where the couple went from PJs to work clothes.]

Six smiles falter. Maybe seven; I can't see Cameraperson's face.

"Well, I suppose that's reasonable--" says Anchor 1, a frown on her face. "And let's see if we can't get makeup and hair here for her," she whispers as they trudge out of the room. "That hair--"

"It's bedhead!" I shout. Cameraperson keeps the camera trained on me as I get out of bed, doing my best to keep my boobs from flopping. Then, and only then, does Cameraperson leave the doorframe and shut the door.

At last I emerge, after double-checking that I do not have a baseball bat under the bed, and head to the bathroom. Since the morning news crew lines the hallway, there is no chance of escape. In the bathroom, I see that Sports Reporter has already found my toothbrush and applied toothpaste to it. "Don't forget the game tonight," she says as she gives me my toothbrush and pulls some tickets out of her pocket.

"I don't like sports, and all the Denver teams suck right now anyway." I take the toothbrush and ignore Sports Reporter's pressed lips and proffered "tickets," which I now see are just pieces of paper. "And who brushes their teeth before they pee in the morning!" Then I shove her out of the bathroom. [Because unless it's about incontinence or a bladder issue, no one has to urinate in commercials.]

Once I emerge, Weather Forecaster is at it again. "Already seventy-five degress and climbing! You'd best get on your way."

"Sunscreen," I mutter, and head back to my bedroom. Too bad the bathroom didn't have a window I could climb out of.

"Ah yes," says Anchor 2. "Studies say that young women are the fastest-growing group of skin cancer cases. What's causing this trend? Evening Correspondent 1 reports at five." He eyes me as I slather sunscreen on my face. "Now, since you have brown hair, brown eyes, and are freckle-free, you are less likely to develop skin cancer than people with light hair, light eyes, and freckles, but you should still use an SPF of at least fifteen--"

"You stole that from the newspaper, didn't you? And why don't you save it for Evening Correspondent 1?"

Finally I get my dog (who, this one time, decided not to bark at intruders) hooked up to his leash. I head out of the house to see my Morning News Crew congregated on the lawn, camera still rolling.

"Right, who's ready for the next house?" asks RA/TR.

They cheer and stride toward the neighbors' home. I heisitate, then run back inside to look up their phone number. They deserve a warning.

More from the closet: "My life in ancient Egypt"

Remember the previous post where I said I would include more crappy writings from my youth? Well, this one isn't really a crappy writing from my youth--though it is still very crappy, I assure you. No, this is evidently a bonus project from sixth grade when my class studied ancient Egypt. My best friend and I, who teamed together for the Egypt stuff, were overachievers, so much so that we would have given Lisa Simpson premature ulcers if she had been (a) a sixth grader, (b) in our class, and (c) real.

So my friend and I, overachievers that we were, made several bonus assignments to get extra credit. From what I remember, we did this without even asking our teachers if we would get extra credit. Yes, Lisa would have wept.

Anyway, one of the bonuses was a "story" written in fake hieroglyphics and then translated. It's in my handwriting, so I know I did it, but I don't have a specific memory of creating it. Here's the translation:

My Life In Ancient Egypt

I was riding away from a dog who seemed determined to have my bike tires for lunch. Suddenly, I fell into a hole. Where am I? I wondered. I stood up and saw . . . the Sphinx. "Whoa. I'm in Egypt."

It was pretty cool. I guess I'll never know what it's like till I stop dreaming.

See, that looks pretty short, but with all my little hand-drawn feathers and things that were presumably birds, it took up over two pages. And as I reread it for the first time in several years, I thought, "Funny. I never took crack, yet who would know?" but then the last line struck me as sort of poignant. "I guess I'll never know what it's like till I stop dreaming." Whoa, man. That's deep. And I'm sure it'd seem even deeper in a smoke-filled basement illuminated by the glow of lava lamps. Nevertheless, that phrase yawned before me, an open gate to metaphysical contemplation. Do any of use really know what the undefined "it" is like before we stop dreaming? Are we dreaming even now? Can we find the truth in the seemingly idle lyrics of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat"--life is but a dream? Because it really makes you think, doesn't it, "Till I stop--"

Then I thought, "Screw it, it's blog-fodder" and went back to purging the closet.

Despair and writers as egotists with low self-esteem

Yesterday I read this article by Patti Thorn, a staff writer for the Rocky Mountain News. Pretty depressing figure there: according to Thorn's "new friend Greg Slominski," the odds of a book (from my understanding) writer living as a writer--meaning, writing is his or her day job--is 1 in 380. Keep in mind, fanbase, that we're not talking striking it rich in J.K. Rowling proportions, or even Dan Brown proportions (off topic--am I the only one who thinks The Davinci Code isn't all that great, that in fact it's a colorless piece of work with some of the flattest characters since, well, Flatland?). We're talking being able to pay the bills and get by without resorting to another job. After adjusting the figures to allow for "a range of error," Thorn reports the odds as ranging from 1 in 200 to 1 in 500.

According to "The Odds," I'm more likely to die "in the next year in any type of transportation accident" (1 in 77). But, according to the same site, I'm less likely to be struck by lightning (1 in 576, 000) or be "considered possessed by Satan" (1 in 7,000). Things are looking up.

The site also lists the odds of writing a New York Times bestseller as 1 in 220--slightly better than the 1 in 380 figure of living off of writing. Which just goes to show that should I ever be so lucky as to pen an NYT bestseller, I should refrain from quitting my life of drudgery to make my computer my BFF in the belief that just because I've made it once, I'll make it again.

All this got me thinking.* Writers** are egotists with low self-esteem.

Let me explain.

To see the initial creation of a book through to the end, a writer has to believe that, first of all, the idea is a good one, and, second of all, that he or she is a good enough writer to present the idea in such a way that it is publishable and people will actually want to read it. I speak from experience--it becomes horribly difficult to write something if your brain keeps chanting "This sucks, you hack! This sucks!" as your fingers tap the keys, or as you stare out the window hoping for inspiration. Or even when you're not writing at all--the thought can come at you from nowhere. It's morning, you're still groggy because the coffee or other caffinated beverage of choice hasn't hit you yet, and you're brushing your teeth and you haven't yet spared a thought for your work in progress. Your bleary eyes stare at yourself in the mirror, and it is then that the little part of your brain that consists of the blackest evil and wishes nothing but the worst for you wakes up, rubs its little hands together in malicious glee, inhales deeply, and shouts at the tops of its lungs, "Hey, hack! Your book sucks! Sucks! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

But I digress. The point is that the writer has to have faith in his or her work and in him- or herself to get the initial draft down on paper. That's the egotist bit--you're writing something worthwhile, and it's more worthwhile than all the other thousands of manuscripts in current preparation, because only so many books can be published (unless you're willing to put out the money to self-publish, in which case saturation of the market, readability, and anything else don't matter) and yours is the one that will be published.

But once that first draft is down on paper, low self-esteem has to kick in, because now comes the time when the book needs to be ripped apart and edited. Mind, self-esteem can't be so low that one gives up but at this point the writer has to become unenamored with the work and see its faults, which then need to be fixed. And with a first draft, one can expect numerous and sizable faults, and come to believe that one is a hack after all. Nevertheless, the "Hack!" voice needs to be gagged, tied to a chair, and perhaps tortured, because I think the difference between hacks and real writers is that hacks don't bother to rewrite. They don't care enough about the work to rewrite, and that's what makes them hacks.

So what's the point of this post, fanbase? What purpose do these 806 words, including footnotes but not the text following "these," serve? Essentially to remind myself that I am not a hack, and that if I love writing, I'll do it in spite of the odds of becoming a successful writer. I'll do it for myself. So really, this has been a very self-absorbed post, but one that I think is worth it.

See, I told you writers are egotists.

*This is a lie. I had actually got to thinking before reading Thorn's article, but the two topics flow together so well that I decided to ignore the fact that I had been thinking even before reading Thorn's article and merge the two items anyway. I do try to be honest with you, fanbase, and don't you forget it!

**Well, ones who want to be published, anyway.

The absurdities of youth--or, Cleaning out the closet

So I've been going through all my junk in prepartion for my move to Chicago in less than a month. Currently, I'm just figuring what's pure junk that I can just throw away, what's not quite so junky that I can dontate somewhere or sell at a garage sell, or what's stuff I actually want to keep.

Part of this latter category includes a subcategory of "stuff that isn't junk to me but will be junk to whoever has to clean out my junk when I'm dead." Today, I found a bunch of stuff that falls in this subcategory, mostly very humorous early attempts at writing. I had completely forgotten that when I was about nine or ten years old, I had made a series of "books," which I called Book Quest (see left), based on the Choose Your Own Adventure series. Only, if I recall correctly, the Choose Your Own Adventure books had more than one way to finish, meaning that you could achieve the book's "goal" in more than one fashion. In other words, there was more than one way to slay a dragon. Not Book Quest! In the three finished Book Quest books,* there were myraid ways to die (see right), but only one way to "beat the book," as I called it. Now that I actually remember having created the books in the first place, I seem to have another memory of a very frustrated aunt who refused to finish reading my books because she kept dying in them. Sigh. At least her negative attitude didn't stifle my creativity--or rather, my desire to be creative--as my closet full of crappy childhood stories proves.

I also found someting that I think isn't half bad, but then I was much older when I wrote it (seveenteen) and I have a sort of skewed sense of humor to begin with. Remember the "Fuzzy Wuzzy" rhyme? "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear, Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair, Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't very fuzzy--was he?" Or something like that. Apparently, on November 9, 1999 (it's so helpful when I date my work!), I decided to write a brief story--what I now would call flash fiction--entitled "The True Story of Fuzzy Wuzzy." Read on, fanbase of four!

And now, we've all heard about that lovable bear, Fuzzy Wuzzy who had no hair. But is that the true story? Sources say otherwise. (CAMERA VIEW: Gradual close-up on Fuzzy's back as he turns his head slowly to the camera to reveal a sinister snarl complete with elongated fangs and demonic, glowing red eyes.) Find out what Fuzzy's true side is in the (trumpet fanfare) RANDOM RHYME OF THE FORTNIGHT!** (Caution: May not be suitable for young children.)

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a were-bear.
Fuzzy Wuzzy hated Care Bears.
So Fuzzy Wuzzy took his chainsaw
That went buzzy buzzy and he--

(CAMERA VIEW: Clip of pastel fur flying everywhere, occasional glimpses of gore-encrusted chainsaw, abruptly cut-off cries of "Care Bear Stare!" and maniacal laughter throughout.)

Leading people to ask, "Was Fuzzy insane? Was he?"
One thing's for sure:
Fuzzy no longer inspires "fuzzy wuzzies in your tummy," does he?

Well, it made me chuckle, anyway.

At any rate, this treasure trove of junk-to-everybody-but-me will likely ensure that I have somethingto post for quite some time, since I'm never averse to a little humorous self-deprecation. Keep visiting, fanbase; along with the stories, I found a bunch of journals.

*There was a fourth, unfinished Book Quest book, which I can only assume would have followed the same policy of "Death! Death to you! Mwa-ha-ha-ha!" and which I know had several aspects blatantly ripped-off from the King's Quest series of adventure computer games. Plagiarism at an early age!

**I have no memory of actually coming up with a random rhyme every fortnight. My guess is that I simply thought it was a clever title for a fake television show, since it featured alliteration.

Hurrah! Photo hosting!

Well, fanbase of four, I am pleased to see that Blogger now offers direct photo hosting! I did look into using Hello, but got bored/frustrated with trying to get it to work properly, so gave up and decided I would just have a photo-free blog. No longer, however! To that end, I am posting my first-ever photo to my blog. It's a picture of yours truly, and I'm doing it mainly so that I can include a photo on my profile.

Here's moi, or at least the eyes de moi.


Of course, my entire fanbase of four already knows what I--or my eyes--look like. So this post is really meaningless to you. Oh well.

I hang my head in shame

Right, it's been nearly a month since I last posted, and I made the mistake of scanning my last post and seeing that I decided to make it an "unofficial rule" that I would reveal "some snippet that reveals an aspect of the hidden depths of my psyche" in return for failing you, my fanbase of four, by posting infrequently.* So now, in addition to trying to come up with something mildly entertaining so that you, fanbase of four, don't waste five minutes of you time in reading this post, I have to be entertaining while giving some sort of said snippet. This, dear fanbase, is a difficult task, but here goes.

I dislike sock fuzz.

Now, just what does my dislike of sock fuzz reveal about my psyche? Could it be that there is some sort of childhood trauma involving sock fuzz? Perhaps at some point, a torturous soul, such as an elder brother, forcibly placed me inside a dryer and laughed while I screamed and begged for freedom, and the only thing I could hear above my own increasingly hoarse cries for help was a malicious, "Eat sock fuzz!"?

No.**

Could it be that I am obsessive compulsive, and that when I get the sock fuzz trapped between my toes, and see the sock fuzz trapped between my toes, I must halt all other acitivity until I have removed every last bit of fluff from the crevices separating those tiny appendages that are so helpful for balance? Or is it that some part of my brain is skewed and I think the sock fuzz might somehow hinder my toes in their important job of maintaining my balance?

Again, no.

So what, exactly, does my dislike of sock fuzz reveal about my psyche?

I don't know. But it was the first thing that popped into my head when I was wondering what I should write, so I figure it's got to be related to my psyche somehow. If you happen to have any theories, fanbase of four, feel free to post them. Though I may regret saying that later.

On another note, the countdown to Chicago is on. I'll be moving in less than a month. Yay!


*After receiving a complaint many weeks ago from someone who seemed to think he/she was not included in my fanbase of three, I have decided to increase the number. And now I have that cool alliterative thing going: "Fanbase of four." Huzzah for alliteration!

**Unless, of course, my brain repressed such a memory because it was too dreadful and traumatizing to remember, and it is now slowly revealing itself to me as I write. But that's getting a little too Freudian for me.