I'm someone's favourite

So, I pour myself a cup of coffee and head over to BlogHer – a vast network of women bloggers that's been getting quite a bit of recognition in the press lately, and to which I submit my own writing – for my morning fix of other people's tales of travel and sex and relationships, my two favourite categories by far.

Spotting Blogher editor, Liz Rizzo's article, BlogHers Tell the Best Stories. My Favs: Sex & Relationships Stories, I decided to go straight for this week's creamy middle – and there I was, with this introduction:

Back to the party... or at least the pub, in my favorite story of the day, Kate Savage shares, Sixty minutes in a London pub – How do I know you? It's a great post about when the horrible guy in the bar turns out to know someone you know...

There are two things I love about Liz's quote:

1) She said my story was her favourite.
2) It reinforced my belief that good stories always win over evil, even drunken sleazoids in bars.

Thanks, Pussy Ranch-cum-Diablo Cody

This year, I cried watching the Oscars. It was as close as I've ever come to winning one. I held my breath, and, with the announcement, I cried. It's taken me a few weeks to admit that to anyone, so I might as well admit it to you all. When Diablo Cody mounted the stage in her million-dollar shoes, I remembered a time before she was Diablo Cody, during her early days of blogging, and most of the hits to this blog came from her's. Back then, what you're reading now was called, You Silly Girl. Her's was Pussy Ranch. Recently, I've been getting hits from the web archives of her (since deleted) blog again, so it's top of mind: Pussy Ranch web archive

I know, I know. You've heard enough about Juno already. But for me, the win felt personal. Not only is Ellen Page from my home province of Nova Scotia, but I was, perhaps excessively, excited for Diablo Cody. Watching the awards ceremony I usually care nothing about, I was filled with a chemically reactive mixture of surging pride, tinges of little-sister jealousy, sweet admiration and, finally, when she won, immense relief. And, I cried. She done real good. Real good.

Wait. Did I say sex?

I tore the package apart, slowly uncovering its hot pink contents. I knew I was to be published, but what I didn't know was that it would be in the sort of publication I can't show my parents. The book features excerpts from my blog. This one. The one you are reading. And, as a reader, I would like you to think back about all the entries on the topic of sex. Need a minute? Yeah, didn't think so.

I'm quite certain that if you read my words to arouse anything other than your mind, you'd be sorely disappointed. You might shrug and move along to something more suiting to your mood. I imagine that is exactly what all the Googlers, who happen upon this site by searching for: "little+girl+models", do. I would prefer that they burst into flames, but alas, the world is not fair.

I was sure that the kind editor was confused, and had sent me the wrong book. My stories have nothing to do with sex. The only connection I have to the more sultry side of blogging are my links to others, like The Wandering Webwhore and Fuzzybunny's Disjointed Thoughts.

But, I opened to the contents page, and there it was, listed as: You Silly Little Girl: Little Exorcisms.

Which, if you've paid attention is technically not the name of my blog. I would never refer to myself as a silly little girl. I am nearing 30. And, frankly, "little girl" is far too loaded a term for a place as sketchy as the Internet. Nevertheless, there were my words, a chapter dedicated to me.

It's exciting to be published. I liked it. I just wish that the representation of my writing was a little more accurate, palatable, polite. I suppose that is why I couldn't quite find the words for the kind editor, Maxim Jakubowski, when he asked for my reaction. That, and because I am currently participating in the production of a history book, and I know how nit-picky people can be about the most insignificant things - like getting a name or title wrong. I know what it is like for people to entirely overlook everything you did right, because all they can see is that "Katherine" should be spelled with a "C", even if their nickname is "Kay".

And, contrary to what you may have thought, the reason I can't show my parents this book is that the address of my journal is at the beginning of my chapter, not because it's too raunchy. In fact, I am certain my mother could spend hours reading about swingers and gay sex, but if she starts reading my journal, I won't be able to write about her anymore.

As you may have noticed, my family is a great source of inspiration for me. Not sex. I don't like writing about sex. Erotica usually sounds ridiculously rehearsed, contrived, dishonest. If I were to write about it, I would get into the politics of it. I would make it academic. I would make you lose your sex drive. And, I can't say I wouldn't do it on purpose. I will leave the honest writing to The Wandering Webwhore, who somehow avoids all the typical traps, and comes across simply as a fascinating adventurer.

To me, the Sex Diaries book is more of a mystery than a collection of erotic journals. I think the kind editor may just wanted to give me a chance to be published. And, I sincerely thank him for that. It is very cool to read aloud to my friends, stories of events they'd experienced with me, from a bound book, published in New York and London.

I will, however, forever be confused.

Lack-of-substance abuse

I don't chit-chat. Perhaps that has become obvious to you, my dear readers, through my long absences, punctuated by proportionately long essays. I'm a ponderer and a writer, not a chit-chatter.

It's not that I don't like to chitter, but my time for recreational thinking is scarce these days - and the only chitter I have is that from too much coffee, too late at night to be productive.

Wish me luck. I'll be back later this week to chatter. Promise.

Writer's guil(t)

Believe it or not, my day job is 'wordsmithing'. Or rather, that's the term I like to use when I refer to my budding career in Public Relations.

I write all sorts of documents, for all sorts of organizations - none of which make me question my morals or social responsibility. I assure you.

My mentors, all confident, beautiful professional women, and have instilled in me a new writing-related value.You see, in the days of e-media, the art of writing has stepped aside to:

1) Save time
2) Save space

And, considering that a ridiculous percentage of the population is functionally illiterate, AND we are instructed to write at a Grade 6-level when appealing to the masses, it is the duty of the loyal few to stay true to rules of grammar, spelling and punctuation. Language evolves. Haven't we bastardized it enough?

As a Canadian writer, I have particular pride in preserving Canadian English, and resisting American-style. This is not elitism, but rather a silent plea to be recognized as a distinct nation.

We have no late nites in Canada. Nor do we add color or flavor to our prose. We avoid inappropriate behavior and never gossip about our neighbors. I am not saying this in self-defense.

What am I getting at? I am guilty of breaking these rules in this journal. And, I feel that guilt.

A meeting of Canadian English and American English does not frighten me as much, however, as the thought of the complete disintegration of the base language. I fear for the fate of English in both nations. After all, we don't have the best role models.

To think it has become the international language of trade. What have we done!?

As writers, albeit online, we have a responsibility to carry the torch. I am forced to disagree with the (I can't bring myself to capitalize his 'p') president of the United States, when he says:

"Quite frankly, teachers are the only profession that teach our children."
- George W. Bush

Teaching our children proper English is everyone's responsibility.Well, except the president's, because he's clearly incapable.

The cosmic power of suggestion

Long ago in Gotham, during a personal experimental growth period, I arranged to visit a new age Healer---a well-off, middle-aged transient woman who would be in the city for only a few weeks, but would find time to help cleanse New Yorkers' muddy auras.

Hours before the meeting, I'd intended to call and cancel our session. I, of course, had no idea what a session involved, and for $300 I was willing to invest in the concept of time healing all wounds instead.

She beat me to the phone and trumped my card. Apparently, she is a seer as well as a healer. She called my sublet home - located on the charming, but dirty edge of Williamsburg - and said in her charming yet authoritative voice: "What are you afraid of? Aren't you ready to face your future? Can't you deal with your issues?"

It wasn't that I really had any pressing issues to manage. I was happy. I was having an adventure in the city that never sleeps - except on the subway. My real issue was that I could think of more fruitful functions for my green American moolah.

She gambled on my personality, and challenged me. It was a dare - and I fell for it. She pulled me in with her cosmic mind powers of manipulation. I was no match for her.

In my own defence, I thought this woman was legendary. I thought her mysterious Swiss abilities were known everywhere the L train rumbled. A documentary was to be made of this woman's incredible will to survive and overcome all obstacles! This was a woman who ousted malignant tumours from her own abdomen with cosmic mindpower! Don't tell me you wouldn't find that inspiring!

Just don't. Please.

Surely, $300 would seem insignificant once I'd been healed! Or, maybe I would just walk away with an empty wallet and a tepid tale.

I do believe in mind over matter, though. I admit it beacuse I am not the first to admit it. When my grandfather passed away, I inherited a leaning, dog-eared tower of his book collection. Among titles like: Geometry and Nature, Natural Dyes and Edible Plants of the Northeast two other texts mingled with the arts and sciences: Cosmic Mind Power Explained and, even more intriguing: Secrets of Cosmic Mind Power.

I arrived for my appointment with an open mind and fat wallet.

She welcomed me, explained the process and brought me into the bedroom where a massage table awaited my damaged aura. Without touching me, she began examining fluctuations in my energies. Her hands hovered barely above my fully-clothed body.

Her talent was not limited to seeing auras, but also to decode them. She would blurt out random words, and interpret my ethereal reaction. I was fascinated. Although I was laying face down, with my eyes closed, I could sense the location of her hands at all times. My skin rose toward her in goosebumps. I was enjoying the cosmic voyage. I casually drifted into a space that allowed me to believe that this was something other than a hoax.

She blurted out that I was a writer. I would write six books. To accomplish this, I would have to oust the word, "want" from my mind, like she ousted tumours from from her belly.

You either do it or you don't. Regardless of what "it" is, she had a point. Saying that you will do anything in the future is a waste of breath. Who knows if you'll do it? Who knows if you'll be hit by an SUV instead. You are or your aren't. You do or you don't. This cozy in between place where we like to dwell is the quicksand of progress and achievement. Stop talking. Start doing. It was quite a lecture, really.

She doesn't believe in predicting the future. She looks at your path, and then tells you what you are capable of doing if you get off your fat ass and scrub your dirty aura free of cosmic scum. My mom could have done the same. But, I don't trust her. She told me I was pretty when I was ten. I've seen the pictures. That woman is capable of deceit.

Any of my friends could have advised me as well. But, there is something intrinsic in the exchange of $300 that makes you want to believe you're getting your money's worth. I really wanted to believe - but, it was struggle.

Then, she found my pain.

A combination of poor posture and computer work had resulted in a jabbing discomfort in my back. It had been there for months and it was affecting my life, and my moods. She found it. That was where I had been storing my negativity, and without physically touching me, she located it and repaired it - by drawing the cosmic goo of stress and doubt from me.

I was going to have to have a shower when I got home, she explained, to wash all that crap off my aura. I was exhausted. I was dehydrated. I was spooked.

I followed her instructions, drank some water and fell asleep.

For the first time in months, my back wasn't throbbing. I was amazed! Astounded! I was healed! I felt it was my cosmic responsibility to begin writing for a broader audience than my diary. I had to take this cosmic gospel and fly with it. Wait. Fly where?

Creationist guilt

Sometimes journaling provides me with an opportunity to exorcize my demons, and sometimes it haunts me. I've been told that at some point in a blog's existence, it will inevitably include information about a cat or other furry pet---which is painfully dull for others to read---and that most blogs fizzle and die within the first year of its creation. I'll have you know that although I have gone the way of the cat (just once, give me a break), I will not let my beloved blog die.

What am I doing?

There is something to be said for 9-to-5 jobs. I mean, I don't have one, but I am fantasizing about one. Having contracts is fine. There is a lot of variety in the writing I'm doing, but sometimes what is expected of me isn't very clear.

Having just completed a contract for an insurance company---preparation of all the documents (and a speech) for an upcoming conference---I've moved on to greyer areas. I'm volunteering my media relations inexpertise to help a friend who has recently opened a dance studio, and I'm working for bread-and-butter with a team to prepare a book honouring a major organisation's anniversary.

Now, knowing exactly what was expected of me would make it a little more fun.

Audience

I remember a lesson, from a writing class I took in Vancouver, that the way one writes depends wholly on the acknowledged audience.

I haven't been here very often. Why? Well firstly, I've been busy with two new jobs and school. Oh, and that volunteer position I do little more than feel guilty about.

Other than that, I know who may possibly be reading me.

What the Hell is going on?

Sheesh, I mention that Satan called and the next thing I know, the Blogger banner at the top of my blog page suggests that people who are interested in my blog might also be interested in:

"Related Searches: • satan • church of satan"

Thanks, Google.

Breasts got in the way of my blossoming writing career

I haven't written anything for more than 'a long time'. Considering that my parents still think I was a Journalism major, that's pretty bad. It's strange then, that what finally prompted me to get off my rocker and set up a blog was pure frustration with what I've been reading in the media these days.

I joined my university weekly publication once and did a commentary on the content of men's magazines. It was my aim to call to attention the uninformed claims they make about women, and how to get them to 'put out'. None of the suggestions they offered their readers would ever work 'in the field'. To add a little humour, I actually measured the amount of breast-space there was. I concluded, that based on the rate of distribution for one year, if I were to cut out all the photos of breasts and tape them together end to end...I would be able to create a breast chain that would wrap around the equator. Tits sell and they have a lot of tits. That's all I was thinking.

To my horror, hours before being sent to print, the Psycho-Feminist-Extremist editor added this conclusion: "Magazines like this encourage date rape."

I told her off, quit the paper and so my disenchantment with the 'Press' began.

It's been a long time since I have written anything public. It feels good to get myself even a little motivated.