Red Writer, Red Writer, Can I Comes Over

Couple of points before I head into this post:

1. I don’t understand algebra.
2. I’ll never tell you my political opinions.
3. I’m not really older than dirt. 

Now, first, about the algebra: When my oldest brother was in high school, he earned A’s for calculating stuff. Then I came along and earned A’s for writing stuff. While he can write passably well, he probably won’t ever earn any change for it; when I see an algebra problem, my brain screams and hides behind the nearest door.

I’m glad I got the words and he got the gobbledygook, because words really do have power. I’ve yet to see anyone tweet an algebra problem. Then again, if people are out there tweeting algebra problems, I’m never going to follow them, so hmm … OK, I’ve yet to see anyone tweet a political algebra problem.

Which brings me to my second point: This is the blog where I record my thoughts about being a writer. In my real life, I write blogs for other people for small change and pen political posts when they strike me. That said, you will never, ever know which “side” I’m on because, like I said, this blog is about the writer, not about the writing.

Moving on to point three: While I’m not really older than dirt, in less than a year I will be the big five oh. When I was out running errands earlier today, I noticed the trees … rather than trying to impress you with my nonexistent poetic skills, let’s just call them fantastic. They’ve entered their head-craning-accident-causing phase this autumn.

Most of them here in dusty West Texas are just plain brown, which makes the reds/oranges/yellows just that much more spectacular. But the reds are the best. And it occurred to me that my writing, like me, has entered into its own autumn. When I was in my spring – in high school and as a young mother – my writing and I were all about the punch line. We were giddy, and we couldn’t have written anything else had we tried.

As spring turned into summer, we matured. When my mom passed on, we wrote such heartrending essays about her that we promised ourselves that – if we had any talent at stringing words together – that we’d stop using it to make people cry. So, in that summer season, we turned to concrete matters: we started using it to earn some spare change and we entered the political arena.

But, lately, we question our choices again. While we don’t make people cry anymore (I hope), there’s a lot of shouting in the arena and, although we’re not major players, we’re certainly doing our share of whispering from the sidelines. While the leaves change colors outside, our own hair grays within, and I suspect we’re accidentally maturing again – but I don’t want to be a plain brown gasp from the sidelines. I want to be a warm, earthy, joyously red writer. And I wonder … couldn’t our words be better spent serving others somehow? Or, at least making them smile again?

Do aging algebrarians ignore deadlines for an afternoon while they ponder such questions? I’ll never know.

I is a writer.

I Fights Writer’s Fat

At the risk of becoming a broken record, wearing comfy pants is the third best thing about working as a freelance writer. The second is that my home office is in such close proximity to my refrigerator and to my pantry. The first is 100 percent control over my schedule.

Unfortunately, these three benefits, working in tandem, are also the worst things that ever happened to my waistline.

I tend to unconsciously meander into my kitchen whenever I’m stuck on the next sentence, ambiguous about what project I should tackle next, or overwhelmed/frustrated/miffed over how the day’s work is going in general.

My comfy pants cheerfully accommodate the results.

About 25-years ago (oy! sad, but true), when I worked as an administrative assistant, a friend and I went to a new French “bistro” that lasted something like a month here in where’s-the-beef-rural-West-Texas. I’ve never seen anything like that place, before or since. The dessert menu was unbelievable. We turned into children in its presence. When we left, she went home and I went back to work. The unyielding waistband of my denim skirt knew not of comfy. Its training was in torture.

I never insulted my “work clothes” that way again.

Flash forward to last spring. Although the winter had been the most productive season of my writing “career” (please stop laughing), after six months of nearly complete immobility, even my comfy pants were starting to whimper. I thought I’d lose the excess … baggage … during the summer because I’m much more active, but (last Saturday) we had the season’s first freeze, and I’m still…

Well, let’s just say that, apparently, I wasn’t active enough this summer. I kinda had to change out of a pair of comfy pants this morning into others that were …  more comfy.

Does writer’s block necessarily have to equal writer’s fat? When I’m on a roll, and the words are stringing together like good little soldiers, I forget about the chocolate chip cookies that are only nine steps away. Ice cream is but ten. (Yes, I counted them. Was that OCD?) Anyway, as long as I’m on a roll – not overwhelmed/frustrated/discouraged/miffed – I stay out of the kitchen. Not acceptable. Such nirvana rarely lasts long. I need a better plan this winter, lest I have to buy ever-larger comfy pants. Unfortunately, I’ve been trying to formulate that better plan so that I can write this sentence for at least half an hour. Now I’m not only frustrated and discouraged but, yes, miffed. Not only did I just face plant into writer’s block, but also my stomach is growling again.

The nice unlucky good bad thing is, relief is just nine steps away.

I is a writer.

I is Still Writing

I is still here. I rarely post to this little blog about the writing life because not much has changed. I still get up as on time as I possibly can (depending on the severity of my insomnia the previous night) and fling myself toward my to do list face first, thinking I’ll get more than one or two items checked off if I just work harder. Then I go outside, get distracted by nature for half-a-day, look at the clock, freak, and eat chocolate to cheer myself up before finally settling down to work.

The weather’s starting to cool again, even down here in Tejas, which means I’m alternating between comfy pants and comfy shorts, depending on how my legs feel at any particular second. Another benefit of freelance writing, naturally.

I’d set a date of November 1 this year to finish that freaking book I’ve been working on for longer than I’m going to admit. What a joke. I’ll make that a top priority for next year, of course.

Again.

My fluffy little kitten (Mr. Fwuff) that was born last winter is now a large fluffy cat. Interesting how the word fluffy sounds more correct in its two different positions in the last sentence. The fact that I mentioned it proves that I haven’t become any less anal weird since I last posted.

Although I’m always sad at the end of the growing season, I love the crap out of fall. It doesn’t hurt that it’s followed by Christmas. I’m no fan of the long, cold winter months afterward because I hate shoes, but that’s when I do the bulk of my official writing-for-pay and I have fuzzier, warmer comfy pants (and socks) that make the situation quite snuggly. Oh, and I’ll be firing up my trusty under-the-desk heater then too, I’m sure. Freelancing may be a somewhat lonely life, but I ain’t complaining. It’s too cushy.

Living the dream. I is a writer.

I Experiences a Short, Hairy Distraction

Genuine distractions Possum and Mr. Fwuff

The greatest challenge to my writing productivity isn’t lack of time. Since using Twitter is considered a social media marketing strategy, the hours I spend happily following tweets are crucial to my work. For example, thanks to this tweet, I found a recipe on how to microwave a brownie in a cup.

Chocolate is a critical component to any writer’s success.

Lack of motivation isn’t working against me. I’m extremely motivated. I need to earn a good living so I can afford higher quality chocolate.

Not being ambitious enough isn’t a problem either. I want to be so famous as a writer that people will no longer refer to the improper use of verbs as a mistake. When someone writes If I was a rich blogger, I could afford worms when I eat my cup of dirt, when what the writer meant was If I were a rich blogger … (because he or she actually does wish to eat worms), I want to be so famous that mixing up verbs becomes known as Ambering them.

No, the greatest challenge to a successful writing life is my hair. Or lack of it, that is.

The problem is twofold:

1. I have to tinkle at least once per hour.
2. I got a cheap haircut. 

Since you’re probably wondering why getting a cheap haircut was on that list, I’ll tell you straight up: I got a cheap haircut to try to correct a previous cheap haircut. When that one didn’t work, I paid for a third cheap haircut. Three cheap haircuts back-to-back-to-back add up to an expensive one. Not a good one. Just a really pricey one.

Which brings me to the issue of frequent tinkling. I drink about a pitcher of iced tea when I’m working in the summer heat, and there’s a mirror directly across from the toilet in my bathroom. I have a tendency to sit down, notice my reflection, be shocked all over again, and then drag out my hair equipment and try to style what’s left of it one more time.

When I can’t, I just make another hair appointment, of course.

That’s also why I never made time to defrost dinner for tonight. Surely there’s a tweet leading to a chicken in a cup recipe?

I is not a chef. I is a writer.

I is a big, fat liar. And a cautionary tale.

There’s an empty space on my wall where my college diploma ought to be. There is a long, complicated explanation for this that would either make you get all sympathetic and start sniffling, or it might cause you to call me ugly names, quote statistics at me, and tell me you hope my children take after their father, lest they be idiots like their momma.

If you’ll hang on a sec, I’ll explain why, I’m also a big, fat, lying cautionary tale. First, I need to explain why a village is missing me.

See, I didn’t know I could just change this blog (other than editing the text itself, of course). So, I spent several days trying to think of an appropriate title for a new and improved blog. I finally decided on either Comfy Pants or The Comfy Pants Chronicles (along that line), since other bloggers seemed to really connect with the fact that I mentioned I work in jammie pants from a home office.

But, when I went to register a title, my fingers kept trying to type I Has Comfy Pants. I couldn’t make them behave. That’s when I wondered if I could just change this, existing blog, and …

Duh. Obviously, I did.

So, I’ve been working on making it into a real blog, complete with images, categories all corrected, copyright stuff deleted (sorry, I didn’t know!), etc. Hopefully, you’ll find it more aesthically asthetically aesthecly visually pleasing. I hope that explains why I’m such a liar. It wasn’t intentional, but it happened.

(The reason I’m big and fat is because I never lost my winter weight. I’m just a tanner shade of heavy now.)

Back to the lying thing: I’m afraid I still haven’t been completely honest with you. My daughter is my number one fan (yes, yes, I know she’s my only fan, but by default that makes her number one), and she actually didn’t want me to shut down this blog. You’d probably have to be as old as dirt, as I am, to appreciate the magnitude behind this:

My very chic, very-into-everything-Interwebs,very young-twenty-something-year-old daughter likes my blog. That’s heavy, baby!

I’ve still got to go back and follow all of my followers, find more good blogs that I’ll enjoy reading myself, and tweak a few more things here and there over the next few days (like fix that freaking Twitter button … it’s making me nuts …). As I said before, I have learned so much! Nevertheless, I wish it wasn’t my nature to jump into things first, without a clue about what I was doing …

Still, that just makes me a good cautionary tale for my little daughter. She recently quit her corporate gig as a studio photographer and is now starting to navigate the freelancing waters for the first time. I’m fully prepared to make every blasted mistake there is so that she can do exactly the opposite and be successful.

I is just a mom like that.

I is a writer second.

I Lays a Egg

I’ve been intently studying social media marketing (SMM) lately, and have discovered that I’ve been blogging quite badly.

Apparently, I was supposed to be “branding” myself (as a writer, not a cow) all this time. Using I IS a Writer as a blog title was a mistake.  It should have been Deep Thoughts by Amber Kay, or The Working Writer’s Life by Amber or something similar. In my defense, I’m just an old chick trying to learn new tricks.

Because I couldn’t find a photo of a chicken crossing

Neither title works for me because (in the first case) my deep thoughts would be more than even Freud could handle, and (in the latter case) I get so distracted during “working” hours, that I’d be greatly exaggerating if I said I had a real life as a writer. Yet.

Other mistakes I’ve apparently made include:

1. Not finding similar blogs to follow.
2. Not following all of my followers.
3. Not commenting on other blogs.
4. Not including images (this is the first – and last – post to include one)
5. Not linking to other blog posts
6. Improper tweeting etiquette
7. Etc.

I could go on and on, but tweeting etiquette is the reason I’m currently blogging to myself right now.

Twitter is fantastic! I made it my home page and, so far, I’m following SMM experts, inspirational tweeters, professional writers and publishers – hey, do you tweet?

At this very moment, among the top tweets on my home page are the following:

1. 20 of the best “calls to action” to increase engagement (don’t look for one at the end, here)
2. A cushy quote shared by Kevin Green: The whole world steps aside for the man who knows where he is going. Hmm.
3. And tips from Wayward Advice (an Internet advice column guaranteed to lead you astray) about how to become famous.

Since becoming a train wreck is among those tips, I’m probably already on track for being famous. That said, I doubt it’s via this blog … which is why I’m about to shut it down.

It was my first attempt at a “personal” blog, my second overall (the original, still up and half-heartedly running, is a political/cultural spoof). I enjoyed some small successes, winced through quite a few failures, and learned a lot along the way.

All while wearing comfy pants, of course. Freelancing may be a lonely business, but it truly is a comfy one.

I’ll be back, although I know not what title I’ll use for my next (drumroll) “professional blog.” On the Other Side of Sanity by Amber Kay first sprang to mind, but I’ll need to focus on the branding thing, and that might be TMI again.

I’ll leave this up one a week, just in case anyone’s still out there, * before I shut it down, but I will be back. Probably sooner, rather than later.

I’ll have to, of course.

I is a writer.

* Thank you for reading!

I Is a Whiter Shade of Fat

Awhile back, I mentioned in a post that wearing comfy pants all day is one the benefits of being a professional freelance writer working from home. Well, another benefit is that I can go eat a snack whenever I have writer’s block. Chocolate just inspires me that way.

Turns out, I fell victim to a very scientific principal. It is, in fact, as follows:

1.                 comfy pants
2. + recipe for “Death by Chocolate” cake
3.      = oh, crap; what have I done!

Yep. Early spring has sprung here, and I put on my first pair of shorts of the season the other day. Besides the fact that I couldn’t zip them, my legs were so pale they had no reflection in the mirror. Thank goodness, my poor husband was nowhere around. My writing career already interferes enough with our love life because I have a tendency to throw things at his head whenever I have to do a big rewrite, and he has a tendency to tell me to my face that it’s not his fault. Well, of course, it’s his fault; he’s a man. When he falls in a forest and I’m not there to tell him he’s wrong, he’s still wrong!

OK, I digressed again. But, it’s just because I’m mad at him for letting me get so pale and fat.

Anyway, so now to my already overcrowded to do list I’m going to have to add the nasty word exercise. That’s the only way I have ever been able to lose weight. I’ve tried to diet before, but it requires too many harsh sacrifices: no beer, no deadly chocolate cake, no salty Cheetoh orgies, and intense concentration on dieting in general.

In other words: No letting my thoughts wander off anymore. I can’t keep my brain tied down that way!

I is a writer!

I Has Cold Cats

My adorable kittens

Not a typo, although I do have some cold cuts I think may be so old as to be possibly toxic now. I’ll let you know immediately if eating some makes me sick; I’m sure you couldn’t sleep if a stranger didn’t tell you whether bad poultry made her throw up all night.

I’m just kindhearted that way.

Anyway, although we didn’t experience nearly the adverse weather conditions as our northern neighbors, we did experience a brief but intense blizzard down here most of today. Because I has ten cats – please don’t arrest me, O City Ordinance Enforcer, because six of them are only three-weeks-old – most of the cats were displeased with me because I “let” the cold weather mess up their planned outdoor activities.

You, whoever you is, may ask what that has to do with a blog about writing. Well, a lot, actually because:

1. Determined cats never think it hurts to ask. Again. I had to let out the big (neutered!) male cat at least five-times before he finally decided the blizzard was not just a temporary problem that would clear up if he just waited another ten-minutes. It wasn’t as if I had a choice, because he meowed so mournfully and incessantly at my feet each time that I’d give in yet again and accompany him to the door, just so he could stick his head outside and get mad at the blowing snow all over again.
2. Mad cats tend to avenge themselves. I like my plants, and having to routinely defend them against feline assault really cut down on my work efficiency/output.
3. Cold cats tend to become lap cats. Lap cats are very incompatible with my desired work efficiency/output, especially when they’re mad lap cats who aren’t there to be petted and warmed so much as to attack moving fingers with very angry little claws.
4. Bored cats tend to make messes. This includes, of course, digging in the above-mentioned plants, digging in the trash, and ripping out each other’s fur in clumps because they’re playing just a bit too vigorously (whether that’s because they were taking out their anger at me on each other, and/or because they’re still cold and trying to warm up with a little hearty exercise, I don’t know).
5. Curious cats tend to become interested in office items. That includes, but is not limited to, keyboards, printers, and even paperclips.
6. Inside cats tend to make me suffer flu-like symptoms. Not their fault, though, that they belong to someone who’s horribly allergic to them. Especially in early spring, when they’re shedding like they currently are.

I thought I’d get a lot of extra work done today, being so housebound, but I mostly gave up that hope when my favorite cat of all jumped in my lap, purring sweetly, and then tried to chew off my right hand. When she had finished hurting me, I spent quite a few minutes with a tissue trying to breathe through my nose again, then ate a turkey sandwich before realizing the meat had been in my fridge for far more than a week. I don’t think I always is the bulb with the most common sense sometimes.

How could I be?

I is a writer.

I is Not an Accountant

I regularly complain loudly about how I compete against writers who are willing to research a 500-word article for just one dollar. I also often bemoan some of the copyeditors I’ve worked with, but I’m in sort of a good mood today so I’m not going to let that dog hunt right now.

Anyway, a client I really liked paid me a huge compliment the other day, and then the very next day rejected the article without explanation. When I asked for one, the client blocked me from working for him/her/they/it ever again!

We anonymous web content writers don’t earn enough to buy worms to eat with our dirt sandwiches, so a little positive feedback is like having a drink with a friend. Conversely, a little negative feedback is akin to wearing too tight shoes, or losing your car keys when you’re already running late for something you actually care about. But a rejection, followed by being blocked entirely (with no explanation), from a client who used to love your work, is like being freaking slapped into the next county!

My response was to finally get to work on my (drum roll, please) “professional freelance writer” website. That’s sounds cooler if you emphasize pro and talk like Darth Vader. Anyway, in preparation, I ran a lot of google searches for comparable sites with high search engine rankings so I could study them.

I found plenty, of course, as well as how-to-make-six-figures-writing-travel-web-content-and-only-work-four-hours-per-week stuff. Naturally, they offered paid classes. But one was particularly sinister. It encouraged accountants to quit the nine-to-five and make six-figures freelance writing, even if they had no idea how to write. That’s what I’m bugged about. Maybe someone who hasn’t written professionally, but at least knows the difference between then and than, could take a course and be competitive. But someone who’s never written at all? Of course, the site offered a how-to-write class.

So, it naturally occurred to me that, apparently, many degreed accountants who can already afford worms in their dirt will believe anything, so why-don-t-I-prey-on-them-too because then I just might make that six-figures. Then I bitch-slapped myself for being so sinister.

However, to make six-figures at the rate I get now, I’d have to write … twenty? … no, maybe forty? … eighty? … a thousand? Oh, well, forget it. That’s a math thing, and I is not an accountant.

I is a writer.

I Has Many Hearts

Not in my chest, of course. In fact, the word heartless has been shouted at me from time-to-time over the years. Never by anyone in the medical profession, fortunately, but my husband does occasionally loudly mention the word whenever I’m simply trying to make a convincing point. Considering the fact that I sit in my desk chair more hours per day than I sleep in my bed at night, and that I like steak and the [cough] occasional beer, I must admit that I do fear someone in the medical profession might one day mention the word heartsick in my presence. But, I digress.

On Saturdays (for example: today), I take the time to run computer maintenance tasks and change my desktop background for the new week. This is not a minor undertaking. My husband picks a background for his laptop and doesn’t change it until … actually, he’s never changed it. He hates change. I mentioned today that we might save some money if we moved again, and he almost had a nervous breakdown on the spot. But, I think I just digressed again.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that I personally can’t stand to look at the same desktop for too long, and my efficiency takes a hit when I do. Over my almost-50-years, I’ve amassed a collection of almost one million stock images, and I choose a new one each week for my background. Unfortunately my tendencies toward ADD and OCD join forces every Saturday and attack me while I innocently try to select a new image.

I can’t just find one I like and stick with it. Oh, no. I’ve got to view every single available choice, after I’ve found one I like (just in case I find one even better), and it can take me as long as half-an-hour before I’m satisfied that I’ve found the very best one. The only thing that saves me from a spending all day searching through my entire million-strong collection is that I’m also OCD about choosing one based on current events.

So, today, I decided – since New Year’s is almost a month behind us – to ditch the clinking champagne glass images I’ve been alternating, and to select a Valentine’s image. About 15-minutes later, which is short for me, I was staring at several red candy hearts against a black background on my desktop. Unfortunately, I don’t care for them very much. I liked the clinking champagne glasses much better. Actually, I prefer Christmas images over anything else; in fact, I have so many Christmas images that the choosing process almost lands me in a mental institution every holiday season, which would be totally unfair because I is not mental whatsoever.

I is a writer.