Getting My Priorities Straight

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m most likely writing the last blog entry for 2008. I must admit; I’m conflicted.

Ever since I started blogging regularly, I have begun to look forward to my morning write. I finish my post-breakfast puttering in the kitchen, make a cup of Yogi Detox Tea, and start up the iPod (my ‘Chillax’ playlist, to be precise). After staring into space for what seems like an eternity, inspiration hits me and I start click-click-clicking away. After I’ve typed what’s in my head (or my heart), I read through it really quickly in an attempt to catch any glaring mistakes. Once my latest creation is uploaded, a sense of tasty satiety envelops me. Mmmmm….writing. I love it so.

Today, however, marks the start of my temporary hiatus from the blogosphere. I have a little girl who is plaintively eyeing her mother, desperately wanting her to put away MacDaddy and play with her instead. She wants to hoop, play backgammon or Monopoly, do contact yoga, have pretend spa day, or any other activity that a 7-year old girl deems acceptable. Trust me, watching Mommy blog ain’t one of ‘em.

So, it is with a mildly heavy heart that I say adieu for the next few weeks so I can do that thing which is most important in my life: spending time with my incredible family.

Blessings for a joyous, prosperous, and loving holiday season with those special people in your life! I’ll miss you, and I look forward to providing you much more sassy inspiration in ‘09!

ODing on Xmas Rodents

Remember "The Chipmunk Song" by Alvin and the Chipmunks? It used to be my favorite Christmas Song. Note the phrase "used to be".

Surrendering

Being a writer is amazing. And a nightmare.

I recall reading a brilliant quote from Gene Fowler long before I started writing my book: “Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” I laughed my ass off when I read that; I’m not laughing anymore.

Here’s my typical writing process:

1) I acknowledge that I either a) want to write something, or 2) have to write something. (These are two wildly different experiences.)

2) I allow that aching feeling to occupy my entire being, day and night, for hours, days or weeks, never writing a single word.

3) I decide that I absolutely, positively MUST write something toot sweet or I’ll go plum loco.

4) I open MacDaddy and stare at a blank screen. For hours. (Actually, most of it is spent switching back and forth from the blank screen to Twitter, MySpace, Facebook, YouTube, Google News, The Onion, and any other delectable distraction.)

5) If I am in public — like I am now — I’ll eventually close my eyes and rest my head in surrender. If I am at home, I’ll typically do some yoga, hula hoop, or play the piano. (I think it would draw a bit too much attention if I started hooping or dropping into Downward Facing Dog in the seating area of Whole Foods. Those granola-munchers are open-minded, but even they have their limits.)

6) Once I totally relax and let go of the “need” to write, something magical happens. A space develops in my head (or more precisely, my heart) that allows the right words to flow effortlessly through me. There is an ecstatic union of Spirit, the English Language, and my own vision. The words, sentences, and paragraphs come flooding out, each one juicier than the last and full of the Mojo. When it’s complete, I read through my creation with a delightful sense of satisfaction. Hmmm…. if I still smoked, I’d have a Capri Ultra Light Menthol afterward; it’s THAT good.

Unfortunately, at this exact moment I’m caught somewhere between steps 3 and 4. THEY SUCK ASS. It’s the nightmare part of the writing process, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about.

Luckily, I got a little inspiration while listening to my ‘Emma-friendly Playlist’ from iTunes. A song from Angelique Kidjo called “No Worry” started to play, and a particular line jumped out and slapped me across the face: “If you never feel pain, then you never know love.”

How true. I’m deeply in love with writing, and part of that love requires me to squirm in agony before I surrender to it. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll be able to jump from step 1 to step 5 without the headaches or heartaches. Frankly, I doubt it. It’s not worth waiting to find out.

Gotta go. My literary lover is calling out to me.

Back to step 4.

I Need To Move It, Move It

I’ve grown roots on my favorite writing chair for the last several days. That is a blessing and a curse.

While I am very pleased with the amount and quality of work I have done over that time, I am getting itchy to be outside. When I am in “the writing zone”, I often forget to even look up from MacDaddy’s screen much less move around. When I am eventually forced to get out of the chair (after Madame Bladder gives me an ultimatum I cannot refuse), my lower back screams out in pain, saying, “Maybe you should take stretch breaks every hour or two, you dolt!” The more I disregard my need to move, the more my body complains about it.

This morning I woke up extra early to get in a long yoga practice before the day began. It was glorious. I loved getting the nighttime crunchies out, and I savored the peaceful silence before the house buzz got turned up. My mind was clear, my body was feeling better, and I was connected to Spirit. I thought, “I’m gonna have a wonderful, productive day!”

Then Emma shuffled into the room, sniffling.

When one’s child is sick, all plans get thrown out the window. After realizing that my daughter needed to stay home with me, I immediately started juggling my schedule around, postponing heavy-duty writing for another time and putting in more mindless chores in its place. (Even when Em is under the weather, she still is Human Velcro to her mother, thus virtually eliminating all possibility for completing work requiring concentration.) After quietly whining about my change in plans, I realized how I can still have a wonderful, productive day: I can spend it with my daughter.

Right now she is finishing her letter to Santa (she has asked for a long bathrobe, flowy dress, and the WALL-E DVD, thankfully a pretty easy order for Ol’ Saint Nick). When she’s done, we are going to go to the post office so she can mail her letter and I can mail my audiobook master CDs to the manufacturing company. Once we return and the weather is a bit warmer, we’re gonna go for a nice nature walk around Bird Island. The crisp air in our lungs, the sunshine on our faces, the sounds of chirping birds in our ears, and the soft earth under our feet will do us both some good.

We all get exactly what we need.

Shunning the PVD

This morning, my beloved and I huddled under the covers sharing our most recent dark, ugly fears. What a way to kick off a day.

Despite our regular meditations and spiritual studies, Hubby and I occasionally fall into an abyss of negativity. We start to perceive life as painful, taxing, and generally harder than it needs to be. Work becomes a four-letter word that we utter with contempt. In short, we become unconscious once again and replug into The Matrix.

Ever since childhood, we have been programmed (by our parents, by school, by culture, by media, by co-workers, by authoritarian figures) to live as PVDs. PVDs are us poor schmoes who live as Passive Victims who are living by Default. We let life happen to us. We let people run over us. We let our outcomes be a matter of chance instead of choice. We think the worst will inevitably transpire. We become Grade A Wussies.

It can be easy to slip back into PVD mode, because we are surrounded by them all of the time. I am sure you work with a few of them, you eat lunch around them, and maybe you even have one or two of them in your own family. Since we are social creatures, we like to adopt the characteristics of those with whom we come into contact. When we’re around PVDs, we often become a PVD ourselves. Even if you don’t have any direct interaction with a PVD (Lucky you!!), chances are you still observe many of them as you surf the Internet or watch the boob-tube. They are EVERYWHERE.

Take heart, Young Skywalker! The best way to fight against the Dark Side is to use the Force: the Force of your own convictions, your joy, and most importantly, your gratitude. Decide to shun your Inner PVD and be the righteous, powerful, amazing, kick-ass person you are! Life doesn’t have to be hard. Success doesn’t have to be out of reach. Bliss doesn’t have to be a rarity. CHOOSE DIFFERENTLY. You WILL be supported by the Universe when you decide to show up and be happy. Yes, creating a life of bliss can seem daunting, but it’s just because very few people do it. Be a trailblazer!

And, that’s how I ended my cheerleading session with my dearest beloved at 7:00am this morning. We capped it off with an extended Rose Family Snuggle and felt grateful for the many gifts we have been bestowed. Then, all three of us got out bed and promised to have a joyful, PVD-free day.

Wish us luck.

Parents Need Only Apply

This morning I yanked the front tooth out of my darling little peanut’s head.

The only person clearly qualified for that kind of nasty job is a parent. There is something so…soo…sooo….ICKY about it. Forgive my penchant for detail, but the little sucker was crackling, bleeding, and otherwise squirming into positions that teeth simply shouldn’t be placed in. Em was TOTALLY freaked out by the thought of Mama extracting it from her melon; she plaintively yelled, “OWWWW!” before I even had a decent grip with my index fingernail and thumb. I thought, “Oh great. If this is how she is reacting before I start the prying process, I can’t imagine what she’ll do when the torture begins.”

She and I went back and forth with the “OWWWW!” and “IT’S OK, EM!” verbal volleying for several minutes. Each time I got a hold of it, she instinctively yelped and clenched her teeth. So, not only was I having to perform this cringe-worthy dental procedure in the bathroom, but I also had to avoid getting my fingers bitten off. Finally, I looked her straight in the eyes with my superseriousmommy look and said, “We’re gonna DO THIS!”, as if we were about to storm the beach at Normandy. She returned my gaze with an equally serious nod of approval. Within a few seconds and some tense moments, the little cherub had been successfully detoothed.

As with all great challenges, the victory was so sweet. Emma squealed with delight when she saw the big gap at the front of her mouth (she had lost it’s next-door neighbor a few months ago in an equally traumatic removal). She reveled in how sthe sthounded when sthe talkths. Her joy was so unbridled that she decided to put her treasure into the Tooth Fairy pillow container and take it to school for show-and-tell. (Sorry, Teach!)

As for me, I was reminded about the countless other ishy parental things I have done, all in the name of love. I have endured the most foul of substances eeking out of my spawn, fearlessly and without hesitation. When you are a parent, you just do it. You change a kajillion poopy diapers, you clean up all manner of accidents, you wear stinky burp rags on your shoulder, and you hold the hand of a scared child when she gets her immunizations. You do this because you are the parent; you are the best one for the job. Simply put, your love is bigger than the mess.

When I was driving Emma to school this morning, she was quietly holding her Tooth Fairy container in her hands, wistfully looking out the window while rubbing her tongue against the newly-vacated area. After a few minutes, she said simply, “I feel sthpecial.” From deep within this mommy’s full heart, I lovingly responded, “That’s because you ARE.”

Yep, sthe sthure isth.

Amazon Woman

I am immersing myself in the world of Amazon.com: Amazon Book Detail Page. Amazon Author Profiles. Amazon Connect. Amazon Marketplace. Amazon Advantage. Amazon Customer Reviews. Amazon Tags. Amazon Blogs. Amazon Wikis. Amazon Guides. Amazon Listmania. At 5′3″, I’m an Amazonian.

After spending the last several weeks getting my foot in the door of several independent bookstores around the country, I am now shifting focus to the Mother of All Bookstores. Little did I know that great knowledge and skill are required to travel on the Amazon. This weekend I studied (for the third time) my roadmap called Sell Your Book on Amazon, by Brent Sampson.

The book instructs us fledgling writers of self-published books how to raise our visibility in the vast landscape of online bookselling. Sheesh! I thought it was hard enough to write the damn book. In order to get my page seen by more of the buying public, I have to create an Author Profile, start an Amazon blog, create lists and guides, write book reviews, and of course, have loads of 5-star reviews.

After working all morning on Amazon, I am happy to report that I now have a few of those items done. (Although figuring it out was akin to my grandmother getting on email for the first time.) The foundation has been laid: I have a profile and a blog. Now I just need to start creating a truckload full of lists, guides, and reviews. I stepped into my Discomfort Zone this morning by using the “Share with Friends” button on my page. This is where I sent an email to 200 of my closest friends asking them (imploring them, begging them) to write a 5-star review for me. I admit it; my online hat was in my hand.

My goal is to get to 50 5-star reviews by the end of next month. According to Mr. Sampson, customer reviews are one of the most effective elements in the mysterious world of the Amazon algorithm and product placement. Thanks to my whimpers and the kindness of readers, my review numbers are already starting to grow. Plus, I get the added bonus of reading incredibly heartfelt and moving feedback about the book. You like me; you really like me!

(Insert shameless plug here: If you feel so inclined as to add your own 5-star review, please click here and click on the Create Your Own Review button at the bottom. Thank you, thank you, thank you!)

Time is a tickin’. I better wrap up this blog, upload it to my Amazon Connect blog (in addition to my MySpace, Facebook, and Blogger blogs), and learn more about Amapedias, whatever the hell THEY are.

Being an Amazonian Woman is not for wussies.

Hoop Dreams

At thirty-nine years of age, I bought myself a hula hoop.

I have a good friend, Shellie, who is a Hooper (and fifteen years my junior). When she first told me she had taken up hula hooping, I thought it rather peculiar. Since I am an old fuddy-duddy, I had no idea that “hooping” was the latest fitness/dance craze. I remembered hula hoops from childhood and thought them rather boring. Oh, how things have changed.

Shellie recently let me borrow her hoop for a few days. I immediately felt energized and sassy as the colorful striped circle surrounded me. Emma, of course, has her own hula hoop and can spin circles around her old mother. As she and I practiced together, I often was told, “Watch this, Mama!” as the little peanut would perform some crazy-ass trick like spinning it on her thighs or around her neck. I, on the other hand, was shimmying, spinning, huffing and puffing to just keep the sucker from crashing to the ground.

After a few practice sessions and a healthy dose of friendly cajoling from Miss Shellie, I decided to pony up the $20 and purchase my own custom-made hoop from Hoola Monsters, the local group of Fonzie-cool Hoopsters. I figured that any activity that helps me to move my body (especially my ever-so-slowly expanding mid-section) in a joyful way is a good thing.

Last night I practiced with my very own red, purple and black hoop to the rhythmic, tribal sounds of Rodrigo y Gabriela. Lo and behold, I actually kept the thing spinning around my middle for 90% of the time! While it didn’t look like I was doing very much, I ended up a sweaty (yet sexy) mess at the end of the CD. That was all it took; I was hooked on the hoop.

This morning, I decided to do a little research and found that hooping ain’t for sissies. These chicks play with hoops ON FIRE, for goodness sake! They dance, twirl, whirl, and otherwise move like total bad-asses, all while keeping that hoop a-spinnin’. Needless to say, I was mightily impressed. I SO want to be one of those hoop girls. (Check out one of these righteous hoop chicks on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SORJd-KX5xU&NR=1)

I find myself starting yet another activity that I currently suck at. (I hate that!) Maybe with a butt-load of practice and through the Grace of God, I’ll someday be able to perform a few of those amazing tricks that Shellie and the other Girls of the Hoop World can gracefully yet powerfully perform. For now, this fuddy-duddy is going to cue up Brent Lewis’ DrumSex CD, step inside her new hoop, and start pumping away.

Waiting Sucks.

I’ve been accused of being a lot of things, but being patient ain’t one of ‘em.

I FRIGGIN’ HATE WAITING! Waiting for the green light. Waiting for my massage therapist to arrive. Waiting for Emma to finish getting ready for school. Waiting for direct deposit to hit. Waiting for articles to be accepted. Waiting for interviews to get published. Waiting for important emails. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting…

My pathological aversion to limbo has hindered my experience of this crazy, kooky thing called life. Instead of relaxing into the unknown, I twiddle my fingers, gnaw on my lower lip, and otherwise flit around like a squirrel playing with his nuts; I impatiently wait, wait, wait, for the f@#king thing to happen already.

Oh, how I envy those laid-back people that can easily slip into ‘Whatever!” mode. I am quite certain that I am missing the Whatever gene. On one hand, nothing in my world can happen fast enough; on the other hand, I sometimes get overwhelmed with the speed in which my life is expanding and changing. I want desperately to adopt the attitude of one of my favorite iTunes Playlists: I want to learn how to Chillax. Unfortunately, the state of chillaxation has heretofore eluded me.

The best I can do during my squirrelly moments is to remember that the future is uncertain. I don’t know what the day will bring, much less the rest of my life. I could have a cerebral hemorrhage as I write this. Maybe an idiot driver on I-75 could be my undoing this afternoon. There are endless ways I could meet my end, and it could happen at any moment. When I think about the fragility and impermanence of this physical journey, I stop fretting so much about my audiobook launch, press releases, speaking engagements, and video blogs. They simply aren’t as important as this moment. How blessed I am!

Gotta go now. More emails are coming in.

Finally.

Turning Inside Out

Earlier today, I was feeling the walls close in on me. Emails were burying me, distractions abounded, and my To-Do list was getting bigger, not smaller. The day was careening out of control, and a big, hairy, hissy-fit was imminent. In order to preserve a modicum of sanity, a bold maneuver was called for: GO OUTSIDE.

I dug out my favorite yoga mat — the double-padded multi-colored one that screams “Lay on me, Sweetie!”. As I unrolled it and placed it on the patio, I could already feel my respiration slow down and muscles relax. Ahhh….the Divine Equation. Yoga + Sunshine = Ecstasy. (For those non-Floridian readers, I apologize!)

After a half-hour of downward facing dogs, twists, lunges, and king pigeons (yay!), I allowed myself the luxury of an outdoor Savasana. I don’t know how long I rested, but it felt like a blissful eternity. My body relaxed, my mind cleared, and my spirits lifted. As if Spirit decided to reward me for breaking out of my house and entering It’s House, I received a totally juicy download of what I was going to include in an upcoming speaking presentation.

I’m back inside, but I now have a completely different attitude after having spent time in the Great Outdoors. I am happy, grounded, and grateful for another day I have been given.

Thanks, G!

Tales of a Traveling Saleswoman

In the world of self-publication, it isn’t enough to write a great book. If the aforementioned great book is to see the light of day, Madame or Monsieur Writer has to wear all the other hats normally worn by an agent and numerous other professionals found in the mysterious world of BigPub. Looking back, writing the book was the easy part; it’s the knocking on doors that totally blows.

I ventured out amongst the English today to peddle my book, stopping at four independent booksellers in town. My routine is simple: flash a big smile, hand over Opening the Kimono and her corresponding informational sheet, and rattle off my 10-second pitch before they’ve decided I’ve become too annoying or disruptive. As with everything, the more I do it, the better I am getting at it. All salespeople have their go-to talking points, and I am no different. During my Kimono spiel, I rely upon catch-phrases (”award-winning”, “already sold in several other bookstores in town”, and “going to be featured in the Herald-Trib in a few weeks”) to get their attention among the din of distractions. However, if I were to be honest, my peacocking is less about trying to close the deal and more about quelling my own insecurities.

When I show people my book, I feel like the first person to take off her clothes when skinny-dipping. It’s so scary to put myself out there, especially in front of strangers. My litany of accomplishments I recite really isn’t about selling the book; it’s about selling myself. If I can make the book sound irresistible (on good days, I believe that it is!), then they won’t reject it…or me. No matter how much work I do to free myself from the opinions of others, I still find myself emotionally captive to the elusive approval of Another.

Despite my teetering in the Land of Low Self-esteem, I somehow found the acting chops to present myself as a strong, talented author. My exterior confidently projected, “You will TOTALLY love this book. Everybody loves it. It f#@king rocks.” My interior world, however, was cowering in the corner, begging, “Please, please, PLEASE accept me!”

I guess my theatrics worked; I sold all of the books I brought with me. All four buyers were enthusiastic, and I scheduled two book-signing events. Slowly but surely, my self-worth has reappeared, and I am now feeling confident enough to hit it again later this week. By far the best moment of the day was when one of the buyers gushed over the book cover. He said, “Gorgeous cover! That is really something.”

You damn right I am.

Monday Mornin' Blues

This morning I experienced one of my typical Monday guilt-fests.

Every Monday, I don my Domestic Diva crown and proceed to unlock my inner June Cleaver. I go to the grocery store for the week’s provisions, pre-make lunches for Michael, Emma and me, do laundry, and clean. It takes me hours to get all of that shi, er, stuff done. My Monday case of the guilts isn’t about the activities themselves (although I would describe them as loathsome at best), it’s about berating myself for not getting a bunch of my work stuff done too.

Take today for example. I have been running around all day long — chopping, folding, boiling, wrapping, wiping, filling, cooking, and every other f@$king -ing I could imagine. Yet, my Work To Do list — listen to the final version of the Opening the Kimono audiobook, approve the cover design, review my speaking informational sheet, mail more books, send new press releases out, etc. — is crying out to me, begging me to scratch something off it. Alas, it looks the same as it did at 7:00am when I wrote the sucker. It mocks me with its bullet points. Now, in addition to being exhausted from doing the unsavory elements of the MomJob, I now have a whopping heaping of professional guilt ladled on top of it. And I do this to myself nearly every Monday. No one said I was the brightest bulb in the box.

I wish I could just accept the fact that Monday mornings are No-work Zones. If I’d just surrender to it, I’d feel a helluva lot better and wouldn’t be such a crabby-ass when I pick up my daughter from the bus (which is in a half-hour). I’m going to try my best to forgive myself for not being all things to all people, all of the time. Sometimes I don’t need to be Theresa Rose, Author. Speaker. Healer. Bringer of the Mojo. On Monday mornings, I just need to be Mom.

Livin' High

Last night I sang and danced with 2499 fans of the most adorable thing to come around the bend since Boots from the Shrek series: Jason Mraz, my newest and steamiest celeb-crush.

Jason. Ohhhh Jason. That man is the cat’s pajamas. He has a voice like an angel, a wild mane of hair like a lion, a face like a pinup, and most importantly, the heart of an enlightened man. Jason joins the select few concert headliners I have been blessed to see on stage who had me screaming, clapping, singing, dancing, drooling, and wetting myself all at the same time. Welcome, Jason, to the Musical Club of My (Wet) Dreams. Allow me to introduce you to Bono, Bruce, and Rick (Springfield…cut me some slack; I’m a child of the 80s). Mmmmm…where was I? What was I doing? Oh yeah. I was blogging. Sorry, I’m back.

There is something so exhilarating to be amongst a throng of loyal followers singing every last lyric to songs that touch you deep in your soul. As I looked around Ruth Eckerd Hall last night, I recognized that same giddy, googly-eyed adoration in hundreds of other school-girl peepers that I myself currently have on the Grammy-nominated Mr. Mraz. One of Jason’s song’s from his latest album, We Sing. We Dance. We Steal Things is called “Live High”, and it’s all about squeeeeeezing the most joy and juice out of life, living it with purpose, gratitude, compassion and love. Jason is a musical genius/curbside prophet that reminds us all to see the Divine in everything, and I am so very grateful that I accidentally clicked on his cutie-pie pic on iTunes a few months ago.

Check out Jason’s web site if you get a chance — he has a fantastic blog and some great videos. (http://www.jasonmraz.com/#) He also has a YouTube channel that I have visited on more than one occasion. (http://www.youtube.com/officialjasonmraz) How is it that the mysterious YouTube police somehow know how often I have clicked on his channel? They are always showing me new Jason stuff that is “Recommended” just for me. Spooky. Given what I have watched on YouTube, I can’t even imagine what other things they’ll be recommending for me next.

Thanks, Jason, for singing about the Positive. Thanks for sharing your gifts with so many. Thanks for giving me another reason to sing and dance. And thanks for being so damn cute.

xoxoxo

A Kaleidescope of Beauty

I hosted a phenomenal Club Kimono last night at a premier healing center in Sarasota called The Rose Center (no relation, just weirdly coincidental). This place looks, smells, and feels amazing. I was acutely aware of the beauty all around me, and it wasn’t coming just from the Zen accoutrements.

I was surrounded by 16 gorgeous women of all ages, shapes, and sizes having the stones to speak their truth. Some wore jeans and weathered tees while others wore spiffy skirts and blouses. Some of the gals are grandmas, and some are mommies-to-be. There were healers and high-powered execs, jewelry consultants and journalists. It was like having my own box of Crayola women.

Even though most of them probably can’t/don’t/won’t recognize it in themselves, every one of them occupied their own unique brand of beauty. When we shared our personal stories of pain, loss, and redemption, each woman had a different narrative; yet there was a commonality we all shared. We all possessed wisdom in our eyes, love in our hearts, courage in our bellies, and joy in our smiles.

We are women. We are many, and we are also One. I am so privileged to be among you.

Deja Vu

This morning I woke up to a dozen emails in my Inbox from bookstores requesting review copies of Opening the Kimono. After affixing my "Autographed by the Author" gold stickers and signing my standard blessing on the inside front covers, I lovingly put each one in its hand-addressed bubble mailer and drove to the post office to send them on their way. I have dreamed of this morning many times, and it has finally arrived in physical form.

No 'More' For Me, Thanks

In the wee hours this morning, I woke to the sound of mental jackhammers reminding me of how much more I need to do.

On the book promotion front, I have to email more follow-ups to bookstores, record more videos, write more blogs, send out more press releases, add more MySpace and Facebook friends, Twitter more, enter more calendar events onto my web site, plan more workshops and speaking engagements, write more Daily Doses, record more CDs, and much, much more.

On the home front, I have to do more cleaning, organizing, putting away of stray items who have lost their homes yet again, laundering, shopping, decluttering, rearranging, and much, much more.

On the personal front, I have to practice my piano more, do yoga more, dance more, make healthier meals more often, meditate more, reconnect with friends and family more regularly, take more bubble baths, and much, much more.

I'm being 'Mored' to death.

The cure for my self-inflicted malaise is to remind myself over and over that I am fully satisfied with my life exactly as it is -- RIGHT NOW. I am fully satisfied with the progression of Opening the Kimono. I am fully satisfied with my home life. I am fully satisfied with myself and everything I do. I am content: no ifs, ands, buts, or mores.

Sometimes my self-talk works, and sometimes I wake up with jackhammers. All I can do is keep on truckin', frequently reminding myself of the perfection of life as-is.

Maybe if I just remind myself more often...

Entering the Blogosphere. For Real.

Wow. I finally figured out what this blogging thing is all about. It’s about writing. On a regular basis. Duh.

For those of you who have hung in there with me during my many dry spells of blogging, I thank you. Frankly, I don’t know how you’ve remained so patient with me. The delivery of my blogs have been far too rare, like long, warm hugs we longed for as children that were administered far too infrequently. Starting today, I promise I’ll start showing more love, more often. (Smooch!)

Why have I had a change of heart? Here’s the scoop: I actually started reading other blogs. I noticed that there is a difference between online essay writing (which is what I was doing) and regular blogging (which is what everyone else on the Info Interstate does - short, to-the-point, unedited expressions of everyday life). As a former columnist and one whose book is a collection of 40+ essays, I am comfy with the thousand-word creative expression. It is a recipe I know well. Moreover, writing a hefty blog is what I thought blogging “should” be; give the readers some meat, dammit! However, I didn’t take into account one teensy little thing: I don’t have the time or gumption to write one of those big honkers each and every week. Call me LitWimp, but I just can’t crank out those online “Call Me Ishmael…” dandies as readily as others do. I guess my 39 years are catchin’ up to me.

So, instead of admitting to you, Dear Reader, that I was falling short of my own preconceived notions of proper bloggage, I decided to take the pansy way out: I have been ignoring you altogether. NO MORE!! I am going to take a cue from my literary siblings and begin an actual BLOG. Yes! You read it here first! You will begin to see my silly, inspiring, and/or Carrie Bradshawian rants much, much more. In fact, I have decided to throw down the gauntlet and attempt to write a blog entry FIVE times every week! “Can she really do it”, you ask? I sure as hell hope so. I like the relationship we have established. I want more of it! I want to share more of myself with you. So, I’ll say this only once: Forgive me if my blogs fall short of literary masterpieces. If you want to read my essays, buy my book! Kidding. (But not really.) Do doubt I’ll still deliver some big-ass blogs every once in a while. But, I have decided that blogging isn’t like sex; in the blogosphere, quantity is preferred over quality.

Starting on this beautiful first day in December, I am going to be doing more of what I love: writing. I am confident I will shed that nasty blog-guilt that has plagued me, and you will enjoy having your mojo dialed up on a regular basis. Until tomorrow (I hope!), I wish you a fond adieu!

Make it a great day.

PS - I’d like to give a shout-out to fellow Sarasota writer and Blogger Extraordinnaire MC Coolidge for being an unwitting inspiration for my attitude realignment. Please check out her blog too! She just did a review of Opening the Kimono. http://mcrealityonline.com/