My Valentine to Blogs

via

Dear Blogs,

I began my affair with you over a year ago now; hard to believe so much, and yet so little, time has passed since that fateful day.

I was a cynical and suspicious fledgling writer. You were foreign to me, a vague concept in a transforming world taken over by social media. I had toyed around with you before, teasing with the idea of starting a relationship with you, but something always stopped me. The fact that I didn’t quite understand you? Perhaps. A lack of courage? Most definitely.

Blogging meant putting myself out there in a way I never had before. It meant sharing feelings I had never shared. It meant revealing a dream, to myself and to others, that I didn’t quite believe in.

I was a chicken. In typical Katie-form, I wondered what everyone would think, agonized on how others might see me. I worried that I wasn’t a good enough writer. I doubted that I had anything to say that people would want to read. But I didn’t let any of that stop me. I saw value in writing a blog. I saw that it might help me improve my writing, that it might help me gain a little confidence.

You’ve given me that confidence; you’ve helped me to improve. Because of you, I now write almost daily, and looking back on posts even from as little as a year ago, I see how I’ve grown. Selfishly, I would jump into this relationship a thousand times again and never regret a moment for how you’ve changed me, for the insight you’ve given me on myself.

But you’ve been so much more than even that. Through you, I’ve made dozens of friends, friends whom I cherish and have made true connections with. I stupidly forget this gift you’ve given me sometimes, the gift of friendship and insight and connection. I tend to overlook these little things that make you so great.

Little things like reading an extraordinary and touching story, bravely shared through friendship and love.

Little things like laughs shared for a great causes and a unique wit, both of which will leave you wishing you could get together with those fellow bloggers and go out for drinks, in a totally non-stalker way.

Little things like communities and friendships built on common interests and transcending barriers like age and location to provide support and encouragement in so many ways.

Little things that let us all know we aren’t alone, in our thoughts and ideas, in our fears and insecurities. For every experience or feeling I have, you’ve shown me there’s someone else out there with a similar experience and almost the exact same feeling.

Little things like witnessing unbelievable passion and love through the eyes of a mother, who said without fear just what I’ve wanted to say all along.

Little things like learning about someone else’s culture or viewpoint, learning that something we may have judged before or misunderstood isn’t so different from us after all.

Little things like witnessing the brilliance of a writer as she grows and fearlessly dives in, reaching out for a dream that is reaching right back for her.

These little things all make up my experiences as a blogger, as a lover of blogs. They are why you make me smile, work harder, and devote much of my free-time to my passion. I couldn’t possibly list the many people and words who have touched me through you, but I did want to devote at least a few of my own words to the difference you’ve made in me and in my life, my perspective, and my  writing.

Thank you, blogs, for being so much more than I ever thought you were.

With love,

Katie

What are some of the things that make you love blogs and blogging?

Author's Note: If you have the time, I encourage you to take the time to click on the links above. They are just a few of the many people and posts that have touched me as a writer and a blogger. I hope they can touch you in the same way. Oh, and this is by no means a complete list of the people and blogs who have influenced me and left me speechless. I wish I could name them all!

This was written for The Lightning and the Lightning Bug prompt: Valentine. 

Exclamation Points Anonymous

My name is Katie, and I have a problem. Not the most original way to start a blog post, I know, but I feel the need to absolve myself, to confess my sins, and to allow you to pass what judgement you will on the person I really am.

And the person I really am is a person who abuses the delightful form of punctuation known as the exclamation point (among other things, as you'll see). As a writer, it smarts to admit that. I'm going to leave it out there for a minute so that you can mull it over and let the truth sink in.

...

Ready? Okay. When I'm in my "writing" zone, this problem rarely rears its ugly and enthusiastic head. I don't really get the urge to litter my work with that cute little line and dot combo that can be either incredibly annoying or incredibly endearing, depending on whom you ask. I guess recording my thoughts for a blog post or composing a work of fiction just doesn't call for the little guy too much, so he mostly stays away.

Thank goodness.

But in everyday life, oh, he's there. Boy, is he ever there.

In comments on my favorite blogs, he's there.

In text messages to friends and family, he's there.

In tweets and Facebook updates, Lord help me, he's there.

In emails composed to my coworkers and superiors, emails that are supposed to be professional, the little stinkin' bugger is there.

I hate him sometimes. I hate that he makes me sound like a lunatic who's yelling everything.

"Sure, Jenny! I'll be at the meeting today! I can't wait!"

I'm either a lunatic who's yelling everything or an overenthusiastic idiot who probably seems pretty insincere. Neither are very appealing images, which is why: This. Must. Stop.

I have to let go of security blankets like exclamation points, ellipses, and random capitalization. I have to let my words speak for themselves without the aid of certain devices. Sure, there's a place for those devices. But I need to learn to use them with a lighter hand, to not be that writer who uses them as a crutch, as a way to clutter their writing and distract from their message.

We all know that writer.

The one!! Who loves everything!!! And wants you to get excited about it!!!! And love it, too!!!!!

The one who...puts ellipses...in every sentence...they...write...

The one who RANDOMLY capitalizes WORDS to place, often unnecessary, EMPHASIS.

I have been that writer. I am that writer. But today's a new day, and the first step to solving a problem is to admit that you have it. Well, I have it. And from here on out, I'm breaking up with the exclamation point, the ellipses, and that ever-annoying random capitalization.

We'll still be friends though!!!!

...

Oops.

Edited to add: I typed this from a printed version of the post last night. I very obviously did not proofread. To those who may have read this before I fixed my glaring errors, I apologize.

Edited (again) to add: If you are a serial exclamation point user like me, never fear. I will still love you, as I navigate my own road to recovery. You just keep doing what you do best. I'm the one with the problem. Not you :)

Via

Do you have any weird writing quirks that drive you crazy? Do you over-punctuate? Do you abuse the exclamation point?! Well, DO YOU!?!?!

Crazy as a Betsy Bug

“Just how crazy is a betsy bug?” The question was asked with just hint of sarcasm. Barely detectable, but I knew him well enough to know it was there.

He was making fun. Something we did to each other often. The playfulness was part of our relationship then, and it still is now; one of the things that makes us work.

I mulled over his question for a moment, pretending to be distracted by the chicken frying on the stove. Truth was, I didn’t even know what the heck a betsy bug was. Later, when away from his scrutinizing eye, I would google the information and learn that a betsy bug was actually a real insect more commonly known as a bess beetle. Upon more in depth googling, I was unable to learn where the phrase originated. I just knew I’d heard it since I was a child.

That Jane's* crazy as a betsy bug; bless her heart. 

I turned to Jeremy, wiping flour-covered hands on the front of my jeans, and said, “A betsy bug is crazy. What more do you need to know?”

He wasn’t convinced. “What makes it crazy? Why is a betsy bug any crazier than any other sort of bug? A roach, for example? Or a grasshopper?”

He smirked, and I turned back to my chicken. “I honestly can’t tell you, Jeremy. It’s an old expression, a turn of phrase. You use them all the time.”

“Not any as weird as that.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s weird. I’m Southern; I say weird things and talk real slow. Shoot me. It’s better than people not being able to tell where I’m from! Need I remind you of the time you called my Mom’s bank and her coworker thought you were from India? Her exact words were, ‘Brenda, there’s some foreign man on the phone for you!’”

It was true. Jeremy’s accent was pretty unidentifiable, and frankly, even I had a hard time understanding him sometimes. Mainly, because he mumbled.

I liked to tell him that I wasn’t fluent in “mumble.”

He liked to roll his eyes at me.

We were always trying to figure each other out. From opposite sides of the country, sometimes seeming to speak two different languages, raised in two separate cultures, and yet, for some reason, we worked.

Even now, when we're lost in translation, words and minds apart, we still work.

Author's Note: *Names have been changed to protect the innocent, bless their hearts. This little slice of mine and Jeremy's life was brought to you by the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: "Colloquialisms and Dialect." For great writing, be sure to click on the link below:

Time Thieves: An Inside Look at Migraines

I can count on them. They are predictable foes, attacking reliably and when I most expect it. They save their assaults for holidays and special occasions, vacations and family gatherings. Or, worse, busy days at work. 

They want to destroy my day, and I usually allow them to do so, surrendering to their sly weapons and their overwhelming power over me. When they assault me, I am at my weakest, a normally tough girl gone soft and vulnerable. 

They are migraines, time thieves and day stealers. Ruthlessly sucking away moments of my life, moments I can never get back. Moments spent passed out in darkened rooms or at office desks with head in hands. Moments spent torturously driving home in traffic or trying to pretend for the sake of friends and family that pain isn’t tearing me apart. Moments lost forever. 

I’ve had them since I was a teenager. Since then, countless days have been spent in bed and in agony, fruitlessly wishing that the pain would just go away...if even for a moment. 

For me, migraines are hereditary, passed down to me from previous generations like my freckles and pale skin, my tendency to overanalyze and a love of animals. My mother has them, as do my aunt and grandmother. It’s our burden to bear. 

We’re not the only victims, however. Husbands and children are susceptible, too, helplessly entwined in our web of pain and paralysis. Countless weekend trips and holidays are sacrificed to the mighty migraine. Dinners and dates ruined. Frustration and annoyance trickle in to replace concern and sympathy, and adding to that incomparable pain of the migraine is the guilt that comes with disappointing your family.

"You've got a headache again?" become the most hated words of the English language. I've uttered them myself before...and I have had them asked of me. Usually, I do everything in my power to hide the pain...just to avoid that inevitable question and the inevitable defeat that comes with it.

Those who don't suffer from them can't understand them. To them, it's just a headache. I've heard that in their voices. Suck it up. Get over it. Why are you such a wimp? They may not say it; they may not even admit to thinking it, but it's always there. 

I wish there was a solution, a way to conquer the migraine. But alas, even medicine can only do so much.  And so, they are the one thing that we who know them can count on, these bringers of pain and disappointment, these takers of time.

Just take note, if you know someone who suffers from migraines, remember patience, remember understanding. Remember that resenting something your loved one can't control only makes the pain worse. And believe me when I say, it hurts enough. 

Do you have migraines? What do you do to conquer them? Does anything help? Do those around you understand?

Standing In My Own Way

Via

I made a breakthrough this morning. I won’t diminish this breakthrough by saying that it would probably not be that big of a deal to anyone else. It’s a big deal to me and that’s all that matters right now. I overcame an obstacle that was standing in the way of pursuing my dreams. I overcame myself.

I am my own obstacle, and I have been for quite some time.

When it comes to giving credit, I’m your girl. I was blessed with the ability to see good in almost everyone and everything. I love supporting others, watching them grow, helping them grow. You need a pat on the back? Give me a call. I’ll pat you on the back all day long and then tell you how awesome you are…because you are awesome, and you should know it.

But you know what? I’m kind of awesome, too. Only, I have a hard time convincing myself of that fact. In the last two years, I’ve made huge steps in making my dream of becoming a writer come true. I’ve been published. I’ve been paid. I’ve even become a contributing writer for a regional magazine. Some might even say that I am a writer now. 

And yet, despite these successes, I remain unimpressed.

Instead of looking at all the wonderful accomplishments I’ve made, I pick myself apart. I throw my flaws up to myself. I constantly say, so what? You’re still crazy. You’re still neurotic. You’re still afraid of a lot of things. When will I ever say: This is enough?

Today, I took one step closer to being able to say that.

I made two phone calls for two new magazine assignments I have.

I’ve only been writing features for this magazine a few months. My first assignment was back in October. Since then, I’ve managed to hide behind my computer. For each of my assignments so far, I did interviews through email and, if I do say so myself, I kicked ass.

Hiding behind a computer is easy. I can be everything that I want to be when I’m writing. I can be confident. I can be intelligent. I can take the time to get my wording JUST RIGHT. When you read a professional email from me, you’re going to think that I am a smart, confident, kick-ass woman. You’re going to imagine a woman in high heels with perfect hair and perfect makeup and perfect everything. She’s going to be the woman you want to hire, the woman you want on your side.

I can project that woman from the comfort of my computer. I can be that woman, because with words, I am that woman.

But truth is…when you strip away the security blanket of a computer…when you strip away my ability to think through and perfectly construct what I’m going to say…I am not that woman.

Truth is…I’m just Katie. Self-conscious, nervous, people-pleasing Katie. I twist my hair when I talk. I bite my lip. I play with my rings. I fidget. My hair isn’t perfect, and neither are my clothes. I’ll turn red and splotchy. My voice might shake…just a little.

I don’t want you to know the truth. But I don’t know why.

Because the truth is who I am, and I should be proud of that.

Today, being able to hide behind my computer ended. Both of my contacts for my new assignments wanted to talk to me on the phone. Now, you may remember that I’m telephonophobic; therefore, for the days since I found out about my assignments, I've been freaking out. We're talking panic attack city in Katie-land.

But, today, after a long pep talk from my awesome dad, I let go of that fear.

I let go of controlling my image. I let go because this was important. This was my dream. It made letting go all that much harder, but it also meant that I had to do it. There was no choice in the matter. Fear was not going to dictate another decision in my life. Fear was not going to make the choice for me. Fear was not going to waste another of my moments.

So, I picked up the phone, made two important calls, and, y'all, I kicked ass. I was that woman with the perfect words and the perfect hair...and instead of heels, I was wearing sneakers. I was that woman, because I am that woman. I am her, and she is me. 

And I’ll continue being her, as long as I stop standing in my own way.

Be who you are. Be proud of who you are. Because it’s who you are that makes you so awesome. And I’ll just keep remembering that I’m awesome, too, and maybe one day soon, I’ll even believe it. 

Today, well...I made a breakthrough today, and because of it and because of the feeling I have right now, I'll remember it forever. And when I forget...or when I feel insecure and afraid, I'll come back here. I'll remember this day. I'll remember this feeling, this pride I have in myself at this moment. And I'll kick ass again. 

Do you ever stand in your own way? Do you let fear or insecurities make decisions for you? How have you kicked ass lately?