Do You Have To Be A Writer To Be An Insecure Writer?

Who am I kidding?

What was I thinking?

My writing is not unique.

It is barely interesting.

I have nothing to say that hasn't been said a million times before.

I have no burning stories to tell.

I've tried writing and I suck at it and should take up something else. I just don't know what that "else" is.

I'm at a crossroads, I forgot to buy a map and my GPS is broke.

(Poor, poor pitiful me.)




P.S. - Congratulations to Alex J. Cavanaugh on the second anniversary of his Insecure Writers Support Group! Two whole years of encouraging writers who, by nature, are insecure. You're doing a great service to the world, Alex. Thank you!

No Job For You

I didn't get the job. Excuse me a moment while I wail and clench my fists and blow my nose really, really loud.

Why didn't they like me? Why? WHY? 

*sob*

Was it my Dr. Seuss criminal record on the background check? Was it because I'm old and fat and they wanted yet another Big-Boobied Tartlet at their orifice cooler? (It's a bird. Look it up.) Because, really, are there ever enough young women in tight blouses and camel-toe pants working at car dealerships?

It's not like I don't have social media experience. (Right?) It's not like I don't have 30 years under my belt as a writer and a photographer. It's not like I couldn't give them the most awesome website they'd ever seen, complete with a funny, fabulous Facebook page that people WANT to interact with. It's not like I couldn't do the fecking JOB in my fecking SLEEP.

Maybe it's because I like to say feck so much? Well feck, I wouldn't say feck on their Facebook page ... OK, so maybe just once or twice...

I didn't actually think they would reject me. I honestly thought they would offer me the job and then I would negotiate a higher wage because, frankly, I'm worth twice what they were offering and I live in a fecking dream world. And then, when they refused to offer me more moolah, I would tell them to stick their job in their pipe and smoke it.

I just didn't imagine them not offering me the job. How big-headed and stupid is that?

I know I should act like a grown-up but I really feel sorry for myself right now. I may have to spend the rest of the day blowing my nose and yelling at the cats.

What Would YOU Do?

How much can I do for people? How muuuuuuch????

So taking two kids halfway across the country on an airplane was trying, to say the least. For the trip home yesterday I was looking forward to a little me time – the window seat I'd paid extra for (because I like watching the ground as I plummet towards it), my Kindle, earbuds and licorice allsorts. Oh, and also a pre-emptive Imodium. I was bagged and bunged and ready for four hours of flighterly fun.

I get on the airplane and see there's a man sitting in my seat.

"Would you mind trading with me?" he says. "I couldn't get three seats in a row and I want to sit with my family."

I guess he thinks I won't mind since he's already ensconced in my seat, jacket off, seat belt on, newly-hatched baby in his arms. Beside him is a toddler and a well-worn woman who looks exhausted enough to be his wife.

"That's my seat there," he says, pointing to the aisle seat across, as luck would have it, the aisle.

The man's got nerve, that much is for sure. He's someone you might see working in downtown Toronto, Mr. Stock Exchange, all muscular and handsome, well-dressed too, and he looks like he's used to getting his own way. But how can I say no to him? He's got a baby AND a toddler. On an airplane. Just last week I had faced the same challenge and I knew it wasn't any walk in the park.

And besides, his seat was an end aisle, which wasn't so bad.

As I've mentioned before I have a rather large ass. If I book my ass an aisle seat or a window seat, it has more room to spread without bothering anyone. Last thing I want is my ass making an ass of itself.

"OK," I say. "Sure." Because I would have been a total ass had I been the one to separate a man from his family.

I sit down in the aisle seat, put my purse at my feet and strap on the seat belt. Then all of a sudden I notice a woman standing in the aisle staring at me.

Just then Mr. Family Man leans over and says, "Actually my seat was the middle seat."

"Well then, that changes everything," I say. "Deal's off. Gimme back my seat." I'm actually kinda not kidding. I'm pissed off. He deliberately misled me. But Mr. Doofus Family Man looks stricken so I say, "just kidding."

So I move to the middle seat. The new lady looks unimpressed. In fact she looks mortified and I know right away what's eating her. She is seated beside the two fattest people on the plane: me and this guy who is so large that he makes me feel skinny. She is probably thinking, 'oh no, two fatties... they're probably going to be all sweaty and stinky and they're gonna touch me with their stinky sweatiness' or some such thing. Now don't y'all go on saying that's not true – I've read enough vile comments from skinny people having to "endure" fat people on airplanes to know that they'd rather jump off without a parachute than have to be glued to a fat person for the length of a plane ride.

As it turned out, I was totally glued to my plus-sized seat mate for four hours. When he was awake, he tried hard to keep his bulk away from my bulk, which I admire, because I try to do the same thing. Unfortunately, he slept for most of the trip and, when unconscious, his arms relaxed and he literally pinned me to my seat. I couldn't even scratch my nose. I sat there, bolt upright, squished like a bug, with my arms crossed in front of me so I wouldn't bother the lady on my other side. Occasionally I accidentally touched her and she pulled away like she had been singed. By the time we arrived in Edmonton, my back was killing me, my shoulders ached and my whole left side smelled like Old Spice. Kudos to my large friend for smelling nice – disproving the insane notion that just because we're hefty doesn't mean we're smelly.

Mr. Family Man had a pleasant journey, from what I could see. All sprawled out in my aisle seat, picture-perfect baby asleep in his arms, Shirley Temple toddler all pink-cheeked and curly-haired, tired wife blessedly asleep and likely dreaming sweet, husband-less dreams.

He didn't even offer to pay me the $30 it cost me to get that seat. Nor did he say thank-you as I uncrumpled myself from the plane.

Dave wonders why I gave him my seat. I figure I had no choice ... I mean, what kind of a horrible person would I be if I denied a man a chance to be with his family?

What would you do?

Job Interviews and Lucky Blouses

I have one of those newfangled crackberry phones and I haven't got all the wrinkles ironed out. Like, I am forever hanging up on Dave because I can't tell the difference between connect and disconnect. Last night I broke into a cold sweat trying to add our neighbour to my list of contacts.

"It's because I'm such a technical guru," I said as my fat fingers flailed and floundered, "that I have a job interview tomorrow DOING SOCIAL MEDIA. Hahahahahaha! And I don't even know to work my FECKING PHONE."

So, yes! I had a job interview this morning. I haven't had one of those in, like, six years and I had no clue what to wear so I decided to wear the same blouse I wore on the day I "got the package" from my last company and moved out west. I get superstitious about clothes. Do you? Whenever something bad happens to me I never want to wear what I was wearing – ever again.

The package I got from work was awesome – basically a big bag of money (START THE CAR!!!!) – and it didn't hurt my feelings, getting a buyout, because I was already leaving and the package was like a nice going away present. So the blouse I was wearing was actually a good luck blouse, attracting bags of money and such, so naturally I put it on this morning. Plus it's pretty new and kinda funky and makes me look less ginormous.

I also shaved my legs. So I wouldn't stab anyone.

I was nervous about the interview, but only because I wasn't sure I really wanted to work. This summer has been the first time in 30 years that I haven't had a job, and let me tell you, it's been sweet. There's something to be said for sleeping in, drinking coffee, watching home decoration shows on TV and playing on Facebook all day. I wasn't sure I wanted to give all that up.

Turns out this is a perfect job for me. Part-time social media stuff. Uploading photos. Creating a better website. Building a better Facebook and Twitter presence. Writing. Photos. Stuff I'm good at. Most of which can be done in my pajamas in my own home. Now I hope I'm not jinxing this by writing about it before I find out if the job is mine or not. But hey, they want a social media type and surely they realize that social media types tend to burp out their every waking moments on, er, social media.

It would be nice to get the job but if I don't it's not the end of the world. There will still be coffee and Love It Or List It and time to enjoy it in the style to which I am just getting accustomed.

If I don't get it though, that blouse is going in the trash.

I'd Love It, Mizz Hilary

I'm watching Love It Or List It as we speak and I feel SO sorry for Hilary that I want to reach through the television and smack homeowner Sherry right upside her crusty head!

Doesn't she know she sounds like a shrill seagull? Yapping and complaining about everything! Gawd! If I was her husband Charles I'd kick her bony butt right out.

I'm addicted to this TV show, I have to say. If you've never seen it, there are two stars: designer Hilary Farr and real estate expert David Visentin. They work with frustrated homeowners who are no longer in love with their houses. Hilary renovates, hoping the owners will love their house again. David shows them other properties, hoping they'll list and move.

I love David, I do. He's one of the most charming guys on TV, but his job is so easy! All he has to do is  show houses. Hilary, on the other hand, has the daunting job of renovating and it's always more complicated than it first seems as she deals with hidden problems like leaky basements, asbestos, bad wiring and even rodent infestation. As her contractors uncover the hidden problems, Hilary has to go to the homeowners and either get more money for them or cut back on the scope of the renovation. Invariably, the homeowners refuse to hand over more cash.

Which, as far as I'm concerned, is ridiculous! Hilary does amazing work. If I had her working on MY house, I would beg, borrow or steal the extra money so she could do everything that needed doing. I mean, how often do you have a professional designer in your house? Give her the money! Get it done! Pffft... people drive me crazy.

Hilary, you can come make my house beautiful. I promise I won't yell at you. I promise I'll "love it." I'll bake you cookies (cause you're a little on the skinny side), I'll rub your tired tootsies and I'll kiss the ground you walk on.

And if you need somebody to take a round out of Mizz Sherry, well, just ask! I'll "list" her right into next week!