The Writing Guru

When I began my new job I expected to be like most entry level workers and spend the majority of my time learning. But like most things in my life, it didn't go as expected.

As it turns out, I am the new writing guru of the office. I feel as though my purpose is to spread the joy of proper punctuation, syntax and grammar. Be prepared office mates, I'm a bit of a writing nazi.

I have plenty to learn, that is no question, but I'm also well equipped to teach. I love commas, despise improper capitalization and loath ill placed and elongated ellipses. An ellipses is three periods people, that's it, not seven, not thirteen - just three.

As a side note, I will fully appreciate the irony if I have actualized any of my own pet peeves in this post. I can take a joke............

Life Lessons from Jack Johnson

Many things make me happy - shoes, dinner parties, post-its, scented candles, home decor, jacked up trucks and holding a gun. But as of late, the one solitary thing that gives me the greatest joy is the Jack Johnson station on Pandora.

I used to let television rape my brain every night from approximately 10:30-midnight. Now I curl up in my favorite chair, light a deliciously scented candle and turn on the music. The mix of music that streams through my speakers ranges from Jack Johnson and Donovan Frankenreiter to Coldplay and Bob Marley. I know, the ultimate relaxation mix - perfect for a little self-reflection.

Over the course of the last four or five months I've really come into my own and become comfortable with who I am. I've made hard decisions like cutting off all communication with my abusive ex-boyfriend and picking out new curtains for my living room. I've pushed my limits mentally and physically by working multiple internships while going to graduate school full-time, although currently I'm only working one full-time job (reference previous post).

For better or worse, these past few months have been about me.

The hardest part about recovering from an abusive relationship is realizing who you are outside of that person. I had to come to terms with the fact that two things are now true. One, I have significantly higher standards for the type of person I allow in my life, and two, I no longer let myself settle for less than perfect.

For all you buff, single, emotionally-available hunks reading this blog, have no fear, I don't mean traditional perfection (i.e. flawless). I just mean someone that fits my personality and vice versa.

I've come a long way, much further than many people would realize I needed to come. And to celebrate this occasion, I plan to enjoy my new job, my incredibly satisfying relationship with Jack Johnson and this large teaspoon of cough syrup, which will hopefully rid me of this ridiculous cold.

Creativity 2.0

Sunday evening I came down with a terrible sore throat. Monday morning I woke to an additional fever and congested nose - clear signs this was not going to be a good work week.

After my job interview (see previous post) I had to throw in the towel and head to the pharmacy. And yes, I rocked my job interview with a feverish sweat and a voice that was barely audible. How? I have no idea. I digress.

My trusty best friend, who is conveniently a pharmacy student, recommended the Sudafed in a red box that they keep behind the counter. I am forever grateful to her. Not only for its healing powers, but for its ability to unlock my creativity.

Having neglected the fact that I had taken Sudafed, I settled onto my couch to get some work done now that I wasn't risking the health of my entire office. Thirty minutes later I was incredibly frustrated with the state of the brochure I was working on - my first project for my new job.

Forty-five minutes later the Sudafed kicked in. Suddenly feeling relaxed and quite loopy, I kicked that brochure's ass. It was some of my best work. So that got me thinking - perhaps all the other artists are right, maybe drugs do unlock your mind.

I'm such an incredibly structured person that it is hard for me to be creative. But you better believe that with a glass of wine in my system, or a dose of Sudafed apparently, my structure falls by the wayside and my inner artist takes over.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not going to start doing recreational drugs just to achieve optimal work, but I will be utilizing the power of a glass of wine.

The American Heart Association recognizes the goodness of wine for heart health and now I will be recognizing the goodness of wine for my creative health.

The First Real One

Fair readers it has finally happened. I will finally have a job title that does not include the word 'intern'. I know - I never thought it would happen either!

Being offered this position as a graphic designer (and writer/photographer), above hundreds of other applicants with much more graphic design experience, has made me reflect on how strange my working career has been thus far and how it really is about who you know.

When I was in undergrad I was sure that I would go into the medical field. When I couldn't find a job that maintained my attention for more than a day, I changed the communication arts major. The beauty of being a writer, particularly a feature writer, is that I never quit learning. It's like combining fifty jobs into one, because you know a little bit about everything around you.

Then on a whim, one of my favorite professors recommended me for a position as a communications intern. It was supposed to just be for a semester. I stayed two years. That experience solidified my passion for communications and for working with rich, old people.

But if I've accepted one thing about myself it is that I can be a bit flighty, even if only in my mind. So for some reason I got too comfortable with my writing and had to shake things up. Upon graduation, I decided that going to graduate school for photography sounded fun, so I did.

Two days after that experience began, I realized my mistake. 10 weeks later I jumped ship (thank God) and transferred to the graduate writing program, which was the obvious place for me to be.

I hadn't been in the program but maybe three weeks when an internship with a local magazine came available. Apparently first year students aren't supposed to do internships. Well, rules are made for breaking. I applied and got the internship.

Simultaneously I found an internship on Craiglist.com that I also applied for and got. What's a girl to do? Accept both of course. A little hard work never hurt anyone. As it turns out, the magazine internship was a disaster, but the Craigslist internship led me to this present celebration of my first real job, benefits and all.

It's a good day friends, just ask my brother-in-law. He is ecstatic that I won't be mooching off him anymore. You're welcome, Michael.

Sometimes It's Just Time

When Eric Church's new album, Chief, hit the airwaves I knew it was going to be my new obsession.  Per usual, I was correct. And given my previous confessions on the subject, you, fair readers, are aware that my obsessions are no joke.

While the entire album is repeat worthy, there is one song, "Springsteen," that has taken a particularly strong hold on my heart.

I'm not sure what it is about this song, but it causes a very strong feeling of nostalgia. For some reason I can't quite figure out the source of my nostalgia. After much thought (and wine, of course) I think I've come to the conclusion that maybe I'm missing something I never had.

I was the type of person who could never find their place in high school, in the teenage persona. I've always been told that I have an old soul and that was true then as well. So I spent my mid to late teen years trying to be older than I was.

I worked multiple jobs, dated college-age guys (or older) and graduated high school a semester early. I was so ready to be an adult that I never allowed myself to be a child. I think that's why the song hits me so hard.

"Springsteen" personifies the experience of young love and the power of a carefree teenage existence.

After two years spent in an emotionally draining "adult" relationship I have realized how much I missed out on. I'm always mentally five years ahead of where I should be socially. I know it sounds crazy, but this song has helped me see the changes I need to make before I lose all chance to enjoy my youthful years.

Thank you Eric Church. I also enjoy your song "Drink In My Hand." With my recent revelations safely in my back pocket, I think that song might be my new life mantra.

Not really. But it's still a rockin' good song.

Jumping Off A Mountain

I think I'd like to jump off a cliff.

Well, technically I would run quickly, without tripping, down a hillside on the top of a mountain and then jump, but who bothers with technicalities?

I'm talking about paragliding people, the greatest sport you've never heard of. Actually, the rest of the world is well acquainted with it, but that's beside the point.

My father, a retired hang glider (similar to paragliding), has begun to assimilate me into the flying culture and I'm already hooked. My next feat will be to actually do it.

So why, you may ask, would I want to jump off a mountain intentionally? Great question. It's because of two things my father told me. The first thing he told me was that it is incredibly quiet when you're in the air. The second thing he told was that flights can last anywhere from 30 minutes to 2 hours.

Hmm.. very interesting. As a writer and a person with a busy life, the thought of being able to escape somewhere for 30 minutes-2 hours, a place where people truly couldn't bother you, and just think is the most amazing idea ever. I can't believe I didn't think of it before.

Need peace and quiet? Just go fly your personal aircraft for a few hours. As a side note, paragliders are also supposed to be very comfy. You just essentially recline into a backpack-like harness. Sounds nice.

So yes, I think I have decided that jumping off a cliff is the only way I will be able to get peace and quiet to sort out all the writerly things in my mind.

Wish me luck fair readers.

Does a Writer Write?

This afternoon I had an incredible workout. Well, minus almost getting hit by a car (totally my fault) I had an incredible workout. Apparently, I lack the perception needed to safely run in downtown.

When I finished my workout, I sat on the floor of my apartment, muscles aching, short of breath, decently sure I would die due to lack of lung capacity and I suddenly felt really proud.

I had physically pushed my body past its predetermined limits, but it didn't seem like that should be a feat. I spent 2 years mentally pushing myself way beyond my limits. And I survived... I think.

So why am I shying away from my writing? I spend 8.5 hours a day (well 7.5 if you count lunch) writing about marketing hoopla. I come home at night and spend time blogging about all the nonsensical mess floating around in my head. Why can't I make myself practice writing?

I'm so green in the art of creative writing (memoir, personal essay and fiction specifically) that I should be writing constantly. Yet I focus all of my creative energy on writing for monetary profit and mental release. I should be focusing my energy on perfecting my craft.

I'm paying $30,000 a year to do just that, so why not milk every cent? Why not use this summer to create a stockpile of work, good, bad and ugly, so that when the school year begins, as it inevitably will, I have something to show for myself?

Guess it would have been helpful to have this discussion a couple months ago, right? Life lesson learned.

Surprised?

I try to update my blog as often as possible, but sometimes, quite honestly, I just don’t have anything to say. So for the past few days I’ve been racking my brain, trying to find something I want to talk about, something that needs to be said.

Through all my frustration, I kept coming back to the same concept, one that has been prevalent in my life as of late: I love to be surprised.

And I’m not just talking about my knight in shining armor showing up on my doorstep with roses and chocolate… lots of chocolate. I love it when people do something small, something they probably don’t even notice or consider significant, and it helps restore your faith in the kindness of others.

My ex-boyfriend broke me physically and mentally. By the time I was emotionally ready to leave him I was certain that he had ruined me for all future men. I had no self-esteem, I didn’t trust anyone new and I was sad… really sad. He had broken my spirit.

I had no idea how to recover and I wasn’t sure I ever would. As I’ve written previously, I finally reached a point where he was not a thought in my mind. I allowed myself to go through a grieving process, although I think I spent more time on the anger stage than necessary.

I finally realized that there was no magic remedy except to just sit back and allow myself to heal. I just had to live my life and do things that made me happy. And trust me, it didn’t take much back then. I was like an attention-starved puppy, every small gesture seemed golden.

And then, as luck would have it, I found happiness again. I regained my strength, got my life back together and focused on being happy.

Once you’ve been beaten down, the journey back to life feels like childhood - everything is shiny and new and the possibilities seem endless.

So what restored my faith in the kindness of people?

(pause for dramatic effect) That is a story for another time.

Blogging for Inspiration

Since I entered graduate school a year ago I've met some amazing people, all from different backgrounds and all with their own story. One of the women I met has become particularly inspiring to me.

She and I began blogging at the same time (as a class assignment) and even though that class ended long ago, I have developed an addiction to reading her blog. I fiend for more information and get the shakes if there is any length of time between posts.

Her blog touches my soul in a very strange way and I think it is because we share a lot of similarities. She told me once that she was sure we were sisters separated at birth. I concur.

The stories she tells focus on the trials and tribulations of her life, which are extremely powerful in and of themselves. Add to that her fluid writing style and it's easy to see why I'm addicted.

But the reason I'm inspired is because she writes the truth, no matter how embarrassing or difficult.

I'm struggling to do the same. There are so many events in my past that I would like to write about and honestly, it would probably help me develop some closure. There is just something therapeutic about seeing your past in writing, seeing those words glaring up at you. It forces you to come to terms with the situation at hand, for better or worse.

For some reason I just can't bring myself to air my dirty laundry because my issues and problems naturally involve other people. So in my mind, if I air my dirty laundry then I am airing theirs as well, and that's not my place.

Maybe one day I will get to a point where I can share very specific situations, but for now you're going to have to get back on minimal wit and maximum charm. You're welcome.

Peter Pan and a Glass of Wine

There comes a point in every writer’s life when they have to ask themselves a difficult question – what do I want to tell the world with my writing?

After much soul searching, contemplation and wine, I have come to the conclusion that I have no freaking idea what I want to tell the world. I’m 23 years old, I haven’t exactly lived a life full of experience yet, so what could I possibly have to say that would be worthwhile?

The irony is not lost on me. I am writing in an open forum (i.e. my internet driven blog) on a weekly basis about how I don’t know what to say. I get it, but just go with me here.

If you follow this blog then you’ve probably noticed I’m slowly becoming bitter about writing marketing jargon. But I also don’t love creative writing either -- hence my conundrum.

I’m not going to be an award-winning novelist. I could be, but the chances are slim. And I can’t market houses and golf courses forever because clearly I would become “that girl” at work if I did. You know the one I’m talking about, don’t act like you don’t.

It’s times like these that I ask myself a question much more important than any other – why the heck am I paying $30,000 a year to get my master’s in writing if I don’t know what I want to write about?

Sure. I will probably figure that out throughout the course of my studies, but that’s a rather expensive risk to take, don’t you think? My bank account certainly thinks so.

But I suppose I should look at it like this. I’m going to be in graduate school forever (or until March 2013) so why not utilize this opportunity to be Peter Pan? I can drift and try new things, perhaps find a gang of lost boys along the way -- could be fun.

It’s safe to say these will be the only years of my life that I’m given license to do whatever I need to do in order to get wine in the glass… I mean put pen to paper.

So I think the answer I’ve been searching for is the one I found – I don’t know what I need to say to the world. But if I allow myself to relax and play Peter Pan for a bit then I might just find the words.

Ode to Marketing Jargon

I love my job - really, I do. I'm good at marketing real estate. I could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves. But there comes a point in every person's career when they've done too much of the same thing. Today is my day.

If I write the words feature, accentuate, accent or encompass one more time today, I might scream.

I live in a downtown apartment with street parking and bars on the window, so pardon me if I don't care about your powder room featuring Onyx, a crystal backlit sink and a custom-cut mirror all accented by crystal and copper fixtures. My apologies.

After a long day of marketing moderately to insanely priced homes, I don't care to describe how your melodious laughter resonated through the winding, marble tile hallways onto the covered lanai. Sorry.

And mostly, I'm tired of thinking of ways to spin an article so it sounds more interesting than it is. Why can't I just write about things that are already interesting? Is this a test of my abilities? I hope not, because if it is, I'm ready to tap out.

So marketing jargon, I beg of you - leave my soul alone, let my vocabulary expand and allow me to write about things that matter. But until you release your grasp on my mind, I will continue to taunt you with brilliant ideas and slightly snarky phrases.

End rant.

Outsiders

I've recently spent quite a bit of time back home in North Carolina visiting family and exploring a new relationship prospect. The issue that has arisen is that I'm not used to spending so much isolated time with people from back home - it's a whole different animal up there.

What I have discovered is that my friends and family from back home are incredibly influential in my decisions, but even more so when I'm there in person. It's very easy to disregard opinions when they're coming to you as a voice on the phone from 4.5 hours away. It's a little harder to disregard when it's staring you in the face.

But the other discovery I made is that there are a lot of opinions from back home that I need to disregard. I live my life in a very different way than most people there, especially when it comes to relationships.

I'm not the type of girl that gets bend out of shape because of unreturned text messages or dates cancelled due to perfectly legitimate reasons. Those are just not things that bother me. Disappoint me? Sure. But not bother me or make me mad.

But the longer I was home the more bothered and angry I began to feel about things that would have never bothered me before.

So this is all I have to say: Get out of my head! You're psyching me out here!

I leave you with a song I stumbled across this weekend that is hilarious. I give you "Soft" by Kings of Leon. You're welcome in advance.

Bitter, Bitter Bitches

I spent two years of my life in a terrible relationship. Perhaps it wasn't the greatest dating decision I've ever made in my life, but now I am a lot happier, stronger person.

Phrases like "but I learned something" and "I'm a stronger person because of it" always remind of the losing sports teams that get cited for having "lots of character." It's a nice way of saying that you lost.

But, of course, not in my case, right? I have tons of character. Anyway, I digress.

I survived situations I could have never imagined in my wildest dreams and because of those experiences I now know that I can do anything I put my mind to.

Once I was able to safely leave the relationship I immediately moved away to avoid any emotional relapse. I failed (cue more character growth). For at least six months after I moved I continued to be in his life, I continued to be his crutch.

But as the months went on I began to feel bitter and angry at both myself and him. Yes, he treated me like I was disposable, but I allowed him to, hell I enabled him to.

The more bitter I got, the ruder I became until one day I knew I couldn't talk to him anymore. I had to cut him out of my life completely because if I didn't and I continued to be bitter and rude toward him then I would be desecrating any resemblance of the caring relationship we once had.

And yes, caring is a relative term.

The day I decided to let him go from my life was the happiest I've ever been. I felt so light, physically and emotionally, as if years of stress were sloughing off, leaving me a new person.

If I had chosen to keep him in my life then I would have been choosing to stay bitter and angry. Sometimes the greatest therapy is separation. Being bitter would only have hindered my life, not his.

I would have been carrying the burden of his choices, rather than making my own. People should check their baggage at the door and just enjoy their lives.

Yoga Pants and a Cheap Watch

For the past few months I've finally been fulfilling my seemingly apocalyptic New Year's resolution... from the past six years. What can I say? I've been busy.

But anyway, the resolution, drumroll please. I've stuck to a workout routine... finally.

These whole-hearted workouts have wreaked havoc on my laundry routine, given the fact that even though I'm an ex-athlete I only own three pairs of gym shorts. Sad, I know.

I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't just go buy more gym appropriate shorts and shirts. Well that's precisely where today's lesson spurs from.

I didn't go buy new stuff because I am a stage in my life where I can accept myself as I am. And I am the type of person who says they are going to workout, does so religiously for a week and then feigns a pulled muscle as an excuse to quit.

Clearly not a sensible investment. So being the logical person that I am, I decided to wait it out and see if this time I actually stayed with it prior to purchasing the entire athletic wear department of Target.

Good new friends. Three and a half months later, I'm the proud owner of my first pair of spandex yoga pants, a cute microfiber tank top and a shiny new (cheap) sports watch.

I think you can see where I'm going with this. But maybe you don't, so I'll spell it out for you.

For the first time I accepted myself for my flaws and then low and behold I subsequently finished something I started... finally.

In honor of this achievement, I will leave you with a funny commercial about yoga pants. Enjoy!

The Single Memo

Here are the solid facts: I'm 23, I'm single and I'm happy.

So why do I always feel like everyone is trying to set me up? At the Fourth of July celebration I attended yesterday, there were no less than three eligible bachelors... and everyone made sure I was aware.

They were all very nice guys, each with their own great qualities. I wouldn't have minded going on a legitimate date with any one of them (one more so than the others, but that's irrelevant).

But the issue comes down to the fact that I'm the last of the women in my family generation to be single. It apparently makes people think I'm desperate, which I'm far from.

I would love to meet a nice guy - hell, I met three last night which is a good start - and have a nice, healthy relationship, but I'm past the stage where I want to force it to happen. I'm perfectly content with letting fate have the reins.

Apparently everyone else hasn't received the memo.

An Ironic Obsession

For those of you who haven't been keeping up, I become obsessed with songs very easily. I try to justify it in my mind and say that they are muses, they help me write. But let's be realistic. Even if it helped me write the great American novel, listening to Norah Jones sing "Sunrise" 109 times in 18 hours is nothing short of obsessive.

I'm even listening to it right now, guilt free. I love it.

Unfortunately, Norah was not the first victim of my obsession. Before her came many others, the most notable of which include, 

• Nickel Creek's "When You Come Back Down" 
• Joshua Radin & Schuyler Fisk's "Paperweight"
• Incubus' "Stellar" 
• Avett Brothers' "Murder in the City"

I hear it. I love it. I can't stop playing it. Usually the only reason I stop is because I find a new song to obsess over.

The strangest part of my musical affinity is that I know nothing about music. I am the person playing the air guitar when I should be playing the air drums. I am the person that can't carry a tune in a bucket, yet I spent 2 years in middle school chorus. I am that girl.

You know the one I'm talking about. The one who blasts her music 10 times louder than necessary so she can pretend she is a great singer. The one who closes her eyes and (ungracefully) grooves to the beat. The one who can't label artists, albums or genres to save her life, yet she can sing most any song that comes on.

I want to use words in the way that musicians use melodies, guitar rifts and mandolin solos. When I listen to songs it is rarely about the lyrical substance, but rather about the way my heart palpitates when the sound of the instruments reaches my soul.

I would cue the musical terminology, but we've clearly established my lack of technical knowledge. Nevertheless, everyone has that song. The one that can make them cry, laugh or just feel peaceful, even if only for a moment.

But seriously, listen to Norah Jones sing "Sunrise." It'll stir your soul. Or confirm my insanity. Either way, give it a go.

Why Do We Stay?

If you've read my blog then you know that I have an affinity for Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker's beloved character on Sex and the City). Well, here is my Carrie Bradshaw-esque rant for the week.

As a female, most of the relationship conversations I overhear and partake in (I can feel you judging me already) revolve around one phrase - "I know he (or she) isn't good for me, but I just can't leave."

Why do we stay? What possible reasoning could we have to justify staying in a poisonous relationship? And to that point, this applies to poisonous friendships as well.

Now don't think that I'm just standing on my soap box preaching about how women are crazy for staying in bad relationships. I've been there. I stayed in an extremely tumultuous relationship for a long time and I used every excuse in the book.

Examples:

1. He needs me
2. He's in such a vulnerable place right now
3. I don't want to hurt him
4. I would be proving him right - everyone leaves him
5. I would be proving him right - no one loves him unconditionally
6. I don't know how to be without him
7. I have so much stuff at his place, like all my DVDs

Okay, I know the last one was a Dane Cook refrence, but you get the point.

Hindsight is 20/20, right? Looking back on it, I am so thankful that I got out, but I wish I had listened to my instincts when they told me this little gem:

"You've outgrown him," said my instincts.

Sometimes we outgrow relationships and friendships, but if we would just let them go when they first reach that point, then we would significantly minimize the amount of hurt feelings. It's when we cling to the relationship - trying to force it to work - that it becomes poisonous.

When we outgrow clothes we get rid of them don't we? For those of us who have tried to squeeze into a pair of too small blue jeans, it makes you look pretty "People of Walmart" doesn't it? So why would we do the equivalent in our relationships? We deserve more than a muffin top caused by last year's too tight jeans.

We should just listen to our instincts. But where's the fun in that, right?

... I couldn't help but wonder... Just kidding, only the real Carrie Bradshaw can pull that off.

Marketing My Soul

Today, I used the word "proverbial" in a press release about kid's summer camps.

What can I say? You can only write so many articles about the "bigger picture" behind golf tournaments and bird watching before you want to poke your eyes out. And given the fact that I have still maintained my vision, I obviously haven't reached that point... yet.

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I'm given assignments and opportunities most interns dream about, but there comes a point when I want to write something that matters, something that makes a difference.

Yes, I know that's what everyone says.

I can sell you a house, convince you to put your 6-year-old in a triathlon training camp and persuade you to eat at a newly renovated clubhouse that focused on repurposing old materials to save you money, but can I do more? Can I make you question parts of your life? Can I make you laugh so hard you pee a little bit?

I'm not even sure I want to do that. But I know that every now and again I need a break from marketing my soul. I want to be able to use words like transcend, manifest and proverbial without being told to "dial back the language."

If I dial it back much more, I'm going to be writing like a third grader or half my former classmates.

Whether or not I could be a serious writer is not even really a serious question. Could I? Sure, why not? Do I want to do that? I'm not sure.

What I do know is that just once in my life I want my words to wash over someone, carrying such emotion and intensity that they have to close their eyes. I want to make them feel the same way I do when I listen to the mandolin solo in "When I Come Back Down" by Nickel Creek.

But I would settle for making someone laugh so hard they pee. Whichever.

The Cringe Effect

As a writing intern at a real estate company, I'm getting used to churning out content on demand - press releases, feature articles, ad copy, you name it and I write it on a daily basis.

However, in the midst of increasing my content to coffee ratio, I've also perfected the cringe.

The cringe is what happens every time I re-read old content of mine. It doesn't matter if I wrote it an hour ago or two years ago - it always makes me cringe. I'm immediately blinded by all the errors glaring at me - grammar mistakes, unnecessary words, etc.

When I initially became a writer, I dreaded reading my own work, knowing it would cause the cringe effect. But now I'm trying to view it in a more positive manner.

The fact that I can read my old work and recognize the mistakes shows how much I am learning about the written word. If I ever look over work and think it is perfection, then I need to change majors and careers.

For my writing to reach its full potential, it must stay in a constant state of progression. So I consider every cringe to be a testament to my education...

Or so I tell myself.

Can We Talk About This Song?

For roughly the past month and a half I've been playing this song on repeat (cue dramatic entrance of YouTube video).

"All The While" by Ajay Malghan

I know. Sounds a bit obsessive, right? Well that's probably because it is. But what can I say? When I find a song that inspires me to focus on my work then I run with it. Wouldn't you?

As a writer, I have learned that muses come few and far between, so when you find a good one, stick with it.

Previous obsessions, I mean muses, have been:

"A Little Bit Stronger" By Sara Evans got me through the writing of my first legitimate short story. Unfortunately, this song was a one trick pony for me. Sorry Sara, but I'm retiring your song.

"When You Come Back Down" by Nickel Creek got me through... well my life since January 2011. And it's still an active muse.

Previous to these muses came a long string of emo artists such as Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, The Scene Aesthetic and many other guilty pleasures that, yes, I still listen to on a pretty regular basis. There - I admitted it. (Cue weight lifting off shoulders)

Well dear readers, I hope you can all be inspired by at least one of these songs. If not, I'm seriously concerned about your taste in music and I will be reconsidering our blog-ship.

Oh the Confusion

I'm baffled. I'm overcome with writer's block (or confusion). I'm essentially a hot mess right now.

My first freelance writing assignment stemming from my 10-week magazine internship and I can't do it. I apparently have performance anxiety (and not the kind that a viagra can fix).

I spend the past few days feeling somewhat nervous, but overall confident that I could sit down and write this article. 850 words? Psh, no problem. How about 1850 words?

So far, I was wrong. I've been trying to write for almost 2 hours and I have 500 words that say nothing. Nothing at all.

About 30 minutes in I realized the problem. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be writing about.

Awesome.

I spent weeks researching different facets of this assignment, meeting with my editor and pondering how I would approach it.

Apparently I need a few more weeks. Or a brain transplant, because I realized tonight that I don't even really understand what I've been researching.

You know, I used to wonder how I made it through the trials of my life, but after this realization of my lack of understanding, I'm now wondering how I manage to dress myself each morning.

No wonder I wear so many dresses. The "one leg at a time" concept was obviously way too far-fetched for my brain.

If you need me, I will be banging my head against the wall and praying to the God of Writing, better known as a glass of red wine.

The Little Black Macbook

When I first started college I was 100% sure I would pursue a career in the medical field. Practically everyone in my family is in the medical field, and I love learning about biology and medical related practices. It just seemed natural.

Then one day I found a little black macbook and everything changed.

In 2006 my father moved from town out to the lake. As fate would have it, we found the aforementioned macbook under the front seat of the U-Haul.

After many failed attempts to contact the original owners, I claimed the computer as my own. And the fantasy began. The mac wasn't really in working order, but every time I opened it up I felt like Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City, minus the sex, cosmopolitans, career and trim figure. Other than those minor details, we were practically kin.

I dreamed of having a column in a newspaper or magazine, filling the minds of America with my wit and charm. And with that dream in mind, I changed my major to Communication Arts and began to write.

It was slow going. And still is.

Over the past four years, I've struggled with my writing, realized I hate the atmosphere of magazines and newspapers and slowly started to become the type of writer I want to be.

Now if I could only quit ending sentences with prepositions, I would practically be Carrie Bradshaw. All in do time, fair readers. All in do time.

Busting My Ass

After four days of not exercising, I was more than ready to get back on the field - the soccer field that is. That's right, I'm a former soccer player who gets my kicks by pushing a ball around a field with my foot for hours on end. Well in this 95 degree weather, it's more like an hour on end, but I digress.

Since mid-April I've been trying to regain my once natural soccer abilities. Emphasis on trying. Something wasn't right, there was a disconnect between my brain and my foot. Sure, I was shooting the ball hard and to any soccer illiterate bystander I probably looked pretty impressive, but there was no magic.

Ah, but today. Today there was magic.

After pulling overtime at work for two days in row, my brain was fried. I was running (literally) on pure adrenaline, which apparently worked to my advantage. As I prepared to take some shots on my pretend goalie (my reward for a hard workout), I felt something shift. My mind shut down and my body went on pure muscle memory and instinct.

It was pure magic.

I mean, let's not get carried away here. I don't expect David Beckham to break down my door asking for tips anytime soon, but it sure felt great and I know why.

I allowed myself to fail. As I ran toward that ball my stride felt unfamiliar (because I hadn't done it right in so long) and for a split second I thought I might bust my ass - gracefully, of course - but I kept going and I didn't fall.

The one thing in my life I've always struggled with is allowing myself to try things at which I might not succeed. Until this point, my entire education and career has been one long series of pre-determined moves based on things I know I can do well or well enough.

Not anymore. Now I'm going to allow myself to bust my ass (literally and figuratively) because you just never know when you'll find the magic.

The Backstory

I consider myself to be a lot of things. Sarcastic. Witty (to an extent). Cynical. Trusting. Contradictory. Southern. But none of these attributes define me as a person, but some people think they should.

I have been pigeonholed. But, more importantly, I allowed myself to be pigeonholed. I essentially pigeonholed myself.

I never considered myself to be Southern until I went away to college. My friends made no secret of their affinity for or disgust of my accent, which was apparently much thicker than I had ever realized. It's hard to tell what you sound like when everyone in your hometown is a varying degree of the same dialect.

And while I did finally begin to embrace my Southern heritage, I also became quite self-conscious of it. So I started beating my friends to the punch and making a spectacle of my Southernness.

Then it somehow spread to the rest of my life. Any time I was in an uncomfortable or unfamiliar situation, I would use my Southern heritage as a conversation starter or point of reference. At first it was great, and then it wasn't anymore.

I began to realize that I had somehow created these parameters for my life that only allowed me to be one thing -- Southern.

I've pigeonholed myself in my relationships, my education and even my career. That all stops right now. Well it at least slows down, I can't exactly go cold turkey here.

Baby steps.

My life revolves around my relationship to the South, so now is my chance to just observe the world without restriction.

I'm a free-range writer now, off my leash for the first time in 5 years. Watch out world!