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!