Buying for Bookworms

“Holy snowballs, Batman, it’s Christmastime!”

But seriously, now that that’s out of my system, I love Christmastime.

I mean, what’s not to love . . . ?

“Shopping!” a lot of people might say, but not me:

1) I’m a girl. It's what we do.
2) I'm freakishly good at it.

Starving writer that I am, you’d never know it by my shoe collection.

But most of all, I love giving the “perfect” gift. You know, the gift that person didn’t know they wanted until they unwrapped it. So what if the OCD child in me screamed as they tore into said wrapping, my painstakingly perfect folds and handmade bows . . .

Giving the perfect book is especially tricky, though, unless the “givee” has specifically mentioned an author, series, or title. But as I’m on a one-woman mission to find homes for as many real books as possible, here are some tricks of the trade for those of you with less time to obsess:

Make an educated guess

Basically, creep a peek at their bookcase.

It’s less obvious than asking "So, read any good books lately . . . ?" and it’ll give you a broader sense of the authors and genres that they like. If their bookcase has multiple personalities like mine, with Jack London sandwhiched between Homer and Neil Gaiman, go to Amazon.com, search a book you know to be a one of their favorites, and then refer to the "People who bought this also bought . . ." section.

And probably give them the gift receipt – just in case!

Adopt a used book

And I don't mean a paperback copy of that James Patterson “novel” they made into a movie that you picked up at a garage sale.

I mean like a 1^st edition of a book that is special to them, or perhaps one with beautiful illustrations or an especially ornate binding . . .

I promise you they’re out there – for a decent price, too! – and while their vestige might be lost on some as they sit quietly on a bedside table or on a shelf amongst dusty knickknacks, it won’t be on the person whose life was touched by their story.

For those interested, I highly recommend Maxwell's House of Books in my hometown of La Mesa.

There’s nothing wrong with plastic (unless you’re ocean life)

Some people call gift cards impersonal, I call them a godsend – especially ones to Barnes & Noble.

Like makeup and clothes, I struggle with spending money on books; they’re nonessentials, it pains me too say, and with the exception of some of the newer titles, there aren’t many that can’t be found either at Maxwell's or my local public library.

Now, having said that . . . the only thing sexier than a virgin book is a guilt-free virgin book ;)

Until next time, shop & be merry!

XO, Mal

~

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Donning the Cape

Hi.

My name is Mallory – “Hi, Mallory!” – and I’m a control freak . . .

Or at least I used to be. 

The line is both fuzzy and gray, to be honest.

I begin today’s post with that somewhat lackluster confession, though, because therein lies one of the biggest deterrents of dreams; the fear of failure, of the unknown.

Pre Mal Adjusted Mallory was an honor student and a 3^rd Degree black belt – a calculated risk-taker at best.

She thrived on structure – a side effect of being bounced around a lot during the post-divorce years, I suspect – and was as Type A as the stereotypically Type A eldest child can be.

But then she . . . I found writing (though sometimes it feels more like writing found me) and I didn’t need to be a calculated risk-taker to know the odds were rough.

Way rough.

I mean, if some of the “best” writers EVER – and by that I mean actual writers, not some celebrity or Navy SEAL or Twihard who happened to write a book – died penniless and obscure, then I was in the same boat as that snowball in hell, up Sh*t Creek and without a paddle, basically.

I had already committed to writing on the inside, but on the outside I managed the anxiety of that commitment by downplaying writing as “just a hobby.”

When asked what I planned to do with my English degree, I would say, “Oh, I don’t know. Work for a magazine or something, I guess . . .” and pleasantly leave it at that.

That way, no one would be the wiser if I failed. It would suck less, somehow, if I were the only one who knew what I really wanted, and how badly I wanted it . . .

But then I was pretty dumb for an honor student.

Young, dumb, and insecure, but oh the difference your twenties make!

Success, I’ve since learned, is a moving target – a target you can’t hit without pulling the trigger first.

So, a few weeks ago, with little ceremony but plenty of pride, I changed my information on Facebook from HR Assistant at Veridiam to Starving Writer at Mal Adjusted . . . DUN DUN DUN!

No big deal, really, but it meant something to me to raise my freak flag that extra inch, to “don” the cape of Mal Adjusted and make it Facebook official. If I were Tony Stark I’d hold a press conference, too, but hey, a girl makes due. 

And speaking of press conferences:

I am very excited to announce my upcoming “Crusader Series,” during which each week’s post will feature an interview with someone else rockin’ their cape, taking life off the beaten path one day at time.

I’ll ask the questions, they’ll give us their answers, and you’ll take away from it what you will.

Here’s hoping it’s something inspiring :)

XO, Mal

~

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I Stand With Beattie

There are a million and one ways I could dive into this one, and make no mistake, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to decide which way is the “right” way, if there is such a thing.

But you know what . . . ? F*ck it.

They can burn me at the stake for all I care. I wouldn’t be the first writer, and bad press is still good press, right . . . ?

Right.

So, let’s start with the “facts,” as best we know them.

The following article was published online by KPBS last Friday:

The University of San Diego revoked a British theology professor’s speaking invitation last week because the professor signed a letter supporting civil marriage rights for same-sex couples in the United Kingdom.

The visit was planned for more than a year.

Tina Beattie, a professor of Catholic Studies at the University of Roehampton in London, was scheduled to give a lecture on how women are represented in art depicting sin and redemption at the University of San Diego on November 8.

The Catholic university withdrew that invitation on October 27. In a letter, University President Mary Lyons explained it was because Beattie publicly dissents from the church’s moral teachings. That dissent, she wrote, is inconsistent with the mission school's Center for Catholic Thought and Culture, which was supposed to host Beattie's lecture, and "with the intentions of those who have financially supported the Center.” 

"I only question those questions of morals and social ethics that Catholic theologians have always questioned or we would never change," Beattie said. "We'd still be living as they did in the Middle Ages." 

Beattie said the withdrawn invitation raises concerns about the school's commitment to academic freedom. The University of San Diego did not respond to requests for an interview by this story's deadline.

Now, here is the University of San Diego’s "Mission and Vision" statement as posted on its website:

The University of San Diego is a Roman Catholic institution committed to advancing academic excellence, expanding liberal and professional knowledge, creating a diverse and inclusive community, and preparing leaders dedicated to ethical conduct and compassionate service. 

Core Values

The University of San Diego expresses its Catholic identity by witnessing and probing the Christian message as proclaimed by the Roman Catholic Church. The University promotes the intellectual exploration of religious faith, recruits persons and develops programs supporting the University's mission, and cultivates an active faith community. It is committed to the dignity and fullest development of the whole person. The Catholic tradition of the University provides the foundation upon which the core values listed below support the mission.

Academic Excellence 


The University pursues academic excellence in its teaching, learning and research to serve the local, national and international communities. The University possesses that institutional autonomy and integrity necessary to uphold the highest standards of intellectual inquiry and academic freedom. 

Knowledge 


The University advances intellectual development; promotes democratic and global citizenship; cultivates an appreciation for beauty, goodness, and truth; and provides opportunities for the physical, spiritual, emotional, social, and cultural development of students. The University provides professional education grounded in these foundations of liberal learning while preparing students to understand complex issues and express informed opinions with courage and conviction. 



Community


The University is committed to creating a welcoming, inclusive and collaborative community accentuated by a spirit of freedom and charity, and marked by protection of the rights and dignity of the individual. The University values students, faculty and staff from different backgrounds and faith traditions, and is committed to creating an atmosphere of trust, safety and respect in a community characterized by a rich diversity of people and ideas. 

Ethical Conduct

The University provides a values-based education that informs the development of ethical judgment and behavior. The University seeks to develop ethical and responsible leaders committed to the common good who are empowered to engage a diverse and changing world.

Compassionate Service


The University embraces the Catholic moral and social tradition by its commitment to serve with compassion, to foster peace, and to work for justice. The University regards peace as inseparable from justice and advances education, scholarship and service to fashion a more humane world.

And now, with all due respect to my alma mater . . . I call bullsh*t.

It’s the first word that comes to mind, frankly, along with a few more "colorful" expletives that I promised my mother I would stop using (or at least putting down in writing).

But I mean, c’mon, I can read – the hypocrisy is rampant.

Beyond said hypocrisy and the questions it raises about the university’s “commitment to academic freedom” is the fact that for some faculty, staff and students, this is a deeply personal affront.

I’m not gay, to be clear, but then I’m not 100% straight, either.

When I fall in love, I fall in love with a person . . . and at least once – once for sure – that person happened to be another girl.

To this day, it’s easy for me to imagine – had life gone a little differently – being with that girl in a loving, monogamous, open relationship . . .

It's almost as easy to imagine how members of the LBGT community in attendance at the University of San Diego (as well their families, who are ostensibly paying for them to go there) feel right about now.

As easy as it is to imagine, though, only makes it that much harder to swallow.

So why swallow then . . . ?

“That’s what she said!”

But seriously, without any further adieu or “smart-assery,” here is my open letter to President Mary Lyons, but one of hundreds written by those standing in solidarity with Professor Tina Beattie for what we know to be right:

Dear President Lyons,

By rescinding the Center for Catholic Thought and Culture’s invitation to Professor Beattie you have done the unconscionable by denying the next generation of leaders the opportunity and right to think for themselves and change the world accordingly.

When faced with one of the “complex ethical issues” you claim to be preparing young people for . . . you took the money and ran.

From your moral obligations as an educator and, worse, from your better judgment.

In doing so you have sorely disillusioned the body of both faculty and students that look to you as an example, and although it makes me sad to say, in this matter I too am ashamed to call myself a Torero.

Here’s hoping your donors' pockets are as deep as you think they are, because until this wrong has been righted the University of San Diego won’t get a single a cent from me, assuming as a starving writer I ever even make as much.

I hate to nickel and dime you, but apparently that’s all it takes . . .

Sincerely,

Mallory Lynn Albrecht

Class of 2011

P.S. You can learn more about this situation as it develops at the student-run Facebook page Toreros Stand With Beattie :)

~

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Starving (Professionally)

It's occurred to me that while I’ve been shoving tough love and my particularly twisted form of  “wisdom” down your throats, I’ve overlooked certain logistics of life off the beaten path, most of them stemming from the fact that – like me – you’re probably broke as a joke. It’s definitely been harder out there as of late, especially for those trying to take risks . . .


The menial part-time jobs that used to keep people like us financially afloat while we put our better energies elsewhere are now mobbed like life rafts; it's a scene straight out of Titanic.

And here you though it was a tough to make ends meet before, right . . . ?

But still, it’s not all that bad.

This isn’t exactly a third world country we’re living in, after all. Your broke is still somebody else’s filthy rich.

Your quality of life doesn’t suck.

Now, having said that . . .

Here are some steps to take when tiptoeing around that exaggerated hole in your pocket:

Shop in your closet

As this first one is mostly – okay, entirely – for you ladies “roughin’ it” in between shopping sprees, I’m just gonna go ahead and get it out of the way.

(Somewhere my boyfriend is rolling his eyes as he reads this, but oh well.)

The urge to splurge can usually be satisfied simply by taking inventory of that which you already have, because there’s probably a few things still in bags or still wearing tags, things you've forgotten about or were saving for a special occasion.

Consider said occasion arrived.

Eat Right

And I don’t just mean eat “healthy,” which can be difficult even when you’re not on a budget. I mean pick when and where carefully.

Familiarize yourself with the best happy hours in your area and eat out accordingly. All those ½ price appetizers and drink specials will add up – in your bank account.

Seem like too much research . . . ? The King of Happy Hour can help :)

And anyways, grocery shopping is where it really gets tricky.

In addition to using coupons and getting a rewards card, you’re actually going to have to look at prices, past the brand name, and pay attention to how much something costs per ounce to get more bang for your buck.

In doing this you’ll probably notice that the cheaper foodstuffs tend to need certain “embellishments,” as in they need to be baked, marinated, sautéed, spiced, and so on.

Subsequently:

Learn how to cook

One, because you’re a grown-up (so grow-up already!) and two, because more often than not a cook can MacGyver something palatable from even the sparest of kitchens, where in times of great famine the non-cooks can only pray that their stores of Top Ramen don't run out.

Those who can't even boil water have to eat it dry, like animals . . .

I went to college. I’ve seen the horrors, and trust me when I say that you don’t want that to be you.

Take care of your ride

And I don’t just mean get it detailed. Check your fluids regularly, change your tires, and carpool whenever you can.

A mechanic’s bill is the last thing anyone needs, least of all you.

SAVE YOUR MONEY!

I say this because I’m the worst at it.

I say it also because you never know what’s going to happen, when and where you may be met with an opportunity, and what you might have to put upfront to pursue it.

“You can’t gamble scared,” but you can’t gamble period if there’s nothing to gamble with.

And be grateful . . . 

Yeah, there are downsides to your current lifestyle, but there are upsides, too.

I may have to pinch pennies, but on the days I’m writing from home, whether it’s in bed under a pile of dogs (and one cat) or sitting on my parents’ deck with a cup of coffee, it’s worth every penny not spent.

It settles me in a way a steady paycheck earned in a cubicle couldn’t.

It reminds me that all the things that I don’t have are just that:

Things . . .

Remember that and all that you truly “need” will come to the forefront.

XO, Mal

~

For your weekly dose of Mal Adjusted, like me here on Facebook!

The Pledge

I pledge allegiance to life off the beaten path, and the choice for which it stands, a dream, one that is mine and mine alone, and do solemnly swear never to give a shit or ever look back.

XO, Mal

~

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If the Stiletto Fits

Much of Mal Adjusted has so far focused on stepping off the beaten path and into the shoes of the fully realized, truest version of you.

When it comes to the style of those shoes, though, other people in your same neck of the woods might have a difference of opinion as to what's fitting.

I, for example, am a stiletto girl – the higher the better!

And I don’t hobble, thank you very much. 

I strut.

(In my dreams, I can fight in them, too. Like Catwoman.)

My mother gave me some serious stems, along with the rest of my looks, and I never felt the need to apologize them.

That is, until I became a writer . . .

While I’m sure most women have at one time or another felt pressured to dumb themselves down, it never once occurred to me that the rest of the “package” would be the biggest thing standing between me and the respect of my peers, writers and non-writers alike.   

I mean, I really was a good writer – a damn good writer for a recently converted art major – and that was all that mattered, right . . . ?

Yeah, right.

In the beginning, it was much more about working around peoples' assumptions of me than it was my work. If I gave a note in workshop (even a constructively critical one) I was being the mean girl. If I received a note and that note was positive, there was eye rolling . . .

This one girl, a bigger girl who only wore death metal concert tees and only wrote heavy-handed erotic fantasies, took particular glee in nitpicking my drafts to death with a red Sharpie.

She would always hand them back to me looking like a crime scene, and I would leave class wondering what I had ever done to her and what ground she thought she and all her horny heroines, their bosoms “overflowing” from their corsets, had to stand on . . .

I can only speculate as to her reasons – though I think I have a pretty good idea – but it wasn’t just my “packaging” that was getting me into trouble.

Once, I burst into tears because a poem that meant a lot to me, a poem I had worked harder on than any other poem that semester missed the mark in workshop. It was good, everyone said, better than good, but they hadn’t taken away from it what I had meant them to, and I was so frustrated.

My reaction was treated as a serious no-no, though. 

“Professional writers,” I was told, ought to be more detached from their work – 100% objective.

Well, objective I am not. Not when it comes to writing, nor have I ever been accused of being professional. Alas, in Writer World, where my writing was holding its own, I still didn't quite fit in.

For a while, I simmered in self-doubt.

Then, slowly, I boiled over with indignation. After that I just felt silly. Who I was as a person was not and never had been up for editing, least of all by other students – students! What did they know . . . ?

So what if I wasn't the consummate professional.

So what if I connected my thoughts with "like" a little too much.

So what if I liked to look cute, not like a librarian. If I want to wear stilettos so high the altitude would make Gisele herself feel faint everyday for the rest of my life, I'm allowed to because:

1) It's America.

2) It has nothing to do with my writing!

Just because a certain type of person tends to excel at a certain something doesn’t mean other types of people can’t also excel at it.

It also doesn’t mean that annoying constructs, like peoples’ reliance on social stereotypes, don’t still apply on some level.

It's not going to stop people (even the ones who are supposed to be on your side) from judging you, because they don’t like you, because they’re intimidated by you, because they don’t “get you,” or just because.

Blogging in stilettos, because I can.

Whether you’re an artist or a dancer, an entrepreneur or a rock climber, sooner or later there will come a time when, in a way you least expected, it feels like there’s even less wiggle room for individualism within your niche off the beaten path than there was on it.

When that happens, stick to your guns (or stilettos) and toss out the old saying; a duck doesn’t always walk like a duck . . .

Sometimes they strut ;)

XO, Mal

~

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Why I Love to Hate eBooks

Okay, so I don’t hate eBooks . . .

Deep as I am in the throes of writing my own novella – which may very well be published as an eBook – I would never want to be accused later on of biting the hand that feeds me.

(We’ll see about that.)

It’s more like this: I don’t consider eBooks real books, like Pinocchio wasn’t a real boy.

They’re alike, but they’re not the same.

Not even close.

eBooks don’t give me the same warm, fuzzy feeling that real books do, and if there’s anything you love the way I love writing, reading, the craft of words, then you know the warm, fuzzy feeling I’m talking about – and you know it’s big friggin’ deal.

I suppose I’m being a bit snooty . . . but then I’m not snooty about much.

Boxing, books, and beer – that’s it.

(Ali was a god who walked amongst men and Coors Light isn’t for drinking, it’s for playing beer pong, dagnabbit!) 

Something, I’m simply saying, has been lost in the transition from real books to eBooks.

For one thing, an eBook could never be my book. It couldn’t belong to me the way both my copies of The Last Unicorn do, one I’ve high-lighted front to back and continue to make notes in, one I’ve kept immaculate. It couldn’t belong to me the way my mother’s ancient volume of Shakespearean sonnets does, its spine hanging on by but threads, its gilded pages musty and yellow with time.

My "good" copy.

Hell, an eBook couldn’t even belong to me the way a perpetually damp issue of Analog Science Fiction & Fact – my dad’s favorite magazine – that I borrowed/stole from a hostel in Wollongong, Australia does. No eBook was ever such a vagabond, as no Kindle or Nook will ever have those same cute little wrinkles that a book gets along it’s spine from being laid facedown for lack of a bookmark because they don’t have spines – or pages, for that matter!

But as much as all that stuff drives me cuh-crazy, it goes beyond the flesh and bones of a book . . .

You see, in a real book’s leather-bound entirety – all books being massive leather-bound tomes in my perfect world, like at Hogwarts – it’s quite easy to forget how its author edited and re-edited, toiling and toiling, unable to sleep at times for the thousand and one nuances of their story that had yet to be properly placed, worded, or written down at all.

In its completeness, page numbers and every comma correctly in place, a good book can seem so effortless that it’s easy to forget that it did not in fact spring fully formed from the author’s head, like the goddess Athena from Zeus’ cracked skull.

Oh, quite the contrary.

Before Amazon.com, when our forefathers (and mothers) had to “walk to and from the bus stop barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways!” getting published was possibly even less fun.

Here’s the five-second version, courtesy of Wikipedia.

“Back in the day,” writers used to have to jump through hoop after flaming hoop just to get their work out there, to be able to release it into the jungle of literary works that we now call a Barnes & Noble, not knowing whether or not it’d be able to hold its own until it did or didn’t.

Selecting the font that work would be read in, selecting the color and weight of the paper it would be printed on were a writer’s final acts of love, formal wear given to the final product of their passion and dedication before sending it out into the world.

Nowadays, all you have to do is upload a Word document and press a button.

Sounds rather unceremonious, doesn’t it . . . ?

It's anticlimactic, at best . . . and bittersweet.

On the one hand, my chances of being published are better than they have ever been, statistically. On the other hand, I think I wish they weren’t.

As the popularity of online publishing rises and the quality of popular literature declines, it feels more and more as though the time of the greats (boxers and writers) has passed, and with it my opportunity to truly be tested.

I know throwing my hat in a ring where Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey are considered “heavyweights” is asking to be disappointed, but should it come to that . . . that too shall be a labor of love.

Kindle and Nooks be damned!

XO, Mal

~

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Putting the "Rock" in Rock Bottom

So, this week’s blog was inspired by this bug that seems to be going around, and by “bug” I mean that feeling of “Oh-em-gee, I’m twenty-five years old and have no idea what I’m doing!”

Whether it’s manifesting in your relationships, 

“Why do I keep dating different versions of the same douchebag . . . ?”

your friendships,

“When did we stop having anything in common . . . ?”

your career (or non-career),

“Thank you, recession!”

let me tell you why it’s actually good thing:

Remember the guy who simultaneously dumped me and bought me a puppy so I “had a reason to live” . . . ?

Well, while I now consider him a bullet dodged, at the time, he was the first guy who ever broke my heart – the one that made me realize we weren’t in high school anymore, practice was over and we’d upgraded to live ammunition.

If only it had been as through and through as a bullet hole, though . . .

While he was never the most mature guy in the room, I was completely unprepared for how immature he could be. Once, at a mutual friend’s graduation party, he drunkenly grabbed my a$$ and suggested/slurred that we should “get back together for the night.”

(Can I pick ‘em or can I pick ‘em . . . ?)

More than once I found myself torn between finding a dark place to curl-up in and die or using my powers as a 3^rd degree black belt for evil just once, by rearranging his face so his outsides would match his insides . . .

But what hurt the most was how our friends, my friends, stood by and watched, only two of them ever stepping in to shame him, to defend me. And me, being a child of divorce who knew all too well what it was like to be put in the middle of these things, didn’t feel I could stand up for myself believing that I would be doing them a disservice, that I would be “creating drama” somehow by demanding a little respect – for myself and for what (I thought) we had . . .

Winter break was a blur of loaded questions and generously spiked eggnog, and yet the new semester came too soon.

Having been dumped the first day of finals the semester before, my professors had been understanding and given me as much leeway as they fairly could; still, my GPA had taken a hit.

Furthermore, having just won my first award for creative writing, there was new, unwanted pressure. I couldn’t get away with half-assing it anymore, now that everyone knew I was good, but I couldn’t seem to summon up the will to care, either . . .

I wanted to be left alone, and I made sure everybody knew it. I didn’t bother with peer editing, handing back drafts without so much as a single correction. I kept my head down during workshops, puffy red eyes obscured by the anime-style bangs I used to think were cool.

People were beginning to get the feeling that I thought I was too good to be there, when the truth was I didn’t feel I deserved to be there at all.

I didn’t feel like writing.

I didn’t feel like breathing, but it was habit.

Basically, I spent a lot of long nights wrapped around my new puppy, sobbing into her fur until my stomach hurt and wondering what I had done to deserve my situation . . .

But you can only cry so much.

(I personally begin to resemble Yoda if I’ve cried enough.)

And you can only hate someone so much before you realize it’s not going to change them, it’s going to change you.

SO . . .

The United States, I decided, wasn’t big enough for both my ex and I.

A friend of mine – who was going through almost the exact same thing at almost the exact same time – and I put our heads together and six months’ worth of 70-hour school/work weeks later had ourselves a pair of tickets to Europe.

I puked my guts out all the way to the airport.

How symbolic, I remember thinking, and then, Get it out. Get it out now . . . ‘cuz this is where you’re leaving it.

Of course “it” (not the puke) was right there waiting for me when I got back 3 weeks later – baggage like that doesn’t just go away – but it didn’t seem as heavy.

Or maybe it had never been that heavy to begin with; what I’d seen and done in Europe had simply put it into perspective for me.

The Blue Mosque

Strikes in the streets of Athens, the 9 domes of the Blue Mosque humming with a thousand tiny echoes, the sun rise over Lake Zurich, a silver nazar necklace bought in Rhodes, riding donkeys down the twisty stone pathways of Santorini, drinking warm Guinness at the Gravity Bar in Dublin . . .

It had taken a hundred plus such experiences to remind me that the world was big, I was small, and that what I had suffered was neither – it was somewhere uncomfortably in the middle.

Getting dumped wasn’t the end of the world, but it also wasn’t something I could just stuff in with the rest of my baggage thinking I would never have to unpack it.

So instead of baggage, I began to think of it as “but a flesh wound.”

And, as sometimes the best thing for a wound is your own blood, to let it bleed a little, as sometimes the best thing for other kinds of wounds can also be messy and counterintuitive.

When we hit rock bottom, our first instinct is usually to “fix” it – to “pull it together” and not “dwell" on the situation – but it's that kneejerk reaction that robs us of the process of being able to look said situation square in the face, to assess what happened and how it happened, to own up to our mistakes, to let go of that which was beyond our control, from admitting to ourselves that we’re not “fine” and from grieving where grief is due.

Only when we let such feelings run their course can we honestly move on and be truly done with them (creative fodder aside).

And I while I know rock bottom can feel like the most vulnerable of places that way, it can also be the best place in the world to just STOP and THINK.

What went wrong . . . ?

What went right . . . ?

What did I learn . . . ?

What do I want . . . ?

Now is the time to be asking ourselves these questions – now, while we’re young and hungry with stamina and time still on our side – but without the whiplash of hitting rock bottom, too few of us will ever pause long enough to edit and readjust.

Too many of us will be kicking ourselves in twenty-five years for riding out the momentum of a job or a relationship just because it was going somewhere, only to get there and realize that it’s not somewhere we want to be.

(I mean, what if I had married that guy . . . ? Bleck!)

Or, because we can’t remember when and why we stopped wanting it.

The truth is, people change.

Dreams change.

So will you and yours, and it will be the time you’ve spent at hit rock bottom that will allow you to see yourself for who you are and the things that you want and need the most clearly.

Less sentimentally, our twenties are supposed to be an existential gladiator pit!

That’s what makes them so much fun :)

XO, Mal

~

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Desiderata

According to Wikipedia, Desiderata – Latin for “desired things” – is a 1927 prose poem by American writer Max Ehrmann (1872-1945) that only became widely known after its use in a compilation of devotional materials, subsequently found at the deathbed of Adlai Stevenson II twenty years after the author’s own death.

The reason I wanted toshare it with you today though, word for word, is because (ironically) they’re words to live by, and because sometimes my job as a writer is to know when I couldn’t have said it any better . . .

So, without further ado:

XO, Mal

~

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