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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10 Things Superheroes Can Teach Us About "Real Life"

Well, it was only a matter of time before my inner nerd burst forth, like Superman’s iconic S from behind Clark Kent’s well-pressed dress shirt. I doubt those of you who know me are at all surprised, and that those of you who are know me at all.

But anyways . . .

This week’s post is about superheroes because (other than the fact that I LOVE SUPERHEROES!) every superhero there is or ever was is a metaphor – a metaphor for our two selves: the person we are day by day and the person we are capable of becoming. 

And, superpowers aside, the reason we think of them as “heroes” is that they always do the thing that most of us feel is beyond us most of the time; the right thing, no matter how hard it is (or how easy doing the wrong thing would be) and no matter the consequences . . .

The latter is probably why most of them rock an alter ego, mind you, but nonetheless, we could all stand to walk that line a little more closely.

As I have yet to come across a copy of “Being a Superhero for Dummies,” though, here’s a list of the basics so, should you ever come by actual superpowers, you’ll be good to go!

1) CAPES ARE AWESOME

Wear one whenever possible.

2) TAKE CARE OF YOUR BODY

While you’re hopefully never going to find yourself going to toe-to-toe with a bunch of bad guys in a dark alley, what day to day or life-or-death situation has ever been improved by a side ache or having a “spare tire ” . . . ?

It’s one of those things you’ll just never regret.

3) “WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY”

While we can attribute the earliest usage of this phrase to Voltaire (albeit in French) it was Stan Lee’s Amazing Fantasy #15 a.k.a. the first Spiderman story that made it famous, foreshadowing the murder of Uncle Ben, the murderer being a criminal Peter Parker could have stopped. Could have, but didn’t. And as if Uncle Ben dying didn’t stress the importance of these words enough, the fact that in the history of Marvel he is the only notable character who “stays dead” certainly does . . .

So, lesson:

Superheroes don’t ask themselves why bad things happen, they ask themselves, “What can/could I do to stop bad things from happening . . . ?”

4) NOT EVERYONE’S GOING TO SEE YOU FOR WHO YOU REALLY ARE

Superman, er . . . I mean, Clark Kent was fetching Lois Lane’s coffee and answering to “Smallville” for what must have felt like years before the time was right to reveal his true identity.

Take a second to just imagine how good that moment must have tasted.

Now, imagine that taste every time someone puts you down or sells your short. Imagine the look on their face when someday – supposing you’ve worked hard and stayed the course – you finally get the chance to show them what you’re really made of . . .

“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity,” so when that day comes – and it will – be ready.

And have something really snappy to say. All the best superheroes always do.

5) SACRIFICE

You can’t accomplish anything by doing nothing, let alone everything.

Want it all . . . ?

The “perfect life” . . . ?

Be prepared to work your @$$ off and have no life first. Batman’s office is a cave and Superman’s pad is called the “Fortress of Solitude” for a reason.

6) TWO WRONGS DON’T MAKE A RIGHT

Don’t ever stoop to their level, whoever “they” are.

7) DON’T MONOLOGUE

Monologues are for super villains and people who like to hear themselves talk the talk.

Superheroes walk the walk.

8) IT NEVER HURTS TO HAVE “SKILLZ”

Have you ever noticed how, although they’re both billionaires, Batman does his own hacking and Ironman builds his own sh*t . . . ? That’s because they have to be better at what they do than anybody else, friend or foe.

(I mean, c’mon, calling up the Geek Squad with their unique kind of “technical difficulties” isn’t exactly an option.)

But superheroes have to able to do a lot more than just hack your Facebook and build death machines – they have to be knowledgeable about practical things, too, the basics of First Aid, how to change a tire, self-defense, how to work a compass, etc.

Golden Age Wonder Woman, I bet you didn’t know, could type 160 words per minute.

Now, that might not sound that impressive in comparison to her Amazonian strength or Lasso of Truth, but as an administrative assistant by day, believe me when I say that is on fire . . .

The point is it’s good to be well-rounded. You never know what life’s going to throw at you – just you – and it’s best to assume that you’re going to have to figure it out on your own.

9) BE PASSIONATE

About something.

Anything.

Life’s too short (and too long) to be that person just going through the motions, wearing just a plain ol’ undershirt beneath your work clothes day after day after day . . .

10) DON’T STAY DOWN

Superheroes get their butts handed to ‘em, too, occasionally. Christopher Nolan’s Batman by Bane, Superman by Doomsday, Elektra actually died as a result of her injuries from Bullseye . . . but here’s the thing:

A superhero always – ALWAYS – comes back for more.

And on that note, here’s hoping you’ll be back for more Mal Adjusted next week!

XO, Mal

~

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5 Ways to Flip Off Writer's Block

As I’m sure those of you who follow have noticed by now, Mal Adjusted – though made for and open to all off the beaten path – tends to lean more towards those of the artistic type, myself being one.

(Write what you know, right . . . ?)

Nonetheless, I will be the first one to tell you that writer’s block is not unique to writers; having more than just “dabbled” in martial arts, dance, and art I can tell you that it afflicts anyone doing anything that requires unbidden expression, anything that is equal parts discipline, intuition, reckless abandon, and skill.

Too much of this and your creative process can quickly begin to resemble a pinball machine, too little of that and it’ll be about as interesting and as productive as a game of solitaire.

I can also tell you that writer’s block is different for everyone – how it gets to you, how it hangs on to you and, most importantly, how you handle it.

Therefore, you may find only some (or none) of these solutions helpful as I can only compare them to my own experiences, but hey, here’s hoping:

1. RELAX

There’s a difference between being inspired/motivated and being keyed-up, going over an obstacle as opposed to throwing yourself at it hoping it will yield before you knock yourself out. Once described as a “hummingbird of emotions,” you can see how this is my biggest challenge when it comes to overcoming writer’s block – how to supplement my writing with my emotions, that fight I had with my boyfriend, that manager I’m having a problem with at work or that friend who didn’t turn out to be who I thought they were, without overdosing on them and then wallowing in bed for hours eating cake, drinking whiskey and watching Supernatural.

And while I can now eat my weight in German chocolate cake, no longer believe in chasers and know my Dean Winchester quotes forward and backwards, I don’t have any writing to show for these “burnouts,” none at all.

Knowing where your “point of combustion” is is important because burnouts (and more so, recovering from them) are a waste of time, and because once you have that information you can act preemptively.

Breathe, go for a run, take your dog to the beach, whatever it is that clears your head and leaves you with a clean “workspace” and room to focus.

2. DON’T FORCE IT

If something's really not working, it’s probably not working for a reason. Writers, for example, sometimes cling to the poem or story that we want to write and ignore the one that wants to be written when, if we could only let go of the former, the later might simply unfold.

To accomplish this, a college professor of mine encouraged me to “word vomit.”

To write sentimentally, quickly, even badly, so long as I was writing.

“Write about what has you fired-up,” she said. “Write your truth first and then worry about your words.”

Similarly, my Grand Master often tells his students, “Don’t think. React.”

Whatever is that you do, take a hint from both of them and from Nike and Just Do It. Let whatever happens happen and go from there, because you’re not getting anywhere where you are. 

3. BORROW SOME INSPIRATION

Basically, read.

(If you’re a writer, that is.)

More generally, take time to appreciate and learn from the work of others doing what you do.

4. DO SOMETHING ELSE

Now, I don’t know about you, but my mind is not unlike that pin-ball machine I described earlier, as in sometimes I don’t recognize a good idea unless I have something to bounce them off of, whether that something is a conversation I overhear, a song on the radio or the surprising imagery that can found in everyday life when you’re actually looking.

Also, inspiration/motivation can be like a having a cat: When you want to hold it, it doesn’t want to be held, but give your attention to anything else and suddenly your keyboard is the only acceptable place in the world for it to take a nap.

My cat Lily illustrating my point for me.

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve given-up after hours of staring at a blank Word document only to go out and be “that person” holding up the conversation to write something down on a napkin, then in my journal, now on my iPhone . . .

And if that doesn’t work at least you went out and had a good time.

5) TRY TO GO TO SLEEP

Trust me.

You brain can do whatever it is that you’re trying do a thousand better without even trying if you’d just get out of the way.

A little lucidity goes a long ways . . .

XO, Mal

~

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Being the Black Sheep (or Dog)

Last week I asked my boyfriend the pirate what I should write about this week.

“Stitchy,” he answered flippantly, Stitchy – a combination of stinky and itchy – being his nickname for my little black dog Tessa.

But the more and more I thought about it the more and more in line it seemed with my overall message to those trying to make their own way in the world.

For those of you who don’t know Tessa’s story, let me tell you before I elaborate:

It was the fall semester of my junior year at USD. My boyfriend at the time and I had been going through a rough patch. He was gone a lot, I was difficult, admittedly, his family was more difficult – let’s not pretend I’m not biased here – and somewhere in the panic of trying to hold on to each other, we decided to get a dog together.

I would pick the dog, he would pay for it.

So one night I skipped my evening class to make it to the animal shelter down the street from campus before it closed. I just wanted to look. If one jumped out at me, I would come back the next day with my boyfriend and we would discuss it . . .

But of course I wanted to take them all home right then and there.

If you’ve never been to an animal shelter, they’re sad places.

The San Diego Department of Animal Services is a nice shelter as far as shelters go, and yet the floors were cold and wet. Every aisle was a barrage of echoes, gates slamming, dogs barking, chain-link rattling – you get the picture.

The hearts and smiley faces doodled on the printed bios of the animals were especially depressing knowing that half of them would be euthanized anyway, no matter that they were a “staff favorite” . . .

I felt so bad for those ones – the introverted ones and the old ones and the pit bulls, the ones you knew had been there a long time – that I almost didn’t look twice at Tessa.

At 12 weeks old she was still cute and fluffy, still had puppy breath, but the bedazzled pink leather collar hanging around her neck suggested to me that she already had a home.

I thought of Lady and the Tramp:

“You’re too nice a girl to be in this place.”

She already belonged to someone, I was sure, and yet there was guardedness about her; while the other dogs spun and bounced as I walked the line of kennels, she all but ignored me, only thumping her tail (albeit half-heartedly) when I knelt down in front of hers and squeezed my hand through. She wouldn’t even pick her head up.

“Don’t be scared,” I whispered, scratching the space between her eyes with my index finger.

I told myself she didn't need “saving,” though, and went on with my walkthrough, writing down a few kennel numbers on the square of newsprint they gave me with one those teeny yellow kiddie pencils. I gave those numbers to a volunteer behind a desk and, while she was printing up those dogs’ information for me, asked about the little black dog with the pretty pink collar.

“Oh,” the girl said, brow furrowing at her computer screen. “She’s been relinquished. Just today, actually.”

Relinquished, as in “retired from; given up or abandoned.”

That word made my mind for me.

Tessa in the bin.

But a week after I signed the adoption papers, the day fall finals began and a week before Christmas, my boyfriend dumped me. And that would have been one thing on it’s own, but it soon came out that he’d been telling our so-called mutual friends he was going to break up with me as early as November.

“Why the [expletive] did you get her a dog then?” one of my true friends asked him pointedly.

His answer?

“So she had a reason to live.”

. . .

Needless to say, I laughed.

Well, not right away, obviously. At first I was – quite understandably – wounded, indignant and, more than anything, mad at myself for being with such a . . . such a . . . cum-rag in the first place!

(Yeah, I just said that. Sorry, Mom!)

I learned to laugh about it. You learn to laugh about a lot of things after college.

But before laughing again was even a thought in my head, I had exams to take and a life to straighten out – a life that now included a 12-week-old black lab Chow mix with some serious people problems . . .



You see, despite the bedazzled pink leather collar Tessa (previous name unknown) came with, she hadn’t exactly been living the posh life; we didn’t have any details, but from the way she cowered at the outstretched hand of strangers, mistrusted the food in her bowl, ran from loud noises, and yelped if taken by collar even gently, we could surmise.

The overwhelming consensus of my friends and family was that I should take her back. For $40, I could re-relinquish her to the same place I had rescued her from. She was defective, after all, and I had enough on my plate as it was, right?

WRONG.

1) The word relinquish and its definition have no place in my life, and 2) I hate it when people judge a book by its cover.

I hated that people were somehow disappointed with my puppy, that they regarded her as though she were a broken toy, damaged and therefore disposable because she wasn’t like other puppies – a feeling I was all too familiar with.

For those of you who don’t know this either, when I was 8 the youngest of my two younger sisters died. My parents divorced not long afterwards, we moved, and I hit my awkward chubby phase just in time to begin middle school in a new town where I didn’t know anyone.

I had my own share problems, you could say – a junk drawer of them, really – but then what kid wouldn't.

Making things worse were the people who, because they couldn’t look past those problems, never gave me the opportunity to be anything more than those problems.

To this day, unfortunately, there are people in my life who look at me and are only able to see a kid from a “broken home,” because that it what they want to see.
 

There are people who look at my boyfriend the pirate and are only able to see someone who can’t get “with the program” and put in his fourty hours a week at a desk like everyone else, not somebody with an irresistible desire to travel to better understand his very existence.

There are people who look at my dog and are only able to see a sad little black mutt.

Herein lies the point of this post:

THOSE PEOPLE DO NOT MATTER.

Whether you’ve always been something of a black sheep (or dog) or if life off the beaten path is a new adventure, whether it’s more alienating than you thought it’d be or you’ve been doing it for a long time and find yourself tiring, don’t let the people who will try to define you by your maladjustments make you doubt your greater worth. Don’t let the people who don’t recognize what you have to bring to the table stop you from bringing it.

Somebody will, and that somebody (or somebodies) will probably have a unique perspective like your own.

They will understand the difference between being different and being damaged.

They will value your eccentricities and experiences for how they have shaped you, honed your strengths, and contributed to your conviction.

They will be the ones who know that even if life has made its mark on you in ways that hurt still, “a diamond with a flaw is worth more than a pebble without imperfections.”


Until then, though, steel yourself . . .

Keep your head up and your eye on the prize. Go forth off the beaten path with sublime self-righteousness, never forgetting that no one else is capable of the same things you are, because nobody else can be you, character defects, quirks, scars and all.

As well-behaved and as much-loved as Tessa is now, it was the maladjustments that someone else deemed unlovable that made her the one to jump out at me that day and saved her from the pound, that saved her from going back to pound and had me wondering, “What else is  in there?”

Tessa & I today :)

In the evenings, though, when she’s sitting quietly on my parents’ deck – listening to the cars go by, smelling what there is to smell on the hilltop breeze, watching the sun go down on the rooftops with all the profundity of an old man in his favorite old chair – I doubt it’s her maladjustments that she’s counting . . .

XO, Mal

~

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Sometimes You Gotta Let Go

So, the last few weeks have been some hard ones for me, introspectively . . . as well as just plain emotionally.

I’ve cried a lot.

Not that that means much. I’m the crier in a family of criers.

Why, though . . . ?

Because my boyfriend of a year and some change too wonderful to count has decided to “go for it” – to get in his Ericson 38 (that’s a sailboat) and sail away, destination unknown.

And I’m not going with him.

For the record, this is something him and I have always talked about him doing. Me going with him has been on and off the table, but one way or another it was going to happen, and now here it is, happening . . .

We’d only been seeing each other a couple of weeks when it first came up:

We were lying under a magnolia tree in a park in La Jolla. He talked, I listened, I cried (surprise, surprise) but wanted us to keep seeing each other anyways.

It’s the journey, not the destination, right . . . ?

Right.

So I can’t say I didn’t see this day coming, as if the motorcycle he rode when I first met him or the sailboat he lives on or the pirate earrings or his ever-changing facial hair “designs” weren’t constant reminders of his fierce aversion to normalcy.

I saw it coming, I've reminded myself everyday that we’ve been together that it was coming, and all the same, it's been like getting the wind knocked out of me.

I am bereft.

(Such a pretty word, isn’t it . . . ? The reft sounds like a wing beat.)

But the hurt is only a part of it. It’s what’s keeping me awake to the experience of letting go, what’s making me suddenly and keenly aware of the thousands of little ways we hold on to the people we love, even to the point of holding them back.

You know that saying, "If you love something, let it go” . . . ?

Well, I’ve always hated that saying, like I’ve always hated John Smith sailing away at the end of Pocahontas – after all that!

High-five.

I don’t hate either of those things any less now, but I’ve come to understand them as necessary – necessary in the sense that while leaving the beaten path behind is hard, leaving loved ones behind with it is so hard that many of us will never actually be able to take that step.

Have you ever looked at pictures of your parents or grandparents when they were your age, drunk on the arrogance and eternal optimism of their youth with all the time in the world to sink or swim and wondered, “How did so-and-so end up as an insurance agent . . . ?”

Where did all of their dreams go . . . ?

How did that one thing they wanted purely for themselves get away from them . . . ?

The answer is a little at a time, day by day, month by month, year by year as they placated the well-meaning worrywarts around them.

That’s not true for everyone, of course.

Sometimes we just don’t turn out to be the people we thought we were; our loved ones then become our excuses, the reason you didn’t study abroad that one summer or take that dream job out of state . . .

Now that – the idea of being a hindrance to someone trying to do something like I am trying to do something, let alone someone I love – is to me by far scarier than the idea of letting that someone go.

My boyfriend made a decision about the course of his life and – this is what I love most about him – he’s setting out on said course.

Through much thought and preparation, he’s put himself in a position to be able to make this journey. And while there are people who have certainly been taken aback by his decision – someone who actually does what they say they’re going to do, gasp! – I don’t know that you can ever really be prepared for this sort of thing . . .

If living off the beaten path were as sure as science, everybody would be doing it.

99% of people aren’t because no one is ever 100% ready.

The timing is never perfect.

There’s no way to do it without hurting anyone.

“You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs!”

(Now that saying, I like.)

Chances are you know somebody on the brink of becoming the person they’ve been building to be, so this post is a challenge to you:

Be the one who pushes them, not pulls them.

Or, if pushing them towards their fully realized self and – sometimes, consequently – away from you is too hard, be the one who just lets them go and finally be that person. 

As my boyfriend would say, “A ship in harbor is safe – but that is not what ships are for.”

XO, Mal

~

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The Most Important Relationship You'll Ever Have

For those of you who know me, you know writing and I have had a long and complicated relationship . . .

It began when I wrote my first book in Mrs. Ruffner’s 2^nd grade class, complete with my own illustrations.

Quite the little prodigy, huh . . . ? Well, not really.

The book was about a mouse, the story was one dewy cliché connected to another – a paper chain of clichés – and the illustrations were clumsy at best. Nonetheless, I was proud of it. It was so colorful and complete, its yarn binding and Sharpie printed title so formal . . .

But the joy of that first book was overshadowed by other interests quickly as second-graders aren’t exactly know for their attention span, and writing and I were on-and-off-again in the years after that.

During high school, I started dating art and writing became that childhood friend who was not-so-secretly in love with me, who I fell back on when art and I weren’t getting along, which was often. When we weren’t hot and heavy, we were giving each other the cold shoulder – I was either defying the properties of acrylics, much to the praise of my teachers and the frustration of my fellow art students, or I couldn’t even draw a decent circle. I didn’t even want to pick up a pencil.

All the while, writing waited.

And waited and waited and waited, until my sophomore year of college when art and I finally imploded. My classes weren’t challenging to me anymore, and the idea of making art on computers – which is where everyone insisted the field was going – was as alien to me as it was repulsive.

Once art was out of the picture and I let myself fall for writing, though, there was no going back. It became clear me that writing had been “the one” for me all along, and that it was never writing that I didn’t believe in – it was myself.

I had/have a lot of work to do because, especially when comes to your life’s passion – that thing that you do for no reason other than the fact that you just can’t help it – “the one” can very easily become “the one that go away.”

Here are three (of many) ways I’ve learned to avoid that . . . or, if you’d prefer, to hit it head-on:

1. Have “The Talk”

In other words, define the relationship.

Whatever your passion is, decide if it’s going to be a hobby or a lifestyle – “just a friend” or “the one.”

This can change over time, of course, as writing did for me, but sit down figure out how it fits into your life now. Set some boundaries and goals; ask yourself what your short-term and long-term objectives are, how much time and energy you can (or can’t) dedicate to meeting those objectives, and then do the math.

Do the numbers make sense . . . ?

This is what “The Talk” is all about. Managing your expectations. You can’t expect results that are greater than the sum of your efforts – it only sets your passion up to disappoint you and you to feel as though you’ve wasted your time.

For your passion to meet your priorities it first needs to one of them.

2. Give Each Other Space

Okay, so I know I just said your passion needs to be a priority, but don’t forget to come up for air every once in a while.

For me, that means putting my book aside some nights, the laptop away, and watching some RHOBH. (If you know what that stands for, please don’t judge me . . .) Other nights it means going out for a beer with my boyfriend, or sitting in the Jacuzzi with my girlfriends, and talking about anything other than writing.

Occasionally stuffing my brain with junk food lets the creative juices percolate, letting me go back to my work with fresh eyes and new energy, wherein lies the lesson:

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.  

True, there is no better high than the endorphin/hormone cocktail that comes on the side of any new relationship – you know, the one that makes you suck face so much that it’s only a matter of time before you’ve learned to breathe through each other’s nostrils – but it’s called a “high” because it’s not meant to be sustainable. You still need to be a functioning human being outside of the relationship; you have your own friends (non-writers, in my case) and other outlets, an identity separate from your passion. 

3. Let Being Happy Be Enough

(Okay, time to get heavy.)

This last way seems like the most obvious as well as the most straight-forward, and still sometimes I catch myself forgetting why it is that I write. I let myself get caught up in other people’s opinions of how I’m living my life (not to mention the fact that I am never not poor) and forget that I write because, for me, writing is breathing; I would die if I didn’t do it. I forget that it makes me happy in a way that has no use for words, no need of an explanation.

So then, if by the end of my life I have never published anything of consequence or made my fortune, so what . . . ?

If by the end of your life you have never headlined a concert or opened a gallery, whatever it is that you set out to do, so what . . . ?

Are you going to regret doing what what made you happy. . . ?

Are you going to wish you'd been an accounting specialist instead . . . ?

No . . . ? Then let your happiness be its own accomplishment.

“Remember the good times, not the bad or the ones you never had.”  

Some of the greatest people who ever lived off the beaten path found neither fame nor fortune until well after their deaths, and had fame and fortune been their aim, their great works would not resonate with their passion such as they do. Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven,” Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” and the poems of Emily Dickinson are amongst those that would be lost to us had their progenitors needed to be known, or even paid . . .

They don’t call us “starving artists” for nothing ;)

Until next week!

XO, Mal
~

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Farther Off the Beaten Path

So.

Here it is.

My first blog . . .

*insert involuntary cringe here*

Don’t misunderstand me; I like blogs. I read blogs, I have friends who have blogs . . . but I didn’t go to school to be a blogger. I changed my major, transferred schools, bled time and units to be a writer – a “serious writer,” to quote the The Help’s Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan.

The problem is, I have – had – a very specific idea of the kind of serious writer I wanted to be.

Jack London circa 1900, living in a rented villa on Lake Merritt in Oakland, corresponding with the likes of George Sterling as he wrote The Call of the Wild, his masterpiece, not to mention my favorite book.

Like I said, specific.

But as my dog and I are currently living in my parents’ downstairs spare bedroom that used to be the garage, I’ve had to loosen my grip on that idea. A lot.

Tessa, said dog and acting editor-in-chief.

Because while Jack London’s experience sounds like the perfect parts accomplishing and whimsical, it’s not a writer’s lifestyle that makes them a good writer; it’s their writing.

I know this, but as humans beings we’re programmed to imitate behaviors others have demonstrated to be successful. Monkey see, monkey do – or don’t do, if the behavior results in failure . . . 

“Ah, there’s the rub.”

In an age where marketing, social networking, and technology have converged to create a virtual firestorm of free media, I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a time when I considered blogging to be the fate of failed writers, or “wanna be” writers relying on the accessibility and convenience of the internet to compensate for the fact that they’re not engaging enough or relevant enough or something enough to move people to pick up (let alone buy) a book or a magazine. You know, a real one, made of these things called pages!

Some days I still think that way. Other days, I think of bloggers as enlightened – writers who have decided they need neither backing nor anybody’s permission to write, well or badly, as 50 Shades of Grey has proven.

But “mommy porn” is its own tangent . . . Probably its own post.

The sum of this post is: if you want to be a person who lives off the beaten path, outside of the 9 to 5, there is no right or wrong way to be(come) that person, nor is the nature of your journey in anyway indicative of your destination.

Blogging doesn’t mean I’ve failed.  It’s doesn’t affect the quality of my writing. It’s a tool, and tools are usually only as effective as the monkey operating them.  

My hesitation towards blogging had nothing to do with actually blogging – it was about realizing that maybe I’ve been letting my expectations hold me back. It was about accepting my reality, one that doesn’t necessarily include a lakeside villa, in which talent doesn’t guarantee success, nor does it make any sense to keep lugging around an Italian leather notebook like a brick in my purse. Now that I have the iPhone, “I have an app for that.”

Having already forgone reliable income, a benefits package, and The Man telling me what to do with my life in favor of a blank Word document that says “Do anything!” but owes and promises me nothing, you would think the rest of it would be easier to swallow, right . . . ?

The truth is, letting go of these last little delusions can be the scariest for those living off the beaten path because without them everyday then becomes a question of whether or not you love what you’re doing enough to keep on doing it – it in its purest and most grueling form.

If the answer is no for you, then I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you.

If the answer is yes, though, then I’ll say this:

HOW IT HAPPENS IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS IT HAPPENING

Trust your own sense of direction and let anyway that gets you to where you want to go be your way. Trying to retrace the steps of others or allowing an inauthentic or scared version of yourself guide you is only going to get you twice as lost or worse; it’ll get you nowhere.

So here it is.

My first blog, written from my dog-haired covered bed in my room that used to be my parents’ garage.

This is my way, apparently, or at least a part of it.

What’s yours . . . ?

XO, Mal

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