So Blocked This Post Has NO Title

It's like when you get constipated. You have the urge, but can't do the purge. The problem is not that I don't have ideas. I am so clogged up with ideas that one can't make it through the pipeline. I can't seems to narrow my focus or lessen my stress enough to actually get something of *import down on paper. I read others' blog posts and think, "I could have written that! I had that thought, I just didn't take it to fruition.

I think I need my Eighth grade english teacher. She is the one who taught me to write. She gave me permission to develop my voice; I believed that what I had to say was important, and it was. Of course, later that year, she leaned over me, took a big sniff, smelled the acrid second-hand smoke that I was marinated in from my mother smoking in the house and said, with disdain: "Do you smoke?" She was loud enough for some of my classmates to hear, and they snickered. Yes, she wasn't named Mrs. Dick for nothing. True story. But the damage was done; I believed I could write. It was in my blood.

My daughter is also a writer, and a more prolific one than I was at her age. I would write what I called "story starters," pen several tens of pages of my "novel", then either get stuck or bored and intend to go back and add to it. Sometimes I actually did. My daughter, on the other hand, has done a program for writers called, NoNoWriMo, which is simply National Novel Writing Month. In one month, she has written 50,000 words. And not only has she done this once, but twice. I could only hope to have that kind of commitment.

Why is it that when you are young, with nary a story to tell, the pen flows freely, almost on it's own, but once older and with more experience, it is much harder to find the time to tell the story? I consider this God's cosmic joke. I know I have a story to tell. I just can't FIND it.

September is over, why didn't anyone wake me up?

I pretty much hibernated for the last month after I came home from New York. With the migraines, school starting and the planning associated with that little venture, we had some other unexpected events to deal with as well. Which, of course, I will blog as I get back into the swing of things. And I? Just bugged out. I needed to take a break, to recuperate from life, and come back to blogging renewed. So, if you will still have me, I am back. So buy me a drink, pass me the mike, cause Radio Tee is back on the air. Ok, not really. I am just blogging again. But you can still buy me a drink. I missed you. You look great in that. Have you lost weight? What? Do I want to go somewhere? Let's take it slow, have some conversation, and then see where that leads. Tina

Aftermath

My suitcase is heavy. It sits, crouched in my room, next to the closet. I haven't had the nerve to unpack it yet. It looms, pregnant with unrealized dreams, frustrations and what could have been. I try to ignore it. I don't do a very good job. Every time I walk into the room, there it is.

Sixteen days. Seems like a lifetime ago. That's when I kissed plump cheeks goodbye, squeezed sticky hands with admonishments to "be good", and climbed into my father-in-law's car to drive to the airport with my husband. I had high hopes, but didn't really know what to expect. We hadn't been away together for any length of time since the children were born. We were ready.

And it was wonderful. Awesome, even. We drove down the coast of New Zealand, stopping wherever our hearts lead us. We had no agenda, and no qualms about enjoying the company of one another. Memories were made that will last a lifetime. That's the problem.

I had to come home. And I can't see home the same anymore. I have never allowed myself to consider what life would have been like without my children. It is what it is, is my motto, why push it? But for sixteen glorious days, I was not a mother. I was just…me. With him. And it was wonderful. My heart was full. No tethering to others' needs or whims. I was free. It couldn't last, and it didn't.

I had thirteen hours en route to LAX to forget that bliss; to morph back into a mother who puts her children first again. But those shoes aren't fitting very well. I am aware that makes me an awful, selfish person. And it is why my suitcase is heavy. It is a constant reminder of what I had. And unpacking it means I will ferret it away into a closet, forgetting what it was like to live from it for weeks. Unpacking would be putting to rest the adventurer and the free spirit I was two weeks ago. And I am just not ready to do that.

And the guilt? The guilt is palpable. I can taste it on my tongue, metallic and bitter, like I need to brush my teeth. I want to be that mother again, but I don't know how. I almost wish I had never gone, because now? Now I am back. And I know what I am missing, every minute, of every day.

My suitcase is heavy, but not as heavy as my heart.

T, who hopes I will get over this

Why I fear airport security

In three days I will be in line at LAX, waiting to be screened for my flight to New Zealand. I will be terrified.  Yes, I have flown before, but airport security always scares me. Standing in line, having them peruse my ticket and my passport always feels like sitting there in that big chair in the principal’s office.

When I was in the eighth grade I was caught cheating on a test. It was the first and last time I ever cheated.  The teacher sent me to the principal’s office and as I write this that cold, hard ball of fear settles in the pit of my stomach.  It has been many years, but I remember what the office smelled like (a combination of plants, Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion and some sort of minty after shave.  To this day, after shave still makes me want to throw up). I sat on the narrow bench waiting to see the principal.  I don’t even remember what he looked like, or who he was.  Which is peculiar.  I think I blocked the memory. I know he called my father, at work, and my father had to come down and pick me up. He was a sergeant in the Army.  To say that he was unhappy was an understatement.

Looking back, it was probably one of the best things that could have happened to me in my young life.  I never again tried to cheat, at anything, ever.  It wasn’t that I was worried about getting caught. My father took me home and sat me down.  He was not a gentle man, but I saw softness in his eyes.  With intensity,  he looked and me and said, “You’re better than that.  You don’t need to cheat. Cheaters never prosper, but more importantly, they can’t look themselves in the eye in the mirror.  You have one thing that no one can take away from you.  It is yours to lose.  Your integrity is who you are.”  And then he left my room, closing the door softly.

We never spoke of it again.

But as I stand in line waiting for airport security to use their funny little light pens to make sure I am legitimate, as I divulge myself of my personal effects, and they run through the x-ray for all to see, as I walk through the metal detector, I hold my breath. I am afraid.

T, who is leavin' on a jet plane

Just In Time For School To Start, a Quiz

So, tell me, how is it that I head to a blogging convention, come home and don't blog? {Pick one}

• A. I was completely intimidated by the talent at BlogHer
• B. I am too busy with preparations for school
• C. I am frustrated at the lack of notice from P.R. and advertisers
• D. I am preoccupied with molesting my husband
• E. I just needed a break and was too lazy to line up guest posters
• F. I have discovered tumblr which is addictive and fun and much, much faster than standard blogging
• G. I had a massive case of Writer's Block and literally could write NOTHING
• H. All of the above

Ok, yes, the correct answer is H. Hey, don't judge me. And I am back now, bitches.So you'd better just quit your tittering about where the hell I've been. You asked for it, more snark, less lazy. So, you get it. I am all about giving my readers what they want. But no, you can't have that only JNerd gets that. And you can't have a damn pony either, so suck it up. I will provide your daily RDA of humor and snark *, however. Get used to it.

*not for the diagnosis or treatment of any disease, claims not proven clinically, void in some foreign countries, objects in mirror are closer than they appear, not for small children, cap not childproof, forks concentrated in electrical sockets can be hazardous to your health, shaking blogger's cage punishable by fine, tow away zone, ply with martinis, if you must much wine whine do it elsewhere, not for indoor use, do not iron clothes on body. DO NOT remove tag under penalty of law, Offer subject to change at whim

T, who will hopefully be able to write again

That Thing We Do: What motivates writers to stick with it instead of watching American Idol or Mythbusters on the tube?

As a writer, I always am interested in what makes a writer I admire tick. I like to know how and when they write. It's not like I want to copy anyone else's creative process, I just like to know their motivation. I enjoy being a part of something, sort of a club, I guess. (but a club where anyone can enter, not one of those exclusive clubs with a ten-year waiting list). I have always said you are either a writer, or you're not. I think you know. And it isn't about whether or not others recognize your creative output, it's about if you have the need to write. If others recognize what you do, if you get published, based upon what you do, that is certainly the icing on the cake. But I think there are a lot of people out there with great talent who haven't been discovered. Does that negate their skill? I don't think so.

I am very interested in how writers I admire do it. Megan over at Velveteen Mind has a writing sweater that she wears when she is creating. Whit creates bios. Jenn M. is not writing about politics or world events. FADKOG writes for her dad. And Loralee writes about the new. Jenny is writing about sex..for a living. (and though I love her, she is an acquired taste, so if you are easily offended, better not click that link. Though that link isn't bad, not really).

Thursday night, at the booksigning, Jen Lancaster told us how she writes (and who would play her in the movie version of her life) This is my video, go easy on me if the sound is too soft, it's from my new flip video camera I got for mother's day:

So how do I write? I spend a lot of time creating content for other websites and trying to find time for adding to my own. Consequently, I write late at night, when everyone else is in bed, usually. The house is quiet, and the cat is often next to me. There are rare times I write while everyone else watches television (like right now) My daughter has her little leg thrown over mine as we sit on the couch. I am hunched over my laptop, that sits on my IKEA Dave laptop table we actually have three of them, his, hers, and teen's) They are black so they match my house decently enough. and try to tune out discussion over bungee-jumping, speed of hiccups and discussions over the merits of cereal. This is a combination of family conversation and Mythbusters, see why I am creatively challenged inspired?

But what you really want to know is who would play moi in the movie version of my life. I have decided it would either be Tina Fey (she has that sexy, impolitic librarian thing going on) or Helena Bonham Carter (who, though elfin, has the crazy that is me, with the wit and the left of center vibe).

And you? What motivates you to click-click-click the keyboard and hit "publish?" AND (you knew I would ask this) who would play YOU in the movie version of your life?

T, who likes to think of herself as the Mythbusters of blogging

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I Took the Train To Glendale and ended up with a BOOK (Jen Lancaster's book-signing)

Last night, I took the train up to Glendale to hang with some of my twitter tweeps (is that even a word??) do the dinner thang and stalk Jen Lancaster at her Barnes & Noble booksigning. Because? It's a book, people! A funny book! And I am virtually taking you with me, aren't you lucky?

I WE, you and me, sat in relative comfort on the Amtrak, non-stop to Glendale to meet my beeyotch, Adrienne, who rocks so hard...she picks us up from the train station, then takes us home to O.C. because she is all shades of awesome like that.

After traveling around a mountain...it would seem that Glendale is built around a bunch of them... to get to the bank and a store where I could pick up some tacky 80's beads (yes, I have my own, but I forgot them. By the way, apparently tacky costume jewelry is something that nobody wears in Glendale, because we tried first the drug store and then Marshalls and I couldn't find anything except a really obnoxious silver multi-heart necklace with matching earrings that will blind you if I am in the sun, and give me second-degree burns). Still, I bought it, along with a very stylin' red striped glittery long scarf You know me and scarves. Then I put my hair up in a nice little side pony, (oh Mickey, you're so fine...and yes, I know that Toni Basil had her hair in pigtails, but work with me here!)

We got to the Cheesecake Factory, but there were no cheesecake-scented goddesses anywhere. Still, Adrienne put in our name, "twitter," and we waited. The hostess was excited about twitter, and that she was on it and tweet her, ok?

this is all of us..I grabbed the busboy to take the pic: @undomestic diva, @Adriennevh, @chrisDOTgo, @onetake and me

After dinner, we headed over to Barnes & Noble to meet Jen Lancaster. We bought our books, battled the B&N stormtroopers (no variations! Only what is written on the post-it!) and took our seats to wait. I was dying because I couldn't tweet a lot, since my battery on my G1 was almost dead. So I sat and people-watched, instead. We got the last seats in the last row, and people started lining up behind us. We felt special.

this is what success looks like...someday it will be my face on a poster, I swear it!

Undomestic Diva and her hypercolor tee-shirt... remember those?

We are rockin' the 80's. Except for Jen Lancaster, we were the ONLY two who dressed up for the "Eighties-themed" book tour. Notice the side pony tail, and killer shades. Everyone else? Kill joys. Gag me with a spoon, fer like, sure!

@redvu9395 took this picture, much better than the one the B&N stormtrooper took. Doesn't Jen Lancaster look Pretty In Preppy?

ETA: go and win yourself a copy of this bad-ass book, Undomestic Diva (my hero(ine) is givin' one away! Just go tell her who you would stalk and you're in it to win it!

T, who had a blast

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Pretty in Plaid is FUNNY, but not as funny as the clothes we wore in the 80s. wait, yes it is!

Just a really quick post..this is what I did tonight...more video to follow tomorrow, I think. (yes, I took some, and some pics). But I headed to Glendale tonight for dinner and a booksigning of Jen Lancaster's new book, Pretty in Plaid. She is so funny. If you don't know, here is the teaser book video:

Tomorrow I will post pics of us all dressed in 80's garb...stay tuned!

T, who promises an update tomorrow, with pics and text & stuff.

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The words hung in the air almost exactly the way a brick doesn't

with apologies to Douglas Adams

Lately I am having a hard time with that bane of any writer's existence, Writer's Block. I often write late at night or early in the morning after everyone else is asleep in my house. It helps me to concentrate and unplug, so I can say what I want to say. I know I can write, and I it is something I enjoy, almost all of the time.

Writing is usually easy for me, but lately it's getting cumbersome. Sometimes that doubt creeps in. Why am I doing this? Who is reading? What if I have nothing to say? Am I relevant?? I have been trying to figure out the writing process. I am probably thinking about it too hard, putting too much pressure on myself. (too bad there is no pill for "that certain part of the female creativity".. I could use that)

Maybe I am writing too much about autism elsewhere, and it's a buzz kill. I am coming up empty. It's like a gargantuan space, where creativity is supposed to be. To borrow a term from Star Trek and science, "a singularity".. a black hole that consumes all of my best ideas and writing. I don't know where it comes from or why. I just know it's like...

• ...slogging through warm maple syrup, waist-deep, being chased by weasels (yeah, ok, they would probably drown, but go with me here)


• ... a brick on the chest, that hurts to breathe


• ...a fear of "Oh my God I have written my last funny/poignant/entertaining/informative piece....ever"


• ...feeling like a fraud, every time you hit publish, because, what IF you shot the wad on that one, and there is nothing left. And WHY do people read, anyway when there are so many out there more talented than you are?


• ...neglecting laundry, dishes, pets needing to be fed trying to get that elusive thought translated into writing...so you can breathe again.


• ...every day, feeling a pressure to create, and if you cannot, the pressure increases until it feels like it will consume you.


• ...staring at the flashing cursor and the blank window as you try to get something...anything, to fill that window so it doesn't look quite so ominous (yes, the cursor is mocking you: youcantwrite youcantwrite youcantwrite)


• ...never feeling good enough...never translating it exactly the way it was in your head, groping for words and hoping people understand what you have to say and more importantly, care.


• ...throwing yourself out there, every single day, hoping what you say means something to someone


• ...like labor..stalling and you aren't sure if you are ever going to have the baby and if you do...will it be healthy?


• ...waking up in the middle of the night to write amazing ideas down, then having no idea what to do with them the next morning


• ...trying too hard, too long.


• ...comparing yourself to other writers you admire, and coming up short


• ...every morning, praying you can write something and hoping like hell you won't let yourself down


• ...needing to express yourself in order to get it unscrambled


• ...talking about it, trying to break the power of the block


• ...having no idea how to end this list...
.

• ...so you add one more item and hope it's enough

it has to be

T, who writes, or at least tries to

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How I Became Mostly Sane, Or At Least Faked It Real Good

It's official, today I was deemed mostly sane. By mutual agreement, I ended therapy with my therapist today. I had been seeing her three times a month for over a year. Why? Well, when you have this happen, and then, within a year, this and this.. it helps to have someone to talk to.

I am pretty well-adjusted, but even mostly sane people need someone to talk to about life now and again. I really believe in therapy. My therapist was my sounding board; I could tell her things I cannot say out loud, about autism, about my children. It felt safe. But though I enjoyed those times, I haven't felt any urgency to attend for a while, now. I am doing well.

Originally, after the fire, JBean started seeing her, because we didn't know if the behavior we were seeing was trauma from the fire or if she had autism. She never really clicked with the therapist, who was a wonderful woman. JBean just never opened up to her...part of her personality is closed to those she doesn't know. There are times that I don't know my daughter well, either, though as her mother you would think it would be easier. I understood the lack of progress. So once they reached an impasse, the therapist recommended perhaps pursuing evaluation for JBean, which we had planned to do, and had told the therapist about. And I took over the spot and continued therapy.

It helped me get a handle on the feelings with diagnosis, and gave me permission to feel how absolutely much it sometimes sucks to have children with autism. I was able to explore how overwhelmed I felt, and the grief that threatened to paralyze me as I walked the road of autism diagnosis once again. I didn't have to worry about hurting anyone's feelings, and I was able to work out my emotions with fear and trembling, and know the world wouldn't come to an end. Because that was always an option before...

I have always been strong, and I know that. I have survived circumstances that would have crippled others. That's not bragging, that's fact. You know if it doesn't kill you, it just makes you stronger. But I have always had a secret fear that I would someday fall apart and end up in a rubber room somewhere. I am not really sure where it came from, but I know I have felt it since I was a teenager. The dread of the other shoe falling has always been something that could stop my heart. There are times I feel like a beautiful crystal goblet, precious and transparent, but one high C can shatter my butt all over the floor.

About ten years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder based upon past history (and the fact that I was watching Oprah and saw myself in the stories, went to my doctor who took one look at my out-of-control anxiety at that point and referred me to a psychiatrist.) I started medication, and it didn't take much at all to regulate me. Seriously, almost nothing. Over the years, I found I don't need medication at all, with cognitive behavior therapy, diet, exercise and better ways to control anxiety. In fact, my therapist has serious doubts that I was ever bipolar, and I am starting to doubt it, too. Maybe it was another case of seeing hoofprints and looking for zebras again. Maybe there really are horses that leave prints in my house. It's certainly better than the elephant under the coffee table that used to live in my house as a child.

I come from a very dysfunctional family, and yeah, I know, we all do. But, I made a conscious choice to change the patterns in my own family. And I have. In my home, we communicate. We let others know when we are happy, sad, pissed off. We talk through it, not just stuff it under a mattress. We apologize and take ownership when we screw up. We voice what we need. We have healthy relationships, but it isn't without effort. I don't suffer fools gladly, especially those who refuse to acknowledge problems. Life is too short not to just look it bold in the face and just fix it. This is why I live far away from my family. I love them, and want to keep it that way.

And this is why I no longer need to see a therapist. I'm ok. I can handle life without worrying I am going to fall apart. I trust myself now, perhaps I always did, I just needed to know it. So, life can get in the way, but I am ready. Nothing a Starbucks mocha or a blueberry vodka & tonic can't fix. Want to join me?

T, who wishes I could bottle the confidence I feel and sell it, I would be rich

How about you? How do you take care of yourself?

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Quick! You Have 140 Characters To Tell Me How Much I Rock: Go!

Hey, and welcome if you came for the Ultimate Blogger Party! What? Over here, in the corner. What am I wearing? Oh. It's not a lampshade! ..it's a hat. Whut? Never mind! Grab a drink! And some chocolate, don't forget some chocolate. Let's talk about blogging, because, well, what else would you talk about at a party for bloggers? And remember, this is a conversation, so your input is wanted...

In the beginning, when I started three years ago, comments were currency. You "paid your respects" by leaving a quick comment for the owner of the blog. It was your calling card. If you cared enough to read, you left evidence that you had been there. In return, the blog owner often would visit you once in a while. It was a lot of fun.

As the Blogosphere ballooned exponentially, it was no longer possible to comment on every blog you visited. It became harder to get noticed and find a core readership. When the marketing of blogging took off, suddenly, blogging was a business, not just a pasttime, and everyone had a blog. Who had time to comment?

I have been noticing for a while now that though my comments have decreased, my traffic has increased. While I love that new people are finding me, I would really like it if you came out of hiding, so I can get to know you. I started blogging for the community, and the connection to others. But I have noticed that unless you are one of these rock star awesome bloggers with a legion of loyal subjects, your comments won't be where most of your interaction comes from.*

*Barring giveaways to entice people to your blog and "extra" chances to enter contests by tweeting your link, subbing to your feed in order to increase your exposure...all things I won't do here. I may, from time to time, do a giveaway, but I won't force you to tweet my link or subscribe to my feed or blog about my contest... that feels disingenuous to me. It's not the way I roll.

::tap, tap, is this thing on?:::

But if you're like me, you will keep writing, and hope the writing pulls the unsupecting victims minions worshippers readers in, and that your wit and aplomb keeps them here.

Enter twitter. With 140 characters to say just what's on your mind, twitter revolutionized the blogging scene. For some, it became a time suck, and their blogs weren't so important. We call them "microbloggers." For others, it became a way to stay connected to those they blogged with and meet new bloggers. There were almost as many ways to use twitter as there were twitter accounts!

Jump to today. I will often tweet a blog post, and it would seem that twitter has become the new blog comment forum. Followers will comment on the post, via twitter, and not on the blog itself. So I will check stats and comments on my blog and feel mildly discouraged to find few (compared to last year when the comments were more plentiful) Then I will remember that comments and kudos came through my twitter stream. It would appear that Twitter is the new comment system.

But I think I kind of miss the old one.

Just an aside, I think Comment Luv is one of the best things to happen to blogging. I love clicking on the last post that someone links through my comments. Might it be you?

T, who says come out, come out, whoever you are

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I Don't Make New Year's Resolutions. But, If I Did...

Lately I have been thinking about why I am not writing as much. I am not really burnt out, but just feeling a lot of pressure to perform or something. Then I read this, and now I get it. She said it more eloquently than I could. So, rather than try and reinvent the wheel,just go read Okay, Fine, Dammit. Now.

Have you found yourself writing less? Do you have a plan to deal with it?

T, who says why can't I just write and forget what people think?

I'm Blissful! Shut up, Why are you Looking at Me Like That?

I have a new gig. I know, I can't believe it either. But I am going to be writing for Blissfully Domestic in the Blissful Buzz category and and sometimes in the Healthful Buzz area, too. I would imagine it is because I am so blissfully domestic (yeah, so my husband might disagree... BUT, I aced this test (even though I don't wipe the milk bottle top and wear pajamas around the house...)

105 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Superior Take the test!

so couldn't be that bad. Or maybe they want me for my fashion sense.

notice the sexy footwear...

Ok, so then, when you aren't model-gorgeous or fashion-talented, you rely on your sense of humor. That must be it. I am easy to laugh at with.*

* or it could be they had some page space to fill and figured I was cheaper than the monkey they were thinking of hiring for the same job. Or, the cat. Over at the Bloggess's site (is there an s in Bloggess for plural? I have no idea..well, just deal with it)

In any case, my first post is here... stay tuned for more of the same.

Since I love you, I want to know...what do you think I should write about?

T, who says go read it, already!

Technorati: writing, humor, BlissfullyDomestic

Just So You Know I am Not All Gloom and Doom

I love you. I really do. I love your blog, and I love the fact that you keep coming back to read mine. I am just one big messy, fuzzy ball of gooey love for you. And I know I wrote the post below about Entrecard and how frustrating the quality of blogs and content can be, but for the most part, I really love this Blogosphere. And I want to add my contribution, of what I think makes a good blog.

How to Write Good Blog Posts

• Content, baby. Write often, write well.
• Make me laugh, cry, get pissed off. In short, make me feel it
• be involved in the blog community, don't sit on a pedestal and look at the plebes who comment
• be REAL. This is key. Use your own voice.

• have an easy-to-read template, and check it against all browsers. What you see isn't always what others see
• gussy up your posts with pictures, but don't make it too image-heavy, or it will have long loading times
• provide an experience that your reader can't get anywhere else
• Know who you are; some call this "branding"..I call it authenticity.
• this is so important I am listing it twice. GET INVOLVED. The Blogosphere is a conversation, NOT a monologue.

  What do you like to see in a blog? What keeps you coming back?

  T, who big pink puffy hearts you, lots n' lots

  Technorati: blog, blog_traffic, Blogosphere

What I Learned at Blogher '08 #2

cross-posted at Blogher.com

I've been thinking long and hard about this Celebrity Rock Star Blogger thing. Just what constitutes "good enough" to hit the stratosphere in the Blogosphere? Why can certain bloggers post pictures of their shoes and end up with 120 comments when some bloggers pour their heart and soul into posts, and get little recognition or feedback? Most of those Rock Star Bloggers are really nice people. with just a few notable exceptions, mostly those who have bought into their own press.

I have come to the conclusion: it isn't that people are rude or cliquey, they are just full.

There is a concept that the older and busier we get, the harder it is to make friends and keep them. Women are mothers, wives, employees. We are consumers, voters and bill payers. We have little to no extra time. So when there is time, it is finite. Interactions are like strings, tied to the person. The person might tie a string around family or a close friend, who has a child the same age. More strings go around a career, volunteer work, school duties. Eventually, though the person might be willing, there are simply no more strings to be tied anywhere. They are all tied with other commitments.

I see the Internet as similar. Many, many bloggers have those they read regularly, are chummy with and interact with. There simply isn't a lot of time left over to discover blogs that were previously unknown to them. Even if those blogs are good. I am sure this is why there are so many experts out there willing to teach bloggers how to drive traffic to their sites. It isn't enough to be a good writer, you have to be willing to sell yourself as well. Content may be king, but his bastard son is promotion. I find this difficult.

As women, we are taught that if we just do a good job, keep our head down, someone will notice our hard work and reward us. When those "rules" are flouted, it feels like a betrayal. Women who do become good at promoting themselves are called bitches, money-hungry, and even pimps. Trying to go against this paradigm can be difficult; socialization is a tough taskmaster. For some, this comes easily. For most, it can be like pulling teeth. It can be very uncomfortable to be the one to stand up and publicly tout your work. And yet, sometimes that is exactly what is needed.

For me, I am solidly in the middle of the pack. I am not a Rock Star, but I'm not a newbie, either. There are bloggers who inspire me and I humbly say that I know I am an inspiration to others as well. There is always a struggle in trying to get new readers, especially readers that participate in the community you are trying to create. I get solid traffic, I think. I know friends lament not getting comments, or even readers. And honestly, I love and live for comments. After all, this blogging thing for me, is about connection.

I blog because I want to connect other parents who feel alone when it comes to autism. I blog because I want to educate, entertain and energize my audience and friends. (that's you) I write because I have to, if I want to breathe. But I blog because I want to make a difference. Readers help make that difference. It can be disheartening when there are a small number of comments on a post that holds a part of you. The most I have ever had was a bit over twenty, and that was because I was giving away Starbucks gift cards! But...I try not to get wrapped up in all of it.

This weekend at BlogHer, I learned a lot of things. But the thing I came away with? I am on the right track. I am doing it all the right way. I write from the heart, in a transparent way, not focused on stats or monetization. I simply want to share my experience, and to share in the community that bloggers have created. I love this blogging thing. And, true to the BlogHer theme, I am reaching, definitely... but I am not using my blog as a stepping stone. Yes, I want to write professionally, which is defined as actually getting paid. Stephen King said it best:

""If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn't bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented."

I will just keep doing what I am doing, and where it leads is anyone's guess. I don't want notoriety, at all! I simply want a sense of community here. Oh, yeah and if some agent wants to hand me a butt-load of money to advance my book, so much the better. Recently, I started using the term, "writer." I have always wanted to be a writer, but never considered myself good enough. Now, I have decided to own it. You have to tell yourself the story you want to hear.

How about you? How do you feel about comments? How do you encourage readers to participate?

T, who is a writer, dammit

Technorati: BlogHer08, BlogHer, blogosphere, blogging, writing, writer

The One Where I Write the Words Pt. 2

This is part 2. You may want to read Part 1 first..

Reading helped me develop my own voice as a writer. I sat at the feet of the masters: Anne Lamott, Christopher Moore, Martha Beck. Wally Lamb, Rebecca Wells, and yes, even Jane Austen. These writers made me laugh, cry and yearn to express myself. I wrote stories, some I even finished. I wrote bad poetry. I wrote in my journal. I wrote my heart.

In 1995, I found the Internet. And with it, an entire smorgasbord of information available at a moment's notice. I was in heaven. I admit that books took a backseat to the 24-hour library with no due date. I still found time for reading, that is, until my children were born. Fiction-reading gave way to books on baby care, prematurity, child development, and in time, autism, sensory integration disorder, giftedness. I didn't notice my fiction reading was waning. I was too busy. As my children grew, I introduced them to the library. Once they could write their names on the card, a whole new world opened up to them. And me, once again. I would check out books and, due to being busy, would return most unread. Poor, sad books...

Skip to the present...my blog and my writing take up a lot of space in my life. There doesn't seem to be time to read fiction. I read now for information. I read for homeschooling, I read for autism and behavior and web design. But for the most part, extra time is devoted to my writing. I rarely watch television anymore.

On Sundays after church, we often go to the bookstore to buy each of the kids a new book. I love the bookstore. I love the smell of new pages. I love the sound and the atmosphere. I love watching kids reading. And I admit, I buy books, too. For though I rarely read anymore, my heart didn't get the memo. I buy books I don't read. I have every intention of reading them when I buy them, and might get through the first few chapters, but I will get distracted fairly quickly. Real Life is a fickle lover, and he demands much of my time. There just isn't much time left over for Books. Right now, I see the book, sitting on the bench across the room. It gives me a baleful stare. "I hold great delights for you, m' lady..." Yes, books talk this way. You didn't know? You have to listen... "Come, enter me and find your bliss." And I shake my head, wave it off, yet again, in favor of the dishes or the laundry or writing.

I have a new love. It is love of the written word. Of this person: Jenn and this one: Jenn and this one: Ken and of course, this person (like she needs my little link for popularity, but she is still an influence, so I include her) Jenny And I hope to add to the conversation. The word that I write; that I so tenderly place on the page, I set it there like the newborn babe that it is. It needs care and attention. I write. I read. I rewrite. Because I? Am a wordsmith. And someday, those rectangular obelisks will contain my words. And with them, a part of me.

who are your influences? what made you a writer? when did you know?

T, who has it in her blood, I think

Technorati: writing, writer, reflections

The One Where I Write The Words Pt. 1

If you are looking for the list of contest winners, click here..

Like many, my love affair with the strange rectangular obelisks began almost before I could walk. I carried them around, from place to place, sometimes taking a bite from them as well. I could never understand the grownups who approached me with consternation on their faces, telling me I had to keep things out of my mouth. It tasted good, why not eat it? As a toddler, I would use them to build tiny worlds for my plastic animals. They stacked well.

I will never forget the joy I experienced when I realized those prized rectangles gave way to words that I could read. It opened up whole new universes to me. I loved sitting on our threadbare seventies blue-flowered couch, my young brother wide-eyed and tucked into the crook of my arm, as I read to him from my dog-eared copy of Richard Scarry's Best Storybook Ever. He is in his thirties now, and still remembers, and can quote, "And then the big brown moose came crashing through the woods..." I was a very expressive reader and he would squeal in delight and beg me to continue again and again.

I remember the confusion and yes, pride, I felt when I won a reading contest in the second grade without even breaking a sweat. You want to give me a prize beyond just letting me read? Really? My parents said I read too much. They would shove me outside, and I would skulk out with a book hidden under my clothes. My job became finding the best "reading tree" I could, then climbing into it. I would pull out whatever current book I was devouring and lose myself between the pages for hours.

I read my way through my elementary school library, my public library and my high school library. As a teenager, always on the prowl for material, I found Stephen King and Dean Koontz and V.C. Andrews and had a tough time setting limits on my reading. I will never forget, reading The Shining in the wee hours, and hearing heavy footfalls in my kitchen, sounded like redrum, redrum! I had just finished reading the REDRUM description and my heart hit my toes, thumping wildly. Turns out, I had read all through the night and my father was up for work at 5 am. . He was in the Army and wore combat boots: they have a very heavy tread. Even after all these years, my heart thuds heavily in remembrance.

In time, reading gave way to my own writing. I guess you could say it was my "gateway drug."

T, who is letting it all hang out, do I need to put it back?

Technorati: writing, books, reflections

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I am the Orange County Special Needs Kids Examiner,I cover local and national special needs topics with an emphasis on autism. If you have information or a topic that needs to be covered, shoot me an email. sendchocolatenow at gmail. You know the drill.

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A Thank You From Me to You

I know you are busy, and have a lot of other things you could be doing. I want to sincerely thank you for participating on my blog. I notice, and I am grateful. I hope that just a small portion of what I write is helpful to you, or touches you. If you leave asking questions you hadn't thought of, then my job is done. Each of you is important to me, always feel free to get in touch with me.

I email. send me any questions or comments sendchocolatenow@gmail.com

I tweet. a LOT. Do I say interesting things? You be the judge. Feel free to tell me what you think. I can take it. @sendchocolate if you want to follow..I follow back, too.

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I have lots of toys... not all are listed.

Thanks again. You are valued.

T.