September 28, 2009 - Kicking shadows, lightening the load and being human.

Ever heard of the ‘dark night of the soul’?

La noche escura de alma

It was a poem originally written by some Spanish dude around the 16th century - another Catholic poet and mystic - St. John of the I-have-to-bear-this-Cross-for-the-rest-of-my-life.

And it has since been coined, written about, analyzed and even turned into few songs by the same title. It’s about loneliness and desolation. Generic translation?

“Where the HELL is God when I need him?”

If you’ve based your whole life on the notion that the Big Guy exists and you’ve basically been a good egg all along, but sometimes it still feels like someone’s been killing chickens and working your look-a-like voodoo doll like it’s a pin cushion, then you too have experienced the dark night of the soul.

And if you haven’t - either you’re in denial or you’re too young. Give it time. No one escapes it.

And get this. The dark night of the soul is suppose to be a blessing in disguise. Uh huh.

And my name’s Mother Teresa.

Speaking of which, MT's letters revealed she had spent the last 49 years of her life, in the dark night of the soul.

That's right. MT had seen so much suffering, she wasn’t sure God even existed. How do you like them apples?

And if He did exist, maybe he wasn’t such a good guy after all. Or maybe he had an evil twin. Or he was on vacation. Oh yeah, Mother Teresa was skating on the thin ice of doubt for a long time.

I think she came around in the end, but then again, there’s an old saying: Nobody dies an atheist.

And why bring this up?

Because as I was reviewing some of the principles contained within this little Six Month Experiment, there is one component I had sorely neglected to address:

In order to make significant changes in your life you have to kick some shadows first.

If you don’t, they will come up and kick you first and usually at the most inopportune time. Like when you get the phone call that might change your life for the better but you’re still in a funk from past issues so you accidentally sabotage a change for the better.

Or when you get into a relationship that is finally right, but because you’re stuck with old patterns of behaviour you can’t believe it’s not going to be different this time so you create the drama that repeats your past.

We are experts at screwing something up so we can remain comfortable struggling - if that’s what we’re used to - because we wear those uncomfortable patterns like an old shoe that finally has a hole in it and makes our bare feet scrape the cement. But it doesn’t matter if it's stupid. It’s what we know.

So the dark night of the soul, as uncomfortable as it is, can be a blessing in disguise. It depends on how you take it and what you do with it.

Wallow in it if you must - that in itself holds the comfort of justifying hot baths, eating chocolate until you break out and watching escapist movies - but it won’t get you anywhere.

Mystics thought the dark night of the soul was man’s perfect opportunity to show the stuff he was really made of.

It’s easy to be kind to people when you’re in a good mood, (or where there is recognition) or be virtuous when you think there are heavenly rewards, or write when you know someone is paying you to do it.

But if the quality of your existence remains regardless of your guarantees (or lack of them) then on some level, you’re in the same head space as Mother Theresa was when she spent almost fifty years helping the poor and depraved when the bottom was falling out of her devotional mindset.

She no longer performed tasks on behalf of God, but on behalf of herself in her attempt to ease the suffering of other human beings - with no condo or time share in paradise to look forward to.

And that, is how it should be...

NEXT: October is for kicking shadows.

I love my mother. And I know she loves me. But she's the one person who taught me more than anyone about how I never wanted to be.

The woman never liked me.

She can't help it. It's not a travesty, but it is a fact.

Oh sure, she has in bits n' pieces for maybe... a few months at a time, (liked me that is) but then whatever relationship I thought I was beginning to develop with her would be gone in a flash for no reason, no warning, whatsoever.

Like the time she sent me a letter when I lived in the U.S.

We had been getting along, talking on the phone and writing amiably, for almost a year (a welcome miracle).

Then one day, a large envelope came in the mail...

In it was a magazine article on the Taliban that she had clipped out and highlighted just where she wanted to emphasize THE EXTENT OF MY EVIL AS ONE OF THEM.

She had linked me with the Taliban organization and somewhere in the mix managed to throw in the fact that I had slept with her counsellor.

It was a helluva conspiracy, only I couldn't get a handle on WHAT.

At the end of her note, crookedly written, she had scrawled the words:

I CURSE YOU

...across the page in big letters.

Great. My own mother just cursed me. Like I didn't have enough problems.

To this day I still don't know what triggered it and I'll be damned if I know who that counsellor was (except I heard he was a soft-spoken, kind man from India - poor bastard).

My brother seems to think it all started when I was about twelve.

Before that, it was him she couldn't stand. But when I hit puberty, a switch went on. And I'm not talking my hormones, I mean in her. She made 'Mommy Dearest' look like the good fairy in Cinderella.

And if you think I'm kidding, fast forward 30 plus years to a lunch my brother and I were invited to in her apartment long after my parents got divorced. She was in good state then but with her you never knew because whatever it was that lay beneath was only dormant. Could be the nuts in the torte she bought for dessert that brought it out.

She was impossible to predict.

So when she put our plates down, smiled, and turned back to the kitchen to procure the other dishes, my brother looked at me and said:

"Go ahead. You try it first."

"Like hell I am!" I whispered, "You go first. She hasn't liked me in twenty years. Chances are your food's okay."

He just shook his head. We both looked at her plate, looked at each other knowing we had the same idea and just as I was reaching to switch my plate with hers, she turned back from the kitchen to sit down and my plan was foiled.

Thankfully she got up again, but only to get the salt and pepper shakers this time. All we could do, was wait for her to take the first bite.

"You don't have to wait for me." she said, smiling sweetly and plunking the salt n' pepper in the middle of the table.

I said a Hail Mary and dug in.

Now I have to admit, the scenario played out more like an Elvis n' Costello bit as my brother and I slapped each other on the arm when the giggles started in case she caught us poking fun at her, but the truth of the matter is, the only reason we would even harbor the notion that she was capable of such madness is because on some level, she was.

When she switches from her jovial self to that other person, it makes the goosebumps on your arm so big they look like ski moguls if only you could add snow.

Put it this way: my mom would scare the crap out of Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

My mom wasn't just manic depressive, she was also delusional and MEANT IT.

The police called my house one day to check if I was alive because she had told them I was the dead, unidentified prostitute on the front page of the local paper. When I chuckled and said:

"Uh, no. I'm not dead and I'm not a prostitute. I'm in school though. Is that close?"

"I take it your dad is not part of some... prostitution ring?" they asked almost embarassed.

"Not the last I heard."

And that was the end of that.

But the worst part is she made no bones about the fact that she never wanted kids.

She would have preferred to remain single like her sisters because as she would tell us, they have no responsibilities and no one to answer to, and can do what they want, when they want.

Now I'm not saying she doesn't have her good points.

She's highly intelligent - she reads psych journals like some people read the paper - and she's got pretty much everyone she's every known pegged as falling under some really twisted psychological condition which must make her conversations with other residents at her assisted living housing really interesting.

Except she doesn't talk to any of them. She's alienated everyone she knows with her standards.

The last time I saw her there it was the day after Christmas and she was sitting at a table by herself facing the wall and eating alone while everyone else kept each other company (for the most part).

Peasants no doubt.

But she was all dressed up from head to toe in her finest jewels, silk stockings, high heeled shoes and hair done up. And she's 83.

That's my mom. She could speak three languages, play the piano like a champ, is an avid reader, but was also an alcoholic, manic depressive, delusional, suicidal and mean as a snake when the mood hit her.

Sometimes her meds work and sometimes they don't.

But there is one thing my mom has that I (and my kids) admire.

Energy

You'd have to have lots of it to spend most of your time as an angry person whose pastime is to wreak havoc on people's lives and seek vengeance for all the wrong everyone has ever done to you (or think they've done to you)... and alienate every friend you ever had in the process.

But I get her. And I'm going to use my hero Cesar Millan's (The Dog Whisperer) philosophy to peg her problem.

My mom is like a pit bull that doesn't get exercised on a daily basis, and doesn't have boundaries or have a good pack leader to follow.

Or like an Australian shepherd that doesn't get to embrace his true nature and herd sheep with his energy.

Or like a spaniel that has been denied his tracking and bird retrieving skills and is stuck inside all the time and so displays destructive behaviour.

So her anger is simply hiding the frustration of not having done what she wanted with her life. She never accessed her true nature.

To go to school and excel. To use her intelligence to be somebody. And whatever respect and fame that would bring her.

The thing is, she could have.

But two things prevented her.

1. She has spent most of her life clinically depressed. But staying on the right pills and having a program of therapy would have helped her tremendously.

2. She's lazy. By her own admittance.

She told me the reason she doesn't exercise is because it's too much work. The reason she didn't go back to school is because it would have been too much work. The reason she didn't like having children is because they were too much work. Same with marriage, cooking, you name it. She hated all of it.

Everything you really want in life requires structure, sacrifice and vulnerability - as you will be subject to the expectations and judgment of others.

It meant she had to make a commitment to be healthy. She chose not to. It meant she had to answer to someone else who would judge her essays and give her a grade. She chose against being evaluated. It meant she would have to open her heart to children in whom an emotional investment never guarantees a return...

Life involves risk, guts, sacrifice, committment and vulnerability.

Everything worthy in life, does.

And for all her energy, intelligence and potential, she was not willing to give up any of those things.

Somewhere along the way, I decided that I was.

Like I said, almost everything I learned in life about what not to be, I learned from her. And for those of you who think it's all very sad, I just want you to know, that I don't.

It simply is what it is. What you do with the hand that is dealt you, is what separates people.

As the saying goes:

No man is my friend, no man is my enemy, every man is my teacher.

That is, if you choose it to be so...

NEXT - Kicking shadows and lightening the load

September 24 - Everyone should live life “as if”

I realize this is not always feasible, as daily implementation of the “as if” philosophy can easily lead one down the prickly road of denial.

But for the most part... it ROCKS IF you apply the practical aspects required to make your dream life a reality.

Jack Canfield (of “Success Principles” and Chicken Soup For the Soul phenomenon) explains an activity that gives people the opportunity to feel what it would be like if they had actually accomplished all of their dreams and then some.

He suggests you throw an “as if” party with your closest friends and everyone must show up donning the persona they have become five years from now assuming their ‘best case scenario’ for the fruition of all their hopes and dreams.

The only rule is you must stay in character for the duration of the party. Which means you must speak to others as the success they envision themselves to be and also dress, act, and most of all exude the confidence you would possess in your most ideal state.

Just thinking about it makes me want to put on that little black dress, throw my shoulders back, toss my hair around (long and full of body with the best extensions money can buy) and say “Oh stop, it was nothing!” in response to another guest complimenting me (yet again) on one of my achievements.

Gosh darn but it’s fun!

And if you don’t believe me, try it. Ask a few close friends if they would be interested in coming to a party at your house (everyone pitches in for good caviar and a little champagne), based on this premise - just watch as people start to giggle at the thought that they can pretend to be whatever it is they’ve always dreamed of. Everyone’s energy automatically rises.

It’s the ultimate costume party because you get to dress from the inside out as anything you want to be.

And for those of you who are pshawing and murmuring under your breath that this party should be called, “Yeah, right, as if” with a sarcastic undertone all I have to say to you is - we all do it in life anyway, but in such bits and pieces that it doesn’t have the same magnitude as actually declaring a party in honor of what we COULD BE.

Take for instance the actual names of these two co-ed soccer teams in my hood:

“We’ll Bury You Cockroaches” and “Multiple Scoregasms.”

I love those names. Each one cracks me up.

But beneath that laughter is also an underlying message to the other team: We’re gonna kick your asses from here to the moon.

It’s all in good fun but it’s also competitive - as much as a no-ref, few rules, friendly kind of game can be (which trust me, can be really intense).

Think about it. Nobody in their right mind would ever call their team, “The Has Beens”, or “The Try Hards”.

Because I think deep down inside we all want to be the best version of ourselves possible and prefer to see a win in every situation we face.

And these desires rise through the cracks of our life and society constantly, manifesting themselves in the names of teams, our obsession with people who have ‘made it’, and even our desire to look our best when we go out on the town.

It’s just that somewhere along the way, we started to think maybe we weren’t entitled to live up to our own expectations.

Either we had an inner bully that told us we didn’t deserve it, or an outer bully in the form of negative and destructive naysayers, or parents that wanted us to live a safe, secure existence because essentially it meant that they could stop worrying about us.

Or maybe, we were simply surrounded by people who were apathetic about life - their own and existence in general. (Perhaps the most draining of all dream-busters).

Basically, there are two kinds of people who teach us subconsciously (or consciously if we’re aware) of how we want to live by their own example:

Those who teach us how to be and those who teach us how not to be.

And what I have learned is neither method is more valuable than the other.It's all a matter of what you get out of it.

NEXT - How I learned how not to be (and from who)...
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September 22, 2009 - The Process - Query, Proposal, Martini - PART II

Submitting the proposal.

I’m going to break down psychologically what that means because words carry their own underling energy based on the origins contained within them (and we act accordingly - call it an inherent gift to tap into an archaic model upon which we are all connected - a collective unconscious of sorts).

To submit.

The prefix "sub" is full of interesting implications: a prefix occurring originally from Latin freely attached to elements of any origin used with the meaning "under, "below", "beneath", "secondary", "subordinate"...

So then an offer of marriage is really just a proposed plan to spend the rest of your life with someone.

Let’s go with the best visual of the two - the marriage kind - to see exactly how one should best approach submitting a book proposal.

You get down on one knee (ie; take a submissive position - there’s that sub prefix again), ask someone to spend the rest of their life with you (ie; invest time, energy, money and effort), and show them the ring (hook ‘em in the first paragraph into wanting to hear what you have to say as they stare at that glistening diamond that could be theirs).

When you see that look on their face that says they’re not convinced you spend the next few minutes (ie; pages) using the best arguments you can come up with to prove that what you are offering will bring them terrific dividends in the form security, contentment and hopefully some bonus elements beyond their expectations - like great rollicking sex for the next twenty years (ie; a bestseller).

It’s a delicate matter.

Some agencies request a proposal that sounds more like a bragfest: 'If you marry me, I will not only promise you the moon, I’ll deliver' (that would be the marriage proposal in movies that takes place on the big screen during the ninth inning at White Sox game) while others want ‘Just the facts ma’am’ (sit me down in a nice restaurant and tell me what you’re offering and how being with you is suppose to make my life better).

But when your book is humorous it’s hard not to want to get that across in the proposal since it may be the only chance you have to strut your stuff: I’ve got so many insights on cyber dating I make the view from the Sears Tower look like the inside of a maximum security prison.

The bottom line is, like in a marriage, you have to find someone that is a good fit.

And just like dating, you gotta kiss a lot of frogs before you find someone willing to turn into your literary advocate prince (or princess).

When you start to go through agency after agency, you start to get a feel for what they’re looking for and what they might be like to work with.

Some of it is based on their website, but a lot of it can be based on the tiniest things that send subliminal messages that trigger a ‘gut feeling’, like photos of their agents actually smiling or a clever sentence: eg: We license rights in every territory on earth - and, in case you were wondering, throughout the universe.

I loved these guys. In law school when people asked me what kind of a lawyer I wanted to be I’d say: “I’m going to be the first intergalactic lawyer so that when we make first contact I’ve got the market cornered”.

I just had to write them. As luck would have it, I received a favourable response. (Fingers crossed).

Then again, I looked at websites that made me feel no matter how clever I might be, (or easy to deal with), these people would rather chew off their left arm rather than be stuck in a bear trap with the likes of me - I don’t have enough credentials to satisfy the standards required to qualify trying their grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies never mind read through the proposal.

And that’s totally understandable. The funny thing is I don’t take these things personally. You simply cannot.

If all agencies were the same, it would be a dull world indeed and you would need sub-agencies just to weed out those writers who have no business contacting anyone because they can’t actually formulate a sentence let alone pull a story together.

So I get it.

And then you have the agencies who pretend they’re ‘open to submissions and unsolicited materials’ who send you what looks like an ‘auto-reject’ response ten minutes after you’ve just painstakingly fired off another query letter or proposal tailored to their specifications.

That’s okay too. They just want to look like the good guy even though they’re not really looking. That’s the woman who rejects your proposal of marriage who, even though she put out all the signals that she wants to settle down and have kids, never had any such intentions in the first place. But she just doesn’t want to look bad because she thinks this is what is expected of her.

I just want to find an agency that is a best mirror reflection of me.

They work hard, but know that life must also be balanced. And when they’re under the gun they can still operate with a sense of humor and compassion, yet deliver what they promise.

So when you’re ready to find an agent, send out as many feelers as you can, but use your gut instinct to find the ‘good guy’ and focus your intent on that one. There’s nothing worse than being stuck with someone not suited to you who only believes in you half-heartedly.

Nobody wants their marriage to end in a messy divorce.

As for the martini part? There’s no secret in that.

Once you’ve sent out a whack of these proposals, you have to celebrate.

It doesn’t matter that no one has responded yet or even that you’ve had auto-rejections. The point is, you did it.

And all the little steps in life that are designed to move you forward - regardless of outcome - must be celebrated.

NEXT: Act “As if”...
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September 18, 2009 - The Process - Query, Proposal, Martini - PART I

It was a helluva week.

I researched 98 agencies that might be willing to consider unsolicited material. In other words:

“Hey, nobody asked you to purge enough blood, sweat and tears to leave your body vacuous of any remaining fluids just to write a frakkin’ book that people might or might not want to read, but you’re here aren’t you? What the heck, we’ll look at it anyway - if all the stars align.”

Welcome to the world of agents.

Bloody hell.

And through the course of my research, I found out hardly anyone actually writes a non-fiction book without finding out if someone wants to buy it first. (I wish I had known that before I started this little project nine months ago and put in over 1000 hours to write the damn thing - even though I would do it all over again).

Fiction books are different as any story has the potential to be a bestseller. In a way the forum is open to anyone who has discipline enough to see a story from beginning to end.

But there’s a catch.

A good idea for a fiction book, no matter how clever - boy goes to wizard school and must combat evil until he practically pukes snakes (Harry Potter) - only delivers if the writer has a great voice and knows how to develop a story - in other words; there better be talent in them thar hills.

So when you submit a query for a fiction book (a one page letter giving a synopsis of the story and whatever writing credentials you might have), you also get to include twenty pages of manuscript. Because the proof is in the pudding.

With fiction, you get to show ‘em what you got upfront. So if you’re a good writer, even if you’re a virgin novelist, sooner or later some smart dude will recognize that you have the X factor (ie; talent). And that’s elusive. It takes a wicked eye and an open mind to recognize it. That is a talent in itself. And that’s why good agents make the big bucks.

It’s one thing to be a casting director and see tangible charisma in a newcomer who oozes blockbuster poster child from every pore of his being, but the written word is more elusive. There’s no face attached so you have to be able to see what other people might see in this author that would make their particular style of writing popular.

Are you starting to see what I’m getting at?

But fiction and non-fiction operate from different platforms.Non- fiction books are in a class all by themselves. Above all, they are informative. And I’m starting to get that they’re big business.

How-to books are the literary world’s version of reality TV.

If you are organized enough to write a good outline and give chapter summaries, chances are if there is a wide enough audience and you know what you’re doing, someone’s gonna buy it - more so if you are an expert in your field.

No one is going to buy a book about how to make a million dollars from a pauper, but if Donald Trump writes one, then the odds of it hitting the best seller list increase significantly.

How-to books can make a lot of money for everyone (at least that’s what I have assessed based on the submission requirements) because they come with a platform expectation that specifies the various satellite operations launched by the book that can also make money - speaking engagements, websites, seminars, supplementary materials... the list is as long as your imagination allows (and the money any publishing house might have to promote you while you’re working to bring in the big bucks).

So, you might think you can do it. You might know, in your gut that what you have to offer is the bomb, but...

...you have to prove it before they even read anything you write. And that’s a helluva tall order if you’re name isn’t Dr. Phil.

While some agencies only request a one page query, in a non-fiction proposal you don’t attach your pages. Initially they don’t want ‘em. They just want to see if you have an idea they can market.

And if you were able to successfully hook them in your query, then they might ask you for a proposal.

If you can hook them in your proposal (which can be anywhere from 20-40 pages long) they might read the two sample chapters you attached.

If they read those and like them, they might ask you for your manuscript.

If they like your manuscript, they might offer to represent you.

If they offer to represent you, they go to bat for you by trying to convince a publishing house that you are indeed a good investment upon whom they will make a good return.

In essence, I need to be a valuable commodity.

Except as a non-fiction author, I’m a no-name brand playing in a big name game.

For now.

Once I get one book under my belt, I just know... *call it a gut feeling*... that I could become a recognizable name brand. And I have more book ideas to keep me busy (and any publishing house) for the next fifteen years. Let’s just say I know I can deliver.

The question is will someone let me stick my foot in the door? Cause if they do, I’ll be damned if I ever let them slam it shut...

Next - PART II writing a proposal

September 15, 2009 - Show 'em what you got

Yeah, I’m finished the book.

I am ALL THAT AND a couple of bookends. Move over JK Rowlings, the new Lit “It Girl” is movin’ in!

Now I’m gonna kick back and wait for those royalty checks to show up in my bank account...

I’m waiting....

(Could you get with the program? I got bills to pay!)

Still waiting...

(Think you could you, uh... move it along?)

Still...

wait---ing...

hmmmm....

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Hark!

What is that deafening silence I hear?

As far as I’m concerned any moment now someone should come knocking on my door, acknowledge the writing genius that I am and offer me a three book deal that will put all my kids through school debt-free, fix the credit my ex-husband ruined to live a life of leisure, and give me raison d’être behind every dotted “i” and crossed “t” I ever wrote with the sweat of my soul, while justifying every sleepless night spent in front of my computer instead of out socializing like a normal human being.

Or not.

Because that’s not the way the universe works.

While there are overnight success stories of beautiful women being plucked out from their dreary jobs as supermarket cashiers so their faces can grace the cover of a magazine (à la Michelle Pfeiffer), chances are if I get a job at Walmart in the hopes that some publisher will stop me in the middle of scanning their toilet paper and say: OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE TO QUIT THIS DREARY JOB RIGHT NOW AND COME WITH ME. I BOOKED YOU ON OPRAH FOR THAT NOVEL YOU WROTE I CAN PSYCHICALLY SEE SITTING ON YOUR SHELF - it’s not gonna happen.

And frankly, I think that’s when most people give up.

They spend all this time and energy into something creative and when they’re finished they realize:

What? You expect me to do MORE?

And unfortunately, most writers totally suck at promoting themselves - we are after all suppose to be socially challenged as every stereotype attests - that’s why we chose to be writers in the first place - so we could live out our emotionally protected lives in the confines of our tiny apartments living large through our keyboards while ordering take-out from the same Chinese restaurant every Friday night at exactly the same time until we die at the age of 89 with our seven cats - alone but carrying a faintly recognizable name to some foreign lit undergrad student in a remote college somewhere in the Bahamas.

But not me.

I say to HELL with that.

Time to kick that stereotype in the ham n’ eggs.

I CAN’T WAIT to show you a thing or two about what I got.

I learned something from a professor in university about writing exams that I’ve carried with me forever. She was my Shakespeare prof (and not an easy one to please). But when I was sweatin’ like a marathon runner on mile 26 about the upcoming final, she turned to me and said:

“I don’t know why people don’t like writing exams. It’s your one opportunity in school to show everything you’ve got. I used to love it”.

After I got over thinking she was on crack, the truth of her statement sunk in and I realized she was right.

From that moment on, I knew that all the work you do behind the scenes is something that sits as unfinished business until you actually do something about it. And part of that equation is ruffling your feathers to someone else about it - the public and perfect strangers.

And that is some scary stuff.

‘Cuz ironically, it ain’t over when you write The End. Writing the book is only part one of a three part mini-series (writing, promoting, and sustaining).

It makes me wonder how many great works of art are sitting somewhere on a shelf or what dusty paintings are hanging on faded walls that no one else will see because someone didn’t realize the journey they undertook did not end when they completed their piece.

For some perhaps it did... but never for those of us who do what we do because we can’t imagine doing anything else.

If life is one big learning experience, then you realize it’s not enough to work on your craft. Bringing your talents into fruition is simply one part of the equation.

The other, is the piece that all artists struggle with - am I good enough? Will someone actually want to read my stuff and pay to do it? Look at my painting in a gallery? Pay to watch me dance? Do I risk showing someone else?

I am fortunate that in spite of my insecurities I’m not afraid to make an ass of myself and face rejection. Putting myself out there as a viable business investment (which is really what selling yourself to a publisher amounts to) is something I embrace with the same enthusiasm I had when I wrote every exam in university (except maybe for Civ Pro in law school- that was bitch).

And I’m not saying I wake up every day thinking, I can’t wait to hurdle another obstacle. But I do wake up thinking:

Just hang in there and keep at it. One of these days you’re going to hit critical mass and just when you think it’s not going to happen, it will all come flooding your way and this time, you’ll be ready.

So this week as I struggle over writing the perfect query letter (and my much larger proposal - in the hopes of convincing some lit agency or publisher they will fatten their retirement fund if they bank me), I take the advice of my professor with me.

It's time to show ‘em what I got.

Let the chips fall where they may. Gods be with me.

Sept 10, 2009 - Knowing your worth, constructive decadence and more Cuban cigars - PART II

Good-bye Stoicism. Hello Epicureanism...

Epicurus was one of the big boys of Ancient Greek philosophical thought. He believed that ‘moderate hedonism’ was the best way to live.

Unfortunately (or perhaps as a matter of course), some of his followers chose to interpret his live in the moment, enjoy life to the fullest philosophy as a license to INDULGE.

How convenient.

(Give me a bottle of good cognac, throw some fresh oysters my way and let me tell you a thing or two about life).

But you can’t really blame them. I can see how using a good solid philosophy like Epicureanism as a hallmark can give one (ahem) permission to live life to the fullest - especially when it lies in a belief system that promotes ‘the moderation of desires and the cultivation of friendship’.

In other words: “Be nice to each other. Enjoy. We’re here for a good time, not a long time”.

Who is going to argue with THAT?

Enter Lunch at the Inferno and my new Epicurean friend, SCAR. (With two names like that, I should have known it was going to be one hell of an experience).

Now, I had a pretty good idea from what my AP told me, that lunch would be a long and indulgent affair. Nobody can say, “Can you spare a few hours for lunch with Scar?” without also implying because this is going to be an exercise in learning how to let someone else spoil you for a change.

And spoil us he did.

And the feeling started even before we had ordered any food.

While other people were sitting politely at their tables sitting across from each other in standard fashion, we chose to sit in a semi-circle at a square table. This way, we could each face the sun, enjoy what few days of summer remained, but also nestle in closer proximity to each other for story sharing and food dispensing.

We didn’t care if we were different than our more conservative bistro patron counterparts. Let ‘em look. Let ‘em talk. frak' em!

Because we were there to embrace the DIVINE.

We were going to enjoy this day to its fullest and if that meant we had to see-saw back and forth to nibble at our food in order to avoid sharp corners AND better enjoy the warm sunshine, well then hell. Isn’t that what life is all about anyway?

It didn’t take long for my composure to change.

By the time we had finished our second bottle of good wine, all I wanted to do was take my hair out of that stupid ponytail I thought made me look more ‘sex-in-the-city’, shake free my locks, throw my head back and laugh - HA HA HA! - at all the plebeians in the world who had NO idea what they were missing.

Maybe it was the savoury appetizer of mussels. Or the freshly baked focaccio bread cut in cubes that we dipped into the sauce.

Maybe it was the two (or was it three?) orders of fresh oysters flown in the day before that Scar drenched in lemon juice and doled out to us, careful not to spill any juice. Or the thin slice of I-can’t-remember-what-kind-of-expensive cheese we ate to wash it down.

Maybe it was the vertical food entrees of scallops and shrimp, the light salad topped with wild Alaska salmon or maybe it was simply that 3rd bottle of expensive wine?

Perhaps I will never know what defining moment tipped me from conservative, stoic nerd to a reformed and better version of myself with a whole new appreciation for the God Dionysus and his crew of hedonists.

But then again, maybe I do.

It wasn’t the food, (though it was amazing). It wasn’t the wine (though I had my share). It wasn’t the decadent chocolate desserts (though I’ve never had better) chased with an aperitif (or two - I don’t remember).

Nor was it the Cuban cigar that finally got us thrown out (after five hours of remembering what it was like to be human if only we allowed ourselves to honour that part within that utilizes all of our senses to truly enjoy life once in a while).

No. It was the WAY we did it. It was the way Scar did it.

Not only did he insist that we “order whatever we want”, but when the food came, he would carefully and very lovingly dole out portions on small plates, spoons, forks, and hand them over bite by bite (always serving himself last) until we felt so well taken care of, all that was missing was a lounger, two Egyptians waving palm leaves over our heads and a batch of grapes hanging from the rafters.

And if we had asked for it, we would have gotten that too.

I have never in my entire life, felt so nurtured or spoiled.

But the best part is that it was all genuine, it was done unconditionally (because as he said, “life is suppose to be feel like that once in a while”), and it was supported by a warm sharing of stories, compliments that were genuinely felt and given, musings about the meaning of life, and a reminder that ‘all work and no play makes us all dull boys and girls’.

So when the manager (with the carefully plucked eyebrows and high strung energy) came to our table a second time (after first giving us permission to smoke a Cuban cigar on the patio which he shortly thereafter recanted), asked us to leave “because the tables are filling up and I asked you to put that out five minutes ago!” I was slightly annoyed (having been stirred from my resting place with the Gods n’ all that).

“WHO IS THIS PLEBEIAN?” I thought, “OFF WITH THIS HEAD!”

But he was obviously intent on a pissing contest with Scar who replied:

“You can’t be serious” As he looked around at the mostly empty patio, “I just paid almost five hundred dollars for lunch and you’re asking us to leave?”

My AP in her usual dignified self turned to Scar and said, “Don’t worry about it. We were just about to go anyway” and promptly put out the cigar on an empty dish.

Well, you would have thought she had just thrown a pie in the manager’s face.

“What are you - ? What the - ? How disrespectful!? WOULD YOU DO THAT AT HOME???” he cried, turning so red I thought he had just eaten a habanero pepper.

Very calmly and with the utmost class my AP replied:

“As a matter of fact I would.”

I turned to her, proud to be her friend. Then I turned to look at him. I leaned forward, tilted my chin up just enough to show a sparkle of defiance and very proudly stated:

“So would I!”

“Well I NEVER!!!” he replied without so much as a decent comeback.

We took one more bite of desert, swigged the rest of our cognac, gathered up our belongings and headed out with our dignity intact.

Nothing could ruffle our feathers.

We had just spent five hours enjoying each other’s company, living each moment to its fullest in the fresh air and sunshine, with the greatest appreciation of life and each other possible.

We had enjoyed every bite, every sip, every smile, every joke and every compliment to its fullest. And no tightly wound, sex-deprived, power-hungry, dissatisfied regulite was going to rain on our parade.

Scar had been kind and generous to the waitress. He had been nurturing, indulgent, and gentlemanly towards us.

There was not a single thing that we did or said that warranted the reaction we received from the manager, except that perhaps we had enjoyed ourselves too much in the presence of someone who had somewhere along the way, forgotten the meaning of life - to be kind to other human beings and just relax.

Life is over much too fast to get your panties all in a twist for nothing.

And the ability to recognize that life is a gift is a gift in itself.

Once in a while it is your duty to honour yourself by allowing others to spoil you. When you learn to receive, giving of yourself, also becomes easier. Scar showed me through his deeds what it felt like (perhaps for the first time) to have someone to do that for me.

So it wasn’t the lunch. It was never the lunch.

It was the feeling.

By nine o’clock, my carriage had turned into a pumpkin, my dress was back where it belonged on a hangar in the closet and I was once again that nerdy girl, trying to make her own dreams come true.

As usual, I was contemplating my writing schedule for the next day and wondering how I was going to manage also doing my errands when I had so much yet to accomplish.

But something was different.

When I climbed into bed that night, I had to ask myself: given the chance, could I do this every day?

Instantly, I knew the answer was no. I was far too steeped in Stoicism to live a life of leisure.

But the light of Epicureanism was lit and the bar was raised.

On one hot summer afternoon, I learned that it was okay to feel spoiled.

On one hot summer afternoon, I felt worthy enough to allow someone to be kind beyond any logical reason whatsoever except that they wanted to be.

On one hot summer afternoon, I became allergic to not being appreciated, simply because one man saw fit to show me that I was, (and told me so) without any expectation whatsoever in return.

And for that, I am truly blessed.
Amen.

Sept 7, 2009 - It's LABOR day and the Cyber Love Muse: Common Sense Advice on Internet Dating is complete.

I’m done. Finished. Finito. A wrap, all in, all over, brought about, brought to pass, buttoned up, compassed, complete, completed, concluded, consummated, depleted, down, drained, effected, effete, ended, executed, exhausted, fixed, fulfilled, over, perfected, performed, realized, rendered, set, spent, succeeded, terminated, through, used up, wired, wrought.

Well, except for the index.

And you want to hear a confession? I’m so damn confident that I will be done the book by the date set above, that I’m actually writing this blog at 7 am on Friday morning, September 4th.

I figured if I was really done the book by the end of labor day weekend, I’d be spending the 8th nursing a hangover so I thought I should be prepared. How that for visualization Jack Canfield? How do you like them apples eh?

Unfortunately, if I’m wrong, I’m going to sound like an idiot because I promised myself I also wouldn’t erase the above NO MATTER WHAT and I might have a date this weekend so that could be a problem.

Ah, distractions. The pomegranate of life.

But this next part is going to be the fun. This is where I get to use Timothy Ferris’ book to its greatest effect.

Intro: MMII - MymaninIndian.com

One of Tim’s recommendations to gaining more freedom, is to well, free up your time. And what better way to do that, than to get a Virtual Assistant to do your dirty work for you?

That means outsourcing work that pretty much anyone can do but would require oodles of your non-creative time. Apart from being extremely convenient, it’s a huge lesson in letting go of the reins. In primitive days, this would be called, ‘delegating responsibilities.’

I’m a Capricorn. I can do that. In spades.

Put it this way. I couldn’t outsource this blog, or have someone else write my book (nor would I want to) because it reflects my personal style which cannot be duplicated (ahem), but I could very easily, outsource my index which requires tedious Internet research.

And whenever I start doing it myself, I get distracted and find myself on a site like, ‘shaving your poodle to make him look like another animal’ where dogs are made to look like buffalos and camels and prima ballerinas. (I kid you not). This is the Internet. And I am easily distracted by information that makes you say "seriously"?

And I might even have this outfit research publishers. (Maybe. I might want control over that one).

In any case, now my time is freed up once again to do the more creative stuff (I started the accompanying workbooks a week ago). And I am seriously thinking about outsourcing my website design but with 800 bucks left in the bank I might be pushing it.

Besides, figuring out how to set up a website might be a great learning experience so I’m going to have a go at that one myself.

There is only one thing. Prior to outsourcing, my criteria must be extremely clear or I’ll be doling out moolah that I don’t have only to find out I could have done the job myself better in half the time. But that’s just a chance I’m going to have to take.

Part of this exercise is learning how to let go of the reins, know exactly what I want (be specific) and then trust that someone else can do the job better or as well as me (control freak that I am). But without going into any debt.

I can handle living on a shoestring budget. (Been there done that) but the idea is to get out of the hole without digging deeper.

So here goes nothing. I’m going out to buy one of those five dollar phone cards at seven/eleven that gets me 42 hours and 12 minutes of talk time to India. And I’m gonna make some calls.

Wish me luck.

Oh, and just one more thing... my AP rocks. She kicks my ass when I need it most, and gives me leverage to slack when the chips are really down. But never enough to let me feel sorry for myself. Only enough to recover from whatever stupidity I just got myself into (again).

I recommend everybody find one...

Thanks B. I love you.

Sept 6, 2009 - Knowing your worth, constructive decadence and more Cuban cigars - PART I

Those who know me can attest to the fact that I’ve never embraced a decadent lifestyle.

I’m far too disciplined for such folly. I was more prone to the other extreme.

There was a time when I carried around The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in my back pocket for continual reference as it was my full intention to spend the rest of my life being a true Stoic.

In other words, someone who chose to live an austere life of studied simplicity, wanting for nothing. The Stoics had determined the source of all suffering was desire. So they got rid of it.

Get rid of desire and you get rid of suffering. Made perfect sense to me.

I lived some version of the stoic philosophy for 16 years (and an extreme version of it for four more), until I realized:

I WAS HAVING NO DAMN FUN AT ALL.

As my AP’s recently transplanted Argentinian date said to her: I want to have a smooth time with you.

That really about sums it up because I too, have determined:

I want to have a smooth time with me too. With life in general.

Now this doesn’t mean that I’m going all-out Roman or anything, (eating numerous seven-course meals a day and throwing up after each one so you can do it all over again is not my style), but giving yourself permission feel spoiled, or allowing someone else to spoil you, is another matter entirely.

Enter: Al Pacino’s second cousin Scar. (I kid you not).

My AP called me up the other day and said:

“Have you got a few hours? Scar wants to take us for lunch.”

“Does this mean I have to get out of my ripped cut-offs (my signature writing gear) and actually put on a bra?”

“Yes. And wear a dress.”

“A dress? Get outta here!”

“C’mon. How many times do we get to dress up and go for lunch? Just do it. You’ll be glad you did.”

So after much confusion as to what had triggered such an occasion (I need a reason for everything), I reluctantly put on a casual black dress, went back to working on the book (sitting very unladylike in my chair) and waited for the familiar front door buzz alerting me to the fact that my carriage was waiting.

When my duo arrived, I climbed into the back seat of the vehicle (after Scar promptly opened the door) and was handed a little bag.

“What’s this?”

“A little something. Scar always brings a little something.” replied my AP from the front seat looking all gorgeous in her little Italian number.

I opened the bag. In it there were two bottles of nail polish. Sweet!

So exactly who is this gift-bearing, movie-worthy Scar character?

Apparently he’s Al Pacino’s second cousin (not that they know each other personally) and he’s an old friend of my AP’s.

They’ve known each other for some twenty years. He adores her to bits - always has and always will - and frequently refers to her as ‘amazing’ though nothing romantic remains whatsoever of an old connection they once had. (If there was, I would know about it - there are no secrets between AP’s).

But the one consistent reputation Scar maintains (and is proud of), is how well he treats the people he cares about. Especially the women, who he thinks are deserving of every European-invented decadence because they embrace the female form and should be taken care of in a manner that reflects the status their gender incites in mythology.

In other words, women are a special invention of the Gods, without which life would not be worth living.

And as Scar said the first time we met: “Any friend of Bonnie’s is a friend of mine”.

Lucky me.

stay tuned for PART II - The Longest Lunch Ever.

September 3, 2009 - Reading between the lines

In the interest of balancing 'blog continuity' with book writing, I've decided to post part of the chapter I've been diligently (between socializing and 'summerizing')working on - THE MALE PROFILE.

After reading hundreds of dating profiles over the years, one start to get a sense of how to read between the lines. (I realize of course there's only space between the lines, so it's kinda hard to read into nothing but you'd be surprised at what women can do).

So, of the five rules I've conjured on what to avoid like the plague in a profile, here's a couple to make you go hmmmmm.....

And now, for better or worse...

THE MALE PROFILE
Observations, Reading Between the Lines, and Case Studies.***

The male profile. (Sigh).

We know you like long walks on the beach. We know you’re a deep, sensitive guy who wants only to share those experiences with us. Because the truth of the matter is men are down with love too - with the right woman.

When it comes right down to it, you want the same things we do. Someone who adores and respects you and most of all gets you. (And when men are truly smitten? They make our romantic fantasies look like Valentine’s Day at a convent).

We also know that part of your instinct is to help and protect (financially and physically) but that gold digging sluts have stripped some of you of those natural instincts leaving you with a bad taste in your mouth and a hole in your pocket. But bitter never comes off well in a profile. Even when you try and make it funny.

Rule no. 1 - GET RID OF BITTER

You don’t know how many times when reading profiles, I’ve read “Gold-diggers need not apply” or “I hate my ex” in one form or another (and usually repeated over and over and over again) until the only thing that sticks out in my mind is the thought that if I’m ever stupid enough to go out with this guy, I deserve everything that’s coming to me.

I get it. We get it. However, I am also now very leery of the possibility that beneath those broad shoulders you have a rotator cuff problem because you have a chip on your shoulder so big it’s going to need major surgery. In the meantime, I don’t want to be the one who pays for someone else’s unconscionable behaviour. (And just so y’all know, we’re not all like that).

But the point is a chip is a chip is a chip. And in this case, chip is not what you do in golf, it isn’t something off the old block and it isn’t your dog’s name. So get rid of it. Or at the very least, write your profile under the presumption that you’re starting off on a clean slate with the next one. This applies whether they were gold-diggers, cheaters or just plain hell on wheels.

Here’s an example.

What he wrote: Married twice. First gal (whom I affectionately refer to as Plaintiff)... still love her like a sis. Actually I love her more than my sis, cuz my sister was kind of a... well, you get it. Haha. Second X... well I don’t think I’m allowed to use that kind of language on here so I’ll leave that up to your imagination. Think nasty. Now add 1. Lmao. Well one thing’s for sure. At least this time around I won’t be getting messages from prudes or gals that just don’t get me and my sense of humor. Then they wonder why it never works for them.

(Look who’s calling the kettle black).

Reading between the lines: It’s your fault. And it’s always gonna be your fault. If it doesn’t work out, it’s your fault. If you don’t get my humor it’s not because it’s in bad taste, it’s because you’re a prude and don’t get me. Again, your fault. Idiot. So you better be like one of the guys cuz if you’re not, that’s your fault too - never mind what’s between your legs. Be like me, but female cuz though I like my gender better, I don’t date them.

Analysis: If you’re never suppose to talk about past relationships on a first date then you should never, ever talk about them in your profile. Leave them out, or refer to them generically. There will be ample time for that after a few dates. Besides, there’s a spot for your ‘divorced’ or ‘single’ status in the stats section. Leave it there. And never, ever put us all in the same boat and warn us not to come within one hundred feet of you if we’re “like this” or “like that”. If a woman is really that slick I guarantee she knows the game better than you do so you might as well save your breath. Otherwise, you’re egging us on or turning us off.

Revised: I’ve had a couple of long term relationships and keep trying to find the right one. Obviously I don’t give up easily. Lol. I must warn you that I have a raw sense of humor so if the Cable Guy or Rodney Dangerfield doesn’t appeal to you, chances are neither will I. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a real gentleman beneath it all. Take a chance on me and I will do the same.

What it means now: I can’t change who I am, nor do I want to. I have a bit of a rough exterior but at least I’m honest and upfront about it. If we go out, that’s something you’ll have to deal with or embrace or it’s not gonna work. I need someone who can roll with the punches and not take me too seriously. But I’m a good guy deep down inside.

Bottom Line: Don’t bring up your past. Your profile should reflect a clean, hopeful slate for the next gal who might just be the love of your life. Make room for her. Don’t carry in unnecessary baggage. And trying to be funny about an ex that left a bad taste in your mouth simply comes off as a vain attempt to hide a negative underlying belief system that you can’t cover up no matter how many lol’s you put at the end of each sentence. So cut the crap. Choose your funny bones. And your wife elbowing you out of her life is not one of them.

***

Rule no. 2. LOSE THE SELF-PITY

Self-pity screams of an emotional hole so deep it requires an enabler to climb out. The problem is the enabler is no better because they think martyrdom is an acceptable way of life. (Joan of Arc is so yesterday). So if you write a profile that calls out into the lonely night to be saved, be careful what you wish for. You might find someone who makes sure you stay that way so they can play out their own fantasy saviour role. Yuck.

What he wrote: Lonelyguy123 – In his own words

What can I say soon to be 45 and starting over just me and my dogs. It used to be work, family, now it is just work, work work. Maybe there is someone out there that can change that and bring out the fun in me besides my kids can you help me.

Reading between the lines: Help me. I’m dying here. Is there anyone out there that can save me from this misery? I love my kids but all I do is work! And for what? So my good-for-nothing lying and cheating ex could suck all the joy out my existence, leaving me a broken, disillusioned man? Life sucks.

Oh yeah, and FYI - if you go out with me, there’s a good chance it’ll be an emotionally draining experience because I have NO IDEA how to generate fun in my own life anymore so I need someone who has enough energy for the both of us and can re-instill hope and happiness in my dark and lonely world.

Please apply if your name is either Jesus or Mother Theresa.

Analysis: I feel for this guy. Really I do. But this is not helping his case. Any healthy woman is going to run for the hills. The Ironic part is I bet he’s not nearly as badly off emotionally as his profile suggests. A little overworked maybe, but I don’t think he’s clinically depressed. But it doesn’t matter. It comes off that way.

If you’re lonely, you’re lonely. You’re in the same boat as millions of other people. It breaks my heart to read this profile, but that doesn’t mean I want to be anywhere near this guy. (Unless of course I’m in the business of saving people but those relationships never work out).

The good part is he’s held to natural selection process. He has a job and works hard. You won’t be supporting this guy. At least not financially. So let’s give him a shot.

Revised: Mustlovedogs123 – In his own words

I’m almost 45 and ready for the next stage of my life! I have 3 great dogs that are wonderful companions but let’s face it, whenever I try talking to them about world issues, they just look at me with puppy dog eyes and want me to take them for a walk.

I’ve worked hard all my life and I’m ready to balance that out with a little R & R with the right person. If you think you might be that person, feel free to contact me. Don’t worry, I’m looking for you too! (Oh, and kids welcome – mine bring out the best in me). Good luck to all.

What it means now: I’m recently single, I have kids and genuinely like hanging out with them but I’d like to meet that special someone and I’m ready. I’ve worked hard all my life, been responsible and now I’d like to spend some of it and have fun and someone to share it with!

The bottom line: I know it takes effort, but don’t post the first thing that comes into your head. Chances are you’re not filtering anything and it’s going to come out too raw. Write your profile over and over again until you’ve taken all the self-pity and lonely death trap out of it.

(etc. etc. etc... for now, that's all she wrote...)

(and now, back to work - nice weather be damned)!