For all you Write at Home Moms...

Actually, anyone who has been around kids at all should find this video pretty hysterical, but especially those of you who have kids of your own:

To punish and protect

Want a good laugh this Tuesday morning? Check out this article about this Thai police force's use of alternative punishments to keep their officers in line.

From feminism to...stroller aerobics?

At a popular local park this morning, Michael and I saw the most astonishing thing we've ever seen on one of our walks: stroller aerobics.

Michael noticed it first, when we were a little ways away. "Look at that," he said. "Push ups."

Sure enough, there were a bunch of brightly-dressed people in the grass up ahead of us, doing push-ups.

As we got closer, they stood up, and each woman walked to a stroller. One woman was directing the group, sounding more like a drill sergeant than an aerobics teacher. As we watched in shock, they each pushed their strollers a few steps; and then, while holding on with one hand, each woman turned sideways, stood with their legs spread and their knees bent, stuck their butts out, and made some jerky, bouncy movements as they shuffled forward.

"It's the [Name] Park baby moms," Michael said.

"What is this, the 1950s?" I responded.

After a few feet they walked facing forward for a short while, and then turned and did the same thing on the other side.

We reached the cluster of park benches where we normally take a break, and continued watching the women as our dogs rested. After doing their Sir Mix-A-Lot shuffles on the other side, they stopped and parked the strollers. A grade-school-age child counted out ten push-ups.

"It's like something you film and post on YouTube," Michael said, sounding slightly shocked.

To put this into context, I guess I should mention that this is park is located in a rather yuppy, urban neighborhood. These are the types of women who, before they got pregnant, were probably seen jogging in designer exercise clothing or sipping lattes on a coffee break while wearing an Armani suit.

When we got home, I Googled "stroller aerobics." And what do you know, this is actually a big deal! Unbelievable. One site I clicked onto talked about how difficult the extra weight is to lose post-pregnancy, yadda yadda.

The extreme focus on image just blows me away. First off, these women were NOT overweight, not even close. And don't tell me it's because of the stroller aerobics, because I have never seen a more useless collection of "exercises" in my life. I mean, seriously, what exactly is sticking your butt out and shuffling along sideways going to do for your figure? Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned jogging, swimming, or cycling? (All of which are popular in this area, I might add.)

Second, the fact that they are holding these sessions at the park -- and that all of the women were dressed in stylish aerobics clothing -- tells me something. They are not doing it for their health. It's all about status and appearance, which I find mildly disgusting but also a little confusing. I'm not sure what exactly their intended message is to the others in the park -- is it, "I'm a mom, I'm rich, and I look good in a leotard"?

Don't get me wrong -- I enjoy eating healthy and dressing attractively as much as the next person, but this seems rather obsessive and superficial to me. It's amazing how we have backslid, going from discussing a woman's right to earn equal wages to exercising (no pun intended) her right to wear spandex.

Kate McCulley and the Mystery of the Missing Comma

Yes, I purposely wrote the title of this post like an old Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys novel.

Anyway, this afternoon I ran across a story on NPR about Kate McCulley, the Grammar Vandal. Just the sort of thing a writer would love! I highly recommend listening to the broadcast -- it's hilarious and oh, so true.

The headline caught my attention because of how frequently grammar and spelling issues have been popping up in my life lately. For example, Kathy Kehrli of Screw You! recently wrote a post about comma usage: A Compelling Case for the Comma. Kathy talked about how the comma is starting to fall out of popular usage, and linked to a related article. Several other writers (including Yours Truly) commented to proclaim themselves loyal followers of the comma.

In addition, some of you probably remember my reference to the multiple grammatical errors in the invitation to my high school reunion. For example, the invitation began with the sentence, "It's been 10 year's." After that, there is an incomplete sentence, a word that shouldn't be there at all, an inappropriately capitalized word, a word missing the "ed" ending, a misspelled proper name, and several uses of the wrong form of "their." And that's just the announcement page! There were issues on the RSVP form, too, but I can't remember all of them.

With all this recent history, when I saw the NPR headline "Grammar Vandal Goes on Vigilante Comma Crusade," I just had to click on it. It turns out this Grammar Vandal is a 22-year-old English major living in Boston. Unlike those of us who simply gripe about spelling and grammar errors we encounter in our daily life, Kate McCulley does something about it: She fixes the problems, and to he!l with the consequences!

I think I've found a new hero. McCulley keeps a blog, The Grammar Vandal, of which I am hereafter a regular reader. She has been featured in The Boston Globe as well as on NPR. I guess defacing public signs for the greater good of humanity is an effective marketing technique!

Writing topics, lesbian journalists, and clients worth keeping

Just a few days ago, Deb of Freelance Writing Jobs launched a discussion about what writers won't write about. A lot of writers mentioned that they won't write about things they don't know very well. I didn't mention it in my comments or my previous post on the subject, but I found this pretty funny, considering: a little over a year ago, I took myself completely out of my element when I signed up to write for a gay and lesbian parenting website.

If you have looked through my portfolio, you may have already seen that I list several article credits with The Rainbow Babies. In fact, I have written many articles for the site over the past fifteen months, and the founder has become one of my favorite -- and one of my most constant -- clients.

Angela has joked before that as long as I have been writing for the site, I am probably the gayest straight person around. (Her words, almost exactly.) Just the other day, in fact, she sent me the following email:

OK, so get this: apparently there is a "Lesbian Journalist's Association Convention" being held in San Diego in August. I read and started laughing because I thought to myself it's a good thing I'm not rolling in money right now, because I'd actually send you to the conference, and you would be the straightest little lesbian writer there! ROFLMAO!

First of all, I thought this was about the funniest thing I've heard. I could totally see her doing something like this, too -- and snickering about it the entire time I was there, no doubt.

Besides that, though, this email got me thinking... How often do we get lucky enough to have a relationship like this with a client? Most of you can understand me when I say that a client with a good sense of humor is a client worth keeping.

The trouble with wannabe writers: The redux

Fair warning: This diatribe is about crazy people. More specifically, a crazy person who thinks he's a writer. And the things I'm going to say could be interpreted as slightly mean if you sympathize with crazy people, so read at your own risk.

I posted about wannabe writers several months ago, when I started getting emails from advice-seekers following the publication of my article in Writers Weekly. Today's story beats them all hands down.

I rather liked the guy at first (we'll call him C.G., since I want to rant about him and what he represents, not embarrass him). He keeps a momma cat and her three kittens in his vintage clothing store, and they run around greeting customers, climbing furniture, and playing amid racks of brightly sequined dresses. The way he talks reminds one of the stereotypical gay guy running a clothing boutique. And he has some really great vintage costumes in his shop.

I started noticing little stuff at first. Like the long, unwashed hair that poked out from under his cap and trailed down his back. Or the fact that the couch, coffee table, and TV setup in the back room -- amid racks of costumes and pieces of leopard-print second-hand furniture -- seemed like it might be where he lived. The store was really cold, too, and in retrospect it was probably because he couldn't afford to heat the place.

My mom and I were looking for a dress for her to wear to my 1920s-themed wedding, and although we did find it there, the fact that I was waiting while she tried on dresses meant that I was a captive audience for C.G. He started talking about his upcoming book, and I was going to mention that I'm a writer -- until he said his book would be the next biggest spiritual book since the Bible. At that point, my bullsh!t radar switched to hyper-sensitive. Several seconds later, it just about overloaded when he asked me to email Oprah and ask her to let him on her show.

Over the next twenty minutes, whenever I couldn't escape by checking on my mom or fetching a kitten, I was held hostage by this guy. The premise of his book sounds more like something the crazy homeless guy on the street corner would be muttering under his breath or shouting at nervous passersby. Seriously, if C.G. and I met on a street corner and he started ranting about the "flesh house of 2007," I'd cross over to the other side.

At one point, he told me, "This is a line from my book." He started quoting, and I smiled, nodded politely... Kept nodding... Kept smiling and nodding... And he went on and on and on. I think this "quote" lasted at least a minute. It started out okay, but as he went it turned into this long, run-on sentence. The meaning of what he was saying fizzled out completely after about six words -- after that, it was just a string of pompous- sounding phrases. Either he just made it up on the spot, or he shoved everything he wanted to say in his book into one sentence and memorized it.

Oh, but wait -- it gets better. My mom asked for his business card, because she liked the store, and instead he gave us each a "billion dollar bill." It's basically a mock-up of U.S. money with a head shot of him dressed as a pirate. Really weird stuff. All of his store info is on this bill, like on a business card, except that it's a really awkward size. When I went to fold mine, he said to me, "Don't fold it. It'll be a collector's item someday. Just wait a couple of years."

I'm at a loss to explain C.G. as anything other than crazy. With the wannabe writers that I ranted about before, there was an obvious lack of understanding about the writing business, combined with delusions of grandeur. With this guy, I think it's more like a psychosis of grandeur. (And I shouldn't doubt that it has something to do with the drugs he probably did in the 60s and 70s. And probably still does, for that matter.) Although this may be simplifying the issues here, I didn't get the feeling that this book was a real work-in-progress -- no matter how much he talked about how famous he was going to be.

Okay, so I know this guy probably isn't playing with a full deck, but he is still indicative of a rather large group of people: The "writers" who talk endlessly about their idea for the great American novel, but never actually write anything. They want the attention without having to put forth the hard work of actually writing a book and seeing it through to print. It's the fear of becoming like this that keeps me from ever talking much about a novel or short story idea before I write it. Another writer once wrote that talking about how great your novel is going to be is only wasting time that you could be spending writing it, and I take that advice very seriously.

Time for a good laugh?

I just discovered the "Best of Craigslist" section. More importantly, I just discovered the funniest rant ever about stupid people and their resumes. There's also a post that makes me glad I don't have to deal with office drama anymore. And, oh, it's on a totally different level, but there's one about someone masturbating in the restroom that is pretty funny, too.

The trouble with (wannabe) writers

Publishing my article in Writers Weekly earned me a lot of emails, guestbook entries, and other attention. I have to admit this felt rather nice - most of these people assumed I was wildly successful, and more than just a few sought my approval. However, I also got a number of highly amusing emails from would-be writers who wanted me to confirm their delusions of grandeur.

One such writer wrote to me to tell me how she had also always felt wrongly discouraged from being a writer. Okay - that I can understand. She also talked about how she dreamed of being a world-famous novelist. I gave her what I thought was some perfectly sound advice for achieving her dream: start small. Most of today's successful novelists started out publishing short stories, newspaper articles, or anything else that allowed them to make a reliable income writing and earn a name for themselves. I told her the more you publish, the easier it is to publish more, so start with the easy stuff.

Her response was rather hoity-toity. I had the distinct impression that she thought of herself as a real writer, and was talking down to me. She started out by telling me,

It gives me great honor to inform you that I have completed my first suspense-thriller. It is a novel that took six years to finish, and I am currently searching for a literary agent... I feel confident that an agent will see my raw God-given talent, which has been polished from my education, and give this first-time author a chance.

Wow, is she in for a shock. I wonder how she'll handle her first dozen or so rejections.

She concludes her email with this unbelievable statement:

I strive to reach nothing but perfection as I compose each inspiring, meticulous word. Hopefully, after people read my thought-provoking words, they will view life rather differently and contribute toward the betterment of mankind.

The last statement in particular reminds me of the kinds of things you hear out of beauty pagent contestants, each with Barbie's smile pasted on her lips.

Another would-be writer wrote to me asking for advice on starting his career. He started out by asking - no, demanding:

What are the proper channels a writer needs to seek to become a high-paid writer? Does one need credentials? Define credentials? Out of the choices of having a book published, working on a team, writing for a paper, blogging, or movie screenplays....what's the best one?

He then continued on to describe his disappointment that his writing hadn't been "discovered" via MySpace. (That part made me laugh quite a bit. Does he think there are talent scouts out there combing MySpace for the next Stephen King?) Finally, he explained his goals as a never-been-published writer:

I realize there are several routes I can take to make a name for myself, but the only one that reall [sic] appeals to me, is either 1) getting a book published and/or 2) being part of a creative team writing for a movie or T.V. show that's already made a name for itself.

And therein lies the rub...

This guy also thinks he is not just going to rise straight to the top, but start at the top. I tried to explain to him the natural order of things, but I don't think he understood (or appreciated) my advice, because I never heard back from him.

Although it might seem like I'm making fun of these people (okay, I am, but only a little), I'm really posting about this for a couple of very good reasons. For one thing, I think other already-established writers will see the humor in a bunch of wannabes being rather too big for their britches.

However, I am also posting this because it reminds me of who I - and probably every other published writer - was when I was just a dreamer and a wannabe myself. Back in high school, when I wrote whole novels only to stuff them in a drawer because I so feared editing, I too thought that becoming a writer was my destiny. And in retrospect, I think I was right, but only because I got myself here. Writers aren't born or discovered; they achieve their dreams at the price of their blood and sweat and tears. And although I've only traveled a short distance upon this path, I am proud of every single step I have taken.

As for the betterment of mankind... Well, it's quite enough for me right now to know that right now, somewhere in the world, someone is reading words I was paid to write.