Kortney K, you put the "K" in "Kool" and there's not even a "K" in there.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
A real life, surefire, all gussied up speaker's bio
Last night, I asked for a clean font. This morning, my designer extraordinaire Kortney Korthanke of Kortney K Design sent me this. It was everything I never knew I always wanted in a bio. She even hunted down, killed and skinned a photo in the forests of Facebook, since I didn't provide one. This is what I shall now refer to as my heavenly body bio, the bio I'll be reunited with after the resurrection.
Kortney K, you put the "K" in "Kool" and there's not even a "K" in there.
Kortney K, you put the "K" in "Kool" and there's not even a "K" in there.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
So you fail a little.
Downton Abbey is "crookedly beautiful", it said. It was a reader's comment at
the end of a writer/friend's blog about the BBC mini-series.
"Crookedly beautiful." I nearly did a face palm. "That's so spot on. Not a Pulitzer description, by any means, but still great. I wish I came up with phraseology like that. Why can't I think of stuff like that? Huh? Why?"
Then I looked at the poster's name. And it was from me. From a year ago. So then I felt arrogant or creepy or perversely both. I also didn't see the brilliance of the phrase any longer.
Recently, a couple of very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate friends asked me why I hadn't been blogging lately. Well....that's a long story. Let's call it a case of over-stimulation. My life underwent far too much change, far too many challenges, far too everything, and, for a writer, processing takes time. We think. A lot. Not really about anything of value, worth, financial gain, or community betterment. Just thoughts like, "Why didn't I ever learn skateboarding? I might have really loved it," or "That guy at the next table reminds me of a classmate who use to sit behind me in History and braid my hair. I think he ended up in jail."
Stuff like that.
Past all the mental muckety-muck, however, comes the real question: aren't you ever going to put yourself out there and write your own stuff?
Most of the time, when I review my past blogs or books or columns or grocery lists, all I can think is, "Crap, crap, all crap." When I'm tired of using that word, I usually call it, "kacke", which means "crap" in German, "meirda", which means "crap" in Spanish, and "crop", which is saying "crap" but with a British accent.
But as one of my very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate friends pointed out, "Writers are never satisfied with their work." Then she followed that up by yelling at me in a very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate way.
It's that way for every creative, I think. Maybe everyone, too, no matter your industry or field. First, you second guess yourself. Second, you go back to why you create/produce/perform/do in the first place.
As an artist recently asked me, "Is it me? Do I just not have the talent?" This guy has so much artistic talent oozing out of his pores he's going to get a case of adult-onset acne. It isn't him. It's just the process. This is how life is played: with failure and disappointment and beauty all mixed in until you can't separate them.
Creating is about trying and bombing, winning but mostly losing. It's about skinned knees and black eyes, a chipped tooth and a stubbed toe. Finally, you get a pat on the back and you can't stop idiotically grinning. For that one moment, the pain never existed.
After that, you start all over again and get a skinned knee and a black eye, a chipped tooth and a stubbed toe. But you start. You just start. That's how you create. It's how you find your artistic voice. It's also how you live. If you dare.
What does that mean for me? For my writing? Not sure yet. I'm still thinking about learning to skateboard.
"Crookedly beautiful." I nearly did a face palm. "That's so spot on. Not a Pulitzer description, by any means, but still great. I wish I came up with phraseology like that. Why can't I think of stuff like that? Huh? Why?"
Then I looked at the poster's name. And it was from me. From a year ago. So then I felt arrogant or creepy or perversely both. I also didn't see the brilliance of the phrase any longer.
Recently, a couple of very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate friends asked me why I hadn't been blogging lately. Well....that's a long story. Let's call it a case of over-stimulation. My life underwent far too much change, far too many challenges, far too everything, and, for a writer, processing takes time. We think. A lot. Not really about anything of value, worth, financial gain, or community betterment. Just thoughts like, "Why didn't I ever learn skateboarding? I might have really loved it," or "That guy at the next table reminds me of a classmate who use to sit behind me in History and braid my hair. I think he ended up in jail."
Stuff like that.
Past all the mental muckety-muck, however, comes the real question: aren't you ever going to put yourself out there and write your own stuff?
Most of the time, when I review my past blogs or books or columns or grocery lists, all I can think is, "Crap, crap, all crap." When I'm tired of using that word, I usually call it, "kacke", which means "crap" in German, "meirda", which means "crap" in Spanish, and "crop", which is saying "crap" but with a British accent.
But as one of my very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate friends pointed out, "Writers are never satisfied with their work." Then she followed that up by yelling at me in a very loyal, supportive, and far too compassionate way.
It's that way for every creative, I think. Maybe everyone, too, no matter your industry or field. First, you second guess yourself. Second, you go back to why you create/produce/perform/do in the first place.
As an artist recently asked me, "Is it me? Do I just not have the talent?" This guy has so much artistic talent oozing out of his pores he's going to get a case of adult-onset acne. It isn't him. It's just the process. This is how life is played: with failure and disappointment and beauty all mixed in until you can't separate them.
Creating is about trying and bombing, winning but mostly losing. It's about skinned knees and black eyes, a chipped tooth and a stubbed toe. Finally, you get a pat on the back and you can't stop idiotically grinning. For that one moment, the pain never existed.
After that, you start all over again and get a skinned knee and a black eye, a chipped tooth and a stubbed toe. But you start. You just start. That's how you create. It's how you find your artistic voice. It's also how you live. If you dare.
What does that mean for me? For my writing? Not sure yet. I'm still thinking about learning to skateboard.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Open For Business
It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged. Whatever length of time
the word “awhile” brings to mind, double that. Then divide it by its radius.
Separate that number into two equal piles. Shuffle them four times. Lay that
out into the shape of a hexagon, counting backwards from 100 while singing,
“Ain’t Got No Home” by Clarence ‘Frogman’ Henry. Then stop singing. Whatever
number is left, that isn’t how long it’s been since I’ve seriously blogged, but
now that you’ve got Frogman stuck in your head you won’t be obsessing anymore
about my unexplained absence.
If you’re still wondering why I disappeared this year, then
play Frogman below and meditate on the last video you watched about cats acting
like people.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
A line of lit: Airplane style
"There's no reason to become alarmed, and we hope you'll enjoy the rest
of your flight. By the way, is there anyone on board who knows how to
fly a plane? "
- Airplane, 1980
of your flight. By the way, is there anyone on board who knows how to
fly a plane? "
- Airplane, 1980
Friday, December 21, 2012
She is Mom
Happy BIRTHDAY!
A few years ago, as her Mother's Day present, I wrote a magazine article about my mom that ran as a two-page spread on Mother's Day. For months, women would come up to me and tear up while telling me how much that reminded them of their mother, their relationship. It was a great honor to write it but a greater honor to be the daughter of such an amazing Mom so that I could write it.
So, because I just want to gush over her a bit, here's the article text. And, Mom, just for you, thank you. A thousand times. For ten thousand different things. You've got the hardest job in the world, and I've never seen anyone as soft, while equally tough, as you do this job better. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.
So much love,
your grateful daughter.
Just Like Your Mother
I don't remember the first time we met. First impressions are important, but I was somewhat preoccupied at the time recovering from birth and all. There was this whole wide world out there to see, food to taste, air to breathe, crying to do, sleep to be had, fingers to discover. It wasn't a good time to remember meeting someone, not even someone as significant as my mother.
But every year on my birthday, she recalls that fateful morning, "I started having labor pains at 2 am..." and that's where our story begins.
We went through a rough first couple of years - her trying to figure me out, me doing the same. She did most of the talking. I just sort of blinked, mumbling odd noises from time to time.
Eventually, we figured out a mother-daughter language and have been speaking it ever since.
When people ask me about my mother, I usually elevate my voice level to this slightly higher pitched, wispy tone where I give my impression of her saying, "Well, hello there and how are you? Isn't this a wonderful day? Isn't life just marvelous? Is there anything I can do for you?" I make her sound very innocent, very loving, and, as she has pointed out, rather stupid.
She is not, nor could ever be surmised, as lacking in intelligence. She's a voracious reader, theological addict, knows every move in the national political arena before George W. does, a woman's bible study leader, recreates heaven with a non-stick frying pan and flour, loves the outdoors and all things green, can turn chaos into comfort, and makes a room more like home just by walking into it. And she does everything with a smile and pleasant attitude.
She is Mom.
She is this mystic creature that can handle all things great and small. She knows when to hug me, when to simply listen, when to smooth the hair from my face and pat my arm, when I need to hear laughter, when to call, and what to say to always make me stop, make me think, make me evolve into someone a little deeper, a little kinder, a little more capable of being called her daughter. She is wonderful.
There are few magical memories of my childhood that did not revolve around my mother. She made things happen: You want to create? Let's make play dough. You want to paint? I have it all ready. You want to turn the living room into the planet Nooron where aliens resembling fuzzy bunnies live? Clean it up after you've landed back on earth.
Days with her were timeless lessons of morality and judgment, all taught in the classroom of her kitchen while rolling pie crust or snapping green beans. To me, she seemed to know everything and explained it all in my language. At the time, I thought I was speaking on her level. Eventually, I learned she was speaking on mine.
When the teenage years came, I learned a few inarguables:
First, never talk back to mother. She has a third arm hidden for just such occasions. She medaled in backhanding, winning the Tour de yur Face.
Second, you can't make it out the door before she comments on your clothes and hair. Forget arguing. It's a waste of breath. Just pull your skirt down, your hair back, and that sour expression off your face.
Third, no one cares about your broken heart more than Mom. She's never too busy or too tired to mend your hurting. Keep her up all night crying. She'll make your favorite breakfast the next morning.
I spent my childhood trying to hurry up and outgrow her, be my own woman, be different than her while being just like her. As an adult, I finally get it. I'll never be her. I couldn't on my best days. She is Mom and there is no comparison.
Instead, I admire her, how she can touch anyone with just a soft expression, how people gravitate to her for comfort, how she gives of herself without pity or complaint, how her mashed potatoes are always creamy. She has taught me a few things in life, none more important than honest devotion to my Savior. And then she leads by example.
So for my mother and all other mothers keeping us in awe and wonder at the richness of your heart, Happy Mother's Day. You helped us dream big.
Thanks Mom. I just love the fact that you are you.
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