What kind of a writer doesn't blog?

This girl.

Right here.

Actually, that's not true. I blog. Of course I do! I just haven't been blogging. Present perfect active tense. And, no. I didn't know that. I looked it up. It may still be wrong.

To focus on my book, as well as a new job, I took a minor blogging hiatus and crawled back into my shell. Also, the seating is really comfortable in here and there's always fresh guacamole to snack on. The shell is a happening, happening place.

Nevertheless, I will be posting more in the future, especially now that the book is published and READY FOR SALE.

English is such a tricky language. I want to make sure I explain that last statement fully.

READY FOR SALE means that my book, Not Another Superhero, is now ready for purchase on Amazon. And purchasing anything on Amazon is an incredibly sweet experience of our capitalistic system. You should give it a try. Here's where you could start your joy journey.

Anyway, all this to say if you've visited me before, or this is your first time here, I really will be around more AND I'll have a new look soon, too. Website reconstruction underway.

So come by again. But feel free to visit Amazon first. Amazon gets so lonely.

Divide and conquer? Or unite and heal?

This was their answer.

The success of less

Sabrina: "Do you want a view from the house?" 

Linus Larrabee: "Uh, sure." 

Sabrina: "Which one?" 

Linus Larrabee: "Uh, all of them." 

Sabrina: "More isn't always better Linus. Sometimes it's just more."

 
The story goes that Steven Wright started in stand-up like everyone starts in stand-up - screaming. Comedy clubs are notoriously loud. Hello, the laughing. To get attention, to be heard, you had to get loud.

Steven thought, "....nah." And changed tactics.

He spoke softly, lethargically, slowly, even a smidge mumbly. No one could hear him. Not in all the chaos. Not until the chaos hushed.

Instead of talking louder than everyone else, he made everyone else quiet down. Instead of competing with the noise, he got rid of the noise. Instead of being more, he was less.

And it worked. If you want to hear Steven Wright deliver a joke, you can't unless you shut up and listen.

That's the story. I have no idea where I heard it or when. My brother and I grew up as Steven Wright fans, listening to his infamous deadpan delivery on a cassette tape we wore out in spots. Then someone stole it.

"When I was a little kid we had a sand box. It was a quicksand box. I was an only child...eventually." Steven Wright

Maybe my brother told me the story. Maybe he made it up.

Steven, if you're out there, just go with it. 

The Life and Times of a Logo. And how it taught me hope.

Logos aren't bad. They're just drawn that way.

Mine was only an internal image. Placed there by a designer friend of mine. Fed by my own spoiled greed. Wanted for the sake of want. Like domesticating a tiger with a diamond collar. Because I can. Because I wish. Because it would be fun to pat and publicize.

But I didn't want to feed it or be fed to it.

The logo was for branding. To burn a mark into the hide of my devious future career plans (are there any other kind?). It would be my pet, since my landlord won't let me have one.

After months of working either with an illustrator or to find an illustrator, I still had nothing but doodles in my head and scratches on my paper. I couldn't get what was in my mind's eye out of my mind's eye and into a jpeg.

I only draw stick people. Sick stick people. It's a gift.

One day, after venting my frustration over the phone to my mother, she responded with, "I've just drawn something. Can I mail it to you?"

I suggested a snapshot sent via text (it's faster) but, otherwise, it was on its way.

What I didn't expect was something I'd actually like. She's brilliantly talented, but not as an illustrator. She raises fruits and vegetables, bees and children. She cooks like Mozart played. She does not draw.

She sent this:

And I loved it.

She took her idea and sent it to my brother to flesh it out.

He sent this:

And my love grew.

I took his drawing to some designer friends of mine for their thoughts.

They sent this:

And the love was eternal.

After all my frustration, dead ends, angst, and the occasional grabbing of a curl attached to my head and yanking bluntly, the answer came from a source I wouldn't have even considered: my Mom. Who isn't an illustrator. Who put the wheels in motion. After drawing out a sketch. On a scrap piece of paper. In roughly 90 seconds or less.

Hope, when it comes, may approach from the one direction you aren't looking.

Are you playing the game of your life from the corner of the field?

So...you're stuck on third base. So. What. Who said the best of life - the wins, the cheers, the applause - was all for first base? Or the pitcher's mound? Or home plate?

All that rowdy noise in the stands could be for you. Right where you are. Right there on third base. And all right now.

I tackled this topic for the LightQuest blog this month, if you want to check it out. Guess what I found? I'm on third base, too. But I'm about to play one hell of a game. So, if you're interested, let's play ball. 

Do you know your worth?

How much does our environment affect our self-worth? Maybe more than we care to admit.

Okay, I'll own this. More than I care to admit.

But what if we could stay focused on our goals, our missions, even our dreams, while still being ignored, criticized, or even vilified? Possible?

Abso-freakin'-lutely. 

But how?

This month's Thought Particles (a business newsletter I write each month for LightQuest Media) conquers this very topic. And conquers it with a fedora, bright red lipstick, and a serious case of self-worth.

Find out how you can, too.

The lipstick is optional.

When putting your best foot forward, watch where you step.

Gene said everything always works out in the end. I wondered what was this elusive end and where was it hiding.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

"You think about it." He shifted in his office chair, settling into the squeak of it, with that all-is-right-with-the-world expression I've come to expect on his face. "Doesn't it usually all work out in the end?"

A few days later I dropped a jar of apple sauce smashing it into a million microscopic pieces, one of which I found by stepping on it and shoving it into my foot. Hours of limping later, the glass worked out in the end.

He was on to something.