The regulars around here know that I’m an avid (read incredibly enthusiastic) rollerblader – but it wasn’t always my go-to sweat activity. I used to be addicted to the pool (and the intense meditative silence of swimming back in forth in water), tolerant of the bike (I just never found a comfortable existence there) and, then, of course, there was the running.

Here’s the thing about running. It’s the easiest thing in the world. You don’t need a pool, you don’t need an expensive bike and helmet…you just need some good sneakers. You can run anywhere: dirt, pavement, sand, grass. I used to love my long runs all over Boston and its burbs. On the weekends, I’d hit the trails with my dog for epic ventures on wooded trails – jumping over roots, sloshing through streams, in heat, in rain, in snow. Never bored.

And then I got hurt. I was running a road race – 10 miles along the sea coast of New Hampshire from the border of Maine to the border of Massachusetts. About a mile in, I started to feel it – pain on the outside of my ankle. But I had come to this race with co-workers who were serious runners and I wouldn’t let myself stop. Pride is also a bitch.

So, I kept running. And it was the worst run ever. Drove an hour home, got into bed, fell asleep, woke up, couldn’t walk. The intensity of that injury lasted for a good month – and it took me away from running for a very, very long time. I told myself the separation was forever. I told everyone that running was baaaadddddd.

Everything happens for a reason, though. I left running and triathlons for yoga and walking in the woods. I reorganized the way my mind worked, I healed some long-held body image issues by being kind to myself and not manically slave driving. As many of you know, I’ve been working my way back into the hard core exercise world again, but I still gripped tightly to this 9 year story that I. Couldn’t. Run.

Then, last week, I got the urge. It was clear as day, ‘up in lights’ on the top of my brain. I wanted to put on my shoes and take off. The desire for sweat, a pounding heart and straining muscles pulling me to the store to buy my first pair of running shoes in almost a decade.

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This morning I went running. My lungs burned and ached, but my body practically sang. Dirt, pavement, sand, grass – I tackled them all and only whined a little. I devoured that exhilarating sprint at the end – it being proof that the story I’d been telling myself for the last 9 years - I can’t run – wasn’t true.

What is true is that I can write a new story…one that only needs a good pair of running shoes and the belief that, dammit, I can do anything.

Image credit: ishane

I’m not usually into massage. I think it’s because 7 years ago, I had an especially intense rub-down of the Ayurvedic variety and woke up the the next morning to greet my first of 40 some-odd kidney stones. Now granted, the massage didn’t give me the kidney stone. When they did an MRI, my kidneys were so chock-full, they looked like a 1960’s fallout shelter – just substitute cans of tuna and beans for tiny, jagged rocks.

What the massage did do was take me from my deliriously innocent state wherein I was 29 and believed myself to be the picture of health (and immortality). The massage moved things along, it encouraged my body to release and let go of some nasty stuff (well, one little nasty stuff on that day).

But the thing was this: I didn’t know there was a blockage that needed to be cleared, or a fullness that needed to be released. Why? Because it’s a slow road to the tipping point here…like the formation of rust stains around your bathtub drain.

I know some of you are screaming, ‘Catalyst! The massage was a catalyst’ at your computer screen. And you’re right.

When I think about writing (and yes, life in general), I think about all of the ways that we get blind. Let’s see, we often don’t see clearly our:

• Talent
• Impact
• Routines
• Opportunities
• Ruts
• Mistakes

Getting stuck, blocked, over-full? Just the kind of thing that sneaks up on a person in light of this blindness. And the massaging can come in handy. At the time, I cursed that catastrophic massage (okay, I’m still a little, teeny, tiny bit bitter). But, honestly, I’m grateful, it forced me to look at something. It was painful, but it was fruitful. It was a momentous passage in my life.

In eastern medicine, the kidneys symbolize fear. When I went to see my homeopath, all those years ago, to tell her about the stones and find out what was wrong with me, she looked me right in the eyes and said, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Not many people get to face their fears, overcome them, and then watch them leave their bodies, you know.”

No, not many people do. Nothing like a little affirmation that says, Kid, you’re doing okay. Even if it does hurt like a bitch.

This post is dedicated to my wonderful massage therapist who massaged some fantastic stuff out of me yesterday. Thanks, Jason…

I’m sending out a little musical juice with this post this morning…because it’s Friday. Listen to it loud. (Don’t watch the video, it’s nowhere near as good as the song – sorry Ms. Harmer.)

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Image credit: JMazzolaa

The most critical piece of advice that I give to anyone who wants to write – whether I’m officially coaching them or not – is that they have to find their voice. And to do this, I highly recommend that they write like they’re talking to their best friend, mate, cohort – the person who makes them feel like their greatest self, the person who doesn’t judge, who wants the world for them, who loves and encourages their bright light to shine, shine, shine.

By the way, it’s not your mother or anyone that holds an emotionally charged lightening rod to you.

When you write like you’re writing to or talking to this person, your readers get a pure hit of the connection that sizzles between you. They feel like the circuit includes them as well, they find themselves on the inside. Because it oozes out of every word. And they are included because we’re really writing to all of our readers, yes? If you want to read more about my philosophy on this and fancy a shot of Clooney, go here.

But, today, I’m adding something to this manifesto. Location. I’ve come to realize that it’s not optimal to write when you don’t feel good about where you are. Unless you subscribe to the ‘tortured artist’ train of thought, of course. And I don’t. I think that the more magnificently your light shines, the better your writing results will be. And I mean ‘high beams’. No candles, no 40 watt bulbs.

Your writing will radiate brilliance. And your readers will want more, like crack. Or at least like a really good blog (or book or column) that they love reading and can’t get enough of.

In my mind, location is about place and so it includes physical location, but also:

• who’s in your space,
• what it smells like (I’m very big on the power of smells and ask you to kindly keep your garlic and patchouli far, far away from me),
• what you can see when your eyes look up from your computer or notebook,
• the charge that buzzes around in the air.

If you’ve been in a bad place, Starbucks in a new city may seem like heaven. If you feel drowned in the city, it may be that the woods do it for you. If you’ve been in prison, then I suppose the sky’s the limit.

And if it feels good – the place where you plant your chair – I just don’t think you can get this one wrong.

Image Credit: antecanis

Check out the latest interview on The Daily Norm: John Grogan, best-selling author of Marley & Me.

It’s hard for me to write a post that mentions my neighbor (let’s call her Mary – because she’s a far, far cry from the virgin mother) without including a picture. But I do want to keep her anonymity. So, I’m linking you to the ‘Shoes’ video since she dressed up like that girl (or guy?) for Halloween. 1. I think it will help you get the point of how wacky she is, and 2. She looked exactly like him/her. Exactly.

I will tell you however, because it’s her most intense feature (besides the fact that she smells like hooch and incense) that her real hair is huge and long and sometimes black or brown or red or yellow and curly. Kinky, ‘fro-like curly. It’s intense – and I think its existence is a pure extension of the creativity and juiciness that lives underneath – you know, in her head.

But, anyway…the other day ‘Mary’ came over to tell us that she’d had her tea leaves read. She was at a crossroads of some sort, so she went for some psychic capitulation. I’m a fairly nice person, but this sort of crap is something that I usually mock, make fun of and roll my eyes at. But, there was something about Mary’s recap that caught my attention, like a hook in a fish cheek.

• The accuracy with which the Tea Reader nailed Mary’s situation?
• Mary’s total confidence in herself and her path as a result of the reading?
• The fact that she ended her retelling to us with, “And the tea leaf reader has an English accent, so you have to believe her.”

And, so, I called and made an appointment. Yes. Yes, I did. And I only felt a tad bit silly, until my dear friend, Sarah, said to me, “divination is just another opportunity for you to access what you already know.” And that made sense to me. You know how you could give 100 people – all very different – the same horoscope and they would easily make it ‘like totally apply’? We all know our stories like the back of our hands – and when a psychic, a crystal ball or tea leaves tell us things – it simply gives us a new perspective with which to explore the things we’ve already been going round and round about.

So, what did I learn at my tea leaf reading?

• Nothing new. Which is good news – because it means that I wasn’t brainwashed or high-jinxed or duped. Still, some of my ideas and thoughts (that I habitually swat away on a regular basis), were raised into the spotlight and deeply affirmed.
• My muse is not the woman I always assumed her to be, but a man from the 1100’s, waving scrolls at me, telling me to write for the good of the people – to educate, guide and support those in need. Oh, and he has a pet falcon.
• And, yes, it’s true. British accents really do something to and for us Yanks.

Image Credit: Jodi Green

I had the good fortune of meeting Chris Brogan on Tuesday night…and to listen to him tell story after story, all of them heavy with hidden ideas and more than a fair bit of laughter. One in particular keeps playing in my head…

Chris’ phone rings and he answers. A pipe fitter or roofer or something of that nature is on the other end, chewing his dinner loudly into the phone.

In between chomps, slurps and smacks, he tells Chris, “Someone told me I should call you.” Chew, swallow. “That you might be able to help me.” Burp, gulp. “Do you think I should have you help me or should I invest in some of those door hangers (I would call this door knob spam – see picture to the left)?”

“Door hangers,” said Chris. “Go with the door hangers.”

There’s an obvious lesson here about saying no. That even as freelancers or starving artists, and even in these dismal economic times, it’s important to just say no to the guy chewing in your ear, the guy that doesn’t get it. And by ‘it’ I mean: you, what you do, the value of your work and what he should be doing with his marketing money.

But, this story reeks of something else. Because when you sit around and wait for the phone to ring (not implying that Chris was doing that – this is an extrapolation, people), you’re likely to get some real crap. Or at the very least, you’ll get something passing as ‘okay’ but not what you really want. (Of course, a beautiful goose might also randomly waddle over, squat and lay a golden egg on your doorstep – but that’s another post).

I think Brogan’s story is a bit of a call to action. Who do you want to work with? What do you want to write? What do you want to do? Go get it. Make it happen. And make it happen the way you want it to. Seek, search, pull ‘em in.

Chris had a choice, and he took it. And those door hangers? I always throw them in the trash.

Image credit: CogDogBlog

Check out the latest interview on The Daily Norm: Alexa DiCarlo, Sex Educator, Sex Worker & Sex Worker Rights Activist

Something strange has happened. I’m about to call the EPA and have them check my water. I can’t think of any other explanation.

Here’s the thing: I’m ahead.

I’m not just caught up with my work, I have things done before they’re due – as in, in advance of their deadline. It’s not that I’m a slacker usually, it’s just that I love the thrill of the deadline, so I usually push each one to the limit. But this week, I’ve been like a machine. Can I tell you how many times I checked my calendar this week to verify that it was actually only Monday, then only Tuesday, then only Wednesday? A lot.

The Blank Page Route

I have a good friend that is going through a major life change. She’s at a crossroads with her relationship, business and geographic location. When we talked about what was going on with her, there was an invitation to discuss the horridness of the situation, to moan and groan and bellyache about it. But we didn’t. Instead we took the blank page route. Instead of desolation, there was nothing but open road and opportunity:

• If she could live anywhere, where would it be?
• If she could be with or without a relationship, which would she prefer?
• If she could be with anyone, what would s/he be like?
• If she could change anything about her business, what would it be?

What a glorious time we had creating and sucking.

The Bonus List

Today, Silas decided to leave our house and take some free time for himself. He was gone for four hours. I have no idea how he amused himself except that he rolled in something dead. The evidence is all over him. That doesn’t sound like fun to me, go figure, but it was his bliss.

When I realized how far ahead I was in my work today, there was an urge to pile more work on or, in a moment of pure insanity, search for the things that I’d forgotten to do and thus, send a wave of disappointment and reality upon myself as I realized that I wasn’t even close to being ahead.

But, I didn’t do that. Do you know what I did?

I made a list, I followed my blissful urges – the ones that felt good to just me. I played my own version of the Blank Page. Though I wasn’t at a crossroads, I was standing in front of an opportunity. What do I want to do with this unexpected open time? I asked myself.

• Write (whatever I want to write)
• Work on my new site The Daily Norm (which is soon to feature a fat interview with John Grogan (of Marley and Me fame any second now, so you might want to sign up for email alerts)
• Take an afternoon off and hang with my family
• Stand outside with my arms open waiting for the following things to drop into my arms: a book deal, a fat ghostwriting book project, a syndication opportunity for this blog, a lifetime supply of either guacamole or George Clooney
• Make a list of my ideal blog writing clients and go after them
• Write some more (of whatever I want to write)

I’m working through this list…with glee. And I’m curious to know what’s on yours.

Image credit: Fonzie’s Cousin

Check out the latest interview on The Daily Norm with The Bloggess, Blogger, Mother, Humorist.

Over the course of any given day, I have a profuse amount of conversations, debates, arguments and moments of pure connective bliss. They take up the majority of my day – and, they mostly occur within the confines of my own mind. Because, of course, as a writer, creator, artist – I appear to spend a lot of time as a dot. Solo, alone, unconnected…hashing it out.

But, as a copywriter, businesswoman and member of the human race – my dot ends up being connected to different people in a variety of ways every single day. When my dot hooks up to one other person, we become a line. When it hooks up to two people, we become a triangle. When it hooks up to three people we become a square…and on and on. And the bigger they get, the more lines, triangles and squares get created within each of the shapes.

(This is very complicated…has your head exploded yet?)

Thinking about this post in ‘pre-flight’ (read: on my rollerblades), my instinct was that the greater number of people (and the bigger the shape), the more complex everything would become. But, now I’m undecided…

When it’s just you, standing on your dot – the focus is very internal. And the brain (mine at least), is quite loud, complex, churney – like a Vitamix. Conversely, as you add more people to your communications, this internal conversation quiets, or maybe just gets redirected, as the external chatter heats up and demands your attention.

There is a heightened complexity that comes with larger shapes. Suddenly, you don’t have control (or the shelter of your skull) as the other dots in your line, triangle and square say things to you and (gasp!) each other (with or without you). As other needs, that may not match yours, come into play.

The impulse is to pull back inside when things get uncomfortable. But, the real question is, can you really ever escape the impact of others? Even when you disconnect and just ‘be the dot’? Maybe the lines that connect you become faded and dashed, but do they actually go away?

Image credit: Darwin Bell

Last week, when I mentioned ‘How-to Write’ books and how they all contain a specific bit of storytelling advice, it reminded me of something else they all tell us to do. Which is: to capture every thought, no matter how small in a notebook of some kind. To fill ‘em up.

I’m bad at writing in notebooks. But I’m not bad at writing in Wordpress, apparently. I noticed today that I have 113 (that’s one hundred and thirteen) drafts saved in the backend of this blog (and, yes, I do backup). By golly, that feels like quite a few. Quite a few nuggets waiting to become full posts or books or articles or digital hogwash in my trash bin.

Makes me feel a bit rich, to be honest. Like I have a full tank of gas in reserve, should this main nozzle run dry.

Are you saving your thoughts? Storing them away in case a long hard winter should happen to befall you? How? Where?

…or, for those of you cringing, shaking your head or possibly cursing, why not?

Image credit: Gwen’s River City Images

Every day I make a to-do list. Typically, I write it at the end of the day – so I know what ‘tomorrow’ will look like and so I can really (attempt) to let go of work when I go home, you know, because a piece of paper is holding down the fort for me. (Odd sidenote: my to-do list is the ONLY work thing I do on paper. I’m sure it’s because I LOVE crossing things off the list with a good old-fashioned pen.)

So, the last thing I do before I leave my office is make my new to-do list. The second to last thing I do is look at the current day’s list to take stock of all I’ve accomplished. And, I’ve noticed this pattern recently. Somewhere in between the tasks that I’ve crossed off, the notes that I’ve scribbled down throughout the day and my incessant doodling (3-D boxes and stars circa 2nd grade), there is always one to-do that I did not complete.

It isn’t usually a huge or monumental task, though sometimes it is. And sometimes, it’s the same thing that I’ve managed to not complete over and over, day after day. Point is – there’s always something.

Why? I wonder. Wouldn’t it feel fabulous to have everything done? You’ll have to tell me, I wouldn’t know.

I have two thoughts about my ‘issue’. First, I think it’s left over trauma from college where, if you remember, we were simply never done. Right? There was always something that had to be read or written.

Or. It’s simply that I hate goodbyes and endings (unless it’s a headache or a mean person that I’m leaving), so this remaining task must be some kind of anchor. A thread that ties me back to my office, my business, my writing – making it truly impossible for me to let go and disconnect. Like a love note, promising that I will be back.

Lunch on Fridays, around here anyway, leaves a lot to be desired. I do the grocery shopping on Saturday which essentially means that Friday meal times lie somewhere between woeful and pitiful.

So, last Friday, I stood in my kitchen – first looking at the bowl where the avocados are supposed to be, then looking at the fridge where cold things are supposed to be, then looking at the pantry where crunchy, salty things are supposed to be – for a good 15 minutes. My shoulders were slumped, my expression was forlorn. Silas even started to whimper wondering what the hell my problem was.

Find what you’ve got.

I figured there had to be something. I located the last two carrots in the bag, half a tomato, a quarter of a yellow pepper. I had to make up an entirely new salad dressing* because my kids used my go-to ingredient (Ume Plum Vinegar**) to make ‘cake’ yesterday. I was able to shave just enough Manchego off of its rind. Found some brown rice that was hiding behind the maple syrup on the second shelf.

I just started somewhere, with a bunch of ingredients that didn’t look all that great and didn’t even look like they’d be copacetic. But, I threw them in the bowl anyway. It ended up being delicious. And quite gratifying.

Advice.

I have a wonderful ‘twitter/blog’ friend that lost his agency writing job yesterday, and he asked me for some help with what to do next. This is what I’ve got: No matter how bare that cupboard, you’ll pull out some edible things and create something good. Dude, the world is your grocery store.

*This is not a food blog, but this randomly concocted dressing was so good, I’m sharing: olive oil, wheat germ oil, fresh lemon juice, sea salt, splash of Ponzu**. No, I don’t have measurements for you. That’s not the way I cook, nor is it the way I roll.

(**Per the recent blogging regulations: This post was not affiliated with Eden Foods in any way, shape or form, but I love their food, so if they should happen to swing by, or any of you know them personally, I’d be delighted to write for them anytime. Just sayin’…)

Image credit: AbbeyChristine