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Please go to my new blog and leave me a loving comment because I feel like death right now.

http://therealrebekah.com

It was called “Excerpts from a breakup” and began with some pieces out of old blog posts from when we first broke up in June 2008 and then a tiny bit of old posts from when we got back together in October 2008. Then I was going to draw clever parallels to this breakup, using snippets of recent conversations and bits of the letter I wrote him that I intended to drop off with the bag of his stuff.

All I was waiting for was the time to drop off the bag, and collect my things from his house, figuring that would be the end to the relationship and the blog post.

I was set. During the days of not talking to him I had steeled myself for the confrontation and was determined to stand firm in my convictions. I was done with him.

It didn’t quite work out that way. And I won’t be publishing that post.

Instead, I’m publishing this one. Click to read the one I DID write…and what really happened.

Although I’ve been telling myself (and some of you)  that my recent absence from blogging has been because I haven’t felt like writing or I haven’t had anything to write about, I think I’m wrong. That might not be the whole truth.

This used to be where I could spill my guts, be open, honest, heart-on-my-sleeve, and really put everything out there. I am a little afraid to do that now.

There are things going on right now that last year I would have written about, things in my relationship and other parts of my life, and for some reason this year I find myself feeling guilty about writing them. Which begs me to consider:

Do I feel guilty for writing things about my personal life and putting them on the Internet, OR…

Do I feel guilty about the way I feel and no longer want to share because I’m ashamed of it?

Maybe I’ve outgrown this blog. I’ve been blogging for almost five years now and kept the same content from URL to URL, although the structure of the blog and the subject matter have changed several times. Five years in, with all the changes, I feel a little lost with my blog, like I no longer know what I can say here that is really of value to me as a writer or to you as a reader.

But I know I’d feel a little lost without it too.

Now what?

• I got the only 100% in the class on the case report
• Verbatim from the professor: “Impressive writing”
• Another verbatim: “I am more and more impressed by your analytical skills each week. This is one of the best answers to this challenging question that I have ever seen.”

</brag>

I just wanted to put this all in context for you.

I used to really want to go to law school. I blame John Grisham for getting me hooked on all things legal in high school, and even though I didn’t go the pre-law route in college, law school was still looking at me, and I was looking back.

The year I graduated, the joke around the English department was “law school is the new black” since so many people out of my class were going. But by that time I was a full-time employee and only a part-time student, and I knew that I’d have to subsist wholly on student loans for three years if I wanted to go to law school.

That was TERRIFYING.

Living without a steady paycheck didn’t seem as intimidating when I was a young college student – I had limited funds from Mom and Dad and I lived on the cheap. But when I went back to finish my degree after a two-year hiatus, I was used to having my own money, used to being able to eat out and buy cute clothes and take trips. I continued working full-time at The Hospital while I finished up my program in the evenings.

I wondered for a long time if I should have done it anyway.

I love studying law. I’m a research junkie and a stickler for semantics, qualities which meld beautifully for legal interpretation and writing. As confusing and over-complicated as it may be to read the law  sometimes, on some level it really makes sense to me. (Not the content of laws, I mean – I am thoroughly baffled by the impetus behind some of the statutes out there.) My favorite assignment for this class was a 5-page paper on nothing but that the exclusion of the word “jurisdiction” meant in the copyright statutes.

And I know I’m good at it. I have fun doing it.

I’m only 29, but at this point in my life I feel like the time to take that plunge has passed. And so has the time for regretting that I didn’t take it.

My shrink said something to me once about regret, and it stuck with me. I was going over and over a multitude of what I thought were bad choices I made in the past, thinking that if only I’d made those choices differently my life would somehow be better, more fulfilling, happier.

“Why do you think you should have gone to law school?” she asked.

“It’s what I wanted to do. It’s what I enjoyed. And I really wish I had at least tried.”

“Do you think you would be happier today if you had?”

“Probably. At least I wouldn’t regret not trying.”

But you don’t know, she said, and you never can know if you will or will not regret a decision – because every fork in the road goes more than two directions.

• I might have gone to law school and excelled and had a great career.
• I might have gone to law school and encountered a bad person who would kill me.
• I would never have met E – maybe I would have met someone just as great, maybe I wouldn’t, maybe I would have become an angry lesbian who only worked on sexual harassment suits.
• I might have gone to law school and hated it and just dropped out.

I might have regretted the deciding to go in the first place.

Who the hell knows?

Law school doesn’t necessarily lead to a law career. It leads to the next day – and the next, and the next, and every choice presents a series of new choices, and any one of them could be good or bad for me.

You never know what choice is going to make you happy – and you never know if the path you didn’t take would have been any better for you than the path you chose.

So I can enjoy Media Law while it lasts, rock it, and move on. I could do law school later, if I come to a point where I think it’s the right thing. I could just keep buying John Grisham books and re-watching “Legally Blonde” every few months, and follow the path I’m on now – wherever it happens to lead.

You never know.

What’s your what-if? Do you have regrets?

Every step has to accomplish something, or it’s not worth the pain.

Without purpose, each step just jars my broken joint, twists my hip as I try to maintain my off-balance gait, and smooshes my calf uncomfortably against the metal supports on each side of my cast. Without purpose, without accomplishment, each step I take now is a step in the wrong direction.

I have to plan my movements now. When I go from one room to another, I must always carry something that belongs in the next room, because I should not make a special trip back to grab it later. I empty the trash and recycling right before I leave the house so I can combine the trip out with one to the bin – not making a separate trip another time just because the garbage has started to smell. I have to think ahead, plot my day around how many steps I want to take.

I’m not couch-bound by any means. I’m getting around on the air cast pretty well now. But I’m still rather slow, I’m still uncomfortable, still a little paranoid about compromising the healing process. My broken talus – the bone at the top of the foot that articulates with the tibia and the fibula to form the ankle joint – is apparently a rather important bone. If I’d broken it all the way through – and fortunately I didn’t, though just barely – I’d be in a hard cast and on crutches for at least 6 weeks.

So today, on my twenty-ninth birthday, I am thinking about purpose. About the steps I take in my life, not just with my feet, and whether they are forward or backward, whether they are unnecessary, dangerous, or worth all the risks no matter what.

I feel like my 2010 New Year’s Resolutions are turning out to be a pretty big fail already. But when you think about it, today is MY New Year, my holiday*. And maybe this is when I should make resolutions, on the day each year when I really inspect myself and my life and my direction. Twenty-eight was a pretty good year. I am optimistic about twenty-nine. And instead of a handful of resolutions carelessly drummed up so I could have yet another bullet-point list on my blog, why not this…

A Birthday Resolution for Twenty-Nine:

I will walk with purpose.

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* Well, mine and a shitload of stoners who will be passing the bowl – I like to think in my honor – at 4:20 on 4/20. Duuuude…

But it’s not just my foot that hurts right now.

I’m not sure why, but my heart is just aching lately. I’ve been forgetting things at work, not finishing things on time, feeling generally overwhelmed by things that are not difficult. My job is NOT THAT HARD. And yet I’m struggling. I’m flipping out over Every. Little. Thing. I cried at work the other day because I forgot to do something that ended up being completely inconsequential.

It’s wearing me down.

This seems to have seeped over into the rest of my life and for some reason I find it hard to clean my house. Hard to return phone calls or read emails or even look at the overflowing Google Reader. Hard to even pick up the remote – sometimes I just stare at the ceiling because I don’t even want to bother with the TV.

Now THAT is fucked up, right?

I’m functioning, of course. I AM getting things done. I’m going to work and to school. I am being social and doing things that are fun and enjoying them. But it seems like every day there’s a crash at some point and a tiny part of me dreads it all day, even when I’m doing the things that lift me up a little bit. It’s this undercurrent, this nagging feeling that when I get home, when I’m alone, I’ll just die a little inside.

I hate that E doesn’t understand. He doesn’t really understand depression, much less bipolar disorder and how it fucks with you in up AND down ways all at once. I’ve taken my “as needed” anxiety medicine every day lately because I’m so nervous – about what? – and at the same time I’m so sad. I don’t blame him for not getting it; it’s hard to make anyone understand. But I wish he did. I wish SOMEONE really really did.

Hell. I wish I did.

I don’t want to blame bipolar disorder. I don’t want to blame my broken ankle, even though it’s painful and limiting almost my every move. I don’t want to blame anything. But what explanation is there if not to blame SOMETHING? There’s always a reason, and that reason is usually, in one shape or another, a sort of blame.

So what’s left? Blaming myself for not being stronger? For not knowing better how to handle myself, how to get out of this stupid funk, this miserable slog?

Blame stress, blame finances, blame the government, blame Vladimir Putin and bad parents of Russian adoptees who do more wretched things than I can fathom.

I know, I mean I really DO KNOW that I am not a bad person. I am not incompetent or stupid. Nothing is godawful wrong in my life right now – the people I love are healthy. I have a good job and a home and a lovely boyfriend and great friends.

But I am afraid. Of something.

And I don’t know why, but I am sad, I am anxious, I can’t sleep, I want to cry and I want to scream, and my heart hurts right now.

“Doing more, trying more, and laughing more… should come from your attitude, NOT your birth control!”

Really, Yaz? It’s all about my attitude? I mean, I could try doing a lot more people and laugh more about it if I’m on birth control.

And what does my goddamn attitude have to do with anything? I just want to NOT HAVE A BABY.

Then your commercial proceeds to show me how I will be a happier and more outgoing person if I take this Yaz thing. Exactly what you told me did NOT matter at the beginning of the spot.

Can we all appreciate the stupidity here?

The United States and New Zealand are the only countries in the world that allow Direct-to-Consumer advertising of prescription drugs. We Americans believe there’s a pill for everything. It’s no wonder healthcare costs are out of control in this country. Viva Viagra, indeed.

Birth control, I can see why you need a prescription for that. But am I really going to make my choice of a Very Important medication based on a commercial of yellow-suited synchronized swimmers? Nuva Ring, I am talking to you.

It’s not just the drugs, though.

The Heather Armstrong commercials on HGTV started about a month ago when I was sick with a chest cold, so I saw them over and over. And the more I watched, the more I never wanted to see the very awesome Dooce again.

I hate that HGTV has done this to me. And someone there obviously hates her because that blush? Is not a good look. She’s a pretty lady and the orange does her no favors. And that first set of commercials… “Heather Armstrong is joining HGTV!” and her balancing things on her dog’s nose… were beyond pointless. If you had no previous idea who this woman was, you’d just think “Who’s the skinny broad with the orange cheeks?” and never make an effort to tune in, or even go to the website to find out what it’s really about. Come on, HGTV. You owe Dooce more than that.

Why is there a new mascara every week?

Why do the first two Dell guys in the “Lollipop” commercial look like they were just getting dressed together behind that partition?

When did people start doing pre-release commercials for BOOKS?

Oh, and Jamie Lee Curtis? Enough with your “irregularity” already. It’s not a secret code. We all know that means you’re having trouble with your shit.

What commercial is annoying you?

I used to do most of my writing, homework, and blogging from this desk:

Uninspiring, isn’t it?

I thought for a long time about getting a new desk, but I really like this one in a lot of ways. It is solid. Heavy. Has lots of little cubbies. Yet the oak finish and the brass-and-porcelain hardware were so dated. I had a mess of cables and clutter everywhere. Something had to change.

It was time to paint.

Here’s what it really looked like, under the clutter:

Faux-oak back panel? Adios!

As part of the solution to the storage issue, I decided to mount my flat-panel monitor on the desk so I could put my laptop under it and run all the cables behind it, out of the way. I used to have it set on a book to get it to eye level. Cables were a huge part of the mess in the first picture. (Never mind the beer and the mac and cheese.)

So I built this brace with a couple of pieces of wood and gave it a few coats of paint. This was meant to go up on the back of the desk to hold the monitor arm. I used the same mount that I used on my TV that I put on the wall in my bedroom a few months ago. It’s perfect for my 20″ monitor.

But despite the fact that I measured and thought I had everything right, the monitor ended up lower than eye level. No good. This presented another problem – the monitor mount slides over the top of the backpiece, which is mounted on the brace. But the monitor is too tall for me to do that if I mount it any higher! I can’t get the mounting over the backpiece.

Soooo, I had to leave the monitor on the brace while I re-mounted it. This was scaaaary… I was so afraid I was going to drop it and kill the screen. But with the aid of a stack of books, I was able to balance it just right and get it screwed back in where it needed to be.

When the monitor was in place, I started in on a few more storage solutions. Since I planned to eliminate the big chunky desktop box where I previously stored all my pens and pencils and stuff, I decided to turn the keyboard tray into a drawer. I found these metal mesh bins for $3.00 each at Wal-Mart and tacked them each in with a penny nail. They even matched the silver-mesh desk accessories I’d already had for years. Perfect!

Then for the cubbies over the printer, I bought some plain cardboard magazine files at the Container Store. I was worried that sliding them in and out would chip the new paint surface, so I hot-glued some felt to the bottoms. I used the same felt to line the shelves of the cubbies over the main part of the desk as well. These files were actually too tall for the space, so I cut down the tops a bit and then finished them off with a little ribbon to hide the cut edges.

Those now hold all of my printer paper, stationery, receipt files and notebooks. The final touch was the back panel of the desk – no more faux-oak fiberboard, but I needed something to pull it all together and work with the dark color of the desk and the woodwork in the room, the light color of the files, and the dusky purple of the walls.

I spotted the perfect fabric at Hobby Lobby, and with the help of my trusty staple-gun, created a new back for the desk. I even worked it out to use panels of fabric behind the monitor section, so I could run all the monitor cables behind one panel and then up through another to the laptop – so there’s not a single cable dangling down from the monitor.

All of the desktop cables are clustered right around the laptop and then go right off the back. Some new brushed metal hardware is dressing up the drawers. And I covered the desktop with a few cheap pre-cut glass panels to protect the paint from chipping.

I’ll never be one of those people who has a clean, minimalist desk. It just won’t happen. But this is darn close, and I think it’s awesome.

I am in love with the fabric panels and how they tie in all the colors of the study, plus the pale blue of the living room right next to it. It’s not too cutesy but not too boring (and the coordinating ribbon was a nice bonus). I love my new magazine files and my little mesh-bin drawer. I love how the paint color matches the color of my bookcases and the lovely old woodwork and molding in that room. I love the free space from having my monitor up and my laptop under it. I can just set the keyboard on top of the laptop when I need the space in front of me to write or read.

And I love that now I have a desk where I love to blog. Hello again, guys!

That sounds a little harsh, doesn’t it?

Maybe not harsh exactly. Provocative, perhaps. It piques thought. But it sounds very black-and-white. A square is not a circle. And I hated seeing that phrase bandied about on several blogs in the last month or so because if there’s one thing modern publishing ISN’T, it’s black and white. This colorful Internet actually makes many things into hazy shades of gray.

This was drawn to my attention by a post on David’s blog in January, in which he referenced the conversation sparked by a post on Modite.com called “Bloggers are not Writers.” What struck me about both David’s post and Rebecca Thorman’s post on Modite was the way the authors worked off the dichotomy that a person who types is just one or the other, blogger or writer. On the other hand, the conversation in the comment section of those posts DID bring this fallacy forward in a huge way, and it got me thinking about labels.

I work in healthcare. A doctor is a doctor because he/she had gone through a specific academic program and taken a very nasty test designed by a national association and applied to every medical student in the country. You must pass this exact test, every one of you, to become a doctor. That is black and white. From there you can take advanced training to be a surgeon or a rheumatologist or a pulmonologist or any other sort of specialist you can imagine. Anyone can be trained and get certified in First Aid or CPR or other medical care things, but to be a DOCTOR, everyone must pass the same test.

Yet having a degree in Journalism makes me a journalist just as much as having a degree in French makes me a native Gaul.

It’s not always so cut-and-dried.

The open-source nature of the internet blurs the lines we’ve known for years. A journalist works for a professional news organization. An author has had a book published. And so on. But in this age of user-generated content, many of the gatekeepers that applied those labels are gone. Whining for the good old days of traditional publishing and the labeling of the profession does you no good now.

I have a blog so I am unquestionably a blogger. But what if a publishing house came to me and said “We’d like to publish some of your blog posts.” Am I suddenly a writer then, even though they want to publish what I wrote as a blogger?

What if I decide on my own to make my blog posts into a book and publish them on CreateSpace, get an ISBN, sell on Amazon, and place my work permanently in the Library of Congress? I can do that, you know. Would that make me a writer? Or am I a blogger with a book?

David made a point in his post about how a writer is not a writer until he/she gets paid for doing it. I respect a lot of his opinions but this one was a bit of a sticking point because although it seems to draw a line on where to place the labels, that line is extremely blurry.

I could get royalties off my CreateSpace book. Am I a writer now?

I can make money off of ads on my blog and paid posts, should I choose to do something like that. Am I a writer? Or should I call myself a professional blogger?

What if I just made the argument that it’s part of my job to write? I write newsletter articles and abstracts and things that are published at national conferences. And I get paid to do my job. So am I a writer?

Gray. Endless hex codes of gray.

User-generated content has reduced the definition of the word “writer” to a quibble over semantics. If all I did was blog, I’d have no problem just calling myself a blogger. But even though I’ve never had a book published, I have no problem calling myself a writer. Because I am WORKING AT IT. Not just on my blog, that’s a separate animal. I am working on the craft, as I have been for years. I am working on a piece of writing that may or may not ever be picked up by an agent or a publishing house. I may put it on CreateSpace someday if it’s not. I may trash it if it sucks. And I haven’t made a cent from it.

Am I a filmmaker if I practice my craft but my films that don’t sell? Am I a musician if I work hard at my art and never cut a professional album?

One commenter on the Modite post offered the intriguing parallel of trashy romance novels and award-winning literary novels. Are they both the product of WRITERS? Should the author of the award-winner be offended that the romance author also calls herself a WRITER?

Seriously? Boo-hoo.

There are bloggers. There are writers, and some writers blog. There are vloggers. And there are some filmmakers who make vlogs.

I’m not a writer because I’m a blogger. But I am a blogger. And I am a writer.

What are you?