Your Selfie Is Wrong. Everyone Read My Thoughts About Selfies.
There’s been a lot of talk about selfies in the past few months. My initial reaction to talk of selfies is always: of course they’re narcissistic. I post too many of them. I feel bad. I shouldn’t want to draw attention. Yes, we want women to feel confident and satisfied with themselves, but we don’t want them proud. Check yourself, lady.
But this automatic eye-roll about selfies… What exactly are we doing here? What are we doing on Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr and Pinterest? We want to be seen. Look at me. Look at what I’m doing. Look what I had for lunch. Look who I’m with. Look what I’m working on. Look at how I’m feeling today. Look at what I’m interested in. Look at where I am. Look at the people I love. Look at what’s pissing me off. Look who I’m talking to. Look at me. See me.
And all of that without photos.
But how is any of that different from a picture?
I think it’s easy to have a response to a selfie. Everyone knows you shouldn’t hang framed pictures of yourself on your wall. You have to make sure there are others in the photo in order for it to be acceptable. ;-) But I can’t really say that a selfie is any more narcissistic or self-involved than most other posts. Why are we here on social networking if not to be seen and acknowledged?
But not via selfies. Because that’s wrong.
(p.s.: I like seeing pics of my friends, so post away, chicks.)
Fuck Yeah Women’s Ski Jump
Women’s ski jumping debuts at the Olympics this year!!!
This is a big deal. Men’s ski jumping has been an Olympic sport since the inaugural games in 1924. They’ve put women off for decades for bullshit reasons piled on top of elephant shit reasons. Female skiers have fought hard for this for so many years.
In 2005, the president of the International Ski Federation, Gian Franco Kasper, said ski jumping “seems not to be appropriate for ladies from a medical point of view.” In 2005. He thought it was bad for women and not men. Medically. In 2005.
Someone please kick that guy in the nuts for me. His balls are obviously not affected by high velocity impact. So kick him real fucking hard. A few times. He’s a man, so he’s super tough.
And female ski jumpers? You chicks kick all the ass. Thank you for your long and important fight. (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/04/07/sports/skiing/07skijumping.html )
-With love from Victoria, who knows nothing about ski jumping but lives in the big ski-jumping town of Park City, UT and has been reading about this injustice for years
This Is Not a List of Writerly Truths for 2014
Another new year approaches! Somebody slow them down already?
I always find myself making at least one resolution even though I can’t say I believe in them. Getting in better shape? Yes, yes, always. But this year I’m also resolving to turn my guest room into an actual, honest-to-goodness office. It’s really stupid to have a room for others to use once a year and no dedicated room for me and my work. It’s going to be a great office. A window with a beautiful view and I’ll have my own attached bathroom! And a treadmill. See resolution #1.
But in thinking about 2013, my greatest gift to myself had nothing to do with my resolutions. It had to do with throwing in the towel. I gave up writing. For a while. I gave up and I loved it.
As I wrapped up my last book of 2012, I found myself anticipating a new contract with dread (a terrible thing to admit to other writers, maybe), so I told my agent that any new contract would need to accommodate time off. Real time off. Not a few weeks, but a few months. Writers and industry people kept telling me it was such a brave decision to make, to actually say “I can’t do everything all the time,” but it didn’t feel brave. It wasn’t scary. The only torture I went through was guilt. Guilt that my career was going well and people were counting on me and all I wanted to do was NOT WRITE.
But I brushed the guilt aside and I did it. I took four whole months off. The first month I had to do some editing and proofing, but after that, I did nothing. I didn’t brainstorm. I didn’t plot. I didn’t work on stories. I took my first true vacation in many years. No writing, no editing, nothing but reading and cocktails and Hawaii. Fellow writers, you have no idea how beautiful it was. It was glorious. I melted into it. I did not write.
When I told people I was on sabbatical, the response I heard most often, the response I got almost every time was, “Sure, take time off, but be sure to WRITE EVERY DAY.” Write. Every. Day. Don’t drop the ball. Don’t let the magic go. Exercise your mind, even if it’s just writing in a journal or banging out a blog post. Keep your writing strong. Keep the faith. You are a writer.
We hear this all the time. At workshops, on Twitter, on Facebook, on lists of writing tips. Write every single day no matter what. That’s what Real Writers do.
Sorry, but that wasn’t the point of a break. The point was to not write. To give my creativity a rest. To let that well refill. I needed time.
Guess what? It worked. I didn’t write a damn thing except grocery lists and a few dirty tweets. I thought I might work on a little side project for fun. I didn’t. I thought I’d brainstorm a new series. Nope. I didn’t work on my stories at all. I didn’t miss them. And I was just fine.
When it was time to write again, I wrote. And this book was easier than anything I’ve written in the past three years. It didn’t hurt to pull it out of my brain. Taking time off was exactly what I needed. I didn’t write, I didn’t want to write, and I am still a writer.
So this year, if you need a break, take it and embrace what that means for you. Do it for yourself. (Or for your work, if that makes you feel better.) And remember that when anyone reads to you from the writing bible, even when it’s the holy artist cry of “Write every day!” their advice isn’t about you, it’s about them. It’s about what they need. There is no sacred truth in writing. And there is definitely not a conveniently round number of truths that can be packaged into a list to make you into a Real Writer.
Do what feels right to you. Or do what never feels right but always works. Just don’t try to live someone else’s truth.
hurricane tossed hair,
and a vulgar mouth—
I fell in love just a little…
with his sinful hands,
that felt like velveteen,
and lit a fire like kerosine,
smelled of nicotine,
and just a bit of desire.
He kept me wild,
just a little bit defiled…
but childlike and safe.
What he didn’t know then,
and what he still
doesn’t know now—
He was my riverside,
my stress relief,
my solace from
the crazy days,
and my saving
grace. — (via coffeestainedheart)
THIS Fucking Guy
My comment to this bullshit post about romance is in moderation, and I have the patience of a four-year-old, so here it is. But be sure to read the comments that have already been posted by other women. Speaking of kick-ass heroines… :-)
Mr. Ghosh, you should try a little journalistic professionalism and actually research your subject, even beyond the lazy Google search for “romance statistics.” For instance, you could pick up a modern romance before writing a whole column about romance novels. You could pick up one of MY romances and read about women who have careers, dreams, intelligence, and rich & varied sex lives which start long before the hero appears. Don’t tell, but some of them even own their own homes AND their own vibrators. The hero comes along to contribute to her life, not to save her from it. To quote one of my heroines, “Your d*ck isn’t some rescue line I need to hold onto.” (Edited to save you from the vapors.) Does that sound “feminine and protected?” More like feminine and kick-ass and giving some serious side-eye to men like you.