Baby Napped

On the news last week there was a story about a family who has finally been reunited with their daughter after she was stolen from the hospital 23 years ago. Talk about a parent’s worst nightmare, right? The news played clips of the father and mother’s plea 23 years ago to “please bring our daughter back,” and how they “had no interest in pressing charges.” Of course they didn’t, right? Because number one priority – don’t hurt my kid and I want her back.

But now! The woman who is being charged with the baby-napping is facing charges and, although the parents are being pretty chill about it, they’re ok with that end result. This seems like a typical “oh my god, I can’t believe it, after all these years” story, except for one thing that keeps nagging at me.

As far as I could tell it was a solid two days of interviewing the parents, splashing the same two photos of the now 23 year old reunited with her parents and then one of her as an infant with the woman who snatched her from the hospital, and discussing what could happen, if anything, to this woman now that she has been caught. The main focus of the investigation – as far as the news is concerned – is whether or not the woman harmed the girl in any way. Was their abuse? Was their sexual abuse? If these things aren’t present, if the 23 year old woman testifies that these things didn’t happen, the court will probably go easy on her. And the news people, and presumably the television audience, seem relieved by this fact. The fascination is not with how the young woman is coping with this massive life change, this awful crime and the family that has suffered for it, but with what will happen to the woman who stole her. Why? Because the woman successfully raised daughter that was not her’s to raise? Because she didn’t “hurt” the child? Because look! now the baby is all grown up and she looks alright, so no harm no foul, right? We don’t want too harsh a penalty… she is a mother after all.

I feel like this is a classic case of sexism in a weird reversed way. The way women are given the benefit of the doubt because they have ovaries. Like the debate over women in combat (the government is protecting our frail, lady bodies… even against our will), like women being excluded from the draft (yay no draft for women! because we couldn’t stand to send our mothers, sisters, and wives … just our sons, fathers, and brothers into war). Like, because she is a woman, we can only blame this on her maternal extincts. She had had multiple miscarriages, she may have been temporarily distraught, so distraught she was compelled to take a baby from the hospital and raise it on her own. Maternal instinct? To steal someone’s child? No. If this had been a man, no matter how well he cared for the child, public opinion would be completely different, the reaction of the media would be horror, not pity.

The crime in this case is not against the child. That’s not the point, at least not the total point. Yes, the 23 year old woman probably feels like her life has turned upside down, and her identity is forever shaky. I get that, and that’s completely unfair and awful. But the real crime is against the parents who have suffered, and felt a loss their daughter may have never felt for 23 years, never knowing what happened to their child, never knowing her, never knowing why or how. The woman who snatched that baby girl should go to jail for a very very long time, and the fact that she didn’t abuse the baby she stole, the fact that she loved her as if she were her own, should hold no baring in this case, whether in the real court, or in the court of public opinion. Just because women are seen as being “naturally motherly” does not make it ever ok to take another person’s child, and it is ludicrous to make any excuses otherwise.

Rules to Blog By: Passion

Oh man, so this story starts out the weekend before Alt when I had drinks coffee with Mariela. See, she forgot her purse, which had her ID and we ended up drinking tea at the coffee shop kitty corner from the bar. I couldn’t have asked for a better mess of events because it lead to better discussions and less of a hungover the day after. She is one of those rare people who actually went back to the beginning of this blog and read the entire history up until now… or at least close to it. She’s read angst, and goofyness, and embarrassment, and stupid blog stuff I tried and then abandoned 1/2 way through. And that’s why I was shocked when she mentioned how I hadn’t been writing.

Hadn’t been writing? But… but I had been working so hard to generate content! I had been scouring my brain and trying to balance some semblance of a private life with my tendency to over share. There is no way that anyone could think I wasn’t writing. But then she said that she missed the old me, the me she could relate to, the me that was goofy and made mistakes, and told funny (disparaging) stories and that’s when I realized: dude, I totally miss that person too! But somehow I had wandered away from myself with all of the business of blogging talk and the thoughtfulness, the strategy that goes into my work on APW.

And then I spent the next few days packing and stressing over Alt and wondering if I still had it in me to blog the way I did, or had I moved on into a different realm. (I’m obviously telling this story a little backwards since you already know what happened during my brain go boom moment during the first panel of the conference.) And then! Alyssa, Meg, and I were out to dinner on that first night and Meg was asking me about my numbers, and I was kind of whining about how they’d dropped (maybe because I wasn’t interesting anymore? Hmm?) and she mentioned how she’d noticed my blog was lacking direction. And then! (this is the big and then) She asked me what made me the happiest to write about, what did I have the MOST fun doing on my blog. And I didn’t know what to say. I choked on myself and I started saying, “well what I get the most comments on is…” and she interrupted me and repeated her question. And I said, “telling stories. I LOVE telling stories. And I love talking about fashion in a very every-girl kind of way.”

Later that night I was reiterating all of this to Kamel when he said (and this is where he redeems himself for the pig comment), “Lauren… what you write about is directly under your title…’writer stumbles through life while laughing and trying on clothes.’ THAT’s who you are. So just write that. Do it.” Um… DUH! He’s a GENIUS!

So I carried that along with me every where I went. I knew that I was going to spend the majority of my focus on telling amazingly entertaining stories to you all. And then some of my focus on fashion – cuz duh, I love the pretty.

AND THEN! (here we go again) I had the pleasure of listening to the Swiss Miss during the last keynote discussion on the final day. And she had a list of Rules to Blog By. And number one one the list: Write What You’re Passionate About. Blogging 101 – Passion. And suddenly I felt energized (totally, gut-wrenchingly exhausted), validated, and motivated to continue on this journey, continue pushing myself to do what I’m really good at and what I really enjoy.

So that’s what you’re going to see more of and be part of. A lot more stories, a lot less fluff. I hope you’re ok with that. I hope I can make you laugh so hard your friends HAVE to ask what you’re looking at online, and hopefully in the very near future I can have more time to have more ridiculous adventures which will fill my head with even more goofy observations, leading to even more slightly awkward situations which I will invariable share here.

Have a good weekend,

Pig Story. Oink.

August of 2009 Kamel and I decided to go to the Puyallup Fair – Washington State’s BIG fair… if it’s not the biggest, it’s the favorite. I do not know these actual statistics. The fair is full of amazing food (scones, deep fried things, corn dogs), rides and games (my favorite is the horse race one where you roll the ball into the numbered rings and you try to get your horse to win the race), and every farm animal you could think of.

I love animals. Why do I love animals? Because at the fair they are all clean and pretty and they don’t have poop smeared all over them. I want to touch every cow, and peer – hesitantly – at every chicken in it’s coop, and watch the chicks running around in their incubator, and marvel at the horses on their way to their fancy horse shows. We spent the majority of our time going from animal barn to animal barn, taking photos, and eating food. It was awesome.

Until we got to the pig pen. I heard their were piglets and who doesn’t love baby animals regardless of animal type? No one I say. Especially pigs with their adorable snouts and pudgy little bodies. Squee! Except when we got there the overwhelming buzz was not over the baby piglets, but the mother.

I mean, I don’t know if this picture really does it justice… but those do not look like animal teets, ok? That’s a row of giant boobs if I ever saw one. The photo also doesn’t accurately show the crowd of people because they are all on our side, where the piglets are below us. Being cute and snorty at the fence. And then something happened that I couldn’t believe.

Kamel: Look Lauren, it’s you!

Me: What? No.

Kamel: Yeah, yeah… see? that’s totally you… like when you’re really sleepy.

Me: NO. That is NOT me. (this is where I am frantically aware of how many people are over-hearing this conversation right now)

Kamel: Yeah! See? Like when you want to sleep in and not get out of bed? That’s so you. That’s a Lauren.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me? Please stop. I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.

Kamel: Oh. OH. Well! I mean, I didn’t mean …

Me: Stop. Stop talking.

Kamel: Oh no. I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed now.

And then I scowled at him and we walked away from the giant pig mother and her mammaries. And then we ate a corn dog while Kamel continued to mutter to himself since he had clearly LOST his goddamn mind.

Adventure-ing: Alt Summit

When I got home from Alt Summit I immediately walked into the bedroom and cried. Like the ugly cry where you just stand there, (me with my hands on my hips, purse thrown on the table, coat hanging off a chair) and let the tears run down your face. Why? Because from the very first panel my brain had exploded and I was left to fend for myself for the next 3 days without it. Truth.

Why? Because up to this point I had been gearing up to begin applying for teaching jobs all over the country. I had wanted to do this in grad school, I had thought this to be a wonderful existence. Teaching writing, surrounded by colleagues and students who had similar passions, talking writing and thesis paragraphs, grading papers, having a career and a steady pay check. I had given myself a deadline, I had requested transcripts. The ball was rolling. The only issues: The time consuming CRAP that is applying for such demanding and highly sought after jobs, and knowing that I would mostly likely be shipping off to small, truck stop USA for at least 2 years. Ugh. And then I went to Alt.

The first panel also happened to be where Meg spoke. The discussion was building your community, and she was the first presenter, amazing power point and all. And as I watched and listened and heard people asking questions that could have come out of my mouth, I realized I couldn’t do it all. I can’t be successful here at betterinrealife, successful teaching, successful editing, successful writing short stories and novels, all at the same time. If I tried to do all of that I would a) go mad b) fail at everything c) get divorced or d) all of the above. Sitting in that panel I slowly (no – quickly!) realized I could not and should not attempt to do it all, and that I need to *gasp* choose. Suddenly I was painfully aware that it’s not that as a struggling writer I am so limited by job choices that I can only do what’s handed to me and therefore must wait patiently as a temp, it’s that I have the opportunity right now, right this very moment, to do everything I want, that I am standing at the beginning of many, many paths, going off in many, many directions and until I pick one I’m going nowhere.

And right now I’m writing, and editing, and on the verge of freelance, so why force it? Why ignore the journey the universe is pushing me to begin? Why make it harder on myself? It doesn’t mean that being a writer, like really being a writer (where, you know, I write for a living? vs teach for a leaving?) will be any less difficult, or time consuming, be any less frustrating, or frightening. But it is what I love. It is what I do. It is what I’m good at.

Alt had some rude awakenings, some in your face wake up calls, some disappointments. The kind where the more you know, the more you see, the more you experience can scrape as you learn the ropes, can sting as you realize the world isn’t as you imagined… completely. Realizing the business of writing, the business of blogging, that it can be calculated, thoughtful and, in some ways, competitive was overwhelming at times. But through all of those growing pains I see that I can now carve out my own path as it presents itself, as scary as it may be, I can take my first steps forward.

First 1/2 of Engagement: The Truth About Fighting

I first wrote about how things have shifted in my relationship after becoming engaged HERE, but that was only the beginning story. And even now I’m only in the middle of it, but the more I navigate engaged life – a brief, but unique experience – I am realizing more and more how important it is.

In a lot of ways being engaged gives you the opportunity to prove to yourself, and to each other that yes, you really want to do this thing, because the reality is their are many, many opportunities to choose not to. Now that 1/2 of our engagement is over (HALF!) I realize that it’s been split into quarters. The first being excitement, while trying to navigate the business of weddings. There was too much to do, too much shock and awe, to focus on each other. We kept repeating Yes, we want to get married. Yes, we want a wedding. Yes, in Seattle. Yes, we should probably invite some amount of family. And then we would come home and ask ourselves the same questions, “You still want to do this? You sure? You in? Ok good, me too.”

The second quarter was all about criticism and communication. For Kamel and I it was about fighting to the death and then emerging out of the rubble miraculously intact. It was a battle, a marathon, it was exhausting, it was necessary. He wasn’t listening to me, I wasn’t letting it go (whatever IT was that particular day), he wasn’t getting me, I was mean, he was mean, and there was no way in hell I was going to marry him unless we worked it out. And the cycle repeated. Again and again. Fighting, making up, feeling relieved, fighting again over the same crap, taking longer to make up, feeling relieved, and fighting again. The stress of wedding and marriage and what that MEANS mounted along with financial stress and the looming holidays. I wrote this post about feeling strapped for cash right before Christmas, and thankfully it was both the pinnacle and the end of my anxiety and doubt.

And now, since Christmas, things have been lovely. We had a break through with wedding planning (uh, realizing that we could go without all of the extra details and STILL manage to get married and STILL have an amazing time? Yes.), we understand each other better, he listens more, I don’t get so upset about small things, and I have incredible gratitude that he loves me enough to stick it out. The bad months, the frustrating days, the times where I am a total crazy face, the times where he makes me so mad and is so frustrating that I don’t even want to look at him, the times I wish we didn’t live together just so he would go away. I am so grateful that he never has, and even more grateful that I know he never will.

Planning a wedding is only a small part of engagement. The rest is about navigating family (The In-Law and the Non-Law), establishing the parameters for the family you are building, and fighting it out. Let’s talk about the way you want to raise kids, what you expect for holidays, your views on God/god or “what god?”, where you want to spend the majority of your life, how much crap you’re really willing to put up with. Does that push your button? How about that? What if I push you even harder, what happens then? Because I think to go into a marriage as strong a team as possible is important, way more important than centerpieces. A person is an infinitely complicated being, forever evolving and changing its mind, and understanding that begins here – The place where I throw my keys at him as he stomps out of the room, as he yells and then slams the door behind him, as I jump out of the car at a stop sign and walk the rest of the way in protest to his driving. The place where we don’t kill each other, we don’t leave, we don’t spend the night away. The place where we always come back and it’s not forgive and forget, it’s try to understand the other person while still not completely sure how to understand yourself. That’s the place where it starts, and that’s what engagement is.

Lauren Life List: Wanting to Help You With Yours

A few months ago Kamel got around to writing his very own (short) life list in my Life List Tab. Around this same time he became incredibly invested in helping me cross things off mine (Grand Canyon, honey? LET’S GO TOMORROW!!). He is, in fact, my biggest cheer leader, and sometimes just the right amount of bully I need. Remember surfing? I needed a good kick in the butt on that one.

It wasn’t until I read his life list that I realized wow, I’m going to be going on all of his adventures too. Awesome. Perks of having a life buddy include, but are not limited to: Photograph a sunrise/sunset in a dessert, Prospecting gold, and visiting Mexico City. More to come, I’m sure.

And then of course there is the whole point of the Life List Tab – a place to put your life list, where everyone else can see it, and where other people can chip in to help you achieve your dreams. I had and still have high hopes for that little tab. Grow idea, Grow! But I’ve found it difficult to convince anyone that I can help them do fun things. Which seems odd since Fun is my middle name. It’s goal-accomplishing-fun over here in the Dupuis-Perez household 24/7 people! Jump on the bandwagon and let’s get this party started!

I understand that taking the leap to cross certain things off the list can be difficult, crossing the first thing off of my list was surprisingly scary, yet also surprisingly easy. It’s startling when you make a LIFE list and then have someone say “hey, you wanna do #7 next weekend? I can help with that”. My knee-jerk reaction is always, “uhh maybe. Let me think about it.” Cuz WOAH there! Calm down! I have all the time in the world right? But you don’t. Because life happens, you get busy, opportunities slip through the cracks, and you made that list for a reason.

So let me, or anyone else for that matter, help you cross something off. Being there for someone else’s big or little accomplishment/adventure seems like a pretty amazing gift.

Boob Sweat

Yesterday with my dress trying on post on APW, comments blossomed on twitter about boob sweat. And I promised an Epic story.

I could have sworn that I’ve written about this already, and I may have before the reboot but I don’t think it’s in these archives (but go ahead and check, I’m sure while searching you’ll run across many more amazingly awkward moments of my past).

First some back story: I have anxiety. And sometimes situational depression. Which really means when my anxiety gets out of hand it develops into depression. This has happened twice. Once in college when I started dating my roommate’s ex (smart, Lauren. Reeaalll smart) and then again when I was working in an awful place that slowly had me spiraling into a weight gaining, PTSD, flinching hole of doom. The situation I was in seemed so inescapable that I sought medical help. But I had kaiser, and my experience with kaiser is a lot like my experience at the DMV. Being thought of as merely a number,  always needing to wait in line, and being mildly offended by the “professional” you’re interacting with.

(One time I went for a consult about changing my birth control because I was CERTAIN that the reason for my boobs stopped fitting into my shirts and my chronic bloating was due to birth control… Dr. MAN laughed in my face and I had to demand the switch. So helpful. But I digress…)

In order to get a referral to a therapist I needed to first go in and get a physical. Of course appointments for that physical were 6 weeks out. So, after arguing back and forth with my primary physician I made the appointment and waited it out. When I got to my physical I was nervous because I needed to talk about my FEELINGS and I really just wanted to be professional about it and articulate. “This is how I’m feeling, please refer me to someone specializing in anxiety in young women” the end. But no. My doctor wanted me to take my shirt off and put on a 1/2 gown, which was a plastic lined paper towel cape thing. With sleeves. So their I was. In an overly warm room, with boob skin resting on torso skin, getting all heated up, under a plastic tent. And the doctor isn’t examining me. She is just sitting across from me talking about my history and why I feel anxious and depressed. And I’m trying my best (and succeeding) not to cry. But the entire time she’s asking me questions and we’re having this rather invasive chat, I can literally feel beads of sweat rolling slowly down my stomach, and instead of being fully focused on the conversation, all I can think about is “Oh my god, eventually this woman is going to touch me, breast exam, breathing, heart, the whole bit… and I will have full on swamp boobs.”

The sweat at this point is dripping so much that the waistband of my pants is starting to absorb my sweat drips. And my upper lip is beaded with wetness. Is that not the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard? You can thank me later. My brain is also about to burst with TOTAL PANIC at this point. So without even another bat of my eyelash I interrupt her full on, with my hand and everything, and say, “Sorry, but … I’m totally sweaty under here and I don’t want you to have to deal with it, do you mind if I wipe off?” And like it ain’t no thang she goes, “Oh of course not!” and hands me a tissue… a tissue? Oh no, that would have just gotten lost up in there, I mean really. So I respond, “Oh uh..” and chuckle, “I think I need a paper towel.” And leaped off the table to go across the room and snatch several paper towels from the holder and wipe myself down while she continued  to blabber on. It may have been simultaneously the most horrifying and liberating thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.

Then of course I was encouraged to go to church more, because duh… that’s how you cure mental illness! And then told to make an appointment with yet ANOTHER consult who would then eventually get me an appointment with an actual therapist. Who – when I finally went to my appointment (over 3 months from my first inquiry) – was on vacation. VACATION. And they had had a “scheduling error.” I eventually quit my job, joined weight watchers (back in 2008) and my depression subsided.

Boob sweat.

The end.

Oh My! Dress

This is an excerpt from my post over at APW today. Click HERE for the entire article.

The sales lady eventually lugged out 6 lumps of fabric in bags and told me to get undressed and to put on a robe. And then almost immediately told me to take the robe off and try to step into the first dress. No one told me the sales people dress you. No one gave me any heads up this was a lot like when you go and get fitted for bras. And definitely no one told me how much effing fabric a wedding dress is. Once the dress was clipped to me, I teetered out, lugging the 20 lbs of fine cloth with me, and stepped up on the run way platform while Maris oooed and clapped from her seated position. When I looked in the mirror I was… embarrassed! Where had I gone and who was this old lady looking back at me? Suddenly I had aged 10 years and gained 30 lbs. Where was I under all of this? I couldn’t be found. But I swallowed it as the sales lady hammered me with questions I couldn’t answer. “How do you like the fit? What about this detailing? Is the sweet heart low enough? What do you think about the train length?” I played vague and hustled back into the dressing room for the next round, because I didn’t know! I didn’t know how I looked! I have been trying on formal dresses since I was 15. I went to an all girls school and we had at least two formal dances a year and I went to every one of them. I know how this works, and while wedding dress shopping… I was struck dumb.

By this time I was full on sweating. The lights were hot, I was bloated from humidity, and the dress was thick and heavy. The next dress to try on would only work going over my head, so my sales woman politely asked me to put on a face net. Like a bee keeper but with cinching so it stayed under my chin. God forbid I get any of my makeup and/or face grease on these fine specimens. She then asked me to take off my bra and put my arms in a diving position above my head and she would hoist the dress over me and I would aim to shoot through the hole. Dear god, I really did it. When the dress slid over my head, the mass amounts of tulle got sucked up over my hips so the dress wouldn’t fit probably. That brave sales lady, without any hesitation, reached up under the skirt, in my sweaty under pinnings, to try to free the bunching while I directed her from above, face mask now pulled up like a lunch lady’s hair net, my boobs just a side show at this point. It was around this time where she actually asked me if I’d like a glass of water since “I seemed a little warm,” and since her face was literally in my nude, mesh underpanted crotch for a good amount of time, I took pity on her even through my embarrassment.


I have a confession. When I was in high school and college I didn’t really care about people not liking me. I cared if people were mean to me, but if someone didn’t like me I figured I wouldn’t like them much either so nothing was lost there. I’ve been called blunt, or told I say things out loud that the rest of people just think and never say. This can be seen as awesome or incredibly obnoxious. The thing is, I don’t always notice when I do it. My filter isn’t as thick as other peoples. Sometimes I just blurt something out and then everyone laughs and I wonder why.

But in recent years, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut (this has happened slowly and I’m sure not everyone has noticed), maybe not completely, but let’s just say it’s an improvement. I’m doing my best to play a grownup and to be seen as kind and gracious instead of troublesome. But now I’ve found myself a little choked by fear. I don’t want to upset anyone ever. I’m terrified of being seen as the friend who causes all of the drama, or the one who gets the most silent eye rolls. If you upset me? I don’t want to share it. If I don’t agree? I think I’ll just keep that to myself and scream into my pillow. I want to please others more than myself and I really, really care what people think of me. Having a blog is a special kind of exercise in keeping my sanity when it comes to this – lemme tell ya.

I angst over the decisions I make with wedding planning, with who I invite where, with making sure to keep everyone included so no one has hurt feelings and no one is left out. Everyone must remember everyone else’s birthday, I want to make sure my best friends don’t hurt each others feelings so that no one is upset. My main goal has become keeping the peace. I must remember to be thoughtful and go above and beyond for my friends spread out across the country. And this? This has sent me into total paralysis. The book I was supposed to send you? Is still on my counter. The beer gift basket I wanted to ship you for Christmas and didn’t have enough money to? Still weighing on my mind. Emails go unwritten because I am too overwhelmed with all of the other details of my life.

How did this become such a thing? I have guilt over things I’m sure no one even notices! But I do. I care, and I don’t know how to NOT care. And this is my confession. I don’t want people not to like me, and even though I KNOW that not being the best person in the world will not make people dislike me, and even if they do who gives a shit? I can’t help but feel worried and pressured. And I’m not sure how this became me and how to quit it, cuz it sucks.

Lauren Life List: Work in the Writing Industry

When I was in Undergrad all I ever wanted to do was work in publishing. I started out in Journalism but hated it and my adviser told me I should switch to Rhetoric – the study of the written word as a writer, not as a reader. So I did and I started writing. And it was then that I really felt good at something. Really, really good at something. It was hard, but it was a good kind of hard, a challenge. But when my professor pulled me aside and said I should get my MFA I practically LAUGHED in his face. “Absolutely not. I’m going to publish books, not write them.” But that planted the seed and while filling out applications for getting my MA in publishing I procrastinated, dragged my feet, and found them more than difficult to complete. Not because they were hard, but because I didn’t want to.

What got me really excited? Writing. Stories and creating and art. So at the last minute I ditched my initial plan and went with an MFA. But I’ve always loved the business side of writing. The editing, the formatting the shaping. The behind the scenes of acquisition meetings, what get’s published? What doesn’t?

And now the writing industry is morphing, evolving. Evolving or bust, really. There are E-books and E-zines and Online Literary Journals. And Blogs. Blogs began as online diaries, places to keep people updated on your doings, but are now taking up a measurable amount of business space on the internet. An interactive way to advertise, our google readers act more as an avenue for magazine subscriptions than anything else. Blogs are turning into a personal way to share information, ideas, and to promote vendors specific to an audience and in useful ways – “You like this jacket? Well this is how it looks on a normal person – me. And this is what I think about it. You can find it here.”

This last fall I started Interning at A Practical Wedding. It seemed perfect. I was planning a wedding, this was a wedding blog, I needed to feel part of something other than a temp agency, and Meg needed help. But what I thought it was at first – a place to work my education, a way to learn more about an industry I’m barely on the fringes of – was really just the very tip.

I was recently promoted to Assistant Editor, with pay. And what does that really mean? For me it means more confidence in editing for the site, really learning what it means to shape someone’s story – shape it so both the site and the contributor look their best and say exactly what they mean, it means a better resume, it means writing and editing almost every day. It may be part time, but my job at APW is on my mind most of the time. It’s the position I have the most pride in and it means that I can mark “Working in the Writing Industry” off my Life List. Because that is exactly what this is – An evolving writing industry, an ever evolving career path for me as a writer.

Now then, as far as marking another thing off my Life List… I just want to tell anyone and everyone who has made their own – This was something I figured would be marked off 10?20 years? down the road. Working in any part of the writing industry wasn’t particularly on my radar, especially with the evolution of the business, especially with the economy. This is a reminder to jump at opportunities, even if they mean a bigger work load, even if they aren’t all that glamorous, even if they don’t sound like anything you had in mind 5 years ago. You just never know what amazing mystery prize awaits you behind door #2.