Use It or Lose It

I'm starting to feel a bit done with winter and cold, so here's a little slice of beach in the Dominican Republic for us to gaze at longingly.

Tell me again why we don't all live in the Caribbean?

I know, I know - we couldn't all fit on those little islands.

And we have these lives here, full of technology and working and Many Things To Do. Like email. Which is the topic of a little rant I'd like to share today. I'm going out on a limb here, but I'd like to stand up at the front of the room and say:

There is no excuse anymore for not being able to use your email.

There I said it. I know you've all been thinking it, too.

For a long time, the newfangled technology of the interwebs was optional. It started out as the province of antisocial geeks who lurked in dim little rooms lit only by computer monitors. Then the hip, young people starting using it, flinging superficial nonsense at each other across cyberspace. But I'd like to point out a glaring fact: we've had email, in one form or another, for over 20 years now.

It has become a standard method of communication for all businesses. Like it or not, email is as integral to our society, particularly our professional society, as cars and traffic are. Not knowing how to use your email is like not knowing what a red light means.

You can choose to be a Luddite, sure. Go find a lovely Caribbean island, hang on the beach, never look at the interwebs. It's a deliberate choice. However, if you want to be online, email is the first, most basic skill to master.

I bring this up because the online chapter that I'm part of offers workshops. Online writing workshops of various types. People see them, sign up for them, and then inundate us with complaints that they're not getting emails. This usually has to do with spam filters. Every email provider is different how they do it. But they all try to weed out the crap you don't want from the sparkly stuff you do want. The spam filter is not a person, though, so the email user has to be intelligent enough to know what the spam rules are, and how to check to see that there's no good sparkly stuff getting sent to trash.

Seriously, this is like knowing what side of the road to drive on. If you're going to take your little car on the big internet highway, you have to know this stuff.

I know, I know - a lot of people are older and stars know it's not easy to keep up with technology. At 44, I already feel a bit of sting here and there when I have to learn a new database or find the tool I need on yet another, more complex iteration of Word. My mother, however, who would kill me for revealing her age, can handle the internet technology. She is in no way a geek and never has been. She knows how to find her spam folder though.

So, I'm officially declaring that not knowing how to work your email is no longer an excuse. If you choose not to drive, fine. But, if you do, please take Driver's Ed. Learn the traffic laws. Practice. Don't go careening around the internet, crashing into other drivers and complaining that you don't know how to drive.

*end of rant*

Meanwhile, I'd like to leave you with the song I'm currently hooked on. It's kind of sad, but it speaks to something I think we all feel at one time or another. I find it very moving. It's from Amanda Palmer Goes Down Under, an album I've been listening to all week.

The Price of (Non-) Fame

I suppose we all know that the writers life is not glamorous.

Gone are the days of the glossy literati, if they were ever real. No Dorothy Parkers and Truman Capotes rule over social circles. If you want to be a rock star, well, you pretty much have to be a rock star.

Or a wealthy young woman with plenty of cash to spend on clothes and time to spend clubbing, but that's neither here nor there.

We all also know the writers life is solitary, with long hours at our desks, in our heads, thinking about people who don't really exist. And when our stories do go out in the world, they go without us. Maybe they have a little photograph of mom or dad, to show where they came from, but really, readers experience books without the authors. The author is incidental, in the end.

If any of us nurse ideas of being recognized, of red-carpet celebrity, we should give them up now.

Neil Gaiman, who is arguably closer to being a rock star than most authors, went to the Golden Globe ceremonies the other day, because he was nominated for Best Animated Feature Film for Coraline. Neil was accompanied by his fiancee, Amanda Palmer, who is actually a rock star.

(If you read this blog regularly, you know I've become recently attracted to this couple -- don't worry, I'm sure the crush will fade soon.)

The best part is, when Life.com posted the Red-Carpet photo of them, the caption said:

Musician Amanda Palmer (L) and guest arrive at NBC, Universal Pictures And Focus Features Golden Globes After Party held at The Beverly Hilton Hotel on January 17, 2010 in Beverly Hills, California.

I actually didn't post this link right away, because I thought they'd fix it, given the chorus of corrections showering them. But no.

So it goes.

At least we'll never worry about the paparazzi.

Fantasies and Delusions

I was seized by a fantasy yesterday evening.

This happens to everyone, yes? That's right, you're reading or scanning Twitter or some such and this dream flies into your head of what might be.

Mine? That Neil Gaiman read my book and thought it was so great that I got to hang out with him and Amanda Palmer.

This is them on New Year's Eve, from Amanda's blog, from whence I obtained this great pic. I've been following Neil on Twitter and I feel like I like him so much. I started paying more attention to him around the time I wrote this post. He and Amanda have been publicly involved since midsummer. At one point, around this concert he tweeted something along the lines of "I'm making tea and Amanda is dancing in her scanties. we call this division of labor."

I have a total crush on both of them.

I know, I know -- it's the false intimacy of the internet. In person they might be shallow and self-absorbed. Probably three days after I write this, we'll hear some UK tabloid screaming that AFP has been dragged off to rehab and we'll see a bedraggled Gaimain looking gaunt and haunted as he sorts out his finances.

But it was a bit of a revelation to me, because I've been sorting through why I want literary success so much. Forgive me for belaboring, since I suspect I've run through this particular soul-search on here before.

I count my blessings: I have a great life, a terrific loving relationship with a wonderful man; I have family and friends who love and support me; I have a career I enjoy, with fabulous colleagues and the best boss ever (and I'm not saying that just because I know she reads this) that pays me well enough for the man and I to have a lovely lifestyle; we have a gorgeous house in a beautiful place; I enjoy terrific health and I feel good about how I look. I want for nothing, really. I am happy. I see people struggling with dire health issues, with dysfunctional families, straining to make it economically and I count my blessings. I should be satisfied.

And yet, I'm not.

I have this wanting that claws at me. Sometimes it feels like it's at the back of my throat, as if I'm longing to speak. Like spiders of yearning wiggling around in my chest.

I want that book contract.

It's not validation as a writer that I need. I've got that with the essay collection, which makes me luckier than many writers. More money would be nice, but it's not a huge consideration. Do I want fame, celebrity? I've never had much desire to be a rock star and I'm not hugely social, so I don't think so.

I think I just want to get to hang with the cool kids. Maybe it always comes back to that.

Or maybe this is what it feels like when you've got the pyramid of needs handled. If I review my list of blessings, I've got the Physiological, Safety, Love/Belonging and Esteem going. Now I should be all about the morality, creativity, spontaneity, problem solving....wait! This is the pinnacle? Acceptance of facts??? This is my reward for getting my shit together?

Hell, no wonder I just want to hang with Neil and Amanda!