Fireside Chat with Aunty Meg

Thanks for the votes on the last blog. Sadly, there were less than ten, so no video for you! Not now at least.

What I had envisioned in my head was a real treat, but alas.

Fireside Chat with Aunty Meg: Part 1

I have to call attention to how ridiculous I feel about what I'm going to say. Not that the thoughts themselves are ridiculous, but I feel like a dork saying them.

Because come on! No one wants me to give them advice, hence the ironic (satirical? sarcastic? help me out here) title.

But really. I've discovered a key to life. Let me rephrase. I haven't discovered anything, just put an old idea to use in my life--and to great effect!

"I'm comfortable not trying things, because then I never fail."

As long as I don't try to do something at which I might fail, I haven't failed. It's safe. It's easier because I don't have to deal with the self-esteem backlash of the seven-letter f word.

To be accurate, I try many things and both fail and succeed. Mostly fail. But there are a few things that I'm truly passionate about that seem TOO BIG, TOO IMPORTANT to risk.

Writing and publishing a book might be first under that category. Music would be second. The boys I've liked but never pursued would be third (Gross. I'm getting waaaaay too personal now).

Back in November something changed. I'm not sure what. I'm not sure why. I'm just grateful it did.

I was freed from a moticum of the fear I felt about trying to do what I actually wanted to do with my life.

I finally felt that I, Megan, would finally write a book, let that book be seen by the world...and not care if they hated it. Which they probably would.

Not care if they hated it? Crazy talk. But really. As soon as I released myself from the anxiety and stigma attached with failure, I was free. Like this:

And that's what I want to tell you. Don't do things because they're the kind of easy that you won't fail at. Don't not do things because you're afraid that you'll be no good at them.

Gosh, it's a beautiful realization.

And it's paying off. I've fallen on my face, but there's something free-willy about accepting myself as imperfect and prone to falling down.

I've put myself on the line more these past few months and I have the bruises to show for it...

...but I also have a business card and pitch request from a certain publisher who launched the careers of multiple NYT bestselling authors...

So that's a step in the right direction.

I wish all of you many happy failures,
Aunty Meg

p.s. My "9(" key is working again. Apparently it saw me groveling and restored to me the power of parentheses (as some of you have surely noticed). I'm much obliged.

The Most Beautiful Lie

...that I can think of in this moment is that English men like this:

are just regular Joe Schmoes

walking around, sweeping American girls off their feet,

and saving the world.

And one more, because we should enjoy the lie while we can:

You're welcome. (And did I miss any?)

The Things That Be Happenin'

The author of this book

teaches my writing fiction class. We're organized into critique groups, so we do lecture and then split into groups. Last night was Brandon's turn to sit in on mine.

It went well. I was most impressed how he was able to say something nice about everybody's work AND also give significant constructive criticism. He was completely impartial, which I appreciated.

In other news, I had dinner with the author of this book:

He's also a class act, ladies and gents.

He and Rick went out to eat after Brandon presented in class on Wednesday, and Rick invited us (friend Tricia and I) along because he has a book idea he thought we'd be interested in hearing about.

It's been a good week in writer land. (Anyone wanting to enter an interesting discussion is directed to Shannon Hale's most recent blog posts about the missing girls of animated films. Very, very interesting).

p.s. My "9" key is not working very well. If that isn't a sign that I use too many parentheses in my writing, then I don't know what is.

Postscript to Previous Post

I found out this weekend that an old...friend...didn't send me an invite to his wedding, but he sent one to my old roommate (who he didn't know as...well...as he knew me) (I'm getting tired of all this vagueness. And ellipses. And parentheses. I'm dying from VAGUE PUNCTUATION!!!!!).

I'm not sure whether to laugh or sing the refrain of "Someone Like You."

(And, of course, as soon as I type the words, that very song starts playing on iTunes).

Please vote:

Should I:
A)Laugh,
B)Feel morally superior,
C)Listen to "Someone Like You,"
D)Laugh AND eat Ben & Jerrys? At the same time?

Vote carefully. Your word is my command.

p.s. If ten people vote on this, I will post a video of me singing "Someone Like You." Perhaps as my alter ego Mike Golf.

ABC, 123, Baby Baby... or Something Like That

A. I love Valentine's Day. I really, honestly do. My mom always gives us gifts on v-day, and who doesn't love gifts?!?!? Junior high through high school featured rad heart-covered socks (Mom: I miss those. Where did you find them?). This year, my mom and dad got me a beautiful bouquet of red tulips. Very nice and made me homesick for spring and gardens and joy! Ah. Anyways. HOWEVER (you knew there was a "but" coming, didn't you?). My friend Tricia suggested that we celebrate by not mentioning that it was Valentine's Day...so we went and got a cupcake after class and had a very excellent TUESDAY. We had a writing party, and I wrote about 2500 words on my novel in an hour (my personal best). Then we ate pizza. It was a lovely TUESDAY.

Which reminds me, the best part of Valentine's Day is to remember how much you love people. I sucked this year at remembering to tell people that. Everyone: I LOVE YOU! Dad, Mom, Carli (and Drew), Mike, Cassie, Spencer, Abbi, Sam, Grandma, Grandpa, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, frenemies, enemies, acquaintances, you are pretty great.

B. Adele won 6 Grammys. That's my girl. I have something I need to say about the Grammys and music in general. But this is not the time for that. It's gonna be a big beast of a blog.

C. I graduate soon. What should I do with my life? I've applied to several jobs and internships in NYC (mostly editing, some agenting). I don't expect to get any of those, but I've put my best foot forward. I love editing, but the more I write this semester, the more I fall in love with writing. It's a first for me. I've always liked writing. I've always dabbled. But this semester, I've dived into a story, and frankly I don't want to stop swimming. (Enough with that metaphor. My apologies.) I love my story. I love writing it, which is more significant to me. It feels like...whoa. Now I have this quaint idea in my head where I get some kind of merely passable job that leaves me with plenty of time and energy to write and then I get published and a few hundred people like my story and I live comfortably for the rest of my life. Could be good.

D. I'm in a writing group. Two groups to be precise. One is for the class I'm taking from Brandon Sanderson (Writing Fiction). They're good people and I like them. My other writing group is outside of class. I call it "Saturday Writing Group." Very original title, I know. I should be a writer or something. (You respond: "or something." Thanks.) Greatly missed former member Denece called it "the perfect writing group." Seriously, though. It's pretty sweet. One day I thought that I wanted to start a writing group to give me an excuse to write. I told my writer/editor friend Tricia and together we pulled together a bunch of people we knew. It was a crap shoot, but things turned out well. We all get along really well, and what I thought would be a handy excuse to write has turned into something more serious, and I love it.

E. That's the update on my life. I am a horrible blogger, but mostly because I think that no one really cares what happens in my life. Most of it is boring, but at least now everyone who cares is caught up.

Goodbye: Another Part of Childhood Has Fled

When I was eight, I knew what I wanted to be.

I wanted to be Whitney Houston. I would have gladly mimicked Ursula and trapped her voice (the power!) inside a seashell. I would have made it mine forever.

Logic dictates that there's a first of something, right?

Right.

She was the first. The first artist that made my little-kid heart skip a beat, the first to make me realize that there was more in the world than playing with my friends, watching Disney movies, and going to school.

Laugh at me if you will. This post may sound horribly saccharine to you; I don't claim that it's anything more than sentimental. But indulging in a moment of sentimentality won't change the truth of what I say about her:

Whitney's voice lent the world beauty.

There's a reason that choirs of angels sing. They don't write. They don't edit books. They don't sculpt or paint or play the harpsichord.

I hope she's there now, wherever the angels live, singing a music I once knew and that one day I'll sing again.

My eight-year-old self wanted to be her. At twenty-four, I'd be content to just hear her sing again.

RIP, Whitney.