Let me just come out and say it right now: I am a Britney Spears fan. I love her, I really do. Ever since high school and through college, even after her mental health hiccups. I am a staunch supporter of Miss Brit.
Needless to say, I was ecstatic at the prospect of Britney Spears guest starring on Glee, which has quickly become one of my new guilty pleasures. I got into the show late in the first season, but like countless others, I fell in love with the characters/story lines and often find myself singing along with the cheeky tunes despite my obvious lack of vocal abilities. Anyway last night was hyped as the Britney episode and I made sure to block out the one-hour period in my Blackberry so as not to forget. It was everything I was hoping for and more. And now that my apartment is significantly less cluttered than it was, I was dancing and jiving my way around the living room listening to the punchy pop music. They did a pretty good job recreating Brit-Brit's videos, including Baby, One More Time and Oops I did it again.
I'd YouTube her videos while I'm trying to work this morning except I don't trust myself not to jump out of my chair start belting out "I'm a Slave 4 U." Wouldn't that be a sight to behold?
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Home Sweet Home
I spent the vast majority of my weekend ensconced in my apartment in an attempt to make it feel more like home. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm not moving any time soon and after four years there, I should probably feel comfortable/happy.
Dad and Uncle Gerry brought over two six-feet-tall bookcases which I had set up with books/DVD and various tchotchkes that were previously packed away in boxes that cluttered my already tiny living space. With the addition of the bookcases though, and the subtraction of the boxes coupled with a shuffle of furniture in my living room, my claustrophobia-inducing apartment actually feels quite roomy and, moreover, I like spending time there.
This is all new for me.
Thanks to a few new vanilla-scented candles as well as a vanilla-scented oil diffuser air freshener, it smells wonderful... like I've just baked a cake, despite my lack of kitchen/baking/cooking prowess.
And in talking to one of my girlfriends today, It occurred to me that the holidays are just around the corner, which means I'll be able to set up some of my Christmas/winter decorations. I can't wait.
For the first time in a long time, I feel blissfully, comfortably happy. Suddenly, I love being a homebody.
Dad and Uncle Gerry brought over two six-feet-tall bookcases which I had set up with books/DVD and various tchotchkes that were previously packed away in boxes that cluttered my already tiny living space. With the addition of the bookcases though, and the subtraction of the boxes coupled with a shuffle of furniture in my living room, my claustrophobia-inducing apartment actually feels quite roomy and, moreover, I like spending time there.
This is all new for me.
Thanks to a few new vanilla-scented candles as well as a vanilla-scented oil diffuser air freshener, it smells wonderful... like I've just baked a cake, despite my lack of kitchen/baking/cooking prowess.
And in talking to one of my girlfriends today, It occurred to me that the holidays are just around the corner, which means I'll be able to set up some of my Christmas/winter decorations. I can't wait.
For the first time in a long time, I feel blissfully, comfortably happy. Suddenly, I love being a homebody.
Friday, September 24, 2010
In an instant
Yesterday, I left work with what I have come to call a "feeling of impending doom," that knot in my chest that tells me something bad is about to happen. And last night, something did.
Perhaps I've developed a sixth sense about these things given I've spent the last four years of my life working as a police reporter, but I've felt this sense of doom on at least two other occasions, and both instances ended tragically.
Last night, while waiting for the premiere of Grey's Anatomy, my fears were confirmed: I heard the local fire department get dispatched for a motor vehicle accident with possible entrapment. I grabbed a sweatshirt, found my shoes and sped off into the night, wondering what I would encounter when I arrived in the area of the crash. As I rounded a bend in the road, I saw the familiar strobing red and blue lights of the fire trucks and police cruisers. I stashed my car in a parking lot about a quarter of a mile away from the accident and jogged down towards the emergency apparatus haphazardly parked in the middle of the road, careful not to get in anybody's way.
Though I only stayed for about 15 minutes, watching the emergency crews work to pull the victims from the two cars using the Jaws of Life, I felt almost immediately the severity of the situation. I didn't speak to anyone; I stayed as far away from the crash as possible (at least as far as my camera lens would allow, given I had to get a photo for the paper), but I could still hear the frantic calls of the EMTs and paramedics who were attending to the crash victims, and their voices told me everything.
By the time I got to work this morning, I already knew the accident had claimed the life of at least two people. Two more people were seriously injured. I can't help but shudder at the knowledge and feel sad that in an instant, the lives of so many people were forever changed.
Because of my job, I often face realities some people like to ignore: death is a part of life. I've covered countless accidents and fires that resulted in fatalities and still more that caused very serious injuries, so I know all too well how fragile life really is. I've been to murder scenes and have reported on stabbings and attempted murders. I've seen a lot. We all like to think it'll never happen to us, but the reality is at some point in our life we, too, will be faced with a life-changing situation.
I could easily have been the victim in last night's crash; I drive down that road if not every day then at least several times a week. What if it was me? What if it was someone I know and love?
Last night I learned a valuable lesson at the expense of another: we are not invincible. All it takes is an instant.
Perhaps I've developed a sixth sense about these things given I've spent the last four years of my life working as a police reporter, but I've felt this sense of doom on at least two other occasions, and both instances ended tragically.
Last night, while waiting for the premiere of Grey's Anatomy, my fears were confirmed: I heard the local fire department get dispatched for a motor vehicle accident with possible entrapment. I grabbed a sweatshirt, found my shoes and sped off into the night, wondering what I would encounter when I arrived in the area of the crash. As I rounded a bend in the road, I saw the familiar strobing red and blue lights of the fire trucks and police cruisers. I stashed my car in a parking lot about a quarter of a mile away from the accident and jogged down towards the emergency apparatus haphazardly parked in the middle of the road, careful not to get in anybody's way.
Though I only stayed for about 15 minutes, watching the emergency crews work to pull the victims from the two cars using the Jaws of Life, I felt almost immediately the severity of the situation. I didn't speak to anyone; I stayed as far away from the crash as possible (at least as far as my camera lens would allow, given I had to get a photo for the paper), but I could still hear the frantic calls of the EMTs and paramedics who were attending to the crash victims, and their voices told me everything.
By the time I got to work this morning, I already knew the accident had claimed the life of at least two people. Two more people were seriously injured. I can't help but shudder at the knowledge and feel sad that in an instant, the lives of so many people were forever changed.
Because of my job, I often face realities some people like to ignore: death is a part of life. I've covered countless accidents and fires that resulted in fatalities and still more that caused very serious injuries, so I know all too well how fragile life really is. I've been to murder scenes and have reported on stabbings and attempted murders. I've seen a lot. We all like to think it'll never happen to us, but the reality is at some point in our life we, too, will be faced with a life-changing situation.
I could easily have been the victim in last night's crash; I drive down that road if not every day then at least several times a week. What if it was me? What if it was someone I know and love?
Last night I learned a valuable lesson at the expense of another: we are not invincible. All it takes is an instant.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Paranoia
I don't know what I have to be stressed about, but I am under such an inordinate amount of stress lately that I'm about ready to break down. It's the physiological effects I'm having a hard time dealing with — the pressure in my chest and racing heart, the dizzy spells and hot flashes, the difficulty breathing and the debilitating sense of foreboding that prevents me from doing pretty much anything other than staring blankly into space wondering when it's all going to end. I long for the day when this feeling will subside.
A couple nights ago, I was sitting on my couch reading a book, the least stressful activity I could possibly do, when I felt what I can only describe as a fluttering in my chest. It was the briefest of vibrations — less than five seconds total — but it was enough to capture my attention. It happened several more times that night, a handful of times yesterday and at least twice so far today, which makes me wonder... should I be concerned?
Doc told me I'm wound too tight and that I should cut back on my caffeine (he should talk!) and try to calm down (ok, where's my prescription for Xanax?) but it's not quite so simple. Yes, I had one fewer coffee today than yesterday (without any sugar, I should be commended), but I can't stop fretting. I can't not feel like the world's going to implode, or that something equally bad is going to happen.
I need to take a deep breath — good air in, bad air out — and try to relax before I give myself a heart attack at the tender age of 27.
A couple nights ago, I was sitting on my couch reading a book, the least stressful activity I could possibly do, when I felt what I can only describe as a fluttering in my chest. It was the briefest of vibrations — less than five seconds total — but it was enough to capture my attention. It happened several more times that night, a handful of times yesterday and at least twice so far today, which makes me wonder... should I be concerned?
Doc told me I'm wound too tight and that I should cut back on my caffeine (he should talk!) and try to calm down (ok, where's my prescription for Xanax?) but it's not quite so simple. Yes, I had one fewer coffee today than yesterday (without any sugar, I should be commended), but I can't stop fretting. I can't not feel like the world's going to implode, or that something equally bad is going to happen.
I need to take a deep breath — good air in, bad air out — and try to relax before I give myself a heart attack at the tender age of 27.
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Friday Five
1. Got an e-mail from the husband of my good friend this week to see if I would arrange a double date with him and his wife and me and Doc. Evidently I mentioned my desire to see "The Town" at work and she happened to tell him and - voila! - Weekend plans. I don't get to see my friends as often as I'd like to because they've got the responsibilities that accompany marriage including home/yard maintenance, kids, balancing work schedules, etc., so it's nice that we were able to set something up on such short notice. I love having something to look forward to.
2. My computer is making weird noises which concerns me only because it doesn't usually and deviations from the norm are typically a sign that something is amiss. Every so often, I hear this random click-type sound... although upon further inspection it's not really a "click" and I have absolutely no way of describing what it is in a way that can get me a diagnosis, short of bringing it to Apple. And if I opt for the latter option, I'm likely to be laughed out of the store because this computer is about six years old anyway and the fact that it's survived this long is nothing short of a miracle, I'm sure.
3. Guilty pleasure lately: General Hospital. I used to watch this show growing up, especially through high school, and always loved it. I stopped watching in college, partly because my favorite characters left and partly because the storylines seemed far too implausible to be believeable, even for daytime television. Lately, though, with the return of one of my favorite characters, I've made it a point to be home to watch it and over the last few weeks, I notice I've been sucked back in. The women behind the feminist movement would probably want to slap me silly for entertaining the thought of coming home to watch a cheesy soap opera. While I have, on occasion, gone back to work afterwards, for the most part I set up on the couch with my laptop or a book to enjoy the quietness of the afternoon. It's a nice way to wind down from the craziness at work.
4. It struck me yesterday: Oreo is quite possibly the neediest cat on the face of the Earth. I find I can't leave home for long periods of time without worrying that he'll be mad at me for my prolonged absence and whenever I come home, he's impatiently waiting for me and greets me with a series of head-buts as if I'm his feline momma. I planned a recent trip back to my parents' around him (I spent just 24 hours there, rationalizing that Oreo would have spent a majority of the time fast asleep on one of my softest, coziest blankets) and when I came home, he wouldn't leave me alone. When Doc is here, Oreo likes to make his presence known, too. He is often front and center, demanding attention (mostly from Doc, not really me). He's been known to curl up in a tight ball on our laps while we watch TV, purring contentedly as we absently pet his silky fur. Whenever I walk out of the room, he follows me. Whenever I lock him out of my bedroom, he sits in front of the door, pawing the doorknob, whining to come inside... He continues to meow until I open the door (which I'm sure the experts would say is the reason he whines so frequently; he knows I'm going to come to him and he'll get what he wants eventually). Last night, while watching TV, I tossed one of his favorite toys around and the more I played with him, the more he developed a love for the game of fetch. Coupled with all of his crazy antics, the sudden interest in fetch convinced me...Oreo thinks he's a dog. Cats are supposed to be fiercly independent. He's got a sense of loyalty I find endearing.
5. Sometimes I wonder what life will be like in five years. This weekend is "Nostalgia Day" in Palmer and I find myself becoming more nostalgic about my own life as I look back on the history of the town. I can't believe I've been here for four years. I've been out of my parents' house since I was 18 and left for college. I feel like life is flying by and while I try to be an active participant in the present, I can't help but pause and try to plan my future. Five years ago, if I was told I'd be living two hours away from my hometown, just 20 minutes from where I graduated college, I'd have laughed uncontrollably. When I first moved here, I told myself it was just for a year to gain experience as a reporter. Today, I can't imagine leaving. I can't imagine not living in this small town, tucked away in a house in the middle of the woods off one of the many windy, wooded neighborhoods. I don't lack dreams; I know exactly what I want. But now, just as in five years ago, I have no idea how to go about attaining that. I suppose I should live life and enjoy what I have today without worrying about what the future will bring.
2. My computer is making weird noises which concerns me only because it doesn't usually and deviations from the norm are typically a sign that something is amiss. Every so often, I hear this random click-type sound... although upon further inspection it's not really a "click" and I have absolutely no way of describing what it is in a way that can get me a diagnosis, short of bringing it to Apple. And if I opt for the latter option, I'm likely to be laughed out of the store because this computer is about six years old anyway and the fact that it's survived this long is nothing short of a miracle, I'm sure.
3. Guilty pleasure lately: General Hospital. I used to watch this show growing up, especially through high school, and always loved it. I stopped watching in college, partly because my favorite characters left and partly because the storylines seemed far too implausible to be believeable, even for daytime television. Lately, though, with the return of one of my favorite characters, I've made it a point to be home to watch it and over the last few weeks, I notice I've been sucked back in. The women behind the feminist movement would probably want to slap me silly for entertaining the thought of coming home to watch a cheesy soap opera. While I have, on occasion, gone back to work afterwards, for the most part I set up on the couch with my laptop or a book to enjoy the quietness of the afternoon. It's a nice way to wind down from the craziness at work.
4. It struck me yesterday: Oreo is quite possibly the neediest cat on the face of the Earth. I find I can't leave home for long periods of time without worrying that he'll be mad at me for my prolonged absence and whenever I come home, he's impatiently waiting for me and greets me with a series of head-buts as if I'm his feline momma. I planned a recent trip back to my parents' around him (I spent just 24 hours there, rationalizing that Oreo would have spent a majority of the time fast asleep on one of my softest, coziest blankets) and when I came home, he wouldn't leave me alone. When Doc is here, Oreo likes to make his presence known, too. He is often front and center, demanding attention (mostly from Doc, not really me). He's been known to curl up in a tight ball on our laps while we watch TV, purring contentedly as we absently pet his silky fur. Whenever I walk out of the room, he follows me. Whenever I lock him out of my bedroom, he sits in front of the door, pawing the doorknob, whining to come inside... He continues to meow until I open the door (which I'm sure the experts would say is the reason he whines so frequently; he knows I'm going to come to him and he'll get what he wants eventually). Last night, while watching TV, I tossed one of his favorite toys around and the more I played with him, the more he developed a love for the game of fetch. Coupled with all of his crazy antics, the sudden interest in fetch convinced me...Oreo thinks he's a dog. Cats are supposed to be fiercly independent. He's got a sense of loyalty I find endearing.
5. Sometimes I wonder what life will be like in five years. This weekend is "Nostalgia Day" in Palmer and I find myself becoming more nostalgic about my own life as I look back on the history of the town. I can't believe I've been here for four years. I've been out of my parents' house since I was 18 and left for college. I feel like life is flying by and while I try to be an active participant in the present, I can't help but pause and try to plan my future. Five years ago, if I was told I'd be living two hours away from my hometown, just 20 minutes from where I graduated college, I'd have laughed uncontrollably. When I first moved here, I told myself it was just for a year to gain experience as a reporter. Today, I can't imagine leaving. I can't imagine not living in this small town, tucked away in a house in the middle of the woods off one of the many windy, wooded neighborhoods. I don't lack dreams; I know exactly what I want. But now, just as in five years ago, I have no idea how to go about attaining that. I suppose I should live life and enjoy what I have today without worrying about what the future will bring.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Autumn splendor
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| First Church of Monson, Autumn 2008 |
Evening temperatures are hovering around the 55 degree mark, the ubiquitous sweatshirt has made its return to my closet, the scent of pumpkin-flavored coffee wafts through the office, and the colors of the leaves are starting to change. Soon, all of New England will be enveloped in the rich, vibrant hues associated with fall. I can't wait.
It's that magical time of year that brings with it hot apple cider and warm apple crisp; glowing jack-o-lanterns and pumpkin pie; sweet-smelling hay and horse-drawn carriage rides; beer and blazing bonfires; and some of the most beautiful sunsets Mother Nature has to offer. Everything about autumn is amazing.
For this all-too-brief period between summer and winter, I feel lulled into complacency and (actually!) at peace.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Vulnerabilities
I don't know how to separate my personal life from my professional life. Being a journalist is who I am; there's no getting around that. And when something happens at work, however innocuous it may seem, it's likely to also affect me personally. That's who I am.
Today, someone at work asked me about an accident I've been unsuccessful at obtaining information about from the police department. It happened last Thursday and I called several times last week and again this week (on deadline) but to no avail. Instead of worrying about it, I concentrated on the other stories I was finishing up for tomorrow's paper. But when I was unable to provide information to my curious co-worker, she said, "Fine, I'll call [the daily newspaper reporter] to find out."
I was flummoxed. I had a pretty good idea that the accident wasn't a fatal (the police would have issued a press release if that was the case), so I don't see what the big deal is. There are countless accidents in town on a daily basis — many that look worse than they actually are — and we don't cover every single incident. However, the fact that she would cast me aside so quickly and run to my competition for information stung me a little more than I would like to admit.
Today, someone at work asked me about an accident I've been unsuccessful at obtaining information about from the police department. It happened last Thursday and I called several times last week and again this week (on deadline) but to no avail. Instead of worrying about it, I concentrated on the other stories I was finishing up for tomorrow's paper. But when I was unable to provide information to my curious co-worker, she said, "Fine, I'll call [the daily newspaper reporter] to find out."
I was flummoxed. I had a pretty good idea that the accident wasn't a fatal (the police would have issued a press release if that was the case), so I don't see what the big deal is. There are countless accidents in town on a daily basis — many that look worse than they actually are — and we don't cover every single incident. However, the fact that she would cast me aside so quickly and run to my competition for information stung me a little more than I would like to admit.
Say what you want about me — that I'm overly sensitive or over-emotional — but these are the attributes I possess that I feel make me a good writer. Not a great writer, certainly, but a good one. These are also the attributes that have prevented me from developing the "thick skin" journalists need in order to survive in this industry. I take it personally whenever anyone slights my paper or criticizes my writing. That said I should also admit I let it go to my head whenever the paper receives a commendation (however rare that may be).
Whenever I go anywhere with my friends in the towns I cover (and sometimes even surrounding towns) I'm introduced as "Jen from the Journal." One of my friends refers to me as "Jen Paper" and another calls me simply, "Journal Jen." I write a weekly column about my perspective on life in the community and with that column (aptly titled Journaling with Jen), my photo also runs. It’s obvious that my paper is my life and my life is my paper. I can't help it. I don't know any other way to exist. I'd be lost without my job.
The cracks in my emotional veneer are starting to show, though, and I don’t know how to stop them from getting bigger. Lately, I’ve received countless positive e-mails about different pieces I’ve written, and I’m thankful for every one, but whenever anyone criticizes me in even the slightest way, it’s all I can do to keep from bursting into tears and running home to hide under the covers. Strangers have the capacity to render me virtually incoherent with grief simply by uttering a few negative words.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as I contemplate my future. I don’t know where I want to go from here. I can’t say for certain that I want to continue on as a newspaper reporter, however much I may enjoy it now. The job itself is fun (if you ignore the constantly pressing deadlines and the having to deal with idiots), but I need to have a purpose in life and having fun doesn’t really fit in with my lofty life goals.
Note: I’m not talking career ambitions, here. After four years of performing the same menial tasks and several (failed) attempts at advancement, I’ve decided to let go of many of my professional goals…at least for the time being. But therein lies the rub. If I don’t know how to be anyone other than Jen from the Journal, if I don’t know how to exist outside of my job, how can I ever move on from it?
I heard somewhere recently that the problem with being a deep thinker is it leaves you vulnerable to the existential crisis. I can’t help but feeling that that’s what I’m experiencing now. Who am I and where am I going? And more importantly, how am I going to get there when I’m stuck here…in a rut?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Drama, drama, drama
Jersey Shore is like a train wreck. It's terrible. And yet I can't help but keep my eyes glued to it.
WTF?!
I hate to admit it but I have become fixated on this show. Granted I hate drama in my own life, but I love watching others go through it, although some of this is far too scripted to be believable as "reality television." I mean, really. Two roommates write an anonymous note to a third roommate about Third's boyfriend sneaking around behind her back and screwing with other women. One and Two opt not to tell Three that they wrote it and all hell breaks loose in the house. Stupid, right? And yet I have to watch; I can't change the channel.
Part of it might be that watching this show makes me feel better about myself. By comparison, I have a pretty good life: friends I love, a good relationship with my boyfriend, etc. This is as close to drama as I feel like getting, thanks.
At any rate, there's not much else to do at home, so I might as well take advantage of the fact that my parents have cable here... with OnDemand. Oh yes, I'm set up in front of the tv and I have absolutely no plans of doing anything but this for the rest of the day. Lazy weekend. I love it.
WTF?!
I hate to admit it but I have become fixated on this show. Granted I hate drama in my own life, but I love watching others go through it, although some of this is far too scripted to be believable as "reality television." I mean, really. Two roommates write an anonymous note to a third roommate about Third's boyfriend sneaking around behind her back and screwing with other women. One and Two opt not to tell Three that they wrote it and all hell breaks loose in the house. Stupid, right? And yet I have to watch; I can't change the channel.
Part of it might be that watching this show makes me feel better about myself. By comparison, I have a pretty good life: friends I love, a good relationship with my boyfriend, etc. This is as close to drama as I feel like getting, thanks.
At any rate, there's not much else to do at home, so I might as well take advantage of the fact that my parents have cable here... with OnDemand. Oh yes, I'm set up in front of the tv and I have absolutely no plans of doing anything but this for the rest of the day. Lazy weekend. I love it.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Writer's Block
Now that I've got a new (read: slightly used) latop at my disposal, on which I'm supposed to write the next great American novel (hell, I'd settle for simply a novel, it doesn't need to be great at this point), I find I'm afflicted with the sickness that affects most writers at some point in their careers: writer's block.
I'm not sure I know what story I want to tell or if I have anything to say that's worth listening to and good grief! that small shred of doubt is wrecking havoc on my creativity. I've started — and promptly deleted — the beginning of three different stories. I have an idea currently swirling about my head that I have yet to tackle for fear that it, too, will turn into a dud. I feel like a failure already and I haven't even started yet.
Somebody help me out here, this is what I do for a living, right? I WRITE. So why does the thought of writing terrify me to no end?
Perhaps it's not the writing that's the problem; it's the potential for rejection. I'll admit, I'm fragile. I strive for perfection; I like commendations. If someone reads what I write and relates to it, I've done my job. If they enjoyed it so much that they feel the need to lavish me with praise, well then I've done my job well. Therefore, I dread the day I receive the form letter thanking me for my manuscript submission but alerting me to the fact that — hello! — it sucked. I simply can't take that kind of criticism.
As I write this, I can think of three or four writers whom I admire who have come out publicly to state that their breakthrough novels — the books that catapulted them onto the New York Times Bestselling list — were rejected by not one but several publishers before someone took a chance on them. It's such a classic story at this point it's almost cliche... and yet...
I can't even think of a possibility that doesn't include me publishing my book. Dare to dream, I say. (I live in a fantasy world, or haven't you noticed?)
There's just one problem... I have yet to write a book with which I'll risk rejection before making it big in the literary world.
The stress of it all may prove to be too much.
Maybe I should write about a struggling writer who longs to publish her manuscript who instead finds herself sidetracked by men and friends and pets and everything life has to offer in between hard work and smashing success...
I can see their rejection letter already:
"Dear Jennifer...We're sorry to inform you we will not be considering your manuscript at this time...or EVER, really. Frankly, your characters are underdeveloped and your plot line is too contrived. This story is unconvincing and basically unpublishable."
Really? Because it's pretty much my life at the moment...
Oh, the horror!
I'm not sure I know what story I want to tell or if I have anything to say that's worth listening to and good grief! that small shred of doubt is wrecking havoc on my creativity. I've started — and promptly deleted — the beginning of three different stories. I have an idea currently swirling about my head that I have yet to tackle for fear that it, too, will turn into a dud. I feel like a failure already and I haven't even started yet.
Somebody help me out here, this is what I do for a living, right? I WRITE. So why does the thought of writing terrify me to no end?
Perhaps it's not the writing that's the problem; it's the potential for rejection. I'll admit, I'm fragile. I strive for perfection; I like commendations. If someone reads what I write and relates to it, I've done my job. If they enjoyed it so much that they feel the need to lavish me with praise, well then I've done my job well. Therefore, I dread the day I receive the form letter thanking me for my manuscript submission but alerting me to the fact that — hello! — it sucked. I simply can't take that kind of criticism.
As I write this, I can think of three or four writers whom I admire who have come out publicly to state that their breakthrough novels — the books that catapulted them onto the New York Times Bestselling list — were rejected by not one but several publishers before someone took a chance on them. It's such a classic story at this point it's almost cliche... and yet...
I can't even think of a possibility that doesn't include me publishing my book. Dare to dream, I say. (I live in a fantasy world, or haven't you noticed?)
There's just one problem... I have yet to write a book with which I'll risk rejection before making it big in the literary world.
The stress of it all may prove to be too much.
Maybe I should write about a struggling writer who longs to publish her manuscript who instead finds herself sidetracked by men and friends and pets and everything life has to offer in between hard work and smashing success...
I can see their rejection letter already:
"Dear Jennifer...We're sorry to inform you we will not be considering your manuscript at this time...or EVER, really. Frankly, your characters are underdeveloped and your plot line is too contrived. This story is unconvincing and basically unpublishable."
Really? Because it's pretty much my life at the moment...
Oh, the horror!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
A firefighter’s embrace still warm to me
"We're not all fire starters," was my grandfather’s response to the arrest of five area firefighters on arson charges recently.
Grandpa, now retired, was a career firefighter in Springfield, where for three decades he worked alongside other brave men to save lives and property during some of the worst fires imaginable. He ended his career as acting district chief after working up the ranks. Our family, proud of Grandpa’s accomplishments, has photo albums full of newspaper clippings from the various fires he fought throughout the years. He put himself in harm’s way countless of times to save parents, children and pets from suffering smoke inhalation or worse, severe burns or death during some truly devastating infernos. Understanding what he went through by simply looking at an image frozen in time is impossible. You can’t truly appreciate firefighters unless you see them in action first hand.
I’m proud of my grandfather, just as I’m proud of all my friends who currently serve their communities as firefighters. But in the days after the arrest of the five firefighters from Brimfield and Holland on charges that they intentionally set vacant homes on fire, I saw the wound they left in their destructive wake.
I saw it on people like Grandpa.
Usually when I write about a big fire in the towns I cover, I call him. Whenever I see a union fire sticker on a motor vehicle or pass a fire truck on the road, he’s often the first person who comes to mind. I can’t think of him and not feel a surge of pride.
When I called him last weekend to tell him about this latest story I was covering, I could hear the disappointment in his voice.
Holland Fire Chief Paul Foster had said the alleged actions of the fire young men "gave the entire fire service a black eye." How does that old saying go: One bad apple spoils the bunch? Do we think it’s true in this case? I hope not.
Let’s not forget that these are the people who are taken away from their loved ones to save yours when there’s an emergency. A real emergency. And let’s face it, there’s no shortage of those; you only need to look within the boundaries of your small town to notice.
From serious motor vehicle accidents to blazing fires, from carbon monoxide alarms ringing and smoke detector activations, these are the people who routinely give up of themselves for others.
I’ve been to countless fires in the Palmer/Monson area that occurred during the early morning hours when most people are tucked away for a night of rest. Many of them happen during the winter, when people seek alternative heat sources for their homes. Accidents happen and nobody is immune. And when an accident does happen, it’s the local firemen who get out of bed in the middle of the night and go, leaving their wives and children to worry about their safe return.
"It’s a dangerous job," Grandpa said last weekend. "People think we sat around and played cards all day, and maybe to an extent that was true, but when we got a call, we’d go. And we exerted ourselves more than your average worker did in a week."
He’s absolutely right. At some point during my years as The Journal Register reporter, I covered a fire in one of my coverage towns that happened shortly after a fire in the other. I can’t remember specifically which fire or even how long ago it happened (yes, there have been that many through the years), I just remember one of my call firefighter friends saying he had been up for more than 24 hours, putting out fires in both towns (thanks to mutual aid agreements) and that he was exhausted. And yet, when his pager went off for a motor vehicle accident shortly thereafter, he was up and running, off to help yet again. That’s dedication. We should thank them for it.
Statewide, there are about 24,000 call and volunteer firefighters, not counting those individuals who, like my grandpa, make their living working full-time at a department. Let’s not let the actions of a few spoil the good work of so many.
When it’s your family’s lives on the line, you’ll be glad to have them at your service, while their family waits patiently for their safe return.
Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Monsonienne
I read a book recently, called The Washingtonienne, loosely based on a true story about a Capitol Hill worker who got fired from her job for posting explicit details about her sex life (with various married politicians) on her blog in 2004.
Here's an example from The Lost Washingtonienne:
"I got a raise today! Now I make $25K.
(Wasn’t that what I was making before??)
Most of my living expenses are thankfully subsidized by a few generous older gentlemen. I’m sure I am not the only one who makes money on the side this way: how can anybody live on $25K/year??"
I have to admit I was intrigued while reading this book/blog. Not necessarily because I agreed with what the author was saying (she was a bit too loose for my tastes, and that's putting it mildly), but it made me start thinking about who is reading what I'm writing, even though I'm really only writing for myself, as a way to practice writing.
To be clear, she wasn't actually fired for her blog content; rather, she was fired for "inappropriate use of senate computers," which means if she'd written it at home instead of work, she likely wouldn't have been canned. But I digress...
It also made me think about cool blog names. My friend Kristin is looking to start writing a blog again and was soliciting names on Facebook the other day. My blog name is the name of my newspaper column, Journaling with Jen, but it occurs to me that I might not want to link my blog with my work because then perhaps I could be fired for its content, even though for the most part it's benign. After reading The Washingtonienne, I've been thinking about changing the name of this blog (at least temporarily) to The Monsonienne. It has a bit of panache to it, does it not?
We'll see, I haven't decided yet...
Here's an example from The Lost Washingtonienne:
"I got a raise today! Now I make $25K.
(Wasn’t that what I was making before??)
Most of my living expenses are thankfully subsidized by a few generous older gentlemen. I’m sure I am not the only one who makes money on the side this way: how can anybody live on $25K/year??"
I have to admit I was intrigued while reading this book/blog. Not necessarily because I agreed with what the author was saying (she was a bit too loose for my tastes, and that's putting it mildly), but it made me start thinking about who is reading what I'm writing, even though I'm really only writing for myself, as a way to practice writing.
To be clear, she wasn't actually fired for her blog content; rather, she was fired for "inappropriate use of senate computers," which means if she'd written it at home instead of work, she likely wouldn't have been canned. But I digress...
It also made me think about cool blog names. My friend Kristin is looking to start writing a blog again and was soliciting names on Facebook the other day. My blog name is the name of my newspaper column, Journaling with Jen, but it occurs to me that I might not want to link my blog with my work because then perhaps I could be fired for its content, even though for the most part it's benign. After reading The Washingtonienne, I've been thinking about changing the name of this blog (at least temporarily) to The Monsonienne. It has a bit of panache to it, does it not?
We'll see, I haven't decided yet...
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
The Velveteen Rabbit
The great search has commenced.
Following the dismal failure of the hunt for my copy of "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams at my parents' house, recently, I've decided to take to the streets and have opened my search to include various new and used bookstores in the area. This weekend, I hit The Book Bear on Route 9 in West Brookfield and despite the sheer number of books located in that warehouse (otherwise known as Mecca), I was unsuccessful.
So I've expanded my search to include online sites, on which there are a number of copies of the book: different editions with different illustrators. Be still my heart. I might just have to order all of them.
This is where my gluttonous nature takes over. Why settle for one when I can have several?
I'd settle for any edition, really. I'm not going to be picky (even though at this point, with so many choices at my disposal, I can afford to be), but really, I'd kill for a first edition. It's reportedly worth $15,000. Not that the money means anything to me... I want the book purely for sentimental reasons. But hey, if my neurotic book collecting tendencies nets me a substantial amount of money, who am I to complain?
Following the dismal failure of the hunt for my copy of "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams at my parents' house, recently, I've decided to take to the streets and have opened my search to include various new and used bookstores in the area. This weekend, I hit The Book Bear on Route 9 in West Brookfield and despite the sheer number of books located in that warehouse (otherwise known as Mecca), I was unsuccessful.
So I've expanded my search to include online sites, on which there are a number of copies of the book: different editions with different illustrators. Be still my heart. I might just have to order all of them.
This is where my gluttonous nature takes over. Why settle for one when I can have several?
I'd settle for any edition, really. I'm not going to be picky (even though at this point, with so many choices at my disposal, I can afford to be), but really, I'd kill for a first edition. It's reportedly worth $15,000. Not that the money means anything to me... I want the book purely for sentimental reasons. But hey, if my neurotic book collecting tendencies nets me a substantial amount of money, who am I to complain?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Going up in smoke...the end of the summer slowdown
I've been caught up in the media blitz surrounding those alleged firefighter arsonists in Brimfield/Holland. This is the big news story I've been craving all summer and yet I can't help but feel the slightest twinge of remorse when looking at the five individuals involved. They're just kids and anything I write will just contribute to the public backlash...
Found out about the whole thing last Thursday night, barely slept, and after digging for what seemed like hours for information on Friday morning, made it to court in time for their arraignment at noon. I hate covering arraignments. It's a lot of sitting around wondering what information the other media has obtained and how they got it and whether or not you can infiltrate their source to get it too. The actual arraignment itself is too much of a blur to make sense of initially -- it usually lasts under five minutes. Spent some time talking to the assistant district attorney and the state trooper assigned to the fire marshal's office before going to fight with the court clerk staff (the rudest collection of women I've ever met in my life) to get a hold of court documents before heading back to work. That was my Friday in a nutshell. I got back to the office around 1:30-2 p.m. and settled down to make sense of the whole thing so as to write about it coherently. Finished writing in about an hour. It's a tough job...
This arson thing is huge news around here. 7News and Channel 4 in Boston both picked up the story, as did the Boston Globe, which is saying something. Typically Boston news ignores Western Mass. Hell, for the most part it ignores Worcester. I can't help but feel slightly smug about the fact that my company has the story because of me and my penchant for chasing fires. As of right now, it's slated to run in three of our papers, including mine. And I've decided since it's such a big news story, I might as well capitalize on it while I can and wrote a column about it as well...
So long summer slowdown!
Found out about the whole thing last Thursday night, barely slept, and after digging for what seemed like hours for information on Friday morning, made it to court in time for their arraignment at noon. I hate covering arraignments. It's a lot of sitting around wondering what information the other media has obtained and how they got it and whether or not you can infiltrate their source to get it too. The actual arraignment itself is too much of a blur to make sense of initially -- it usually lasts under five minutes. Spent some time talking to the assistant district attorney and the state trooper assigned to the fire marshal's office before going to fight with the court clerk staff (the rudest collection of women I've ever met in my life) to get a hold of court documents before heading back to work. That was my Friday in a nutshell. I got back to the office around 1:30-2 p.m. and settled down to make sense of the whole thing so as to write about it coherently. Finished writing in about an hour. It's a tough job...
This arson thing is huge news around here. 7News and Channel 4 in Boston both picked up the story, as did the Boston Globe, which is saying something. Typically Boston news ignores Western Mass. Hell, for the most part it ignores Worcester. I can't help but feel slightly smug about the fact that my company has the story because of me and my penchant for chasing fires. As of right now, it's slated to run in three of our papers, including mine. And I've decided since it's such a big news story, I might as well capitalize on it while I can and wrote a column about it as well...
So long summer slowdown!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Ramblings
I'm in denial that it's now September, which means summer is officially over....or will be once Labor Day passes this weekend.
This has been a crazy busy week at work and I have to admit, I'm thankful for it. I didn't realize how much stress I was under this summer worrying about filling the pages of my paper with news that, well, wasn't really news. That quote about journalism being nothing more than meeting the challenge of filling space really hit home for me over the last couple months. With the beginning of school though and an increase in fire-related stories, I've had my hands full with writing (and re-writing!) and it's been glorious. I've been coming into work these last few days with a new-found sense of alacrity.
September always reminds me of how much I miss being a student, though. I loved learning and seeing my friends every day and knowing exactly what was going to happen day after day. School is the most structured I've ever been in my life and I crave structure. Re-reading that sentence makes me wonder why I ever chose a career in writing. There's nothing about this job that can be considered structured, and yet I enjoy it....immensely.
Perhaps I will work to set up my own sense of structure. Despite being in the middle of the calendar year, I see September as being a time of new beginnings. Maybe I'll capitalize on that and begin something new.
My dad recently secured a new laptop that he is going to rehab and give to me. I always told him my excuse for not tackling my dream of writing the next great American novel is that I don't have access to a computer of my own on which to do it. Now, for all intents and purposes, he's eliminated my excuse for not settling down and writing. If I give myself just an hour each day to write, I could finish a book in no time... We'll see what happens when I take possession of said computer this weekend.
In the meantime, I've challenged myself to read as much as possible. Yesterday I went to the library and came home with three "chick lit" novels. I'm already half-way through one and I can't wait to pick up the others. One of the books I rented I've already read (twice!) but this time I won't be reading it for enjoyment; it's more of a lesson in word choice, plot lines, character development, etc. We'll see how it works out for me. Doc is leaving for a camping trip with his friends for the long weekend, so I'll have ample time to read. I can't wait... I'm such a nerd.
This has been a crazy busy week at work and I have to admit, I'm thankful for it. I didn't realize how much stress I was under this summer worrying about filling the pages of my paper with news that, well, wasn't really news. That quote about journalism being nothing more than meeting the challenge of filling space really hit home for me over the last couple months. With the beginning of school though and an increase in fire-related stories, I've had my hands full with writing (and re-writing!) and it's been glorious. I've been coming into work these last few days with a new-found sense of alacrity.
September always reminds me of how much I miss being a student, though. I loved learning and seeing my friends every day and knowing exactly what was going to happen day after day. School is the most structured I've ever been in my life and I crave structure. Re-reading that sentence makes me wonder why I ever chose a career in writing. There's nothing about this job that can be considered structured, and yet I enjoy it....immensely.
Perhaps I will work to set up my own sense of structure. Despite being in the middle of the calendar year, I see September as being a time of new beginnings. Maybe I'll capitalize on that and begin something new.
My dad recently secured a new laptop that he is going to rehab and give to me. I always told him my excuse for not tackling my dream of writing the next great American novel is that I don't have access to a computer of my own on which to do it. Now, for all intents and purposes, he's eliminated my excuse for not settling down and writing. If I give myself just an hour each day to write, I could finish a book in no time... We'll see what happens when I take possession of said computer this weekend.
In the meantime, I've challenged myself to read as much as possible. Yesterday I went to the library and came home with three "chick lit" novels. I'm already half-way through one and I can't wait to pick up the others. One of the books I rented I've already read (twice!) but this time I won't be reading it for enjoyment; it's more of a lesson in word choice, plot lines, character development, etc. We'll see how it works out for me. Doc is leaving for a camping trip with his friends for the long weekend, so I'll have ample time to read. I can't wait... I'm such a nerd.
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