Inspired on a drive

It's where all my big thoughts happen. The car. For some, it's the shower. For others, it's right before sleep. Either way, it's always inconvenient. Am I right? Tonight, as I drive, my brain fills up like a birthday balloon. Don't worry. I'm being safe. Talk-to-text helps.

A former professor, dear friend and [now] collegue—what an honor!—Lori Jakiela asked me to talk to

her blogging class about my job. During my full-mouthed spiel, I realized how incredible we are. Writers. Or: people who spend their time gushing, thinking about what people need/want/wish for. I know. Crazy to articulate, but just... some of the most incredible creatures I know are writers. Why? Because they have a greater understanding of things: the subtleties of culture, the depth of our interactions, colors and light and all the while, a meticulous eye on themselves.

Writers take big gulps of the world and hiccup beauty. Simply put. And seeing these young ones so open and excited about writing—well, that's not something I get from my Comp gig. Most of my students are finding ways to dodge my two-and-a-half-hour night class. It's obligatory, a required course, and so one might expect that they'd run flailing in the other direction.

But what is it about the aspiring that is so damn... inspiring? I'm by no means an expert; I mean, I've got oodles of experience now, writing and editing. But I never feel "complete." Is that a writer thing? Maybe it's like when I write the best poem in the whole-wide world, and then the next day, I read it again only to find it might be the worst poem in the world. Ha! It's frustrating. To never be all-the-way good. But that's why we keep going, right? It's become some sort of a catalyst.

But that's just it. You can never be too good at writing. Hell, you can never be too good at anything when it comes down to it. But since I was going on about lists and how to simplify for the reader, catch their attention, I thought I'd make one of my own.

Orwell gave me some of the greatest advice, and so this list is a mash-up of that and my own experience. While all of these tips aren't relevant to every type of writing, I compiled a more encompassing list—one that I feel covers the basics, you know? I hope you enjoy! [And if you have any to add, leave me some words!]

TIPS FROM A SOMEWHAT SUCCESSFUL WRITER:

1. Read. This is something I can say and say and say, have had profs say and say and say, and still... one must discover for his or herself—reading will inspire. But moreover, reading will help you to understand your own thoughts, style, voice more aptly. Good books or bad books, they will help. So just do it. Don't argue!
2. Find your big league. This kind of  goes along with the last one. Find the writer(s) that makes the hairs on your arm stand up. For me, Margaret Atwood embodies the very style that I'd hope to someday achieve; even her prose is poetic. Sometimes I carry her around with me in my pack for inspiration.
3. Invent your own language. Don't re-run tired words and phrases, those you hear every day. Make it new. Need a metaphor? An analogy? An image? Make up your own. This is an especially great way to introduce humor, but it isn't necessary to be funny. Fresh words. Fresh thoughts. Uniqueness is key.
4. Short & sweet. Don't we all love to show off a little? Some of us have great honkin' vocabularies, where we make sport of words like "loquacious" or "parsimonious"; no matter how seamless, words like these are off-putting to the average reader—use as few of them as possible. Keep things succinct, in general. Sentences, paragraphs, all of it. The world is impatient, but more than that—it will make you use more powerful words and constructions.
5. Revisit aloud. Self-editing isn't easy. My advice? Don't just re-read your work, but read it OUT LOUD. That's it. Open your mouth, say the words... does it sound right? Hide in a closet or a bathroom if you have to [but watch for that dastardly echo!] It also helps to give yourself a day or two in-between, an intermission. Like I told Jakiela's class: imagine that mindset you have when you invite someone to your house for the first time. Make that an important "someone." You know that feeling when they walk in for the first time and you sort of envision your home as he or she is seeing it, for the first time. Suddenly, every little spot on the carpet and every book covered in dust stands out like it's been spotlighted. Get there.
6. What you see is what you get. Let's face it—the public has turned into a lusty-eyed pack of big cats, hungry for aesthetically pleasing visuals. It's like we've suddenly snapped back to that age where we more apt to flip through a picture book than read. Look at how violently Pinterest has taken off! No one has to get TOO involved. Just play with pictures! The lesson in this: clean up your blogs; clean up your webpages; clean up your form on the page. People are more likely to read something that LOOKS good. Sad, but true. Inserting funny pictures helps. Ha!
7. Stop. Drop. & Write. This little nugget is more like lifestyle advice. As I was saying above, inspiration isn't always convenient. Because of this, I find myself jotting things down in parking lots, at stop signs and in coffeeshop queues. Keep paper and a pen handy at all times—stash some in your car if you have to—but don't shut that thing up inside you that is urging you to expel. Even if it means being late to your friend's wedding. [Oops!]

I'm going to end there. I could go on and on, but... [:

mt

Verse-fil & "Things"

Ever since the dawning, or near-dawning of Livejournal [y'all remember that one?] I've been following a Poem-A-Day blogger by the name of exceptindreams. While I don't check-in every day, I catch myself going there for inspiration often. It's always good to get a mix of words—words you might not find sifting through your typical venues. Get outside of your little world, you know?

What I love about this particular poetry blog is that most posted poems seem more modern than not, which, for a hep cat like myself, is sort of a breath of fresh air. It's not that I don't dig the classics, but it's like music, you know? You want someone to show you something fresh, new. After you've had the same song on repeat for lifetimes, you want a new beat to dance to.

What prompted this post is my coming across a poem there. For my love of Mars and this simple, yet stunning, idea of looking from the outside in—I'm posting this nugget by Wyn Cooper. I've been fascinated with space for forever, but only within the last 5 years have I been so... consumed? Mars is one of my favorites. I fell in-love with Mars after happening upon a National Geographic photo: a tiny white sun setting in blue hues. How small the sun was! I promptly taped it to my wall, rising and falling near it for years.

But those aren't the only reasons for this post. That poem stirred something in me for other reasons. About a week or more ago, I was having quite the conversation with a friend's husband. We were all out to dinner waiting to stuff our yaps at Max & Erma's when I asked:

"So, let's say you didn't have any kids or anyone dependent on you that way... would you travel the world's first mission to Mars, knowing that you wouldn't be coming back? You would be—hopefully—gleaning tons of insight about space and helping advance our knowledge and technology, but... it's a suicide mission. You can't come back when it's all over."

I got quite the look for this one.

"What, am I stupid?" he blasted from across the table. "What a stupid question! Why in the hell would I want to do that?!"

I tried to explain that it would probably be incredible, even just the experience: sites and sounds and feelings. Still, he had a pretty cross look on his face.

"Well, would you?" he asked, turning it around on me.

"Yes." And then I mumbled something sarcastic about having a football field named after me or something.

This isn't the only fight we've had over a dinnertime discussion. In fact, we spent days arguing, stopping then picking back up at our next encounter, about why "I don't want to be rich." Once more, I got the what-are-you-stupid? face.

"The only people you ever hear saying that they don't want money are poor people!" he spat.

"Not true. There is more to life than money. Yeah, it would be nice to be more comfortable and less stressed come bill time, but I know myself well enough to know that kind of excess would depress me."

"Then you buy drugs to make you happy! You can afford it!" was his answer.

I've got a whole diatribe in me. Trust me. And I want so badly to calm this indignant heat in me over his stereotypical "male" response, but just explaining it here has me all fiery again. Spare me the lecture about being an ignorant and sexist ass for blaming it on his "maleness," because there are reasons that stereotypes are stereotypes, as my roommate would say.

Cliche as it is: there's more to life than things. This isn't to say I don't enjoy "things"; however, I know my limits. I know that my want of things—whether they are gadgets, careers or personal goals—keeps me determined and pushing. I need to have "want."

That said, anyone who'd like to help pay for my mountain-sized debt from school, please find me on PayPal. I'll repay in doodles and kisses.

Best,
mt

"Mars Poetica"
Wyn Cooper

Imagine you're on Mars, looking at earth,
a swirl of colors in the distance.
Tell us what you miss most, or least.

Let your feelings rise to the surface.
Skim that surface with a tiny net.
Now you're getting the hang of it.

Tell us your story slantwise,
streetwise, in the disguise
of an astronaut in his suit.

Tell us something we didn't know
before: how words mean things
we didn't know we knew.

Don't count the stars, she says...

"Everything about you is extreme."

This is what the tarot-card reader told me a few months back. "No shit, lady," is what I wanted to say, but instead wore a smug grin, the occasional laugh escaping. I tried to hide my disbelief while I took notes in my book. I wrote everything. Extreme...

So what?

This is a question I'm often jotting in the margins of student papers. It's so easy to use heavy words, concepts really, without definition: words without the picture-frame-like backs to hold them up. But she was right. Everything. The broad works here.

I feel a chapter ending. I feel... confused. I feel like I don't have many chapters left to go if I keep burning through them so quickly. One person can only do so much. And I know it in my heart, yet feel I need to be superwoman. Even if I were—cape-clad and toting otherworldly powers—it still wouldn't be enough.

On Tuesday, I left class and walked to my car alongside a very kind student of mine. She is from a middle eastern country, and so, startled by the bright eye of the moon [as always] I turned to her and asked if there were any myths or stories about the moon in her country.

"Sorry. I'm just sort of preoccupied with the sky a lot."

She understood and stopped at the top landing of the cement stairs, our unspoken point of departure: "Let me think... no, but there is something with the stars."

At this point, I may have been drooling. Something about the universe just does it for me. I guess I'm both THAT simple and THAT complex.

"My grandpa always warned me not to count the stars. I don't know what, but something bad would happen. I always wanted to, but was too afraid to look for too long."

After some later goose-chase online, I found what I was looking for: http://rosmee.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/count-the-stars-dhofar-sinkhole-shihait/

One blogger had an answer. While it is a fantastical folktale or not, I gleaned my own truth. What is the moral? What am I to learn? [The exact topic I've been lecturing about in class: the folktale.]

With no idea of it, this student gave me my own lesson. It wasn't anything she said, but everything I knew that she didn't need to say. I'd been stargazing too long. Wrapped up in my own head, striving for my own definition of "success"—essentially the unattainable. Time to come down to earth, lady.

It's time.
mt

Dear 2013 | Resolutions, Replays & Ridiculousness

You may wonder what I expect of you. Chances are that, already, I have overblown your proverbial balloon with 200-ton expectations and a heaping mountain-sized dose of blind optimism. My bad.

2012 was something like hell for me. While it had its high tides, its low blows seemed near fatal, at times, and mostly just... well, depressing. So, yes, the dawning of a new calendar on my wall [the 2013 I Can Has Cheezburger LOLCat Calendar, to be precise] has my eyes a-glitter with some serious hope. This just HAS to be the year they invent affordable jet packs or a Transatlantic tunnel.

You know... I had so many expectations for last year—so many goals and resolutions that I never got to. I mean, I could spend all day listing the personality flaws that need fixin', the calories I should be cutting and margins of productivity I wanted to conquer, but I'll refrain to save you some jive bitching. [I really should take up drinking or something...] Anyhow, let's face it;
you kind of sort of owe me one. No?

In ranting and raving about the year past, let me also note that I'm not the only one with a steamship full of disappointments [sinking ship?]; it appears 2012 wasn't a bitch for just me. Nearly everyone I talk to had a shitty year, too. 2012 was amaze with separations, sicknesses, deaths, moves and heated political debates. I realize most years have ups and downs, but last year, in my rear-view mirror and the mirrors of many others, those 365 days smarted some sick-nasty destruction. Personally, by December, I was rooting for the promised end of civilization [See: End of the World.]

In conclusion: you should be preparing for a stellar year. We deserve it! [If it takes a dozen or so HJ's to accomplish this, I'm willing. Just sayin.]


Sincerely, your friend,
mt


In an attempt to keep my resolutions both optimistic and generic, I drew a doodle to commemorate:

Thank you, Instagram! [Follow me: 1flychicken]

...Oddly enough, it's only January 7th and already I received my first speeding ticket, fallen down the icy stairs and hurt myself, had about three zombie dreams aaaaaand got my period. Really, 2013? Can we try a little harder...?

END OF THE WORLD | Nearing the apocalypse with chicken wine...

[Thanks to NASA/media.techeblog.com]

I've been railing on about the end of the world all year, perhaps, but just lately it's been feeling inevitable. Ha! Not really, but it's December 18th, and with a mere four days until Earth's supposed finale, I've been questioning everyone.

"So what IF it were really, positively, the end of the world on the 21st—what would you do, starting now?"

The responses have been both sad and funny, all of which have made me think a lot. Of course, peeps are asking in response, almost sarcastically: "What about you?" To which, I have yet to respond. In lieu of my blogging endeavors, I thought I'd make a post about it. And then ask you lovely people.

If I'm scaring you, or you've been fearing this on your own accord, let NASA assuage your worries.

The first thing I'd do if I got the news rightthissecond? Leave work and never come back. I'd snatch up the few necessary items of importance that I have hangin' about in my office: a photo of Jake, my cardboard robot chicken,  my favorite Papermate Flair Razor Point pen, the Instagram-ed/printed/laminated photo of my friend D and I in Cape Cod [that always makes me smile], and my favorite rock [long story.]

From here, I'd get gas and a coffee drink at Sheetz—and probably a meatball MTO [an indulgence that I never indulge in!]  (: Then, I'd hit up the liquor store and buy seven bottles of chicken wine, Rex Goliath Cabernet Sauvignon, and scavenge the Youngwood area for cocaine or crack or speed or meth. C'mon. Who wants to sleep right before the end of the world? Not this girl. Lots to do.

First thing is first: I've got some people to smooch. I think there is a running list of like 10 (really, there are more, but don't judge me!); honestly though, I'd settle for hitting up the top 5. With only a few days at my disposal, I'd try to accomplish this in one day. I'd waste one bottle of wine on this, driving double-fisted: water and wine. How would I approach the smooching situation? I'd probably just do it. If I felt the need for words, it might be something like: "C'mon, all I've ever wanted to do is kiss you. Let me."

Romantic, huh? What can I say?

It sort of reminds me of that moment in Grease 2: "Let's do it for our country." Haha... yep.

HAHA priceless face on this chick... [thank stagevu.com]

Once all smooching happened (or didn't), depending on my locale, I'd probably head home and say my farewells to Matt and the cat, pack up some clothing items, my computer, my writings and showering things. I'll be on the road for the rest of the "end." While still in the Greensburg area, I'd try to find my other friends, you know? But I mean, this all wagers on what everyone ELSE is doing, obvi. Kelly, Amy, Adam, all thems. [:

Next stop: I'd visit my mother. On my way to her house, though, I'd buy a delicious chocolate-y cheesecake and some serious fast food. Also, I'd swing by downtown New Ken and score some tree. There is reason for this. My mom used to be a hippie, so I think I'd want to smoke with her. More for her than my reasons. She might need some to calm her down, as it will be a pretty stressful time for everyone, I bet. We'd smoke, eat and pop open my second bottle of chicken wine. I'd spend a day with her and the cat, and then leave her with the remainder of tree and a bottle of chicken wine.

Three bottles down, four more to go.

Rex Goliath—the 47 lb. rooster! LOVE!

Ok, off I go. I think, next, I'd visit my aunt, my step mom, Wendy, Shawna, Bobi... the historical peeps in my life. I'd have to. Whether I see them often or not, they are some of the most important people to me. Does that make sense? I'd at least give them a squeeze, a smooch on the forehead and just tell them I love them and thank you. I think Wendy and I could drink a bottle of my chicken wine together and have a blast: reminiscence and be goofy. We'd laugh a lot, I bet. Sometimes I'm sure that she and I have a similar humor. Perhaps it rubbed off in adolescence?

Next, I'd head across the river to see my sister, brother and nephew. I'd ask him to color with me. I'd hope we could color for a good while and just hang together. All of us. I'd ask him a lot of questions, like: "What do you want to be when you grow up? And: "What do you think you'll look like when you're 20?" This is kind of sad, and I'd probably cry. He may or may not understand that. Only kiddos like him are a reason to be sad for the apocalypse. I might ask him the meaning to life, too. I'm thinking, if there is a solid answer to this, only a kid would know. Not a grown up. We're jaded and analytical and overwhelmed by the mundanity of day-to-day existence. I think kids are smarter than we are for this reason. Honest and typically untainted.

THEN! With three more bottles to go [counting down and mapping by wine, apparently] I'd route my way to McMurray/Canonsburg to visit with the surrogate family. I'd squeeze L [a.k.a. "the Peanut"] so hard she'd poop her pants. Ha. But we'd color, for sure. Maybe cut up some paint swatches and get crafty. I'd get her a Starbucks Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate and some gummies. If I've learned nothing else, it's that gummies, crafts and kiddos are the cure for just about any kind of sadness you can experience. True life. ["Real talk," as Ernie would say.]

While there, I'd hug M, wrestle with Big D, then enjoy my third-to-last bottle of chicken wine with... Miss D. We could chain smoke cigs, laugh about goofy things and hopefully get to peep the stars/sky/moon for a bit. And the Koi! Even after our hang sesh, she could go be with her family and I'd probably tent-up on the front patio and hang with the fishes for an eve, getting to see the big clear sky. That place is like a vacation sometimes. No worries. All beauty. Nothing is mine to do or fix or clean or stress over. You know? Except when I break shit... ugh.

I assume at this point, with only two bottles of chicken wine left, that there isn't much time either. I would try to find Ernie. I'd like to spend my last moments with her, if I could. I think she gets it, and I know, she is fearless. But she'll probably have her own agenda. If she is too caught up, I'd probably just go to the ocean. Alone. If not with Ernie, I'd want to be alone. And wait for the end kissing to the beautiful sky and ocean with my last two bottles, coked-out, reading a book or something—also writing and doodling. Yep.

I must add, I'd be praying that this apocalypse would have NOTHING TO DO WITH zombies. Ugh, especially the fast ones like on 28 Days Later. I mean, it's called the "Rage Virus." Enough!

UH... HELL NAW. [Thanks to 28dayslater.wikia.com]

So there it is. Personal and semi-compact: my end of days. But here are some of the more comical and/or important responses I've heard thus far:

"I'd let out all the dogs in the shelter down my street."

"I'd make some calls, apologize to a few people for some shitty things I did."

"I'd unlock all of my guns."

"I'd lie in bed with my husband, the dog between us. That's it!"

"I'd curl up in a ball and cry."

"Drugs. A lot."

HA! Some of these are stellar. But...
Now, it's your turn! How about you? Tell me things!
mt

Christmas Rant | Retail Woes, Ugly Blow-Ups & My Grinch-Sized Heart

I want to hurt people.

No…let me rephrase that. I’m not a violent person. Really. It’s probably hard to believe I could hurt anyone. Just look at me. I’m a four-eyed, sweater-clad twenty-something with a graduate degree in poetry. So let me put it this way: I want to hurl shopping carts at people—but not really hit them, just come close enough to send them running in the other direction, preferably out of the shopping mall all together and back to their cozy suburban dwellings.

It’s the time of year that gets me. I become loudly disgusted in humanity: prone to fits of Tourette’s-like cursing, erratic driving, and sometimes when no one is listening, I revise the words of popular Christmas tunes to sing about murder, prostitution and all-around mayhem. It’s cool. I would never do anything about it. It’s just a thought.

I know. I realize it’s a hell of a time to be ornery, especially for someone like me—noted to have an almost tragic “hippie optimism” and a deeply rooted humanitarian-style set of personal politics. But let me explain.

It isn’t the grinning array of elves and Santa knick-knacks, nor the multi-colored strands of lights outlining every house. In fact, I enjoy the décor. Well, all but those obnoxious ballooning blow-ups strangling the lawns of Greensburg. Talk about overdoing it. I thought lawn balls were lame. But now we’ve got puffy Snoopys and snowmen, carousels and over-fed Santas… Look, people, chances are if you’re a suburbanite like me, your green space is already limited to a patch of scraggly yellowing grass, maybe a shrub or two, but most certainly not enough room for a life-size team of googly-eyed reindeer. Just sayin’.

Thanks to the NYTimes.com for this pic.

I’m still trying to figure out the whys of this. What happened to me? What happened to my Christmas?

Retail is the most obvious scapegoat. I like to blame the years spent holed up in a 12 by 12 room, on-camera, counting money in a grocery store’s cash office. For years, it was nothing but me and seven endless hours of looped Christmas music (a day) counting someone else’s dirty money. I only ever emerged when called upon to handle extra-bitchy customers. More than likely, our system was declining their gift cards, or they wanted to return their holiday turkeys and hams before they had a chance to enjoy them. Hey, customers can be smart. They found them for two-cents-per-pound cheaper at Shop ‘N Save or Community Market. And I’m supposed to give a shit. Because now, I have to throw these things away. Yes, for public safety reasons, Giant Eagle automatically assumes all perishable returns—no matter how well they are sealed—were injected with cyanide or simply left to grow bacteria in your backseat for days.

“But wait,” a customer might point out, as I’m disposing of their 20-pound mistake. “Are you sure you have to pitch it? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it. I just found it cheaper somewhere else.”

And yeah, this sounds heroic like maybe they even care that people are starving right next door, but even after I tell them “no-can-do,” they’d pocket their refund like the Scrooges they are and prance out of the door proudly, mentally patting themselves on the back for their two-dollar savings.

Replacements for "My kid made the Honor Roll!" bumper stickers (geekologie.com)

So I’m bitter, maybe. But anyone who has ever worked retail knows that people only grow nastier during
this joyous season. Good will toward men—my ass. It’s probably the stress of shopping, organizing, sending out horrifically worded Christmas letters bragging about their children making honor roll. Thank god my mom never sent out those letters. The most she’d have to brag about would be my growing pile of melodramatic poetry scribbled on notebook paper or how this school year, I wore something other than boy’s JNCO jeans and skater shoes.


But the closer it comes to Christmas, I do lighten up. I swear. It’s just the initial onslaught of a premature-Christmas that gets me: the over-eager shoppers barreling through aisles without regard to the human race, the limited parking spaces, the garbled holiday tunes playing over every store radio.

This year, it was November 7th when I got my first taste of it. NOVEMBER SEVENTH, people. C’mon. I hadn’t even finished my Trick-or-Treater-candy overage and already I’m bumping elbows with crowds of puffy-coated holiday shoppers fighting over gaudy, discounted tree ornaments, and all to Dolly Parton’s rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

I was just trying to buy some damn acrylic paint at Michael’s.

Christmas threw up... (Thanks alleewillis.com)

But it’s got to be more than my seven-plus years working at a grocery store. I think it’s the hypocrisy of it all. We’re supposed to be celebrating a holiday that imposes good values: kindness, generosity, and an appreciation of what we have, the simple things. Yet, there’s nowhere I can turn without catching a stark glimpse of Christmas—the twiggy wreaths hung on doors shiny with metallic paint and stuck Styrofoam birds; the phony LED icicle lights hung from eaves, glowing an aura so fake I can describe it no other way but “death”; and let’s not forget the screaming children everywhere, pointing and crying for the latest video game or Lego’s set.

Maybe more than all this, I’m pissy with myself. Because at some point, we all realize the sham. It’s not hard to sit there and point out the materialism, the chaos, the wide-eyed consumers scurrying for more coupons and sales flyers, but I do it too. Sure, I make many of my gifts, put more thought into them than I should, really. I refuse to buy gift cards and spend too much time trying to find the perfect gift. My idea of a Christmas horror story would be getting a gift from someone I didn’t anticipate and leaving them empty handed. How sad is that?

I don’t know what happened to Christmas for me or anybody
 else. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Whether I want it to or not, it’ll come every year. And like the Grinch, I’ll stand at the edge of my mountaintop, or more aptly—my soapbox, swearing to myself, a little black heart beating inside my chest. I’ll watch the world frantically preparing for the season and think of hurling those shopping carts.


But truly, I’d like to believe that, like that same Dr. Seuss tale, if all the decorations and presents and roast beast were to disappear, the world would still be singing. But I’m not going to jail for grand larceny to find out.

*Christmas Rant from my reading at Awesome Books on December 8th, 2012.

This all said... Merry Christmas, everyone! [:
mt

Auto-Bio | Your Homework

One of the most difficult feats I have yet to really master as a writer is the bio. For most journals, both online and in-print, it's typical to be asked for a "brief bio." Shit, even if you aren't a writer, how many social media sites these days are speckled with an array of text boxes that require some condensed verbiage of yourself. Likes and dislikes. Authors. Movies. Books. Music. Television show. Ice cream flavor. C'mon. Technology has not only allowed us to connect with the world, but in a way, define ourselves for the world. In words. Scary!

And so when people scoff at writing, in particular, English Composition, I have to wonder what in the hell world they live in. The Internet, smartphones included, has made life more interesting, certainly, and to the surprise of many: language both more important and somehow... it's gotten worse, skill-wise?

I'm sure it began with the short snippets of text messages. U no txts r quick n make room 4 errors & short sloppy spellings 2. But when did we become so lax as to allow for this? I mean, I'm not sure I could even consider dating someone with a horrible vocabulary, much less a lazy language of text-speak and misspellings. LMAO! (;

I'm off topic.

What I wanted to speak to is the laborious task of summing up oneself. When was the last time you had to do this? Have you ever? What did you say?

For writing submissions, it's easier. Really, any specialized venue in this way, at least, gives you some focus. But, for example, what does one do with the small info box at the top of his or her Pinterest page? Twitter? Facebook? I usually go about it randomly. Whatever pops into my head—which usually ends up being completely inane, you know?

My homework for you, those who dare attempt: write a general bio for yourself. Three to four sentences. Pretend your audience needs to really KNOW you. Not only is this a study in using language in a concise way, but really picking yourself apart to extract what you think it most important about you.

I want to know you! Go!

mt