GULP!!!!!

Dear Ether,

It’s really quite strange.  One of 365 is a very small, anonymous blog.  A lovely and loyal group of chapettes leave kind comments, and occasionally I’ll get a few newbies leaving their P.O.V’s.  But, in my working life, my writing is published under my real name.  The articles are very public in well-known titles. Publications always post what I write online after it goes to print.  Standard these days.  I’m not used to having anyone really Tweet my work or write anything that I can’t censor before they leave a comment.  However, with this new situation, it’s my name and my writing standing stark naked for the world to judge.  

Often I get wonderful re-tweets and kind words.  And then I get shitty comments really attacking what I’ve written.  Total cringe.  I’ve recently been asked to start blogging for a national newspaper in addition to writing articles for them.  Well, it’s certainly a change of pace from One of 365.  My voice is 100% different, as are my topics and my word limit.  No swearing, nothing too daring and always having to mind my p’s and q’s.  I also have an editor making sure what I submit is proper.  

It’s so weird living this double life.  I can’t check the back-end of these sites to see hit rates or stats.  I can’t pick images.  I feel so out of control.  I also really want to reply to people who leave their opinions, but I’ve been instructed that this is off limits.  So, yes, silenced from any kind of interaction.  

As a writer…as a PAID writer….the sacrifice you have to make is once you hand over you work, it often no longer belongs to you.  I need the money.  That’s the truth.  So, I have to shut my trap and keep on trucking.  Look, I’m not likening myself to a celebrity, but you know how they say they don’t read what the tabloids say about them?  BOLLOCKS!  I am obsessed with comments about my articles and reading reviews about my writing.  My articles are posted on more than a few blogs and I wish so badly that I could write to bloggers—either thanking them or explaining to them what the truth is.  Hey, everyone has a right to their opinion.  But, the more public my work becomes, the tougher it is to just be quiet.  C’mon.  You guys know me.  Have I ever seemed like the type to be shy?  Exactly.  I think many of you Ethers, if you knew my real identity, and read my work, would laugh at my pieces.  See a whole other side of me.  

Right now I am at the stage in my career where I need to start marketing myself and getting my name out there even MORE.  Oh yeah.  MORE.  That means opening the door to a whole lot of extra opinions.  I don’t have the thickest skin, and maybe this is a good time to grow it.  And if I want to be a winner in this media game, I better start to play harder.  But I gotta tell you, the pressure and anxiety—always trying to please everyone—make the right decisions.  I feel like I’m in a fog.  

Right.  Back to my latest feature.  How very odd indeed.  I wonder if it will be loved or hated?  Or, actually, when I’ll start to not give a shit?  I’m never going to be the next Austen or Roth………..shit, I never thought I’d ever work again as a paid writer.  But I have to say, even the little bit that I add to the recycling bins of the world, well, it can be surreal sometimes. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Where have I been? In dreams of sweet smelling lavender.......or so I one day imagine.

Dear Ether,

No. Please. Don’t be frightened.  I mean, not that you were or anything.  (Clearing throat) It was just in case there might be one or two of you who MIGHT have wondered where I’d been, that’s all.  

I’ve missed blogging.  Before I became a “blogger” I never knew how good it felt to be able to write and speak my mind and heart.  Sometimes say wild things. Write in stream of conscious.  Tell stories that no one knew but myself.  And since Friday (my last post), I have missed this form of expression dearly.  

My days have consisted of 14 hour sessions of research and writing about a subject that is so bizarre, so controversial—yet to the outside world appears foolish and cut and dry.  I have been writing about UGG boots and their phenomenon.  From my research, I have found so much history, so many lawsuits, so many opinions from so many rich and powerful people (in a multi-BILLION dollar trade) that this has turned into a full-fledged investigative reporting piece.  My piece is going to really make a huge impact when it is published.  I’m really quite scared.  You have to remember, I write about mascara and Sienna Miller, not counterfeiting and fraud.  A lot of people I’ve worked with have been so kind to me.  So generous.  There are so many players in this boot game.  I want so very much to represent everyone fairly.  But, for the first time I have not been able to write magazine cheeriness. I have had to write like a newspaper reporter.  I want to disconnect my phone and computer on Sunday.  Am I proud of this piece?  I don’t have a fucking clue.  I am numb.  I, when I agreed to write this, never expected it to be a 3,000 word expose.  If I fuck this up, I could be out of a job and blacklisted from a lot of tick-lists for a long time.  And that’s NOT what I need.

Why couldn’t I have been good at math?  Then I could have been an accountant or a broker?  Or better at standardized tests and deductive reasoning?  Maybe I would have been a swell lawyer?  Science—a doctor?  But, alas, I have none of these talents.  And a career switch for me is impossible.  I don’t even LOVE writing.  I love ideas and coming up with themes for photo shoots and working with a team and researching ideas.  But when it comes to the craft of sewing a piece of work together, nope, don’t love it.  It upsets my stomach, I never feel terribly confident and Ethers, it ain’t gonna make me rich!

I find life confusing.  I find my brain muddled and cloudy and it is often difficult for me to think and categorize my life.  I live in a world with half-drunk mugs of coffee, warm soda cans and a desk filthy with old business cars and eyebrow tweezers.  My coaster is a “Last of the Mohicans” CD soundtrack I must have bought 10 years ago (fuck knows).

I dream of lying in a field of lavender in Grasse.  The oils are released in the baking of the sun’s heat.  They calm me like a drug.  The sky is a perfect hue of crisp blue and I am wearing a full skirt made of white cotton.  I can’t visualize the top.  My hair is loose.  My dog sits beside me just a few feet away under a tree.  I no longer have a hump on my back from my days sitting at my computer desk.  No black circles under my eyes are seen on my now tan skin.  My cuticles have healed because I am no longer nervous.  I owe not a single E-mail, phone call or time-limit to anyone.  I am a stranger.  They truly address me as One of 365.  There is no English gent, no family.  I am ageless.   I am a polyglot.  I have endless credit in the bank.  I never gain weight.  I never feel pain.  I drift in and out of consciousness.  It’s like being given a second chance….maybe a re-birth.  

How sad to always escape into a hopeless dream.  Why can’t one be content?  That’s for another night.  This evening, my tired body has to rest and maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in Grasse for a short, sweet minute, smelling lavender.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

The words highlighted above are the perfect summation of how I feel about my father. However, we are bound like a book, and I believe our words, like a novel, are already written. Read this post which is so dear to my heart and let me know your thoughts. I think anyone with a father can relate somehow to this piece. Maybe Ethers, you can give me SOME hope? If we keep using the book analogy...and the picture above....the page is not fully printed. Maybe there's time to add more text to it.

Dear Ether, 

The first man I ever fell in love with was my father.  I suppose you could technically call it love at first sight. 

He was born in Longmeadow, MA (a small, peaceful town where homes are from the 18^th century and have plaques proudly boasting their build dates on their spotless facades).  He was the eldest of three boys and since this is an anonymous blog, I will attest to the fact that he was by far the smartest.  He excelled at everything he did and when it came time to go to University he was courted by every Ivy League school (Harvard even offered him a yearly stipend for his pocket money).  He became one of Eli’s men and went to Yale on full scholarship, became a Skull and Bone and sailing through college with perfect grades and varsity sports under his belt, went to Yale Law School.  If you look at notebooks from his time at college (this was before laptops) his handwriting is in perfect script and there is not a cat-scratch in them.  Of course after graduating from Yale Law, he went to one of the finest firms in the country in Manhattan, got a stunning apartment in a brownstone on the Upper East Side and worked for five years, toiling away being told he’d probably be made the youngest partner if he kept up his fervor.  However, he was unhappy.  He was a writer through and through.  And, lucky, brilliant Dad, and his writing partner, wrote a script and sent it to Hollywood with their fingers crossed.  And guess what?  They landed a job on a TV show immediately.  

Oh, of course there are many more things about him.  That he was perpetually youthful looking which would serve him well as he aged (people often ask him where he hides his portrait).  That he has never had a health problem in his life (knock wood).  That he has always had a love of cars, so much so that when my grandparents, in the 1950’s bought a pink Cadillac (yes indeed) with white leather seats and, amazingly, a record player (the latest and greatest in technology—if they only knew what the future would hold) he sat for 7 hours in it mesmerized.  He says when he closes his eyes he can still see his feet not being able to touch the ground and can smell the interior. 

And so, the tale continues.  My father comes to L.A., works on very famous comedy shows, meets my mother, 2 years later they get married, a year later they have my older brother and then 2 years later I’m born—and my love affair begins.  It’s unfair, really.  It was my mother who gave up a hugely powerful job as a producer, rare for a woman in those days, to become a stay at home mom, and become the bad guy.  My dad worked 12-hour days trying to squeeze out jokes sometimes at 2am (not an easy task).  Often I wouldn’t see him at all.  But when I would hear that car pull into the carport, I would run downstairs and throw my arms around his legs.  

This is what I remember.  He always had a brown briefcase with gold numeric lock keys and never wore a suit.  He always had a stern look on his face and disappeared upstairs.  It was only later did I find out that he was so stressed out and filled with anxiety that he needed to be left alone and decompress.  As an adult and a writer I understand this now.  But then, it wounded me.  And that made me want him more.  And this could be why I have so many attachment issues with men.  But that’s a whole other round we can discuss another time Ethers.  Through the years and his many styles of eyeglasses (whoa, there were some beauts’) I sought his approval.  My mother was so hard on us and was the school marm while my father was the hero who swept through and was quiet and calm.  On weekends we would go to the beach or he would read “The Arabian Nights” or Dickens to us.  I had a canopy bed and he would sit in the dark improvising the most masterful tales until he lulled me to sleep.  The only requisite was that I give him a topic.  

As I became a teenager and he became a very successful drama writer and producer (and eventually and Emmy Award winner) we became wealthier, he calmed down, but no matter what I could do, the man I was in love with never indulged me with pride.  He always was a critic.  I would show him my writing and it would be scarred with red marks.  I’d be talking to him and he’d correct my grammar.  I’d be playing soccer and  could see him peripherally on the sideline with a puckered look on his face and screaming “Come on One of 365, get in there!”  He did always tell me how beautiful I was—even when I had braces, bad eyebrows, spots and frizzy hair.  But I never felt like I was ever going to be good enough.  I was never going to be a savant like him.  I’d already failed and I wasn’t even 18.  I certainly wasn’t going to get courted by Ivy League schools or become a lawyer.  I tried everything to make up for that.   I killed myself in school to the point of exhaustion.  I forced myself to become a straight-A student when it wasn’t natural for me.  I went to summer school and did extra work to make up for, god forbid, a B or B+.  I joined every team possible and became a varsity tennis and soccer player.  But my math failed me and I failed my SAT’s in math.  2 hours of my life, after 13 years of school,  and I didn’t get into any of the colleges I wanted.  I ended up going to a top 25 small liberal arts college in CT (a pathetic attempt to try and re-live what my father had in New Haven) and fell apart there.  I became angry and depressed and slept all day and never attended classes.  I had bad relationships with men who I didn’t like let alone even love and was pained and lonely.  That’s when I bolted for England.  You’ll know the rest of that story eventually.  This is about my dad.  

To this day we bang heads at every occasion.  He’s retired now and is always around to judge.  He’ll comment on everything from weight to writing.  He’s yet to ever look at a piece of my work and ever say it was good; he always has a qualm with it.  He’s even sent back an E-mail I wrote him with corrections for me to fix.  When we fight we are both so similar.  We’re cutting and mean.  But it’s so funny…….I try to be intelligent when I fire at him because even in an argument I want to earn his respect.  So Ethers, you must be asking, “This is the first man she ever loved?”  Oh yes.  And I compare everyone I ever meet to him.   Even myself.  Because to me, he is what I would have liked to have been.  He is a constant reminder of, what I see, as perfection.  Yes, of course I’m no fool and see that he has so many character flaws.  But his achievements and his health and his wit and ease with himself–I would have dreamt for that to have been passed down to me.  Whenever I meet an old colleague of his or a college mate, they always say he was the greatest guy they ever met.  My friends all swooned over him.  I once asked him why he was so easy going to those he didn’t know as well or care as much for and he said, “Because I don’t love them.”  I guess that’s why I have such a fucked up view of love too.  He feels he has to be the bad guy to get the point across and get the irons in the fire.  I just wish instead of irons being in the fire, that there would have been just a tremendous glow and warmth exuding from it.

I don’t know what I will do when the time comes when my father is out of my life.  He’s so intertwined with it.  My brother resembles my dad AND my mom.  But I’m a spitting image of him.  It’s funny, everyday I have to look in the mirror and see the man who I love more than anything.  The first man I ever loved.  But also the man who will probably always haunt me.  When I close my eyes and I picture my father I see him sitting in the backyard on a sunny day.  He’s tan with dark hair, trim and in one of our lovely wooden chairs with the dog at his feet.  As always, he’s immersed himself in a novel.  I stare at him through the French windows of our sunroom and I see him look up from time to time putting his finger in the page where he’s left his last paragraph, and he closes his eyes.  Is he soaking up the sun?  Is he worried?  Is he thinking about life?  Thinking, possibly of ME?  And then I see him give his head a small shake and open the book again looking down once more to read.  This is the first man I ever loved.  And to my dying day, even when I am old and he is dust, I will always wonder what he really thought of me.  

If he could read this, which he never will, I would beg for his forgiveness for failing him and I would tell him that the only reason I ever stood up to him was to try and earn his respect.  But inside I was crumbling.  And if he had said the word or just put his arms around me, he would have silenced my vicious tongue.  Every year that passes I know that we are too far-gone to ever be what I had hoped for.  He really has always been the old dog that can’t learn a new trick.  And part of this is my embracing being an adult and learning acceptance.  But I still look at him through the same eyes I had as a little girl, for he hasn’t really changed much, and I walk around haunted by my first love. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

This article is going to be the end of me. And on shoes, nonetheless....and I LOVE shoes! So, sorry for the rambling below (I needed the break from writing!).......but hey, how badass is this Chanel heel that our Queen Of England, Madonna wore? Now these really are KILLER heels!

Dear Ethers,

A really short one tonight.  My apologies.  Tomorrow could be the same (yes, the victim might be the Wish List!).  I have two enormous feature pieces I am writing that are both due on Tuesday and I am having a really rough time with them.  One is re-working a piece that was really creative (written like a story). It was  bought (yes!) and then my Editor wanted me to add a philosophical element to it that required getting quotes from major companies (which you have to chase, chase, chase) and re-arranging the piece to keep its integrity and also allow it to make sense (no!).  It’s tricky when you sell a piece to a major newspaper.  Once they buy it, they can be cheeky and keep asking you to make little tweaks until it has elements in your work that you never intended.  I really loved my original and wrote it on a whim when a cool event in the fashion world caught my fancy and made me wonder.  It just poured from my fingers and I was so pleased with it.  So was my Editor, but then she wanted to turn it into a leading feature for the week before Christmas—a very savory slot—and needed it to be a more powerful statement story and not as “fun.”  Hey, I get paid per word and am pretty damned psyched, but still, I feel stuck because I don’t think what she’s asking exactly works.  Sighhh…but, this is going to be a big deal and I just started working with this paper (and lord knows I need the dosh and exposure) so I’m not going to say no.  And, hey, a good writer is always one who can take a deep breath and hit the delete button and make edits.  

As for the other piece, you’d think it would be so easy!  I had to interview 3 major shoe designers and ask them each the same 7 questions.  Then, all I have to do is formulate a story about shoes—and hey, even easier, I get to pick the idea of the theme.  I’m allowed a two paragraph lead-in and then I have to weave their answers in cleverly.  Simple, right?  WRONG.  I can’t believe of all things SHOES are giving me a nightmare (maybe it’s my new relationship with shoe gal!).  I think I’ve written and re-written this feature about 4 times and have erased them all without saving one draft.  It’s the main story for a special on shoes for the November 15th issue and I am having is-SHOES!    It’s my first assigned piece from my Editor and I want to show her I’m really good.  She says she’s tried out loads of freelancers and they’ve sucked and I don’t want to fail her.  Maybe she’s cursed me like many a women have cursed a man.  You know, talking about how past boyfriends have stunk in bed right before you and she are about to sleep together.  All sorts of thoughts probably go through their minds and then it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.  UGH!

Anyway, the fuckers are both due Tuesday, 9AM PST and I am shaking in my boots.  I’ve never been this nervous about my work before.  I think I’ve had the confidence kicked out of me by so many Manolo’s (ha ha…ermm…ha) that I’ve lost my One of 365 pride.  It’s also nerve wracking when you know that one company you work for just fired a shed load of people and are making serious budget cuts which trickle down to you and this might be a way to make up for that loss of much needed cash.  

So, will you forgive me today?  My eyes are crossing from staring at my Mac—I even got desperate enough and tried to distract myself from writing by taking crazy pics with my Photo Booth on my computer.  I’m proud to say that I have wonderful Warhol-esque images of me cross-eyed and sticking my tongue out.  

I have to dish about the party. Some nutters were there and I’ll let you now Mr. Depp, sadly, didn’t show.  But a few famous faces did and a crazy Arab prince arrived and I have a hilarious story about that which will make you wonder if I am lying about some of the crazy shit that happens in my life.  

If you asked me when I was a kid if I would be 29, sitting in front a computer on a Sunday night ready to burn all my heels as a coup d’etat against the governing body of shoes or that I would even be obnoxious enough to use the expression coup d’etat instead of speaking English, then I think I would have tried to buckle down on my math and science skills and tried to become a therapist (I’m nuts, remember—and they say it helps one to know one—maybe I would have been great!).  

Jesus, for a quick post this thing is already almost 900 words with my ramblings.  I can’t ever write a short tid-bit, can I

Sorry for complaining, but it sure was nice to write about something else besides heel height and balls of feet.  And, seriously, no matter how bad this writer’s block is, it certainly beats the red carpet.  BLECHHHHHHHHH!  Sighhh……crystal ball, I beg of you, where will I be in the next 5 years??

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I hope this won't be me standing on the side of a road somewhere in Beverly Hills. The 5 dots on the cardboard are like a giant question mark. What CAN I work for? I don't know. It seems my skills are in a dead industry and no one seems interested in what I've got. Any Ethers recruiting out there?

Dear Ethers, 

The recession in America is really tough.  So much tougher than I thought it would be when I left England.  I never thought that on the brink of 30 I would be freelancing (barely) and hearing the sound of crickets on the other end of the phone lines with recruiters who seemed so effusive about my CV and my prospects.  

I grew up with the mentality that if you worked hard, got good grades, went to an excellent University and hell, like me, even got a Master’s Degree, that you would have no problems making your way up the ladder.  I was SO wrong.  Unfortunately, I joined a dying industry just as it began to hit the first stages of its Cancer.  My resume and experience became meshed with something that would give me skills for something that was no longer needed.  I toiled away as an intern and worked my way up——-all to be back to where I was at 22 years old except at 22 there was hope and time.  

I’m really scared.  I don’t know what else I’m capable of doing.  I wouldn’t ever go into PR (LOL….in the magazine business we call going into PR breaking into the “dark side”) and marketing and advertising are impossible to penetrate because they usually want people with agency experience (something I don’t have).  Even though I have applicable skills, because the economy is so bad, there are people with the EXACT skills who are also unemployed, so employers have the pick of the litter.  

In London I was always able to get solid work.  I was able to get really well paying copywriting freelance work and get by.  Though I was never on that coveted ladder, at least I was able to maintain a life and be out in the world with people.  In my present circumstance, I am alone a lot at my computer writing and hoping for that E-mail or the phone to ring.  

English gent says that I have to stay put because every time the going gets bad I bolt.  But I hate L.A. and I just don’t see any opportunities here.  But I can’t keep flittering back and forth.  It just makes me start from square one again and throws everything off kilter.  And again, I don’t have the time to do that any longer.  

I know there are many of you out there who are reading this and probably feeling this same way.  That you’ve tried everything to no avail.  So what can we do to stay positive and keep on trucking?  Well, blogging helps me because it takes up time and keeps me from getting rusty with my writing.  But, it doesn’t help me get anywhere with my future.  The truth is nothing is going to land on my lap—I have to be tenacious.  But, Ethers, I HAVE been tenacious (you should hear the ballsy phone calls I make!).  It’s crazy.  I thought if I pulled out my secret weapon, “the chutzpah,” it would all come together.  But even my crazy attempts have been fruitless.  

I know what you’re going to say.  “Keep on going!”  “Something will break for you soon!”  Thanks guys.  But the truth is, it’s been months.  And my hope is waning.  I know that I’m lucky I have a roof over my head and that my folks are being supportive.  That I’m not a parent with kids and a house with a mortgage.  But the truth is I have to take care of English gent financially until he gets any kind of working papers, and that’s taking a whack out of my savings.  We can’t really afford to go anywhere and do anything because we have to be very careful with every penny.  I feel terrible guilt because I brought us here thinking it would be a better life—even though we had good jobs in England. 

So that’s my employment update for now.  I promise I’ll let you guys know if anything changes, but it’s been like molasses for months.  You’d think it would be fun living like a retiree at 29—-it actually sucks—-yep, there isn’t even a pension.  

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365