Who's the Boss?*

I'm the boss!

I'm the boss of this apartment house, I'm the boss of my Kiddo, and now I get to be my own boss in the business world! . . . Well, co-boss in any event.

I've joined forces with Amanda Abella to create Digital Zen Ink.  While we don't have super hero capes (yet) between the two of us, we have some pretty super powers.  Our mission is to help small, independent businesses get off the ground through providing web content, blogging, social media, and English/Spanish translations.  Basically, we're looking to take care of the little stuff, so they can focus on their bigger pictures.  

She's the other boss.

To kick off our joint endeavor, Amanda suggested we do a give away.  I suggested we give away unwanted, snarky advice to passers-by, but she thought a book would be a better incentive to earn intrest in our business.  Note: this is why she's responsible for more of the marketing.  If marketing were up to me, I'd probably have as many books thrown at me as I was trying to give away.  (No joke, a college professor threw his chalk across the room because I got him so pissed off).


(And here is where I blatantly steal content from my business partner, because she was way ahead of the game, and set up the rules for this give-away).

"In celebration of launching our co-op efforts we will be hosting a giveaway of one of the best freelancing books around, The Money Book for Freelancers, Part-Timers, and the Self-Employed.

It is because of this book that Amanda started getting her finances from freelancing in order. In her opinion, it is a staple if you want to be successful at a side hustle or running your own business.  (Side note: Maybe I should read the book?  I wonder if I am disqualified from winning the book because technically, I'm supposed to be giving it away).
 
So what do you have to do to enter and hopeful win this life changing book? By doing one or all of the following.

1. Tweet about Digital Zen Ink. Make sure to mention @amandaabella or @serial_writer so we know you have tweeted. (1 entry for each Tweet)

2. Follow Digital Zen Ink on Twitter. (1 entry)

3. Blog about Digital Zen Ink. This can be an entry about digital entrepreneurship or Gen Y side hustles. (3 entries)

4. Send out an email about Digital Zen Ink. You can find a template here. (5 entries)."

So the task is up to you.  I love free stuff and I'm betting you do to.  It can't take more than 5 minutes to Tweet, Facebook, or email your entire address book about us.  The more you spread the word, the better your chances are of winning this book that Amanda swears by.  (I should read this thing!)

The winner will be selected after I consult my Magic 8 Ball and Amanda does her thing on Random.org. 

Thanks for playing and spread the word!

*Did we ever get an answer to that question?

Of Cheese Addictions, Easter Candy, and Cancer

First off, Happy Easter to all my readers!  I hope your kids got jacked up on as much candy as they could before you had to usher them out the door to the Easter church service of your choice.  Because mine did, and I'd hate to think that anyone missed the fun of having to hiss every 2 minutes, "Sit still!  Stop growling, you're not a dog.  Don't give me that face.  Pay attention to God, He's the reason you're here, but I'm ready to send you back!"

Really, I can't blame anyone else except myself for the Kiddo getting a high on sugar.  I'd split up the jelly beans, gummy bunnies, Peeps, and malted milk balls between 24 plastic eggs, so he was obligated to open each egg to discover the treasure within.  What I didn't realize at 1AM as I filled these 'spring spheres' is that he would insist on having to taste test all the contents within.  Before I realized it, he had in inhaled 4 peeps, a fistful of jellybeans, and a half dozen bunny gummies.

So between fighting with a fidgeting child, rolling my judgmental eyes at some of the Easter 'fashions,'and struggling to stay focused on the homily and wondering if the Deacon would drop the chalice, I didn't really have a holy experience at Mass.  I know the graces were there, but I didn't have any happy warm fuzzy feelings.  Guess that's why it's a good thing I am already intellectually convinced of my faith.  Because if I had to survive on the warm and fuzzies, I'd be out of church so fast, I'd set a new land speed record.


Speaking of religion and graces, I'm happy to announce that Brenden McGuire received some very promising news regarding his tumor.  Per his post on Facebook, "The bad news first--the treatment method for my cancer will be extraordinarily intense inpatient chemotherapy, plus surgery (-ies) at some point over the summer. So I will be in the hospital, off and on, for the next nine or ten months. The good news, however, is that the tumor has been confirmed to be non-metastatic (i.e. it hasn't "spread" to my lungs, brain, liver, etc.). Thus, according to my oncologists, the most likely outcome of the treatment will be a cure. That can keep one going through anything."

Thanks so much for the prayers for this young man.  Please continue to pray for his recovery and that his family will have the strength for the long haul ahead of them.  Within the next month or so, I will be working to establish a foundation for donations for the McGuire family.  When I get that up and running, I hope you'll be as generous as you can.  He's the sole breadwinner and will be impacted as the months continue.  The college will work with him to keep his job available, but cancer treatments are anything but cheap.  


Now for the hardest part of this post, admitting my shameful addiction.  I am a cheese whore.  I LOVE cheese.  The sharp smell of red hoop cheddar, the creamy textures of fresh mozzarella, the chalky rind on brie tantalize my senses.  When I picked up Edward Trencom's Nose: A Novel of History, Dark Intrigue, and Cheese from the dollar bin at Books-A-Million I didn't expect much, but I really was enchanted with the colorful, intoxicating descriptions.  I had found a novel that verbalized my insane fascination and desire for all things dairy.  (When I was expecting my son, I had the most insane cravings for semi-soft cheeses, forbidden to pregnant women.)

When I go to the grocery store, I'll linger in the 'fancy' cheese department, which sadly consists of 1/4 of a display case.  (I almost married a boy who lived near an incredible food market with a fancy cheese section that was larger than my entire apartment house.  We might have been unhappy, but I would have had some awesome cheeses to console me).


So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to eat a wedge of brie and an apple.

Becasue Cancer is Bull$#*%

Stole this from MommyWantsVodka: funny, with a touch of profane; my type of humor.

This is the first thing that has brought forth a real laugh from me in days.  Well this, and a card I discovered at Wal-Mart which has a cotton candy scented air-freshener unicorn farting out a rainbow.  (Be vary wary my dear friends, because you may be getting one of these cards in the mail soon.)

What has kept me so silent and my brain so cobwebbed this week is the news I got on Tuesday.  See the picture of the young man below?  Well, he has cancer.

Brenden McGuire

That's Brenden.  We went to college together.  In the eight years since we've graduated he's gotten married, has almost 3 kids (#3 debuts in June), gotten a doctorate degree, and teaches back at the college where he was Valedictorian.  Two words--Show off!  (In my eight years since college, I got knocked up and dumped, engaged and ditched at the alter, and fired from my government job last spring.  It's obvious that someone used his college degree a bit better than I did.) 

No, all joking aside, Brenden is a wonderful person.

We met as freshmen; I, a fresh-faced 18 year old who had never driven on the interstate because I was over-sheltered ('It's not you that I don't trust; it's the other assholes on the road!' my dad would/does say) and he, a 15 year old  Neew Yorka who had spent the summer running around Europe with his twin brother.  No parents.  Just them, no parents.  And I was soooo envious.  So I did the only reasonable thing.  I pointed out that I was older and could drink sooner.  That didn't phase him.  Duh!  He'd spend the summer in Europe.

Although we disagreed on practically EVERYTHING politics, government, the War between the States, the role of women throughout history, Socrates, there was one thing that unified us for three years running.  Every Saturday morning, we'd roll out of bed, meet up at the Chapel, hear Mass, and round up a group of equally bleary-eyed students to drive into D.C.  In all kinds of weather, every Saturday of those three years we'd stand on the sidewalk of 16th and 'L' praying the Rosary.

We prayed for the men and women who were probably choosing to terminate the life of their child.  Some chose out of fear, others out of poverty, and sadly, some as a form of birth control.  My heart would break with every young woman I saw walk in, but I never judged, for I realized how easily it could have been me.  I'd been date-raped as a freshman and never told anyone, but I remember thinking that I hated this man so much I could never carry his child.  The idea of killing a child, my child, goes against every natural instinct.  But I remember and still feel the terror, the uncertainty of not knowing what to do.  And I know that each woman that walks into those clinics are just as scared as I was then.

There were Saturdays when I felt like a hypocrite and coward, that I had no right to ask these men and women to reconsider taking the life of their child, when the year before I might have done the same.  But standing on the sidewalk with Brenden by my side, I felt safe, sheltered by a big wall.  It was such a comfort to have his big, booming New York voice echoing off the buildings.  I don't think he ever knew that I was so wracked with self-hate and hypocrisy.  He was a rock of stability for me on those Saturdays.

We've bumped into each other a couple of times since we graduated and each time he greets me with a giant hug and a good solid thump on the back, but outside of that our daily lives haven't intersected.  So when I got the news on Tuesday that he has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, I felt the wind knock out of my lungs.

"No, it can't be like that!" I yelled in my head, so as not to make the Kiddo think that Momma has completely lost her marbles.   "He's too young, he's got an even younger wife, and three kids.  He's a good man, a hard worker, someone so intelligent it's down-right eerie."

And just like that, my writing world ground to a halt.  I've been unable to think without wanting to cry.

So here I am, up waaaaayyy too late again.  Writing this out has been cathartic for me, but it hasn't changed the situation.  A friend of mine has cancer, I'm not sure of what will happen next, and all I know is that cancer sucks!  I wish I could fix this, I wish I could take the cancer away from him and his family.  But I can't.

But I can pray.  And that's what I'll have to do everyday.  I'll be like a little annoying fly, buzzing around God's head:
Me: "Buzz, buzz, Hey God" (in a totally sing-songy voice).  "You gotta heal Brenden."
God: "Stop buzzing in My ear."
Me: "Buzz, buzz, not yet.  You gotta heal Brenden before I go away."
God: "Leave me alone."
Me: "Nope. Buzz, buzz."
God: "OKAY! Geez! I'll do it. Would you please leave Me alone now so I can watch those morons from the Jersey Shore stomp all over Rome?  Ya know, The Situation should really be thanking ME for those abs."
Me: "Yea, I bugged the crap out of God!  He listened to me!"
I buzz off to do a buggy dance and then fly into the Celestial bug zapper because my life is just like that. 

Alright God.  I'm not leaving until you heal Brenden. 

I'd totally get one of these shirts, to support Aunt Becky @MommyWantsVodka and Brenden, but the Kiddo can read and I don't need him telling me I get a bad mark for wearing it. 

 

Nothing's Wrong, Unless You Count Ice Cream Cake as an Emergency

2:30 Saturday afternoon.

~Down in the dumps after receiving some disappointing news but decided I was going to rally myself and not get the waterworks on. 

 ~Loaded the Kiddo into the car, intending to purchase necessary groceries for the week, possibly picking up something fun/yummy/not entirely healthy for dinner.  Ice cream cake for dinner sounded really appealing.

$50 at the pump last night didn't fill the tank.  Anyone care to trade for a horse?

~Decided to make a stop at the post office to retrieve mail that had been stacking up for several days.  Pretty sure I'd have three different charities asking for money (I use to donate before I went broke), a bank statement reminding me of how little I have, a reminder that my car payment is going to suck another $312 away from me (didn't realize that I could have re-financed two years ago; not so much now that I'm kinda/sorta unemployed because some people don't believe writing is a job), and a catalog showcasing darling clothes obviously made of hand-spun gold.  Because who in their right mind would pay $53 for an undershirt?

~Hand the mailbox keys to the Kiddo and realize that I have dialed 9-1-1 on speakerphone when I hear the nasally operator, "911, what's your emergency?"
Shrieking "OH CRAP!" I frantically paw at buttons to turn off the phone.
"Crap is a BAD WORD!" the voice from the back scolds.  "You get a bad mark!"  Elated that his Momma will have more bad marks on the bad word/bad temper chart than he does, the Kiddo scampers out of the car.

~30 seconds later, the treacherous phone rings.  "Ma'am, this is the police.  We received a call from this phone indicating an emergency.  Are you alright?"
"Yes.  I am so sorry!  I didn't mean to call you!"
"Ma'am operating procedures state that we must make contact with you.  What is your location?"

At this point, my brain shuts off and I develop a Tourette-like babble.  "I'm not at my phone.  I mean, I'm not home, not phone.  I'm talking to you on my phone.  I'm over at the Post Office because I wanted to get my mail."

"Alright Ma'am.  We need you to stay there.  What type of car are you driving?"
"I'm in a small SUV by the Post Office, not my house!"
"Ma'am, what color is your car?"  At this point Officer McFriendly was probably expecting to find me all drunky-drunky.
"Blue!  It's a blue Honda. . ."
~The Kiddo returns, mail in hand, sighing as he re-buckles his car seat.  "Momma, we have a Hyundai."
"It's a Hyundai," I yell into the phone, only to realize that Office McFriendly has hung up and is parked alongside me.

Now here's the thing.  I haven't been on a date in over four years.  I would hope at some point in the (nearer rather than later) future to go on a date/find Mr. Right/get married/live happily ever after until one of us forgets to put the cap on the toothpaste.  And seeing as I work from home(!!!) I don't get my mingle on that often.  Meeting Officer McFriendly as awkward as it is seeing as I've stammered like an idiot might just be the start of a beautiful thing.

Except I'm wearing a stained shirt.  And my hair is clipped up in a manner only described as water-logged rats nest.  And my bottom lip is swollen because I bit a nickle sized crater into my mouth while I was ravenously chowing down on cold seafood salad. 

I tell myself that batting my eyes and a wonderful smile will go a long way to make up for the stammering and train-wreck that I must look like.
"Hi, I'm so sorry."
"That's okay Ma'am.  Just wanted to make sure that you were well."
"I'm fine.  Well, okay I guess.  Actually, I'm having a crappy day."
"CRAP IS A BAD WORD!  YOU GET ANOTHER BAD MARK!"

My life.  It rocks indeed.

Really, I Have Nothing To Do

I had a most irritating conversation the other day in which the other party implied that writing wasn't a real job.

Really?

Because last time I checked, there's this really coveted list (New York Times) that every writer, I mean, person who sits and plays on their computer all day would love to be on.  There's this place called the Library of Congress that houses and catalogs hundreds of thousands of bound bands of paper each year.  And all over the country there are stores known as book shops.  Some near me are small like Book Swap (closest source for overpriced second-hand Harlequin novels and Westerns) or ginormously large like Barnes&Noble (where hipsters can be pretentious while sipping $5 lattes).

Here's the thing.  While I am struggling to eke out a living as a writer at this point, I am in no way not not busy.  Here's the things I have to do daily as a writer:

• Write a blog entry, to stay relevant.  If I skip a day, I'll lose readers, meaning less exposure. 
• Network via Twitter, Facebook
• Seek out similar writers blogs and books, send messages, leave comments in hopes they'll come seek me out.
• Put together essays that I am working on for my book, re-wording entire paragraphs at times, trashing some essays totally.
• Check on developing news.
• Research upcoming writers conferences, writing contests.
• Research into ANYTHING that could get me more exposure on my blog, FB, or Twitter
• Publish an article for the news feed I freelance for.  (That part hasn't been going too well at recent.  Hopefully I can reorganize some time slots to accommodate that.)

I do all this in one day, in addition to all my jobs as a stay-at-home-mother.  I'm busy.

So don't tell me for one minute that writing isn't a job.

Sure, I'm not bringing in a paycheck for all the work I do.  For a person who use to slave away 40 hrs a week at a job I dreaded going to, I could look forward to every other Friday because I knew my bank account would have replenished itself.  I don't have that incentive to work hard each day because I'll be reaping in my rewards within two weeks.  It's not like that.  I don't have a promise of a paycheck every two weeks.

I'm writing because I strongly believe that this burning desire placed in me is what God is calling me to do.  I've held traditional 9-5 jobs over the years and have been successful at what I've done, but ultimately I wind up burned out, crushed and angry by rules devoid of any reason.  I hate working for The Man even though I was rewarded every other week with a paycheck.  Now I don't have a paycheck and I couldn't be more elated.

From the age of six, I knew I wanted to write.  I use to throw rubber-banded stories on my neighbor’s lawns believing that they would want to read what I had written.  Since second grade much of my free time has been spent reading and writing.  I do not recall a time when I have not been actively engaged in a creative writing project.  I have two dresser drawers full of novellas, screen plays, and outlines, ranging from children’s literature, humorous antidotals and dark mysteries.

I have set before myself a deadline of one year to make this dream a (paying) reality.  I know I have the talent it takes to appeal to an audience.  I have had well-read authors, radio hosts, people both famous and other not so famous tell me how they have been touched by my writings.  Some have cried at my honesty, others have laughed at my humor.  I have the audience and through Kindle I have a medium that allows me to by-pass the traditional hassles of publication.

Before the advent of indie publishing, Kindle, and E-reader the typical author might spend a year or two waiting to hear back from a publisher, with four-fifths of writers receiving rejection notes based on the publisher‘s preferences.  For example, Richard Hooker author of M*A*S*H , was rejected by 21 publishing houses before his book was published, spawning a movie and television series.  John Grisham’s A Time To Kill was rejected 28 times before seeing print.

As media moves in a more digital direction, authors such as myself are having greater opportunities with far greater payouts.  Without the traditional overhead, publishing through Amazon enables the author to set the price of their writings and keep 70% of the profit made off the book.  New author Amanda Hocking has earned more that $900,000 in one year and Barry Eisler, a New York Times Best Selling Author, recently turned down a $500,000 book deal from a traditional publishing house.  After doing the math, Eisler realized that self-publishing would allow him a greater profit than any of his other traditionally printed books had done. 

The market, the audience, and the profit are there; I feel strongly that by utilizing my skills and dreams of writing I could turn a profit within a year.  In order to devote myself wholeheartedly to this job, I need investors to back me.  I got the math figured out with the assistance of a former ad executive and the numbers are good.

For now, I write, I send out query letter to potential investors, I write some more, say a few prayers, and continue writing.

But if you have a spare thousand or 25K, and would be willing to invest in a rising author drop me a line.  Or you can be completely altruistic and donate via Paypal.