“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have

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I chalked it up to their just being insecure about who they were because, really, take away the family trust, and you’ve got nothing — not a personality, not a veritable skill set, just a bunch of bones under their skin, just like everybody else. Quelle horror!

So because of that, I’ve always had an aversion to pretentious people. I can respect confidence or affluence when it’s worth being respected, of course, but never pretentiousness just for the sake of being pretentious. And if I don’t like being around such people, I most certainly do not like reading about them.
See exhibit A: My Bookworm about “The Receptionist.”

It’s a similar distaste I had for Serena, the main character in Ian McEwan’s “Sweet Tooth,” the story of a girl recruited into MI5, the British Security Service, in the early ’70s. She works on a project that takes aim against communism by way of intellectual circles. She’s given a mark and promptly falls in love with him.

This is my first read of McEwan, and I just don’t think I liked his style. I’ve heard that “Atonement” is fantastic, but after really digging the premise of “Sweet Tooth,” I don’t know if I want to check out anything else by him. 

Serena just isn’t likable, and when I first started reading this book months ago, I tweeted about how I was struggling to read it because I wasn’t able to connect with her or McEwan’s words. A few people commented back saying to give it time because his other works were stellar, and one said, “You aren’t SUPPOSED to like her,” which suddenly made a bit of sense.

After abandoning it a little less than halfway through, and reading a half-dozen other books in the meantime, I made myself return to “Sweet Tooth,” with some more patience this time around. I ended up liking it a bit more than I think I would have if I trudged through it in one read. But having said that, the plot just seemed like a plodding walk through the mud. I did like the ending, which came as a surprise, even though Serena herself gives the spoiler right in the novel’s first paragraph. But other than that, this was not one of those “wow” books for me.

Win some, lose some, I s’pose.

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In honor of that, I’m going to start a new feature here on Ink for Blood called Writers’ Wisdom, with nuggets from some of my favorite writers to ponder and be inspired by.

Photo from Getty Images.

With the soon-to-be-released big-screen version of her “Tiger Eyes,” I feel Judy Blume is a great writer to start with. At my parents’ house, there is a box that has dog-eared copies of   Blume’s books from “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret?” and “Forever” to “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” and my childhood favorite, “Just as Long as We’re Together.” And, of course, I can’t forget my favorites to re-read as an adult, “Wifey,” “Smart Women” and the fantastic “Summer Sisters.”

Without further ado, let’s see what Judy Blume has to say about writing, and be on the lookout for future installments of this feature!

“The best books come from someplace inside.
You don’t write because you want to, but because you have to.”
Judy Blume 

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The good, ole days of journalism.

I got my start in this great industry of journalism working for an arts and entertainment weekly newspaper, and I think it’s safe to say that I have ink for blood, which makes the name of this blog not just a clever name, see?

Through good and bad, and in becoming majorly invested and passionate about the changing of the guard to digital and social media, I still love the printed page. To me, there is nothing better than smelling a newspaper or ripping open the package of hard copies of my current magazine when they arrive at our office to take a nice long, deep sniff.

“Print is dead,” my web-based designer boyfriend (aka, The Fella) has told me, repeatedly, since we began dating more than three years ago. It’s a sentiment that seems pretty well-known outside my extra-small circle of print friends, but still we hold on, tightly, to the printed page, delighting to see our sweaty grip allows the ink to bleed on our palms.
You’ll forgive me, I hope, of the dramatics and just kindly read on.

When I read in the New York Observer that The Village Voice’s editor, Will Bourne, and deputy editor, Jessica Lustig, were stepping down instead of laying off five more people from its already bare-bones editorial staff, my heart broke a little. This came on the heels of a recent study that said that a newspaper report is the “worst job” of 2013.

Even though the reasons listed are pretty dead on — journalists don’t earn half as much as, say, rocket scientists, doctors, venture capitalists or, hell, even prostitutes, the deadlines are enough to make you need Xanax, the hours are long, and the stress is pretty palpable — I disagree. While I gripe about these very issues sometimes, you just can’t replicate chasing down a source, getting a scoop, spending all day writing and then seeing your byline in print near words that you wrote.
You should know that I get giddy seeing my online byline, too. I just feel lucky to be able to write for a living.

In fact, at the bottom of the aforementioned linked article from Poynter, @justinwolfers summed it up to perfection: “Simple observation: If newspaper reporter really were the worst occupation in America, it would be easy to find a job.”

It’s true; this is one of the most cutthroat industries to break into, especially in New York. It took me more than two years — two years! — to find a job in the city. And I have nearly 10 years of experience in both print and digital journalism! Yes, it’s the city, but even in other areas I look at, including within my hometown in Northeastern Pennsylvania, it’s slim pickings.

That’s why I was so touched that Bourne and Lustig were stepping down, sacrificing themselves instead of sending five of their writers out into the proverbial cold. Too often I sat at my desk anticipating “the cardboard box” during layoffs, company changes and the like. Too often, I saw other writer friends or colleagues with pink slips, while the higher ups got higher with fatter wallets and longer titles. I’ve been on an “editorial staff” of two people, and know what it’s like to have to take on a 37^th hat because of cost cutting.

No, I don’t know the specifics of Bourne and Lustig leaving the Voice, and probably never will. Maybe they got a gazillion dollar severance package, and maybe they didn’t. (They probably didn’t, knowing the newspaper world.) All I know is that I commend them for doing something so honorable, something so selfless — and sticking to their guns like that.

The Voice is an institution, a beacon of print, one that, should it go away, there would be void on thousands of New York City street corners.

I’ll end my diatribe quoting a line from an editor friend, with whom I was talking about this subject via e-mail: “If it wasn’t for newspapers, Watergate would’ve never been found out.  If man walks on Mars someday, will people hang up printouts from the Huffington Post? Sad.”
Drops mic. 

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I’m no good at math, but I daresay we’re inching closer and closer to the halfway mark!

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Getty Images photo.

If you’ve been a longtime reader of Ink for Blood, you might already know that I’ve had a “novel” “in the works” long before I started this site way back in 2010.
If you’re new to IfB, you can check out some of the posts I wrote about it under the Project Novel tag/category.

I wish I could spend more time with it, I really do, but be that as it may, after I finished the 30-Day Poetry Challenge Sunday, I knew I needed — and wanted — to put all that excess creativity the challenge unleashed in me toward something good.

Knowing is half the battle, right?
At least that’s what the PSAs after “G.I. Joe” always said …

Well, I didn’t know what exactly I wanted to/could do, so when the fella casually asked me my post-30DPC writing plans, I mumbled something along the lines of maybe returning to Project Novel.

“Why don’t we do something together?” he said.
Considering he’s the most creative person I know, I immediately said yes, and, since he is that super creative, he already had an idea in mind: A book.

Not a novel, but a book using his pictures (he’s an amazing photographer, by the way) and my words.

I can’t give too many specifics so as not to give too much away, but I love it.
I absolutely love the idea and am really excited to report that we’ve already rolled our sleeves up on the joint project, and I can’t wait to share it when I’m able.

Stay tuned …

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I hope it’s not conceited, but I feel proud of  myself because, aside from the occasional haiku and tanka, poetry was never really my thing.

Poetry was always something that I just didn’t get. Sure, I’ve enjoyed turns from Dylan Thomas or Robert Frost, but I wasn’t the person who would curl up with a book of poetry, ever.

But the 30DPC really changed that for me. While not all the poems I wrote were knocked out of the park, there are a few that I am really, really proud to have written. There were just a few days where I groaned at the challenge for a few minutes before hunkering down, and some of those became my favorites. I loved thinking outside of my creative box and having a daily challenge that became such a big part of my 365-Day Project.

Last week, the fella asked me what I was going to do when the 30DPC was over, and I didn’t have an answer aside from the fact that I was nervous about losing all that creativity. So he proposed a project that we can work on together, and I’m really excited to unveil it in a few days once we get our ducks in a row.

So stay tuned, and thank you everyone who read and liked my 30DPC posts — I enjoyed reading so many of the great entries, and can’t wait for next year and the next writing challenge. Who knows, maybe this is going to be the year I tackle NaNoWriMo!

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The high has been great,
creatively speaking,
awakening in me a spirit
I’ve not yet seen in myself.
I’m sad to see it go,
Yet I know it’s something
I’ll still need to harness
within, to unleash again,
So the proverbial end
is just another word for beginning

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And I sit, at a hotel-room desk, typing today’s challenge, head filled with the joy that comes from the end of the work day, from a few glasses of really good, really heady red wine, waiting for room service, charmed by the slightly wheezing ice-cold air conditioner that counters the hot, hot Texas heat as the irreverent buzzing of the little kitchenette fridge is reminiscent of a mosquito, flitting about aimlessly.

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