Things That Worry Me About Having My Picture Taken

Posed photo shoots terrify me. It's not like the photos I have full control of on my Facebook page. It's not like I can filter the shots through a Nashville haze on Instagram, then blur out the background and darken the edges so all that's shining through is an outline of my eye. I mean, the photographer may actually get a full shot of my face when it's not tilted slightly to the left--a pose I rely heavily on in every photograph I've ever taken ever.

See, in my mind, posed photo shoots are like when you went to the Sears Portrait Studio in 7th grade to get BFF portraits done with your bestie (wearing matching overalls with one of the straps undone to make you look extra cool.) It's like your Senior yearbook picture--you know, the one where you're holding a rose in front of crushed velvet draping because that says elegance and maturity.

I realize my fears are completely stupid and outdated and based largely on traumatizing pictures from years gone by, but an impending, legitimate photo shoot I'm participating in (combined with my natural inclination to panic over anything that may draw attention to me via a median I have no control over) has pushed me to blog.

Things That Worry Me About Having My Picture Taken:

What do I do with my hands? Will someone give me direction or will I have to improvise? If left to my own devices, I'm likely to forget how I normally stand and will instead opt for a completely unnatural look of discomfort.

Will my smile be weird? I mean, how will I know for sure if I'm smiling like a normal person if the photograph isn't being taken on my Macbook?

Will they have me do something corny like put my hand under my chin while I lean on a Roman-esque podium? I think this has a lot to do with the trauma endured from my Senior portraits.

Will people be looking at me while I get my photo taken? That's out of the question. Even the photographer needs to look the other way.

Will I look like a chubby amoeba monster? This is a fictional, amoeba-shaped monster I just created that is every woman's nightmare in every picture she will ever take. This is also what they see staring back at them in that horrible yet inevitable photo their friend will tag them in on Facebook without their permission.

Even despite my list of fears, I have to admit I'm a smidge excited. I mean, it's mostly fear and anxiety, but somewhere deep down there's a hopefulness that I will not look like an idiot. Maybe the photographer can capture that somehow?

Writing Samples and Mosaic Ideas

"If she was being honest with herself, she wanted to punch him right in the face. It was petty and unwarranted and she knew he wasn't even close to being hers, but she still felt incredibly hurt. She wanted to punch him, then immediately nurse his wounds. She wondered why a combination of violent hysteria and wild mood swings couldn't be a desirable quality in women.

She thinks about him at the end of the day as she nods robotically to motion some sort of consciousness in a conversation she won't remember later. She wishes she could offer up generic responses, but she can't make her mouth form the words so she remains unspeaking and tries to tune out the sound of nothing being loudly discussed ."

So, that's a tiny snippet of what I've been working on lately. I have this really horrible habit of just jotting down small thoughts or scenes or blips of dialogue randomly, without any idea of where it will find itself in the grand scheme of this novel.

I've been toying with the idea of doing something really out there with this piece, but I can't seem to reign myself in enough to focus on how to approach it. If any of you are familiar with mosaic writing, that's what I'm thinking about.

Completely random bits of a novel coming together to create one cohesive story. Like a mosaic.

But, I can't seem to even find where to begin. How do all these writers do it? How do they have the endurance, the focus and the time to write something amazing? I just hope one day, it all comes together for me.

What do you think of my mosaic idea, reader? Does the snippet I offered even mildly entice you into reading more?

Adventures in Rooftop Writing

Whoa! That's the most radical place ever, right?!

The building I live in has this rooftop terrace that overlooks downtown. You’d think that as I resident I’d take full advantage of this really wonderful commodity, but nope. I typically only visit the rooftop in the following situations:

1. If there’s fireworks. I mean, let’s face it—there’s no cooler place to be during a fireworks show than on a rooftop somewhere.

2. If it’s the first time someone’s been to my apartment. Admittedly, I become a stiff tour guide with first-time visitors so I feel it’s my duty to take them up there. (Which, I’m now realizing I handle that moment really awkwardly, too. Instead of grabbing a glass of wine and saying, “Hey, you guys wanna hang out on the rooftop?” I opt for the weird apartment stand-around where everyone stands around while I motion to different things and say the obvious, “Yep, there’s my stove and there’s my couch.” Then I abruptly turn back toward the door and say, “Well, let me show you the rooftop terrace.” You know, not like I’m talking to friends but rather to complete strangers who I’m obligated to show the most attractive parts of the building to in hopes they’d want to sign a lease.)

3. There is no third situation, but having a list of only two things seemed weird so here’s something to make it even weirder.

Today, however, in my romantic writer’s whimsy, I thought, “I’m gonna go write up there. Here’s to being adventurous!” Because adventure is going to the rooftop of the building you live in on a Wednesday afternoon to listen to Buddy Holly while you agonize over sentence structure.

I tuck my laptop under my arm and head toward the elevator, feeling totally outrageous.

I see a neighbor (a “down the hall” neighbor, so I shouldn’t feel so bad about not remembering his name) and his dog (whose name I have managed to remember but will not say in my irrational fear that my down-the-hall neighbor will somehow stumble upon my blog and tell all the other neighbors whose names I can’t remember that I can’t be trusted with the seventh floor secrets due to this salacious blog he found.)

“Hey!” I say enthusiastically—I’m really fake like that in socially awkward situations—then I motion to the dog and with much more sincerity say, “Hello little miss (insert cute name here like in a game of Madlibs).”

“Oh hey, how’s the apartment?” says dog’s owner.

“Awesome—it’s really quiet, I like it,” I say.

I realize in that moment, this is the only conversation we ever seem to have. Whenever I see him, I say “Hey!” and then motion to the dog and then he asks me how the apartment is and I answer, “Awesome—it’s really quiet, I like it.”

We have a Groundhog’s Day relationship.

We hit a tiny rough patch when we realize we’re headed in different elevator directions—who goes first and who waits? How does this work? Will it take a long time to find elevator etiquette results via a Google search?

Luckily, because I’m only going up two floors, dog’s owner bids me farewell and I get on the elevator first.

Once I’m on the rooftop, I find a nice little table to sit at and open up my computer. I wait a minute, you know, so I can bask in the artisness of the moment. I am a writer about to write something way awesome while a breeze blows in from the lake and birds flutter around me.

But, it’s really hot and I’ve made the terrible decision to wear a sweater material. Now all I can think about is how hot I am and if I should load my stuff up and go back downstairs and change.

Before I can decide, the terrace door opens and out walks a small group of friends—now, of course, I start to feel even more uncomfortable and fussy.

Like, how dare they. How dare they ruin my writer’s afternoon of solace on the rooftop? Despite being completely annoyed by their existence and loud laughing (which is not acceptable unless I’m a part of it because otherwise I will assume I am the one being laughed at; I can’t get past my “life imitates 90s teen movies” holdup, I guess) I remain seated and smile warmly at them as they walk past me.

I am wearing Ray-Ban Wayfarers; I am the cool girl writing at a table alone, not the weirdo lurking in the corner.

But, it’s really hot. Why didn’t I grab water? I am so unprepared for this, emotionally and otherwise. But I feel like if I get up now, it will be obvious it’s because of them. It’s like casually trying to lock your door at a red light when there’s a questionable person outside your car. It’s difficult to pull off the, “Oh, well, what do you know, I just happened to realize right when this slightly terrifying person was standing nearby that I forgot to lock my door! And I just always have my door locked, so it’s in no way because of you, scary gentleman who may or may not try to jack my car” logic.

So, I stay. Not writing, not thinking of things to write, just feeling out when it would be a good time to get up.

Eventually, after I checked Facebook and Pinterest and downloaded this new app on my phone that lets me add cute doodles to photographs, I close my laptop and head back to my apartment.

And that's where you would've found me this afternoon—sitting Indian style on my bed listening to an Aretha Franklin record, finally writing.

An Exercise In Writing

A twenty-something girl sits cross-legged on a couch that she's decorated with too many pillows. The excessive accessories look great in photographs she posts on Instagram, but are completely impractical when she eventually puts her iPhone away and wants to sit down. So, she throws almost all of them on the floor and assumes her evening position in front of a TV that's likely beaming out images of a show she'll claim she's too intellectual to get into. Her laptop is perched on the edge of a coffee table cluttered with magazines she still hasn't read, but will thumb through from time to time for outfit inspiration. She feels guilty knowing she's a "writer" (she's not confident enough to call herself a writer without using air quotes) and yet she doesn't actively read the writing of others.

Maybe that's her problem. She's already ignoring rule one of every writing workshop ever: you need to be a reader to be a writer.

She stops the train her mind is on before it reaches that place where she tears up over things like her Feature Writing professor saying as long as she's writing, she'll make something out of herself. But then again, she tears up at pretty much anything (including but not excluded to manly men crying or sad looking animals.)

See, right now, she's not writing. She can't write. It's like the universe is preventing her fingers from pressing the keys to form the words that she can kind of hazily see in her mind. And the universe has been a total bitch to her lately, so she feels okay using it as a scapegoat for her creative mind block. Just last week she tried to “get out there” and “do different things” which for her was doing something really normal and not at all crazy like going to a new bar with co-workers. And what happened? The universe was like, “Calm down crazy. Here’s a splitting headache that will make you go home at eight.”

And so is how her life usually goes.

She takes a sip (gulp, really, but sip sounds so much more delicate and lady like) of wine before grabbing her laptop with determination.

She will write something--anything--tonight.

But first she should probably find the appropriate album to write to. She mutes the TV (but will leave it on, for really no reason at all) and places her laptop back on the coffee table, probably too close to that Bath and Body Works candle she leaves burning for hours.

She goes to her record collection and starts flipping through the albums. She feels like the image of her sitting in front of her record player is very “indie movie” and wishes someone was there to photograph it, then filter it through Instagram and tag her in it on Facebook. It would make a really artsy profile pic and some cute, quirky guy who looks like Justin Timberlake when he hosts SNL (you know, when he wears eyeglasses) would be into it.

Finally, she decides that Carly Simon’s “Boys In The Trees” is the ticket to unleashing her creative genius. So she places the needle on the groove and once again, reaches for her laptop.

She stares at the blinking cursor for a little bit before deciding she should work on a project she’s already started. Her novel. Or short story, as it stands now since it’s about seven pages long.

She opens it up and realizes it hasn’t been formatted for her Mac. That’s how long it’s been since she’s accessed it. She heaves a dramatic sigh as if she’s some kind of elderly man at a bar recalling his younger days with wisdom and regret, and tries to figure out how to open the document.

Nothing makes sense.

She just starts double-clicking things until some kind of hieroglyphic text opens in front her. Among the “National Treasure” looking inscriptions, bits and pieces of the original text is there but it’s completely out of order.

It’s too much work. And besides, that novel/short story was awful anyways.

She goes back to the blank page and blinking cursor.

She has nothing. Absolutely nothing. She looks around the room and sees her pillows thrown on the floor.

As an exercise, she starts writing about a “writer” who excessively accessorizes her couch

A Bird Flew Into My Window Today

So, a bird just flew into my window.

The scene of the incident.

It was one of those moments that if you’re alone, you just sit and look around the room doing that “Did anyone else just see that?!” thing,  then immediately feel unsatisfied because the inanimate objects you’re looking to for confirmation aren’t responding.

So, I had to blog about how a bird just flew into my window.

I was writing a really profound piece of literature while simultaneously learning how to play the violin—you know, really productive stuff that’s not at all just sitting on the couch watching re-runs of The Office—when out of my peripheral vision I saw dark feathers ruffle past the window. As soon as I turned, I heard a thump, and then the bird was gone.

I live on the seventh floor which means my exterior windows are like, never washed, so the fact that a bird accidentally flew into it sort of astonishes me. I had that stunned, delayed, and illogical reaction that caused me to get up minutes after it happened and look out the window. As if the bird would be hanging onto my ledge by its wing, hiding.

But, nope. It was gone. And all I could think about is what if the window had been open and the bird flew into my apartment? Would I have died? Would the newspaper headline try to cleverly reference Hitchcock’s “The Birds”? Or would the bird have become a fun pet that ties ribbons in my hair and listens to me sing Huey Lewis and The News songs to myself when no one’s around?

Guess we’ll never know. 

Lists & Catfish

Note: I actually wrote this post a while ago, posted it, re-read it and wanted to edit it, reverted it back to a draft, and then likely fell asleep and never came back to it. After sitting in front of a blank document for about 20 minutes tonight, I decided to just tweak this entry and post it. Here's to blogging again! I promise I'm trying, so just stay with me here.

I haven’t really been inspired to write, which is the worst feeling ever. So I thought to trigger something, or at the very least, keep me writing, I’m going to start posting about things I’m into right now. Sort of like an ongoing list because list making is my favorite and my self-indulgence tells me everyone would love to know what I’m interested in.

So, here goes.

Catfish: The TV Show

I wasn't really watching MTV anymore. And when I say wasn't really, I mean never. I’m not even mildly interested in their television programming, which is saying a lot because I watch some seriously stupid stuff sometimes. But this show, (which, thanks, Kacie for introducing me to it!) is so addictive. If you don’t know, it’s based off of a documentary by the same name.

Breakdown “Catfish” the cute, sweet guy Nev was the subject of a documentary by the same name a few years ago. He fell for some girl online who happened to be absolutely not who she said she was. It's a really good movie--go watch it. But now Nev is helping other people meet their online loves to see if they’re legit. ~~SpOiLeR AlErT~~ (I think it’s a requirement that you write it like that) they’re almost never legit. I don’t understand this.

Maybe I’m just super paranoid (I know I possess this really cute personality quirk that makes me assume everyone is guilty until proven innocent) but I would never trust some random person in Nebraska who adds me on Facebook. No matter if this guy is like a Ryan Gosling with a Joseph Gordon Levitt charm and a Caleb Followill sense of style kind of guy who somehow became a millionaire by saving stray animals. In fact, I’d be DOUBLY suspicious then. Like, um, why are you messaging me, of all people?  I’m just some girl who lives in some town that has to be identified by the cities it’s sandwiched between. Not to knock myself, but I know Dexter Banks, the model/jetsetter/millionaire who lives in Nebraska and has no access to a webchat device (but he’s a millionaire) probably wouldn’t be into me.

Why do none of these people see this? And I know I’m sounding really cynical and harsh, but understand that while I’m watching these shows, I’m like, actually into it. Not even in an ironic way. I’m invested in these people and I always want Banks the business mogul with a six-pack, to be the real deal.

I mean, thanks to “Catfish,” I pretty much think anyone I don’t know on the Internet is the exact opposite of the image they’re putting out there of themselves. And we all know a heightened sense of paranoia is great addition to anyone’s TV lineup. Can't wait for season 2.

I Can't Believe I'm Awake Right Now

There’s this really disturbing alley/club thing that I don’t totally understand within earshot of my apartment building. Every Friday and Saturday night, this phantom club that pops up on weekends yet is completely invisible during the day (seriously, I always look for it, but I’m met with a suspiciously small, literal gross alley way with the club’s name above it) plays aggressively loud music in between muffled sounds of a DJ shouting random things at club goers.  (Which, by the way, no thanks. I’m not a club person, but I can’t imagine that someone telling you to “Hype up the party!” actually energizes you into having a great time.) A few minutes ago, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” was blaring through the streets, up seven flights of stairs, and into my little living room.

For some reason, I felt the need to go look out my window. I mean, what I was looking at, I’m not sure (sounds can’t really be seen) but it didn’t stop me from prying the blinds apart long enough to peek in the direction of Journey (maybe the music was coming from John Cusack’s boom box in a sweet attempt to motivate me?), then realize how creepy peeking through blinds is. (It’s super creepy. There’s nothing wrong with looking out an open window—it’s so artsy and transcendent—but when you add closed blinds, you take a turn for the weirdo.)

So, I decided to sit down and write. About nothing, as usual.

This week has been pretty uneventful. I felt a blur of days that I couldn’t completely differentiate swirl past me and suddenly, it was Friday and the week was over. I really hate when that happens. I’m not one of those awful “Seize the day!” people who make you feel incredibly insignificant in comparison to all these awesome things they’re constantly doing (think of that friend you have on Facebook who you don’t even really know that well outside of that one class you took freshman year. Why’s that jerk always rock climbing or canoeing or landing great jobs that are not even really jobs, but legit careers?) but I’m also not one to be content to have not done anything slightly productive over the extent of  several days.

The only thing I did that was at all impressive (and by impressive I mean I wasn’t watching Seinfeld re-runs while simultaneously watching Youtube videos) was that I went running (okay, briskly walking/kind of feigning a jog) last night around a lake I thought would’ve had much more lighting than I was actually met with. I blame the creepy, murderously dim areas of the trail for why I couldn’t really run much. I can’t risk tripping in the darkness and making things easier on the psychopaths who just love attacking young women jogging (okay, briskly walking).

Despite my dramatic assumption that I was uncomfortably close to becoming the topic of a Lifetime movie, my walk made me feel accomplished. And not even because I somehow benefitted physically from it, but just being outside made me feel better. That's a weirdly simple realization to make, but it's true. I forgot how much I enjoy breezes and water and nature and not being inside getting untanned by fluorescent office lighting. I really, really hope it starts getting lighter out sooner--I want to actually start running and it not be because I’m afraid some shadow creep is chasing me.

And on that note, the alley club is playing “Super Freak” and it’s really super loud. Like, it’s really loud.  For real, you guys. No one should have to endure this.