On not blogging every day

When I vowed to blog every day for a month, I had hoped it would inspire me to write more in general.

Alas, that has not been the case. If anything, it’s made me write less, which is bad. It’s also made me not want to really dig into any weightier topics, because they may be fodder for actual paid work, and I’ve been working hard on widening my platform.

So while it’s been fun adding random items every day, I’m cutting this experiment short in order to focus on the bigger picture.

Hopefully the muses will return from wherever they’ve been hiding!

Wilderness music

The dust bunnies have been self-actualizing again, so I decided to spend the weekend cleaning. Music usually helps make the dusting and wiping and scrubbing less tedious, so I tucked an iPod in my pocket and set it to my mid ’90s playlist, otherwise known as “Wilderness Music.”

I call it that not because I went camping a lot during that time, but because the songs on the playlist are from the years right after college, aka my wilderness years.

I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life after graduating from Bryn Mawr. I hadn’t yet decided on journalism, and my somewhat nebulous notion of becoming an English professor died shortly before I turned in my senior thesis. It didn’t help that there was a recession that summer, and the next year, which meant even entry-level jobs were hard to find.

Women’s work

In 2010, I took a trip to Victoria, British Columbia. I had been there for a few hours in 2005, but this time actually stayed in the city for a few days.

One of the tours I took while there included Fisgard Lighthouse in Esquimalt Harbor. It was built in 1860, and was on a small islet until a causeway was built in the 1950s, joining it to the mainland.

I love lighthouses. They are as romantic to me as castles, and I feel like I haven’t seen enough of them. The fact that most of them are obsolete these days because of GPS makes me sad, though I embrace that technology.

My patience right now

My Internet connection has been wonky all day, it’s screwed up all my productivity, and I’m fed up and grumpy. So here’s a photo of Old Faithful erupting. Good night.

I heart the Yankovic

When Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” became a huge hit last year, I couldn’t deny it was catchy. But the lyrics? Blergh. And the video? Double blergh.

But bless “Weird Al” Yankovic! He has just released a brilliant parody that not only cleanses this hummable hit of its rapey undertones, but makes every writer and editor, including myself, sigh in contentment.

Mr. Yankovic, I have loved you since “Like a Surgeon” and “Eat it.” Nice to see you again. And P.S: I really admire your dictionary.

Women write: Recommended reading

I’ve been having a hell of a time writing this past week, but I’m hoping the muses will stop being jerks and return to me. In the meantime, I must promote a few women who have written some really inspiring stuff:

First, from Mary H. K. Choi, a beautiful essay in Aeon magazine about her mother, and living abroad.

Then, a heartbreaking essay in Guernica from Kelly Sundberg about the confusing dynamics of domestic abuse.

A lighthearted list from Amanda Diehl on Book Riot listing the worst sex euphemisms in romance novels.

Last but not least, Robin Korth’s amazingly gracious slapdown of a jerk in the Huffington Post.

I love how these women write!

Words to live by

Sometimes, people try to destroy you, precisely because they recognize your power. Not because they do not see it, but because they see it and do not want it to exist.
–bell hooks

A new acquaintance posted the above quote on social media today, and it really resonated. I’ve come across people like this in my life, not just in school or at work, but in closer, less transitory settings.

In fact, several alleged friends and blood relatives seemed to operate in this fashion, always taking pleasure in squashing me like a bug at every opportunity. I have managed to cut most of these toxic people out of my life. The ones that remain are very far away, and I tell them nothing, or at least nothing about what’s important to me. Why give them ammo?

It depresses me that it has to be like this. Nor do I understand what makes people act this way. All I know is that I will fight to the end to make sure I never become one. I hope I don’t fail.

All text copyrighted by A.K. Whitney, and cannot be used without permission.

Moonstruck

Super moon tonight! Bath in moonlight July, Aug, Sept. Learn more:  http://t.co/JW2Jm3c030  @NASAScienceCast pic.twitter.com/xcYdiYVGjl

— NASA (@NASA) July 12, 2014

The moon here is simply gorgeous tonight, quite the same size and color as the one in this NASA photo. It puts me in the mood to do anything BUT write, so if you’ll excuse me, I have some romance to catch up on.

Che bella luna! I drink to you.

Women draw: Cartoonists who rock my world

When I was a child, I loved comics, whether in long form or in strips. Growing up in Italy, I read Asterix, Tintin, and Lucky Luke. Later, I would love Peanuts and Garfield, and as I got older, it was all about The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbes.

What do all those have in common? The cartoonists are all male.

I was aware of the Cathy comic, but I never connected to it. Cathy Guisewite’s sadsack heroine depressed me. But when I got to college, I came across two women who draw: Lynda Barry and Alison Bechdel. I connected more to Barry, with her tales of kids not belonging, though Bechdel’s Dykes to Watch Out For was a window into a different world. I hadn’t had much exposure to out, proud, social activist lesbians before I went to Bryn Mawr, and Bechdel’s comic answered questions I was too shy to ask my classmates.

In the years since, I haven’t really sought out women who draw, but devoured a comic compilation by a French cartoonist named Claire Bretecher that I’d stolen from my mother. I also loved the New Yorker’s Roz Chast.

I recently came across Gemma Correll, a British artist who draws Four Eyes. I love her obsession with pugs. And Allie Brosh, of Hyperbole and a Half fame, will never make me look at a cake or a dinosaur the same way again.

Who says women don’t draw cartoons?

All text copyrighted by A.K. Whitney, and cannot be used without permission.

My tragic life, according to Esquire

When I looked at my Twitter feed today, a lot of people were talking about an article in Esquire by Tom Junod.

I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve never heard of the guy. Then again, I’ve never been much of an Esquire reader, I don’t live in New York, and my newspaper background means I’m more familiar with those writers than with magazine ones.

But anyway, Junod has written an ode to women: 42-year-old women, to be precise. He opens with this gem:

“Let’s face it: There used to be something tragic about even the most beautiful forty-two-year-old woman. With half her life still ahead of her, she was deemed to be at the end of something—namely, everything society valued in her, other than her success as a mother. If she remained sexual, she was either predatory or desperate; if she remained beautiful, what gave her beauty force was the fact of its fading. And if she remained alone… well, then God help her.”