Yesterday on the train to meet Erica for a dinner/movie date (Korean food + Harry Potter IMAX = fantastic date night) I was reading the NY Times magazine from last Sunday. The reason I was reading it was because I had forgotten to bring pens with me. Totally unheard of. I am always awash with myriad Sharpies and whatever pens I forgot to remove from my ponytail at the end of my bar shift at Superfine, so it’s super, super frustrating to dig in my bag and find not one thing to write with. And, it’s been happening pretty frequently these past few weeks. For some reason I’m off my writing utensils game lately and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the cold weather.

Anyway. The point is, I bought the magazine expressly with the intention of struggling with the Sunday crossword on the way to Manhattan and when I realized there was no pen in my bag and I couldn’t locate one rolling around on the floor of my subway car, I was reduced to actually reading the content. And boy, am I glad I did.

Inside the magazine there was an interview with Nora Ephron and in that article she mentioned what is now my new, all-time favorite software application: Freedom.

Switching Off Online Distraction

Freedom is a simple productivity application that locks you away from the internet on Mac or Windows computers for up to eight hours at a time. Freedom frees you from distractions, allowing you time to write, analyze, code, or create. At the end of your offline period, Freedom allows you back on the internet.

Brilliant, eh? I don’t know about you, but I am AWFUL at staying focused and keeping myself on one task at a time. And, the busier I get with all this freelance writing (yay!), the more I need to make sure I can get assignments done and turned around in a timely manner. The thing is, the busier I get with all this freelance writing (yay again!), the more frequently I get emails coming in and and the more frequently I find myself being pulled away from the work I’m working on. It’s blowing my efficiency and is leading to me spending a lot (a LOT) more time on projects than I can actually bill for. Not good and not the point of invoicing by the hour.

So. Freedom. It may seem drastic to have to resort to a gimmicky software program to force oneself into discipline, but facts is facts. I need it and now I have it. Thank you, Nora.

As I was looking into Freedom and watching the associated videos, I learned that there is a whole world of gimmicky software out there for slackers just like me! There’s Rescue Time and Anti-Social and all sorts of other programs you can download to either shame yourself into using your time more wisely or prevent you from having any extra-curricular online fun at all!

With the trial version you get five free sessions, after that it’s only $10. CH-eap and, if used properly, totally worth it.

Freedom enforces freedom; you’ll need to reboot if you want to get back online while Freedom’s running. The hassle of rebooting means you’re less likely to cheat, and you’ll enjoy enhanced productivity. If you need to be productive, Freedom might be the best 10 dollars you’ll ever spend.

However, researching and downloading and writing about all these time-saving products has kept me from doing any real work for over an hour. Hopefully, if I can actually bring myself to enact the timer on my Freedom, I will regain that time in the massive amounts of work I get done when I can’t get online anymore.

I hate that I’ve been so lax in posting to the blog. Our third anniversary came and went and I didn’t even drop by. The honeymoon phase is officially over.

I think about the blog a lot. I consider topics, take photos, I feel guilty, but I don’t ever quite make it to taking action on anything. I’ve even written drafts and gotten to a point where either I started questioning myself, worrying about what someone was going to think, or wondering why I should even bother when I’ve neglected the few readers I did have to the point where I’m sure no one even checks any more.

Then, someone will check, and they’ll make a comment to me about it. Which doesn’t make me think, “Oh hey! There are still people who read the blog.” Instead it makes me feel like an inadequate slacker, which only leads to more procrastination and excuses for why I’m not writing as consistently as I’d like to.

The thing is, as we all know, I have issues. I have guilt issues and procrastination issues and I even have a pair of socks that reads, “I have issues.” (Thanks, Mom!) A big issue I have when it comes to posting to the blog, or even writing in general, is that I am a huge over-thinker. I analyze and re-analyze and question and worry about things as trivial as whether to use “also” versus “too” in a sentence. I make myself crazy, ultimately because I’m terrified of being judged.

Which leads me to some news. I just attended a writing workshop with real live writers, one of whom was published even, and I … read out loud. That’s right. We were in a workshop and there was this insta-writing assignment where we had to describe a moment from our childhood. I wrote this quick story about peeing my pants (and the seat of my desk) in 2nd grade and then when she (the published one who was leading the workshop) asked for volunteers to read I raised my hand and volunteered to read out loud. And that was after the super cool black dude in the pimp gear and Gucci shades read his polysyllabic 5-sentence memoir that was unbelievably eloquent for having been done in less than three minutes. (Get it … unbelievably? That’s right Super Cool Black Dude. I’m calling bullshit. What?)

I was blushing and shaking and could not believe I was doing it, but I sat there and read my pee story to a room of New York writers and I hardly even edited as I went along. I let it be what it was and I put it out there and I got a laugh, and because I hadn’t quite gotten to the peeing part when time was up, the published workshop leader, author of a memoir about her years as a professional dominatrix (i.e., cool), made a little scene about wanting to hear what happened next.

The point of all this is, I’m gonna give this “letting it be” thing a shot because I need to write. Not every post is going to be brilliant, but they’re not all going to be stupid. And unless I write them, they don’t have a chance of being either.

I know, I know. I always do this. I get on kicks and write like crazy for a few days then I disappear for what are increasingly longer periods of time. Then, like any narcissistic lover, I return full of excuses and apologies, and completely expecting to be greeted with open arms — gratitude even — for just showing up. I totally act like dropping in with the occasional dead chicken photo in a  “What I Love About Brooklyn” post is enough to keep you hanging on. I’m such a dick.

I’m sorry baby. I promise I’ll try to be better. Don’t be mad. You know I love you.

Did I ever tell you that I once had a guy tell me, “I’m content with you, for now”? Did I confess that I loved him so much that I experienced those words as if he had just promised and delivered me the stars and the moon? Did I further confess that later in that “relationship” he came to me, announcing that he had gotten someone pregnant? And that I said, “Don’t worry. We’ll work it out” not realizing STILL that he wasn’t interested in working anything out with me?

Yeah. It was cool. Yeah, I’m still friends with him on Facebook. What of it?

Anywho … a lot of life has been happening these past few months. I’m full-time freelance and am finally able to kind of enjoy the freedom and space. I freaked out a little at first (okay, a lot at first and still a little now. moving to present tense.) I feel like anything that I want to do that isn’t producing income or looking for ways to find more income is unacceptable. Except, for some reason, online video games. Those I can play for hours and perhaps because I’m at the computer, I feel okay about it.

Actually, I don’t feel okay when I play them. The truth is, I spend the entire time thinking about how I should be doing something productive or — get this — working on my own writing. That’s right. I feel bad if I try to accomplish personal creative projects AND I feel bad for not accomplishing personal creative projects. I developed my own inner Catch 22 so I can experience self-loathing no matter whether I’m doing or not doing. That way I can feel shitty ALL THE TIME.

Going through my to-do lists (personal & professional) in my head, I pop bubbles or dinosaur eggs or clusters of coins and mentally berate myself for being such a loser. It’s like Big Money is my crack and Big Fish Games is the Jungle (2-block area of South Central LA known for crack dens, drug dealing and mad gang activity.) I’ve gotten to the point where I know I’ll never hear those bells again (euphemism for the best crack high ever). It’s not fun anymore. I want to stop going there, but I keep finding my way back.

So, no. I guess playing computer games doesn’t feel okay.

These days I’m working on allowing myself to do things for me. I’ve been getting back to the gym … not a lot, but still. I read a book. At least once a week, I get up early to take Chulo to the park for off-leash hours and listen to This America Life. I work for probably 4 hours a day then do other stuff like cooking or taking care of other household things (I actually enjoy that stuff). I also am current on Losing It with Jillian Michaels, though I watch a lot less TV than you’d expect. I plan on reading another book very soon.

I’m appreciating the value of enjoying my life and taking advantage of getting to spend my time how I want to and not having to slave away every minute of the day. (Though, let’s be honest. When I had a desk job, I spent way less time working than I do now.)

Move over George W. I’m the decider.

You know, I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to write sometimes. It’s not that I don’t have the words in me; it’s that I feel bad for letting them out. There’s some asshole in my head who tells me that writing my stuff (as opposed to clients’ stuff for money) is frivolous and I so hate that guy. And until I can get him to shut up, I’m just trying to ignore him.

Today’s the day I quit my daytime bar job.

Here’s a list of things I’ve seen and people I’ve met and stuff I’ve endured in the last six months:

• The upper class, out of work event producer who hides her alcoholism by slumming it with us. Occasionally she gets the DT’s so bad that she has to drink her first beer through a straw. But, she’s always wearing pearls so …
• The creepy guy who’s a cross between Mr. Burns and Mr. Mackey, who smells like he lives in the Atlanta Airport smoking lounge and who insists on bringing me homemade food on a regular basis.
• The young bartender cum assistant manager who regales us all with tales of cocaine and trashy girls in the office after hours. He tempers these stories with comments like, “I just can’t tell you how much my girlfriend means to me.”
• The surly, 40-something Mexican guy who has worked for years, and continues to work, as a bar back. He displays his displeasure by shoving bartenders as he passes with buckets of ice.
• The unbelievably low offer of $100 to “mess around” with the Gucci Loafer guy.
• The regular, Mr. Cellophane, who after being missing for a couple of weeks, returned to the bar. When he came in, he stopped me from pouring his usual Vodka & Pepsi (heavy on the vodka with a splash of water to cut the Pepsi) saying that he had just been released from the hospital for alcohol-induced pancreatitis. “I’ll just have wine.” And wine he had … four huge glasses, all consumed with a straw for maximum impact. Two weeks after that he showed up at noon announcing that he spent the prior night sleeping in the park on the East River after an alcohol-induced fight with his equally alcoholic wife who threw vodka in his face.
• The number one regular who drinks with me EVERY day, very heavily and then drives himself home to New Jersey. Yesterday, he drank three beers, at least four shots of Jagermeister, and one shot of Jameson before announcing that he needed to leave early to pick up his 12 year-old son to go to a baseball game.

So, why am I leaving all of that glamour behind me? Because I’m a Writer. Capital W. Why capital W? Because, I am being paid. That’s right. I am being PAID to write. Since last August or so I’ve been working as a virtual assistant. A virtual assistant is basically a personal assistant, but online. My title? Copywriter/editor. How amazing is that? I am being PAID TO WRITE! People, I am living the dream and as of yesterday, I have enough work coming in that I am ready to commit to writing full-time.

Now, it’s freelance work and nothing in the freelance world is guaranteed. However, these past few months I’ve built confidence in my abilities, I’ve learned a wealth of information about online marketing and sales, as well as being introduced to a whole bevvy of online software programs that are essential for online businesses. I’ve become a tech-geek with mad writing skills and that’s exactly what my clients need. Thus far I have worked for:

• The holistic nutritionist who strives to make everyone she encounters healthier.
• The life coach who wants to empower women to be everything they were meant to be.
• The life coach who is teaching her clients how to run their own online businesses.
• The kinesiologist who has made a business out of helping people manage or even eliminate chronic pain.
• The reiki master who heals you … and your pets! … via the transference of energy.
• The mother who turned her quest for a private school education for her children into a business that helps other parents achieve the same goal.

No more being an active participant in people’s self-destruction. No more waiting anxiously for the drunk driver to arrive so that I know he didn’t kill himself or others on his ride back to Jersey the night before. From here on out, it’s me and the do-gooders and I couldn’t be more excited.

Today I break the news to the bar and the drunks. Wish me luck!

Guy in the bar, to his friends:

Don’t never sleep with no faggot. Them faggots will shank you in a minute.

Lookit!

My “overheard” was published on Overheard in New York!

What I saw on my walk to the train this morning.

Location: 7th Avenue from 14th Street to 9th Street.

Writing a book is a lot of work.

For example: I just spent three minutes trying to figure out which pen I was supposed to use.

[Looking at the two pens I'd pulled out of my bag] I like pink but it might draw too much attention cause I know that the lady eating yogurt next to me is just DYING to see what I’m writing. But blue is such a crappy color. What is it about blue ink? It seems non-committal for some reason. What does that even mean? But the pen’s in my hand … maybe it’s a sign?

Then, way down deep in my Superhero Supply bag I see the glint of a silver pen clip attached to a totally different pen. A SURE sign. I dropped the first two pens and grabbed for the one at the bottom of my tote and finally started writing my first sentence: Writing a book is a lot of work.

Total time spent? Seventeen minutes.

I have a book inside of me. In my head I know the stories I want to tell, the issues I want to analyze, the work I need to do. But when I think about writing it, I feel so overwhelmed. WRITING A BOOK. Such a daunting task. And it’s not just the writing. It’s the planning and the research. The scariness of reliving my story and revisiting my old injuries. And of course, the ever-present fear of, “What will they think?” raining on every aspect of the book writing parade. But I’m writing it. I’ve been writing it for over twenty years.

She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe
“I thought you’d never say hello” she said
“You look like the silent type”
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue

I learned on Rock Band that in concerts Bob Dylan used to introduce Tangled Up in Blue with, “This song took me ten years to live and two years to write.” 12 years for less than 600 words.

Maybe I’m right on schedule.