Define Journalist

Define "journalist." Or, define "public figure." Do you realize that these are not only descriptive titles -- they are often legal definitions.

Our legal system is woefully behind, especially as it pertains to the explosion of the Internet. Now they are scrambling to define titles, protection, etc. In this day and age, any person who contributes to a blog, writes to the editor or wields a microphone may or may not be defined (in our legal system) as a journalist.

Am I a journalist? I went to college and I have the journalism degree in my office. Yet, I've never worked for the traditional media. I write a blog and contribute to others. Yet, I wouldn't compare that to investigative reporting. I've written things where my name is front and center. I've also written thousands of things where you will never see my name.

I don't plan on getting in trouble with the law, at least as it pertains to my writing. Still, it's a question to ponder when I get into controversial subjects.

Whores

Why don't we ever call men whores? I've known a few who have done everything short of selling their soul.

Years ago, when someone would ask a friend of mine what she did for a living, she would respond, "I'm an art whore." She's probably the most talented artist and creative person I've worked with but I loved it that she put it out there like that.

I've never been a traditional whore but I've been a writing whore. I've written flattering profiles of abysmal people because I was paid to do so. I've written speeches on subjects that I totally disagreed with. I got paid. I've written brochure copy for products that I don't trust. In my corporate days, I often gave little pep talks to the team, all the while knowing some bad stuff was coming.

I am a whore no more.

Ratios and Perspective

I'm addicted to numbers and I love math. I also love words so I'm trying to decide if that makes me a little smart or ultra-weird. No need to comment.

Writing is hard. If it's not raw and honest, it's not worth doing. There's also a balance so you don't throw too many people "under the bus," as the husband calls it.

Let me share some numbers with you:

For every thought and experience with the oldies, there were at least 10 where I resprected their privacy and did not write about it.

For every childhood memory of the daughter or the baby, there are 100 moments of glory or difficulties that are private and stay only with me.

For every fun story I've shared about the husband and our endless idiosyncrasies, there are 10,000 tears shed in laughter and pain that remain my memories. Mine alone.

For every friend who has leaned on me, I have put 100 lbs. more pressure on him or her.

For every vignette I share about my parents (who continue to be supportive of their little nutcase,} the five phone calls a day are not enough.

For everyone who thinks I've thrown them under the bus, I hope you realize that occasionally that three-ton bus is running over me.

My conscience is clear. Ten-four.

Surprisingly Upbeat!

Did you ever see that movie, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? It's completely a chick flick and I love it.

She's a writer and he's in marketing -- both fields I have dipped a toe in -- and the premise is ridiculous but it's fun to watch.

Here's my favorite part. As they pitch stories or ideas to the editor in charge, everything is very morose or maudlin, "but surprisingly upbeat!"

I'm in touch.

Numbers

I love numbers. (Self-diagnosis: Mildly autistic.) I count constantly, especially when I'm trying to get my brain to stop spinning so I can go to sleep.

Newspaper headlines or magazine cover lines immediately get my attention if they include a number:

10 Steps to a Healthier You.
One Out of 12 Live in Poverty.
Five Legal Documents You Should Complete.
20 Simple Ways to De clutter Your Life.
Six Sex Tips No One Ever Told You.
Eight Ways to Update Your Little Black Dress.
Seven Dinners in Seven Minutes or Less.

I'm thinking about writing my own series. Here are some of the headlines I'm considering:

Fifteen things the Dog Ate or Destroyed.
Only Six random pills discovered on the Floor -- When You know it's a Good Day.
Disaster Alert! When You Get Down to Five Pounds of Butter.
Ten Fun Ways to Celebrate Your 10th Fire.
18 Things You Never Knew You Could Bleach.
25 Things You Never Considered Frying.
150 Things You Forgot to Worry About.
Four Ways to Wear the Unabomber Hood.
Five Different Ways to Fall.
Seven New Guilt Trips You've Never Tried.

I'm not sure to whom I'll pitch this. I'll have to get my sources in order. Lucky for me, they're all around me.

In the Zone

When I am writing or trying to be creative, I go to a different place in my brain. I do not hear the phone. I do not pay attention to television or music, even if they're on full blast. I am thinking ... I am writing ... I am editing ... I am zoning. It can be personal writing, a blog post or projects for a client. I am totally immersed.

In my little office, my back is to the doorway while I'm on the computer. The oldies sneak up on me. Someone touching me can send me screeching and jumping out of my skin.

My nose is programmed for fire alerts. I guess I'd better work on my hearing or someone is going to cause a stroke.

Here She Comes Again

We went to a party the other night. I had a question for my dermatologist. So I worked the room until I could get her alone and say, "Am I candidate for XXX?" She pulled me into a corner and gave me her opinion.

Earlier that week, I had a legal question about the oldies. I ran into an attorney and later a judge that I know. I asked them both.

Sometimes I meet the husband at the club for dinner. He is often playing cards with my Internist. He treats the oldies too so I can ask my questions.

There have been homes I'm curious about. I have friends who are Realtors. They look up the stats and even take me through them, knowing full well that I have no intention of buying.

I try to return the favor. If someone asks my opinion about their writing or a marketing project (especially if they have my medical or legal records,) I am there.

Still, I wonder. When I walk in a room, do these people think, "Oh no, here she comes again."

Writers are Needy People

I've worked as a writer and a marketing person for more than 22 years. If you throw in my time in journalism school and even my time in high school (yearbook staff, etc.) and various other writing pursuits, you've added another 8 years. That's a long time.

It doesn't get any easier. And, I love to write. But there's a point where the paper leaves your hand or you hit "send" on the email and it's terrifying.

Marketing gives you a buffer. There's a team involved. If the client hates it, you can tell yourself that the design needs to be better or the account liaison could have presented it with more enthusiasm. When it's just words and someone has hired you to compose them, it's a little like saying, "Don't you think my baby is cute?" If you're going to continue, some thick skin needs to grow.

Personal writing is equally scary. There's no editor or client. It's throwing caution to the wind -- thoughts, emotions, and opinions are sent out for anyone and everyone to agree/disagree or maybe laugh at you.

I write every single day of my life. I am rarely without a notebook. In that unusual occasion, I have written ideas on ATM receipts, cocktail napkins, deposit slips, etc. Some of my copy is written for clients and a lot shows up on this blog. Other things get tucked in a notebook for future reference. Some items go in a journal that (hopefully) allows me to go back and achieve perspective.

So, I send copy to a client or I send a blog posting into cyberspace. Then I pace around, check email, and hope they thought the baby was cute.

When the oldies first joined us (23 months and two weeks ago,) she would ask me, "What do you do on the computer all day?"

I'm writing. That's who I am.

When I Don't Answer

Writing is generally a solitary pursuit. That's probably part of the appeal for me. I like being alone with my thoughts. Sometimes I crack myself up; sometimes I let the tears flow. (Please put the strait jackets away -- I come back to the real world.)

During these periods, I try diligently to avoid my instinctual reaction to answer the phone. I have been accused of screening calls. It's pretty untrue. Those of you who think this are giving me way too much credit. You're assuming I can actually see the caller ID screen. I'm not avoiding you; I'm avoiding the phone. But I fail. I usually take a break and listen to voicemail. I do call back.

When we're in group conversations, there are a couple of reasons I don't answer. I'm either gathering my thoughts or I'm working on my resolution to keep my big, fat mouth shut. Usually I fail but I'm still working on it.

When I don't answer the door, it's probably because I don't recognize you and I'm positive I do not want to buy your magazines or hear about your church. Anyone who knows me probably has a key to this house. If they were genuinely concerned about my health or well-being, they would let themselves in.

This was my week alone. Twice I heard someone tap on my office window. They both have keys but they're respectful. They're also diligent. I didn't answer the phone and I didn't answer the door. So, they stand in the back yard and get my attention. It made me laugh.

The husband called last night. He's flying home as I write this. He asked, "How was your week alone?"

Alone?

The carpets were cleaned. The computer guy was here. The cable guy was here. Friends were here (Yeah!) The workout girls were here. I had a couple of business meetings here. The postman/UPS/FedEx man needed my signature. My dad stopped by. All of these people were here at my request or invitation. Hmmm ... maybe when I'm done writing, I don't want to be alone after all.

The oldies are on their way home. I'm busy today. Maybe I won't answer.

But, like everyone else, they have a key.