First of all, read Hunger Games. If you're not a fan of Young Adult Fiction, I don't care. If you're a writer, you should read Hunger Games. Period. There is no other series I can think of that will give you such an education on pacing, turning points, holding on to your butts, etc., etc.
But this is what HG has done for me.
I am pumped, like I have never been pumped before, to write a great, mind-blowing book. I realized that my version of outside-the-box is more like a paranoid/security-addicted/keep the box in sight at all times version of creativity. But no more.
In fact, I think we should be writing books that only loosely resemble books, loosely qualify as novels. Let's write it all in blood on the walls--wait, that's been done. Let's...do SOMETHING without rules. Come on. You crazies know who you are. Let's fly over the cookoo's nest, baby.
I know this seems like every other rant I've ever been on, but it's not. In fact, this is the first time I've been afraid of just how crazy I might get. Reserve a rubber room for me somewhere, just in case.
Showing posts with label attitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label attitude. Show all posts
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Piss or Get Off The Pot--Seriously
I'll be gentle for those readers just joining this blog...
If you wish you were a dancer, do you tell people you're a dancer, hoping that someday you can prove you weren't lying?
No.
If you wish you could be a rock star, do you tell people you are a rock star and hope, by some flick of a wand, you will suddenly become one?
No.
Then why would you tell anyone you are a writer if you do not write? Writing is the key. Actually hitting those keys on a regular (or regularly sporadic) basis will do.
Let me give an example.
I was enrolled in a screenwriting class a few years ago. We all decided we would write screenplays and enter them into a major contest. We all cranked out what we thought was a brilliant attempt, which was probably complete dark sticky piles of ****. We entered and got lovely loser letters with a raised little Oscar on the stationery. It was very exciting.
Some of us were all hanging out in an office during a Sundance Event being held downstairs, in the art gallery, when our professer walked in. A very popular movie producer walked in behind him, and everyone scrambled to get out of their way. I didn't recognize the guy, so I stayed where I was. Then a great thing happened that I will always remember.
The professer introduced me. "Lesli, this is So and So. So and So, this is Lesli Lytle, a writer."
It wasn't that I got to shake the guy's hand and he treated me well. It wasn't that we made small talk about Robert Redford. The thrilling part was being called a writer.
After Mr. Big left, I thanked the professer for calling me a writer and said he'd really given me a thrill. He frowned and said, "I wasn't pretending you were a writer; you are a writer. You don't have to have a Guild card to be a writer. You have to write."
I've introduced myself as a writer ever since.
So.
Are you a rock star?
Are you a writer?
So, if you are a writer, are you selling your material yourself? How's that going for you?
What about an agent? If you're not trying to sell yourself to magazines or publishing houses, you must be trying to find an agent to do it for you.
No?
WHY THE HELL NOT?
You don't think your product is ready? When will it be? You don't know? Then you'd better be finding out. Find someone to read your baby. More importantly, when you find someone willing to take the time to read a chapter or two, ACTUALLY HOLD OUT YOUR BABY AND LET SOMEONE TAKE IT.
It's not going to be your only baby, surely. And if it stinks, you don't have to spend the rest of your life feeding it and trying to make it a pretty baby. You get to start over.
Here's some great motivation for you to aggressively seek an agent:
Pretend I can tell the future. For you. Just for you.
What if I tell you that you will find an agent only after you have received 30 rejection letters/emails?
What if I tell you that you will be published only after you have written four complete novels?
Here's the promise:
After you have queried 30 agents, and after you have completed 4 novels, you will have a really good grasp on what you need to improve in order to land an agent. Finding a publisher is the agent's business.
And when I say four novels, I don't mean absolutely pristine, polished-like-a-brass-doorknob finished. I mean finished. It doesn't have to be the Holy Bible, or Lord of the Rings, or Pride and Prejudice. It has to be you.
Four books and 30 emails. The only way to fail is to give up--and you know it. That's why you say you are a writer, to deny that you have given up. If indeed you have given up, I say, piss or get off the pot. Admit it and make your life easier.
If you haven't given up, then you'd better get your query letter ready and a list of agents. Make sure your first three chapters are as good as you can get them, and give yourself a time limit to get that done. (As in a number of days, not weeks.) When time is up, you have to stop and say "good enough".
I want to hear about it.
(By the way, I got my agent with my second book, but by the time I signed, I had four books finished and thirty rejections in the can.)
If you wish you were a dancer, do you tell people you're a dancer, hoping that someday you can prove you weren't lying?
No.
If you wish you could be a rock star, do you tell people you are a rock star and hope, by some flick of a wand, you will suddenly become one?
No.
Then why would you tell anyone you are a writer if you do not write? Writing is the key. Actually hitting those keys on a regular (or regularly sporadic) basis will do.
Let me give an example.
I was enrolled in a screenwriting class a few years ago. We all decided we would write screenplays and enter them into a major contest. We all cranked out what we thought was a brilliant attempt, which was probably complete dark sticky piles of ****. We entered and got lovely loser letters with a raised little Oscar on the stationery. It was very exciting.
Some of us were all hanging out in an office during a Sundance Event being held downstairs, in the art gallery, when our professer walked in. A very popular movie producer walked in behind him, and everyone scrambled to get out of their way. I didn't recognize the guy, so I stayed where I was. Then a great thing happened that I will always remember.
The professer introduced me. "Lesli, this is So and So. So and So, this is Lesli Lytle, a writer."
It wasn't that I got to shake the guy's hand and he treated me well. It wasn't that we made small talk about Robert Redford. The thrilling part was being called a writer.
After Mr. Big left, I thanked the professer for calling me a writer and said he'd really given me a thrill. He frowned and said, "I wasn't pretending you were a writer; you are a writer. You don't have to have a Guild card to be a writer. You have to write."
I've introduced myself as a writer ever since.
So.
Are you a rock star?
Are you a writer?
So, if you are a writer, are you selling your material yourself? How's that going for you?
What about an agent? If you're not trying to sell yourself to magazines or publishing houses, you must be trying to find an agent to do it for you.
No?
WHY THE HELL NOT?
You don't think your product is ready? When will it be? You don't know? Then you'd better be finding out. Find someone to read your baby. More importantly, when you find someone willing to take the time to read a chapter or two, ACTUALLY HOLD OUT YOUR BABY AND LET SOMEONE TAKE IT.
It's not going to be your only baby, surely. And if it stinks, you don't have to spend the rest of your life feeding it and trying to make it a pretty baby. You get to start over.
Here's some great motivation for you to aggressively seek an agent:
Pretend I can tell the future. For you. Just for you.
What if I tell you that you will find an agent only after you have received 30 rejection letters/emails?
What if I tell you that you will be published only after you have written four complete novels?
Here's the promise:
After you have queried 30 agents, and after you have completed 4 novels, you will have a really good grasp on what you need to improve in order to land an agent. Finding a publisher is the agent's business.
And when I say four novels, I don't mean absolutely pristine, polished-like-a-brass-doorknob finished. I mean finished. It doesn't have to be the Holy Bible, or Lord of the Rings, or Pride and Prejudice. It has to be you.
Four books and 30 emails. The only way to fail is to give up--and you know it. That's why you say you are a writer, to deny that you have given up. If indeed you have given up, I say, piss or get off the pot. Admit it and make your life easier.
If you haven't given up, then you'd better get your query letter ready and a list of agents. Make sure your first three chapters are as good as you can get them, and give yourself a time limit to get that done. (As in a number of days, not weeks.) When time is up, you have to stop and say "good enough".
I want to hear about it.
(By the way, I got my agent with my second book, but by the time I signed, I had four books finished and thirty rejections in the can.)
Friday, October 15, 2010
Time-Sucks and String Theory
I need a freaking nap.
Not that kind of nap.
I need a deep-space regenerative nap. I need a new, fully charged battery that is four versions more powerful than the one I came with.
My writing life is about to start anew. I've backed off some time-suck-loops--who'm I kidding? I backed off them all! I sat down and made a business plan for the near future, and a funny thing happened...but I'll get to that in a minute.
I shouldn't really be surprised. I've tested this string theory thing before and had it pay off. It was a mild test; I dressed for success. In a workplace with no public traffic, where my coworkers wear their pajamas if they choose to, I decided one day that I would dress for success, that even though I pushed papers for a private company, I'd dress as if I were a successful author. It worked the very first day; I started getting requests for full manuscripts. And listen to this--in addition to feeling like a writer, I started writing like a writer.
So, now I've tested the string again, doing everything I mentioned at the beginning, and something happened. I had a plan, I had a tentative schedule, I made appointments, I sent a few bold emails, and prepared myself to be a successful writer. And yes, the VERY NEXT DAY, something incredibly hopeful happened, although completely unrelated to the adjustment I'd made in my career plan. My agent got a request for a full manuscript she'd sent out on submission a month or so ago. And it was a BIG publisher that could very well unfold the world for me.
No, I won't hear anything for a few months I'm sure. But the point is, Newanda, that a change in attitude, a change in the focus of energy, really seems to do something to my universe. Everything, it seems, begins to shake a little, maybe vibrate. Maybe any movement makes a ripple in our private cosmos, and a big fish may rise to the surface to see what the devil is going on.
So, get out your little chemistry sets, your goal sheets, or that notebook you bought for recording your aspirations. Touch your toes, change your perspective (I like to drive up on the mountainside and look down on my little community). It can be anything, but do whatever it takes to come fully alert.
Now that you're alert, make a bold plan. The bolder, the better. Something you can actually control, though, like dressing for success, or making an opportunity for yourself. Then sit forward (not back) and see what happens.
This is the important part: come back and tell me all about it!
Not that kind of nap.
I need a deep-space regenerative nap. I need a new, fully charged battery that is four versions more powerful than the one I came with.
My writing life is about to start anew. I've backed off some time-suck-loops--who'm I kidding? I backed off them all! I sat down and made a business plan for the near future, and a funny thing happened...but I'll get to that in a minute.
I shouldn't really be surprised. I've tested this string theory thing before and had it pay off. It was a mild test; I dressed for success. In a workplace with no public traffic, where my coworkers wear their pajamas if they choose to, I decided one day that I would dress for success, that even though I pushed papers for a private company, I'd dress as if I were a successful author. It worked the very first day; I started getting requests for full manuscripts. And listen to this--in addition to feeling like a writer, I started writing like a writer.
So, now I've tested the string again, doing everything I mentioned at the beginning, and something happened. I had a plan, I had a tentative schedule, I made appointments, I sent a few bold emails, and prepared myself to be a successful writer. And yes, the VERY NEXT DAY, something incredibly hopeful happened, although completely unrelated to the adjustment I'd made in my career plan. My agent got a request for a full manuscript she'd sent out on submission a month or so ago. And it was a BIG publisher that could very well unfold the world for me.
No, I won't hear anything for a few months I'm sure. But the point is, Newanda, that a change in attitude, a change in the focus of energy, really seems to do something to my universe. Everything, it seems, begins to shake a little, maybe vibrate. Maybe any movement makes a ripple in our private cosmos, and a big fish may rise to the surface to see what the devil is going on.
So, get out your little chemistry sets, your goal sheets, or that notebook you bought for recording your aspirations. Touch your toes, change your perspective (I like to drive up on the mountainside and look down on my little community). It can be anything, but do whatever it takes to come fully alert.
Now that you're alert, make a bold plan. The bolder, the better. Something you can actually control, though, like dressing for success, or making an opportunity for yourself. Then sit forward (not back) and see what happens.
This is the important part: come back and tell me all about it!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
TRYING TO TRY
I'd been trying all month to start a new book. All month.
Okay, I'll admit I'd been trying to try.
I'd thought about it often. I'd been bored a couple of times and wandered into my office, wondering what I should be doing, then realizing what that something was. I'd even shut the door and intended to send children away if they came in to whine for something, but none of them came. And with such little effort needed, it should have been easy to start a new story.
But I didn't. If it was going to be that easy, I could start it again in a day or two. But now it's turned into a month or two. NOT. GOOD.
So, what I did was this:
First, I made it a goal to finish the first half of a new book by the end of this new month. Then I took my office apart--with the distinct goal of putting it back together again by the end of the weekend--and rearranged my Feng and my Shui. At least that goal was reached.
Whatever the directional flow of wind (feng) and water (shui) that accompanied the writing of my last work has been drastically changed.
While seated at my desk, I'm facing Southwest, for heaven's sake. The doorway is located at 7:00, BEHIND ME. There is no water fountain , but the breeze in my 50 foot trees can be heard and seen to my right .
Things I should have taken care of, or organized long ago, are now stacked in nice piles upon a bench under the window. My three awards are dusted and hung above the closet, and the framed cork boards are up on the wall after waiting patiently in a corner for over a year. The perfect chair is now in the perfect corner--an impossible feat, I assure you. The 18th Century Italian cabinet lurkes at my back, which may or may not inspire some gothic overtones in "the new book". And a copy of that contract I just signed with my first agent sits near my left elbow to remind me that I have at least one fan for whom I will write this story. It's not just for me anymore.
That's right, Geppetto, I'm almost a real boy now. I got no strings to hold me down, to make me fret or make me frown. My cricket's name is Cori, and I'm headed out of the house. I've cashed in my wish-upon-a-star, and now I've got to earn my little pink nose. Only difference between me and Pinnochio is: I've GOT to tell a real whopper of a story to earn mine.
Here's hoping for a mind-blower.
L
Okay, I'll admit I'd been trying to try.
I'd thought about it often. I'd been bored a couple of times and wandered into my office, wondering what I should be doing, then realizing what that something was. I'd even shut the door and intended to send children away if they came in to whine for something, but none of them came. And with such little effort needed, it should have been easy to start a new story.
But I didn't. If it was going to be that easy, I could start it again in a day or two. But now it's turned into a month or two. NOT. GOOD.
So, what I did was this:
First, I made it a goal to finish the first half of a new book by the end of this new month. Then I took my office apart--with the distinct goal of putting it back together again by the end of the weekend--and rearranged my Feng and my Shui. At least that goal was reached.
Whatever the directional flow of wind (feng) and water (shui) that accompanied the writing of my last work has been drastically changed.
While seated at my desk, I'm facing Southwest, for heaven's sake. The doorway is located at 7:00, BEHIND ME
Things I should have taken care of, or organized long ago, are now stacked in nice piles upon a bench under the window. My three awards are dusted and hung above the closet, and the framed cork boards are up on the wall after waiting patiently in a corner for over a year. The perfect chair is now in the perfect corner--an impossible feat, I assure you. The 18th Century Italian cabinet lurkes at my back, which may or may not inspire some gothic overtones in "the new book". And a copy of that contract I just signed with my first agent sits near my left elbow to remind me that I have at least one fan for whom I will write this story. It's not just for me anymore.
That's right, Geppetto, I'm almost a real boy now. I got no strings to hold me down, to make me fret or make me frown. My cricket's name is Cori, and I'm headed out of the house. I've cashed in my wish-upon-a-star, and now I've got to earn my little pink nose. Only difference between me and Pinnochio is: I've GOT to tell a real whopper of a story to earn mine.
Here's hoping for a mind-blower.
L
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
HAVE I LOST A HUNDRED POUNDS?
I sure FEEL like I've lost a hundred pounds.
On April 15th I signed with a literary agent, and now I'm warring with some pretty bizarre feelings nearly a week later.
I've taken a can opener and pried the "aggressive writer" hat off my head. I've notified everyone with my query, partial, or full that all of my works have found representation. And BOY, wasn't that unreal, UNdoing all that work, then getting lovely notes from people who suddenly saw me differently.
I guess it's kind of like losing a whole lot of weight--people are happy to look me in the eye.
Is it unfair for people to avoid eye contact with overweight people? Of course it is. But is there anything, realistically, that can be done about it? I'd say, not short of jumping on the table and dancing around until they look at you.
My point, Nuwanda, is that unpublished writers are fat. Well, we're kind of invisible in the same way as those of us who take up a bit more space in the world. I've been dancing and singing on this table for quite a while now, and The Call came just in time. My arms were getting tired from waving. My voice was getting hoarse, and the taps on my shoes were no longer tapping, so much as dragging.
So I'm climbing down off the table, with the help of my new agent, Cori. The platform is all yours, and hopefully I won't be back to try and bump you off for another try.
Sing loud. Dance pretty. And good luck!
Lesli
On April 15th I signed with a literary agent, and now I'm warring with some pretty bizarre feelings nearly a week later.
I've taken a can opener and pried the "aggressive writer" hat off my head. I've notified everyone with my query, partial, or full that all of my works have found representation. And BOY, wasn't that unreal, UNdoing all that work, then getting lovely notes from people who suddenly saw me differently.
I guess it's kind of like losing a whole lot of weight--people are happy to look me in the eye.
Is it unfair for people to avoid eye contact with overweight people? Of course it is. But is there anything, realistically, that can be done about it? I'd say, not short of jumping on the table and dancing around until they look at you.
My point, Nuwanda, is that unpublished writers are fat. Well, we're kind of invisible in the same way as those of us who take up a bit more space in the world. I've been dancing and singing on this table for quite a while now, and The Call came just in time. My arms were getting tired from waving. My voice was getting hoarse, and the taps on my shoes were no longer tapping, so much as dragging.
So I'm climbing down off the table, with the help of my new agent, Cori. The platform is all yours, and hopefully I won't be back to try and bump you off for another try.
Sing loud. Dance pretty. And good luck!
Lesli
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Contents of Your Asylum
The one fantasy common to most writers is to make enough in royalties to quit their day jobs.
Don't do that.
Part of what makes stories interesting and unique is the flavor enhancement known as CONTENT. These are the little ideas you've been carrying around in your head for decades, or years, or weeks, that you cleverly slip into a scene here and a dialogue there.
Content makes your characters more interesting--like that big hair you added to the description of an old witch--the one your old boss used to have growing off the bottom of her earlobe that curled back like a hoop earring and you always wondered why in heaven's name she could never see it in a mirror, and then wondered if she knew about it all along and was testing mankind to see who might be brave enough to tell her about it.
That's content. That's interest. That's why older writers are a little better than younger ones, because they have content. It's a secret recipe you've been working on all your life and you add it to everything you create, making it sing on the tongue.
The point here, Newanda, is that your content reservoir doesn't fill by itself. You've got to be out in the world--and I don't mean Starbuck's--to keep topping it off. No matter how wonderful your view of the backyard, or how many interesting folks you meet at church, you're going to need to siphon a little of the sea of humanity if you want to maintain the outgoing flow of interesting bits.
And what better place to siphon content and money off a strangely-furred employer than at a day job? I can't wait to quit my current employment, if only for the freedom to examine the boss's oddities on this blog and elsewhere. (*See conveniences of having a pen name...)
So quit wanting out! Take a look around and pretend you work in an asylum, because brother, you do.
Ainsley
Don't do that.
Part of what makes stories interesting and unique is the flavor enhancement known as CONTENT. These are the little ideas you've been carrying around in your head for decades, or years, or weeks, that you cleverly slip into a scene here and a dialogue there.
Content makes your characters more interesting--like that big hair you added to the description of an old witch--the one your old boss used to have growing off the bottom of her earlobe that curled back like a hoop earring and you always wondered why in heaven's name she could never see it in a mirror, and then wondered if she knew about it all along and was testing mankind to see who might be brave enough to tell her about it.
That's content. That's interest. That's why older writers are a little better than younger ones, because they have content. It's a secret recipe you've been working on all your life and you add it to everything you create, making it sing on the tongue.
The point here, Newanda, is that your content reservoir doesn't fill by itself. You've got to be out in the world--and I don't mean Starbuck's--to keep topping it off. No matter how wonderful your view of the backyard, or how many interesting folks you meet at church, you're going to need to siphon a little of the sea of humanity if you want to maintain the outgoing flow of interesting bits.
And what better place to siphon content and money off a strangely-furred employer than at a day job? I can't wait to quit my current employment, if only for the freedom to examine the boss's oddities on this blog and elsewhere. (*See conveniences of having a pen name...)
So quit wanting out! Take a look around and pretend you work in an asylum, because brother, you do.
Ainsley
Friday, January 15, 2010
Holy Cow, I'm Happy.
So I was fantasizing yesterday about being the next Stephanie Meyer or JKR and wondered what it would be like to have all that money, to be a NYTBSA and obtain the fame and vindication that would complete my life.
(And yes, I'm pretty sure that's what I'm after--oh, and a lifetime's supply of chocolate covered almonds).
I dragged my husband in on the fantasy, since such an occurance would also change his life. We debated on selling the house, but decided to stay and add on (so our autistic son wouldn't have wasted the last 21 years of his life memorizing an address only to have us MOVE.)
I was excited about the prospect of having a maid, but Hubby claims he wants to stay home and be Mr. Mom. He doesn't mind cleaning the toilets either. I suspect he would rather do that than allow strangers access to his bathroom.
So we decided to travel. He suggested buying a motorhome and driving around the country to visit our children. I pointed out that it was nearly certain all of them will live within 30 miles, even after the last of them marries.
We'd spend a lot on food and eat anything we want...but we already do that.
We'd spoil our children...done.
We'd buy new cars, but our neighbors would think we'd moved if there weren't at least a trio of paintless wonders in our driveway. Even family would drive past saying "Oh, that can't be it."
I know there are a lot of big things I haven't even touched upon here, but the point, Newanda, is that this little conversation made me realize that I don't want my life to change. I like my life. I'd like my bank account to change--who wouldn't--but the life? It's pretty good.
Then I realized what this meant: Holy shit! I'm happy.
When did that happen? Where was I? When was somebody going to tell ME for hell sakes?
So who knows? Maybe I'll be a kinder, gentler writer who only encourages you to focus on your writing with uplifting stories of patience and success.
Maybe NOT!
I may be happy, but you aren't! And you're not going to be happy until you've finished that damned book, or short story, or article for your church newsletter (cough, cough). (And yes, the coughing was to cover up the LAUGHTER. If you're only writing for the church ladies, why in the hell are you reading this blog?)
Happy Ainsley who has not misplaced her whip.
(And yes, I'm pretty sure that's what I'm after--oh, and a lifetime's supply of chocolate covered almonds).
I dragged my husband in on the fantasy, since such an occurance would also change his life. We debated on selling the house, but decided to stay and add on (so our autistic son wouldn't have wasted the last 21 years of his life memorizing an address only to have us MOVE.)
I was excited about the prospect of having a maid, but Hubby claims he wants to stay home and be Mr. Mom. He doesn't mind cleaning the toilets either. I suspect he would rather do that than allow strangers access to his bathroom.
So we decided to travel. He suggested buying a motorhome and driving around the country to visit our children. I pointed out that it was nearly certain all of them will live within 30 miles, even after the last of them marries.
We'd spend a lot on food and eat anything we want...but we already do that.
We'd spoil our children...done.
We'd buy new cars, but our neighbors would think we'd moved if there weren't at least a trio of paintless wonders in our driveway. Even family would drive past saying "Oh, that can't be it."
I know there are a lot of big things I haven't even touched upon here, but the point, Newanda, is that this little conversation made me realize that I don't want my life to change. I like my life. I'd like my bank account to change--who wouldn't--but the life? It's pretty good.
Then I realized what this meant: Holy shit! I'm happy.
When did that happen? Where was I? When was somebody going to tell ME for hell sakes?
So who knows? Maybe I'll be a kinder, gentler writer who only encourages you to focus on your writing with uplifting stories of patience and success.
Maybe NOT!
I may be happy, but you aren't! And you're not going to be happy until you've finished that damned book, or short story, or article for your church newsletter (cough, cough). (And yes, the coughing was to cover up the LAUGHTER. If you're only writing for the church ladies, why in the hell are you reading this blog?)
Happy Ainsley who has not misplaced her whip.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Oh, bouyancy!
I was reading a friend's blog http://www.judyswriting.blogspot.com/ today and was inspired.
At the end of the blog, she gives a short list of positive things to be, and I finally have a definition for my personality; I am buoyant.
Before some of you (Lisa Water Closet, et al) fall onto the floor and lose your grip, I am not speaking of the fact that I find it physically impossible to drown!
I refer, rather, to my attitude in general. I wouldn't call myself optimistic. What fun would that be? You can't enjoy sarcasm with those rose-colored glasses on.
But I'm not a total pessimist, either. Although my head goes under every now and then, I tend to bob back. I'm buoyant. It is the more liquid equivalent of bi-polar, perhaps, but I tend to linger longer on the upswing. The size of my...egos... keep me up there, I guess.
(I thought this would be a bit of a bandaid for that last "piss or get off the pot" post.)
The Chronically Buoyant Ainsley
At the end of the blog, she gives a short list of positive things to be, and I finally have a definition for my personality; I am buoyant.
Before some of you (Lisa Water Closet, et al) fall onto the floor and lose your grip, I am not speaking of the fact that I find it physically impossible to drown!
I refer, rather, to my attitude in general. I wouldn't call myself optimistic. What fun would that be? You can't enjoy sarcasm with those rose-colored glasses on.
But I'm not a total pessimist, either. Although my head goes under every now and then, I tend to bob back. I'm buoyant. It is the more liquid equivalent of bi-polar, perhaps, but I tend to linger longer on the upswing. The size of my...egos... keep me up there, I guess.
(I thought this would be a bit of a bandaid for that last "piss or get off the pot" post.)
The Chronically Buoyant Ainsley
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