What is blogging? I mean, seriously? What is it? I want someone to tell me. Someone of blogging authority (is there someone out there who could claim that title?) please stand up and enlighten me.
When I first began blogging years ago, it was not the thing to do. Not everyone and their brother did it, and thus, no one outside of my Facebook friends list knew I even existed. This was OK. I actually just wanted to write. It worked.
Now, in this land of “LOOK AT ME”, blogging seems to be just another outlet for people who want to make a poorly constructed status update about what they ate for breakfast. Your bagel sandwich was beautifully photographed, but what kind of art are you trying to make? What are you trying to say? If it’s that you eat the most important meal of the day, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not the only who does that. Also, everyone photographs their food, so…
One of my main promises to myself, before I began blogging again, was that I wouldn’t get too hung up on the “likes”. I only wanted this blog to be about my passion: writing. I didn’t want to be a “like whore”. I have completely done the opposite.
I’ve taken a brief hiatus due to this and my subsequent lack of inspiration.
I read and follow so many beautiful, funny, and thought-provoking blogs that get maybe 5 likes, because one has to take the time out to actually read it. I know, in this instant-gratification-world, that’s A LOT to ask. Most people want a meme and a quick, poorly syntactically put-together blurb and it’s time to wipe.
We all like funny memes, and quick, witty blurbs, I am the most guilty of this, but I look for those quick laughs on Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.
We also all like to feel “liked”, looked up to, and admired, but does the high you feel when you get likes on your blog post outshine real-life accomplishments or recognition? Does it mean more? If it does, what does that mean? I feel good when people like my posts because it makes me wonder if what I’m putting out there means something to someone else. It’s like putting feelers out there for fellow life. But. But, sometimes I feel that attention-whore part of me start creeping. She starts creeping.
Is it all for the “likes”? Do you blog because you have natural talent? Do you do it for the attention? Why?
Further…
When I log onto WordPress, I want something to read. I want some meat. Some grit. I also want to write something meaningful to me. Something I spent time on. Something I mulled over. Something I spell-checked, because it was that important.
Among all of the MEH out there is actual talent. I am glad that I have found some of these people and their blog posts that I devour like fluffy white cupcakes. They are so good.
This world is getting more stupid by the second and part of my proof is the current world of online writing-blogging. It has become flooded with Facebook status updates and Instagram posts. Very, very few people on WordPress actually write and take the time to edit and revise.
As a teacher, writer, and some-what intelligent person, I’m ashamed and scared of the world we are creating.
End rant.
Tag: writing
Back to School
I spent a good portion of my Sunday fine-tuning lessons, nitpicking over the placement of basically everything in my room, and making sure I’m ready for another year of madness, AKA: teaching. I thought I would post the pictures of my room on my blog, to showcase the reason I may be not as present here, in the blogosphere. So, this is why:
All this room needs: students!
My little corner.
The kids need to know.
Teaching kids how to be accountable via their classroom conversations. Win!
The math corner.
Where the reading magic happens!
A new addiction: my students will be learning how to self-assess this year!
Writing and phonics AND I need an apostrophe!! *adding to to-do list*
I hung up headphones that don’t connect to the CD player I have! Fail!
“Make Good Decisions Corner”! Most important corner in all the land!
Writing with chalk is hard!!!!
Whole class journals! I’m excited to try these this year!
Maybe we won’t go through 4,562 boxes this year?
I can’t wait to get this up and running! I’ll take pics of my students looking like they are pondering the meaning of the world, and then they can add things they are wondering about new units, or just in general!
The Readbox, plus an addition: “Reading Takes Us Places!” I still need to add a black plane and some dots depicting it’s trail. Whenever we read ANYTHING, we will pinpoint where in the world the setting took place! Fun!
Classroom library!
School starts tomorrow and I’m more prepared than I’ve ever been. It’s time, let’s get this show on the road!
I truly hope I can balance my career and my desire to write. I don’t want my blog to be forgotten, but as you can see, I have some educating to do!
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Frank
It’s funny how the littlest thing can trigger vivid, and super random memories. Obviously, this leads to the desire to write, because all writers must take advantage of inspiration wherever they can find it. We are resourceful like that.
Socks. Socks are what made me remember a really ridiculous incident in my past, involving my first boyfriend’s dad, a pair of knee high socks, and Frank.
We were sitting in a meeting, in a fellow teacher’s room, and I noticed she had old men’s socks on all the desks. What a super ingenious idea for white board erasers! I just hope they didn’t happen to be my dad’s old socks that found their way to the thrift stores. Now that he’s older, his feet have a certain funk about them. Subjecting children to his old socks would, quite possibly, be considered child abuse *shudders*.
I digress. Let me get back to my random story about socks, my ex’s dad, and Frank.
So, before I can even get into the interesting part, I have to let you know that my brother would steal all of our dad’s socks, because taking from Dad’s neat and tidy drawer was a lot easier than searching through the abyss that was my brother’s disgusting pit of a room.
Obviously, my dad grew very tired of never having socks to wear because his teenage son had decided that he’d help himself. So, my mom bought two big bags of socks, one for my dad and one for my brother. To eliminate the possibility of my brother stealing Dad’s socks, my mom wrote his name on them. All of them. In big, bold, capital letters. She got bored during the branding of my father’s socks, because she started writing random names, like, “Bob”, “Herb”, or…”Frank”.
She thought she was a genius, and quite hilarious too. My brother wouldn’t be caught dead at school with named socks, so all was calm in the world of Hanes for awhile (I’m not sure how my dad felt about wearing socks that said, “Herbert” on them, but it had to be better than having none at all!)
But, what they didn’t know, was that there was another sock thief in the house. I loved my dad’s socks, because it was all the rage to wear long white socks up to your knees. God knows why this was considered fashionable. At one time mullets had their day in the sun, so weird things do occur in the world of fashion.
The best part about this whole sock fiasco was that no one suspected me. No one. That was until I almost, single-handedly, caused the divorce of my boyfriend’s parents. Oops.
I spent a lot of time at my boyfriend’s house. His parents had a surprise, later in life, in the form of a bright-eyed baby girl, named Emma*. I loved her so much. I loved to feed her. Dress her. Smell her sweet curls. She was like the baby sister I never got. I’m fairly certain I didn’t date Joe Blow** for him, but so I could see his sister. I’m totally not sorry.
Well, because I practically lived at his house, I would frequently leave items or articles of clothing at his house. No, I wasn’t some ho bag, his sister loved to spit up on me. We were basically teen parents.
One afternoon, after hanging out in my boyfriend’s room, watching TV (really, we were), I decided to get some Pepsi. I bee bopped into the living room, and there was his big, scary dad sitting on the couch. I often did everything in my power to avoid this man. He looked almost exactly like Fred Flinstone, only he had the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his heyday. He was scary.
As I passed him, with my head down, eyes averted, I happened to notice, from the corner of my eye, his socks. They were long, white, and almost went over his knees. They also said, “Frank”.
OMFG. He was wearing my socks. I was in full-on panic mode. He obviously didn’t notice he was wearing socks that named another man. Well, not yet.
As I passed him again, to get back to the room, I did everything in my power to not look at the socks. But, like a trainwreck, I couldn’t not look. I was gawking, staring, mouth gaped, as I walked by. He took notice of me, looked at me like I was mentally challenged, and then turned back to the TV.
Once safely back in the bedroom, my heart was pounding, but something was rising from deep inside. The sight of that bull-moose-of-a-man wearing my dad’s socks, named, “Frank” was too much. Also, my immature sense of humor starting getting the best of me. He doesn’t know. He’s sitting there, like a tool, with “Frank” on his foot. What a noob.
I lost it. I could not stop laughing. Obviously, he heard me, and put together my gawking, like 2 + 2, and all I hear is, “Wilma!!!!!!”
How does one explain to an incredibly irate man how his socks came to have another man’s name on them? Obviously, I had to jump in and explain the whole ridiculous story. I think, after that, he considered me mentally deranged, and that’s why he never uttered another syllable to me, unless forced.
At least he wasn’t into wearing women’s underwear. It could always be worse. That would have been so much worse.
*Not really her name
**Obviously, not his name
15 year-old glamour model. These are the actual socks from the story. Well, maybe they are. They could be, and that’s what makes this picture so amazing. That, and my eyebrows on fleek #didntowntweezers
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Sister
It was just a usual Sunday evening, you know the kind…homemade spaghetti, repetitive arguments, and loving banter. Every Sunday evening, without fail, I would join my parents and brother for a family meal. It was tradition, and a necessity (I always had tons of laundry to do).
On this ordinary Sunday, 7 years ago, the phone rang. I was lounging on the couch, not wanting to move, for fear I would explode from the copious amounts of carbs consumed. My brother was sneaking a cigarette on the back porch. My parents were having their after dinner guilt cigarette in the garage. The call went to the machine. Out of nowhere, a voice.
Dad, pick up. I know you’re there. Dad…
I sat up stick straight. Surely it was a mistake, a wrong number? But, something felt familiar about that voice. It was my voice. How many times had I called my parents and left the same exact message?
My brother came around the corner from the living room, and just stared at me. I stared back.
In a trance, we walked together to the garage. We just stared at our parents. They knew. They knew we knew.
Well, here we go, they said.
Here we go.
From then on, my life was drastically altered. On that lazy, regular, nothing-special-Sunday, I found out that I had two sisters. Sisters.
I don’t want to get into the why’s and how’s of the happenstance that one who had yearned for the connection of a sister all her life, in fact, had sisters all along, yet didn’t find out until the ripe old age of 25. I will say that my dad was married before my mother and he had two daughters. The divorce from his first wife was not pretty and thus, you have two seperate families, existing a continent apart from each other.
How can a mother tell her daughter that she has sisters, sisters she will likely never meet due to the circumstances surrounding their father’s estrangement? Especially when that daughter really wanted a sister named Summer and she cried as if the world were ending when she found out her new sibling was a brother, named Jarrett (does that make me a bad person?)
I never connected with the sister who called looking for our dad, but through her, I found Tracy.
How can I express how I felt during the hours, days, months after first speaking to the sister I always wanted, until that humid day in Philadephia when I first laid eyes on her? I don’t think I have the literary ability, or its impossible to articulate into words the emotion felt when you finally find your kindred spirit.
We spoke every day. Our conversations were filled with questions, so many questions.
What is your favorite food? What kind of music do you like? What is your favorite color? Who are you? Who have you been all these years I didn’t know you?
Despite never being raised together, Tracy and I share likenesses that are uncanny. Despite the fact she’s 16 years older than me, we are like long-lost twins. I could go into every way we are the same, but it may not mean the same to you as it does to us.
I was sweating profusely and didn’t sleep a wink during the entire red eye to Philadelphia. Meeting someone for the first time is always scary, but to meet your sister for the first time? Maddeningly nerve-wracking. Doubts plagued my thoughts.
What if we don’t get along? What if it’s awkward? What if…
The second I laid eyes on her, a sense of knowing crept though my veins.
Why of course, there you are.
I knew her. She was my sister. Never having met her, yet she was always there, being my sister. Through every lost tooth, knee scrape, broken heart, she’s always been there.
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Inverness
The sun was lazily peeking around the steeple of a church and through the turrets on the top of a century old building. There was no breeze and just a hint of coolness ticked my sun-drenched arms and face. The air smelled of fresh cut grass and fried fish and on top of that was a hint of something different, something foreign and strange. The ample sized river cutting through the village was dotted with specks of sun and there was a clear reflection of the cloud dotted sky. The green grass aside the gentle river looked so inviting, but there was no time for rest, no stopping the adventure. There were places to see, new and exiting things to eat and different people to meet. I snapped a picture of the perfect scene so that I would never forget that moment. I fondly look at the picture I took of that beautiful river and village in Inverness, Scotland all the time. Looking at that scene makes me feel an intense longing to relive every moment that took my breath away on that trip. That village scene, along with so many others, will forever be stamped on my heart, to never, ever forget. Ever.
In honor of my upcoming trip, I thought to share a little ditty I wrote years ago about a distinct memory of a trip to Scotland.
I yearn to return to the British Isles. How does one feel an intense longing and homesickness for a place that’s not their home? Maybe in a past life I lived in England, or Scotland, in a quaint village, or up in the otherworldly Scottish Highlands? Maybe.
“We travel, some of us forever, to seek other places, other lives, other souls” -Anais Nin
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Build Your Blog Bullshit?
Hiyo. I have been stumbling upon quite a few gimmicky blogs that promise blog success and all the riches the world can afford-Scrooge McDuck style. Anyone find success with these? One of the blogs I stumbled upon was a How-to-Get-Paid-to-Write-a-Travel-Blog type. The man writing it could barely string together a sentence, yet he professed to make 6 figures with his blog. He also says he has a book deal thanks to his uber successful blog. To finish off a paragraph trying to convince his readers, he said, “Don’t take my word for it”. Really. You mean to tell me, all of your promises mean nothing? Thanks for wasting the 5 minutes it took to read your drivel, dick. Are you actually saying I should not trust you? So, that steep fee to get your program could be a scam? Is that what you are trying to say?
Usually if someone says, “Don’t take my word for it”, it is usually followed by an explanation as to why you can’t just take their word for it. Usually one says, “Don’t just take my word for it”. Hence, why you must buy into some gimmick they are selling. So, all I can surmise is this “super successful” blogger, promising you don’t have to sell out, is trying to get you to sell out by wasting your hard-earned money on his shady shit.
I am also about ready to unfollow a blogger who is begging his readers for money to keep his blog afloat. Excuse me?
How have you found success with your blog? Have you bought into any of these “gimmicks”? If you did (I won’t judge-promise), did you find your blog improved? How does one not sell out in this world, yet get their work “out there” for all to see?
The struggle continues.
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A Blogger Award?
Golly gee! I do believe I have been awarded a blogger award by one of my new favorite bloggers, Carrots In My Carryon. This chick is hilarious. I mean, who couldn’t simply adore a blogger with such a clever name? I am “blogger-smitten”.
I have learned quite a bit about this whole blogging thing over the past couple of months.
First, I had no idea how to even add tags to my blogs, and now I am adding links to blogs in my posts. This is an impressive feat for someone who once thought their laptop was broken because the volume button wouldn’t turn the stupid thing on. So, go me!
Second, I had no idea there were “blogging awards” and that I would ever in a million years be nominated to participate in one. I feel quite important right now. I am trying to keep a lid on my glee so as to not annoy simply everyone who comes into contact with me now.
Third, the WordPress blog world is full of insanely talented, amazing writers and people. I simply hoped to connect to those in my life, and yet, here I am connecting with people all over the globe. I am feeling all the feels right now.
As I am learning, there are rules to participating in the blogging award business. These are the rules, copied and pasted from Carrot’s blog:
THE RULES:
- DISPLAY THE AWARD CERTIFICATE ON YOUR WEBSITE
- ANNOUNCE YOUR WIN WITH A POST AND LINK TO WHOEVER PRESENTED YOUR AWARD
- PRESENT 15 AWARDS TO DESERVING BLOGGERS
- DROP THEM A COMMENT TO TIP THEM OFF AFTER YOU’VE LINKED THEM IN THE POST
- POST 7 INTERESTING THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF.
I think the award certificate is this:
I am not quite sure why it is picture of a dragon, and I am immensely relieved that I do not have to write a fantasy story about a dragon. Or, that my facts have to be dragon-themed. Other than my breath in the morning, I am not very dragon-y. I like watching the Mother of Dragons with her babies on GOT, but that is the extent of my dragon-ness.
I am supposed to nominate 15 people. Let’s see if I can round up 15 fellow bloggers.
Drum roll please…I nominate:
1. babysteps22 because she is adorably hilarious. She is my blogger friend hailing from India. I am learning so much reading her posts. She is super funny, a great writer, and simply lovable.
2. AuntyCath because she is funny as hell and super supportive. She lives way over in Australia, and that is just rad as shit.
3. albuslepus because she commented on my latest post and it made me happy that someone new relates to what I have to say. Also, because I want to learn more about this person!
4. RobynChristi because she is my British doppleganger, in that we share the same humor. She is adorable and just funny as hell. Twinsies!
5. sfarnell because his comments on my posts are funny and I know very little about him! I know how men like these kinds of things *evil laugh*.
6. ACoupleTalks because their blog is very very funny and thought-provoking. Also, their angle is interesting: a husband and wife co-writes this amusing and insightful blog. Check it out.
Whew, I am getting tired. Do I really have to nominate 15 bloggers? Do you know how much work goes into tagging people? 6 is almost 15, right? I think 6 is good.
OK, here we go. I know ya’ll have been chomping at the bit to read these super random facts about me. It has taken most of my mental energy today to come up with 7, somewhat interesting facts about yours truly. Everyone better enjoy this, and consider these facts the most interesting factoids learned in quite awhile! Ready? Here we go!
1. I didn’t know I had a sister until 7 years ago. Straight out of Maury, we have the story of how Katie met Tracy. Actually, our story is precious to me, and I will be writing about it soon. Stay tuned.
2. I am directionally-challenged. It took me the entire 4 years of high school to be able to find my locker on the first attempt. When I started college, I relied on my friend to get me to class. Every.Single.Day we would exit class and I would start heading in the wrong direction. Every day.
3. I am forever worried about all of the old people of the world. Did they take their pills? Did they cross the road safely? Have people been holding doors for them? If I see an elderly person crossing the street, I slow my car, and wait until I know they got across safely. Don’t mess with my elders! I will eff you up.
4. I am super OCD. No, not “counting or checking compulsive”, (although I have been known to check to make sure I unplugged my flat iron or coffeemaker more times than is sane), but in a, “Is-my-nail-art-the-exact-same-on-every-nail-tell-me-for-the-54,847,643-time-why-you-are-not-mad-at-me-anymore-and-OMG-that-person-across-the-room-sneezed-and-now-I-am-going-to-die way. Yeah.
5. I have intense wanderlust, but I also have a fear of the danger present in all new experiences. When I was in England, we rented a car to be able to have more flexibility with our destinations. After a harrowing trip on the motorway, through tiny village streets, and finally into the parking lot of the Quality Inn, literally the first hotel I saw outside of Birmingham, I never wanted to drive in England ever again. I was sure I would die in England, and my family would find out because someone would happen upon some obscure story about the End of American’s Jolly Holiday. That damn car was parked for two days until we had to get to Wales, to get the ferry to Ireland. I had to get back on the horse, and I got over my fear of dying in a tiny Peugeot. By the end of my trip, I was an expert “wrong side of road driver”. Getting over the scary shit in life has always been a challenge for me.
6. I have an insane attention to detail. It is why I remember faces, not names, and why I remember scary details about you, details you didn’t think you told me. I also have a keen sense of reading body language. I can tell when someone is anxious, worried, or uncomfortable. I react to people’s body language more than the words that come out of their mouth.
7. I am a 3rd grade teacher, and I adore every stressful, time-consuming, and inspiring moment of every day. However, my dream job is to be paid to travel and stay at weird hostels and hotels, and to just experience the hilarity that travel can be. You know where I am going with this, right? Yup. Then, obviously, I will write genius reviews of my experiences. I am sure there are millions of people who would love this gig. Dreamers can dream.
Well, I can’t wait to learn more about the fabulous bloggers I have nominated. Ya’ll better do it!!
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Simply, Thank You
I was hoping to reblog the post When bloggers go MIA by Aunty Cath, but she must not have the “reblog” setting. I will share a screen shot of her post instead:
I am extremely humbled and honored that I’m being recognized in other writer’s blogs. After doing this blogging thing for precisely 58 days (WordPress counts in days, I guess), I never would have thought I’d have the amount of followers and attention I have presently.
I am not entirely new to blogging. As many of my Facebook friends know, I started blogging when I moved to BFE, AKA Elko, way back in 2007. Saying it was hard for me to leave my friends, family, and favorite Cold Stone, is putting it mildly. I decided to write about the foibles of a “city girl” living in a cow town. It was met with loads of support from my loved ones, but I had not one “outside” follower. I didn’t really understand how to put myself “out there” or network at all. I wrote as a therapeutic way to handle my new life of falling into cattle guards and being held up on the main road by slow-as-molasses ranchers. It was a way to express myself, yes, but more so a way to remain sane. I miss that small, comfortable, infuriating town more than I can express (that’s a totally different story, though).
As mentioned, I had loyal followers who were close family and friends. Secretly, I wondered if they were so supportive merely because they loved me, not based on my literary merit. Sure, my mom laughed so hard she cried upon reading my posts, and my best friend said she “peed a little” while reading my writing, but was it really because I was good? I want to emphasize, that I, in no way, am discrediting the opinions and comments of loved ones, just sharing a little of my innate insecurity. One of my longtime loyal followers is a writer herself, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel too insecure.
I guess I always believed I wouldn’t be a “real writer” until I began garnering support from strangers. More importantly, from other writers. Most humbly, I have gotten an immense amount of support from the blog world. It was terrifying to put myself out there, in such a naked and real way, which was why I played like I didn’t care how many followers I got. So, in the case that I would totally fall on my face, I could brush it off like I wasn’t doing it for the attention. Now I sound like I really am doing it for the attention *back peddling*.
Let me be real, there is a delicious spark of electricity that runs up my spine, that creates a euphoric high as I start reeling in the “likes” and followers after posting. It’s addictive and probably as good as a cocaine high (notice how I said, “probably”?). I have been trying not to let myself get so wrapped up in the “likes” and the amount of followers. Yet, how does one get their writing seen without readers? Skating the fine line between blogging for the enjoyment versus the attention is treacherous, and I’m still learning how to keep my balance.
With all this said, I’m eternally grateful to my loyal, longtime followers, those who have been reading my work since Elko. I am also so excited for the connections I’m making in the blogging world. I get to read posts from people all the way from India to Australia. I am also very lucky that such a diverse group of people relate to the crazy topics I write about.
I have been told that I am not a real writer until I get a book published, and my ex couldn’t stand my humor, but you can’t win them all. I’m simply going to cherish the people who support me, and continue to write, and create. It’s all I can do. It’s all I must do.
