Life in the Middle Lane

Many of you, some of you, someone (?) may have wondered where I’ve been since November.

Well. If you must know. I’ve spend the past couple of months writing fiction. I participated in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in November.  The point of NaNoWriMo is to write a novel with a minimum of 50,000 words. I failed at getting to 50,000 words, at midnight on November 30 (the deadline), I had about 35,000 words.  In spite of this failure, I created a better writing habit, and have some great new tools to help me get my writing done.  And I have a great beginning to my novel.

December was Party (aka Networking) month.  I’m still looking for a better job, my super awesome life coach Jenny Ferry told me that the holidays are a great time to network.  I totally found that to be true, and at least a few times each week I was attending various lunches, receptions, and happy hours all devoted to networking, holiday cheer and getting me a job.  And when I wasn’t networking, I was likely writing or celebrating my birthday (aka MoniChrismas)

It’s 2010 now, and I’m back in the saddle. You can expect to see posts here (and here) at least once or twice a week.

I hope you had an amazing holiday season! And damn it, 2010 HAS to be better than 2009.

I was born in December of 1981. Because of a couple of educational loopholes, (and the fact that I could already read) I started kindergarten when I was four.  This was a lucky break for me. I found that it was easier to blend in as someone who was younger, than it would have been if I one of those kids that was almost a whole year older than everyone else.  It wasn’t until college that it was a pain to be the youngest. Especially at 18 and 21. But that’s a story for another day.

My birth in 1981 leaves me on the edge. I’m on the cusp of the Gen X/Gen Y split.  Sociologically, I completely identify with Gen Y. I boomeranged. I’m happily not married. I’m a job hopper. I fit all the criteria.

You would think that I would jump for joy at the prospect of having hundreds of Gen Y blogger feeds delivered to my Google Reader every day. You would think that I would be able to identify with, and be encouraged, educated and inspired by the writings of my generational compatriots.

Then I go to Brazen Careerist, which no doubt has given me access to a bunch of, in some cases, underrated bloggers who I love, but sometimes I scan the titles and think, “It this it?”

This is the best and the brightest? These are who we “feature”, who we ask to guest post, who get best blogger awards?

Are Gen Y bloggers only allowed to talk about Gen Y, social media, the internet, marketing, and entrepreneurship?

Ya know, I love a REALLY GREAT post about any of those subjects, but the “Top 5 Ways to Hack Blah Blak Blah” and the “Gen Y is different because yak yak yak” has been done to death.

Seriously. It’s dead.

Unless you have something COMPLETELY new and different to share, stop writing about being a member of Gen Y, social media, HR, marketing, career planning, or any number of boring and/or overdone topics. But if you blog about these topics because it’s your passion or brand, or it’s what you do for work, or you want to get noticed by an industry insider,  for God’s sake, make it interesting for the rest of us.

How can you make your blog posts more interesting? Make me care.

Your life is interesting. Relationships are interesting. Building bridges is interesting.  Having a conversation is interesting. Telling a great story is interesting. Making a difference is interesting. Exposing stupidity is interesting.  Overcoming is interesting. Making me jealous is interesting. Being inspiring is interesting. Being funny is interesting.

For goodness sakes, if you are going to write for the web, say something meaningful. Compel me to subscribe to you.  Be fucking interesting.

Lately, I had a lot of time to think about water.  Here in Atlanta, it has been raining almost non-stop for about 15 days.  Yesterday, I walked in the rain for a bit and watched the path of the water flowing down the street. I often left my cube, to see how the rain was affecting traffic patterns. I observed the splashes of water on the roads, I crossed a bridge over the Chattahoochee River, I watched new reports of people drowning.

I love the way the clouds sit between the buildings.

And I started thinking that there was a blog post somewhere in all this observation. I decided to start writing and see where it all lead.

1.  Water takes the path of least resistance, downward. I watched a stream of water flow down one street, hit the curb at corner, turn left and flow down another street.  I wanted to see where it was all going, so I followed it for a bit.  It flowed for a while until it came to another, lower street where it flowed until it found a drain.

2. Water has a one-track mind; when flowing, water goes in only one direction.  In every instance that I observed a flowing body of water, all of it was moving in the same direction.

3. Water is fickle. The least bit of disturbance would cause it to redirect its path.

I love to run around with my camera. I was hoping for a view of the interstate, but it was raining too hard.

4.  Water always finds a way to get where it wants to go. No matter what obstacles are in water’s way, it will go around, through or under them all to continue on it’s journey.

5.  Water has a “mind” of its own.  No matter how many time we whined that we wished it would stop raining, it didn’t stop. No matter how many people cried for their homes and families to be spared the destructive power of the flood, they weren’t. Poor neighborhoods and rich neighborhoods (and everyone in between) was affected by the storm.

I was going to go through and relate each of these water thoughts to life, the job search, being a twenty-something, learning, perseverance, crowd-sourcing or any number of things. Then I decided not to.

What do theye things mean to you? To flow or not.

“There is someone else in the room”

She was immediately awake. In one fluid motion, she reached for the spot between the headboard and the mattress where she kept one of her bedroom guns. Her blood ran cold for a second as she felt the emptiness where she should be wrapping her fingers around a custom designed handle. Without missing a beat, she reached under her pillow for her knives. 

“Stop looking for ways to kill me. I removed all the weapons from this room. I figured you’d try to kill me before you opened your eyes.” 

Em opened her eyes and peered at her best friend, Margaret,  perched on a bar stool in the middle of her bedroom. She let out the breath that she didn’t realize she was holding. 

“What are you doing here?” Em asked once she took her first conscious breath. 

“Why didn’t we ever date?” her friend Margaret asked between bites of cereal. 

“Well, for starters, I change lovers the way most folks change underwear and you deserve someone stable. Secondly, if you think about your past 5 relationships, what do they all have in common?” Em climbed out of bed, poked Margaret in the side and walked to the kitchen. 

“Well, for starters they were all academic. They were all mid-western. They were all smart enough to get and keep my attention.” 

“Em chuckled.  There is one very important thing that you are leaving out….?” 

“What?” Margaret retorted innocently. 

You know what the hell I’m talking about! All your relationship, with men and women, are all with people at LEAST 15 years older than you.  And since I’m younger than you, I can never qualify.” 

“Thats not true” 

“Sure is.” 

“Humph. I have a type?” 

“Sure you do, we all have a type. And I love you too much to ruin what we have over some stupid romantic relationship that probably wouldn’t last. I trust you with my LIFE at least 6 times a year. That’s way more than I trust anyone else. Dang it girl, did you eat the last of my cereal?” Em opened all the cabinets and the refrigerator. She stared at the butter tub and the brita pitcher in the otherwise empty refrigerator. 

Margaret joined Em at the frig, remembered why she ate the stale cereal and went back to lean on the counter.  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. It was stale anyway. You want me to fix you something else?” 

“First I want you to tell me what you are doing here.” Em, popped a can of Coke Zero, and took a long drink.  ”I didn’t tell anyone that I was back in town.” She sat up on the kitchen counter, ate the edges off a piece of wheat bread, and gave Margaret her undivided attention. 

“Where were you last night?” 

Em rolled her eyes. “Well, mother goose, my flight landed about 7:30, I drove straight to my favorite bar, Joneses, where I had 3 beers and 2 car bombs before I ran into a guy I knew from college. I picked him up or he picked me up, whateves. We came back here and…. 

Margaret covered her ears. “Ok, Ok. Spare me those details.” 

“And after I was done with him, I kicked him out and went to sleep.  Which I was still doing when you so rudely woke me up. So what are you doing here?” 

“Did you buy any drinks after you met up with this guy?” 

“Hmmmm, nope, I don’t think so. I knew I had to drive myself home, so I cut myself off after the carbombs.” 

“Wow. I applaud your self control. Did you two take any drugs?” 

Em hopped off the counter, and managed to find an almost empty jar of peanut butter and an equally empty jar of strawberry preserves. She looked at Margaret, made a face and said, “”What?!?! No! You know I don’t do drugs. I drink. Where the hell are you going with this 3^rd degree? What’s going on?” 

“A person with your training does not get her house broken into.” Margaret ignored Em’s questions. She brushed her shoulder off, “Even by someone with my extraordinary skills.” 

Em smirked. “HA! I was, excuse me, AM tired, so I slept through your clumsy break in. Or maybe you actually paid attention to my B and E lessons and got it right this time. 

“Get real. I’ve seen you with less sleep and more alcohol, with quicker reflects than you had today.” 

“Ok, Margaret, I’m slipping.”  Em, shrugged. “I’ll lay of the shots for a while. Just wine for a few weeks, ok? She walked over and gave Margaret a hug. Mid-hug she stopped. “You still haven’t told me WHY you broke into my house and ate all my cereal. What’s going on?” 

“Em, I got a call 16 hours ago from the Company while I was on location in Belize. I was told to get my ass here as soon as I could.” 

“Holy, Crap! That stunt I pulling in Japan won’t happen again. I got carried away, and Terry was so wonderful, and…” 

Margaret shook her head. “No, that’s not it.” 

“Then what?” 

I’m here as head of your security detail. Em, someone’s trying to kill you.

Dear Readers: I’ve been writing short stories for a while. But I’ve been hesitant to post anything. But now that I’m self-hosting (yay, me), and I’ve given myself a break on having everything PERFECT immediately, I’m posting whatever I want.  So here’s the 1st in what I hope is the beginning of regularly posted fiction.

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She spent too much time daily thinking about how easy it would be to cheat.  In her mind it came down to 4 words.

Work.Call.Sex.Sleep

That’s what her life is reduced to.

What if her “other” wanted to cheat. It would be so easy for her.

Their uncomplicated routine gave an enterprising person lots of wiggle room for infidelity.  Adding someone dumb and unsuspecting OR better yet, someone who only had sex in mind would be a piece of cake for either of them.

She sighed. It made her sad.

Work.Call.Sex.Sleep

As easy as that.

It was Friday night. She was glad she took those extra hours off from work today. It gave her a few extra minutes to see what her other was up to for the evening and, more importantly, to see how much time she had.

Work.Call

Talking to her other seemed so much earlier in the day. But now that she’d done her duty, she was free and the night was young.

She thought about that Amy Winehouse lyric.  “It’s not cheating, ’cause you were on my mind.” And I thought about you when I came.”

She smiled and thought that truer words have never been spoken.

She closed her eyes, tried to forget her life.

She took a deep breath and grabbed the hands of the person she happened to bring home from that bar, and gave herself over to her release.

Work.Call.Sex.

Now she had figure out how to get them the hell out so she could get some sleep.

.Sleep.