He's got a million of 'em, folks

What I overheard in Times Square on Sunday:

Guy to two girls: Hey, watch out -- dog shit!

[Girls jump aside, but there is no shit.]

Guy: What are you doing tonight? I mean what are we doing tonight?

[Girls giggle and keep walking.]

Guy: Hey, do you like skinny white guys?

For more snippets of New York conversation, visit Overheard in New York.

Choose Symmetry

This blog is about stories, anecdotes, snippets of conversation, what have you. [What will you have?] It's a bunch of writing by someone who makes her living as a writer. As such, I think a lot about words, the nature of writing, and what it means to be a writer.

I've been creating stories and writing for most of my life. I started freelancing about four years ago and after much hand-wringing, finally took the big entrepreneurial plunge and quit my "real" job last summer. So now, when people ask me what I "do," I'm forced to say: "I'm a writer."

What an scandalous thing to admit out loud! I'm a writer. I write things. That's what I do. I'm a writer.

I still feel slightly embarrassed and shocked when I say it. I secretly fear that people will see through me; will think that I'm a poseur; will discover that I used to write poetry full of teenage angst; will somehow get ahold of my journals and unearth my ability to write total drivel about the same stuff over and over and over again.

About five years ago I began a quest to figure out what I'm supposed to be now that I'm apparently a grownup. I took the advice of a career coach and asked the people I love what they thought about me and my talents. Ever single one of them told me some variation on the following: I'm creative, a born story teller, and good with words.

I saw a theme emerging and tried to reconcile it with the snide comments of my inner insecurity. So I went back and read some of my poetry (post-teenage-angst period), short stories, narratives, and college papers. I discovered that I still liked some of the first three and was astounded by the latter. I read these complex ideas about T.S. Eliot's poetry, theories of pedagogy and literary criticism, and imagery in Shakespeare's The Tempest. And then I realized that I was responsible for these things. I thought them, researched them, and wrote them. I impressed myself.

We don't impress ourselves enough. The bad stuff is easier to believe. (Yes, that's a line from "Pretty Woman.") We all should have more moments to feel proud and even in-awe of ourselves. I'm not advocating conceit, but rather a type of self-love that opens us up to possibilities. If you can't remember the last time you impressed yourself, start doing what you love. Then -- and this is crucial-- turn off your inner critic. It's too easy to compare ourselves to our peers and our heroes. We should allow ourselves to feel pride and accomplishment.

At some point during all of my seeking I had an obvious epiphany: I'm a writer.

Oh.

That's when I realized I'd forgotten that I like to write, have some skill in it, and could use it to my advantage.

Someone recently described me as an artist. This was the first time we'd met. She said it more than once in a single conversation, even though I had not referred to myself that way. I'd gone so far as to say that I'm a freelance writer. But artist? That's even more outlandish than writer. But I loved hearing it. Me as an artist. How preposterous! How pretentious! To be the thing I most secretly want to be. And then to say it out loud for all to hear. The audacity!

We should all be so audacious.

I'm learning to name myself and my desires for what they are; to claim them with no show of arrogance or delusion. To allow myself to be -- and to become -- what I want to be. I have so much to learn and so many ways to grow. I'm finally mature enough to recognize my need for improvement without discounting my achievements

I've read that people with symmetrical facial features are judged to be more attractive than those with unsymmetrical features. How beautiful my life would be if I aligned my dreams with my actions. How lovely I would be if I were full of symmetry.

Free-form

[Note: Jen Lemen's lovely musings inspired this post. ]

When life feels difficult, I try to look at the bigger picture. Sometimes the things that are right up in your face are out of focus and distorted. Your thoughts feel blurry and the situation feels muddled. But if you can just look beyond that, you can gain clarity and see the beauty surrounding you.

When I feel restrained by the decisions, commitments, and relationships of my life, I remember the concept of freedom within structure. Consider the traditional sonnet: it has serious parameters. Fourteen lines. Defined rhyme scheme. There are certain rules you have to follow when writing a sonnet. But apart from those rules, you can write what you like. Choosing the structure frees you up to focus on the content, not the form.

After spending a year abroad following some of my dreams, I came home to the tedium of everyday domestic life. I fell into a serious depression. "How do people stand it?" I wondered. I had a job that I didn't really like, a commute that was sucking the life out of me, and not much else to make it all feel worthwhile. The everdayness of life suffocated me. The routine was mind-numbingly mundane. I longed to live a life full of joy and wonder, but couldn't get beyond the limitations of daily life.

After a year of being home, I got engaged to the man who kept me sane when I was homesick overseas and during that difficult first year back. He says that if it weren't for him, I would have gone back to live in England. He's probably right. I'd begun to establish a life there. I liked England and had a good group of friends. Back home, all of my friends from college were strewn about the U.S. But I decided to stay here and get married. I said that this was the right decision for me because I had already done everything I wanted to do by myself.

I knew that marriage would require some sacrifices. I realized that I couldn't follow my whims without taking my partner into consideration. And I was okay with that. Having him by my side was more important to me than having the freedom to do whatever I wanted whenever and however I wanted. Besides, he's an easygoing guy and I wasn't really worried about him cramping my style.

But sometimes the everydayness of life still gets to me. Not like it did eight years ago, but it's not as easy to live a life full of joy and wonder as I'd like. And marriage, even to an easygoing guy, can be hard work. James and I don't see eye-to-eye on things like where to live (city vs. suburbs) and what kind of house we want (historic vs. brand-spankin'-new). Activities that energize me drain him, and vice versa. In other words, there are serious parameters within our relationship.

Occasionally the limitations get to me and I wonder what life would have been like if I'd moved back to Europe. Or maybe to New York City to live in a loft and work for a magazine or publishing house. What if I was free to pursue my travel and artistic dreams on my own?

When I feel boxed in, I remember the freedom that being married to James has given me. Because he has a good job with good benefits, and because he is full of encouragement and generosity, I can pursue my dream of being a freelance writer with very little worry. Being married allowed me to quit a job where I felt like a square peg in round hole and become my own boss.

Yes, I could have pursued this dream on my own. But it would have been so much harder and would have included so many more parameters. Europe and NYC sound romantic and exciting until homesickness and starving-artist, vermin-infested apartments set in. And besides, James has never tried to stifle my artistic impulses or travel bug. Just last month he asked if I wanted to visit friends in England or take a little artistic retreat for myself. I was the one who hemmed and hawed about it. He's also the one who talked me into going to the American Society of Journalists and Authors’ conference in NYC next month. And when I said I was considering going to the Blogher conference in Chicago in July, he said, "Sounds cool."

So I rejoice in the freedom within this form. My hope is that you find your very own free-form.

Update on Sponsored Child

If you read the last post, you'll know that I've been concerned about Li, the Chinese boy I sponsored through World Vision. I called WV today and asked if I can do anything to get Li back in school. They are looking into it and will get back to me.

The WV representative also told me that Li is 15 years old, not 10 as I'd thought. I need to find my original information about him, from six years ago, to see if this is correct. The most current update that I have in front of me doesn't list his age. Still, even 15 is too young to leave school for work, at least in my book. Yes, 15 is better than 10, but Li needs much more education if he hopes to fulfill his dream of being a doctor. And let's face it, 15-year-olds are still kids. I didn't consider myself a kid at that age, but now, at more than twice that age, I know differently.

It could take weeks or months to get an update on Li's situation, if an update is available at all. I'll pass along any new information as it is available.

In the meantime, if you're interested in sponsoring a child, please visit World Vision's website. A monthly sponsorship is very affordable for many people and it can make a world of difference. You can also give one-time gifts or buy things such as clothing, educational supplies, and livestock for needy families through the gift catalog. And if you have questions, feel free to call them. I'm telling you, they have the nicest people in the world answering the phones.

How Can I Help You?

The Blackbird's Migration by Laura E. Horning

Six years ago I "met" Li, a boy from Jingyuan County in China. We've never seen each other face to face or spoken on the phone, but we exchanged letters and cards from time to time. My little pen pal was a sponsored child through World Vision.

About two months ago I received a letter from World Vision explaining that Li wasn't my sponsored child anymore because he now has a job and no longer qualifies for the sponsor program.

He's 10 15 years old. (see update)

I called World Vision (which, by the way, has the absolute best customer service and nicest phone reps I've ever encountered) to ask if there was any way to send Li one last letter to say goodbye. The kindly phone rep said that he'd moved to "the city" (I didn't ask which one) and gotten a job. She said that the local World Vision workers in China will get my letter to him if they know where he is. There's a 50-50 chance that Li will get the letter, she said.

So this little boy left his village home to work in the city. Did his parents go with him? Did he go alone? With relatives? What kind of work is he doing? Is it dangerous? Is he scared? Does he still have dreams for the future? Does he miss his friends? Will he ever go back to school?

He's 1015.

I feel like I failed him. Maybe my sponsorship made his life better for awhile, but now he's a little kid working in a city. I regret not writing to him more often. But what difference would that have made? My love and letters alone would not have changed his dire situation. Would more money have kept him in school? I thought I was doing enough. If I'd known that his family was contemplating sending him to work, I would have sent more than my standard monthly donation. World Vision allows you to make an extra donation to cover a special financial need, such as buying a bike for transportation or a new roof for the family's house. Could I have given enough to keep Li from being pulled out of school and sent to work? Maybe if I had written more letters he would have written to me more, and I might have known what he needed.

World Vision sent me a progress report and a new photo of Li every year. Until this year, each picture featured a tiny boy in worn, dusty clothes standing on a dirt road with large mountains in the background. He never smiled, but his eyes were squinted shut. Maybe the sun was in them.

The latest photo featured a noticeably taller boy, still in worn clothing, standing in front a painted wall mural. He's not exactly smiling, but his lips are parted slightly and the corners of his mouth seem to point up just a little bit. His eyes are wide open. It doesn't look like the same kid. I compared it to previous photos and seriously wondered if they sent me the wrong picture. According to the latest update, Li was in Grade 3 of Secondary School. His favorite subject was language and he wanted to be a doctor when he grows up. Does he still want to be a doctor?

I sent him one last letter and am praying that it finds him. What can I do now but pray for him and wonder if I'll ever know the rest of the story? It's not a rhetorical question. I'm really wondering if there's something more that I can do. I hardly know where to start, though.

We hear so much about China being the new economic superpower. But mothers and fathers are sending their children off to work because they are that poor. I try to fully comprehend this, but I can't. My intellect grasps the socioeconomic factors of it. My heart swells with compassion. But I have no real understanding of such a reality.

World Vision gave me the option to choose a new sponsor child by certain criteria, such as gender and location. Alternately, I could let them send me the next child in line with the greatest need. I thought about my preferences and realized that I couldn't narrow the field that way. So I let the powers that be choose my new child.

Romy is a six-year-old girl from Lebanon. She has shoulder-length, dark brown hair, thick, perfectly arched eyebrows, and the brown eyes of a world-weary adult. She is not smiling in her picture. Still, she's a beautiful little girl. She wears a periwinkle sweatshirt with a small picture of a clown on it. Her hair is held back by a colorful headband. She's dressed like a child, but she looks so much older. Maybe she was nervous the day the picture was taken. Or maybe she was instructed not to smile. I hope she smiles in real life.

Her father is a shopkeeper and her mother is a housewife. They have trouble making ends meet. They live about 1.5 hours by car from Beirut, and Romy goes to school in her village. We just exchanged our first letters. I sent her some Disney stickers.

I'm determined to write more often and be more involved this time around. I know that my letters and trinkets won’t erase her family's financial struggle. But maybe if I establish a closer relationship with Romy, I'll find out if she needs something else. And perhaps I simply need to ask, "How can I help you?" now and then.

We hear that question, or some variation, in retail stores all the time. My husband says, "Is there something that I can help you with today?" hundreds of times a week. The words roll off of his tongue like a lilting song lyric. But how often do we ask each other that? How often do we ask strangers, co-workers, friends, and family: "How can I help you?"

Wouldn't you love to have someone ask you that question and know that they really wanted to know the answer?