Sometime soon a book is coming out. The author and I were in a class together. I wrote a story. Doesn’t matter what it was on. Two weeks later she wrote an almost identical story.
I wasn’t supposed to think she stole from me but was “inspired by.” If being “inspired by” paid bills or garnered something I wouldn’t care. Maybe she did think of it on her own. But I would never hand in something almost identical to another person’s two weeks later. Now the story doesn’t belong to me but to her. I have no idea if it’s in the book or not. It was in the very first draft.
I stopped taking classes as I grew tired of teachers telling me after class how they would save my stuff for last as it was always interesting, and they loved reading my work so so much, etc. I was always the one who almost made it. Somebody else would.
I grew tired of that world. The world of New York where people all think a certain way. Problem is I don’t know how else to think. Or how to think as I don’t just look at the bottom line.
I have wants and needs also. But I’m supposed to smile and applaud when somebody else makes it and I can’t anymore.
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Wouldn’t it be nice if I figured out what the hell I’m doing? I saw a free Beach Boys concert without Brian but with Dean of Jan & so I’m kind of feeling like the Little Old Lady of Pasadena except I’m not really old, not little and not from Pasadena. I have only been there once actually.
I don’t usually feel lonely or alone. Ironically this struck after firming up plans that begin next week. Now I’m doubting myself. Wondering what I’m doing. Why am I here when the weather hasn’t exactly been anything to boast about except for Friday and Saturday and I had bronchitis and am scared that the extremely windy conditions are going to lead pollen straight to my nose and bronchial trachea.
It’s hard to admit loneliness when I have always been so independent but I have always had friends to run to. I’m writing about parts of my life that weren’t the best and do make me depressed but I’m getting paid to do this so…It’s as if non verbal learning disorder is a verboten subject.
It’s not Asperger’s and it’s not bi-polar so who cares? I do. I just didn’t want to be the face of it or the voice or whatever. It makes me problematic. I’m the person people love but just can’t hire. Except for this article and I do feel grateful about that.
Yes people contact me and ask if they can use a post for this and pay me, and they would love to use more. But uh my archives….I’m a compulsive cleaner–the disorder that NLVD or NLD brings had to go somewhere. It went into my archives. I had to teach myself everything. I was my own life coach and it’s not easy. I don’t dissolve into pity parties often. This isn’t one. This is what life’s like with a disorder few people know about, and nobody is going to give me points or a break for having overcome much as the disorder is so invisible. It only hurts me.
Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the one who almost makes it? What about my feelings? I don’t exist just to cheer others on though I love it when people I know make it. I want to be cheered on. I’m overly honest, I know and am breaking many rules by writing this post
What can anybody do? Banish me from New York to South Carolina?
This isn’t bitterness talking nor is it envy. It’s facts. I’m just a bit too much work and there is always somebody who might not be as talented or might be more, but can put together a perfect package.
I can’t even do a proper outline so I have to write a damn book before shopping it and I don’t want to spend my days and nights immersed in the worst times of my life when I could be listening to beach music in clubs.
I’m older than the person who wrote the book that’s coming out soon and have been telling that story for many many years. I want credit. Or I want to understand why I’m supposed to feel good about inspiring?
What’s in that for me? I’m sorry if this isn’t sportsman like but I have worked damn hard. I’m talented. I want also….And most of all I think a person should have the decency not to hand in a story two weeks after somebody else handed an almost identical one.
That made me feel as if I’m worthless. It was a slap in the face as if I was invisible and hadn’t read two weeks earlier. Only she counts. Push me to the side and pretend I don’t exist.
No this isn’t how Columbines begin. It’s how self-doubt festers and dreams die.
If you don’t know Jan’s story, it’s one of the most tragic in all rock history. “Dead man’s curve” is scarily prescient. Dean is 65 if a day and drop dead gorgeous. At least from a distance.
This is my first attempt at Writer’s Island. This weeks prompt is Second Chance.
As always I thank Bone for the words.
Yesterday was the 15th anniversary of the first attack on The Trade Center. I will never forget either attack. The fifth anniversary of the war in Iraq is quickly coming. We’re not honoring the dead by remaining in Iraq.
My printer is throwing a fit so I almost run to FedEx/Kinko’s on a very gentrified West 72nd Street. When it was just Kinko’s I used to feel I was in a Al Pacino movie, and would look for all the lonely crazy people. My cable was down more than it was up when I was a reporter and I thought it would be a fate worse than death not to have friends I could wake up at midnight to use their computer when I had just seen a movie and had a six AM deadline. I couldn’t imagine being in Kinko’s through the night. It seemed so transient.
I have had many second chances in life. It almost seems unfair to be constantly reinventing my careers. Same city–three apartments, same friends, but oh so many careers.
There is only one career I crave and I crave it so much I feel like a vampire sucking blood. Who am I to think I can make it as a writer? Lately I have been reading so many good blogs I think I’m not even a ripple.
On March 5, I will take a 90 minute plane ride to a new world for me.
90 minutes by plane but a world away. A new life. A new chance. I won’t be stressing about things costing more every day, or a woman yelling in Fairway:
You, you deserve to die.
I have no idea why she pointed to me and said that. Neither did the other people waiting on the long line. I could understand the man who screamed at me as I almost went to his check out counter instead of the one just across from it.
He told me that I owed him an apology. I didn’t think so, and I’m the former princess now queen of apologizes. I had already told him I was sorry. He wanted something more. Something neither I nor the other people in Fairway could have given him.
I accept people going crazy in Fairway. It’s built so that the aisles are too small and everything looks dirty though the fish is always ranked first in freshness, least in mercury, etc.
I know people who won’t shop there as they don’t want to be yelled at. They want to be distant from the fracas yet really all life in Manhattan is frazzled.I accept Fairway as a normal part of Upper West Side life.
When push comes to shove, and it does all the time there, do I have to accept it?
I write about Fairway too much as it’s the bane and justification of my existence.
The years immediately preceding and subsequent to 9/11 were the worst of my life. My mother was rapidly aging. She was the person I had always gone to for advice, for validation. She wasn’t at all demented but blind. People treated her as if she was demented. Sometimes they didn’t but she thought they did. It didn’t matter. I heard it all. I had no filter that separated her feelings from mine. I tried to consider her feelings. She tried to consider mine. Yet so many times we didn’t act considerate of each other.
I worked in a nursing home. Surrounded by old age I almost became old myself. I felt adrift and alienated from almost everybody. It should have been easy, for me, to find help to deal with my conflicted feelings. The professionals in the nursing home couldn’t understand how I could let my mother live alone.
I would quote them to them. “She has capability in all areas but sight.” They would tell me that if it were their mother they would insist she live in an assisted living facility or a nursing home. “But you’re the ones literally writing the book on the many types of capability. Don’t you understand, stubbornness? Vanity? The want to live an independent life? I can’t tell a woman with capabilty in almost all areas where to live” No, not in this case. She was blind. That she could distinguish medications by putting different sized rubber bands on the bottles–a home care agency test of cognizance–didn’t matter.
That she was sharp and mindful of all possible problems didn’t matter. Didn’t I know I was a bad daughter?
Therapists outside the nursing home would tell me I had to separate. I knew that but how? I didn’t live with my mother. There were five mandatory phone calls a day. If I didn’t call at exactly nine AM she would get sick to her stomach. They didn’t know what I could do. They just knew her dependence on me wasn’t healthy. I knew that also. They refused to believe I was also dependent. I seemed so strong. I stopped believing in therapy. I knew this wasn’t an easy problem but I needed support. I needed to feel that I was a worthy person.
Oh sweet irony. I had gone into this field to learn how adult children and parents could get along. I had gone into the field to look for new ways of housing when people became old. I had gone into it with many expectations that people didn’t want to consider then.
Now the news is filled with this problem. Then I felt so alone. After her death, shortly after 9/11 I felt guilt, sadness, despair. Nothing but time could heal this.
I became the person I hated. I became a person who screamed in Fairway. My gait is slightly off. It’s not noticeable except when I’m tired or my psyche is worn out. I would bump into people. They would scream. I would scream back.
The supposed 9/11 affect of people becoming nicer; the halo that was supposed to have surrounded this city; it bypassed me. I felt as if I had become a punching bag for everybody with any problem to dump on.
Later I was to realize that no matter how horrible the problem we have a responsibility to only let it out at the right times. That there were few right times then–that this was a city in deep mourning—I truly should have understood that. Yet my need to mourn my mother should have been acknowledged.
I was right in giving up the friends who told me to stop mourning after six days. But I made my other friends responsible for my happiness and that’s always wrong. I felt so sad and distant from the world that once seemed to belong to me.
It was my straight male friends, and one great girlfriend, who were there for me. I can never participate in straight male bashing. One was physically present whenever I truly needed somebody to cry to. He would drive me where I needed to go, and basically translate my language of despair and need to our friends.
Another knew how to make me laugh. He has known me most of my life and knows I would rather laugh than cry, and needed people who understood that. I hope that there is never another terrorist attack or Katrina type emergency. But if there is all people affected should be given counseling if they want it
I have moved past mourning my mother. Still I needed continuity. My city, the one constant in my life other than family and friends, was quickly changing into a city I no longer knew.
My best girlfriend would walk the streets with me and point out how many people bumped into me and yet I would be the one to apologize. That gave them license to yell at me. She pointed this out and pointed it out until I understood apologizes were unnecessary. Not everything in the world was my fault. I will always love her for that and much more.
The first time I was able to go into Fairway without feeling scared that I would blow up was my biggest victory in my adult life.
I came back to myself. I’m an improved version as I have gone through the eye of too many storms that hit back to back. I did come out of the funnels stronger.
I never yell in Fairway. Even this past Sunday when the store was wall to wall people, when I was told I deserved to die–something I had thought in the horrible years–even when the man thought my “sorry” wasn’t enough, I smiled.
I don’t want to use all my energy just getting through the day.
This past decade wasn’t all horrible. I watched two young girls turn into wonderful young women. I became closer to my true friends. I met many new people. I learned that America consists of more than the NorthEast Corridor, South Florida, and SoCal.
I learned that despite my disability, dyspraxia/non verbal learning disorder, I can move where ever I want to. I learned that I can take the best of me and make it better.
I have a chance, a true and planned chance at a new life. It hasn’t hit me yet. I don’t really understand that once I sell my apartment and buy something new, my expenses will be cut drastically. It hasn’t hit that when people in North Myrtle say something is crowded, I have to look–and never really find–the crowds.
It hasn’t hit that I will live in comfort with a dishwasher, washer/dryer and things other people take for granted. And it won’t cost more than $1200 a month above the purchase price.
Outside of New York I can focus on what’s important to me. I know the first six months or so will be difficult. I will be selling one apartment and looking for a townhouse to buy. A townhouse, a place with steps and room. It feels like a fairytale. It’s not
More importantly, New York, is the city of too many memories. I find myself reframing my mother’s final years. I wasn’t a bad daughter. I was a daughter who helped allow my mother to live her final years with the dignity she so badly wanted. Somehow it’s easier to understand that outside of New York.
New York was my dream city in my 20’s and 30’s. I have changed. New York has changed. Change is good. Change keeps cities thriving and people growing. New York has a chance to remake it into the model international city. I have a chance to devote my time to my passions, and I have many.
Really I’m just a simple girl from Long Island gone country.
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I can’t comment right now so don’t feel the need to. ..
Doug, my dawg of wonderful colors is on vacation. But he left an interactive post to help me design my new house. So help me please!!!
This is long and maybe a bit verbose but my heart is bursting. I forgot to say my apartment’s 600 square feet. Everything I did was with tricks and gives an illusion…
In Manhattan it’s always been about real estate and always will be about it. A good apartment with that intangible “wow” factor brings up the apartment’s worth immensely. Today’s consumer might be perfectly prepared on paper, but falling in love is falling in love whether with a person or an apartment.
*Actually I met them yesterday.
Ten years, seven and a half a months ago, on my birthday, I circled the ad that led to the first apartment I found that said to me: WOW, I HAVE TO OWN THIS. Continue Reading »
Pia is exhausted. She does have the whitest bathtub in town–just reglazed–and can show the prospective buyers the three year guarantee. The Bank of Pia is back in operation as her “contractor” is sick. He kept saying that he would pay out of the money she gave him She wants the supplies out by tomorrow and for the contractor to pay for a cleaning service so the cleaning woman doesn’t have to do anything “dirty.”
Pia thinks her apartment might be ready by next week but damned if she can tell. It’s been so long she can’t tell up from down. Continue Reading »
I updated my other blog. I’m doing all apartment stories, past and present, in it.
Somebody close to me believes I have no patience and expect people to do things when I snap my fingers. Most other people, close to me, think I’m a total jerk for having so much patience.
I should be submitting. I’m not for many reasons including paralysis, and fear, not of being rejected but of life itself. It seems as if it’s an endless to do list that I never come close to completing. The new sub contractor is supposed to be here at noon. “Do you have a point list?” my best friend asked. “Uh, if a point list is what’s to be done than I have it.” Continue Reading »
Read my new blog. It’s funny and nothing like this. Ask for the URL. I just got a dotcom. Knowing me I will figure it out by 09.
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I don’t really care about offending other people. I do care that my life has been made unnecessarily difficult as I’m held to the same or higher standards than most people. Higher as my intelligence has always shined through. Yet just changing a server from one to another is a major technical issue for me.
Life’s not fair and nothing will ever change that. The blogosphere’s a compassionate place. I have seen that often. My problems are more spatially oriented than anything else. They led to high anxiety, panic attacks, and phobias. I have never been eligible for any services or disability.
My parents would have sued even then had I told them I was kicked out of Driver’s Ed for coming to school stoned. I never did and was too ashamed to tell them for twenty years.
I shouldn’t have had to live much of life in shame for things that weren’t my fault but were my problems. Now I’m coming to that final third of life. Though I have saved more than most people I have every reason to fear old age. I refuse to be a person society forgets or casts off with a “her, she’s different. Doesn’t count.” Nobody has said that iat least so I can hear in many decades. But I heard that too often when I was young. I don’t like to post on this subject for two reason. It makes me depressed, and I guess I get depressed as the reaction is you’re not an autistic bi-polar transsexual with amputated legs so why are you complaining? I mean nothing against anybody with any or all of those conditions. Nor should I have to say that, but the blogosphere like popular culture reacts to sexy conditions. Preparing Brittney Spear’s obit is sexy–forget what paper or magazine is doing that. We’re such a frigging sick society.
Now that I’m in recovery mode, from the flu, I guess I’m angry. There are so many books about disabilities. So many blogs about problems. But the one I have NLD–non verbal learning disorders gets no publicity. There aren’t many blogs about. My new blog has nothing to do with it.
I don’t want this blog to be about it.
Yet it would mean so much to me if people began to discuss it. Honestly it hurts to go around the blogosphere and see every problem but this one discussed.
I know that people don’t like me to write about this. But few people are. Sometimes I have to. I do get many hits on my posts about it and sometimes even get wonderful emails. Continue Reading »
When I write about this disability I represent not just me but other people who have it. We have no spokesperson. The other day The New York Times wrote about disorganized boys as most people who are, are boys. Great I would be in school and have the same problems I had 40 years ago. Mostly it’s boys who are disorganized with bad handwriting, messy notebooks etc. Therefore I’m lazy and don’t try hard enough. Or the problem would be diagnosed but there would be no real help for me. There isn’t much help available for people with non verbal learning disorder. No role models of people who have made it. I have made it–with a lot of backsliding. Continue Reading »
It’s been a long time since we have had a talk with ourselves. We have been eating too many forbidden foods like pasta made from regular flour. We have been encamped at Lucia’s.
Yes and we were the perfect guest. When we asked Lucia if we snored as we had a headache and felt sinusy she said:
No, of course not. You farted all night.
No we snored. But just a bit. We made Lucia snore like us.
Lucia lives just off Broadway and we kind of live on Riverside, but we slept much better than we do here as it’s quieter. Hard to believe but Lucia can turn her heat off so the windows don’t have to be opened and closed all night. We get steam pipe bursts. And we live across from a school, a little private school where all the kids are well behaved unlike the largest middle school in the city we lived across from in Riverdale. We have to make sure that we don’t live near a school.
Uh, you’re saying something negative about your street and you never know who is going to read this. You don’t want to say anything bad about your apartment.
It’s yours also. And we’ve been saying bad things for over three years. But we have the nicest neighbors who we really should have taken the time to know before.
It takes from five to ten years to get to know the neighbors in Manhattan unless you have kids or a dog. We decided not to have either just to be friendly with people
But we’re just getting to know our neighbor who is a doctor and works with people with HIV. Our kind of person. And she’s so friendly, and we like each other so much. She gets our humor. Actually most people do in person, we just put it on hiatus. We went through a long spell of working with old people who complained and would compare them to our mommy. She never complained to the general public, doctors, nurses etc, just me and Elka. The etc. were usually social workers. OK she would tell social workers that her daughter was one and much more knowledgeable and brilliant. Really endeared them to us. But we miss our mommy and for some reason our father. Not that we didn’t love him much. Father’s died. Mommy’s lived.
We, all of us, want them to tell us we’re doing the right thing. Though mommy refused to believe that Greenpoint was cool. She grew up there and it was the last place she wanted to believe people really wanted to live in. Our father grew up in East Harlem and always thought it was cool. Back in his day. Please never let me grow into a person who can’t think a neighborhood can go up or down.
This isn’t the post to get all teary and miss dead parents in.
Why not? We have always wrote multi tasked posts.
The new generation of bloggers don’t get them
So?
We just said we didn’t want to get set in our ways.
But we don’t want to please. That’s not why we write.
Maybe you. I’m a recovering link whore.
You’ve been many kind of whores. Link whore was the tamest.
No it wasn’t. Oh let’s stop this. It’s almost Christmas Eve day where we get to listen to Christmas music all day and night.
We used to never say such things publicly. Back to the post….
Our apartment’s becoming beautiful again. But the floor guys forgot to put the cable back on–and did something so that the microwave and stove can’t be used though the circuit breaker looks fine.
We can live with disorder in the house now that we realized our mind is like jumbled knotted frayed wires. And we don’t know how to unjumble, unknot, unfray. That’s why we hire people. That’s why we’re leaving our really good life. So we’ll always have money to hire people.
Though our first day back in North Myrtle the TV and stereo didn’t work. First thing we checked as we have our priorities. Love to watch Horry County TV stations. Love living in a place called Horry County. It’s got that great Ho in the name. It wasn’t the circuit breakers, so we ran out and ran into Jerry in his pick up truck with “licensed” this that and everything. We offered to pay him. He wouldn’t take our money.
We don’t drive for the sake of humanity and refused to take cabs most places as we like to walk even in 90+ degrees. Especially in very hot weather. But we would have to take cabs sometimes, when we were dodging Jerry. Each time they would lower their prices. Not that we don’t like Jerry, we just didn’t want to be dependent on him or….
We think this is going to be a good move but we’re so obsessed and yesterday in the disorder thought we lost our passport and checkbook. We were crazed basically because we’ve been eating white food and things with sugar. Too much socialization. People keep telling us we’re going to be bored as we’re such social animals. OK, animal. We like solitude also and really miss it. We need solitude to refuel and rejuvenate. We’re not ashamed of that.
We feel strange. We wish we had allowed ourselves to be really happy before. Happiness is a choice. We figured that out last year or the year before and now we’re reading a book What Happy People Know that’s the first self help book we have ever loved. Though we have to say we have come to most of our thoughts on our own.
Ho Ho Ho–know how cheap that is but couldn’t resist. And a Merry Christmas to all.
I have no idea where these pingbacks are coming from–they all seem to really be one blog, and a new form of comment spam. Some even have the same IP address. This is a post that is hard for me to post. I was thinking of turning comments and pings off as I often do, but was curious to see the types of comments I might get. I closed pings but not comments.
Once again I put a post into draft as it was poorly written and I don’t feel like redoing it. I can’t write a post I like.
I’m having a total anxiety attack. There is something I reach for when I do, but I try so hard not to.
Nobody thinks of me as a smoker. I’m not sure what a smoker is supposed to look like–not educated, not well dressed, not clean, not a good person, smells of cigarettes in body, mouth, hair and clothes. There are “closet smokers” who dress well in clothes that don’t smell of cigarettes, with bodies etc that don’t smell of cigarettes. Actually I couldn’t even go into bars and restaurants where smoking was allowed as I can’t stand the smell. They’re not allowed in New York basically anywhere and I don’t lament that. Continue Reading »
In the elevator yesterday a man, about my age, told me his daughter always has the Weather Channel on. Being somewhat of a weather freak I could relate and told him I always have a tab on my computer on weather.com, and refresh it whenever I remember. He didn’t know what a computer tab was or what I meant by refreshing. I felt so___I’m not exactly sure what but something. I’m glad I didn’t confess that I often have two or three tabs set to different cities.
I wrote this post while undergoing a crisis about leaving. I love New York. I love my life. It’s the 65% increase in costs since 9/11 I don’t love. For much less money I could have a much easier life and come back to visit every several months. I know I’m making the only right choice for me, but it’s so hard.
People who say color overpowers Manhattan abodes must not live in the city, or love to live in a world of grays and grime. Having a colorful apartment somewhat makes up for only having 600 square feet and for living a vertical life.
Color makes me happy. When I first moved here, a decade ago, I went color crazy. Color wasn’t as in then, and people would talk about my apartment as if it were something special. Now it’s tired as I am.
I’m tired of forever trying to make a better me. Doesn’t there come a time in life when you’re totally satisfied? With the color on your walls? With the person that you are? Or aren’t?I’m trying to move forward by moving but I’m a New Yorker. As much as I want to leave and know that I have made the right decision a part of me feels that I’m giving.
EB White said if you come to New York prepare to be lucky. I never had to come to New York. I was always here and I was lucky most of the time.
30 years ago this past week I began a six week temp job. Thirteen years later I left the industry. 39 years ago this past week I first really noticed Noah.
October was always my lucky month.
Now it’s a month shrouded in personal tragedy. I try to work past that and remember all the good stuff that happened in October.
Lucia and I met at that temp job. Myrna was her supervisor and somebody–she needs to pick a name–became mine after the great layoff in March. Somehow the four of us became the Blenderbusters. We’re meeting tomorrow for the first time in I don’t know how many years. This is something that should and does make me happy.
I used to write stories about our adventures and all the time we would spend thinking about what we wanted to do. I never tried to publish the stories but people would read “Pia’s girls stories.” Ethnically and racially we were the perfect NY blend–Lucia is of Puerto Rican descent, Myrna is Black, Somebody is half Greek/half German–the basic ethnic composition of Astoria where she grew up. I’m Russian Jewish and half Irish Catholic by birth.
I have few true regrets but a big one is not trying to get the stories published. My workshop teachers were always trying to get me to, and it was as a friendlier publishing world. I was young and photogenic….The stories were a mix of funny and pathos.
Who but Lucia would look at the audience at the Ziegfeld–we were late and had to seat in the front row–for a new Woody Allen movie and say:
We could make signs saying that we can’t afford personal ads and hold them up here. Look at all the straight men.
I played on that one and made it into a great personal essa, but I had no desire to be published. Writing was something I did for fun. To be published would have taken the fun out of it. It wasn’t really fear of rejection. Rejection from a magazine is so impersonal–while I didn’t try, somebody once submitted for me. I wasn’t insulted, saddened or anything by the rejection. I did think the little handwritten note asking me to submit again was cool. More recently I have gotten great rejections from Salon and The Times It’s weird that cynical as I am I find them “almost acceptances.”
I find blogging scarier. There’s interaction involved. What if nobody reads my post? What if my sitemeter comes up empty? What if everything is a Google search or thanks to the unknown person who paid BE for me seemingly forever–all BE hits?
I always feel sorry for the people who come to my blog through Google. Unless they were looking for Courting, this isn’t what they wanted.
What is this blog anyway?
I began to enter a contest to be paid 80K to blog for a year, and was stymied by the first question
Why should you get paid to blog for a year?
Here is your chance to make your case. Tell us why you think you should be paid to blog professionally for an entire year. Heartwarming stories are good.
It was the heartwarming stories that got me stuck. Shouldn’t somebody with a truly heartbreaking or heartwarming story win it?
I’m a New Yorker. By definition we’re caustic–see any Seinfeld I can take the saddest events of my life and make them sound earnest but matter of fact. I don’t do heartwarming.
I’m neurotic and have neurobiological problems but would die before asking for sympathy. I was raised, and continued as an adult to think of other people first. I do understand that is at odds with what people think a New Yorker is, and does confuse people about me.
I’m more into writing edgy fiction than heartwarming stories. Of course I want to be paid to blog if there are no strings attached.
I cant get into pay per post and all that. They all seem like pyramid schemes to me. My father probably taught me about Ponzi when I was ten.
Blogging’s changed so much in the three years I have been doing it. I wrote about my stats as I wanted it on record. For the record I had no frigging idea what I was doing. I just wrote and people came. Now people begin blogs just for links. People give away books and other things. People would send me forms to fill out that would turn out to be “guest posts.” Only instead of guest posting on a subject of my choice they would tell me what to write, how many lines there should be and how many links. That’s not blogging, that’s something I want nothing to do with. When I would refuse they would de-link me.
Can a disenchanted blogger actually enter this contest?
Where other people see opportunities I see too many colors.
Could I write a heartwarming application essay? Could I pimp myself?
Will they raise the money to pay the blogger?
Shouldn’t the winner be a person who truly rose through adversity?
How do you define adversity? How do you define rising through adversity?
Does anybody who asks all these questions deserve to win anything?
I'm Pia Savage. Just a writer with a blog title few people truly get. I suppose my destiny has taken me from the Upper West Side of Manhattan to Myrtle Beach as I barely heard of it eleven months ago. My email is Pia(dot)talks@gmail(dot)com.
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