"You're Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!"

Last week I posted this article on Facebook: "Obesity Research Confirms Long-Term Weight Loss Almost Impossible" by Kelly Crowe

I included this blurb: "Traci Mann says the emphasis should be on measuring health, not weight. 'You should still eat right, you should still exercise, doing healthy stuff is still healthy,' she said. 'It just doesn't make you thin."' ‪#‎haes‬

My post triggered the expected comments of a troll I don't know, but I answered his questions as civilly as I could. No sweat. Then, an actual friend of mine, Jennifer, chimed in:

Jennifer said, "I'm just gonna say it, because it seems like a good week to feel the backlash. If you do those things in the right ratio, it does indeed make you thin and healthier for it."

Another friend commented: "Can you provide some links to peer-reviewed studies indicating that "those things in the right ratio" lead to long-term weight loss? I'd be extremely interested to see them. TIA!"

Jennifer replied, "Nope, but all I hear is justifications to stay fat. Calories burned (you gave to get off your ass and move) versus calories in (eat less). Oh, I been there, passing the 200+ mark. I'm not talking from a chronically-needs-to-eat-a-cheeseburger skinny girl perspective. Can I love myself when I'm fat? I damn well better, but I don't love how I feel physically. It's not acceptable, and I do something about it. I'm certainly not going to post studies about how it's okay to be fat and somehow healthy. It is clinically proven that fluffy middle is potential for diabetes. Common knowledge if you ever cared about your weight ever.  Omg, I feel much better. I've been holding in my opinion for months."

My first instinct was to sulk about it. But then I remembered a similar incident between Jennifer and me back when we were teenagers. I handled it by sulking away. This time, I decided to write about it to get it off my chest.

Here's my response to Jennifer:

I'm impressed that you held back your opinion for months, Jennifer. I didn't know you were capable. I always thought of you as the kind of person who just says whatever's on her mind, without regard to how others might feel.

I have a very distinct memory of one night when we were teenagers running around the Liberty Memorial. You pointed at me and said, "You're faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!" and then laughed maniacally, as if my fat body made me a monstrosity.

It was so bizarre. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't figure out what instigated that comment. I don't recall having initiated any sort of fight with you. So I walked away and sulked over it.

Now, at 43, I'm way more mature than I was as a 17 year old girl. I understand that walking away and sulking is not always the best way to deal with negative emotions. I don't blame myself for having done so. Our society is really good at keeping women down by feeding them messages that they MUST LOSE WEIGHT, or change this or that about their bodies. It's difficult to overcome. It's difficult to realize that the so-called experts are sometimes wrong, and that in order to feel the healthiest, the strongest, the happiest, the most authentic, we must do our own research and listen to ourselves. We must remember that our bodies belong to us and no one else.

In my research, I encountered a book by the ironically named Linda Bacon called Health at Every Size. It changed my life. It felt like years of fat oppression had been lifted off my chest.

It had always been easy for me to know that when Then Man was keeping down black folks, that was wrong, and even as a white person I should fight for the rights of African-Americans to live in peace.

It had always been easy for me to know that religious conservatives oppressing people in the LGBTQ community in the name of Scripture was wrong, and that I, as a bisexual woman, should fight for the rights of Lesbians, Gay Men, Bisexuals, Transgendered People, and Queer folks to live in peace.

But I had never thought much about how fat people are oppressed in our society--even though I've been fat for the majority of my life--until I read Health at Every Size. In twelve chapters, written for a layperson but including 419 references to solid scientific studies, Bacon disproves the myth that fat and health are mutually exclusive.  She shows us that a big chunk of weight loss research, which doctors and the media refer to when they start lecturing us to lose weight, is funded by people who work for the diet industry.

Bacon writes, “At least seven of the nine members on the National Institutes of Health’s Obesity Task Force were directors of weight-loss clinics, and most had multiple financial relationships with private industry.” Bacon points out that from 1970-2004, during the so called “obesity epidemic” the average lifespan rose from 70.8 to 77.8. She addresses the issue that many diseases such as high blood pressure and heart disease associated with "obesity" are found in thin people too. She raises our awareness of the vast diversity of size among the human population, and proves that good health can be achieved for people of all sizes.

Here's her advice: give up trying to lose weight. Many fad diets promote weight loss at the expense of overall health. She advises to “enjoy a variety of real food, primarily plants” no matter where your body falls on the size spectrum.  Engage in "active living".  Move your body in pleasurable ways.  And most of all, love yourself.

Love yourself not just because it feels good to do so, but because it's healthy. Living with chronic stress is just as unhealthy as downing a bag of potato chips every night. And, huh, maybe if you love yourself you will find other pleasurable ways to experience life rather than downing a bag of chips every night, leading to an improvement in your overall health, regardless of whether or not you see "results" on the scale.

Linda Bacon's book is not designed to raise profits for the multi-billion dollar diet industry. It raises awareness that health comes in all sizes, and it has raised my self-worth immeasurably. Since then I've been following others in the Health at Every Size and Size Acceptance communities. Abigail Saguy's book What's Wrong with Fat is also an incredible read, well researched, and eye-opening.

So I guess what I'm saying, Jennifer, is that it shouldn't surprise me that you've changed your ways. You were once a young girl who gave the impression that you would say anything without thought. Now you've matured into a woman who gives it a few months before you let go. Bravo!

That's what impresses me the most about human beings. Our capacity to open our minds and change.

You're right, Jennifer. I am fat. And I am healthy. And I love myself. And I feel free.

VBS 2014

I was the preschool storyteller last week at VBS. Two girls gave me drawings of us on the last day:

C drew a picture of herself and me

M drew a picture of herself, me, and a dog

I am so honored. I had such a wonderful time telling stories to these girls, and all the children who came into my classroom last week. I was under the impression that Vacation Bible School was for kids, but I got just as much out of the experience as they did.

Matthrew 19:13-14 (NIV)

13 Then people brought little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked them.

14 Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” 15 When he had placed his hands on them, he went on from there.

Josh's Dream

From guest blogger, Dr. Marvin Baker.

Building a foundation under Josh’s Dream

Some people spend a lifetime deciding what they want to be. Josh Brady knew he wanted to be an actor even before he started to school. He didn’t wait long to get some experience.

Mitch Pilleggi, Founder of the Vancouver Players, was the first to discover just how determined Josh was. He wrote, “I've always known that Josh was gifted, and I've been aching for the rest of the world to see.  I first met Josh when he was 8 years old, a tiny, pale, skinny boy. He walked in with the biggest smile on his face. He was excited just for the opportunity to perform, and it showed. He read a monologue that was written for someone over 3 times his age, and read it with excitement, and a maturity I'd never seen in someone so young. At a time when I questioned whether theatre was something I wanted (or should) continue, he gave me a newfound hope.    

“Over the years he kept coming back to audition, and luckily, there became parts for him. I remember the time a boy with a major role dropped out of a production a week before opening night, and I gave the role to Josh.  Upon receiving it, he simply smiled and said, ‘Now I can show you what I can really do.’ And I'll be damned if he didn't. He brought a side to the character I'd never seen before. He hooked the audience from the moment he went on stage, and took them on the ride with him. Audiences were raving about this little boy who transported them away. Whenever asked about how he did it, he would just shrug it off, and say "It was who I am."

Someone forgot to tell Josh to keep a detailed account of the when, where, and who of every theatrical production that captured his creative talent. The why was obvious, Josh Brady was born for the stage.
When he was 10, he had his first speaking part. Now ten years later he still remembers that first line, “We met in the garden.”  That was his debut in Kansas City. Peri Goodman and Reed Uthe cast him as the 8 of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland. Uthe has directed him in Dear Edwina, When in Rome, Guys and Dolls, and Cactus Pass. This July, Josh and Reed will be appearing together in Spamalot at the Jewish Community Center Theatre.

Josh discovered The Barn Jr. Players and the director, Jason Coats, found a boy madly in love with the theatre. Undocumented precious memories cluster and sequence is lost but as a junior player, his credits would include The Wiz, Into the Woods, The Girl Who Was Plugged In, Striking 12, and helped with tech on All Shook Up.

Josh also likes to write.

At twelve, Josh learned the power of discrimination. Kids tormented his best friend, a 13 year old neighbor, because he was gay, and his friend committed suicide to stop the pain. That’s when Josh wrote At 13. A few years later he read that poem for the audience at a concert by the Heartland Men’s Chorus and it moved them to tears. Three years later people still talk about that poem.  He shared his own story at 15 in his poem, Tired.

For three years Josh was a member of Perform Out KC, a youth performance group directed by Coats. In 2012, He also directed Josh’s original drama, TLC, at Kansas City Fringe Festival.
2008-2111 BVW and after high school 2111-2014
Under the direction of Laurie Vanderpol Josh performed in The Crucible, Miracle Worker, Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Little Shop of Horrors.
Pterodactyls, Todd, at Vancouver Players, Vancouver, WA
The Boys Next Door, Barry Klemper, Beasley Theatre, Lincoln, NE
Marvin’s Room, Hank, The Barn Players, Kansas City
Spring Awakening, Hanshen, Vancouver Players
Sordid Lives, Ty, The Barn Players
Brighton Beach Memoirs, Eugene, Jewish Community Center, KC, KS
2013 was special. Competed in improv, scene study, monologue at Global Stars Network Convention on the Carnival Cruise ship.

Awards:
2013:
New York Conservatory of Dramatic Arts, $10,000 scholarship
Global Stars Network Convention, Best Overall Male Actor
2012:
The Barney Award, Best supporting actor in Marvin’s Room
JBT Award, Best supporting actor in The Boys Next Door
VPT Award, Best Actor for Todd in Pterodactyls
2011:
BVW Award, Best supporting actor in A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Building a foundation under Josh’s Dream:

As friends of Josh, our goal is to send him to New York City this August to begin auditions for pilot seasons and beyond. The current plan is a minimum 2-3 month stay with a goal of obtaining employment and a permanent home there.

$8,000 is our goal.

We invite you to help make his dream a reality. Click here to donate: http://www.gofundme.com/8ghd6k

Questions – comments:  marvinbaker1925@gmail.com

I met Josh the morning after he received harsh words instead of a tip for his excellent service because this ‘Christian’ couple couldn’t support him because he is gay. I went to tell him that didn’t represent the God I love and serve. The incident and my response was reported on every major network, CNN, and Huffington Post. People keep asking “What can we do?”  Help build the foundation under Josh’s dream!

Two Poems by Josh Brady

***trigger warning: suicide***

Today's post is from guest blogger Josh Brady:

At 13

At 13
he is holding a blade against his vein
struggling to remain sane
to find an escape from the pain
he is forced to sustain
by being forbidden to exist
as he is.
At 13
he tries,
but can no longer hold the pain inside,
nor can he cry
because his soul has grown so cold
his tears are frozen.
At 13
he is no longer able to pierce the holes in his head;
he’s only a kid,
but he’s dead on the inside –
being criticized by his peers
who shout “Faggot” as loud
as their hollow hearts would allow,
or let it slip from their tongues as if nothing is wrong.
At 13
his right hand shakes
as his fragile skin begins to break
while he tries to understand why
his dad said,
he’d rather him die than be caught with a guy.
At 13
he hates his own image
because his parents can’t look him in the eye.
He kissed a boy and set his soul free,
but now his soul wanders in a world that means it harm.
At 13
that boy he kissed no longer acknowledges he exists
because he’s found someone better.
He tries to move on, but is glued to the spot
with memories that always were and never will be.

At 13
Every “I love you,” every “I’m so proud”
are empty phrases tossed around
without an idea to their meaning
and every truthful word is not to be believed
because the true disguise lies beneath the mask.
At 13
he can no longer see a reason to keep breathing
and spends every moment
of every evening
dreaming,
pleading,
screaming
for freedom.
At 13
he closes his eyes and hopes to die
while cursing his own breath.
His right hand strikes his left,
and as the blade opens his flesh
he opens his lips to beg God for forgiveness
for not having the strength to live his life
to the finish.
But before he can even end his sentence,
the blade falls
and he dies
at 13.
-- Josh Brady

At 13 was written shortly after my friend, Adam, committed suicide. I was 12 at the time. Adam and I had grown very close over the short time we knew each other; he was my first crush. We lived in a city and with families that deemed it inappropriate to be homosexual. We watched TV shows and movies with "stereotypical" portrayals of homosexuals and made fun of them. One summer, after Adam had come out, his parents sent him away to straight camp. When he came back a few weeks later, it was clear he was changed, just not in the way they had intended. We saw each other one more time before he took his own life. In that time, when my family still didn't approve of homosexuality, I was scared, and so I figured the best way to release my feelings was to write.

Tired

I’m going to fight
for what’s right
until the night
the world changes
Some of us are tired of fighting,
but I’m fighting because I’m tired.
I’m tired of my existence being underrated,
tired of freedoms being postdated,
living as the most hated.
The next generation is coming
and I won’t be waiting much longer.
The youth are growing stronger,
and our patience is worn thin.
The world will soon realize we were not born in sin.
Nor will we pretend for families, churches, or friends
because this fear will end because we are tired.
Tired – tired of boys hanging from poles in basements
adjacent to their ripped Bibles, and
tired of finding girls lying with bottles
once filled with pills they swallowed
to escape
the emotional rape where they once felt safe, church!
We are tired –
tired of fighting for the right to fight
for our own skin.
They will soon realize our faces are as human as theirs
regardless of whom we give our hearts to.
Mother Earth is tired of giving birth to flowers
for funerals.
Kids are tired of pretending and forgetting who they really are
just because a single smile can fool a thousand people
before a single soul bothers to ask where it came from.
Even I am tired –
tired of seeing my peers get their happily-ever-afters
while I am stuck in my prologue, and
tired of seeing my kind disappear just because
a written word can control weak minds.
I’m tired of not feeling complete
unless I am battered and bruised.
And I am tired of living in a world
where being proud of who you are
means you are nothing.

So I will fight for what’s right
until the night the world changes
because nobody should have to live in fear
or regret who they are
and end their life
at 13.
--Josh Brady

Tired was written when I was either 15 or 16. I had just come out, but I had come to terms long before with who and what I was. I was tired of having to pretend to be something I wasn't just to avoid making others uncomfortable. I was tired of not having a voice.

Regrets from my time in the closet –
  that I never told Adam my true feelings,
  that I let myself be a victim,
  that I had lied both to others and to myself, and
  what I saw LGBT youth had to go through where I lived – angered me. I released it  in Tired .

I Love

God Loves

God Is Love

Check the Box

***trigger warning: sexual abuse***

I put a check next to the "yes" box on the form. I've filled out forms allowing organizations to perform background checks on me before, to get a job, to rent an apartment. But never, outside of psychiatric offices, had I come across a form that asked  me whether or not I have been sexually abused. Until I filled one out so I could volunteer at Vacation Bible School.

It caught me off guard.

It's understandable. You're surrounded by children. It's important to make sure you're not going to hurt them. But what does my checking the box "yes" say about me? That I will be a pedophile? You know, the whole, hurt people hurt people adage? Still, it sort of hurt when I checked the box "yes". Like the mark stained me. People would look at me differently. Would they keep their eye on me more than they would someone who checked the "no" box? What if I were a man?

Both men and women are sexually abused all over the world. It's an awful, infuriating fact about our species. Too often the physically stronger of us prey on the weak. Most often, it's men against women. Misogyny runs rampant in our society. Thank God there are organizations such as MOCSA, and projects popping up on social network sites that are tying to put an end to this violence, such as this Tumblr project: http://whenwomenrefuse.tumblr.com

You can share your story. Right there. You don't have to keep it secret anymore.

You also don't have to find a literary agent.

I quit working full time almost three years ago with a goal in mind: publish an autobiographical novel about a sexual abuse survivor. That didn't work, so I tweaked it into a memoir about my experiences as a sexual abuse survivor.

Still, no literary agents were pounding down my door.

But you know what? I've discovered that I don't need to sell a book to be happy. I'm happy. I have you. I have me. I can say what I like on here. When I decided to pursue the goal of becoming a published author, I thought I was doing it to make me feel good about myself. Instead, after all the rejection, I'm starting to feel worse. So instead of becoming a published author to feel good about myself, I became a blogger. And guess what? I feel good about myself.

Uncensored communication is the best therapy for someone who was told not to tell, or Mommy would be so upset she'd have to go back to the hospital and have shock treatments again.

I tried, Mommy. I tried to keep it secret. I didn't want to lose you. But secrecy breeds shame. The longer I kept the secret from Mommy, the worse I felt inside.

So I told her. And we both survived. No one ended up in the hospital getting electroshock therapy. I was threatened with hospitalization when I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, but I chose to start eating again rather than get sent somewhere with needles galore.

Over time, with therapy, after reading lots of self-help literature, and especially after cutting back my hours at work and starting this blog, I have healed myself. I am a sexual abuse survivor. I have good days and bad days. They are always the same day. Life is hard. And it's beautiful too.

As much as I love writing this blog, it doesn't pay the bills. We've been barely scraping by these last three years. I'm thinking of going back to work full time. I'm tired of my family being broke. I want enough money to send Katie to science camp and to eat out once in a while. My part time income affords us few extravagances now. I want to take our kid to see a movie. I want a new dress. I want to eat a nice meal and drink a good glass of wine with my husband. But more than anything, I want to quit constantly thinking of money. Or lack of it. Money is so boring. I'd like to spend less time worrying about it.

I'm glad I've cut back my hours at work these past three years. I get to do things like volunteer at Vacation Bible School, go on school field trips, bring goodies to school parties. I get to spend unscheduled, stress-free time with Katie during summer vacation. We'll have to juggle our schedules once again if I go back to work full time. But not only would it be less financially stressful for our family, I think it would be good for me. The rejection I've been receiving trying to make it in the published world is wearing me down. Katie deserves to grow up with a mother who models self-confidence and authenticity. I can do that best by working for money as a librarian and writing freely, for free, on my blog. Giving up the idea that I have to check the box next to "published author" in order to feel proud of what I've done with my words.

You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

I've always loved The Beatles song, "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away." It was released five years before I was born. Like many things that existed before I did, I never thought too much it. It's melodious. Something you'd sing along to. But I never questioned just what we were saying.

Today when I heard the song, I really listened to the lyrics:

Here I stand head in hand
Turn my face to the wall
If she's gone I can't go on
Feeling two-foot small

Everywhere people stare
Each and every day
I can see them laugh at me
And I hear them say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

How can I even try
I can never win
Hearing them, seeing them
In the state I'm in

How could she say to me
Love will find a way
Gather round all you clowns
Let me hear you say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

One of the reasons I like this song so much is because it's told from the perspective of a sissy boy. And I mean "sissy boy" in the best possible way. A human with male genitalia who says "fuck you" to societal standards and shows his emotional side. I've been friends with many sissy boys over the years. Sissy boys rock. Sissy boys are tough. Their emotions are raw, their opinion of the world calloused. I have the utmost respect for sissy boys.

And it got me thinking, should we hail John Lennon as a pioneer in transgender or agender rights? A person's gender is not determined by his or her or their physical appearance, but by how he or she or they feel on the inside. If that's the case, then John Lennon, author of the sissy-boy mantra, "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" should be considered a leader in living an authentic life, despite what society says. In the mid-Sixties, when Lennon composed this song, it was a time in the western world when boys were taught to be stoic and strong. They were not supposed to cry. They were not supposed to write songs about expressing their emotions. If they got hurt they were supposed to walk it off and quit acting like a sissy.

But John Lennon said fuck that. Men have feelings. Men hurt. Men need. Lennon might not have lived long enough to see society evolve to where it is today, when transgender people end up on the cover of Time Magazine and all over my Facebook News Feed. I think if he did, he'd embrace the movement.

Looking for more good transgender music? Check out this link to a top-ten list of transgender songs.

Mike Rowe's Corn Chex

Post by Mike Rowe.

I'm neither a fan of General Mills nor Dirty Jobs, but I love the way Mike Rowe writes:

 "Mother and I don’t give a gluten-filled, whole-grain, fiber-packed crap about the 'oven toasted advantage' or the 'unique structural design that allows every single scrumptious square of Corn Chex to absorb the optimal amount of milk.' But we’re very impressed when people do what they say they’re going to do. And we’re doubly impressed when they go out of their way to be honorable when they don’t have to."

That's what a great writer does. They suck you in with their words, whether you're interested in the topic or not. Anyone else could have written a similar story and I would have passed it up. No thank you. I don't read posts about General Mills--aren't they in cahoots with Monsanto? But Mike Rowe manages to make the story funny and meaningful, so I read it.

I've been thinking a lot about writers and writing and readers and reading lately. Actually I've been thinking about not-writing and not-reading lately.

We live in a world with more writers than readers, it appears. One of my jobs at the library is incredibly depressing for an aspiring writer. I print off a list of books each week. I pull the books off the shelf. I open the books to their last page and mark them with a dot of ink. All of this work is done so, after a set amount of time, our collections specialist can assess whether or not it's time to "weed" the book from our collection.

Books get weeded when they become damaged, but they're also plucked out when they sit on the shelf, acquiring dust. It doesn't matter if they're well written or not. Many of the potential weeds have covers which proudly tout their place on the short list of Man Booker Prize recipients and other such respectable awards. Awards, schmawards. If people aren't reading it, what's the point?

It makes me sad that books are subjected to this sort of popularity contest, but I understand that a public library's purpose is not to store unread books, but to put books into the hands of people in the community. If no one in the community is interested in reading a book, it's time for it to move off the shelf to make room for the next big thing.

Each time I open a book to the last page, raising a marker to brand it with a little dot, I look at the author's photo and little biographical blurb and I think, "Dude, you managed to get your work published and still no one wants to read it. What chance have I got with my two unpublished manuscripts?" The only attention they're attracting is from the dust on my desk where they sit, unread. I sent them out to agents, but the only feedback I got amounted to, "sounds interesting, but this project is not for me."

Sometimes if a book looks good, I'll open it up and read what it's about. I nearly always close it back up and think, "sounds interesting, but it's not for me."

When I was in seventh grade, I decided I wanted to be a professional writer. I had just finished reading The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. As I sat in my twin bed in my tiny bedroom in the suburbs of Overland Park, Kansas, I closed the book and thought, "Wow! I want to do that!"

I told myself I'd publish a novel by the time I was 18, like Hinton.

After a brief reverie in which I decided instead of becoming an author I wanted to quit school, dye my bangs blue, and run off to be the a backup singer for Duran Duran, I returned to my original goal when I discovered that I cannot, in fact, carry a tune. Or dance. Or carry off the whole blue bangs thing.

In ninth grade I took my first writing class. I will never forget my teacher, Marla Barr. She encouraged me like no other. She took me aside after class and told me I had a gift and that I should practice it and work hard, and not try to get by on talent alone. I probably hadn't bothered to turn in my homework. It was a lecture disguised in applause.

Mrs. Barr told me the story of how her roommate in college and she were both English majors who aspired to be writers. Mrs. Barr said that her roommate was a much more talented writer than she was, but that she didn't practice her skills enough. She liked to party too much. She didn't want to work hard at it. Mrs. Barr did work hard at it. And after all these years, her roommate had dropped out of college. She had become a waitress, never publishing any writing, while look at Mrs. Barr: she had a great job teaching kids how to use their gifts.

If they'd listen. I sure didn't. That must be the worst part about being a teacher. Especially a teacher to ninth graders. Ugh. Whoever can get a ninth grader to listen to your good advice is a miracle worker.

In high school I partied too much, if you count laying in bed, moping at home as partying. I turned in homework inconsistently, only when it piqued my interest. I didn't take school seriously. I dropped out of college. And although I am not a waitress (I get tired just thinking about working that hard) I do dish out the latest books and information to library patrons to earn a buck or two to pay the bills.

To pay the bills, badly, I might add. I'm not even good at that. Most of the time I worry how we're going to pay for the next car repair or air conditioning bill. I read Patti Smith's mesmerizing memoir, Just Kids, and I thought, "Wow! I want to do that!" But I don't do the whole poor, starving artist thing well. I can't imagine living in a hotel room, fending off lice and hunger. I want to produce art that lasts for generations, too, but I like my comforts. I get cranky when the air conditioner breaks or when I go to bed without first gorging myself on carbohydrates. I can't imagine having to sweat and starve to make my art. It's a catch-22, though. In order to pay for such consumption, I have to spend time away from my art to make a living. I'd like to meld the two. I'd like to make a living off of my art. But it's not my time.

It's time for me to put aside the idea of getting one of my manuscripts published. It's time to focus my energy on paying the bills, on raising my family, on comfort and love, not rejection and disappointment. I tried, and it didn't work out. Time to try something new.

Not that I'm going to give up blogging. I love blogging. I'm just going to give up the notion that I'm not a true artist unless I have a novel or memoir published. When I read S.E. Hinton's words in seventh grade, they inspired me to be a novelist. But there was no such thing as blogging back then. Now I get inspiration from writers like Mike Rowe, who rattles off great stories as a Facebook status update. You no longer have to submit your writing to an agent who ok's it for a publisher who ok's it for a public to ok it. You can just hit "post" and let your audience leave their comments below.

Does blogging count as art? I sure hope so. A blog is the best medium for a writer such as myself who appreciates the art of slackery, too.