"PUBLISH" POST

Sorry, but according to my understanding born of this edjamacation, blogging isn't writing. Nope. Not as I've learned to interpret it. It's a shortcut that doesn't include the trauma of publication.

Anyone can write a journal. And that's generally that nature of a blog. It doesn't take a writer to keep a journal. It doesn't take a writer to blog.

But it does take a writer to write.

Professional bloggers are just that: bloggers. It takes so much more than the easy-come-easy-go blog audience to be a writer. Blog readers don't pay for the pleasure. They show up, they read, they leave. All without surrendering their precious cents. From time to time a blog will offer up good writing, but let's not confuse ourselves thinking that "blogger" and "writer" are synonymous. Erroneous, dear friends. Erroneous.

Blogging and writing: two different things requiring different skill sets, sensibilities, and durabilities. Bein' a blogger--even a successful one, with fans and funds--don't make you a writer. And that's just the way it is.

A RABID BIRTHDAY

The whole thing started with an internet post--
A comment, an email, and I was engrossed.
Wrapped and entangled in what had to be love,
I made one of those friends folks only dream of

When I think about Rabid, a very first thought
Is how she grins when she runs (more than one ought)
Each confident stride, practiced and strong
Grants her mug a wide smile (it's a little bit wrong)

But it's a good illustration of Rabid's M.O.
To enjoy what she's doing and where it will go
It's there in her mothering and in things that she stitches
Even when life delivers mean-spirited glitches

Chief among those might be her mate's heels--
A trial beyond measure, a things that reveals,
But when she speaks of that year, one rife with distress
What she'll actually tell you is that they were blessed

And that has to do with the way that she see things
A series of choices and what each one brings--
She doesn't sit back and wait for others to do stuff
She rolls up sleeves and goes through what's tough

It's one of those things that makes her a dream buddy.
She's an actual example, someone I study.
Having her as a friend teaches me more
Than I'd learn on my own or from someone next door

But all of that stuff is somber and therefore askew
For without a bit more, I'd be not all the way true
See something else special about Rabid that's grand
Is her kick-ass sense of humor and wit on demand

Sure, her funnies can be silly, but what's truly great
Is how her intellects feeds her humor in a way that's innate:
You can't buy her punnery or alliterative grasp
I swear I read her blog and literally gasp

And that's where we started, with the intangible word
Snorting and rereading 'til vision was blurred
I've enjoyed her blog archives 'til way past midnight
Cackling and admiring with unabash-ed delight

She's a friend that I cherish beyond what I can say
My gratitude's heavy in a tear-jerking way
And as dumb as that sounds, it is a fact.
She's had a true and unfading, damned good impact

•••

Happy, happy birthday, my dear, dear friend. I honest-to-goodness love you.

Rainbows and butterflies,

Meg

MOSTLY-DEAD

I have relocated my Logophilia prints to Imagekind, and in the relocatin' I have become a part of a great little network of "artists." (You know why the quotations are there: I don't see The Self as a real arteest.)

This nest of creators is great for encouragement. When one of us posts a new piece we all get right to commenting on it. "Great contrast!" "Interesting composition!" "This series is really working for you!" "Amazing work!" Some of the compliments are worth remembering, others not so much. I've cultivated a few rewarding relationships on the Imagekind site and I've discovered some truly astonishing art.

And the other day an interesting message from another artist/member landed in my Imagekind inbox.

Subject • your work

Message • wow, I only just started to read what you have written. I can only say wow. You reach down into the heart of things. Expressing what I can only assume are true feelings. I can only bow to your honesty and willingness to place yourself in front of the viewer. Wonderfull work. --Sam T.

I read and reread and was quite confused.

My response • What I've written? I do write, Mike, but I don't recall putting any of it here. (I could be wrong there; that happens more often than not.) Are my words floating around somewhere else? My mostly-dead blog? I just don't want to take an incredibly kind compliment that's not mine if'n it ain't my words you're readin'. (But if the compliment does end up rightly belonging to me, I'm so printing out this message to hang in my office.)

Good things,

Megan

I still haven't heard back. Maybe my message was offensive. But since I sent it a few days ago I've been thinking about my mostly-dead (which is slightly-alive, you know) blog. How sad. I gave this space three-ish dedicated years. I'm not sure it was worth my time, but I did serve up an honest portrait of The Self. And I think I enjoyed doing it.

Now, however, I am sort of afraid of this space. It goes like this: I am in school working on a writing degree. So I've conditioned myself over the last few months to think that if I have anything worth writing about I need to use that material for essays for school. And if that's the case then I've got nothin' to put here. So I may as well let the space dwindle. I'm not sure I see a way out of that.

And then there's the time issue: if I'm blogging it means that I'm not doing something else and even money says that the something else that I'm not doing is quite important. Work-work, school-work, attention to husband and doggie, yoga, and such. Those things deserve--require, even--my time. This blog does not.

Or does it? The message from Sam T. got me thinking . . .

BLOGSTORMING

Whitney and Jessica get the credit for where I am today. (Weep. Wipe.) I'll leave it to them to decide whether or not they should be proud of themselves.

Where I am: nestled in a green beanbag in my office with my MBP balanced on my outstretched legs. I'm hopping from one Space to the next. A little Photoshop here. A little facebook there. Some calendaring. A dash of emailing. I'm avoiding the Space where my word processing program is open. It's mocking me with it's blank stare. I'm supposed to be filling those blank pages with writing of some kind.

Dude, I got nothin'. Again.

Still.

Where I am: in graduate school.

Whitney and Jessica are to thank/to blame for where I am right now.

•••

Without this here blog I would not be working on my MFA in Creative Truth-telling. I wanted this degree years ago. I've been whining about wanting for a while now. But. But. But I wasn't ready. A thing I did not know and find myself very mature for being able to now admit. What I needed in order to be ready to pursue what I was wanting was this blog. It lubricated my mind. It was three years of intermittent brainstorming. Blogging is brainstorming. ('Cause I'll be damned if someone [smart] actually thinks that the bulk of blogs have what I'd call "writing" as their overall structure.)

And now, in working on pages to turn into my faculty advisor every month, I perpetually find myself blocked. (So much for the mental lubrication, right?) So I come back to the archives of this blog looking for an idea to flesh out and turn in. Very useful for that, this blog. I needed it to get me ready to go to school and I need it now as I try to craft essays for critique. I come back here to remind myself what I think. 'Cause of course I can't just, like, remember.

So how is Whitney involved? She's the one that started a blog and suggested that I do the same. Without her encouragement to do this thing I'd certainly not have found myself blogging. If not blogging there would be no schooling at present.

Thanks, Whitney.

And Jessica? How is this her fault too?

She was the quiet cheerleader through example. In hearing about her progress in her graduate studies and in her encouraging that I do what I'd been wanting to do for years, I felt a little more confidence in the concept and applied to some universities. (And then punished her with the task of being one of my readers for my application submission writings. No good deed goes unpunished, yes? Yes.)

Thanks, Jessica.

I'm glad to be where I am. On this beanbag going cross-eyed. It means that I'm checking a to-do off my life list. But couldn't it please just be a little bit easier?

PETERSONS A LA ASH

Friends are a tough thing for me. I'm unusually particular when making them and stupidly noncommittal when keeping them. But I do have a few that honor me (honestly against their better judgement) by letting me call them friend for years.

Sometime last year I was sitting in Buffy's house--I don't remember exactly who was there or what we were doing--but I remember thinking how neat it is that my close high school friends have become who they are. They've cultivated unique talents and--I beg your forgiveness for using this word--blossomed into sparkling, spectacular, capable, and skilled women.

I recalled this thought when Ashley did the Peterson family photos a couple weeks ago. She is crazy talented. And she's my friend. Though we lost touch for years and live far from one another, I do know who she was ten+ years ago--which makes her skills and predilections that much more intriguing--and, for a reason I can't quite put my finger on, I feel entitled to be proud of her abilities. I am proud of my friend.

Well done, Ash. You did what you do: you captured my family.

(Sample photos stolen from Ashley without her permission; but I figured that since the post was about her mad skills, she'd give me a pass.)

If you've got the time on your hands and have some emotional investment in my people, I encourage you to visit Ashley's instaproofs site to peruse her cache of Petersons.

BRIEF REPRIEVE FROM HIBERNATION

Though I don't scrawl upon my own blog, I still visit others' from time to time. Time to rare time. I read Rookie (which, incidentally, has a whole new look that I'm immensely proud of), I read my mom, I read Rabid, I read Ranger, and Winder and Bird and a smattering of others. (I'd say that I read Cat, but she posts, like, every third blue moon, and when she posts it's not about her--its about other people--so that doesn't count. And I'd say I read private blogs, but that requires rememberin' and I don't do that so good these days.) But that's about it. That's about all I read. At least those are the ones I can recall right now.

However, every so often I land on another blog--some food blog Whit forwarded me or another someone I used to check in on--and some of these blogs display a button or a credo proclaiming that they are ad-free and ding damn proud of it. I have returned today in part to tell you how stupid that is.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with putting ads on your blog. Nothing wrong with making money from advertising on the space you maintain on el Internet. Why? Because blogging takes time. It takes time away from other things. And if you're blogging regularly there's a chance that you've developed a following--large or small--and that following returns because they are entertained. Whether it be out of delight, fury, or incredulity, they keep coming back to lap up what you leave behind. The stuff you left that took time to create. And when you put ads on your blog you are being remunerated for that time. A little reward for the words you send worldwide. Blogging doesn't have to be a perpetual act of service for your readers.

Why in the world would someone be proud to run an ad free blog? You're proud that you spend hours and hours over the course of time maintaining your blog for free? If that's what you want, fine. Go for it. But don't look down on or decry those who make a buck or two doing the same kind of thing you're slaving at without fiscal yield. In my opinion, they're going about things more efficiently than you are; they're maximizing their time by earning money. It's just good sense is all.

Am I saying that everyone should put ads on their blogs? That if you don't make money off of your blog you're a moron? Of course not. Plenty of people blog for their own entertainment or for posterity or for friends or for . . . or for . . . or for . . . The reasons are many and individual. If what you get in return for your hours blogging is something intangible, something intrinsic, and that's enough, then, well, that's enough. But you're pathetic if you are one who gets enough from your blog without being paid and you boast about it.

I'm ad-free! No kidding. I'm on your blog right now and I don't see any ads. And from that I assume that you don't want any and that means that you are presently fulfilling your blogging goals. Your blog in its present state sates you. Perhaps next month you're going to start feeling that you want more from your blog and you consider joining an ad network. The next time I land on your blog I see that there's an ad, and from that I understand that you have a new goal for your blog and the ad's going to help fulfill it. It's that simple. Proclaiming your ad-free-ness is redundant and self-important.

•••

While I'm here, why not a little update? Let's see . . . What have I been up to since we last cavorted?

• I got a new drug. One to sell, not to take. And it's been a really intense study. I'm not kidding: there was a span when every night I'd see ECGs in my sleep.

• I've added regular Bikram yoga classes as a supplement to my usual power practice. I do power yoga the first half of the week and then Bikram on the weekend. Bikram and power are night-and-day different, but I've found that they compliment each other in maximizing the role in my life that I've defined for yoga.

• I applied to seven graduate school programs. (Yes, seven. Terrified that any writing skill I thought I once possessed had been a casualty of my post-graduation intellectual atrophy, I figured that some law of large numbers had to be in my favor and at least one school would take pity on me and let me in.) When I graduated from college 100 years ago (okay just 8 years ago, but it feels much longer) my plan was to head right into a Masters program. Hah. Life happened. Higher education didn't. I've bitched and pined ever since. Now's the time to stop the bemoaning and hop on it already.

My program of choice: a low-residency MFA in Creative Nonfiction. Not the most common of programs, trust-you-me. Low-residency means that I can apply anywhere and still live here. I spend a ten day residency on campus at the beginning of each semester and then carry out the rest of the coursework long-distance. That works for a writing program.

I decided to do the applying at the beginning of December and needed to have all the applications in the mail by February 15th. I'm telling you, it was a superhuman feat to learn my new drug and get my applications off on time, 'specially since the manuscripts required ranged from 20-40 pages and there were personal essays to write as well. But I did it and lived to tell the tale.

I am immensely grateful for the friends and sisters that read for me while I was in the editing and retooling phases. Without them, I'd never have been able to send off stuff to be proud of.

I've heard back from two schools so far. Both said Yes.

• I did the Rookie redesign. I hated Whitney's blog. It was ugly. She liked it fine, but I, the supposed designer, did not. So I told her it was time for Rookie Cookie to grow up and get a new look. And it did. And I like. For now.

Going back and redoing all the food pictures will take 37 million years, but I hate so very, very, very much the font that I initially chose such that it will be worth all the time it takes. Whenever I finally get around to doing it, that is.

• I've just embarked on working on a blog for my mom's book. Oh yes, friends and neighbors, my mom wrote a book. A whole book! It's called The Mourning Run and it's based on a true story and it will have a blog to go with it.

(I realize that linking to the blog is premature (hope that doesn't bug you, Ma), but it's a work in progress and you should know its location. When it's done, it's going to be a great resource for those who grieve. I'll absolutely let you know when the book is in print--a couple months, we're thinking. It will be a great gift for anyone who is mourning. I already have a couple people I'm eager to send the book to. The blog will complement the book. There is much to explain regarding that, and, as I said, it's a work in progress; to understand, you'll just have to go there when it's done. I'll yell and scream when that time comes.)

• The Soph is well. Perfect, basically. Mom, Mal, and Lo came to visit and brought Dash (Mal's Boxer puppy), Gus (my parents' Westie), and Miles (my dad's Christmas present--a miniature Schnauzer puppy), and my chubby Yorkie lived to tell the tale. Yes, of course she knows how to speak. I said she's perfect.

• The Husband is well as well. He is still a denim snob. (You didn't know he is a denim snob? Oh, he is. My sisters Caitlyn and Mal turned him into a first-rate premium denim whore. I don't tell him when the jeans I'm wearing are from Forever 21--not that he can't just tell by looking.) He is still at Apple. He is still tall. And dark haired with a smattering of grey strays that I find attractive. And nice to me. And aching to see Caitlyn pregnant.

S'all for now, Dear Reader. Do something productive with the rest of March.

FOR A THOUSAND WORDS

Why is ours a culture of pictures and not one of words?

A picture can have the worth of words a-many, but they're frequently words without imagination. Words so often recycled.

Pictures, especially those mimicking others and reprocessing an image not new, ought to accompany words. Not replace them. Much more than not, pictures should be an accessory, an accompaniment, not the main event.

A single picture of millions has the explosive gravitas to qualify as pièce de résistance and surpass mere adjunct status, elevating itself to be a headliner. An image singular amongst the dross.

Words have a better power than pictures do to evoke articulate response. One can only drop pretty!, marvelous!, amazing!, gorgeous!, wow!, and all that other timeworn drivel so many times before each word, each phrase, is shallow, insignificant, and worthless elsewhere.

Words, however, can be arranged in ways unique enough to spark a response solid and unique itself. Words embolden thoughts, vivifying emotion. Pictures necessitate an adjective to two and too regularly leave the watcher wanting.

Blogs make some things better. But they foster a culture wherein ardent word love is sparse. Fingers poised on keys that quickly generate whatever we want them to, we have an opportunity of ease to arouse one word orgy after another, leaving something hearty behind--on a blog, a hidden hard drive, a piece of printed paper--something that is more powerful than one digital image among so many.

Surely, let us take images that last, but let us craft with words as well.

Let us write.

I lurch at art just as often as the next non-artist, but I think a culture of pictures-only, and mostly poor ones without soul at that, is a lazy one.

PAS DE POÉSIE

I do not want to be poetic. I do not want my word deposits to feel heavy and somber. The letters should have a mind of their own--think their own thoughts. Thoughts born of prose. Not poetry.

I'd rather give a thought flight. And there's plenty in the stuff of poetry that can't grow wings.

I dislike the sobriety in the cadence of a poem. I don't like the gravity. The plodding. Prose skips, saunters, and makes an entrance. While poetry, like so much smoke, tries to snake its way inside. It aims for sublime when outright bodes better.

I don't want to be a poet.

Poetry doesn't suit me. My words don't want girth. They don't want to be bestowed with anything more than their shapes and their ideas. To record myself, prose is my medium. Not poetic prose. Poetic has a rough go at being wry. I'd rather wry than shy and blithe.

Bad poetry is saccharine, it's trite, it's trying too hard, and it's everywhere, pervading the good as comrades. Comrades incognito. Read a piece from a would-be poet and they fouled off the sublime they were aiming to hit. Instead we see the effort behind it. We see the trying to mean more, the trying to have heft. While bits of better poetry show no effort; each word carries its own weight and the sentiments aren't tangled in their own self-importance.

When you know that the poet put the piece together with intention to make you feel rather than to express how they feel, you are faced with bad writing.

Because the world, especially the one powered by cords and conjoined using invisible threads, has more bad poetry than good, we're so often smacked with bad. And I don't want it. I don't want it for me. I don't want my words to land on the page with a thud and refuse lift.

Now and again I feel a moment of poetry. But if I sit very still, saying nothing, it will pass, leaving me--and you--unscathed.

SPARKS' REMARKS

I'm all the way over unauthorized people calling me Meg.

My husband gets to call me that. My family gets to call me that. A handful of friends get to call me that. People to whom I've written an email and signed off as "Meg" get to reply with that. But no one else gets to call me Meg. It's just too familiar. And creepy-weird.

I'm Megan. Not Meg. But how could you know any different, right?

How to solve? How to solve? Well, to solve, I have to man up and change my name. Online.

Up until this point, at the bottom of each of my posts it's read "LEFT HERE BY MEG." And if I left a comment on a blog, the screen name informed all that "meg" done said somethin'. Yes, I'm her. But not so much to y'all.

But how could you know any better?

So have to change my blogging name.
I told Whitney I was just going to change the screen name I operate under to "Megan," seein' as that's what I was given and I happen to really like my name. But she instructed me not to do so.

For, out there, she tells me, there are so many indiscernable mommy bloggers named 'Megan.'

Er, okay.

So what to call myself?

Am I "Sparkler?"

Too cute, says she, Go with 'Sparks.'
It works. It's where I live. It's what I cause from time to time. It's in the name of my blog. It's fun to say.

"Sparks" isn't all that clever, but neither is my blog's title. It's one of those things that I fell upon initally and have just become accustomed to over time; for, in the end, the blog's title suits its purpose. And for now, using "Sparks" as my handle will suit as well.
Oooh! And if what I expel are sparks, does that mean I'm flinty?

RABID HABIT

Is there a blog that you’re continually taken with? One that never fails to please or ignite you? One you wish all would read? And that you don’t know why everyone doesn’t already?

Is there a blog about which you think, How has everyone else not discovered and subscribed to this URL? Is it my job to alert them? Did they look once without arousal and not return for another chance? They need to go back! They need to try again! We all have our off days; maybe when they visited it was an off day for the author or the reader.

I have a blog like that. It’s Rabid’s

Go ahead, roll your eyes. You already know about my crush on that blogger. When will I just shut up and write about something actually interesting?

Why would I put together a post like this? Why would I go on and on about a blog you already know I read, about a gal you already know I like just a little too much? Why patronize you with broken-record posting? Well, sometimes you just gotta yell and scream. You know: sometimes it’s the only thing to do. So I’m just gonna open up and get the crowd’s attention turned to . . . who? A blogger with spice enough to make a dull day toothsome.

Be not fooled by her address, Rabidrunner’s blog is not one of only footfall anecdotes. There’s more—and even her tales from the pavement can enrapture.

Oft times I read a post she crafted and I don’t know how to respond. I want to reply with cleverness equal to her sentiments and their indicators, but I just don’t have it. I can’t give the post its due.

Is this just part of an online push-me-pull-you? An relationship where she plugs me and I plug her? A friendly quid pro quo? No. If that’s what you think, you and I haven’t met. I don’t do that kind of shallow facetiousness. I do sincerity. I do stuff with substantiation. The blog itself is the substantiation. And to send you where I believe you belong, I have highlighted a few posts I considered noteworthy. I’m doing the leg work for you. Should you expect each post in the archive shines as brightly as these? I hope not, for then what are your unreasonable expectations of me?

• Big Decisions
• Bowl Cut
• Something's Gotta Go!• Carbo Diem
• (Girl)Friends who Run
• Food Blog
• My Problem with Fairy Tales

(I have specific reasons for liking these posts. Because I've been especially verbose lately, I'll let you guess what those reasons are instead of writing 'em out.)

Of course it makes sense that my friendship with this online someone would be nourished by her blog, but I think that I shouldn’t be the only one who benefits.

Go there. If you’ve got the chops, paw through the archives. If you keep wit and irony in your pocket you won’t be disappointed. Your response to the posts I’m sending you to will say things about you. Let’s hope it says the right things.

Her blog is the blog my innards respond to.

I just gave you a gift—encouragement to enjoy something that speaks to me. Return the favor. Whose blog often has posts that you simply must read to your significant other? Which blog is your mental manna?

TAKEN SIDES

If you've already read this post and are just back to peruse the commenting, as I know some are prone to do, I'd encourage you to catch the UPDATE on your way down to the comments; it adds a little je ne sais quoi to the whole affair . . .

When it comes to my family, I'm fiercely defensive. Fierce to the point of ferocious. Like a tiger. Or a lion. But not a lioness. They don't look as scary without the mane, and I'm definitely the scarier cat.

Allow me to provide evidence.

Whitney wrote this post. A humorous post on how her son, Jack, misbehaved (rather badly), such that Whit and Ethan felt compelled to frighten him into remorse. (For context--and entertainment--I recommend you read the post; won't take you but a minute.)

Whit knows when she writes something like this she's going to get at least one comment or email from some reader reprimanding her for being something akin to a rotten mom. Sho' nuff, for here's what I found on that post this morning:


And here was my response:


(Please forgive the few out-of-character typos; when I leave comments while on my iPhone, the droppings are always a tad wonky.)
Harsh on my part? Oh, sure. Over the top? Very likely. Was Devra pretty stupid? In my opinion, yes. I know a social worker or two. And I even like them. (You two know who you are, don't you?) And I am quite sure they don't wander around the Internet tossing out instructive comments to people they don't know.

Do you want to cross me or mine? "Righteous" intentions be damned: probably you don't.

•••

UPDATE

Because Remarks from Sparks is more suited for controversy than my sister's food blog, she put an update on the post, deleted the comments from Devra and me along with the subsequent ones--including one from our Rabid, and closed off further commenting.

But, lucky you, I took screen shots of the comments now eradicated and have posted them here for your entertainment and tasty, calorie-free snacking (check it out: snacks courtesy of Rookie Cookie). You should know that I'm not doing this against Whit's will; she knows and encouraged it. Because, like I said, her blog is about what to eat. Mine's the one built on opining.

Comment immediately following my response to Devra:


My response to Squid:


And Rabid's helpful analogy, which, of course, I love:

'TIL POST DO YOU PART

. . . then get your own damned blog!

It's what I say to The Husband when he informs me of what he thinks I should have said or what words he thinks I should have employed.

Nu-uh.

My blog. Not yours.

I feel the same way about my yoga. I gots a thing for having shirts made. The chest of drawers near the bed houses a bunch of tank tops I crafted for yoga. One says My mat. My yoga.

My blog. My whatnot.

But, being the good feller that he is, despite the fact that I am not enthusiastic about his contributions, my man still reads my mishmash. Says it helps him know me better; he's into knowing me better. An' bein' my husband and all, 'course he has something to say about what he reads. (Like I'd have married a sir without an opinion.)

Sometimes his sayings are suggestions. Or [fruitless] commands. Like, Make it say 'my cheese done slid off the cracker.'

Get your own damned blog, I tell him.

What if our husbands did have their own blogs of responses to our writings?

Would Rookie Cookie's spouse's blog be Rookie Nookie?

Would Cat's husband have a blog called Tadd with a Tad of Cat?

Would my dad's responses to mom's Hen Pecks be posted on a blog called Hen Pecker? (How I wish I could take credit for making that up. But I can't. 'Cause I didn't.)

Would my husband be the author of ReMarks on Sparks? (Pretend I didn't write that, okay? The Husband on Sparks isn't nearly as witty. Pretend you still don't know his name--or if you already did, pretend that I didn't remind you of it, m'kay? For I shall still refer to him as The Husband.)

Would Rabid's other half write rabidspouse?

Would Bird's husband write on bird on the lawn?

And you, what might your counterpart compose under?

WHIT WITH A SIDE OF WIT

Could it be her readership as a whole or just those who comment that exist without a sense of humor?

My sister, Whitney—the Rookie Cookie herself, is a barrel of laughs. A darn funny broad. In person and online. Her blog boasts gems that make me giggle when I recall them; and for me to recall them at all, let alone laugh upon recollection, is noteworthy. It's not every day. Not every post. But when she busts it out, the goods are good.

And all that splendor is wasted on her audience.

Just last week when describing her Greatest Guacamole Ever experience she wrote:

. . . The fresh ingredients are good all on their own, but when they hook up, they have the hottest, sexiest one night stand EVER.

Clever and just naughty enough. (Bear in mind that the bulk of her readership is a bunch of prudish mommies.)

The way I see it: Whitney served up a laugh with a recipe chaser—not the other way around, but everyone who deposited something for her to read skipped right over the tryst only making mention of the gloppy, green goo. They neglected to leave juvenile e-laughs, compliment her on a sordid but witty metaphor, or at least scold her for a vile comparison. Nothing! I was the only person who said a word about her concoction’s sex appeal. That sickens me. Much like I mourn withering potential, I hate to see a good guffaw go unshared.

I’m quite sure that had I written the same one night stand one-liner on this blog, two or three of you would have at least indicated its existence it in some way. But Whit is better at that kind of thing than I am—the saucy metaphor. I’m certainly more acerbic, but she can be a little raunchier. We work as a top-notch team when a blogging bump, set, spike! is in order, but she doesn’t need me to produce pearls.

And there they lay at the feet of swine.

It burns me up.

Is this Guac Incident isolated? Absolutely not. It happens time and time again. For example, when Rookie whipped up some body scrub and compared the wet sticky experience to a porno The Bird was the only reader to respond. Completely pathetic. At least rebuke the dame!

More often than not, the comments I peruse on the Rookie blog contain crumbs like, Oh, I made this last week and it was incredible! or I’m so making this tomorrow night! I can’t wait to get cooking! or Peach season is my favorite time of year; thanks for giving me a way to use up all the treasures from my trees! (Okay, that one wouldn’t have included a semi-colon.)

Yes, good people—yes!—my sister writes a food blog, but a good portion of the people who show up do so to read her little life-bits: the things Jack says, what she does in her spare time, her cooking anecdotes. You like the recipes but show up for the show.

I'd be more receptive to the always-trite comments if all she posted on the blog were recipes; but she leaves wit as well, and it gets ignored.

My blog amasses higher-quality comments than hers does. The comments you leave on my Remarks are much more substantial; they're actually worth reading. A few recent examples of the many:

Julie: She shared a tale that caught my husband's attention. And actually caused me to utter, Wow while reading.


Tom: Well, Tom never fails to provide the kind of entertainment people charge for. Do yourselves a favor and hunt through my past posts for bits of Tom. With comments like this, who needs a USA Today app?

Jessica: Always insightful. She left me some words to consider and received a big fat comment as response. I am a responder; leave a comment that causes thought or emotion, and, providing I have the necessary time (a commodity there seems to be less and less of these days), I'll get back to you.

Errin: She let me in on a little introspection. I couldn't be more flattered. And she granted the gift of gag.

Erica: The Ask-n-Gab comments are always a party. I wish I had more time to snatch a few to feature. And when Erica answered this question, she enriched my day with an image of Grover that I'll never be able to eschew.

Good grief. Gold, I'm sayin'. Stand-alone posts within their own right. Why doesn’t Whitney get the same thing? She’s smart. She's funny. And she puts a ton of time into this blogging nonsense. She deserves better.

Now, Dear Remarks Reader, think not that you must leave a hearty, well-composed, life-altering comment each time you have something to say. My aim here is to point out that my blog is rife with great responses while my sister's blog is gifted with great comments like these only once every other month. (And generally you or I left them.) Also, I plead with you not to assume that what I've posted here are the only Remarks comments worth repeating. It's late. I'm tired, and a small sampling of the gifts I get is going to have to do.

I am thoroughly flattered that you readers I have never met, people with whom I've never lunched, will take the time to toss me engaging responses like the lengthy ones above that serve as fodder for a dialogue. It's as rare as a worthwhile comment on Whitney's blog that I receive a comment I scan and think, Well why the heck did you leave that? It was a total waste of Internet. But I constantly find myself mired in thoughts like that when I read the typewritten banalies visitors leave on my sister's blog.

You could say that Whit's e-space is not my space, thus I ought maintain apathy toward the droppings readers leave behind; but she's my sister, her humor is too entertaining to be ignored, and, well, I do feel a sense of ownership over that blog—yeah, I'm only in charge of the looks, but it's an investment nevertheless.

If you're a Rookie reader, for me—forget about her, please react and respond to the pearls she leaves with the plums. There's stuff there that's just too tasty to get tossed with the pits.

•••

The disclaimer you knew had to follow: I didn't tell Rookie I was writing this. She takes no issue with her readers. She actually likes them quite a bit and has gone so far as to call them her homies. (Don't worry, her husband has answered the call to mock her for that.) Thus the above lambasting was without permission. If you find offense, don't blame her. Blame me. I take a nefarious sort of pride in the fact that I have the ability to agitate.

ON REMARKS

I like titles. And I enjoy titling things. In college, my reward for finishing a paper was to have the privilege of titiling it, and once I'd graduated I had a great time putting together titles for my husband's assignments. (My favorite was "Cooking Lono" for a paper on the apotheosis of Captain Cook. To those unfamliar with Hawaiian history, this won't make any sense at all, but at the time, for that class, the title was praised as perfect.)

So, loving dubbing as I do, when I fell upon the blogosphere and considered having my own blogspot, I gave the name of the thing a little more thought than the christening of a blog actually deserves.

I wanted something rhyming (si, I was that silly) for the sake of catch. I didn't want it to have anything to do with my own name, first, middle or last. And I wanted the title to have a personal connection.

As I was a new addition to Sparks and a blog seemed to be an entitiy comprised of remarks, I fell onto Remarks from Sparks. It had rhyme. It had naught to do with Megan Lynn Romo. And it had a narrow personal connection; you'll note that in every header I make for myself I always distinguish in some way the two Ms in "Remarks from Sparks," for both my husband's and my first name begin with an M. We are now, have ever been, and shall always remain M. & M. (There's even another personal connection in there that I'm not going to tell you about.) Thus, altough the name sounds trite, it encompassed everything I needed it to.

As I have continued to keep up the blog since its genesis I've come to apply more meaning to the title of the thing. Though it now irks me that I have a cheesy rhyming name (thought not as much as KnuckleHeaders bothers me), I have discovered more significance in the title of my space. Whereas many blogs are only a journal of personal experiences or a documentation of life events of the author's family, my blog has made itself into what the name say it is: a collection of remarks.

Initially the blog began as many do, a mishmash of images, anecdotes, trips, etc. But after a while I realized that such a space didn't suit me and my online needs (yes, I have needs for my online activity). Instead of being a blog of nothing but daily tidbits, I wanted my area to be less about the middling goings of of day-to-day and more about honest remarks, thinkings, critiques, evolutions, and admissions.

Really, I wanted my blog to become the title it already bore. Remarks. It's a blog where a girl in Sparks (a Sparkler, if you will) leaves remarks on life, living, the interesting, the boring and the in between. Remarks warranted and remarks otherwise. The definition of "remarks" above includes noting an opinion or judgement. That's what I do. It's what I use the blog for.

At times I weaponize Remarks, using my blog to slice through an issue or blast people and things that I think deserve critical attention. At times I make remarks that serve as therapy. Or I explain a thought process through words shaped around an event.

No matter what I choose to fashion my remarks into, they're always in line with the overarching theme of this being a blog made up of what I think. Not what anyone else thinks. Just what's running around in this mind.

Anything I should care to know about your blog's title?

E HA

We need to do something about laughing online. And I think it might be to become better writers who can communicate tone without typing out the reverberations of our laughter. (I say our because I am a little bit guilty. "A little bit" because I'm not bashful about saying that I'm less at fault than so many others.)

And though we employ electronic laughter to make up for unspecific tone, one reason it is lame substitute for better written expression is that it may not necessarily communicate what you intend it to:

• When I read Heh, heh, heh. as laughter, I think of a dirty old lech thinking sordid thoughts and keeping nasty secrets.

• When I read Hee, hee, hee! I think of an elf or a fairy or a Brownie snatching a snack from an unsuspecting picnicker.

• When I see Tee hee! the image that comes to mind is a little girl with blond ringlets perched on a cushion--a Miss Muffet sort of picture.

• Ha ha ha! seems like real laughter to me, but pretty boisterous. A loud, echoing laughter, when you might have been intending to convey a chuckle.

Rather than writing out our laughter, I wish for us to be able to write what we mean to say with the tone we intend it to have and avoid having to result to attaching LOLs and emoticons. But because it can be so tough to communicate tone when writing, especially writing online because it tends to merit less consideration and spawn laziness, we all know that it's simple if not downright common to read the wrong meaning into something.

A fat helping of what I write here is tongue-in-cheek. I'm automatically cynical and quick to be sarcastic, but I can almost guarantee that there are plenty of readers that leave Remarks from Sparks having missed the point entirely. For the most part, that's my fault; for if some readers often leave muddled, I did a poor job communicating, and to get better I need practice and time and commitment to a message or theme.

And so, I believe, do many others. But until then, we're all subjecting ourselves to laughter that only just might say what you mean it to say.

(I have a ten dollar bet with myself that the first response on this post will include some kind of typed out laughter. Don't disappoint me as I now let you loose to leave all the Heh, heh, hehs and Ha ha has your wry inner selves are itching to slap in a comment. LOL.)

BEFORE DEATH DO YOU PART

My entertaining InterPal, Natasha, has a list on her blog. A big fat list. Of 106 things. A list of all the stuff she wants to do before she's dead or nutso (whichever comes first, I guess). It's a nifty list.

Many people have created and displayed lists like this one, but what I especially like about Natasha's is that she crosses something off when she's done it. I'd imagine it gives a toe-tingling sense of accomplishment. (Yes, I am one of those people who writes things I've already done on my to-do list so that I can cross them off straightaway and begin my must-dos with an air of progress; so in seeing that Natasha has crossed things off, I feel satisfaction on her behalf. Large-living vicariously.)


Inspired by Natasha, I shall consider formally crafting my own list. And so ought you.

In fact, to get you goin', I shall encourage you to deposit here a few bits of your list that you've been kickin' around. They don't have to be grandiose or unique, do they? And they don't necessarily need to be reasonable. Just stuff you'd really like to get done prior to your arrival in The Happy Hunting Ground or the loony bin. You can even include bits you've already done for a little taste of that delicious thing we call achievement.

Me, I want to

• be a spectator at Wimbledon
• experience Burning Man
• get a bachelor's degree
• get my friggin' MFA already
• go skydiving
• go skydiving again
• learn to sail
• write and publish a book
• see the aurora borealis
• be unafraid to hold a headstand in the middle of the room
• get my scorpion handstand in the middle of the room (I promise to soon post an image of my progress on that one)
• become a crack shot
• publish a contribution in Real Simple
• get my CCW (permit to carry concealed weapon)
• make use of the six years of French I took and actually learn to speak the language
• go to the beach without giving a damn what I look like in my swimsuit
• have citrus trees
• pixie-cut my hair
• see Niagra Falls
• plan and carry out an annual get-together with just my sissies
• landscape the backyard
• find John Galt
. . . to name a few.

It's a list I see burgeoning. And I see this post being updated as I read your want-to-dos. Hey, what a great idea. I want that on my list too . . .

Don't be shy now. The sky [or the grave, rather] is the limit.

GARBAGE BLOGGING • THE STUFF OF NOTHING

The time has come for me to again review (criticize) blogs all about Stuff. Items. Goods. Things to buy. Things to pine after.

Because the news media and all persons tired of chatting about the weather are obsessed with our country's recessive state, I am under the impression that as a whole our liquid funds are less. People have been cutting back. They've been making-do more often. They've been taking pride in reusing and making efforts at making over buying.

Yet there are the blogs made entirely of stuff. Things. And not cheap things either. Blogs that publish frequently and nearly every post is rife with refined images of posh stuff the authors want. And think you should want too if you have any taste at all, because whatever it is these bloggers are posting about is so hip and trendy (and so, they believe, are they). Stuff that not only can you not afford, but stuff that you're of the impression they can't afford either.

These are the blogs that can't go a week without featuring a collage of Etsy gear or items from Anthropologie, 'cause if they did they'd be booted from the link-to-me-I-link-to-you cult they're so obviously proud to be a part of. A cult whose mantras are loose variations on "This would be so lovely in little Ruth's room" and "I know just where I'd put this retro fan to keep us cool during those upcoming steamy summer months" and "Elle would be a-dor-a-ble in this little Etsy dress" and "My kitchen so needs seven or eight of these wooden birds" and "I'm in lo-o-o-ve with the recycled letterpress note cards Sassy Shoppe is making these days."

Sometimes the stuff they're mooning over is house stuff. Sometimes stationary. Often it's clothes for kids. Or loud, colorful, and essentially juvenile-looking aprons. Or useless kitchen utensils. Or flats. Or decorative onesies. Or absurd tutus for daughters.

In commentary on this junk they post, the key phrases they perpetually employ are bits like "So cool!" "Super cute!" "Ready for spring!" "Say 'summer' to me!" "Adorable!" "Too sweet!" "Incredible design!" "Charming!" "I need this!" "Delightful!" "Modern!" "Chic!" and "I heart . . . "

Some of these women endeavor to up their cool and In-factors by referring to Anthropologie as "Anthro." And I find that the people who do so are generally those who want to be seen as hip but have never purchased so much as a drawer pull from that establishment. It's just too expensive. But they don't want anyone to know that they can't afford said store--that they're not frequent Anthropologie shoppers; so they act as if they say, type and visit Anthropologie so regularly that they can't be encumbered with the last three syllables. Rather, they're on something of a first-name-basis. These less-affluent bloggers labor to blend in with all the others just like them: women getting their chameleon on, wanting people to think that they're daily Anthro patrons.

Don't know what I'm referring to? Think that you're unfamiliar with blogs such as these? Trust me, you're not. But, nevertheless, if you're having trouble identifying these blogs as what they actually are, here are some key identifiers:

• These blogs have a button for the Madsen cargo bike.
• The authors of these blogs sport conspicuously casual v-neck Ts.
• They wear headbands and have straight-across bangs (and if they don't yet, they soon will).
• They're constantly roasting something for a lit-by-Christmas-lights outdoor barbecue with friends.
• Or they're on their way out the door to the local farmer's market or a vintage thrift shop.
• When they're pregnant they're prolific on the latest baby paraphernalia--expensive essentials and just as expensive nonessentials.
• They think they can cook as well as they can surf the Internet and they demonstrate said misconception with recipes of all-too-common dishes and many, many images of the finished product. When they do put up posts like these, they claim that they've been getting tons of requests for the recipe, so they're finally posting it. (And you're welcome.)
• They all "support handmade." Which they often show no proof of.
• And they go to great lengths to post J. Crew-esque photos of their children bobbing for apples with the other neighborhood ragamuffins.

If it's trendy, whether it be something to buy, to wish to buy, or to serve to your über chic guests, they'll dash to the bandwagon to gab about and promote it and link to other blogs that are doing the same thing. This endless linking being a key clue that these bloggers and their blogs are nothing unique, though they all claim to have and cling to originality.

They are one of so many blogs the intent of which seems to be to enable time-wasting, inciting you to gaze at goods you don't need and can't buy instead of making dinner for your family or learning to knit with a flesh-friend.

It's all pretty shallow and disgusting. What's their point? Well, there doesn't seem to be one.

The substance of these blogs are without substance.

•••

A heartfelt and not at all sarcastic thanks to Ashley, my brilliant research assistant for aid on this post. Nothing without you.

•••

And remember, if you want a shot at having my iPhone 3G for your very own, click here to enter our lil' giveaway; your chance evaporates at midnight tomorrow.

SAY SOMETHING . . . OR NOT

Have you ever wanted to leave someone an anonymous comment that says I hate your blog--it sucks--it's ugly, and you're really uninteresting?

No? Good girl. Well, I've wanted to do it. Once or twice. But I've never followed through; I resist every time. (Are you resisting right now with my blog?)

However, I do have fantasies. Fantasies about calling it like I see it. ('Cause golly, I never do that, do I?)

And then my shiny little Nice Streak rolls out of bed and yawns, Seriously? Do you really want to ruin her whole freaking month?

I sigh. I really don't.

Mostly.

MORE EVERY DAY

Maybe your blog is one of them. One of those blogs that in the "About Me" section proclaims that you have a husband and you love him more every single day (!!!).

Really? You love him more every day? How is that quantifiable?

Well, it isn't. The supposed sentiment behind triteness isn't susceptible to measurement.

I love my spouse, but, c'mon, not more every day. Some days we really make each other mad. And on those days, not only do I not love him more than I did the day before, I'm not quite sure I even like him.

And then there are the days that it's torturous to leave him and get on with my day. Days when I love him so much that I want to smoosh him into a little ball so that I can carry him in around in my pocket. But even on those blessed days, I am not quite sure I love him more than yesterday. I know I love him. But I also know I can't measure it. Is it more? Is it less? Are we at a homeostatic point in our flux? That being my frame of reference, it makes me batty to read that some wife claims to love her spouse more every single friggin' day.

As the world-class, delving-deeper-than-is-good-for-me cynic that I am, I don't believe that those wives really do love their spouse more every day.

It's not that I think they're lying. Rather, mentally, they're disengaged. Emotionally, they're unaware. And socially, they're inhibited. Essentially, they're banal and uninteresting.

Sorry if that's you I was just talking about. Sort of.

STEP IN TIME

I've been asked (rather tersely when it's a client who reads my blog) how I'm able to find the time post my Remarks so often.

Because I can be benevolent at times, I'll let you in on the trick: when necessary, I schedule my posts.

(See screen shot below for where the scheduling option is, if you aren't already in love.)


I'm a veritable fount of opinions and ideas. Some palatable. Some not. And more often than not, when a key concept strikes me and I plop down at the computer I love so well to spit it out, I don't post the tidbit right away. I meter out my musings.

When I know that my life is about to get more intense than usual and that I may become too preoccupied or perturbed to blog, I write a bunch of bits and schedule out my posts to cover the time period I'm anticipating. A vacation. A work trip. A lot to design. Et cetera.

Because of some arbitrary obligation I've placed on myself (no one out there says I must blog and must do so regularly; many a blogger's an infrequent poster), I must post often. Because I consider it a pretty direct reflection of a part of me (for it's certainly not all of me, Dear Reader) I want my blog to remain the dynamic "document" it is. According to the strange rules that I impose on myself, that requires a commitment to frequency.

So to uphold said commitment, I schedule. Sometimes two or three weeks out. No kidding. But that's how prolific my Opinionater is. At any one time, it's spewing information enough to fill weeks of blogging.

There are certainly times that I post some concept straightaway. And often I'll get smacked with an idea that needs to be posted tomorrow, so I'll reschedule the post that's on the docket for the day after today. And sometimes still I've nothing at all ready to post and must act accordingly. The real fun of it for me is that you, Dear Reader, don't generally have a clue which situation we're in the midst of.

. . . did I write this post last night? This morning? A month ago?

It's anyone's guess.