2003-02-24 3:31 p.m. Gah! I'm starting to think that my mother might just be my kryponite when it comes to writing. I had an entry brewing that was, quite frankly, funny, snarky, and wittily delicious. But then the phone rang and it was Mom and now I feel about as funny as, well, whatever a humorous conclusion to this here simile would be. I can't think of one. The thing is, Mom knows nothing of this place. Her only exposure to my writing comes from my semi-periodic (quick aside: is semi-periodic an oxymoron?) funyn emails that I send for no good reason. Based on this and this alone, she's decided that I'm going to be the next Dave Barry. Not that I wouldn't, you know, love to get paid for making fun of people and writing about bodily functions, but I do have stuff to think about in the meantime. Like paying my rent and not starving to death. So, most of the time, writing the funny takes a back seat to, well, life. I would love to write for a living. I would love it even more if I were a humor columnist. But I don't have the time to commit myself 100% to the pursuit of that dream, I just don't. There aren't too many funny people who are suffering from malnutrition. Oddly enough, you don't find much biting (ha!) satire in a soup kitchen. Anyway, since I can't focus on it 24/7, I guess Mom thinks she needs to pick up the slack. And so, I get a constant litany of freelance ideas, business contacts, and sage advice. And not that I don't appreciae it all, I really do. I'm touched that she's worried about my well being. It's just that, you know, I get it. I understand that if it's going to happen, I'm the one to make it happen. I get that nothing's going to get dropped in my lap. And, seriously, I'm ok with that. I'm not saying that I'll never try to write professionally. I'm saying that just because I'm not trying to do so AT THIS VERY MINIUTE does not signify that I've given up. My favorite part of today's conversation came when Mom was telling me that I should try submitting work to smaller, alternative newspapers. But, if I were to do that, I really should take some kind of journalism or effective writing course. And that's when I said the exact wrong thing, apparently. "I don't like being graded on what I write." And that's true - I never have. I don't know why, I've just always bristled when people nuanced every little thing I commit to word. I'm not talking about punctuation or grammar or flow or timing or any of that crap. I'm talking about style. I've had far too many teachers and professors who graded not on how something was said but on what was said in the first place. I almost failed a writing course in college because, and I swear I'm not making this up, my profeesor didn't like my politics. Then again, she was the same lady who didn't understand the class' references to the JFK presidency because she "didn't follow pop culture." Tell me I typed e-before-i. Tell me I need to use single quoutes instead of double. Fine, whatever. But if you're going to red-mark my paper because you think I write too much like I talk, or because you don't think people will be able to read me with quite the same manner f sarcasm as I require. Well then, cut me loose, because I don't wanna work for you. And I told all of this to Mom. The response? Hang on, heartburn, I need to get some TUMS. Ok; her response was - "Well, if you don't want to take a course, you must not be very committed to a writing career in the first place. I'll just see what other career I can find for you." Well, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, Mom. Thanks first of all for the Kreskin-like divination of my level of commitment. Thanks again for assuming I'll fail if I don't follow your plan for my carrer. And finally, thanks a whole fuckload for *having* a plan for my career and for knowing that you'll now have to 'find' me a new one. I understand she's worried about me. I understand she just wants the best. But really, the only person who knows what's best for me is, well, me. You may not agree with where I am in my career, but it's just that. Mine. Let me handle it as I will. downtown----uptown leave me a note, fool!

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