A Very Lucky Girl

"Writers don't make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don't work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck's book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch face down and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man's stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more."--Blue Like Jazz (Donald Miller) This is my life. What I love about writing is the freedom of expression. ...

I like to fly solo. When I hang out by myself, I have a great time. I love my friends, truly, but there's something perfect about being alone. There are zero expectations. You can be as ridiculous as you want. Lately I've been thinking that I have found two different types of relationships in my friendships. There are the people that I have to make an effort to be around them. They aren't my first choice when I have some free time, they are the last resort (only being honest, not deliberately hateful). We just don't click in a way that makes time whip by. They tend to typically be more self-absorbed and don't respect my priorities. And then I have the friends that I could spend the rest of my life with (I think that's called marriage so I should probably look into that. Kidding: I like guys). I have been blessed with phenomenal companions. They make me laugh and they encourage me to make good decisions (but stay with me through the bad ones). They call me out wh...

I've recently been consumed by the idea of selfless love. Two different books I've been reading have a theme of love, "The End of the Affair" by Graham Greene and "Blue Like Jazz" by Donald Miller. All of the characters in Greene's novel are depicted as selfish humans only capable of loving in a way that's easy for them. They love in a greedy form versus loving for someone else's benefit.  Miller recognizes the worldly perspective on love as being able to die for something or someone. But he then counters with, "living for something...is the hard thing. Living for something extends beyond fashion, glory, or recognition." Living for someone is the ultimate sacrifice because it involves daily death to your own selfish desires.  I've been trying to practice real love. It doesn't come naturally. My first instinct is to look out for myself and my best, or easier, interests. I need to actively listen to what my friends ...