Location independence

December 7 That gem of a blog you can’t believe you didn’t know about until this year.

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I would be lost without my Google Reader. Besides storing all the blogs I read every day, it also suggests new sites. Which is how I found A Life in Translation by Jamie Varon. She’s like Dooce for the younger generation, with some international flair. Jamie started her own business, moved to Italy and is basically living my dream life. At the age of 24. Boy do I feel old.

I found her site one day at work, right before I was laid off. I read every post. Then I e-mailed an annoying number of them to friends (let’s face it, they’re used to me flooding their e-mail with this kind of stuff). Her writing is hilarious and honest, and it makes me want us to be BFF.

She moved to Italy a day before I started my five-week travels, and I felt a sense of companionship as we both flung ourselves into new lands and experiences. I read her posts throughout my travels and became more jealous of her life as the end of my trip grew closer.

My jealousy eventually turned into inspiration — she had figured out how to do what I wanted: live and work abroad as a designer by starting her own business. Hello. Genius. (don’t worry, mom. My life plan currently allots a year abroad, not the rest of my life). And there’s an actual name to what she’s doing (and what I aspire to) — location independence. I was on a plane to Houston when I had the urge to figure out my two-year plan and how to get abroad. And this was when I realized that starting my own stationery business (which was a dream I was scared to admit earlier this year) was the key to my own location independence.

I could almost kiss my Google Reader for this introduction and the resulting revelation (but I don’t even touch my computer screen, so that kind of contact is out. Respect the electronics, peeps).

Devil’s in the details

“it is important to say the names of who we are, the names of places we have lived, and to write the details of our lives. we have lived; our moments are important. this is what it is to be a writer: to be the carrier of details that make up history. a writer must say yes to life, to all of life. our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist — the real truth of who we are. we must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there can be no more noes in the world, noes that invalidate life and stop these details from continuing.” —natalie goldberg

Writing Down the Bones

“i write because there are stories that people have forgotten to tell, because i am a woman trying to stand up in my life. i write because to form a word with your lips and tongue or think a thing and then dare to write it down so you can never take it back is the most powerful thing i know. i am trying to come alive, to find the distances in my own recesses and bring them forward and give them color and form. i write out of total incomprehension that even love isn’t enough and that finally writing might be all i have and that isn’t enough. i can never get it all down, and there are times when i have to step away from the notebook to turn to face my own life. then there are times when it’s only coming to the notebook that i truly do face my own life. and i write out of hurt and how to make the hurt ok; how to make myself strong and come home, and it may be the only real home i’ll ever have.” —natalie goldberg

The Neverending Story

In elementary school, I took great pride in how much I could write. My work wasn’t necessarily good (in fact, I bet it was horrible) but I could probably out-write everyone in my grade, because I just liked to do it. One assignment in second grade was to write about what makes someone a good citizen. I don’t know why schools pose these kinds of questions to kids, especially at that young of an age. It’s like asking parents to do their children’s homework.

Each grade level had a competition; the winners would read their essays at an all-school assembly. I can’t remember it, but I bet that was one boring assembly, each grade-level winner talking about being nice and following the golden rule and playing fair with your sister and turning in your homework on time and helping your mom set the table.

Who really cares about that?

I didn’t. I just wanted to win. And my plan to achieve this was to write as much as I could (obviously taking the quantity-over-quality approach).

One of my most vivid memories from elementary school is taking my stack of gray paper (you know the kind, with red and blue lines) out into the hallway so I could line my pages in a row. I’d run out of room on my desk, and let’s be honest, was probably being dramatic, so I created a paper trail of my essay that ended with blank sheets in front of me as I laid on my stomach, continuing to write about citizenship. I can’t remember why I was out there alone, if it was regularly scheduled writing time or during recess or after school, but there I was, taking over the second grade hallway with my words. My teacher told me I’d written enough, but I was not content to be done. I would tell her when I was finished, thankyouverymuch.

As much as I loved writing, it physically pained me. I held my pencil tight. Too tight, really. My wrist would ache. Even after getting pencil pillows (what kind of ridiculous name is that? I probably found it “cute” at the time), I always had a bump on my ring finger from the friction. Almost like a callous on your foot, rough from overuse. But on my hand. It disgusted me. My sister made fun of me (then I’d quickly make fun of her for having man hands and the argument was a draw).

It wasn’t until college when handwritten assignments became obsolete that my writing bump deflated and softened. Depending on how I hold my hand, you don’t really notice the bump anymore. As much as I’d rather not have it, I’ve accepted that it will never go away.

But I didn’t realize that other people had writing bumps too until I heard this podcast about fonts and handwriting from To the Best of Our Knowledge. Though it’s amusing that the podcast mentions only people over 40 know what a writing bump is (because handwritten correspondence was plentiful before computers).

Even though I’ve always loved writing, I didn’t realize back then that the physical evidence would forever be on my finger. Part of me wonders how much that second grade citizenship essay contributed to my writer’s bump, and how much the bump contributed to feeling like a writer.

(For those of you who have been holding your breath, I was the second grade winner, which meant I read my essay aloud at the most boring all-school assembly ever.)