This morning, as I board my big green chariot, I find myself staring at a sign that warrants my attention:
I get that familiar feeling. This signage is known to me.
Not in an uncomfortable way, like that sinking feeling in your stomach when you see someone and remember you owe them money.
But more like when you see a familiar phone number, don’t remember who it is, but decide its best not to pick up.
I only do that at work, home and on my cell.
Imagine that….paying the monthly $6.95 fee for caller ID and having to pick up my smart phone anytime it rang? Or check voicemail?
That would be stupid.
I wonder what kind of people do that.
I decide I do not like them.
The “Caller back girl.” Annoying.
I wonder if I could get Gwen Stefani to change the lyrics to her song.
Few times I’ve been around that track
So it’s not just gonna happen like that
‘Cause I ain’t no caller back girl
I ain’t no caller back girl
Mine are much better, anyway.
Truthfully, if you can’t send me a text about what you wanted to say, I have no use for you.
And, if you left me a voicemail with a “Hey, it’s me” I probably haven’t remembered your name so don’t expect to be called back.
As I take my seat, the familiarity of this sign reveals itself.
After checking the Lidz On The Go treasury (archives sounds so pedestrian and I’m not walking to work) I realize I’ve referenced this sign in one of my very first blog posts, exactly 3 months ago.
That’s a long time.
An entire season has passed since this blog’s inception.
Lidz On The Go was created in an attempt to fill a void in my life.
How’s it going?
Thus far, it’s the equivalent of placing a band-aid over a gunshot wound.
It works in theory.
Writing a blog and trying to bypass grief is a cosmetic solution to a complex issue.
It’s not as depressing as it sounds.
I love writing and enjoy words.
I believe the intimacy of writing is dual parts support and escape.
I also believe in word power and am selective with my wording.
If I’ve written something to you, rest assured it was carefully crafted.
Years ago, as a new Broadcast Journalism graduate, I was excited to further develop my writing skills and enrolled in a Writing for Publication Certificate Program.
Writing for Publication Level 1 was an introductory course that exposed students to writing different for different genres, including newspaper articles, short stories and poetry.
I was thrilled with my first assignment.
A short story submission.
Everything came together, easily.
I had a concept. I had characters. It was intriguing. Everything tied together in 7 500 words or less.
My story, “The Camping Trip” was some of my best work.
I couldn’t wait to receive my instructor’s feedback.
I’d check my online course several times a day, eagerly waiting for a response.
The moment arrived.
My work was finally reviewed and this feedback would set the tone for the course.
For the program.
For my budding writing career.
Re: Short Story Submission
“You have a very vanilla writing style.”
Words can wound.
It felt like a sucker punch.
I felt like a sucker.
Just seven words that stung, long after they were crafted.
I could have quit right there, but I wasn’t going to settle for such a shoddy prognosis.
At least not forever.
It wasn’t until years later that I decided to channel my inner waffle cone and use this vanilla style to my advantage.
I became a Communications Specialist at a post-secondary institution, where my style or lack thereof would be appreciated.
I knew what I was made of.
Strength. Resilience. Compassion. Vanilla.
It’s the world’s favourite flavour.
I’m ok with that.