By Liz Dubelman
Annually, I torture myself by reading A Room of One’s Own, which essentially posits: In order to create, one needs a room of one’s own and 500 British pounds. If you don’t have those, stick to short bursts like poetry or Internet posts. I have never had those, but I persist.
I am now a woman of a certain age and looking to redefine my life. One day, in one of the many email lists I subscribe to in a futile effort to replace the suppressing voice in my head, came the detail of a contest: A Hotel Room Of One’s Own. It was a sign. I had to win this so next year I wouldn’t experience anguish when rereading A Room of One’s Own. I would have found meaning.
At this point, I must point out how much I love omelets. I could live on them. The soft beautiful encasement for cheese, mushrooms or really anything savory. The contest promised solitude, humor writing classes, and omelets. I didn’t win.
I had been working with a client who told me that The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop was the best writing workshop she had ever taken. I liked her book. It was one of the best I had read all year. So, while I may be an angst-ridden non-contest winner, I still had the chance to open myself up for surprises. I would go to Dayton anyway, and maybe next year I will have figured out how to have a room and a few dollars and the rest of my life.
I knew I wanted to be a writer when I was pretty young. I won my first writing contest when I was in elementary school. From what I recall, it was some kind of short story about Mars and water? As time went on, that dream only became more vivid. I never wanted to be anything else.
I know I’m not the only one, which is why today I’m going to show you an infographic that will help you turn your dream into a reality. Whether you’re a blogger, author, copywriter, or just someone who wants to get paid doing what they love, this is the post for you.
By Laura Cella
My husband Jamie’s job as the CEO of a movie studio came with quite a few social, business, and political obligations. While these events were always glamorous, they were usually not a lot of fun. Well, not a lot of fun for me. Jamie networked and schmoozed and worked the room all night while I perched somewhere with a glass of Pellegrino and watched the Beautiful People in their native habitat. People seldom spoke to me; because I wasn’t in The Business I was all but invisible. Oh every once in a while someone would smile benignly or compliment my outfit, but generally I was thoroughly ignored.
On my sixteenth birthday, I received a most curious, wonderful gift from my neighbor, Adriano. He gave me guardianship of a wise, wish-granting counselor. The counselor was only 36” tall and immeasurably handsome, with glowing features, blonde hair rolling across his forehead as if without a care in the world, and a sparkly gold tan to his flesh. He always wore perfectly-tailored gray velvet trousers and jacket, with a living violet, which never withered, flourishing on the lapel. He spent most of the day in meditation on my mantelpiece, but when I returned home from my long, bitter days as a slave in the factory, he would spring up to greet me and give me all sorts of wise bits of advice and predictions, and occasionally grant me wishes. All he required for sustenance were four peas per day — simple, ordinary peas, the kind that grow everywhere in the countryside, even out of cracks in the sidewalk. By the power of his perfectly accomplished meditation, my counselor was able to subsist endlessly on this grub, only growing lovelier and wiser with each passing year, and never aging a day. He required feeding at the moments the sun made pivotal transformations in the sky, one pea each at sunrise, noon, sunset and midnight. Such was my devotion to my precious counselor that no matter the circumstances, I happily forced myself to his service, returning home from the factory at dawn and noon, and tearing myself out of bed at midnight each day to feed him.
By Laura Cella
New York has some pretty big rats. (I mean the ones waddling along the stone walls of the Park at night, not the ones showing up on the front page of the Post.) When my husband took a job running a Hollywood film production facility I presumed we had left New York’s rats, pigeons, cockroaches, waterbugs, and the rest of the gritty zoologica behind; we were going to live in ocean-fresh Santa Monica with California brown pelicans and Pacific spinner dolphins just outside our door. It never occurred to me that rats would also share our So Cal paradise until our neighbor, Debbie, told me how relieved she was that Jean Pierre, another neighbor, was having his twenty-foot tall Washingtonia filifera palms pruned. Not understanding, I asked why. “Ask the tree guy when he gets here” she replied knowingly.