In The Pursuit of Happiness: On taking risks

Newsflash: So About What I said turns five years old next week! Can you believe how fast the time has gone?!?!?! (and YES, I needed to use all those exclamation points!). I’ve got lots of fun things planned for next week, but first: I couldn’t help but think fate was waving its magic wand this weekend when I stumbled across one of my old newspaper columns. It was my last column, actually, written in 2011. The sentiments freakishly remind me of all the emotions I’m feeling leading up to next week’s milestone celebration. I’ll let you be the judge… 

Change can be scary. I’ve said this a time or two in the past, but thanks to you, I’ve learned over the last five years that change can lead to better things. Five years ago, you saw my photo and words for the first time. A new tradition was born for both of us. And like most traditions, whether you know it or not, you come away from it a better person than you could ever imagine.

When I began this column in 2006, I’ll admit I had my reservations. Mostly, the fact that I was nervous. How could I write something that my readers could relate to? With a big push from my mother, I plowed ahead. Over the years, the writing got easier. Little did I know that some learning was taking place, too.

Lesson No. 1: You can rediscover your hometown
Your hometown will always welcome you with open arms. Writing this column was only half the joy. The other half came every time I’d be out and about in the community and meet a loyal reader. I loved our chats and hearing your thoughts. We formed a connection, and I’ll always treasure that.

Lesson No. 2: Confidence can come when you least expect it
I didn’t think I had what it takes to be a columnist. But with every column, my confidence grew by leaps and bounds. Sometimes we have to take chances in life to grow the most. And over the last five years, I’ve grown considerably. It’s chances we don’t take that we end up regretting the most.

The last five years sure have been a journey, but the risk was worth it. Thank you for allowing me a little spot in your life. I cherish our time together, for the laughs we share when happy and the tears we shed when we’re sad. But isn’t that what friends are for?

[Photos via We Heart It]

In The Pursuit of Happiness: In which I muse about writing

Editor’s note: I recently found this newspaper column I wrote shortly after I graduated college. It’s fun to look back and reflect on the twists and turns your life and career have taken, isn’t it? Have you had similar internal conversations with yourself, friends? Let’s chat! xoxo

My mom’s subscribed to USA Today for as long as I can remember. Truth be told, I’ve always had a soft spot for McPaper, as my college journalism professors so eloquently described the nation’s largest-circulation daily. A few days ago, I sat down to read the newest issue, and as I opened it, I encountered splashy, color photos and short, snappy articles. Later, I flipped on CNN, only to be bombarded by headlines of celebrity gossip broadcasted by cheerful, young news anchors. Whether we like it or not, the media are ubiquitous. Magazines. Newspapers. Television. Even blogs. The face of journalism is changing with every click of a mouse and every news broadcast on Sirius radio. I’m not one to get paranoid, but I always feel the media’s gentle hand tapping me on the shoulder, swiftly pulling me further and further into their web.

My senses became heightened to all things media at an early age, when I easily became fixated on the glimmering television as I watched hours of Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street. Now, whenever I see a newspaper, I open the big pages and let them engulf me. Whenever I smell the fresh paper and ink of an unread magazine, I’m overpowered by this intractable urge to pick it up and devour everything about it. I cradle it in my hands, slowly bring it to my face, flip through the shiny, glossy pages and smell that magazine smell, complete with loads of perfume ads sprinkled throughout. I study each story — how it’s crafted with a specific tone and style — and take note of the creative use of photos and illustrations. Heck, I even study the advertisements. If I could, I’d probably roll around in a stack of magazines.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the media’s role in my life, and I’ve formed a working hypothesis: I’m a true journalist. It runs through my blood with a force like white water rapids or a thunderous mountain avalanche. But alas, I find myself torn. It’s sort of an existential journalism crisis, if you will. What kind of journalist do I want to be? In what direction are my heart and passion calling me? As I see it, I stand before a metaphorical fork in the road. To my left is the Bob Woodward path — serious, hard-hitting, watchdog journalism. To my right is the Us Weekly path — fun, fluffy, celebrity infotainment. In my high school journalism class, I saw All the President’s Men, a little film about Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein’s rise to fame as they uncovered the secrets behind Richard Nixon’s involvement in Watergate. I’m not ashamed to admit that the movie changed my life, and I’ve seen it at least four times since then. It’s fast-paced in the newsroom. It shows Woodward and Bernstein chasing down sources. It has them fiercely pounding those typewriter keys. To me, the Woodward/Bernstein story embodied everything true journalism should be. I wanted to emulate my hero Woodward in every way.

It’s not like I didn’t have the experience. I relished my duties as a campus reporter in college, and in my own, glamorous little world, I could fight the good fight. Plagiarism allegations against an anthropology professor and an education professor whose views were questioned? Bam! School of Nursing staff shortages? Pow! The role of the student trustee? Zap! The cancellation of summer graduation? Ouch! An investigation into faculty salaries? Somebody stop me! I thought I was hot stuff tooling around campus, hounding professors and administrators. Normally the quiet girl, I somehow became a bold and brazen Diane Sawyer. But then, a little craze known as celebrity, sensational journalism gripped the country in its sharp teeth and claws. Walk through any supermarket, and you’ll see what I mean: rows and rows of shiny tabloids proclaiming exclusive scoops and pictures of Hollywood’s finest — or baddest. Us Weekly, People, In Touch Weekly. They’re all there, and the public’s insatiable thirst for all things gossip and sleazy crosses all boundaries. In recent years, the tidal wave has even washed away a bit of the journalist in me. I’ve become one of them, devouring these celebrity stories week after week. It would be so easy to blame it all on my generation. After all, I was born three days after MTV launched in 1981, so I’ve grown up with celebrity updates 24/7. My mind has even been leaning toward dreams of a coveted career as an Us Weekly reporter. I know, you’re probably cringing right about now.

So now you see my dilemma. My heart beats “journalism that makes a difference,” as my journalism professors drilled into my head. But my head — and eyes — are mesmerized by the bright Hollywood sign. Should I sacrifice who I am and what I’ve aspired to be since high school, all for the allure of the fickle superstar industry? Every time I broach this subject with my mother, she shoots me a glaring look of disapproval. “You’re a journalist,” she retorts. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time I got off this crazy celebrity train. There’s much journalistic work to be done. And who knows. Maybe someday, I’ll hobnob with Bob Woodward… xoxo

[Photos via We Heart It]

On making friends with technology

Note: I found this old column I wrote way back in the day when I toiled away as a newspaper columnist. I couldn’t resist sharing it, if only to demonstrate just how far I’ve come. Suffice it to say, technology and I are totes BFFs today. Need more evidence? Might I direct you to Pinterest, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and now YouTube!

A few nights ago, I lay in my cozy little bed ready for a wonderful night of slumber. The covers were pulled tightly around my neck, and my head rested softly on a fluffy pillow. Ahh, how I wanted to savor the moment. And then it happened. I was jolted out of my precious moment of relaxation by a terrifying thought. I’m afraid I’ve misled you, my dear readers. In last week’s column, I bragged about how I was a TV connoisseur, practically labeling myself a channel-surfing expert. Yes, I love TV, but I’m not a technology person. If only I could have lived during caveman times. Life was so much simpler then. Heck, the biggest invention they were forced to get used to was a little spinning wheel. I know this admission may shatter the image some of you have of me. So if you don’t believe me, I’ve scoured my life files and have compiled ample evidence, just for you, my readers.

Exhibit A: I grew up listening to music
You could always hear melodies wafting from my room like the smell of fresh bread from a bakery. But I’m an old-school music person. In my formative years, I got used to listening to music on tapes, and by the mid-’90s, I boasted quite a collection. Then those circular thingies came along — called CDs, I think –and it threw my whole existence out of whack. Tapes were excellent as far as I was concerned. Why would I want to change a good thing? I just couldn’t get used to this new technology, which is why I didn’t transition to CDs until 2000. And my CD player? That’s a whole different issue. I start to hyperventilate when I realize how fast they change the models and designs. I’m going to have to take a Xanax when my current player breaks and I’m forced to buy a new one. And for the record, no, I don’t have an iPod; that would put me over the edge. I see all these people walking around with these little black or white or pink gadgets tucked in their pockets, and I just want to shout, “Come on! What happened to old-fashioned CDs?” Apparently, they went out the same window as 8-track tapes, but no one bothered to send me the memo.

Exhibit B: Back to this television nonsense
You can put an end to your presumptions — yes, I do have a color television. The TV is not the problem; how I choose to record my precious shows is trickier. Until last summer, I was the VCR’s biggest fan — that’s videocassette recorder for all you new-school technology hipsters. My VCR of choice was a stylish one, too — a sleek, black Magnavox with such a high-tech remote I thought I could power a space shuttle if I wanted to. After all, the thing had all the features I needed: play, stop, fast-forward, rewind and record. What else could you possibly ask for? Oh, right, a pause button. Yep, it had that, too. Then my mother decided one fateful summer day that we were in desperate need of a DVR player. I maintain to this day that heat stroke had clouded her mind. A few hours later, the doorbell rings and these men enter carrying a large box and a tool kit. They were on a mission as they flung wires all over the place and climbed on the roof to install a satellite dish. All the while, my heart started pounding with a thunderous force, and I could feel my breathing getting more and more shallow. My lovely VCR was gone, and in its place was a bigger black box and a silver remote. I’m still working out the kinks of the thing, and only a few months ago did I figure out how to record different shows at the same time.

Exhibit C: I admit I’m not a novice when it comes to the Internet
I know how to send e-mail. I’m always up for a good Yahoo! search. I’ve even splurged a couple times on eBay. But that’s about as far as I’ll venture into cyberspace. I do love my Internet, but I’m a bit scared to explore what else is lurking out there. Sometimes I even have this irrational fear of the entire computer. I see all these young people living and breathing the Internet. They talk to friends online. They shop online. They can even watch movies online now. Here I thought I was a hipster when I won a Smurfs stuffed animal on eBay. If only I had inherited my father’s technology know-how. He was an electrical engineer, which made him the designated “gadget guy” in my family. As a wee child, I thought it was cool to have a dad who could fix anything, from a toy to my mother’s old washing machine. He was happiest with his hands covered in grease and a pile of tools spread out before him like the keys to a hidden treasure. He wouldn’t stop until everything was restored to perfect working order.

But all is not lost for me. My mother has a way of making me feel like an expert. As she tries to navigate the computer, I’ll inevitably hear her little voice beckoning my assistance. “How do I send an attachment?” she yells. So, like a technology superhero, I zoom to her rescue, strike a few keys and see a smile creep across her face when the computer tells her the mail has been sent. Thanks to my mother, I can flex my technology muscle. And who knows? This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between me and good ‘ol technology.

P.S. Check up on last week’s Column Throwbacks: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. 🙂

[Photos via We Heart It]

Column Throwback Week #5: What does the map of your life look like?

Did you know that I-65 runs from northern Indiana practically to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico? Or did you know that there are two times zones just in the city of Indianapolis? Or that there is a Bowling Green, Ohio, and a Bowling Green, Kentucky? I do. It’s my own little superpower. In fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m a ROAMer. That’s Readers Of Any Map (and yes, I just made up that cute little acronym…). We’re a rather secret society, drawn to any map within 100 yards like a mosquito drawn to your pale, exposed flesh in the July sun. But I can’t help but ponder: Do maps imitate life? If your life were a map, what would it look like? But more than that, is it even possible to chart your life in a clear and predictable order?

I’ve been fascinated with maps since I donned barrettes as a wee school girl. By maps, I don’t mean those imitations you can readily get on Mapquest or those GPS thingies. Those are fake, or at the very least, maps for novices. I’ve spent many a car trip huddled in the back seat with a sprawling atlas draped over my lap. I became transfixed, lost in a world of places and monuments. It was as if I dived head-first into that atlas. The smooth white pages. The colors — blues for the lakes, greens for the forests and browns for the mountains. I marveled at the open expanse of Montana. My eyes glimmered at the bustling eastern seaboard. And my heart beat just a little extra when I stumbled upon a black dot next to my hometown. I even thought of the people in each town. Who they were. What they did. What life was like in a town of 500 people. Yes, I had an intimate relationship with my maps.

And then my mind would naturally wander to the topic of life. Life, in all its splendid forms, is simply one giant map. Looking. Searching. Finding. Losing direction. It’s all part of the tango of life. Like maps, life is about exploration. In the grand journey of life, you’re not so much looking down the stretch of highway aiming for one — and only one — destination. It’s about exploring what you see on that highway. Taking a trek down the unbeaten path to explore a new relationship, perhaps. Discovering a hidden passion. Even something as simple as sampling a vegetarian meal, which I did a few weeks ago and actually enjoyed. It’s in those moments when you take the most chances that you’re able to truly find out who you are.

But other times, like maps, you find your life in the cracks or the creases of the map. You can’t exactly see where you’re going. You feel lost. You may even feel scared as you lose your sense of direction. The sun is setting. It’s getting dark. And nothing around you looks even remotely familiar. But just as you meticulously smooth out that rough map, before long, you see the city lights looming over the horizon. You breathe a sigh of relief as you instinctively know you’re back on track. Like maps, sometimes you’re all by yourself, like a desolate spot in the Arizona desert. Other times, like in New York City, you’re surrounded by people. You welcome them with open arms, laughing into the wee hours of the morning with friends or having intimate Sunday brunch chats with your mother over a cup of hot coffee. You realize a good balance of the two is exactly what you need.

Like maps, sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you can’t easily fold up your life. Like that pesky atlas, you fold one side of your life over, but it doesn’t fit. So you try to fold the other side. That doesn’t fit either. After much frustration, you come to the conclusion that life can’t always be folded into a cute little pink bow. Sometimes it’s uncertain. Sometimes it’s messy. And most of the time, it’s complicated. You have no choice but to move forward, even if you have a few loose ends dangling from your side. But those life maps you cling to so tightly? They’re only a guide — a framework, if you will. You can do everything to be in control, to chart your course the way you want. You pack up your metaphorical car and begin your journey. For awhile, it’s smooth sailing. Then you come to a fork in the road. But remember: Behind every great map, there’s an equally great story. A lesson to be learned at every pit stop and scenic overlook. Are you brave and daring enough to flip through that daunting atlas and see where it takes you?

[Photos via We Heart It]

Column Throwback Week #4: On the power of procrastination

The computer cursor and I are rounding out hour two of our staring contest. I’m sweating. He won’t budge. It’s a stalemate. I’m definitely in an alternate dimension, a vast black hole of writer’s Hell. The drought has arrived. The well is dry — a well that once produced a steady stream of ideas. By well, I mean my creativity. By dry, I mean empty. Hollow. Gone. I fear I’m finished. I am without an original thought in my head, and, as a writer, this petrifies me. My thoughts — my creativity — are the tools of my trade. Like a surgeon can’t be without his scalpel, I feel completely naked without my creative juices. I must find some way to get them flowing once again. There has to be an easy way to implore those muses. Let me walk you through a writing day in “Melissa, Life of a Columnist.” It’s better than any soapy soap opera, although I wouldn’t mind having a hunky co-star at my side.

But I digress. The scene: Several days before my deadline. Why have I decided to start this at night, when my eyes are drunk with sleep and the computer keys are blurring together? The clock on the wall ticks off the seconds as I stare at a blank computer screen. I can feel my blood pressure rise and beads of sweat form on my forehead as the blinking cursor makes me more and more angry. That blank Microsoft document stretches on for miles in an endless stream of white nothingness; now it’s clear why I’ve always hated that color. I gently tap my foot on the floor, hoping somehow this will bring me the divine inspiration I’ve been waiting for. But, to no avail. Thirty minutes pass and that evil cursor is still staring me straight in the eye. Blink. Blink. Blink. It’s evil. I’m beginning to think it’s out to get me, but I try to remain calm. Am I being paranoid? People tell me I’m a paranoid person, but I don’t believe them. I like to think of myself as a cautious person. Sensitive? Yes. But paranoid? Definitely not. OK, think hard, I tell myself. I’ve got to focus if I want to get this column finished in this century. Heck, at this rate, I’ll even relax my rigid standards and shoot for this millennium.

“Hey, Melissa, come watch ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway?’” my sister yells.

“Great! I’ll be right there,” I say.

As I settle in, something mysteriously happens. My eyes glaze over, and I am unable to speak. In fact, a numbness washes over my entire body. I’m incapable of uttering one syllable, except for the occasional squeals of laughter that escape my lips. This show has never been funny to me until now! The show comes to an end. Because of my television-induced sleepiness, it’s all I can do to muster the strength to pick up the heavy remote.

“Mother, can you turn the TV off for me?” I yell. My mother’s been trying to send an e-mail attachment for the last two hours. “I’m busy,” she replies. I guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. My finger poised on the remote’s power button, I had every intention of turning the TV off. But something went wrong. The remote must have malfunctioned because I hear the sweet tune that is the theme song to FOX’s hit The O.C. resonating throughout the living room. Well, there’s no time for deep thinking right now. I’ve never missed an episode of this riveting soap, and I don’t intend to start now. Call it my one guilty pleasure, but I can’t get enough of this show. I love it because it shows me a world I will probably never experience: The high-class, wealthy, many times shallow, world of Orange County, California. Who wouldn’t like to watch rich kids sneak off to Mexico or attend an ultra-hip private school? If only I were rich and…

Hey, there’s an idea. Maybe I could write about what it would be like to be wealthy. After all, I do love money, and I love spending money even more. I often dream of rolling in a big, slushy pile of crisp green bills, laughing maniacally. After the show, I head into the kitchen for a late-night snack. This is becoming a regular occurrence for me. I rip open a bag of Jay’s barbecue potato chips and reach into the cabinet for a bowl. No snack is complete without a tall, bubbly glass of Pepsi. After all, I’m young. Therefore, I should “think young” and drink Pepsi. All these advertising slogans give me another idea. Well, I’ll ponder it more fully after I indulge in my, um, little snack. I sit back down in front of the computer, no further along than when I left an hour earlier. The cursor is still blinking. Did it get bigger while I was gone? Maybe if I get myself in the correct typing position, I’ll have better luck. I sit up straight, placing my hands on the keyboard.

Music — that’s what I need. Nothing gets me motivated like some great tunes. I browse through my collection of CDs. I have to make my selection carefully. Should I listen to Clay Aiken? No, he’s so mesmerizing; he’ll just distract me. Britney Spears? No, because if I listen to Britney, I have to sing along. After much thought, I settle on Sting’s Fields of Gold. Thinking about the west wind, barley and the setting sun, not to mention Sting’s voice…ahhh. What was I doing again? I sit back in my comfy chair and wait for the muses to arrive. Maybe I can’t get this column done because I’m not motivated and I’m constantly procrastinating. Could that be the cause of all my problems? As I begin coloring in a random Little Mermaid coloring book, it hits me: No, that can’t be it. That’s ridiculous.

[Photos via We Heart It]