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Why I'm not a Leader (And that's OK)

It's actually more than OK. I'm feeling pretty good about it. 

I'm not good at holding people accountable; I find it awkward. I'm not good at offering praise; it feels condescending. I can't really "rally" people together; it takes too much energy. And, the true test of a leader in business: I really hate networking at Happy Hour. 

But just because I'm not leading doesn't mean I'm a sheep. Since when did it get so black and white? Seems like the older you get, the more people expect you to start speaking up and "making the call." Especially in this 9-to-5 world. Taking initiative isn't enough; all of a sudden, you have to take the lead. But I just prefer working with others, thinking before I speak, and shining in low pressure situations. It's not for lack of ambition; leaders aren't the only ones with intellect and ability, wisdom and courage. In fact, there are plenty of leaders who really lack all that. I'm just happy to admit that on the leader-to-follower spectrum, I sit very happily in the Doing-My-Own-Thing-and-Being-Really-Good-At-It-Without-Trying-To-Screw-Anyone-Over grey area. It's not aloof, or cool (seriously, though, it would be awesome if this makes me cool), it just seems to be an honest way to live. Unfortunately--and I don't know if this is unique to business or New York or being a young woman, or being a younger sibling, or all of the above--it seems like I'm increasingly discouraged to live that way. Maybe I've yet to drink the Kool-aid. Maybe I'm taking my opportunities for granted. But really, glass-ceiling talk aside, every Alpha is only as good as her pack. So why not be one of a really damn impressive pack. 

In some ways, I think that's the Writer's Life; devoid of The Ladder, free of the need to rise and instead about exploring what's around. Ya follow?

How to write again, Pt 1

It’s been a while, I know. I can tell by your hesitation, lack of eye contact, the blinking cursor. You worry that you have nothing to say, that the best you could put to paper happened when you were twenty, starry-eyed and inspired, waxing poetic about your newness to New York, to love and beer, to skinny jeans and the world.

You learned how to write when you were lovesick, heartbroken, jilted. You wrote to help you cope, forget, remember. Remember during that first, drawn out break up? Yeah, that was some good stuff.

At school, you learned to edit. You learned the practical things that Real Writers know. Trim the fat, to show not tell, to write what you know. You learned that people used to make money writing. Not anymore, though.

Now you’re in the real world, with a real, 9 to 5 where you use your brain and make money, settled in with someone you love. You have nothing to be sad about. You’re happy, but you don’t write all that much, mostly because all of a sudden, it feels like you’ve got nothing to write about. Is there even such a thing as a happy writer?

First, muster up the courage to look at a blank sheet, a blinking cursor, a pen in hand. Then sit. And wait. Be patient. Writing again takes time, and (did you forget?) it’s never been easy.

Be honest with yourself. Let it be bad. At least you’ve got words on paper. Don’t get frustrated—see, there? You’ve already started your first sentence.

Remember those secrets that were too new to tell, and the things you didn’t want him to see? You can unearth that now. Dust off the half-thoughts—doubt can make us stronger; is happiness just nostalgia?; siblings torn apart by loss; is Michael Strahan really the new Regis? Let. It. Out.

Remember the reason you needed to write in the first place, that these were your secrets, for strangers. Remember that you are just a husk, the vessel for something else. Let it pass through you, and keep only the things you need...

OK. Now go write.

Good Stuff

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/what-moving-on-is-like/

I'll be your fin

from the archives (Oct 22, 2006)...

Smoked Salmon, as we all know, has a fungus problem. Lately, it's gotten pretty bad and he has lost his fin. It's very sad to see. Yesterday I was in my room and I went to check up on Rebel and Salmon and noticed Salmon floating on his side. I panicked, but realized that he was still alive. Because he's lost his fin, he can't swim like normal, he can only swim up and down. He floats on his side and then swims to the bottom of the bowl and floats back up. I didn't know what to do for him, so I wrote him a poem. It's called I'll Be Your Fin:

I'll be your fin when you're on your side,
When it feels like the world only goes left to right.
When your fishbowl is fuzzy and things are unclear,
I'll be the net that clears away your fear.
I'll swim and swim when you need me
I'll swim and swim when you need me.

You go deeper and deeper hoping things will change,
Hoping the water will rise and you can go back the way you came.
But I watch from a distance, the things you do
And wish, more than anything, that I could help you the way you need me to.
I wish I could help you the way you need me to.

Hold on the way you do, the only way you can.
Let the water pass through your gills and fill you with oxygen.
I'll swim and swim when you need me
I'll be your fin when you need me.

memo

make it sink in

say it out loud

put it in ink.

a pen, a water tower that

tempers the burn, soaks the frenzy

(until it runs dry):

with the embers

line your eyes,

to see its senescence

and also its life.

learn

to no longer need

something you once needed;

let that surprise you  

and remember

that restlessness, that rustle and rush

in your heart?

it means you're alive

"Free"