I'm a work machine!

The puppies look like muppets in this picture, especially The Moo (in back)

I decided to do a little social experiment on myself this week.

I made a pledge that I would not access the internet at work. No Facebook, no Gmail, no Bloglines, no Wikipedia, nada, zip, zero, nothing. Only work email, because apparently I have to respond to that. I had a vague idea that I wanted to see the effect it would have on my motivation. I don't have issues with time management at work. I am not someone who runs around screaming "I'm so busy!" and complaining. Well, I complain. But not about not having enough time to do my job.

So, day one was pretty easy. Day two, a bit harder. Day three and four were really pretty intense. I felt like an addict needing my crack. "Just a quick search!" or "I could just Wiki that..." or "Maybe I should check my email". I stayed strong in the struggle until this afternoon when my boss told me to check out a job on a website and also, I had this really cute email with little panda pictures in it that I wanted to sent to a friend...

The final result is I was basically a work machine this week. I felt really productive and useful. Will I continue the experiment? Yes, but not for the same reasons.

I read a lot of blogs. I like the insight into other people's lives. I find it interesting and compellng. But I waste a lot of time reading about other people's lives that could be spent actually living MY life. I care a lot less about my blog reading this week. I want to spend my personal time on stuff that is important to me. Not other people's lives, not the tv and not always books (although I totally heart books forever and ever). This is a good lesson to learn.

I've been typing up my writing from my journals and I have about another 4000 words for my novel, so I'm doing pretty good. I'm really looking forward to NanNoWriMo in November! I've also been reading Memoirs of a Geisha which I'll blog about in my Sunday Salon post.

Well, I'm off to live my life.

The Yellow Wallpaper

I read a short story today. It is part of my reading for my Creative Writing course. The story is called The Yellow Wallpaper and it was written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman and first published in 1892. I had no idea the effect this story would have on me.

The unnamed protagonist is experiencing post natal depression and the piece is an exploration of her experiences in an isolated homestead, forbidden to get "excited" or do anything resembling work as this was considered counter productive to her "nervous condition". Her husband is a jerk, telling her that the way she feels is all in her head and treating her like a small child. By the end of the story she is almost insane. In the commentary that followed the story Charlotte Gilman said she had experienced depression periodically in her life, and after her child was born. She went to see a "noted specialist in nervous disease, the best in the country" who said there was nothing really wrong with her, but she should "live a domestic life as far as possible", "have but two hours intellectual life a day" and "never touch a brush, pen, or pencil again" as long as she lived. She said she did this for 3 months and almost went insane.

This makes me angry on so many different levels. How DARE men of that time and place - barely a hundred years ago - explain away how a woman feels as being all in her head. How DARE he suggest that any kind of creative expression was counter productive to "getting over it"? How many women did this doctor, and others like him, cut off from creative expression and treat like baby making machines with the brains of vegetables? 2000 years of human history and a hundred years ago this fucking idiot doctor was strapping women to beds, feeding them massive amounts of cream and prescribing no intellectual stimulation. What the hell was he thinking?

I dislike the medical profession intensely. I do not believe all they tell me. I don't follow their prescriptions and tests if I don't agree with them. I won't let their statements remain unchallenged. Their power base has been far too big for far too long. I won't help them maintain unwarranted control over my life, or the lives of others.

As for the descent into madness experienced by the lead character in The Yellow Wallpaper, I feel uncomfortable reading her words. I read The Bell Jar for the first time a year or so ago. I was in equal measures repulsed and attracted by the story. I remember telling a woman on my writing retreat in Guatemala that I felt like I could see myself in Plath's words and she said "Yes, I think that was the disturbing thing about that novel. We could all see ourselves in her".

So now I am uncomfortable and filled with righteous indignation at the treatment of women by the medical profession.

Who I wish I could be

I wish I could be someone who:

• Smiles more
• Feels bone deep contentment
• Believes in herself
• Doesn't work full time
• Enjoys her day job
• Is kissed often
• Is debt free
• Knows what she wants
• Doesn't feel jealous and envious of other people whose lives seem better than hers
• Creates good art
• Writes every single day

Sunday Salon: Week Whatever

I've had a few weeks off from the Sunday Salon, so I'm not sure which week I'm at. The past few weeks have been slow reading weeks for me. I'm still reading Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto, I have started and finished For the Love of Letters: A 21st Century Guide to the Art of Letter Writing and I am halfway through The Lost Slayer.

Let's start with For the Love of Letters.


I heard the author of this book, Samara O'Shea, interviewed on the Writers on Writing podcast (I seriously heart this show - it is available for free on Itunes and I find it is great for introducing me to authors and books I wouldn't ordinarily read) and thought this sounded like an interesting little book. O'Shea explores the world of letter writing in a unique way - she interposes letters she has written and received with famous letters from Abraham Lincoln, Edgar Allen Poe and Emily Post. The result is a suprisingly deep exploration of the place of letters our lives now, and in the recent past. I have a lot of respect for how much O'Shea puts herself out there in this book - she trots out letters from ex-lovers, almost boyfriends, old friends and even the apology letter she wrote to her boss when she was fired as an intern from The Oprah Magazine. It's ballsy, and turned what could have been an abstract impersonal topic into something intimate and engaging. I also have to admit that I had no idea how much I would relate to this book - I thought it would be interesting in a nothing to do with me kind of way. Little did I know that I have written pretty much every letter in that book (heavy on the letters to almost-boyfriends...eek!). To top it all off, I dropped O'Shea an email to let her know how much I enjoyed the book and her reply was gracious and humble. Highly recommended.


The Lost Slayer is a Buffy the Vampire Slayer book. I imagine half of you stopped reading after that sentence. Oh well. This is actually an omnibus (God I love that word) of four books written by Christopher Golden which follow the same character arc. It's a meaty read, and I suspect it is vastly improved by compiling all four books together. The basic premise is this: Buffy makes a mistake that sees her propelled 5 years into the future into the body of 24 year old Buffy who has spent the past 5 years locked in a holding cell while the King of the Vampires takes over Sunnydale and LA (almost). When Buffy breaks out, everything has changed - Willow is heading up the military-esque organisation that is trying to stop the vampires from taking over LA, Buffy's Mom is dead, and so is Anya (killed by Spike), Oz is still around but he and Willow aren't what they once were and Xander. Poor Xander. He is bitter and scarred and doesn't smile anymore. Oh, and the King of the Vampires is...GILES! I almost dropped the book when that was revealed, but vampire Giles makes a great villain. I'm a little over half way through and I have to say I'm really enjoying my visit to the Buffyverse. I used to read all of the Buffy books (give me a break...I was 20-something. I'm almost 32 now, so obviously I can appreciate the books on more levels and with deeper wisdom and great insight etc. etc.) and Christopher Golden was the best Buffy writer - he really had the dialogue rhythm down and understood the characters. Good times!

Finally, as I said, I am still making my way through the meandering path and zen rock raking that is Untangling My Chopsticks. This is a book that is not the sort of book that shouts "READ ME NOW!!!!" It doesn't shout anything. Every now and then it politely whispers "Here I am. You can read me if you like. If not I'll wait." It's an interesting book, it's just that the art of learning how to cook the food that accompanies the Japanese tea ceremony is not urgent reading. It does, however, make me want to visit my favourite Japanese restaurant.

Happy reading Sunday Salon-ers!