I spend 50% of my day writing books, 25% of my day thinking about what I'm going to eat next, 12% of my day chilling with my dog, 8% of my day bitching, 3% of my day drinking wine, and 2% of my day lamenting the fact that I'll never have abs like Marisa Miller. That might not even add up to 100%, I don't know, I don't really like math.
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For months I’ve been saying I need to make an online portfolio for all my writing work. And wouldn’t you know, just as I get around to it, I have some people who are looking for freelance work and want to see an online portfolio that I don’t have.
Essentially, I need to pay someone to make me a website, but I want a quicker fix that looks professional until I can do that. Mainly for articles and book excerpts that are in PDFs or Jpegs, which is tricky because they need to be readable. The image has to expand when you click on it, or something. The point is, all these great portfolio hosting sites like CarbonMade are for designers and graphic artists who have images and logos and screenshots to upload, and with my work, you have to be able to read the copy. Can I do this with Wordpress? Where do I host the files so they expand and are readable? Is there something else?
PLEASE email me if you have thoughts, suggestions: bblove.tumblr@gmail.com.
I feel like a helpless moron.
Oscar, you’re a grouch.
Bitch, I live in a fucking trash can! I’m the poorest motherfucker on Sesame Street!
— Dave Chappelle … this is how I feel lately
[I read this, and I have been right there and the worst part is how helpless you feel and how helpless you are. We all joke that everything will be better when this year is over, but people who truly feel this way, who believe that the holes inside will be fixed if they can just move to that city or make more money or pay off their debts or get that job, are deeply sad, and they are sad in a way that can’t be helped by anyone else. You think you can wait it out or put on a happy face or have enough love for the both of you to subsist on. You keep thinking, Someday, we can just be us again. But the truth is, it may take longer than you have, and you may not be able to move forward. And you may not be able to forgive him for the worst thing he could ever do to you, which is when you say, I love you, I am here for you, no matter what, and he says, It isn’t enough.]
A male writer once told me, in a moment of ill-advised but unforgettable honesty, that when it comes to books, “boys compete with boys and girls compete with girls, like the Olympics.” Much as I’d like it to be otherwise, this is demonstrably at least somewhat true. And no matter how many times some writer–female, always–writes a piquant, well-reasoned op-ed about this phenomenon, it will remain true that carefully observed, quietly funny, romantic stories about friends, love, work and families will be marketed and reviewed as “chick lit” or “literary chick lit” if they are by women and as “coming of age stories” or “astute psychological realism” if they are by men.
