On Friday I had a call with a Senior Editor for a firm that creates websites for lawyers. On the phone, he sounded young and unhappy, impatient and tight lipped. I understand why he’s not happy to speak with me. I was hired to rewrite the content that his team wrote for my client, who is very unhappy with the content they produced. Having an outsider like me write the content was “very unusual to our standard process,” he said.

I’m not a lawyer, but I know how to write. Their original content was horrible. I tried to show Mr. Senior Editor a few examples of the inconsistencies, changes in tone, illogical sentences… and he said nothing. Perhaps he was nodding as he was texting on his iPhone. Maybe he was rolling his eyes. When he did talk, he mentioned over and over the ramifications and consequences of bringing me in and how it was going to mess up the SEO that was so important.

I had two sets of voices talking in my head about our conversation:

1. The confident voice said, “Buddy — I know enough about SEO to ensure it’s still there, and your writing is crap no matter what you’re trying to optimize.”
2. The smaller voice said, “Do I really know what I’m doing enough? Is he right?”

When we ended the call, it was my job to write a summary of our next steps to my client with a CC to Mr. Senior Editor.  I dashed off the plan and hit send.

As it was leaving my computer, I noticed my signature:

Avenue Z Writing Solutions

…copywriting solutions for organizations with something to say

bziesenis@avenuez.net

619 231 9225

The serious side: www.avenuez.net

What’s behind the curtain: www.lifeonavenuez.com

I thought of tight-lipped Mr. Senior Editor getting my email and clicking through to my blog through “What’s behind the curtain.” And then I thought of him clicking around my blog, learning about the things I do wrong, the insecurities I share, the “oh gosh” amazement I have that I’m able to live this life. I thought of his lip perhaps moving into a sneer as he had the opportunity to judge. Perhaps he caught a typo or he really hated my writing style. Perhaps he just enjoyed how ridiculous I look when I put myself out there.

Hell. I don’t even know if he clicked on the link. He may have actually enjoyed his visit here. He may think I’m a cool chick, or he may not care in the slightest. But when I clicked the link in my own signature and tried to see this blog through his eyes, I saw a very exposed, very real human being. And I again felt small.

This is the long way to get to the point of this post: Though I frequently feel very vulnerable for not putting up a brave front, I prefer being a real human being. I’m glad I don’t sit in an office and leave my smiles and winces at home. I’m not afraid to show my soft underbelly.

The other day I discovered another real human being, and I want to share him. He’s Matt Harding, and he traveled around the world dancing in dozens of cities with hundreds of strangers. Here’s his blog, where he talks about how tired he gets of people thinking he did the dancing on a green screen or how tough it was to read that someone called him “doughy.” That’s real. Here’s a post on a marketing website about Stride Gum’s sponsorship of Matt’s dancing trips and how their low-profile advertising technique kept the project even more real.

And, more importantly, here’s the video, which makes me tear up each time I watch it. I admire Matt for being real, and I strive to be as real as he is.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

I’ve been working my a** off for months to, well, work off my a**. I am now a size 10, which I think is the lowest size I’ve ever worn.

Moments ago one of my neighbors, a 23-year-old adorable girl named Katie who is approximately the size of a comma, came out to the porch, where I’m working on my new laptop.

She had a pair of jeans in her hand. “Beth, these are a little too big in the waist for me, and I thought you might be able to wear them.”

First I looked for the ghost of Alan Funt and the Candid Camera team. Then I grabbed the jeans with glee and ran to try them on.

Ok, so they did not come anywhere close to fitting. But when I brought them back, she said, “Oh, I guessed you and I were about the same size, so I thought they might fit.”

She thought *I* was *her* size????? I shall live on her assumption for the rest of my days.

Blanca

I love my job, but this weekend I peeked into the daily activities of my great friend Erin, who works at the Wild Animal Park here in sunny San Diego.

Erin took my great friend Robin and me behind the scenes into the areas where she works as a keeper. Here are the top five highlights of our visit (and the pictures to prove it, although I couldn’t get the formatting right. Sorry!):

1. Tiger Training
   Robin and I were given the important job of being “unfamiliar strangers” while the trainer taught a tiger named Blanca to be comfortable in a crate. Robin and I also pissed off a sexually frustrated male tiger named Utan, but we weren’t supposed to turn our backs when he charged us, roaring and jumping (behind the fence). We were supposed to stand our ground and tell him, “No!” and “Down” while holding up our fingers in warning. Umm. We didn’t. We fled, likely setting back his training for years to come. Sorry, Erin!
   

   Unhappy Utan
2. Lion Cub Watching
   Erin grabbed a big bucket of beef heart cubes to the lion exhibit, where 8 8-month-old cubs were hanging out. Yeah, they were cute.
3. Monkey Baiting
   We slipped into the keeper area behind a monkey exhibit, and they all came to stare, hoping we were going to offer treats. We didn’t have any, but we got to see the baby hanging on to the mom up close. We were glad they didn’t pee on us.
4. Okapi Hugging
   
   

   Erin and the cubs

   The best part ever. Okapi keeper Lisa lured the mama okapi out of the pen so we could hang out with the 3-week-old baby. I held his head in my hands, and he lifted his nose and pressed it to mine. I can honestly say I never ever thought I’d be nose to nose with an okapi, but my life is now complete.

5. Gorilla Gossiping
   Erin told us about her first day on the job as we watched the grumpy old gorilla named Alberta. Alberta had gotten a hold of a big rock, and she sat there tossing it in her hand as she sized Erin up. Erin turned her back for a minute as she was “throwing lunch,” and Alberta let the rock fly. Luckily Alberta has terrible aim, but she does fling her poo really accurately when keepers are cranking open one of the gates.

Okapi bonding

Training for my next job

The very first thing I do each day is to write a post for my blog. Sometimes it takes 15 minutes — other times I’m at it for an hour. But I have been religiously writing one every business day since I started the blog, and I have more than 300 posts.

What the heck am I trying to accomplish? Why is the blog so important to me? What will I do with this information?

I started the blog to document my life as a small business owner and clueless freelance copywriter. I strive to be honest, to give advice, to relate my life experiences to the growth of my business and to amuse. As of this morning I have 110 posts in the category on Avoiding My Mistakes, and 161 in The Writing Life. I aim to write a narrative nonfiction book on starting a small business, as opposed to the many how-to books on the subject. Who knows if I’ll finish it or if someone will buy it if I do.

But writing this blog has had several unintentional ramifications. I hesitate to call them benefits.

1. Guys I date know all about me. I don’t instantly give new guys in my life the address to the blog because it contains some pretty significant information. Once they get here, they figure out pretty quickly that I dress strangely, have a fear of commitment and obsess about cupcakes. And ex-boyfriends know when I’m dating again, or — heck — when I buy new underwear.
2. Face-to-face conversations with me are no longer necessary. I hadn’t heard from my friend Jenny in a few days, and I texted her last night. She replied, “I feel like we’ve talked since I love your blog.” It’s wonderful that she reads my blog and feels like she’s keeping in touch. I miss her, though. And I don’t know how many times I’ve been telling a story, like how bad a haircut was, and a friend interrupted, “Oh, yeah. I read about it on your blog.”
3. My mom knows I don’t spend every night in my own bed. Yeah, this one is weird. And it’s also weird when Mom chides me for something I write. I once referenced an ex-boyfriend who bought me a cool pair of purple socks, and I said this ex-boyfriend didn’t count, meaning we didn’t have much of a relationship. Mom called to say, “Honey, you need to change that. Everybody counts. You are going to hurt his feelings.”
4. My clients know when I have an unproductive day. I have 57 posts on procrastination. One of my clients started a meeting the other day by saying, “Beth, I hate it when I read you’re not getting things done and just sitting around procrastinating.” Ugh. I bet that is annoying.
5. I know people secretly laugh at my typos. I love the fact that I do some creative writing at least 5 days a week. But with the quick-turn of these posts, I make mistakes. I know I do. And sometimes people tell me about errors, and sometimes they don’t. One ex-boyfriend gravely announced, “Beth, I saw errors in your posts. More than one.” WHERE, you knucklehead? I dash off 300-600 words each and every morning before breakfast. I can’t/don’t stop and edit. I write and push the Publish button. And then I start working for other people. Give a girl a break and tell me if I type pubic relations instead of public relations. I’d tell you if you had spinach in your teeth!

Last week I found out I earned a coveted spot in an advanced writing and critique group here in sunny San Diego. I submitted an application several months ago, between boyfriends and in one of those “just get out of the house” modes. They accepted me, and I was third or fourth on a waiting list for one of the eight spots.

She wrote over the weekend, and my first meeting is today.

Uh oh. Now what?

For writing groups, I’ve written mostly literary fiction. I write dark little short stories with unhappy endings that reveal the futility of life. I published a handful here and there, and I think I’ve grossed perhaps a total of $85 in my fiction-writing life.

Literary fiction doesn’t sell well. I can’t make a living by writing short stories. I’ve got an idea for a fiction mystery series, and those types of models will sell well. But I am embarrassed to bring my pop fiction to this kind of group.

Don’t get me wrong… I love literary fiction. I’m excited that I was chosen, and I love to learn from writers whose talents exceed mine. I love to be pushed. And I’m looking forward to meeting some fellow writers. I made lifelong friends at my last writing group in Philadelphia. But I’m questioning the wisdom of my giving up every Tuesday afternoon to pursue a project that may not further my career.

Oh well. I’m in. Wish me luck.