Amanda Farough is a web rock-star, currently peddling her wares in web design and development; in a previous incarnation, she was a bad-ass software developer. On her off hours, she designs (and plays) video games, writes novels that may never be published, and dances in the rain.
So, you need a website. You've been looking for that special someone to share your vision but no one seems to get
what you're after.
You've tried agencies: too expensive. You've tried craigslist: somewhat shady. Hell, you've even tried straight-up advertising: not enough results. No one gets you.
I get you.
We're probably destined to work together. My designs are clean and minimalist with a touch of whimsy. But hey,
I'm flexible. Let's sit down and have a coffee together to make your web design dreams come true.
Who can bring together a design and code it up as quick as a kid on a sugar high? Why, that'd be me!
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Amanda, you can't really consider yourself a designer and a developer, can you? I mean, that's splitting your time! Stick to what you're best at!"
I tell you, friends, I do have a specialty: finding creative solutions to your design and development qualms.
Maybe you're a designer who's fed up with the irritations of writing code. You just want to design. Or perhaps you're a dev that's looking for a designer. Let's be partners. In crime. In code and creativity.
Or maybe you're a creative professional looking to start your own business and you really don't want to shop around for just a designer and/or just a developer.
Specifically, I'm a generalist. If you're looking for a one-stop shop, I'm your woman. Let's talk happy, shiny solutions.
Note: This is a guest post by Anthony Licari, whose comments on Vive le revolution émotionnelprovided a man’s perspective on my proposed Emotional Revolution. He continues his thoughts here, at my prodding (and a little violet zombie chewing), and much to my delight. This is beautiful stuff, man.
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I’ve heard, as many of us have, that the male is a simple beast and through his simplicities he often fails to understand women. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. The only thing I’ve ever been confused about is that statement alone. Men and women are both simple creatures and what we have done is over complicated a situation so as to justify our actions, fears and desires to name only a few.
In the beginning God created man or some bullshit but regardless of how you think “man” arrived on this planet there is no escaping that we are not only a social species but a tribal one at that, from before the hominid to the most current version of our species. Thousands and thousands of years have shaped our biological derivatives and cultural imperatives. This lack of understanding between gender roles and innate sexual roles has caused quite a few discussions to head south in a hurry. As with all species, the need to reproduce and the need to protect the offspring runs so deep in our genetics that there is virtually nothing one can do to overcome this biological imperative. The problem that humans are facing today is a battle between our observed logical view of the world and what runs in our DNA.
It’s quite silly to think that I need to be the strongest man in the tribe in our current culture. With relative care and what have you the child will be in little to no danger where the man has to use his strength to protect the offspring and furthermore the offspring does not need to come from the strongest genes to increase its chances of survival. This we know, this we can rationalize. It is through our observations and interactions with the world that we create our perceived reality. So the reality the average man today has conjured up is how little of importance this is and we see this from a good portion of young males displaying confusion such as “I treat her so well but she goes for the jackass, I just don’t get it.” That reality both males and females perceive contradicts the world our bodies are expecting to be subjected to. Unless you’re planning on doing some serious meditation or brain washing you can plan on biology to win every single time.
The sad truth is that, with the exception of some very rare individuals, women are most fertile when they’re young and will put on their best show to attract the male with the highest status. If that male doesn’t go for her then she’ll go to the next one down the line and so on and so forth and this curve across the graph will abruptly come to an end right when her hormones start screaming at her to reproduce. She will have then found the best male that will mate with her within her window of fertility. Because a males genes transcend all age and a female has a much smaller time of attracting a man you will see much older men with women who are twenty years younger and rarely do you see a woman with a man who is twenty years younger. That’s why the nice guy does finish last because a woman can put him way down on her list knowing that he will always be there if all her other options fail.
So how does this play into why a man should still be an alpha male? Well the blame can’t be placed on any single sex. As a man(and most don’t consciously recognize this) the best way for them to have as many options as possible to mate is to compete with other males to assert dominance and invariably amass a level of security and consistency in whatever community he lives in. Men are, on a biological level only interested in a woman’s genes, her looks. For a female it’s not only strong genes that she seeks but that dominance and assertion within the tribe and it is through that which motivates the man. I hear a lot of feminist bullshit and I don’t mean that like “women shouldn’t do the same things a man does” or anything like that. What I’m talking about is what we were born to do. The fact of the matter is males in our species lead the tribe of apes to find food, shelter and security and in the contemporary world that biology still holds true where in 99% of cases you have alpha males leading organizations whether that be political, a corporation or a religious group. I’m not saying women can’t or shouldn’t, I’m explaining why that is. As for females they are far more adept at nurturing offspring and taking a mothering role and on the flipside that doesn’t mean men can’t or shouldn’t do that but in both cases the innate biology from the time we are born is driving us to do those things.
So I’m some dick that functions as a sociopath it seems but the reality is far from that. I’m a deep hopeless romantic. It is what I have desired from females since I was in second or third grade. I would write little love letters the night before school and then slip them into their backpacks where they would find them later on. My heart has been devastated beyond repair and yet I continue to seek. I encourage you to start corresponding with me and allow me to write letters that will make your heart turn to jelly.
To take that, which is the truth and apply it to this conversation is that a lot of women like that. They want a man to be in touch with his emotions and be able to communicate with her. The problem is that the majority of the time when that characteristic is found in a man it also brings with it a slew of undesirable biological traits. The man often has not yet asserted dominance over other men in her life or can provide the same level of security that other men can and to come full circle here that is why that guy as lovely as his personality is will stand lower on her picking ladder of men than a guy who can provide for her biologically but is uninteresting and may even treat her poorly.
The sad truth is that when my heart was destroyed it was for this very reason and for the most part has continued on until today. Imagine being inside of my head and seeing through to the biological root of our function and yet unable and unwilling to bring myself to comply when I know exactly what I need to do to get the women that I want. I’m a wreck in that sense and hell, if my novel ever gets published one can only dream that I’ll be able to continue my life as a hopeless romantic and simultaneously provide for her as well.
It wasn’t an unusual thing for me think. I guess that’s why I’ve been thinking it for the past three years, ever since my weight spiraled out of control. I walked into a club on Sunday night and realized that while I may be comfortable with my physical self in theory, in practice it’s a different game entirely.
So I asked myself the age-old question, “Am I beautiful?”
For my trip to the Gossip nightclub here in beautiful Vancouver on the very last night of the Winter Olympic celebrations, I traded my normally casual style for something that was all drama: a BCBG Max Azria tunic paired with zippered leggings from Aldo and a pair of six inch heels from Spring. My short, black hair was pliable and styled. My vintage jewelry from the 1970s was all flair. But I walked into this bar and even though my attire was killer, my body apparently wasn’t.
Vancouver is full of rail thin women. Beautiful, rail thin women with long, luxurious hair complete with huge, bouncing curls. I walk around the downtown core of Vancouver as often as I dare during the day. The women are in perfect three piece suits with perfect Prada pumps. I pull the zipper up on my hoodie to hide the fact that I hadn’t done laundry yet. I look at them intently, drinking in their fashion and coveting their fashionable success. I search their faces for the glimmer of happiness I was sure they would possess. But instead of virile women, full of life and happiness, I see twentysomethings with fine lines from anxiety and stress. I see thirtysomethings with a twitch that was reminiscent of my brush with anorexia. I see fortysomethings that held their bodies together with plastic surgery and a fake smile; their eyes were broken and empty.
In spite of their perfect appearances with their perfect attire and perfect bodies, each one of them was as unhappy with their bodies as I was with mine. But do we unite in the face of such adversity? No. We nitpick. We judge. We preen ourselves with such ferocity that it borders on obsessive. We are brought up on a steady diet of heavy sex appeal, the pull of celebrity, and the need to be perfect: perfect in body, health, and mind.
The perilous pursuit of perfection.
I walk into these nightclubs and expect to turn a few heads. Hell, why shouldn’t I feel like that from time to time? I seek approval from the young men (and women) that don’t find my particular brand of physical beauty to be worth noting. I could outwardly exude confidence until I’m blue in the face from the lies and still manage to find a way to be a wallflower. While preaching that I don’t need the approval of people, I try to dress well when going out. I never leave my apartment without (at least) foundation, most times more. I am a fucked up dichotomy in action: I want to flip off anyone who requires me to be status quo but damn it, I want to be pretty too. Even if I’m happily married, I bitch and moan that no one notices me.
I concede.
I’ve fallen into the modern trap: strength in value but value through conventional beauty.
The girls that throw themselves into tight dresses and high heels at these clubs speak of the beginnings of a descent into the maddening pursuit that is perfection. They are reinforcing that you can’t be beautiful unless you’re the status quo. I hate that damn status quo. I’ve been after people to break it down and burn it since I was a kid. It drives my Dad crazy.
So why, oh why am I stuck fighting the status quo when I wish that my body would just be what it used to be: muscled and toned? I want to be normal. But not. Ah damn. I’ve gotten myself in a right pickle.
Is it possible to accept your size? If you accept your size for what it is, can you love it? And after you accept and love your size (no matter if you’re a 0 or a 22), what then? Change? Designer clothes that you can’t really afford but need to have in order to feel like you mean something?
I grew up in a small city in BC’s Interior. Its style seems to be ten years behind. There are still 1980s haircuts running rampant as you walk around the downtown core. But let me tell you something about my hometown: those women were confident. They strutted their stuff down Victoria St and let nobody tell them that they were caught in a time warp. So what? They loved themselves and the way they looked. It gave them a confidence that I never had. I may rock the latest short hairstyles that are popping out of Europe. I may even rock some modicum of fashion sense here in Vancouver. But I’ve got nothing on those brilliant, out of style babes hanging out in Kamloops. They let you know that even if they’re not fashion forward or rail thin, they’re beautiful and that’s all there is to it.
Moral of the story: it doesn’t matter who you are, how you dress, or what you look like; happiness is not your pant size and confidence is not found in designer labels. It’s all about how to rock your frock. The rest be damned.
PS. Happiness is Not a Fish You Can Catch is my favourite Our Lady Peace album. It’s good sound, if you haven’t heard it before.
I had a conversation with my father back in December about the strength of woman. He told me that behind misogyny is fear: fear of the strength of woman; fear that women will stand up and put our stake in the sand; fear that everything they know about the world is completely wrong and backwards. My father — the man who taught me to be a warrior princess — was raised by a man who didn’t believe or acknowledge the power of woman. He thought himself to be better than women because he possessed the right chromosomes. As soon as my father was old enough to make up his own mind, he chose to bask in the strength of woman; specifically, the strength of his mother.
My grandfather had no daughters to temper his disposition. He had three sons.
When I was small, my father didn’t turn his back on me like so many fathers do when they have first-born daughters. Instead, he embraced his sassy daughter and taught me to think for myself. To be strong. To yield but never break. To stand my ground. He taught me the magic and beauty of logic. He showed me how to separate myself from my emotions to take better task of the situation. He told (and tells me) that he loves me.
As a teenager, my father and I clashed in every way. The women in our family — the Hoffmans — are outspoken, intense, and opinionated. I am tempered steel; I am all these things and more. Teenage Amanda was brash and irrational, ruled by a hormonal emotional response to every situation, regardless of its nature. I failed my first math test. I raged. I seethed. I cried. I threw the test in the garbage, instead of learning from my mistakes. I failed several more math tests as a consequence.
As a consequence of tunnels and responsibility, I tried to distance myself from my emotions. I tried to be cold and logical. No one taught me to be that way. No one told me, “Amanda, detach from your emotions. You are now required to attain the emotional discipline of a Vulcan.”
Aside: it’s not a violetminded post without a geek reference.
It didn’t work. It was too much work to go against my code. I needed my emotions to survive and cope and compute. I needed to attach myself to people because that’s what I do best. Heart met sleeve. Sleeve met defeat many times. Heart met other hearts. I was stronger for it. I was more complete with my connection the great macrocosm of the universe.
I’ve often described my love of people as my great tragedy.
I love everyone in this world, in spite (and sometimes because of) their many flaws. And yet, I am so disgusted by the atrocities of people that it makes me sick to be around them. I want to hate them for what they do to each other. But I can’t. I sincerely believe that I’m completely incapable of truly hating a person. I may be able to hate their behaviour but I cannot hate the person.
“People are inherently good. You’ve got to give them the benefit of the doubt.” My husband has drilled that into my head during the five years that we’ve been together. Everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone is worth it.
I’ve seen that we cut girls and control them and keep them illiterate. Or we make them feel bad about being too smart.We silence them. We make them feel guilty about being too smart. We get them to behave, to tone it down, to not be too intense. Eve Ensler
To behave is to show respect to the people around you. We can’t go around and be completely wild and out of control. Restraint is an intrinsic part of the social contract that we must acknowledge as we step out of our homes and tread the same sidewalk as the rest of the inhabitants of this world. Intense, on the other hand, is the only way I know how to be. Those that know me, know that everything I do is done with fierce conviction and an intensity that has a tendency to freak me out.
Be bold. Be intense. Don’t tone it down just because someone tells you that it’s inappropriate. Are you hurting anyone by the look in your eyes? Is your passion killing the people around you? If it is, then it’s time to put the knife down and pick up a paintbrush.
Boys are taught that emotions are wrong. That compassion clouds judgment and sound decision making. They grow into men that are cold and unfeeling, unaware of the fact that they are hurting on the inside. They become violent monsters to compensate, somehow thinking that this is strength and not weakness. They kill and hurt other people — usually women — because they have failed to acknowledge their vulnerability and tears.They teach their detachment to their daughters and wives because it’s the only thing they know.
The strongest men and women in the world are those that acknowledge their fears, tears, and emotional needs.
Value the girl in us. Value the part that cries. Value the part that’s emotional. Value the part that’s vulnerable.
Eve Ensler
My husband has embraced his Girl Self. My father is discovering his Girl Self. My mother and her capacity for goodness and forgiveness has never known any other way to be: she is the embodiment of Girl Self.
Let’s spread the word to every woman and man: your emotions make you strong. They allow you to see things humanely. They allow you to love fully and wholly and without fear. Your Girl Self is important. Your daughters need you to teach them that. Your sons need you to show them how. Your husbands and fathers and brothers need re-education. Your wives and mothers and sisters need to know that they are not crazy. They are whole and perfect in their capacity to love and forgive.
Ronna got me thinking, as she often does, about the nature of things. Her words screamed at me from the laptop screen, exciting and terrifying me all at once.
In silence, a literal breaking occurs. I AM BROKEN. Acknowledge it. Name it. Ouch.
I didn’t roar today. I sat in silence for close to an hour, whittling away at a project for a friend. My head was alive. My heart felt empty. I felt lost. Not right. The more I tried to put my finger on it, the more I detached. The emptiness clung to me like a second skin.
Ride it out. It will happen periodically for years and years to come. Just remember, these times are great for growth. Even when they feel like you’ve slipped through a crevasse into Bizarroworld.
I sat back and thought about growth. I’d done an impressive amount of growing lately, especially considering that I draw the Tower at least a few times a week. For those of you unfamiliar with Tarot, the Tower card signifies big change. Like, cataclysmic change. To draw this card more than once in a month, let alone a few times a week, means that big things are coming and have come to pass. I was am unsure of the root of the growth.
Growth took a back seat for a while.
Christopher talked about the nature of geekdom, which spurred him into asking the question: “What’s so wrong with being an Average Joe?”
Mediocrity. My own special version of Hell: where everyone is cookie cutter average and everything is a bloody suburb. I grew up in a suburb. It wasn’t horrible but it was decidedly medicore. And, like Ronna, it got me thinking. Why is mediocrity so bad? After all, we’re nothing average to the people who love us.
The thinking continued.
The emptiness persisted.
The silence remained unbroken.
The darkness lapped at my toes as I dipped them in the abyssal water.
And then it hit me. Or bit me. I don’t know which. Ouch.
I was thinking too damn much; paying too much attention to the emptiness, the silence, and the darkness, trying to will it away instead of accepting it. Not everyone is going to like me or what I write about. Not everyone is going to be interested in my company. It’s not a slight. You’d think I’d have learned that when I was a teenager. Apparently, I’m slow on the uptake.
Embracing the dark is difficult. It’s not a forever state. It’s just for now.
I suck at being a grown-up. I still watch Saturday Morning Cartoons, even on weekdays. I eat Reese Puffs cereal or Pop Tarts for breakfast sometimes. I love it when my nieces and young cousins come over because I secretly love to play pretend with them. I get lost in video games for hours and hours. I watch Disney movies in marathon sprints with April.
As a kid, I was Little Miss Responsible: conscientious of finances, attuned to the emotional well-being of my family, and especially mindful to the needs of my little brother. I desperately wanted to make everyone happy. It turned into a sort of complex for me.
When I moved out, I still wanted to make everyone happy but it was also the first time in my life that I had all the freedom I could ever ask for. (Take note: my parents were and are the most flexible individuals I know. I was not quashed under some totalitarian regime.) I had more money than I knew what to do with. I could go out all night and not have anyone worry about me.
In Which Responsibility (and Brains) Were Lost
I’ll be the first to admit it: I super failed at managing my money (and life) when I got out on my own. For all the life management I had when I was living at home, I didn’t apply any of it to the outside world. Poor money management led to bad eating habits, which led to weight gain, which led to depression, which led to worse money management, which led to worse eating habits, which led to more weight gain…
At the time, I was just pissed off at myself for not paying more attention to my self destructive habits. I scared the people that loved me into thinking I was losing my mind. I scared myself into thinking that I was losing control. In actuality, I wasn’t out of control.
At eighteen, I rebelled against myself. I didn’t want to be responsible or strong anymore. I wanted to be a little kid. And yet, I had become the antithesis to my childhood self: self-indulgent, cranky, and manipulative. It was all about me, me, me and screw everyone else because Me, Myself, and I were pissed off at you. Something had triggered this response. It took a couple years of self pity and introspection to figure out why.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, says my inner self. Time to pick yourself off the ground and stop having a bloody tantrum. There’s more to life than trying to be one or the other. Why not try being both?
Responsibility: A Four Letter Word No More
It’s been five years since I moved out on my own. I’ve learned a lot since then. Re-learning how to manage my life has been one of the biggest – and most rewarding – challenges. I’ve determined that there is a way to maintain a childlike spirit while still rocking responsibility. And by I’ve determined, I mean that Mike (my husband) has determined.
Side note: Mike should seriously have his own blog. His ideas astound me. He pretty much always wins at life.
Responsibility implies respect: respect for yourself (and your partner), the life you’ve created, and the future that you’re creating. It doesn’t mean that you have to give up everything fun and whimsical in your life.
Responsibility can seem demanding, “You must do ABC in order to be an adult. Go sit in the corner and think about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.” In actuality, responsibility is a whisper in the back of your head that asks politely, “Remember to talk with your husband about that purchase. No, not because you have to but because you’re a team.”
Responsibility provides peace, not chains.
Responsibility extends to every facet of your life: money, relationships, goal-setting, making cupcakes, etc. It’s more about common sense than anything else.
What About Being a Kid?
Children are guileless. Energetic. Wild. Fearless. Ready and able to try anything and everything, especially if it means they get to have fun and connect with the people they care about. The knowledge of responsibility shouldn’t change that. In fact, responsibility should enhance that. We should be teaching our children that responsibility and maturity doesn’t mean that you have to be a grown-up. You can – you should – retain the wonder and delight.
Find a budget that doesn’t suck and stick to it. And by doesn’t suck, I mean doesn’t suck the energy out of you forever and ever. Look at it as an exercise in funding your whimsy.
Create something. Anything. It could be a macaroni Jerry Seinfeld, a poem, or cupcakes. If you bake cupcakes… screenshot. Srsly. I <3 cupcakes.
Manage expectations in your life: other peoples’ expectations of you, expectations of yourself, and expectations of other people. Do this for your work and personal life. You’ll be less stressed.
Watch a cartoon from your childhood. Trust me: it’ll be so bad, it’ll loop back around to good.
Collaborate with the people in your life: on decision-making, projects, love, problem-solving, raising kids, anything. Don’t bury your head in the sand and refuse help.
Deal with it. Deal with your problems. Deal with your hang-ups. But don’t deal with it alone. Talk openly. Be honest.
Be wild.
Let’s be rockstars, children, and wild flowers and still pay our bills on time.
violetminded opened its eyes at the end of September 2009. I didn’t see much in the way of business until 2010 rolled around. Yesterday, I started to think about why that was.
I had a portfolio with some relatively decent pieces in it from my days in design school. I even included some sweet print designs I’d done up for April’s art show. I mean, I’m not screaming from the rooftops that I’m a genius but I’m certainly no neophyte.
“Dude, you’re doing it wrong” or How I Managed to Trip at the Starting Line
I did a number of things wrong right off the bat.
No blog. *gasp*
No rates had been set.
Not enough diversity to my portfolio.
violetminded had no real identity.
The blog was remedied easily enough, with a bit of elbow grease and decisiveness. I fail at loving my designs enough to keep them so I changed the look of violetminded five times before deciding on this incarnation. I need to exercise restraint in order to not run and change it again in February.
It was the setting of the rates that was the doozy.
You’d think that setting yourself up to start bringing in cash flow is easy and maybe even enjoyable. In actuality, it’s like listening to 80s pop and being forced to drink bad vodka. I avoided it as long as humanly possible. I’m adverse to 80s pop and bad vodka, you see.
And so, violetminded sat around until the middle of October when I approached Kelly on Facebook (no secret here, I’m madly in love with Kelly & Cleavage, even though I’m married… shh… don’t tell Mike). My first step was to work with her, brand her website anew, and design her a fancy new blog. It wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops but we had a beautiful product at the end of it.
When 2010 rolled around, I took it as the kick-in-the-ass that I required. It was time to buckle down, stop being just a freelancer, and start being a business. The buckle down required me to stop being such a pansy about rates. And then I realized what was keeping me from moving forward.
Rates & Confidence: BFFs in the worst way.
I confess.
Until recently, I had very little confidence in my own abilities. I’d spend countless hours perusing my favouritedesignwebsites and smack my head against the wall while muttering, “Why couldn’t I think of that first? ACK! Does this make me a sub-par designer? Maybe I am just a talentless hack.”
Whoa. Wait. Back up. Did I just think that out loud? Also, I didn’t actually hit my head against the wall. That would be potentially killing brain cells that I may need at some point. But I definitely have felt like it.
How can I possibly justify charging market value rates if I have no confidence in my own abilities? How can I market myself if I wasn’t entirely sure I would be interested in hiring me? More head-butting the walls in my head. More trembling before the mighty business model that I hadn’t really thought of.
Time to get a real job?
Hell. No.
Designing and coding Cleavage had opened my eyes: people actually loved what I could do. The site was all Kelly. It was a minimalistic beauty that came out of me; not out of one of my fellow designers. Just me. And Kelly. And a sexy design brief. We made sweet, sweet web design all night (and day) long.
Hot.
With my confidence boosted (thank you), I could see straight. Walls crumbled. Shoulders squared. Chin raised. Bring it.
… now what?
Rates. Oh snap. Almost forgot.
The rates. They gnawed on my brain, like wild Violet Zombies. The problem hadn’t gone away. It had only managed to seem like it had gone away. Sneaky.
At the beginning of the month, the business started rolling. I put away my confidence issues and started my research.
At first, I was astounded! I couldn’t afford to pay another designer $1800+ so how the hell did I expect people to want to pay me that kind of scratch for my services?
Everybody wants a killer design, especially after seeing one that they lust over. Problem is, nobody wants to pay for it.
It’s a terrifying question. It almost made me want to give it all up for a “cushy” dev position at the company Mike works at (we make an awesome dev team, let me tell you).
Almost.
Company. Individual. Parity Shift!
Based on my experience, I have reason to believe that about 90% of you who just saw my prices thought, “Gosh, that’s awfully expensive!”
Well, you’re right, but actually, you’re wrong too.
You’re right because $1800 is a decent chunk of change – for an individual. You’re wrong because companies throw this kind of bread around all the time. They do so because they understand that crafting a brand holds a value that is oftentimes hard to measure in dollars and cents alone. On top of that, companies typically have a monetary objective behind the launch of a new design, so to them, there’s a foreseeable payoff.
I sucked it up. I set my rates and then told my new clients that we should work together to make sure they won’t have to donate their liver to the black market in order to pay me. I’m under the impression that the liver is, y’know, important. So don’t let me bankrupt you or your growing business.
I just want to design for you.
Why? Because I love it.
It gives me warm, happy feelings of rainbows and lollipops and Alistair/Dragon Age. <3
A few days back, I slipped out of my skin for a few minutes to share my trepidations with you. After a brief recovery period, I’ve decided to rip off the skin grafts (pleasant imagery, isn’t it? This is the problem with writing science fiction and horror: I thrive on the macabre and it sometimes *ahem* bleeds into my non-fiction).
Ronna got me thinking about Love today. Not the sappy kind of love that switches your brain off. Not even the frightening kind of love that makes you crazy with jealousy. She got me thinking about the kind of love where you’re sure you’ve got it but you’re not sure you’re willing to succumb to the Dark Side of Dependency.
The Battle Begins.
It would be easy to classify the Battlefield as a rivalry between the genders; I could draw upon old clichés and still make my argument work. In truth, the Battlefield is far more abstract and, by extension, far more complicated. Instead of this being a simple battle of the sexes, this is a war between love and independence.
Love is the variable: wild, unpredictable, and constantly evolving. It thrives on our wild abandon but keeps its chains wrapped loosely around our waists. Independence – or, detachment within a relationship – is calmer but doesn’t press on us the way love does, especially at the beginning. Detachment is where we strive to be once we’ve found our Dark Lord waiting in the wing.
What do we do once the chains start tightening and we’re in danger of losing our individuality altogether? Refuse to submit to Love and lose out on all of its happy shiny qualities? Or submit, in spite of the creeping chains?
Submit and refuse the chains.
Once upon a time Every day, I struggle with this. I consider myself headstrong. Bold. Just a little on the wild side. I used to consider the bonds of love to be confining. I watched helplessly as the girls I knew were swallowed up by Love. They didn’t call anymore. It slipped their minds that we had a coffee date. They became an extension of their Love, instead of Love becoming an extension of their individual personalities.
The chains confused me.
After all, I’ve been in committed relationship after committed relationship for many years, until I stumbled into a dimly lit conference room and met my husband. During those relationships, I submitted, chains and all. The Dark Side may not be all that bad but be wary of losing yourself entirely; you’ll start looking like Darth Revan and that’s just not okay.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
- The Code of the Sith
I began to familiarize myself with the teachings of Independence – the Light Side. It was a long time coming. There’s no reason to smother oneself with imaginary chains when we’re the ones who put them there in the first place. We imagine that because we’re in love, we’re not allowed to retain our Self. But it is our Self that keeps us whole. Sane. Palatable to those outside our relationship. Just as the Light Side of the Force cannot exist without the Dark Side, Love cannot exist without Independence.
If we live inside Love entirely, we smother it.
If we refuse to submit to Love and seek only Independence, we are ultimately alone.
We must submit and refuse the chains. Find a way to keep our Love and our Self.
I love my husband – my Mike – entirely. We’re content to be together without having to acknowledge each other every moment of every day. We are happy being in the same apartment: I create, he games. We game together. We create armies of miniatures to take over the galaxy. It’s a beautiful, geeky thing.
I’m eager to know how you discovered the balance of Love & Independence in your life.
violetminded slipped into a new skin on Sunday. Design may be anything but transparent but, on the surface, it’s all out on the table. There’s a way to navigate around the site. Up in the left corner is the logo. There’s a place to read content. It’s mathematically creative. Unpredictable in its rationale but it all comes together. After all, there’s no way to disguise bad design as something else.
When I write fiction, I peel back my hardened exterior and let everything in (and out). My characters are the ones on the chopping block. If they screw up, I can fix it. I can be the referee: “Time for you to fall off that rooftop and I don’t care if you don’t like it. But no sexy time until I say so.” Okay, well, maybe I’m more of a bad mother than a referee. Yet, when it comes to vulnerability in non-fiction, I freeze up. I shy away. I don’t want to over-share in text. You can’t really retract something in text. You can’t will it away. The internet monster is an elephant like that: it has a long, unforgiving memory, unless you go and commit social networking suicide (there’s an app for that!)
Transparency is contradictory to a lot of the internet teachings that I’ve swallowed during my ten years online. Many of the best of the best in the community have often warned against sharing too much online. It’s unprofessional. Blogging is serious business.Only recently has it started to shift in favour of wearing your intentions on your sleeve and get right and out personal with your readers.
I was more than a little nervous when I talked about the Death pet. Not only was I addressing a topic that is awkward and uncomfortable but I was revealing a side of myself that I rarely acknowledged: a frail, scared little girl who still misses her Grandma nearly seventeen years later.
The women I admire within the blogging community are all about the transparency, the love, the truth. When I talked to Kelly about her talent for sharing her innermost secrets/fears/dreams when writing Cleavage, she told me that it was all about finding balance. There’s no way a person can live with their skin off. You have to find a way to give of yourself without losing yourself entirely. And the writing that you’re really, really scared to push “Publish” on? Those are the posts that really matter; they’re the ones you’re obligated to write and share with your readers.
Truth is a beautiful thing, especially when it comes to the written word. The best kind of writing is full of microscopic truth: truth that can’t be proven but is felt. It’s honest. Maybe its witticisms are biting but they’re forthcoming. The writer gets her words out there and even if its fictitious (or the facts are bald-faced lies), the writing is honest.
Truth and transparency in fiction is easy. Truth and transparency in non-fiction is terrifying. Slipping violetminded into a new skin was a labour of code and design. Slipping out of my skin will be a labour of love.
If you’re looking for more on microscopic truth and finding your True Self in writing, check out “If You Want to Write” by Brenda Ueland. Truly exceptional book.
Twentysomethings are all about contemplating their navels: a whole lot of self indulgence and not a lot of substance. At twenty-three, I’ve done my fair share of navel gazing. Where am I going? What am I doing? Why is life such a complicated mess? Whine, whine. Sniffle, sniffle. My poor, misunderstood generation.
It’s all white noise.
A hospital room is a parity shift: it forces us to gaze outward and reflect. To shift our ones to zeroes. It’s uncomfortable. It’s painful. It’s the Goddess of Grief getting under our skin, blurring the lines between creative paralysis and the inevitability of numbness.
I’ve sat in more hospital chairs than I care to count. Been down this road too many times. It never gets easier, no matter how many times we’ve been there before.
I sat on her bed this afternoon and looking into those watery blue eyes. I loved her for the women she reminded me of. I knew she was leaving behind a legacy of lives that she had affected. All I need to do is look down at my engagement ring and see her face reflected in it.
We rarely consider death until it lands in our lap, demanding to be acknowledged, like a hungry pet before dinner time. But the pet isn’t yours. You never wanted it. You don’t want to be around it. It terrifies you. And yet, it’s here. It’s purring sweetly in your lap and you must deal with it; it may claw your eyes out while you’re sleeping if you don’t.
I’m not the only one with a bad track record when it comes to being affected by death. At eight years old, I lost my grandmother, my best friend in the whole world, to lung cancer. Mortality doesn’t cross the mind of a child. I had to acknowledge the hungry Death pet as it rubbed against my leg, eager for attention. I didn’t understand. Was Grandma simply not coming home because she didn’t love me anymore? Was she angry at me for being too loud when my brother and I were playing outside in the yard and that’s why she died?
The worst part of a child’s grieving is believing that it’s all their fault; that if they had been better children that somehow the death could have been averted. They’re told that of course it’s not your fault, my child. She’s in better place now. She wants you to live your life and move on without her. They’re given a cookie or a video game and told to go and play. Once a child acknowledges the Death pet, she can’t simply will it away. It will haunt her forever. The magic of childhood slips away and the child is left bereaved and stuck; the Goddess of Grief demands a sacrifice.
Emma has a point: no one wants to hear that it’s time to move on. It’s altruistic to think that when we face the ferryman that we want our loved ones to move on without another thought. We want to be remembered. We need it. That’s why we live our lives; it’s what gives us meaning. We want our lives to have meant something.
When I face the ferryman, I intend on bringing exact change. So place pennies on my eyes, have a big party, and bury me somewhere with a view.
I started the New Year with $20 in my PayPal account and my first paid design gig since I started violetminded in September. I flipped open my new writing book and scribbled the beginnings of an allegory about a drug-addled lawyer named Celerity. I contemplated the inevitable “New Years” post with reluctance, which is why I’m sitting at January 2 instead of January 1. What can I add to the conversation that hasn’t already been said? After all, I’ve made resolutions every year since I was sixteen in hopes that by saying it out loud, it would somehow make it true. Or, at the very least, would make it come a little easier.
Kelly and I recently had a conversation about goal setting and how that just plain doesn’t work for us so instead of planning, she’s aiming to climb mountains this year. Emma wrote a letter to her future self about how she’d like the year to turn out. Danielle purred her poetry of truth. Jeanne lamented the difficulty of conjuring a vision of the new year so she opted to emulate Danielle’s poetry.
Like Emma, I find resolutions to be restrictive and punishing. What if you don’t meet your predefined goals? Isn’t that starting off the new year with a fizzle, instead of a bang? Like Kelly, I love to plan but find following through on the plan exceedingly dissatisfying. I don’t have the patience for Gwen’s personal manifesto, even though I’d like to. Poetry doesn’t leak through my fingers like it does Danielle’s.
And so, where does that leave me? Lost? Left behind? Crashing into a snow drift somewhere off the Trans-Canada? I refuse to be any of those things and I am nothing if not determined.
I’ll do what I do best: plate-spinning.
I will be the writer, the designer, the developer, the wife, the sister, and the daughter. I will be the young entrepreneur. I will be the reader, the lover, the dreamer, the practical and yet totally irrational thinker. I will be everything I am today and evolve beyond myself. I will continue to put all my fingers in all the pies. I will not apologize for it.
In short, I resolve to do nothing extraordinary. I resolve to do nothing at all.
