Abercrombie & Fitch: Who’s REALLY Uncool?

“In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids. Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong, and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.” — Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch

Teens should be told that they are beautiful, inside and out.

All teens should be told that they are beautiful, inside & out.

What teen feels “cool?” I’m fairly sure it’s the rare adult who looks back on their teen years, recalling confidence. I sure as heck wasn’t one of them.

I was 16 when a pair of hip modeling agents saw something in me I didn’t. From my first time before the camera, staring into what I lovingly coined the “beautiful black hole,” I seemed to morph into someone else—someone self-assured, pretty and Don’t mess with me-skilled. Afterward, I held my breath, awaiting dreaded feedback: You’re overweight, not pretty enough, too curvy in all the wrong places. When several meetings and shoots passed by with no mention of my size, I wondered for the first time if the notions I’d long held about my body were false. With the breath of one sentence, everything changed.

Following what had seemed a glorious shoot with a renowned Los Angeles photographer (I’ll call him “Gregor”), I laid on the ground, poised for that beloved black hole. Gregor lowered his camera, looked me in the eyes and said, “You could be working in Paris, if you lost ten or fifteen pounds.” The words felt like bricks to my stomach. Repulsion washed through me like sudden onset malaise. I wasn’t okay! My “fatness” was real.

My disgust rapidly transformed into motivation. Nothing would stop me, I decided. And nothing did, until countless shoots and weight loss tactics later, I lost consciousness while running toward the Seine in Paris, my heart and body too weak to carry on.

When I read of Jeffries’ remarks, his plot to keep the “uncool” (commercially unattractive) kids out of his stores, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’s become other individuals’ Gregor—confirming the belief that body shape, size and appearance determine whether one is embraceable or not, and that anyone larger than lithe is unsightly. I wish I could reach through the internet waves and hug every teen who feels unworthy, ensuring them that that is not the case: YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL, AND OKAY—MORE THAN OKAY—PRECISELY AS YOU ARE. ♥

One of my last modeling castings, post-recovery, was for Abercrombie & Fitch. Upon arrival, I learned that they were seeking “attractive” people to walk around their store—illustrating the consumer type they hoped to attract. I wish I could say that I was so disgusted that I rushed out and alerted the press, but I wasn’t. Presenting an “ideal” image for others to admire and aim for is what models do. I found the notion bothersome, but more so, boring. For both reasons, I turned the job offer down.

Last week, 18-year-old Benjamin O’ Keefe displayed the courage and wherewithal I lacked. In response to Jeffries’ remarks, the teen, who overcame an eating disorder and depression, started a petition, beckoning others to boycott the trendy store.

“Instead of inspiring young people to make healthy choices and better themselves, Mike Jeffries and his company has told them they will never be good enough. Well, he is wrong.” — Benjamin O’ Keefe

The National Eating Disorders Association learned of O’Keefe’s efforts, and has joined forces. I had the privilege of discussing the Abercrombie & Fitch ordeal with Lynn Grefe, NEDA’s president and CEO, last week. Here are the highlights of our conversation:

AM: Critics of the outcry against Abercrombie & Fitch claim that there’s nothing wrong with a company targeting a particular group in the name of prestige and profit. How is it different from, say, a plus-size store targeting larger consumers?

LG: I’ve never heard of a store that says, ‘We don’t want ugly or fat people coming in our store.’ And that is basically what he said. There is no problem with targeting consumers, such as plus-sized models, but to actually discriminate and say, ‘We don’t even want those people in our store, who don’t fit in our clothes, and aren’t pretty and attractive?’ It’s terrible.

AM: You’ve described Jeffries’ marketing ploys as bigotry. What do you mean?

LG: I have it right here! Bigotry is ‘the state of a mind of a bigot, someone who treats other people with hatred, contempt and intolerance.’ That’s intolerance, to say that we only want pretty people, small people. They are teaching kids how to discriminate, how to body shame, how to make other people feel bad—hopefully inadvertently, but they are doing it.

AM: I’m glad you brought up the age issue, because it’s such a vulnerable age already.

LG: It is a vulnerable age! Nobody wants to be body shamed. Right now weight bias is significant in this country… To do this with children, and they know that they are appealing to children, is just awful.

AM: What are the repercussions of weight bias?

LG: It absolutely leads to poor self esteem and poor body image, and can lead to eating disorders. When you are body shamed and told that you are no good, it causes many people to engage in unhealthy behaviors.

AM: Tell us about the campaign to boycott Abercrombie & Fitch.

LG: Benjamin O’ Keefe created a petition through Change.org. He was willing to speak out, and we’re on top of it with him. We really support and applaud him. Beyond the petition, we’re pushing out a campaign targeting parents, as much as anything. For an awful lot of these kids, it’s the parents’ credit card. Why would parents want to support this kind of discrimination?

Boycott Abercrombie

AM: A friend suggested to me that by speaking out against Jeffries, we’re supporting him—giving him free publicity.

LG: I think that people should be called out and shamed if they’re doing something that can hurt young people. People can buy what they want to buy, do what they want to do. I guess if this makes people want to shop there more, we didn’t do our job. But I don’t think we can ignore it. We don’t stand by and say it’s no big deal.

AM: What can we do to make a positive difference?

LG: I keep saying, ‘Be more concerned about the size of our hearts than the size of our hips.’ I really think if we could live that way, let people breathe and not feel like they’re under a microscope, it would make a huge difference.

To support O’ Keefe and NEDA’s efforts to make the world a happier, healthier place, sign the Boycott Abercrombie & Fitch petition. Show your support on Twitter by sharing this post, O’ Keefe’s post and/or the petition, using the hashtag #BoycottAbercrombie. For support regarding disordered eating thoughts or behaviors, call NEDA’s helpline: (800) 931-2237.

How do you feel about Mike Jeffries’ remarks? How about Benjamin O’ Keefe’s activism? Will they alter your shopping habits? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Morning Hair, Colic and Mother’s Day Wishes

“There’s a story behind everything…but behind all your stories is always your mother’s story…because hers is where yours begins.” – Mitch Albom, For One More Day

I had a blast interviewing my mom last year on marriage and lasting love, and thought it was time for a followup. Yesterday we chatted by phone about motherhood. Here’s what my ebulient mama had to say, once again revealing tidbits I wasn’t aware of.

August McLaughlin baby picture

Mom and me on Christmas, 1981

August: When did you first realize that you wanted to be a mom?

Caroline: I can tell you the exact moment. I went to the hospital and my sister, Jackie, had just had her first baby. That was the first time I saw a baby up close, and I thought, “That’s what I want!” I always knew I wanted kids, but that sealed the deal.

August: What’s surprised you the most about parenthood?

Caroline: I’ve enjoyed it more than I thought I would. Children are so full of wonder… Also, your hair can be standing on end, and you can look in the mirror and think, “OH MY!” Well, you know my morning hair.

August: [laughs] Yes, but don’t worry. I won’t post a picture.

Caroline: You can look just awful, and you go to pick up a baby from the crib, and they think you’re just gorgeous! They love you either way.

August: Aw. You’re welcome!

Caroline: [laughs]

August: What’s one of your favorite funny memories?

Caroline: One night when Dad was working nights, I was sleeping on the couch, and you had colic, you know.

August: So I’ve heard.

Caroline: You were a siren at two or three in the morning. So I took you to the living room and hours later, I was sleeping on the couch. I jolted upright and thought, “Oh no! Where is she? What did I do with her?” And there you were, sound asleep on my shoulder.

August: [laughs] So I did sleep every once in a while.

Caroline: Yep! You could get away on such little sleep, yet were just full of joy. And joy is contagious.

August: I’m glad colic isn’t.

Caroline: Colic seems really long when you’re screaming in the middle of the night. But when it’s done, we’d think, that wasn’t so bad! You sort of forget the bad parts.

August: Ah. Post-colic amnesia. Sweet! Speaking of noise, I get my blurting tendencies from you. Do you remember my first one?

Caroline: Do I… It was just before Kelly was born. You were only about 18 months, and nursing just a couple of times a day. So I gave you a tiny glass of milk and explained that you’re still you’re going to get your milk, but you’re getting it from a cup now because Mama is having another baby. You looked at me and said, “So you’re going to be four mommies?” I said, “Yes.” And you said, “Well there’s only one daddy. And he’s ALL MINE.”

Got 'im!

Got ‘im!

August: Such a giver, I was. Good thing I learned to share.

Caroline: You were a talker very early. Your first words were ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada.’ And you loved books.

August: I remember. You gave me a lot of quiet time with those books.

Caroline: That’s what YOU remember. You didn’t have much quiet time. You always thought you were in there for hours. I just gave you a chill out moment—time to refocus.

August: If you say so. I still need those.

Caroline: One thing you did that drove Aaron nuts, was you’d sit in your car seat and sing about everything you saw out the window, at the top of your lungs. And you’d look at Aaron and he looked like had smoke coming out of his ears.

August: I don’t blame him! But geez. Sometimes a girl gets bored.

Caroline: One of the funniest things, I remember as clear as a bell. It was your first experience with watermelon, at Grandma’s. Kelly had just started talking, and you were probably four. She held up her watermelon to you and said, “What’s this?” And you said, “I don’t know! But it has little black shiny things in it!” You reminded me of two little old ladies chatting about some newfangled thing. Now you can get watermelon all year long, but then it was only available in the summer.

Kelly and Me

Kelly and Me

August: Super cute. Was it different raising Aaron, compared to us four girls? Or were we all just really different?

Caroline: What your sex is was irrelevant. You all have blue eyes and blondish hair, but every one of you is unique. When you have four girls, you can really see the differences—very individual.

I never had a little brother, and wasn’t around little boys very much. I thought they loved cars and other stereotypical stuff, so one year I bought Aaron the cutest set of little cars and trucks from the Sears catalogue. But I realized I’d bought it for me. I liked it, and thought that he should like it. He was nice about it, but he never played with them.

August: [laughs] That’s probably why he and I played “used car lot” later on and tried to sell them off.

Mom and Aaron

Mom and Pirate/Viking Aaron

Caroline: Now little Isabelle goes around with cars and goes, “Vroom, vroom, vroom. Truck!” She loves them.

August: You started having kids very early—20, right? Was it a shock?

Caroline: Yes, twenty. I don’t think that I’d even changed a diaper before. Dad taught me how. I think the biggest shock is to realize that they’re always there. They’re not going anywhere, and they’re your responsibility. It’s kind of like, “Here’s a sponge, and you’re going to teach it what it’s going to soak up.” Obviously kids make your own choices, but what things are you going to offer them? That’s a pretty awesome responsibility.

August: I can imagine. What’s your Mother’s Day wish?

Caroline: Well, I told the girls all I want for Mother’s Day is little handmade cards from the granddaughters, and that’s it.

August: Ha. Good luck with that.

Caroline: My Mother’s Day wish is this. You have chosen not to have kids like Carla has. But you’re a super special aunty to your nieces, and you can mother them if you want to. It’s not right or wrong to have a baby. If someone has them and they don’t want them, I would just love for them to find loving homes for them. There are so many loving people who want children but can’t have them.

August: That’s sweet, Mom. And cool that you’re so open minded. I’ve known for a long time that the only way I’d want to get pregnant is if one of my sisters needed to borrow my womb.

Caroline: [laughs hard] Hope you have lots of storage!

August: Well not all at once! Anyway, I’m glad they’re all fertile.

Caroline: I look at teachers who’ve never married, or never had kids. Their pupils are like their children, and they have more kids than any of us. I also wish that if people wish, they can be a mom. I don’t love you anymore or less because you have babies or you don’t have babies. And I was just telling Dad today that Zoe has an aura about her.

August: She does, doesn’t she? I love the way you tie it all into my dog—because you know that she’s my thing.

Caroline: Well she’s a special girl, my grand-dog-ter.

Zoe, the GREAT!

Zoe, the GREAT!

August: Brilliant and true. I have to head out, but if I find that picture of your morning hair from New York—

Caroline: Putsu!  [Translation: AUGUST JOHNSON MCLAUGHLIN—Don’t you dare!]

Okay, okay… I’ll share her most recent poem instead:

Mama Brain, by Caroline

I looked forward to being a mom with great expectation,
Never realizing there would be days of great consternation.
Some sleepless nights, schedules to juggle, topped off with a bout of flu
Could leave me wondering, what on Earth would I do?
Motherhood is filled with hugs and fun, that’s a fact.
Motherhood is also a careful, loving balancing act.
Like sunshine following the rain, mothers rely on their mama brain.

The Johnson 5 (6 if you consider my beached hair a creature)

The Johnson 5

(6 if you consider my Miami-bleached hair a creature)

What’s your favorite mom memory? What has your mother taught you? Any thoughts or questions for mine? 

 ♥ Have a happy Mother’s Day! ♥

The Blurt Diaries #2: A Broken Breakup

If hindsight is 20/20, I’m pretty sure that some of my former boyfriends wish it was more like 20/300. I don’t mean to diss my younger self. I’m just saying—certain experiences could stand a bit of dementia blur. From where I stand now, what happened with “Humphrey” (not his real name) is pretty darn hilarious.

X-ray of a male chest showing one broken red heart

I met Humphrey at a club in Minneapolis, shortly after a burst appendix landed me in the hospital, followed by 30 days of bed rest. So sick of lying around, I took a friend up on her offer to hit the town. I was 22, and hadn’t yet had my first alcoholic drink. (Calories. It’s a long story.) This night called for let-loose-age.

Naive girl’s dating lesson #1: Never judge a date by your drunken brain’s perception.

There I was at the Gay Nineties, watching male performers with legs and dance moves I’ll never hold a candle to, when this cute, muscular blond (think surfer dude, with a preppy haircut and dress pants) sat down beside me. When he offered to buy me a drink, I chose what seemed like the healthiest menu option—Long Island Ice Tea. (Hello. Antioxidants!) The alcoholic hodgepodge gave me a free feeling I’d never before experienced. The world appeared softer, sparklier and lighter. So did I. During an otherwise turbulent time body image-wise, I could look at my reflection in a bathroom mirror and think, “Damn! I look HOT!”

The next day, Humphrey called, thanking me for the wonderful time. Though I couldn’t recall many details of our shared time, I’d retained that sense of wonder. I also mistook it, as Humphrey did, for falling-in-love type chemistry. On our first official date, we sat across the table from each other at a restaurant, me talking, Humphrey listening. The quieter he was, the more gregarious I became, and vice versa; I suppose I felt the need to fill the air, or balance things out. Once the alcohol started flowing, Humphrey spoke up and my boredom dissipated. (Welcome back, wonder!)

Every date with Humphrey played out similarly. And soon, signs of our incompatibility cropped up like a weed-plague overtaking a rose garden. He was an accountant; I was a psych. major/artist not-otherwise-specified. He envisioned marriage and children; I dreamed of backpacking through India and starting non-profits. He loved steak; I preferred legumes. He was a night owl; I preferred dawn. When we had sex, it was as though we were in separate rooms, trying to make love to a person we couldn’t find. Alcohol was our only mutual path to “enjoyment.”

After a Valentine’s date gone wrong, I knew it was time to part ways. So I did the logical thing. I wrote him a breakup song.

The next night I arrived at his place, clutching my guitar, feeling brave yet tender. It was time, I told myself, and though breakups are never fun, we could handle this like responsible adults—move on and chalk our time together up to shared learning experiences. Surely he felt our dissymmetry, too.

With perspiring hands, I plucked the strings on my guitar and chirped my “Dear John” letter-like lyrics, avoiding eye contact. I’d envisioned him holding me afterward, saying “thank you” and that he understood. Perhaps we’d shed a few tears then share one last kiss, knowing we’d closed the book on a story that should’ve ended at the preface.

I strummed my last chord then looked up at Humphrey. He was…smiling, and blushing. And silent. He finally broke the quiet, saying something about being speechless. I was right about the thanking and holding me bit. And our last kiss was probably our best.

Presuming that there was nothing more to say, I left, feeling relieved. The following night I performed with Propinquity, a folk-rock band I was part of during high school and sporadically after. I stood up on stage and introduced my new number, Came and Went (I still can’t believe I failed to recognize that awkward pun…). “I also call it the ‘breakup song,’ because that’s what it is,” I explained. I heard a “huh?” type sound from somewhere in the audience, then watched in horror as Humphrey stood up, his jaw slightly ajar.

Mid-performance I realized what had happened. After the show, it was confirmed. Humphrey had no idea that I’d intended the song as our breakup. He thought we were still together. (Youch, I know.)

When my own hindsight kicked in, I looked back and saw countless additional flaws in our partnership, some of which reduced the guilt I felt over the not-quite-obvious-enough breakup. Of course, those flaws weren’t fully clear to me until I wrote them into a song.

What’s the wackiest breakup you’ve been through? What lesson did your younger dating self teach you? What’s your take on breakup songs? (I may have matured, but I still see the value. ;) ) Share away. I love hearing from y’all. Oh, and in case you missed it, the Blurt Diaries is a series in which I let my blurty mouth and fingers go wild.

Broken Mirrors: Lessons in Self-Perception

“Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here.” – Marianne Williamson

I learned a lot about fear from anorexia. It’s a terrifying disease that robs the sufferer of the ability to think or feel as herself, lies to and for her and, if given the opportunity, swallows up her entire life. Not until I reached my own full recovery did I realize how horrific its scariest moments can truly be.

I was living in Paris, weeks before a loss of consciousness led me to diagnosis and proper care, and working as a model. One day while working out at a local gym, I became mesmerized by a woman’s legs. Reflected in the mirror on an adjacent wall, they were long and thin—so thin that her knees bulged out like burls on trees. I felt an odd mix of envy and concern as I watched, part wishing I had the genes or “skills” to obtain such a physique, part worried for her wellbeing. From the angle, I figured she was running several treadmills to my right, and longed to see the rest of her. Instead, I continued exercising, fixating on fat and calorie burn as per usual.

Once finished, I stepped off of the treadmill, walked toward the drinking fountain on the mirror-topped wall and spotted the woman again. Those legs! Those long, lithe legs… Drawing closer, I observed bruises on her knees, like mine—exactly like mine. I stopped walking. She stopped walking. I started again, as did she.

In a fraction of a second, reality struck—or my sickened version of it. The woman wasn’t thin at all. Her thighs bulged outward even more than her knocky knees, below a round, bloated abdomen. Approaching the mirror, I confirmed the now obvious. The woman wasn’t thin; she was just plain, chubby me.

Perception_August McLaughlin

Had I imagined her? Wished so hard to be her that she’d appeared? Deep in my gut, I knew, or at least suspected, that I’d watched my own legs, and that my “reality” wasn’t real at all. It was a sickening, frightening thought, but not as scary as I found my body. A glance down at my flesh assured me: Whether I’d seen her or not, there was zero chance that Ms. Thin had been me.

Self-perception is a powerful, potentially terrifying thing. I’m grateful that when I look in the mirror today, I no longer see shape, size and mistakes. I make it a point to peer into my eyes with respect, whether I feel at my physical best or not. Most often, I simply see me—a soul in a body I’ve learned to embrace.

I don’t know if I see myself physically as others do (does any woman?), but I’ve learned not to care. I want to feel and appear attractive, like most folks, but the scale no longer measures my self-worth. And my thoughts and energy fuel worthy pursuits. These are some of the gifts healing from an eating disorder can bring—a realm of self-acceptance I feel too few people reach.

At its core, anorexia isn’t about aesthetics, but a desperate need to achieve and succeed, to compensate for inadequacy, to maintain control amidst chaos or to simply disappear. Like all eating disorders, it’s a complicated illness, influenced heavily by cultural standards and the role models we have or lack. Sadly, these issues have grown universal, and reach far beyond the grasp of full-fledged disease.

I was reminded of my Paris/mirror experience last week, when a friend alerted me to a video produced by Dove. I won’t ruin it for those of you who haven’t seen it. I can only say WATCH IT! Please. :) I have a feeling you’ll not only relate, but feel inspired.

A mere four percent of women worldwide deem themselves beautiful, according to Dove. I imagine that many of the remaining 96 percent of us aren’t merely shunning our looks when we look in the mirror, but our selves.

Throughout my recovery, I’d often look in the mirror and spout affirmations, whether I believed them in my heart or not. I love you, You’re beautiful, and so forth. Over time, they felt less like lies, and more like promises. Eventually, they felt true. I can’t help but wonder if most women would benefit from similar practices, not simply in regard to physical appearance, but life. Many of us see ourselves as “less than,” flawed or not fully capable. If we let them, doubt and insecurity can really hold us back.

I’m grateful to Dove for reminding me that no matter how wonderful others might perceive us, it matters little if we fail to see the wonder ourselves. Simply knowing that, reminding ourselves of that, can go a long way toward personal empowerment. If there’s one thing that help heal our broken “mirrors” and allow us to reach our full potential, having a blast in the process, I’m pretty sure it’s that.

What experiences have led you to ponder or shift your self-perception? What’s your take on the Dove experiment? I love hearing your thoughts. 

The 500 Hats of Blog-tholomew Cubbins: Reducing Social Media Stress

Have you ever read The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins? It’s a Dr. Seuss story, set in feudal times, featuring a poor boy named Bartholomew. One day while riding through a market, he removes his hat to abide by the law. Once he does, another hat appears in its place. The same thing happens repeatedly, each hat appearing more extravagant than the last, until eventually, the king offers him reprieve and riches for the spiffy 500th. Finally, the boy can breathe easy! The prize was worth the stress and confusion.

Bartholomew reminds me of modern-day writers. Each time we move forward in our careers, we expose more of ourselves, gaining riches and, very often, stress. Every achievement—finishing a draft, landing representation, publishing—seems to invite an additional part-time, or even full-time, job. But we still only have one head!

As some of you know, I first delved deep into social media engagement upon my agent’s suggestion. And holy schmoley, did it feel like a ton of work. I researched the various platforms like crazy and raced through Kristen Lamb’s books in two days, spending the little sleep I could manage in between dream-tweeting. I’m pretty sure I looked something like this:

Social media stress

Since then, I’ve learned ways to fit social media into my writing life without going padded-wall crazy. Over time, it’s felt less like enigmatic work, and more like an enjoyable blessing. I’m sure many of you can relate.

As with most aspects of our careers, it’s important to utilize social media practices that work for us individually. I thought I’d share practices that seem to work well for me, and invite you all to chime in with your fabulous thoughts.

The following habits help keep me productive and sane—pretty simple and straightforward:

1) Save social media for warmups, breaks and cool downs. Social media is for authors what stretching is for marathoners. Our blogs, Twitter and Facebook shouldn’t rule our time, or take precedence over our primary writing. Saving social media for downtime and breaks helps on multiple levels. Shifting gears helps keep our other brains and work fresh; engaging in social media can bring respite, support and fun.

2) Write your most important work when your brain works best. I went into detail on this topic in an earlier post. Basically, working hardest mentally during our “golden hour,” or when we tend to feel the sharpest and most creative allows us to make the most of our time. (I’d personally rather wake up at 5am and work like crazy until mid-day than write at night, when my brain is somewhat mushy.)

3) Take breaks from it ALL. This has been a tough one for me to master, but I’ve learned that working non-stop doesn’t help anything. We can be more productive, creative and efficient if we allow ourselves wiggle room and, you know, that thing called life. Music, friends and my dog help me stay semi-balanced. I’m super grateful for that.

4) Learn to say ‘no.’ This is a biggie. Saying ‘yes’ to too many other tasks or events says ‘no’ to writing time. While breaks and days off are invaluable, they won’t do much if we have scarce work-time left over. If you’re overextended, try cutting back, or ask others for help. If you feel guilty, remind yourself that self-care makes us more enjoyable to be around. (Totally true for me.)

5) Be yourself. Aiming for popularity rather than authenticity doesn’t work well on-line, in my opinion. If we view social media as an extension of ourselves, we don’t have to try so hard—which can stressful and time consuming. Since people tend to recognize and appreciate authenticity, being ourselves naturally attracts engagement and support. If you’re like most writers I know, you enjoy supporting others. So if for no other reason—of which there are many—do that, too.

6) Savor the path. Back to Bartholomew: the prize is in the bedazzled journey. If we enjoy the process, and aren’t crippled by fear or self-doubt, our treasures will only brighten. Sure, we might (okay, will) get criticized along the way. But if we take it all in stride, write because we love writing and remain gentle with ourselves, we’ll reap less stress and more joy. Every day may not be sparkly, but embracing the whole shebang can make it all worthwhile.

Related links you may find helpful:

5 Quick Facebook Tips for the Busy and Shy, by Gene Lempp
25 Things Writers Should Know About Social Media, by Chuck Wendig
I is for Introvert: How Do You Know if You’re an Introvert or an Extrovert? (and how it affects blogging), by Jenny Hansen

Have you found ways to manage social media without feeling stressed or lost for time? What works best for you?

Living Well to Write Well When Feeling @%$#-y

Illness is part of wellness, and strikes all of us on occasion. If only we could choose the timing…

If only we could choose the timing.

I caught a nasty bug last week, while up against a tight deadline. Like many writers, I have multiple work-streams and projects ongoing. The assignment plunked down like an elephant on that pile.

Some years ago, I would have worked my butt off, eaten low-cal foods and hit the gym while sick. I’m so glad I’ve learned since then. I now appreciate the fact that food fuels the body and brain, and that during sickness, it needs ample glucose. Since we only have one source of glucose (carbohydrates), eating enough (if possible) and at regular time intervals is vital. So is rest, since glucose also fuels activity. While enduring illness or injury, our glucose should fuel recovery instead.

Rather than fight the virus with stubborn ignorance, I hit the pause button. For the first day, I barely moved from the sofa—sans laptop—other than to grab food and such. The next day, fueled up with rest and nourishment, I completed the assignment. While it may not have been my greatest work, it turned out significantly better than it would have, practicing my former habits.

Back-flat on the sofa afterward, I couldn’t help but marvel at the way our brains and bodies work. They not only respond to self-nurturing, but help and heal themselves—given the proper TLC. (I don’t know about you, but that seems super power-esque to me.)

The experience reminded me of a few things. First, the work we do as writers takes a lot of energy. Second, the healthy habits needed to overcome illness promote writing health (sharp brain function, productivity and creativity) as well. And third, we can’t starve away illnesses, regardless of what old adages say.

If you’re feeling under-the-weather, or simply bogged down by the pressures of a hectic life, you may find the following tips useful. They’re far from revolutionary, but guess what. They work! ;) If you’re like me, you can use the occasional reminder.

Living Well to Write Well When Feeling &%^#-y

1. Try to get enough sleep. I can hear some of you groaning. This isn’t my strong suit, either. But sharp thinking and creativity are some of the first things to go when we’re sleep deprived. The key, I feel, is trying to stick to a healthy sleep routine, and allowing time for our brain and body to decompress before bed. (This means turning off light-up everythings.) A positive sleep environment—dark and comfortable—also helps.

2. Eat well. In general, this means eating balanced meals and snacks at reasonable time intervals, and emphasizing whole, natural foods. Remember, the brain needs more carbohydrates than any other nutrient. Rather than skimp on carbs, emphasize healthy sources, such as whole grains, vegetables and fruit. Lean protein sources, like fish and legumes, and essential fat sources, such as nuts and seeds, promote positive brain function in other ways. We should also limit processed and low-nutrient food and avoid dieting; both can damage our work and wellness.

3. Balance rest with activity. When we’re ill, easing up on all activity is important. If you’re up against a deadline or have other obstacles tinkering with your rest, short breaks are better than none. Ask for more time or for help. (We may seem super-human, but…) Even when we aren’t sick, working our typing fingers into the grindstone 24/7 does little to help our work quality or health. When we’re well enough, routine exercise is important.

4. Breathe. Stress and illness can cause our bodies to tense up, disrupting breathing. Regardless of ailments, we women often suck our bellies in, attempting to appear thinner. This makes proper breathing near impossible. Pausing to inhale and exhale slowly—using our diaphragm, not our chest or shoulders—can help reduce stress, increase energy levels and enhance healing. Breathing exercises can also help.

5. Seek support. As writers, many of us are used to going it alone. We not only run the ship, but build it, clean it, repair it, renovate it, market it, Tweet about it and—you get the picture. Learning to rely on others and cutting ourselves some slack may not come naturally, but it can be lifesaving, particularly when we’re down and out. There’s no shame in asking, and plentiful reward in self-care.

Do you work or rest your way through illness? Which of these tips have you mastered? Which are works-in-progress? Happy to put on my nutritionist cap if you have food-related questions. (Yep, I love you that much!)

Gorilla Love: When April Fools’ Day Goes Right-ish

“If I get married, I want to be very married.” — Audrey Hepburn

My parents have been dating for decades.

Audrey may’ve stolen that quote from my mom.

I was seven when my parents celebrated 15 years of marriage. If we’d already been blessed with my youngest sister Cora, the ever-wise now psychologist, we might have celebrated the milestone somewhat differently. (Cora is skilled at spotting fires before they’ve been set.)

My three siblings and I had decided that year 15, being a huge, fancy-sounding number, was worthy of an equally huge and fancy party. Pooling together any allowance we hadn’t yet spent and coins from between couch cushions, we came up with enough money to fund what we deemed the perfect gift. I mean, who wouldn’t want a surprise party, embellished with a singing, hula-dancing gorilla? Two examples spring immediately to mind: my humble, attention-not-preferred parents.

While some folks averse to such surprises might flee at the sight of Luau Layla and her illustrious leis, or shun the party-throwers thereafter, my parents smiled, blushed and indulged—anything for their kidlets. They are still the same darn way. Luckily, they also share a great sense of humor.

When my dad celebrated his 60th birthday two years ago, my brother Aaron and I decided to fly in and, with our Minnesota-residing siblings, recreate that beloved event—only this time, with Aaron and I as the gorillas. (Some lessons are learned, apparently; others, ignored.) And play, we did. From keeping the two of us hidden at our sisters’ places to scoping out Craig’s List and costume shops for gorilla suits after the “suits” I ordered from Amazon turned out to be gorilla torsos—over-the-shoulder fur featuring plump, rubber nipples—the five of us made like the children we used to be, and probably remain, to an extent. Though we didn’t adorn Dad with flowers or force him and Mom to wiggle their hips before loved ones as Ms. Layla had, the blushing, appreciation and absence of “How could you?!?” were eerily similar.

Oh, how we’ve matured!

I’ve learned a great deal from my parents about love, respect, patience and perseverance. They’ve taught me to follow my heart, to treat others with kindness, to value togetherness over “things,” to celebrate music and concoct a mean batch of Indian curry. And though they’ve had their share of bumps along the way, as most of us have, they’ve never let go of each other or the bond that they share. As an adult, I’ve watched it grow and tighten, along with their individuality; two full-halves making a more wondrous whole. My mother is quick to call my dad her soulmate (and “hot lips,” but I won’t go there today), and my dad continues to romance her with flowers, cards and thoughtfully-planned dates. And even when particular offspring have made life chaotic challenging interesting, they’ve remained strong, as parents and a pair. Not a day has passed that any one of us kids hasn’t known that we are deeply loved.

Looking back on our gorilla fests, the original and the sequel, it’s clear to me that the ability to step out of the presumable comfort zone, laugh at life’s surprises and accept gifts, even when we feel slightly misunderstood, are pretty key to a lasting, happy marriage. Or perhaps it’s getting married in a snowstorm on April Fools’ Day, after getting locked out of the church. (Another true story. I imagine they were laughing then, too.)

For all of my curiosities about true love and marriage, I’ve no doubt that my parents have done it right.

Happy 41st anniversary, Mom and Dad! We promise to stick to jeans and t-shirts this year. :)

For my mom’s thoughts on marriage, check out my interview with her here.

What April Fools’ Day sticks out in  your mind? Any anniversary hilarity to share? Do you regress as much as I do on the home front? 

The Blurt Diary: Bralessness and Nipple Love

Do you ever sit down to write a particular thing and something entirely different pops out? (I’m not talking about nipples—yet.) That happens to me often, being a pantser, and to varying degrees. This post took on a blurt-style alien life form. (I plead jet lag.) Rather than trash or “normalize” it, I’ve decided to launch a new series that will appear at its own sporadic will. Welcome to my blurt diary…

Entry #1

I spent the greater part of the past week in Minnesota, and had a wonderful time. As I ease back into the “usual” (whatever that is) grind, I’d planned on sharing profound thoughts and words that struck me throughout the trip. And I probably will, soon. Today, however, I have bras on the brain. Here’s why:

I was at a cafe today, wearing my least comfortable bra. (It’s laundry day, so I made do.) As I squirmed about, one hand on my latte, the other on the digging-into-me strap, my friend Katie shot me a “go out in public much?” look. “I hate bras, especially this one,” I told her.

“So take it off,” she said.

So I did. With a swift move, I undid the clutch in the back and slipped it through out the bottom of my shirt then stuffed it in my purse—in all of three seconds. “Ah… Better.”

“You didn’t,” she said.

I flashed her the crumpled Hanes in my purse.

Her eyes widened. “How the heck did you do that? Must be a modeling trick.”

Everyone guesses that, I explained, but it’s more like the opposite. Growing up in a modest family and community, I was pretty shocked to learn that in the fashion world, most models simply strip. Sure, you might have a dressing room, but more often than not, numerous folks are nearby as you bare it all. Runway shows in particular leave little time for modesty. I learned this while being prepped for my first show in Minneapolis. My dresser, to my shock and horror, was Mrs. Bigsley—a woman from my parents’ church. Her head was inches away from my sheer panties when she looked up and introduced herself: “I just saw them at Prayer Circle the other day!”

AGH! I’m sure I spoke back, but I don’t recall the conversation. How can one chit chat comfortably when someone who recites scripture with your parents is all over your nakedness, arranging your nylons and taping your bra in place?!? I got over the strip-down eventually. And a few months later, after I’d moved from Minneapolis to New York, I was grateful that Mrs. Bigsley had de-virginized me.

One of my first jobs in the Big Apple made me blush like one—the male models, worse so. In the name of Calvin Klein undies, 12 of us stood smashed together in a tiny area, the six guy models behind us gals. We all wore only bottoms, and the guys’ hands were our “bras.” To maintain the underwear, um, smoothness, cold fans blew on the guys. (Perhaps that’s why the males seemed the least comfortable.)

Back then, my breasts had shrunken down with my body size. And regardless, I’ve always had muscular breasts—more medium than large, making bralessness easy. The undergarments soon became a needless accessory, and an article of clothing seldom seen on shoot sets. I wish that that had carried over into all circles in my life. If I were to show up at a professional event sans bra, it’s easy to guess where eyes would land—not because female nipples are bad or unusual (obviously), but viewed by our society as risque and off-limits in public.

This more recent shot was featured in a Brazilian mag. Sad that I'm inclined to cover parts that Brazilians celebrate.

This more recent shot was featured in a Brazilian mag. Sad that I’m inclined to cover parts that Brazilians celebrate.

I was reminded today of how liberating and refreshing it is bid the boob-holster farewell. Sometimes, it’s necessary. (Just ask Natalie Hartford.) I’ve yet to find a bra that fits so wonderfully that my not-huge breasts are happier with than without. Honestly, what’s the point of nipple covers? Somewhere along the line I developed sneaky ways to to away with them as needed. If our culture wasn’t so dang nipple phobic, I’d go sans brassiere all the time.

I realize that bras are essential for some and for most women at particular times. I just wonder why we have to be so darn nipple conscious. Nipples, to me, are beautiful—mens’ and womens’.  I love their shape, their sensitivity, the way they enlarge and harden when aroused. I love seeing and feeling them through shirts—um, not in a stalker/gawker way.

For those of you who agree with me to some extent, prepare to be aggravated. State reps in North Carolina introduced a bill this year that would make female nipple exposure a criminal offense, worthy of jail time. With the exception of nursing mothers, the proposed bill would make it a felony to  expose “external organs of sex and of excretion, including the nipple, or any portion of the areola, of the human female breast.”

I’m not suggesting that women should run around topless, but I do think that a bit of nipple respect is in order.

How do you feel about bras? What about nipples? Do your breasts long for breathing room as much as mine do? Ever removed uncomfy underwear in public? How do you feel about the nipple bill in North Carolina? All respectful blurts welcome. ;)

Singing Naked: Honesty on Stage

My mom swears I was born singing. I’m pretty sure it was colic. Regardless, music has always been an important part of my life. My early “naps” consisted of cooing on a swing. To shut me up soothe me, my parents drove me around, making song-like noises. (Though my parents have nice voices, neither is demonstrative about it. So my dream of The Johnson 7 never quite happened.) And each summer as we drove “up north,” I’d start a made-up song with the rev of the car engine and, to my brother’s dismay, continue until we pulled into the cabin driveway 4.5 hours later. If nothing else, I’ve got lungs.

"Nap" time

“Nap” time

For years, I didn’t care whether I was good; I simply loved singing. Around adolescence, everything changed. I started feeling insecure about most everything—my lack of smarts, my “ugliness,” my general un-coolness and my inability to sing or write good songs. I have loads of theories as to why this was the case; I’ll skip those for now. What’s important for this post is when and why that changed.

I was living and working as a model in Paris and, though I didn’t realize it, was pretty sick with anorexia. Before arriving to the illustrious city, I’d sold my guitar. Gone were the days of performing in the folk-rock trio I was in during high school. With no plans of performing solo or teaching, why would I play? During a photo shoot in which I played a winged, leafy-haired nymph, I spotted a guitar in the room’s corner. Though I continued to move for the cameras for several more hours, my mind stayed fixed on that guitar. The more I fixated, the tighter my throat felt—the prelude to tears. What was wrong with me?

Then it hit me. I was longing for music. Longing to sing, to play with all of my heart, whether anyone heard, saw or enjoyed it. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that that inclination was my desire to reconnect with my authentic self—the one then squelched by disease.

After the shoot, I yanked my copper fairy nails off and grabbed that guitar, strummed a few chords and shed a few tears, not caring if the crew deemed me odd or crazy. (They spoke only French, so I’ve no clue.) During the following weeks, that guitar frequented my thoughts, which was remarkable, considering that 110% of my thoughts prior to that involved food, weight and calories. Even after I passed out by the Seine—the Does Dirt Have Calories? experience—and flew home to Minnesota for treatment, I thought of that guitar. So I bought one. And the day I had my biggest turning point, deciding for real that I’d no longer live my life by E.D.’s rules, I stood before a mirror and out came Mirror Song.

A few of the lyrics:

Who are you, looking back at me?
In the mirror I see, everything but me.
Who are you, in all your beauty?
You’re black and blue. The pictures tell your story.
It’s not fair that you cry yourself to sleep each night;
And it’s not right that you hide your body and your mind.
If I give you my light, will you see that you’re all right?
Just don’t give up, not tonight.

From then on my voice came out louder, literally and figuratively. Feelings I couldn’t recognize or express in words poured out easily through song. Music undoubtedly played a crucial role in my recovery.

I’ve written songs off and on since, and while I’m still somewhat timid about my music, I’ve come to believe that the little girl I was was right: It doesn’t matter if we’re “good” or if people like what we create—not if we feel it in our hearts.

Toward that end, I’m doing a couple of slightly nerve-wrecking things: performing at Los Globos next Tuesday as part of my book release party, and sharing a rough, live performance of one of my songs here with you today.

I wrote the following song, Solitude (or Mr. Ground), for the patch of grass I fell in in Paris, but it’s really about learning as we go and growing comfortable with ourselves. It’s far from perfect performance-wise, but it’s honest, and I felt, as per usual, a whole heck of a lot when I sang it.

Sharing our work leaves many artists feeling naked, and rightfully. Little makes one more vulnerable to criticism, and when we put our honesty and hearts into our work, it’s particularly personal. But you know what? It’s so worth it. It may not inspire Girl Boners (though we never know!). It can, however, give people’s hearts a lift. I feel that often when I experience others’ work—including many of yours. I’m going to remind myself of this on stage Tuesday night, and do my best to stay true to the stories. I think I owe that to my heart. ♥ If you’re in the LA area, I hope you’ll consider joining me.

Do you get nervous sharing your work? Have a creative outlet besides writing? Have you ever written a song for a dirt patch? ;) I always love hearing your thoughts.

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