Au Revoir et Bienvenue

In my traditional style, I've once again started a new one of these. I might still be posting here once in a while, if I've got something to write about that doesn't work on the new one, but I don't anticpate that happening overmuch. So if you do fancy reading my thoughts, go here:

 

http://jourdanparislife.blogspot.com/

 

And here's the reasoning:

 

Here's the deal.

My whole life, I've kind of thought of myself as a writer, as in I like to do it and sometimes I produce decent stuff. "Become a better writer" has been on my mental list of Things To Do for a long time now, but it's been a long time since I really made any efforts in that direction. Lately, I've been thinking about it more and more.

At the same time, I just moved to France for a year or so. I'm working, but I also have time to explore, make friends, see the sights, et cetera-- in short, material to write about. Life. Experiences. All that. I know a good writer doesn't need that to write well, but hey, I'm not one yet, so this is my handicap. If I can't find cool stuff to write about here, then maybe it wasn't meant to be.

The name of the blog is because that's my self-imposed homework assignment: write at least three paragraphs at least five times a week. I've come up with a schedule of loose guidelines:

Monday : fashion and architecture
Tuesday : culture, etiquette, interpersonal relations
Wednesday : cuisine
Thursday : language
Friday : exploring
Saturday : anything
Sunday : anything

(If there's anything you want to know, or want my opinion on, or want me to find out about for you or write about, let me know.)

So that's that. I'll probably begin writing real posts on Monday, because starting at the very beginning is a very good way to start.

Welcome, and I hope you enjoy.

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thoughts on writing

Writing is hard. I think it's hard for everyone, though I'm not sure if it's always for the same reasons. For me, it's hard because I want to pour myself into my writing, really express the essence of myself, but I'm not always sure who that is. I've been "a writer", at least in my own mind, for so long that I no longer remember how to let words flow onto a page without making sure they sound "right", or "like me", whatever that means. I have turned into the insufferable kind of person who plunders her own thoughts for sound bytes. I've lost my voice.

For some people, being yourself is easy. For others, not so much. I tend to fall into the latter category, and what keeps me there is a kind of hyper-awareness that I can't seem to shake. Unfortunately, this very thing is what holds me back from really writing well, from being really honest in my thoughts and not filtering the "good ones" out of all the sand. I expect every word I write to be good from the beginning, instead of writing, letting it sit, and then going back to it until it's what I want. These expectations are stifling my creativity more than anything else.

Writers I truly admire-- William Zinsser, Anne Fadiman-- they get it. This wonderful clarity shines through their words, unfettered by doubt or second guesses. There's also a strong sense of self. These people know who they are. They know what they like. They know where they come from, whether it be in a literary sense or otherwise. The old line about preferring to be a first-rate version of oneself than a second-rate version of somebody else comes to mind.

So maybe it's not about writing at all. Maybe it's about what kind of person you are. You can be confused about a lot of things, but you can't be confused about what confuses you. You can't hesitate to look inside yourself, or examine why you're afraid of something, and you must always keep going forward in your quest of self-discovery. Perhaps that is what makes a truly great writer.

(Re)-reading today: Ex Libris, by Anne Fadiman. This is a love letter to books. Every time I read it, I feel somehow like I'm on the verge of tears on every page.

Doughnuts.

I used to not like them much. Partly because sometimes they're just not that good, and partly because once in high school I was eating one and my grandfather told me that I might as well tape it to my thighs. I used to eat one or two a year on average, and almost exclusively when someone brought them to work and I hadn't had breakfast.

Then, last year, I found this little bakery near my house, ironically while out for a run. I went back with my wallet a few weeks later and something about their selection of doughnuts called to me, so I picked out four, intending to give away 3.5 of them when I went to visit my family the next day. I think you know where this is going.

Yeah. All of them. In one day.

So I made a rule for myself: no more doughnuts. None. I don't remember if it was supposed to be forever, but I haven't had one since. It's probably silly, really, since I'm hardly a healthy eater in other areas. It's just no American-style commercially produced doughnuts.

The topic came up the other day, while I was talking to my grandfather (yes, the same one as above). He said he thought a blanket ban was perhaps a bit extreme. (I didn't remind him of his comment ten years ago.)

Do you have any not-allowed foods like this? If you're allergic or have other health limitations, do you miss the things you can't eat? Should I allow myself the occasional doughnut? Do you spell it doughnut or donut? What's your favorite kind, if you indulge?

Also, wow. There are a LOT of variations on this all over the world: wiki wiki

Krispy-kreme-donuts-types

Love yourself first.

"Love yourself first and everything else falls into line.” 

--Lucille Ball

Confidence.

It's a tricky concept, isn't it? When I was in high school, I despaired of every meeting anyone who I wanted to spend three hours, much less procreate, with (anybody else?). I spent a lot of time perusing magazines filled with articles that were guaranteed to, if I followed their advice to the letter, get me a boyfriend. What the articles left out was where to find the guys, though at that time I was too inexperienced to realize that not all of them were created equal, and the highly romanticized stories paraded before me in an endless string of romantic comedies were unlikely to happen in any sphere of reality. That "aha!" moment would come later, after a lot of time had been wasted chasing (let's be real, silently pining after from afar) boys who were not worth my time. But I digress.

What always mystified me about those articles was how they were essentially all the same: tips on how to wear your hair, how to dress, which perfumes and lip gloss flavors men preferred (loose; white t-shirt, jeans, and heels; and strawberry are the inevitably proffered guidelines), and yet in the end, any such article worth its salt would have some kind of trite line about how it didn't really matter what you wore or what you did as long as you were

CONFIDENT.

Because (say it with me, everyone) CONFIDENCE IS SEXY.

I won't go into the vagaries of male vs. female confidence. Let's simply acknowledge that they're perceived differently, and leave it at that. It's a political discussion I'm not prepared to have at this hour. I will say, though, that as a 15-year-old girl, it's hella hard to figure out what it even means to be confident. Confounding confident with sexy just makes the whole mess impossible to decipher-- should you try to be sexy? But everyone knows that TRYING to be sexy is the least sexy thing you can do. It is the polar opposite of sexy, and also of cool. These things are inherent, innate, inborn, whatever, and you can't get them by trying.

Once I got out of high school, things got better, which was always going to happen. (Kind of like when I spent a semester in France and every time I saw a pastry it was like, "Oooh! Pretty!* What if I never see that exact pastry again? Must consume!"**, so when I got home I had to buy way bigger jeans, but since I stopped eating my weight in eclairs, I went back to my pre-pastry binge weight pretty quickly. It was just logical.) But I still worried about how other people saw me, fretted entirely too much about boys, and basically cared too much about things that didn't matter.

I'm not sure what happened over the last few years. Maybe it's that I've gone through some hard stuff that's put some things in perspective. Maybe it's that I've had to learn the hard way to love myself, because no one else is going to think you're awesome unless you do first. (Except you, Ma. obvs.) Still learning that, by the way. Maybe I'm just getting older, which used to freak me out, but I'm really starting to love having life experience; even though it's still a few years away, I'm legitimately looking forward to turning 30 after reading about so many people saying that their 30s have been such a great time in their lives (not that I'm waiting on 30 to enjoy life!). I'm not sure what "happened", if it was one thing, or a million tiny incidents that together are greater than the sum of their parts, but I think I'm pretty confident these days.

I realized it a few days ago, while discussing a major life choice with a friend. She was telling me how great she thought it was, and I experienced a strange sensation. I put it away for later inspection, and once she was back, attempted to make sense of how I'd felt. I realized that it was this: while I appreciated her support, I didn't need her to validate my life choice. I wouldn't have second-guessed myself if she'd told me it was a terrible idea. I own that decision, and I don't need anyone to tell me that it's great. That moment made me feel more in control of my own destiny than anything else in my life ever has, and I realized that somewhere along the way, I'd become confident.

It's a fluid concept, but I'll tell you what being confident means to me now:

It means that I don't care if anyone else thinks I'm sexy, because I don't need them to.

It means I dress for myself***.

It means I tell guys that I don't see the relationship going anywhere besides friendship if I'm not feeling it at the end of the first date, or even say no to that first one if I already know it's going to be a waste of time.

It means I'm less afraid of life, because I know I can do hard things.

It means I'm not afraid to spend lots of time alone with my thoughts.

It means wearing red lipstick to the grocery store if I feel so inclined.

It means that I value myself in a way that is impervious to outside opinions, criticisms, rejections, frowns, name-calling, whatev. Because deep down, I know I'm pretty great.

If you don't think you're confident, I'd advise you to start telling yourself, at least once a day, that you're awesome. You don't have to do it in a mirror, although that probably helps. Just seek out a moment in your day when you're feeling good, and sort of mentally hug yourself and think really loudly, "I'M FREAKING AWESOME, YES I AM". Make a list of why, if you need to, and if that's hard, ask me and I'll send you some starters. Because you are. But you shouldn't need me to tell you that.

And as a parting thought, my friends, I leave you with this:

"I think happiness is what makes you pretty. Period. Happy people are beautiful. They become like a mirror and they reflect that happiness."

--Drew Barrymore

and this:

"Zest is the secret of all beauty. There is no beauty that is attractive without it."

--Christian Dior (thanks cass)

I think confident people are beautiful. And zesty.

*You know how beautiful pastries in America tend to really disappoint when you taste them? French pastries tend to taste exactly as good as they look. Just in case you're ever there and think, "no way does it taste as good as it looks". My advice is a solid Go For It; it probably does.

**This is fine if you're on vacation; in fact, this is my rule on vacation. However, it might not work out for you so well if you do it for three months straight.

***NOT the same as being comfortable all the time. I still dress according to situation and location. However, I don't dress to please others.

#iwillpunchyou

Something I just love, and I'm guessing you do too, is the Insult Disguising As A Compliment.

You know what I mean? "I like your hair so much better this way. I didn't like it before." "Wow, you look great! Good thing you lost all that weight, huh?"

I don't know why it's so hard to stop after "I like your hair" or "you look great". I really don't.

/end

I'm Ready, I Am

A few weeks ago, I was in Provo, and I happened to run into one of my favorite professors of my entire undergraduate career. She asked me what I was doing with my life, and I answered honestly: trying to find a job, rusticating, and watching entirely too much television, and not always in that order. She was not impressed at this utter waste of so much of my time and extracted a vow from me that I would limit my viewing to an hour a day for a month.

I felt really pumped about it for a few days. It was almost the end of August, so I decided I would just make it the month of September. Much cleaner, I thought. Plus I had two weeks of DVR queue to catch up on, so it was convenient that way, too. But I had all kinds of plans of what I was going to do after that. I was going to read a lot of mind-improving books (some assigned by the Professor) instead of romance novels and learn German and hang out at the library and be social, maybe even go on some dates. It was going to be GREAT.

But then I remembered that I sold back my German book. FTL. And then I went to the library and they didn't have my assigned reading. FTL. And oh yeah, I don't really have any real friends here, much less guys I'd go out with. FTL. So there went those intentions. I was getting a little discouraged. And then there were two new episodes of L&O: UK in my queue! How did that happen? And I faltered.

But this morning, my friends, I woke up. I wasn't invigorated or happy to be alive, but I was a little ashamed. Like that feeling you get when you eat cheap chocolate right before bed (oh, I did that too? whoops). So to make up for last night's cheat, I decided to skip my hour today. Instead I: straightened up my room, which I had been needing to do for a solid week. Edited a friend's paper. Read some Miss Manners. Applied for some jobs. Cleaned my brother's bathroom. Researched some grad schools. It wasn't exactly a productive day by my old standards, but I have a sense of discipline that I haven't had in a little while. And I am proud of myself, because I know I could be using my time in different and better ways.

As far as daily updates on my progress, I'm not sure anyone is that interested, but I'll try to check in at least every few days and let y'all know what I've been reading in place of getting my CSI: NY and NCIS on. (I swear I like shows that aren't acronyms... I think).

So... yeah. Peace.

Reading so far

Current: Miss Manners Rescues Civilization (library)

Finished: a few YA novels, one good, two not (library); some of the Wall Street Journal (kitchen counter)

Part One, the Highlights

Guys.

I'm not one of those people who is going to tell you every waking moment of my vacation. It would be boring to write and even more boring to read. But I'll tell you some highlights.

First, my time in Philly. Check it out { here } and { here }, since it's all been documented by the lovely Camille. Just a few notes:

Yes, the water is pink. Don't know why. But we loved it.

Yes, those are pretty legit arancini. And OHMYDAYS were they delicious.

Water ice > snow cone, no contest.

Oh, and Camille didn't write about this part, because she wasn't there, but I also drove to Maryland to see some other friends and... dum dum da DUM... rented a car! Yes, I am an official adult. It was awesome.

Oh, and here's a funny anecdote:

So the day of getting from SLC to PHL was, in a word, trying. I had a run-in with the security people. Every flight was late. My seatmates to Denver and Memphis were silent, sullen, and obnoxious/smelly/sad. There was a woman in the airport in Denver and on the flight to Memphis who was a nervous flier, cursed like a sailor, and had only one volume: loud. (Once I realised she was just nervous, I found it more funny than annoying. Oh, but in the airport, she was playing really bad R&B on her phone like a teenager with a boombox. That was great. Not.) I almost got stuck in Memphis and had to sprint across the airport only to discover (mercifully) that my third flight was also late, which was great because I did not want to sleep there. So by the time I got on the third tiny plane, I was tired and my hair didn't look awesome anymore and I was just ready to just be there.

And then I heard a voice above me saying, "excuse me, I think that's my seat".

And it was a nice and cute guy, a few years younger than me, but awesome, and we had a great time talking about New Jersey and the Jersey Shore and a lot of other things I don't remember because I was SO incredibly tired and a little punch-drunk at that point. But it was fun. And then we landed, and went to baggage claim to get his bag, and then came the pause, and you're both thinking, "well, I should go, I guess I'll just say goodbye?" and he says, "so... what was your name?" because in all the fun we'd been having, details like names had seemed unimportant.

"I'm Jourdan", I said. But instead of responding, he just got a funny look. And I knew.

"You are too, aren't you?" I asked.

And he was.

We exchanged licenses and everything. I saw the proof.

These are the adventures of having a unisex (or, as I called it in my youth, bisexual) name.

Anyway. So.

Part One of Vacation is deemed awesome.

More parts later. Probably.