My Plan Be

Moved!

2010-01-11T19:18:00.000-08:00

I have gone to www.myplanbe.wordpress.com

Stop by and see me, sometime!

Jenn

Be Back To Work

2010-01-06T19:42:00.000-08:00

Vacation time is over and it's time to get back on a schedule and get back to work. Except for one thing. I may not have as much work as I thought I was going to. One of my regular contracts is currently pending funding, so two days a week might be on hold for a little while. Luckily, I accepted a second contract (against my better judgment, before I knew my judgment was flawed), which will offer me two days a week of paid employment. Now I have exactly what I was complaining so heavily about not having for the past 3 months.

Ample time to write.

Hooray!

What do I do now?

Sometimes insight falls in your lap just when you need it the most, today in the form of this blog entry posted on the Facebook page of one active writer I know. It's about knowing your process. One small problem. I'm so new to writing, I have no process. I don't even know where to begin to find one.

My main skill seems to be riffing off what's around me, which works beautifully when I'm sitting at a show at Montreal Fashion Week, laughing my ass off with J and C over the crazy outfits coming down the runway, or touring fancy hotels with C, or debating the merits of one event versus another with D. Give me an assignment, a product, or even a kernel of an idea and I'm off to the races. But sit me down in front of a keyboard with nothing but an empty page in front of me and a TV full of two back-to-back episodes of Glee (or, forgive me, Jersey Shore, because I invented the freakin' poof) and my choice is easy. Hellloooo Couchy, my old friend!

I was chatting with a friend, today, who is looking to push forward in her business. I suggested she jump into social media, with a blog. Her business is fascinating. It's the kind of thing that everyone finds interesting, but not many people know much about. And she's got the kind of personality that could really pull in a following...a sharp wit surrounding a warm core. It's all about connecting with an audience, I advised. She worried that connecting would be the hardest part. I told her to just start writing and figure it out later.

You can't wait for that perfect inspiration. It's not coming.

Time to take my own advice.

So, now I have time. Back to it. Blogging as often as possible, whether the inspiration is near-perfect or far-from-it. This is all about practice for me, and practice makes...

Practice makes process.

Be Back to Work.

Be a Psychologist

2009-12-17T19:07:00.000-08:00

It's been a very long time since I have written.

I've been very preoccupied with being a child psychologist, and for that I have to put my own feelings aside. It helps me to be impartial, but it's not very conducive to writing.

I have often said that, to be a psychologist, one does not choose a specialization. Rather, one is chosen by the specialization that is the least distressing. Since I began my training, in 1999, potential areas of specialization have narrowed themselves down for me. I knew that I couldn't do gerontology, forensic psychology, or couples therapy (but I am so glad there are people who can). There were the "worried well," the name we use for grown-ups who are mostly doing just fine, but consult a psychologist to help them deal with issues like why they hate their mother, why they love her too much, or why, despite all their blessings in life, they just can't be happy. I actually think self-actualization is a very useful therapeutic focus...but, quite frankly, I just wanted to smack these adults upside the head and tell them to get on with things. Not a particularly helpful characteristic in a therapist. I also tried working with very troubled adults with horrific histories, but somehow, it felt to me like just too little too late. It's not the case, by the way. Most people who want help can be helped. But because I felt that way, I would not be their best helper. So I left that work to those who would do it better than I could.

So when those psychologists who worked with adults who were very troubled, or very sick, or even the not-so-troubled would say to me: "How do you work with kids? It would make me cry every day," I never felt like any kind of hero, because their work would make me cry every day. Working with kids just made me feel like I was intervening early enough to change things. And kids are great. I've worked with kids who have terminal diseases, intellectual disabilities, Autism, ADHD, as well as kids who have been abused and neglected. No matter what has happened to them, most kids want to play, want to be praised, and want to do well. I usually go home feeling pretty good about the role that I have played in advancing their learning and well-being.

I went into intellectual disabilities and autism because I am a behaviourist. I believe people do things because of the rewards that they receive from their behaviours. I think insight is only relevant inasmuch as it informs us as to how our choices in life provide us with benefit. This point of view doesn't fly with adults, who seem to always want some kind of magical explanation that relieves them of their responsibility. You do what you do because, somehow, you like it. You may not understand why, but you do. But this works for kids, and especially kids with disabilities. I can get kids to do almost anything for stickers or praise. You'd be amazed.

So, for the past few months I've been assessing kids with autism and intellectual disabilities to determine their eligibility for services. Basically, all I need to do is administer basic IQ and adaptive behaviour scales, determine if the child is below the cut-off, and offer a simple "yes or no" response, with some recommendations based on their unique profiles. I don't need to have feelings for that. In fact, feelings get in the way.

The kids who come in to see me generally come in with their parents. The parents range in intelligence, competence, and warmth, but they are parents. I often do the assessments in a centre next to a McDonalds. Once the kids are done with me, they are hugged and they go get their special treat for lunch. I don't think all of them understand that they are getting a "treat," but the love is there, and that is enough.

But today I saw a little guy whose parents have long since given up. He's not yet a teenager, barely comes up to my waist, but he lives in a group home and is cared for by rotating social workers and educators. There was a need to determine whether he had an intellectual disability or not, so I did my part of the job.

He came in to see me with his social worker, he shook my hand and said he was pleased to meet me. He did his very best, his little brow furrowed as he worked to match block designs, choose matching pictures, and answer verbal comprehension questions. He did not complain, not even once. When praised for his good work, he simply responded "yes." And when he was done, his social worker took him back to the group home. There were no hugs, and I am quite certain that he didn't get to go to McDonald's.

For the first time in my career, I went back to my office and cried. And my range of potential clients narrowed even further.

Be a psychologist.

Be Not Going to Israel

2009-10-19T17:36:00.000-07:00

Not a lot of people knew that I was supposed to be going to Israel for ten days at the end of this week. I hadn't talked about it very much. Perhaps I knew it wasn't meant to be. For those of you who knew I was going, well, now I am not. For those of you who did not know, continue on as you were.

It started out as a terrific idea. My dad had heard about a wonderful trip organized by a group in Israel in which about 60 women, from Israel and other parts of the world, would come together for an adventure driving jeeps through the desert. After some initial conversations with the organizers, an idea was devised whereby I would blog about the trip. It was presented to me as such: An all-expense paid trip to Israel, jeep adventure, blogging, and huge readership. There were a few other really cool women from Montreal already signed up to go. Heck, I was unemployed! How could I refuse?

Things began to unravel slowly. Despite being signed up, I had received very little communication from the organizers. I didn't know where we were going or what to bring. Then one Montrealer dropped out, for that very reason. Then another did, for personal reasons. Suddenly I was the only one going. But I was still up for the adventure.

Suddenly, not only did I have a job, I had two! But I had the time blocked off, I just needed to get enormous amounts of work done before leaving, including Fashion Week, leaving me very little time to focus on my upcoming travels. When people asked me about my trip, the weather in Israel during my travel time, the places I would be visiting...I had no answers. I felt like I was completely in the dark.

Then, finally, last week I received an email with additional information including my payment form and a medical form. Luckily I had set up a doctor's appointment a month earlier, without which it would have been almost impossible to get the information they needed in the time allotted. Anyone who has been in any kind of moving vehicle with me knows about my little motion sickness problem. I was booking myself a little travel insurance... a prescription for a anti-nausea patch. But with this came another problem. Apparently, these little patches have a risk for hallucinations. Hmmm...hallucinations vs. barfing. I was in for a bumpy ride.

It started to get a little more strange when, only days after receiving my payment form, I began to get angry phone calls from the trip organizers asking me to pay immediately. This sort of bristled, considering they had been so late in sending the forms and considering I don't love angry phone calls.

I began to talk to my family about my concerns. But was I just having cold feet? I tend to be a bit of a nervous traveller, but my jitters often subside as soon as the plane leaves the runway and I recall that there's a TV in front of me and I actually have NO CHOICE but to sit there and watch it. And I often have slight travel reluctance, but I'm always happy once I get to my destination. If I backed out now, would I regret it?

After a couple of post fashion week 10-hour sleeps left me feeling somewhat more capable of digesting information, I took some time to re-read all the information they had sent me. Waitasecond. The departure location had changed three times, to various different locations between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. I would need to change my hotel reservations and book further travel. The 60 women they had promised was now down to 30. They still hadn't told me where I would be sleeping. And was there even internet in the desert for me to be blogging?

I called my parents and spoke to them about my reservations. They admitted they had been feeling the same way. Three guts, all saying "don't go." It was definitely time to listen. When we called the Montreal liaison, we weren't surprised to find out that she was having her own doubts about the organization of the trip, and did not blame me one bit for pulling out.

The last straw for me came after I googled the trip's name and came across a video. In the clip from a previous trip, a bunch of women wearing matching t-shirts are hugging and singing some thematic song to the tune of Dancing Queen.

Hugging?!? Singing?!?! Matching t-shirts?!?!? ABBA???!??!!

I knew right then, this was not the trip for me. I'll go to Israel soon. I may even drive a jeep through a desert. But I will do it on my own terms. No ABBA included.

Be Not Going to Israel.

Be Blocked

2009-10-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

Is this what they call writer's block?

When I first decided to throw myself headlong into a career in writing and started this blog, with the intention of sharpening my skills, I was seeing inspiration everywhere. I even wrote a blog post about a rat, for goodness' sake (although, it was a metaphor, of course). But for the last couple of weeks, I haven't had that "I should write something about that!" feeling. And I suppose that waiting for it to land on my head isn't going to make anything any better.

So, what the heck happened?

I seem to have gotten myself pretty busy. Between all my work applying for the internship and then all the wine I had to drink to make myself feel better for not getting it, I've had a pretty tight schedule. I've started a contract working as a clinical psychologist evaluating children to determine whether or not they have an intellectual disability , which is also quite taxing, despite only being two days of work per week. It's a bit of a system shocking transition to go from being a french psychologist in Ahuntsic to an english writer, and I don't seem to be able to switch it easily within a single day. And with the fall TV line-up, it's ever so easy to come home and kiss my PVR hello at the end of the day. "What have you got for me?" I ask. It never fails to deliver. Add in a whole bunch of Vitamin Daily gigs, a lingering threatening cold, and a whole bunch of other life stuff (see blog about stuff I won't talk about on my blog), writing has taken a back seat.

A important facet of the writing process that I am missing is critical feedback. It's really so lovely to post a blog entry or have my piece published in the Globe and hear nothing but praise (comments regarding my lack of official "doctor" status notwithstanding). But let's face it...most of the people reading my pieces are my friends. And if they aren't my friends, most people aren't that rude (People who suggested I am not a "real doctor" notwithstanding). So I don't have the opportunity to get feedback on why some parts of my pieces don't work as well or how I can make my writing better.

Not that I'm asking you to open the brutal honesty floodgates. We all know how the criticism sandwich works. Compliment, critique, compliment. So, it could go something like this.

This piece about writer's block uses nice words from the english language, like "notwithstanding" and "floodgates." However, I find that it doesn't really tell me anything other than the fact that you're stuck and don't know what to write next. How about adding in some mystery, comedy, or romance? It's better for the reader when the writer writes things that are interesting. You have nice hair.

Anyone out there like critiquing stuff? I'm going to try to actually write a couple of pieces that have been rattling around in my head without coming to fruition for far too long, and I feel pretty certain that they're going to need some help. I can critique you back. If not on writing, then other things. I can be pretty critical. It's one of my best qualities.

Be blocked.

Be Resilient in the Face of Disappointment

2009-09-22T21:17:00.001-07:00

I knew it was coming. I said so in my failure post. Although I would classify this as a non-success rather than an outright failure, it still stings a little. I guess this is when the learning begins.

About a month ago, I was having lunch with a friend who works at a magazine to discuss writing and find out more about how she had gotten to her position. My goal for that meeting, beyond a delicious sandwich and some fun conversation with an old friend, was just to learn a bit more about a career in magazine journalism and prepare myself for pitching some stories in a freelance capacity in the future.

But then, she told me about the internship. Three months, three days a week...she thought it was starting in January. Was I interested? I hadn't fathomed such an idea but, sure, that sounded like a great plan. I could learn about working at a magazine, get some experience under my belt, and be ready for either future work in that context or simply understand the medium better so that I could pitch more effectively.

Then we discovered that the internship actually started in September! Could I get them a CV within 2 days? What started as a neat idea suddenly became a whirlwind of activity. Two weeks later I was asked to undertake their editorial test, which took me the better part of the labour day long weekend to complete. Involving five pages of pitches, short pieces, heds, deks and fix notes (look it up...I had to!), I found myself completely absorbed in the process, stopping only briefly to eat or brainstorm over a quick walk. Finally, last Friday, I was invited for an interview. I was incredibly nervous, seeing as I haven't been interviewed for a job in years. I thought it went well, although I thought of ten better answers as soon as I walked out the door. I was told I would find out this week.

I did not get the internship.

On the upside, for a psychologist only recently turned writer, I did pretty well. I was told that I was the first runner up and that my editorial test had been strong. There just happened to be a stronger candidate, who I am guessing probably isn't a psychologist.

Although I think an internship would have been a great "next step," I have to accept that maybe this isn't the time for me to take that particular step. There are some other opportunities on my plate, right now, and I need to start looking at them more closely. Maybe it's time to take that writing course. Maybe it's time to spend more time simply writing.

The last time I came second for a job I thought I really wanted, it was for an academic position at a university. If I'd gotten the job, none of the amazing things that have happened to me this year would have happened. I'm going to have to have faith in the process.

Be resilient in the face of disappointment.

Be a Podcamper

2009-09-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

Today I attended the first day of a two-day Podcamp, bringing together a range of social media enthusiasts, ranging from bloggers and podcasters earning a serious living from their online activities to people like, well, me. I just started, have a grand total of 11 followers (and I love you all!), and don't earn a cent. I'm not even entirely sure what this "podcasting" business is, but I sure do like Facebook. Twitter and I are slowly building trust.

This event first tested my tendency toward a need for academic-style structure by referring to itself as an "Unconference." Look, you've got speakers, you've got topics, you've got attendees looking for expertise and insight...it's a conference. But when the bar opened at 11am and the second speaker of the day cracked a beer during his talk, I started to let go of my need for order. I was initially a tish annoyed with Scarborough Dude who proudly announced that he hadn't actually planned anything specific to say (Why take an hour slot for your own ramblings? Seems a little narcissistic, no?), but figured I was getting into the podcamp groove when his ramblings actually started to make a whole lot of sense to me. Especially his explanation about how he begins his podcast with a big F*** off to certain members of his audience. He tells them if they think they're better than him, or they think he sucks compared to other podcasters, they should just go listen to someone else. He considers his audience as friendly, considers himself imperfect, and figures the whole thing is an exercise in fun. If you wait for your message to be perfect, you'll never start. Excellent point, Mr. Dude.

It reminds me of my friend, J, who considers herself a defender of her friend's blogs. When they get an irrelevant and cruel comment, she'll ask "What are you putting out there?" It's a good question. If you're not putting your own thoughts and ideas on the line, what gives you the right to criticize others who are doing so?

One of the more thought-provoking talks of the day was C. T. Moore's talk, entitled Sex, Trust, & Transparency: What Would Donald Draper Blog? . First, it helped me to realize that I really need to be watching Mad Men. But more importantly, it brought up the idea of blogger transparency. How much do you really need to tell readers about yourself to gain their trust? I've already opened up quite a bit in this blog, but there are certainly some places I just won't go. Here are some of the things you won't be hearing much about in my blog.
1. My family
Not only do I love my family, I really like them. Other than minor story-related factoids (i.e. my dad's love of showtunes), I have no desire to go into any dark family secrets. Mainly because we don't have any. I kind of lucked out, in the family department, so there will be no Glass Castle here.
2. My friends
Again, they may figure in now and then, but only in a nice way. I have really terrific friends and I'm not in any mood to screw with that. Even if they piss me off, I'm not going to talk about it on my blog. That would be lame.
3. Friendly Exes
If you're a guy who has briefly passed through my life with a flourish of crazy and now you are long gone, you betcha I might talk about you. But I'll use a nice alias and change some of the details. Steven, the engineer, is neither named Steven nor is he an engineer. I'll never speak to him again so I have no qualms including him in a story and if he were to ever read it and recognize himself, then he can feel free to curse my name wherever he is in the world being whatever kind of sociopath he likes. I don't care. But I am friends with some of my exes (and some of their wives) and any guy I have dated and am currently in contact with will never appear in a story, masked or otherwise. So, if the lines of communication are open enough for you to ask me "hey, is that guy me?" It isn't.
4. Current Dating
Isn't dating hard enough without me rambling about a dinner date twenty minutes after it's over on a blog a guy could easily read? How's a girl supposed to maintain any kind of mystery?
5. Sex
It's the ultimate crowd-pleaser, but sexy-blogging just isn't my gig. We're constantly bombarded with messages from idiotic starlets like Megan Fox or Christina Aguilera (back in her Dirrrrty days) telling the world of their fantastic "new" idea that people should be more open about their sexuality, like they discovered the whole idea. How amazed would they be to find out that people all over the world are doing just fine without their input. You certainly don't need mine, and I certainly don't need to offer it up. Nope, get your internet porn elsewhere, kids.

So, where does this leave my blog? I often think back to an experience I had in Thailand, at the Elephant Conservation Park up in Chiang Mai. I'd been distractedly angry from a recent break up and hadn't been able to successfully pull myself out of my head. At some point during the day, I found myself completely absorbed with the task at hand: Petting an elephant. I realized that I had a choice. I could live in my head, or I could focus on the experiences life was giving me. I decided that, when faced with an elephant, I wouldn't think about something else, I would pet the elephant.

So, if I don't blog for a while (as I haven't for the last couple of weeks) you can assume that I haven't come across any elephants.

Be a podcamper.

Be an Open Letter to Pirate Boots

2009-09-08T16:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Pirate Boots,

I see that you are taking your revenge on me. Quite frankly, I don't blame you. In my last post I made some comments in jest that were, perhaps, unflattering to you. I can understand why you would be angry with me. I made fun of you, and embarrassed you in front of your friends. But you have to understand why I did it...

I think, somewhere inside of me, I knew that I was attracted to your bad boy ways. But I'm not that kind of girl! So, like Molly Ringwald mercilessly digs into Judd Nelson in the Breakfast Club, not long before she shows him how she can put on lipstick with no hands and then makes out with him at the end, I was just trying to fight my own feelings. Truth is, Pirate Boots, I think I am in love with you. I want you caress my thighs and carry me around Montreal all winter long. And even when I fight with you at the end of the night so that I don't have to go to bed with my boots on (and OMG is this going to be difficult after a couple of drinks seeing as it was almost impossible today whilst stone cold sober), we will always make up again the next day.

But you have made yourselves almost impossible to find. I met some boots, like you, today, but none of them lived up to the image of you that I hold in my head. Oh, no! Don't think of me as easy! One must kiss many frogs to find one's prince. It was like the speed dating of boot buying. There were the lovely suede boots at Ogilvy's, but they lacked that certain length a girl needs, barely skimming the top of my knee. There were the buttery black leather pair at Brown's that took the idea way too far. Those cheeky boots came so close to my lady bits I almost had to slap them, but they were on me, so I would have been slapping myself, and that would have made me look crazy, so I did not. And then, the cheap, tawdry versions on sale at Aldo, with platform heels and studs around the tops...I may want to look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but a classy version, not the mistaken-for-a-hooker-for-real version. And the flats? Well, they actually made me look like a pirate. No offense, pirates. I'm sure you are lovely people.

Where are you, Pirate Boots, of the 2 - 3 inch stacked heel, meeting my leg just about 6 inches above my knee, with a zipper all the way up, so I don't have to ask the cab driver to help me take my boots off before I go in my building? I promise to be good to you, to treat you with that leather spray that I am pretty sure is a lie (but I'll do it anyway, for you!) before I go out in the snow and to wash the salt off you, tenderly, when I come back home.

I wasn't ready for you before, but I am, now. Don't hide from me any longer. I've got a great pair of skinny jeans, and I think you'll get along just fine.

Soon, my darling Pirate Boots. Soon.

Jenn

Be Boots

2009-09-03T20:44:00.000-07:00

The only thing that makes me happy about winter is the possibility of boots. A Montreal Shoe Institution just sent me a CD of their F/W catelogue (although, this better just be part of it, because these be slim pickin's). I thought I'd live up to my G&M-given headline of "fashion blogger by night" and do some fashion blogging at night. Here's some fashion blogging.

These pretty Stuart Weitzman babies will set you back about $868 dollars, which is probably worth it, since you won't need to buy pants and, truth be told, I've always found pants to be such a pesky winter extravagance. And you'll earn so much money on the side from your generous gentleman callers. If I owned these boots (and I'm only about $842 away), you can bet that any night involving more than 2 martinis would end up with me re-enacting the famous "this baby must corner like it's on rails" scene from Pretty Woman. By martini number 3 I'd be talking me pirate talk, arrr matey. By martini number 4 ye'd be walking the plank smartly. No, I don't know what that means. I've only had 2 drinks tonight, and i'm not wearing the translator boots.

So, this is Browns' winter collection, which means these are, indeed, boots. I'm trying to understand what was going through designer, Jeffrey Campbell's, mind when he thought them up. "We need to give them a hearty sole for the Canadian winter...yes, that's good...and cut-outs are high fashion! Yes! let's have cut-outs! And laces to keep it all together! YES! This boot will be amazing! It will be practicality meets insanity! It will blow the Canadians' minds!" I can't even imagine what kind of party I might be going to when I might think to myself, I need a sturdy sole so I won't slip on the ice, but I'd also like to show off my pedicure. But if you've got one of those parties coming up at Christmas, these can be yours for $158.

If you can't tell from the vanity plate on the side, these next beauties come courtesy of Pinko ($398). This is definitely the boot for the woman who wants to go out wearing a high heeled patent-leather boxing sneaker. Absolutely perfect for your next starring role the Pussycat Dolls next video, TKO: I'm Totally Kissing you Off. Just so you know, You'll also be wearing boxing gloves as a top.

Be a Failure

2009-09-02T13:19:00.000-07:00

There has been a recent move in child rearing toward an "everybody wins" philosophy. Parents try to boost the self-esteem of their children by praising them for pretty much every everything that they do. Their hope? That their child won't have to suffer the plight of self-dislike that they experienced, and probably still do. In one of my rare acts as a psychologist, I can tell them: this isn't going to work.

Failure is critical to our understanding of our role in the world. It gives us one of two valuable pieces of information: 1) Try harder. With more determination and effort, you may succeed, or 2) Give it up. This isn't for you. Try something else. Maybe you'll do better.

In the past few weeks, many people have asked me how I got so far down a path without realizing, until now, that I didn't like where it was taking me. The answer is quite simple. I never failed. Until recently.

I don't think the problem of determination, talent and success is singular to me. I surround myself with intelligent, talented people who probably could have done anything with their skills. Some of them were lucky enough to have chosen the right thing. I wasn't.

I knew I was interested in people, and I liked writing. When deciding on universities, I received two envelopes. One held a scholarship to the Journalism program at Carleton and the other held a scholarship to Queen's. I figured I could always do an MA in Journalism after a BAH in Psychology, but not vice versa. I didn't recognize that my tendency to not let go of an idea until I had taken it to its very end would do me such a disservice.

I beat the odds and got into graduate school in Clinical Psychology (most universities get 100 - 120 applications and accept 5 - 15 students, steeper odds than medicine or law), and I even got a provinicial scholarship. None of my first author publications ever got less than an "accepted with revisions." I got into one of the most prestigious internships in Canada, as the child-adolescent intern at the London Health Sciences Centre. The year I applied for a postdoctoral fellowship from the Canadian Institutes of Health Research there were 449 other applicants. They gave out 90, with only about 10% going to researchers in fields that were not directly within the health sciences. I was one one of them. I wasn't sure about psychology, but I sure liked the success that came with it.

But the cracks had already begun to show in the bowling trophy that was my life. My time in the amazing internship that was LHSC was miserable, and it was all my fault. I know other interns who were also displaced from their families and lonely as hell, but they weren't miserable. The work kept them going. But it didn't keep me going and I bombed. I remember crying about it to my father, who says lots of stuff all the time, but somehow always manages to say the exact right thing. "You didn't put in the work and you failed." He'd said. "Welcome to life as a regular human being."

During my postdoctoral internship, I researched and taught, and I liked it all. But after moving 5 times in 10 years for my studies, I wasn't about to move again. I liked my home and my friends. I loved being near my families and being able to watch my nephew and nieces grow up, in person. I applied for academic positions at Concordia and McGill. I came close, even getting an interview at McGill, but it wasn't meant to be. I'd had one career goal and, here it was, I'd finally failed.

Processing this information took some time. It actually wasn't as painful as I would have expected. I was already starting to work on Vitamin Daily, and finding out that I could actually enjoy what I was doing, regardless of the prestige or the academic accolades. Whereas in the past I had focused most of my energy on my personal life, explaining to friends "who cares about my work? I do it, it gets done, and everyone is happy," now I actually stay up at night thinking about how the words will fall on the page. I guess I never realized how bored I was.

There's no question about it, failure hurts, it can be embarrassing. In fact, I am sure I am going to experience way more failure at writing than I ever did in psychology. A friend of mine who writes at a level to which I can only aspire gets pieces rejected regularly, so I know it's coming. But I know that this time, failure will be telling me to keep going, try harder, work harder.

Be a failure.

Be a Celebrity Interviewer

2009-08-27T05:56:00.000-07:00

My last celebrity interview didn't go very well. In fairness, i wasn't supposed to interview Curtis Stone, just meet him, take a couple of pictures, and catch him saying or doing something adorable that I could write about in my blog. But he's super hot and I'd never met a tv star before, so I was nervous. And, no offense Curtis (I know he's reading this blog right now!) he's not the most natural conversationalist, so it was all quite awkward as we posed for pictures in terrible lighting. At the end of the interview, he politely shook my hand and said "Well, that was great! Thanks so much, Linda!"

Linda is the name of the PR person who organized the day. We don't look alike.

With my hopes of being taken home by the Take Home Chef well and truly dashed, I sighed and defeatedly replied " It was great to meet you, too!"

So when the lovely Cara Braude of Starwood Hotels (and my old camper) gave me a huge score by inviting me to interview Daniel Merriweather, an Australian R&B singer now living in NYC, at the W hotel's Wonderlust series, I was ready to avenge my previous failure. Daniel Merriweather would not call me Linda! Well, not unless he wanted to.

With the interview two weeks away, I began by listening to his music and catching up with him on Twitter. Finally, the interview was scheduled for noon, the day after the concert, giving me lots of time to memorize some final facts, write my list of questions, practice making my memorized facts and list of questions sound totally natural, buy a digital voice recorder, learn to use the digital voice recorder, and memorize some more facts.

At 3pm on the day of the concert I was delving deep into the minutiae of Mr. Merriweather's life. He keeps talking about women, so I figured I'd go with the not-gay assumption, he cited Boyz II Men as one of his earliest musical influences (OMG!! ME TOO!!), and he told a story of getting scolded by Jay Z when he asked him for tequila shots while Mr. Z was playing chess, thus learning from Jay Z that chess was a serious game. Jay Z is such a teacher. I had to go to an Old Navy preview at 5, so I figured that I would read a little more and, in a few minutes, I would shower up and head to a night of worry-free eventing. I mean, really...I had the whole next morning! Then the email came.

"Hi Jennifer! Do you mind doing the interview tonight after the show at 10pm? Thanks!"

Panic rose in me. I was not ready. I had a short list of questions, but they weren't good enough. I had to pull it together fast. While diffusing my hair.

The rest of the night was an anxious blur. I tested my questions on Carrie and Janna (who kindly pretended to be Daniel in a mock-interview). I got great advice. "The best interviews are just like normal conversations," Janna told me. At that point, I could barely remember how to have one of those. I drank some wine and got just tipsy enough. It's a fine balance.

After a great show I went back to the media room and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a strict man came outside to get me and brought me in for my interview. "Four questions!" He barked. "But I was told that I had 15 minutes!" I protested. "Four questions." He ordered, holding up four fingers, in case I needed extra help in the classroom. I had prepared about 8 questions. Half of them were serious, focused on his music, and the other half were frivolous and fun. How would I choose? If I asked him how he was, would it count?

Suddenly I noticed that the room was full of guys, his entourage, I guess. There were cameras all around. And the chair where I would be sitting was well-lit...like the whole thing was about to be filmed. Dear lord, I was about to be filmed.

Abruptly, the strict man was pushing me toward the chair and Daniel was moving toward me. "FOUR QUESTIONS" barked the strict man and, suddenly, without knowing how I got there, I was sitting down, microphone in hand, ready to do my first interview. Within seconds my heartbeat slowed, the rest of the room ceased to exist, the lights disappeared, and all that was left was the man sitting in front of me.

Which questions did I choose? You'll have to wait until Monday's Vitamin Daily blog to find out....

At the end of the interview, I offered up the gift I had brought Daniel, a bag full of mini cadbury bars from the UK. He seemed pretty excited, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "In Montreal we do two kisses." I told him. "In Sweden, they do three, " he replied, adding saucily "we should do four." "Maybe later!" I tossed back.

As I left the room, I could hear the cheers.

I think it went okay.

Be a celebrity interviewer

Be a New Yorker

2009-08-25T19:54:00.000-07:00

As I walked down the alley to Freemans restaurant I saw a rat. It scurried across my path and then ran down the alleyway toward the restaurant entrance, which was strung up in lights. I followed close behind.

I was on my way to meet Andrea (daughter of my parents' friends, a long-time New Yorker, writer and editor of all things architecture, and within about 3 sips of my grownup lemonade, a great new friend) and Cara (brand, spanking new New Yorker just moved from Montreal, marketing diva, and ex-camper from years ago turned fabulous friend) for a wine, cheesy-toast and talk- filled dinner. I had spent the last couple of days in the city wandering around various tourist attractions with my parents, enjoying the shows! the Met! Times Square! Carmine's! the gigantic Sephora! the massive hotel with crazy futuristic elevators! the lights! the crowds! the smelly homeless people! the Tasti-d-lite! the cement bagels! the view from my hotel window! Shazzam!

I was feeling ready to experience a bit of the real NYC. As Andrea said, later that night, I had "New york City written all over me."

Maybe. We'll see. The next day I did get in an all out yelling match with a cab driver. Maybe I am Big Apple material.

Maybe the little rat was just leading the way.

Be Too Tired To Blog

2009-08-24T20:32:00.000-07:00

They aren't kidding about NYC being the City that Never Sleeps!

When I started My Plan Be, people asked me how often I planned to blog.

I told them I would Be one thing a day.

I now realize, this was a trick question.

I planned to blog every day.

This whole thing is supposed to be about not planning.

Just being is, like, super hard.

Not Planning. Being. Starting NOW.

And this being is going to be in bed.

Be Suspicious of Odd Couples

2009-08-20T19:31:00.001-07:00

He was a clean-cut, neatly dressed banker type in a checked shirt tucked into his chinos. She was a hard-living kind of chick in her best skintight mini, cheap platform shoes, hair extensions, and enormously gigantic implants. I guess if they've found true love I should just say "good for them!" It's hard enough, these days, without having to have your romance judged in the theatre bathroom line by an eavesdropping Canadian. But I was RIGHT behind them in the 30-woman-long bathroom line, and they weren't exactly being subtle. I'd feel guilty for being judgmental, but I just saw Avenue Q, so I'm feeling a little bit ok about being politically incorrect, so, here we go....

If I were a guy with a paid date with paid-for assets, I am not sure I would take her to a broadway play, even if it did work swimmingly for Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. But buddy was not Richard Gere, and although the lady may have been a hooker with a heart of gold, she was no Julia Roberts. But it's not like I saw money exchanged, so what evidence do I have that this was a monetary rather than love transaction? I wouldn't have been so terribly suspicious, but there was an incredibly awkward mix of get-to-know-you chat ("have you seen many shows?" "Did you grow up here?"), fidgeting, and awfully intimate behaviour for two people who clearly didn't know each other (he lifted her hair and blew gently on her neck whilst touching her behind, asking if she enjoyed it). "I'm enjoying it" I whispered, throatily from behind them. OK, I totally didn't do that. But it would have been funny, right?

They were seated a few rows ahead of me and I wondered if she had been the one who suggested the show as part of the deal, or if it had been the guy, looking for a true NYC experience. A hooker living in NYC must not get a chance to see a lot of shows. They're pretty expensive. Perhaps she traded her body for musicals?

As the show ended, he skipped the applause and ran down the aisle toward the exit, obviously eager for the night ahead. He led her by the hand, but she pulled herself free, turned around, and ran the rest of the way up the aisle backwards. She was applauding the whole way.

I hope she gets to see more musicals, and she doesn't have to trade for them.

Be suspicious of odd couples.

Be Ready to Break Out in Song at any Minute

2009-08-19T21:08:00.000-07:00

My love of musicals started when I was about 6 years old and I saw Annie for the first time, on Broadway, starring Allison Smith who, by the way, went on to act in the TV show Kate & Allie (I totally followed her career). I believed with complete certainty for many years that, if only I were given a chance, I too could be wearing the red dress with the white collar on stage. For years I took any and every opportunity to sing songs from Annie in front of an audience...at family dinners, talent shows, even the occasional Bar Mitzvah. I would still be doing it now if there was any way I could swing it as "endearing" instead of "suggestive of a problem with alcohol or the manic phase of bipolar disorder."

I come by it honestly. It's in my genes, from my dad's side, actually. He used to have broadway soundtracks on repeat on car rides to school for most of my high school days. I'm pretty sure that, if put to the test, my dad and I could act out Les Mis from start to finish. I'd be Jean ValJean. He'd be Javert. I'd be Eponine. He'd be Fantine. We could probably throw in a few acts of Phantom, for good measure. I'd love to see a Playbill for that performance!

I'd read the book upon which the musical, Wicked, is based about 15 years ago. The book and the musical offer a different perspective of the classic L. Frank Baum tale of Oz, beginning with Elphaba's (Wicked Witch) birth and ending with the infamous bucket of water. Understanding what happened from the other side, the story is a commentary on revisionist history...the tale belongs to the survivors. At the time I thought it was pretty clever, but by putting the story of the Wicked Witch of the West in a sociopolitical context, I thought Gregory Maguire succeeded mainly in taking away the magic of it. But the addition of a few song and dance routines brought the magic right back for me. Take note, I will soon be performing "Defy Gravity" at Bar Mitzvahs and weddings. I've grown up since the Annie days.

I know some people who look down on musicals. They think that they are silly and unrealistic, which is kind of like saying you don't like food, because you have to chew it and then it goes in your tummy. I think life should be more like musicals. There are times when I think an impromptu song and dance number just might d the trick. Like a snappy little solo called "Why am I always Late for Work?" and a big group number called "More Drinks at the Bar!" But those who know me well, and I mean very well (because this doesn't happen all that often), know that I do sometimes break out into an original broadway-style song and dance routine. I just need to do it more. Like now: "Coffee Time" *with jazz hands.* I am available for Bar Mitzvahs and weddings.

Be ready to break out in song at any minute.

Be a Carnivore

2009-08-18T21:41:00.000-07:00

My second trip to the Hidden Market, but this time as a friend. Lucky me! Chef Francois BBQ'ed while the rest of us oohed and aahed. Especially over the ribs. We all argued over what was in the sauce but came to a conclusion that it was a combination of asian spices, sugar, crack, and kisses from angels. I had two all to myself, along with a slice of elk chateuabriand and some snausage. I hear there was salad. I can't confirm.

Look. If I am posting almost every day, they can't all be deep. Sometimes it's just about meat.

Be a carnivore.

Be an Inspiration

2009-08-18T02:34:00.000-07:00

I interrupt the (soon-to-be) regular sarcasm of this blog for a moment of sweet sentimentality. Seriously, I'm embarrassed. I should put up one of those photos with a dolphin and a word that has nothing to do with a dolphin. Like "persistence." Are dolphins all that persistent? To illustrate my point (it's 5am, so, you must forgive my digressions), I just looked up "photos of dolphins with inspirational quotes" on google and got a whole bunch of inspirational pictures from Photobucket, including this one, sans dolphins. Not such a great search engine, eh?

Although, I recognize the message as true from research (apparently life really does renew itself in about 90 days), I find in highly un-inspirational. Don't like how things are? Sit back, relax, let everyone else run around changing. That certainly didn't influence me. Although, maybe it should. Seems efficient. And I can watch more TV that way. Anyway, back to the schmaltz.

Writing that first blog post was terrifying. I'll be honest (why would I lie to you, reader, who I may or may not know?) I actually thought about taking it down the whole night. Did I really want to start telling the world (what I mean by the world is, all 7 of my followers) how I feel all the time? If I wrote about a bad day, did I want to run the risk of running into guys in bars and having them ask if I was "doing ok now?" If I wrote about a good day, did I want to risk being seen as a conceited tooter-of-my-own-horn? Well, who else is going to toot my horn? It's my horn! Pulling myself back from this "horn" tangent, Monday night I was majorly in need of a picture of a forlorn kitten in a tree telling me to "hang in there."

I got it yesterday. Sans kittens.

The first biggie was a call from a friend. She's also been writing, but put her pens away for the summer. She told me that reading my blog inspired her to push her writing again. I've never read anything she's written, but I hope to do so, soon. She's one of the best storytellers I know.

The second was an email from another friend. More interested in photography than writing, she's been toying with the idea of re-starting her photo blog. Maybe this was the time.

The third was an email from another friend. Bravely moving to another city with a whole lot of chutzpah of her own, she wrote to tell me that she was proud of the strength I had shown during this time of transition. I guess she didn't see the Twix bar wrappers.

And if sparking my own chain reaction weren't enough, I found one of my own sources of inspiration, putting out just the words I needed to read, at just the right time.

Be an inspiration. Dolphins and kittens optional.

Be a Bold Pitch

2009-08-17T07:02:00.000-07:00

There's a huge step in between writing a piece and seeing it in print. Getting an article or essay accepted by an editor is a much less simple process than I had ever imagined. Before I ever tried this, I though it would be as easy as:

1. Write the piece
2. Send it to the editor in an email
3. Wait and hope

That's how I got my Facts&Arguments piece into the Globe. Although, it did take 3 months for them to get back to me, during which time I'd given up and decided that maybe I wasn't cut out for a writing career after all, resulting in a couple of self-indulgent pity parties involving my couch, the tv, a Twix bar and a little negative self-talk. Perhaps if I'd read this book first, I might have avoided the torture. Although, I also would have also missed out on the Twixes.

The Renegade's Guide to Query Letters that Rock didn't make me feel particularly rebellious, but it did give me some great suggestions to get me over the initial, tricky hurdles. Magazine submission guidleline pages often suggest the use of snail mail for queries (with a 4-6 week response time) and it's a study in investigative journalism to even find email addresses for magazine editors. But a renegade query-writer tries various combinations of the editor's name and the magazine name until it works. Oooooh....dangerous game!

You can easily lose the pitch right out of the gate by making dumb mistakes (like spelling the editor's name incorrectly) or just not describing the piece well or with enough enthusiasm. Although the rules are different for research-based articles, queries for personal essays should include the entire essay in the body of the email. Cool. You should start your email with a little razzle dazzle about who you are and include your clips from previous publications. This is where things get tricky....

Dear editor,
I have no clips to send you, but take my word for it, I am fan-tastic! I have published a ton of articles that my parents haven't even bothered to read because they contain long words that don't come up in the Microsoft Word dictionary, like "generalizability" and "dysmorphism." Sometimes I write adorable little sentences to go with pictures of me smiling like a maniac at various fashion events in Montreal. Please accept my submission. Don't laugh at me.
Love, Jenn

OK, I didn't exactly use those words.

So, now I have a personal essay out there in the universe, hopefully in the inbox of the features editor of one of my favourite magazines. I am acting with the bravado of the inexperienced. With no experience of rejection, I can't imagine it, so I may as well aim high. I am hoping for what the authors of the renegade guide refer to as a nice rejection. Something like "Thanks for your submission, we don't think you are a total idiot, try again one day when you have a better idea, we acknowledge your existence, perhaps a Twix bar might help." High hopes.

Be a bold pitch.

From Plan A to Plan Be

2009-08-16T11:48:00.000-07:00

I am a planner. When I wake up in the morning, I mentally organize my day, starting with what I will eat for breakfast. I'm not sure I would get out of bed without the promise of toast with cheese. I enjoy predictability and I have what psychologists refer to as "a low tolerance for uncertainty." I know this, because I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology. I am a psychologist. Technically.

I had a plan, you see. It was a good, realistic plan and I executed it well. I did not want to be an astronaut or a supermodel. I didn't try to win the lottery. I didn't dream of any fairy tale romances. I set reasonable and attainable goals for myself and I set out to reach them with determination. I got my PhD, published numerous articles in scientific journals, and worked furiously toward a career in academia. I dated nice guys and mean guys and clean cut guys and rebels. I joined running groups and book clubs and learned to make soup. I figured, if I just stuck with the plan, things would work out. Eventually I would achieve my goals. I would get married and my husband and I would live in the suburbs with our 2 or 3 kids and I would come home from working as a professor at one of the local universities to take the kids to swimming lessons, or just make dinner while watching jeopardy. This was my plan. I still think it's a pretty good one.

Except for the fact that none of it worked.

I'm still single, and my dream of academia is falling further and further out of focus. I'm not even really that good at Jeopardy. Or making soup.

With Plan A an official failure, it was on to Plan B. Except for the fact that I had no Plan B, and the idea of planning had lost it's luster. What's the use of making plans with a completely uncooperative universe?

So when I asked for a job in academia and the universe handed me a gig blogging for an online fashion and lifestyle magazine, I went with it. When I realized that I liked that job better than I had ever liked any of the jobs I had in the field of psychology, I conceded the possibility that I had planned myself right down the wrong career path. When I opened myself to the risk of writing creatively for a living, I saw that I would not have been able to explore that option if I'd had a husband and kids depending on me to make soup every day.

This blog is about me learning to relinquish the plan and just be.

My Plan Be.