A Burning Question

This might not be a burning question, but it's one that I've received lately about my writing services.  The question is: "Can you write blog entry content for me?"  I answer yes, but that I would need a rough draft, or at least an outline, of the content for direction.  (Static is then heard on the other end...)  The line of inquiry proceeds: "I need you to come up with the content.  I don't have time to write it."  My next email explains that I don't write content without an outline or rough draft because there's many ways in which the content could be written--and that my listing description clearly explains the type of writing I do, and why.

After that, I don't hear back from the potential client...

The thing is, I am a writer with an MA degree, but what I write is based solely on the information the client provides.  I do not pull ideas out of thin air, although I do add to ideas--nor do I allow them to materialize in front of me without the client's input: there are just so many directions in which the content can go.  Tone, for instance.  Upbeat and conversational, or professional and polished?  Word choice is another direction, as is content, organization, sentence structure, voice, etc.  Voice is especially important because it tells the reader who the writer is.  If there is a discrepancy between any of these elements in a written work, the reader will know.  Many times, we don't give the reader enough credit for noticing.  My academic training, as tough as it was for me, undoubtedly contributed to my detail-oriented writing style.  Academics taught me how to look critically at the writing process from all perspectives: brainstorming, organization, word choice, structure, clarity, and length.  Taught me that each word holds a different weight in a sentence.  That each statement matters.

Inadvertently, the high-brow culture of academics taught me something interesting: humility.  After six drafts of one chapter, you learn firsthand how to be humble and deft.  You learn new ways of writing and seeing the world, and you learn how to edit and write with relevance and a critical eye.  This is why I provide quality content writing services through my main site, theintrovertedwriter.com, in addition to my Etsy shop.  The writer, the written word, the content--it all matters.

Read my writer's FAQs: theintrovertedwriter.com/faqs.html

EC | TIW: Witty Introvert Poem

I wrote this witty introvert poem in March 2015 to demystify assumptions often associated with introversion from my own (introverted) perspective.  Topics I've tackled through writing include anxiety, frustrating social expectations, a rich inner life, and more.  No further explanations are required on your part.  This humorous, celebratory poem is printed on sage green cardstock and ships with a presentable envelope, making it a great gift for an introvert--or even as an explanatory tongue-in-cheek gift for extroverts.  Baffled looks when you politely decline another social event?  Perhaps no more!  At least, in theory.

Available for purchase in my shop here.

* * *

Would you like a poem written just for you, or need assistance with a written work?  My professional writing services provide an engaging range of writing and editing options with the client in mind.

To Me, Four Years Ago

Four years ago, you lived in a protective cocoon, working hard--learning, reading, and struggling--to write your thesis.  Had just learned what Etsy was, and felt a creative spark go off in your always-going mind; made a personal connection between yourself and the handmade movement that went beyond sheer consumerism.  However, you have never referred to yourself as an artist, although you have been persistently artistic and imaginative since the painfully shy childhood years when your companion of choice was either a book to read or a blank sheet of paper on which to write or draw out a story.  When most everyone else around you was lost in gab, you preferred instead to delve inward into the wild recesses of your mind; to find and explore every nook and cranny of the spark that lit you from the inside out.  And you shared this wild creativity with a select few who saw beyond the quiet exterior into the richness within.

In 2010, you began channeling that lifelong creativity into jewelry making; into teaching yourself, without formal training, the ins and outs of making jewelry from materials like stone and wire.  Learned during the rough spots--through sore wire-poked fingers and hours spent figuring out how to create the sturdiest-as-can-be wire-wrapped pendant--when to move forward and when to stay still and master a technique.  Learned when to step back a few steps in order to gain clarity and perspective.  Developed patience and a knack for writing ebullient listing descriptions.  Got through the tough transition period of quitting a long-term job a few months after finding Etsy and making your first few sales through the site.  You experienced some amazing non-work-related transitions in that four-year span too, such as finally marrying your (now) husband and making it through grad school.

But still you wonder how this all came to be, these innumerable transitions that, at the time they occurred, were seemingly unconnected and offered no condolences for the familiarity lost--life changes that left no parting excuses in their wake (I'm referring to the work-related transitions here).  In the time since, you've finally earned your Master's degree, and with the academic training directly gained from this invaluable experience, began offering professional writing services.  Surprisingly, these new services have been well received: you have worked with wonderful clients who understand that quality writing and hard work go hand-in-hand, and who also patiently understand that the physical act of writing is itself a creative process that can take longer than expected to complete.  What is far less surprising is that you have found this work to be deeply fulfilling on many levels, which satisfies both your personality and love of a writing challenge.

So to the uncertain, transition-fearing woman of four years ago, the me that I once was: toiling and teeth pulling over earning your Master's degree was worth it.  Quitting your then long-term job was worth it.  With uncertainty over the future comes the (scary!) chance to explore new avenues, to learn and grow with your husband by your side.  You may stumble a little, actually far more than you are comfortable with, but will get up again.  And again, and yet again.

Actually, you are more ingenious than you give yourself credit for.

On Bridal Showers

A few weeks ago, I attended my very first bridal shower.  And yes, I did enjoy myself.

The reason why I discuss this bridal shower is that for my own comfort level to be met, I had to treat the event like a social experiment: a chance to get into the inner world of, and experience firsthand as a guest, a traditional event that precedes a large, festive wedding.  From this perspective, I was more observer than participant, which was fine for me, as this from-the-sidelines perspective is nothing new.  It was from this view that I saw all the minute details involved in planning this bridal shower, which took the planner-friend two painstaking days to set up for a five-hour celebration; I also noticed the sense of pride that is present in an event as deeply steeped in tradition as this; and the proud sense of expectation and reciprocation.

Although I immediate err on the side of sharp observation, the beautiful details of this gilded event did not escape my field of vision: the softly hued sweet-yet-decadent handmade decor, the seamless inclusion of traditional bridal shower games, and the gentle camaraderie among the shower guests was keenly felt.  Everyone cared.  This was not lost upon me.

However glad I am that the shower was a sweet success, I am even more glad that the event is over.  Now I can relax--well, sort of--until the wedding itself.  Put up my feet and get caffeinated while writing, which is more within my own comfort zone.

I've previously blogged about this wedding-related anxiety here and here.

Why Writing Matters

Although I am not endowed with the gift of gab, I do have a strong sense of what the gift of the written word can convey: intimate emotions, deep welling thoughts, stark humor, and sharp wit.  The written word can convey all this.  Writing matters precisely because of this.

Mountain Sky - July 2014

Some people can make the case that talk is cheap.  So by extension, the written word should then itself be free--or at least cheap.  For what is a sentence if not a bunch of words strung together to make sense, in order to communicate with others?

But unlike a good (or bad) conversation between two or more people, writing occurs as a semi-one-way street where the writer makes the deliberate choice to get their own thoughts and ideas out there to engage with their potential readers in order to stir up complex thoughts and emotions; to make things matter that we otherwise would assumably gloss over in our glittery day-to-day lives.

Not that life is always glittery, but sometimes it is, and I really believe that all aspects of life are important to document, from the overtly beautiful moments of grandeur to the nuanced subtleties of the mundane.  From these topics, there would indeed exist many creative interpretations of a single real or imagined life event.  For instance, if a bunch of writers were given a single subject to elaborate on, each finished product would be entirely different, depending on the writer's unique perspective and writing style.

As a result, writing deeply matters because all communication--especially the written form of communication--is not created equal: some people have the gift of gab, while others possess the gift of the written word, while others possess some of each.  Those who fall in-between this continuum are the luckiest, I think.  But for those of us who would rather converse through the written word over face-to-face communication, the gift of writing can come naturally.

For some (meaning: introverted souls like myself), writing comes as easily as breathing air, whereas face-to-face conversation making for this same group can be very much like gasping for air.  Getting lost in deliberate realm of writing words in order to communicate is then my cup of tea.  The delightful nuances of writing, including the usage of particular words and punctuation marks over others, the revising of phrases and sentences, and building upon the tone and mood of a piece is a thrilling act.  It's equal parts meditation and a resonating writer's high.  For me, getting lost in the thick of this all is much like tapping into a poignant, rich conversation and its unfiltered ideas, honing into the very core of it all while inherently knowing that you've tapped into something you can't quite put your finger on--and then meticulously refining this jumbled core of ideas, word-by-word, until the thoughts coalesce into an amazingly coherent piece that reverberates to your very core.  To get to this thrillingly insightful place is not easy, which is precisely why the written word, as well as the writer, matters.

* * *

I've also written about the writing process here.

The Word Tinkerer

New Writing Services

I am excited to announce two new writing services 
listed for sale in my shop!

The first is an Etsy shop listing writing service, which is helpful for Etsy sellers who do not have the time to write their own shop listings.  Writing can be difficult anytime, especially during the busy (okay, frantic) holiday season.  So, allow me to help out.  This specific writing service is currently listed at a discounted holiday price for a limited time only; my little gift to you.  Item can be seen here.

The second item is for custom wedding speech writing, found here.  A wedding speech reflects one's values, memories, and well wishes for the couple--and wedding speeches are one of the loveliest things that people remember most about the day.  This wedding speech listing is a great option for the maid of honor, father of the bride, best man, etc., who would like their words edited for clarity, content, and flow. 

 

Turnaround time for these writing services is 5-7 days and is dependent on buyer-writer communication;
writing will be sent electronically to the buyer through Etsy's Conversations option.

(If you're interested, I blogged about my biographical writing service here.)

Rambling On

Sometimes I forget how overwhelmingly lucky I am with this life, and oh how I tend to dwell on the has-beens and the what-ifs, forging a tenuous identity based on evaporating, porous memories and perilous words of past.  I cannot help it; I am an aptly unforgiving human masquerading as an altruist in the truest sense.  As we all can be, when the occasion calls for it.

But I am getting better at it, at acceptance.  Consciously being grateful for what I've got.  Perhaps it comes with age, this tell-tale acceptance of what is.  It is comprised of a steady patience that had oftentimes eluded me in the not-so-distant past, and likewise, continues to both inspire and challenge me in the present time.

The past cannot be rewritten, and memories cannot be revisited without a glint of the imaginative eye adding a word here, a false detail there until that particular memory is no longer viscerally recognizable, and instead becomes a memory among the many that are seared into the non-linear history of our lives.  It is all relative, this tough job of remembrance, conjuring up memories to fill the vast emotional void.  That's what journals are for: to fully document, in real time, our conversations and interesting tidbits of the day, all the while knowing that we will be able to revisit these very words when the occasion calls for it years down the road.  That being said, writing as twilight settles and the house creaks and stirs is a magical time that connects the conscious and unconscious, the thoughts had while awake and the exacting life of dreams.

October

The pendulum swings.  Life goes onward and forward, occasionally vacillating between neither here nor there, lost in the in-betweeness of it all.  The years blur, while the memories made burn an indelible imprint in your mind.  But the unforgiving thing about time is that even the memories that you prefer not to forget begin to get fuzzy along the edges after awhile--their imprints become hallowed-out outlines of a conversation had or of a scene seen...

Of everlasting memories ripped up at the seams.

Yet, you move on, forward you go--because you have to.  It is a necessity.  You blink and wonder where all the time has gone: two days meld into four weeks into six months.  Or is it seven?  And we still remember.  The memories that we hold onto so fiercely define us, cradle us in their depths.

On Blogging

I know that my blog posts tend to have that lost-in-thought quality, sometimes--a not quite tangible perspective that is heightened by an unbridled, free-wheeling introversion.  One that takes you by the hand and wanders, with you, across vast stretches of solitary land.  Upturning pebbles and rocks, to see the imprint left beneath them; catching angles of light just so.

For me, blogging is not solely a creative outlet that documents the process--it is a journey, a secret talisman of sorts.  A trek over otherwise difficult terrain and salubrious territory, this conscious act is an exercise that is in equal parts moderation and exertion.  It pushes me to face and examine commonly held certainties, as well as the uncertainties, since one cannot exist without the other.

Writing, an extension of which is blogging, 
is both part and parcel; it is sanity.  

Waiting Impatiently for Autumn

I'm already craving tea like crazy.  And hoping that it would downpour.  From sky to ground, clear up the knotty mess due to drought.  Reading while cozied up in a blanket, hot milk on the tabletop.  Golden yellows and reds.  Plum purples and rich, decadent browns.  I want to wear my knit beret.  Sing songs under a diffuse, darkened sky with the warmth of our voices to carry us on--Chesapeake bellowing deeply from our lungs; melancholic melodies courageously emptied from our hearts.  You pour, I drink it in, let it seep in far beyond the blue.  And it sinks...through veins and capillaries, diffuses through all the dark, ample muddy spots that you thought were permanent.  Impermanence: you scoff wildly at the mere thought of it while a frenzied laughter permeates the air.  You know what?  I can't help but laugh too because you were right.

Mid-Year Thoughts

Is it already past the mid-year point?  I cannot even begin to fathom how quickly the year has unfolded, molding itself into a largely non-linear course of days, weeks, and months--culminating in now.  Some days feel infinitely longer than others, while others overlap and converge.  Is it the onset of age that makes one forget what one did yesterday?  At least it's written in my journal.  You see, that's something that I've begun doing on a regular basis just this year--after a handful of years of intermittent journalese and stream-of-consciousness scribbling.

When I reflect back on the six months of time immediately past, a recurring thought is:

How is it to be?

As in a general time frame and, more specifically, mortality--the age-old identifier of getting old.  It's not that I fear aging, since it's actually quite the opposite, as I fully embrace it.  Age, for me, is merely a number that grows in increments of one per year.  But some people mourn the years that are forgotten, the messy lost years. 

* * *

A few weeks ago now, I printed out seven copies of my thesis to be bound and submitted for summer 2013 graduation.  My husband took the ambient-rich shot below, of five copies, for the other two had yet to be printed.  It has taken me a difficult six years to obtain this degree, but I realize that time--so fleeting, so terse--has a strange way of providing lessons; coming full circle.

  

Taking a peek outdoors, I spy on our hummingbirds, stealth-like and spry, in hopes of one day being ignored rather than spied on.  With their daredevil spirit, hummingbirds make up for their diminutive size.  If only we were so gallantly protective, graceful, and street smart--all at the same time.  However, if hummingbirds were human, I am unsure if I would like them more than I do now.

The future holds infinite possibilities against a darkened sky. I just have to seek them out, push myself to look beyond the deepening horizon, and try.  Trying is the most difficult part of it all; at times it is the dooming precursor of frustration more than the origin of inspiration.  But it's always the process that is itself, contradictory: while confining one like a canary, the process can allow for a critical learning experience, too.  Like journalese and stream-of-consciousness scribbling, attempts at uncovering the unknown are ultimately, undoubtedly worth it--to the bleary eyed and worn, included.

Pencil to Paper

It's finally been approved.  The pencil-to-paper editing process has been mighty tedious these past three or so months, but it has ultimately paid off.  It's been a long and winding road--a total of six years--with lessons learned, patience greatly tested, and beliefs torn and tattered.

Growth.

Yet as much as I complain, I cannot forget what an invaluable tool the entire process has been.

Future Tense

I am sitting here in front of the computer putting off the inevitable, waiting for the future-tense me to tap this present-tense me on the shoulder and tell me that everything will be easy peasy rather than the current topsy turvy.  This life is not easy, but others have it much more difficult than you, the wise future-tense laments, sprouting proverbs (I sure hope that she is wise...) as I stare blankly back at her.  My mind feels like an over-caffeinated, head-in-the-clouds marathon runner, one who has run miles upon miles and ends up in the same spot at the starting line every time, for she has lost track of where the race ends--lost in the process of it all.

As she takes one step back, and then another, the present-tense me begins to remember the reasons why the present matters, why and how the past informs the present.  The innumerable, complex connections spanning across time, running here and there--sometimes seemingly lost--comprises something greater than the sum of a life.  It is the measure of memories by the mind full; a consolatory homage to the past.  Frozen, permeable, forgotten...written down as a reminder to the living.   

Awhile

Hello there, it genuinely feels like it's been awhile, hasn't it?  Hope you are well.  Although I've written nearly a handful of posts so far this year, I feel like they have been rather disjointed in terms of tone, which undoubtedly reflects my current state of fatigue.  Maybe I can blame my physical tiredness on this season's flu.

Until I get over this fatigue, I will be staring at this (see below) inspiring hand-bound journal by Odelae in ready anticipation of a more steady pace of life: one that nobly stands still and quietly keeps on going with a steadfast resolve...

More soon,

EmeraldCut

One of Those Days

It's one of those days where you just want to curl up into a ball and spend quality time hiding in a pile of blankets, pillows, and sheets: seeking comfort in warmth that is not skin.  Hot peppermint cocoa tea is idly sitting on the windowsill, a few nibbles of chocolate is required to pass the time; your preference of a well-worn book rests on the nightstand as you watch the sky converge and then solidify in the magnificence of blue, pink, and black.  (You'd rather that it not collect dust.)  The sky steadily wails, the wind continuously lurks--menacingly pulls on the ends of branches, grass, hair--while sunlight carefully peeps out from behind the cumulus clouds, keeping in line with the earth's winter tilt, as you let out a reverberating sigh that glides, bounces off walls and windowsills, desks and drawers.  You take it all in, breathe in the slow rush of the day, grateful for today's work.

Update

 

(Stamps are from norahjane.)

I currently have nothing too exciting to divulge, except that I am sitting here twiddling my thumbs in nervous anxiety over this.  Not quite victory dance time yet, but over 120 pages later, I have completed the needed prerequisites...and am currently awaiting a yay or nay reply.  Then more editing.  Then hopefully done with what has turned out to be a very long and drawn out process of obtaining a higher degree.

In the meantime, I've been working on some new designs for my shop to get the creative part of my brain going again; finding my quiet, creative space again.  It's not easy sometimes, this creative process, but it is entirely worth it: especially when everything falls together even better than you could have ever imagined it to.

Bibliophile

Some of my favorite bookish Pinterest finds:

 

Source: tatteredcover.tumblr.com via EmeraldCut on Pinterest

Source: crushculdesac.tumblr.com via EmeraldCut on Pinterest

Source: casualelegance.tumblr.com via EmeraldCut on Pinterest

Source: images.search.conduit.com via EmeraldCut on Pinterest

Source: 28.media.tumblr.com via EmeraldCut on Pinterest

Rachael Yamagata : Turtle

Photo from Rachael Yamagata's website.

As you know, Rachael Yamagata is my #1 musician/singer-songwriter.  Her last album, Chesapeake, is as brilliant, musically and lyrically, as it is tongue-in-cheek humorous, an exploration of emotional depth, and a homage to singer-songwriters past.  The words below, copied and pasted directly from RY's blog post, describes her current creative process--and I am loving it in its relate-able entirety.

Turtle

By: Rachael Yamagata

Posted on Monday, August 6, 2012

"Blog Time!  Refresh button in my head on all subjects to put into print.  Blank stare back from brain.  How does one keep it all sorted in there?  Quiet mornings on a front porch are little centering treats between life driving from show to show and set list scribbles, napkin lyrics, spreadsheets (boring) and past life searches on the internet.  (Fyi – there are quizzes, but not sure of the accuracy).  It did say I’m supposed to spread a feeling of ‘brotherhood’ in this life and well heck, that feels okay.

I’m in danger of drowning in lists.  In fact, I recently took all the lists I save and whittled them down to three lists.  ListMaker.  That so won’t do for a new album title.   I thank the universe for having music exist to at least give my brain a partner in emotion and instinctual expression – some relief.  The ListMaker has taken over this summer, but only to serve as a coach to shape me back to song.

I find myself wanting to write, but not yet ready.  One has to write everyday.  One has to play and refine and redesign and edit.  Where are the little butterfly phrases to be grabbed out of the air? We come and go and wave to each other from our respective porches – what is inside, what is inside, what is inside?  So I’m in my stage of listening… and watching… and making lists.

And that’s ok.  Tour is right around the corner.  And the songs are there to arrange for an audience now.  So I will delve into my recent past and bring it to the present.  Get these songs out to have a little life of their own and travel around with them for a while.  They come to life when we bring them to you.  And that brings the new words back again…"

Thoughts on Contentment

Let's face it, we are imperfect beings endlessly searching, in vain, for our elixir, our cure-all.  A take one pill a day to do the happy dance, a carefree twirl around the room, as a way to achieve instant happiness as an emotion and contentment as a state of mind.  A way to get out of bed in the morning in order to face the tumultuous day.  War paint.  Maybe you're not the pill popping type, so you instead seek happiness in buying things to fill the emptiness inside you: that deep, dark, arcane thing that surfaces (and colors your interactions with others) whenever you perceive times to get unbearably tough.  Or perhaps you thrill seek in order to feel fully alive, to take the numbness away and replace it with a temporary adrenaline rush.  Now, I can feel.  Others keep everything--the plane ticket stubs, musty old newspapers, tattered magazines--deriving a sense of stability and order in their mere presence.  Just in case.

(I am just as imperfect as you, as imperfect as the person in the next room.  A stranger in the midst, from this perspective, is nary a stranger at all--you see?)

Our daily routines become so emotionally ingrained in us that we lose sight of their actual meanings, including the implied.  Our minds become impermeable to change, to growth, unable to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  Timid, we are afraid to reach out into the dark and take that leap into the unknown.

But sometimes, hope flickers where darkness permeates.  In this hope is the seed of contentment reaching out, first cautiously--with tentative steps--and then bravely, with a determined stride.  It grows, shapes itself; conceives.  Reveals to us mere mortals that contentment must be found within before it can be found without.