I am part of an online writing community called Zoetrope.com
It's a great resource for an aspiring writer such as myself - I post my stories and receive feedback, as well as giving feedback of my own.

No matter how much I may dislike a story, I can always find something positive to say and write my criticism constructively, so as not to personally offend someone.

But today I wrote a critique for a story that I didn't much care for. There were some good things about it, but the ending was sloppy and rushed. I think the author got bored and finished it quickly. I pointed this out (in nicer language than this)

well, the writer emails me back and says thanks for the suggestions, but that he didn't agree with me (and that other reviewers' thoughts backed him up) and that his story was honed for a "well-read" reader and someone who is intellectual enough to understand his purpose in writing the way he did. Some bullshit like that. And he was going to pretty much disregard my comments as he thought his story spoke well for itself.

I couldn't let that go, so I responded: "Are you suggesting that I am not well-read? If you don't like to receive suggestions, then why post your story to this site?"

he responded that he liked suggestions, just not mine.

It's fine if you don't agree with me, but be classy about it. Insulting me and my opinions is unprofessional and immature (I don't think he could handle criticism well - ok I couldn't handle his criticism, but he criticized my intelligence and reading ability - BIG difference).

Giving criticism can be even harder than receiving it.

I am torn between feeling utterly romantic and sadly cynical about LOVE.
I am romantic when it comes to other people and their relationships and feelings, but cynical when it comes to myself.

It's ironic, since I was born on Valentine's Day and all. Or maybe not, since I celebrate that day only as my birthday and NEVER as someone's Valentine.

At this juncture in my life - in my floating phase, as I like to call it - love is a concept that is taking a backseat. Honestly, it has never taken the front seat. And in order for it to be more important and for it to matter in my daily life, it has to extend beyond a mere concept.

Yoga is actually helping with this. To complement my daily yoga practice, I receive email updates from YogaJournal.com - a daily dose of inspiration, techniques and ideas. The other day they had an article on LOVE, which can be viewed here: http://www.yogajournal.com/lifestyle/1194?utm_source=Wisdom&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_campaign=WIS_101

It got me thinking that love doesn't have to be this big, boyfriend/girlfriend, 'till death do us part ordeal - that it can be simpler, more accessible and all around us. I'm not saying that I don't want the eternal love/soul mate thing - that would be nice - but that's not ALL that love is.

In my yoga practice I am learning to take time, breathe deeply and truly appreciate what I can do, what my body can do - and to ease into what it can't. But I am going to take that calm, loving approach beyond my practice and beyond meditation. So I will start small - walking instead of driving a car helps me to love and appreciate nature (and to show the environment some love too by not polluting it as much), giving my mother a compliment because she has lost so much weight, smiling at a stranger, taking the time to talk with my little brother (because I feel good when someone takes the time to actually listen to me), sending an email to a friend that I may have lost touch with.

But love has to start with me first - I have to love myself. I can show myself love by not being pessimistic about my lack of jobs, praising myself when I have finished writing a story, looking in the mirror and liking what I see, eating healthy (because it makes me feel good - also why I do yoga).

So love has to start in the mind. I have to think that love is all around me and in me and that I need to take that love and show it. When I feel love inside (because love should not be some unreachable, external concept) then I will show that love, and in return receive love.

It comes full circle.

"Watch your thoughts; they become your words.
Watch your words; they become your actions.
Watch your actions; they become your habits.
Watch your habits; they become your character.
Watch your character for it will become your destiny."

I love lists.

When I studied in Ireland, my roommate and I - as we sat along the banks of the Corrib River on a sunny, mild Irish day - decided to write down a list of the top 50 things we wanted to achieve in our lifetime.

If I can visualize - even the words of a goal on a piece of paper - what it is that I want to do, then it's so much easier for me to do it.

For the next five days I will post ten things off of my list (and mention which things I have actually accomplished thus far). This list was compiled in May 2004.

1)Become a published writer
2) Go to Mardi Gras
3)Visit South Africa
4) Buy a horse
5)Go to Olympics
6)Win Nobel Prize in Literature
7)Visit the Amazon
8)Learn French fluently
9) Buy a ranch in Montana
10) Have my own clothing line

So far I have published a travel story (and am currently working on this goal), visited South Africa and joined the Peace Corps.
I think 3 goals out of 50 is pretty motivating!

Surviving my 20s means transitioning from school to the workforce, from living across the country - to living in another country - to now being back home with my parents (which in some ways is mortifying). I am trying to write and establish myself as a writer, but also find a job to pay the bills of reality. On top of all of this, I am discovering myself in a more intuitive, fulfilling, mature way than I ever tried to "discover" myself as a teenager. But I feel that the expectations and demands of a 24-year-old far surpass and challenge those of, say, a 14-year-old.

Living back at home, back in my old bedroom which I used to share with my younger sister (who has her own apartment, job and life) brings up nostalgia of the dreams and expectations I had of myself when I was growing up. What would the 16-year-old version of me think of me now? Would I be disappointed that I'm not in grad school? That I haven't finished writing a novel? That I am unemployed?

Yes, I tell myself - sick at the thought of a teenager rebuking me - I would be disappointed. This led to my total excavation of my childhood belongings, books, writings and mementos. I ended up unearthing dozens of notebooks, notes, observations written on napkins and scraps of paper bags - all the stories, plays and literary ideas that I created over a period of ten years.

I stacked all of this creativity on my bed and then told myself, "Anytime you have or had doubt about what you were meant to do, remember this stack. This is your destiny."

I am a writer. I don't have to prove it to anyone but myself. For half of my life I have dreamed, created, outlined, written, edited and recreated. My notebooks prove that I am a writer. I have had this goal in mind all of my life - to be a published, established writer - and I am not about to lose site of this goal now. When you have a goal, you should run with it.

Rejection is a natural part of the writing/publishing process.

Unfortunately, three of my stories have been rejected in the past two days. I've tried to be upbeat, but frankly, it's made me pretty depressed.

Since I've returned from the Peace Corps, I have been actively submitting my work. In the past three months I've submitted over 15 pieces, and have had 7 rejected, and am still waiting to hear on 8. The worst is when I have a story that I feel strongly about - have edited it and critiqued it - a story where there are lines that make me gleam, because they're so beautiful and en pointe. It's the worst because those editors can't see what's so special about that work. Of course, rather than getting down, I've got to believe that if it is a great piece then it's worth getting published. Maybe not by the first guy, or even the second, but eventually someone else will see what I've put into it.

This makes me think of when I was an editorial intern at a small publishing house. The majority of my work-day was spent reading manuscripts. Then I got to write opines on them to share with the editor (thus saving him from actually having to read the manuscript himself). Most of what I read was mediocre. A few pieces stood out as exceptional and unique, and I found myself falling into them, loving the characters, anticipating the twists and turns of the plot, rather than focusing on cutting them down. And then there were a few more pieces that were dreadful! The other interns and I would take turns reading aloud particularly bad sentences or metaphors.

"How can they possibly think they'll ever get published?" we'd say. Or, "What do they do for a living? Oh, they sell insurance. Huh, maybe they should stick with that!"

Pretty much all of the interns were aspiring writers or editors, and there seems to be an edge of jealousy or bitterness that seeps into our critiques. Not intentionally, but sub-consciously we envy that these people have actually completed a book and are ambitious enough to send it to a publisher. And, hell, it takes a lot to put yourself out there for criticism.

So that's the next thing that comes to mind when I receive a rejection letter. More likely than not, some intern or lowly editorial assistant is reading my story, jeering at it, rolling their eyes and sighing in exasperation. "Honestly," they say, "what is this girl thinking? Maybe she should go back to teaching in Africa."

Thinking like that doesn't do much for my self-esteem, so I tell myself that there are lots of good writers out there and we can't all get published. And I try to think of rejections as fuel for my creative process. They make me want to work harder.

And, once in a great while, along with the rejection I just might get a personal note of encouragement from the editor (which is an excellent sign!) For example, I have tried to get published with The First Line.com They publish quarterly and for each quarter there is a first line that you have to use for your story. I have tried four times, and have been rejected every time. BUT, this last time, the editor was thoughtful enough to include a personal note. He wrote: Hey, Courtney, it was nice to read you again. Your writing, as usual, is strong, and the story was good, just not great for this sentence. (You know, as I was reading this, I saw it as a ten minute play.) Keep sending them in, and, if you have some stories about your job in the PC (especially novella length), check out one of our other publications: www.workerswritejournal.com/overtime.

So, I'll keep sending them in.

DEATH TO THE HEADACHE!

Since I was 14, I have suffered from migraines.

At 21, I was also diagnosed with a daily chronic headache condition. I was put on blood pressure medicine and given Imitrex to take right before a migraine set in. Migraines set in almost every other day.

During my time in Lesotho, I had problems getting my medication, so I suffered through weekly migraines once again and usually spent my days in the classroom fighting back the ever-present dull headaches that erupted once I got out of bed in the morning.

Now, being back in the States, out of medicine and without health insurance, I've turned to more natural methods. First, I've been practicing yoga daily to help relieve stress. It helps calm me down, but doesn't combat the onset of an afternoon headache.

After doing some research online, I discovered the herb FEVERFEW. I picked some capsules up in a GNC. I take a capsule each morning. If I feel a headache coming on (and all my migraines start around 1:00 - they hold a very rigid time schedule) I take a second capsule.
For over a month I've been taking feverfew daily and NO MIGRAINES have occurred!
I have had a couple of minor dull headaches, but they disappear within a few hours.

It's a miracle! Seriously.

Starting the second month of my new headache-bashing regime, I am continuing to take note if and when I get headaches and how serious they are. If my good luck continues, FEVERFEW may be the answer to my migraine nightmare.