It was a Saturday evening during the summer of 1982, I believe. “Billie Jean” was huge, and I had just gone to the Greenville Mall with my mom and stopped at Peppermint Records (Can I get a moment of silence from my fellow Greenville natives who remember that wonderful record store?) where I bought a Duran Duran pin and a Michael Jackson pin. I proudly wore that pin over to my grandmother’s house that night for dinner. It was tradition that every other Saturday night we went to MaMa Grant’s house for hot dogs, (with steamed hot dog buns!) baked potatoes (with ranch dressing!), chips, and apple pie with ice cream for dessert. Doesn’t that just scream “America!” or at least “Heartattack!”

Hrmm, bad word choice there.

Anyhoo, as I sat there munching on my hot dog, MaMa Grant (bless her heart) looks across the table at my shirt and asks, “Is that a picture of a black man on that pin?”

Oh to have been able to tell her, “It’s okay, MaMa, in a few years he’ll be white!”

(Disclaimer: I loved my grandmother dearly and do not mean to paint her as a racist. She was a beautiful woman who treated everyone as wonderfully as they treated her, perhaps even more so. So don’t go thinking I came from a racist family. That is all.)

Well, my pen is — or I guess I should say pens. Because I have a lot of them. Really. A. Lot. I was in STAPLES yesterday and improperly fondled a twenty-something pack of Sharpie colored, fine-point markers.

I felt compelled to talk about my pen addiction because of an article I read this week in the New York Times. (Thanks to Matt for the link.) The author complained that the concentration on the handwriting curriculum in schools is useless because how many of these kids will even need pen and paper in the future? Of course, it didn’t help her case when she lamented the fact that her child was making poor grades in his handwriting lessons, but she (…a …writer) goes on to add that the only time she picks up a pen is to sign her name on a credit card receipt. That admission just saddened me. Here’s a published author who can’t be bothered to slow down and submerge herself in the process that helped her hone her craft.

I still love the feel of a pen in my hand as it scribbles across the page. I’m comforted by the sound of the metal tip as it scratches along the paper. I feel an immense pride and a swell of satisfaction in seeing my handwriting fill page after page of black, spiral-bound journals.

That’s not to say that I never write from scratch at the screen. At my last job, I wrote almost all my articles at the keyboard. I’ve written that way at home as well, but when I need a jump-start, when words can’t appear the way I need them to, I pick up a pen.

Those who’ve had less than stellar handwriting probably welcome any technological advances that reduces their need to compose by hand. Kids definitely have embraced texting as a way to deliver notes instead of the old-fashioned, cleverly-folded, handwritten letters. But each invention makes me a little sadder because I fear we take one step toward going paperless.

Edward Bulwer-Lytton thought the sword was a lesser foe to the pen. Oh, if he could only see what he was up against in the future!

(Yes, I’m aware that the title is not the right spelling of the term…)

Four years ago today, I started this blog. Two months before I published the first entry, the Powers That Be at my place of employment took me out of the writer’s department for the second time and stuck me back on the desktop publishing assembly line — the same position where I had started almost ten years before that. I was dying to talk about that whole debacle when I began blogging, but after reading the stories of people (namely Heather Armstrong of dooce.com) who were fired because they talked complained about work in their blogs, I decided I probably shouldn’t. Plus, anytime I was tempted to vent on the Web, Cinlach shot the idea down gently reminded me that doing so wouldn’t be prudent.

Now, of course, it’s been nine months since corporate closed up shop, so neener neener.

The last three years at that office were mentally and emotionally oppressive at times. I had to watch writing work completely bypass me and go to others (a couple of whom were actually hired from outside the company to write) because our VP had his own way of wanting to do things that didn’t include a writing department. He wanted to outsource freelancers. As more new people were hired, I could feel the resentment rising inside of me, especially when some people were getting positions they wanted after screwing up million-dollar accounts. I felt like people began to forget that I could write, and I was afraid of being drowned out altogether.

And don’t even get me started on the marketing rep who once sat right behind me. Granted, she didn’t know I had been on the writing staff, but when showing the former layout/content of our company’s main marketing piece to a new sales assistant, she said, “Scary, huh?” At the first opportunity, I wheeled my chair over to her desk and told her that there were those of us who worked hard to make that book valuable to our customers, and we were proud of that work. What I would have liked to have added was that just because the doofus VP* said that the majority of it was useless doesn’t mean it was trash.

Could I have left? Sure, and I tried. Did I try hard enough? Probably not, and that’s something I’ve lived with and learned from and tried not to regret.

So when I first started blogging, I said I was doing so to create another outlet for my writing, and to a point that was true. Now, however, I realize that deep down the bigger reason was the fear of my ability being forgotten, and incidents like the marketing rep — along with just the gradual surprise of newer employees when they found out that I was a writer — made me believe that could happen. It’s the same fear I have now as I scan job listing after job listing and as I apply for writing jobs and end up being under- or overqualified.

What I learned after I began blogging, though, was that I am the one who needs to remember that I’m the writer. I can’t let other people define who I am, and that’s a fact that’s hard to remember in this frustrating time. But what helped bring me to this realization was coming to this site, sometimes every day — publishing writing prompts, the occasional poem, a draft of a short story or novel excerpt, a song or book review, and a lot of random stuff. So you’ll probably see more stuff around here, and hopefully, you’ll stick around.

*The doofus VP (who eventually and unfortunately became P)  was instrumental in running the company into the ground. He was strongly urged to leave resigned four months before corporate announced they were selling us to our competition.

I don’t think of myself as having a feminist flag to wave. I don’t mind if a guy opens a door for me; however, I don’t mind if anyone holds or opens a door for me, especially if my hands are full. I don’t consider it chivalrous; I call it GOOD MANNERS.

However, Thursday night as I watched “Private Practice,” I was struck by the situation of the 12-year-old girl who was pregnant. Granted, this is TV, so the circumstances to follow can be controlled by story’s writers, but I suddenly remembered that a few weeks ago, headlines all over the world talked about a 13-year-old boy who had impregnated his 16-year-old girlfriend. But I don’t remember the last time I saw a news item about a 13-year-old girl who got pregnant — unless the father was HER father or other relative, or if she delivered the baby and stuffed it in a Dumpster.

When I was in middle school, I remember a seventh-grade girl who got pregnant, and there were no news crews following her around. The only attention she got came from other students — as well as a concerned teacher, who had to pull her aside because the girl had no idea how she had gotten pregnant. (TRUE STORY!)

Are we sending the wrong message by giving all the attention to the young fathers? I don’t even remember too much being said about the 16-year-old mother of the child. It seems as if we’re almost patting him on the back. What does that say about us?

On sort of a flip side of this situation is the Octomom. Yes, I’m going to bring her up even though I do believe she’s got more than just a few loose screws. She’s got screws that have fallen into a sewage drain somewhere. Still, would we have all these discussions and scrutiny if she were married or if the father were at least a participant in her and the children’s lives? The extra income would probably relieve some of the concerns because she wouldn’t need as much taxpayer money, and of course, there is still the issue of having another six kids at home.

But people have accused her of having babies for celebrity status, yet society has made that possible thanks to reality TV, free swag for advertisement, and endless positive media attention. Do we really think that there’s no possibility of someone who’s unstable seeing all the attention and free stuff and thinking, “Oooh, I want that, too!” However, no one seems to say anything negative about COUPLES who have experienced multiple births, and some of them had other children (granted, not six).

Is it that precious male appendage that can bring or take away all the attention or scrutiny? How fair is that?

I don’t have the answers here, and I’m sure I’ll get all sorts of controversial or confrontational comments, but I just wanted to ask these questions because I haven’t seen anyone else tackle them.

During break time at the place where I’m taking computer classes:

L (president): (to our instructor) I’ve got a customer who wants to take a class in Publisher, and she wants to know how to “punch up” her newsletter design. How can she do that?

Me & M (former coworker): Use InDesign instead.