Sweet Banana Ink


I am all a flutter with the news that Sweet Banana Ink goes live today. The brainchild of my sister Bullish, it is intended to be a place to celebrate writers and the written word. "A place where writers can share their thoughts on the craft, and be part of a writing community regardless of genre, discipline or accumulated word count." I am excited to join Bullish and our beloved Bliss in fostering this space and making it a place where writers of all kinds can come together and engage in the creative process. Sweet Banana Ink will have fresh content three days a week and a variety of ways to get involved if the mood strikes. I'll be hosting the conversation each Wednesday so if you can't find me here, you're welcome to pop on over there. We'll be looking for contributors and guest writers, so be sure to check out the "Participate" page if you're the writerly type. If not, feel free to lurk with impunity. 


Pro vs. Personal; examining the great blogging divide



Professional Bloggers write for money. Personal Bloggers write for pleasure. It's a beautiful thing when the two intersect, when a Pro-Blogger gets to write on subjects they're personally passionate about or a storyteller gets paid for weaving the stories of their lives.

I am interested in what Professional Bloggers do, but have never considered myself one of them. I can (and do) write “informational content”, marketing copy and reviews, but for the most part, I've got an old-skool attitude when it comes to this site.

I've been blogging with some regularity since 2001. I was around when Heather B got Dooced. I remember when Diablo Cody was just a peep-show girl telling stories on the sly. I was one of the everybodys who read Plain Layne before we knew she was merely the smoke and mirrors of Odin Soli. I wasn't big or brilliant, neither famous or infamous, but I was there and I am still here.

Read more

Streamlined Social Skills via Facebook


I feel like I should make some kind of apology here, or add a disclaimer. I feel like G+ is going to hear all about this, pack a bag and walk out on me. But the truth is, I use Facebook because nearly everyone I know uses Facebook and when I update here, my habit is to post a link there. However, each time an extended family friend or adolescent acquaintence adds me on Facebook, the probability of inappropriate overshare increases exponentially. That said, this button is going to pop up on the sidebar and whenever you're in the mood (like now), you can go to the Facebook page, LIKE the site and add it to your newsfeed. When I updated here, you'll get notification there and my 11 year-old nephew will be none the wiser.

Linky Love; Bullish Ink


Do you see that girl, the one there on the left with the kick-ass blue satin jacket and Farrah Fawcett feathered hair? I grew up wanting to be her. Trying to be her. I did rotten things in an effort to execute that grand plan. I tried on her clothes when she wasn't around. I helped myself to her makeup, absconded with her jewelry and studied her every melodramatic mood and sarcastic sigh. And yes, I read her diary. Repeatedly. Regularly. Unlike my mother, I did NOT leave notes in her diary, critiquing the entries or adding my personal assessment of her emotional outpourings. I WAS however, dead set on figuring out to become her. As it turns out, that didn't happen and all things considered, that's probably lucky for everyone involved. Still, the idea of once again having daily access to her rantings, ravings and inner dialogue is something that fills me with delight, and so I am most pleased that she has decided to open up a blogging shop and backload it with a badass bunch of archives. Not all the way back to the feathered hair and satin jacket, but close enough to make it pretty fucking cool. Most often, I refer to her here as Ruby or Morticia. Occasionally I mention her as the first third of The Sisterhooe. But from now on, don't let my nicknames and labels define her. She calls herself Bullish and as of today her Ink is unlocked, and casually flopped open on the foot of the bed. No one is looking. We could totally tiptoe into the room and take a peek … and really who could blame us?