This month on Running In Heels…

…I interview a young and fabulous Greek designer.

…I enlighten the non-blog reading masses on the joys of RSS.

…I gush about PostSecret

and finally, I sneak in a typical Hope Dies Last kind of post. It’s all about horoscopes and boys and life and love and destiny and stuff. Consider that my post for today!

Please, if you could be so kind,  check them out. Last month my articles made it to the most read list. And I am pretty certain I have all of you to thank for that. So thank you. Really.

Now, go!

Blush

I remember the good ol’ days when all I would think about was blogging.

I would compose blog posts in my head, in the shower, while driving, on the back of receipts while standing in line at the supermarket. Nowadays, I have a writer’s notebook. And in it, I write. The need to share my writing has waned. Because my need to expose myself has waned. As much as I would like to be the kind of blogger that posts every day about anything and everything, I can’t be. When I sit down to write, even fiction, it is always those inner, inner thoughts about fears and love and relationships and truth and death and meaning.

I don’t do small talk (Well, I do but it makes me uncomfortable) so, I’d rather not post about small things. (Even though I have opinions about all of that lovely stuff like my insane obsession with Jon Stewart and leggings)

The truth is that I’m embarrassed.

In July, I honestly believed that I had found The One. And I blogged about it in the way that I have always done. With absolute abandon and no regard to the future. But I swear I was certain. I was convinced that this blog was about to evolve from single girl to attached girl. That its very name ‘Hope Dies Last’ would finally be a source of real and documented inspiration.

But then it all blew up in my face.

And for the very first time in my blogging experience I was utterly and completely mortified.

What on earth possessed me to share yet another romance and the subsequent rejection to the masses? How many times do my readers really need to read the same exact experience? And oh my god, in the last three years, I seem to be having the same exact experience over and over again; with four different men.

I’ve always maintained that I’m not that fussed about the impression that I give people; on and off line. But this time, for unclear reasons, I gave a damn. I was embarrassed by this rejection. And I didn’t want to write about it because I was embarrassed. But it was the only thing I wanted to write about. And so I just stopped writing.

I’m still a little red around the cheeks. But I think its time that I jumped back on the metaphorical horse and be the blogger that I was; the blogger that I am. The only kind of blogger that I know how to be.

Doodlepalooza

In a moment of blogger camaraderie, I attempted to write my own doodle for Peter’s annual Doodlepalooza.

Check it out here.

I think it may just make you laugh.

Reachable

A couple of months ago, I was hopping across the internet when I landed on a website. This website, which I can no longer find, had the body measurements of most celebrities. According to this ever trusting source, Jennifer Aniston and I share the exact same weight, height and breast size.

Only difference is that my body looks nothing like hers.

For one, I look terrible in shorts. For two, my legs are nowhere killer status. I have great hair though.

But, as always, this got me thinking of potential. I could–if I tried–have one of the most sought after bodies on the planet. I imagine that Jennifer has been on a regimented diet and workout schedule for over a decade. I hear the words regimented, diet and workout schedule and I begin to wheeze and pant as if I have already run a marathon. The point is that if I wanted to, I could have her body. This is not some absurd, lofty dream. Its an actual possibility. Same height, weight and breast size? Check. Same curves? Check.  Similar Greek genes? Check.

It could happen.

Going after an A-list body is not my goal though.  But, the idea that with consistently hard work what appears to be unreachable can be achieved is hard to un-realize. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a published story teller.  And for as long as I can remember that seemed impossible; an absurd naive dream of a girl. See,  life gets in the way. You learn that its not easy; that there are millions of writers. You don’t stand out. Then, life actually gets in the way.  Bills need to be paid. Success is measured by the amount of money you can flaunt; the amount of names you can drop; the number of zeros at the end of a paycheck. So, even though you’re a writer, you write other people’s ideas. The ones that pay.

It’s depressing.

So, when it occurred to me that–with some effort–I could actually have Jennifer Aniston’s body; then it occurred to me that I could–with some effort–actually be a published novelist.

And that?

That’s fucking exciting.

What do you think you could do or be if you put in the effort that is required?

Running In Heels

When I was younger, disappointment in love would undoubtedly be followed by some type of physical makeover.

I would cut my hair or change its colour. Piercings or tattoos would be considered.  New clothes would be bought. Gym memberships would be signed. It was a good strategy. Changing the outside, in whatever way, can be good to heal the inside.

This last doomed romance, while beautiful and then painful did not last long enough to make a very deep cut. A makeover, I rationalized, the morning after was not going to achieve anything. Besides, I am perfectly happy with the way I look. After no contemplation at all,  I knew  that this time, this disappointment had to followed by something that was going to make me happy. 

And, well, writing makes me happy. 

Writing stuff that people read? Even happier. 

Through a new friend I discovered Running In Heels.; a Pan-European cultural online magazine for women. I quickly sent off an email to the editor-in-chief admitting that I do not wear heels because oh haven’t you heard? Flats are the new stilettos. But regardless of that, I’d still love to contribute.

Fast forward, 35 days later and here we are. 

My first two articles are up. I even have my very, own ‘author‘ page. Yip! There is writing out there in the world for people to read with my ACTUAL name on it. 

Cool, right?

If you’re so inclined, you can click on the links below to read my first articles. 

Picking Up Speed: Silversun Pickups

Ten Books About Love That We Love