I would like to say thank you to Facebook. People are too quick to judge it as the end of human contact. As if every angry rant, mysterious song lyric, and seemingly meaningless update was not created by very human fingers. They were put there by confused teens, angry girlfriends, and broken hearts feeling very human emotions.

Facebook has brought me the news of engagements, allowed me to share in weddings, cheer a birth, and offer support to those in need. On more than one occasion, it has also brought me the news of someone’s passing. There’s a negative stigma to saying, “I found out online.” But honestly, what is the graceful way to learn about a death?

This past week Facebook delivered me the news of a death. It was almost silent. It crept in. My news feed was it’s usual clutter of music, video clips, a few ads, and news of the mundane. But there, mixed in, friends started to ask for strength, thank the powers that be for the time they had, and reach out to each other. The vibration of realizing agony. It sinks in slowly, and two clicks confirm it. Someone who used to be very close is now far away.

I would never have found out. I haven’t had the privilige of seeing this person in a few years. But she’s so bright in my memory. It’s stunning, really. A part of a yoga community that adopted me. Her mat placed on the floor next to mine and her care in always asking after my life. And her radient energy. Learning yoga wasn’t easy for me. The control, the stength, the ability to burn away your thoughts and push on did not come naturally to me. But she was my secret weapon. When I started to faulter, I would tune into her. Match my breaths to her’s, and let it guide me. Vivacious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I was shocked to learn that she’s gone on. I had always assumed she would live for a thousand years. In many ways, she will. As the news writhed through Facebook, out came the love right behind it. Her students, her friends, her family. Everyone was touched. Add their hearts together and I’m sure you already have more than a thousand years of living locked away.

So thank you, Facebook, for allowing me to share in a community that is miles away from me. Thank you for allowing me to wake up my memories and feel the sadness and warmth that comes with these experiences. Thank you for being a silly little Internet thing that reminds me how human I am.

This entry is a favor to a few people. Most of all, my mother. She always begged me to save my stories. What better place to save them than online? As most of us have learned the hard way, you can’t get rid of anything once it’s online…

There’s no smooth way to introduce this subject, so I’m going to take the direct path back to my ten year old brain. In grade school, there was always the inevitable assignment of a creative story. It happened every few months it seemed, during 3rd and 4th grade. I decided to save a little brain power and create a recurring character.

Enter: Ms. Whizzelheimer. I called her Wiz for short. Wiz was a lady-bug. A talking lady-bug with super human strength and a shady past. She had six spots on each wing, and a rather unpleasant demeanor. Her travels had brought her to Bristol, VT (Hey! That’s where I’m from!), where she had befriended a young girl named Sadie.

Sidenote: I was obsessed with the name Sadie up until 6th Grade. Every story I wrote conveniently had a character named Sadie. I tried desperately to get my junior high math teacher to name her baby Sadie. She went with Rose or something. I can’t remember. Once I learned it wasn’t Sadie, my interest in the subject decreased dramatically.

Wiz and Sadie had numerous adventures together. It all began with Sadie being threatened by the school bully. Wiz used her super human strength to break the bully’s fingers. (I clearly did not believe in peaceful conflict resolution at the time.) They dog-sat the neighbor’s poodle and Wiz gave the creature a horrendous haircut. Our heroes attended the county fair where Wiz fell off a ride and into the cotton candy machine. Sadie had to save her from being eaten by threatening to punch the small child who had purchased the bug-laced confection. (Seriously? I had some aggression issues to address.)

In a holiday-themed entry, Wiz got Sadie the gift of her dreams by ordering it online, because, of course, Wiz couldn’t go the mall alone. I remember that story earned me some extra bonus points as the Internet was still fairly foreign in my very rural Vermont school.

I would write each story out by hand, complete with illustrations, and use whatever scrap materials I could find to craft what I thought could pass as a book. One involved a ripped up paper bag and red duct tape. I had such a swell of pride as I would hand the books to my parents, teachers, and friends. I have no idea if any of them actually gave a crap, but they all smiled politely and said I should create more. I think I finally stopped recycling those characters once hormones kicked in and talking insects didn’t seem like it would help my social status any longer.

But honestly, I miss those weird characters. I miss the pressure-free feeling of telling a very short story in simple words and small sentences. Now that I’ve marked a place for them on this crazy Internet contraption, maybe Sadie and Wiz can ride again one day.

6 Spots!!

Photo from here.

This morning a woman called me a, “Flickering candle,” with, “A hidden elegance.” It was a struggle not to laugh. There’s not an elegant bone in my body. In fact, I’ve learned to embrace my clumsiness and have developed a whip-quick, “I meant to do that,” reflex. She did elaborate a bit more on the candle reference. It basically boiled down to the idea that I have a drive for something, but I shy away from feeding it. I don’t give it enough oxygen to grow. Thus, the flickering.

She’s totally right. I think it’s a fear that’s faced by anyone who wants to create anything. Words, music, poetry, art. Most of us are well aware that not everyone is going to like what we create. But there’s a dangerous place to hover where the fear is that no one will like what you create. And maybe they’ll even hate it.

I come from a generation of nacissists. Thank you, Myspace, Facebook, and Twitter for teaching us that every thought that passes through our hazy little brains is worth repeating. And thank you, Internet jerks, for jumping at every opportunity to bash and belittle anything you deem remedial. Social media is like the ultimate high school experience. It’s a popularity contest, and if you raise your hand, you just might get spit-balled. Some of us really, truly would like to share something with the rest of the class, but we’re just freaked out by the idea. I know I’m personally looking for the right to feel entitled to make noise.

As I mulled on this fear, the idea of ownership came up again and again. Who owns this space and whose permission do I need to get to be here? Can I get kicked out of this space? Oh God, can the Internet reject me?? Okay, now let’s think rationally. If the Internet was going to reject me, it would have happened the moment I thought Tom was a real friend on Myspace.

Who has to like this? I mean, really, why would I create something with the idea in mind that it’s only valid if others enjoy it? That seems like an excellent failure plan. The most beautiful things are created only for self-fullment. (See? There we are being narcissists again.) Like the weird, random, but lovely mission of two friends to mail letters to every resident of an Irish village.

Mysterious Letters.

I highly doubt this project was undertaken with the thought, “Gee, I hope everyone really likes this!” Who knows why they did this. Maybe they were drunk. But what does it matter? They made something for themselves, and I personally think it’s stunning.

Boiling it down; self-doubt is a bitch. Words make me happy. I get butterflies when I create them. It’s better than a three-cups-of-coffee buzz. In seventh grade, I ran into my English teacher’s classroom unannounced and burst into a full reenactment of the story I had decided to write. The idea of it was so exciting that it was exploding out of my ears. I shriveled in horror when I realized she was speaking with another teacher that I had never met. My English teacher stared at me in blank confusion. Her companion burst into laughter, through which he asked, “Who is this little sprite?”

I love that. I still want to be that. A narcissistic, noisy, little sprite. With no flickering.

The wait at the physical therapy office I attend can be quite cumbersome. I’m aware of this. I’ve been there more than once, so I come prepared. I load up my best friend (A.K.A. iPad) with something interesting to read and try to count myself lucky that this is guilt-free time to do nothing but read.

This evening, I was a little surprised when another seasoned therapy-goer snapped at the youthful receptionist and threatened to walk out on her appointment. (Great, just makes the wait shorter for me, woman.) The receptionist apologized profusely and fumbled through the appointment book to find another open slot. Grumpy sighed and passive aggressively answered, “I guess so,” to the new appointment time, before sweeping out the door.

During this exchange, I just so happened to be reading a passage focused on crisis management in a digital world. I couldn’t help but connect the two. Did the receptionist provide the correct response? What kind of, “Complainer,” was this lady?  I.E. Does she pretty much hate the world, or is she a loyal customer having a bad experience? Would this lady go outside and tweet her outrage, burning her contempt into would-be patients? Probably not. This is a tiny office, in a tiny town.

However, it got me thinking about who in this world really handles the most crisis-management. I remember asking a college professor how one got into, “Crisis Response,” in the world of PR, as I had an interest in it. I was informed that you could only get there by being a seasoned vet, and very few had the skills for it.

I can’t help but laugh at that. I know fewer experienced managers handling customer crises on a daily basis than I do 20-somethings. It’s those wet-behind-the-ears youngsters. They have the most face to face interaction with consumers, and the best understanding of their experience/disappointment/outrage. Also, chances are it’s not even the first time they’ve heard the complaint. (Obviously here we’re discussing day to day crises, not Exxon-Valdez.)

The higher up you go in management, the LESS likely you are to find someone who wants to deal with a problem. Passing a customer to a superior is tantamount to admitting you’ve failed. You’ve messed up, and need saving. Later, you’re going to be dressed down on how it, “should have been handled.”

Thinking back on the beleagured physical therapy receptionist, I wonder if any one ever discussed crisis management with her. In fact, why is any entry level employee expected to know the, “correct,” response to a problem? Teach them. Imagine if every angry customer was greeted with a well-versed team member who didn’t need to contact the boss because they already knew what the boss would say?

Now let’s bring it full circle! The article I was reading discussed who should be involved in digital crisis communications. If I’m ever constructing a Public Relations team, the first person I’m adding is a receptionist. He/she would already know the customers, understand where there are hiccups in their experience, and will probably be the person who is asked to answer for them.

And if you find yourself with a long wait and an iPad, I highly suggest a combination of Angry Birds and Spotify.

I know I’m not the only one who adores the classic Lindsey Lohan vehicle, “Mean Girls.” My favorite moment took place as Ms. Lohan finally got her crush alone in her bedroom. As her voice-over so eloquently described, she couldn’t resist the urge to bash on her,”frenemy.” She was about to have word-vomit.

Word-Vomit. You're not alone.

(Snagged here.)

I too suffer from the incurable condition of word-vomit. But I also like to refer to it as inspiration in polite conversation. It happens in waves. It happens dramatically, and it sends you running out of bed in the middle of the night.

In my first post-college job, I was asked to aid in writing product descriptions to lure prospective accounts into signing on with us. I was over the moon. My first REAL writing challenge! The world was my oyster and I was about to shoot that little bastard.

And I promptly choked on that oyster as my boss handed back my lovely description with a pained, “It’s fine. But it’s not us.”

My little brain reeled. “Wait, what? That was a perfect description! I’d sign the contract after reading that.” Lady was clearly just not getting it. Okay. I wasn’t getting it. What wasn’t I getting? US. I wasn’t getting the company. The brand. The voice we use to form an emotional bond, not push a product.

So I stepped back. Looked around me at all the products. Looked at the girls sitting next to me, and the heart they poured into their work, and the feeling that went into their creations. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and (I’m not kidding here) imagined quietly throwing up those emotions. Gross. Yes. My fingers hit the keys at the same moment.

My boss-lady smiled and nodded at the next draft. And handed me two more projects.

I have no idea where inspiration comes from. I have not a clue how other people find it. But mine is, well, like a sickness. I have to gorge myself on the subject, and then take a mental gut-punch to bring it back up, half-digested into words. This rule applies not just to writing that needs to take on the tone of a company, or project. I have to do it just to write as myself.

I skirt around the computer. Watch, “Animal Cops.” Walk the dog. Decide laundry needs attending. Then, finally, I hit the iPod. I blast something perfectly me. I have a solo dance party. Get the feeling of my own brain. I get full on myself. Then it happens.

Word-Vomit.

Once, I e-mailed Peter Shankman. (He lives here online.) I couldn’t help it. He dared the readers of his new book, “Customer Service: New Rules for a Social Media World.” He published his e-mail address to prove the point that he takes the time to personally respond to all messages. So while sitting in my bed one night, I whisked off a little note to Mr. Shankman on the same iPad I was using to read the book. I compulsively updated my mail for about 15 mins, and then fell asleep.

The next morning, this little gem awaited me:

Shankman Lives!

Loved.

It.

I then had to fight the urge to severely abuse his clear trust of his audience and beg him to get me a really awesome public relations gig. I mean, he would HAVE to write me back every time I sent him an obnoxious message. Maybe I could just break his will, and he’d hand me a job just to make me go away.

Totally makes sense. Go with it.

But after the crazy faded a bit, I started thinking a bit more about what his action meant. It meant he was a man of his word. He made a statement and he stood by it.

That simple idea is something I’ve struggled with during my relatively short time in the work force. The world is weird right now. I’ve watched so many businesses make statements and quickly give up on them when the bottom line of $$$ throws up a road block. Nothing drives me more insane than a company that says one thing and does another.

And it’s something I can’t tolerate in myself.

I gathered my degree in Public Relations because I honestly loved it. I loved the problem solving. I loved building a relationship with consumers. I loved putting words on a page in a way that connected with an audience, and gave them my excitement.

This summer I turned 25. Not old, but 19-year-old me that fell in love with marketing would be horrified by the current me. The current me who hasn’t written anything besides e-mails at work in months. The current me who sighs longingly at those who get to do what they love. I woke up one morning horrified that I had told myself something, and I hadn’t followed through.

So it’s time to change that. It’s time for a homework assignment. 30 days of writing. No excuses.

Is it Public Relations? Ehhh, I’ll get to that another day. Will it be the BEST THING EVER?? Probably not. But you know what? I’m really good at being myself. And I’m really good at making noise. So I’ll guarantee a lot of that.