At least I don't sell funnel cakes anymore.

LYRIC O’ THE DAY:

She’s long gone with her red shoes on

Gonna need another loving babe

--Nobody But the Baby, Allison Krauss, Gillian Welch, Emmylou Harris

This Insecure Writer’s Support Group post isn’t exactly about writerly insecurities, but about the decisions we make in order to be secure.  Because lately, most of my insecurities have to do with my Day Job, which isn’t writing.  Writing is my salvation, my dream--the highlight of my reality.  The Day Job is becoming less and less emotionally fulfilling for me.  The reasons I went in to medicine are incongruent with what medicine is becoming.

So I should quit, right?  Find a better fit?  Well here’s where that insecure part of me comes in.  Down deep, I am a practical gypsy.  A gypsy with a mortgage, and school loans, and health insurance costs for two little boys.  A gypsy that knows I am fortunate to have the security of any job in this economic climate.

I dedicate today’s post for the Insecure Writer’s Support Group to being too insecure to give up security.  To embracing the jobs that put money in your pocket while you chase other dreams.  The jobs that you’d change in a heartbeat if the opportunity presented itself.

I have had a variety of craptastic jobs in my life.  I have been employed as the Wal-mart snack bar queen, forced to wear a smock and distribute liquid cheese.  I was a construction strumpet (see Vibrator girl for further info).  I offered my body to medical science as a guinea pig for an experiment on acid reflux.  When someone comes at you with a tube they want to stick down your throat, don’t believe them when they tell you that anesthesia is not necessary.  Unless you’re in to that sort of thing.

I was thumbing through an advertisement the other day when I was triggered to recall one of my favorite sucktacular jobs.  The good folks at Bed, Bath and Beyond have now made it possible to own--for the low price of $14.99--your very own funnel cake maker set.  Because families out there are so desperate for food implements that this will become a crucial part of daily food prep.  And heck, with the obesity crisis looming, why not support a chicken in every pot, a car in every garage, and a funnel cake maker in every pantry? 

Begin flashback to a sultry Nebraska summer in 1988, complete with acid washed cutoffs and explosion bangs as far as the eye can see.  

Setting:  The Dawson County Speedway concession stand.

Occupation:  Funnel cake maker.

For those of you who have no idea what a funnel cake is, think bastardized fritter.  It involves batter.  Not the tight pants and Skoal batter of baseball fame, but pancake batter.  Overly sweetened batter that still has the gritty texture of its powdered mix origins.  Put said batter into a device reminiscent of the Tin Man’s oil can.  Heat a skillet of fluorescent yellow industrial grade vegetable oil until sweat drips off your brow from the radiant heat.  Place a piece of circular metal into the pan--this is your funnel cake “mold”.  Now pour the batter in a frenetic pattern resembling something a schizophrenic spider might make.  This is out of necessity, not design, because quick movements are required to avoid splattering scalding grease on lily white skin.  The scars of the summer of ’88 will be with me forever, literally.  

The batter should puff up and turn golden brown.  If it resembles the last time your cat Mr. Snuggles had the runs, there is a problem with the mix to liquid ratio.  Flip the cake and cook the other side. 

Once both sides are complete, transfer the creation onto a layer of paper towels to soak up extraneous grease.  Or if you work at the Speedway, add a pound of powdered sugar to serve the purpose instead.  Because nothing says delicious like a powdered sugar/oil slurry.  Whipped cream is also your friend and can camouflage breakage and overzealous cooking.  Throw the thing on a styrofoam plate, making sure it’s still hot enough to melt holes in the pseudo-plastic and increase your carbon foot print two-fold.  Serve with a sprig of mint and a smile.  

The funnel cake was a popular item at the Dawson County Speedway.  Something about the sound of roaring engines and the smell of burning rubber makes a person crave oil saturated dough and things that are white and powdery.  Eau de Fryer was the perfume of the concession stand jezebel that attracted rotund Nebraskans from miles around.

Perhaps not the worst fair food, but I'm biased.  My kingdom for a deep fat fried twinkie.

Our motto was:  “Ignore the numbness in your arm.  That’s just saturated fat giving you a hug.”

Every morning when I get up without the stench of fried dough clinging to my hair, I feel thankful for my current job, even if it’s not exactly where I want to be.  

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had to pay the bills?

Author on Author Smackdown on the IWSG

Happy Wednesday!!  It's the third installment of Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writer's Support Group. 

In prior posts, I've explained how I try to handle insecurity with humor, because laughing in the face of adversity sure beats crawling in a dark closet with a bag of Oreos and a bottle of red wine.    


We all feel insecure at times, but there are decidedly different ways to handle it.  I think most writers approach insecurity on the defense, trying to prepare for the worst and muddle through.  However, some authors have adopted a more offensive strategy, in all senses of the word.  I think most people will agree that insecurity can be the root of other negative emotions like envy or in the extreme, hate.  When I saw this historical list of the top 30 author-on-author insult smackdowns, I had to wonder how much insecurity had to do with the animosity.


Never cross an author, they have mad insult skills.  And if you live with an author, take a cue from this clip from the New Yorker to keep insecurity--and the offensive author--at bay.

Maturity Insecurity

LYRIC O’ THE DAY:

I’m not your lover, I’m not your friend.

I am something that you’ll never comprehend.

--I Would Die 4 U, Prince

My body is turning on me.

Crawling out of bed in the morning is a little harder than it was ten years ago.  My hands hurt.  I can’t open diet Coke bottles anymore.  I have gas, and frequently.  Parts of me that used to look a man straight in the eye now stare at the ground.  I’ve had surgery on places where no one should have to have surgery.

My youth has taken off like a prom dress, despite Estee Lauder’s promises.

Although I’m not looking forward to hot flashes or hair growing where it shouldn’t, I have decided to embrace one age-related affliction:  selective hearing.  For example, my 70 year-old father can’t hear my mother yelling to turn the football game down when she’s only a foot away in her recliner, but if I open a sack of chocolate covered peanuts from three rooms over while listening to AC/DC, he’s asking for one.

I’m hoping selective hearing will help me with this nagging voice in my head.  It’s been with me for as long as I can remember, like an inconvenient birthmark that sounds like Fran Drescher.  And when that voice starts, she goes for the jugular.  I call these periods a Bitchy Inner Monologue Beast Outbreak--or BIMBO for short.

BIMBO:  Are you still working on the same story?  You’re never going to get that thing published.  Surrender the fantasy. 

Me:  I think I can polish it.

BIMBO:  Can’t polish a turd.

Me:  It’s not that bad.

BIMBO:  Snooki called.  She wants her manuscript back.

Me:  The bachelorette party scene is funny.  All my betas laugh. 

BIMBO:  They laugh the polite laughter of people who think you’re two steps from losing it.  Same thing they do when you wear your jeggings.

Me:  Well, maybe it is missing something. 

BIMBO:  I think I know what you’re missing--it’s called plot.

Me:  There’s no motivation for the main character.  And I need less backstory.

BIMBO:  You need more pizazz.  Put another sex scene there.

Me:  That’s a funeral scene.

BIMBO:  Not if you make the corpse sparkly.  Necrophilia is only bad if you’re human.

Me:  Do you think I’m a terrible writer?

BIMBO:  Yes.  Although your grocery lists are quite riveting.  Who knew there were so many types of vodka?

Me:  Maybe if I cut the first three chapters and start with the car crash scene.  OMIGOD!  That’s brilliant!

BIMBO:  Uh, are you listening to me?  You should seriously consider a different career path.  Something you’re good at, like making poor fashion choices or collating paper.

Me:  I can do this!  I’m awesome.  

BIMBO:  HELLO?  Have you looked at yourself in the mirror today?  Because that antioxidant cream you bought is a total rip off.  I suggest you invest in paper bags.

Me:  Did you say something?  Because I think I just heard somebody open some chocolate peanuts.

Doubt and insecurity are unavoidable and affect us all--just like aging.  But truly growing up as a writer involves using that selective hearing to ignore the BIMBOs.  Here’s to being a mature writer, both chronologically and methodically. 

Happy Insecure Writer’s Support Group Wednesday!  For more tales from the trenches, visit Alex J. Cavanaugh’s blog, he’s the one that made this all possible. 

I'm funny, but looks aren't everything

LYRIC O’ THE DAY:

Simple joys have a simple voice,

It says why not go ahead?

--Simple Joys (done by Ben Vereen), Pippin

Today kicks off Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writer's Support Group.  It’s a little loving web support for writers to share their hopes, their fears, and their neuroses with other stark raving lunatics creative souls.  Many thanks to Alex for putting this together with the grace and style we've all become accustomed to!  So get comfortable, put on some show tunes, and show me your jazz hands.  Because everyone’s a star today. 

I am not a classic beauty.  

My face is all angles and lines, and we’re talking more Picasso than Porizkova.

I am not photogenic.  I’ve never been the girl in spring break photos with big doe eyes and blinding Chiclet white teeth.

I’m the girl who shows her uvula in pictures; the one that ruined your class photo with a well-timed gesture.  You’re welcome.

I’m the funny one.  Although at times I’ve been referred to as “strange,” “spaz,” and the ever popular, “dork.”  Talent is so subjective.

Around age seven, I realized I was failing as a princess.  Pink’s never been my color.  That’s when I discovered Lucille Ball, and playing the jester seemed like a more viable plan, tiaras optional.  I’ve spent my life following the irreverent girls, the ones who laughed too loud and too often, even at their own jokes.  Olivia Newton John may have rocked her poodle skirt in Grease but I worshipped Rizzo’s smartass charm.  Sally Field exuded quiet strength in Steel Magnolias but I wanted to be in your face like Shirley MacLaine. 

Everything I write has humor in it.  Making someone laugh is a high for me; my shot of tequila without the risk of waking up naked in a hall closet.  To me, life is only worth living if you’re laughing.  Maybe this stems from my career in health care.  Humans are sensitive and easily broken creatures.  I’ve learned that if you can’t find the joy in a bleak situation you’ll drown in sadness.  

But there’s a serious side to my happy jester act, a truth that hides not so far under the surface.  Humor is my way of dealing with insecurity, a way to mock the darkness before it can swallow me.  My greatest fear is no one laughing, and then the joke’s on me.

But when someone finds me amusing, has their outlook brightened for even a moment by something I did or said?

Affirmation.  Absolution.  Acceptance.  I banish the sober face of doubt for another day.

Humor is my insecurity blanket.  So please, laugh with me.  I want to bring you a smile, hell, I’ll even settle for a exasperated eyeroll.  I’m easy like that.

  “I’m not funny.  What I am is brave.”  --Lucille Ball.