For the last five years (longer, if you include the six months I worked on the site before we actually launched), I’ve been editing The Frisky. But I’ve also done quite a bit of writing for the site, particularly about sex and relationships. In addition to humorously, I hope, commenting on the state of dating and male and female behavior (“10 Types Of Emotional Wheelchairs” remains a favorite of mine), I have shared a whole heck of a lot about my own personal life. My intent was always to shed some sort of light on universal experiences through the lens of my own. I think I was often fairly successful at it — and it certainly has been both fun and cathartic for me — but I also made some mistakes that informed how I write about my personal life now. Here are some lessons I’ve learned over the last five years blogging about my personal life for The Frisky. Keep reading »
This is not directed at any one person. This is something I feel I have to say on behalf of myself and possibly many other female bloggers out there.
It makes my freaking day when people email me or comment or come up to me in public and tell me that they like my blog or my videos or my writing for The Frisky. To know that there is someone else out there, across the vast and uncertain hollow space of Internet, to know that someone is reading, someone is taking the time out of their day to process words that I wrote or watch a video I made, means a lot to me.
As women bloggers though, we’re faced with certain issues that men aren’t. Keep reading »
Regular writing utensils are so boring. That’s why we’re super into this new app that let’s you draw with sloths. Yes, that’s right, sloths. The Sloths.AreRad.com gives you the sloth option (the app’s eraser is a moonraser, of course). I’ve drawn a note for Amelia in sloth, because she hates them and they make her uncomfortable. [Ick. -- Editor] [Sloths.Arerad.com]
I love when great opportunities just boink me in the head. One day my friend Liz asked me if I was looking for work. She was assisting a lovely writer but got a great job opportunity elsewhere that she couldn’t refuse. Would I like to take her place? That writer was Amy Ephron. I called her, we spoke, and she invited me over to her house, for what I thought was an interview, but was apparently my first day on the job. Since that day two years ago, I’ve found not just a great boss, but a true mentor, someone who supports me and my writing.
I never understood the need for a mentor until I accidentally found one. I’m psyched to say that writer Amy Ephron is my mentor. I asked her about writing, feminism, and vices.
Keep reading »
“As he told her that he loved her she gazed into his eyes, wondering, as she noted the infestation of eyelash mites, the tiny deodicids burrowing into his follicles to eat the greasy sebum therein, each female laying up to 25 eggs in a single follicle, causing inflammation, whether the eyes are truly the windows of the soul; and, if so, his soul needed regrouting.”
This vile word concoction, penned by Cathy Bryant of Manchester, England, was officially crowned The Worst Sentence of 2012. Contestants who entered the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest were challenged to write the worst opening line to an imaginary novel. Congratulations Cathy, this is absolutely disgusting. The phrase “greasy sebum” might have just put me off food for the rest of the day. I wonder if the rest of her novel existed, if it would be a Harlequin horror where people in love were plagued to blindness by a rare breed of flesh-eating eyelash mites. That cold be fun, I’m totally entering this contest next year. There are too many good writers out there, the world needs more crappy ones. After the jump, some other worst sentence winners. Keep reading »
The death of Irish novelist Maeve Binchy earlier this week has inspired a lot of articles, most of them warm tributes to her kind heart, quick wit, and writing ability.
British novelist Amanda Craig took a different tack.
In a piece published today by The Telegraph, she wonders whether Binchy might have been a better writer if she had been a mother. The subtitle is even more blunt, asking: “Does a female novelist need to have experienced motherhood to truly understand human emotions?” Keep reading »
When I saw on Twitter on Tuesday night that the iconic writer Nora Ephron had passed away, I felt the sort of panic you feel when someone you know in real life is in trouble. Though I’d met Nora Ephron several times in the past few years at parties, I could hardly say I knew her. Yet through her books and articles, which I’d read throughout my 20s, I felt not only like I really knew her but like she was a guardian angel figure in my life, an older aunt or a mom’s best friend who was always there with quick wit and common sense. Moreso than other second-wave women I admire — Gloria Steinem, Toni Morrison, Jane Fonda, Joan Baez — I would ask myself in moments of career crisis, What did Nora Ephron do when she went through this same thing? Like me, Nora Ephron had feminist sensibilities, but didn’t run in strict feminist circles. Like me, she was ambitious and talented, but wanted a family life, too. And most importantly, like me, she’d worked as a newspaper reporter, but really blossomed writing about herself. Keep reading »
Mining my life for sexual material wasn’t entirely new. I’d written, after all, about my sex life in various publications and even penned an extremely graphic novel chapter about a guy masturbating to a picture of a girl he liked and read it at Rachel Kramer Bussel’s now-defunct reading series, “In The Flesh.”
But that scene was funny more than it was dirty. Besides, it wasn’t about me. Plus I’d abandoned that novel halfway through so it never saw the light of day.
In the books I’d published, I’d somehow avoided sex. My mother even commented at one point that the sex scenes in my books were more coitus interruptus than actual coitus. Keep reading »
It makes me feel better that my lady writer hero, Dorothy Parker, also suffered occasionally from writer’s block. She sent this telegram to her editor, Pascal Covici, because she was so ashamed she couldn’t even look him “in the voice.” What a fabulous line, by the way. I have a feeling what she wrote was probably amazing. Ah, the writer’s curse. Nowadays, if I’m suffering a brain freeze, I just send an apologetic email to Amelia about my “incompetence.” Maybe I should start sending telegrams instead. [Letters of Note] Keep reading »
“You are in danger of rushing something that needs to be taken slowly. Yes, okay, you may have slipped behind a bit in your schedule but is it really that important? Probably not. Take your time and get it right.” — My horoscope (Scorpio) on Sunday October 24th
I’m not always the most patient person. On Sunday, the day that I read the horoscope above — which I then photographed with my iPhone for safe keeping because it resonated that much — I made butternut squash soup and adapted the recipe to include caramelized onions. If you’ve ever attempted to make caramelized onions, you know they take an insane amount of patience. When you’ve gotten to the point where you think they’re done, that they’ve reached the ultimate level of sweet brown deliciousness, chances are, they need another 10 minutes more. I never ever give them enough time. Keep reading »