“Certification”
“So, how is your teacher certification going?” I had a friend ask me recently.
“Well, my teacher training is going great,” I began. “But, technically, there’s no certification.”
“What? I thought, at the end of this, you’d be certified at the 200-hour level.”
“Well, I’ll be registered at the 200-hour level. With Yoga Alliance,” I tried to explain.
“So you won’t be certified to teach?” my friend downright yelped. She looked at me in a way that said: Poor thing, you are getting scammed.
I had a few friends recently go to a Yin Yoga Teacher Training. At the end, one of the friends asked, “So, does this mean we’re certified to teach Yin?”
“Well, you have now been trained in Yin Yoga teaching. Be careful saying you’re certified.”
My disdain for the word “certified” is not a new one. I’ve been learning tai chi for almost as long as I’ve been practicing yoga. I prided myself on training one-on-one with a teacher who was born, raised, and trained in China – a teacher whose own instructor has won multiple national championships in China with his forms of wushu. There is no “training” system in China: you learn your martial art with your instructor, and you are only ready to teach when your own instructor says you are ready to teacher. And this is (ideally) not something an instructor takes lightly; they won’t say, “oh, you should so teach what you’ve learned!” as a way of flattery.
This is true with most martial arts, and yoga as a whole: there is no “official” certification system.
By the time I started making my transition into the world of physical well-being, my own instructor had been advising me to teach for almost a year. Some places – namely martial art studios – accepted my, “I was trained by X, who was trained by Y, and I come upon the recommendation of X,” (as well as a free demo class) as my credentials. Yoga studios, if interested in tai chi, were also accepting.
And then I tried to expand where I applied.
By the time I started contacting community centers, I was very used to rejection. From studios that did not feel adding on tai chi would be in their best interest to classes that didn’t generate enough students to merit continuation, to business straight up going out of business while I was teaching there. So I was ready to be told they had no interest in me. What I didn’t expect a hyper-emphasis on “certification”. I would explain how there is no official certification system, and – while some are independently in place – the traditional view is on the lineage of tutelage, not a piece of paper.
(This did not impress them and I typically would never hear back.)
This culminated in an email from a center director who let me know that they “already had a tai chi instructor” who “actually was certified to teach tai chi.” This passive-aggressive dig let the wind out of my sails, putting me in a funk that, fittingly enough, only an intense yoga class could get me out of.
I bemoaned my frustration to a friend (I think I used the phrase, “Thirty-five different levels of ‘I cannot’ right now.”), who let me know that he has a friend going a similar situation: his friend is a wedding photographer, and apparently has been losing clients left and right because he is not, “Wedding Photog Certified”.
Yes, apparently that’s a “thing”.
I decided to look into this “tai chi certification”, which lead me to almost twenty different sites, half of which looked like that had updated their coding as recently as 2002. One site essentially told me that I can get certified if I write them a really nice letter, get my instructor to write them a really nice letter, and pay them a boatload of money. Another site boasted “online training”. Only a few even specified what family of tai chi they specialized in.
In those websites’ defense, some appeared genuinely concerned about a ensuring high quality of teaching. But what if I got certified through one of those more dubious sites? Would anyone care? Probably not. All they would care is that I am “certified”.
And we see this all the time with yoga as well: how many yoga instructors do you know say that are a “200/500 Hour-Level Certified Yoga Instructor”? How many trainings word themselves that way? How many are slow to admit that there is no certification system that is recognized by Yoga Alliance – or by the yoga community at large?
I see myself doing it when I start searching for yoga teacher positions (as my training wraps up in August): everyone wants a “certified yoga instructor”, and I could be costing myself a job if I point out to them that no one is technically “certified”. I see instructors boasting certification in various forms of yoga, and all I can do is recall that Yin Yoga instructor warning his students to not use that wording.
Listen, people: I am all about ensuring quality. It’s why I spent a year agonizing over teaching tai chi until I knew I could teach it in a way that was comprehensive and adaptable. It’s why I’m downright killing myself to get as much from my yoga teacher training as possible. But something horrible happens when we place a hyper-emphasis on certifications for the sake of certifications: we get organizations that boast quick and easy certification for lots and lots of money. And we get teachers and other individuals feeling backed in a corner, like all they can do is shell out that money or be somehow “lacking”, even if they actually hurt their ability to teach by listening to this for-profit websites.
There is a reason why any worthwhile company that requires CPR certification go that step further and say through the Red Cross or through the American Heart Association: because to say, “Get certified,” and nothing more leads a lot of people to go on “certification websites”, which are nothing more than a few YouTube videos and a demand for $45 or more before you are deemed “certified”.
As a culture, we love that word. A “certified pre-owned car” is better than “used” because it means it passed an inspection test by the manufacturing company and comes with a warrantee. “Certified organic” is better than “natural” because it means that particular food item has passed very specific rigors (whereas almost any company can call their food “natural”, but that’s for another time). We’ve become so ingrained with this evil C word that we sometimes look for it without understanding why.
The quality of how you learn is vital. It’s why yoga teacher trainings that are accredited by the Yoga Alliance are considered your best option. But this hyper-emphasis on “certified” can do way more harm than good. It creates a breeding ground of people looking to make a dollar off of very frustrated instructors – or wedding photographers. It’s time to take a step back and band together when people ask for a, “Yoga teacher certified at the 200-hour level.”
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Day 289 of 365: Over the Hill
So, let's talk about something other than running, shall we?
Because I did it. I finally did it: I finally wrote the climax of my third manuscript.
Anyone who has even passed by a novel writing workshop can tell you that a proper novel -- that a proper story in general -- has an arc to it. The only time this deviates is in short stories, where the story might cut off at the climax, making it more of an upward slope. But a dynamic story always has that build-up. And a proper novel, movie, or TV show, will then have the slope back down -- the resolution and closure.
If there has ever been a time I feel like arc, it's been with this manuscript. Not in the "I'm writing a truly dynamic story because I can feel the build-up in the story!" way, but in the, "Oh my God, I am climbing uphill," way. The closer and closer I got to that high point in the story -- that moment when all the shit hath hit-eth the fan-eth and everything comes to a head -- the more I felt like I was doing an upward climb, downright trudging uphill with my feet sinking in the mud with every step. And the closer I got to the top, the steeper the climb got. To make matters worse, there was no path on this hypothetical climb. I genuinely didn't know if I was going uphill or just meandering around the mountain.
But somehow I stumbled, tripped, and grasped my way to the top. The hard part is now over.
(I hope).
So now I have two chapters to write now, with that last chapter potentially being just as difficult as that "climax" chapter (man I feel dirty every type I say, "climax"). And, much like many things in this manuscript, the climax was written and rewritten and will probably undergo some heavy edits after everything is said and done. But it's a weird relief to know it's all downhill from here.
Because I did it. I finally did it: I finally wrote the climax of my third manuscript.
Anyone who has even passed by a novel writing workshop can tell you that a proper novel -- that a proper story in general -- has an arc to it. The only time this deviates is in short stories, where the story might cut off at the climax, making it more of an upward slope. But a dynamic story always has that build-up. And a proper novel, movie, or TV show, will then have the slope back down -- the resolution and closure.
If there has ever been a time I feel like arc, it's been with this manuscript. Not in the "I'm writing a truly dynamic story because I can feel the build-up in the story!" way, but in the, "Oh my God, I am climbing uphill," way. The closer and closer I got to that high point in the story -- that moment when all the shit hath hit-eth the fan-eth and everything comes to a head -- the more I felt like I was doing an upward climb, downright trudging uphill with my feet sinking in the mud with every step. And the closer I got to the top, the steeper the climb got. To make matters worse, there was no path on this hypothetical climb. I genuinely didn't know if I was going uphill or just meandering around the mountain.
But somehow I stumbled, tripped, and grasped my way to the top. The hard part is now over.
(I hope).
So now I have two chapters to write now, with that last chapter potentially being just as difficult as that "climax" chapter (man I feel dirty every type I say, "climax"). And, much like many things in this manuscript, the climax was written and rewritten and will probably undergo some heavy edits after everything is said and done. But it's a weird relief to know it's all downhill from here.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Day 288 of 365: Downsizing
Timing is hilarious: last night, just when I was realizing that the feeling from that tendon was about equal parts "turning a set of rusty gears" and "waking up an old injury", I get an email from the Boston Run to Remember, letting people know that, at bib pick-up, if they want to switch to the 5-mile course (which takes off at the same time), they can at no charge.
I woke up today feeling maybe 65% in my left knee. Not the agony I was in when I first injured it, but not exactly ready to do a cha-cha or any high kicks anytime soon. The type of 65% that tells me that I could easily run a 5-miler with only minor setbacks in healing -- but a 13.1 course would result in me potentially collapsing in pain by the 9-mile mark.
So while there is a really good chance that I'm still running this race, there is also a really good chance that, at bib pick-up, I'll be asking to switch over to the 5-mile.
Part of me is frustrated. Part of me is relieved. And part of me recognizes how funny it is that I consider "only running 5 miles" to be a downsize.
I mean, people train to run 5 miles. People train to run 5 kilometers. And I ran just a hair under 5K (and by "a hair" I mean I ran roughly 4) yesterday as a test run. Five miles used to be my "well I got to get some type of run in" distance, my "I haven't run in a few weeks so I should take it easy" run.
And now it's my "well I'm injured so I should probably take it easy" run.
I know that this sounds like a gigantic pat of the back for me, touting my oh-so-amazing athletic ability in comparison to those peasants with average levels of athleticism. But this is the type of pat on the back you give said athlete when they lose a close game. A, "there, there, let's focus on the positives." The consolation that, even though you aren't in the finals, you played one hell of a series and, hey, at the end of the day, you're still the Boston Bruins.
Hmm. Guess I still have the Bruins/Habs series on my mind.
And, like I said before, I recognize that running this race when I'm not 100% will most likely result in undoing some of the healing. And I've conceded that, after this race, I cannot even think about signing up for a race -- let alone train for one -- for a good, long while. Upwards of a month, maybe even two. Which throws the Chicago Marathon for an absolute loop (my goal was 20 miles by the end of June, so I could spend the hot summer months "taking it easy" before upping my game again in September).
I know this race is all I'm talking about right now, but, hey, it is what's on my mind, and I'm going to write about it. Because I still have roughly 80 more days for this blog and I can't wax philosophical on the human experience in every post.
I woke up today feeling maybe 65% in my left knee. Not the agony I was in when I first injured it, but not exactly ready to do a cha-cha or any high kicks anytime soon. The type of 65% that tells me that I could easily run a 5-miler with only minor setbacks in healing -- but a 13.1 course would result in me potentially collapsing in pain by the 9-mile mark.
So while there is a really good chance that I'm still running this race, there is also a really good chance that, at bib pick-up, I'll be asking to switch over to the 5-mile.
Part of me is frustrated. Part of me is relieved. And part of me recognizes how funny it is that I consider "only running 5 miles" to be a downsize.
I mean, people train to run 5 miles. People train to run 5 kilometers. And I ran just a hair under 5K (and by "a hair" I mean I ran roughly 4) yesterday as a test run. Five miles used to be my "well I got to get some type of run in" distance, my "I haven't run in a few weeks so I should take it easy" run.
And now it's my "well I'm injured so I should probably take it easy" run.
I know that this sounds like a gigantic pat of the back for me, touting my oh-so-amazing athletic ability in comparison to those peasants with average levels of athleticism. But this is the type of pat on the back you give said athlete when they lose a close game. A, "there, there, let's focus on the positives." The consolation that, even though you aren't in the finals, you played one hell of a series and, hey, at the end of the day, you're still the Boston Bruins.
Hmm. Guess I still have the Bruins/Habs series on my mind.
And, like I said before, I recognize that running this race when I'm not 100% will most likely result in undoing some of the healing. And I've conceded that, after this race, I cannot even think about signing up for a race -- let alone train for one -- for a good, long while. Upwards of a month, maybe even two. Which throws the Chicago Marathon for an absolute loop (my goal was 20 miles by the end of June, so I could spend the hot summer months "taking it easy" before upping my game again in September).
I know this race is all I'm talking about right now, but, hey, it is what's on my mind, and I'm going to write about it. Because I still have roughly 80 more days for this blog and I can't wax philosophical on the human experience in every post.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Day 287 of 365: Just a Small Run
I went on my first run today: a meager one, especially compared to the potential 13.1 I might be doing this Sunday. I ran for roughly 2.5 miles at a moderate jog. I kept it easy, especially since it felt like I was turning rusty gears with my left knee (or, at least, I choose to believe it was like turning a set of rusty gears -- and not aggravating an injury). I got home, stretched like I was preparing for the Yoga Olympics (which is actually a thing, sadly enough), and took a super hot shower, praying to God I wasn't injured.
I'm a little sore, my knee certainly isn't at 100%, but I feel alright.
It's just a small run, but, for me, it's hope. I'm not too concerned with finishing the race; it's oddly reassuring that, of all the things I need to worry about, muscle fatigue really isn't on that list. Waking up old injuries and getting debilitating blisters? Yes. Fatiguing out? Nope. Especially not on this course, which ropes around Boston proper (and everyone knows that while Heartbreak Hill is heartbreaking, Boston-Boston is as flat as a pancake).
Last week, the temptation to quit was so huge. I thought about all the shit I could do. In reality, these were things I could do anyway, or at a later time; I was just zeroing in on them because it was easier than admitting how difficult this race could be for me.
I mapped out a fairly decent reintegration plan that will at least get my feet somewhat ready for the race. I'm willing to let go off running for a month or two after the race; I just want to cross that finish line next Sunday.
This might mean that the Chicago Marathon is out, which I'm less than thrilled about. The Boston Half Marathon is on the same weekend, so if I can't get my butt to Chicago, then at least I can be half-assed and run a half-marathon. This is all in the future; right now, all I need to do is make sure I'm healthy (or at least healthy enough) for next Sunday.
I'm a little sore, my knee certainly isn't at 100%, but I feel alright.
It's just a small run, but, for me, it's hope. I'm not too concerned with finishing the race; it's oddly reassuring that, of all the things I need to worry about, muscle fatigue really isn't on that list. Waking up old injuries and getting debilitating blisters? Yes. Fatiguing out? Nope. Especially not on this course, which ropes around Boston proper (and everyone knows that while Heartbreak Hill is heartbreaking, Boston-Boston is as flat as a pancake).
Last week, the temptation to quit was so huge. I thought about all the shit I could do. In reality, these were things I could do anyway, or at a later time; I was just zeroing in on them because it was easier than admitting how difficult this race could be for me.
I mapped out a fairly decent reintegration plan that will at least get my feet somewhat ready for the race. I'm willing to let go off running for a month or two after the race; I just want to cross that finish line next Sunday.
This might mean that the Chicago Marathon is out, which I'm less than thrilled about. The Boston Half Marathon is on the same weekend, so if I can't get my butt to Chicago, then at least I can be half-assed and run a half-marathon. This is all in the future; right now, all I need to do is make sure I'm healthy (or at least healthy enough) for next Sunday.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Day 286 of 365: The Lost Days of Oafishness
I'm apparently too stubborn for my own good. I went on a light jog that didn't outright suck, so I'm not ready to put myself out of the running just yet when it comes to, well, running. I also went on the half-marathon's website and saw where I would be running, which made me just that more pumped to run.
All this hullabaloo over my injuries and getting old made me think about all those aforementioned things that I had quit long ago: ballet in elementary school, track before I hit my junior year of high school. I think about how I spent years, my entire adolescence and then some, describing myself as "oafish" and "that tall, gangly one", much to the disarmingly ready agreement of my then-friends. I think about those years as an "oaf". I think about what changed between then and now and I realize that it's not just because I got more athletic, or because I started training more. It was because I got some self-esteem.
One of the nicest things about growing into my late twenties is that I've grown to have an appreciation for who I am and what I can do. I don't compare constantly the way I would as a teenager. I'm not measuring the width of my torso and weeping to myself because my torso is way wider than, say, Christina Aguilera's (which is humorous, given how today she's so voluptuous).
I spent a lot of my life assuming I was too awkward for my own good. In a cruel, ironic twist, because I felt so oafish, I never signed up for anything that required any athletic skill, because I assumed I would miss the mark, not realizing that I had so much athletic potential just waiting to be tapped into. And maybe -- just maybe -- if I had stuck it out with dance, or track, or had some type of mentor who would see past all the "oafish" statements and tell me to cut the self-pitying crap, maybe I would've stopped seeing myself in such a light at an earlier age.
So now it's my turn to tell myself to cut it with the self-pitying crap, to deal with injuries as they occur and not obsess over them, and to keep on keeping on. Yes, it's easy to see the benefits of dropping from this race: I can attend a UFC event with my friends, I can have the weekend to myself, I don't have to wake up at butt o'clock to make my way to Boston. But, like I talked about yesterday, there's a 37-year-old future me who is ready to shake me for bemoaning over my "old" state, the same way I want to shake my 17-year-old self for bemoaning over her "oafish" state.
All this hullabaloo over my injuries and getting old made me think about all those aforementioned things that I had quit long ago: ballet in elementary school, track before I hit my junior year of high school. I think about how I spent years, my entire adolescence and then some, describing myself as "oafish" and "that tall, gangly one", much to the disarmingly ready agreement of my then-friends. I think about those years as an "oaf". I think about what changed between then and now and I realize that it's not just because I got more athletic, or because I started training more. It was because I got some self-esteem.
One of the nicest things about growing into my late twenties is that I've grown to have an appreciation for who I am and what I can do. I don't compare constantly the way I would as a teenager. I'm not measuring the width of my torso and weeping to myself because my torso is way wider than, say, Christina Aguilera's (which is humorous, given how today she's so voluptuous).
I spent a lot of my life assuming I was too awkward for my own good. In a cruel, ironic twist, because I felt so oafish, I never signed up for anything that required any athletic skill, because I assumed I would miss the mark, not realizing that I had so much athletic potential just waiting to be tapped into. And maybe -- just maybe -- if I had stuck it out with dance, or track, or had some type of mentor who would see past all the "oafish" statements and tell me to cut the self-pitying crap, maybe I would've stopped seeing myself in such a light at an earlier age.
So now it's my turn to tell myself to cut it with the self-pitying crap, to deal with injuries as they occur and not obsess over them, and to keep on keeping on. Yes, it's easy to see the benefits of dropping from this race: I can attend a UFC event with my friends, I can have the weekend to myself, I don't have to wake up at butt o'clock to make my way to Boston. But, like I talked about yesterday, there's a 37-year-old future me who is ready to shake me for bemoaning over my "old" state, the same way I want to shake my 17-year-old self for bemoaning over her "oafish" state.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Day 285 of 365: Charley Horse
From a medical standpoint, it makes perfect sense. From a life standpoint, it's some serious bullshit.
I've been dealing with a feeling like I had bruised the back of my right thigh for a few days now -- only there is no bruise. I couldn't help but laugh at the new monkey wrench being thrown into the machine, just as the back of my left knee has started to finally heal up. I told my husband (who tends to be my go-to medical guy, since his father is a doctor and, whatever information he didn't glean from his dad, he can get from calling up said dad) who said, "Sounds like a muscle sprain. And it makes perfect sense that it happened."
Apparently, when you injure one leg, you will very likely injure your other leg in some way while trying to compensate. So, while hobbling along with my left leg, doing my best not to injure it any further, I sprained a hamstring muscle.
Obviously this means that my 3-mile "can I do it?" run isn't happening today. I'm giving myself another chance; if I can run those three miles tomorrow, then I can try to actually get this half-marathon going again. But even in my most stubborn state, I recognize that I'll probably be sitting this one out as well. At least I spent a little extra money this time around and bought registration fee insurance, so, if I have to, at least I won't be eating a massive registration fee like before.
I think the most frustrating part about this is the realization that I'm no longer at my physical peak. I get injured now. A lot. And it takes a while to heal. I'm not the 16-year-old anymore who can eat pavement and be fine the next day. I get shin splints. I get achy backs. And it's really easy to be frustrated over the "wasted youth", as if I could go into a time machine and keep myself from quitting things like ballet and track.
But that's life, and you can't get attached to the things you know will end. You can't hope for things to never change when change is inevitable. That's, like, rule number one in life. So while I nurse both legs now, all I can do is recognize that what I have right now is a gift -- that 37-year-old me will look back on this time with the same longing that I look back on my potential physicality at 17 -- and keep on keeping on. Charley horse and all.
I've been dealing with a feeling like I had bruised the back of my right thigh for a few days now -- only there is no bruise. I couldn't help but laugh at the new monkey wrench being thrown into the machine, just as the back of my left knee has started to finally heal up. I told my husband (who tends to be my go-to medical guy, since his father is a doctor and, whatever information he didn't glean from his dad, he can get from calling up said dad) who said, "Sounds like a muscle sprain. And it makes perfect sense that it happened."
Apparently, when you injure one leg, you will very likely injure your other leg in some way while trying to compensate. So, while hobbling along with my left leg, doing my best not to injure it any further, I sprained a hamstring muscle.
Obviously this means that my 3-mile "can I do it?" run isn't happening today. I'm giving myself another chance; if I can run those three miles tomorrow, then I can try to actually get this half-marathon going again. But even in my most stubborn state, I recognize that I'll probably be sitting this one out as well. At least I spent a little extra money this time around and bought registration fee insurance, so, if I have to, at least I won't be eating a massive registration fee like before.
I think the most frustrating part about this is the realization that I'm no longer at my physical peak. I get injured now. A lot. And it takes a while to heal. I'm not the 16-year-old anymore who can eat pavement and be fine the next day. I get shin splints. I get achy backs. And it's really easy to be frustrated over the "wasted youth", as if I could go into a time machine and keep myself from quitting things like ballet and track.
But that's life, and you can't get attached to the things you know will end. You can't hope for things to never change when change is inevitable. That's, like, rule number one in life. So while I nurse both legs now, all I can do is recognize that what I have right now is a gift -- that 37-year-old me will look back on this time with the same longing that I look back on my potential physicality at 17 -- and keep on keeping on. Charley horse and all.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Day 284 of 365: A Line Break for Every Sentence
I know I'm incredibly lucky to have been able to get my stuff out the way that I have. Granted, it took a lot of work and a lot of rejection emails, but it's nice to say that I have had my stuff published in various formats and on websites that get a lot of traffic.
That being said, I can't help but shake my head at some of the editing choices.
Sometimes it's in the form of a click-bait-y title, or italicizing words I didn't italicize. Sometimes it's in the form of replacing perfectly good parentheses and semi-colons with hyphens (which strikes a nerve with me because I'm still trying to get over my own little obsession with the N-dash and I have an irrational annoyance over the M-dash). And sometimes it's watching my carefully constructed paragraphs become diced up snippets.
You've seen them before: every sentence essentially gets a line break, as if the world is so ADD that five whole sentences in a row will throw people for a tizzy. And I can't help but laugh. I already use an excessive number of line breaks when I write. Do we really need to make my small paragraphs even smaller?
In some ways, I don't mind it. I mean, whatever it takes to get people to read my shit (someone pointed out that I probably have reached somewhere around two to three million people with my writing, mostly through my two viral essays). I am still hoping to parlay this into getting a manuscript or two sold, so whatever it takes to build an audience.
In other ways, it bothers me. As evidenced by my opinion on N-dashes versus M-dashes, I have a very particular way of crafting my words. I have a very specific cadence and I have a very specific flow. I construct my paragraphs in a way that goes with that beat and dicing them up into "bite sized" portions is like chopping up a song into 10-second snippets, punctuated by a brief pause, lest you get too caught up in the music. It dumbs everything down and makes it look like my stream-of-conscious writing is even more stream-of-conscious-y than before -- like I was too hysterical to construct anything other than a string of random sentences, one for every line in my notebook.
However, I fully recognize that this is nothing more than a variation of the ubiquitous "creative differences" ranting of a writer. This type of stuff breaks up bands, gets lead writers fired, and forces movie production to come to a grinding hault. There are few things that get artists as defensive as when someone tries to fiddle with their shit. But, without those editors, those fellow writers, those people who are willing to say, "This should be changed," work would never evolve. We'd all turn in George Lucas, making Episodes 1 - 3 with Jar Jar Binks and remaking masterpieces so that Greedo shoots first. You have to imagine that the reason why such an empire (pardon the pun/throwback) became so mediocre was due to the fact that George Lucas was no longer around people who would argue about "his vision". He went from one visionary around many great creatives to the sole proprietor (I don't think it's coincidence that Empire and Jedi -- arguably the two best -- were directed by somebody other than George Lucas).
So, somehow this rant about editing became a rant about Star Wars. Apparently this chick's nerdom knows no bounds. How's that for hysterical stream-of-conscious-ing.
That being said, I can't help but shake my head at some of the editing choices.
Sometimes it's in the form of a click-bait-y title, or italicizing words I didn't italicize. Sometimes it's in the form of replacing perfectly good parentheses and semi-colons with hyphens (which strikes a nerve with me because I'm still trying to get over my own little obsession with the N-dash and I have an irrational annoyance over the M-dash). And sometimes it's watching my carefully constructed paragraphs become diced up snippets.
You've seen them before: every sentence essentially gets a line break, as if the world is so ADD that five whole sentences in a row will throw people for a tizzy. And I can't help but laugh. I already use an excessive number of line breaks when I write. Do we really need to make my small paragraphs even smaller?
In some ways, I don't mind it. I mean, whatever it takes to get people to read my shit (someone pointed out that I probably have reached somewhere around two to three million people with my writing, mostly through my two viral essays). I am still hoping to parlay this into getting a manuscript or two sold, so whatever it takes to build an audience.
In other ways, it bothers me. As evidenced by my opinion on N-dashes versus M-dashes, I have a very particular way of crafting my words. I have a very specific cadence and I have a very specific flow. I construct my paragraphs in a way that goes with that beat and dicing them up into "bite sized" portions is like chopping up a song into 10-second snippets, punctuated by a brief pause, lest you get too caught up in the music. It dumbs everything down and makes it look like my stream-of-conscious writing is even more stream-of-conscious-y than before -- like I was too hysterical to construct anything other than a string of random sentences, one for every line in my notebook.
However, I fully recognize that this is nothing more than a variation of the ubiquitous "creative differences" ranting of a writer. This type of stuff breaks up bands, gets lead writers fired, and forces movie production to come to a grinding hault. There are few things that get artists as defensive as when someone tries to fiddle with their shit. But, without those editors, those fellow writers, those people who are willing to say, "This should be changed," work would never evolve. We'd all turn in George Lucas, making Episodes 1 - 3 with Jar Jar Binks and remaking masterpieces so that Greedo shoots first. You have to imagine that the reason why such an empire (pardon the pun/throwback) became so mediocre was due to the fact that George Lucas was no longer around people who would argue about "his vision". He went from one visionary around many great creatives to the sole proprietor (I don't think it's coincidence that Empire and Jedi -- arguably the two best -- were directed by somebody other than George Lucas).
So, somehow this rant about editing became a rant about Star Wars. Apparently this chick's nerdom knows no bounds. How's that for hysterical stream-of-conscious-ing.
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