You may say this wasn’t my fault. But it was. I was constantly fidgeting with that stone and I recently I noticed that it was... well loose. When I tapped it, it made a little clicking sound. Not a good sign. I knew I had to have it fixed. What was I waiting for?
I am Meg Ryan in that famous scene from When Harry Met Sally where she’s slapping the table, faking a you-know-what, and shouting, “Yes! Yes!” And a diner at another table remarks in envy, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Four hours later my session is a total bust. Three ideas and we couldn’t get hard. We parted without any eargasm to speak of. Even well seasoned writers come up empty sometimes. They might not tell you that but I will.
Taylor. So happy for. Nobody could take it away. No Kanye in sight. You remind us that we are women hear us roar! But Taylor, how about the 10 male producers standing behind you? Where was the vagina? The Linda Perry? The Eve Nelson? Why all the testosterone?
I am of a certain age and they call my generation, "digital immigrants" for a reason: we had to adapt to the digital world, unlike the young "native" millennials who were born into it. They make it look easy. But I'm determined.
I’m not recommending that you affix a feminine hygiene product to your iPad when you’re on your way to meet a prospective collaborator, but you never know what’s going to break the ice and get the ball rolling. Hopefully something will.
Last week I made a big deal (in a Huffington Post Blog) about knowing when and when not to whip out your iPhone for that magical social media moment. I professed that sometimes it’s best to leave your camera in your purse (or back pocket) and enjoy a chance rendezvous. I stand by that. I do. But....
Last summer I went to London on a writing trip. I was scheduled to work with an Aspiring Artist, (AA) and a Hot Young Programmer, (HYP). I was sent a link in advance to a couple of AA’s videos but she had me at hello. I didn't even get completely passed the first one. She was special. I was in.