Dani California's New Home

To my faithful readers, dear friends and loyal fan base (thanks, mom and dad,) -

After attempting to fulfill the creative need and justify my journalism degree by participating in the blogosphere for almost four years, I've decided to really get serious about this. Well, sort of. But I did buy a domain, and I am going to see where this little blogging adventure takes me. So, please come see me at:

WranglerDani.com

...where I will continue to beguile you with tales of my life and bulleted lists of my favorite things.

Thank you for your faithful readership, your friendship, and for continuing to like me even when I lose the filter and just keep writing past my better judgment.

Therapy

One of my friends has recently started reading my blog - or at least has just let me know that he is...

At any rate, he made the comment to me that he liked reading it to "get inside your head... I can tell it's really good/therapeutic for you to write that stuff." Now, this made me a little squeamish, as I've written about what makes me sneeze or cry, compulsively buying home supplies, blueberry muffin weather, and most recently, making out with an apartment complex, none of which cater to the higher kinds of tastes that I should be aiming to satisfy.

I imagine Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Victor Hugo, C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald and countless other of my personal influencers and heroes sitting down at the old-fashioned blog of their day and spewing out wise sayings, witty, hilarious thoughts and jaw-dropping insights with a flick of their fountain pen. Was writing therapeutic for them?

I hate to admit it, but these silly ramblings are good for me. Blogging or writing something, no matter how dumb, is often the highlight of my day, and I wonder where this compulsion comes from.

I remember writing a "book" as a child about a cat. I think her name was Spotty, after the very creatively-titled white-and-orange-spotted feline who wandered into our lives just long enough to have kittens and wander out again. I don't remember anything about it, other than I was very proud of my illustration abilities and my title, which was... ...wait for it: "Cat Tails". I know. I kill me.

Anyway, my first attempt never got picked up by a publisher, Oprah never needed this child prodigy on her show, and I've sunk into a blissful oblivion, writing away whenever I feel the need and enjoying the relatively calm buzz of seeing your work online.

As much as I dream of being the next Bronte or Austen, these ramblings are OK with me for now. I hope that my heroes forgive me a little public therapy... ...and that you will too. Thanks again for listening.

Word Answer Girl

One of my friends recently discovered that I like words and stuff, (what? you don't read the AP Stylebook for fun?) and decided to ask me some English language questions, despite the fact that I occasionally say things like: "For reals."

Here is the transcription of our witty email banter - a testament to the joys of desk jobs and the weirdness of English in general. Enjoy:

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On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 7:53 AM, Phil Casalegno wrote:

Dani,

I have a question I have been meaning to ask you for a while and keep forgetting. Why is it that when authors write the past tense of words like leap they use leaped? Isn't 'lept' the proper past tense? Creap should be crept not creaped right, etc....

Random wonderings of Phil

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On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 1:07 PM, Dani Linthicum wrote:

Dear Random Wonderings,

You pose an excellent question. To be quite honest, I had not thought a great deal about the leapt/leaped phenomenon until you brought it to my attention... which makes me wonder what exactly you're trying to write. Is it for your Website bio? "Also, I've leapt/leaped great distances with little to no sweat coming from my super-manly pores."
Anyways. I digress.
I think "leapt" is more common in the UK, while "leaped" is the US spelling, cuz we talk good ovah heah. It is pronounced the same though.
(Also, you are right, that "creep" would be "crept", unless you were saying "That guy who doesn't sweat creeped me out!" in which case "crept" wouldn't work. Oh slang. You're so fun.)
That's my best shot.

~Word Answer Girl

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On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 2:02 PM, Phil Casalegno wrote:

Word Answer Girl,

What you wrote makes alot of sense, but it isn't what I have seen. The most common example I have seen has been the word sneak. Everytime I see this past tense it is written sneaked. "John sneaked down the hall" I have seen this in both UK and american writers. The creaped example was from a UK writer. Shouldn't sneaked be snuck? I admit that snuck is kind of an ugly-looking word, but we don't say digged unless we are from the south.

Random Wonderings

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On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 4:32 PM, Dani Linthicum wrote:

Random Wonderings,

I can see that you are a true student of language. I applaud you. However, I have researched sundry and dusty tomes to find the answer you seek (as well as my personal vault of vast wordy knowledge), and I............ have no idea. However, I completely agree with you that sneaked should be snuck, and I'll thank you not to say mean things about my man even if he is from the South. However, according to the Dictionary, both sneaked and snuck are right, one is just ugly and the other sounds bad. I guess we can't have it all.

~Word Answer Girl

Dead White Guys Are Pretty Smart

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Seven Dwarves - Bashful

I've kept Bashful to the end because, well, he's the most embarrassing. I don't want to write what I'm bashful about on my blog! I'm bashful about it! Plus, being the modest guy that he is, Bash didn't even want to grace the blog with his presence. "You'll be fine without me," he said. "Besides, I'll just blush...and...twist my beard... and... st-t-t-tutter." But I wouldn't let him hide behind red cheeks and facial hair - I told him that we'd committed to this series, and we were gonna see it through, dadgum it.

He seems OK with it now, and even smiled for the picture, despite the pain he must be inflicting by all this beard braiding.

So, without further ado, a few things that make me Bashful, and a few stories about this weekend (with blushing twists):

• Magazines. I buy a lot of them, and I keep them for a really long time. That's kind of weird, not really embarrassing, unless you count the amount of money I spend on them and the racks to keep them in.
• I get really tired of wearing makeup. Often times, I just don't put it on. I don't usually care until I run into a particularly pretty girl, at which point I always remember the awkward red spots on my nose or bags under my eyes. Ick.
• Note to personal trainers, buff dudes, and desperate gym guys: the gym is not a good place to pick up girls. I smell bad, you do too, and pick-up lines do not work on the self-conscious, or anyone else for that matter.
• Compliments. I get all hot and nervous inside when I'm told I'm good at something, pretty, etc. I'm learning to say thank you and leave it at that.
  
• Now about the weekend - it was phenomenal. It had several things going for it from the start: it was Adam's birthday/Valentine's Day weekend, Ashley was coming to town, and we had Monday off. It got better, because, as you saw before, I bought a kayak, Texas food is delicious, and girls are just as good as the guys at planning Valentine's Day surprises.
  
• "This is getting really embarrassing!" Jill has the best reaction ever to surprises, and when the entire restaurant stops and stares, you know you have a winner. Check out how we spent Saturday morning.
• "It won't be fun if I'm not in the picture..." Ashley is the Queen of Moment-Capturization, even if it requires a teensy bit of staging and some eye rolls from the less-patient members of the family.

So, that's a wrap of the Seven Dwarves. Please comment with suggestions for a new series, topics you would like discussed, or literary character whom you would like me to embody for a day on these pages, to either a comic or tragic end. The sky (aka my finite imagination and abilities,) is the limit!

The Seven Dwarves - Happy

Happy and Grumpy are two dwarves at war. One is perpetually, foolishly optimistic, one is bull-headedly, arms-folded-leave-me-alone, pointing his face stubbornly in the opposite direction. Oddly enough, I think most of us have each one warring for space in the cozy little living rooms of our soul - one wants to play loud music while washing dishes, the other grumbles about it. One gives hugs freely and compliments others on adorable hats and awesome shoes, the other isolates himself with a "harumph" and silently wonders how one could be so foolish as to spend good money on pointy toes and heels.

Today, as most days, I'm trying to help Happy out a bit in his fight for prime Dani Real Estate. The trouble is, he's so dang good-natured that he won't actually beat Grumpy up or shake him down to size, even though I'm convinced he could take him. He just waltzes around admiring the scenery and making pleasant remarks. Dang happiness.

Anyway, I keep whispering little tips to him as to how to slowly edge Grumpy out... we're working on it.... Now if only we had little opposite dwarves for Dopey and Sneezy, like say, "Alert" and "Clear-breathing". They would come in handy.

Anyway, on to everybody's favorite feature, the bulleted list - this time about things that make me Happy:

• Early mornings.
• Sunrises and Sunsets.
• Being outside. I could be walking down a sidewalk and I'm happier than inside.. although actually being outside and out of the city is pretty sweet.
• Ambient lighting. No fluorescents for this girl. I love pretty light fixtures and soft golden light.
  
• Home-made oatmeal raisin cookies. My favorite. Actually, I just like home-made cookies of any variety.
• Flowers. Especially sunflowers and daisies. But you knew that. I kinda say it a lot. :)
• Gmail chat.
• Feeling creative
• Feeling competent and valued.
• Black lids on lattes. White lids are boring. They're for Starbucks and well, the birds, since everything dumb is for them. Black lids are so classy.
• Cheezits and Diet Coke. Perfect afternoon snack.
• Rainy/foggy days - especially if I get a chance to curl up with hot coffee and some inspiration.
• Golden Spoon in the summertime.
• Long talks - feeling understood and heard.
• Horses. I love just about everything about them. Specifically the Paint Mare, specifically at Badger Creek Ranch. Actually, almost everything about Badger Creek Ranch makes me happy. I love the camaraderie, the deep appreciation for and knowledge about the horses, the pace of life, the smell of sagebrush in the rain, summer thunderstorms, knowing where I belong, mountains so close you can touch them, the heavy jangle of spurs on my boots, and the admiring young riders who look up to their wranglers to give them an opportunity to accomplish their greatest dream - to actually ride a horse.
• One-armed photos.
• Emails/phone calls/facebook posts/blog comments/gmail chats to and from my dear, far away friends. I love knowing that I can always talk to you.
• Worship.
• Kayaking.
• Farmer's Markets.
• LOST
• Smelly stuff - soap, shampoo, hair products, candles.... yeah. I'm a girl. I can't help it.
• Swimming in the Ocean. I have been known to duck under a wave and come up laughing for sheer joy. The Pacific has been a part of my earliest and most treasured memories... and I'm always convinced that everybody needs to learn how to swim in it. At least once.
• New books.
• Magazines. I'm always finding new favorites.
• My family. Crazy? Yes. Fun? No doubt.
• Small towns.
• Cowboys, ranchers, farmers, mechanics, bakers, baristas, and blue-collar people in general. So many stories...
• The first snow of winter.
• Wildflowers.
• Home stores. Particularly ones in which there are oodles of adorable things that I can afford.
• Working in the shop.
• Bristle-y kisses and quality time from a certain Somebody.
• Hot D Dates.
• Writing.
• Christmas morning.
• Getting tan.
• Cute shoes.
• Baseball caps with ponytail holes.
  

Obviously, I could keep going.... and I'm a lot Happier now than when I started. Maybe this is my new plan to help out Happy with his joyful takeover... with all this niceness floating around, Grumpy'll probably skeedaddle of his own accord. Actually, I think he just did.

Selling Myself

I did it. I bit my lip, held in my screams and wrote about myself. I know all of you are thinking that I'm not only narcissistic, but crazy, since I clearly write about myself all the time on this dang blog. I know, I know. Such is the great contradiction of the creative soul: we can write about ourselves ad nauseum, but can't market ourselves worth a darn. That's why we're all starving, living in attics and writing for free.

Anyway, I digress. The larger problems of writer-hood cannot be solved until we hold our noses and dive in, so this was my attempt. It weighs in right at 60 words, which I consider a minor miracle, as holding to word counts has never been my strong suit.

Here you go:

Dani Linthicum

I am an artist of language. I love pulling people into new perspectives and making the mundane pieces of life extraordinary either with humor, spunk or a fresher, deeper look.

I love the outdoors, horses, interesting people, mountains, strong coffee, good jazz on rainy days, the color green and good excuses for eating poorly.

For more, visit: http://danicalifornia.blogspot.com

Would you visit? Please say yes. Or just pat me on the head and distract me with something shiny and/or covered in caramel. That works too.

Flattery? Anyone?

Okay, guys, I need your help. (Yes, you. All three of you.)

I've written some restaurant reviews for a Hungry? Thirsty? guide to Orange County, and they want a bio/self-advertisement about yours truly for the guide. It has to be 40-60 words and hopefully convince the reader that I am the girl they want for glittering, moving, breath-taking, fabulous prose.

The trouble is, I have to write this little spot of genius, and it's a little awkward to write about myself, even if it will get me the chance at some other (grossly overpaid) freelance opportunities... or a byline. You really don't need to pay me. I'll take a byline. Really.

Anyways, if anyone has a sentence or two about my writing style, something you've liked from the blog, something you think I should say about myself or something I should cover up, now's the time to share. Because I have a Word document with my name at the top, and that's about as far as I've gotten, so I obviously need some help.

"You are... my biggest fan."
~Guy Patterson, That Thing You Do!

Muddy Waters

I have fought with myself long and hard over this. I’ve never thought of myself as a work-a-holic, but the strange stagnation of unemployment has assured me that I am one.

When I look through my old journals and into my dreams, I see so many longings. Some that could have been allayed by simply doing something rather than staring misty-eyed into the dusk - some that are just vague longings that I still fear to capture - lest they poof away like a spritely fairy in my hand.

I am always thinking that something should change - that I would be better, more creative, that I would be more beautiful, if only - fill in the blank. As I look back at my life, these mere 23 years, I’m increasingly convinced that all of my blanks have much less to do with my success than I give them credit for.

I have also realized that I am far too focused on my success in the first place. Greatness is not to be grasped. While I suppose it’s accurate to refer to myself as a work in progress, am I relishing the work or just hanging on, hoping, straining and longing for progress - the end result?

I am always gazing around the bend, never content to drink in the joys of this moment, this sunlit stream, these pauses for laughter and reflection. Without even realizing it, I heartlessly rob myself of today because of my lust for tomorrow, and don’t grant myself the pride of a job well done because I always think I could have been better.

I have fought for inspiration for months now. What was once a clear-flowing stream has become a muddy trickle, so full of weeds and contradictions that I’ve grown tired of even looking for the source, the spring-water, but have simply turned my back, leaving my fields to parch and my soul to burn.

I feel so inadequate, even admitting to people out in the world that I aspire to write. “I think I’m kinda creative,” I say with a shrug, and think condescendingly of the many nights I have sat and stared at a blank sheet - or worse, given up completely and zoned out to the mindless blare of the TV.

Every night that I have failed to create I find it harder to go on. I recently read somewhere that men most of the time already know what they are thinking or feeling, and talk about it only to communicate if they feel it’s necessary, where as women often don’t know why they think or feel something and talk about it to figure it out. I suppose I do this from time to time, ( I was recently informed that I talk a lot - I suppose “a lot” being relative.) But I think the deepest part of my “self-discovery” to use a disgustingly narcissistic word, comes from a deeper place than my tongue. Writing and art - for all its challenges and the self-loathing that it inevitably produces - reach the deepest parts of me. I can find places there, with my journal or trusty laptop, that I couldn’t find without sitting down at the blank sheet and opening a vein.

Because of this infernal desire to be perfect, to succeed at the cost of contentment, the blank sheets have piled up and the simple joys of doing what I was meant for has dwindled down. The blank sheet pile has gotten more and more daunting, the water’s gotten muddier, the parched field is looking increasingly desert-like and I am blaming every circumstance and my own ineptitude for what really amounts to a lack of courage.

I don’t have the courage to sit down and write something less than amazing. I am afraid to dip my hand into today’s flowing stream and not compare it to yesterday’s or tomorrow’s, or to bask in the joy of “my best” - at this moment, anyway. No, I cruelly hold myself to the best ever - my best ever. I have to do more, be more, write more - and when my longings are more than my capabilities, or a little more mud gets into the stream than I was hoping for, I lack the strength and courage to dive in anyway. Why can’t I create something a little off-balance? Why can’t I spend an hour writing and let it amount to nothing more than this?

This is not the stuff of great novels. It is not even something that is particularly lucid or inspired or even well-written. But it is awakening.

Something within me has stirred in these last few months. I have realized my inability to live up to my own expectations, and after several wrestling matches with my personal angel, I have learned this:

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.”
~John 15:1-6

Isn’t that beautiful and freeing? It’s not my responsibility to be great, I have no one to impress, no future or past to live up to. I am abiding. To abide is to reside in, to sojourn. These are words of rest and peace and contentment, not contention and perfection.

So today I make a promise. I am abiding. Today. This day’s sunlit stream, this day’s tasks, this day’s challenges, this day’s creativity. Knowing that as a lone branch, all of my striving is pointless, but as a branch connected to the Vine, I am of great value.

All of my blank pages, all of my hopes, fears, and longings are connected to that Vine. That is where I find my contentment and the courage to face the less-than-perfect - the muddy waters.