If I can make it anywhere

Me in New York City

Liza Minnelli's rendition of "New York, New York" is my favorite. The line of "if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere" resonates with me along with Minnelli's powerful voice.

I'm head over heels in love with New York but more importantly the notion of 'making it.' My brain is cinematic in that my ambitions are fueled by glitzy movies where a plain Jane makes a name for herself.

On social media a well known actress/writer and comedian was irked by a writer using outdated pictures of her. I commented I would have been offended by the writer's commentary that her career was 'budding.'

She responded she was upset her work was labeled that way. She in fact has a awesome body of work including being a New York Times best selling author. Not everyone can achieve such a success.

Her reaction made me think about how we as writers determine if we reached a professional milestone. If you published over twenty articles in a free local magazine are you still an aspiring writer? What if you wrote a book but it was self published?

Does the 'where' negate the accomplishments?

I have yet to pen a book or write Liza Minnelli's biopic film. I'm not a newbie writer since I've been a writer for almost a decade.

A dream of mine is to write for the New York Times. I'm sure a few seasoned writers and editors think I'm a cute kid aiming high. In fact I'm woman in my thirties who is convincing herself not give up hope.

I'm told the writing profession is brutal and competitive. Us creative types are often brutal and competitive to ourselves. Often older writers feel overshadowed by younger and edgier writers hungry for a juicy headline.

At this point in my own career I don't have to reside in the city that never sleeps. If I can make it anywhere there is a possibility I can make it there. Trust me, my Puma running shoes are yearning to stray.

Do I suck?

Do I suck? I ask myself this when things go to shit.

When I'm morose, the pain is hard and sticky like a lollipop. It is a magnet for lint, loose hair strands and anything that is icky.

I take in all the blame inward, but outward it is 24 hours of bitch. At least to my inner circle. My husband thinks he get the brunt of it, does he know how horrible it is inside my head?

It is as if I'm entering into a second adolescence. Random acts of supreme annoyance and depression. I feel like a total failure as a wife, stepmother, pet momma, and writer sometimes.

"The kids are just being typical teenagers," says the love of my life. He also says, "The dog is still a pup." That is when I'm red faced over Sundae ripping apart books and papers in the basement.

No matter how many stories I publish or networking I do, it never feels enough..for me. Everyone else is telling me how impressed they are by what I have accomplished.

I have two degrees and old college chums that left me in the dust years ago. Then I think that they suck. "Sweetie, you shouldn't compare yourself to other people," he says.

In typical form, I want more or want it right now. "Honey, you need to learn patience," my husband says when I bemoan my career. "You have come a long way in two years," he says with love in his heart.


Remember back in the day when a sucker was an awesome treat after a visit to a doctor or bank? Now that isn't enough, there are stickers and mini toys and free apps for your patronage.


In this day and age, it is hard to be successful. With grumpy cats, color confusing dresses and viral videos hogging the spotlight.


I'm an old fashion Dum Dum (that is the correct term). I try have a different flavor, outwardly appeal. The theatrics and light shows don't interest me. While staying traditional and a dash of class, I come off looking well.. vanilla. That hard shell I use to protect myself, it starts to crack.

I start picking apart my looks, talents, goals. I don't like my teeth, mousy hair or extra weight. "You are so beautiful and sexy," he coos. No matter what candy covered words he speaks, I fight the urge to consume them.

Fingers full damp lollipop splinters, grasping that thin white stick of determination. I fumble. In slow motion, it leaps through the air then finds a hard impact on the ground.


I know rejections are a part of life and failures eventually turn into victories. I know my writer friends understand these feelings. It still sucks.

"I love you with all my heart, you make me a better person," he says as he looks deep into my brown eyes. Then it hits me.

 If he still believes in me after all the rough patches, maybe I don't suck after all.