Yoomur

You don't often think of a humor writers' conference as the place for somber introspection. I had a fabulous time swinging from the chandeliers with a great group of fun loving and talented people at the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop last weekend, but in fact I left with a few tough bones to chew.

I learned from author Wade Rouse that really good writing - and especially the humorous kind - is often borne of heartache and comes from a place of deep vulnerability. (A place where I rarely venture.)

I learned that if you are writing something for entertainment value alone, it better be devastatingly funny. Better to write well and have a deeper message so if the humor bombs, at least the piece will not. (Ooof!)

And I was reminded that an essential element of success is daily discipline. You have to write often and copiously to hone your craft and get better and better at it. There is no such thing as writers' block. You just sit down and write, even if that means getting up at five o' clock and staring at the wall.

Finally, I witnessed firsthand how people who come to conferences prepared with business cards and armed with 30 second pitches, as well as those who network confidently with everyone they meet instead of, for example, donning a cloak of invisibility and going to bed early, end up hobnobbing with published writers. (Note to self: next time, bring business cards, stay up late, wear Louboutins.)

But don't get me wrong. I had a great time and met a lot of fabulous people, like the brilliant and multi-talented KC, Choonkooloonks, Wendi Aarons, Smacksy, and Jennifer from These Are the Days, just to name a few.

I heard New York Times columnist Gail Collins rock the house with her keynote speech, listened to hilarious USA Today columnist Craig Wilson read his work, and watched live stand-up comedy expertly executed by Late Show writer Bill Scheft.

I had the chance to stand up in front of a full auditorium and read a piece I'd written.

I was hypnotized and learned how to apply guided imagery techniques in my writing.

I was mistaken for a girl scout while earnestly trying to network one day at lunch. That was a total bummer.

I got carded at a college bar with Classy Chaos. That was fun!

And . . . one more thing. My nagging suspicion that this blog I started almost three years ago as a creative outlet and a way to pass the time while the kids napped doesn't feel quite right anymore was confirmed.

Since I had no business cards with me, I said "RimaRama" out loud a lot. And it sounded kind of stupid. I also spent about ten minutes trying to explain to one person what the suffix "rama" means. And here I always thought it was pretty self-explanatory. (She also wondered why I was wearing a crown in my header and I was like, "because this blog is my alter ego and my alter ego wears a crown." And she was like . . . "Hmmmmm." Then I thanked her and ran away.)

So I'm thinking - just thinking - about killing RimaRama off and starting anew.

But I'm not going anywhere just yet. I will keep you posted!

Examining My Zipper

*Re-enters sheepishly and begins combing through spilled garbage. Takes swig from half-empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, tosses aside. Thinks twice, picks it up, and places in recycling bin instead. Unwraps piece of Nic0rette and begins chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, locates broom and sweeps aside dustballs, glass shards, delusions of grandeur. Finally, leaning upon broom handle, clears throat and begins to speak.*

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Sorry about the earlier melodrama, readers. I was having writer's block, stage fright, and an existential crisis. Also PMS.

I was annoyed at having typecast myself into a certain role here, and angry that I didn't have the guts to break out of it.

I concluded that having a "successful" blog was more about marketing than about writing, and I pouted. Because I am a terrible salesperson and I peddle funky wares.

I resented the fact that I'm not currently in a position to spend the time and energy it takes to write "seriously." Why, oh why, was I putzing around writing silly anecdotes here when I could be using my "free time" to work on something "real"?

And I tried - for about a half an hour - to write that real something. But I didn't have it in me. What I had, if you must know, were a series of cliches strung together awkwardly with little or no segue and sprinkled liberally with flashy five point words.

I came to a late realization that probably won't surprise you: it takes more than skill and perseverance to be a good writer. It also takes a certain amount of courage, and that is something I don't know if I'll ever be able to shore up - not so much because I'm wary of offending the masses, but because I fear exposing my true self to the people I love the most.

There were, in fact, a lot of things I could have written about while claiming to be "blocked." But they required a kind of raw self-exposure I'm not sure I'm ready to make. In this place, or anywhere else.

It was a hard pill to swallow, especially when I finally realized that there is not much difference between journal blogging honestly and writing creative non-fiction for publication. I always told myself that I'm only exposing the tip of the iceberg here to avoid exploiting or drawing undue attention to myself and my family. But it seems there's no avoiding it: If I ever hope to write, I'll have to drop my pants.

Still, I wonder and I fret. Can a person writing pantsless continue to entertain? How many friends will I lose once I've streaked across the football field in my honest altogether? In the end, is it worth it?

Until recently, I've been pretty happy wearing my pants up around my armpits here. And I'm not sure I want to lower them, but I may start loosening my virtual belt, just a little bit.

Feel free to look away.


P.S. How high, if I may ask, do you wear your pants?

Your Attention, Please

I have convinced myself that blogging - and this blog in particular - is stupid.

I also have a severe case of writer's block and cannot even stand the sight of my own stupid pink banner. "Rimarama." It's just plain stupid.

I'm going to remove myself from this whole sordid business for awhile. Oh, I'll be back soon enough. It would kill me not to blog, but right now, blogging is killing me.

(*Kicks a garbage can, exits stage right*)

The Haps Chez Rama

Readers, I have been crossing items off my New Years Rez list with wild abandon.

I made a new friend recently (see Rez # 9), and she invited me to attend a dinner/lecture at the art museum with her later this week (see Rez #10).

The only catch is that it's all part of some sort of french language "circle" where I'll bet everyone wears fetching scarves and stands around speaking only en francais all night long.

It's what I get for running my mouth about spending that junior year abroad every chance I have. People assume I'm still a francophone, but the sad fact of the matter is that my once solid language skills have been reduced to a single phrase: "Je ne comprends pas."

Normally, I have no problems with meeting new people and engaging in small talk. I have a litany of foolproof conversation starters, ranging from my year abroad, of course, to my thoughts on communism and the incident of the skin tag on the operating table. Unfortunately, my vocabulary skills on these topics are limited to English and Lithuanian.

Well, if you need me, I'll be at the local library, boning up on the past imperfect and putting myself into a tizzy over what to wear.

A bien-tot, chers liseurs!
-Rima de la Rama

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P.S. Remember the episode when I thought the chick from Jazzercise was trying to pick a fight with me?

Well, thanks to lovely Loralee of the Looney Tunes, that post is being re-published at BlogNosh Magazine today! It is the apex of my blogging career.

You should go over there and check the place out. I hear they have an excellent wine list, good ambiance, and something for every palate. (Although I fear my post might fall under the "How Did This One Get Past the Radar?" category.)

Everyone Else Is Doing It

Every once in awhile, you'll see a blogger post examples of Google searches that bring readers to their site.

Today I am that blogger.

• "pictures of girls with no shirts on and you can see there boobees"
  
  No b00bee$ 4U until you learnt how to speell, mister.
  
  
• "small yellow tablet with the word rima on it"
  
  You found it!!! I'm going to need that back.

• "I pooped in my snowsuit"
  
  I'm sorry, why don't you go change out of it now? And next time, remember: you don't need to wear your snowsuit to surf the web.
  
  
• "Does the pope have a regular bathroom?"
  
  Let's find out.
  
  
• "My hygienist stabbed me"
  
  So did mine.
  
  
• "flush myself down the toilet"
  
  Go for it, man.
  
  
• "Why faint while exercising?"
  
  Why not?
  
  
• "How to sculpt a falcon"
  
  Very, very carefully.
  
  
• "Rima sucks"
  
  I know you don't mean that.
  
  
• "Rimas feel good"
  
  And they write good, too.
  

"Thank You for Not Unsubscribing"

I've managed to keep this blog alive for a year. It's an accomplishment I'm rather proud of because there have been times when I wanted to put it through the shredder.

I think I created "Rimarama" in early 2007, posted a single (and very self-conscious) entry, then promptly forgot where it was located in cyberspace. I found the blog again in the beginning of August last year, and that's when I began fartin' all over the Internet on a regular basis.

Except that I had no idea what I was in for. At first I viewed blogging only as an exercise in creative writing and I enjoyed it very much. I looked forward to that magical one hour window every afternoon when the kids were napping or otherwise occupied to sit down in front of my laptop and flex the old front temporal lobe, which had begun to atrophy from misuse.

Then I discovered "mommy blogs," and thought that I might like to marry them. I wondered how it was that I'd survived the past three years of stay-at-home motherhood without gorging myself daily on the intimate details of other womens' lives.

I started to get greedy. Could I, too, be included on someone's blogroll? Might I cajole a hapless surfer to stumble upon my humble little web site and leave a comment? Could I get them to return and bring all of their friends? Begin selling Rimarama T-shirts and mugs? Build my own internet empire around poop and boogers?

As it happens, I cannot haz empire. But I can have a creative outlet, a sense of accomplishment, kick-ass readers, commenters, and honest to goodness friends.

I can also have feelings of inferiority, ridiculous self-imposed posting requirements, imaginary reciprocation commitments, and an unhealthy perspective on blogging in the grand scheme of things.

Now that a full year has passed, I'm belatedly asking myself what my ultimate goal is here. This blog is a chronicle of my life and that of my family that I hope will live in posterity, but I would be delusional to think I'm not writing for an audience. Knowing that someone is out there reading, enjoying, and possibly chuckling at what I have to say is my motivation for putting it out there in the first place.

As much as I would love to expand my readership, I've learned that, when it comes right down to it, I don't want to do the things it takes to actively grow my blog.

I suck at social networking sites.

I'm not willing to tailor my style of writing to appeal to a large audience.

I'm terrified of guest posting, asking for links, and generally pimpin' myself out.

And I'm generally too lazy to participate in memes, carnivals, and award chains.

I want to write when the urge hits and about whatever strikes my fancy.

I want to keep it light, and I want to get better at it.

I want to get a kick out of re-reading my own damn post or watching a smile spread slowly across the P-Dawg's face as he reads it.

If possible, I want you to leave here smiling, but if I can't pull it off, if I'm not feeling the funny, if my idea of funny is not the same as yours, even if you unsubscribe, I want to let it roll off my back.

I once told a friend that I knew I wasn't a "writer at heart" because I didn't feel a driving need to write every day. But a funny thing happened once I started writing here - I found it was hard to stop. Like exercising, the more I did it, the more I wanted to continue.

At minimum, writing regularly in this space has forced me to use brain cells that might have otherwise died watching Oprah. The act of wrapping words around my quotidian experiences as wife, mother, woman allows me to see them with a clarity and perspective that would have been lost if they'd slipped away, unrecorded.

One day soon I hope to convince myself that my subscriber count, my Technorati ranking, or the number of comments I get is not really a testament to the quality of my writing or the relevance of what I have to say. Right now, I almost believe it.

That said, I am truly grateful for every one of you who reads regularly or stops by from time to time to entertain my delusions of grandeur.

You totally make my day.



P.S. Which one of you f*ck#rs unsubscribed yesterday????

Clicktastic

I thought the plunge in my stats last month was due to the quality of the writing here lately, but it turns out that there is an actual blog recession going on.

If you read blogs in a reader or any other kind of feed aggregating service and would like to boost the stats, ego, and, in some cases, ad revenue of the bloggers you read, go over to Motherhood Uncensored and sign yourself up. Then, all you have to do is make sure to click through to the blogs in your reader during the month of August.

Easy peasy and cheap thrills all around.

Do I Seem Paranoid?

This blog is having an identity crisis.

Sometimes it wants to be flip and sassy, giving you short, frequent posts about events or observations that are neither here nor there. (For example, how the P-Dawg* offered the 2007 Costco Shareholder Annual report to the V-meister as a bedtime story last night.)

Other times, it would like to regale you with more substantial tales centering around the pedestrian, yet mildly entertaining existence of its author.

Sometimes, it feels compelled to act as public servant, offering you totally serious tips and information. In fact, at this very moment, it is working on a post that details how the Rama family finally succeeded in curbing the V-meister's explosive tantrums. But it's a little nervous about publishing, because doing so would fly in the very face of the blog's reputation as class clown.

Other times, the blog would like to simply slap up a Utube link and call it a post.

Every once in awhile, the blog starts to beat itself up about it's rather shallow nature. It has contemplated posting deep, mind-bending material . . . but doing so would make it feel somewhat fraudulent. Because, when it comes right down to it, the blog just wants to have fun.

Sometimes, the blog has realized, it would like to watch Oprah and, you know, just veg out a little. It's even considering jumping on Mrs. Flinger's Blog Guilt Free bandwagon so that it could post like a fiend when it feels the urge, and then chill out for days at a time.

The blog has started and deleted approximately five bajillion posts that it deemed JUST PLAIN STUPID. Who really wants to read about how Rimarama almost burned the house down trying to reset a clock for the J-dog before remembering that he doesn't know how to tell time?

Not even the P-Dawg. (Sob.)

The blog wants to be all things to all people, but only on its own time.

It is obviously going bonkers and needs to put itself in timeout.

But! It also craves attention and cyberhugs (it is a co-dependent blog) from its dear and faithful readers.

All of this egomaniacal navel gazing has paralyzed the blog into a mute stupor. The blog wants only to eat a ginormous ice cream sundae and self-diagnose itself over an episode of House, M.D.

Also, the blog is insisting upon renaming itself "The Tufted Titmouse."

Is that so wrong?

P.S. The P-Dawg just informed me, "A lame post is better than no post at all." Is this true???

*He informs me I've been misspelling his name.