I’m paying $400 an hour for this?!

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Twenty-two years of experience have taught me at least one thing: life doesn’t always happen as you expect.

I’m bored – not because I’m doing homework, and not because I’ve been home most of the day. I’m just restless – again. I’m tired of school, and I want to live my life, not study the lives of others.

Maybe this is a problem that never really goes away.

Graduate school isn’t shaping up to be what I thought it would. I came here because I wanted to sharpen my writing skills. That has happened, but that’s been secondary to my coursework. Most of my time is spent learning how to research, studying communication theories, and poring over history books.

That’s not how I planned to spend my money.

I suppose that’s poor planning on my part. I’ve had the program description handy for more than a year and a half. I knew that these core classes were part of the deal.

But no – read these course descriptions. This is the sort of stuff I thought I was signing up to study – but none of these courses have been offered in the past two or three semesters, nor are they available this spring.

JN 512 Editorial Writing and Function. Three hours. Study of the role, function, and construction of editorials and practice in editorial writing.

JN 515 Magazine Writing and Editing. Three hours. Writing and marketing of magazine articles. Study of technical, industrial, employee, and general-circulation magazines.

JN 520 Advanced Editing and Design of Publications. Three hours. Lecture and laboratory. Study, research, applications, and production of traditional and online newspapers, magazines, and related media, including managing and organizing newsrooms, graphics departments, and production departments. Demographics and research of audiences for different news and information products; formulation of policy.

JN 525 Literary Journalism I. Three hours. Studies in nonfiction. Includes extensive writing in this genre.

JN 526 Literary Journalism II. Three hours. Studies in nonfiction. Includes extensive writing in this genre.

The only “professional” classes offered during the year I intend to spend in this program are Creative Non-Fiction (which I’ll take next semester!) and Depth Reporting (which didn’t fit into my schedule this semester.) I feel cheated.

I didn’t come here for an “academic” education – I don’t want to be a professor. I want to be a journalist. This program offered me that opportunity, but now that I’m halfway through a semester, I’ve realized that it isn’t here.

I’m not planning to drop out – this time! I’m just disappointed. Within the next year or so, this program is making a change that promises to transform it into everything I had hoped for in graduate study.

Meanwhile, I got the raw end of the deal.

Jack of all trades, master of none

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Subtitle: A real update, because they’ve been quite foofy as of late 😉

That phrase has been rattling around in my mind for quite some time now – in fact, dating back to my college graduation. It’s been torturing me with its taunting words, implying that while I’m quite good at a number of things, nothing that I do is stellar.

This week, I’ve overcome that demon.

As it happens, I do have a varied set of interests. I love football, but I’m not so knowledgable to be a commentator (much less a player!) Those of you who read this site regularly have noticed my passion for music – but those of you who spend time with me “in real life” know that I can’t sing, play, or write. I briefly toyed with the idea of a career in interior design. I love the stuff. I’ve even suffered mocking for my “idea notebook.” 🙂 But again – I’m not that good. I’m an excellent cook, but not a gourmet chef. You get the picture.

This is a story about my triumph, not my shortcomings, so I’ll get on with the story.

The conclusion that I’ve come to is that this is why I’m a journalist. Because of my love for all of these things, I’m capable of writing an article about them. I’m an excellent researcher and a darn good interviewer (if I do say so myself!), and these skills allow me to get to the heart of the subject matter. I’ve been told that I have a grace to my writing; at least several of y’all list that as the reason why you repeatedly visit this site. 😉 Besides all that, I’ve realized over the past year or so that I love to learn.

Stop laughing, Heather. Seriously – grad school has done wonders for me. I’m just as picky as I ever was, but after almost 18 years of education, I now know that I enjoy learning if the topic’s right.

So there you have it – I’m a journalist, and I love it. Deadlines stress me out, but they’re moments that I thrive on. I love seeing my name in print, and I take pride in my work. I’ve seen marked improvements in my writing this semester. My interviews have gone from very matter-of-fact to drawing out the meat of my articles. In short, I’m growing.

Somewhere along the way, I also decided to grow up. 🙂 Moving to Alabama did a lot of that for me. When it’s time, you know it – perhaps in a way similar to how people claim you “just know” when someone is “the one.”

Really, what defines a “grown up” anyway? Relevant Magazine once pointed me to a study that reported that most Americans consider the age 26 to be a signifier of this milestone. “Good,” I thought to myself. “I have four years before I have to stop saying ‘when I grow up.'”

My friend Scott, on the other hand, argued that both he and I are already “grown ups.” Neither of us have reached the ripe old age of 26 (though he’s only months away). But in his opinion, we’re there – or at the very least, he is. We’ve both graduated from college, and he has (what I like to call) a “real” job. I’m working towards a master’s degree – that’s also a rather “adult” thing to do.

Of course, Scott also explained to me, “I’m grown up, but I think when I’m married, I’ll really be grown up.” I laughed. What if I never get married – will I never be a grown up? What if I get married when I’m forty – does it take that long to become an adult?

For me, the marking point in becoming a “grown up” has been moving over five hundred miles away from my parents. Though I’ve been living apart from them for four years, I still had a solid support system at Florida State. It was almost as though I never ventured out on my own. Though I developed many new friendships, I entered with the safety net of people that I knew from high school. I made a move toward independence, but it was in baby steps. That was what I needed then. Not so now.

I’m twenty-two, mature (most of the time 😉 ), single, and on my own. This is the time to explore life and chase dreams – and I’m doing just that. I love it.

In that, I’ve begun to find my niche. I’m preparing to apply for summer internships and I’ve been beefing up my portfolio (which now looks quite professional, thanks to a sassy number from Office Depot.) I’ve been refining my writing skills. In fact, I’ve even begun to enjoy my research. I’ve become quite the little adult.

Still, I retain a few child-like qualities. I’m young, and I relish that. I feel like an adult as I write this. My hair and make up have been styled, I’ve been up since 6:30 A.M., and I’m writing in what I hope is a coherent fashion. But I look down and I’m reminded of my youth. My feet are propped on a camping chair, and googly eyed pig socks are smiling back at me. My cup of coffee and I are quite content in my front porch rocking chair on this Thursday afternoon. My weekend has begun.

Even that weekend retains traces of my newfound adulthood, though. After I finish sharing my thoughts with you, a lengthy to-do list will become my master. I’ll be forced back into the process of maturation – but I intend to enjoy each minute of it.

Today, this is what my life is about. I’ve been brought to this front porch in small-town Alabama with great purpose in mind. While I work, I’ll dream a little, realizing that I’m becoming the woman that God intends me to be.

Lord, I’m coming home to you

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Confession: I skipped tonight’s Alabama football game.

I know – that’s so unlike me, little miss rabid football fan. I spent a tearful hour alone in my bedroom before deciding to give away my ticket. I just couldn’t face 83,000 screaming fans tonight.

I’m homesick.

It’s funny that football season has been the amplifier of those feelings. I miss my friends, and I was reminded of how much during last week’s game. I stood lonely in the student section of Bryant-Denny, reflecting on how my evening would look if I were instead at Doak Campbell.

Rather than quietly applauding for every successful block, I would be celebrating with my closest friends. Instead of smiling to myself after a touchdown, I’d be trying not to get knocked over by the jubilant gentlemen around me. And (ironically?) I would be chatting everyone up about Alabama’s hard fought battle against Oklahoma. I instead spent the evening striving to keep tabs on my alma mater’s score.

Several months ago, I realized a fundamental difference between the cities of Tallahassee, Florida and Tuscaloosa, Alabama. People love me in Tally; here, I am liked (at best).

I love the area where I live, and I’m content in my classes. I know that this is the place where I’ve been called to for this time of my life. I accept that, come what may.

But part of what has come is this: I feel as though I’m expected to fit into a mold here. I can’t be crammed down. I simply don’t fit.

I’m not a teetotaler. I didn’t “grow up in the church,” and I haven’t walked consistently with Jesus since I was nine years old. Additionally, I’m not a prissy sorority girl, and I don’t buy all of my clothes at Gap (and higher level stores). I don’t wear heels with my jeans.

At Florida State, I wasn’t only accepted for who I am – I was encouraged to find out who CJ is and to embrace her! I grew up at FSU. Leaving the people who spurred me on to that growth is hard.

Now I’m learning to grow apart from my support system. You wanna know what? I’m making it.

But I sure hate when it costs me a football game.

The rest is mine, I guess, the beauty and the mess, to hide

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Writing is, in many ways, similar to performing. The differences are what stand out immediately, of course. But the commonalities, though subtle, are difficult to ignore.

When I write, you see only as much of me as I’m willing to reveal. Using my words, I can paint a picture for you of the person I want you to see. I give away bits of who I am, but only at my discretion.

The same can be said of daily life, I suppose, but the effect is more extreme when a paper and pen stand between us. You can’t see the pieces of me revealed in how I interact with others, my facial expressions, or the way I carry myself. You might glean some insight into who this girl is, but I wonder how much your understanding would be increased, were we face to face.

Just the same, this is the life I’ve chosen. The black Papermate I hold is my tool for communicating, not only about my desires and dreams, but about what excites me, the things that invoke my passion.

How much of me is revealed through that is an ongoing mystery.

What happened to Miss Independent?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I have an important announcement to make.

I don’t even want to be a June bride, okay? But around this time each year, I find myself longing for an excuse to snatch up every bridal magazine on the newsstands (Martha Stewart, here I come!) and a man to assure me that no matter which ridiculously expensive white gown I end up wearing for the thirty foot long walk down the aisle, I’ll look ravishing. (Somehow, I doubt he’d really notice that much of a difference between the fifteen or so dresses I’ll inevitably consider.)

But yes, for no rational reason, I’ve found myself dreaming of something that doesn’t seem to be in my near future. (Well, unless you consider being almost 22 years old and realizing that it’s been almost four years since your last boyfriend as sensible cause for these thoughts. In that case, I’m perfectly justified!)

The funny thing is, 90% of the time, I am actually quite content with my singleness. I’d say that’s a pretty decent percentage, seeing as how it’s the gift that no one wants. The idea of balancing a serious boyfriend with a forty hour work week baffles me. I’m so tired when I get home from work that all I want is an hour of Friends and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. I do realize that someday I’ll have to reconcile having a life with working full time ‘ but I’m grateful that the time is not now.

Besides, the freedom afforded by singleness has its perks. I don’t feel guilty for spending my spare money on CDs when my sweet boyfriend is busy doling out his hard earned cash to take me out. I can pick up and drive to the art museum in Birmingham and wander for hours without accommodating someone else’s schedule. A week long trip to Florida isn’t out of the question, and there’s no one left here to cause the dull ache that so often plagues the heart of one separated.

Even so, I did find myself envying Monica and Chandler as they walked into one another’s open arms tonight. Yeah, I did have my fellas (the aforementioned Ben & Jerry) there with me, but it’s not the same.

It’s not so much that I want to be off the market now. But it would be nice to have reason to believe that someday my husband will wrap his arms around me so possessively.

I wouldn’t mind going on a date, either. 🙂

Once, twice, three times a lady

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Scene 1: Flickering candlelight provides the room’s only illumination as the faint scent of honeysuckle lingers in the air. From a corner, strains of soft jazz spill out of the stereo. In the center of the candles that circle the room sits an introspective soul, lost in her solitude. She peers down from behind the curly tendrils that have escaped her ponytail in favor of framing her face. Pen in hand, her notebook paper is quickly filled with the ideas that have been rattling around in her mind. It seems only natural ‘ in her life, any pensive mood demands a pen, indeed. While the melodic rain falls outside her window, she takes another sip of chardonnay and sinks back into the pile of pillows behind her. Eyes closed, she soaks in the peaceful night.

Scene 2: Gone are the tulle and eyelet lace, as they find themselves replaced by pressed and starched cottons. The sun has risen, and a new day of work has begun. She is confidence and maturity on high heels. Her no-nonsense attitude gets her far in her career, but doesn’t allow her colleagues to come too close. Perhaps at the close of business she’ll let down her hair and join them for dinner and drinks. In the meantime, though, she’s got goals to accomplish and business to which to tend.

Scene 3: At last, the weekend has arrived. Jeans and a sassy tank top are the uniform of choice, and her eyes are now highlighted by her gold shadow and black liner. Odds are that she’ll don her favorite army green jacket and her ‘too cool for you’ attitude as she pursues whatever entertainment the days might hold. Here, she is at her most extroverted, and certainly her most flirtatious. She thinks it somehow appropriate when her curls are wild and free to release that aspect of her personality. Her coy smile and fluttering eyelashes betray the woman she is when she’s all alone.

Behind all this make-up, there’s no one you know

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’ll warn you up front that you’re probably going to think that I’m fishing for compliments as you read this entry.

Get over it. I’m not.

That sounded harsh, but I’m being serious. I don’t want to find fifteen comments at the end of this post that all read something like, ‘awwwwww, but you’re great, don’t think that way, okay?!’ If you have insight to offer, please do. That’s why I have that comment link down there ‘ and I love reading what y’all have to say. But let’s not use that as a tool for building up my too fragile ego. Deal?

I wish I could articulate why the significance of outward appearances has been weighing so heavily on my mind lately, but I don’t understand it. All I can tell you is that I have been observing how concern for beauty (on the part of me and others) affects my life and how I handle myself.

I fear that I’m not going to come close to saying what I mean. Let me try to explain this to you.

I’m not one of those quick-shower-and-ready-to-go kind of girls. When I ready myself to face another day, it’s a full out event every morning, regardless of what I’m doing that day. I bathe, I moisturize, I pluck my eyebrows, and I do my make up. I will not leave my house without taking these steps.

In fact, it’s a rare day that I’ll leave the house in jeans and a t shirt. I don’t like wearing t shirts. They’re not dressy enough for me, and I am generally trying to look my best at all times.

But why? Why is it that I am constantly powdering my nose to reduce shine, even for just sitting around the apartment? When I glance in the mirror, I quickly evaluate myself and decide if I’m looking cute enough. Who am I trying to impress? Does anyone really care about how I look as much as I care?

I’m frustrated with myself. I fear that I’m placing too much weight on my outward appearance, and not enough on more important matters. I feel superficial and ugly in this, if you want to know the down and dirty truth. I don’t like this aspect of my personality.

I suppose insecurities lie at the root of the problem. All throughout my life, I have been compared to people around me, and without fail, I’ve been told that they’re more attractive than I. These evaluations haven’t been made by evil boys who were out to break my heart (a shocker, I know ‘ I’m not proclaiming the wickedness of men at all). Instead, I’ve been informed repeatedly by important women in my life that someone else is prettier than I am. So-and-so is always the gorgeous one, and I’m considered cute, at best. (Ordinary is a word used more often.)

Lest I blame others for my problems, I remind myself that I shouldn’t place too much weight on the opinions of others ‘ nor on physical appearance! (Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.) The Holy Spirit within me reminds me to busy myself in growing my character and studying the Word, but my flesh is all too excited when learning that my Mary Kay lady is having a 40% off sale. (Perhaps a new shade of blush would perk these cheeks up’.)

As I’ve pondered this particular hang up of mine, I wonder if it has any connection to another question that’s weighed heavily on me. I seem to be bonding more quickly with guys than girls lately, and that’s a phenomenon I don’t understand. I’ve always been closer to the women in my life than the men; in fact, up until the past few years, I’ve practically been frightened by the opposite sex. But suddenly, I find myself launching into entertaining conversations with them quite comfortably. How odd.

Or perhaps it isn’t. Again, I question my motives. Am I striving to build up my self esteem by gaining acceptance by men in an area where women have so often put me down?

Many of you know that flirtation has been an area of struggle for me in the past several months. This is perhaps the ugliest portion of my personality that I could reveal. I’m a woman, and therefore a successful manipulator. {Insert wry smile here.} I’ve discovered a knack for getting attention when I want it, and I hate it.

When the boys are flirting, I feel desirable ‘ whether the guy is actually interested in me or just messing around. I put on the coy act like it’s a second skin. It’s an attempt to come off sweet and innocent and cute as all get out, but when I step back and look at myself, I see so much ugliness.

(Again, the holy side of me argues with the flesh. One laments the situation and prays that the poor boys see my ugliness for what it is; the other nervously hopes that they’re thinking to themselves how great I am.)

I recognize this sin, yet I have the hardest time tearing myself away from it. Too often it takes place in private, where there is no accountability available except for from the object of my flirtation himself. What can I say? It’s fun. That’s what disappoints me the most.

If this sounds all too familiar to you, as you may be one of the boys I’ve flirted with, I apologize. I don’t need to offer anything with my words that I’m not willing to back up with my actions. Until I am willing to offer you my affections (should you even be interested in accepting them!), I need to cut it out.

I am longing for fellowship. The craving for women who I can share these struggles with is deep (but the women who have been closest to me in the past are hundreds of miles away). And you know, I truly love my brothers as well, and I love the insight that their perspective offers to me.

The love of people who see the ugliness of my sin and yet still consider me their friend amazes me. I’ve had a few reminders of such friendships lately, and what blessing they have been! I wouldn’t trade them for a quick ego boost. But these ridiculous attempts on my part to build up my self esteem ‘ I would love to bid them good riddance.

If you want my glory, you gotta to take my sin
If you want my future, you gotta to take my skin
If you want my heart, you gotta to take my blood
If you want my bed, you gotta to take my lust
–Derek Webb

As good as I was to you, is this the thanks I get?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

From where I lay on my bed, I can count ten volumes containing my thoughts over the years. I know that, just out of my line of vision, a spiral bound notebook holds page after page of poetry and prose. Just opposite the foot of my bed sits a box that contains, among other things, every published word I’ve ever written. Both yearbook and newspaper articles abound.

I am literally surrounded by thousands ‘ perhaps millions ‘ of words in this room. Those that have flowed from my own pen are kept in good company with the likes of CS Lewis, Sean Watkins, Patty Griffin, Francine Rivers, and Derek Webb, among others. The books and songs that have influenced my life cover my walls, inhabit my CD player, and find their liner notes strewn about the room.

As I wrote a letter last week (another outpouring of my daily word count), I looked about this room and began to wonder: what will come of my words when I am gone?

They are at home now among some of the great authors (and some veritable, albeit respected, unknowns) of the past century. Someday, though, I’ll pass from this world, leaving these volumes (and likely countless others yet to be written) to some unfortunate relative who will then be responsible for determining their fate. What will become of these pieces of my heart?

Unlikely though it may seem, I actually do pick up my old journals and pour over the pages on occasion. While in a particularly pensive mood, I may select a volume from several years past and turn to the present day’s date in that chapter of my life. Sometimes I discover that what I wrote then is still a struggle today; others, I look back and smile at the victories of life.

But what value do these words hold for anyone else? When I’m dead, will anyone treasure these books as I have? Will the time spent creating my high school yearbook be significant to someone else? Will all of these words serve as a memorial to the life of their author ‘ or will they be better suited to decomposition in a landfill far away?

These are days you’ll remember

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

A year has passed.

She sits at what she’s beginning to think of as “her table” in her favorite coffee house, soaking up the atmosphere and reflecting on the past 365 days.

It’s been a long walk to get here, and much of it covered rocky ground. Her feet are calloused, and her knees tender. As she looks about the coffee shop and sips on her strawberry tea, she again wonders why it happened this way. All things happen for a reason – a belief she clings to – but even now, she doesn’t know what that reason could be.

Perhaps she’ll never know. She thinks that to herself and nods. That would be okay; she doesn’t have to solve all of life’s mysteries. Ambiguity – in some instances – is acceptable.

In any case, she’s come to accept the circumstances of the past year as lessons well learned. The uncertainty and magnified insecurities were scary at the time, yes. But she looks back to who she was twelve months ago, and she knows the changes have been for the better. At last, she’s beginning to consider herself a woman, not merely a little girl lost.

She has become her own friend. She has the confidence to pursue her dreams, but the presence of mind to know that things won’t always work out as she hopes. She’s prepared to face either situation. Risks are no longer something only other people take, but journeys that she too is willing to embark on.

Tangible evidence of the changes of the last year is something that she lacks. The stamp left on her life, though, bears witness to the good that trials may bring.