Archive for July, 2009
I went to a party and a conference broke out (#blogher09)
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I’ve needed a week to digest my first Blogher experience. Bottom line: Blogher09 was a mixed bag for me. Maybe, I had unrealistic expectations about Blogher09. I wanted to learn something about blogging, maybe a tidbit about making some money, and maybe some techhy stuff. I also hoped to meet some of my favorite bloggers and find my new tribe. And go to some parties. And get a little swag. I won some and lost some on my list. What I didn’t expect was that I would have so much fun while simultaneously feeling disgusted and a little shy. Yes, me. Back-in-middle-school-shy.
Here’s the good and bad of Blogher09, which I hope is helpful for any other newbies who are interested in attending in the future.
Good: Blogher offers good value for the fee. Breakfast, lunch, cocktail parties with heavy finger foods and free booze, all included in the price of admission, kept my cash in my wallet. I only spent $100 outside of my hotel room, flight and conference fee, and that includes transportation from and to the airport, checking a bag in each direction and tips.
@talesofrachel and @banteringblonde
Good: Camping in Room 2332. I met up with my roommate, Rachel, at DIA, and we shared a shuttle with Fiona of Banteringblonde to the Chicago Sheraton. Rachel is a sweetie, and we had a great time hanging out on Thursday, walking through the rain to the Embassy Suites for a party, then again for dinner. She kindly kept me out of the bread basket, thank god, although the way she ate her french fries seemed like a huge tease to me, since I couldn’t have any. I am so grateful that she and Julia let me share their room … and have my own bed. It was all good. Somehow, we wrangled the bathroom share with ease. No one’s snoring kept anyone else up. We were respectful and kind to each other. All was great in room 2332.
Bad: Blogher’s conference content is subpar to what I expect for professional conferences. Given that it was easier to find the party list than the session list on the conference website, and that the pre-conference Twitter convos centered on parties and fashion, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet I was. I expected more sophisticated content from the world’s largest blogging conference. I usually come back from a meeting with more ideas than I could ever implement, but that wasn’t the case at Blogher. I took only six pages of notes, and I’m a prolific notes-taker. I wanted practical ideas, how-tos, great case studies, and I didn’t get any of it from the sessions. I did learn a little from fellow attendees.
with @tarable in a Blogher09 session
In full disclosure, I do PR for a living. My job includes programming for several professional conferences, including sitting on my professional organization’s board which plans the annual meeting. I may be more sophisticated in my needs than other Blogher attendees.
The breakout sessions I attended were poorly moderated with rare exception. The panelists often turned discussion over to the audience, which took the conversation off track and detracted from their expertise. The sessions didn’t usually match their descriptions. I’ve read a few other Blogher wrapups, and perhaps panels I didn’t attend were better than the ones I did.
With heavy emphasis on mommy bloggers, non-mommy bloggers like me were left without a home. I think the conference would be stronger if it had clearly identified tracks. I’d love to see a defined track which could cover how-tos of building a viable blogging business (as opposed to using blogging in your business, as I think the Blogher Business day is programmed), ethics, case studies and more could be popular for bloggers of all genres. A must-have session: How to work with marketers and PR agents, as most of the attendees had not reference or training in this area. Another great topic: are we media or not? And if so, how does this definition effect how we do business. I would also love to see a whole track on the craft of writing; many women I met write to express themselves but have no formal training, and I’m always looking for workshops that improve me.
Community keynote
I think the conference organizers need to take a serious look at the programming, do some pointed surveys of attendees and deliver more professional content. Almost everyone I talked to about this topic also had mixed feelings about the content quality. I was hoping to get my employer to pay for my attendance next year. As the content stands, I wouldn’t be able to justify the expense.
Good: Community Keynote. What do you get when you bring more than a dozen excellent writers to the podium to read their best work? Tears, laughter and perfection. The community keynote is Blogher’s home run. The only thing to be improved is the warning: waterproof mascara and tissues are required. I can’t remember the last time I was so moved by a reading event. The community keynote makes me understand what happened to all of those great writers I knew in high school and college: they’re blogging.
I found some great new bloggers to follow, and even inspiration for what I think is my best post yet on this blog.
Good: Dying is Easy, ROTFLMAO Comedy is Hard. This Room of Your Own Panel, featuring Anna from Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder, Deb from Deb on the Rocks, Jenny from the Bloggess, Jessica from Bernthis, Kelcey from The Mama Bird Diaries and Wendi Aarons killed. Not only was it funny as hell–Jessica Bern is my comedy hero–but I actually picked up a few pointers. Namely reminders that blogging is writing, no matter the style, and each post should be crafted (like this post, which has been through about 73 revisions), and not to worry if funny isn’t my style because there’s room for everyone and every style in the blogosphere. Deb moderated the panel beautifully, too. It was good all around.
Good: What Blogher lacked in content, it made up for in networking, social activities and fun. I may have taken only 6 pages of notes, but I came home with nearly 100 business cards and gave out about the same number. I attended six parties. I skipped a session to hang out in the Shutter Sisters Suite, where I was able to test drive a camera lens called the Lensbaby–something I’ve been interested in for a while. (See my flickrstream for cool photos I took with this lens.) I had great conversations with several bloggers as we walked to the Millennium Park and tested different accessories.
Wienermobile!
I also took a basic digital photo class with Erin Manning of HGTV-HD’s The Whole Picture at lunch on Friday that ended in a 1:4 lesson in using bounces and diffusers. Such a session would have cost me at least $200, and I learned about something I had many questions about, a pleasant surprise and fun.
I had some excellent conversations with Kevin Burke of momswhoblog.com, which he fashions as a trade magazine. We will be talking about me doing some writing for him.
I took advantage of a foot massage in the Hanes booth and a chair massage in the Microsoft Suite. I also attended a swanky private party, sponosored by Nintendo, thanks to a last-minute invitation from my friend Amber. The evening included a ride in a horse-drawn carriage to the John Hancock Building, dinnerat The Signature Room with its 95th floor views of the city, and a new Nintendo DSi. I lucked into that adventure, and I’m incredibly grateful still. I made a little video, in which I said, “I feel like a movie star.” More fun. I also sang karaoke at the Friday night cocktail party … in front of about 500 people. That was OMG fun, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Nintendo party
I heard actual squealing out of grown women as they found their online friends. I’ve never been a squealer. Ever. Maybe I felt a little left out since I’m new and don’t know many people. I found myself standing alone quite a bit, and I was instantly rushed back to middle school. It’s always been hard for me to make friends with people in large group settings. I just joined Twitter and recently learned I’m not the only blogger in Denver. So I don’t have a ton of online friends yet. I can bullshit with the rest of them, but it’s hard for me to make those real connections in this setting. I have a complex about always being the girl on the outside looking in (as has generally been my life experience), and it reared its head at Blogher.
That said, almost everyone I met was friendly. I’m still not sure how to take an A-lister’s exclamation: “You’re so different from what I imagined! You’re … stunning!” (What, do I write ugly? I’m sure she meant something else, but she seemed to avoid me after that.) And even though another has commented on this blog–twice–she had no idea who I was when I introduced myself. She was sweet about it and gave me a lip balm. I felt silly for assuming she’d know me, even though I’m a frequent commenter on her blog.
Then, I was thrilled and equally weirded out when I met someone who actually reads this blog (hi!). Even though I love the idea that people read it, all of a sudden I was all OMG this woman has read about my deepest darkest secrets and fears and health issues. Then I got over it and became thrilled again.
60 minutes of solitude
I got some relief from the constant running and chaos of this conference with a little me time on the ridiculously soft Sheraton beds. I was glad not to have roomed with anyone I needed to entertain. Fun can also equal an hour of quiet time with What Not to Wear before a big party.
Bad: Some people, though, have no class and should just stay home. I’ll call them the Swag Hags. These are those handful of women who acted unethically and downright rudely when it came to scoring the best freebies. They cheated and stole. They elbowed people out of the way and took more than what was rightfully theirs. And they inappropriately propositioned sponsors for free stuff. Disgusting doesn’t begin to describe their behavior. I like free stuff as much as the next girl, but not enough to be a greedy bitch about it. I was happy to bring my kids home some clown noses and coloring books, and to pass out endless thumb drives to my work friends.
Bad: I was honestly surprised and slightly put off by the commercialization of Blogher, spurred, perhaps, by all the swag. I would have liked the Expo Hall to include vendors who can help me make my blog better. Instead, I got to get pitched by Johnson & Johnson, Ann Taylor, Mary Kay Cosmetics, Ford, Pepsico, Michelin Tires and McDonalds. I don’t do paid reviews or contests, so their appeals fell on deaf ears.
On Saturday, I sat at lunch with a woman who wants to lose weight. So she’s looking for sponsors. Seriously. “I’m going to need a new wardrobe!” she told the table. “I’m going to need personal trainers. And nutritionists. I don’t have money for that stuff.” I was baffled. I don’t see how you can do what she’s proposing and not become a shill. I think that’s the Journalism School in me speaking. I’d love to make enough money from this blog to write off conference expenses and cover my annual costs. I’d like it to generate freelance writing and photography jobs. But I couldn’t write to the brand, or the product. It’s one of the issues I’m struggling with as I think about monetizing this blog, and I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe it’s not for me.
The other thing that surprised me is that many bloggers are afraid of writing a negative review. “If you can’t say something nice …” one woman said in a session on Sponsored vs. Unsponsored. If she doesn’t like a product she’s been asked to review, she doesn’t write about it at all. That seems backassward to me. I rely on the negative product reviews almost more than the positive ones. Apparently there’s some fear of being sued for slander. I say a) good luck suing me for assets I don’t have (I’m no Oprah) and b) First Amendment. Maybe I’m being naive. Still, I’d never be afraid to state my honest opinion about anything. Example: this post. And while I’ve never been offered anything free or been paid in exchange for reviewing a product, it seems logical and just to disclose if I were. Why wouldn’t you? The excuse, “it clutters up my blog” is bullshit. Disclose, disclose and disclose. If we don’t, the FTC will crack down and, like physicians and PHaRMa, we will no longer be able to accept a pen or water bottle, let alone cash. (/soapbox)
Overall, I feel like I went to a weekend-long, kick ass party and a conference broke out. A highly sponsored, branded and SWAGged conference at that. While I didn’t really find my tribe, I did make some new acquaintances. And got my name out. And didn’t think about real life the whole time, which almost makes up for whatever the conference was lacking. If I return to Blogher 10 in New York City, I’ll change my expectations for the conference with my fingers crossed that content will be improved and hope to find my tribe the second time around.
Please enable Javascript and Flash to view this Flash video.Catching the sleep train
Posted by: | CommentsI reach a point of no return every evening. Either I go to bed when the feeling overcomes me–my left eye itchy and thick, my head heavy–or I stay awake for most of the night. Or all of the night. I miss the sleep train.
Some evenings, I see the lost cause yet pretend I can beat it. My mind races. The computer beckons, especially my Excel spreadsheets which calculate so many aspects of my life. And my feedreader, with its 263 unread entries. And this blog, which I haven’t posted on substantially in days. I can play the game–wash my face, climb into bed and do the pre-sleep spooning of Steve, my usual ritual–only to toss and turn, look at the clock, count the hours of sleep I’d get if I’d just go to sleep this minute. I’ll take my pellets, the homeopathic sleep aids belladonna and coffea cruda, which sometimes send me into dreamless sleep. I’ll get up and eat a few walnuts, another homegrown cure. Maybe every third bout these tricks will grow roots, and I will fall asleep on the couch.
Other evenings, like tonight, I won’t bother pretending. I know by 10:30 if I’ll be able to get real rest. Tonight, the answer is no.
I’m usually quite productive on my sleepless nights. I balance my checkbook, write, read. I listen to the TV in the background. Perhaps that’s part of the problem, the blue flickering light stimulating my brain. It’s the light that does it, if anything, because the exercise programs and gadgets and educational programs are dull enough to make the most seasoned insomniac snore away. Except for me.
The cats blink wearily at me from their back-of-the-couch perches. Occasionally they yawn and stretch, jump onto my lap with a meow as if asking what on earth I’m doing awake. They can’t sleep deeply unless I’m asleep. They are tethered to my circadian rhythm like a boat to a dock. They might rock and doze, but they can’t drift to deep waters until I do.
Sometimes I can go to bed before the infomercials start. But on nights like tonight, I find myself fully clothed, watching the Eastern sky move from indigo to denim. A layer of yellow will coat the rooftops, then pink, then the sky will brighten. It is nearly 6 am. The birds are already singing. Steve will get up for work shortly, and like the cats, he will blink at me and ask me if I’m crazy.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I’ll say, and he’ll nod, knowingly. He doesn’t really know. He’s one of those people who falls asleep when his head hits the pillow. He is not a ruminator. I, on the other hand, turn thoughts and worries, problems and people over in my mouth, feeling their nuances with my tongue, against my teeth, until I have them all figured out.
I look at the clock and wonder if 90 minutes of sleep will make my day groggier or clearer. I check my work schedule and wonder if I should call in sick. I’ll be worthless to the details, unfocused, slow. Coffee will help me make it through, but caffeine also cements the insomnia into a cycle. In fact, I’m suspicious that yesterday’s decaf coffee may have caused this evening’s sleep loss.
In the end, I’ll take a catnap–the cats curled up beside me, relieved I’ve finally closed my eyes–and tough out the day, perhaps leaving early but otherwise giving it my best try. My body will buzz angrily, exhausted, and I will coax it into forgiving me for missing that window of opportunity. And tonight, I’ll try to catch the sleep train before it gets away from me.
Days of Grace: 143/365
Posted by: | Comments- I had the opportunity to write a plea letter to the Central Platte Valley District Board, which governs use of the Millennium Bridge. I’ve done everything I can to convince them to let us use the bridge for our wedding and to lower their fee. The meeting is on Tuesday, and the decision is in their hands, so I can let it go.
- My wedding dress doesn’t need to be altered as much as I thought it did. It’s amazing what having someone else lace up/tighten the corset does for the fit.
- Cool, rainy July days in Colorado don’t come often.
- Strawberries, so sweet and juicy right now
- Sleep
Days of Grace: 142/365
Posted by: | Comments- We definitely hired the right wedding coordinator: Super Dana of Revel and Bloom. She’s kicking ass and taking names (and hopefully, in the process, saving us about $500 on renting the Millennium Bridge for 20 minutes).
- My homeowner insurance policy can extend a special coverage certificate to cover the insurance requirements for using the bridge at no cost–saving us at least $160.
- Even though Steve and I are both experiencing some wedding jitters (omfg what are we doing?), we both want to spend the rest of our lives together. It’s just the INSTITUTION of marriage that makes us nervous (and maybe a little doubt in our past ability to choose the right partner, but we both feel differently about each other than we have felt about any other past partner).
- Lauren is in the sweetest, lovey-est phase since she was a newborn. She’s just a little bit needy (but not whiney), and I love it. I feel very connected to her. She keeps saying, “I never, EVER want to be away from you for 10 days again! I just miss you too much!”
- My friend Jennifer, who is second in command at a large nonprofit, just sent me a job posting for a senior-level job at a foundation. Even though I’m not sure I’m qualified for it, the fact that she thinks I am makes me feel wonderful. I have some time to think about it, as the job doesn’t close until the end of August.
Days of Grace: 141/365
Posted by: | Comments- I met Schmutzie, the founder of Grace in Small Things, at a party
- I met someone else who recognized me and reads my blog (such a thrill)
- I met Jenny the Bloggess and she gave me a hug
- I got to test out the Lensbaby camera lens system while taking photos at Chicago’s Millennium Park (and I’ll post some photos soon)
- I spent 4 days not thinking about the wedding
She ran, and I found her
Posted by: | CommentsWhen I was born, my mother named me Heather. She loved the beautiful resiliency of those purpley-pink, stalky flowers. Somehow she knew I would need this flower’s characteristic ability: to withstand shock, to adjust easily to misfortune.
As she birthed me, she was 19 years, 3 months and 10 days old. She was just a girl–a girl whose father abused her, whose moods ruled her life. She had fallen in love with the singer in the band, and then she was pregnant. And terrified. And broken. Her mother tried to convince her to abort me, but she would have none of it. She found an agency, signed a contract. She knitted me a yellow blanket. Something to remember her by. And on June 13, 1969, when I was two days old, she ran.
I spent a week in the nursery. I imagine myself as a newborn, eyes milky blue and barely open, waiting for someone to hold me. Wanting my mother. Did I cry? Or was I in too much shock from being abandoned to make a sound? The woman who adopted me, who I call Mom, says I was a good baby, quiet, smiling. Never any trouble. If I was good, if I didn’t cry, did the nurses hold me except to feed me? Did that first week without loving touch set up my lifelong craving for skin-on-skin contact?
My adoptive parents didn’t know I already had a name, so they named me Christy Lynn and called me Lynn. They didn’t know about the yellow blanket; it did not come home with me. All they knew was they wanted to be parents. After seven years of trying, they gave up and decided to adopt. That is how I came to be in their family.
In the meantime, my birthmother moved to Aspen to make skis, sailed the ocean, had a son, became a massage therapist and moved to Maui. She thought of me around my birthday, but she made herself forget the exact day I was born. She never told the singer in the band about me, in fact had graduated from high school a semester early, before her belly grew round. She thought he never knew. But he did, because her brother let the secret slip, told him that she was living with a doctor, nannying his children. The singer would drive to the doctor’s neighborhood to lurk across the street in the hopes of seeing her, of confirming she was all right. He never knew if I was a boy or a girl. He only knew I was born in June.
He joined the Army, went to Europe, but not Vietnam. He was lucky, because in 1969 not many 19-year-old boys avoided the jungle. He fell in love with a Brit, had a child–a son. They broke up. He moved home, dealt with addiction, kept writing music and singing. He lived in Denver for a long time, not far from me, until settling down in Alabama and finding Jesus.
When I was a kid I would lay in my bed and make up stories about how my real parents met, how they were torn apart and forced to leave me in the hospital. I imagined my mother was a beautiful princess, and that I looked just like her. I am pale with hazel eyes. My family is dark. Family pictures are like that Sesame Street game: Which of these things is not like the other.
When I was 10, my mom mentioned she had a little information about my birthparents, but she didn’t think I was ready to have it. I knew it had to be in the gunmetal gray lockbox hidden on their closet’s top shelf. When I had opportunity, I pulled my mom’s vanity chair over, climbed up and took the box down. Inside, among my dad’s Army medals, was a yellowing piece of paper folded in thirds. Typed on that page was everything known about who made me. I devoured the words: Mother-5-7, 115 pounds, strawberry blonde hair, brown eyes, liked to read and swim. High school graduate. Ancestry: English and French. Father-6-0, 180 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, an artist and high school graduate. Ancestry: Slavak and Scot.
I remember how smooth the paper felt under my fingertips, how the typewriter keys had struck the paper unevenly, how the ink was slightly smeared. The paper was creased, as if it hadn’t been unfolded in years. It hadn’t been.
I stole it, along with my adoption papers. I hid them in my American Heritage Dictionary under M for Mother. For mine. For me. I took them out from time to time, running my fingers along each short bit of information. My mother liked reading. I liked reading too! My father was an artist. I, too, would become an artist then. The paper became my most prized possession.
But it couldn’t answer the question I most needed to have answered: did my real mother love me? I deserved to know. I had a right to know, I declared, sobbing one day in my sophomore French class. But the State of Colorado had sealed my records. I was not allowed to know who she was, where she was, if she loved me, if she was even alive. I made a pact with myself that I would never have a child until I found her. And I kept it.
I didn’t know about the yellow blanket then. Now I do, because my birthmother told me about it in a letter she sent after I found her in 2001. She asked me if I had it, and I don’t, and I want it so desperately–but not as desperately as I want to have a relationship with her. She is skittish, uneven. She sends birthday cards with crisp $100 bills. I use the money for things that nourish me, that make me feel alive. And she sometimes sends empty replies to my emails. I save them all in a folder. I read them on Mother’s Day.
She keeps her distance. I want to chase her, but I am so afraid she will run again, and that I will lose her if I do. So I let her be, let her set the parameters of our relationship. Because when she sends me those cards, she thanks me for having her in my life. And she signs them Love, Laura.
This post was inspired by a post written by Catherine of Her Bad Mother, Lost Boy, which she read at the Blogher 2009 Community Keynote.
Days of Grace: 140/365
Posted by: | Comments- I got to go to a plush party last night as a guest of a blogging friend. Thank you Amber!
- At which I was given a new Ninentendo DSi (party was hosted by Nintendo). What an amazing gift.
- Yesterday I had a 1:4 photography lesson with Erin Manning, a professional photog with her own TV show
- I slept for almost 8 hours last night. And I feel almost refreshed!
- Last night, I faced two fears: I sang karaoke in front of a room full of several hundred people, and I stood at the floor to ceiling windows on the 95th floor of the Hancock Building and looked down. I survived both.
