Breaking the Ice (Or How I Became the Writing Diva!)

The following is from a speech I prepared for a speakers' group at my workplace. Enjoy!

My name is Carol Evonne Robinson, and I’m a word nerd.

I know it sounds like an introduction for a 12-step group. Let me tell you how I became a word nerd!

Reading and writing have been a part of my life since I was 3, and I’m glad to use my passion for prose in my position as chief editor for the California Energy Commission.

My love for the written word began when my father, an offset feeder for what is now the Office of State Publishing, would bring home imperfect textbooks for my six siblings and me to read. From a geography textbook about South America, I would practice words like “Brazil,” “river,” and “country.” I began writing at 6 years old, not just my name and address, but stories about imaginary places and real happenings on my street in Oak Park.

Although I attended UC Davis with the intention of going to medical school to become an obstetrician-gynecologist, science and math didn’t come easily to me. But writing always had. I worked as a news reporter for the campus radio station, one of three jobs I held while carrying a full course load. Writing and airing stories about events on and off campus gave me a rush.

Five years after graduation, I became a reporter for a small newspaper in Bellingham, Washington, then a small town 90 miles north of Seattle along Interstate 5. After a year there, I worked for small papers in Northern California, closer to home.

What I learned from my 12-year stint in newspapers is that people wanted news they could understand without the jargon they didn’t. At first, I would write the way city and county government officials wrote and spoke because it sounded “official.” But my city editors taught me that readers wanted to know what was happening and how it would affect them.

Of my 16-plus years working for the State of California, I spent 12 here at the Energy Commission. When I took the writing test my soon-to-be supervisors gave, it was supposed to take an hour. After taking the test and checking my results, I saw that I had finished in a half-hour.

When I edit, I have one character flaw – I curse under my breath. I’m not patient regarding terms like “in order” or “make contact with.” I bite my lip when I see needless capitalization. When it comes to working with prose, I’m a cross between ChloeO’Brien from the TV series “24” and Academy Award-, Emmy-, Grammy-, and Tony-winning actress Whoopi Goldberg. In other words, I do not suffer fools gladly – that is, I have no patience for nonsense, in print or in person. (Your fault, Dad!) So, when you see my edits, please don’t take it personally.

One of the most influential pieces I’ve read is an essay by George Orwell – “Politics and the English Language.” He also wrote Animal Farm and 1984. The essay focuses on the use of verbose, unclear language to hide the truth rather than express it. I consider editing reports for plain language to be a mission. Although energy scientists, economists, and analysts may know what the reports communicate, regular people who read at a ninth-grade level often don’t. I enjoy what I do because my position combines my writing skills with public service.

To conclude, I’d like to think that when I retire, I will write my own book and read the 250 books in my collection. From toddler to elder, I remain a word nerd.

More Facebook Rules for Single People

I just deleted someone I dated from my life for the second time. This time the deletion was via Facebook.

I made the stoopid mistake of befriending someone I used to date via Facebook. In a moment of weakness and loneliness, I sought him out and sent him an e-mail saying "Hi." He, in turn, send me an e-mail saying he wouldn't mind being a Facebook friend. So, I befriended him.

What the $*@! was I thinking?!

I had dated the guy 21 years ago before I joined a journalism program and went to my first journalism job in Bellingham, Wash. Eleven months later when I interviewed for a newspaper job in Northern California, I went to see him and wanted to pick up where we left off. But there was no place to pick up. He uttered those "six words" no lovesick adult wants to hear: "I'm not in love with you."

The plane ride from Sacramento to Seattle and the flight from Seattle to Bellingham were the longest I've ever spent. Even when I flew from Oakland to Miami with a sinus infection, that flight wasn't as long as those.

Anyway, once I signed up for Facebook in February, I became curious about whatever became of the guy. He was indeed on Facebook. It wasn't until a month ago when I sent my e-mail and he responded.

This week he announced on Facebook that he is in a relationship with this trim, petite, beautiful brunette. (He proudly posted the picture. She looked like Sacramento "arm candy.") I mentally kicked myself for befriending him. After 21 years and an involvement that had nothing to do with love on his part, what was the point of being his friend?

I asked a coworker if the guy would know immediately if he'd know that I removed him from my list of friends. When the coworker said, "No," I logged into my Facebook account, found the guy's photo, and clicked the X. When the prompt asked if I was sure I wanted to delete him, I clicked "Proceed." Buh-bye.

I read Facebook's rules and regulations as well as a commonly used list posted by a blogger. I want to add the following: "Unless you are on very good terms with your ex-significant other, do not look him or her up on Facebook. Also, do not befriend him or her on Facebook. It is not worth your dignity."

Writing Diva

Not Just Another Day

I tried to make it through September 30, 2009, as if it were another workday. I got dressed and fed myself and my cats as usual. I took the commuter bus to work in Sacramento. I had a stack of technical and policy reports to edit. I got my paycheck today and declined to contribute to the state’s United Way campaign because of the furloughs cutting into my pay.

Then my sister Black Woman Blogging sent me and the siblings her blog entry about the 11th anniversary of Mom’s passing.

With apologies to my Christian friends – DAMMIT!

The reminder was like pulling off a scab to reveal a fresh, unguarded wound. One would think that after 11 years it wouldn’t hurt. Correction: One would not be thinking, period. It still hurts. And I don’t know when it will stop hurting.

(P.S. to Black Woman Blogging: I’m not angry. You’re right to express your feelings in writing on this day. I’m just mad at the circumstances.)

My mother had Alzheimer’s disease, but it was the lung cancer that eventually took her life. She didn’t have the ability to communicate her pain and concern for her health. When she fell asleep the night of September 29, she didn’t wake up the next day. That devastated Dad and eventually the rest of us.

I think for me what hurts most is that there were things I wanted to tell her about my life but couldn’t. I wanted to explain why, 20 years ago, I was tearful and upset when Dad and she drove me to Sacramento International Airport for the return flight to Bellingham, Wash., where I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter. (I was dumped by a man who told me, with brutal honesty, “I’m not in love with you.”) I wanted to confide in her about my health problems, but the Alzheimer’s wouldn’t allow her to understand to keep my confidence. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about the times when I was snappish with her. I wanted to tell her that I finally sought chemical and therapeutic treatment for my depression. Finally, I wanted to tell her I found a job in state government that suits my talents as a writer and editor.

But on the Sunday before she passed, I sang to her and told her, “I love you.” She responded, “Thank you, baby.”

She understood. Maybe that’s enough.

In closing, when Mom passed, there was a star in the eastern night sky that I hadn’t seen before. The night before the funeral, I had followed that star in my car all the way to Folsom before I returned to Sacramento. To me, that was Mom. And to this day, whenever I see that star, I say, “Good night, Mom.”

Writing Diva