I was looking through posts last night in an attempt to gather information that a friend had requested about "favorite" movements. (I sent her details about Etsy and the DIY community, the Green My Apple campaign and Dallas Clayton, whom I referred to as a "burgeoning movement" in my idealistic and hopeful eyes.)
And then this morning, when I should have been getting ready for work, I discovered Topsy.com and, for the first time, started browsing the tweets that had been written in response to "Sincerely, John Hughes."
And I remembered — for the 1,784th time — that I really love blogging because it is a chance to write — about what I want to write about. It is my space to do the thing that makes me happiest in this world.
I'm back. I apologize for my absence. I love you, Twitter, but it just ain't the same.
I've become increasingly aware of people who are doing what they want to do with their lives and having a positive impact on others' in the process.
I wrote recently about Dallas Clayton, who wrote a beautiful book for his son to inspire a little boy to think big and, when he couldn't find a publisher, published it himself and is now giving copies away.
I watched Jonathan Demme's Jimmy Carter: Man from Plains this morning, about a former president who is willing to ruffle feathers and speak his mind because he lives according to a code of justice and has no other option.
I have, for years, admired my friend David Wilson, for developing the truly inspiring True False Film Fest in his hometown of Columbia, Missouri, capturing the attention of filmmakers from around the world for his love letter to documentary films, his beloved hometown and his family.
I have obviously written about my childhood mentor, John Hughes, who rejected a world that nevertheless embraced him and encouraged me and instilled in me a desire to follow my own passions.
Then there's my friend, Christie Herring, a documentary filmmaker who is working hard to complete her film, The Campaign, about the campaign to defeat California's Prop 8, which, one year ago, overturned the right to marriage for same sex couples.
There was a great post about Christie and The Campaign this morning in The Huffington Post, with Georgianne Nienaber relating today's fight for equal rights for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people with her own experiences in the gay rights movement of the mid-1970's. It was a lovely reminder to me that, once again — people can do what they want with their lives and have a positive impact on others' lives in the process.
It sounds so stupidly obvious, doesn't it? But how many of us are really doing it?
In college, my friend Andrew and I would rationalize bad behavior (on our part) or painful experiences with the comment that it was "another chapter for the book." In essence, we believed these things made us more interesting, gave us more fodder to tell tales.
It's a notion I still believe in.
I am a more interesting and thoughtful person because of the obstacles that I have had to overcome. I have better stories to tell because of those obstacles and due to risks I have taken.
They are another chapter for the book.
Unfortunately, it won't be THAT book. I am not writing the book about my pen pal relationship with John Hughes — for reasons I'd rather not discuss, but which sadden me.
It's not just that Dallas wrote a book for his five-year old son that is completely inspiring. He's also traveling all over and reading the book to kids and giving away a copy of the book for every one he sells.
And the message of Dallas's book, the message that every kid should hear — whether you're five or 35 or even 75 — is to DREAM BIG.
You can read the whole book online, but when you get to the end, you're still likely to want to buy a copy for yourself to remind yourself to dream of "rocket-powered unicorns" or to inspire someone else whom you hope will dream of "dancing wild animals with diamond-coated wings." Or maybe you just want to buy a book so Dallas can give someone else a copy to urge them to "dream a dream as big as big could ever dream to be."
The book proposal is on hold. I'm dreaming big, but I think I'm also dreaming different.
"School children dressed as Mahatma Gandhi take part in a cultural programme on the eve of Gandhi's 140th birth anniversary, in the central Indian city of Bhopal October 1, 2009."
This picture makes me smile.
The kid, second from the left, looks like he may not embrace non-violence as much as the man he honors would have liked.
I finished the first draft of the book proposal about five minutes ago and sent it to my agent. It's far from perfect, but I got to the point where it just needed to be DONE. The purpose, at this stage, is to get a publisher to commit to it, not to win a Nobel Prize.
Concerns? It sounds more depressing, or at least melodramatic, than I intend it to be. I literally wanted to write across the top of it, "THIS WILL BE FUNNY. YOU WILL LAUGH. I PROMISE."
But I refrained. Hopefully my sense of humor will come through.
(Please, let it come through.)
I still need to hear from someone to know that it's okay.
(Someone, can you hear me?)
And then, if it goes forward, I'll have to deal with the ramifications of being honest about life on the Byrne Fields ranch.
Crap.
So, I'm still trying to decide which John Hughes I most closely resembled as a teenager (in terms of character, not looks — or even gender.)
As part of my job, I advise nonprofit organizations on donor relations. The general message is that donors — because they're people — like to hear "thank you" and that, increasingly, donors like to feel they are integral to helping an organization to meet its mission, not just by giving money but as ambassadors for the organization or the cause. The latter is a notion that predates Barack Obama's presidential campaign, but is easily illustrated by the campaign's purposeful decision to frame their messages using the collective pronoun (we), suggesting all Americans had a role to play in changing the direction of our country.
"We are the ones we've been waiting for, we are the ones we seek."
When I have my donor hat on, this is what I am hoping for from the organizations to which I give my money. I don't just want to write a check, I want to feel engaged. And, yeah, I should just be able to revel in the reward that comes from knowing I've contributed to achieving a mission in which I believe,
BUT I REALLY WANT SOMEONE TO SAY THANK YOU.
(That was a set up. A long one.)
I'm feeling really guilty this morning. Over the weekend, having not heard from 826 — after making a (in my world) significant contribution to them — I sent the organization an email with some advice on donor relations and letting them know they had lost me because they had simply neglected to say thank you.
(I suck.)
Yesterday, Lauren Hall, the organization's Development Director, sent me an email to apologize for not being in touch sooner.
"I would like to follow up soon, maybe you would consider talking with me on the phone? I feel awful about all of this. The truth, like I stated below, is that our individual donors are our livelihood, and in the past we have prided ourselves on our effusive donor appreciation. It's just that yours was delayed…Your donation was the talk of the WEEK, completely lifting our spirits and inspiring our work. We are so grateful for the exposure that you've afforded us with heartfelt mentions on your blog. All of this has been incredibly exciting and motivating, and I'm sorry it's taken us a minute to let you know all this!"
(Have I mentioned how much I suck? Did you notice she said it took "a minute" to get back to me?)
Then, last night, when I got home, there was a nice little package for me from 826, which it seems they mailed before I sent my email. A t-shirt, buttons, a couple of publications put out by the organization and a handwritten note signed — not just by one staff member, but four — including a suggestion that I come by and visit them if I am ever in San Francisco.
Hey, 826, consider this my apology for my impatience. You do a great job with donor relations. Now get back to work doing what you do and stop worrying about me and my whining. You've got me for life.
If you want to make a donation to 826 and promise not to give Lauren a hard time for not getting back to you immediately, then head this way.
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