I quote: A fine quotation is a diamond in the hand of a man of wit and a pebble in the hand of a fool.
Deep. And true. And yes, that’s a quote about quotes. Because this is a post about quotes. Joseph Roux said that, by the way. No, he wasn’t a second baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals in the mid-80s.
(Remember those baby blue uniforms?)
He was actually a French surgeon in the 1700s. I’m not sure which of these men I am, and that’s up for debate. What I’d like to do is write posts about quotes now and then. Because of words about words, right?
I use quotes at the end of every post, you might have noticed.
I do because sometimes others’ words are the best way to wrap things up. It’s like having a forward in the back of a book if a post was a book. Not to mention people like to pin the hell out of a good quote.
Parents used to fuss a little that the Pacheco girls got props a lot.
Well, dad’s the coach. This makes a lot of sense in some cases. Not all. People who see the considerable playing time these girls get don’t see that they spend scorching summer afternoons not always watching New Girl on Netflix, eating guacamole.
They get out there on the soccer field and work their asses off.
It’s a labor of love and it inspires me. It helped me through a period when I didn’t know what was next. I wanted a next, that’s all. You add love into the equation, work feels more like dessert. Even when your quads are on fire.
Or you struggle to stay awake at night to blog because your day’s so damned chock full.
I see this in new writers and new players. In people whom I know and just observe getting their feet settled and their confidence up. It’s a good look. You must give up a little of who you are to get to who you will become.
You can quote me on that.
I realized weeks into my job how limited my work had been at the last gig. The words piled up. But they were anonymous. Placed on pages in futile places to serve a purpose. That purpose wasn’t anything special, didn’t require me to specifically do the work.
It struck me one day halfway through my stint.
I have nothing here I realized. I have teamwork and team contribution and an occasional pat on the literary back. But I’m just a collection of bits on a desk with a company-issued laptop. I’m replaceable. And then I really was.
Today, I learn.
I study how to make content marketing work. I subscribe to newsletters and watch seminars and see stuff on TV or billboards or blogs. I mash them through my processor and try something new with my words. It works, sometimes. Others, no.
I’m on a team that expects me to do this and appreciates that I do.
From writing email campaigns that stick to changing the headlight lamp in a 2004 Hyundai Elantra. Or making a barbecue chicken pizza on the grill. Or understanding something that just happened with a kid I love. In order that I may learn how to do it.
Me too, Mir.
As a non-sister, there are boundaries to my inclusion into any sisterhood. I can stand among the ponytails and cleats on the sideline. I can work alongside driven and talented women. But I will never really be a sister.
I love to see how the sisters my daughters are, interacting.
I just learned they have a message group, these three. The send videos and make plans and make fun of each other. They want tattoos on their wrists, simple Roman numerals to signify birth order. That’s big. That’s the three.
Long after I’m gone, my biggest wish is that they stay bound.
When they’re snuggled watching Psych, I say nothing. When they’re beating the holy hell out of each other in the backseat on the way to a soccer match … well, I say little. I might object when the car starts to sway into the next lane.
I’m just happy to be close to it.