This is how my week went:
As I explained in an earlier post, I want to have a decent profile picture. Step one: find a professional photographer. Done. Step two: visit him. That’s where this story begins.
What could go wrong? I just have to get myself there and smile.
To begin with, I got a bad start. I was busy answering emails…and didn’t leave myself enough time to get ready. Was I setting myself up for failure? MMMMaybe. I had less than an hour to do the Houdini trick of transforming myself into someone I’m putting on the Internet. I throw on the shampoo, whiz the hair blower, pull up the stretch pants and tell myself, “This is part of being a writer.” Uh huh.
I pull out my trusty stash of makeup, some of which I only wear for special occasions, and splash it here and there, hoping to see some improvement in the mirror. That was my second problem, the here and there part. I ended up with foundation (think light brown paint) on the sleeve of my white blouse. The clock is ticking. I wash the sleeve. Now I have a wet arm, but what the heck, “This is part of being a writer.” I throw on more makeup, hoping against hope, that it might help, but as we all know more is not necessarily better. Now I look like, a wet, over-made up desperate writer. Well… at least I’m authentic.
My wet arm is cold, so I decide to change shirts. I know making a wardrobe change at the last minute isn’t the wisest decision, but I yank out another white blouse and put it on. That’s better. Oh….fudge. It’s got a cranberry stain on it from Easter dinner. Not good. It flies in the air. I’ll try another. No that shirt’s not the look I want. It’s too casual. I repeat my mantra, “This is part of being a writer.”
Black, maybe black is the answer. I reach into my drawer and find my black turtle neck. It’s wrinkled, but what the heck. I’m sure he can dewrinkle me in the edits. Will black take all the color out of my face? Oh hell, I can’t go nude. I remind myself, “This is part of being a writer.” I look at the clock. I’ve got to get moving.
I throw on my wet, white shirt. It will have to do, but I pack the black shirt for back up. I fly out the door, remembering that, “This is part of being a writer.”
It’s a beautiful day, and the photographer’s office is a fifteen minute walk through a delightful park. The birds are chirping, the locals are smiling because it isn’t raining, and the cherry blossoms are open. Sounds good, heh. But I decided to wear my brand new shoes. I get half way (i.e., too far to turn back) when I realize my mistake. A blister is forming on my right foot. It feels like the skin is ripping apart. I’ll be lucky to make it. Merde!
I arrive, hobbling, with a wet arm and sweat trickling through that damn make up I slathered on. I hate having my picture taken. It’s right up there with going to the dentist and listening to his drill. I limp to my photographer’s door, telling myself, “This is part of being a writer.” Really? Wouldn’t self mutilation be easier?
The photographer, Sean Frenzl, doesn’t look like he’s going to bite. I relax a little. He has a young student assisting him, who smiles sweetly. Okay, maybe I can do this. We talk about what I want, and because I really don’t know what I want this is not easy for me. I mumble that I want to look confident. He starts taking pictures and assures me that there is no limit on his time. He gives me direction as to where to look, and has me relax when I get tense. He shuffles lenses faster than I shuffle cards. His assistant moves lighting screens (which probably have names) around. I try to keep smiling, hanging on to my mantra, “This is part of being a writer.”
I lost track of time. I was busy playing model. I would guess an hour passed. The picture taking was over and I was exhausted. Honestly, it’s tiring being so wound up. We looked at the photos. Wow! He’s good. Maybe it’s going to be alright after all. I start to breath again. We eliminate some pictures. I notice the wrinkles in my black shirt, but what can I expect of an old standby dug out of the bottom of a drawer. At least no stains or blisters show.
Sean explains that he’ll send me a gallery of pictures and I’m to choose three, which he will then edit. He’s done everything he can to make me feel comfortable, but I’m still sweating. I thank him and hobble out into a light drizzle. I head straight to a coffee shop for a large cup of caffeine (my first for the day) and tell myself, “This is part of being a writer.”
What would I do differently next time?
- figure out a set of clothing, and a set of back up clothing (without wrinkles)
- give myself enough time to get ready
- have some shots without my glasses
- wear sensible shoes
How did shy, silly old me get through this? My mantra, “This is part of being a writer.” I know, it’s crazy, but it worked:)
Note: I highly recommend my photographer, Sean Fenzl. He was professional and soo kind. He also wrote a blog post about our time together! Check it out.
A Critique Group that Rocks
Have you ever struck gold? That’s how I feel about my critique group. The four of us met today to talk about our writing. The ideas flew. I’m grateful to be part of such a dynamic group of writers. They listen, they tweek, and they encourage. It’s like visiting heaven.
Sooo …which picture do you think I should use for Twitter?