Let’s set the record straight. I am not, nor do I wannabe, the next Carrie Bradshaw. The difference between Carrie and yours truly is that I – surprise, surprise – am a real person, writing a real column (or blog, if you prefer).

Unlike Ms. Bradshaw, I report to an office every morning. I haul my lazy butt out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m.; head to Capitol Park for a jog in an attempt to maintain some semblance of a girlish figure; and when I go out, I do not garnish a flood of male attention that subsequently provides a disposable amount of material for this column.

To be clear, yes, I’m technically a singles columnist, but if you’re looking for the Sex-and-Sacramento version of “Sex and the City,” you won’t find it here. Sorry to disappoint.

I have, however, spent hours contemplating my debut as Sacramento’s very own Super Single Girl on the illustrious pages of this blog. It’s unclear how I, Janna “dateless” Santoro, finagled the position of convincing you, dear reader, that I actually know a thing or two about the single life. In reality, my authority on the subject is limited to the fact that I have been single for an inordinate amount of time – the whole of my blankety-blank years.

Having dispelled any lingering misconceptions based on everyone’s favorite fictional singleton – semi-admirable if for no other reason than her entertainment factor – I remain bumfuzzled by the nature of the Columnist Code of Antics to follow. Surely, there must be some kind of secret society. If there is, I sure as heck haven’t been inducted and doubt I’ll receive a membership card any time soon.

If indeed the Code exists, it does so to dictate Columnist gallivantings. So, when not chronicling glamorous escapades and scandalous dating relationships, Columnist – faithful to Code – parades shamelessly about: plotting, scheming and seeking new opportunities to secure Columnist Goddess status – far above non-columnist mortals. The Code insists that Singles Columnist inhabits uber-chic writerly confines, outfitted with hip office space and an antique baker’s table in lieu of a traditional desk – one strewn with paper, sticky notes, magazines and books in no discernable order. One wall, painted a bright, funky color, functions as a makeshift bulletin board for clippings and random inspiration.

As the happy byproduct of a perpetually booked social calendar, Stereotypical Singles Columnist’s phone rings incessantly. She hits a new restaurant every night of the week and a new club every weekend – always with a new date in tow. She has an impeccably fabulous wardrobe, never wearing the same outfit twice and pulling off ensembles that don’t match yet oddly work. Singles Columnist always looks good.

Well, I’ve got the baker’s table.

Officially, I do not fit the stereotype. My place in the city, while considerably less than uber-chic, possesses a unique and humble charm. If I’m lucky, my phone rings at least once a day, though it’s usually my mother. My social calendar is never booked, and I’ve been known to spend many a Friday night at home. Alone. Writing this column. If my soon-to-be beloved readers expect me to maintain the hip-single-columnist image, I’ll have to upgrade my wardrobe so that it comes with a personal fashion consultant – and prospects for increasing the cash flow.

Admittedly, the pressures of maintaining a columnist persona are somewhat alleviated with the perceived anonymity of publishing online, which should help in the maintaining-a-low-profile department. (We’ll see how well this theory holds.) Otherwise I’d have nothing about which to monologue save for my semi-recent jaunt to “The Apprentice” auditions (don’t ask). This is, after all, a potential date-killing gig, and dating has enough drama.

I have been non-stop writing. I’m surprised that I don’t have calluses on the tips of my fingers from typing all day every day for the past two weeks. You know what else I am surprised at – my own stamina. Before now, I had no idea that I had this kind of endurance when it came to writing. And let me tell you, it’s exhausting! Not to mention the fact that during these writing stints, I have virtually no contact with the outside world. Despite the isolation, I’m quite proud of this accomplishment because in just over one week (on December 5, to be exact) , I will have submitted my 80-plus-page master project for completion of a master of arts degree at the University of California, Sacramento. Until now, I didn’t know this kind of writing was in me.

I’ve learned a lot about writing recently. My main conclusion is this: if I can do it, anyone can. One of the other courses I’ve been taking this semester is a teaching writing internship and I’ve been contributing to a freshman comp class at a local community college. Modern composition pedagogy emphasizes writing as a process – something I think was intrinsic for me, but I never explicitly thought or spoke about writing in those terms – and so focusing on teaching, guiding, coaching others through a writing process has indirectly forced me to be more aware of my own process.

This experience has also given me pause to consider why I don’t write more. I mean, I call myself a writer, but how much do I actually write? Up to now, it’s only been when absolutely necessary – not very writerly of me. The reality is that there are so many things that I could and should write about: wine (granted, not a pressing life issue, but something that I enjoy nonetheless), literature (a topic on which I have much to say), dating escapades (which are, if nothing else, entertaining), trials and tribulations of life as a single girl (of which there are many), teaching writing (a relatively new topic of interest), the way women are portrayed in the media (something I do explore a bit in my master project), and most importantly, faith, spirituality and what God is doing in my life.

One thing is certain: writing has been an immensely rewarding experience for me this year, which is now coming to a close. And so I simply must resolve to write all day every day more often.

It happened much faster than I had expected. Took just three days, actually. That it happened was no surprise. No. The surprise was in how quickly withdrawal set in. Withdrawal from working? Hardly. I’m talking about withdrawal from regularly participating in a creative and collaborative environment. Luckily I have plenty of projects with which to keep busy (this Web site being one of them), but right away I knew that I wouldn’t be able to write/work in the seclusion of my one bedroom apartment. Aside from the fact that I wouldn’t see another human all day, Sydney, my adorable tuxedo cat (as much as I love her), is an absolute pest. When I’m at the computer, she has to be on my lap with her head between my hands. If she’s not doing that, she’s walking all over my desk, across the keyboard and back. Try typing and keeping a flow going with that kind of distraction!

Armed with this knowledge about myself, I resolved to work in one of my two choice coffee shops located within walking distance of my apartment in Midtown Sacramento: The Naked Lounge or Java City. The place that I end up on any given day depends entirely on my mood. Naked Lounge equals creative; I need stimulation. Java City equals professional; I need to be productive. Both places have coffee (a given) and free wifi (I do have to confess that I prefer the coffee at Naked Lounge) – what more could a graduate-creative-writing-student-slash-freelancer ask for, right? People, of course. Good thing both of these fine establishments have a decent flow of folks throughout the day. And when I say throughout the day, I mean the whole day – I’ve been known to haunt one of these locations from 8 a.m. until 6 or 7 p.m.

Alas, even with the aforementioned decent flow of folks, there is still one thing that I don’t get from either one of these fine establishments: interaction. More specifically, collaboration and creative exchange. (More on that to come.) And so I’ve found myself struggling with working in isolation. Sometimes I go for an entire day without having a conversation with any other human being. And this is a huge problem for someone like myself, who happens to be an extreme extrovert. What is a girl to do?