This mom gig is not for the faint of heart. With two kids a year and a half apart, the early years are a bit of a blur. I had two babies in diapers at the same time, two babies who didn't sleep through the night at the same time, two toddlers who desperately needed daily naps they refused to take at the same time. I felt like I didn't sit down or have an uninterrupted night's rest for about five years. Of course, there were a lot of touching moments, too. I vividly remember the first time my oldest daughter, unprompted, told me she loved me. The first time my little one dragged herself all the way across the carpet, sliding out of her pants in the process, to ask me for a hug with open arms, clenching and unclenching fists, and baby grunts. It's an overwhelming feeling of being chosen to be both someone's one true love and their lifelong servant at the same time.
My first born turned ten recently, and her sister is now eight, so the baby days are long behind us. These days they are smart, passionate, driven academic stars. They are also goofball performers who don silly outfits and make videos of plays they act out in the living room. They are athletes, they are readers, they are selfless champions of their friends. They are everything I ever hoped they would be, and more than I ever imagined they could be. And they are wise and fearless in ways that push me to follow in the unique paths that they are now blazing on their own.
My oldest daughter has been in recreational (not competitive) gymnastics for years. She was invited to join the competitive pre-team class repeatedly. She said no, over and over, because, perfectionist that she is, she didn't want the added pressure. I backed her up on this. She holds herself to such a high standard that I've never once scolded her for not taking something seriously enough. Instead, our daily mantra was this very simple exchange. "What is your number one job?" I'd ask her. "To have fun!" she'd say, usually while rolling her eyes. Because it was hard for her to let up the pressure, to relax and enjoy the messiness of life, to laugh at her mistakes. But over summer, when she was asked again to move to pre-team gymnastics, she agreed to try it out. And she loved it. More time doing gymnastics meant mastering more skills and making more friends. But it came at the cost of her down time. In seven months she's moved up two levels, and quadrupled the amount of time she spends at the gym. It's been hard. She's got some brutal days where she's on the go from dawn to dusk without a single moment to stop and rest. I could see it wearing her down this week, when she had a fever that flattened her on Monday, fought through illness for an eleven hour day Tuesday, with the added load of make-up school work from her absence, and rallied for another eleven hour day on Thursday. She pushed through the entire exhausting, busy week on fumes. It was hard for the protective mom in me to watch. I told her that if it's just too hard, she doesn't have to stick with gymnastics. "Remember, your number one job is having fun!" I reminded her. She nodded, dark circles under her puffy eyes, soldiering on through a single sheet of Common Core math where the simplest division problem requires hundreds of steps and pages of graphics, and said, "I'm not going to quit. I want this." And it awed me, this grit of hers.
I will never regret the years of endless diapers, sleepless nights, toddler battles. They were the foundation for this, the privilege of now getting to watch these two amazing souls on their paths to being the kind of strong, fierce, silly and joyful women I myself aspire to be. I'm fantastic at not quitting. I'm better at that than at remembering to have fun. I've been the perfectionist who shunned challenges I wasn't certain I could beat. Of course. The mantra wasn't just for her. It never is, is it?
On Wednesday, halfway through the most brutal week she's had in months, I stood and watched my girl, my bright shining star of perfection, make up a silly song and dance number with her sister and friend. She staged this show on the lawn outside gymnastics, singing at top volume, spinning around with tons of people passing by and taking in the display. Because, you see, her number one job is having fun. The fact that she can do this, find this unbridled joy while running on empty, pushing herself so hard she can barely keep her eyes open after dinner, is my best example yet of my own potential. She's leading the way now. And I'm honored to follow her.
Friday, March 06, 2015
Thursday, January 01, 2015
You Are Enough
Like all of us, I've had my ups and down. More than I needed in the past few years. I went through a divorce that upended every facet of my future that I'd once counted on. I had to let go of all of those hopes and expectations, all of those future memories I was looking forward to, and embrace the now. A very different now than I'd wanted, but a perfectly valid, honest, and significant now just the same. I had to rebuild from the ground up. And I did. Because that's what I do. I've been taken down before, and I get up every time. Because what's the alternative?
I'm a little thing: petite, soft-spoken, and kind-hearted. But I'm tougher than I look. Beneath my lofty standards for myself, my perfectionist nature where I exceed every goal without troubling another soul, lies a very hard, stubborn core. I know who I am. I always have. And sometimes, when I wish I could be somebody else, someone braver or more social or more forgiving or less likely to be taken advantage of when I'm in an overly generous mood, being who I am feels like a liability. I'm stuck, you see. And this inability to morph into someone shinier and more impressive than who I am, who I've always been, this flaw of mine? It turns out it's actually my greatest strength. That has been my real journey these past few years. Learning that who I am, right now, flaws and all, is enough.
It started with being alone. I hadn't been single since I was sixteen years old. I'm not afraid of being alone. I like my own company. It just happened that way. As one relationship ended, a new one bloomed, over and over, my whole adult life. But not after my divorce. For the first time in decades, I was alone. I spent a year scrambling to care for two young kids and trying to remember who I was without a partner in life. Then I spent a year in a relationship where at some point I lost myself again. Then I spent another year alone, remembering all over again. It wasn't a fun time. But it served a purpose. Because after the house of your hopes and dreams blows down, you have to rebuild it. And if you build it alone, you get to design it to suit you above all others. I had never done that before. Built my life around me. It was hard and scary and involved a lot of sleepless nights worrying about the future that I couldn't see anymore. And it was amazing and promising and full of infinite possibilities as well. Who would I choose to be, if I could choose to be anyone, without anyone else's input? I'd choose me. Just as I am.
So I did. I let my kids in on a little secret: that I wasn't perfect, that I didn't have all the answers, that I was making it up as I went along. And a very cool thing happened. My oldest, a perfectionist herself, relaxed her ridiculously high standards, just a little. My youngest, even a shade more stubborn than her mother, stopped digging in quite so deep and hard whenever she was challenged. And we laughed, and we cuddled, and we told each other stories, and we made messes and cleaned them up, and we hurt each other's feelings and apologized and forgave one another. And we dreamed up limitless futures of endless possibilities together.
And I wrote. I wrote every thought in my head down, because without a partner to tell it all to, I had no choice. I wrote a book-length journal about the failure of my marriage, as I tried to figure out what had gone wrong. I wrote stories about heartbreak. Novel attempts about loss. I wrote blog posts about single-motherhood. I put it all on paper, because that's also who I am, who I've always been. A writer, in secret, afraid to own the title. Worried that I wasn't worthy of it somehow.
But in my new house, built just for me, I let those worries go. It wasn't about anyone else, my writing. It was me putting my heart into words. And as soon as I stopped writing to please anyone but myself, I finally had it. A book worthy of an agent, a book deal, a new career.
I'm still learning, still faltering, still making mistakes as I stumble along. And still dreaming of bigger, better futures. I'm still building my house, filling it with myself, owning who I am.
And I can see now how many of us are doing the same thing. Struggling with the idea that we need to be bolder or more successful or funnier, sharper or more sophisticated to get the approval we so desire from those around us. So as this new year rolls out before us, I wanted to share with you what I've learned, and what I personally think of you. That right now, the person you are today, you are already enough. The next step isn't chasing some better version of yourself. It's owning who you already are. Loving that person. Giving him or her a house, or a room, or any safe place, to simply be. You are enough.
Tuesday, September 09, 2014
Here
After a lifetime of wanting a seat at this table, the published author table, I'm now sitting here, humbled and proud, surrounded by insanely talented authors and wondering how I got here. Only I know how I got here. I never gave up the dream. I wrote whenever I could. I forgave myself when I allowed life to get in the way of my writing. And then I used those hard, derailing life moments in my writing when I got back to it. I worked hard, I sacrificed, I shunned distraction (well, mostly). And I tried to keep the stack of hopeful moments and blind faith piled up higher than the heap of self-doubt. But even though I'm here now, finally, and I can go down to the bookstore and see The Art of Adapting on a shelf there, like a real, actual novel (!), sometimes I still wonder if this is all real.
A very bright, intuitive friend looked at me recently and said, "It's like you're worried this might not happen, even though it's already happening." And that sums it up pretty well. Because when you've spent your whole life butting up against self-doubt and the skepticism of others, when you've heard endless unsolicited advice on the "real" jobs you should have, when you've watched other artist friends rise into their well-deserved stratospheres and longed to find your own arc upward, it's hard to let go of all of that. The self-doubt isn't just humility. It's a shield. It's a way of keeping everyone else's opinions outside yourself where they can't hurt you. You can't tell me I can't do it. Because I've already told myself that a thousand times.
But here's the secret. Although I'm a very quiet, calm, grounded, polite person who never makes public scenes or throws things in private tantrums, at my core I'm the most stubborn person I know. (Well, I was, until I had my daughter, but that competition is ongoing and I might still win.)
And that's what it really comes down to. Dreams are fantastic. Hopes are great. Plans are necessary. Surrounding yourself with the kind of people you want to emulate is brilliant. But it won't get you far if you aren't determined to see it through.
You'll encounter a lot of people who don't understand why you want to do whatever it is you want to do. They'll advise you against it. They'll cite examples of all the failures that have ever occurred. They'll open their hands and show you their own fears and try to convince you to carry them as yours. Don't. Instead, use it. When someone tells you you're wasting your time or energy, tuck that away and use it as fuel. I work just a little harder when I'm trying to prove someone else wrong. Maybe that's just me.
But that's not the point. The point is those people with the armloads of fears of your failure, who want you to pick something less risky, less interesting, less passionate? Who seem to want to hold you back and hold you down? They don't want to live in fear any more than you do. They have had a lifetime of doubts piled on them, too. They can't see their way clear of them. They're not asking you to get down in the dirt with them, even if it sounds that way. They're really asking you to lead the way out.
Maybe that's just what I want to believe. But it works for me. Because the alternative is succeeding to spite someone, which taints the success. Or succeeding alone, which is hard. But succeeding and also lighting the way for someone else, that would double the prize.
It's an honor, to have a seat at the big kids' author table, to look around at authors I've long admired. They have been nothing but welcoming. And equally awesome is looking around at the empty seats at the table, ready and waiting for the next one to dream, persist, work and sacrifice and shun distraction (mostly) until they're ready to join the crowd.
So where is "here" for me? It's an in-between place. I thought once I had a book deal from a major publisher I'd feel some sense of solid ground under me. I'd feel like I'd done something. Seen it through to the end. And now I see that the path goes on forever, for as long as I can stay on my feet and keep moving forward, and there's so much more to write, and new fears to shove aside, and friends to meet, and newcomers to gather along the way. And it's okay to not feel a sense of finally having arrived. To keep asking if it's really okay if I sit at the table. To feel like I still need to keep dreaming, working, sacrificing, as much as ever. Because that is what success actually feels like. It's not the end of a dream. It's the choice, every day, to keep actively living it.
A very bright, intuitive friend looked at me recently and said, "It's like you're worried this might not happen, even though it's already happening." And that sums it up pretty well. Because when you've spent your whole life butting up against self-doubt and the skepticism of others, when you've heard endless unsolicited advice on the "real" jobs you should have, when you've watched other artist friends rise into their well-deserved stratospheres and longed to find your own arc upward, it's hard to let go of all of that. The self-doubt isn't just humility. It's a shield. It's a way of keeping everyone else's opinions outside yourself where they can't hurt you. You can't tell me I can't do it. Because I've already told myself that a thousand times.
But here's the secret. Although I'm a very quiet, calm, grounded, polite person who never makes public scenes or throws things in private tantrums, at my core I'm the most stubborn person I know. (Well, I was, until I had my daughter, but that competition is ongoing and I might still win.)
And that's what it really comes down to. Dreams are fantastic. Hopes are great. Plans are necessary. Surrounding yourself with the kind of people you want to emulate is brilliant. But it won't get you far if you aren't determined to see it through.
You'll encounter a lot of people who don't understand why you want to do whatever it is you want to do. They'll advise you against it. They'll cite examples of all the failures that have ever occurred. They'll open their hands and show you their own fears and try to convince you to carry them as yours. Don't. Instead, use it. When someone tells you you're wasting your time or energy, tuck that away and use it as fuel. I work just a little harder when I'm trying to prove someone else wrong. Maybe that's just me.
But that's not the point. The point is those people with the armloads of fears of your failure, who want you to pick something less risky, less interesting, less passionate? Who seem to want to hold you back and hold you down? They don't want to live in fear any more than you do. They have had a lifetime of doubts piled on them, too. They can't see their way clear of them. They're not asking you to get down in the dirt with them, even if it sounds that way. They're really asking you to lead the way out.
Maybe that's just what I want to believe. But it works for me. Because the alternative is succeeding to spite someone, which taints the success. Or succeeding alone, which is hard. But succeeding and also lighting the way for someone else, that would double the prize.
It's an honor, to have a seat at the big kids' author table, to look around at authors I've long admired. They have been nothing but welcoming. And equally awesome is looking around at the empty seats at the table, ready and waiting for the next one to dream, persist, work and sacrifice and shun distraction (mostly) until they're ready to join the crowd.
So where is "here" for me? It's an in-between place. I thought once I had a book deal from a major publisher I'd feel some sense of solid ground under me. I'd feel like I'd done something. Seen it through to the end. And now I see that the path goes on forever, for as long as I can stay on my feet and keep moving forward, and there's so much more to write, and new fears to shove aside, and friends to meet, and newcomers to gather along the way. And it's okay to not feel a sense of finally having arrived. To keep asking if it's really okay if I sit at the table. To feel like I still need to keep dreaming, working, sacrificing, as much as ever. Because that is what success actually feels like. It's not the end of a dream. It's the choice, every day, to keep actively living it.
Wednesday, June 04, 2014
The Single-Mom Author: A Balancing Act
I’ve been a single mother for three years now. I had to get over the fear of being a single mom before I could settle in and enjoy it. I had the skill set down: my ex-husband traveled extensively for work while we were married, so I was flying solo with my kids much of the time. But after we separated, giving up the notion of a backup partner, even one on a different continent for weeks at a stretch, took some getting used to. After surviving the single mom initiation of late-night ER visits and broken-down cars and financial tight spots on my own, I learned to embrace the role, and now I know that my merry little trio is the best family I could have imagined.
My amazing daughters, aged 7 and 9, are bright and lively girls who keep me busy. They are my nonstop job, my constant companions, and what keeps me going every day no matter what. And best of all, they have been by my side as I finally made that great leap from being an editor who wrote on the side to an author who used to work as an editor: passing through my office to ask for a snack or help with homework as I worked on my novel, celebrating with me when I got my agent (then asking what an agent is/does), and after I got a book deal with a major publisher, we headed to Hawaii together to celebrate. They know that the inspiration for my novel was their amazing Uncle Mike, who they never got a chance to meet, and who had Asperger’s Syndrome. And they know that there are swear words in my novel that they aren’t supposed to repeat out loud.
My girls are avid readers, so they know a thing or two about books. They have opinions on chapter titles, points of view, and character development. They are expert typo finders. When my publisher sent me an abundantly colorful cover mock-up, my 7-year-old took one look at it and said “That looks like a little kid’s book.” My agent and editor agreed, and the blocks of pink, purple, red, and orange were gone from the next version.
Motherhood, single or not, carries its own challenges. It can be all-consuming, never-ending, and cause serious sleep deprivation. The writing life can be isolating and quiet, with hours spent in your own head and before a blank page or screen, waiting for that perfect string of words to come. Combining motherhood and authorhood can be a lot to juggle. For the past year I’ve been learning how to balance the two, and I’m still figuring it out.
There are limitations. I can’t just head to every writer’s conference that interests me. Before even considering it I need to find a sitter who can handle the morning school prep, homework and school project duty, and getting my girls to their gymnastics class and horseback riding lessons. I enviously look at listings for week-long writing retreats and think, someday, after my girls are on their own, I’ll do that for myself. When we were planning the release date for my debut novel, my agent had my publisher push it back from spring to summer, because it was easier on me to schedule events while my girls are out of school.
My debut novel, The Art of Adapting, comes out in 8 weeks. I’m scheduling book signings with my publicist at Simon & Schuster with an eye on the calendar, considering everything from my children’s swim lessons, to their bedtime, to my own conflicts. The juggling never stops. I am constantly pulled in two directions. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
Because when the galleys for The Art of Adapting arrived, and my daughters sat down on the floor to flip through the hundreds of pages of my words, when they looked up smiling with understanding that all of that time I had spent in front of my laptop was for this, when they turned to the dedication page and their faces lit up, surprised to see their own names there, I knew I had struck the perfect balance.
I am a proud single mother. And I am honored to call myself an author. And I am grateful to be able to teach my daughters by example that life is what you make it. Challenges will come. Heartache will happen. But in the face of hardship, you must keep dreaming and working and striving and loving. And one day, in the midst of all that struggle, you will have a moment, maybe when you see the wonder in your own child’s eyes, when you realize that you have everything you ever dreamed of. And it’s just the beginning.
This post originally appeared as a featured blog post on She Writes.
My amazing daughters, aged 7 and 9, are bright and lively girls who keep me busy. They are my nonstop job, my constant companions, and what keeps me going every day no matter what. And best of all, they have been by my side as I finally made that great leap from being an editor who wrote on the side to an author who used to work as an editor: passing through my office to ask for a snack or help with homework as I worked on my novel, celebrating with me when I got my agent (then asking what an agent is/does), and after I got a book deal with a major publisher, we headed to Hawaii together to celebrate. They know that the inspiration for my novel was their amazing Uncle Mike, who they never got a chance to meet, and who had Asperger’s Syndrome. And they know that there are swear words in my novel that they aren’t supposed to repeat out loud.
My girls are avid readers, so they know a thing or two about books. They have opinions on chapter titles, points of view, and character development. They are expert typo finders. When my publisher sent me an abundantly colorful cover mock-up, my 7-year-old took one look at it and said “That looks like a little kid’s book.” My agent and editor agreed, and the blocks of pink, purple, red, and orange were gone from the next version.
Motherhood, single or not, carries its own challenges. It can be all-consuming, never-ending, and cause serious sleep deprivation. The writing life can be isolating and quiet, with hours spent in your own head and before a blank page or screen, waiting for that perfect string of words to come. Combining motherhood and authorhood can be a lot to juggle. For the past year I’ve been learning how to balance the two, and I’m still figuring it out.
There are limitations. I can’t just head to every writer’s conference that interests me. Before even considering it I need to find a sitter who can handle the morning school prep, homework and school project duty, and getting my girls to their gymnastics class and horseback riding lessons. I enviously look at listings for week-long writing retreats and think, someday, after my girls are on their own, I’ll do that for myself. When we were planning the release date for my debut novel, my agent had my publisher push it back from spring to summer, because it was easier on me to schedule events while my girls are out of school.
My debut novel, The Art of Adapting, comes out in 8 weeks. I’m scheduling book signings with my publicist at Simon & Schuster with an eye on the calendar, considering everything from my children’s swim lessons, to their bedtime, to my own conflicts. The juggling never stops. I am constantly pulled in two directions. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
Because when the galleys for The Art of Adapting arrived, and my daughters sat down on the floor to flip through the hundreds of pages of my words, when they looked up smiling with understanding that all of that time I had spent in front of my laptop was for this, when they turned to the dedication page and their faces lit up, surprised to see their own names there, I knew I had struck the perfect balance.
I am a proud single mother. And I am honored to call myself an author. And I am grateful to be able to teach my daughters by example that life is what you make it. Challenges will come. Heartache will happen. But in the face of hardship, you must keep dreaming and working and striving and loving. And one day, in the midst of all that struggle, you will have a moment, maybe when you see the wonder in your own child’s eyes, when you realize that you have everything you ever dreamed of. And it’s just the beginning.
This post originally appeared as a featured blog post on She Writes.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Mother's Day, and Every Day
I hope all of the mothers out there had a lovely Mother's Day, as well as all of you mother-figures, those kind souls not bound by blood who take the time to be a force of love and support to us when we need it. And even when we don't need it. Thank you especially for being there when we don't think we need you but we really do. I have been lucky enough to be surrounded by these types. I have a mother, a stepmother, a mother-in-law (despite my divorce, she is amazing and I am keeping her), as well as a variety of women I have collected over the years who are my back-up moms. They are my cheerleaders and my emotional supports and they have helped guide me into the mother I am today. Thank you, every single one of you, for all that you have brought to my life.
My Mother's Day started before 7am with two giggling little girls throwing my bedroom door open and flipping on my light. (Note for next year, ask them to let me sleep in on Mother's Day.) They came in with huge smiles, carrying a bowl of granola and a glass of milk. It was the first time they'd ever brought me breakfast in bed, and they were so proud. They returned a few moments later with homemade school projects: a potholder with my 7-year-old's hand print on it, a watercolor painted card from my 9-year-old. They disappeared and returned with love notes, poems, a cluster of flowers cut from paper cups with pipe cleaner stems. The dog jumped around on the bed, confused about all of the excitement and wanting to be a part of it. The love kept flowing until my bed was covered in notes and gifts and each round of visits came with more hugs and kisses. Eventually they asked, "Should we stop now?" I hugged them, thanked them, told them they'd done plenty and could go play.
After spending a few hours with my daughters, my step-mother came over, graciously giving up a couple hours of her own Mother's Day to watch my girls so I could get some time to myself. I headed out to write, my favorite hobby, my new career, my best escape, and quality "me" time. A nice gentleman there bought me (and about 20 other people) coffee. It had nothing to do with it being Mother's Day, and everything to do with a big-hearted person wanting to add some more positive energy to the world. I sat down to write, feeling loved and happy.
Toward the end of my writing break, I received a message from a woman I'd known for several years, but hadn't kept in touch with beyond the casual Facebook glimpse into each other's lives and occasional run-in at the grocery store. I actually bought my daughter's crib from her seven years ago. She'd seen a post about me publishing my first novel, and had looked through my Facebook page and blog to catch up with the changes in my life, and saw that not only had I launched a new career, but was also now a single mom. In her message she said: "While we don't know each other well, I am inspired by your strength and your grace." She not only brought me to tears, but she instantly added herself to my list of amazing women who take the time to support others. The kind of women we need more of. The kind of woman I aspire to be.
The rest of the day was typical, busy and fun: the girls had horseback riding lessons, we had popsicles in the back yard, dinner on the deck. They even let me take a little nap, and when I got up they hadn't destroyed the house (a miracle), but they were playing aliens, so they'd completely covered their faces in green and gray makeup. Off to the shower they went!
It was a perfect Mother's Day, full of love and cuddles, of moments just for me and time spent with my daughters, of laughter, wonder, some tears of gratitude. The kind of day that reminds me not just what it means to be a mother, but that there's so much in my life beyond motherhood to love and appreciate. I hope all of us, mothers or not, had that kind of day yesterday. I hope we have that kind of day today, tomorrow, and every day. I hope all of you who have taken the time to be a part of my life, big or small, know that I value those connections, and that your kindnesses have not gone unnoticed. Thank you, with all that I have, for simply being you.
My Mother's Day started before 7am with two giggling little girls throwing my bedroom door open and flipping on my light. (Note for next year, ask them to let me sleep in on Mother's Day.) They came in with huge smiles, carrying a bowl of granola and a glass of milk. It was the first time they'd ever brought me breakfast in bed, and they were so proud. They returned a few moments later with homemade school projects: a potholder with my 7-year-old's hand print on it, a watercolor painted card from my 9-year-old. They disappeared and returned with love notes, poems, a cluster of flowers cut from paper cups with pipe cleaner stems. The dog jumped around on the bed, confused about all of the excitement and wanting to be a part of it. The love kept flowing until my bed was covered in notes and gifts and each round of visits came with more hugs and kisses. Eventually they asked, "Should we stop now?" I hugged them, thanked them, told them they'd done plenty and could go play.
After spending a few hours with my daughters, my step-mother came over, graciously giving up a couple hours of her own Mother's Day to watch my girls so I could get some time to myself. I headed out to write, my favorite hobby, my new career, my best escape, and quality "me" time. A nice gentleman there bought me (and about 20 other people) coffee. It had nothing to do with it being Mother's Day, and everything to do with a big-hearted person wanting to add some more positive energy to the world. I sat down to write, feeling loved and happy.
Toward the end of my writing break, I received a message from a woman I'd known for several years, but hadn't kept in touch with beyond the casual Facebook glimpse into each other's lives and occasional run-in at the grocery store. I actually bought my daughter's crib from her seven years ago. She'd seen a post about me publishing my first novel, and had looked through my Facebook page and blog to catch up with the changes in my life, and saw that not only had I launched a new career, but was also now a single mom. In her message she said: "While we don't know each other well, I am inspired by your strength and your grace." She not only brought me to tears, but she instantly added herself to my list of amazing women who take the time to support others. The kind of women we need more of. The kind of woman I aspire to be.
The rest of the day was typical, busy and fun: the girls had horseback riding lessons, we had popsicles in the back yard, dinner on the deck. They even let me take a little nap, and when I got up they hadn't destroyed the house (a miracle), but they were playing aliens, so they'd completely covered their faces in green and gray makeup. Off to the shower they went!
It was a perfect Mother's Day, full of love and cuddles, of moments just for me and time spent with my daughters, of laughter, wonder, some tears of gratitude. The kind of day that reminds me not just what it means to be a mother, but that there's so much in my life beyond motherhood to love and appreciate. I hope all of us, mothers or not, had that kind of day yesterday. I hope we have that kind of day today, tomorrow, and every day. I hope all of you who have taken the time to be a part of my life, big or small, know that I value those connections, and that your kindnesses have not gone unnoticed. Thank you, with all that I have, for simply being you.
Monday, March 03, 2014
The Publication Waiting Game
I have five months to go. The publication date for The Art of Adapting is July 29, 2014. Which means that this is the lull before the lifelong dream comes true. I'm not an impatient person by nature, and I'm not in a rush to skip all of this lovely anticipation to get to my release date. Mostly.I'm enjoying waking each morning and realizing all over again that this is no dream, it's really happening. I'm living in the moment, awash in gratitude and pride and possibility. And yet, it's a strange place to be, waiting for months on end to see how my novel will be received. The ARCs (advanced reader copies) of The Art of Adapting have been printed and are ready to be sent out to authors for blurbs and for reviewers to get a crack at. That alone is enough to cause some jitters. Will they like my characters? Will they feel the heart of the story? Will they find the family dynamics believable? Will they be able to tell I've never set foot on the college campus that I used in several scenes?
It's a good kind of limbo, I keep telling myself. I spend my quiet days working on my next book, caring for my daughters, visiting with friends and family, walking the dog, doing yoga. I have a balance going now that may shift come July, when book promotion kicks into high gear. I don't want to take a moment of this quiet phase for granted. But some days I think the waiting is just as distracting as the flurry of publication will be. That's when it's good to be a mom to young kids. Because as excited as they are that I have a book coming out, they live in the immediate present like no one else. When they are tired or hungry or desperate to show me the dance they've just choreographed, nothing else matters.
We were walking into school the other day, talking about the various jobs that people do, and my youngest daughter said, "Only you don't have a job." I felt my former stay-at-home mom hackles rising, in which I sometimes had to remind people that taking care of two little ones 24/7 is an exhausting non-paying job, and that I also did editing work on the side. Then she said: "You have a career." I asked her what the difference is, and she said that a job is work you do for money. A career is doing something you love for life. So, there's that. I would've loved to to teach my daughter that valuable lesson, had I thought of it. I'm glad she learned it on her own.
I get to experience this launch into authordom twice: once by myself, and again through the eyes of my kids. They get that this has been a lifelong dream. That I started writing stories when I was the same age they are now. That there were a lot of starts and stops along the way. And that the most important thing is that I never gave up. But they also get that having a book come out doesn't change my role as their mom one bit.
Sometimes I'm teaching them, and sometimes they're teaching me. I've shown them that no dreams are too big, that nothing is impossible, that the only obstacle between you and your dream is you. And they are teaching me that today is a day for watching the rain come down the window, or for teaching the dog to jump through a hula hoop, or for dreaming up the next story. The waiting game can be hard. I'm grateful to have my girls here to wait alongside me, and to pull me out of the waiting mindset as often as possible. Right now they're calling me into the other room, because they have finished their homework and want me to check it, and after that they need their nails painted. Right now. This is the moment I'm in. A quiet afternoon with my girls, who think I have any idea what they're talking about with open number lines and division pictographs. And who need blue and pink nails. Desperately. So off I go. One day closer to publication.
Saturday, January 04, 2014
Vision
So, it's 2014. This is the year I've been waiting for. My vision-board-come-true year. Just over a year ago my sister, dad, step-mom, kids, and I got together with a stack of poster boards and a heap of magazines to make our first vision boards. Mine sits on my desk just behind my computer, where I see it every day as I work: Hawaii images, yoga poses, chocolate, coffee, lavender bouquets, and Ganesha, the patron of letters, who keeps me company as I write. Scattered throughout are words like breathe, play, success, wellness, and joy. I put all of my dreams up there, too: agent, publishing contract, travel, balance. And as the year went on I had to keep adding new words, because the wishes all started coming true. I got an agent. I got a publishing contract. I got two trips to Hawaii. I found balance. The board, now framed, still sits in front of me at my desk, a reminder of how far I've come, how much possibility still lies before me.
I've always been a pragmatic dreamer, which means that I daydream up these outlandish notions of where my life could go, all the while working like hell to make a dent in whatever pile of work I've given myself for the day. I rarely need to be pushed by anyone, I drive myself harder than anyone else ever would. This is a great attitude to have when trying to get published. Keep dreaming that it's possible, but never lose focus on the blank page in front of you. Keep coming at it until you get it right. Most days I still have the same attitude. I am aware that I have a novel coming out in six months, which is so ridiculously exciting that I can barely sleep if I think about it too much, but I also know that if I spend too much time thinking about it I'll be too distracted to write more novels. And I want to write more novels. Tons of them.
It also helps to have young children. Nothing keeps you humble like two kids doing cartwheels and walkovers in your office, asking an endless stream of questions about when they were babies, how exactly you chose their name, why there are so many irregular verbs in English, whether they can have a pet chinchilla. My seven-year-old likes to read my writing notes over my shoulder and question every one of them: "But why does she want to move? I think if she liked her house she wouldn't want to leave. Maybe you need to write something about why she doesn't like her old house anymore." My eight-year-old sometimes comes downstairs at midnight and tells me to go to bed. She knows as well as I do that sleeping in is not part of a single mom's life.
My girls have been off school a lot lately. A week for Thanksgiving, a week in Hawaii to celebrate my book deal, then two weeks off for winter break. I haven't gotten a lot of writing done in the past six weeks, and I miss it. But I've gotten to spend a lot of mornings with my girls, sipping coffee while watching them play. They have vivid imaginations and create elaborate games that involve singing, dancing, drawing, creating new forms of currency, granting wishes, punishing evil-doers, and traveling the world. They are my blank page, too.
I already know that this is going to be a great year. The one when I finally see my name on the cover of a novel. The one when I finally take the leap to author. My girls will continue to grow taller and master new gymnastics skills and learn new things and wake me up way too early on Saturday mornings. I expect it to be my best year yet. Maybe it's time to make a new vision board, and dream up some even bigger dreams.
I've always been a pragmatic dreamer, which means that I daydream up these outlandish notions of where my life could go, all the while working like hell to make a dent in whatever pile of work I've given myself for the day. I rarely need to be pushed by anyone, I drive myself harder than anyone else ever would. This is a great attitude to have when trying to get published. Keep dreaming that it's possible, but never lose focus on the blank page in front of you. Keep coming at it until you get it right. Most days I still have the same attitude. I am aware that I have a novel coming out in six months, which is so ridiculously exciting that I can barely sleep if I think about it too much, but I also know that if I spend too much time thinking about it I'll be too distracted to write more novels. And I want to write more novels. Tons of them.
It also helps to have young children. Nothing keeps you humble like two kids doing cartwheels and walkovers in your office, asking an endless stream of questions about when they were babies, how exactly you chose their name, why there are so many irregular verbs in English, whether they can have a pet chinchilla. My seven-year-old likes to read my writing notes over my shoulder and question every one of them: "But why does she want to move? I think if she liked her house she wouldn't want to leave. Maybe you need to write something about why she doesn't like her old house anymore." My eight-year-old sometimes comes downstairs at midnight and tells me to go to bed. She knows as well as I do that sleeping in is not part of a single mom's life.
My girls have been off school a lot lately. A week for Thanksgiving, a week in Hawaii to celebrate my book deal, then two weeks off for winter break. I haven't gotten a lot of writing done in the past six weeks, and I miss it. But I've gotten to spend a lot of mornings with my girls, sipping coffee while watching them play. They have vivid imaginations and create elaborate games that involve singing, dancing, drawing, creating new forms of currency, granting wishes, punishing evil-doers, and traveling the world. They are my blank page, too.
I already know that this is going to be a great year. The one when I finally see my name on the cover of a novel. The one when I finally take the leap to author. My girls will continue to grow taller and master new gymnastics skills and learn new things and wake me up way too early on Saturday mornings. I expect it to be my best year yet. Maybe it's time to make a new vision board, and dream up some even bigger dreams.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
The Holidays Are Coming!
It's here, isn't it? That busy, social stretch of time that extroverts love and introverts get all anxious about. Shopping in crowded stores that are blaring Christmas music and assaulting me with cinnamon smells, flashing lights, little sleigh bells that jingle on every door. Planning family gatherings with divorced and remarried parents, which means four different get-togethers with various factions of the family in a good year. Endless planning and cleaning and cooking and shopping. It's not that I don't love the holidays: decorating the tree with my girls, laughing and catching up with family, watching my girls' faces light up when they open their gifts. It's that I don't love everything else about the holidays. The gear-up, the pressure, the shopping, the clean-up pre- and post-gathering, the un-decorating, the friends with their timely hand-written Christmas cards and home-made sugar cookies from scratch that make me feel like I never got the proper domestic gene.
For me this busy time of year starts in early October, when we haven't even fully settled into the school routine yet, and I suddenly need to plan my daughter's birthday party. Then comes Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. My other daughter's birthday. Valentine's Day (which is a stress-free holiday unless you have school kids who need to do 30+ valentines each). And then, finally, I get to breathe a sigh of relief and focus on non-holiday things for a stretch.
So, by this time of year, when the Thanksgiving "what dishes will you bring?" emails are going around and the stores are already celebrating Christmas, I'm already tired.
But I'm happy to say that this year, it's different. While the holidays and family time matter, they aren't the center of my days this time around. This year, my days are spent writing first, and planning and shopping second. And not the kind of writing I was doing last year at this time, the "I sure hope someday somebody takes a chance on me" writing that I had been doing for years. This year it's all happened. Someone did take a chance on me. In the past 12 months I've gotten a literary agent, revised The Art of Adapting word for word with his excellent guidance, dug deep and dumped my fears and found out what I really have inside me. I'm proud of the novel I ended up with. The Art of Adapting is the best thing I've written. And then came the book deal. Getting a publishing contract has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember. The kind of dream that's so big and so unlikely that you never think about what happens after it comes true. This holiday season, my days are filled with discovering what happens next.
And what happens next is this: looking over copyedits of my novel for my publisher, going back and forth with them as we try to find the perfect cover design, and writing my next novel. I pulled off the birthday party, Halloween was great, Thanksgiving's just about all planned out, I've even started some Christmas shopping. And my anxiety about the whole thing is practically nil, because every morning I wake up not thinking about all of the holiday tasks I need to complete, but how I need to trim that lengthy backstory passage, or work in a hint at a character's secret through dialogue, or find the best words to describe the scent of a summer morning.
The holidays are still barreling straight for me, like they always do. My kids are right this second sitting on the couch with notepads on their knees making epic wish lists for Christmas. I'm shut inside my office, trying to drown out the Disney Channel, writing. I will not be sending out Christmas cards. I won't be making sugar cookies. I will be writing, putting the finishing touches on my second novel, proofing the layout of The Art of Adapting, settling on the right cover design, continuing the outline for my third novel. And wishing all of you the best kind of holiday season. One where your days are spent doing what you love most, visiting with the people you love most, and where the stress of all that you "should" do to prepare and celebrate gets forgotten. Happy holidays!
For me this busy time of year starts in early October, when we haven't even fully settled into the school routine yet, and I suddenly need to plan my daughter's birthday party. Then comes Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. My other daughter's birthday. Valentine's Day (which is a stress-free holiday unless you have school kids who need to do 30+ valentines each). And then, finally, I get to breathe a sigh of relief and focus on non-holiday things for a stretch.
So, by this time of year, when the Thanksgiving "what dishes will you bring?" emails are going around and the stores are already celebrating Christmas, I'm already tired.
But I'm happy to say that this year, it's different. While the holidays and family time matter, they aren't the center of my days this time around. This year, my days are spent writing first, and planning and shopping second. And not the kind of writing I was doing last year at this time, the "I sure hope someday somebody takes a chance on me" writing that I had been doing for years. This year it's all happened. Someone did take a chance on me. In the past 12 months I've gotten a literary agent, revised The Art of Adapting word for word with his excellent guidance, dug deep and dumped my fears and found out what I really have inside me. I'm proud of the novel I ended up with. The Art of Adapting is the best thing I've written. And then came the book deal. Getting a publishing contract has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember. The kind of dream that's so big and so unlikely that you never think about what happens after it comes true. This holiday season, my days are filled with discovering what happens next.
And what happens next is this: looking over copyedits of my novel for my publisher, going back and forth with them as we try to find the perfect cover design, and writing my next novel. I pulled off the birthday party, Halloween was great, Thanksgiving's just about all planned out, I've even started some Christmas shopping. And my anxiety about the whole thing is practically nil, because every morning I wake up not thinking about all of the holiday tasks I need to complete, but how I need to trim that lengthy backstory passage, or work in a hint at a character's secret through dialogue, or find the best words to describe the scent of a summer morning.
The holidays are still barreling straight for me, like they always do. My kids are right this second sitting on the couch with notepads on their knees making epic wish lists for Christmas. I'm shut inside my office, trying to drown out the Disney Channel, writing. I will not be sending out Christmas cards. I won't be making sugar cookies. I will be writing, putting the finishing touches on my second novel, proofing the layout of The Art of Adapting, settling on the right cover design, continuing the outline for my third novel. And wishing all of you the best kind of holiday season. One where your days are spent doing what you love most, visiting with the people you love most, and where the stress of all that you "should" do to prepare and celebrate gets forgotten. Happy holidays!
Friday, August 23, 2013
Summer's End
We had lofty plans for the summer. Okay, not lofty. But we had plans. Most of which didn't ever make it out of the planning stage. They didn't include me selling my first novel (The Art of Adapting) to a real, bonafide publisher just as the school year was winding to an end, so some things turned out a billion times better than planned. They also didn't include my daughter needing 8 stitches in her knee and weeks of healing time, and having to cancel several activities as a result. But here's what we did do this summer:
We went to the horse races, and during the intermission, they held wiener dog races, which are just as hysterical as they sound. Some of those dogs really book it on those short legs. Some run in the complete wrong direction. Some get taken out by huge, unexplained dog piles mid-track. The girls loved it. My youngest, who is on a mission to pet every dog in the universe, got several of them crossed off her list that day.
We took a couple of family trips with my mother, sister, and niece. Somehow we have all ended up single at the same time, with only daughters. We are an all-girl family. Which means lots of fun girl-time when we're all together, wherever we are. And you just can't have too much girl time. My daughters call their cousin their "sister-cousin" which shows how close they are. Just watching the three youngsters play together, at 4, 6, and 8 years old, is a joy like nothing else.
We went to the library, a local amusement park, to swimming pools, and had play dates. The usual stuff, and nothing special, except that I was with my daughters, watching them get taller and stronger and less shy about walking up to the girl behind the counter at the frozen yogurt place and asking for a cup of water all by themselves. Small milestones, but milestones just the same.
I wrote. Not as much as I would've liked, because there were these kids around so much, but when your work day consists of jotting down notes for the chapter you don't have time to write, surrounded on both ends by cuddles with your children, telling them stories, watching them do cartwheels and handstands, making homemade snow cones, and taking endless photos of them being their adorable selves, you have a pretty good life.
And that's the difference for me this summer, compared to last. Yes, the book deal helped immensely. Knowing that The Art of Adapting was going to be in print next July took a lot of pressure off me. Knowing that I had an income on the way in the tail-end of my divorce also relieved a lot of stress. Last summer I was still scraping by while chasing the dream, and felt frustrated when I wasn't making any progress. This summer I wanted time to slow down. I want this moment, the butterflies every time I wake up and remember that my novel is actually getting published, to last as long as possible. I want to relish every moment with my girls, because I can see how fast they are growing up. My eight-year-old is already so tall she barely fits in my lap. Which means I need to get those lap times in as often as I can.
My girls know that The Art of Adapting is getting published. They know that it was inspired by their Uncle Michael, who they will never meet, who had Asperger's. They had lots of questions about Asperger's, and about the other characters in the book. My six-year-old had me summarize the entire novel for her, and after three days of recounting it for her, she told me it sounded good to her. But my girls weren't clear on what getting "published" meant. They wanted to know the difference between my agent, my publisher, and my editor. They wanted to know how books are made. How they get to the bookstore. Who decides how much they cost. Who designs the covers and makes the paper and where the ink comes from. They have more questions than I have answers, but it makes this whole journey more fun and meaningful to have them to share it with, to discover the answers with them.
Originally I wanted to put them in summer camp somewhere so I could have a lot more writing time. Another summer plan that didn't work out, for financial reasons, and I'm grateful for that. My writing time will come. Time with my girls is fleeting.
The school grind kicks off next week for us. Back to lunch prep, stirring cranky girls from bed, brushing their hair while they eat breakfast, and rushing off to school always a few minutes later than we meant to get out the door. Back to homework and school projects that end up being more work for the parent than they are for the child. Back to the weekly "your child has been exposed to lice/strep throat/pink eye" notices. Back to the field trips that I always volunteer for then wonder what I was thinking. And back to writing, all day while they are at school. I have two new novel ideas battling it out in my brain, and my editor and I are going to be working on final revisions for The Art of Adapting. I have plenty of work to do, the kind of work that I love so much that it can't really be called work, and the time to do it. And I'll love every minute of it. And I'll also miss the lazy summer days, sitting on the front steps while the girls draw chalk mermaids on the driveway or put on fashion shows that morph into gymnastics performances for me. I'm ready for summer to be over, and I'm not. Which is exactly how it should feel at summer's end.
We went to the horse races, and during the intermission, they held wiener dog races, which are just as hysterical as they sound. Some of those dogs really book it on those short legs. Some run in the complete wrong direction. Some get taken out by huge, unexplained dog piles mid-track. The girls loved it. My youngest, who is on a mission to pet every dog in the universe, got several of them crossed off her list that day.
We took a couple of family trips with my mother, sister, and niece. Somehow we have all ended up single at the same time, with only daughters. We are an all-girl family. Which means lots of fun girl-time when we're all together, wherever we are. And you just can't have too much girl time. My daughters call their cousin their "sister-cousin" which shows how close they are. Just watching the three youngsters play together, at 4, 6, and 8 years old, is a joy like nothing else.
We went to the library, a local amusement park, to swimming pools, and had play dates. The usual stuff, and nothing special, except that I was with my daughters, watching them get taller and stronger and less shy about walking up to the girl behind the counter at the frozen yogurt place and asking for a cup of water all by themselves. Small milestones, but milestones just the same.
I wrote. Not as much as I would've liked, because there were these kids around so much, but when your work day consists of jotting down notes for the chapter you don't have time to write, surrounded on both ends by cuddles with your children, telling them stories, watching them do cartwheels and handstands, making homemade snow cones, and taking endless photos of them being their adorable selves, you have a pretty good life.
And that's the difference for me this summer, compared to last. Yes, the book deal helped immensely. Knowing that The Art of Adapting was going to be in print next July took a lot of pressure off me. Knowing that I had an income on the way in the tail-end of my divorce also relieved a lot of stress. Last summer I was still scraping by while chasing the dream, and felt frustrated when I wasn't making any progress. This summer I wanted time to slow down. I want this moment, the butterflies every time I wake up and remember that my novel is actually getting published, to last as long as possible. I want to relish every moment with my girls, because I can see how fast they are growing up. My eight-year-old is already so tall she barely fits in my lap. Which means I need to get those lap times in as often as I can.
My girls know that The Art of Adapting is getting published. They know that it was inspired by their Uncle Michael, who they will never meet, who had Asperger's. They had lots of questions about Asperger's, and about the other characters in the book. My six-year-old had me summarize the entire novel for her, and after three days of recounting it for her, she told me it sounded good to her. But my girls weren't clear on what getting "published" meant. They wanted to know the difference between my agent, my publisher, and my editor. They wanted to know how books are made. How they get to the bookstore. Who decides how much they cost. Who designs the covers and makes the paper and where the ink comes from. They have more questions than I have answers, but it makes this whole journey more fun and meaningful to have them to share it with, to discover the answers with them.
Originally I wanted to put them in summer camp somewhere so I could have a lot more writing time. Another summer plan that didn't work out, for financial reasons, and I'm grateful for that. My writing time will come. Time with my girls is fleeting.
The school grind kicks off next week for us. Back to lunch prep, stirring cranky girls from bed, brushing their hair while they eat breakfast, and rushing off to school always a few minutes later than we meant to get out the door. Back to homework and school projects that end up being more work for the parent than they are for the child. Back to the weekly "your child has been exposed to lice/strep throat/pink eye" notices. Back to the field trips that I always volunteer for then wonder what I was thinking. And back to writing, all day while they are at school. I have two new novel ideas battling it out in my brain, and my editor and I are going to be working on final revisions for The Art of Adapting. I have plenty of work to do, the kind of work that I love so much that it can't really be called work, and the time to do it. And I'll love every minute of it. And I'll also miss the lazy summer days, sitting on the front steps while the girls draw chalk mermaids on the driveway or put on fashion shows that morph into gymnastics performances for me. I'm ready for summer to be over, and I'm not. Which is exactly how it should feel at summer's end.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Single Motherhood
This is what single-motherhood looks like: 8-year-old in the back seat, bleeding profusely from a bone-deep gash on her knee, paper towels soaked in her blood beneath a dish towel I tied in a hasty knot around her leg. Her 6-year-old sister, so queasy from the sight of the wound that her face is not green but grey, holding a mixing bowl in her lap and a wad of napkins in her hand. It's nearing their bedtime, we never got to eat the dinner I made, I'm nursing a burn on my forearm from my haste to get the dinner out of the oven, the sleepover guest was sent home in a tearful, frightened rush, and I'm racing toward the clinic that will stitch my daughter up, all the while reassuring her that she's fine, it isn't that bad, it won't hurt much. I'm lying. The wound looked horrible. A half-dollar sized hole that showed her nice white bone beneath. I know it will hurt like hell. But I'm all she's got, and so I'm building her up as best I can as I speed down the street. That's single motherhood. It's not pretty. But it's reality.
We've had our share of illnesses, injuries, late-night rushes to after-hours urgent care clinics and it's always been this way. The three of us. One injured kid, one focused mom, one kid dragged along for the ride because that's just how it is. We rise and fall together. We see each other through the highs and lows. We are a united front.
Once the wound was cleaned, stitched up, bandaged, and we were on our way home, then I got my bonus mommy-points. The queasy kid felt better the moment her sister was up and walking without tears. The injured kid loved how numb her whole leg felt. And they both loved me. "You're the best mommy ever," the wounded one said. "I would've been so scared if you weren't there." She'd already forgotten that I had to sit on her while the doctor injected the wound over and over to numb it. She was in relief mode. "You always know exactly what to do," the no-longer queasy one said. Her clean, unused bowl was upside down on her head, a large blue hat, and her complexion was pink again. We were all giggling about the mixing-bowl hat. "I really like our family," one kid said, and the other agreed, and I concurred. We arrived home, responded to the concerned messages that had come in, warmed up our dinner, and ate and laughed and sang and did all that we could to forget those frightening moments after my daughter came running in from the back yard, blood everywhere, to tell me she fell down and it was bad.
When my marriage was failing, this was exactly the kind of scenario that I feared the most. How would I handle all of it, every bad thing, alone? Not even alone, but with two kids in tow? But the answer is, I just would. Because that's what you do. Some nights there will be emergencies and no back-up. Those nights you put your fear aside and get the job done. And in those moments you realize that you had nothing to fear, because you're a hell of a lot stronger than you thought you were.
My 8-year-old daughter is the emotional one, the sensitive one, the worrier. She rarely gets hurt, because she's my careful one. Seeing her injured and frightened was hard. But it was also an opportunity to pass along some of my hard-earned wisdom. "You've got this," I told her as she cried, bracing for the pain of the lidocaine shots. "You're so much stronger than you know." And after it was all over, as she cradled the toys they'd given her from the treasure box and admired her new blue bandage, she smiled up at me. "You're right," she said. "I am stronger than I thought." Later she tried to convince me that her sister, the fearless one, my usually-injured child, is actually stronger, and I wouldn't let her get away with that. "You're equally strong," I told her. "The only difference is that your sister knows she's strong, and you don't believe it about yourself yet." She let that sit for a few minutes, then she raised her head and stuck out her chin, just a little. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe I am strong. Maybe I'm as strong as you."
And that's what single motherhood looks like, too. Having those moments, when you first see that fight in your daughter's eyes, first see her begin to believe in her own bottomless well of strength, and you get to keep those powerful moments all to yourself, because you were the one who was there when it happened.
We've had our share of illnesses, injuries, late-night rushes to after-hours urgent care clinics and it's always been this way. The three of us. One injured kid, one focused mom, one kid dragged along for the ride because that's just how it is. We rise and fall together. We see each other through the highs and lows. We are a united front.
Once the wound was cleaned, stitched up, bandaged, and we were on our way home, then I got my bonus mommy-points. The queasy kid felt better the moment her sister was up and walking without tears. The injured kid loved how numb her whole leg felt. And they both loved me. "You're the best mommy ever," the wounded one said. "I would've been so scared if you weren't there." She'd already forgotten that I had to sit on her while the doctor injected the wound over and over to numb it. She was in relief mode. "You always know exactly what to do," the no-longer queasy one said. Her clean, unused bowl was upside down on her head, a large blue hat, and her complexion was pink again. We were all giggling about the mixing-bowl hat. "I really like our family," one kid said, and the other agreed, and I concurred. We arrived home, responded to the concerned messages that had come in, warmed up our dinner, and ate and laughed and sang and did all that we could to forget those frightening moments after my daughter came running in from the back yard, blood everywhere, to tell me she fell down and it was bad.
When my marriage was failing, this was exactly the kind of scenario that I feared the most. How would I handle all of it, every bad thing, alone? Not even alone, but with two kids in tow? But the answer is, I just would. Because that's what you do. Some nights there will be emergencies and no back-up. Those nights you put your fear aside and get the job done. And in those moments you realize that you had nothing to fear, because you're a hell of a lot stronger than you thought you were.
My 8-year-old daughter is the emotional one, the sensitive one, the worrier. She rarely gets hurt, because she's my careful one. Seeing her injured and frightened was hard. But it was also an opportunity to pass along some of my hard-earned wisdom. "You've got this," I told her as she cried, bracing for the pain of the lidocaine shots. "You're so much stronger than you know." And after it was all over, as she cradled the toys they'd given her from the treasure box and admired her new blue bandage, she smiled up at me. "You're right," she said. "I am stronger than I thought." Later she tried to convince me that her sister, the fearless one, my usually-injured child, is actually stronger, and I wouldn't let her get away with that. "You're equally strong," I told her. "The only difference is that your sister knows she's strong, and you don't believe it about yourself yet." She let that sit for a few minutes, then she raised her head and stuck out her chin, just a little. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe I am strong. Maybe I'm as strong as you."
And that's what single motherhood looks like, too. Having those moments, when you first see that fight in your daughter's eyes, first see her begin to believe in her own bottomless well of strength, and you get to keep those powerful moments all to yourself, because you were the one who was there when it happened.
Saturday, June 01, 2013
It's Official
I have a novel coming out! This crazy, decades-long dream of mine is becoming a reality, just like that. My awesome agent, Harvey Klinger, who expertly and kindly helped me shape my book, by showing me what unnecessary sections to cut, where to deepen characters, where to tighten the action, gave me the best Mother's Day gift by pronouncing my novel ready for submission to publishers. Two weeks later, I had a book deal. This next phase in my journey is happening head-snapping fast, but it also took a long time to come, which is probably the best way to receive success--pay your dues, dream your dream, work all day every day at it as hard as you possibly can, and then let it come.
This particular book, The Art of Adapting, (my 5th novel attempt) came fast and furiously, like it fully downloaded into my brain as I slept, and I raced through my writing sessions each day to keep up with the words filling my mind. I knew it centered around a man with Asperger's, inspired by but not based on my uncle who had Asperger's, and the rest followed quickly once I'd made that choice. His sister came to me next. She was going through a divorce, sort of empty-nesting with her new lack of a husband and children who no longer needed her as much as they once had. Her brother was going to be her new project. Her two teenage children caught in this family-in-flux also demanded their own voices. Her son was vying for popularity while lusting after his best-friend's sister, trying to get up the nerve to abandon a promising athletic future to pursue his true love, art. Her perfectionist daughter was battling invisibility, her first academic falterings, first love, and anorexia. The structure was set. Alternating voices of these four characters, each going through their own separate issues, each learning that fine balance of both standing alone and leaning on the people who love you. I had my first draft done in a few months, put it away while I started a new novel, then returned to it for revisions, sent it off to my beta readers, and revised one last time based on their feedback.
When I finished my novel, I decided to query agents in batches of 5, one batch per week. It seemed less overwhelming that way. I started with my top 5 choices. Harvey Klinger was among them. He got back to me a few hours after receiving my submission, and asked to see the opening chapters. A month later he asked to see the whole manuscript. Two weeks later, he wrote to say that it had potential but needed work, and that if I was willing to revise it with his direction, he was sure we could turn it into something he could sell. I had no idea what a significant moment that was when I accepted his offer and got to work. I was thrilled to have anyone out there believe in my book, in me. I knew the book wasn't perfect. I couldn't wait to make it better. Over the next few months, I cut over half of my preciously-written words (almost 50k words cut in all--ouch). I eliminated endless pages of backstory, minor characters, distracting plot lines, weak scenes, some entire chapters, and delved deeper into everything left. The best thing about Harvey is that his critique style worked so well with my writing style. He told me where my trouble areas were, and left it to me to fix the problems. He asked some great, hard questions, and I wrote and cut and revised until I had the answers. The book is now a fairly different manuscript than the one I initially sent to him, but every word of it is still mine.
When Harvey started the submissions process I tried not to think about it. I'd heard how long it can take for an agent to sell a book, horror stories of a year gone by and no interested publishers. Still, I checked my cell phone and email about a hundred times a day, just wondering. Nine days later, I got a nice email message that we had an interested publisher, and Harvey said he'd get back to me as soon as he knew more. When he called a few days later, the first thing Harvey said to me was "Sit down." I did. "Sold," he said. I don't really remember the rest of our conversation.
And just like that, come next spring The Art of Adapting will be published by Touchstone Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster. It will have gone from words in my head to a real concrete thing that I can hold in my hands and show my kids and beg my friends and family to buy so that I can sign it with ridiculous gushings about how much I love each and every one of them. I can't tell you how many times I've hovered outside a bookstore wondering what it'd be like to see one of my own novels on display there. The fact that this will be happening in less than a year is mind-blowing. The kind of shock to the system that keeps waking me up at 3am, wondering if it's all really, finally happening, or if I was dreaming.
I can tell next year's going to be a crazy busy, crazy good year. I can feel how all of the time I've spent mastering the perfect balance of this single mom gig with blocks of time set aside for writing is about to get shaken up and I'll have to rebalance frequently and call in some serious babysitting favors along the way. But I'm ready. My girls are aware that with this new phase in my career comes time away from them. I've promised to take them with me when I can, because I don't want to give up the mommy gig, and because I want them to be a part of this next phase, too. It's as much for them as it is for me. They've given up a fair share of mommy time for this book. They've seen me spending hours on end in front of my computer, talking out loud to myself as I test phrases and snippets of dialogue. They get the quiet, introverted part of the job. But I don't think they had a clear sense of the end goal. I promised them a family trip to Hawaii once I'd sold my book, though, and you better believe it took them all of ten seconds to make good on that promise.
My daughters are both rock-star readers, reading several grades ahead of their age, and they both have a natural gift for writing that I wish I could say I taught them, but had absolutely nothing to do with. At six and eight, they know a lot more about this craft than I did at their ages, and they both get used as examples of good writing in their classes frequently. I know they inherently understand the nuts-and-bolts part of my job, but now I want them to understand what all of those writing sessions of mine were working toward. When I stand in that bookstore for the first time, looking at my novel on display there, I want them standing beside me.
Until then, it's back to work on my new novel. The character voices are so strong that I wake up in mid-conversation with them. I'm not sure where it's headed yet, but I know the only way to find out is to push the excitement aside for a few hours a day to write. My daughters are my best cheerleaders, always. They have promised to give me quiet time to write this summer while they are off school. Once the Hawaii trip is booked.
This particular book, The Art of Adapting, (my 5th novel attempt) came fast and furiously, like it fully downloaded into my brain as I slept, and I raced through my writing sessions each day to keep up with the words filling my mind. I knew it centered around a man with Asperger's, inspired by but not based on my uncle who had Asperger's, and the rest followed quickly once I'd made that choice. His sister came to me next. She was going through a divorce, sort of empty-nesting with her new lack of a husband and children who no longer needed her as much as they once had. Her brother was going to be her new project. Her two teenage children caught in this family-in-flux also demanded their own voices. Her son was vying for popularity while lusting after his best-friend's sister, trying to get up the nerve to abandon a promising athletic future to pursue his true love, art. Her perfectionist daughter was battling invisibility, her first academic falterings, first love, and anorexia. The structure was set. Alternating voices of these four characters, each going through their own separate issues, each learning that fine balance of both standing alone and leaning on the people who love you. I had my first draft done in a few months, put it away while I started a new novel, then returned to it for revisions, sent it off to my beta readers, and revised one last time based on their feedback.
When I finished my novel, I decided to query agents in batches of 5, one batch per week. It seemed less overwhelming that way. I started with my top 5 choices. Harvey Klinger was among them. He got back to me a few hours after receiving my submission, and asked to see the opening chapters. A month later he asked to see the whole manuscript. Two weeks later, he wrote to say that it had potential but needed work, and that if I was willing to revise it with his direction, he was sure we could turn it into something he could sell. I had no idea what a significant moment that was when I accepted his offer and got to work. I was thrilled to have anyone out there believe in my book, in me. I knew the book wasn't perfect. I couldn't wait to make it better. Over the next few months, I cut over half of my preciously-written words (almost 50k words cut in all--ouch). I eliminated endless pages of backstory, minor characters, distracting plot lines, weak scenes, some entire chapters, and delved deeper into everything left. The best thing about Harvey is that his critique style worked so well with my writing style. He told me where my trouble areas were, and left it to me to fix the problems. He asked some great, hard questions, and I wrote and cut and revised until I had the answers. The book is now a fairly different manuscript than the one I initially sent to him, but every word of it is still mine.
When Harvey started the submissions process I tried not to think about it. I'd heard how long it can take for an agent to sell a book, horror stories of a year gone by and no interested publishers. Still, I checked my cell phone and email about a hundred times a day, just wondering. Nine days later, I got a nice email message that we had an interested publisher, and Harvey said he'd get back to me as soon as he knew more. When he called a few days later, the first thing Harvey said to me was "Sit down." I did. "Sold," he said. I don't really remember the rest of our conversation.
And just like that, come next spring The Art of Adapting will be published by Touchstone Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster. It will have gone from words in my head to a real concrete thing that I can hold in my hands and show my kids and beg my friends and family to buy so that I can sign it with ridiculous gushings about how much I love each and every one of them. I can't tell you how many times I've hovered outside a bookstore wondering what it'd be like to see one of my own novels on display there. The fact that this will be happening in less than a year is mind-blowing. The kind of shock to the system that keeps waking me up at 3am, wondering if it's all really, finally happening, or if I was dreaming.
I can tell next year's going to be a crazy busy, crazy good year. I can feel how all of the time I've spent mastering the perfect balance of this single mom gig with blocks of time set aside for writing is about to get shaken up and I'll have to rebalance frequently and call in some serious babysitting favors along the way. But I'm ready. My girls are aware that with this new phase in my career comes time away from them. I've promised to take them with me when I can, because I don't want to give up the mommy gig, and because I want them to be a part of this next phase, too. It's as much for them as it is for me. They've given up a fair share of mommy time for this book. They've seen me spending hours on end in front of my computer, talking out loud to myself as I test phrases and snippets of dialogue. They get the quiet, introverted part of the job. But I don't think they had a clear sense of the end goal. I promised them a family trip to Hawaii once I'd sold my book, though, and you better believe it took them all of ten seconds to make good on that promise.
My daughters are both rock-star readers, reading several grades ahead of their age, and they both have a natural gift for writing that I wish I could say I taught them, but had absolutely nothing to do with. At six and eight, they know a lot more about this craft than I did at their ages, and they both get used as examples of good writing in their classes frequently. I know they inherently understand the nuts-and-bolts part of my job, but now I want them to understand what all of those writing sessions of mine were working toward. When I stand in that bookstore for the first time, looking at my novel on display there, I want them standing beside me.
Until then, it's back to work on my new novel. The character voices are so strong that I wake up in mid-conversation with them. I'm not sure where it's headed yet, but I know the only way to find out is to push the excitement aside for a few hours a day to write. My daughters are my best cheerleaders, always. They have promised to give me quiet time to write this summer while they are off school. Once the Hawaii trip is booked.
Tuesday, May 07, 2013
The Call
It happened today. I got the call. Writers talk about "getting the call" like it's some mythical thing, a fairy godmother moment when all of your dreams magically come true. Because it is.
Today my agent, the passionate, brilliant, patient mentor of my dreams, Harvey Klinger, called me to say that my novel revisions are done, my book is ready, and he's going to start sending it out to acquisitions editors at publishing houses. Today I am not just a writer who locks herself up in her office for 5 hours every day and pours her heart onto a blank page hoping someday someone out there will care to read a few words of it. Today is the day I take the next step.
It's been a long journey, to say the least. I started writing short stories when I was 8, after a student-teacher visited my fourth grade class and gave us the first paragraph of a story, and an assignment to write an ending for it. We were supposed to add a paragraph or two. Four pages later, I had discovered a passion I never knew was there. So I wrote, almost daily, from then on. Occasionally I showed a story to my mother or sister, but rarely anyone else. Writing was a private thing for me, best done by flashlight in a journal after I was supposed to be asleep.
I had awesome English teachers in both junior high and high school (let's raise a toast to public school teachers who can reach through the bureaucracy to inspire kids!). These teachers recognized a glimmer of talent in the super shy petite girl who never raised her hand or spoke above a whisper. They made me read my papers aloud to the class as examples of good writing. They made me believe in myself and stop thinking of writing as purely a private thing.
On the encouragement of those teachers, I went to college as a writing major, where I learned to love writing workshops and critique groups and hanging out with other writers who were crazy talented and chasing the same big dream. I generated a ton of writing in college, but I never tried to publish any of it. That still seemed like something for other, better writers, not me.
But from the moment I finished college, I missed it. The camaraderie of writers. I lucked into an editing job with no editing training. I loved my job, but it was mostly correcting grammar and drafting department newsletters and brochures, and it didn't feed my creative writing side. So I decided to go to grad school, to immerse myself back into the stew of writers taking risks and pushing themselves and dreaming big. It was a hard two years. I was in the middle of a divorce which I insisted on doing myself, because why hire a lawyer to do a bunch of paperwork I could do myself? I was working full-time and going to school full-time, leaving me with about thirty seconds of down time each day. I gave up eating and sleeping and TV and movies and seeing friends and family. I came down with mono and refused to miss a single class because I had no free time to make up missed assignments. And I loved every minute of it. I was in workshops with some of the most talented writers I'd ever seen. I was inspired by them, pushed by them, and I stretched and grew as a writer.
And then I graduated: exhilarated, exhausted, totally burnt out, and took a break. I got remarried. I had kids. I settled into the life of a mom and wife first and foremost. Writing became a sometimes-hobby, not a passion. I squeezed it in around the edges, never giving it my full attention. I was freelance-editing from home while caring for two kids a year and a half apart, two babies at once, really, with a husband who was gone a lot for work. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived, friend-deprived, passion-deprived. And as it all slowly began to unravel, the marriage and the life I thought I'd always wanted, I realized the only thing that had always made me 100% happy was writing. And I wasn't writing.
I started again. Small at first. A couple of hours a couple times a week. Short stories and outlines for books and random scenes for screenplays. I wrote my first (terrible) novel that none of you will ever see, but I learned a lot in the process. I took a risk and started submitting short stories. My first story was a finalist for a Glimmer Train contest. That's not a small thing, but I didn't know it at the time. I just thought: wow, recognition is great! And it lit a fire, and it made me happy, every second of every day that I spent writing eclipsed the sadness of my failing marriage and doubts about my skills as a frequently-solo mother. So I kept at it. Writing, submitting, writing, submitting. I made a choice, to pursue writing with all that I had, to pour every feeling that I had bottled up inside onto the page. Writing is a solitary thing, and one of the hard things about my life was that I was alone too much, always with kids in tow, but without enough grown-up friends or family around to remind me of who I was aside from a mom. Writing became that friend. And then a funny thing happened. The joy that writing gave me opened me back up, and suddenly I had a whole slew of great new friends who knew me as a writer and not just a mom. And then I began to see myself that way.
My kids know that I'm a writer. When people ask them what I do, they are quick to say "My mom's a writer." It took me years to own that label, to introduce myself to people as a writer. Even after getting published, I had only ever earned income as an editor. How could I call myself a writer? Even after getting award recognition for a novel, I was reluctant to use the term. Even though I was spending hours each day writing, I had trouble owning it.
So that's the big difference that getting the call makes. I still earn my income editing other writers' maniscripts. But now, now I feel like I can own that "Writer" label with pride. Now I have people in the business who know a lot more about writing and publishing than I do calling me a writer. Now I have a voicemail that I will save forever from the best agent ever telling me: "You did it. You're ready." That was the call. And it's changed everything.
Today my agent, the passionate, brilliant, patient mentor of my dreams, Harvey Klinger, called me to say that my novel revisions are done, my book is ready, and he's going to start sending it out to acquisitions editors at publishing houses. Today I am not just a writer who locks herself up in her office for 5 hours every day and pours her heart onto a blank page hoping someday someone out there will care to read a few words of it. Today is the day I take the next step.
It's been a long journey, to say the least. I started writing short stories when I was 8, after a student-teacher visited my fourth grade class and gave us the first paragraph of a story, and an assignment to write an ending for it. We were supposed to add a paragraph or two. Four pages later, I had discovered a passion I never knew was there. So I wrote, almost daily, from then on. Occasionally I showed a story to my mother or sister, but rarely anyone else. Writing was a private thing for me, best done by flashlight in a journal after I was supposed to be asleep.
I had awesome English teachers in both junior high and high school (let's raise a toast to public school teachers who can reach through the bureaucracy to inspire kids!). These teachers recognized a glimmer of talent in the super shy petite girl who never raised her hand or spoke above a whisper. They made me read my papers aloud to the class as examples of good writing. They made me believe in myself and stop thinking of writing as purely a private thing.
On the encouragement of those teachers, I went to college as a writing major, where I learned to love writing workshops and critique groups and hanging out with other writers who were crazy talented and chasing the same big dream. I generated a ton of writing in college, but I never tried to publish any of it. That still seemed like something for other, better writers, not me.
But from the moment I finished college, I missed it. The camaraderie of writers. I lucked into an editing job with no editing training. I loved my job, but it was mostly correcting grammar and drafting department newsletters and brochures, and it didn't feed my creative writing side. So I decided to go to grad school, to immerse myself back into the stew of writers taking risks and pushing themselves and dreaming big. It was a hard two years. I was in the middle of a divorce which I insisted on doing myself, because why hire a lawyer to do a bunch of paperwork I could do myself? I was working full-time and going to school full-time, leaving me with about thirty seconds of down time each day. I gave up eating and sleeping and TV and movies and seeing friends and family. I came down with mono and refused to miss a single class because I had no free time to make up missed assignments. And I loved every minute of it. I was in workshops with some of the most talented writers I'd ever seen. I was inspired by them, pushed by them, and I stretched and grew as a writer.
And then I graduated: exhilarated, exhausted, totally burnt out, and took a break. I got remarried. I had kids. I settled into the life of a mom and wife first and foremost. Writing became a sometimes-hobby, not a passion. I squeezed it in around the edges, never giving it my full attention. I was freelance-editing from home while caring for two kids a year and a half apart, two babies at once, really, with a husband who was gone a lot for work. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived, friend-deprived, passion-deprived. And as it all slowly began to unravel, the marriage and the life I thought I'd always wanted, I realized the only thing that had always made me 100% happy was writing. And I wasn't writing.
I started again. Small at first. A couple of hours a couple times a week. Short stories and outlines for books and random scenes for screenplays. I wrote my first (terrible) novel that none of you will ever see, but I learned a lot in the process. I took a risk and started submitting short stories. My first story was a finalist for a Glimmer Train contest. That's not a small thing, but I didn't know it at the time. I just thought: wow, recognition is great! And it lit a fire, and it made me happy, every second of every day that I spent writing eclipsed the sadness of my failing marriage and doubts about my skills as a frequently-solo mother. So I kept at it. Writing, submitting, writing, submitting. I made a choice, to pursue writing with all that I had, to pour every feeling that I had bottled up inside onto the page. Writing is a solitary thing, and one of the hard things about my life was that I was alone too much, always with kids in tow, but without enough grown-up friends or family around to remind me of who I was aside from a mom. Writing became that friend. And then a funny thing happened. The joy that writing gave me opened me back up, and suddenly I had a whole slew of great new friends who knew me as a writer and not just a mom. And then I began to see myself that way.
My kids know that I'm a writer. When people ask them what I do, they are quick to say "My mom's a writer." It took me years to own that label, to introduce myself to people as a writer. Even after getting published, I had only ever earned income as an editor. How could I call myself a writer? Even after getting award recognition for a novel, I was reluctant to use the term. Even though I was spending hours each day writing, I had trouble owning it.
So that's the big difference that getting the call makes. I still earn my income editing other writers' maniscripts. But now, now I feel like I can own that "Writer" label with pride. Now I have people in the business who know a lot more about writing and publishing than I do calling me a writer. Now I have a voicemail that I will save forever from the best agent ever telling me: "You did it. You're ready." That was the call. And it's changed everything.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Storytellers
Every night when I put my girls to bed, each one gets 10 minutes of uninterrupted, sister-free cuddle time with me to do with as they please. My 8-year-old likes to spend her 10 minutes telling me about her day as she sketches her endless fashion lines. At 8 years old she has more fashion sense and style than I ever will. I've made peace with that. And I'm ridiculously impressed with her skills. She can craft an entire seasonal wardrobe in about ten minutes, from clothes to shoes to accessories. I have no idea where this innate sense of style comes from, but I'm glad one of us has it.
My 6-year-old, insatiable reader that she is, wants a story during cuddle time every night. She's read every book in the house a dozen times, so she wants something original. My task is to tell her a new story every night, developed on the spot, to fit within the 10-minute time-frame. I can get behind that. This child was made for me. I mean, of course she was...I made her. But you know what I mean. The 8-year-old is my physical mini-me. We have the same face. But my 6-year-old is my secret mini-me. She's me on the inside. Only better.
I come into her room at night and find her flipping through books, scouring the wall-stickers decorating her room, the toys strewn about the floor. She quickly picks a few objects/characters, say: this sticker of an apple, this lion puppet, and this Rapunzel book. She steers me onto her bed, climbs in next to me, hugs her pillow, and says: "Okay. Go!"
And in ten minutes I weave a quick tale about a very hungry lion who wants the last apple from the top of a tall tree, and how Rapunzel shows up in the nick of time, using her long hair to hoist herself up and fetch the apple, saving the starving lion and making a lifelong friend. The end. And then I get graded. My little listener will tap her rosebud lips, look up at the ceiling with her big blue eyes. "Good, but I think it needs a better ending. With a witch." So I tack on a new twist that just when the lion and Rapunzel thought they were home free an evil witch appears to tell them it's her apple tree and she will now be keeping them prisoner for stealing her apple. On the way deeper and deeper into the dungeon, which is full of magical creatures the witch has trapped over the years, Rapunzel uses her hair to tie up the witch. The lion frees the unicorn, pegasus, leprechaun, mermaid, and fairy that have been held prisoner. Together they lock the witch in her own jail. When they flee the witch's haunted house, on their way through the barren orchards, the apple trees bloom and fill with apples. Magic returns to the land, and the lion will never be hungry again.
"Better," my critic tells me. When I get a really good one she'll launch across the bed and hug me. "Best story ever!" she'll yell in my ear. Those are the best cuddle times.
I've been through the wringer of grad school writing workshops, so I have a thick skin. I've been an editor for 17 years. I am not thrown by criticism. And yet pleasing this little girl with my tales matters in a way that nothing else has. I spend all day writing, either on the page or making endless notes in my mind for the next time I'm in front of my computer. I eat, drink, sleep, breathe writing. But none of that has prepared me for the joy I feel at making up a story a day, every day, for my little girl. It's good exercise for my writer-mind, to have to come up with a beginning, middle, and end without any prep time. It's great to get instant feedback in that unfiltered ego-free way that only children have. I love to watch her expression as I make it up, to see which parts get her more interested and which ones get less of a reaction, so I can steer it in the direction that makes her light up the most. But best of all, it's great to see that she gets it: what I love about words and characters and settings and plot twists and humor and dialogue. It's great that she understands inherently about story arc the same way her sister gets clothes-as-art.
I'm also pretty proud of her editing and critique skills. I can tell you from years of experience that she knows what she's talking about. When she gets a little older, ready for more grown-up themes, I have no doubt that she'll be my best beta-reader. In the mean time, if any of you ever need a good, honest critique of a children's story, I've got your girl. She's the little blue-eyed pixie, hugging a pillow and waiting for me to come up with an adventure involving a potato, a dragon, and Snow White.
My 6-year-old, insatiable reader that she is, wants a story during cuddle time every night. She's read every book in the house a dozen times, so she wants something original. My task is to tell her a new story every night, developed on the spot, to fit within the 10-minute time-frame. I can get behind that. This child was made for me. I mean, of course she was...I made her. But you know what I mean. The 8-year-old is my physical mini-me. We have the same face. But my 6-year-old is my secret mini-me. She's me on the inside. Only better.
I come into her room at night and find her flipping through books, scouring the wall-stickers decorating her room, the toys strewn about the floor. She quickly picks a few objects/characters, say: this sticker of an apple, this lion puppet, and this Rapunzel book. She steers me onto her bed, climbs in next to me, hugs her pillow, and says: "Okay. Go!"
And in ten minutes I weave a quick tale about a very hungry lion who wants the last apple from the top of a tall tree, and how Rapunzel shows up in the nick of time, using her long hair to hoist herself up and fetch the apple, saving the starving lion and making a lifelong friend. The end. And then I get graded. My little listener will tap her rosebud lips, look up at the ceiling with her big blue eyes. "Good, but I think it needs a better ending. With a witch." So I tack on a new twist that just when the lion and Rapunzel thought they were home free an evil witch appears to tell them it's her apple tree and she will now be keeping them prisoner for stealing her apple. On the way deeper and deeper into the dungeon, which is full of magical creatures the witch has trapped over the years, Rapunzel uses her hair to tie up the witch. The lion frees the unicorn, pegasus, leprechaun, mermaid, and fairy that have been held prisoner. Together they lock the witch in her own jail. When they flee the witch's haunted house, on their way through the barren orchards, the apple trees bloom and fill with apples. Magic returns to the land, and the lion will never be hungry again.
"Better," my critic tells me. When I get a really good one she'll launch across the bed and hug me. "Best story ever!" she'll yell in my ear. Those are the best cuddle times.
I've been through the wringer of grad school writing workshops, so I have a thick skin. I've been an editor for 17 years. I am not thrown by criticism. And yet pleasing this little girl with my tales matters in a way that nothing else has. I spend all day writing, either on the page or making endless notes in my mind for the next time I'm in front of my computer. I eat, drink, sleep, breathe writing. But none of that has prepared me for the joy I feel at making up a story a day, every day, for my little girl. It's good exercise for my writer-mind, to have to come up with a beginning, middle, and end without any prep time. It's great to get instant feedback in that unfiltered ego-free way that only children have. I love to watch her expression as I make it up, to see which parts get her more interested and which ones get less of a reaction, so I can steer it in the direction that makes her light up the most. But best of all, it's great to see that she gets it: what I love about words and characters and settings and plot twists and humor and dialogue. It's great that she understands inherently about story arc the same way her sister gets clothes-as-art.
I'm also pretty proud of her editing and critique skills. I can tell you from years of experience that she knows what she's talking about. When she gets a little older, ready for more grown-up themes, I have no doubt that she'll be my best beta-reader. In the mean time, if any of you ever need a good, honest critique of a children's story, I've got your girl. She's the little blue-eyed pixie, hugging a pillow and waiting for me to come up with an adventure involving a potato, a dragon, and Snow White.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Dream-Chasers
This whole crazy journey I'm on started when I was about my daughter's age, and had no idea I was even on a journey. I wrote my first short story when I was 8 or 9, and never looked back. I wrote from then on, without even thinking about why. At first I just wrote stories for my sister and step-sister, made them characters in adventures, because while they were hogging the Atari controls, I had nothing better to do. They were experts at Pong and Combat, and I was figuring out the art of storytelling. It was no big deal. Except that it got into my bones somehow, the need to write, to make up stories, to move people with words. By high school I knew that I wanted to be a writer, without having any idea what that meant. Did writing even count as a job? I had plenty of naysayers to inform me that, no, it did not. Writing was a skill all adults needed. It was a fine hobby. It didn't count as a career. But one thing about me: I'm ridiculously stubborn. I mean, most of the time I'm easy-going. I don't care where we go for dinner or what movie you want to see. I'm flexible on that stuff. But when someone tells me I can't do something that I really want to do, that easy-going nature disappears. Give me something to prove or disprove, and you get a whole different girl.
So I went to college and got a degree in creative writing. I loved my program, my professors, my fellow aspiring-writer students. I loved everything except the way everyone kept saying "Yes, but what will you do for a living? A writing degree won't get you a job." So I got stubborn about that, too, and only applied for writing-related jobs. And got one. I started out as an assistant editor just after graduating college. By the time I decided to go to grad school to earn yet another writing degree I was an editor. By the time I finished my master's degree, I was a senior editor. A senior editor with an MFA in creative writing and a head full of epic dreams of publishing novels. But no idea how to make that dream come true.
I started with short stories. I wrote one after another until I felt like they weren't grappling with me for ultimate control anymore. I started sending them out, and got some award recognition, and then I started getting published. I crafted and recrafted them until I'd published almost all of them. I tried my hand at novels, fighting the unyielding beast until I'd figured out the form, the arc, the pacing, the character development, the heart. The first novel I ever dared show the world was a semi-finalist for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. I figured I was on the right track. But as I sent that book out to literary agents, I knew something about it wasn't right yet. I started a new novel, with a better understanding of what worked and what didn't. I finished it in a few months, quickly revised it with the help of awesome beta readers, and sent it out to a handful of literary agents. And one of them loved it. A huge agent. One of the big dogs.
So here I am. We're in the revision stage now, where my agent, the amazing Harvey Klinger, sends me challenges for each section of the novel, to make it stronger, deeper, more compelling. He is helping me find the heart of this story, and he is an amazing mentor. I wake up in the middle of the night so excited to wake up and write that I can't go back to sleep. I get up each morning so thrilled with my life that it's ridiculous.
And then I get my girls up, make their breakfast and school lunches, drive them to school, volunteer in their classes, all before getting to tackle those pages that have been calling to me since the moment I woke up. And that is perfect. Because being a writer is my passion, no doubt. But being a mother is just as important. And my joy at being this close to seeing my lifelong dream come true is twice as meaningful because of my daughters. I want them to see this happen for me. I want them to remember back when I got my first story published and we celebrated with sparking cider and cookies. I want them to remember the early versions of my short stories that I read aloud as I worked out the kinks. I want them to remember a mom who had a ridiculously huge dream, the kind that is so big that it shouldn't be possible, and I want them to remember the moment when it came true. I want them to dream their own big, huge, ridiculously impossible dreams, and to know in their bones that with passion, persistence, discipline, and focus they can have it, whatever it is. I want them to be unaffected by naysayers, because they know better. I want this dream for myself, as I have always wanted it. But I want it even more for my daughters.
So I went to college and got a degree in creative writing. I loved my program, my professors, my fellow aspiring-writer students. I loved everything except the way everyone kept saying "Yes, but what will you do for a living? A writing degree won't get you a job." So I got stubborn about that, too, and only applied for writing-related jobs. And got one. I started out as an assistant editor just after graduating college. By the time I decided to go to grad school to earn yet another writing degree I was an editor. By the time I finished my master's degree, I was a senior editor. A senior editor with an MFA in creative writing and a head full of epic dreams of publishing novels. But no idea how to make that dream come true.
I started with short stories. I wrote one after another until I felt like they weren't grappling with me for ultimate control anymore. I started sending them out, and got some award recognition, and then I started getting published. I crafted and recrafted them until I'd published almost all of them. I tried my hand at novels, fighting the unyielding beast until I'd figured out the form, the arc, the pacing, the character development, the heart. The first novel I ever dared show the world was a semi-finalist for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. I figured I was on the right track. But as I sent that book out to literary agents, I knew something about it wasn't right yet. I started a new novel, with a better understanding of what worked and what didn't. I finished it in a few months, quickly revised it with the help of awesome beta readers, and sent it out to a handful of literary agents. And one of them loved it. A huge agent. One of the big dogs.
So here I am. We're in the revision stage now, where my agent, the amazing Harvey Klinger, sends me challenges for each section of the novel, to make it stronger, deeper, more compelling. He is helping me find the heart of this story, and he is an amazing mentor. I wake up in the middle of the night so excited to wake up and write that I can't go back to sleep. I get up each morning so thrilled with my life that it's ridiculous.
And then I get my girls up, make their breakfast and school lunches, drive them to school, volunteer in their classes, all before getting to tackle those pages that have been calling to me since the moment I woke up. And that is perfect. Because being a writer is my passion, no doubt. But being a mother is just as important. And my joy at being this close to seeing my lifelong dream come true is twice as meaningful because of my daughters. I want them to see this happen for me. I want them to remember back when I got my first story published and we celebrated with sparking cider and cookies. I want them to remember the early versions of my short stories that I read aloud as I worked out the kinks. I want them to remember a mom who had a ridiculously huge dream, the kind that is so big that it shouldn't be possible, and I want them to remember the moment when it came true. I want them to dream their own big, huge, ridiculously impossible dreams, and to know in their bones that with passion, persistence, discipline, and focus they can have it, whatever it is. I want them to be unaffected by naysayers, because they know better. I want this dream for myself, as I have always wanted it. But I want it even more for my daughters.
Monday, February 18, 2013
My Wellness Coach: Frances McDormand
So, one thing about being mid-divorce and, ahem, unemployed, is that money can be tight. Like: no we can't get a pizza tonight, but I can maybe make one with these bagels and pasta sauce tight. That's fine. I'm not a materialistic girl, and my kids aren't either. But while trying to find gainful employment, I have been on the lookout for quick and easy ways to make a buck, trying to resurrect my old freelance editing contacts, that kind of thing. When I came across an offer for a "wellness coach" through my health insurance, I jumped at it. Because it paid $75! The wellness coach would be calling me three times over the course of a couple of months, to help set some sort of health goal that I was sure I'd ignore as soon as I had my money in hand.
On our first appointment-call, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my wellness coach sounded exactly like the actress Frances McDormand a la Fargo. She was full of "you betchas" and "dontcha knows" and quirky midwest charm and she instantly made me feel at ease. So I rattled off my various health challenges (stress, divorce, lack of sleep, lack of money) and listened to her sympathize. She'd divorced when her children were young, and understood completely. Then came the coaching. "Ya know, the most important thing to remember in times of stress is to take care of yourself. Ya got kids. Ya got stress. Ya got endless demands. But if you don't take care of yourself first, you're no good to them." And the weird thing was, my Frances McDormand-sound-alike was exactly right. It was the same message I'd heard from my Reiki Master friend Heather. The same thing my doctor had said. The same thing my 8-year-old told me on occasion. But if the universe was sending me the message yet again, then maybe I still wasn't doing it.
Frances wanted me to do one thing: schedule a half-hour of "me" time every single day. She wanted me to tell my kids about it, so they'd (1) hold me accountable to myself, and (2) so they'd see me not just as mom, but also as a human being with actual human needs. She wanted me to set a reminder/alarm on my phone so I'd never forget. She wanted me to spend my half hour doing something that benefited no one but me. And with Frances' permission, I set my reminder. I had lofty notions of hiking and reading and taking yoga classes and doing things that involved not having children around, but that's just not my life. Due to their dad's travel schedule for work, I have my kids about 90% of the time. Daily alone time is a fairly distant memory. So instead, I settled for listening to half hour meditations in my room while the kids watched a half hour of TV and ate their after school snacks downstairs. A totally unproductive half hour for myself every day? Prescribed by someone my own health insurance sent to me? Such indulgence! Frances was my new favorite wellness coach, therapist, best friend, caller, and benefactor, all rolled into one.
About two weeks into it, my six year old came to me as I was working on my computer one afternoon and said, "Shouldn't you go upstairs and rest now?" Because here's the thing: not only is it a half hour of me time ensconced in my bedroom each day, it's also a half hour of kids-behaving-well-unsupervised time. It's a test for all of us. And somehow, we're passing. That's not to say that I never get a kid walking in during my half-hour meditation-time to ask me to open a stubborn package of snacks or wanting to know where her favorite headband is. I'm a single mom. That's the deal. But the fact that I can say to my girls: "Okay, I'm heading to my room for a half hour," and they give me hugs and settle down to do something quiet until I'm done? That's amazing. And the realization that it might not take them 40 years to realize they get to come first, for at least a half hour each day of their lives? That's the best part. Thank you, Frances.
On our first appointment-call, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my wellness coach sounded exactly like the actress Frances McDormand a la Fargo. She was full of "you betchas" and "dontcha knows" and quirky midwest charm and she instantly made me feel at ease. So I rattled off my various health challenges (stress, divorce, lack of sleep, lack of money) and listened to her sympathize. She'd divorced when her children were young, and understood completely. Then came the coaching. "Ya know, the most important thing to remember in times of stress is to take care of yourself. Ya got kids. Ya got stress. Ya got endless demands. But if you don't take care of yourself first, you're no good to them." And the weird thing was, my Frances McDormand-sound-alike was exactly right. It was the same message I'd heard from my Reiki Master friend Heather. The same thing my doctor had said. The same thing my 8-year-old told me on occasion. But if the universe was sending me the message yet again, then maybe I still wasn't doing it.
Frances wanted me to do one thing: schedule a half-hour of "me" time every single day. She wanted me to tell my kids about it, so they'd (1) hold me accountable to myself, and (2) so they'd see me not just as mom, but also as a human being with actual human needs. She wanted me to set a reminder/alarm on my phone so I'd never forget. She wanted me to spend my half hour doing something that benefited no one but me. And with Frances' permission, I set my reminder. I had lofty notions of hiking and reading and taking yoga classes and doing things that involved not having children around, but that's just not my life. Due to their dad's travel schedule for work, I have my kids about 90% of the time. Daily alone time is a fairly distant memory. So instead, I settled for listening to half hour meditations in my room while the kids watched a half hour of TV and ate their after school snacks downstairs. A totally unproductive half hour for myself every day? Prescribed by someone my own health insurance sent to me? Such indulgence! Frances was my new favorite wellness coach, therapist, best friend, caller, and benefactor, all rolled into one.
About two weeks into it, my six year old came to me as I was working on my computer one afternoon and said, "Shouldn't you go upstairs and rest now?" Because here's the thing: not only is it a half hour of me time ensconced in my bedroom each day, it's also a half hour of kids-behaving-well-unsupervised time. It's a test for all of us. And somehow, we're passing. That's not to say that I never get a kid walking in during my half-hour meditation-time to ask me to open a stubborn package of snacks or wanting to know where her favorite headband is. I'm a single mom. That's the deal. But the fact that I can say to my girls: "Okay, I'm heading to my room for a half hour," and they give me hugs and settle down to do something quiet until I'm done? That's amazing. And the realization that it might not take them 40 years to realize they get to come first, for at least a half hour each day of their lives? That's the best part. Thank you, Frances.
Friday, January 18, 2013
The Next Big Thing
Many thanks to my amazing poet friend Patricia Caspers for inviting me to share about my work in progress through the blog series The Next Big Thing. Here goes:
What is your working title of your book (or story)?
The current working title is "The Art of Adapting" but I'm betting it'll change.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
My uncle Mike had Asperger's Syndrome, and I always knew I'd write a story about a man based on him. It's evolved into its own story, so at this point it's not my uncle's story at all, but he still gets credit for the inspiration.
What genre does your book fall under?
I'd like to say literature, but since much of it comes from a woman's point of view, it seems likely to get shelved under women's fiction.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I have no idea. I have clear visions of my characters and no actors look exactly like them. But if I had to choose, maybe Juliana Margulies and Joaquin Phoenix.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Lana, recently separated from her husband and no longer the center of her teenage children's world, takes in her brilliant and eccentric brother with Asperger's Syndrome to help make ends meet.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I'm going the agency route.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
The first draft took 3-4 months. The rewrites are taking much longer!
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I'd like to say it's comparable to Marisa de los Santos' books, because I adore her, but that may just be wishful thinking.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
It was actually inspired by a movie I saw about a man with Asperger's Syndrome who seems to magically and inexplicably "recover" in the end, finding a way to adapt to mainstream society without any help whatsoever. As someone who grew up around Asperger's and learned to love my quirky uncle on his own terms, I wanted to portray a more realistic vision of a similarly eccentric, beautiful, strange soul who doesn't need to "recover" because there's nothing wrong with him. He just is who he is, the one constant in a family of ever-changing dynamics, and deserves to be loved and accepted as-is.
What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
It's my first time trying my hand at writing from multiple points of view: 4 characters in all. It's been a fun challenge.
What is your working title of your book (or story)?
The current working title is "The Art of Adapting" but I'm betting it'll change.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
My uncle Mike had Asperger's Syndrome, and I always knew I'd write a story about a man based on him. It's evolved into its own story, so at this point it's not my uncle's story at all, but he still gets credit for the inspiration.
What genre does your book fall under?
I'd like to say literature, but since much of it comes from a woman's point of view, it seems likely to get shelved under women's fiction.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
I have no idea. I have clear visions of my characters and no actors look exactly like them. But if I had to choose, maybe Juliana Margulies and Joaquin Phoenix.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Lana, recently separated from her husband and no longer the center of her teenage children's world, takes in her brilliant and eccentric brother with Asperger's Syndrome to help make ends meet.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I'm going the agency route.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
The first draft took 3-4 months. The rewrites are taking much longer!
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I'd like to say it's comparable to Marisa de los Santos' books, because I adore her, but that may just be wishful thinking.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
It was actually inspired by a movie I saw about a man with Asperger's Syndrome who seems to magically and inexplicably "recover" in the end, finding a way to adapt to mainstream society without any help whatsoever. As someone who grew up around Asperger's and learned to love my quirky uncle on his own terms, I wanted to portray a more realistic vision of a similarly eccentric, beautiful, strange soul who doesn't need to "recover" because there's nothing wrong with him. He just is who he is, the one constant in a family of ever-changing dynamics, and deserves to be loved and accepted as-is.
What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
It's my first time trying my hand at writing from multiple points of view: 4 characters in all. It's been a fun challenge.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
An Unwedding Ceremony
My ex and I have started the formal proceedings to divorce.
At this point we’ve been living apart for 20 months, so it’s just paperwork and separating our finances. The emotional stuff was all processed long ago, and
after years of struggle together, we’re on better terms apart. He texted me
yesterday to tell me how his dog is doing. I bought him a Christmas present
last week. We are friendly, with boundaries.
I’ve explained to the kids what’s going on, because I don’t
lie to my kids, and they wanted to know where I was going when I left them with
a babysitter to head to our first mediation appointment. My 7-year-old confided
that she was worried her living arrangement would change again
once the divorce was final. I explained that she’d still spend the same amount
of time between her dad and me, that her two homes would remain unchanged, that
everything would look and feel the same to her. We’ve already worked out the
custody schedule. We’re just making it legal now. After all of the
explanations, her fears were put to rest. Now she wants to know if either her
dad or I ever remarry, will she get to be a flower girl? She’s a romantic at
heart. Who loves any excuse to wear a fancy new dress. My 6-year-old hasn’t had any
questions, and seems bored by the lengthy discussions on the topic that her
sister wants to have.
Tonight we were watching a TV show, and there was a wedding
ceremony in it. The girls sat down in front of the TV to oooh and aaah over the
pretty dresses and flowers and music as the wedding party marched down the
aisle. When it came to the exchange of vows, they both looked at me and asked
if all weddings were so boring.
“It’s just a lot of talking,” the 7-year-old said. I told
her she was right. But that there is a big party afterward.
After the big ceremony-ending kiss, the 6-year-old perked
up. “What happens when you get divorced again?” she asked.
“Paperwork!” her sister told her.
She thought about this for a minute, then said, “I think
there should be an unwedding ceremony when you get divorced. Where the woman
wears black instead of white, and instead of talking about how much you love
each other, you talk about why you don’t want to be together anymore.” We all
had a good laugh, expanding on the notion. You could ceremoniously give the rings back. Instead of getting wedding gifts,
your friends could even help the two of you divvy up what you already have. And then,
of course, you’d all have a big party.
She’s a funny old soul child, my little
6-year-old cherub. She’s a dreamer, who seems to be off in her own world most
of the time, until you find out she was listening the whole time, and
understood everything, no matter what code you were speaking in. It's the same way I was as a child, which is probably why I love this little streak of hers, even if it means I never get to have any secrets let alone private conversations. I also feel like when she finally gets inspired to share her insights, she's usually right.
I personally like the
idea of an unwedding ceremony. Divorce has such negative connotations, creates
so much tension not just between the couple, but around the friends and family
they share, everyone wondering what it all means, how it will all turn out,
whether they have to choose sides. Maybe it’s a perfect idea: gathering all of
our friends and family together, explaining ourselves to them en masse, then
letting it all go and celebrating the new phase in our lives with a big party.
And I bet my 7-year-old would even get to wear that fancy new dress she’s been
dreaming of.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
The Wake Up Call
Here’s the thing: we’re all busy. It’s so easy to get into
the groove of waking up in the cold and dark of early morning, hitting the
ground running, and not stopping until you crash late in the night, way past
the time when you said you’d put yourself to bed so that you’d be more rested
tomorrow when you do it all over again. I was in that same grind. It wasn’t
even a bad place to be, it was just life. And then life took a left turn I
didn’t see coming.
It started out innocently enough. A week after my first
unremarkable mammogram I got a letter saying they needed some extra scans. No
big deal, right? I mean, the same thing happened to my sister, and after the
additional scans, all was well. So I went in for my extra images of my right
breast with my book in hand and chalked it up to an inconvenience that I was
going to make the best of by catching up on some reading. As the tech crammed
me into the mammogram machine we joked about our kids, the book I was reading,
the coldness of the paddles in the machine. She took two quick pictures and had
me dress and head back out to the waiting room. Minutes later I was called back
in for another couple of images. The tech had me stay in the gown while the
radiologist looked those scans over to make sure she had what she needed. When
I was called back in for yet a third round of images, I knew something wasn’t
right.
The chit-chat had stopped. The laughing had stopped. The
tech took image after image and spoke to me in a calming voice that just made
me more nervous. Calcification is normal, she assured me. It was my first
mammogram. They were just getting an accurate baseline for my body, to compare to
all future mammograms.
After the three rounds of scans I met with a very nice
radiologist who explained that I had a cluster of calcifications she wanted to
check again in six months, to make sure they weren’t anything to worry about.
Both the friendly radiologist and my great regular doctor reassured me that all
was well and I should put it out of my mind for the next six months. Which I
mostly did.
I went in for my six-month follow-up certain that all was
well and I’d be sent home after a few quick images. That didn’t happen.
Instead, the same very kind radiologist sat me down in a stuffy overlit private
waiting room and told me she still wasn’t sure what she was seeing, and that
she’d like to do a biopsy. There really isn’t any way to hear that word without
taking it to the worst-case-scenario of cancer, but I put on a brave face and
told her I wanted the next available appointment. I wanted it over. I wanted a
definitive answer as soon as possible. I made my appointment that day, and
spent the next week waiting in a stress-hazed fog.
I told my immediate family and a couple of friends, but
mostly just went through the motions of normal everyday life swinging between
hope and fear for the next seven days. I slept fitfully at night and was
exhausted all day. I meditated. I watched a lot of comedies. I cried and
laughed and apologized to my kids for being spacy and cranky.
The day before my biopsy I had a powerful and emotional
Reiki session with my amazing friend Heather. “This is a wake-up call,” Heather
told me. “It’s time to stop putting everyone else first. Get in the driver’s
seat of your own life. Be the powerhouse that you are.” This wasn’t new
material. We’d covered the same issues in previous sessions. I’m a caretaker.
I’ve had therapists, psychics, doctors, and healers all praise and criticize me
for this natural tendency of mine. What I need is balance. What I need is
permission from myself to just be myself, all the time. I need to learn how to
put myself first even when the demands and needs of those around me are
hammering down on me. Well, especially then. The difference with this
particular Reiki session is that I got it. My body is not taking no for an
answer. I love everyone around me and I want them all happy and whole and
supported. But it’s not my job to keep them that way. My job is to take care of
me, first and foremost.
I went to my biopsy with my boyfriend and my mother at my
side, left them in the waiting room and made my way down the hall to meet my
fate. During the long and uncomfortable procedure—lying face-down in an awkward
position unable to move for a good forty minutes—I pulled out every positive
visual I had in my mind. The Reiki session definitely helped: I was perfectly
calm, even when they told me I was bleeding more than usual, and would need
lots of compression and possibly a trip down to surgery for some stitches
afterward. The biopsy itself was painless—I was numb and the team taking care
of me was wonderful. The bleeding was an issue, and after the biopsy was over I
spent another hour sitting with a nurse’s hand smashing my breast trying to get
it to stop bleeding. Eventually my body responded and I was sent home,
exhausted and sore but glad it was over. That was on a Friday afternoon. My
results were expected on Monday afternoon.
I spent the weekend resting and visiting with family, trying
to find a balance between being alone enough to rest, but not enough to let my
imagination take off running down the dark alleys of my mind. Monday came, and
with it the usual grind: waking sleepy kids, brushing their hair while they ate
breakfast, rushing them out the door and into their classrooms in the pouring
rain. I came home, changed out of my wet clothes, and spent four hours revising
my latest novel. I want to start sending it out to agents by the end of the
month, ahead of the holiday rush. It was a good distraction, immersing myself in
a world of my own creation, with characters that have come to feel as real to
me as anyone.
I called my doctor just before heading out to pick up my
kids from school, but she didn’t have my results yet. Her office would be
closing soon and I resigned myself to another restless night of waiting. I met
my girls at their classrooms, chatted with some of the moms on the playground
after school, and as I was leading the way to the parking lot with my kids in
tow, my phone rang. It was the radiologist. I can’t recall our exact
conversation, but the words “normal” and “no further treatment needed” were all
I needed to hear. We were on our way to a dentist appointment for the kids, and
they were excited and antsy to get there (Strange? Do your kids get so excited
about trips to the dentist?) and I drove there in a lighter, brighter fog. I
didn’t have time to sit and process until later that afternoon. It was over. I
was fine. The biopsy was negative. I’ve never been so happy to fail a test in
my entire life.
Wake up calls are terrifying things. We are never prepared
for them. We don’t see them coming, and can’t see our way through them when
they come. In the midst of them we lose all sense of control, and that is an
awful feeling. But sometimes, they are exactly what we need.
I have a long to-do list in this life. I’ve known who I was
and what I’m meant to do here from a very young age. I have a strong work ethic
and can be very focused. But I also have a tendency to get pulled away from my
various missions by trying to keep everyone around me happy and healthy and
calm and focused. I stuff my own emotions to avoid making additional waves. I
want to be everyone’s rock. I have a habit of ignoring my own wants and needs
as I struggle to maintain a calm environment for everyone else’s benefit. No
one gave me this job, I just took it on as a child and have been doing it ever
since. And this wake up call has let me know that it no longer suits me.
While I can’t say that I’ll stop caring about the people who
matter to me, I can say that I won’t be putting them first anymore, not at my
own expense. I have books to write and kids to raise and exotic locations to
see and many more amazing people to meet. And I need to take care of myself in
order to make all of that happen. We never know what tomorrow will bring, what
challenges will arise. So it’s better to get to that to-do list today. Not the
one that other people put on you, but the one you made up for yourself long
ago. Dust it off and get to work.
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