Because you are a part of this, too – a letter to my son

A while back, I wrote a post to my daughter about our failure as a society to make our women and girls safe in their bodies. A friend wrote to me and asked if I would write one to my son. She wanted to share it with her son and while the gist is the same, the angle is different. I said yes, started a draft, and then life caught up with me. The other day out of nowhere, another friend found my post to my daughter and shared it. Some of those who read it then went on to share it themselves. Interesting, I thought. Cool. Perhaps I should write that post to my son. Just as I was about to take a nap, I saw a tweet from someone I respect saying, “Group of university kitchen workers loudly commenting on the bodies of every female student that walks by. Ugh.” Since then I’ve seen several other tweets from others about rape, seeing women as something more than physical objects to be used for pleasure and discarded, and feminist men. Okay, Universe, I hear you.

To my little man,

You’ve had to do a lot of growing up lately. In the past year you went from being my only baby and toddler to being my oldest child and on the verge of kindergarten. The other night you asked me if you were going to die and I answered you honestly. That is a lot to absorb. But, you’re strong and you’re smart and I know you can handle what I’m about to throw at you, so here goes. And know that I am here to help you along the way.

As a preliminary matter, I want you to know that your sexual orientation is not 100% clear to us. Whoever you are is whoever you will be and both your father and I will love you no matter what. We will not reject you if you find out it is a man who makes your heart sing. (It breaks my heart that something like that even needs to be said.) But, since statistically speaking, odds are that you will be heterosexual, I will assume for the purposes of this letter only that you are. Of course, the rules of respect don’t change just because of gender, so what I say below goes for any person you encounter.

You have been born into a very privileged position. You are a white man in what is, at least for now, a white man’s world. In a lot of countries, as kids start entering elementary school, the girls are separated from the boys. They are no longer free to wear whatever clothes they want. They must cover themselves entirely. Our country does things a little differently. Here, the boys are the ones separated  out. They are told that showing emotion is girly. And by “girly”, they mean bad. That is a lie on both counts. It is also the start of an insidious indoctrination that tells you that women are less-than, that we are not be treated with equal respect, and, worst, that we can’t be trusted. (Some people like to even go back to the beginning of the Bible for this one. I call bullshit and we can talk about that more later.)

If this stays a white-man’s-good-old-boy-club, you’ll likely have access to some of the best jobs. You’ll get offers and money and things women who are just as qualified simply won’t. It looks good for you on paper. But make no mistake, this system risks shattering you as much as it does any female (I’m not even going to address race issues here because that’s a whole other letter unto itself). See, you get those things at the expense of access to your innermost self. You can have them, but you can’t have your feelings or your intuition or a strong faith that women know what they’re talking about. It can be a hard choice for many, but at least you live in a time where you realize it’s a choice. And, so I am here, as your mother and as a woman, asking you to ignore what you will be told about women (things you will know in your gut not to be true) and to risk your access to an elite club to take up the fight with us.

Taking up the fight means more, though, than legislation mandating equal pay (though this is necessary) and outlawing all kinds of violence against women regardless of the woman’s marital status (vital in the truest sense of the word). It means more than ensuring equal access to jobs and education. It means seeing us as people and treating us with all of the rights and respect white men, hell all men, demand for themselves.

Very soon, much sooner than I’d like, your peers will start pointing out budding breasts on young girls. Even before this, there will be the “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” game. These start innocently enough I suppose, satisfying a mutual curiosity about each other, especially as the physical differences between the sexes becomes more pronounced. Then the rock tumbles downhill and it goes from noticing the onset of puberty and growth of breasts to commenting on the presence (or absence) of breasts with friends, to saying what you’d like to do with those breasts. The sense of ownership over a woman’s body that comes with the latter is the root of much evil. And don’t let people who say it’s “natural” to talk about women that way persuade you otherwise. To speak about a woman in terms of butt, breasts, thighs is to speak of her the way a butcher speaks about a cow. I cannot say it any more simply than that. When men see us as body parts designed to please them, they sever us from our spirit and souls and intellect. We are meat on a counter. Don’t you ever treat a woman as meat on a counter.

It’s another slippery slope from verbal carving to physical cleaving. I know. I’ve been on that butcher’s block. And more women than I care to think about have. We’ve all got different stories, some more violent and horrific than others, but all leaving scars. All tracing back to the basic idea that when a woman says no to sex, she doesn’t know what she really wants. Either that or she simply doesn’t get a say.

Based on what I know of you so far, you’d be horrified at the latter idea, the idea that you can simply take sex from a woman without asking and without any regard to her feelings. Most men consider themselves good men and feel that way. But I wonder how many men have taken sex when their partner was too intoxicated to resist or who were into it until the very end and then equivocated, so it wasn’t clear if it was consensual or not. I remember a man I dated before your father who told me a story about a woman he slept with who was so drunk she could barely speak. Apparently she was still somehow able to consent to being with him. He was handsome, so very handsome. He looked a dead ringer for a young Sean Connery. One of my friends called him a “panty dropper” (gross, I know, especially coming from your mother, but bear with me). By his account, this woman was fat and essentially lucky to have sex with him. Upon entry, she vomited and that’s why he quit. I forget now why he told me this story. I vomited shortly thereafter. What I should have done was leave him, But it took me several more months to do that. I, too, operated under the illusion I was lucky to be with him. Despite what he demanded of me. Despite the way he left me hollow inside.

Something tells me that if this man read this letter to you, he would be horrified. He would consider this representation unjust. He’s not a misogynist or a rapist. He’s simply a man who made a bad choice at a party. Mark my words, he was both a misogynist and a rapist. Just because he wouldn’t see himself that way doesn’t mean he wasn’t one. And it doesn’t matter if the woman is pretty or plain, fat or thin, she doesn’t deserve to have anyone, no matter how attractive, decide he’s going to gift her with his presence when she isn’t even aware of where, and possibly who, she is.

Which brings me back to the point referenced above, women are more than the sum of our body parts or how attractive we are to men. We are more than a menstrual cycle that apparently bewilders and horrifies some men, but is the only way life is possible. We are more than tears and talking. We are complete, whole beings who do not need a man to provide for us or validate us. Only, we, too, have forgotten that because society is constantly telling us otherwise. We need you to say, “No, not necessary,” when we think we need you to complete or fulfill us. We need you to say, “You are beautiful as you are.” We need you to believe that it is what is inside of us that matters. It’s not that you are stronger or know better. It’s that you live outside of it in many ways and it is often easier to see what is outside of you than what is in.

You will encounter some broken women on your journey. Women who have only known pain and who don’t remember their rightful place. Women who expect you treat them poorly. Women who will tolerate infidelity and put-downs, or worse. Don’t do it. Terrible behavior on your part, even if accepted by your partner, diminishes you. And like your sister, your place is as the brightest star in the sky or as the sun in the daytime. Shine. And be kind. A broken woman isn’t irreparably damaged. She just needs some help putting herself back together. Do no harm and help her to shine, too.

Perhaps it is unfair to say, don’t do these things because they are wrong, and if we come to you wounded and demanding that you do these things, you still must not do them even if it makes us angry. No matter. You must do what is right and that may not always seem fair to you. It may be a confusing or difficult path at times, but I am here for you.

You will get a lot of pressure to act in accordance with what society expects of you. And it expects so much, beautiful boy. Finding your own path can be tough, but I have seen so many good men recently that I know you won’t be alone. Many will have gone before you and I hope that most of your generation joins you.

Know that what I have said here is just as much for you as it is for your female counterparts. I want to see that sweet soul make it through life intact. I love you immeasurably and I am proud of you.

 

Because it needs to be said – a letter to my daughter

To my dearest Belle, I would never have guessed that at only 10 months I would have to tell you this, but you are not safe. More specifically, your body is not safe. And since your body is the house for your soul, all that you are perches dangerously close to jeopardy.

You live in one of the most progressive countries in the world when it comes to women’s rights. Moreover, you live in one of the most progressive states in that progressive country. Yet, yesterday, the California Court of Appeal relied on an 1847 law to say that a man who snuck into the room of an unmarried woman and had sex with her, while pretending to be her boyfriend, did not rape her. Because she was unmarried and Victorian law was like that, the court said she was not raped. And because no one cared enough to revisit this law, no one cared enough about the rights of an unmarried woman to the sanctity of her own body, the law was not changed.

Yes, this woman was tricked into letting a man into her in the most personal way. Yes, that man intended to deceive her. Yes, what he did would be criminal if she was a married woman. Yes, the court noted it was reprehensible and should be punishable. But, she wasn’t married and so, under the law, what this man did was legal. And that’s how far we’ve come in 2013.

The lack of outrage about this situation disturbs me the most. I should expect it since no one thought enough of a single woman’s right to be safe in her own skin to change the law. But, of the very few responses I’ve seen to this news, and there have been far fewer than responses to the news some celebrity is pregnant, many contained the word “sigh”. No. NO. Not “sigh”. “Sigh” signals resignation, signals acceptance that the law treats us as second-class citizens and that’s just how it is. “Sigh” says, “I’ve been beaten down and I’m not so sure I can get up on this one.” And that, even more than this hopefully isolated incident of rape (and it IS rape) – places you directly in harm’s way.

You are my heart. I cannot express how much I adore you, what steps I would take for you to ensure your safety. Writing this and posting it publicly, as well as posting a link to the article on my Facebook page, have put my employment at risk. This is what it means to me that you, and every young girl, young woman, and old crone, hear that at least one woman has had enough. I will not allow this to happen to you. And, I most definitely will not allow the government to sanction it.

I have immense gratitude to the women who came before us, the ones who have afforded me the opportunity to not only work, but to have a career. Because of their efforts, we can vote, divorce, drive cars, fly planes, and enter the halls of academia. We can walk on the street alone. But, some will tell you that it’s not wise to do so, especially at night. So, we’ve come a long way, but we’re still not safe. And what does it matter to have a career or a passport if we aren’t safe in our own bodies?

Sadly, the danger to you goes beyond the overt acts of violence too many women experience. There exist more subtle means of wearing you down, of keeping you in “your place”. Your place, my dear, is in the sun, or as the brightest star in the night sky. Your place, your role, is to shine and to bring as much beauty, healing, and love to this planet as you can.

So, for future reference, the following waste your time, endanger you, and diminish you. Do not allow them space in your life. Do not become them.

- Any man who believes he is entitled to your body. Your body belongs only to you. You have the choice of whom to share it with, when to share it, and in what capacity. Any person’s affections you lose over the failure to share your body on his (or her) timetable hates you and hates him(her)self. Do not hate yourself also. As I said before, your body houses your soul. Don’t allow someone to trespass on it. Now, if someone does break in, it is NOT your fault. It could take decades to recover, and I, and many other survivors, will hold your hand while you do it. But, you will recover.

- Any man or woman who makes derisive comments about your appearance. You are beautiful. Each creature on this planet is beautiful. Some women have been forced to forget their beauty and they hide it, some also attack other women as a way of bringing them down into a forgetful place as well. Do not forget it. You are beautiful, gorgeous, breathtaking. And some of that is your body. Ninety-nine percent, though, is who you are. I can tell already that you are incredibly intelligent, kind, loving, and compassionate. Those are the features that make you light up from the inside out. You can never light up the inside from the outside. So, if your internal star isn’t shining, there is no way to fake it. People can see damage and despair from a mile away. The problem is, our society tricks us into believing it is beauty. It is not. Maintain your own inner compass and you’ll be able to navigate the thicket of lies better.

- Any man who looks at other women’s bodies regularly when he is in front of you. Yes, it is natural to appreciate physical beauty in another person. We are creatures driven by biological impulses. And women do this, too (though we tend to be better at being discreet). That said, it is not permissible to view women solely as sex objects and to leer at them as they pass by, as though they are some exhibit in a zoo. This habit degrades women and it degrades the relationship. We are creatures driven by biological impulses, but we are also creatures who have overcome those impulses and created an unbelievable society. If a person can graduate from not biting and hitting every time something they want is taken away or denied, a person can graduate to respecting his or her partner and the female species in general. If someone tells you he can’t, and that it’s natural, move on. Do not look back.

- Any woman who sells you out to look more attractive to a man. If men who disrespect women are rattlesnakes, warning you with their terrible behavior, women can be like asps, silent killers. These women do not respect themselves, do not see their own inherent value and beauty. Therefore, the more you shine and the more notice you get, the more they set about tearing you down because they believe it makes them look better. It doesn’t. It looks exactly like what it is – catty and petty. But, it happens more times than any woman cares to think about. We have all been victim to it. Worse, we have all done it. Be mindful and kind in your dealings with other women. We will work on how to handle it when it comes up, but try not to let it change who you are. And do not do it yourself. It hurts worse than any damage a man can do.

- Anybody who derides you for your female qualities. Sensitivity, compassion, and caution have kept this world from blowing itself up entirely. I once got a review from an elderly male boss who basically told me I wasn’t being masculine enough. I performed well above most of my peers and I caught many more important details by listening than the males did through their blustering and posturing. And male adversaries made admissions to me they shouldn’t have because they mistook my quiet for ineptitude or stupidity. You do not need to change who you are. It will serve you – and this planet – well. Society needs to change.

- Anybody who says, “That’s just the way it is.” We have gotten lazy. I have gotten lazy. We live a great life and compared to much of the rest of the world, our women have it good. But that does not mean we should stop and say, “I’ll settle for enough.” As noted above, it’s not really enough because we need to be safe, we need to know that our “no” will be heard and respected. Our “yes” should also be heard and respected. Why would we ever accept life as something less than what we are – equals. It’s time to take up the mantle again.

Do not let this long list and comments about personal insecurity frighten you. We WILL change this. We will. But, as of right now, we have to take a stand, and we have to work through our female jealousy issues with our sisters so we can all stand together. Moreover, there are MANY good men out there, men who will stand alongside us and celebrate us. My hope is that by the time you are old enough to read this and understand what it means that you will simply nod and smile, accepting the way things were in the recent past as exactly that, the past.

I love you.

Cookbooks and such – a bad poem influenced by wine

*Note: please do not read if your sensibilities would be offended by foul language or sexual content

 

Cookbooks and such

I wonder if you still have that cookbook

That we used the few times we stayed in

And made a real meal together

Fucking on the counter

Letting the food burn just a little

While we tasted each other.

I wonder if you ever rub your thumb

Over the stain on page 83

And remember rubbing your thumb

Down my breast, around my thighs, straight into me

Tracing grooves in my body that I can still feel.

Do you ever open the book and smell us

Mixing in with the cumin and oregano?

Or have you lost your passion for cooking

The way you lost it for me?

Bloody Marys and Apple Pie

My grandmother died last month and I still feel unmoored. I know that at my age I am lucky to have any grandparents left (I am now down to my other grandmother), lucky to have had so much time with them. This is a blessing my children won’t have since I waited so long to become a mother. I know death is inevitable. And I know what pancreatic cancer does to the body. I know all of this and yet this loss has pierced me in a way I didn’t think possible.

Grandma wasn’t my biological grandmother. She was Grandpa’s fourth wife and the second “grandmother” I had known on that side (I have only fuzzy memories of the earlier one and she was also a stepmother to my dad. His mother died long before I entered the scene). I can remember sending cards and letters to them addressed to “Grandpa and Yvonne”. Her replies were signed from “John and Grandma”. Message received. She didn’t become my Grandma, though, because of marriage or because she told me that’s how it would be. She earned it.

I have given a lot of thought to her qualities as a woman and a grandmother lately. I went to see her shortly before she passed and my cousin several times stated, “She wasn’t the best grandma, but” as a prelude to comments about hard it will be live in a Grandma-less world. Neither of my grandmothers is my biological grandmother and neither is without their complete set of baggage. So, I don’t really know what the “best grandma” is or should be. But, I’d argue that mine should win an award for the best dysfunctional grandma (not that her dysfunction is the best, rather she functions best despite the dysfunction).

My grandma drank. A lot. Too much. So much so that she endured rehab as a senior citizen. It didn’t stick. This is not that surprising considering some of my earliest memories of her are her discussions of how to make a proper Bloody Mary, which was really the only acceptable form of drinking before noon, save for the Red Eye. I remember Grandma standing behind the open island area of her kitchen mixing copious amounts of cheap vodka with just enough bottled mix to color the drink and provide a scant amount of vitamin C. This was her and Grandpa’s wake-up beverage of choice. I was too high on sugary cereal my mother never would have let me eat at home to really question the situation. She would take a swig of the Bloody Mary and I would take one of the colored sugary milk left in my bowl. And so we greeted the day together.

Acceptable adult breakfast at Grandma’s

 

Acceptable children’s breakfast at Grandma’s

She also smoked, like many women of her generation. Despite not being alarmed about Bloody Marys for breakfast, her smoking scared me. I hid her lighter in one of her potted plants and flushed her cigarettes down the toilet. That was the only time I can recall her being angry with me. She reminded me a bit of the smoking grandmother in Sixteen Candles, only my grandma was all heart and less hands.

Reportedly she said unkind things when drinking. I cannot recall a single instance when she did this to me. What I hear is her caramel, fuzzy voice on the other end of the line saying, “Oh, I love you, honey.” And she did. And that love just might have saved me.

My other grandmother is the one you think of when you think “Grandma”. She taught me to bake pies at an early age, she taught me to cross-stitch, and she handmade my Christmas stocking. She also let me eat sugary cereal, but she made me go to church, too. I loved her deeply. She made me feel connected when we were uprooting and moving every couple of years. But, she lost her daughter at an incredibly young age and she kept me at arm’s length. I called her by her first name; still do. And when I became a teenager, the age when her daughter died, she backed away completely, leaving me completely bereft.

I think that’s when I really opened my heart to Grandma. She stepped in and provided me with all the love I wanted from a grandmother and more. She didn’t do the traditional kind of grandmother things like my other one, but none of that mattered. She was there for my 21st birthday, for my college graduation, my law school graduation, and was the only one of my husband’s and my grandparents (so far) to meet both of our kids. She never once got off the phone without telling me she loved me, that she was proud of me, and that my grandfather would have been so proud of me, too (he forbade me to become an attorney, so it’s nice to know she thought he could get past that).

Yes, she drank a lot. Yes, she often gave more of herself to my cousins who lived nearby and that hurt. And, yes, she never trained her dog to pee outside. But, she lived her life heart first, kind of like me, and she showed me just how much a person has to offer if you’ll only let them. I miss her every day and I think the reality that she’s not a phone call away has finally sunk in. It’s a lonelier world without her. But, I know that every time I drink a Bloody Mary, we’ll be together again. Sort of like the drinking version of “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets [her] wings.”

In which I disagree with Sherman Alexie *gasp*

I am a huge fan of Sherman Alexie. HUGE. In fact, I have placed a bounty on the heads of those who borrowed my copies of his books and failed to return them. (You know who you are.) Despite funneling all of my cash to my over-indulged children and student loans, I splurge on hardback for him. (Seriously, I want those books back.)

Have you seen me?

 

I am rarely phased by celebrity, particularly living so close to celeb central (though there is that certain actor whose child goes to preschool with mine who I cannot look at because I get all awkward due to my former teenage crush. But that is a story for another time). I guarantee, though, that if Sherman Alexie and I ended up in an elevator together, it would be the most-awkward, most-regretted elevator ride of my life (unless I got into an elevator with Toni Morrison), complete with staring at my feet, an audio loop running a million miles an hour in my head of all the questions I would like to ask him, and some inappropriate heavy breathing as I tried to calm myself down and re-center. I wouldn’t say a word until he got off at his floor and I screamed, “I love you!” when the doors closed (meaning, of course, I love your work, but who would interpret it that way?). Then I would crumple in shame and hide in the corner until security forced me out of the elevator. Thankfully, we are unlikely to meet any time soon so I have time to work on my fangirl issues. But, I set this stage so you realize what a big step this next part is for me.

Sherman Alexie recently posted on Writer’s Digest his top 10 tips for writers. Like any geeked-out fangirl, I immediately read it, nodding and murmuring, “Yes, yes. Absolutely!” I dutifully retweeted the link. But now, a few days later, I am forced to accept that something about it is gnawing at me. Namely, piece of advice #8, “Every word on your blog is a word not in your book.”

As a preliminary matter, I get that these are snappy one-liners are meant to bestow years of accumulated wisdom in bite-size pieces. Anything that cursory lacks nuance and, for me, nuance is where the stuff of life really lives. That said, I am guessing the sentiment behind this statement is, “Stop dithering on your blog and write the damn thing.” For that matter, it could also be said, “Any word on Twitter/Facebook/new social media of the moment is a word not in your WIP (work in progress).” True, Mr. Alexie, true. But….

Here’s the thing, unless you’re using your blog for shopping lists or a rant about the day’s activities in bullet point format (and I have seen creative examples of both of these), your blog posts can be invaluable to you as a writer. First, you are garnering your audience, creating the all-too-important “platform” that agents and publishers are now demanding from unpublished writers. This is something Sherman Alexie didn’t have to worry about when he first got published. He could worry about the meat of the work. He does have an author web site, complete with a blog, but it’s a dusty, often-not-touched blog. And that’s okay. He can do that because he is Sherman Alexie. I, on the other hand, am, well, no one in the publishing world. I don’t have that luxury. And if you’re reading this blog, I’m guessing neither do you. (No offense, I just don’t think that many published powerhouses are stopping by.)

There is a bigger reason, though, that I disagree with this. Blogs are a great way to cultivate your voice. We are overexposed to other people’s ideas, opinions, thoughts, to their voices.

photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/oso/1245385947

This is part of the reason Julia Cameron’s suggestion that you write first thing in the morning before doing anything else makes sense. How can you find your own voice if so many others are screaming in your ears and rattling around in your head? You write.

Maybe, though, you lack confidence in getting going on your manuscript. Maybe you need a break from it. Maybe you don’t want to write your morning pages longhand in a journal no one will ever see. Maybe you want to share your thoughts and get some feedback from others. These are all great reasons to write on your blog.

The more you do it, the better you get. Also, the more you put yourself out there, the more you get feedback (good and bad) from others. You can experiment on your blog and get a sense of whether said experiment is a resounding failure or not. You shouldn’t necessarily tailor your writing to what others want. But, as a new writer, it’s sometimes hard to discern what you want. And the regular practice of writing, even on a blog, will help you get closer to your own truth.

Michael Ventura wrote a great article called “The Talent of the Room.” In it, he discusses how one of the hardest things to do is to sit alone in a room and write. It’s difficult not just because it’s lonely, but because you must sit with all of your stuff, your issues, the things about yourself you don’t want to see. (It sounds as though you’re not so alone after all.) Blogging can help you tackle some of that head on. After all, you may choose to write about something that troubles you or a shadow in your soul you can’t quite pin down, but want to. Blogging, if one so chooses, can offer an opportunity to sit down with some of those ghosts and release them.

Even if you don’t want to go that deep, blogging can be a palate cleanser. Those of us with jobs and small kids may not be able to get those first morning pages out. Then there is the daily barrage of everyone else who needs to be heard, which can drown out your voice and the voices of your characters. A quick post can get you squarely back in your own head and on track to writing that stunning novel/screenplay/short story boiling up within you.

I do think people generally can waste a ton of time online to the detriment of their work. But that isn’t reason enough to knock blogging. It’s more of a discipline issue. If I wasn’t writing this post right now, I would probably be scouting the pantry for some tasty snack I don’t need or loading the dishwasher or whatever struck my fancy. (I should be working.) Be disciplined in your writing. Do what it takes to finish that project. But also do what it takes to find your voice and style, even if it means blogging. Sorry, Mr. Alexie, but I just can’t get behind you on that one.

Stepping Up My Writing Game

November is right around the corner, which carries with it the promise of a long-yearned-for fall here in Southern California and the craziness of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Two years ago, I dove in to the NaNoWriMo mosh pit and hammered out the bare bones beginning of a novel that has haunted me since. My novel wakes me up at night (thankfully not as often as the baby), sneaks up behind me in the store and whispers in my ear, distracts me from my paid gig. These two women, my main characters, hum in my blood and enter my dreams. I.MUST.WRITE.THIS.THING. If for no other reason than to get some peace. Well, actually, there are some other folks knocking on the door, trying to push these two out of the way, so peace won’t be mine for long, but it never is for a writer anyway.

Because my life structure isn’t conducive to carving out time to spend crafting my novel and because I work best on deadlines, I have decided to step up my writing game. No longer content to rely on my once-monthly deadline for my critique group, I signed up for Novel Writing III with the UCLA Writers Program. No need for Novel Writing I and II for me, right? I’ve been doing this all my life (the writing thing). I’ve been critiquing and dutifully sitting in seminars and webinars. And I have more than 50 pages done on my novel. Except for the fact I just yesterday decided to completely restructure it. No biggie.

So, our first assignment is to post 5 pages of our novel to give people a feel for it. And I, of course, want to knock it out of the park. I want those 5 pages that burst the heart, engage the funny bone and the tear ducts, that make someone think of them hours later. I want the 5 pages that will show these people the artistic genius I know I am.

It would be all the art to all the people. You can already tell where this is going, can’t you? My first mistake was that I read two other submissions before looking for my 5 pages. Uh oh. Stiff competition. Not that I’m competing. Not that I can. Wow, turns out Novel I and Novel II have really paid off for some folks. *gulps*

Second mistake is that I didn’t give myself some space before looking for my 5 pages. Honestly, I couldn’t find 5 that I LOVED, so I settled for 5 that were okay. Tiny tearlets collected in the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill onto my keyboard, as I copied and pasted. You’re okay at this, but not great, my lizard brain chided me. I think it was taunting me with a glass of bourbon, too. Bastard.

So, sad, dejected me sucked it up and headed to the park with the kids and the husband. I tried to stay in the moment when my daughter lit up the late afternoon with her two-tooth smile as I pushed her in the swing. I tried to be present as my son held my hand and explained the importance of pretending that all of our pumpkin lights were glowing, even the one that needs the new bulb. But, once they went to bed, I unleashed the hot, molten crazy on my poor, exhausted husband, who I am pretty sure just wanted to sit in silence with his glass of wine and watch James Bond.

Luckily, he has gotten quite good at listening to me and also doing whatever it is he does inside his own brain. That’s the gift of nearly 14 years of marriage.

As I talked it out, I realized that I have put my writing dreams out there for all the world to see, and also to trounce on or ridicule. And not only have I put my dreams out there, I’ve started to put my product out there. Something more than my blog posts, anyway.

I started talking and sharing about it for two reasons. First, I want to hold myself accountable. Nothing works quite like having to answer the question, “So, how’s your novel coming along?” It’s especially effective when people think you can’t do it and follow up your “in progress” response with, “Oh, well, don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You have a job, kids, a life. You can do that sort of thing when you retire.” But, I don’t want to do it then. I want to do it now. I need to do it now. Which brings me to the second reason.

Writing is my passion, my love, my home. It has been what I turn to when needing to process any emotion or situation. It entertains me, fills me, delights me. So, to spend my time telling you about my job doesn’t really help you know any more about me, particularly since there is very little I can discuss about it. Likewise, telling you about my views on politics or religion or any other social issue will hint at the truth of me, but never really get you there. If you want to know my heart, talk to me about my writing. Or my kids.

In forcing myself to be more than a closet writer, though, I am forcing myself to test myself. Do I have what it takes to be an agented, published author (my dream and goal)? Is my work something readers will enjoy? Am I good enough to make it?

 

Like everyone, I want to contribute something beautiful, but also of deep value.

How many writers do you know? How many people have a novel, a screenplay, or a set of poems they have been tinkering with for years, talking about getting it published someday? The desire to write is near universal. So what separates those who “make it” from those who don’t? There’s the “ass in chair” quotient that divides the talkers from the doers. Talent comes into play somewhere. Appeal to the masses shouldn’t be discounted.

I see many indie authors on Twitter pushing their books 24/7. While it irritates me to have my feed turn into one giant billboard, particularly when they all advertise for each other, so you see each post multiple times, I’ll admit that it both frightens and daunts me. I want an agent. I know I’ll have to do my own marketing (thank goodness for those years in public relations), but I want someone to love my work as much as I do and to travel down that path with me. I want an enthusiastic partner. I want my writing to move someone to the point they want to represent me. *cue the haunting strains of But, what if….*

Which all brings me back to my class-induced panic attack. I am wading in deeper and shit’s about to get real. I will be faced with some serious truths about the current level of my writing. And if I really want to do this thing, I can’t just weep in a corner every time someone doesn’t like my work. I need to put on my big girl pants and take it. I just hope beyond hope the feedback I get isn’t that I am relegated to the minor leagues, or worse, shouldn’t be playing the game at all.

Photos courtesy of (in order of use): http://www.flickr.com/photos/okaycity, http://www.flickr.com/photos/mindfulone, and http://www.communitysketchbook.blogspot.com

Silver Lining to September – One Lovely Blog

September sucked. Seriously, I have not had a month that bad since April 2011 when I had a miscarriage, my grandfather died, and we found out we owed $8,000 in taxes all in the same week. Last month gifted me a second-story bathtub that leaked through the ceiling twice (thankfully only into the garage) and weeks of dealing with plumbers, contractors, and insurance agents only to find out no one has any idea why it leaked. The good news is that the mold problem wasn’t too bad and we can put the $14,000 renovation on hold because my garage ceiling waterfall may not happen again. Moving on, we unwittingly hired a nanny who was 7 1/2 months pregnant (she did not look pregnant in the interview a few weeks before). She is on maternity leave now. We conducted the search for Mary Poppins. Again. Did I mention my daughter has started experiencing pretty severe stranger and separation anxiety? No? Well, the timing couldn’t be better. Speaking of my daughter, I had to schlep her, sick, to Seattle to see my grandmother who is in hospice for pancreatic cancer. While you never know, that was likely the last time I will see her. So many feelings. Upon my return, my laptop and Blackberry, apparently too depressed to endure my company any longer, entered a joint suicide pact. The Blackberry has been laid to rest, but I am fighting for that laptop and all of the baby photos and writing on it (revised manuscript, anyone?). I am told I will have it all back tomorrow. But, Obamacare won’t cover the cost. And speaking of insurance, my root canal and multiple fillings burned through all of my dental benefits for the year and presented me with a $1500 out-of-pocket expense and 4+ hours in the dental chair. (But, oh, the drugs….) Because of all of the personal drama (and there is loads more, but it’s not my dirty laundry to air. I just get to enjoy the aroma), I narrowly missed making my work deadline. Awesome.

- Intermission – thanks for bearing with me through that. So cathartic -

But, there was one day, in the middle of the month, when all was right with the world and my writing world. I experienced the fabulous trifecta of having my last blog post retweeted by some writers I respect considerably, I won third place in my first-ever flash fiction contest, and I got the One Lovely Blog Award from the wonderful Rita Barton. When I came across Rita’s blog, I temporarily thought of stalking her. She lives an hour away from me and has a lot of similar interests. She is an incredibly talented artist, not to mention down-to-earth, yet very cool. I have been searching for people like this since I moved down to SoCal a year and a half ago. I have yet to meet her in person (I am kooky, sometimes, but not crazy, so I don’t do stalking), but I find reading her blog is like sitting down with a like-minded person, something that helps ease my Bay Area exile. Anyhow, I was honored to receive the One Lovely Blog award from her and now have the joy of passing it on.

First, however, I am to tell you 7 little-known facts about myself. I tend towards oversharing, so this could be difficult:

1. I was pulled up onstage during a Blue Man Group performance in Chicago. I had to feed them Twinkies, though they were Twinkies Lite. I’ll admit it, I judged a little. But, just as I was contemplating how disgusting a light Twinkie would taste, bananas shot out of the breastplate they had put on me when I sat down. The audience erupted into a single chorus of “Ewwwwww!” I have a Polaroid to remember the moment by.

2. Blue Man Group was not my first theatrical performance. Childhood me longed to be an actress (and a writer, always a writer), but I was the mole in the first grade play. The gist of the story was that I was trapped in my hole because a rock had rolled over it and all the other forest animals tried to rescue me. When the rock was moved and I popped up, the audience laughed. I ducked back down behind the rock. I am a sensitive soul and to this day I have no idea why they laughed, but it crushed me and my acting dreams.

3. I met my husband on a blind date 14+ years ago. He was coming to DC where I lived and a mutual friend set us up. I would have married him on the first date. Marriage hasn’t always been easy, but I still feel that way.

4. In 4th grade, despite attending a Catholic school and being taught by a nun who was unkind to me many days, I wanted to be a nun. Actually, I wanted to be a priest and do mass, but also be the caretaker nuns are. I had a little book that listed out the different parts and prayers of a mass and I would conduct mass in my room or the backyard. Pretty sure the Catholics will now think I am going to hell.

5. My go-to karaoke song is “Livin’ on a Prayer,” primarily because one can screech it and still be tolerated.

6. My high school celebrity crush is now married with child. Said child is in my son’s preschool class. Every time I see this man or his adorable wife, I am simply unable to look at them. My behavior mortifies me, yet this week’s preschool open house confirms I still suffer from some social anxiety affliction that means I must pretend they do not exist. (What is wrong with me?)

7. I want someone to enter me as a make-over project on that show “What Not to Wear.” I am raising the flag and admitting that this postpartum, sleepy lady could use some serious fashion help. Volunteers?

And now to share the One Lovely Blog love:

1. Antonia Murphy – I have recently gotten to know Antonia a bit via Twitter and I love her writing. She is funny, smart, and seems to have a similar worldview to me. I like the reverence she shows for the culture she lives among and the deeper meaning she can draw from most any event. If she lived closer, I would add her to my must-stalk list in a heartbeat. Luckily, her geographical undesirability makes her safe from my pretend stalking.

2. Victoria R. Miller (a.k.a. Off Grid Writer) – she is another Twitter mate I’ve made lately. She is incredibly supportive, kind, and lives a pretty badass life off the grid and on a farm. Plus, she knows a good cocktail when she sees one. Not so far away that I won’t consider pretend stalking.

3. Karen C’s Serendipity – I’ve been reading Karen’s blog for something like 5 years now. Hard to believe it’s been that long. She has a beautiful way with words and razor-sharp insight. She is one of my all-time favorite bloggers.

4. J –  Like Karen, I have been reading J’s writing for somewhere around 5 years. She is an amazing poet – raw, searing truth. She offers that and humor in her day-to-day posts, too. But I love the poetry best of all (please share more . J is a solid friend, a beautiful woman, and an amazing mother.

5. Aubrey -Aubrey finds inspiration everywhere, which inspires me. She tends to write vignettes about people in old pictures or postcards and I love the places her mind travels and the beautiful way her words take you with her.

6.  Andrea Uptmor - I found Andrea’s blog somehow through the haystack that is WordPress. She is funny and introspective. I love her posts about yoga and Buddhism because I invariably learn something new. Actually, I just love her posts generally.

7. Shelli Johnson – Shelli is the published author of Small As a Mustard Seed. What I love about her blog is that it covers everything in life, from writing to cooking, and does so in an uplifting and inspirational way. I often find myself smiling after reading her posts.

I feel truly blessed to have been given this blog award by someone whose blog I enjoy so much and to be able to share the writing of these wonderful women with you. (Sorry, men, but the ladies carried the day.)

And, for the record, October is off to a much better start than September. *burns sage to rid the house of any residual bad juju*