The Virginia Festival of the Book had provided my one seat-cushion-up-ass experience during the manuscript critique session. Little did I know that I would barely have an opportunity to dig out the cushion before I’d suck it up there again in the Agents’ Roundtable.
Agent or no agent? From what I’ve learned today about publishing, I need a staff. There’s no way I can negotiate the legalities, the paperwork, the deals, or the contracts. Not to mention the fact that I have no names to drop, connections, or clout; in short, why would a big publishing house give a rip-snort about me? Besides, as I learned in the last workshop, I don’t got no skillz.
As I sat waiting for the Agents’ Roundtable to begin, I noticed that Laura Rennert, Senior Agent from the Andrea Brown Literary Agency, was on the panel. I had seen her earlier in the day in the session on publishing children’s books. She signs six figure book deals for her writers; maybe someday she’ll be shopping out one of my manuscripts. Erin Cox, from Rob Weisbach Creative Management, Jenny Bent, from The Bent Agency, and Simon Lipskar, from Writers House joined her.
Of all the agents, Simon Lipskar scared me the most. I really respected him, and I could tell he would be a formidable advocate for any writer skilled enough to work with him. He would be the least likely to put up with my shit, though, should anything I wrote ever cut his mustard. He said that while most agents had “literary psychologists’ couches” next to their desks to help writers who “suddenly couldn’t find the `e’ on their keyboards,” prospective authors needed to be committed to their craft.
“Writing is a job,” he said.
If we weren’t ready to dedicate ourselves to our tales in this way, then we should consider looking elsewhere.
“Don’t waste my time,” he said.
I totally agreed with him; writing is a job for me. It comes right in line with teacher, wife, mom, maid, laundress, diaper changer, chauffeur, and listening ear, though. The agents all emphasized that they expected us to have day jobs. But what would Mr. Lipskar think of my two-year-old daughter singing Jason Aldean’s song “Big Green Tractor” in the background while we’re trying to discuss business on the phone? I think my kid is damn talented, especially when she starts cranking the song’s solo on her flyswatter guitar like a badass. However, is this Big-New-York-Agency professional? If it isn’t, I don’t give a crap. I live for my life’s quirks.
The more I listened, the more I could tell that Laura Rennert definitely gives the big dogs a run for their money. I know my children’s manuscript Frank the Flamingo is good, but I’m not sure if I can convince her of that.
The agent I really felt I connected with as I listened was Erin Cox. She was extremely professional. She appeared knowledgeable and well-connected, but she was more low-key about it than others. I caught a down-to-earth vibe and an openness that I thought would work well with my personality. I sensed that she would hear my dedication to my work over the din of my life.
When the forum was over, I headed to Erin Cox’s end of the table. She was sitting next to Laura Rennert. I thought I would ask some general questions about marketing hi-lo fiction for kids to Ms. Rennert, and maybe I would get a chance to pitch my memoir or something.
A long line of children’s writers waited for Laura Rennert’s attention, but Erin Cox had a break. I struck up a conversation.
“Do you have any advice for someone putting together a memoir?” I asked. “I’m currently hard at work on one. I know you all said to query with the whole thing, but is it okay to pitch an idea about an incomplete project?”
“Sure,” she asked. “This gives us the opportunity to help you keep your work on track. If we see you going off on a tangent, we can guide you back in a direction that we feel would be more successful for you. What’s your story about?”
I gave her as brief a synopsis as possible. I couldn’t believe I was actually pitching my idea to an agent. I’d never gotten this far before.
“That sounds great!” she said. “Why don’t you it to send me?”
I gulped. “Okay,” I said, regaining my…snort…composure. “I’ll get right on that. Thanks so much for your time.”
From that point until the long drive back home, I was completely incapable of coherent thought. Oh, my God. Is it possible that this writing thing could become a reality? Then what? Talk about a seat-cushion-up-ass moment! I think I may have permanently embedded it up there this time!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Critique? You've Got to Be Kidding!!!!!!
My afternoon at the Virginia Festival of the Book offered me two distinct seat-cushion-up-ass experiences. The first occurred at the Dancing with the Manuscripts workshop. This was the forum where published authors from the Moseley Writers would work with each participant to speed critique the first 250 words of their manuscripts. I brought along the first part of a memoir I’m writing about my struggles with infertility. I didn’t figure this out in time to email my work days before, so I brought my page to the door and turned it in. What could it hurt?
It wasn’t until the moderator began the session that I realized what I had done to myself. She started by explaining that she would read each sample of work aloud. The four writers on the panel would hold up green cards if they liked the writing and wanted to continue reading or a red card if it sucked. Those weren’t the moderator's words. They may has well have been because all I heard were red card and I translated everything else she said into SUCK! There were only about two hundred people in the workshop as well to add to the humiliation and naked flogging to which we writers had just subjected ourselves. The one positive beam out of the whole thing was that she would not be reading any names.
I quietly had a panic attack for the next hour while the moderator read each person’s work. Red cards, green cards, and comments flew as one by one each writer was anonymously vindicated or bitch slapped for his or her style. I learned enough about craft from listening to the comments to know that I would have earned myself a red card or two or (gasp!) four. If I had inhaled even the slightest bit of coal dust at that point I surely would have shat a diamond.
Lucky for me and my overwrought ego, my story was not selected for critique. By the end of the forum, I had conjured up enough nerve to ask for some feedback. I marched my relieved ass up front and stuck my manuscript under the nose of the first available commentator. My patient helper happened to be Fran Cannon Slayton, moderator of the children’s publishing session I just attended.
“You get to the point quickly,” she said when she was done reading. “I understand what it’s about right off the bat. I am, however, confused here.”
She pointed to the part I wrote about hormones.
“I get that it’s about you, but you’re making me think that you are a teenager or something with this `bubbling soup of hormones’ thing,” she said. “You also mention your parents and then some stepchildren. I’m assuming the kids are yours, but I’m not sure from here if they belong to you or your parents.”
Woah. I had a lot of work to do. I hadn’t thought about how confusing the whole thing was. I hadn’t taken the time to read this through any other eyes but my own. Oh, boy.
I walked out of the forum, breathless, but still intact. I had awhile to recover before the Agents’ Roundtable next. That workshop would be my second cushion-up-ass experience, which I’ll share in my next post.
It wasn’t until the moderator began the session that I realized what I had done to myself. She started by explaining that she would read each sample of work aloud. The four writers on the panel would hold up green cards if they liked the writing and wanted to continue reading or a red card if it sucked. Those weren’t the moderator's words. They may has well have been because all I heard were red card and I translated everything else she said into SUCK! There were only about two hundred people in the workshop as well to add to the humiliation and naked flogging to which we writers had just subjected ourselves. The one positive beam out of the whole thing was that she would not be reading any names.
I quietly had a panic attack for the next hour while the moderator read each person’s work. Red cards, green cards, and comments flew as one by one each writer was anonymously vindicated or bitch slapped for his or her style. I learned enough about craft from listening to the comments to know that I would have earned myself a red card or two or (gasp!) four. If I had inhaled even the slightest bit of coal dust at that point I surely would have shat a diamond.
Lucky for me and my overwrought ego, my story was not selected for critique. By the end of the forum, I had conjured up enough nerve to ask for some feedback. I marched my relieved ass up front and stuck my manuscript under the nose of the first available commentator. My patient helper happened to be Fran Cannon Slayton, moderator of the children’s publishing session I just attended.
“You get to the point quickly,” she said when she was done reading. “I understand what it’s about right off the bat. I am, however, confused here.”
She pointed to the part I wrote about hormones.
“I get that it’s about you, but you’re making me think that you are a teenager or something with this `bubbling soup of hormones’ thing,” she said. “You also mention your parents and then some stepchildren. I’m assuming the kids are yours, but I’m not sure from here if they belong to you or your parents.”
Woah. I had a lot of work to do. I hadn’t thought about how confusing the whole thing was. I hadn’t taken the time to read this through any other eyes but my own. Oh, boy.
I walked out of the forum, breathless, but still intact. I had awhile to recover before the Agents’ Roundtable next. That workshop would be my second cushion-up-ass experience, which I’ll share in my next post.
Just the Cleaning Out I Needed!
The Virginia Festival of the Book was the comprehensive literary laxative that I needed. Bumping up against writers and agents all day gave the soul a smart polishing as well. I hardly know where to start, I had so much fun!
Once I made it into the C-Ville Omni after being lost in the damn parking lot for a few minutes, I found myself lost in an enormous foyer filled with book kiosks. Authors were signing books, writers were hawking self-published projects, and all I could smell were new pages hot off the press. I’m a book freak. When book orders come to my classroom, I open the box just to smell the books. Now that’s my kind of aromatherapy! I should have been a librarian. I’m just TOO weird.
I did finally overcome the book sale attention deficit to make it to my first workshop on self-publishing. The commentators did a terrific job of convincing me that I didn’t have a snowman turd’s chance in hell of ever getting together a book on my own. Between the copy-editing, book designing, formatting, publishing, electronic formats, publicity, and distribution, I would find my sanity thumbing a ride south to a Key somewhere off Florida. Not for me.
My next forum was on publishing children’s books. I picked up a few books by the authors on the roster for the signing afterwards. When I walked in the room, the cheery energy took my hand and led me right to an aisle seat amidst a bunch of happy looking industry hopefuls. The moderator, Fran Cannon Slayton, author of When the Whistle Blows, began the session by explaining that each author on the panel would tell their own publishing story.
Laura Joy Rennert, author of Buying, Training, and Caring for Your Dinosaur and the upcoming Emma, the Extra-ordinary Princess, spoke first. She’s actually a senior agent from the Andrea Brown Literary Agency in California. I soon realized I was sitting fifteen feet from an agent who cuts six figure book deals for middle grade and young adult authors on a fairly regular basis. I thought of all the children’s manuscripts I have been working on lately. They’ve all been cooling in my hard drive for a couple of months, but suddenly I could feel my story Frank the Flamingo flap to the forefront for some attention. I tried to slow my racing heart so I wouldn’t develop sweat stains on my new blue shirt.
Ruth Spiro, author of Lester Fizz, Bubble Gum Artist, was next in line to share her story of being a stay-at-home mom who got her first story published on the first try, yadda, yadda, yadda. Lester is a really off-beat character with an unusual talent, so I see why her quick success was possible. Frank the Flamingo is also one wackadoodle anthropomorphic bird. I can do this.
Emily Ecton spoke next. She’s a writer and producer for NPR’s Wait, Wait…Don’t Tell Me. She’s the author of Boots and Pieces, The Curse of Cuddles McGee, and Night of the Living Lawn Ornaments. She gave off a sweet, unassuming vibe. Anyone who writes about hamsters and lawn ornaments has to be way cool. Frank is a lawn ornament. Tee-hee
After Emily, Deborah Heiligman, author of Charles and Emma and twenty five other kids’ books, took the mike. What a funny personality! She’s a former Scholastic News writer. I’ve read many an issue of that publication with my students! She emphasized what great training it was for her current career to have to write that tightly. I liked her style.
Finally, Bonnie Doerr, eco-mystery author of Island Sting, shared her experiences in publishing. She’s a fellow reading teacher like me! I felt an INSTANT kinship! Her mission is to promote both reading and greener living. I love the cross-curricular appeal of her novel—she definitely knows how to hook reluctant readers! I couldn’t wait to take Island Sting back to school with me.
I loved meeting the writers after the forum. Emily Ecton seemed delighted that I had bought one of her books for the signing, and Laura Rennert’s autograph reminded my daughter to hug both her dinosaur AND her mommy every day. Ruth Spiro and I talked about using Lester Fizz to teach onomatopoeia, and I had a blast talking with Bonnie Doerr. We exchanged information, and she offered my kids a free Skype visit if enough students read Island Sting. What a cool opportunity!
My day was off to a terrific start!
Once I made it into the C-Ville Omni after being lost in the damn parking lot for a few minutes, I found myself lost in an enormous foyer filled with book kiosks. Authors were signing books, writers were hawking self-published projects, and all I could smell were new pages hot off the press. I’m a book freak. When book orders come to my classroom, I open the box just to smell the books. Now that’s my kind of aromatherapy! I should have been a librarian. I’m just TOO weird.
I did finally overcome the book sale attention deficit to make it to my first workshop on self-publishing. The commentators did a terrific job of convincing me that I didn’t have a snowman turd’s chance in hell of ever getting together a book on my own. Between the copy-editing, book designing, formatting, publishing, electronic formats, publicity, and distribution, I would find my sanity thumbing a ride south to a Key somewhere off Florida. Not for me.
My next forum was on publishing children’s books. I picked up a few books by the authors on the roster for the signing afterwards. When I walked in the room, the cheery energy took my hand and led me right to an aisle seat amidst a bunch of happy looking industry hopefuls. The moderator, Fran Cannon Slayton, author of When the Whistle Blows, began the session by explaining that each author on the panel would tell their own publishing story.
Laura Joy Rennert, author of Buying, Training, and Caring for Your Dinosaur and the upcoming Emma, the Extra-ordinary Princess, spoke first. She’s actually a senior agent from the Andrea Brown Literary Agency in California. I soon realized I was sitting fifteen feet from an agent who cuts six figure book deals for middle grade and young adult authors on a fairly regular basis. I thought of all the children’s manuscripts I have been working on lately. They’ve all been cooling in my hard drive for a couple of months, but suddenly I could feel my story Frank the Flamingo flap to the forefront for some attention. I tried to slow my racing heart so I wouldn’t develop sweat stains on my new blue shirt.
Ruth Spiro, author of Lester Fizz, Bubble Gum Artist, was next in line to share her story of being a stay-at-home mom who got her first story published on the first try, yadda, yadda, yadda. Lester is a really off-beat character with an unusual talent, so I see why her quick success was possible. Frank the Flamingo is also one wackadoodle anthropomorphic bird. I can do this.
Emily Ecton spoke next. She’s a writer and producer for NPR’s Wait, Wait…Don’t Tell Me. She’s the author of Boots and Pieces, The Curse of Cuddles McGee, and Night of the Living Lawn Ornaments. She gave off a sweet, unassuming vibe. Anyone who writes about hamsters and lawn ornaments has to be way cool. Frank is a lawn ornament. Tee-hee
After Emily, Deborah Heiligman, author of Charles and Emma and twenty five other kids’ books, took the mike. What a funny personality! She’s a former Scholastic News writer. I’ve read many an issue of that publication with my students! She emphasized what great training it was for her current career to have to write that tightly. I liked her style.
Finally, Bonnie Doerr, eco-mystery author of Island Sting, shared her experiences in publishing. She’s a fellow reading teacher like me! I felt an INSTANT kinship! Her mission is to promote both reading and greener living. I love the cross-curricular appeal of her novel—she definitely knows how to hook reluctant readers! I couldn’t wait to take Island Sting back to school with me.
I loved meeting the writers after the forum. Emily Ecton seemed delighted that I had bought one of her books for the signing, and Laura Rennert’s autograph reminded my daughter to hug both her dinosaur AND her mommy every day. Ruth Spiro and I talked about using Lester Fizz to teach onomatopoeia, and I had a blast talking with Bonnie Doerr. We exchanged information, and she offered my kids a free Skype visit if enough students read Island Sting. What a cool opportunity!
My day was off to a terrific start!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Where the Hell Am I?
My head swims with ideas all the time, particularly when I’m driving. I’m currently lost in C-Ville, trying to find the Omni. I hate one-way streets. God, I am SO “country come to town.” I’m going be late for my big day!
I’m late quite often because I miss exits and turn-offs. I stay lost, both literally on the road and metaphorically in thought. I’m constantly mulling over book titles, plots, plans, lines, and characters so much so that I occasionally screw things up. Like the freakin’ census. I figured out the format to answer the questions about each family member, then I switched to autopilot for family members two, three, and four. My brain was contemplating the next part in a story I’m working on. I was in the middle of a climactic plot twist while filling in the information on family member number 4.
“Crappit!” I shouted, as I realized I had filled in my own daughter’s name wrong.
This led to a minor domestic with my husband who made some crack about how he didn’t know how I could POSSIBLY SURVIVE when I couldn’t even fill out a FORM correctly. I went off about how he could possibly SAY something like that when I worked so HARD and he was welcome to fill out the damn census but he always had ME do those things blah, blah, blah. I fixed the census and stomped off dramatically to take a shower. Once the warm water hit me, I traveled easily back to my story. I loved my plot twist. I was completely immersed when I heard the door open.
“Will you be joining us for dinner anytime soon?” he asked. “We’re all waiting for you.”
I remembered that I was supposed to be angry. I remained silent.
“Why do you make such a big deal out of everything I say?” he asked. “I was just KIDDING!”
I went on about him having diarrhea of the mouth and opening his mouth and unleashing STOOOOPID and such like that. But the whole thing suddenly struck me as funny. I peeked around the shower curtain and noticed that he, too, was having a hard time maintaining the ticked off countenance. I don’t remember which one of us laughed first, but a genuine snort-fest ensued. It’s a fact that my husband has no tact.
But what he said was true. How do I survive? I wonder if they make literary ADD medicine. I guess I could be a prime candidate. But then, how would I get through the mundane parts of the daily grind? Laundry is way more fun when you’re writing a children’s book in your head or communing with unseen characters you have yet to bring to life. If I opened up my head and examined the contents, it would look disturbingly like an Amazon Kindle commercial, except the background music wouldn’t be as sweet.
So, yes, I may appear lost to you, but I know exactly where I am. As far as locating my car keys, cell phone, or underwear, that’s another matter entirely.
I’m late quite often because I miss exits and turn-offs. I stay lost, both literally on the road and metaphorically in thought. I’m constantly mulling over book titles, plots, plans, lines, and characters so much so that I occasionally screw things up. Like the freakin’ census. I figured out the format to answer the questions about each family member, then I switched to autopilot for family members two, three, and four. My brain was contemplating the next part in a story I’m working on. I was in the middle of a climactic plot twist while filling in the information on family member number 4.
“Crappit!” I shouted, as I realized I had filled in my own daughter’s name wrong.
This led to a minor domestic with my husband who made some crack about how he didn’t know how I could POSSIBLY SURVIVE when I couldn’t even fill out a FORM correctly. I went off about how he could possibly SAY something like that when I worked so HARD and he was welcome to fill out the damn census but he always had ME do those things blah, blah, blah. I fixed the census and stomped off dramatically to take a shower. Once the warm water hit me, I traveled easily back to my story. I loved my plot twist. I was completely immersed when I heard the door open.
“Will you be joining us for dinner anytime soon?” he asked. “We’re all waiting for you.”
I remembered that I was supposed to be angry. I remained silent.
“Why do you make such a big deal out of everything I say?” he asked. “I was just KIDDING!”
I went on about him having diarrhea of the mouth and opening his mouth and unleashing STOOOOPID and such like that. But the whole thing suddenly struck me as funny. I peeked around the shower curtain and noticed that he, too, was having a hard time maintaining the ticked off countenance. I don’t remember which one of us laughed first, but a genuine snort-fest ensued. It’s a fact that my husband has no tact.
But what he said was true. How do I survive? I wonder if they make literary ADD medicine. I guess I could be a prime candidate. But then, how would I get through the mundane parts of the daily grind? Laundry is way more fun when you’re writing a children’s book in your head or communing with unseen characters you have yet to bring to life. If I opened up my head and examined the contents, it would look disturbingly like an Amazon Kindle commercial, except the background music wouldn’t be as sweet.
So, yes, I may appear lost to you, but I know exactly where I am. As far as locating my car keys, cell phone, or underwear, that’s another matter entirely.
Tomorrow Is the Big Day!
I’m questioning the sanity of heading off to Charlottesville to attend this writer’s festival at 6:30 a.m. on a blessed sleep-in Saturday. Geez, I get up at dawn’s deafening crack every morning. I could loll around in bed for a little while. Besides, we just “sprang forward” last Saturday, and I still haven’t recovered my lost hour. I feel like I have jet lag.
My inner bitch critic is being sneaky. Instead of trying to guilt me into staying home, she’s trying to tempt me with sleep. That’s a low blow. Precious sleep-in minutes have been a hot commodity since my daughter was born. I don’t need an alarm clock. Mine weighs about thirty pounds and stands in her crib at the top of the stairs shouting, “Mama! Goooooooooood MORNING, Mama! Tum DIT ME, PEEEEZ! I weady to DIT UP NOW!” She has no snooze button.
Sleep or no sleep, Charlottesville will not be denied. I’m going. No questions. I am sitting at my computer this Friday night trying to prepare my memoir about the struggles with infertility I faced before having my daughter. I am taking the first 250 words to the “Dancing With the Manuscripts” session. Published authors had agreed to come and give new writers feedback on their work. I feel pretty confident about what I’ve written. My experiences with magazine writing have helped me craft a decent beginning. I just tweaked it and gave it to my husband for review.
“Looks good to me,” he said. “Go with it!”
I’ve printed off several copies. I just finished making a few changes to a couple of children’s stories I have written to take with me, and I have some hard copies of my resume. I’m thinking that it can’t hurt.
Earlier, I packed my tote and ironed the new turquoise shirt my mom had given me last week. It is a striking blue, and I think it will help me stand out. I’m a minute fish in a gargantuan ocean. I need all the help I could get.
But, here I am, all ready to go. My inner bitch critic is silent. I guess I’ve exhausted her into submission for the time being. Look out world, here I come!
My inner bitch critic is being sneaky. Instead of trying to guilt me into staying home, she’s trying to tempt me with sleep. That’s a low blow. Precious sleep-in minutes have been a hot commodity since my daughter was born. I don’t need an alarm clock. Mine weighs about thirty pounds and stands in her crib at the top of the stairs shouting, “Mama! Goooooooooood MORNING, Mama! Tum DIT ME, PEEEEZ! I weady to DIT UP NOW!” She has no snooze button.
Sleep or no sleep, Charlottesville will not be denied. I’m going. No questions. I am sitting at my computer this Friday night trying to prepare my memoir about the struggles with infertility I faced before having my daughter. I am taking the first 250 words to the “Dancing With the Manuscripts” session. Published authors had agreed to come and give new writers feedback on their work. I feel pretty confident about what I’ve written. My experiences with magazine writing have helped me craft a decent beginning. I just tweaked it and gave it to my husband for review.
“Looks good to me,” he said. “Go with it!”
I’ve printed off several copies. I just finished making a few changes to a couple of children’s stories I have written to take with me, and I have some hard copies of my resume. I’m thinking that it can’t hurt.
Earlier, I packed my tote and ironed the new turquoise shirt my mom had given me last week. It is a striking blue, and I think it will help me stand out. I’m a minute fish in a gargantuan ocean. I need all the help I could get.
But, here I am, all ready to go. My inner bitch critic is silent. I guess I’ve exhausted her into submission for the time being. Look out world, here I come!
Holy Crap, I Feel So GUILTY!
The only way that I can successfully break into the business of writing and make any kind of living doing it, is to network and attend writing functions. This weekend, I plan to attend the Virginia Festival of the Book in Charlottesville. The line-up of workshops at the Omni in C-Ville includes sessions with authors and agents. This is how I make connections. It’s free and only three hours away. Most publishing events of this magnitude are way out of my price range. Free. Close. I. MUST. attend.
That means time away from everyone. It means dropping my baby off with my parents for something just for me on a day when I’m not working.
Yes, but I haven’t had a day alone in two years; Tim works every weekend, I tell myself.
My inner bitch critic answers back, your parents are essentially raising your daughter, and you want to drop her off YET AGAIN? What kind of parent are you anyway? You went through so much to have this child and you won’t even spend the weekend with her?
I stew in the boiling broth of guilt for awhile before I respond vehemently to my trusty inner bitch critic, Piss off! I’m a writer.
It turns out that Mom and Dad are delighted to keep Kindred, and Tim is encouraging me to go after giving me a modicum of crud about the lack of time alone we’d had lately.
Ha! My inner bitch critic shouted victoriously.
I wavered, then rallied.
Ha, nothing! I responded back to her. Pick a cheek, and pucker up! I’m going to Charlottesville!
That means time away from everyone. It means dropping my baby off with my parents for something just for me on a day when I’m not working.
Yes, but I haven’t had a day alone in two years; Tim works every weekend, I tell myself.
My inner bitch critic answers back, your parents are essentially raising your daughter, and you want to drop her off YET AGAIN? What kind of parent are you anyway? You went through so much to have this child and you won’t even spend the weekend with her?
I stew in the boiling broth of guilt for awhile before I respond vehemently to my trusty inner bitch critic, Piss off! I’m a writer.
It turns out that Mom and Dad are delighted to keep Kindred, and Tim is encouraging me to go after giving me a modicum of crud about the lack of time alone we’d had lately.
Ha! My inner bitch critic shouted victoriously.
I wavered, then rallied.
Ha, nothing! I responded back to her. Pick a cheek, and pucker up! I’m going to Charlottesville!
Hey, Folks!
Well, slap MY ass and watch it jiggle! Welcome to yet another blog about writing! Glad ya’ll could join me. I’m like millions of other women who flex their creative muscles amidst the happy chaos of child-rearing, house cleaning, laundry washing, and day job money making. I’ve heard the call of the Muse. I’ve been procrastinating for some time, but now I’m ready to answer.
It’s been easy to blame pandemonium and drama for not pursuing the Muse. I’m in my tenth year of marriage in a thriving blended family with two great stepkids. We’re thriving because of time spent together. My bio daughter is two, but we struggled for two years to bring her into the world. Last summer my 43 year old husband had a heart attack. He survived, but only after a helicopter ride and yet another midnight haul to the emergency room. So I guess I have some excuses to be a literary slackass.
I’m over the syntactical constipation, though, and I need to pop the cork. Prose like mine does not need to be collecting inside eating away at my parts. Bringing forth the words will save me from paying a psychologist, oncologist, or bail bondsman. I’ll be testing out my craft on you folks, or anyone I can guilt-trip into paying me a visit. Hell, I’m not sure if my mom would read this tripe.
So here I am, creating amidst bedlam. I just returned to the ‘pooter after changing yet another diaper and dancing to a Nora Jones concert on T101 with my husband and little girl. Oops, another interruption--she accidently-on-purpose beaned me in the head with a plastic orange from her play kitchen. Now she’s surfing on my back. She’s leaning down to put her arms around my neck.
“I WUV you!” she whispers. “I’m pooping WIGHT now!”
Delightful. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It’s been easy to blame pandemonium and drama for not pursuing the Muse. I’m in my tenth year of marriage in a thriving blended family with two great stepkids. We’re thriving because of time spent together. My bio daughter is two, but we struggled for two years to bring her into the world. Last summer my 43 year old husband had a heart attack. He survived, but only after a helicopter ride and yet another midnight haul to the emergency room. So I guess I have some excuses to be a literary slackass.
I’m over the syntactical constipation, though, and I need to pop the cork. Prose like mine does not need to be collecting inside eating away at my parts. Bringing forth the words will save me from paying a psychologist, oncologist, or bail bondsman. I’ll be testing out my craft on you folks, or anyone I can guilt-trip into paying me a visit. Hell, I’m not sure if my mom would read this tripe.
So here I am, creating amidst bedlam. I just returned to the ‘pooter after changing yet another diaper and dancing to a Nora Jones concert on T101 with my husband and little girl. Oops, another interruption--she accidently-on-purpose beaned me in the head with a plastic orange from her play kitchen. Now she’s surfing on my back. She’s leaning down to put her arms around my neck.
“I WUV you!” she whispers. “I’m pooping WIGHT now!”
Delightful. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)