Oh, But It's Hard

Don't get excited. I don't write erotica. I'm a blusher.

It would be an understatement to say I've been at this "becoming published" thing for a while. It's been a loooong while. To be fair, I didn't start querying until three weeks ago, but a lot of life and years went into preparing to send out that first query.

For instance, I had to get glasses. I stand firm by my claim I was born with perfect eyesight and I have sacrificed it to four novels. Two of which live in a cozy corner of my computer and will likely never see the light of day. The third one is salvageable. The fourth one, I heart.

Back to those first two. Yeah, they'll never be read by another living person. Because they ain't great. I'm very grateful kids aren't like books; that our first effort offspring doesn't suck as much as our first effort novel. If they improved apace with novels, I'd need to pop out at least three before I felt comfortable taking the kid into public. Only the fourth one would be appropriate for polite society.

In all the preparing that went into actually writing a novel I felt confident enough to send out into the world, I did plenty of research. My Google history could only belong to a literary agent groupie or an aspiring author. I read plenty about how hard it is to get published.

I did not get, however, how haaaaarrrrrdddd it is to get published.

I mean, I knew I'd get rejections. Of course, I would get some rejections. I get insanely excited every time I get a request for my novel. It's amazing, just as I imagined it would be.

So it's not that I went into this thing blind. I had realistic expectations. What I couldn't foresee was how it would feel. That's the hard part. Knowing rejections were coming doesn't make them suck any less. And they sssuuuuccckkk.

No matter how much I try to apply logic, remember that it's ridiculous to believe every agent has the same taste (otherwise, the market would be really boring) I get my feelings third-grade level hurt. Like when you were on the playground and you might not be invited into the club du jour and it would just about rip your little heart out...

That happened to other people, right? Not just me? Eh, don't tell me if I'm alone in this. I don't need that on top of the other stuff. I don't want to climb back under the monkey bars and make up games for myself. It's dusty under there.

I'm trying to develop a really thick skin. I'm looking for my inner blase.

I'd prefer to skip all that "growth" crap and just get an offer of representation. Is there a box I can check for that, please?

Budget. Cuts. Suck.

You know, I have the greatest respect for all teachers. Not least because I am one, honestly. I know how hard every teacher in every discipline works. 8:00-3:00? Please. Those are just the hours I work in public. And this is equally true for most of the teachers I know.

Here's a little thought to chew on: good teachers make all other professions possible. I would love to be able to take credit for that little bit of succinct brilliance, but I can't. I can, however, say I know it to be absolutely true.

Seriously. Good luck getting your doctorate in biochemical engineering if you can't read. Drop me an email and let me know how that works out for you. Oh, wait...

This doesn't mean I don't have great respect for all other professions. I will go to sleep blessing my dentist tonight. I will wake up tomorrow and bless the seriously awesome people who will pick up my trash. I will go to sleep tomorrow night thinking loving thoughts about the woman who mans the desk at my sleepy little public library. And I won't get myself started on firemen and women, police, and everyone else who puts their lives on the line to make mine safer.

But the thing is, these people usually got where they are because somewhere along the way a teacher sparked an interest in them that led them to their ideal place in life. Really, I didn't realize how true this was until someone asked me when I decided what I wanted to do with my life.

"Third grade and junior year, respectively."

I knew I was going to be a writer when my third grade teacher took me quietly aside during Open House and asked to speak with my parents. She told them I had a real talent for writing and voice that made readers feel like I was their friend. I had the greatest respect for Mrs. Grim and I decided if she thought I could be a writer, then I would work my ass off to do so. It was lucky that writing was already one of my favorite things to do.

It wasn't until my junior year of high school that I decided I would be a teacher. By that time I was world-wise enough to know I'd need a job to support myself while I worked to become a writer. Mrs. Lewis--who is simultaneously the most engaging and terrifying teacher I've ever had--was the first person to tell me "Yeah, you're a good writer. You could be a hell of a lot better, though." She was right. So I became a writing specialist to improve my own writing and to do the same for every kid who walks through my polka-dotted door and sits against the backdrop of my wall of literary quotes.

So it was a teacher who inspired me to write and a teacher who inspired me to write better--and to inspire young minds to do the same.

And you know what? I'm damn good at both. Not because I'm brilliant or anything. Because I will still work my ass off to be good at both of the professions I've chosen.

Now, though. Now I look at my pink slip and wonder what I could have done differently. Maybe nothing, honestly. I've got principals and teachers and students who are fighting to bring me back next year. Not because I'm soooo awesome. But, again, because I work my ass off.

I realize, at this point in the post, I should have no ass at all.

*Checks* Still there. So I guess I'm not done yet.

My Stairs Want Me Dead

Two Christmases ago, I fell down my stairs and landed in the tree. Was mostly okay.

A month ago, I fell down my stairs (backwards this time) and landed on the front door. I hit hard enough to break the lock with my ass. Was slightly less but still mostly okay.

Last week, I fell down my stairs and smacked my face against the baseboard and my knee against the corner. This time the stairs wouldn't be thwarted. I broke teeth. Teeth, as my dentist gleefully reminded me, I'd weakened with "that effing tongue ring" he forbade me to get. Blah, blah, blah, he told me so.

For the record, I don't have a drinking problem that makes stairs a challenge for me. I have a problem with reading and walking. And, it seems, learning from my mistakes. What's that quote about insanity being the act of doing the same thing over and over, always expecting a different result...

Anyway.

So, my dentist is amazing. I mean, sure, he mocked my tongue ring and made me swear never to allow it near my mouth again. But he also never hurts me. I mean, he rebuilt my teeth perfectly. And I. Felt. Nothing. It was awesome.

And now I'm eating a freaking brownie.

What's not to love? Besides stairs, of course.

Editorial Ass: The Story of an Underdog

Editorial Ass: The Story of an Underdog.

I could read this a billion times and still tear up a little. Sigh.

Oh, So Good.

I have this saved in about eight places. And it's been printed. More than once.

Promises, Promises..

Lo and about six months ago, I made a promise. I promised I would get a tattoo the very day I received an offer of representation for my novel.

I've pierced parts of my body never designed for such things but I've never committed to a tattoo. That's way more serious than keeping up with a blog. Way more serious. Way.

It took a panel discussion and secret vote for all my friends to come to a consensus on what the tattoo should be and where it should be located. Then a second panel discussion and secret vote after I pitched a conniption at the prospect of living the next several dozen years with Stewie from Family Guy on my right ass cheek.

In the end, we settled on a very nice Celtic trinity knot on my left wrist.

I hate needles. I hope every day for a reason to get over that fear.

Something I Read Over and Over. Oh, and Over.

The author I want to be. Right here!

Yummmm

I was diagnosed with synesthesia after I scared the hell out of my students and two teachers. It was a fun day.

While I write I make mental note of what helps me get my brain into gear so I can share it with my students. Most of my suggestions work really well for the majority. The day I told them to 'taste their words' I got a whole lot of weird looks but only one student was ballsy enough to ask questions. Questions like "What does that even mean?"

I started explaining what I meant. I really didn't get anywhere. More confused looks and more questions.

I had no reason to assume they didn't experience words the same way I did. I'd lived my entire life tasting words when I read or wrote them, using it as a technique for choosing the best words to fit my desired meaning. As long as I can remember, and I assume since the moment I began to talk, I've tasted words. Since there was never a time when this didn't happen I had no reason to wonder if it was odd. I had no basis for comparison. We don't question things that have always been; we only question things that change suddenly in our minds or bodies. I would have been terrified if I'd stopped tasting words one day because then I would have assumed something had gone wrong. That's how completely this was an accepted normalcy for me. Its absence would have sent me at a hell-bent-for-leather pace to the doctor.

Long story short, the students finally convinced me they had no clue what I was talking about. Two teachers came in to talk to me, and catching part of the discussion, they assured me they didn't understand what I meant either. So I did what any good teacher would do: I looked it up. And that was pretty much that.

A was diagnosed a few weeks later after some testing. The doctor, who was endlessly entertained by me, having never seen a patient with this fairly unique condition before, still calls a few times a month. Just to see if anything new and weird has happened. He was almost giddy the day I sat in on a science class and the mention of the word 'doldrums' nearly made me gag. It tasted briny and bitter, right on the very back of my tongue. Still does, as it turns out. Eww.

It makes me down-in-the-gut sad I can't teach students to taste words. Short of fusing things in their brains that became properly separate a few months after birth, there's no way I could share this writing technique with them. Which sucks, honestly. Finding just the right word, for me, is a visceral reaction to an intellectual experience.

It's effing awesome.

I Adore Shoes. Really.

Teachers usually have the most comfortable footwear in the professional world. This is because while we do have those handy 'teacher desks', we don't use them as much more than a catchall for papers. Literally, my students--all 577 of them--signed the fabric bottom and back of my chair this year and I've never once worried about the marker rubbing off on my arse...because my arse and my chair are only friendly acquaintances. Familiar with each other to a degree that, if they were people, their association would rank nothing more than a smile and nod in passing.

I am not quite able to come to grips with the logic of sensible shoes. I just can't. I need good shoes. I need heels and suede boots and peep-toes. Good shoes and Pepsi=contented writer/teacher.

Today I was going through my shoes and found my absolute favorite pair of non-boot shoes. Plaid, pleated around their sweet little peep-toes, with 4 and 1/2 inch stiletto heels. Pink, black, white, silver, with a thin vein of teal. Such good shoes.

They're statement shoes; so eye-catching, in fact, the last time I broke them out of their box I wore them with black capris, a blank tank, and a black shrug. I didn't want anything to distract from The Shoes.

Also after the last time I wore them, I couldn't feel my right big toe for three full weeks. I could have stabbed it, run over it, or set it ablaze without feeling a darn thing. I know this is true because I stubbed it on a door frame and the only sensory proof I had was the sight of the big bruise. The bruise I never felt. Because my toe was profoundly numb.

I can't wait to wear them again. I figure if my toe falls off this time the problem has pretty much solved itself.

I Have Trouble Committing.

How is it possible that I can write an entire novel (or a few) and yet cannot commit to keeping a blog? Weird.

I've had four. I've forgotten the passwords to three of them. I still receive alerts letting me know that new people begin following these blogs several times a week. I feel bad for them; I feel as though I've let them down. Like I'm a blog tease.

But since I can't even get into the accounts to shut them down, I don't know how to square things with the people who thought I might have something worthwhile to say. And, you know, I might be able to come up with a few things. If I could login. Which I still can't.

It is my intention--really, truly this time--to keep up with this blog. We'll see how it goes.