Be kind to your fellow writer
The other day I was making my way around the Blogdom (Blog-o-sphere? What are we calling it, people?) and I came across a post by Anne Riley about enticing readers to buy your book. While dear Anne forgot the most important rule—sharing pictures of Hugh Jackman shirtless—she’s spot on.
I wanted to add to Anne’s post after going to a book signing yesterday. I’ve been to several book signings over my years and my response to them has ultimately been negative. Why? Because of the same reasons Anne mentions. The authors seem cold, distracted, and some even downright hostile. Do I imagine it is the most fun thing in the world signing your name for 2 hours straight? Goodness, no. Writers tend to be shy and introspective (let’s not go into my awkwardness in public), but I’m not asking you get up and sing and dance. These people are here for you, so please act like you are at least somewhat grateful they’re buying your book.
I’m kind of a theatre bitch freak. I’ve seen shows all over the U.S. and England. BY FAR, my favorite part of the show is afterwards, running to the back door—which I found much earlier in the day and then mapped the quickest route to said door from my seat—and waiting for the actors to sign my bra memorabilia. I have never ONCE had a negative experience with meeting actors backstage. They are kind and patient and understand that I HAVE NEEDS and I need you to retake this picture with me because my eyes were closed. Yes, they’re actors. They’re probably brilliant liars. BUT I DON’T CARE because they SMILED at me and flattered me and some even pretended to want to take me home. It makes the theatre experience COMPLETE.
When a writer is apathetic towards a reader, I think, “Okay, I’m not excited about reading your book either.” Yesterday, the author in question asked, “What do you do?” When I responded with, “I’m a writer,” he looked me up and down, either assessing if I were l the lying type or trying to decide if he recognized me. When he realized it was neither, he said, “It’s hard. Too hard for most people. Just don’t expect it to be easy or pay well. You’ll be heartbroken.” And off he went, on to signing another book.
I glared at him, speechless. We writers are a negative bunch. I know that. I know how difficult it can be trying to make writing a career. I’ve been wallowing in the “aspiring writer” pool for quite some time now. I’m no stranger to its difficulties. But are we so negative we must project it onto other would-be dreamers? He wasn’t the first author to react this way and I’m certain he won’t be the last. BUT WHY, writers? Why do we do this to one another? Are we concerned about competition? Once you’ve “made it” you feel the need to keep others from potentially stealing your job?
Finding fellow writers on Twitter has done nothing but create a fantastic sense of camaraderie. Wouldn’t you, as a writer, also want to facilitate more solidarity in the real world? I’m not asking for much. Maybe a, “Hey, I love writing. If you have questions, here’s my Twitter handle. I’d love to talk to you more. Maybe gush over which flavor of Skittle is the best.” THAT’S ALL I WANT. (It’s orange, by the way.)
Elana Johnson has done it right. If you want a model for how to act with fans and fellow writers, follow hers. No matter what Elana writes, I will buy every book she puts out. Why? Because she is SO fantastic to her fans, I WANT to support her. She responds to every single @ reply on Twitter. She is an advocate for giving back. (UHM HELLO? WriteOnCon, anyone?) And to boot, she is humble and genuine in person.
What have I missed? Has your experience been similar or—I’m hoping—has it been better?
Oh, and in case the Hugh Jackman picture didn’t do it for you, here’s a gratuitous picture of the gorgeous Henry Cavill:
A McDonald’s tale of Insanity
I’m not a gambling woman. I live an hour from Vegas and have never once had the urge to play slots or bet big money on a woman named Rita to land on 37 black. My father-in-law occasionally buys lottery tickets, which he so graciously lets me scratch because I dearly love to use quarters for something other than candy machines—but I’m not interested in WINNING. I don’t enter WIN A MAC BOOK Facebook contests—which is a tad ironic if you know what I do for a living. And I certainly don’t play any game that uses the phrase, “Try your luck!”
So what is it about McDonald’s Monopoly that makes me go batshit bonkers every Fall?
As a kid, I would peddle my happy ass up to the corner McDonald’s, blow good birthday money (MONDAY—for those who forgot) on an extra large chicken mcnugget meal with a side of everything covered in grease, just to get those coveted Monopoly pieces.
SHIT. I got Indiana again. Screw the Midwest.
In college, a few friends and myself would pool our money together because let’s face it, we were RAs and we were dirt poor, and THINK ABOUT IF WE WON!
“Okay, I found 37 cents in my underwear drawer and a few quarters in the office downstairs. What did you find?”
“A dollar in my pants that I’ve worn 13 times in the past two weeks and my checking account has $1.17!”
“SCORE! We can get two coffees AND split a breakfast sandwich!”
Yes. We were THAT pathetic. There may have been a disgusting time in my life when I ate McDonald’s daily for a week. Of course, this is coming from the girl who also ate a case of fried egg rolls regularly in one sitting. (Not to be confused with “friend egg rolls,” which are just as crunchy but a little more creepy.)
You’d think with my ever growing maturity, this die hard McDonald’s insanity would fall to the wayside. You would be incorrect. I could spend my desk-job-earned money on something more important: bills, books, charitable donations, or even diapers to keep my kid from pooping on everything.
But what if that day I bought milk and eggs I could have peeled off a Boardwalk to match my Park Place piece? That would be a sad day INDEED. So, like a drug-addicted Alzheimer’s patient, I keep going back, JUST IN FREAKING CASE.
So if you happen to drive by and see me ragged and shaking from french fry overdose, sitting on a street corner with a sign that says, “Will work for North Carolina,” just honk and wave. It’s probably best you don’t stop and talk to me. I might misconstrue anything that doesn’t smell like salt and cheese as an enemy, and I’m prone to biting.
Once upon a time I was responsible
In less than a week I turn 25.
Ancient, I know. All of the “exciting” birthdays to look forward to have passed and now I have my son by which to gauge the passing of time. Laugh all you want, but I’ve already forgotten several times over the past few months how old I am. I’m still convinced it’s only 22, maybe 23.
Ah, it starts.
(You’re damn right this is a blog post about age.)
When I pictured my life at 18, this is nothing what I imagined. Married at 21? A kid at 24? A still undecided career path? (That is, until all those big time agents and publishers come to their senses and offer me a big, fat six figure deal for my fabulous prose and dashing good looks.)
28. That’s how old I said I would be before even considering marriage. Kids? I didn’t want them. I was too afraid of morphing into the alcoholic, abusive assholes that are my parents. Interestingly enough, I only went to college to get AWAY from my parents. As a Junior in HS, I never thought college was an option for someone like me. Then that jerk Joe came along and swept me off my feet and made me believe in myself (after a year or so of constant bickering and nasty insults). I’ve traveled overseas and now live an entire country’s length away from my birthplace. None of this was planned. In fact, our whole journey west was planned in under a month.
I wanted a big important career with so much money I could make my own swimming pool of caviar BECAUSE I CAN. Then I decided Political Science and Art History were lucrative career choices (and then went on to work in the tech field, because well, those aren’t even CLOSE). Then I had a kid and all that shit went out the window.
So maybe my pool will have to be filled with Top Ramen instead of caviar. And MAYBE it’ll be salty enough you can just float on top of the noodles. And maybe it’ll be beef flavor because FUCK I hate that flavor and I’m not wasting the good stuff on this pool adventure.
What about you? What in your life hasn’t turned out the way you planned? Has it turned out for the better? (I’m enjoying this noodle idea and the kid is WAY cute—like a puppy on steroids.)
Also—my birthday is on Monday. I EXPECT TO BE SHOWERED WITH GIFTS.
Now if you’ll excuse me, the husband and I need to return to our water balloon fight with Jell-O filled balloons.
On Addictions
Last week I started a new job. It’s pretty sweet so far, but don’t worry; I’m sure the complaints and whining will start rolling in faster than an avalanche in Colorado. Last week I also started something else: Drinking coffee.
I know what you’re thinking. BUT YOU ALREADY DRANK COFFEE BEFORE. And you are correct, sir. Some of you may remember the blog posts, the tweets, the marriage proposals—all about my lovely friend, coffee. I stopped drinking coffee last March in preparation for my baby friend to arrive. I was a loony person. I tossed and turned at night, dreaming of my dark brown roasted amigo. How would I wake in the morning? More importantly, how would my coworkers survive my zombie attacks without coffee? Coffee-less mornings could be devastating.
SHOCKINGLY, after a weening down period, I survived. I thought, “Maybe it’s enough just to inhale the smell of coffee beans.” Waking up was a huge pain in the ass, on top of all of those WONDERFUL pregnancy symptoms, but overall, I was impressed with myself.
If I can give up coffee, I can do ANYTHING.
Except, I was pregnant. I don’t know if anyone has told you this but here’s a little secret: Pregnant women can’t do shit. More importantly, pregnant women can’t eat anything. Hot dogs? Death. Sandwiches? Death. Caffeine? Heartburn and death. Don’t eat peanut butter, your baby will get an allergy. Too much fish is no no NO. Before I put anything in my mouth, I found myself Googling, “Is ________ safe to eat when pregnant?” And then I would Google, “If I eat _________, will I kill my baby?”
I also came to the conclusion while pregnant that Google is more dangerous than any of the above foods.
Six months into the whole baby wrangling and I’m just now starting to get my swagger back. I was able to eat a Nathan’s hot dog in one bite. It was GLORIOUS. And now, now I have coffee back.
The best part about drinking coffee again? I say less mean things to people. Now if someone says something utterly idiotic, I gulp down my coffee. I smile.
All is well.
Fist bump for all those tired of feeling ashamed
As you may have noticed, I have a “devil may care” attitude about parenting. And by “devil” I mean “me.” I care, because OH MY SHIT a lot can go wrong with kids.
I did my best to prepare for all things baby-related before Wookie was born. I only had to return to the store SIX times after his birth to get things I forgot to buy. I consider that an achievement. I even made myself an award. And framed it. And ate ice cream. It was a good day.
I knew I would make mistakes where Wookie was concerned, but I was okay with that, because hey, if I’m going to force my characters to have flaws, I need to be okay with my own. (BAM. I AM a writer. Look at me grow.) What I wasn’t prepared for was the backlash from other moms.
There’s nothing in the “baby readiness handbooks” about how there are two different sects of baby rearing, and how each side hates the other. I wasn’t prepared for the judgment about having an epidural and how it somehow made me feel like I wasn’t fit to be a mother. Then add the breastfeeding and formula and co-sleeping, and oh my god.
My Wookie—my beautiful, amazing, perfect son—was in the NICU after he was born. When I saw him lying there, covered in wires and tubes, I felt like the shittiest mom on the planet. Somehow, it was my fault, and I felt guilty. On top of that, I couldn’t breastfeed properly. He was in the NICU and because my milk hadn’t come in yet, I couldn’t feed him. They had to give him formula, and that just piled on the shittastic feeling, because I could tell by the nurse’s concerned looks, formula was BAD.
I cried. I cried a LOT.
The big, fat, shitty topping on the cake was when I was discharged from the hospital and told I couldn’t stay with my son because I wasn’t breastfeeding. I was in that hospital room pumping away like a madwoman, as if somehow I would start spewing gold and diamonds, because I knew he needed it. And every time I got that nugget—even if it was just a drop or two—I felt some sense of pride because dammit, I was trying. And now, NOW they decided to distinguish that pumping breastmilk is somehow not as good as putting baby to boob. Did I want to breastfeed? My god, yes I did. After trying again and again and again, I did my best, but there wasn’t enough milk, he was a lazy sucker, the wires were in the way, and it was just chaos. But after everything I had done, after the pleading, the sobbing, and all the sorrys, I still had to leave the hospital without my son.
It was the worst moment of my life.
When I was finally able to bring Wookie home, I thought the technicality of pumping/boob sucking was based on hospital rules—that they were different, even though the end result was the same. However, I quickly learned that is not the case.
Bringing Wookie home was like working at my first “grown-up” job all over again. There’s so much you can’t learn from schooling and there’s even more—much to my dismay—you don’t learn from books. I learned that if you get an epidural, you’re weak. If you aren’t breastfeeding, you don’t love your child. For me, breastfeeding was always a struggle. Wookie had become accustomed to the bottle in the NICU, so I had to use a breast shield. For 2 months, Hubs and I fought with getting him to breast feed. I was finally making enough milk, so what was the problem?
Eventually, I resigned myself to being okay with just pumping. It turned out to be great anyway because then Hubs could help out with night time feedings. Besides, I was starting work again soon, so I had to exclusively pump anyway.
Except, once I started going out more with the Wookie, I would get the same questions: “Do you breastfeed?” “Did you have an epidural?” “You’re not going back to work, are you?”
Even at the doctor’s office a few weeks ago, the NURSE made me feel like garbage.
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Yes.”
“How often is he feeding?”
“Well, he eats about 4oz every 3 hours or so.”
“Wait, are you bottle feeding him breast milk?”
“Yes…”
“We don’t consider that breastfeeding.”
“…well, what DO you consider it? It’s still breast milk. I haven’t changed the ingredients.”
She couldn’t answer, but she made sure to lecture me about the importance of TRUE breastfeeding and how I should keep trying to get him to nurse. After 6 months of a bottle, I’m pretty sure this is a no go. It got to the point where I would just sit silently and not participate in these “mommy-bashing” games. The low point was when I would even agree, because after so many times of the peer pressure, I was tired of being made to feel like shit. Sure, I “breastfeed” like you think I do. OF COURSE I didn’t get an epidural. Pfft. I knit diapers, make my own baby food, AND I secrete breast milk. I’m Wonder Mom.
Except, that made me feel worse. So I stopped talking about it. I cried to my poor husband so many times about how I was made to feel guilty, when all I wanted was to just be with my family.
After MONTHS of depression, I realized, that was it—just be with my family. Screw all the haters. My son is HAPPY. Does he care that because of my dwindling milk supply he has to have formula? Or that he uses disposable diapers? Or that I didn’t buy the most expensive bottles with the best airflow? He doesn’t give a damn. As long as I love him, the rest be damned.
Fist bump for all those tired of feeling ashamed. Love your kids and be happy, dammit.
