Friday, April 24, 2015
Friday, April 10, 2015
For the love of books and generosity
The thing I pick up most in my house is books. Academic books, children's picture books/chapter books/board books, literature, parenting books. They're everywhere.
They're on the edge of end tables, and between the wall and the bed, and under the couch. I love books. I love books about science and books about parenting and fiction and memoir and research and children's books. I so, so love children's books.
My kids know it and they know I'll sit down on the linoleum in the kitchen and read with them. They use this to their advantage and I'd stop... but... books? Fuck that. Don't stop. Or actually do. Stop! and sit on the floor and read and breathe close to their faces and kiss their cheeks and embrace them and this phase that will one day end. So if you finish the book and they say "again!" That's what you do.
But this will mean that sometimes there are books in the bathroom or the kitchen or on top of the dryer. Meh? Who cares? I love books and bookstores too.
I love quirky used book stores and big posh book stores with cocktails. I love college libraries and tiny public libraries and little free libraries. In retirement, I could imagine spending incalculable hours around books, reading them, writing near them, hoping they whisper their best combinations to me and bring me hope and inspiration and maybe even some pocket money in the process. But...
I'm reminding myself about this because I'm going to do an event in a bookstore this weekend and that always scares me. I get nervous about whether people will show and worry that I'll look like a loser with a book no one wants to read or no friends or whatever like I'm some doubt-ridden adolescent. I worry that the owners won't like me or want to promote my book. It's all nerves. I'm good with people and this will be fine. If it's a good turnout, great. If it's small, I get a chance for more meaningful interaction with readers and writers and there's nothing bad about that. So, more than worrying whether the owners will like me or no one will be there, I'm focusing on the chance to be amid information, lovers of words, and great great books.
Publishing a book is seemingly covered in these pitfalls of insecurity. Before the publishing part, I was afraid I might offend someone or of the people who wouldn't like it. But now that it's here, the book is out... I'm far more afraid that no one will care enough to be bothered. I'm more afraid no one will read.
At first I tried that cheerleader, pretending-all-is-awesome response but I just can't do that. When I've been honest about my vulnerability lately, I've been able to shiver and shrug it off and get onto a problem-solving place where inspiration happens and I'm suddenly so busy with ideas, I don't know how to get the time to follow through on all of them.
At the beginning of this publishing idea, I was hopeful that I might make a financial contribution to my family. I was hoping to give a return on the investment my husband has placed in my writing in the form of... money. But that's just not really what this phase of my writing career is about and it's definitely not what this book is about. We have food. My husband's not worried. So I should focus on working for the sake of the work.
I'm reminded of the purpose. Get people to read it. Make sure people know that these kids exist by using the book as a vehicle to tell a true story. Make sure those from this life find the book.
And in light of that focus, I'm cultivating generosity in myself and giving away everything I can. I'm doing talks and trying to schedule free writing workshops I'll teach to teens with the book as a backdrop.
April is child abuse awareness month. I tried to find a way to give the Kindle edition of the book away free all month, but there's no way to do that. Instead, I'm using the maximum 5 days at the end of April to give the book away. I hope you'll read it. I hope you'll review and recommend it and make it get noticed. The link is here.
They're on the edge of end tables, and between the wall and the bed, and under the couch. I love books. I love books about science and books about parenting and fiction and memoir and research and children's books. I so, so love children's books.
My kids know it and they know I'll sit down on the linoleum in the kitchen and read with them. They use this to their advantage and I'd stop... but... books? Fuck that. Don't stop. Or actually do. Stop! and sit on the floor and read and breathe close to their faces and kiss their cheeks and embrace them and this phase that will one day end. So if you finish the book and they say "again!" That's what you do.
But this will mean that sometimes there are books in the bathroom or the kitchen or on top of the dryer. Meh? Who cares? I love books and bookstores too.
I love quirky used book stores and big posh book stores with cocktails. I love college libraries and tiny public libraries and little free libraries. In retirement, I could imagine spending incalculable hours around books, reading them, writing near them, hoping they whisper their best combinations to me and bring me hope and inspiration and maybe even some pocket money in the process. But...
I'm reminding myself about this because I'm going to do an event in a bookstore this weekend and that always scares me. I get nervous about whether people will show and worry that I'll look like a loser with a book no one wants to read or no friends or whatever like I'm some doubt-ridden adolescent. I worry that the owners won't like me or want to promote my book. It's all nerves. I'm good with people and this will be fine. If it's a good turnout, great. If it's small, I get a chance for more meaningful interaction with readers and writers and there's nothing bad about that. So, more than worrying whether the owners will like me or no one will be there, I'm focusing on the chance to be amid information, lovers of words, and great great books.
Publishing a book is seemingly covered in these pitfalls of insecurity. Before the publishing part, I was afraid I might offend someone or of the people who wouldn't like it. But now that it's here, the book is out... I'm far more afraid that no one will care enough to be bothered. I'm more afraid no one will read.
At first I tried that cheerleader, pretending-all-is-awesome response but I just can't do that. When I've been honest about my vulnerability lately, I've been able to shiver and shrug it off and get onto a problem-solving place where inspiration happens and I'm suddenly so busy with ideas, I don't know how to get the time to follow through on all of them.
At the beginning of this publishing idea, I was hopeful that I might make a financial contribution to my family. I was hoping to give a return on the investment my husband has placed in my writing in the form of... money. But that's just not really what this phase of my writing career is about and it's definitely not what this book is about. We have food. My husband's not worried. So I should focus on working for the sake of the work.
I'm reminded of the purpose. Get people to read it. Make sure people know that these kids exist by using the book as a vehicle to tell a true story. Make sure those from this life find the book.
And in light of that focus, I'm cultivating generosity in myself and giving away everything I can. I'm doing talks and trying to schedule free writing workshops I'll teach to teens with the book as a backdrop.
April is child abuse awareness month. I tried to find a way to give the Kindle edition of the book away free all month, but there's no way to do that. Instead, I'm using the maximum 5 days at the end of April to give the book away. I hope you'll read it. I hope you'll review and recommend it and make it get noticed. The link is here.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Conservation, The Weirdness of Me, and how being an Indie author means I get both!
I've been teased for a long time for my obsession with conservation. My roommate in college used to see how far down in the trash can she had to hide recycling before I would not notice and actually throw it away, because if it was on top, I always took it out and put it in the recycling.
So when I started sending out review copies of my book, I decided that rather than buying packaging, I would make it out of what I could find around the house. I started making boxes and such out of the paperboard and cardboard that was headed to recycling anyway. Reduce... hmmm... couldn't get that one done, but reuse is next on the list, so I'll do that.
This became a challenge with my most recent venture in learning self-promotion: a Goodreads Giveaway. I offered up 25 copies to be mailed to lucky winners (who hopefully all rate and review the book with glowing recommendations... ahem.) But mailing out a copy here and there is one thing, mailing out 25 is another.
But I decided that I would continue to be weird-me who pulls things out of recycling and uses them to pack up books. I added stickers sometimes for effect.
The Giveaway ended yesterday, and I had spent a ridiculous amount of time and packing tape last week devising boxes. Today it was gorgeous out. I joked that I should continue the conservation efforts by walking the books over to the post office to mail using a wheel barrow. It was gorgeous out after all. So I did.
I am officially the first person to ever to walk a wheelbarrow full of handpackaged books into the Silverthorne post office.
And this is why I like writing and being an indie author.
So when I started sending out review copies of my book, I decided that rather than buying packaging, I would make it out of what I could find around the house. I started making boxes and such out of the paperboard and cardboard that was headed to recycling anyway. Reduce... hmmm... couldn't get that one done, but reuse is next on the list, so I'll do that.
This became a challenge with my most recent venture in learning self-promotion: a Goodreads Giveaway. I offered up 25 copies to be mailed to lucky winners (who hopefully all rate and review the book with glowing recommendations... ahem.) But mailing out a copy here and there is one thing, mailing out 25 is another.
But I decided that I would continue to be weird-me who pulls things out of recycling and uses them to pack up books. I added stickers sometimes for effect.
The Giveaway ended yesterday, and I had spent a ridiculous amount of time and packing tape last week devising boxes. Today it was gorgeous out. I joked that I should continue the conservation efforts by walking the books over to the post office to mail using a wheel barrow. It was gorgeous out after all. So I did.
I am officially the first person to ever to walk a wheelbarrow full of handpackaged books into the Silverthorne post office.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Magnus & the big chin thrust
I think it's generally best for me to not know much detail about how I'll feel about a particular challenge before I face it. That way I can take it as it comes and I seem to take each step in stride, or well, maybe some tears but mostly ... stride.
Amid beeping machines and movies in my 4-year-old's hospital bedroom, I just read Chrysanthemum to my 2-year-old. I love that story. The basic premise is that a little girl loves her name until kids at school pick on her for it. She thinks it's perfect but then the other kids pick on her for being named after a flower.
My 4-year-old is named Magnus. I'd always liked the name and have a cousin in Sweden named Magnus, who is soft-spoken and kind and I'd always liked him. I wanted a Swedish name and my husband liked Magnus so that's what we picked.
When he was a baby and people would ask about his name, their eyes would grow wide and they'd say, "well, that's a BIG name!"
It sounded strange to them and I could tell because he was a small child but with a big name. Then it turned out he really is this huge person. I don't mean physically; I mean, he's practically invincible.
Last week, at a program I teach with childcare, a bigger kid told Magnus that he didn't like him. I was indignant when he told me, "what a jerk!"
"He wasn't a jerk, mom. Don't call him that!"
Magnus went on to tell me how he'd asked the kid why he didn't like him and the kid had said because he's a little kid. But then said-kid had helped him beat a Mario game and by the end he thought the kid had changed his mind and liked him.
That was Magnus-the-great's response to a kid not liking him. "Oh really, why don't you like me?" And then he determined to change the kid's mind. No hurt feelings, no crying, and it had worked.
This same child post-anesthesia yesterday had to be kept breathing by being held by his mandible in something called a chin thrust while I held oxygen to his face. Trust me when I tell you this is no gentle hold. A nurse means business if she holds someone this way. She means BREATHE.
He spent the night crying and whining and having nightmares. He looked so vulnerable curled in his hospital bed. His body in a wheelchair was impossibly tiny. He's breathing now, oxygen saturation not where we want it so still in the hospital, but no one's forcing him to breath by holding open his airway and forcing life in. He's breathing but I'm still catching my breath. Maybe I should skip over that part and go straight on to the next thing, which happens to be a reading of my book.
I was just about to cancel when I saw myself in the newspaper.
I went and tried out my reading skills amid a friendly crowd at a bookstore that really fits me. It's quirky and dusty with hand-written signs. Two good friends walked up together just before the start of the reading. I had been so stressed with all the ups and downs of Magnus's surgery that I pretty much lost it in relief when I saw them.
I made it through the reading, largely not thinking about Magnus. But figuratively anyway, my friends held me by the chin and I breathed and read.
Amid beeping machines and movies in my 4-year-old's hospital bedroom, I just read Chrysanthemum to my 2-year-old. I love that story. The basic premise is that a little girl loves her name until kids at school pick on her for it. She thinks it's perfect but then the other kids pick on her for being named after a flower.
My 4-year-old is named Magnus. I'd always liked the name and have a cousin in Sweden named Magnus, who is soft-spoken and kind and I'd always liked him. I wanted a Swedish name and my husband liked Magnus so that's what we picked.
When he was a baby and people would ask about his name, their eyes would grow wide and they'd say, "well, that's a BIG name!"
It sounded strange to them and I could tell because he was a small child but with a big name. Then it turned out he really is this huge person. I don't mean physically; I mean, he's practically invincible.
Last week, at a program I teach with childcare, a bigger kid told Magnus that he didn't like him. I was indignant when he told me, "what a jerk!"
"He wasn't a jerk, mom. Don't call him that!"
Magnus went on to tell me how he'd asked the kid why he didn't like him and the kid had said because he's a little kid. But then said-kid had helped him beat a Mario game and by the end he thought the kid had changed his mind and liked him.
That was Magnus-the-great's response to a kid not liking him. "Oh really, why don't you like me?" And then he determined to change the kid's mind. No hurt feelings, no crying, and it had worked.
This same child post-anesthesia yesterday had to be kept breathing by being held by his mandible in something called a chin thrust while I held oxygen to his face. Trust me when I tell you this is no gentle hold. A nurse means business if she holds someone this way. She means BREATHE.
He spent the night crying and whining and having nightmares. He looked so vulnerable curled in his hospital bed. His body in a wheelchair was impossibly tiny. He's breathing now, oxygen saturation not where we want it so still in the hospital, but no one's forcing him to breath by holding open his airway and forcing life in. He's breathing but I'm still catching my breath. Maybe I should skip over that part and go straight on to the next thing, which happens to be a reading of my book.
I was just about to cancel when I saw myself in the newspaper.
I went and tried out my reading skills amid a friendly crowd at a bookstore that really fits me. It's quirky and dusty with hand-written signs. Two good friends walked up together just before the start of the reading. I had been so stressed with all the ups and downs of Magnus's surgery that I pretty much lost it in relief when I saw them.
I made it through the reading, largely not thinking about Magnus. But figuratively anyway, my friends held me by the chin and I breathed and read.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Alicia Who Sees Mice
I was just in the bathroom thinking my gratitude thoughts like a good little bobblehead. I found boots that fit my skinny ankles AND are waterproof and not hideous at the thrift store and bought brand new leggings that are so soft I feel like I'm in jammies and then I looked down and wouldn't you know? A hole in my crotch. No smartass, not that one. My neck's not that long. A hole in the crotch of my leggings. Grrr.
Which got me thinking how I complain too much and why do I do that? Sometimes it's because I'm a grouchy pants. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm devolving into a family trait of being negative and complaining all the time and I definitely don't want that.
In writing it's more deliberate though. In writing I do it because I hate that fluffy crap that doesn't have the grit and substance of real life with holes in brand new clothes and all the pot holes that get us stuck.
The time I don't feel all that gritty? Teaching.
Especially teaching ESL.
Teaching ESL makes me laugh and laugh. And not fake, polite laughter, but deep belly-hurting laughter. I don't know how great I am at teaching it. Truth be told, I'm not sure I'm great at all. But dang if we don't have fun.
The funniest thing that ever happened was when a man accidentally used Urban Dictionary to look up "bottom," and gave a very strange definition regarding homosexuality that made me laugh so hard I cried and had to take five before I could even explain what had happened. Last week, I was teaching some mamas how to pronounce "brought" and kept using "bra" to get the verb sound right. One woman had forgotten one so every time I grabbed my straps and pulled my tits up, she started laughing. Then I laughed and we all just about died by the end of class.
And then one night, during a break in the high level class, I was trying to prop the door (it had gotten hot in the room from the computers.) A particularly nicely dressed, young Peruvian gal crept down to see if the stopper had gotten under a file cabinet. She pulled out a mouse trap complete with a dead mouse.
"AHhhhEEEEeeee!!!" Her scream pierced the entire lower level of the college.
More laughter, more tears as the class filed back in to see what was going on. Then we sat down to read House on Mango Street. She stepped out for a moment and when she returned and it was her turn to read the very next vignette was "Alicia Who Sees Mice."
I think that's the most fun night I've had all semester. Then I walked in,late, well after 10:00 PM (and keep in mind my bedtime is closer to 9,) and the toddler potty was in the exact center of the living room containing exactly one turd and one apple core. Life's gritty and full of turds and apple cores and soft new leggings and laughter and tears. I'm going to sew the damn hole up. Take that!
Which got me thinking how I complain too much and why do I do that? Sometimes it's because I'm a grouchy pants. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm devolving into a family trait of being negative and complaining all the time and I definitely don't want that.
In writing it's more deliberate though. In writing I do it because I hate that fluffy crap that doesn't have the grit and substance of real life with holes in brand new clothes and all the pot holes that get us stuck.
The time I don't feel all that gritty? Teaching.
Especially teaching ESL.
Teaching ESL makes me laugh and laugh. And not fake, polite laughter, but deep belly-hurting laughter. I don't know how great I am at teaching it. Truth be told, I'm not sure I'm great at all. But dang if we don't have fun.
The funniest thing that ever happened was when a man accidentally used Urban Dictionary to look up "bottom," and gave a very strange definition regarding homosexuality that made me laugh so hard I cried and had to take five before I could even explain what had happened. Last week, I was teaching some mamas how to pronounce "brought" and kept using "bra" to get the verb sound right. One woman had forgotten one so every time I grabbed my straps and pulled my tits up, she started laughing. Then I laughed and we all just about died by the end of class.
And then one night, during a break in the high level class, I was trying to prop the door (it had gotten hot in the room from the computers.) A particularly nicely dressed, young Peruvian gal crept down to see if the stopper had gotten under a file cabinet. She pulled out a mouse trap complete with a dead mouse.
"AHhhhEEEEeeee!!!" Her scream pierced the entire lower level of the college.
More laughter, more tears as the class filed back in to see what was going on. Then we sat down to read House on Mango Street. She stepped out for a moment and when she returned and it was her turn to read the very next vignette was "Alicia Who Sees Mice."
I think that's the most fun night I've had all semester. Then I walked in,late, well after 10:00 PM (and keep in mind my bedtime is closer to 9,) and the toddler potty was in the exact center of the living room containing exactly one turd and one apple core. Life's gritty and full of turds and apple cores and soft new leggings and laughter and tears. I'm going to sew the damn hole up. Take that!
Monday, February 16, 2015
I love teaching. I love being there to witness the moment the dots connect and a person arrives at the Aha! moment of reading their first word.
My four-year-old read his first early reader book this weekend and it was all I could do to keep from jumping out of my skin. I don't think I was this excited when he took his first steps. OK, I was. He walked down the hallways saying "go, go, go!"
When I worked in residential treatment, I worked with two boys who did not know how to read a single word. Both were well beyond the ages when such things are learned. One boy had had his head fractured as an infant and the other was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. I loved these boys whole-heartedly. I worked with them daily on memorizing the sounds, developing ways to parse sounds by karate chopping words into syllables, and enjoying the sound of being read to. They were, after all, still little boys. After months of working together, I am proud of the progress they made in being able to decode (word-call,) simple words. It was a milestone for them when they first read words and I feel like it's one of the great experiences of my life that I got to be involved in it.
In particular, they learned to read "bad." Because these kids had such a massive history of abuse and neglect, the first time they decoded this word, I internally panicked. What came out of my mouth was "BAD KITTY" and a dramatically waving finger. We screamed "bad kitty," a lot that spring.
But, teaching adults is a wildly different world. I don't have to worry so much about offending, although I'm still extremely careful with feelings. Learning is a vulnerable process and care should be taken with other people's souls.
Last week, I was teaching ESL and one of the mommies quietly asked, whispered really, what the difference was between "bush" and the bad word.
After a moment of confusion, I wrote "bush" and "bullshit" on a small dry erase board and showed them to she and the other women in class that afternoon. They got their cell phones out and showed me translations that didn't really make sense and we laughed wildly while discussing when it was appropriate to use each and pronouncing each word carefully so that the mommies would be able to tell when their children were swearing in order to properly reprimand.
These moments are fun and meaningful and exciting and useful. Teaching is like that.
One of my first contacts with an ESL student involved a young man telling me that he had lived in a storage facility without a roof in Arizona for years as an adolescent. He was hiding from the authorities and so lived there because no one was likely to find him there. He described loving the stars.
My four-year-old read his first early reader book this weekend and it was all I could do to keep from jumping out of my skin. I don't think I was this excited when he took his first steps. OK, I was. He walked down the hallways saying "go, go, go!"
When I worked in residential treatment, I worked with two boys who did not know how to read a single word. Both were well beyond the ages when such things are learned. One boy had had his head fractured as an infant and the other was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. I loved these boys whole-heartedly. I worked with them daily on memorizing the sounds, developing ways to parse sounds by karate chopping words into syllables, and enjoying the sound of being read to. They were, after all, still little boys. After months of working together, I am proud of the progress they made in being able to decode (word-call,) simple words. It was a milestone for them when they first read words and I feel like it's one of the great experiences of my life that I got to be involved in it.
In particular, they learned to read "bad." Because these kids had such a massive history of abuse and neglect, the first time they decoded this word, I internally panicked. What came out of my mouth was "BAD KITTY" and a dramatically waving finger. We screamed "bad kitty," a lot that spring.
But, teaching adults is a wildly different world. I don't have to worry so much about offending, although I'm still extremely careful with feelings. Learning is a vulnerable process and care should be taken with other people's souls.
Last week, I was teaching ESL and one of the mommies quietly asked, whispered really, what the difference was between "bush" and the bad word.
After a moment of confusion, I wrote "bush" and "bullshit" on a small dry erase board and showed them to she and the other women in class that afternoon. They got their cell phones out and showed me translations that didn't really make sense and we laughed wildly while discussing when it was appropriate to use each and pronouncing each word carefully so that the mommies would be able to tell when their children were swearing in order to properly reprimand.
These moments are fun and meaningful and exciting and useful. Teaching is like that.
One of my first contacts with an ESL student involved a young man telling me that he had lived in a storage facility without a roof in Arizona for years as an adolescent. He was hiding from the authorities and so lived there because no one was likely to find him there. He described loving the stars.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Well, Brene, You're Right. I'm vulnerable.
I love Brene Brown. I am whole-hearted. I lean into the discomfort. I push myself and believe I am worthy of love and belonging.
Except sometimes when I don't. Sometimes I'm mean. Sometimes I'm unhappy. Sometimes I'm vulnerable in more than one part of my life and then I fall to pieces and need putting back together again. I'm built like humpty dumpty. Ok, not so much with the last part.
So the other night, I had had a really, REALLY busy day. This busy day followed a series of about 12 days where my four-year-old threw screaming fits exactly EVERY time we went anywhere.
So this morning, I get up, pack up the kids for tumbling lesson for Thing 1, then put them in the rec center childcare for 45 minutes while I work out, tumbling lesson for Thing 2, then drop off Thing 1 at gramma's, take Thing 2 for errands and napping in the car... I'm going to stop now because I'm sick of this so I'm certain you've begun skimming by now.
By the time it's evening and I'm to be 10 minutes late for work, I have to jet out still in my work out clothes. I should specify exactly HOW inappropriate for work they are here. On top we have: a torn open t-shirt that says "DOPE" across the bottom in red letters with a tanktop under and who-cares-what-else. SERIOUSLY. Torn. Dope.
And sometimes, especially when I'm teaching a writing lab late into the evening in a small extra use building, I see next-to-no-one and could keep my jacket on and get away with this, sort of. But it's hot in the lab and
Not tonight. Tonight, unbeknownst to me a small group of all the higher-ups and most important of the people who could ever give me a full time jobs are all coming to have dinner with a speaker whose been flown in. So every single one of them passes by the window where I am wearing said inappropriate outfit. Thankfully I am at least working with a student.
A student whose feelings have been hurt by an instructor who was not careful wording strong direct criticism. So after working with this student for an hour, I help him through some tears and hurt feelings and he leaves and I'm left to flail uncomfortably for the next couple of hours through being in my insanely uncomfortable skin.
I fail at: making flyers, blogging, responding to emails, smelling pleasant, and that's just the beginning. In between these failures, I spend my time obsessing about what a shitty mom I am and how badly I've handled everything, um, ever.
As the event lets out, a colleague of mine comes up and we make small talk. Somehow she ends up telling me she'd like to read my book. Instead of having a normal person's reaction to this I say,
"It's a great book." (and it is. But I say this in a voice that squeaks and smells of awkward vulnerability and weird eye contact and probably old sweat since I'm still in workout clothes from approximately 10 hours earlier.)
I laugh and then say, "it'll change you're life. Well, ok that's a joke but it's a good book."
She practically sprints away.
When I get home, instead of asking directly for support from Rob, I whine about our son and he says he can't do anymore talking tonight (it's late and he's right it is.) and instead of saying anything smart, I nervously henpeck about him drinking my whiskey and any number of other things I don't actually care much about and he refuses to sleep with me (which I admittedly deserve.)
I spend hours that night tossing and turning and experiencing the hell of the evening over and over again.
The next day I wake up and cry to Rob about how I am spending a lot of time vulnerable. A LOT. And while I usually lean into it, it's all been too much. I tell him through tears how dumb I was the night before and how much pressure I'm putting on myself and how hard it all feels. The stakes are huge. I want to be a writer. I want to be a good mom. I need people to love this book. My son deserves the best of the best. And what if none of those things happens?
Publishing my book is intensely personal. A friend said when she was reading it, she felt like it was really personal to read it since she knows me and she felt like it was almost too intimate to read what I'd written. I knew exactly what she meant.
I spent years on this. I did the absolute best I could.
Doing the best you can, it turns out, is scary. Because there's no better. So if it's not good enough, that's the top.There's no better. You just failed after trying as hard as you could then.
Sure, the next book will be better than this one. I will grow as a writer for the rest of my life and continually get better at it and so someday I'll look back and think how much better I could have written this book. But for now, this is all I have. This is the best I could do. And I need it to be good enough to get to all those other books I'll write later.
And I get four and five stars. But those four stars are like in a performance review when your boss says, you're great here, here, here, and here and you have room for improvement here. I think oh god, four stars and you're my friend means that you really would've given it 2 if you didn't know me and what if everyone who sees the reviews thinks that too.
And you can see how this road of vulnerability can lead to insecurity and how much worse I can make ANYTHING if left to my own devices.
I am through-apnd-through honestly me. All the time. I'm genuine.
So if I feel like I said above, and I try to say "the book's great." It comes out weird. This is the closest I've ever been to knowing what it feels like to have Asperger's. My voice goes all flat and low and my eye contact is off and sometimes I say things as questions accidentally and then I laugh too loud and ... I mean to say, "yes, I'd love for you to read my book. thank you." But instead it comes out "I'm a weirdo!"
So instead of cheerleading and trying to convince anyone I'm anything but terrified, I started with my husband and said, "I'm spending all my time feeling vulnerable. And I can handle that in one area of life at a time but this, this is hard."
And he does what he does. He hugs me more. He tells me I'm beautiful more. He tells me, I am, in fact, not built like humpty dumpty at all but am sexy and that our 4-year-old is hard and we've all had a hard week. He tells me he's had a hard week with our 4-year-old too.
So then, when the next colleague, that very morning, congratulates me and asks about how I feel about the book, I'm honest.
I tell her it's the most time I've ever spent being vulnerable and that's good but it's hard too. And I sell a copy. Lean in.
Except sometimes when I don't. Sometimes I'm mean. Sometimes I'm unhappy. Sometimes I'm vulnerable in more than one part of my life and then I fall to pieces and need putting back together again. I'm built like humpty dumpty. Ok, not so much with the last part.
So the other night, I had had a really, REALLY busy day. This busy day followed a series of about 12 days where my four-year-old threw screaming fits exactly EVERY time we went anywhere.
So this morning, I get up, pack up the kids for tumbling lesson for Thing 1, then put them in the rec center childcare for 45 minutes while I work out, tumbling lesson for Thing 2, then drop off Thing 1 at gramma's, take Thing 2 for errands and napping in the car... I'm going to stop now because I'm sick of this so I'm certain you've begun skimming by now.
By the time it's evening and I'm to be 10 minutes late for work, I have to jet out still in my work out clothes. I should specify exactly HOW inappropriate for work they are here. On top we have: a torn open t-shirt that says "DOPE" across the bottom in red letters with a tanktop under and who-cares-what-else. SERIOUSLY. Torn. Dope.
And sometimes, especially when I'm teaching a writing lab late into the evening in a small extra use building, I see next-to-no-one and could keep my jacket on and get away with this, sort of. But it's hot in the lab and
Not tonight. Tonight, unbeknownst to me a small group of all the higher-ups and most important of the people who could ever give me a full time jobs are all coming to have dinner with a speaker whose been flown in. So every single one of them passes by the window where I am wearing said inappropriate outfit. Thankfully I am at least working with a student.
A student whose feelings have been hurt by an instructor who was not careful wording strong direct criticism. So after working with this student for an hour, I help him through some tears and hurt feelings and he leaves and I'm left to flail uncomfortably for the next couple of hours through being in my insanely uncomfortable skin.
I fail at: making flyers, blogging, responding to emails, smelling pleasant, and that's just the beginning. In between these failures, I spend my time obsessing about what a shitty mom I am and how badly I've handled everything, um, ever.
As the event lets out, a colleague of mine comes up and we make small talk. Somehow she ends up telling me she'd like to read my book. Instead of having a normal person's reaction to this I say,
"It's a great book." (and it is. But I say this in a voice that squeaks and smells of awkward vulnerability and weird eye contact and probably old sweat since I'm still in workout clothes from approximately 10 hours earlier.)
I laugh and then say, "it'll change you're life. Well, ok that's a joke but it's a good book."
She practically sprints away.
When I get home, instead of asking directly for support from Rob, I whine about our son and he says he can't do anymore talking tonight (it's late and he's right it is.) and instead of saying anything smart, I nervously henpeck about him drinking my whiskey and any number of other things I don't actually care much about and he refuses to sleep with me (which I admittedly deserve.)
I spend hours that night tossing and turning and experiencing the hell of the evening over and over again.
The next day I wake up and cry to Rob about how I am spending a lot of time vulnerable. A LOT. And while I usually lean into it, it's all been too much. I tell him through tears how dumb I was the night before and how much pressure I'm putting on myself and how hard it all feels. The stakes are huge. I want to be a writer. I want to be a good mom. I need people to love this book. My son deserves the best of the best. And what if none of those things happens?
Publishing my book is intensely personal. A friend said when she was reading it, she felt like it was really personal to read it since she knows me and she felt like it was almost too intimate to read what I'd written. I knew exactly what she meant.
I spent years on this. I did the absolute best I could.
Doing the best you can, it turns out, is scary. Because there's no better. So if it's not good enough, that's the top.There's no better. You just failed after trying as hard as you could then.
Sure, the next book will be better than this one. I will grow as a writer for the rest of my life and continually get better at it and so someday I'll look back and think how much better I could have written this book. But for now, this is all I have. This is the best I could do. And I need it to be good enough to get to all those other books I'll write later.
And I get four and five stars. But those four stars are like in a performance review when your boss says, you're great here, here, here, and here and you have room for improvement here. I think oh god, four stars and you're my friend means that you really would've given it 2 if you didn't know me and what if everyone who sees the reviews thinks that too.
And you can see how this road of vulnerability can lead to insecurity and how much worse I can make ANYTHING if left to my own devices.
I am through-apnd-through honestly me. All the time. I'm genuine.
So if I feel like I said above, and I try to say "the book's great." It comes out weird. This is the closest I've ever been to knowing what it feels like to have Asperger's. My voice goes all flat and low and my eye contact is off and sometimes I say things as questions accidentally and then I laugh too loud and ... I mean to say, "yes, I'd love for you to read my book. thank you." But instead it comes out "I'm a weirdo!"
So instead of cheerleading and trying to convince anyone I'm anything but terrified, I started with my husband and said, "I'm spending all my time feeling vulnerable. And I can handle that in one area of life at a time but this, this is hard."
And he does what he does. He hugs me more. He tells me I'm beautiful more. He tells me, I am, in fact, not built like humpty dumpty at all but am sexy and that our 4-year-old is hard and we've all had a hard week. He tells me he's had a hard week with our 4-year-old too.
So then, when the next colleague, that very morning, congratulates me and asks about how I feel about the book, I'm honest.
I tell her it's the most time I've ever spent being vulnerable and that's good but it's hard too. And I sell a copy. Lean in.
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