Monday Musings: All the Feelings

This last week was a mixed bag of pleasure and pain. Last week, I told you how I’d been celebrating my birthday for about a month, working to complete 35 acts of kindness in honor of the 35 years I’ve been dancing across this planet. My village showed up BIG TIME when I asked them to join me in supporting Somebody’s Mama’s current project. I spent all morning writing thank you cards to people who helped me raise $496! Believe me when I say that every single dollar of that feels like a tiny miracle.

What I wanted most for a present this year was to go to the SCBWI Midsouth conference in Franklin, TN. It came highly recommended by my writing partner, Katie, who road tripped down to TN with me. Without going into too much detail about what these conferences are like—my intention when I go is three-fold: learn about craft, network with other writers, and receive feedback about what I need to do to write the best books.

My writing partner, Katie, and our new friend, David. Everyone needs to
run to the store (or pull up your Kindle app) and buy/read David's book Mosquitoland.
I don't have the words for this book right now. It's just some kind of
special genius. Aaaaaaaad David is like...Santa Claus nice. 

I came away from the conference feeling happy and sad. I've been told repeatedly that the book I’m currently querying is a story that needs to be told. The problem is that the people I’m talking to are skeptical that it can be sold. I get it. I really do. It’s just disappointing. I don’t think they’re wrong. I wrote a book told from the perspective of American kids and Ghanaian kids, and for the umpteenth time, I was told by an editor this isn’t accessible enough to the reader.

It has been suggested that I try rewriting the book completely from the American perspective. It has also been suggested that I change the main character from Ghana into a boy. Here’s the thing—I’m someone who is so willing to take direction and make edits that make the story better, but I believe wholeheartedly that neither of those things would make the story better. Not only that, but both of those things would be a disservice to the reader.  When I set out to write this book my goal was to show both perspectives. I need an American boy to show the familiar. I need the African girl to give voice to a perspective that is not often considered in American children’s literature. Juxtaposing those two voices provides contrast and invites the reader to consider a perspective not his own.

The idea that an American middle grader can’t handle switching narrators is just untrue. There are tons of books—contemporary books—that are doing this: the Origami Yoda series, Wonder, The Candymakers, just to name a few. I think saying that an American boy reading my book would put it down because the voice changes to a girl is insulting to our kids. (Also, hello? Have you met Katniss Everdeen? Or India Opal Buloni from Because of Winn-Dixie? Boys are reading those books because they’re good books.)

Okay…so that turned into more of a ranty vent than I intended. I’ll say this—I have received such positive feedback about the content and style of my writing that I haven’t lost hope. I just need to find the right agent to take a risk with me and publish something that doesn’t fit the formula. Madeline L’Engle failed at publishing A Wrinkle in Time 400 times before someone said yes, so I have 395 tries to go.

On the flip side, I was inspired to begin a new story based on some of the comments I received in my critiques, and if I get to the end of those 395 tries with my book that just can’t sell, I’ll try querying this one instead.

So, let’s move on.

On the way home from TN on Sunday, Scott called to tell me that his Grandad Currie had passed away earlier that morning. He was in his nineties, still moving around pretty well for his age. In fact, I received a card signed “Love, Grandad Currie” on my birthday just a few days before he passed. 

His wife, Scott’s grandmother, died a couple of years ago, and we last visited him in Bartlesville at Christmas. We set the timer on my phone to take a picture of all of us and emailed it to Walgreen’s in town so we could give it to him framed as a present. The things I will remember best about him are his love of Jamocha shakes from Arby’s, his stories about the Navy, and the fact that as long as he could hear you, he laughed the loudest at your jokes. 

Orin and Marge Currie, a petroleum engineer and a teacher, leave behind an incredible legacy in their family. I am so lucky to have known them and been welcomed into their home with open arms for the past fifteen years. They will be missed in body, but their spirits are with us, in us, in everything we do.

Monday Musings: It's My Birthday(-week-month)

My 35th birthday is in three days. THIRTY FIVE. I don’t know why this seems like such a bigger deal than thirty. Perhaps it’s because I’m on the highest point of the hill before toppling down into my late thirties? That’s what it feels like. In the last few weeks, I’ve felt a sort of out-of-body slow motion thing happening—lots of reflecting and introspecting—and I wake up most days feeling like this can’t be real life. I need to say this out loud—I love my life, exactly as it is right now. The last year has been about connecting with my family, downsizing, and pursuing passions. It’s the kind of fulfillment that money could never buy—it’s peace.

I’ve seen this line floating around social media lately in multiple forms, and it has really stuck with me—to raise your standard of living, raise your standard of giving.

Like whoa, right? It’s exactly what I believe. As we’re looking another promotion in the eye for Scott (thanks, Air Force!), we are so excited to see how that affects our ability to give. We have everything we need and more. Why not give the rest away?

On August 17th, I set out to celebrate the month leading up to my birthday with purposeful acts of kindness; my goal: 35. I got this idea from my friend, Dena, whom I ran into one night when she was out for one of her friend’s birthdays. They were on a mission to complete 35 acts of kindness together. This year, my birthday week is hectic (as I am sans husband and starting up all the beginning of school year activities with the kids), so I gave myself a little grace and started a month early. 

I won’t list everything I/we have done, but I will tell you about a couple of things that our family loves to do. First is the supertip. This started a couple of years ago when the boys and I were eating at Buffalo Wild Wings in Olympia, WA. Our waitress was 8+ months pregnant, and my mama heart beat for her. We left a 100% tip and snuck out as quickly as possible. It has become a bit of a trend. We don’t eat out a lot or this would break our bank, but let me tell you—there is nothing better than hearing my kids say, “Mom, can we supertip?” First, it feels good to brighten someone’s day obviously, but I also love that my kids are gaining an appreciation for the service other people provide us. It’s a privilege to walk into a restaurant, sit down, and have someone bring food to us. We do not take that for granted.

Secondly, with the help of our church, we made up some baggies with snacks, chapstick, tissues, bandages, and water to hand out to people standing with signs. There’s a particularly busy intersection I frequent where almost every day at least one person is standing on the corner. If I’ve got a baggie in the car (I try to always have a few), I park in a nearby parking lot and walk across traffic to give them one. So far, this month, I’ve given baggies to Nick, Carl, and John. Every time, I ask their names and then ask if they’ve had lunch. If they say no (which is almost always the case), I give them enough to get something at the Wendy’s nearby. In each of these three cases, they immediately picked up their things and walked to get lunch. I’ve heard all that has been said about people experiencing homelessness—that we shouldn’t give them money, that they’ll just spend it on drugs and alcohol, that the best thing we can do is leave the work up to the professionals. Well, nobody is the boss of me, and when I actually talk to and touch these people, I’m acutely aware of how they feel the rest of the world views them. I will continue to support the missions and food pantries that serve this population with donations and volunteer hours, but I will also not sit by while human beings feel hated, judged, or invisible.

Over the last (almost) month, we’ve plugged expired parking meters, bought “just because” gifts for teachers and friends, left “coffee cash” in library books with notes saying “Your next treat is on us!”, sent care packages to friends recovering from surgery, and handed down clothes. We’ve donated to causes benefiting classroom teachers, a lovely young girl who is killing it at life despite some significant challenges, women in transitional housing, kids in Ethiopia, cancer patients, refugees, Make-a-Wish kids, and a program to train healthcare workers in Uganda. Basically, if someone asked, we gave—not a lot, but enough to say to the people asking—“We care about you, and we care about what you care about!”

I honestly cannot think of a better way to celebrate being on earth for 35 years—I hope you all understand that this doesn’t come from a place of piety. Not even at all. I am overwhelmed by the love and generosity that permeate my life and my being. OVERWHELMED. It’s from that place of abundance that I’m inspired to share. 

You know what the weirdest part about all of this is? The day after I started this, I got an email from the school saying we’d won a drawing at back to school night for $25 off our band fees. 

Two days later, I was walking to school with the boys, and I glanced down. Tucked between the sidewalk and the grass was a piece of paper that looked like a dollar bill. I picked it up and thought it must be a promotional flyer because NO ONE FINDS $100 LYING ON THE GROUND. But I did. I did. (My dad took this super awkward picture of me as proof. I thought only the money was in the frame.)

Four days later, we got a letter in the mail that there had been some sort of medical billing mix up when Scott injured his shoulder skiing in Breckenridge (15 years ago!!!), and we were owed $594. It’s completely legit. When does this kind of stuff happen? Seriously?

Aside from that, I’ve received random cards in the mail with encouraging words and a couple of unexpected gifts from friends.

I still have four days and 10 acts of kindness to go. We can take care of those no problem. You know what would make me the happiest girl in the world? If you would join me. 

Will you do something between now and September 17th in honor of my birthday? What I want more than anything else in the world right now is for more love and kindness to be purposely given.

If we’re friends, you know that I’m fighting sex trafficking in Sonagacchi, the largest red light district in Kolkata, India right now. I would love it if you considered donating $35 to this project. Am I shamelessly plugging right now? You better believe it. It’s my birthday, so I get a pass. If you’d like to give $5 because you’ve only known me for five years, that’s cool, too. Or if you want to give $1,000 because you are worth 1000 points of awesome, we will accept that as well. (We have $5,535.14 to go to see this project to its completion—our family gave $140…$35 for each family member.) If you want to give, you can CLICK HERE and put your amount in the box for “Current Project—Tamar Project India.” As always, your donation is tax-deductible.

Happy birthday to me, friends. What a gift it is to know you and a gift to be alive!

To Will, on Your 10th Birthday

I wanted to write you a letter because I love through words. In reflecting on your first ten years, I found myself laughing and crying about all that you’ve taught me, and I want to use some of those experiences to give you advice about the next decade of your life.

You see that look on your face? That look says, “Hey, Mom! Did you want me to take a nap? Yeah, I’m probably not going to do that.” As an infant, I could take you anywhere—the grocery store, art museums, restaurants, weddings, funerals—anywhere, and I never worried that you would throw a tantrum or cause a problem. The downside to this was that you were so happy observing your world that YOU NEVER SLEPT. I could have used you as a brownie timer because your naps were 23 minutes exactly. Every time. And at night? I guess you just wanted to hang out with me because I was so cool. Eventually (around 2 1/2), you figured out the sleep thing and never looked back. What hasn’t changed is the way you observe your world. One of the things I love about you most is how you don’t miss a thing—you’re engaged and aware, and you floor me on a regular basis with your commentary on how the world works. Stay engaged. Keep watching carefully and paying attention. Your world is a big, beautiful place, and it’s just going to keep getting bigger and more beautiful. 

You started cruising on furniture when you were eight months old. You would crawl over, pull yourself up, and hold on to the edge of the couch…or the windowsill…or the wall. Whatever you could hold onto. And you did this for SEVEN MONTHS. No matter what we did, you refused to take those first steps away from safety. And then one day, in the middle of a Christmas party, you stood up from my lap and walked across the room like you’d been doing it your whole life. We had no way of knowing, but the way you learned to walk is a lot like the way you do most things—you’re cautious and thoughtful and deliberate. When you make decisions, you’re confident because you’ve given yourself enough time to make sure it’s exactly what you want to do. I love this about you, and I hope it’s the way you continue to be as you get older.

So you know that Dad and I love dressing up for Halloween, and we are committed to dressing up with you as long as you let us. There was a time when we were the ones who picked the costumes, and this was the year we couldn’t help but make you Draco Malfoy. You ran around casting spells and saying “Harry Potter” in a snide British accent because even though you didn’t know about Harry or the wizarding world yet, you knew how to have fun. Since then, you’ve fallen in love with superheroes and cars and video games and book series, and your level of knowledge/obsession/nerdery with these fandoms is proof that you still know how to have fun. I love watching you discover new book characters and movies and TV shows. I love the way you can quote your favorite movies and how you want me to read the books you’re reading. I can promise you this—if you’ve got something you love, some kind of entertainment that brings you immense joy—you will always have me to nerd out with. Always.

I had a little over three years with you before Ben came along. You were infamous in the hospital the day you came to hang out with him as Batman. You loved him immediately and tried to share Skittles with him. You sat for hours on the floor reading board books to him in his bouncy seat or driving Hot Wheels around him while he had tummy time on his blanket. You were a perfect helper, never jealous, and mesmerized by this little built in friend who trailed after you wherever you went. He was equally mesmerized by you—emulating your every move, hanging on your every word, always ready for whatever game or alternate reality you’d created. Not much has changed now that you are older. Do you know the gift you have in Ben as your brother? Do you know how much he loves and looks up to you? As your mom, there are few things that bring me greater joy than the fact that the two of you are best friends. You are a dynamic duo, one that has the power to save the world. I love you individually, but together—you guys are magical.

I didn’t really intend to pick three costume-ish pictures in a row, but it makes sense that that would happen as your preschool years were about three things: imagination, imagination, and imagination. I never knew if I was going to wake up with the Hulk or a train conductor or a dragon. Some weeks, you refused to answer to the name “Will” and preferred to be called “Buzz Lightyear” or “Bruce Banner.” Your ability to stay in character was unrivaled and inspired us to introduce you to theater. I hope you’ll explore the world of acting more as you get older because Will—you are really, really good at it.

This is one of my favorite memories of you from the last ten years. We were living in Charleston, and one night, we had a freakish snowfall. You had been in bed for hours, and I was up reading in the living room. I got up to get more tea and realized there was snow actually accumulating in the yard. Knowing full well that it would be gone quickly in the morning, I woke you up at 11:00 at night, threw on the warmest clothes we had, and took you out in the backyard to make snow angels. We made a snowman and had Tang snow cones and threw snowballs, and you didn’t get back to bed until one in the morning. It was spontaneous and nonsensical. I love how serious you are about life, but I want you to remember that’s it’s okay to do things that don’t make sense sometimes—run outside when it’s raining, eat ice cream for dinner, wake up on Saturday morning and start driving. Some of your best memories will come from the days you don’t plan.

The world will tell you that the way to get ahead, the way to keep up, the way to find success will be to do more more more, to stay busy busy busy, but let me clear about this: busy does not mean happy. Busy does not mean successful. Busy does not mean better. One of the biggest lessons you have taught me is to slow down and relax. You have an innate sense of capacity—those are just big words that mean you know when enough is enough. You crave days at home and quiet reading and alone time. I do, too—it is what you always say: #genesfrommom. In this picture, you’re fishing, something other kids your age then wouldn’t have wanted to do because it’s a lot of sitting around. (This summer, you reminded me it’s called “fishing” not catching for a reason.) You taught me that rest is restoration. And I hope you always strike the right balance when it comes to busyness and rest.

I have had the privilege of homeschooling you for two years of your formal education so far, and it was the greatest lesson in how plan B can be the best plan sometimes. I love watching you learn. I love seeing lightbulbs go off in your head. I love seeing you find creative solutions. I love hearing you ask questions. You aren’t just a student—you’re a lover of learning (I’d say #genesfrommom here again, but I think it’s equal parts #genesfromdad). Whether it’s a new math skill or a new novel, you jump in head first, devouring information like a life source—and let me tell you, it is. Your life will be infinitely more satisfying if you stay open. I’ll be 35 in a couple of weeks, and I’m still learning every single day things I didn’t know before—about myself, about the people I love, and about my world. NEVER. STOP. LEARNING.

When you were in 1st grade, you received a character award at school for being responsible. I know it drives you crazy when we say you are like an eighty year old man, but you need to know we say it because you are wise and responsible beyond your years. We opened a bank account for you when you were seven. SEVEN! Because you understood the value of money and had goals. You take life seriously. Be proud of that. Those of us who have witnessed you growing up are amazed at how steady and dependable and solid you are. We can count on you, which makes you a great brother, a great son, and a great friend.

I took this picture on your ninth birthday when we had hot chocolate at IHOP (your pick on a day I said we would do anything you wanted). After that, you spent a little birthday money at GameStop, we had a meal at Longhorn (where the manager gave you free dessert because she was so impressed you ate an 11 oz. ribeye by yourself), and then we went home to watch movies and play video games together. I love that you are happy with simple things. Hot chocolate at IHOP. A good steak. Family time. Here’s a secret, Will, maybe the only thing you need to know to love your life: you don’t need much more than those things to be happy.

We snapped this shot half an hour before your first piano performance. Remember when you started piano, and you weren’t even sure you wanted to try it? Doesn’t that seem crazy now that you are so good at it? Proof positive of the power of trying something new. Can I tell you something, and you promise not to make fun of me? I cry sometimes when I hear you practicing. Your motivation and dedication makes me so proud. The fact that you take care of things like homework and making snacks when you’re hungry and practicing the piano makes me forget sometimes that you’re a kid. You are just so grown up, and while I miss the yesterday you, I am even more excited to see the tomorrow you. Because, Will, I don’t know how it’s possible, but you just keep getting more and more awesome every day.

Happy double digits birthday, firstborn. If you don’t mind, I’ll steal a quote from you—“when I say I love you, I mean it. Like I really, really mean it, not like something people just say sometimes because it’s something to say, but like real love.”

Forever,

Mom

P. S. I tried to make a four-minute video of your life and realized with a quickness that condensing ten years into four minutes was impossible, so I made this ridiculous 17-minute video. It's all for you. Well, and for the grandmas because they like that sort of thing, too. Enjoy!

Monday Musings: Solving All the Problems

WHAT I’M ABSORBING

1. In a few weeks, I’m attending the Place Conference put on by The Mentoring Project in OKC. (There are still some tickets available, but the price goes up on September 1st, so get one now if you’re interested. The line-up of speakers is PHENOMENAL—plus you’ll get to hang out with me!) 

I have heard some of these speakers before and am familiar with several others on the list, but there was one I had never heard of. The organizers sent out a link to this 10-minute video of David M. Bailey speaking about the role of the Church and non-profits in racial reconciliation. Much of the conversation I’ve seen on the subject via social media quickly devolves into squabbling, and it’s just not productive. I really like the way he frames the conversation. Take a listen (and I CANNOT WAIT TO HEAR HIM SPEAK! Go buy your ticket now, OKC friends!)

2. I’ve had three separate conversations with moms over the last couple weeks about how tough mornings are as they are getting back into the swing of things for the new school year. I say this all the time, and I’ll say it a million more times: children need sleep. We’re pretty crazy about guarding our kids’ bedtimes during the week—it’s why we don’t over schedule night activities and why I volunteer to run things, so everyone else has to be on my schedule…wink wink (more on that below). In my mothering experience, I’ve learned there are really only three things kids need when they are falling apart: food, sleep, or attention. I have yet to face a parenting dilemma that hasn’t been solved with one or more of those things. 

A teacher friend of mine posted this from an elementary school, and it is spot on for my kids. Our mornings are genuinely pretty drama-free (as long as I don’t make Ben wear new shorts) WHEN MY KIDS HAVE HAD ENOUGH SLEEP. Now, I’m not telling you what to do. All kids are different, and if you’ve got a precious petal who only needs four hours of sleep and is still a tiny Mother Teresa, then stick with what you’re doing. But if the spawn of Satan crawls out from under the covers at your house, take a looky-loo and consider making adjustments.

WHAT I’M OBSERVING

For three years, Will has been a cub scout, and Ben has been tagging along. It has from the beginning been an activity that Scott was in charge of for reasons including but not limited to: his status as an Eagle scout, my extreme hatred of sleeping in sleeping bags, the general dorkiness male bonding.

This year, Ben enters the world of scouting as a scout for the first time, and when we signed up last week, there wasn’t a Tiger leader. Several men shuffled their feet and mumbled about how they would help, but no one really wanted to commit to leading. So I voluntold Scott that he’s the Tiger leader and promised to be his trusty sidekick. I did this for a couple of reasons. 

First, I look for ways to connect with Ben out of second child guilt (#realtalk), and secondly, I know it will come as a surprise, but sometimes an organization that is run primarily by old man volunteers who love making coffee over fire on purpose and wearing slightly too short shorts is not always all that organized*. We’ve been lucky to have female den leaders for Will who have kept the dens running smoothly, and I really want the same experience for Ben. Scott will do the scout stuff. I will keep us organized with calendars and contact info and lesson plans and general “classroom management” techniques. Because secretly, this is totally my wheelhouse. But don’t tell the scouts because I don’t want to be recruited for anything else. *I acknowledge the sexist nature of these comments, but I do not take them back.

Oh, also, we were worried that the den was going to be small, and then 13 kids showed up. Everyone has warned me that we should split the den because it’s going to be too hard. Will’s den leader said, “Your kids are well-behaved but not everyone else’s are.” I answered, “There’s a reason my kids are well-behaved.” MAMA J HAS GOT THIS. (Please feel free to mock me three months from now if I have to eat my words.)

New York, New York! Part 2

I wrote a part 1 about my time at the SCBWI conference in NYC, so I guess that necessitates a part 2. If you don’t have time to read this whole thing, here’s a summary: either great things are going to happen, or I’m going to die because my brain explodes.

So, first a note about the conference itself—everything I attended fell into three categories: critique, industry information, and inspiration. Some of the things fell into more than one category.

Some things that surprised me in a good way:

1. Many of the agents and editors were way more approachable than I expected. There is definitely a prevailing thought that industry insiders are aloof and too busy to smile. Not true at all. Some of them were less approachable, but it came off more as personality type, not ivory tower snootiness.
2. Some of the authors I have stalked idolized read have no idea how famous they are, or at the very least, fame seems to have had less of an effect on them than other “celebrities.” (On a related note, it must be exhausting being that nice to so many weird fangirly people.)

Some things that surprised me in a bad way:

1. A disturbing number of people like to eat bagels+lox+capers at 8:30 in the morning.
2. No one offered to publish my book on the spot. (I MEAN, IT’S BRILLIANT.)

Okay, just kidding. I’m not surprised that no one offered to publish my book. That’s not how these things work. But seriously, people. What is up with the lox and capers thing?

NOT breakfast despite what this blogger and many others believe. Gross.

So, what now?

Well, I have this book, and I think it’s a really good book. Based on the information I gleaned from sessions about writing, critiques with agents and editors, and panels, I think my book is ready for the market for three main reasons.

1. The market is begging for diversity. (See #WeNeedDiverseBooks on Twitter.) My book is set in Ghana and Togo and chronicles the relationship between two Ghanaian girls and two American boys who are visiting them. I am relatively knowledgeable about what is on the shelves for children—I’ve spent half my life sitting in the children’s section of bookstores and libraries done extensive research about what is out there for kids re: stories about Africa, and I think there is room for my book. In our house, we’ve read picture books like I Lost My Tooth in Africa by Penda Diakite and Baba Wague Diakite (set in Mali) and Boundless Grace by Mary Hoffman and Caroline Binch (set in Gambia). I’m familiar with what the middle grade world has to offer re: African stories, and it is overwhelmingly stories about Egypt and South Africa. Anthony Horowitz (who was a pretty dynamic speaker at the conference) set one of his Alex Rider books in Kenya. I have yet to find a successful middle grade novel set in Ghana and/or Togo (please let me know if you know of one because I’d like to read it!). There are other great books out there about Africa, but as I have said before, Africa is a continent made up of many diverse countries/people groups, and I’m on a personal mission to stop this nonsense where we talk about Africa as one big ambiguous place.
2. The second thing I heard that comes as no surprise is that agents and editors are looking for something “brilliant and original.” Here’s the truth about writing—we’re all writing the same story over and over and over again. There are only really about five themes that get tossed around and spit-shined into something “new.” My book is about family and friendship and traveling. It’s about breaking down stereotypes and personal biases after being exposed to new information. It’s about a clash of cultures so to speak, but I attempt to offer balance in perspectives through multiple narrators. This isn’t a story about people from the West traversing the “dark continent”—that’s been done far too many times (and is frankly offensive), and our world is ready for nuance. I believe my book provides a fresh take; it’s a story that needs to be told.
3. Jordan Brown, senior editor for HarperCollins Children’s said in his “Seven Rules for Writing Middle Grade” session that there aren’t actually any rules. There are some significant suggestions based on what the industry tends to publish, but the overwhelming theme of his talk was “You can do anything you want, as long as it works.” For every “convention” out there that tells me what not to do, I can find you an example of a book that defies that convention. Don’t start a book with dialogue—oops, Charlotte’s Web. Narrators can’t be dead—oops, The Lovely Bones and Before I Fall and Thirteen Reasons Why. Middle grade MUST be completely plot-driven—oops, Kwame Alexander just won the Newbery for his book The Crossover, and the plot is tertiary to the character development/family dynamic and the beautiful verse in which it’s written. I’ve taken some risks with my book—it’s set in Africa; it has multiple narrators; it relies heavily on characters over plot (not that the plot is lacking, but it lacks some of the BOOM POW action/crazy twists/comedy of errors plot elements that are found in much of what is being published in middle grade right now). Bottom line: I still think it works, and I think it works well enough to start querying agents.

My current plan of action is this: 

1. Make more lists because this post does not have enough lists.
2. Spend this week going over all my notes/business cards/handouts from the conference.
3. Spend the next two weeks working on tightening the beginning of the book and doing a major revision of the last two-thirds of the book (while balancing family/Somebody’s Mama/sub jobs).
4. Attend one more conference in March, and then spend the rest of the month querying agents.

It’s an odd feeling sitting on this kind of energy. One minute, I feel like a cast member from Girl, Interrupted and the next I feel like Hermione punching Draco in The Prisoner of Azkaban—I, of course, am Hermione, and Draco is all the serious doubts and insecurities telling me my book sucks and I should just go get a job at Burger King.

So, that’s all I’ve got right now. I’m working closely with a couple of beta-readers who are picking apart my book line by line, and I’m sitting down every day to work. Wish me luck!

New York, New York! Part 1

Traveling alone is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Traveling alone to NYC for a writing conference—well now, get on back. I realized in sitting down to write this post that I essentially started blogging because I was inspired by a trip to NYC (which you can read here and here and here because it’s three parts and ridiculously long because I didn’t understand how blogging works). So, this feels all sorts of full circle right now. 

I’m writing this post for my mom, who is nearly bursting because she needs to know everysingledetailabouteverythingrightthissecond, and for Sarah, who wants to know why I’m not posting all over Facebook. 

I left Belleville Thursday afternoon via Metro to fly from St. Louis to New York City. I settled in with a book (The Testing by Joelle Charbonneau for the sake of anyone interested) for the hour-long ride. On the very next stop, a man got on, sat directly in front of me, and proceeded to pen the great American novel via text WITH ALL OF THE SOUNDS ON HIS PHONE TURNED ON. All of them. Oh, and it was a flip phone, like the very first cell phone I ever had a million years ago, so every single button was deep deep deeping. Forty-five minutes into the ride, I developed a tick and used every ounce of energy in my body to not grab the phone out of his hands and throw it out the doors right before the lady voice said “Please stand clear, doors closing” at the next stop.

Luckily, he got off before I had a chance, and at that stop, another man got on and sat on the opposite side of the aisle two rows in front of me and immediately started barfing all over the train floor. The rocking of the train and angle of the floor spread his reverse liquid lunch in a ten-foot radius.

So, um, rough start.

HOWEVER, I breezed through security (already checked in and carrying on) to find my flight delayed. I got out my mental juicer and made quick use of those lemons (or in this case limes) by enjoying a giant margarita while I waited.

The flight was uneventful, and more importantly, my seatmate was THE PERFECT TRAVEL COMPANION—and by perfect, I mean the only conversation we had the entire flight was when I said, “That’s me” when I pointed at my window seat, so he would stand up for me to scoot by. I take that back—he made a cooing sound (really, like a happy baby) as we were landing and pointed out the window as we passed New York City At Night. We smiled dopily together at the Statue of Liberty, and he cemented the fact that he was my people. 

By the time I got to my hotel, it was almost 10 o’clock. Let me tell you—I can not say enough about how awesome this hotel is. The concierge looks like Bo Jackson—like this Bo Jackson from 1986. I have no idea what 2015 Bo Jackson looks like.

The manager on duty called me over and then apologized for the smell and told Bo to tell the potheads outside the main door to move on down the road. I told her, “No worries. I just lived in Washington state for three years. If anything, it makes me nostalgic for home.”

Okay, wait—let me go back to why the hotel is awesome. So, my “pod” is teeny tiny and so efficient, and if I had a mini-fridge, I could just move in here full-time.

I'm standing on my bed in this picture. Otherwise, the selfie
looked like a floating head due to my short stature.

I closed these blinds because I was feeling a little Rear Windowish.

Downstairs is this hip restaurant/bar called Salvation Taco, and there are jars of peppers and Jesus statues everywhere. I told the waiter I was starving but needed something that wouldn’t give me indigestion because I’m an old lady I needed a snack. He suggested the al carbon quesadillas but warned me that they were a little spicy. Aaaaaaaaand, I ordered another margarita because I’m on vacation, and nobody is the boss of me. (P. S. New York spicy is not spicy. It’s weeny crybaby spicy, but the quesadilla+tomatillo salsa was still amazeboobs.)

Snapped a picture at the last minute because everyone else
in the restaurant was doing it, and I was trying to fit in.

So many holy pepper jars.

After inhaling my snack, I inched my way out of the restaurant through the throng of beautiful people (men in their late 20s with light brown dress shoes and pocket squares and women with Brazilian blow outs) to make it back up to my room. 

I prepared for the next morning by laying out my clothes and lining up all my toiletries in my cutesie little bathroom and crawled into bed. I called my boys to say goodnight and then flipped on the TV. 

Allow me a moment to love them more than everything.

After scanning the late night drivel, I turned it off and willed myself to sleep. Unsuccessful. What if I came on the wrong day, and no one is there tomorrow? (Turn on phone; check email; confirm dates.) What if I take out my pages at the roundtable and find out I printed the wrong pages? (Get out of bed; check pages; place pages back in bag.) What if there’s a fire in the middle of the night, and in my haste to not be burned alive, I run out into the frigid New York night in nothing but these sleep pants and this flimsy nearly see-through t-shirt I brought because it’s sooooooooooooooo comfortable but now all the hip guests in this fancy hotel will see my old lady nipples? (Get out of bed, pull suitcase out from under the bed; pull out sweater just in case.)

Somewhere between ridiculously late and ridiculously early, I fell asleep and woke back up and dressed in what I thought would say, “Hey, no big deal. I’m a writer, and I take this very seriously, but I also like to be comfortable, and we writer types who do this all the time know how cold these hotel ballrooms can be, amIright?” I regret to inform you that I did not take a picture of said outfit, so you’ll just have to take my word(s) for it.

The conference went like this:

7:45 Smile and introduce myself. “You need to go to the writer check in. This is for illustrators.”

7:45:30 Smile and introduce myself. “Registration opens at 8:00.”

7:47 Stand in the bathroom taking down and putting up my very casual top knot over and over and over and over in an effort to look effortless.

7:50 Get a piece of pound cake and a black coffee and stand near people I don’t know hoping they talk to me.

7:51 Talk to Lois, David, and Jodie and burn my mouth with coffee.

8:00 Be fourth person in line to get packet. Organize the million sheets of paper and find my place at table #9. Meet my tablemates and panic because I’m the only one not wearing purple.

8:30 Sigh with relief when other tablemates arrive and are not wearing purple.

9:00 Stop chatting and listen to panel of real live human agents discussing queries.

10:15 Round table with real live human agent and seven other participants. Receive feedback. Give feedback. Feel generally in love with the world.

12:30 Business lunch with Becky Straw, co-founder of The Adventure Project, current partner for Somebody’s Mama’s quarterly project. Forget to take a picture with her, but it totally happened.

1:45 Second round table with real live human editor. Halfway through, fidget with earring, lose earring back. During break, climb under table to find it, aiming backside at said editor. Give up finding earring back because realize look like insane person. At end of session, editor finds earring back under her chair and graciously hands it back.

3:45 Tweet at editor apology for climbing under table and put phone away in time to listen to panel of real live editors talk about manuscript revisions.

5:00 Pack up bag and feel generally in love with the world.

Part of me really wanted to find a cohort for dinner, but most of me was exhausted from interacting with real live humans for nine hours and fifteen minutes in one stretch, so I headed to dinner alone at the Italian joint across from my cutesie hotel. I had pinot grigio and fettucine alfredo (basically the adult version of grape juice and mac&cheese) and walked back across the street to prepare for Saturday’s festivities.

I still have two days at this conference, so stay tuned for another installment of “It’s been so long since I blogged regularly that I forgot that you can’t write pieces this long and expect people to read them.” 

In summary at the halfway point of this getaway, I can’t believe this is my life.