The Long Hard Road; Keep Telling Yourself that Writing is Fun...

 Recently I made a conscious decision to re-focus on what matters. Well, I made a conscious decision years ago to focus on my kids, but now it's time to dedicate time to my first child: my fiction writing.

When I was 27 I worked four jobs. A co-worker at one of my part-time gigs, John, found out I was a writer and that I aspired to writing a book. My main job back then was as a staff writer with a local newspaper. Didn't pay much. (See "four jobs", above.) One day, John wrote me a note with a photocopy of his hand (no idea why) and all the note said was, "Write the book." I kept that note, and I fondly remember John, about eight years my junior, who shared the same birthday as me.

And I went home and started writing my first novel, which became titled The End of September. Because it was the end of September. I remember scrolling words onto a yellow legal pad. Yeah, it was 1986. I don't know if I owned a typewriter, but I know for sure I did not even have a personal word processor as yet.

But I completed that novel. And a few years later my ex-husband edited it for me and we transferred it via scan to a personal word processor. A few years after that I picked it up again and then followed suit with two more in the series, The End of December and The Beginning of October. All of these have been in Microsoft Word since 2008. Yay!

In the late eighties I penned The Supplier, which you can find on Amazon if you click the links in this site. I published that via PublishAmerica in 2008. And that was it for novels for a long time.

But while I was out on leave after my daughter, Reese, came to us via the foster/adoption system (another blog for another day!) I wrote my first non-fiction book, all about the traveling I did with my husband and kids from 1997 to 2013. That's featured on this site, too, Vacation, published via CreateSpace/Amazon. Vacation Two will be out soon and it picks up where I left off in Vacation, where I stopped just before my daughter was born.

Meantime I've been writing short stories, poems, lyrics and even a TV sitcom script. I have hoards of other ideas and short outlines for future projects.

I left a job a year ago to take a temporary technical writing position. They laid off the writers right before the holidays in 2019. Thanks, guys.

But seriously, thanks. Because I have decided to re-focus on my first-born, my fiction.

Almost three years ago I received the inspiration for my next novel, which now is complete as well, Harley's Eclipse. While having completed novels before, I did not place as much time on pursuing publication. The Supplier was not printed via a vanity press, but it still was not published via the "traditional" way. Vacation was published on Amazon. I had no patience to do the research and query in order to obtain a "traditional" book deal.

This time, I want to do it the "right" way. I hear that agents are looking for debut authors. I hear editors and book publishers are seeking new talent. That's me!

I'm taking an online course about publishing, reading all there is to read about agents and queries, and linking with other authors and on social media. I am reading other novels. I am working harder than I ever did in any previous job!

Writing is hard work and it takes focus. Pitching agents is hard work. I am researching daily and I put together a spreadsheet with 40 agents thus far. The training I am taking recommends 50 before querying. Okay. And my query letter is nearly ready. My friend Lauraine reviewed all my passes thus far and I think she may be ready to kill me.

So next, the person who conducts the training I'm taking, my "coach", reviews my query. Meantime, I search for "beta" readers (just found out about that term this week!) and eventually an editor who does not charge an arm and a leg because I am unemployed.

I'm going all out, and doing everything right, but I am taking my time. I am not rushing and am NOT putting Harley's Eclipse on the back burner. No, no, no, no, no! I am NOT giving up. It's too good, and I'M too good to back out or place more emphasis on a "job" again.

I cannot emphasize enough that writing is hard work. Not the actual writing but the "unfun" stuff like finding agents, listening to webinars and meetings about writing. And then there's the never-ending story of editing. I finished Harley's Eclipse two years ago and I've edited it like seven times. The last time I did anything with it, though was summer 2018. I recently made some significant changes, now that I have time. I like the research part but I'm getting carpel tunnel.

For me, the actual writing is easy: I sat down and penned this blog in about 10 minutes and am proud to say it probably does not have any errors and reads pretty well. I've had the knack since I was six, when I told my dad I wanted to write books. That's the truth.

But I didn't do anything about it until meeting John at Sears.

Thanks, John!

And thanks, various managers who decided that software engineers are more important than writers. You see, I'm pursuing my dream, which is attainable. And this is very interesting stuff.

You can do it too!

The Sans Writing Experiment

 A night alone gave way to introspection about my writing. While I stepped away from the laptop to work my evening job, then return home, eat, and watch a movie, without other family distractions and goals, though I did not set out for this to occur, it happened: I came to the realization that this writing gig is work.

Of course I knew that. Perhaps I didn't really know it at six, when I told my father I wanted to write books. But I certainly realized it in my twenties, when I wrote my first novel.

But I didn't know that this career goal of becoming a full-time novelist was a job. A JOB. I've had many, and mostly just as a way to support myself and my family. I suppose I thought writing would be fun, because sentence structure, grammar, punctuation, and imagination come naturally to me.

But it's more than that.

Like I always say, as human beings, we never really know how we will react or what we will do until we are in the moment. I watched "The Stanford Prison Experiment" this morning. Those young men didn't know what they would do until they did it. Would they succumb to the "prison guards'" wishes? Would the "prison guards" act humanely? Even Dr. Phil Zimbardo had no idea, admittedly.

It wasn't until this last round for me, with my most recent novel, PENNY'S SONG, that I realized this writing thing is REAL. It can get real real. Really fast. And it's more than putting ideas to paper and more than structuring a sentence. IT'S A LIFESTYLE. One that requires dedication, focus, determination, courage, a thick skin, a sense of humor, and time. Lots of time.

Nearly four months ago I embarked on the final editing journey for PS. It was brutal. I repeatedly acted like a prison guard to my own writing, cruelly taking out well-loved phrases and putting filter words in "the hole." And walking away at the end of the day, feeling badly, not just for having "killed" some characters or watching idly as other guards, my critique partners, did, but having killed certain scenes and replaced them with others. That one scene was always a nice guy.

It was a trying three months.

Then came perfecting the draft query letter. I had about ten versions. Yes, they got better over time. Yes, the new "pitch" received validation from a literary agent at a virtual conference this month. Yes, I began querying earlier this month, receiving five rejections. Six, if you include the agent who wrote me two separate rejection emails. Yes, another agent who rejected my manuscript lauded my query letter.

But the kudos did come with a price. Not the conference fee, or the webinar fee, the fee for the excellent query review, the charge for the editors to look at my first four chapters, or the writing group monthly charge. A mental price.

I never missed a work shift in my life. Last Monday, my supervisor called me twenty minutes into my shift, concerned about my whereabouts. I had failed to put the shift in my calendar. And the next day, I frantically drove my daughter to gymnastics "early," to find her session starts at 5:30 on Tuesdays in the summer, something I had known for weeks and had done correctly until then when I dropped her off an hour and a half too early.

In all fairness to writing, I also have been readying my son for college and planned two parties, one for him and one for my daughter's birthday. But I missed my daughter's piñata and water balloon fight to participate in a live pitch, one that though positive, resulted in the "double rejection" I mentioned. And prepping for the virtual writing conference, though helpful, also was stressful. I don't take anything lightly.

Just like Michael Angarano in "Stanford."

Am I saying I'm quitting? No, I'm not saying that. All I am saying is that while I knew and fully expected writing to present some challenges, and I was still prepared and willing to embark on this path, I now also see what I can become in the throes of this career.

It's not just a job I can leave behind at five pm. It's not even one that gives me a paycheck...yet. In fact, I pay to do this work and do it well. It feels more like having a child. Except this child is never going to leave home. Even when I'm gone, these children, "The Supplier," "The End of September," "Harley's Eclipse," "Vacation," and "Penny's Song," along with my future children, will carry on.

Is it worth it, knowing my voice will continue long after I depart this earth?

I wonder what Dr. Phil Zimbardo would have to say about that?

The Only Gift I Could Ever Want, I Have

Six months ago I was upset at how my daughter's gymnastics coach did not elevate her to the next level. Now, I sit looking at photos of her at her very first meet a week ago, in trampoline and tumbling, at which she won a gold medal in her age group for tumbling, and fourth place in trampoline.

Sometimes things seem awful or sad, but truly, to everything there is a purpose. If she had remained in regular gymnastics, this might not have occurred. Her new coach, Melissa, is a magnificent and charming young lady, and an exceptional trampoline and tumbling coach. She herself has won many medals in competition.

Melissa introduced our gym to "TNT" and my six-year-old daughter is in their very first group along with Alaina, Natalie, Zophia, Pasqualina, Addie and Bella, other six, seven and eight-year olds. Bella is the baby, just turning five. Natalie is everyone's "mom", at 10 years old.

Every cross country meet I attend, I stand with bated breath, waiting to see my son. So excitedly, I zoom in for that perfect shot or video, and you can always hear my loud mouth cheering him on. I make no excuse as I am from NYC!

Cross country meets are a sight to behold. When I was in sixth or seventh grade my teacher asked us to write an account from the perspective of an alien viewing us on earth. If an alien could see a cross country meet, they would be very confused to say the least, and consider us to be quite ridiculous.

A group of people running and crowds, comprised of 10 times as many people, cheering them on, for just a few moments at a time, until the runners reappear once again.

Cheers, then sudden silence. You might see runners up or down a hill, or hear someone cheer as they notice them across a lawn or parking lot. This continues for a mere 20-30 minutes (or in the teens for the fast ones), save for perhaps the slower runners; and then everyone can be seen under various tents, or heading to their vehicles, headed home.

That's it. A football game, soccer game, basketball game, baseball game or swim meet takes hours. Cross country, a few moments. Most of the time it takes longer to get to the venue than the event itself! We have traveled a half hour, and we have traveled two to four hours one way. Of course the athletes might stay behind to wait and cheer on the rest of the crew and take the school bus home, but often the onlookers only remain for about an hour in total, and that is if they arrive early to settle in.

The season begins with sweltering Indian summer scorches and ends with layered jerseys and for some, beanies. I am giddy as I observe my son, dripping in sweat regardless of the weather, waving us away, unable to speak, and the other runners, some of whom show facial distress, tumbling to the ground, grabbing water, or perhaps throwing up. I understand this sport, given I also am a runner.

But these kids train from August to November here, Monday through Friday after a long school day, jogging, running, squatting, lifting. They prepare, practicing tempo runs and sprint intervals. Likely, the coaches urge them to keep breathing and never give up, as a metaphor for life, as these sports make us durable.

They run three miles a day, and then there are meets every Wednesday and Saturday. Truly inspiring.

I only run a few times a week, and not always three miles each time.

And they get to do it all over again from November to March, with indoor track and field. My son runs the 800 and 1,000 meters and relays usually but last time did a 1,400. Look at the face of the runner as Logan tries passing. Logan may or may not have passed him, but he made him nervous!

In spring it's tennis. A shout-out to all the coaches over the years: Andy, Jeff, Wally, Carmen, Chris, Nicole. Wonderful work! And all his great running mates: Dom, Mike, Christian, Julie, Violet, Sam, Zoey, and Jenna. Many are graduating this year. Congratulations! They all have become friends.

I feel proud when I participate in local races with my son, who of course finishes in half the time it takes me to do a 5K, at usually 20-23 minutes. In the last race in September, he came back to the sidelines after finishing to cheer me on. He rather looked like he was being sarcastic, clapping slowly, or at least that is how this feeble body felt. "I didn't stop. I didn't walk," I said to him, as if he were a coach, judging. I want to be like him. I feel he is thinking, "It's about time, Mom." But maybe he is thinking, "I can't believe she is doing this at sixty." If he is not thinking that, he damn well should!

I was never a tumbler or gymnast. When I get on the trampoline I have difficulty with my bladder, though it is quite fun. But when I drop and I can't get back up I laugh, and my daughter takes my hand, smiling. She recognizes that getting back up is what it is all about (in life, too)!

I strive to be like my kids. At least I try! Not a bad thing. Funny that one might think they struggle to be like their parents.

It is now the holidays again. I hug my girl, I send my son text messages with hearts that I know he will not return, at least not while he is sixteen.

I proudly display their medals and trophies. I take the pins off my son's race bibs, sticking my fingers along the way. I include the lovely encouraging notes from Carmen that she wrote to all the athletes.

I lick my finger, gently placing the pins in a plastic container; the container is full. The container shows me he has been busy running. I dedicate these efforts to my late brother Fred, who ran every day until Multiple Sclerosis had different plans for him.

All I want for Christmas, I already have. My kids.

Happy Holidays to all!

XO

It's Not the End of the World, We Still Have Phlox

I hope this mini blog serves as an inspiration for all the hard-working parents out there who struggle with bills, work, neighbors, the weather, their kids’ safety, health, and happiness. Part of our happiness in this group is getting and staying fit. Is our fitness just for health, and to outlast our parents? Is it so we are not fat anymore, as we were as kids, when we were teased? Or is it more than that? Is it for self-esteem?

I have been working out, outside of school “gym” class, since a teen, but have not been truly consistent. I have been very consistent since 2014. Last year I discovered Aaptiv. As a part of this wonderful Aaptiv family, through all the changes that upset so many, and all the wonderful support as well, I have seen other parents struggle. Perhaps they have a sick child, or an overweight one, or one struggling with bullying or school work. For me, it’s not any of those things, and I know I am very lucky.

I could not have kids of my own. I was and am (I hope) a good stepparent. I was blessed with two wonderful children who I adopted later in life. I have a fantastic, smart, loving and extremely strong and athletic 16-year-old son and a friendly, creative, funny, beautiful fit and bouncy nearly six-year-old daughter. Both have served, along with Aaptiv, to inspire me physically, particularly in the past two years.

I look up to my kids. My son Logan, who just started cross country last fall and completed his second year at indoor track this winter, plays tennis in the spring and summer. Is he the best? No. Does he let it get to him? I don’t see it so much. He very maturely keeps it in, unlike some professional athletes. He gets mad at his father and I but that’s ok. He is cool, calm and collected, and he ran third in his age group in the 5 K in which we both participated last February. I participated to compete with him, not to beat him, but to share with him his new love of running, my lifelong desire, a way to follow in my late brother’s footsteps. I adored Fred. He ran 10 miles a day before MS took him. The day he told me about the MS I went out to run.

My daughter has sampled tennis and dabbled in soccer and T-ball. But her main course is gymnastics. I can’t even walk without tripping on my own two feet, so the fact that now I can complete an Ackeem running routine and say, “That’s it? It’s DONE?” is because of my kids.

My kids and my brother inspire me. You too, Ackeem!

So when the gymnastics coach advised me yesterday, that despite three years of the sport, my daughter is not going to advance, I was stunned. They suggested she take trampoline and tumbling, which would mean no more bar, which she loves. I cried. They said tumbling and jumping are her strengths. She does not know what they are talking about. She is five. I had to run to the bathroom to get tissues and was surrounded by parents, who I did not want to notice me sobbing like a baby. So I stained my new top, pretending and hoping no one noticed and if they did, that they thought it was allergies.

My friend text me back. “Michael Jordan was kicked off his high school team.” Yes, and I know, Einstein was labeled learning disabled. “It’s rejection/fear of not being liked/good enough/not being acknowledged for hard work,” she continued. She experienced similar things. Her daughter was not invited to another child’s birthday party, and her daughter did not mind. She told her mom she barely knew this child. But her mother’s feelings were hurt. She said she moved on and bit her tongue but wanted to slap the mother who had left her daughter out.

I’m not gonna slap anyone, don’t worry. But last night, I sure as heck felt like I needed to.

My friend said the T & T looks interesting. She also said, couching her reply with “I’m not a therapist, but…” that this is about me.

Of course it is. I know that. It’s about not being liked. It’s about comparisons. It’s all wrong. It’s just me. I have never been truly confident. I want my kids to win. I know my daughter wants to win. Not so much my son, who is more laid back about sports. Reese wants to succeed.

We call her the “best gymnast in the world”. She lives and breathes gymnastics. She is moving and jumping and climbing from the second she wakes up to the second she goes to sleep, and she is still moving in her sleep. She’s been like this since infancy.

But I guess she is not the best gymnast in the world, or even the best gymnast in my town, and not the best gymnast at XX Gymnastics. I intentionally leave off the name to be professional about it.

The coach was clear: Reese still is not holding her arms right, her legs, not doing things consistently. Perhaps she is not flexible enough. They said her shoulders are tight. In my mind she is saying Reese will never be a good gymnast, and they are sloughing her off on T & T so as not to upset us and not to lose a customer.

I admit my lack of knowledge of gymnastics to say whether any of this is the case, and I must defer to the coach. My thought is to contact her manager and ask for an additional evaluation. Or to return to a previous center. But the coaching there was not as good. So I am torn.

This mini blog is not about how to deal with this, however, even though I welcome suggestions; it’s about turning to other parents to perhaps gain perspective, or to teach them. I have done many things for a living and find parenting to be the hardest job out there. Parenting is harder than an Ackeem workout! 😊

As I write this, Reese is doing cartwheels. To me they seem perfect; I guess they are not. To quote my friend, “If I had to do cartwheels to save my life you’d be singing Amazing Grace at the service!”

After my One Step is All it Takes with Ackeem this morning, I picked some wild phlox for Reese.

She accepts them with so much joy, and I place them in water. I love how flox smell even though they shed everywhere. A bit of symbolism perhaps? LOL.

Reese is all smiles, always willing to work out in her very own gymnastics room which we gifted her last Christmas. She has improved.

So have I. I did not lose it with the gymnastics coach. And after all, I could not believe 28 minutes with Ackeem went by that fast.

All love.