A Day Off

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a public service message. To be more accurate, a good old fashioned grumble session.

There is a large disparity between my husband's definition of "a day off" and mine. Before I continue, let it be known that in reality I have no cause for complaint. None. I married a wonderful man who is a great dad. He works hard, comes home and plays with the kids, does more laundry than I do, mows the lawn, takes out the garbage, and very seldom leaves the toilet seat in the upright position. He's a jewel.

That being said, I need a day off. A weekend would be better. For every gift giving occasion over the last two years this question has been posited:

"What would you like for your birthday/anniversary/Mother's Day/whatever?"

The answer has been the same each and every time.

"I would like for you to take the kids and go away."

I'm such a romantic. But seriously, I would like a whole weekend to not hear a whine, wipe up juice, change a diaper, or blow bubbles in the front yard. And read and write with NO GUILT.

The thing is, that boy I married often takes one or the other of los bambinos somewhere for an extended period of time on Saturday afternoons which cuts my responsibility load considerably. Occasionally, however, I am promised a day off. Last weekend he made noises about actually taking the kids to see his mother this weekend. I had palpitations.

Somehow or another, that plan faded or fizzled or maybe he was just speculating out loud. I'm not really sure. It was quite a tease, though. Then he floated the idea that maybe he would take the older (my trouble maker) with him on Friday night and Saturday to do some work on the house we are selling. That one never came to fruition either. Today he generously (and bravely) started out with a plan to manage the kids all day and let me put my feet up.

I know that in theory it's the thought that counts. I do. And he was thinking of me. BUT. If everyone is here, it's not a day off. I can hear them when they have tantrums. I feel guilty that I'm not pitching in. (Not quite guilty enough to ascend from our cavelike basement.) And when things get really hairy I have to pitch in because frankly the kids are a little more scared of me. So. In the interest of well meaning spouses everywhere who promise their significant other the day off I am posting the conditions that must be met in order for it to qualify:

1. You must actually go away.

2. If you say you will go away by 9 am, you must comply. No claims of a 9 am departure and then dilly-dallying around until 1. At that point it's naptime for at least one of the bambinos who must then stay home and that is NOT a day off. Every second that dear hubby and kids are still around is on MY time. I get edgier than a two dollar hooker looking for a crack fix while I watch the clock and wonder when everybody is really going to clear out and the house will be quiet.

3. Do not come home early unless it is a bona fide emergency. In our case, a complete melt down of the five year old qualifies. I might want a day off but I can be reasonable and handling him in a public setting when he is in full frontal disintegration mode is just too much to ask. Just please call and let me know as soon as you do that you'll be home early. Otherwise, if I think I have until 6 pm to play with my belly button I really need until 6 pm. If I don't get it I feel ripped off. Shortchanged. Hostile.

4. It is better if the day off is not a surprise. Half the fun of the elusive day off is knowing it's coming and looking forward to it. It's better than jewelry and highly likely to gain you favors of a carnal nature.

That's it. Pretty simple, really. If I ever get a real day off I will let you know. But I won't blog about what I did that day because I guarantee you that to anyone besides me it will be dreadfully, blissfully boring.

ONE LAST DRINK: Clarity of Night Flash Fiction Entry

ONE LAST DRINK

I greatly desired the man’s death, even imagined it; he could not be suffered to live. You, who so well know me, know it was not covetousness, as my wife ventured to suggest- that she should utter such against her own husband! Her slander against me proved the poison in the man’s deranged poem that haunted and taunted, incessant, unceasing.

I had his acquaintance years prior but dreamed not of meeting again. Such simplicity, such justice in the path set before me as my eyes knew him in the street. He wore the greyness that came on him in his younger days, marking the madness consuming his soul. Madness he inflicted upon us all with his writings. Nevermore. You must understand my course predetermined. What just man, sane man, could deny it? Not you, certainly.

He had a weakness, this supposed genius of our age.

"Mr. Poe! Mr. Poe! How luckily met!" He could not guess my revulsion at touching the vessel of such insanity as dwelt within him.

"Reynolds?"

"The very same! Join me. You must not walk alone on Election Day in Baltimore. Here we are at Gunner’s Hall. Come, have a drink. I’ll see you safely home."

"I should not. I am-I should not."

"You cannot deny me the pleasure of raising a glass together in celebration of your accomplishments. It is many years passed. Come, one drink."

"Ahh. One last drink." So you see, it truly was he, not I, that chose his manner of death.

Writing

I want something new to write. It's more fun than editing. Vastly. I still love the book...adore it, want to make out with it and have its baby, but I miss seeing a whole scene of something new in my head and being completely checked out of reality until I can write it down.

Surfing blogs of writerly and industry types I have become a huge Chirs Eldin fan. Those of you who are just supportive friends of mine might not have heard of her but I think you will. I swear she's channeling for Judy Blume. Think "Superfudge" for the 21st Century. Anyway, she plugged a writing contest on ANOTHER blog, Clarity of Night, that I'm all geeked up about. Cliff notes version of the rules follow:

1. Write no more than 250 words
2. Inspired by posted photo.

The photo (Seriously, go look it up if you want to see it but I am too lazy to post here) is a glass of something that looks like claret and a hint of smoke wafting around the base.

I wasn't going to enter but I got struck by lightening (figuratively of course) over the weekend with a really cool concept and decided to flesh it out. It turned out pretty well and holy crap, it was so fun! And completely different in voice and concept from what I've been writing. The entries in previous contests have been crazy good so I am not holding my breath to place against that kind of competition but I don't think that next year I'll look back on my entry and cringe. I'll post here tomorrow after I submit it.

I have another fun little germ of an idea rolling around waiting to ripen, as well. I'd better edit faster before it takes on corporeal form and dominates my life to the exclusion of all else...

I hope writing continues to be this fun after I start sending queries.

Different, Like the Rest of Us

Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm "different." The phrase "You are NOT right!" has been directed at me with remarkable frequency. It's a little strange, really, since on the surface I look like a stereotype. Thirtysomething, married, one boy, one girl, two dogs. We worry about money, elections, where our kids will go to school, our parents getting older. We're just like everybody else. And when people tell me "You're not right" it's usually because I have elucidated a universal truth that no one else wants to 'fess up. My biggest dirty little secret? Every single day I count the minutes until the kids' bedtime so I am done being a mom that day. Except it isn't really a secret since I'll tell anyone. Even a social worker.

The thing is the stuff I will admit to is usually stuff everybody else feels, at least some of the time. You know how I know this? Bestsellers. Chick lit is rife with stereotypes like me. The moms are overwhelmed, trying to balance work and kids, sometimes disappointed with where they are as opposed to where they thought they would be at their current age. If nobody else felt this way no one would buy these books. The characters would be impossible to relate to. In real life I am surrounded by the grown up version of Pollyanna. Everyone I know talks about how they are so grateful for their wonderful kids and they say prayers of gratitude all day every day for their perfect, blessed life.

I don't believe them. I KNOW that they all get tired of wiping peanut butter off the TV and crayola off the walls. I KNOW that when no one is looking sometimes they yell at their kids. For no good reason other than that they are tired and the kids are being kids. I KNOW they sometimes let the kids watch too many cartoons just so they can get something done. Or maybe just so they can take a nap. Sometimes, after I admit these things to a shocked group of classroom mothers, a few of them admit it too.

I don't typically gravitate to chick lit because I like my characters to be more exceptional than I am. Better. More. Maybe they overcome bigger problems than I face (or ever hope to) or have some incredible talent that I wish I had. But it's nice to know they pee in the shower despite their amazing, superhuman gifts. Still, part of escaping my life involves reading about things I don't get to actually do.

Gritty realism is not my forte as a person-who-writes-things-but-does-not-refer-to-herself-as-a-writer. My life is full of it. I can't go three days running from bad guys in the woods and still be interested in making out with my boyfriend because frankly, I would stink. A lot. In a book the delightful man who captures the heroine's heart would be entranced by her musky scent. Since I deal with BO and dandruff all the time anyway I don't really want to write about it. Or read about it.

So what it boils down to is I like to read and write things that would never happen to me. Or anyone else. But I still want to know that the character is scared of something, proud of herself, or embarrassed sometimes. Different, but the same as the rest of us.

(Just for the record, though, I really am different. I'm downright odd. It's okay...I'm good with it.)

**Addendum:

How's this for gritty realism? Within 30 minutes of posting the five year old stops up a toilet, overflows it, and steps into the playroom announcing he did wash his hands with soap AND wiped his heinie. (In five-year-old vernacular this is code for he did neither of these things.) While he is squirming back into his underwear I notice a poop stain on the carpet. A full seven or eight feet from the bathroom. It is the only one and defies explanation. No poop on hands or feet (that I can see) and no other stain indicating a trail of any kind. Dogs are outside. No idea how mystery stain manifested. Five year old to the bathtub and out comes the carpet cleaner and scrubber. You can't tell me all those other moms would be singing psalms and hymns of grateful praise right now.

What I've learned (not) on the Internet

Summer vacation proceeds with crushing, time sucking, intellect devouring inexorability. My progeny demand childhood memories worthy of, well, childhood. Spending all my time writing and surfing blogs about writing seems to fall short of my own fond memories of summer so I did the responsible, motherly thing and took them to Gaga's house for a week at the beach and to Grandmore's house for another two weeks full of day camp, slip-and-slide, ice cream, and swimming lessons. It's killing me. I'm pretty sure it's killing the grandmothers, too. But the kids are having a good time and bear mosquito bites, bruises, and skinned knees to prove it.

My forced adventures in maternal obligation have left me bereft of internet connection and time to use it even if I had reliable access. I've been scanning blogs and catching as catch can on agent postings. In the two week sabbatical I'm shocked to discover that nothing, absolutely nothing, has changed in the world of publishing. Nathan Bransford was sick for about a week but he's feeling better and remains his kindhearted, good-natured self. Janet Reid continues to make me laugh out loud with acerbic observations about people who just don't know any better and perhaps don't actually know anything. Editorrents explores the change in mood by using the phrase "was gone" in lieu of "wasn't there." Writers who comment continue to lament the state of publishing today and the absurdity of trying to pick only books that will sell. All fun to read and prone to induce occasional moments of trepidation when I ask myself if I would ever do something so idiotic as whatever is the most recent transgression trend of newbie queriers the world over but nothing really new. And truth be told, I emphatically would not do any of the things these kind hearted educators of unpublished writers warn against. My biggest stumbling block remains producing a book (and query) good enough to capture an agent's interest.

What have I been doing with this unexpected windfall of free time? (Free time being defined as the hours between 9:00 PM and 8:00 AM when the fruit of my loins can reliably be expected to sleep.) I've engaged in an outright orgy of reading and writing. I haven't had this much fun since I decided THE BOOK was finished enough to start researching how to get it published. I think I might ride this restricted internet trend a little while longer...

Why Do I Want to Publish This Book?

Over and over I read cautionary tales posted by authors and agents about how long it takes to get published. The fifth book seems to be the magic formula for a lot of authors...that's the one they finally had success with because they kept writing and kept learning and finally got good enough to write something publishable. They look back on their earlier efforts with indulgent affection but they know that the agents who rejected them were right to do so.

Here's my problem. I love this book. I didn't include any overt references but it was inspired by some closely held personal beliefs that are dear to me. I truly don't believe I'll write a story I like better than the one I'm working on now. That doesn't mean I'm a one trick pony (maybe I am) but I've already written another book that was fun to write and I might go back to later but it really isn't as good or compelling as this book. The story is there, the characters are well developed, the length is right, and the writing is coming up to snuff with polishing. I want to get my baby prettied up enough that other people can love it, too.

It has not been my life long dream to be a professional writer and I can honestly say that this did not start out as a quest for publication. It was just a story that captured my imagination and turned out well enough for ambition to bite me. It's a good story. I'm terrified that since this story is the one that popped fully formed into my head like Aphrodite springing from the foam of the sea that I lack the technical skill to give it the chance it deserves.

I don't want to just get a book published. I want to get THIS book published.

Fan Fiction and Other Things...

So now that I'm cyberstalking agents trying to figure out whom to query and how to tailor their letters I frequently stumble across frightening, distressing blogs and stories on the internet. A couple of my pie in the sky choices have agented some high profile authors and books (hey, shoot for the moon, right?) and are obviously being stalked by lots of other wannabes.

Like me, many of them blog.

I have an unofficial personal blog policy of not naming names. It could be distressing if the named ever read it and besides, once it's out there I can't take it back. So without naming names I feel free to say that there is some really bad stuff out there. And it's getting sent to agents I want to query. I know, objectively, (people who know me will tell you I'm pretty good at being objective, even if it means taking criticism) that what I write is better than much of what I'm reading. Not just grammatically. I found one today that actually posted fan fiction on characters I'd read. It was painful. Trite, cliched, and clearly intended to mimic the voice of the author but without success. I cringed, literally cringed, while reading it. The poster was obviously proud of the effort and has written a book they want to submit to my dream agent. Said dream agent must get a ton of really bad submissions.

This should be a comfort. But it is not. I'm doing the same thing a gazillion other wannabes are doing and we're flooding the market. If I were an agent trying to slog through fifty queries in between doing work for actual clients my eyes would bleed. How does it not all run together? What on earth could I put in my query letter to let them know that I am not one of those people? The answer: absolutely nothing. All I can do is make it clean, to the point, and not gushy. And hope something about my query attracts the reader's attention enough to prompt further investigation.

There is some really good stuff out there, too, don't get me wrong. It's just demoralizing to share ambition with people who obviously think their work is just as good as anybody's when it definitely isn't. The implication is obvious. What if, in truth, I AM one of those people? And if I'm not how will an agent ever know?

Too bad they don't grade on a curve.