Surrender, Dorothy

Five Things I Meant to Do in 2009

This post is inspired by Maria Niles' post on BlogHer.

1) I meant to be more present. I try, really I do, to always be listening when someone is talking to me. Sometimes, though, something I read or see or want to write about squirrels its way into my head, and no matter how I bat it down it pops up again like a rubber duck. It particularly bothers me when I find myself doing this with friends or family. They've pointed it out, this bad habit of mine, and I'm ashamed of it. So even though I meant to do it in 2009, I'm going to try harder in 2010.

2) I meant to find an agent for my children's book, Bella Eats the Monsters. I wrote it, then Bella died, and after hearing back from a few agents that it wasn't quite there, that monsters were overdone, that it was "cute," I just gave up on it and started my novel. I'm happy with that decision. There is only so much time to write, and I feel more connected to the novel than I did to the children's book. So I'm stowing it for future reference, and perhaps I'll get it published by the time I'm pressuring the little angel to make me a grandmother.

3) I meant to call my parents more often. I have done a better job in the past few weeks, but there were weeks that I went by without talking to my parents. Normally we talk quite a bit, but somehow when things got really bad and busy at work and life just felt so overwhelming, calling home was forgotten. It didn't help that for a year we took long-distance off our home phone, so I had to find and unlock my cell to call home. I'm much more likely to talk for any length of time on a larger phone. Now we have long-distance back, and lo! I dial.

4) I meant to take more photos. We have a digital camera, and there's really no excuse. I wish I'd taken more video, too. I have all the tools. I just forget. Then a whole year has gone by and my daughter looks so different and I worry I'll forget what she looked like making cookies in her little apron. And then I want to cry.

5) I meant to read more. I read quite a few books in 2009, but they were almost all review books. I'm severely curtailing the books I will review in the future. Some of those review books were awesome, but some took away from great fiction. I won't let that happen again. It's easy to let that happen.

Lest I depress myself with this post, here are some things I'm proud that I did in 2009.

• I got a new job with a fabulous media company doing something I love.
• I weathered the death of Bella and brought Petunia Cookie Dough into our lives.
• I had a lot of dates with my hot husband, and we talked about all sorts of things that don't involve housework, children or scheduling.
• I wrote the rough draft of a novel.
• I threw a shower for my very pregnant best friend.
• I went to Disney World on my birthday with my family.
• I attended my first ASJA conference.
• I spoke at BlogHer and Chicks Who Click.
• I published articles at Super Eco and Babble and in Scholastic Parent and Child.
• I started getting together regularly with some writer types to talk shop and drink wine.
• I listened to War and Peace. I liked it.
• I helped Beloved's parents move to a more accommodating location.
• I helped Beloved remodel two closets and a garage in the Transformation of Chateau Travolta (which seems to drag on and on).
• I enjoyed myself quite a bit.

Sometimes I Can't Stop the Judgey

Last night I got all wound over Lynn Harris' article on Salon, which I'm covering on BlogHer on Monday. I started the post fifteen different ways, and no matter how I proceeded, I found myself on my high horse and riding. Standing on my soapbox and preaching, like the homeless guy who spouted whoremongers and hellfire on the Pentacrest at the University of Iowa in the mid-nineties.

It's something I sometimes do. I preach. I can't stand to see people treat each other with such disrespect. This isn't satire, this isn't comedy -- those comments are just MEAN.

I'll be offline for a few days to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family. Please check out my piece on BlogHer on Monday, and enjoy your holiday. Go forth and let thee not be an ass.

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Read a review of Cat Ladies on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

Novel-in-Progress: Rough Draft Complete

The other day when I was driving home, I saw the end scene of my novel. Today, I sat down and wrote the last 40 pages.

 

Many, many Fridays.

There are still a few scenes that I really want to include for which I haven't found a place yet. And the sentences -- oy, they're not good yet. And also? I think a bunch of the details don't yet agree. I haven't read the first few chapters in months. I can't remember some of the middle. So I'm nowhere near ready to let anyone but Beloved read it yet.

However, the rough draft is done.

 

I wish I had more to say, but I seem to be all out of words.

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Reviews for daring girls and Ivy-League seekers on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!

Never, Ever, Ever, Ever, Ever Give Up

I remember last August reading Erin Kotecki Vest's post about her new job at BlogHer and being so jealous, even though I know Erin and I know how hard she worked to position herself for that job.

I've struggled as a working parent. I hate the commute. I hated having the little angel be the very last kid at daycare. Sometimes I was very bitter.

Somewhere, in the midst of my ruminating, I realized it's not fair and not realistic to wait for life to reach out and hand me my wishes on a platter. I realized the only person who could change my career is me.

I want to be a writer, one who spends my time thinking about real issues that matter to women (men, too, but I'll be honest -- women). One who takes time to follow current events and distill what they mean to me and to humanity. One who reads great blogs and responds to them. One who doesn't have to sneak onto Twitter and worry The Man is going to put the smackdown on my Internet access.

When Sleep Is for the Weak came out last September, I thought I was done. I thought my life would permanently change. But (as authors will tell you), it didn't. I realized there needed to be more books, that this first book was just a stepping stone, a calling card, a launching pad. I cut back to four days a week at my corporate job to have more time to write. I got my first national magazine hit in the November issue of Scholastic Parent & Child. I started selling more articles online. I started getting paid more to do what I loved. I started working on my novel, posting my work on Kindle, taking on more responsibility at BlogHer, and yes, there were a lot of days when I thought blogging might possibly be a ghetto in which I'd never get paid a living wage. People asked me why I wrote for free or nearly for free. I've made about 50 cents an hour on a good day for the past five years doing what I love.

I've pitched more ideas than I care to share that have gone nowhere. I've pitched a few that are in flux. My writing notebook is overflowing with half-baked projects, pitch ideas, lists of topics about which I mean to write. I've struggled to compartmentalize that writing into the time I have for it. I've nearly quit reading due to the time it takes to write.

That is going to change.

I've accepted a position with BlogHer as assignment editor. I start in two weeks. After five years of people asking where I'm going with this blogging thing, I finally have an answer. I'm going to funnel all the ambition, grammar geekdom, corporate organizational skills, excitement and intellectual curiosity I have into the BlogHer editorial team. The one led by Katie Couric's top four pick for most influential people (not women, people) in new media.

And I'm going to stop questioning my instincts.

Novel-in-Progress: 46,000 Words

Now that it's November, people might think I'm doing NaNoWriMo, but I'm not. I've been working on this novel since June, and there is no way it's going to get done by the end of November. Ha ha ha ha ha. Ahem. Ha.

But I did turn a corner last Friday. I ended the second third and rounded the corner in my head into the last full section of the book. I'm at 46,000 words now and still aiming for 75,000 before I start cutting. The novel is definitely feeling young adult at this point, and I think YA word count is supposed to be between 55,000 and 70,000 words. 

About halfway through the second third of the book, I finally saw how it was all going to fit together. There are still certain details that are lost on me, and there's one character I haven't figured out how to fully utilize (does every main character have to be important?) or I should probably cut her out. Right now she's just sort of there but doesn't play a big part in my heroine's life. I think I need to go read some more novels to figure out the answer to that question -- reading always answers most of my questions about writing. How did someone else pull it off?

I sat down with my notebook two weeks ago and laid out the last half of the book. Each chapter got two or three scenes I wanted to work in. What happens between those scenes usually occurs to me when I sit down to write. I try to write at least one chapter -- at least ten pages -- each time I sit down. The chapters may or may not stay at that length -- it's just a way for me to mark progress, like mile markers on an endless highway. Without those mile markers, the trip just seems unbearable.

I get very overwhelmed at the thought of writing something I can't finish in one sitting. Even when I'm tasked with writing long articles, I do the research in several sittings but then when I sit down, I spit out the entire rough draft in one go. This novel thing is different. It's too long, and even if I had the stamina and time to do it in one sitting, I wouldn't know what was going to happen. The plot has occurred to me in the car and in the shower over months. 

Last Thursday night, Beloved and I were talking and I told him I had no idea what I was going to write about in the chapter I had to do the following day. I knew the scenes, but I didn't know what was going to happen in them or how I was going to get from point A to point B. He said, "Just let it come to you," and I knew he was right, but I was panicky. Usually I can sort of see it before I sit down. But then, last Friday I totally got it and wrote 27 pages in one sitting. I think the subconscious will bring a lot to fiction if you plant the seed of the scene and then let it rattle around a little.

Once I wrote out the chapters and scenes for the rest of the book, the writing got a lot easier. Many people believe in outlining an entire novel before they sit down to write, and many people just give it a go. I'm sort of in between, but I am finding having the scenes decided makes it easier to sit down. Then I have the room -- I just have to decide which characters walk into it and what they do while they're there. 

I am anxious to get the rough draft out. That's always the part that worries me the most. If you're going to lose the scent, it's in the rough draft. Rewriting is easier for me than writing. I'm not a person who gets trapped in rewrites, going over and over the same passage. I believe in making each sentence the best it can be, but I don't like working the same project over and over. I read once that Tom Robbins rewrites his novels something like 30 times before they are published. But he doesn't use an outline. He's going at it in a completely different way than I do. I like to make passes, he likes to get it right before he moves on. I have no idea how he can do that -- not know what's going to happen next, but be at that level of detail with each sentence -- but clearly it works for him, and I can only hope to learn how to make this novel-writing process work for me. It has never worked for me before.

While I understand the language of a YA novel should be accessible, I want this novel to be well written. I don't believe in purely plot-driven novels with sloppy sentences (ahem, Twilight). Lemony Snicket wrote some really tight middle-grade novels, and they are clearly accessible to young readers. They even define the hard words right in the text. So I know it can be done. 

The book thing scares me. I had a dream the other night my publisher called me and said every book in the history of the universe written right before and right after mine had sold well, but mine was horrible. And WHY? WHY WAS MINE HORRIBLE? WHY DIDN'T PEOPLE LIKE MINE? I sat there trying to explain but realized I couldn't. 

After much consideration, I think the point of the dream is I'm writing this novel for me. It's a story I want to tell. I really, really want it to get published and be out in the world, but like Beloved always says, I can't focus too much on whether or not it will be popular, because to focus on that is abandon why I write in the first place. Yes, I believe in supporting books with author marketing efforts. Yes, I believe in finding a publisher with a solid distribution model. Yes, I definitely believe in the power of good publicity. Ultimately, though, like bloggers who start blogs to make money, authors who write books only to sell copies will not last very long, for the same reason -- nobody will want to read them.

Rita Talks to Ninth Graders: A Tale of the Career Fair

Today I spent some time at Johnson County Community College talking to ninth graders from the Olathe school district about being a writer.

One of the first kids who came up to me asked me if spelling was important. I considered it for a while, then said YES, BY GOD, IT IS. Then he asked if I write things out longhand, and I said, "No," then heard myself uttering, "Although I did when I was your age. We didn't really use computers then."

This kid looked at me as though I were fossilizing before his very eyes.

A series of flat-ironed blond girls streamed past. "What's the demand for your field?" one asked, popping her gum.

"Well," I said, "By the time you're out of college, I think we'll have that all figured out. Right now, it's pretty bad, actually." I paused. "But writing will never be outsourced to another country. Think about that. And corporations aren't really as evil as you'd think." Gah gah gah gah gah

At this point, I looked at the arborist sitting next to me with a giant chainsaw and asked for some of his Purell. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.

DON'T TOUCH YOUR FACE. DON'T TOUCH YOUR FACE.

As I waited for more kids to approach, I heard one large boy ask the arborist, "Why would you need a chainsaw that big?"

An alert-looking girl ambled over. She skipped the questions on the preprepared form and went straight for the blogging. "How do you build your following?" she asked. "How long did it take to get one?"

I thought back to 2004, when I had a good day with 30 hits. "It took a long time," I said.

"I have a huge following on DNL," she said. I think that's what she said. I have no idea what DNL is. It must be something the kids are doing these days.

"I push a lot from Twitter," I replied. One of the other girls flipped her hair.

"I don't know how to make Twitter work," said the other girl.

You and most of America.

A teenaged boy came up. "I'm sorry," he said, before he'd said anything. Then he looked nervously at my sign, which said "writer."

"I like to write," he said, "but I don't think I'm very good at it."

"You know what? Nobody's very good at it in ninth grade. If you like it, you're probably better at it than you think. Keep going."

I got into a conversation about Ray Bradbury with an earnest-looking wanna-be reporter. Most of the kids looked through me at the window beyond.

The organizer kept getting on the loudspeaker.

THERE'S NO WAITING AT GARMIN!

The crowd began to rustle.

THERE'S NO WAITING AT THE EDUCATION BOOTH!

No shit. They're in ninth grade. Educators are still "other."

I sat back and listened to my thoughts:

• I had those same elf boots when I was in ninth grade.
• These girls are so lucky they won't regret their high school hair later in life, unlike us unlucky schmucks who came of age in the eighties.
• DON'T TOUCH FACE! DON'T TOUCH FACE!
• Why is your field not in demand? Why don't more people pay you to write?
• Their feet look so BIG.
• Why are these girls so good at liquid eyeliner? Could I learn?

Another girl approached my table. "So, um, how many things have you written?" she asked, looking bored. She scanned my portfolio, flipping the tear sheets and the Sleep Is for the Weak coverage.

My computer hard drive flashed before my eyes -- thousands of individual pieces. How many posts are in this blog? 1,296. I just checked.

How can I tell her the volume of words it takes to get better?

It's overwhelming how much work it takes to get good at something. What should I say?

So I said nothing. I smiled and signed her Career Fair form.

"Hey," I called as she walked away. "Go to school for what you want. There are a lot of great-paying jobs that'll kill your soul."

She smiled, flipped her hair. "Thanks," she said.

And then I flipped back through my portfolio, remembering every single piece.

At Least I Told Her About Copyright Law

Scene: Walking back from the park. It was 75 amazing degrees in Kansas City today.

The little angel is reclined in the only stroller we still own, a purple-flowered umbrella jobby. (The park is a mile away.) She has her legs crossed and is waving the water bottle around like a wand as she warms to her subject.

Her: Mommy! I'm going to tell you a story now.

Me: Okay.

Her: This is the story of the three pigs.

Me: (respectful pause)

Her: The first pig was named <LITTLE ANGEL>. 

Me: She sounds very nice.

Her: Shhh! This pig built a house out of FEATHERS. Can you believe it?

Me: That would be hard to do.

Her: And then a wolf came along and blew the house over. Can you believe it?

Me: That's too bad. Then what happened?

Her: Then the SECOND PIG, whose name was AUNT STEPHI, came and built a house out of DIAMONDS.

Me: (choking with laughter) That sounds right.

Her: But the wolf came and blew over the diamonds. And Aunt Stephi ran away.

Me: Excellent. Then what happened?

Her: Then the last pig came, and her name was RITA. And she was the SMARTEST PIG OF ALL.

Me: Of course she was!

Her: And she built her house out of BRICKS.

Me: And could the wolf blow it down?

Her: NO. So the other pigs came to live with her.

Me: Did she build them rooms of diamonds?

Her: Yes, of course she did. Seriously, Mommy.

Me: Excellent story, dear.

Her: And then there is this other story about THREE MICE.

And so it continued, all the way home.

Over dinner, she told the story to Beloved, who also appreciated its sparkling humor. Then she sang a song.

Her: This is not a real song.

Me: Why not?

Her: Because I just made it up.

Me: That's why you need to write it down. Because as soon as you write something original down, it becomes real.

Beloved nodded.

Me: It's called COPYRIGHT LAW.

Her: That is so cool!

Me: It doesn't mean it's good, but at least it's real.

Her: I can't believe I made up something real.

Isn't writing great?

My New Favorite Word Ever

Thank you, Dictionary.com.

 

Oversharers Anonymous

So @momsatwork Tweeted this morning this link to a post at the Orlando Sentinel blog.

I read all the time about how much the damn mommybloggers are oversharing, and frankly, I think we are all guilty of it sometimes. Oversharing has a little bit of a Dr. Phil draw -- you like hearing about someone else's problems, because they make you feel so much more normal.

Many people have expressed incredulity that I write as much about my personal life as I do here. They clearly aren't reading the same people I am, because I think I'm mild on the oversharing scale. (cough)

There's emotional oversharing, and there's physical oversharing. And then there's this Tweet the post author noted from Penelope Trunk:

"I'm in a board meeting. Having a miscarriage. Thank goodness, because there's a f***ed-up 3-week hoop-jump to have an abortion in Wisconsin."

I don't know Penelope. I've never read her (to my knowledge -- because I read a lot of people when I'm researching ideas to write about). I'm not going to judge her thoughts themselves. I might be just a wee bit judgy about the fact she posted those particular thoughts on the Internet. I'm picturing her co-workers reading this and realizing they were sitting next to her talking about widgets while she was miscarrying. That would totally weeb me out if I worked with Penelope.

But then, where's the line? I probably need to cry HYPOCRITE, because I've beaten myself up about writing about crying at work knowing my co-workers read this blog. I'm sure it impacts their image of me. I get that you can't both project total confidence and write on the Internet about your hopes and fears.

I actually sat around years ago and thought about how my oversharing might impact any job I get or try to get and decided that my corporate career trajectory would fall where it lay. In the grand scheme of my life, I want my words in the world. So far, I'm having a decent time parlaying the things I've learned from writing fiction and magazine articles and blog posts into my day job as a corporate writer and editor.

Some people need that work / personal differential, and I totally get that. I need to express myself, so it seems as odd to me to not put my thoughts out there for commentary and response as my naked blogging does to some of my friends and family.  If I'd been born sixty years earlier, I probably would've written op-ed pieces or memoirs. We oversharers have always existed; we just haven't had such a lovely platform in the past.

Some personal stories need to be told, because their themes are universal. Some personal stories are just personal stories, albeit sensational personal stories. I strive to see the difference -- I don't always hit the target, but that's my intention.

And then, sometimes an anecdote is just an anecdote.

Here's the rub: Once you write a personal story on the Internet, you can't ever take it back. People -- maybe even people you know -- have physical proof of your flawed thinking, your triumphs and your failures. It's terrifying, and it's exhilerating.

My oversharing has taught me to accept my failures, learn from my mistakes and own my victories. It's also taught me I'm not all that and a bag of chips. Writing on the Internet has made me a better human being.

Publishing allows you to see exactly how others see you. It's not always how you saw yourself.

SURRENDER DOROTHY vs. Surrender, Dorothy

We bought the Wizard of Oz last night. The little angel had never seen it before. She's currently watching it for the second time in twelve hours. She watched it, went to bed, woke up and is watching it again. I held off so long because she is a delicate flower, and I worried the witch would really scare her. Even with the bad special effects, the witch is still scary because she's so MEAN.

Sure enough, while I was putting together her dinner I heard my girl call from the living room.  "Mommy! Come protect me from the witch!"

I went in and crawled under the blanket with her while Beloved made popcorn and we all watched Dorothy and her little dog.

A lot of people think I named this blog Surrender, Dorothy because I'm a huge Wizard of Oz fan. No, that's Blondie. She probably thinks I was horning in her weird Wizard of Oz obsession, but the real reason I named this blog as such is the comma.

In the movie, the witch writes SURRENDER DOROTHY in the sky, a command to the people of the Emerald City to give up the redhead.

When I started this blog, I was sitting in the middle of Kansas City feeling for all the world that childbirth had dropped me down into a freakshow world where everything was different. I didn't know what I was doing. And there was a strange redhead starring in the movie that was my new life. Only I wanted to surrender. I wanted it to go away. I wanted to figure out where home was and how to balance this new role of motherhood into what I barely recognized as my old life.

I was Dorothy, and the universe wanted my ass. Or so I thought.

When I redesigned this blog, the graphic designer originally delivered the masthead without the comma, and I freaked out a little. Of course, she changed it within minutes, but I realized how much that comma means to the meaning of this blog. It's not about the Wizard of Oz, despite my connection to both Kansas and Omaha (featured on the Wizard's balloon). I no longer feel my life has been hit by a tornado, but I still connect strongly with the title of this blog and the image of an impending storm. That's motherhood.

It's all about the comma.