Monthly Archives

March 2018

Thoughts

It’s not you, it’s … well, sometimes it’s you

March 21, 2018

Dear Desperately Seeking Representation,
Thank you for reaching out to me about this project.

I’m sorry this is a pass for me.

Right now my list is very full, and I’m fortunate that business
is very good so I can pass on projects that are not only
good and publishable but ones I really like. That’s a good
problem for me, but it just stinks from your
viewpoint.

I strongly encourage you to query widely. Other agents have more room
on their lists and are able to take on more clients.

Please think of this as redirection rather than rejection.

Very best wishes to you!

Brenda Boobenshlauts
Literary Agent to the Stars

“Redirection rather than rejection.” That’s some next-level breakup lingo there, folks.

You should know that this is an actual email that I actually received (for the most part). It came in response to a lofty step I took out onto a ledge protruding from the top floor of a building I’d never been in and knew very little about. It came from me taking a chance that didn’t quite pay off or pan out.

It’s cool. I can talk about it.

It’s amazing how ballsy we are in hypotheticals, isn’t it? How highly we think of the three-months-from-now version of ourselves when we’re feeling all big and aspirational. It’s not uncommon for me to set overly ambitious, unattainable goals when it comes to fitness or food restrictions, but when I sat down to make my 2018 resolutions, I wanted to throw something new in the mix. I wanted to get out of my literary La-Z Boy and dip my toes into a new pond. The publishing pond.

[laughing] Isn’t that so cute?

Back in January, I promised myself I would write something outside of this blog space and my day job space, and I would woman up and bravely send it out into the world, no regrets. At that time, I didn’t consider the boomerang laced with dismissal and disinterest that would come back to catch me in the kisser. I wasn’t thinking about the soul-crushing flood of failure that would infiltrate and poison my inbox.

And yet, the flood came.

To date, I have been told “thanks but no thanks” in a dozen different ways by a dozen different strangers. I’ve received short, shitty rejections, and softer it’s-not-you-it’s-me rejections. I’ve been rejected by men and by women. I’ve been rejected from six different states. I’ve been rejected more times today than I’ve used the restroom. Maybe I need to drink more water?

And now that I’ve scraped my pride up off the public bathroom tile, I’m starting to crawl toward the gratitude. I’m thinking that, in a day when we so often only offer our successes and posed portraits to our peers and connections, it’s interesting to explore the unfiltered side for a vulnerable sec. To hold the microscope up to the passes and disappointments, instead. I feel like you can’t really have one without the other. You can’t appreciate cupcakes unless you’ve had anchovies, right? That is to say, you can’t savor an achievement without knowing the taste of failure, too. And boy did I get a pu pu platter this past week.

I sent thirty-something proposals for a side passion project out the door the same week I was talking to the team of a well-respected public figure about another exciting extracurricular opportunity. While, by our third exchange, I think both sides sensed that it wasn’t the best fit, they were the ones to finally call it. Even though I helped slice the lemons, the juice of the rejection still stung. It stung because my mind had created an idyllic version of the situation since I so badly wanted it to fit. And it stung because I was already sipping from the trickle of rejection I’d triggered earlier in the week with my ill-fated proposal. By Friday, I felt like I was drowning in disappointment. Drinking it from a fire hose.

But – here comes the gratitude – the universe has this way of giving and taking. The pendulum tends to come back polished with purpose. It’s rare that hindsight doesn’t hand us some degree of handsome justification. It might take a few years, but a bad break almost always leads to a future happiness. Opportunities are kind of like Dominos in that way; as each one passes, it taps the next one in. Some are good and some are bad, but you can’t get to your future unless you fall down a few times and then put it behind you.

I find this push and pull – these highs and lows – in writing for sure, but also in marriage, in friendships, in parenting and in my relationship with myself. I might look around some evening and all my chicks are getting along and the house isn’t a catastrophe and there’s lots of cuddling going on, and then an hour later Sloppy Joan decides to make cupcakes out of shaving cream and cotton balls. I might get my workouts in six days in a row and finally see the scale move a pound, only to wake up surrounded by Taco Bell wrappers and Halo Top lids on Sunday.

It’s the pulse of life. Success surges and subsides.

And so must failure.

Rejection.

Redirection.

So, what to do after you’ve gotten your ass kicked, wrapped up and handed back to you with a bow on top? I guess, see it as a gift. Gabrielle Bernstein once posted, “ If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.” And I think that’s the faith and the hope that you get to hold onto when nothing else sticks. When your plan falls apart.

So, Brenda Boobenshlauts didn’t buy into your proposal. Or your idea didn’t fly in the staff meeting. Or you ate all of the ice creams. Or you didn’t get nominated or picked or recognized.
You don’t stop trying. It’s not supposed to be easy. You knocked and no one answered. The key didn’t fit. It just wasn’t your door.

Sometimes it’s a product of effort, sure, but sometimes it’s a product of timing. I think about JoJo and Spike. Remember last winter during basketball season, when Spike wouldn’t go on the court? She felt overwhelmed and small and incapable until that very last game when she got out there and flung that ball up toward the hoop. Not one of us cared that she missed.

When Hank asked if we should sign them up again this winter, I was convinced it was a waste of time, but he persisted. Last Saturday was their last game and I was almost sad to see it go. They both did so well, and scored almost every single game. That’s right, Spike scored almost every single game. The timing was right. She’d grown, both in stature and self esteem. She knew what to expect, and that the worst thing that could happen would be that she’d miss. So she shot.

I think about what a loss it would have been if I’d let last year’s poor experience poison this year’s opportunity.

As a writer, I can’t count the number of times a first draft or story idea got shot down like a fat turkey on Thanksgiving morning. But also, how many amazing opportunities and notes of thanks I’ve received. And most of the time, the amazing opportunities come just on the other side of the gut punch. The good stuff takes the sting away when the pendulum pushes back in my direction. I just have to have faith it will come back around.

If it doesn’t open, it’s not your door.

Brenda Boobenshlauts was not my door.

The glitzy side hustle was not my door.

Now I have to stand tall on tomorrow’s front stoop and dare to try again. I haven’t sent my last proposal. I haven’t seen my last rejection. But I’ve got a ring full of keys and I’m huntin’ down my door.

(P.S. This was a letter I needed to write to myself, and I thank you for letting me put it here in this space.)

Pages, Wanderlust

Biscuits in the Spotlight

March 13, 2018

So, something really sweet and unexpected happened … I was featured in the Women Spotlight for the March/April issue of kit magazine for my time on the Appalachian Trail! To say I feel undeserving is an understatement, but I’m incredibly grateful for the platform and hope it will inspire someone else to pursue a dream they’re keeping in their back pocket.

There are times still when I can’t really believe we’ve gone on these adventures. And, as we gear up to head back out for our third go of it, times I can’t really believe we’re doing it again. But I count these hours in the woods and on the sides of mountains as some of my most treasured, cold and miserable as they might have been at the time.

If you’re a new visitor to Desperately Seeking Superwoman, welcome! Follow closely and I’ll take you on a crazy journey down a winding, dizzy path of parenting, self discovery and the pursuit of balance. Or just stick around for the hiking stories. That’s cool, too.

For your convenience, I’ve bundled our AT adventures up so they’re a little easier to navigate. And I hope you’ll check back in April to read about our next leg, a 50-mile stint in Georgia.

TRIP No. 1

Makin’ Biscuits in the Woods, Pt. 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Thanks for the Biscuits

TRIP No. 2

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 28.3-30.7 + Springer Mountain
Miles 0-6.2
Miles 6.2-14.3
Miles 14.3-21.1

BONUS!
If you’re old to DSS but new to kit magazine, check out this interesting interview I did for them with Valerie, the minimalist. It changed me into a woman who thinks twice before impulse carting on amazon.

Thoughts

The 36 questions you need to ask somebody now

March 2, 2018

Last Wednesday night, my husband of a decade and I put on our fancy-ish, semi-stretchy outfits and treated ourselves to a gluttonous belated Valentine’s Day dinner. We really don’t date enough. Every time we find ourselves chickless with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine, we rediscover just how much we like each other.

We’ve been sitting at tables with cheesy apps, steaks and red wine (or pizza and soda cocktails, depending on the decade) for more than 17 years. We’ve covered a lot of ground, both in diet and dialogue. As you pass through the seasons of life, you fall into certain conversational potholes. In our teens, it was all who are you and how did you get so amazing? In our 20s, it was all friends and weddings and first jobs and apartments. In our 30s it’s the kids, our jobs, our house and the kids.

I love my girls, my work and our home, but after awhile, talking about only the adult parts of our lives makes me feel ever so slightly like the lead character in an indie film. You know the one … he/she’s disconnected, an inactive participant in the fleeting hours of his/her fleeting years. They typically come alive after daring to pursue a very uncharacteristic journey or relationship. In real life, the plot twist isn’t written in. You have to spice up the script yourself.

About a week ago, a sweet friend from work passed along a podcast she thought I’d enjoy. The Science of Happiness features research-based topics for living a meaningful life and is co-produced by the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley. The episode she recommended was “How to fall in love with anyone” and it led me to the 36 questions.

The 36 questions! It’s starting to get good, guys. Stay with me.

(This is the nerdy, fascinating part.) The 36 questions were originally developed in a lab by a guy named Art. Art was focused on creating, not love, but friendships. But not just any friendships. Friendships between people who otherwise hated each other. People who felt a strong prejudice against a particular group of people. The scientists (Art) wanted to see if having someone who held prejudice complete a get-to-know-you interview with someone from the group which they disliked would change or reduce the negative taste in their mouth. In short, could a good ole Barbara Walters sit down break down racial tensions? And wouldn’t you know … it did. Now, those are some damn good questions.

So, this author, Kelly Corrigan, who was the primary guest on the podcast, took Art’s research-proven technique for feeling closer to the people you hated and applied it to romantic partners and married couples, because, you know, why not?

She focused on couples who’d been together for some time. “You think there’s no discovery left and how sad is that?” she said. Her confident conclusion is that sitting down and asking your loved one the 36 questions will open a whole new can of conversational worms. “The thought of hearing your spouse say something for the first time, not just to you, but possibly to anyone, that’s powerful. Intimacy is predicated after all on telling someone something you wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

See, the trick is: You have to ask the questions.

Remember when you were first dating your husband/wife and you’d stay up late relentlessly probing for every little morsel of information? You collected their history crumb by crumb, devouring the sweet story of their life up until the point you entered it.

And that’s where you grew up? And what was your childhood like? Were you a bad kid or a good kid? Did you have any hobbies? Did you win any awards? And how did that make you feel? Were you close to your parents? Why is that? How would you say your relationship is now? Were you a good brother? What’s that scar? Did it hurt? Did you ever do that again? So you don’t have your tonsils?

When did I stop asking the questions?

If I had to guess, it was probably around the same time we added a second kid, went to man-on-man coverage and took jobs where we had to wear slacks and closed toe shoes, but it’s really a hard thing to gauge retroactively.

I don’t know everything there is to know about Hank. I couldn’t possibly! By our very nature we’re changing every second, in our thoughts, in our cells. I guess I just forgot that it’s my job to keep going back for the crumbs. It’s still a sweet story, his story. He still wants to tell it, even though he says he doesn’t. We all want someone to witness our time here.

There’s a whole process on the website for how you should conduct your interview. Myself, I like to just lob one at the old man when he least expects it, or he’s stuck at a fancy restaurant with me and we have to appear to be having adult conversation to fit in with all the other adults wearing sweater vests and cell phone belt clips.

“So, I listened to this podcast Angie recommended about these 36 questions …” I started [Insert spiel about the premise and prejudice, Art, etc. and so on.]
“OK”
“But I forgot the paper with all the questions.”
“You were going to bring a paper to our Valentine’s Day fancy dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“K”
“Anyway, the only two I can remember are, ‘Have you ever thought of how you would die?’ and ‘What was the last song you sang to yourself?’”
“I mean … really … I’m not good at this stuff.”
“C’mon. Have you ever thought about how you would die?”
“I guess old age, something sudden and catastrophic, or a horrible illness.”
“I hope it’s old age.”
“I know you do.”
“What was the last song you sang?”
“I mean, with the kids I’m always singing something from a Disney princess show or some stupid thing. But just like 2 seconds of it and then another thought pops into my head.”
“I remember another one! ‘What was the most terrifying day of your life?’”
“I don’t really remember that stuff. I know I was scared when you had surgery after JoJo was born (a story for another time). And I’m sure I was scared when Dad had cancer. But I just don’t hold onto those things.”

At this point, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the 36 questions were working their magic whether he wanted to believe they would or not.

We kept on like that through our entrees. Then I veered off script and brought up the subject of getting a new dog when our current dog crosses the rainbow bridge, and things took a turn. But still, 3 of the 36 questions had proven to be pretty dang great.

So now I want more. I want more time (I wouldn’t be mad at more fancy dinners, either) and more crumbs. I want to stay up late rediscovering my husband of a decade and all the strange, phenomenal thoughts that go through his 30-something head and settle back into his soul a bit. I mean, if I don’t ask him the questions, who will? Our children? Their major inquiries of late revolve around gravity and the purpose of butts. Someone has to steer this ship in a deeper direction.

You can find the questions here and the podcast here. I hope they help you reconnect with a parent, sibling, friend or partner. Maybe even try them on someone ya hate! Happy discovery and conversation, friends.