Operation Blog Undercover (ABORT!)

 3 Responses »
May 262011
 

The sun wakes me up.

Even with the damned light-blocking curtains in our room, the bits of light peeking through the sides are enough to break into my happy little dreams. I curse myself for forgetting to put on my sleep mask the night before and decide to throw the quilt over my head for a little more time to rest. I’m allowed. My mom is visiting and I know that the minute she leaves, my chances for anything that resembles sleeping in will be out the closest window.

But first I think I’ll check my email. You know, in case an agent has decided overnight that my book is Super Crazy Awesome and has sent a message asking me to call them as soon as I wake up because they are considerate enough to realize Arizona is three hours behind New York? So I reach for the phone on my nightstand and with a precision only a social media addict can attempt, have my email loading before I even open my eyes to focus on what I am looking at.

Blah, blah, new twitter followers, blah, blah, blah, I am now rich because of a dead relative I have never heard of in Zimbabwe and can I please forward all of the necessary banking information to the kind lawyer handling the matter, blah, blah, my mother-in-law wants to be friends on Facebook, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, and WHAT IN THE HELL?

The fuzziness from sleep is instantly replaced by an overwhelming sense of HOLY FUCK WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW and I resist the urge to reach over to the other side of the bed and backhand the still sleeping Husband because my cover being blown is like, totally his fault. Or maybe it’s mine for actually saying yes when he asked if he could like my blog Facebook page. BFF Mel totally warned me that was a bad idea.

“They’re gonna find you,” she had said.

Who pays attention to that crap?

My mother-in-law, apparently.

Before anyone new here gets too confused, I have a strict Public Blog Policy. In short it goes like this: You are allowed to read if you don’t already know me. That might seem ass-backwards to normal people but when you stop to think about it or stop taking your medication it makes total sense. For starters? My in-laws say things like, “Dangnabbit” and “Dadgum” instead of, you know, real swear words. I usually behave when in their presence or on the phone with either one of them, but here?

Have y’all read my shit?

And once the in-laws get on my little social media bandwagon, all hell (sorry, I mean heck…oh shit, it’s happening already) will break loose because then my side of the very Mexican and You Can’t Say Things Like Fuck family will find out and I’ll start censoring what I write and then things will get all boring for me and for you and I’ll replace posts like this with posts not like this. Obviously, this is a major problem.

Besides, if I approve the request, there’ll be questions about my book and people will assume I like to Share My Feelings with them on a regular basis and I’ll most likely piss everyone off, alienate myself from The Family, and The Husband will just sit there looking confused when I try to explain to him Just One More Time the logistics behind not letting anyone know about my writing until I get an agent, a book deal, and make the best seller lists (maybe even all in the same week, right?) because then I will be established and I would totally be okay with that.

But until then this was all supposed to be my secret word garden. Password: Strangers Only.

Before I start to unnecessarily hyper-ventilate, I blink a few times and focus on the phone screen again. Her name is still there. Shitshitshitshitshit!

“What are you doing?” The Husband is now awake and staring at his crazy wife checking her email on her phone before she has even gotten out of bed to brush her teeth and pee. “You realize that if technology as we know it were to disappear tomorrow, you would probably go clinically insane from the withdrawals within a matter of moments, right?”

I don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I hand him the phone and climb out of bed to take care of the morning bathroom routine. As I reach for my toothbrush, I hear him start to laugh. It’s probably a good thing he is still in bed because I am pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stand at this point.

I am proven wrong just a moment later.

“Quick, turn around and give me your best Deer Caught in Headlights” look.” The Husband is standing behind me with the phone, ready to snap a picture.

I turn around, my expression unchanged from the moment I first saw the email.

“Perfect.”

Win a Date with Brooke Warner

 7 Responses »
May 172011
 

Time and money.

Not exactly things I thought about when I woke up with an idea to write a book. But after jetting off to three conferences last year (two of which weren’t even writing specific) with my proposal in my briefcase and dreams of coming home with a book deal, I now realize I have wasted a lot of both.

I’m not saying that it doesn’t happen because it does. But the fairy tale stories of bloggers being approached by agents with contracts ready to sign and the conference match-ups between writers and agents that lead to the stuff dreams are made of are not exactly what a new writer needs to be banking on. Especially when said writer (read: me) only thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. ( I know…it was hard for me to wrap my head around, too.)

I had worked with a few novice editors to get the proposal together, tighten up my manuscript, and then basically sat back waiting for glory to find me. Yeah, I know. And after a year of queries, rejections, and a few lukewarm nibbles of interest, I finally took a step back, looked in the mirror, and admitted to myself that something needed to change.

Namely? No more wasting time. No more wasting money. Also? Time to tame to ego.

My new outlook led me to Brooke Warner, a writing coach and Seal Press Editor. But before I found Brooke, I had to find my way to She Writes, a wonderful community of writers in every stage of the game. Oh. And did I mention that membership is free? Score one on the not wasting money thing.

Shortly after receiving my email of acceptance into She Writes, I saw a notice for a webinar with Brooke for members interested in learning more about the publishing industry and how to better prepare their work for success. There was a little bit of money involved…but seeing as the price did not involve a plane ticket, hotel room, conference fee, or a new wardrobe (because of course I couldn’t wear the same clothes to every conference…who does that?) I figured I did pretty well. While listening to Brooke share her wisdom during the webinar, I knew I had done pretty well.

And when I finally scored an hour long consultation with Brooke (after waiting on a list oh-so-patiently for a few months)? I found myself wondering why I hadn’t pulled my head out of my ass a long time ago, joined She Writes, got all participatory with other writers, and found Brooke before I spent a lot of money on glorified opportunities to hang out with my social media friends. (Disclaimer: If I met you at one of these conferences, I am totally talking about everyone else being the waste of money. Not you. Oh no. Cuz you made it all worth it. Yes you did. *Pinches Cheeks*)

An hour. That’s exactly what my paypal account paid for and what I got with Brooke. Doesn’t sound like much, perhaps. But trust me when I say every second was worth it. In those 60 minutes, Brooke gave new insights on my proposal and a few sample chapters, highlighting exactly what wasn’t working and even pointing out a few red flags that most likely accounted for the majority of my rejections on the manuscript to date. Brooke also shared what was working and which strengths  to capitalize upon. I hung up the phone wondering where she had been all my life and ready to edit the hell again out of my proposal and manuscript.

The best part was the follow up email in which Brooke called me bitchy. Not in the “OMG, Becky,” kind of way but instead in the “I like your snarky voice” kind of way. Seriously, people? Best. Feedback. EVER.

I can’t promise she will call you names, but I’m betting an hour on the phone with Brooke Warner may be an investment worth considering for those thinking about a writing coach.

You’re welcome.

***

Consider this the epilogue. If you are still reading, you are being rewarded for dealing with my long-winded-ness with a chance to score an hour long phone consultation of Your Very Own with writing coach extraordinaire, Brooke Warner. No, I am not making that up and yes, I did check with Brooke first before making this little announcement. Normally, these sessions run are not free, so consider this a big BIG opportunity to save some moolah and get some kickin’ feedback on your little ole’ work in progress.

To enter, leave a comment explaining why you think you would benefit from a phone consult with The Divine Ms. Warner. Make it good, people. I have a semi-secret-but-not-really panel of four judges who will be helping me decide who gets to make The Call for a Consult!

Entries will be accepted through midnight, EST, on Wednesday, May 25.

The Typo Queen Strikes Ag…Oh Never Mind

 3 Responses »
Feb 252011
 

I got tired of sitting here with my thumb up my ass waiting for responses to a few queries still floating around in Publishing Land, what with not having a clue what I had even sent out to whom and all, so I took the initiative (read: HC Palmquist made me do it) and trolled through my gmail account to set up a proper excel sheet. You know, so I’d have half a clue.

I cringed at some of the quick form rejections, smiled at the You Don’t Suck, The Market Does responses, and even did a little jig when I saw an invitation to query an agent with future projects.

Then? I saw this:

Dear (Mystical Gatekeeper Agent Person),
When you see my query you also will see a very obvious typo…in the
title of my book. While I am known to typo more often than should be
legal, I am well aware of how to spell “Sane.” Unfortunately, I am
coming down with a cold and shivered while attempting to make the
correction. That is when my fingers hit send for me before my head
fixed the word.
I understand if this takes me out of the running for consideration.
But I did want to take a moment to explain myself.
Please have a wonderful weekend.

Sincerely,

Pauline M. Campos

So, who’s surprised that I never heard back from this agent?

Anyone? No?

Yeah…I figured as much.

Mamavation Monday: 1,350 Days

 9 Responses »
Feb 212011
 

On Oct. 17, 2006, I found out I was pregnant. We had been trying for 18 months. I was just 20 pounds from my goal weight when I got the news that motherhood was about to turn my life upside down, but who cared? I was baking a baby bun in my oven. Screw you, PCOS, Insulin Resistance, and hypo-active thyroid. We won.

And? I was going to look super cute doing the first time mama thing. For the first five months, I did okay even though the pregnancy sucked. I was diagnosed with hyperemis and hospitalized three times for dehydration, but I was still in the “You’re Pregnant?” category for much longer than I had ever imagined. Of course, that all changed when my body decided pregnancy sucked even more, and I gained 20 pounds in the last four weeks, and despite already being on bed rest, my blood pressure spiked to dangerous levels. Buttercup was born 37 weeks early on June 12, 2007 after an emergency induction. And after squeezing 6.7 pounds of baby out my hooha, I walked out of the hospital 45 pounds heavier than I had been before this whole business began.

But still, I had high hopes (read: expectations) that I was going to lose it all as fast as I gained it. All I needed to do was work out and eat right. And that brand new jogging stroller was gonna earn it’s keep.
Of course, nothing ever goes as planned. And I sure as hell wasn’t planning on being hospitalized three times in the first six weeks of Buttercup’s life for what my midwife referred to as the worst cases of mastitis she had seen in her entire career. I hadn’t figured on the breast reduction I had in 2002 being a factor in my breastfeeding, but there it was, and I had to wean myself and put her on the bottle to keep myself out of the hospital.

I did lose about 15 pounds without really trying after getting back home and settling in to the new routine. But walking, working out, and eating low fat anything did nothing for the muffin top that had claimed my waistline. I had plans to join a gym and get serious but instead found myself burying my father, taking in my youngest sister and my mother, and forgetting about the scale when Buttercup was just five months old.

Working out? Giving a damn about the size of my ass? That all went out the window. I was too busy taking care of my mom and sister to focus on me. Especially when The Husband came home 5 months after that to tell me he had gotten a job in Arizona.
Cross country moves and retaining sanity are not ever to be placed on the same list. Not when said Husband has to leave six months before you and your child can join him and you are left to pack up the house back in Michigan.
Buttercup and I arrived in Arizona on March 18, 2009, with my mom and youngest sister, of course. I started this blog and the twitter account not too long after that. And Project Baby (F(Ph)at was born. If I couldn’t lose it on my own, maybe making myself accountable to all of the Internet would fix me.

Did I take consider my health issues? No. Of course not. I just figured if I wanted to do it, I was going to do it. That’s how the rest of the world operates, right? Of course it does. But the rest of the world wasn’t living in this body.

I finished Baby F(Ph)at on July 27, 2010. In the year it took me to write the book, I had tried a shit-load of eating plans, worked out until I was blue in the face, and lost a grand total of 16 pounds. But I still considered the journey a success. I had discovered clean eating. I had a lifestyle. Diets could and forever more kiss my ass.

A lot more trial and error and a few more tweaks to my eating habits (namely going gluten, sugar, and dairy free) and suddenly I was all LOOK AT HOW HAWT I AM NOW! And The Husband was all RAWR whenever I entered his line of vision. Which was always. Which was nice.

Then today happened.
I got as naked as she was the first time I saw the daughter my body had nurtured into existence, walked up to the scale, held my breath and closed my eyes as I stepped on. It’s a ritual. If I deviate from one step, the Scale Gods automatically slap fat back onto my ass and then force me to look at the number and deal with it, probably not unlike the Aztec sun gods would punish them for a poor live sacrifice by granting them a crappy harvest or something. So I count the appropriate number of held breaths before looking down…

And breath a sigh of utter relief. I had finally found the me that was there all along, hiding beneath the 45 pound muffin top motherhood had super-glued to my body just to prove a point.

And it only took 1,350 days to get here.

Milestones and Mexifros

 6 Responses »
Feb 182011
 

I started blogging here with the mindset that no one was reading. That no one would read. Why would you? I wasn’t famous. I wasn’t giving anything away. I was just sharing my words. But I guess that was somehow enough.

And 100,000 page views later, I am sitting here in awe. I am not the same person I was when I started here. And I am definitely not the same person who tried blog after blog of what I thought people would want to read before realizing I had to be true to myself for anything I said to not sound like a PR pitch.

I’ll admit I was a scared shitless to drop my first F Bomb. What if I offended people? Turns out I was just being that much truer to myself and my voice. Which, yes, is peppered with profanity. You have no idea how fucking liberating that was.

Every blog post, every story I shared, was just one more piece of me opening up to the world. And each step brought me that much closer to the self-acceptance and confidence I sorely lacked while growing up.

That’s me, in the fourth grade, I think. I was awkward. I was geeky. And I felt every bit the ugly duckling with my mini #mexifro in all its glory.

Before I started writing here, I never would have shared this photo. Before I started writing here, I probably would have burned this when I found it in my mom’s stash of memories.

But I’m not that girl anymore. Instead, I’m this girl.

I’m sassy.

I’m confident.

I’m snarky.

And I’m loving the little bits of me that make me who I am.

Including the hair.

And the crooked smile.

And my F(Ph)at ass.

You might not think that’s a big deal. But you have no idea how hard I tried to be what I wasn’t. There were chemical perms to straighten the kinks. There were copious amounts of aqua net used in a misguided effort to make the bangs I cut look like the white girls I went to school with. There was that yellow sweatshirt and those glasses.

Maybe it took becoming a mother. Every day I wake up hoping to provide my daughter with a positive example of self love. I can’t very well expect her to love what she sees in her own reflection if she sees me hiding from my own.

Maybe it took hiding behind my words before I became confident enough to start sharing myself in photos and videos.

Maybe it took you.

In either case, I am here now to thank you all for reading.

And? For the free lesson in the cheap therapy that is the magic of social media.

Power to The Mexifro, people. Power to the Mexifro.

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