Twitter is the gatekeeper to a magical land of hashtags. #iliketomakethemupbecausemylifeisthatexciting. #sometimestheyaretotallyawesome. #butsometimeslikenowtheyareprettypointless. #ohwellright?
There’s #writechat for a super fantabulous writers chat that goes on for hours on Sundays. There’s #askagent for all questions not related to query letters. There’s #askintern for chats with a few key literary agent interns who like to add to their already heavy workload by helping a writer out. #FF or #followfriday and #WW or #writerwednesday are the ones to use for the peeples you love enough to tell other peeples to follow. There’s #specialteams for parents of special needs children and a great way to connect for support, led by TBFF Juliette. And there’s #mommyswiting and #amwriting for all tweets related to the obvious. Oh, #justsaying is for when, you know, you’re just saying. And, of course, there’s all things #blogher10.
Yes, there are zillions more. These just happen to be the ones I use or follow most frequently.
Recently, I decided to create a new one. It’s mainly for my own personal use and I’m not really expecting it to catch on But if it does, I’ll gladly take all the credit cuz I’m modest like that. My tweet stream is full of mentions about my current search for an agent for Baby F(Ph)at and dreamed up #agentsearch. It’s not a chat. It’s not a hash tag that’s going to lead you to the pot at the end of the rainbow with the agent hiding in it. But it is a way, if you decide to hop on the bandwagon, for writers to connect in yet another way. We all know when we are #amwriting and #justsaying already. So why not support each other in our respective #agentsearch’s?
Come one. Come all. Your call. I’m here either way.
But if you do happen to show up, @ me with a “Yo!” for some #fistpumps and #chestbumps to welcome you to the party.
I think it went straight into the garbage the moment after I held it in my hands. Well, maybe not quite that soon since my father used to brag that his 15-year-old daughter had gotten a hand-written “Good Job, though!” on a printed form letter to a literary agency. I probably threw it away after he read it.
I know. If I could go back in time and bitch-slap myself for not holding on to my first rejection letter and even framing it to preserve the gloriousness of those three hand-written words, I totally would. Instead, I can just focus on the miracle that I still have the actual book and if I’m ever going to re-read and revise to try for a new round of submissions a little over 15 years later.
The book, Wormiwiches for Lunch, was written as an English assignment. We came up with our own stories and did our own illustrations before being sent out into the big wide world of market research (conveniently disguised as story time at the elementary schools). Maybe the other kids in class were just thrilled to get out of third and fourth hour. Maybe a few also dreamed of one day becoming a published author of a B.O.O.K. All I know is I flew higher each time the kids laughed in the right places listening to the story of a boy who outsmarts a lunch stealing school bully by switching out his peanut butter and gummi worm sandwich for one with real worms and practically soared out of the room with chipmunk-voiced requests to come back and read it again. It’s all kind of fuzzy now, but I’m pretty sure it was my English teacher’s encouragement that got me to the school library for a book where I pulled a single agent’s name and sent out a single letter, which I have since learned is called a query.
Go figure.
I know I stated my name in the first paragraph and I am quite certain I also stated how much the kids I read it to loved my book, my age, and my grade at (insert High School here). There’s a damned good chance I broke every query rule in the book, mainly because I didn’t know I was writing a query or which book to refer to for said rules. And then I waited.
And waited.
Until one day, I was called to the main office where a letter was waiting for me. I remember shaking as I walked back to my classroom and nervously opened it with my teacher.
“Good job, though!” I saw that first. And I saw it last. “Though” meant “nice try but not quite.” It didn’t mean I had an agent. Or a chance at getting the book published. So I threw the letter away and forgot about it until we went through some unopened boxes from our cross-country move and found a few of my old treasures.
I wish I’d kept my original letter. Oh well. That just means that when I get to re-reading, revising, and editing Wormwiches for Lunch again, I just get to write a brand new first draft.
It’s July 24.
It’s a big date for me.
For one, it’s the official start and end date of my year’s Baby F(Ph)at journey. I gave myself a year to lose 40 pounds and while I didn’t make that goal, I made huge strides in changing my outlook, my eating habits, and my understanding of the importance of never putting myself last on my to-do list again. My daughter, my husband, and the responsibilities I have to my family have and always will come first. Screw the bra-burning party. It’s just the way I’m wired. But I’m happy with second place.
I’d call that a success, which is also a big mental step for me. That alone shows me that I have realized my journey doesn’t stop when I type The End on the book.
There’s another reason that July 24 is important to me. My father would have turned 53 today. His number’s still in my cell phone. I used to call it, before my sister inherited his cell, just to hear his voice. But it’s been three years since he died unexpectedly. And I think it’s taken me this long to let go. There isn’t any more lingering guilt when I feel happiness or take a hard-earned moment’s peace to just be. I didn’t realize it until a few days ago, but this entire year has been more of a growing experience than I had ever planned for it to be. I settled into a new house thousands of miles away from my family and friends and brought my mother and one of my sisters with us. Made repeated trips back to the east coast for legal matters surrounding my father’s death, which led to a legal fight with certain (former) family members because my father had died without a will. And while I was gluing my heart back together, life kept moving forward. My dog died. More pages were written. More steps taken to a happier and healthier me. My grandfather died. Buttercup turned three. And life kept moving on. More pages were written. And more steps taken to a happier and healthier me and in spite of the PCOS, the Insulin Resistance, the hypothyroid, I lost 16 pounds as of my last count. *throws confetti*
It’s been a hell of a year. But I survived. And I’m a better person for it, I think.
Did I realize the importance of this date when I decided to start writing chapter one 365 days ago? Yes and no. Of course I realized it was his birthday, but I didn’t start my book on July 24 intentionally. It just happened. And as the year progressed, I forgot about it…until I looked at the calendar again and realized what day my year’s journey would officially end.
I wrote a book for your birthday, Dad. How’s that for a new beginning?
Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down!
I have avoided this song with Buttercup because, well, I’m just not that into singing about the bubonic plague. I don’t remember exactly when I learned that I spent a fair amount of my childhood laughing my ass off with the other kids as we unknowingly sang about the rosy rashes developed by the victims or the flowers people put in their pockets to ward off bad smells or the ashes from those who were cremated.
And then the swim teacher went and ruined almost three years of hard work with 30 seconds in class last week. Seriously, people? Why in the name of all that is holy are people still singing this to their kids? Yes, I know Buttercup has no clue she’s making me gag a bit every time I have to go rounds with her new lyrical obsession, but come on.
Yes, I also am aware that this is not a chipper subject. But it is a catchy song. Everybody, sing! And therein lies my dilemma.
Now pardon me while I go look for an oven to cheer myself up with. Then maybe we can sing a song about baking muffins. Which reminds me. Please don’t tell me the Muffin Man is evil, too. Because that would just totally send me over the edge.
She points to a flower and breathes in its scent as Daddy juggles her Kai Lan purse to reach for his wallet. Unaware of the power she holds over him, she giggles and hugs her first flower close.
This post originally appeared at The Afterbirth
