Holding out

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Jul 142010

I recently read a BlogHer post by Renee J. Ross that got me thinking. She talks in depth about her public weight loss, the struggle, and the light at the end of the tunnel. She’s successfully lost quite a bit of weight and I applaud her.

She’s not the only one. There are countless women I could name, including Leah Segedie, Bookieboo.com founder and Mamavation Grand Mistress (that’s my title for her). The site and twitter hashtag are a source of support for moms trying to get fit and Leah is a great example. She’s lost a crazy amount of weight and uses her story to inspire others.

So where’s that leave me? Not on the winning side of the scale, but that’s a different blog post. Or maybe a chapter in my book.

And therein lies the dilema.

I started the blog the same day I started my book. I’ve wanted to write a book for an insanely long time and have had plenty of time to research the ins and outs of going about the business that comes with getting that dream off the ground. And I went in knowing that traditional publishers aren’t exactly going to do the happy dance when/if they get to reading your manuscript and find the entire thing plastered all over your blog.

So the plan from the beginning was to make the book the story of my weight loss attempt journey and the blog my mama-writer journey. I put a few snippets up here and there—little bits of the book—to give you an idea of what isn’t going on the blog, but for the most part I am doing my damnedest to make sure I don’t make my life harder whenever I get to the agent/editor/publisher portion of this little pipe dream.

Now, if this had gone another way and I had just started a blog first, gotten the attention of an agent, and had the Great Oz make all the rest of my dreams come true, too, this all may have gone a bit differently. I might be sharing more on Bookieboo. I might have gotten past the “Should I or Shouldn’t I?” and tried to win a spot in her Mamavation campaign. I may have vlogged more about my results for more accountability. I may have reached out for more support.

I maybe should have lost the weight first. And then written the book.

But then I remind myself that my goal from the beginning wasn’t to flash a number at The End and call it a day. It was to reach out, connect, and show anyone who picks up the finished product that success on the scale isn’t the only prize to be sought. Yes, it is an important goal. And one that we should continue to strive for. But the continuing to try part? Despite the craziness and obligations of motherhood? The getting up every morning after a hellacious day before and a hellacious day to come? I want moms to read my book and know that trying is a reason enough to feel good about themselves.

I know I could share more. But I really shouldn’t. And it’s not that I’m holding out. I’m just saving the juicy bits for the book.

And I can say that on my blog without blurring too many lines.

So I will.

My song

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Jun 302010

The first time I heard the term “Beta Reader” I thought it had something to do with the fish. Shows you how much I knew when I started writing my book.

But I’ve learned a little since then. And gotten brave enough to start sharing my work with people I actually interact with, even if those interactions are limited to 140 characters per message. And so far? So good. I’m getting great feedback on little things I missed, like scenes that didn’t connect or using a certain word too many times in a paragraph.

And the typos. Let’s not forget those.

All in all, though, the beta reading process has been eye-opening and exciting. There’s always that little bit of terrified anticipation every time I have hit send with a manuscript (and I have a few in the works and multiple almost ready for agent queries) and even more when a response is received.

But nothing compares to the email I just sent.

To my personal trainer.

Can I just say, “Holy Shitballs, Batman!”

Let me explain.

I walked into this new little gym a year ago with great expectations and a plan for a book. “I’m fat and need to lose weight and want to share my experience with other mom’s tired of being fed the company line about how easy it is,” I explained to the man nodding his head as he took notes for our introductory meeting and the woman who leads my Zumba classes. “How much weight do I want to lose? Oh, 40 pounds. I’m 236 right now…hoping to get as close to NOT being 200 pounds as I possibly can by the time I write “The End.”

I explained I had PCOS, hypothyroidism, and karmic vengeance kicking my ass. I also explained that I was a doormat, raised to put my family before my own needs so there was a high chance making dinner and QT time with The Husband might be a barrier I needed to work on. But that I wanted this to happen and that I needed this to happen. Not just for the book, but for my own sanity.

Fast forward to the present.

I’ve lost a grand total of 10 pounds. To be more precise, I’ve lost something along the lines of 30, but each incremental loss yo-yo’d me right back to Holy Hell status. I eat right: no pop, minimal processed foods (Ben & Jerry’s  is my kryptonite), trim the fat off my meats, serve fruits and veggies with almost every meal, have learned to love my coffee black and my eggs minus the gooey yumminess of the yolk. I avoid all food items with the so-called “bad oils” and stick to the good ones, and spend a small fortune on organics each time I enter the grocery store.

I might not work out as often as I had planned, but I do work out. Zumba, hour long walks in my hilly subdivision, tae bo, pilates, and that Spanish Inquisition torture thinly disguised as a workout known as P90X (No, I did not make it 90 days because it was too X for my jiggly ass).

But still…

My nephew visited recently from out of state and was shocked to see how we eat. What I buy. How I prepare it. I honestly think that he (and the rest of the family) assumed I ate like I just didn’t give a damn because well, I don’t exactly look like I eat like I do. I try. Each and every day. Some choices may not be the best (like the PMS-inspired Chicken Marsala at the Olive Garden tonight) but I’m not sure how much more I can do in the little time I have left in my year of discovery short of cashing in my chips and denying a tummy tuck and lipo, Hollywood style.

All of this is in my book. And every word about to be read by the husband-wife team who have followed up on their end of the bargain. They’ve done their job. I’m just not sure I’ve done mine and well, that’s why I am all cluster-beeped in the nerves while waiting for their reaction.

Then I saw a tweet from @writersblocktips.

A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song–Chinese Proverb

I don’t write because I have an answer. I write because I have a story. And I need to share it.

So I am.

Lessons learned, Lines crossed

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Jun 072010

Lest any of you think I can talk smack without ever looking into a mirror and owning up to my own mistakes, it’s time for a revelation.

I fucked up.

I’ve been thinking about this post for a long time and have put off writing it again and again. Not because I can’t bare to admit I crossed the line drawn in the sand, but because, well…I can’t bare to admit I crossed the line drawn in the sand.

The story goes like this:

I was high on finishing my book proposal and scrambling to get a few blurbs from writer friends. Since I’m pretty close to sending out some queries and starting that whole process, I also figured starting the search for that elusive foreward written by Someone Famous would be a good idea and might pad my proposal in my favor.

So I sent a few emails. Made a few calls.

No harm, no foul.

Everyone I contacted initially was a friend. Someone who I had already developed a solid relationship with going as far back as my first tweet on the Aspiringmama account.

I got feedback. I also got a few pretty awesome blurbs.

Then I got cocky.

I had recently connected with a Famous Writer on Twitter and was thrilled to see conversations developing. I’d been on this Famous Writer’s site and was familiar with the Don’t Send Me Your Unsolicited Work to Read clause. It made total sense since Famous Writer has deadlines and their own work to worry about.

Looking back, I wonder how I let myself believe I was going to be an exception. I was not friends with Famous Writer. I wasn’t even an acquaintance. I was just a new comment in the Twitter stream; a new fan happy to see another example of Dreams Having Come True.

But there I sat with my finger on the mouse.  I had written an email thanking Famous Writer for their communication on Twitter and asked if Famous Writer would be willing to read a few sample chapters for a possible blurb and perhaps that foreward I was hoping to snag. My breathe caught in my throat. My finger was shaking.

But I hit send anyway.

TBFF Juliette thought I was crazy but was kind enough not to say so out loud. I laughed off her doubt by convincing myself that Famous Writer and I were destined for a real connection and that the worst that could happen was a simple “no.”

I was wrong.

I received a form email a few days later from Famous Writer’s assistant spelling out their policy as stated on the web site and nothing more.

I wrote back, thanking the assistant for their time and waited for what I was sure wasn’t going to come.

And I was right.

Since that original email was sent, the twitter conversation has all but stopped. I’m not blaming Famous Writer. The way they probably see it, little to no responses to me are probably best; kind of like how you try to cut off communication with the sweet but weird guy who won’t stop calling because he doesn’t understand that you really just want to be friends.

I’m embarrassed, not to admit the aftermath. But that it happened to begin with.

I pride myself on what I know about what writers need to do to get published. I’ve done my homework when it comes to every single aspect of what order to perform each and every step and am very proud of the honesty on which my relationships on twitter are based. I know knew that there are professional lines not to be crossed when socializing on outlets like Twitter. I know that what I did was stupid. And hate that there isn’t a Take Back button I can hit.

I’m writing this for the newer writers reading my blog. The seasoned ones are most likely smacking their foreheads wondering what kind of Stupid possessed me when I Hit Send on that email. But for those just getting started?

Go slow. Nurture the connections that you’d like to see develop into true relationships. Don’t overstep the boundaries.

We all have something to learn on our journeys.

This just happened to be one of my lessons.

Baby F(Ph)at excerpt: The Sun Wins the Race

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Jun 042010

I’m working on a book. It’s supposed to be about my year’s journey to lose the baby weight.

Three years after having the kid.

And here I sit, a mere 9 days from Buttercup’s third birthday and about 8 weeks from my self-imposed deadline, wondering when Karma is going to forgive me for Thinking Bad Thoughts about Moms who had Let Themselves Go before I became a mother myself and took a good, hard look in the mirror.

I haven’t gotten on a scale in three weeks. Or seen the inside of the gym, for that matter. But as of last count, I was somewhere in the 10 pound loss area.

That’s 10 pounds in 10 months.

Somehow, that thought just manages to depress the living hell out of me.

My goal is 30 pounds total to get me to my pre-pregnancy weight and so much is riding on crossing that finish line that I wonder how much different The End is going to be in Baby F(Ph)at than I expected. I’m supposed to get pregnant again when I have crossed Go and collected my $200. I’m supposed to start the next phase of my life.

The Husband is patiently waiting for me to put up or shut up or just say fuck it and forget it and let’s get to making a baby and I’ll just worry about it all after I pop the next kid out. And while I can normally talk myself up when suffering through a Fat Day such as today, it’s getting harder and harder. Because every day gone is another opportunity missed.

My intentions are stellar. I want to be skinnier healthier for me, for my family. This takes work. I know that. So I wake up each morning with the intention of working out and eating right. And yet, somehow, each and every day seems to get away from me. There are bills to pay, laundry to do, dust bunnies to hunt down and kill because the Mother-in-Law is coming for a five day visit and in the world I have created in my head and the real one I occupy the house must be Spotless to ensure a pleasant visit for all parties involved. There’s the grocery shopping, the Quality Time  with the toddler, the Family Drama spanning 2,500 miles that somehow manipulates entire days that eventually end only to find I’m still bra-less, in my PJs, and rockin’ my Mexi-fro.

There’s changing my schedule around to adjust to The Husband’s new day shift, which means that I have until 4:30 p.m. to get Everyone Else’s shit taken care of so I can continue to take care of Everyone Else with that magical meal that will please everyone from the gluten-free to the acid-reflux to the just plain picky.

Then there’s the dishes. The kitchen clean-up. The taking Buttercup upstairs to bathe, brush teeth, floss, and read four stories to because she knows how to count to eleven-teen and I can’t convince her that two stories are more than they really are.

There’s lunch to be made for The Husband because that’s how I was raised and that’s how he was raised and I’m home all day so I can’t really complain and tell him I don’t have time to make his lunch so I don’t and I make it anyway even though I really don’t have the time. I’m supposed to finish the nightly routine fast enough to get into bed with him at least every few nights so he can smile and fall asleep with my arms around him because there’s only so many hours in a day and I’m obviously not handling things right if my work keeps me awake until 2 a.m. every night and Motherhood requires an 8 a.m. wake up call so I try to move faster, but the sun always wins the race.

There’s that TV show I think I deserve to sit down and watch, just this one, because once Mom leaves for her six-month visit to Michigan to see the rest of the family, the TV will only be on when Nick Jr. comes to babysit so I can be like Other Moms and deal with the demands of family on my own. You know, like a big girl.

There’s the fact that even when I was telling myself the dishes could wait and the laundry could wait longer so I could pack Buttercup up in the mini-van and head to the gym with the daycare and feel good for an hour which would make me feel good for longer, I still felt like I wasn’t trying hard enough. There’s also the Unspoken Argument that ignited when The Husband switched to days and decided to sign up at the gym with me so we could Spend Time Together, which left me dreading his arrival somewhere around 5:30 because dinner had to be cooked, the diaper bag packed, and bedtime pushed back for Buttercup until after we got home, ate, and I read eleven-teen story books which affected her mornings and somehow we stopped going together so I stopped going at all.

But at least my fingers look good. From all the writing I’ve been doing and all.

There’s time spent on everyone else. And when it’s all said and done, there’s no time left for me. So I wonder what I’m doing wrong even though I try to do everything right for everyone else because really, that’s what I’m supposed to do—what feels right because I’m a Wife and Mother—and I’ll take care of myself when I have the time and…

It’s 12:36 a.m. I’m sitting here working on my book, and have just unhooked the straps on the sports bra I’ve had on since I got dressed because I had good intentions. I didn’t work out today. Hell, I didn’t even eat right today.

I ran out of time. Then I ran out of reasons to bother trying.

Humble pie can suck it

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Sep 152009

That’s right. I said it.

Forget modesty in the pit I like to call manuscript critique. I’m getting slammed with statements calling me out as a crappy kid lit writer when it comes to the poetry I submitted. So I revised. And it looks like that round of edits only got me more “suck.” Granted, my critiques offered some very valid points that I wholeheartedly plan on addressing, but let’s just say the tone of the critiques has left me wondering if there might be one dream less worth pursuing.

So I have three choices:

1) Put my big girl panties back on, smile pretty, and REVISE, REVISE, REVISE. Focus on the fact that I while I know my current kid lit project might not ever win an award if/when it’s published, that at least I know the intended audience does like what I have to say.

2) Take a good hard look at my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I know I’ve got a good thing going on with my journalism background, bylines to make my mother proud, and this snappy blog. And I’m plenty proud of my memoir/momoir/bookumentary/whatever-the-hell-you-want-to-call-it Baby Ph(f)at book in the works. But these strengths do not necessarily mean that I know diddly (or have the talent needed to make up for any stated lack of knowledge) regarding writing for children.

3) Put the kid lit on the back burner and let it stew for a while so I can gather my bearings. This is my first attempt at criticism for this particular project from someone not bound by loyalty or blood and it’s been a brutal wake up call. I’m not intending to let one bully on the playground scare me off the tire swing, but before I do anything, I need to figure out if I even want back on the damned thing.

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