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4 Weeks In
Tomorrow is the first day of week 5 of our remodel. This last week we saw more work going in the remodel mode instead of demo mode. We have new drywall in some spots, and patchy stuff over the exterior cinder block wall that had been exposed and then hidden by a refrigerator by the previous owner. The pantry we moved out of the hall and into the kitchen, and the bigger closet we made in the hall have both been sheet rocked, our new hall has been created and our new interior doors have arrived. We also have light switches! Light switches were not popular with the last owners so it’s all new. They’re hopeful they’ll be able to start paint at the end of this week!
New hall closet
That wall and switches are all new! -
I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends
This weekend I had coffee with my friend, Joyce. I’m pretty sure we hadn’t seen each other since around 2013 when she was celebrating her degree. That night was one of the small handful of times I’d seen her two youngest girls. I think it was only the second time she’d met Rich. In between that night and this weekend there had been a few texts here and there but the pause in contact is nothing new for Joyce and I. Over the last 25 years or so there have been many lengthy pauses in our contact, but they’ve never equaled a pause in our friendship.
I can’t tell you when Joyce and I first met, or when we decided we were friends. There was no decision. We have been friends pretty much our entire lives. We met as toddlers and grew up as neighbors from that point through to our early teen years. Even after we took turns moving away from our old neighborhood we stayed in touch. In the age before cell phones and constant contact through text messaging, we made real calls, sent each other letters. We even got together for dinner a few times once we could both drive.
Our friendship has weathered through a lot. There were the good times like a summer of backyard dance performances that younger siblings were happy to watch – we were sure of it. We took babysitting courses together to become “certified” to watch other people’s kids. There was the time we sneaked a measuring cup of straight sugar out to the backyard because she hadn’t been able to have sweets and we ate the whole thing. Of course there were a few rocky points. The infamous sprinkler attack when she clocked me in the side of the head with a garden sprinkler, and the day I completely accidentally clocked her little sister unconscious with a metal baseball bat.
The friendship survived. And it survives today. And we survived our own rocky starts, both taking what some would call the hard way to adulthood. When we sat down with our coffee on Saturday our conversation picked up like we’d seen each other a few days ago. We grinned like preteens while we shared our current successes, and that is always how it goes for us. If we don’t see each other again for the next several months, or even the rest of this year, those pauses in contact will never weaken what was started by toddlers in two yellow houses all those years ago. It’s one of those friendships I know I’ll be able to hold onto for the rest of my days. -
The Road so Far…
So, today was the end of week three of our remodel project. I have to admit I’m not doing as peachy of a job as I thought I would at dealing with the chaos. At the same time I’ve only thrown one princess fit and one small fit so I don’t think I’ve been too bad.
Tonight I came home to some progress! I know a lot of work has been done in the last few weeks but I don’t really notice the new beams in the attic or the plumbing and gas lines that have been moved around. Not in the same way I can see my new pantry or my new linen closet that I wasn’t even getting last week. There’s even a mock up of our island. It’s going to be good to start seeing things coming back together. ☺
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Then and Now
So, last week we started what is going to be a weeks long remodel of our kitchen/dining room/living room. I’ve been anxious about getting it started for month, and I know that the end result is going to be amazing. But right now it’s just kind of a big empty space with some exposed wiring and a hole in the floor.
I’m going to record the progress because I want to be able to look back on the project and remind myself of the work they’re doing on the night a week or two from now when I really miss having a stove to cook on. 🙂
This is the before and as of the weekend. Wish I’d thought to take pics before we started packing….
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I Got an Agent Because I Have An Awesome Husband
My husband, Rich, is truly one of the greatest men on the face of the earth. He has a way of pushing me to do things, try things, and finish things, that my sometimes flaky, sometimes fearful brain really needs. And in 2013, when I was frustrated and defeated after receiving a group of rejection letters, Rich did the research and found a writer’s conference to attend in Las Vegas because he insisted it would be worth it. While I sat on the couch and contemplated whether or not I could do a writer’s conference, Rich sat with his laptop and signed me up and booked us a room. And a few days before the trip, when I had my typical meltdown over our impending travel, he let me know with all sorts of certainty that I would be fine and we were most definitely going. And we went.
I’ve put money into this dream, the convention, an editor, a half dozen half filled notebooks, a Chromebook, and packs of Ink Joy pens, and he’s supported me the whole way. When it came time to send the requested full manuscript for review I dragged my feet. I put it off and put it off for days, all out of fear of being rejected again. Rich bought me the printer paper and the mailing envelope while I was at work one day, and hung out with me while I printed the 246 pages. I had read the manuscript so many times that I was sure it was all good. I didn’t even catch the fact that entire lines were missing in the middle of multiple pages, making it so Liz didn’t get to read that Cole gets a warrant for a storage unit after it shows up in financial records. Sorry, Liz! If I’d asked him to look at it, Rich would have been calm enough to notice for me.
Once I got it printed Rich took me to the UPS store and made sure the package was sent out on it’s way. After, when I panicked and cried a little over possible rejection, he oh so lovingly called me a dork, and reminded me that it was going to be fine. And like (almost) always, the guy was right. If he hadn’t booked that trip to Vegas I never would have sat down with Mia Thompson for a 5 page review, and she never would have suggested I meet with her agent, Liz Kracht, and I wouldn’t be reading through page notes tonight from my agent, Liz Kracht, to start my next editing process. I did it all because of the never-ending support from my fantabulous husband. Oh, and did I mention he is an awesome cook and does laundry? He really is the greatest. -
You like me! You really like me!
‘Where are you with your book?’
It’s a question I’ve heard a million times since I started letting people know I’d submitted my manuscript to an agent for representation. ‘It’s a long process’ I would tell them. I’d submitted to agents at the end of 2012 and first part of 2013. By April of 2013 I’d received 12 rejections and it was hard not to be discouraged. Instead of giving up, my cute husband booked a trip for the Las Vegas Writers Conference. The luck of the draw had me submitting 5 pages to be reviewed by author Mia Thompson, and there was so much validation with that review that I was encouraged all over again to keep going. Then Mia suggested I sit down with her agent, Liz Kracht, from Kimberly Cameron & Associates. After attending a few sessions with her, then sitting down with her, I decided to make the process of landing an agent a little more difficult.
I spent the rest of the year cleaning up my story. I hired an editor and then cleaned it up some more. Then I sent a query with my first 50 pages off to Liz, and only her, and I waited. I started working on book two and waited a little more. After a little more waiting I got an email back; she wanted to read the full. I was on cloud nine! But because I’m also the sensitive, creative type, I stressed out about whether or not she would like it every time I thought about it so I tried not to think about it.
I worked on my second story, answered the questions always in the same way, and tried to be the most patient person I could be. In Vegas I’d had someone ask for the full manuscript but I didn’t send it. There wasn’t anything that clicked with her for me and I am a person that tends to go with my gut. She liked my story concept when I pitched it but I wasn’t sure she’d get my characters the same way I do, and that mattered. When I first met Liz I knew she was the agent I wanted to work with. She was so enthusiastic about the industry and her writers. That was the kind of agent I needed. And the events of last week proved that my patience has been worth it.
She liked it! She really liked it!
After all the work and all the waiting I will now be working with Liz Kracht to get my first novel out into the world. I don’t think I stopped smiling for three days after getting that phone call. I’ve become more determined than ever to make this story the best version that I can, and to step it up with the second. I’ve also decided that adding the words ‘my agent’ to sentences concerning my writing is the coolest thing ever.
So, keep checking back while I move this project forward. I’ll be updating here on a regular basis. Hopefully soon I’ll be able to say that not only do I have an agent, I now have a publisher. 🙂 -
I'm a Grown-up, Who are you? Are You a Grown-up too?
Neil Gaiman has been a favorite for quite some time. I was so excited for The Ocean at the End of the Lane to come out that I read it in one sitting. The fairy tale story line and adorable characters sucked me right in. But this line? This line made me smile in that “you caught me” kind of way. It’s certainly one of his best.
“I’m going to tell you something important. Grown-ups don’t look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they’re big and thoughtless and they always know what they’re doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren’t any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.” – Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
The first time I read this it actually choked me up a bit. It comes in a conversation between the two young stars of the story, and when I read it, it was like Gaiman had exposed our little secret to the world. Because we do try to keep it a secret. I’m a grown-up. I’m an adult. I’ve got it all under control now! But inside, in little places, we’re still the same being we were at 5. At 9. At 13. And that makes us all still a little bit shaky on this whole idea of being a grown-up. We just aren’t jumping up to admit it.
We’re so unsure about whether or not we’d classify ourselves as grown-ups at the right time that we’ve assigned adulthood a set age. Somehow, and maybe unwisely, the age of adulthood ends with the word “teen”. Not sure who thought that one up. Honestly, I don’t know. I could Google, but I’ll just put it out there – was this decided when adulthood had to be 18 because dead was usually 40? Would we get a better grasp on the whole adulting thing if we waited until there was another zero on our age, and we were out of our crazy, awkward teen years? We’ll never know now thanks to someone’s bright idea.
It was a big deal to read this line and figure out it really isn’t just me. Hell, The Great Neil Gaiman himself might even fall into the category of people officially aged to adult that spend a whole lot of time just faking it. And boy are there days that I fake it! But we all do, right? You go through your days, you hold together your relationships, you work and pay bills. You get involved, you stand up, you parent and you referee. You find grown-up hobbies and develop grown-up tastes, and you go back to having a bed time. And you tell 13 year old you that you can’t stick your tongue out at people when they bug you. But you tell 9 year old you that it is still OK to carry rocks in your pockets, because you’re a grown-up and you say so… -
Do you remember…
My mom’s favorite color is yellow. I don’t know if she would still answer that question the same way, but for me, her favorite color will always be yellow. When I was in kindergarten or first grade we were told we needed to find out our mom’s favorite color for a gift we were making in class, without letting her know what it was for. I clearly remember hatching my plan. I ran out from my bedroom and asked my mom her favorite color. And then, to keep her from figuring out what I was up to, I ran back out and asked my dad for his favorite color. His is red. She was never going to figure me out now! For a long time my little yellow plaster hand print hung on the kitchen wall. Along with a braided potpourri ball we’d made as another gift. It too was yellow.
I’ve always thought I had a pretty good memory. I can remember making a house out of a giant box with my uncle Duane when I was a kid, and being impressed he was big enough to use a pocket knife. I found out much later from my grandmother that we built the house the day my little brother was born. Two weeks before I turned 3. I can clearly remember Duane cutting in a little window that day, but funny enough, I can’t tell you anything about my little brother being born. Actually, I can’t remember my little brother coming into my world at all. More accurately, I can’t remember my world without him. The way my brain has remembered things, my brother has always been there.
A few weeks ago my memory was tested by my friend Piper. For reasons I don’t remember, we were talking about the day of my wedding and the fact that I was late. She arrived first and called me to make sure we were still coming so she could do my hair but she didn’t remember that part. What she does remember is the day I came to her house for a practice run on my hair. A practice run that I don’t remember. AT. ALL. While Piper remembers vividly our practice run, doing the twists, practicing with the tiara, and something to do with a make up drawer – I don’t. Not exactly anyway. The more I thought about it, the more I thought maybe – just maybe – it did happen.
Focusing I what I couldn’t remember, I eventually remembered something happening at Piper’s house a week or two before my wedding. The thing is, no matter what, I don’t remember that thing having anything to do with my hair. What I do remember now is being at Piper’s house before my wedding because she was giving me the “something borrowed” part of my wedding tradition. I do distinctly remember sitting in her room while she pieced through her jewelry box, and deciding on a ring our friend Lori had given her before passing away. I even remember some other pieces of jewelry – a bracelet I think was from Sarinda? But no matter what, I don’t remember practicing my hair. I wouldn’t have been worried about what she was going to do with my hair, I trusted everything she came up with from the start, and maybe that’s why it isn’t what stayed with me.
I don’t understand what makes some things stick in your brain and other things to float out into the universe. Why is it that I can remember an insult thrown at me in the eighth grade(ever been called a goody-goody slut? I have.) and the response I came up with (Pick one, you can’t call me both.) but I can’t remember my wedding hair? Where did my brain stash that little bit? Why can’t I recall something that, knowing Piper and I, had to have gotten mushy at some point? I think that was probably one of those moments my brain should have held onto. Am I the only one? Is there anything you remember that you don’t know why, or things you’ve had to be reminded of that should have still been around?
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The Other Side of Depression
The news of Robin Williams’ suicide rocked me yesterday, as it did so many others. Facebook and blogs filled up with remembrances, and reminders of the importance of mental health treatment. My Twitter feed was full of personal memories, favorite movie roles, and retweets of suicide prevention hotlines. Some of the posts choked me up, some made me laugh, but one set me on fire. It was one little comment on a Twitter feed. Less than 140 characters, said by a total stranger, in regards to the death of a man I’ve never met. One question soaked with blame that went straight to my heart.
“Where were his family and friends when he needed them?”
The answer to that question is “Right there.” I would brave to guess that his wife and his kids and his friends were all right there with him. And like so many of us who do watch from the side lines, they were hurting right along with him. To believe that the effects of depression are only felt by the person with the diagnoses borders on delusional. The tentacles of depression are far reaching. Anyone who cares for a person with this disease understands this. In our house, my son’s diagnoses came at the age of six, shortly after the first time he vocalized thoughts of suicide. And for the twelve years since, we’ve watched his battle and done everything we could think of to help, all while mostly feeling helpless. I imagine this is a feeling Robin Williams’ loved ones were familiar with.
The worst part about watching someone you love fight against depression is that, as the one on the outside of their brain, you don’t always know which side of the battle they’re on. If he comes to dinner with us and smiles it could be that he’s winning for the moment. Or it could be that he’s trying really hard to convince us he’s winning for the moment. And there’s only so many of those days he can get through in a row. More often than not, stringing together those fake good days ends badly. I have no way of describing what those dark days are like for my son. I can tell you that they are heartbreaking for the rest of us. But we don’t give up. We hold on and fight forward, and on the days that the disease really has a hold, we drag him kicking, and hope we can convince him not to give up either. I know we’re not the only ones who do this.
There are days – spans of days, even weeks – where we feel like we’re on calm seas. The tension eases and we all go about our lives with the depression just being part of the backdrop. Other days – or spans of days, at some points even weeks – the depression is front and center for all of us, and we jump around on egg shells and hold on. And unless you’ve experienced the fear of opening a door to a quiet room, or had a knock-down, drag-out, scream-fest with someone you love more than life, over whether or not they need to stay alive; you have no idea where Robin Williams’ family and friends have been. But many of us do understand. And our hearts go out to them as they face the nightmare the rest of us selfishly hope to never have to face ourselves. -
What's your favorite?
Hello world! I am going to call this site Blog 2.0. There will be a lot more to this blog site than there was on my anonymous blog, and I hope all of you will join in. For the first order of business, let’s talk about books! I love books. I have always loved books. Some of the brightest moments of childhood were the days we got the Scholastic book orders to take home. I went through those little catalogues no less than a dozen times, trying to come up with the perfect combo to max out whatever dollar amount my parents gave me.
There are books from different stages of my childhood that I still love. I searched high and low for a copy of “There’s a Monster at the End of This Book” after my son was born. My hardcopy of “Harold and the Purple Crayon” was given to me when I was in my 30’s by my cute Grandma D, and sits with the rest of my grownup books on the bookshelf. It’s the perfect replacement for the paperback copy I wore out at her house. I went from “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” and “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margret”, to the first true story in my collection; “Robyn’s Book” around fifth grade. That one was a Scholastic order and probably the first book I read that left me in uncontrollable, wet and ugly tears. I cried so much for a girl I didn’t know, who had a disease I had never before heard of, that I had to immediately read it a second time. I cried just as much that next time around…
As I got older, I read everything from Anne Rice to Anne Rule. Nothing was off limits. I’ve laughed and cried through stand alones and multiple series. I’ve grown, and suffered, and investigated, and celebrated with so many characters. Many that I count as friends. And with all that I’ve read, if you were to ask me what my favorite book is, I wouldn’t be able to answer. I could give you a list of my favorites, and if you asked me again in a month that list would change, but I could never list just one. So…that’s what I want to know. Could you name a favorite book? What would it be? If not, what are a few that would at least make the list?
