Hubby (Cadillac) & I saw a new doc yesterday. We ditched the old doc because he refused my request to put on gloves when he took out my ingrown toenail-- I know, yech!
Anyhoo, this new doc is great and is also the doc of Cadillac's folks, so we knew he was good. He got on Cadillac's case about his weight. Actually, he got on MY case. "Don't feed him more than 1800 calories a day," he said to me. "Go on a family walk for an hour every day when he gets home from work."
"Oh-kay," I said, wondering if I should defend myself. I make things like baked salmon with salad for dinner, limit sweets, go crazy if he buys the kids sugary cereal-- why do I have to caretake my hubby to this extent, too? Is he not an adult? Can he not pull out the bag of celery if he wants a snack?
The other thing is, Cadillac is still, oddly, in pretty good shape. That is, he can run 6 mph forever and he is still strong. He just doesn't get enough exercise. He has a desk job. He gets up at 445 am and goes to sleep at 11 pm, because we're dealing with kids and then he likes to watch TV and then he decides he's going to do some laundry or whatever...and I tell him to go to bed and he's too stubborn to. What am I supposed to do, tuck him in and sing him a lullaby?
Anyway, I am not sure how much weight he needs to lose. Our Homedics scale says he weighs 14 pounds less here than he did at the doctors! I weigh 8 pounds less at home. So what the heck? Which scale is wrong? What's going on?
I tend to think the doctor's scale is wrong, because I can fit into certain clothes at certain weights and not above; and I now fit into my pre-baby clothes. So there.
The scale also measures body fat; it has an "athelete" setting so it won't think you're fat because you have loads of heavy muscle. Unfortunately, Cadillac has a titanium plate in his neck and can't use this feature-- it sends some kind of electric signal through you and it says people with metal plates are not supposed to use it.
But I am hopeful. Maybe he doesn't have so much weight to lose. And I started making him lunch and told him he's accountable for his exercise. We're going to do the family walk thing. It won't kill us, after all.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Editing the novel
After a long, hot summer of waiting, my editor delivered my edits to me, in the form of an 11 page treatise. It was a fantastically well thought out letter, and left me on my knees thanking God that she liked it well enough to buy it in the first place.
I spent a month or so adding 22,000 words, cutting characters, and reshaping it into a much better novel. This required a lot of babysitting, provided gratis by the grandparents; and my hubby, who took a week off work so I could work nonstop. Everything was in my head, waiting. The only thing stopping me was the fact my ass kept falling asleep.
Tis complete, and now I await my editor's comments. More waiting.
The local paper had an article about some delayed gratification project done in the 60s, called the Marshmallow Experiment. They took kids and put a marshmallow in front of them, saying, "You can either eat it now or wait 20 minutes and get two." Apparently there's a correlation between intelligence and waiting. I would have eaten it, fearing a trick.
This book is also a big lesson in delayed gratification and makes me crave chocolate and In and Out. Or maybe that's just PMS, which feels like it lasts 3.75 weeks these days. Time to move on to the next project.
I spent a month or so adding 22,000 words, cutting characters, and reshaping it into a much better novel. This required a lot of babysitting, provided gratis by the grandparents; and my hubby, who took a week off work so I could work nonstop. Everything was in my head, waiting. The only thing stopping me was the fact my ass kept falling asleep.
Tis complete, and now I await my editor's comments. More waiting.
The local paper had an article about some delayed gratification project done in the 60s, called the Marshmallow Experiment. They took kids and put a marshmallow in front of them, saying, "You can either eat it now or wait 20 minutes and get two." Apparently there's a correlation between intelligence and waiting. I would have eaten it, fearing a trick.
This book is also a big lesson in delayed gratification and makes me crave chocolate and In and Out. Or maybe that's just PMS, which feels like it lasts 3.75 weeks these days. Time to move on to the next project.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
About My Novel
My novel is called HOW TO BE AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE. It will be published by Putnam Books in 2009, or maybe 2010. Don't know yet.
Here's the crazy-good synopsis that someone at the publishing house wrote:
HOW TO BE AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE is a novel about the strong pull of
tradition, and the lure and cost of breaking free of tradition. Set in California and Japan, it tells the story of Shoko, a Japanese woman who married an American GI as a way of improving her and her family's fortunes, moved with him to the States, and tried to learn how to be a proper American housewife; and her grown daughter Sue, who finds her own life as an American
housewife is not at all what her mother would have wanted for her, or even what Sue had hoped for herself. When Shoko's illness prevents her from making a long-awaited trip to Japan to be reunited with her brother, she asks Sue to go in her place, and the trip changes both women's lives in unexpected ways. With beautifully delineated characters and unique entertaining glimpses into Japanese and American family life and aspirations, this is also a moving mother and daughter story that reaches a happy conclusion. Interspersed with quotations from Shoko's guide to being an American housewife, this is a warm and engaging novel full of surprising
insight.
Here's the crazy-good synopsis that someone at the publishing house wrote:
HOW TO BE AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE is a novel about the strong pull of
tradition, and the lure and cost of breaking free of tradition. Set in California and Japan, it tells the story of Shoko, a Japanese woman who married an American GI as a way of improving her and her family's fortunes, moved with him to the States, and tried to learn how to be a proper American housewife; and her grown daughter Sue, who finds her own life as an American
housewife is not at all what her mother would have wanted for her, or even what Sue had hoped for herself. When Shoko's illness prevents her from making a long-awaited trip to Japan to be reunited with her brother, she asks Sue to go in her place, and the trip changes both women's lives in unexpected ways. With beautifully delineated characters and unique entertaining glimpses into Japanese and American family life and aspirations, this is also a moving mother and daughter story that reaches a happy conclusion. Interspersed with quotations from Shoko's guide to being an American housewife, this is a warm and engaging novel full of surprising
insight.
It was the Suckiest of Times...and the suckiest of times
Ah. Is there any sweeter pleasure for a busy mom than a houseful of sleeping children and a husband who's off at the gym? I'm in front of the computer, Tainted Love turned up too loud. At last, a break from Mommy and Wife.
This summer has sucked. No money, no air conditioning, and a house full of children. They don't care. They have watched enough cartoons to get me thrown into the Dr. Sears/Supernanny rehab center. The yard-- I'll get into THAT monstrosity in another post-- is entirely dirt. Cadillac only works on it if I start working on it and he feels guilty. Plus, no money. Did I say that?
But really, it hasn't entirely. That's because we have...a pool. Pools make things more bearable. Even when they're 4 foot lap pools, a rip in the side that appeared after the house closing, surrounded by a deck that the previous owners put a cosmetic wash on that splinters all over us and gives my baby a dreadful rash. And the fence around it is falling down from termites.
Summer has never sucked more than these past three weeks. All the kids have been sick. One at a time, beginning every Saturday and lasting through Thursday. Friday is a respite, then the next one goes. Fever, sore throat, cough, stuffy nose.
There's nothing worse than seeing your child suffer, especially your two-year-old who has just been potty-trained (big Hoo-rah for that, BTW!!) She cannot breathe, it's hot, she can't nap but she can't stay awake. She lies on the couch in a horrible half-state, melting Otter Pop in hand, eyes watering, croaking, "I not sick. I go Chuckie Cheese."
And who the hell gets sick in summer? It's against nature.
I count my blessings, though. They are sick, but it will pass. It is nothing like the sickness of Cadillac's sister, who had an undiagnosed kidney reflux problem when she was Kaiya's age. Her doc kept telling MIL that it was a urinary tract infection, again and again, inserting painful catheters and doing nothing to help, until at last her kidneys failed. She has had two transplants and is on dialysis. Cadillac is supposed to give her a kidney, but he's not completely compatible and she doesn't think it will take.
While other people survive only a couple of years on dialysis, Cadillac's sis has survived for many. She teaches full time and earned a Master's in chemistry AND ushers at baseball games. Oh, and she lives by herself in the Midwest. I think MIL still feels guilty that she couldn't diagnose this disease on her own. So if you ever start feeling sorry for yourself-- like the time Cadillac got hit by a car running a red light and he did a header over it and had to have metal put in his neck-- you can count on MIL to tell you that your troubles really pale in comparison. Which is true, though hard to swallow at times. Cadillac's neck healed. His sister's kidney did not.
How to Get a Literary Agent
Okay, lots of people have asked me how I got my literary agent. This is what you do:
1. Write a book. Not just the idea for a book. No one will look at that. I say this even though a woman at a party, upon hearing of my book deal from a mutual friend, said that when she was at a conference she presented an idea to an agent, who promptly gave her some? sort? of? contract? Yeah. That happened. Thunder-thief.
2. Look in books of people you like or their websites. They often mention an agent. Query that agent.
3. Go to conferences if you can. These have agents floating around. For a fee, you can get a one-on-one. Even with no fee, shmooze them up at cocktail hour. Have some guts.
4. Network. Make friends with people in writing groups and classes. If you're very talented and they know of people who can help, people usually don't mind referring you. If they're nice, that is.
5. When one door closes, another opens. Cliche, but true. I found this out after I DIDN'T sell the hot book I thought I was gonna sell 3 years ago. And then my old agent fell out of love with me, kind of. I had to get a new one. The good part: other agent had introduced me to the Book Whisperer, Jane Cavolina. She helped me whip my book into shape and picked me up when my morale guttered.
6. Don't listen to the naysayers. You-know-what the naysayers. Send out your queries and forget about them. All you need is one person with taste (because ANYONE with taste will surely fall in love with your book, no?) and that will be that. It could take a week, it could take ten years, but keep your day job and don't give up. Cue the Peter Gabriel music.
Querytracker is a nifty way to track your agent queries. There's also extra info in there, like how long individual agents take to get back to you. They were kind enough to interview me, their faithful user.
1. Write a book. Not just the idea for a book. No one will look at that. I say this even though a woman at a party, upon hearing of my book deal from a mutual friend, said that when she was at a conference she presented an idea to an agent, who promptly gave her some? sort? of? contract? Yeah. That happened. Thunder-thief.
2. Look in books of people you like or their websites. They often mention an agent. Query that agent.
3. Go to conferences if you can. These have agents floating around. For a fee, you can get a one-on-one. Even with no fee, shmooze them up at cocktail hour. Have some guts.
4. Network. Make friends with people in writing groups and classes. If you're very talented and they know of people who can help, people usually don't mind referring you. If they're nice, that is.
5. When one door closes, another opens. Cliche, but true. I found this out after I DIDN'T sell the hot book I thought I was gonna sell 3 years ago. And then my old agent fell out of love with me, kind of. I had to get a new one. The good part: other agent had introduced me to the Book Whisperer, Jane Cavolina. She helped me whip my book into shape and picked me up when my morale guttered.
6. Don't listen to the naysayers. You-know-what the naysayers. Send out your queries and forget about them. All you need is one person with taste (because ANYONE with taste will surely fall in love with your book, no?) and that will be that. It could take a week, it could take ten years, but keep your day job and don't give up. Cue the Peter Gabriel music.
Querytracker is a nifty way to track your agent queries. There's also extra info in there, like how long individual agents take to get back to you. They were kind enough to interview me, their faithful user.
Princess Cupcakes
My daughter's birthday is on Sept. 4, and I decided to recreate these Princess Cupcakes. They're really Pink Lemonade Cupcakes, from Cast Sugar's blog, but my daughter calls them Princess Cupcakes. "Oh, my cupcakes! My princess cupcakes!" she exclaims, and then she clasps her hands together and tilts her head to one side. Where she learned this, I cannot say. She's pretty darn cute, though.
Check Me Out, I'm a Novelist!
For my .5 fans, I have not posted in forever. That's cuz I've been busy. Selling my novel.
That's right. I now go around talking about me. Being a Novelist. Yes, in capitals.
About a month after I signed with Elaine, Putnam bought my novel. Yay! Now for the hard work.
Instead of it going to press all pristine and as-is, I have to do some edits. Oh, they're not bad. They just involve CUTTING OUT A CHARACTER.
Actually, I don't mind at all. I'm working with Peternelle van Arsdale, the executive editor, and besides having a totally awesome name, she happens to be some kind of genius editor who is really nice to boot. And her suggestions are things that a) I didn't think of and b) will make the book better, so why wouldn't I? Besides, at this point, I'm just a whore for sale. What do I care if my book's commercial? Sell it already.
I hope my overnight success comes soon. Let's see, that's 10 years of writing. Not all of it novel, but still.
That's right. I now go around talking about me. Being a Novelist. Yes, in capitals.
About a month after I signed with Elaine, Putnam bought my novel. Yay! Now for the hard work.
Instead of it going to press all pristine and as-is, I have to do some edits. Oh, they're not bad. They just involve CUTTING OUT A CHARACTER.
Actually, I don't mind at all. I'm working with Peternelle van Arsdale, the executive editor, and besides having a totally awesome name, she happens to be some kind of genius editor who is really nice to boot. And her suggestions are things that a) I didn't think of and b) will make the book better, so why wouldn't I? Besides, at this point, I'm just a whore for sale. What do I care if my book's commercial? Sell it already.
I hope my overnight success comes soon. Let's see, that's 10 years of writing. Not all of it novel, but still.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
High School Better Than Expected
Last Friday, I returned to my old high school to judge their senior exhibitions. These days, to graduate, one must put together a senior portfolio with the best works from the years and give an oral presentation. I volunteered to be a judge.
I thought they'd ask me what I did, but they didn't. I guess anyone can be a judge. First, we all arrived, and there were hundreds of adults there, all well-dressed. I didn't get the email about how well-dressed one must be, so I was only moderately well-dressed, but a lady (when I asked) assured me I looked fine. Then we grabbed lunch and I asked a couple of military recruiters about joining, for my niece and nephew. Actually, for my husband's niece and nephew, as my own brothers will never reproduce. Niece and Nephew are adrift, one without a job, one in a job with no future, with only a horizon full of illegitimate children and more sponging off my husband's parents to look forward to. Good times.
Truthfully, I thought the Senior Exhibition was going to be a horrible thing. For one thing, said niece has just turned 18 and dropped out of school to be, apparently, a professional skank. But not a good one, because she dates guys who are jobless and living off of other people, rather than at least having some money. I mean, if one is going to be a skank, then be one moving up in the world. Niece has always hated school; I have tutored her and though she is supposed to have a reading disability, she can actually read and pay attention pretty decently, if she cared to. She does not. So my perception was that all of high schoolers must be like her and her friends.
I sat in a room with three other adults-- two women a decade and a half older than me and a grandpa in his 60s or 70s-- and a teacher. The teacher looks EXACTLY like Lindsay Lohan's younger sister, except that the teacher is actually in her 30s, unlike Ali Lohan, who just unfortunately is an ate-up looking teen. Also, the teacher is prettier and probably 50 IQ points higher.
Anyway, the seniors came trooping in. I'd had a few minutes to look over their portfolios, but not enough time to actually read each one (which kind of defeats the purpose of senior portfolio). Each senior was dressed to the nines in their finest business attire. Each had sweaty palms and a broad, nervous grin.
Each one went over their academic careers, their hopes and dreams. They talked about what they'd learned in high school. Here's where my scoring softened: each one had a really hard personal story to tell. One had a friend that committed suicide. One had been working to support her mom. One had been the victim of a sexual assault and, separately, an abusive boyfriend, an experience that she'd parlayed into helping others in the same situation. One's dad had died during his freshman year. One had a teenage sister who had gotten pregnant and left him alone to care for the baby while she went out and partied. Each one had turned their situation around, learned from it, and talked about it without crying.
It was more than any high schooler should have to go through, I thought. Bad things happen to all of us, but I always hope that they'll happen as adults, rather than teens.
Not only that, each one had a mile-long list of the books they'd read and how their teachers had affected them for the better, mostly their English teachers, who were strict and exacting.
When I went to this school, I'd had a succession of horrible teachers who didn't have us do much of any work. In my advanced 10th grade English class, people smoked and the teacher, close to retirement and closer to senility, didn't notice. In my algebra class, the teacher did a 2 week unit on Russia, which she'd just visited, and then sprang some tests on us. My geometry teacher tutored me and didn't understand why I could still only pull a D. And I was in the Gifted program. It wasn't until college that I liked class. In high school, I merely marked time until the bell rang, so I could go make out with my boyfriend.
These kids cared, they volunteered, they had passionate interests. I gave them all high marks and went home, feeling like the world has hope after all.
I thought they'd ask me what I did, but they didn't. I guess anyone can be a judge. First, we all arrived, and there were hundreds of adults there, all well-dressed. I didn't get the email about how well-dressed one must be, so I was only moderately well-dressed, but a lady (when I asked) assured me I looked fine. Then we grabbed lunch and I asked a couple of military recruiters about joining, for my niece and nephew. Actually, for my husband's niece and nephew, as my own brothers will never reproduce. Niece and Nephew are adrift, one without a job, one in a job with no future, with only a horizon full of illegitimate children and more sponging off my husband's parents to look forward to. Good times.
Truthfully, I thought the Senior Exhibition was going to be a horrible thing. For one thing, said niece has just turned 18 and dropped out of school to be, apparently, a professional skank. But not a good one, because she dates guys who are jobless and living off of other people, rather than at least having some money. I mean, if one is going to be a skank, then be one moving up in the world. Niece has always hated school; I have tutored her and though she is supposed to have a reading disability, she can actually read and pay attention pretty decently, if she cared to. She does not. So my perception was that all of high schoolers must be like her and her friends.
I sat in a room with three other adults-- two women a decade and a half older than me and a grandpa in his 60s or 70s-- and a teacher. The teacher looks EXACTLY like Lindsay Lohan's younger sister, except that the teacher is actually in her 30s, unlike Ali Lohan, who just unfortunately is an ate-up looking teen. Also, the teacher is prettier and probably 50 IQ points higher.
Anyway, the seniors came trooping in. I'd had a few minutes to look over their portfolios, but not enough time to actually read each one (which kind of defeats the purpose of senior portfolio). Each senior was dressed to the nines in their finest business attire. Each had sweaty palms and a broad, nervous grin.
Each one went over their academic careers, their hopes and dreams. They talked about what they'd learned in high school. Here's where my scoring softened: each one had a really hard personal story to tell. One had a friend that committed suicide. One had been working to support her mom. One had been the victim of a sexual assault and, separately, an abusive boyfriend, an experience that she'd parlayed into helping others in the same situation. One's dad had died during his freshman year. One had a teenage sister who had gotten pregnant and left him alone to care for the baby while she went out and partied. Each one had turned their situation around, learned from it, and talked about it without crying.
It was more than any high schooler should have to go through, I thought. Bad things happen to all of us, but I always hope that they'll happen as adults, rather than teens.
Not only that, each one had a mile-long list of the books they'd read and how their teachers had affected them for the better, mostly their English teachers, who were strict and exacting.
When I went to this school, I'd had a succession of horrible teachers who didn't have us do much of any work. In my advanced 10th grade English class, people smoked and the teacher, close to retirement and closer to senility, didn't notice. In my algebra class, the teacher did a 2 week unit on Russia, which she'd just visited, and then sprang some tests on us. My geometry teacher tutored me and didn't understand why I could still only pull a D. And I was in the Gifted program. It wasn't until college that I liked class. In high school, I merely marked time until the bell rang, so I could go make out with my boyfriend.
These kids cared, they volunteered, they had passionate interests. I gave them all high marks and went home, feeling like the world has hope after all.
Monday, April 21, 2008
If a Toy Gets Given Away
If a toy is given away and no kid is around to see it, will they still care?
No. Not usually.
Not for six months, when they remember they own it and ask you where it is and you say, "I don't know, maybe you left it around and we got rid of it," and they storm away and are mad for ten minutes. After all, it's not like the time Cadillac's mom gave away all his good Star Wars figures to the kid up the street, and Cadillac was too proud to get them back. He's still mad about that.
Actually, we moved 6 months ago. We didn't move far, only about 5 miles. Somehow, a lot of stuff went missing. This includes a big Rubbermaid tub of toys.
1) a Kaiya American girl doll and her horse, bought by my dad for Kid 1, probably costing over $200. Kid 1 had originally wanted to get rid of it, I kept it, then somehow it got put into the giveaway pile. Now Kid 1 is bitter, just like her dad was about his Star Wars toys.
2) All our baking sheets.
3) My friend Jen's vast English and American literature collection, that she'd lent to me because I was studying to take the CSET to be an English teacher. She, being a lovely lovely person, wasn't too mad and refused any of my attempts to replace the books (mostly college textbooks), but I promised I'll buy her a really nice wedding gift to make it up.
4) My rollerblades, just because I hadn't used them in 2 years. I was going to! Really.
Mysteriously, all of Cadillac's old grungy Army stuff made it over here, along with head-scratchers like bags o' trash.
No. Not usually.
Not for six months, when they remember they own it and ask you where it is and you say, "I don't know, maybe you left it around and we got rid of it," and they storm away and are mad for ten minutes. After all, it's not like the time Cadillac's mom gave away all his good Star Wars figures to the kid up the street, and Cadillac was too proud to get them back. He's still mad about that.
Actually, we moved 6 months ago. We didn't move far, only about 5 miles. Somehow, a lot of stuff went missing. This includes a big Rubbermaid tub of toys.
1) a Kaiya American girl doll and her horse, bought by my dad for Kid 1, probably costing over $200. Kid 1 had originally wanted to get rid of it, I kept it, then somehow it got put into the giveaway pile. Now Kid 1 is bitter, just like her dad was about his Star Wars toys.
2) All our baking sheets.
3) My friend Jen's vast English and American literature collection, that she'd lent to me because I was studying to take the CSET to be an English teacher. She, being a lovely lovely person, wasn't too mad and refused any of my attempts to replace the books (mostly college textbooks), but I promised I'll buy her a really nice wedding gift to make it up.
4) My rollerblades, just because I hadn't used them in 2 years. I was going to! Really.
Mysteriously, all of Cadillac's old grungy Army stuff made it over here, along with head-scratchers like bags o' trash.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
This Novel Thing Might Actually Happen
Last week, I sent an email to Elaine Markson, of Elaine Markson Literary Agency. I'd called and the lady who answered told me the email, then told me to go ahead and send the ms. or query. Well, Elaine emailed me back and said to email her the ms, and she'd read it right away and give me feedback.
Wow.
So I did that on the 14, and on the 16th I was on the phone with Cadillac, talking about how I was ready to go back to work because I didn't think I could take another summer with our dear, lovely children, who, though they are smart, are lazy and can't do anything for themselves. Getting them to do anything takes an act of fortitude that only Cadillac can muster. Not me, the Absentminded Writer.
Call waiting beeped and I clicked over, only seeing for a second that it said Elaine Markson.
She tells me that she read it and LOVED it and she read it in one sitting, and asked me about myself, and all these other things, and I was trying to answer her and thinking, "Someone actually likes this!" and meanwhile, my Kid 3 is peeing in the Ariel panties she just put on and starting a low whine because Mommy's on the phone. And I'm talking to Elaine as though she's not Alice Hoffman's agent, as though she's not someone who can launch me and finally get me out of this purgatory i've been in for the past three years. She sounds, in fact, a lot like my dear editor (not at a pub. house, the one I pay), the one who referred me to Elaine, in fact.
I tell her about the background of my book, HOW TO BE AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE, and she says that she knew I must be half Japanese because there's too much detail.
So I probably sound pretty cool, because Elaine says, "I don't know if you want to wait until you hear from everyone--"
I stop. "I would like you to represent me."
"Really? Wonderful!" Elaine laughs and sounds so happy, and I'm so happy too, because finally someone sounds like I'm helping them rather than the other way around, and because finally someone gets me.
This conversation makes the email I get later in the day not matter:
Thank you for thinking of us to read How to Be an American Housewife. I read the sample pages with great interest and while I like the premise I am sorry to say that the novel is not right for our list. My concern is that Sue is not yet likeable enough to pull the reader into the novel. While we need to understand that she is unhappy and frustrated in order to appreciate her eventual evolution, her likeability must immediately transcend her discontent, so that we feel for her and root for her as she begins to work toward creating a happier life for herself.
We wish you the best of luck with your work.
Wow.
So I did that on the 14, and on the 16th I was on the phone with Cadillac, talking about how I was ready to go back to work because I didn't think I could take another summer with our dear, lovely children, who, though they are smart, are lazy and can't do anything for themselves. Getting them to do anything takes an act of fortitude that only Cadillac can muster. Not me, the Absentminded Writer.
Call waiting beeped and I clicked over, only seeing for a second that it said Elaine Markson.
She tells me that she read it and LOVED it and she read it in one sitting, and asked me about myself, and all these other things, and I was trying to answer her and thinking, "Someone actually likes this!" and meanwhile, my Kid 3 is peeing in the Ariel panties she just put on and starting a low whine because Mommy's on the phone. And I'm talking to Elaine as though she's not Alice Hoffman's agent, as though she's not someone who can launch me and finally get me out of this purgatory i've been in for the past three years. She sounds, in fact, a lot like my dear editor (not at a pub. house, the one I pay), the one who referred me to Elaine, in fact.
I tell her about the background of my book, HOW TO BE AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE, and she says that she knew I must be half Japanese because there's too much detail.
So I probably sound pretty cool, because Elaine says, "I don't know if you want to wait until you hear from everyone--"
I stop. "I would like you to represent me."
"Really? Wonderful!" Elaine laughs and sounds so happy, and I'm so happy too, because finally someone sounds like I'm helping them rather than the other way around, and because finally someone gets me.
This conversation makes the email I get later in the day not matter:
Thank you for thinking of us to read How to Be an American Housewife. I read the sample pages with great interest and while I like the premise I am sorry to say that the novel is not right for our list. My concern is that Sue is not yet likeable enough to pull the reader into the novel. While we need to understand that she is unhappy and frustrated in order to appreciate her eventual evolution, her likeability must immediately transcend her discontent, so that we feel for her and root for her as she begins to work toward creating a happier life for herself.
We wish you the best of luck with your work.
Easter Road
For Easter, good Catholics that we are, I suggested we take the family on a road trip to the Anza-Borrego desert and forgo church (gasp!) because going to church on a holiday is its own special kind of hell: so crowded that I feel nauseous, 2 of our 3 kids crying or making a fuss in general. So we in fact rarely go to church, which I confessed to the priest one time, telling him about how we couldn't hear mass in the crying room because of, well, all the crying. He said we had to take care of our kids first. I liked him.
Anyways, off we went to the desert, planning a picnic. A French picnic, because Kid 2 believes that French know how to cook. They had a French picnic at school, with cheese and bread; he said, "Mom, let's go visit France, you can be an artist and I'll eat. France will be my food life!!" He then warned me, "But I can't have wine." Yup.
Cadillac thought that it was more north than east, so he drove us up and up and up the 15, then thru Wynola/Julian. At some point in Escondido, I looked at the map and wondered aloud where the f he was going. The route meandered 2 lane up and down mountains, until I felt sick.
Finally, near julian, we stopped to pee, at some grocery store at the junction of two highways that we always stop to pee at. By this time, Cadillac's circuitous route had added an extra hour's so of driving. I bought a sandwich; the kids claimed they weren't that hungry, so they got chips.
I'd looked at the Borrego website that morning for their Wildflower Report. Lots, they said. We finally got there and there were-- daisies. Big whoop. Like here.
The place was swarming with wildflower touristas. We found a place to park by the Visitor's Center, then walked in and peed and looked at the exhibits. The place was packed, the AC nearly non-existent, and everyone in there seemed to be anti-deodorant.
Then we found a picnic area in a copse of fat palm trees. Me and the girls staked out a bench while Ethan said he had to pee again, and Cadillac took him off.
So the girls and I messed around, waiting, and then I heard beeping. More beeping, then my name, bellowed. Something had happened. I picked up Kid 3, who wailed, and said, "Let's go!" to Kid 1, and we raced across the sandy dust back to the car.
"I'm writing a letter," Cadillac growled. "That park ranger wouldn't let me get out to get you. Now I don't feel so bad that our son threw up all over the outside of the bathroom."
Oh. Apparently a morning spent eating candy, going on mountainous roads, and then eating Fiery Cheetos isn't good for a little tum-tum.
We drove to a closed mall parking lot and gave the kids enough food to tide them over. Kid 2 felt better once he had some baguette in him, and back we went. I'm sure Kid 3 was wondering why the heck we'd wasted all that time driving to the desert, but there you have it.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Dr. Laura Would Definitely Blame Me
The other night, my husband, whom we shall call Cadillac, went out on an errand. He unlocked the front door and called out to find where I was. I was on the couch, doing Yahoo Answers, probably one of my favorite pasttimes.
"Go take a shower," he ordered.
Immediately I didn't want to do such a thing. "In a minute." I was answering an intriguing questions about a woman whose husband is obsessed with big-handed women. Are my hands big? I wondered. I ran over to the desk to get a ruler.
And stepped on a dozen roses. Cadillac jumped out of the kitchen. "I told you to take a shower. I was going to put rose petals on the bed."
Boy, I felt bad. I tried to make it up to him, but now I'm worried he'll get some prostitutes. We can't afford the Spitzer kind, though, so they'll have to be the $5 hooker meth whores you can find wandering downtown. Completely my fault.
"Go take a shower," he ordered.
Immediately I didn't want to do such a thing. "In a minute." I was answering an intriguing questions about a woman whose husband is obsessed with big-handed women. Are my hands big? I wondered. I ran over to the desk to get a ruler.
And stepped on a dozen roses. Cadillac jumped out of the kitchen. "I told you to take a shower. I was going to put rose petals on the bed."
Boy, I felt bad. I tried to make it up to him, but now I'm worried he'll get some prostitutes. We can't afford the Spitzer kind, though, so they'll have to be the $5 hooker meth whores you can find wandering downtown. Completely my fault.
Silda Wall Spitzer
I always feel really bad for the spouses of a-holes in public office who do despicable things. As they stand there stone-faced, I actually get a stomachache imagining the hell they're going through. I'd read an interview with Silda Wall Spitzer in Glamour magazine, in which she talked about giving up her job to stay home with her girls. She seems like a decent human being.
To rub salt in the wound, faux-doctor Laura S. had some BS to say about how women drive their men to a'cheatin', and they ought to take responsibility for throwing good men out. Huh? Even if she was the worst wife in the world, that is no reason to give up your morals and do that to your own daughters, to break the law, laws that you have campaigned for. If he wanted to be free, he should have gotten a divorce. Cheating is never the answer. In fact, if my poor mother-in-law (who actually gave me one of Dr. Laura's barf-fest faux psychology books) weren't sick with pneumonia, I'd call her up and tell her again how much I hate Dr. Laura, saying controversial baloney just to keep her leathery puss in the news. Would this convince her that Dr. Laura is no good? 90% chance not. But that's a subject for another post.
The UK paper The Telegraph has a great imaginary Silda Wall blogpost.
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