And So It Goes

It's been an eventful week in the "let's get a book published extravaganza" that I like to call the last 8 months of my life. And by eventful, I mean we've made the first real significant push to get my manuscript out there in front of the people who can make it happen.

Honestly, it's been crazy. I have no idea how people do this for a living. My ego is entirely too fragile. It doesn't help that I read more into a 1 sentence rejection email that was ever intended. In my head, "While your project is interesting, it's not right for us at this time" translates to "you suck, please never write again, oh and by the way, you don't deserve to live."

What can I say? I tend to overdramatize.

But I've also had a couple of real successes-- the kind that inspire thousands of daydreams. Some very successful people in the biz (I can't say who, but don't worry, you wouldn't know who they are anyway) have liked what they've seen enough to want to read more-- and to read it exclusively! When I found out, I was so excited that I immediately left a rambling message for the husband who said "that's fantastic! But what does all of that mean?"

Ah yes, the million dollar question. Truth is, who knows? Quite probably it's not going anywhere. And if I feel like if I want it too much, I'm destined to fail. But in the interim, I cheer myself with part of an email/pep talk that I received last night from a writer friend:

"You have someone great who wants to read your book. There's no failure in that. You have gone from aspiring to writer and that is pure success."

Pretty stuff, right? That's why she's the writer.

This business is filled with rejection, and even the greatest authors of our time weren't spared. My new form of entertainment is reading some of the downright brutal rejection letters that some of our most famous authors received. There is something extremely satisfying to see that Hemingway, Orwell and Rand all were subject to far harsher criticism than anyone would get today. At least no one has told me that I'm beyond psychiatric help, or will set publishing back 25 years. Yet.

In any event, I'm taking it all as it comes...attempting to enjoy the ride even though roller coasters have never been my favorite. Think good thoughts for me! If anything happens, you'll be the first to know.

Right after I'm done passing out from the shock. :)

You Want the Truth? You Can't Handle the Truth!

Blogging is a strange thing, particularly when you realize that people are actually reading what you write. I love all my "followers" (even if the term makes me feel like Jim Jones or L. Ron Hubbard), and the comments are so much fun to read. But I often forget that it's not just the 15 of us in a virtual room, having a conversation. Or, to be more accurate, the 15 of us in a room where I do all the talking and only every so often let one of you get a word in edgewise. Recently, I've been equally delighted and horrified to discover that my blog is also being read by co-workers (and their parents), clients, friends, family, editors and agents. Which, while certainly part of the original idea, definitely makes it harder at times to know what (and how) to write.

Over the past few months, I have transitioned from the art of writing into the business of publishing. Like with any new venture, the learning curve is steep. There are so many steps from a finishished manuscript to a book on the shelf at Barnes & Noble, and I'm just trying to take each one as it comes. One of the things that I've recently learned is that publishers are looking for authors that they think will sell at least 200,000 copies. And how you get there (unless each of you are committed to helping a girl out and buying 13,000 copies apiece) is by "building your brand."

This should be easy for me, right? Branding and advertising is what I do for a living. If I can tell Fortune 50 clients how to talk about themselves, how hard is it for little old me?

Surprisingly difficult.

My boss has a great sign in his office with a saying written in latin that translates to "what it lacks in truth, it makes up for in style." While that is certainly the Mad Men view of my profession, all marketing professionals worth their salt will tell you that a brand not fully grounded in the truth won't resonate with its intended audience.

But I can't be entirely truthful here. Like telling you about what I actually did on a day when I called in sick. Or about the "friend" I only pretend to like, but in reality I can't deal with her drama anymore. Or anything specific about my work at all. Whenever I write a new blog, I always have to be mindful that my worlds are colliding.

So here is my truth. I'm a Type-A control freak with a need to make to-do lists every day. I have a pathological fear of being late, to the point of always showing up everywhere 15 minutes early. I would do absolutely anything for the people I love. I'm scared of lighting matches. I have a photographic memory, but am terrible with names (unless you wear a nametag when I meet you). And I firmly believe the world would be a better place if everyone took 15 minutes a day and just danced.

That is me. Or, at least, the part of me I am willing to share in this forum. And if you think that you would like to read a book written by someone like me, keep reading and commenting.

And if it'll cause you to want to buy a few extra copies, I'll even add a tortured but incredibly romantic vampire character to it and have him fall in love with a character named after you.

Seems Like Old Times

This past weekend was one for the record books. Not because of the number of people we entertained in our home, or because of how many Rainbow Magic books my daughter read to me, or even because I managed to convince my son that if he likes eggs and cheese separately, he would also like them mixed together. No, this weekend will be one that I remember because I went to see two movies in the theater.

You have to understand, this is unheard of in our household. At least during the past 7 1/2 years. Once you have kids, going to the movies is a rare treat...not the least of which is because of the small fortune I have to pay my 15-year-old neighbor to babysit. By the time you add in dinner, parking, and the cost of the actual tickets I could have taken a small vacation instead.

But go to the movies I did. First up was a date night with the husband to see 500 Days of Summer, which was a fantastic story about a relationship. It was sweet, smart and hysterically funny, and made me feel a little bit like a dirty old lady for...um...admiring the the lead actor in the film, whom I remember from his child star days. A major theme of the film was how perception can cloud reality, which particularly resonated with me since that is also the key theme of my book.

Next up was a girlfriend date to see a free screening of Julie and Julia (helps to have friends in high places). The husband was happy to see me go-- a movie about finding yourself through cooking is not exactly high up on his must-see list. As for me, well, you can only imagine how I reacted to a movie about blogging and getting a book deal. Let's just say I had a few over-identification issues with the main characters at times (as well as shared a squeal of delight with my friend over the blogspot product placement). And in a weird case of stars aligning, on the ride home, I got an interesting call from the agent that I'm still processing and will be a subject for another blog.

In any event, my cinematic weekend has left me refreshed and inspired. I'm feeling that same rush of exhilaration that I did when I first began writing. I'm looking at my manuscript with fresh eyes and a renewed sense of purpose. I am writer, watch me spellcheck.

All that, and I got to have popcorn too.

My Top 10 Ways to Boost Self Esteem

1. Don't take photos standing next to size 2 friends who used to be models

2. Spend lots of time with my 4-year-old son, who thinks I'm the "bestest thing in the universe"

3. Remind myself regularly that recently attitudinally-challenged 7-year-old daughter is just in a phase (one that should only last 10 more years), and in no way reflects my parenting skills

4. Read complimentary emails from people who have read my book, thank them for their kind words and then brazenly fish for more praise

5. Go on Twitter for some celebrity updates and remember that money and fame do not necessarily make someone interesting and worth knowing

6. Marvel at Facebook email from long-lost friend saying he spent the last 20 years trying to find me because our friendship was the highlight of his teenage years (I know, right? So having that one framed)

7. Watch NYC Prep and pat self on back for not raising kids like those

8. Re-read complimentary emails from client saying what great work we presented to them yesterday

9. Take a moment to breathe...and then appreciate a life filled to the brim with the love of (and for) family and friends

1. Don't take photos standing next to size 2 friends who used to be models (can't be said enough)

Modern Times (or hey, look at that bright shiny thing!)

I swear that I used to have a good attention span. You could actually have a conversation with me and, not only would I be giving you my complete and undivided attention, I would remember what we spoke about the next day.

All of that has changed. Sure, a large part of that is due to becoming a mom and all of the demands on my time. But the real culprit? My iPhone. I think psychiatrists should research my new disorder-- adult-onset ADD via iPhone. I literally can't just sit still. If there is any moment where I'm not actively doing something that requires my complete attention, I'm checking my phone. I'm texting (my 15-year-old babysitter taught me how). I'm checking Twitter (hey, I need real-time updates of John Mayer's trip to In and Out). I'm updating my Facebook status (people need to know how I'm doing in Bejeweled). I'm looking at photos. I'm checking my 3 different email accounts (yes 3. Work, Personal and the one all of the crap I never read goes to).

And I'm even (gasp) breaking the law to do this. Me. The person who has never so much as jaywalked, has been driven to a life of crime because of the iPhone. Don't tell anyone, but I admit that sometimes...okay lots of times...I will check it while sitting in endless LA traffic. It's not my fault though. Did you know the iPhone has this great app where you can check which freeways are clear (which, as any Angeleno will tell you is actually a trick question because the freeways are never clear)?

I know I'm not the only one. I spent a lot of time with friends last weekend where we were sitting next to each other, not talking, because everyone was looking at their phones. At one point, my friend sitting next to me actually texted me. The sad part? I texted her back.

I need a 12 step program. But I've taken the first step-- admitting I have a problem. Now I just need some help with the rest.

Hey, I wonder if there's an iPhone app for that?

That's What Friends Are For

I read an article a few months ago that said the number of friends that we have at any given time remains constant throughout our lifetime. Sure, there are the core group of people that stick with you from the time you're 2-years-old and wearing matching Wonder Woman bathing suits (waves at Emily), but the rest of your friendship mix is constantly evolving as your life and circumstances change.

I definitely think that's true, and never has it become more evident than with the advent of social networking websites. I like to describe Facebook as the place on my computer where everyone I've ever met lives. My friend list is an eclectic mix of childhood buddies, college roommates, former work colleagues, mommy friends and others I've picked up along the way. And even though they're all there in one convenient location, I still find that the number of them that I actually interact with on any regular basis remains about the same.

I've been so fortunate in my life to meet some amazing people who are incredibly important to me. My closest friends have blessed my life in countless ways, and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for any of them. Including spending an 18-hour day in the Valley in the middle of a heat wave, or spending my hard-earned vacations in a tiny town in Pennsylvania, or offering my free babysitting services at a moment's notice.

I've been teased recently that I write too much on these things, so I'm going to leave it at this-- thank you to all of you who have touched my life...whether it be encouraging me to write my novel, reading this blog, bringing me dinners for 2 months straight after my son was born, or just being there for me whenever I need you. I love you all.

And keep being nice to me if you want to make the next cut. I take bribes.

Too Much Time on My Hands

Without a doubt, the number one question my friends have asked me since I began writing is, "how on earth do you have the time?"

The short answer is that I really don't. I work full-time, in a very demanding profession. I have two small children that I seem to always be carting around from one place to another. I have a husband I've been married to for 10 years (together for 16) and we like to try to squeeze in some time together that isn't with an episode of Big Brother playing in the background. I'm also lucky to have a big extended family that always seems to be gathering for some reason or another. And I have a circle of great friends (the family I chose, rather than the one I was born to) who are very important to me. It can all be a little overwhelming at times to find the balance.

The running joke with my friends is that trying to make plans with me is the same as scheduling a dentist appointment-- you have to get on my calendar a couple months in advance, unless I have a last minute cancellation. Sad, but true. But during a typical weekend, I'm lucky to be able to sit still for 10 minutes. I'm always running from this lesson to that playdate, followed by a birthday party, only to rush home in time for the babysitter so I can head out for an evening with friends who scheduled something with us last September.

And yet, time is a funny thing. There never seems to be enough of it, it's true. But it also seems to expand. The less time I have, the more I can accomplish. As anyone who's ever stayed up all night to write a term paper knows, amazing things can happen when you're up against a deadline. The last minute is where greatness is born. Or at least where "good enough" resides.

I don't have a special secret. We all seem to figure out a way to make everything happen that needs to. Moms are amazing beings with an incredible capacity for multi-tasking. We can simultaneously have a conversation with our friends, watch out of the corner of our eye to make sure no one is running with scissors, know when it's wacky hair day at school so our child isn't the only loser kid who forgot, remember all of our kids' friends' allergies, know when it's time to schedule the next check-ups and think 10 steps in advance about food and public bathroom options whenever venturing out in public with them.

It's about priorities and balance. And lots and lots of caffeine.

Hey! Who put the blueberries in the blueberry muffins?

The scene in our house at breakfast this morning:

Me: Would you like a blueberry muffin?

The 4-Year-Old Son: Oh yes, mommy! Thank you so much! I love blueberry muffins!

I give him a muffin and some juice, rush back into the bathroom to attempt to make myself presentable for work in the exactly 13 minutes I have until we have to leave. Or 17 minutes if I don't obey posted speed limits. Suddenly, I hear my son sobbing hysterically. I rush into the dining room, convinced that my mommy negligence has somehow led to him bleeding or with a broken bone. But instead, I find him sitting at the table, staring morosely at the muffin he had just moments earlier so enthusiastically requested.

Me: What's wrong?

The 4-Year-Old Son: (who at this point has stopped crying and is giving me an accusatory glare) I didn't know blueberry muffins have BLUEBERRIES in them! I hate blueberries!

---

Just goes to show that we shouldn't take anything for granted. Things that seem obvious to us may not be to others. The shortest distance between 2 points may be a straight line, but not everyone thinks linearly. We should never make assumptions about anything in life.

And as my day went on, that lesson hit home with a resounding clarity. I received the sad news that a friend's father passed away after a lengthy battle with cancer. And then, just moments later, I got word from The Best Uncle In the World that his cancer was officially in remission. Just like that, two sides of the same ugly coin made the fragile nature of life suddenly and startlingly real.

My biggest hurdle when writing my manuscript was actually taking the time to slow down and understand the whys. Leaps of logic that made perfect sense to me in my head needed to be slowed down, dissected, explained. At first it was frustrating. I just wanted to hurry up and get to the new plot twist I was so excited about. Again, shortest distance between 2 points.

But then I realized that writing about the moments is the fun part. It's the in-betweens that make life worthwhile. The small, seemingly obvious parts of life that really aren't so obvious once you really dive in and take a closer look.

Life is hectic. I feel like I've blinked and my children stopped being babies. And that only moments ago I was a child myself. It all goes so incredibly fast.

Which is why I'm going to try and make sure that I always take the time to stop and smell the blueberries.

A Real Woman

Ok, before I get into what I really want to blog about, I just have to vent about Harper's Island for a second. I'm a sucker for mysteries. Especially murder mysteries. So when I heard that CBS was doing a series where wedding guests are picked off one-by -one at the hands of some mysterious killer, I was all over it. I set the DVR. I (along with the, like, 5 other people watching) sat through weeks of bad dialogue and ridiculous plotting (like seriously, doesn't anyone else live on this island? And do you have to keep breaking off from the rest of the group and walk through a deserted wood at night, all alone, even once all your friends and family start dropping like flies?) But I figured it would all pay off in the end, making the deaths of my beloved Cal and Chloe worth it. We'd get a shocking conclusion, and I'd be kicking myself for not seeing the obvious clues all along.

Yeah, notsomuch. Instead, the "final twist" was just bizarrely creepy and vaguely incestuous. And I'm not even going to get into the fabulous deserted mansion with the ocean view that just suddenly appeared at the end for the murderer to complete his nonsensical revenge plot. Again I ask, does no one else live on this island? How did he plan to get food, or make money, or buy stamps to pay the electric bill? Weren't there about 1000 other easier ways to keep Abby with him forever than killing off everyone either of them ever knew? Ugh. I hate it when I feel dissatisfied at the end of a story I've invested in.

Which is why I promise you now-- I will never kill off the protagonist in one of my stories. I hate stories that end like that with a passion. Not that I promise happy endings for all. But bumming everyone out is totally not my thing.

Anyway.

So the title of this blog was inspired by the daughter. We took a spontaneous trip to Santa Barbara this past weekend. Or, if I'm feeling Bridget Jones-ish, I'll say we took a mini-break. She asked if she could take her Hello Kitty wallet on the trip so she could spend her money on something special. I said sure. Then she asked if she could carry it in one of her purses, and wear her sunglasses. Again, I said sure. She could barely contain her excitement and replied, "I get to be a real woman!"

Feminist pearl-clutching aside at the idea that real women wear sunglasses and shop, her comment did make me wonder exactly what the definition of "a real woman" is. And what did I have to do to become one myself?

Because I certainly don't feel like a real woman. To me, a real woman is someone who has figured it all out. Who accessorizes. Who knows what she's looking at when she pops the hood of her car. Who serves perfectly balanced meals at all times. Or, like my mother, always has a coconut Pepperidge Farm cake in the freezer in case company suddenly drops by. And there's my friend who I live in complete admiration of. She has 5 children under the age of 8. She home schools them. They're vegan. She has limitless patience and imagination. I'm lucky if I've remembered to bring the sand toys to the park.

Sure, I've given birth twice (once without pain medication because the baby was in such a hurry to arrive). I can cook a little. I can sew a button back on or mend a favorite stuffed animal who has been loved a little too fiercely. I can speak Spanish. And I know all of the words to Don McLean's American Pie. But the number of things I know how to do is far surpassed by the number of things that I don't. Or by the number of things I could do so much better.

But I just keep trying. I hope I'm a good mother (or at least my kids don't speak too badly of me on their future therapists' couches). I think I'm a good wife. I know I try to be a good friend. And I hope that the lives of the people that I love are better for me being in them.

That's about as real of a woman I think I'm ever going to be.

Now about that Harper's Island...

Music for the Masses

Let's just get this out there-- I love music. All kinds. My iPhone contains everything from Barry Manilow to Eminem. And I love to sing. I sing along to the car radio. I sing in the shower. Hell, I even sing in the kitchen. When I was younger, I aspired to be a musical theater actress (and we all know in musicals it's perfectly reasonable for people to just burst into song).

So one of the best parts of having kids for me was the sudden license to sing in public. All the time. Yeah, so what if I was singing about fruit salad or going on lion hunts? At least I was singing and giving my children an appreciation of music (or at least an appreciation of how embarrassing their mom could be).

Music instantly transforms my mood. The right song can help me reach new heights on the treadmill, snap me out of the Monday morning blues or transport me back to another time and place. Depeche Mode and The Cure take me back to junior high. REM and U2 make me think of high school. Nirvana means college.

The recent death of Michael Jackson once again showed me the power of music. I was never really a fan of his. But he, along with Madonna were the pop stars during my formative years. Certain songs immediately put me back into particular times in my life. I remember vividly watching the 25th anniversary Motown special where he moonwalked for the first time. Or watching MTV all day (back when they played videos) for the premiere of Thriller. All I need is the first note of a song to evoke a strong memory of who I was when I used to hear it.

Music has been instrumental for me during the writing of my novel. My iTunes was always running as I clicked away on my laptop. The title of my book even came from the lyrics of one song that I listened to over and over during the writing process. And now I know that whenever I hear those same songs in the future I will be instantly transported to this time in my life.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have a song to go sing.

Doogie Melnick, MD

There is a certain level of embarrassment for me in admitting I've started writing a blog. I'm not entirely sure why that is, other than the fact that I worry it makes me seem like I'm full of myself. Or that I believe what I think is even slightly interesting to anyone but myself and the people who know me. I'm feeling like I'm channeling Neil Patrick Harris (the Doogie years), and should end each blog with a knowing smile and an uplifting insight about life.

I don't know exactly why it is I have such a hard time with making a public display, although I've never been someone who craves attention. Which is why I always sit back in utter admiration of my 7 year-old daughter.

She will dance in public to music only she hears, without a second thought to who might be watching. If someone asks for a volunteer, she's the first person to raise her hand. Her 1st grade progress report said "she loves being in the spotlight." She has strong opinions about pretty much everything and she wants-- no, she insists-- that you hear all about them. Even if she's just met you.

The first time I let someone read my manuscript was painful. Even though it was going to my wonderful, talented and fabulous sister-in-law, I've never felt more vulnerable. She's an actual, published writer living in New York. Married to an actual, published writer husband (who not only does it, but teaches it at an Ivy League school). They have a cadre of actual, published writer friends, and when they get together, I imagine they probably stand around, drinking fancy drinks, being all literary and stuff. What if she told me it was crap? What if it turned out I really couldn't write worth a damn?

Thankfully, she really liked it. And not just because she loves me. And because of that leap of faith, I was able to bring myself to share it with a few more trusted friends. And while it's getting easier all the time, I still have to pause a moment and take a deep breath before I hit the 'send' button.

I was talking about this topic last night with a good friend. Apart from being amazingly supportive of me and always offering a patient ear to my existential crises, she has a lifetime of experience putting her art out in the world to be judged. And it's clear that no matter how many people love you, what you always seem to remember is the ones that don't. I told her that if, by some miracle, I'm lucky enough to have people even know my name so that they can call me a talentless hack, I'll be happy.

And then I'll wonder why they don't love me.

But until (or even if) that time comes, I'll just take a deep breath, watch my daughter and learn to dance.

Nobody walks in LA

I'm a California native. Literally born in Hollywood. And things that are completely normal here are definitely not in most other parts of this country. Things like running into Ben Affleck in the toothpaste aisle of Sav-On. Or sitting less than a foot away from Sally Field at lunch. Or taking the kids to the local playground so they can burn off some energy, only to find myself sitting on a park bench, chatting with Jodie Foster or Brooke Shields.

All of this is, in fact, decidedly abnormal. I get that. Unfortunately, LA is a company town. Which means that practically everyone I know is in some way related to The Industry. Even tangentially. For every actor I know, I know countless more publicists, writers, agents, producers, make-up artists, grips and entertainment lawyers. I am quite literally surrounded by people who make their living in entertainment.

As you might imagine, my kids think it's perfectly natural to be a performer. When my daughter was six, she told me she no longer wanted to be an actress when she grew up, she wanted to "write a story that gets turned into a major motion picture." And really, can I blame her? I have the same dream. Sorta. The only difference is I've had over 3 decades of being realistic. Of thinking that those sorts of dreams are better left in childhood.

My favorite quote is from George Eliot -- "It's never to late to be what we might have been." And it's what inspired me to take up a ridiculous challenge last November...writing a 50,000 word novel in 30 days, cheered along the way by the fabu folks at http://www.nanowrimo.org/. When I started, I never thought I'd have it in me to keep it up for the entire 30 days. That's 1667 words a day! With a full-time job! And small children! And a husband! Clearly, I wasn't thinking straight.

But a funny thing happened along the way. I realized that I could do it. And even better, I loved doing it. I loved bringing these characters that only existed in my head to life. I loved letting them tell me what happens next in their story. And I loved having a draft to build upon and refine at the end of the 30 days. Not that I ever thought I'd look at the thing again after November 30th.

Boy, was I wrong. I spent the next 7 months writing. And re-writing. And editing. And sending the manuscript to some good friends for honest feedback that wouldn't crush my fragile ego. And loving and hating my story in equal measure. And then the next thing I knew, I had a finished draft. And I was talking to an agent. Suddenly those crazy dreams didn't seem so crazy anymore.

I'm still a long way from doing book tours and sitting on Oprah's couch. But I've taken those first steps. And I don't believe that anything is impossible.

A blog? Really?

So yeah, I've decided to give this blog thing a shot. Not because I'm self-important enough to think that what I have to say is particularly interesting to the masses, but because I've always been a journal-keeper. There's something about writing down my thoughts that has always been therapeutic for me.

Of course, this is a little different. It's public. And invites a peanut gallery to weigh in. All sort of frightening and potentially damaging to my fragile psyche if I really stop and think about it. So I won't.

Now that I've established why, the bigger question is-- why now? Blogs are so current they're practically passe. I wouldn't be surprised if my cat has one.

I'm about to start a new journey in my life, one that I've wanted to embark on ever since I was a little girl writing in my Hello Kitty diary with the broken lock-- attempting to become a published author. I want to document my progress toward my goal. The milestones I have in my head go something like this:

1. Write Novel
2. Have agent fall in love with it
3. Have said agent get me a 3 book deal
4. Go on Oprah and sell lots of copies of my book
5. Quit my job and become full-time writer
6. Laugh at everyone who was ever mean to me in middle school

That all sounds perfectly reasonable right? Simple!

Stay tuned...